He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and drew out a legal-sized envelope. He handed it to her.
“Go ahead,” Montana said. “Read it.”
With nervous fingers, she opened the envelope, and took out the copied page from a fax machine. The message, written by hand, was in elegant and high-flown Spanish, and she felt too confounded to translate it.
“I can’t—I can’t—” she stammered.
Pastrana took it from her. “May I?” he asked. Then he muttered, “Damn. I forgot my glasses.”
He held the paper at arm’s length and said, “This begins with the equivalent of ‘To Whom It May Concern.’ It’s from Carmago. He says. Three individuals have been singled out for my particular attention, and they are Richard Mark and Trace Francis Fletcher and Laura Ann Ferris Stoner.
“Whoever will harm so much as a hair of the heads of any of these three, his name is marked, his hours are numbered, and his soul is damned to everlasting hell. All three are held in my most especial esteem and enjoy my personal protection, and the lasting esteem and protection of me and mine as long as the rivers run to the seas. I am yours in God, Don Diego Lopez-Portillo Carmago.”
Laura looked at Pastrana, thunderstruck. Her throat constricted. “Is it real?” she asked. “Where did you ever get such a thing?”
“It wasn’t easy,” Pastrana said. “Trust me on that.”
She turned her gaze to Montana. “You mean, we’re now under the protection of a drug lord?”
“You might put it more tactfully,” Montana said. “But yes. And nobody is going to want to mess with this man. Nobody.”
“But how on earth did you do this?”
“Very diplomatically,” Pastrana said.
Montana said, “As far as we officially know, Reynaldo Comce was never with the men who hit Zordani. He wasn’t there, he wasn’t anywhere near there, he was completely disassociated from it, and later he died tragically by accident, an innocent boy struck down in the flower of his youth.”
“But you know and I know—”
He put his finger to her lips. “You and I know it. But we say nothing.”
Confusion filled her. “But aren’t we guilty of—of collusion or something?”
“No,” he said. “Like Pastrana said, Estrada set it all in motion. Now he’s dead. And so are the men who murdered for him. They’re dead, all of them. The ones who killed Zordani, Becker, and Stallings. The ones who killed Marco and Jefferson. Justice has been served as far as we can ever reach. There’s nothing more we can gain.”
“Two of the Colombians’ heaviest hitters are downed,” Pastrana said. “Estrada and Hepfinger. Besides that, we rooted out Cartel moles in two agencies, and we got Deeds into the bargain. We can’t get to the Cartel heads, but we’ve made them promise the safety of you and the boys. It’s as good as we’ll do.”
She stared up at Montana, trying to read what he’d left unsaid. “The tape …?” she asked.
He looked into her eyes but said nothing. Sister Agnes Mary must still be holding it ready, like a terrible swift sword.
As if Montana could read her thoughts, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
She held his gaze, her heart beating hard.
He said. “Are you ready to take the boys home? To take them back to school again?”
“Yes,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Oh, yes. I want to take them back.”
“Can I help you pack?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Please. Only—we don’t have any boxes.”
“Yeah, you do,” Pastrana said gruffly. “I got a car full. I’ll bring ’em up.”
“I’ll help,” Montana said, but he didn’t move, and he didn’t take his eyes from Laura.
“Stay where you are,” Pastrana said, resignation in his voice. “I’ll get one of the marshals. And this,” he said, handing the envelope to Laura, “is yours.”
She took it and stared at it in wonder. “Just like that,” she murmured. “Just as easy as that.”
“Not just like that,” Montana said. “And like he said, not easy.”
“It wasn’t any harder than teaching a snake to tap dance,” Pastrana said. He turned and left the room. Laura was too stunned even to think of thanking him.
“How’s the lizard-and-penny business?” Montana asked, pulling her closer.
“Brisk,” she said, then blinked back tears. “Oh, Montana, where have you been?”
