by Sylvie Kurtz
She rose and strode to the closet. Looking at Olivia’s clothes hanging from padded hangers, folded neatly on shelves, organized by shades and styles, a small cloud of dizziness swirled around her. How could she expect to compete with that? As far as she could tell, Olivia was perfect while she barely had a fingerhold on the cusp of adequacy.
She slammed the closet door and marched out of the room. She’d spoken the truth last night. She didn’t want to be Olivia. Even if it meant she would have to leave after Sebastian’s fugitive was caught. The woman she saw in the photo album, the woman Paula and Sebastian painted for her with their memories, was too soft, too forgettable. Something in her wanted releasing and she would start with color. At Cari’s bedroom door, she stopped and knocked.
“Who is it?” a sleepy voice called.
“Oli—me. It’s me.”
The door opened and Cari blinked at her like a sun-blinded mole. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Can I look at your sweaters?”
Cari scrunched her forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m perfectly fine.” She peeked in at the mess strewn around Cari’s room. “So, can I?”
Cari stepped aside. “I guess.”
Her niece sat at the foot of the bed while Olivia stepped through the minefield of clothes littering Cari’s floor. She spotted a red sweater and scooped it up. There was not a drop of red in Olivia’s closet. No bright green. No royal blue. Just navy and gray and pastels. As she held the sweater before her and looked at her reflection in the mirror, Olivia wondered why. Her skin and her soul were starving for color. And red seemed just right for the flame starting to flicker inside her. Cari liked to swim in her clothes, so the sweater should fit. “Is this clean?”
Cari jerked the sweater from her, sniffed it, then pitched it back. “Clean.”
“Can I borrow it?”
“I guess.”
Olivia slipped the soft lamb’s wool over her nightgown and watched as a blush tinged her cheeks. She pulled on the hank of hair caught in the cowl neck. As she held the hair in her hand, a new Olivia appeared in the mirror. Not soft and smooth, but edgy and unruly like the new fire crackling inside her. Letting go of the hair, she spotted a pair of manicure scissors on top of the dresser. She snipped a six-inch coil of hair. The blaze in her surged.
Cari sprang up from the bed and snagged the scissors from her hand. “What are you doing?”
“Cutting my hair.”
“Uncle S. loves your hair.”
“He loves Olivia’s hair. I am not Olivia.”
Cari stared at her in the mirror and swallowed hard. She put the scissors on the dresser, then put an arm around Olivia. Her eyes brightened with tears. “There’s a knot in your belly, right?”
Olivia nodded, rounding a fist on the hot, hard tangle no amount of massage could unlace.
“A hollow feeling inside?”
A hollow that now burned with a fervor that scared her as much as the cold void had. She nodded, swaying a bit on her feet. How did Cari know?
“Me, too.” Cari let her go and leaned against the wall. “The counselor Mom sent me to after my dad died last year said it was from the grief I was holding in. I still miss him. Although I’m not supposed to say so. Mom can’t take it. Mom can’t handle things like that too well.” She swiped the tears with the back of her hand. “It’s like that for you, too, I bet. You lost yourself. That has to hurt.” She pushed herself off the wall. “Mom, she won’t understand. But I do. Wait here.”
Cari stuck her head out her bedroom door, looked out, then slunk out. She returned a minute later. From her pajama pocket, she extracted a pair of scissors and snipped at the air. “If you’re going to do this, might as well do it right.”
She dragged a straight-backed chair before the dresser. “Sit.” Their gazes met in the mirror. “You trust me?”
Olivia sat, looking Cari straight in the eye, and nodded.
“How short do you want it?”
Olivia gulped, suddenly unsure. How much would be too much for Sebastian to take? Would he understand this bid to find herself in the remnants of his wife?
“Okay.” Cari raised the scissors level with the top of Olivia’s head. “I’ll do it in stages. You tell me when you look like you want.”
Olivia smiled. She heard Cecilia’s molasses voice, urging her on. One step at a time, love. One step at a time. A part of the hollowness filled with purpose and no longer felt so dark. “Okay.”