“Part of it was called ‘being debriefed,’ ” he said. He nodded at the envelope in her hand. “And they didn’t want me to have any contact with you as long as it was possible for this thing to become a case. But it’s not a case. It’s over. That’s final.”
“All this time, you’ve been doing that for us?”
His expression grew sober. “That. And I went to see Jefferson’s ex-wife. And his kids. To talk to them.”
“What did you say?”
“That he saved us. He warned us that something was up. He saved Rickie’s life. He fired the first shot for us. And that one of the last things he talked about was his kids and how he missed them. He was a hero, and he loved them. I told them that.”
“Good,” she said, and swallowed.
“I went to Marco’s grave, too,” he said. “He’s with Mike now. And his wife and daughter. They’re together.”
She turned her face away.
“Hey,” he said. “Don’t cry. Don’t—please. Okay?”
But there was no time to cry, because the cartoon program was over. Its spell over the boys broke, and they clambered off the bed and raided the closet for their jackets and gloves, ready for their afternoon walk.
They didn’t seem surprised to see Montana, but Rickie frowned as he zipped his jacket, as if hazily remembering something. “Montana,” he said in an accusing tone. “Montana fall down in the snow, and Rickie got cold.”
“Sorry, Rickie,” he said. “I got cold, too.”
Trace’s face brightened. “Blue rhubarb,” he said. “Blue rhubarb. A clown can bend.”
Rickie gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. “A clown can bend. Love is strange,” he said. “Strange. Strange.”
“Indeed, it is,” said Montana.
He put his scarred hand under Laura’s chin, and tilted her face up to his. He lowered his mouth so that it nearly touched hers.
“Let’s take the kids home,” he said.
The playground was roisterous with children, the air split by their laughs and shouts.
The late March sky glowed flawlessly blue and the breeze was alive with the hint of spring. The old forsythia bushes that flanked the school’s main entrance were full of yellow buds, and a robin pecked in the gravel.
Montana strode across the schoolyard, nodding to the teachers and children. In truth he barely noticed them; his attention was fixed on Laura, who hadn’t seen him yet.
She stood in profile to him, by the swing set. She had on a tweed coat that she wore unbuttoned, and her long hair fluttered, glinting with red in the sunlight. Her hands were thrust casually into her pockets, and she laughed at something the little boy on the swing said.
Beyond her, Rickie and Trace hung on the bars of the schoolyard fence, staring intently down the street. They looked identical, except that Rickie’s jacket was red, Trace’s blue. Almost simultaneously they glanced down at their military-style watches, then off down the street again.
Laura watched the little boy named Lionel pump his swing higher and higher. The iron chains creaked as he moved back and forth.
“Laura,” Lionel cried excitedly, “are you watching? Look how high I go! Look! Look at me!”
“I’m watching,” Laura assured him. “That’s good, Lionel. That’s wonderful, and I’m proud of you.”
She turned, and when she caught sight of Montana, she smiled, and he found himself smiling in return.
He came to her side, took the lapels of her coat, drew her nearer, and stared down into her eyes. He d
idn’t kiss her because the kids would get rowdy and silly if he did, and the other teachers were watching.
“Hi,” he said. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d come see my best girl,” he said.
“Hi.” She ducked her head, shy because she knew people were looking at them, some slyly, some boldly. She busied herself with picking a piece of lint from the sleeve of his overcoat.
He said, “My mother always says if a woman does that, picks threads off you, stuff like that, it means she cares. Do you?”
“You know I do,” she said and found another minuscule piece to pick away. Then she lifted her eyes and looked at the twins, clinging like sentinel monkeys to the fence. She nodded in their direction. “Did Rickie and Trace see you? Do they know you’re here?”
“They saw me. They just didn’t get too excited, that’s all.”
His gaze followed hers. The boys’ cheeks were bright from the cool air, their dark hair was tousled, and their bright jackets fluttered in the breeze. Trace’s expression was empty, but placid. Rickie’s lips kept moving, as if he was mumbling to himself.
“Their father’s coming to see them again this weekend,” Laura said.
Montana caught her hand in his, lacing his fingers through hers. A frown line appeared between his brows. “About last night,” he said, “I didn’t mean to push you. You know that, don’t you?”
She looked at their joined hands, her face pensive. “I know. And I don’t mean to be stubborn. It’s just that it seems too soon. After all we’ve been through, I’m not sure either of us is thinking straight. I wouldn’t want for us to jump into something, and then have you regret it.”
He lowered his face so that she had to meet his eyes. “I would never regret it. Never.”
“But you might,” she said with feeling. “You have to remember that I can’t ever—”
“Laura! Laura!” cried Lionel. “Look at me! I’m even higher! Laura, look at me! Look! Look!”
“I see you, Lionel,” she said, nodding. “That is high. Good job!”
“Laura, no!” shouted a little girl, running toward the jungle gym. “Watch me instead—see what I’m going to do.”
“I see you, Heidi,” Laura called. “Be careful now.” Heidi chortled wildly and kept running.
Laura turned back to Montana. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What I was trying to say was that you should think hard about this, because I can never have children, and—”
He put his hands on her shoulders and gripped her tightly. “Laura,” he said, “look around you. Just look. You do have children. Do you understand me?”
Startled, she raised her eyes to his. He held her gaze and raised his hand to touch her face.
He nodded. “You have children; you always will. They need you. And you’ll be there for them.”
Her lower lip trembled. She bit it and said nothing. He kept his hand resting against her face. He smiled, and at last she smiled back.
Around them the chatter and laughter and excited shrieks of children’s voices echoed. The swings rose into the air and fell back again, rhythmically, the seesaws went up and down, and Heidi had climbed up the monkey bars and hung by her knees, singing loudly.
The children’s noise mingled with the scuffling sound of traffic from the streets, the rumble of trucks, the fainter sound of cars. In the distance, a siren wailed.
Rickie and Trace did not seem to hear or notice. They clung to the bars of the fence and waited, looking expectantly down the street. It was nearly 2:07, and time for the nice old gentleman to appear.
Mr. Zordani did not appear, of course, but the boys kept patiently waiting for him until the recess bell rang, and Laura came to take them inside the building. “Laura’s here,” she said, holding out her hands to them. And they went with her, back to the safe and predictable world of her classroom.
THE EDITOR’S CORNER
Welcome to Loveswept!
Come along with us on a thrilling ride with our next two titles: Sandra Chastain’s RAVEN AND THE COWBOY and THE REDHEAD AND THE PREACHER. Sandra Chastain’s stories are always wonderfully exuberant romances, brimming with adventurous romps, charming humor, and savory sensuality. But I’ll let you discover that for yourself. Enjoy these two delightful reads!
If you love romance … then you’re ready to be Loveswept!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: In April, we have Linda Cajio’s brilliant novels, ALL IS FAIR and RESCUING DIANA, as well as Debra Dixon’s unforgettable BAD TO THE BONE. In May, we’re really excited to have nine titles on our list! Here’s what we have in store for you that month: Jessica Scott’s vibrant second book in her Coming Home series, BACK TO YOU, Judith E. French’s exciting MORGAN’S WOMAN, and Katie Rose’s enchanting A CASE FOR ROMANCE. We’re also releasing six fantastic books by Debra Dixon: MIDNIGHT HOUR, MOUNTAIN MYSTIC, PLAYING WITH FIRE, SLOW HANDS, HOT AS SIN, and DOC HOLIDAY. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come.…
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept classics …
Read on for an excerpt from Deborah Harmse’s In the Arms of the Law
ONE
Head wounds were invariably bloody.
Detective Mackenzie Hoyle reminded himself of that basic fact a split second after he felt a stream of warm liquid trickle down his forehead. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, then swore at the bright red blood smeared from his wrist to his knuckles.