PAULA’S SCREAM HAD SEBASTIAN streaking out of his room lightning fast. Dressed in only jeans, heart pounding, weapon drawn, he half expected to see Kershaw appear around the corner. But the crisis wasn’t Kershaw. It was only Paula overreacting.
“What have you done?” Paula asked, marching into Cari’s room to the dresser where Olivia sat surrounded by a puddle of her dark brown hair. She seized the scissors. “What have you done?” She glared at her daughter. “This is all your doing.”
“She was going to hack it off herself.” Cari fluffed up the short lengths of hair, giving Olivia a pert look that took him aback. “I offered to help.”
Holding one hand in front on her mouth, the other arm wrapped around her waist, Paula shook her head. “Olivia…”
“Liv.” Olivia stood and slowly turned around. Her gaze sought Sebastian’s and held it, not gently, as Olivia would have, but in a challenge that was both unyielding and uncertain. “Call me Liv.”
More than the color of sin on her cheeks had him thinking of hot sex, more than the sassy cut of her hair had him thinking of wicked games, more than the invitation in those wide blue eyes had him thinking of getting lost in those deep canyons was a perfectly sensible thing to do. It was the energy. This Olivia vibrated with a life that stirred his blood. She disturbed him on a level as base as the one he descended into to hunt fugitives.
And he didn’t like it.
He wanted the woman he’d fallen in love with. Olivia was the calm after the storm. Olivia was home. Olivia was where he came to find himself, not lose himself.
He hated himself for this weakness.
He crossed the room and stood before her. He ran a hand through the short curls that now almost hid the bruise on the left side of her face. The tips of his fingers connected to the rosy smear on her cheek and burned with a jolt of desire so sharp it hurt.
“You’re beautiful,” he said before he could stop himself.
When she beamed a smile at him, another punch hit him square in the solar plexus.
He wished all this mess with Kershaw, all these people invading his home, didn’t stand between them. Because right now, right here, he wanted to show her she pleased him. Very much.
Call me Liv. She was asking for acceptance of this change. He didn’t want to give it to her. He wanted things as they’d always been. But as her steady gaze held his, he knew that if he didn’t yield a little, he’d lose what he had left of her. “Liv.”
“Falconer.” Kingsley’s voice had everyone in the room turning toward the bedroom door. “They found him.”
Chapter Eight
“Here’s the situation,” Sebastian said as he huddled with his team at the rendezvous point on the dirt road—only a few miles from the Aerie. Called back from surveillance, Skyralov stood with Mercer and Reed. “The cabin is a one-story building. Clapboard, cheaply made. There’s only one door. One window out front and two out back. Three rooms—front general area, back bedroom on the right, back bathroom on the left. He’s armed with the same gear we have, including the bulletproof vest he stole off our guys.”
He checked the mike attached to an earpiece. “Kingsley?”
“Go ahead.”
“When I tell you it’s on, call the locals and let them know there’s a police action taking place in town, but don’t give them our location. I don’t want any patrol cars coming around.”
“What’s the takedown plan?” Skyralov asked.
“We’ll keep it as simple as possible.” El
aborate plans, Sebastian had learned, increased the chances of something going wrong.
“Are we giving Kershaw a chance to come out?” Reed asked.
“We’ll give him the opportunity, but I guarantee he won’t take it.” Sebastian jerked his chin towards the tailgate of his SUV where the rough sketch Mercer had drawn lay. “Mercer, you’ll have the back. Reed, you’ll carry the shotgun. I’ll have the sledge and go through the front. Skyralov, you’ll back us up.” He looked up and eyed each of the men. “Any questions?”
They all shook their heads.
“Grab your gear.”
The four men moved quickly, strapping on second-chance vests, checking weapons. They surrounded the small building that had once served as a fishing camp. Smoke curled from the chimney. The roof sagged. No light shone from the windows. In summer, the brown clapboard and green shutters camouflaged the building. In winter, the paint scheme stood out starkly against the white snow, making the house look like a sad old man.