“Cripes, what a way to start the day,” he muttered, taking two prudent steps back from the shattered schoolroom window before checking for further damage.
Miraculously, his shirt and tie had survived the incident unscathed, as had his black oxfords and charcoal-gray slacks. But the gray herringbone sport coat he’d bought just the week before hadn’t been so lucky, he noticed, more than a little ticked off by the splotch of blood on the cuff of the left sleeve. Damn. He’d worn the thing only twice.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you waiting for me?”
Hoyle turned his head in the direction of the voice, and winced at the sharp pain that shot through his neck and down his arm. A dull ache began to pound inside his head. He forced himself to ignore it, instead focusing his attention on the woman standing in the classroom doorway.
He took in the essential details in one glance: Blond hair, blue eyes, an inch or two over five feet, weighing no more than one hundred pounds. The phrase “cute as a button” sprang to mind.
Hoyle drew his brows together into a frown, immediately vowing that if this was Miss Rebekah de Bieren—the teacher he’d come to talk to about his latest murder case—he’d eat his billfold. And the inspector’s badge inside.
“Actually,” he began, “I was waiting for—”
“Uh-oh,” she said, her eyes widening as her gaze swept from the gaping hole in the classroom window, to the rock lying on the floor near his left foot, to the thin line of blood bisecting his forehead. “Looks like someone scored a bull’s-eye this time.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he replied, and allowed himself a more leisurely inspection of the young woman. He was suddenly very curious to know who she was.
Definitely not a teacher, he decided. She looked too young, too hip, too sweet in a girl-next-door sort of way.
Her cheeks were smooth, wrinkle-free, no doubt soft to the touch. Her short hair was stick straight and cut in a jagged fashion that had been popular sometime in the sixties, uneven spikes feathering across her forehead and framing her face in a haphazard way. And her clothes—neon pink-and-yellow parachute pants with matching T-shirt, separated by an extrawide black belt that made her waist look small, real small—were about as unteacherish as they could get.
“You know, this never should have happened,” she said, shaking her head in obvious disgust as she dumped her armload of books and a red-and-black-plaid thermos on the
teacher’s desk.
Teacher’s desk?
Hoyle muttered a disbelieving expletive and reached for his wallet. Then he remembered that no one had witnessed his impulsive vow to lunch on leather and let his hand fall to his side. Lucky break, he thought, more than a little relieved one of his buddies at the precinct hadn’t caught him jumping to conclusions. They’d never let him live it down.
“The taxpayers think they’re so clever,” she continued as she rummaged through her purse, “voting down education measures year after year. Okay, so they pay less in taxes, have a few more dollars to spend going out to the movies or to dinner at some fancy restaurant. But look who suffers—the poor children, that’s who.”
Suffering children? Hoyle thought. At the moment, he was the one suffering, all because one of those “poor” little buggers had heaved a rock through a school window and clobbered him on the head.
“Whoever threw that rock,” she went on, “should be the star pitcher on the school baseball team. But we don’t have a baseball team. And do you know why?” she asked, still digging through her handbag.
“No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“Because we lost our funding for after-school activities a long time ago.” She shook her head. “It’s a crying shame to waste that kind of talent on mere vandalism, don’t you agree, Mr…?”
“Hoyle. Detective Hoyle. Santa Ana Police Department.”
She jerked her head up and locked her gaze with his. Satisfied he’d finally managed to secure her undivided attention, he reached inside his coat pocket with his clean hand and retrieved his wallet. Using his thumb, he flipped it open and flashed his gold shield. “Homicide Division,” he added, taking perverse pleasure in the startled look on her face.
She blinked a couple of times, then drew herself up to her full height. “Homicide?” she repeated. “Your wound must be more serious than I thought.”
“Not that serious,” he replied, silently commending the way she’d recovered her composure so quickly. Still, he didn’t laugh at her joke. As far as he was concerned, assault on a police officer—though unintentional—was no laughing matter.
See How They Run Page 34