The widower who owned this cottage died last year. His children lived out of state and had shown no interest in the aging building. Because of town zoning, each lot on the pond was at least two acres. A girl’s summer camp resided on the piece of land to the east. In winter, no one lived there. The land to the west of the cottage saw its church group only on scattered weekends. To the north was the lake, and to the south, conservation land. There was no activity in the cottage now, but then felons rarely got up before noon. Each lot was heavily wooded, affording Kershaw all the privacy he wanted to concoct his plans to hurt Olivia.
Sebastian shook his head. Olivia had no place in his thoughts right now. Officer survival was his number one priority. Get the job over and done with. Then get back to Olivia. He chased away the chill at the thought that this drive to get back to his wife no longer held the same urgency. Olivia’s accident isn’t her fault; it’s yours. Stop blaming her for your shortcomings.
A light snow had fallen overnight, capturing boot prints leading into and out of the house. Two pairs. Same tread. Different stride. “Be ready for company.”
Adrenaline coursed through blood. Sweat poured under vests. Weapons were drawn. Everyone was breathing hard, waiting for the signal. Anytime you had to go in to grab a mutt, especially an armed one, the stress was high.
Sebastian shook off the bristling of the hairs on the nape of his neck and spoke into the mike. “Everyone in place?”
All the responses came in affirmative. “It’s a go.”
Backs to the wall, Skyralov stood to the right of the door—Sebastian to the left. They listened for several minutes, but heard nothing stir inside.
Sebastian banged on the door. “U.S. Marshals. Open up!”
No answer.
Sebastian sledged the door. Reed was the first one through, jacking a cartridge into the chamber of the twelve-gauge riot gun for effect as he stormed in. Sebastian and Skyralov burst in behind him. They all shouted as they moved. “U.S. Marshals…freeze…don’t move…”
“Clear,” Reed said as he bulldozed his way through the shared kitchen and living room space.
Skyralov moved right; Sebastian left.
“Clear,” Sebastian called after he checked the bathroom.
“In here,” Skyralov said, his weapon trained on the target. “Someone got to him before we did.”
Inside the bedroom, they found a male lying on a cot. Everything about him looked peaceful, except for the raw mess where his face should be.
Sebastian slowly made his way to the cot and studied the corpse. The size and build were right. The hair color—what was left of it—matched. “Kingsley?”
“Go ahead.”
“Pull up Kershaw’s FPC number.” The fingerprint classification number was a series of numbers and letters assigned to each digit. A suspect’s prints were individually classified, then the code was entered into the National Crime Information Center computer. The loops, whorls and arches by which the prints were coded could be read in the field by a good investigator, saving time and aggravation in identifying suspected fugitives on the scene. The skill wasn’t taught by the USMS, but Sebastian had picked it up from his mentor during his first raid. It had come in handy more than once.
Kingsley came back on. “I’ll make it easy for you. Left index is an X.”
X meant a missing digit. Sebastian reached for the left hand and the top portion of the left index finger was gone. We’ve got him. Euphoria spiked his blood, but he tamped down the rush of victory. Can’t make a mistake now. “Read me the rest.”
Sebastian compared and each matched. The M.E. would confirm, but Sebastian didn’t need the corroboration. “Pull up the case file. Read me the marks and tats.”
“Vertical scar across the left cheek.” Can’t confirm that. Not with his face blown off. “Teardrop tattoo between thumb and index finger of both hands.” Both were faded, but there. Prison tattoos from his first visit to a state institution as a teenager. “Scorpion on the left bicep. Eagle with lightning bolts in its talons on the right.” Each new incarceration seemed to deserve a new tattoo.
Sebastian pulled down the rough brown blanket and spotted the crude tattoos on both biceps. “They match.”
It was over.
Why did it feel like a letdown?
Someone had saved him the trouble of killing Kershaw. They’d have to find the murderer, of course. But the danger to Olivia was gone.
The marshal had his man.
Olivia was safe.
Now things could go back to normal.
“’MORNING, MISS OLIVIA,” Mario said, brown knit hat between his square hands. He stood at the mudroom door, his wiry body ballooned by his black parka. Above the zipper, a black-and-white flannel shirt and a red thermal Henley peeked through. His brown hair was shot with white and cut short and neat. His smile reached his dark brown eyes and made them shine. “I’m here for the grocery list.”
When he turned to close the door behind him, Liv saw that a bandage covered the space above his right ear where he’d been hit trying to protect his birds. No one had told Liv that, but she’d overheard Kingsley talking downstairs. Someone had cuffed Mario on the head, disarmed the perimeter sensors, somehow fooled the camera and dropped the dead bird at the front door. Kingsley was not happy about missing the breach.
“Come in,” Liv said, leading him into the kitchen. “The list isn’t ready yet.” Because no one had told her Mario would expect her to have a list ready. Or maybe Sebastian had told Paula yesterday before all the excitement broke out.
But Paula was taking a bath, and Liv had no intentions of disturbing her. She hoped that Paula would soak in the tub for at least an hour, and that Cari, who was at her computer—no doubt complaining about her horrid living conditions to friends—would stay closeted in her room all morning. Liv needed this time alone without her sister’s constant chatter or her niece’s dogging of her every step.
She could do this, she decided as she offered Mario a seat. She could put together a simple grocery list. She’d done this in the past—of that she was sure.
It seemed to her that Olivia was the kind of person who would have made sure that Sebastian’s needs were filled before he quite felt them. She’d bet he’d never run out of toothpaste or shampoo, that he’d never had to worry about how low the milk or orange juice were running, that he’d never found his sock or underwear drawers empty. “Would you like some coffee?”
Mario sat at the edge of a chair. “That would be nice.”
Liv smiled and poured him a mug. He nodded his thanks and wrapped his big hands around the green ceramic mug, dwarfing it. She scrounged around for some paper and found a pad and a pen in a drawer near the phone, then sat opposite Mario at the table. “How are you feeling?”
“Got a bit of a headache, but other than that, I’m right as rain.”
“I’m sorry about your bird.” Even in death, it had seemed such a noble creature—fierce and regal…like Sebastian.
Mario nod
ded and studied the contents of his cup, trying to hide his affection for the hawk. She wanted to do something to ease his sorrow, but could think of no words that would soothe.
She would bake, she decided. She would make him a cake. That seemed simple enough. “What’s your favorite kind of cake?”
He looked startled, and Liv wondered how he’d gotten along with Olivia. “I like the chocolate orange snack cake you make.”
“Okay, then, I’ll bake you one.” So she had baked for him before. Now Liv just had to find the recipe. She rose and went to the row of cookbooks along the counter. She picked one and it fell open to a well-creased page. Chicken with Sage Corn Bread Crust. She tried another book and found a page with splatters. Fusilli with Peppers and Onions. Another book, another well-used page. Chunky Mediterranean-Style Soup. A small thrill sang through her.
Liv would bet anything these were the dishes Sebastian liked, the dishes Olivia had made most often for him. Before she knew it, Liv had constructed a menu and a list for Mario—including the mini chocolate chips she’d need for the snack cake.
Lists. Cecilia had told her lists were important for her at this stage of her recovery. She now saw the power in them as she tacked a copy of her menu for the week on the refrigerator with a magnet in the shape of a loon.
She was still floating on the cloud of that victory when the phone rang. Smiling, she grabbed the receiver and twirled the cord around her. “Hello.”
“Olivia Falconer, please.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Susan Glass from the Nashua Community College. I’m calling in regards to your registration.”
She frowned. “My registration?”
“For the winter quarter. You signed up for two classes. Introduction to Criminal Justice and Introduction to Psychology.”
“I did?” Criminal Justice? Psychology?
“Classes started last Tuesday.”
Tuesday. The day after the accident. She leaned against the wall and wrapped the phone cord around her middle finger. “I was in a car accident last week. I’m afraid I’d forgotten about the classes.”
