Seeing Red

by Sandra Brown

  She conceded. “All right. I’ll try again in the morning. But you don’t have to give me a ride. I can wait till the press conference is over and go back with the crew or the deputy.”

  “I thought you wanted an exclusive with ‘the son.’”

  She looked back toward the building they’d just exited. “Can’t we talk inside? Maybe over some hot chocolate?”

  “If you’re spotted in there, you’ll be stampeded. I have been. We won’t have any privacy.”

  After a few seconds of indecision, she took her phone from her coat pocket, tapped in a number, and told whoever answered that she had another ride back to the motel. During her brief conversation, Trapper steered her around patches of black ice on the parking lot. Nearing the SUV, he unlocked it with a key fob and hoisted her into the passenger seat.

  As he did, he made brushing contact with her thigh. He wished his hand were still inside the ugly, baggy track pants, his palm on her hip, pulling her to him and securing her there. He thought something similar must’ve been going through her mind, because when their eyes met, it was like time rewound at warp speed and they were mouth to mouth, middle to middle again.

  But she took a quick little breath, then looked away.

  And he was getting pelted with sleet.

  He shut her door and went around. As soon as he climbed in, he cranked the engine and switched on the windshield wipers. They scraped across the icy accumulation a few times, but with the defroster on high, the crusting of sleet began to break up well enough for him to see to drive. He backed out of the parking space, navigated through the lot, and then turned onto the street.

  “Do you still have your phone handy?” he asked Kerra.

  “Where’s yours?”

  “Battery’s dead.” He held out his right hand. She placed her phone in it. With his hands propped on top of the steering wheel, he opened the back of her phone, removed the battery, and dropped it into his left coat pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making it impossible for you to record anything I’m about to tell you.”

  “I had no intention of recording it!” Thrusting her hand toward him, she said, “Give me back my phone.”

  He laid the phone in her palm but kept the battery. “For the time being, anything I say is off the record. Okay?”

  She gave a curt nod.

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He snickered. “Good enough.” He let her stew for a moment, then said, “Several times you’ve asked what caused my split with The Major.”

  Still miffed over the phone, she answered stiffly, “A perfectly valid question.”

  “It was the Pegasus bombing.”

  Her vexation immediately changed to captured interest.

  “You also wanted to know what caused my severance with the ATF.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked across at her. “Same thing.”

  He held her gaze for several seconds, then returned his attention to the icy roadway. The SUV was better equipped to drive on it than his car would have been. Carson was good for something.

  They rode in silence for half a mile before Kerra said, “Well? Talk to me. You had a quarrel with the ATF and with The Major over the bombing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  “I will.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  He drove past the motel without even slowing down. She turned her head to look at the neon sign that blurred and then disappeared in the freezing fog and mist behind them. “You passed the motel.”

  “Did I?”

  “You know you did, Trapper. What’s going on?”

  “I’m concentrating. Trying to keep this thing from skidding off the road and still maintain some decent speed.”

  “We don’t need to maintain a decent speed.”

  “We do if we don’t want them to catch us.”

  “Catch us? What are you talking about? Who’s after us?”

  “Nobody yet. But there will be as soon as you’re reported missing.”

  “I’m not missing.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Trapper, what are you doing? Turn around this instant. Take me back.”

  “No can do.”

  “You damn sure can!”

  He kept driving, eyes on the road.

  “What is this? A kidnapping? I’m your hostage?”

  “No, not a hostage.”

  “If you’re hauling me off to God knows where, without my consent and against my will, then what would you call me?”

  He shot her a glance. “Bait.”

  Chapter 13

  Gracie knocked three times. “Kerra? Kerra, are you in there?” She waited for fifteen seconds, then knocked again. When she didn’t get a response, she turned to the young man whose plastic name tag read “Travis.” Gracie had dragged him from the check-in office, explaining that her friend wasn’t responding to attempts to rouse her. “Still not answering. Unlock the door.”

  “Maybe you ought to call her first.”

  “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” She glared at him. “I have called her. About a dozen times.”

  “There could be lots of reasons she’s not answering.”

  “Yes, and one of them could be that she’s unconscious.”

  He went over to the window, cupped his hands around his eyes, and peered through the crack in the drapery. “No lights on. She’s probably just asleep. Maybe left her earbuds in.”

  “Unlock the door.”

  “If we walk in on something, uh, personal—”

  “I hope to God we do.”

  “I’ll get canned.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility.”

  “The owner’s number one rule is to protect the privacy of our guests.”

  “My number one rule is to make sure my friend is breathing! Open. The. Door.”

  “We’re not supposed to—”

  Gracie grabbed him by the front of his shirt and jerked him toward her. “The woman is recovering from a concussion, you moron! If you don’t open that damn door, I’m going to smash the window with your head.”

  “Okay, okay.” She let him go. He fumbled with the key but managed to unlock the door, then opened it no wider than half a foot and called softly through the crack. “Ms. Bailey?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake.” Gracie pushed him out of her way, shoved the door open, and strode in, flipping on the light switch in the process. The room was empty.

  The young man was relieved, but Gracie’s distress increased tenfold. Two members of the production crew appeared in the open doorway. One, the lighting tech, had the temerity to ask, “She’s not here?”

  “Does it look like she’s here?” Gracie screeched. “And it’s your fault for coming back without her.”

  “She’s a grown-up. What was I supposed to do? Besides, isn’t that deputy guarding her? He followed us to the hospital in his police car. Maybe she’s with him.”

  Gracie said, “Tell me again what she said when she called you.”

  “‘I’ve got another ride.’”

  “But she didn’t say with who? She didn’t specify the deputy?”

  “No.”

  “Call the sheriff’s office. Ask.”

  “You know, keeping tabs on Kerra isn’t in my job description.”

  Gracie placed her hands on her hips. “Your next job description could be cleaning the crapper.”

  He slunk away to make the call.

  His fellow crew member weighed in. “Maybe she’s with that guy. The one with the sweet truck.”

  The possibility that Kerra was with John Trapper made Gracie uneasy. She remembered how irate he’d appeared when he practically mowed her down outside Kerra’s room. “Did you see him at the hospital?”

  “No. The doctor made his excuses for not being at the press conference.”

  “Uh…” Travis the desk cler
k cleared his throat. “When you say the guy with the sweet truck, do you mean Mr. Trapper?”

  Gracie turned to him. “Speak!”

  He nervously wet his lips. “He’s got a room here, too. It’s in the other wing. I can’t remember exactly which number, but if you come back to the office with me, we can call it.”

  After they trooped out, Harvey Jenks took the first deep breath he’d taken in minutes.

  He had heard the harpy terrorize the kid into unlocking the door and then had stood motionless and breathless inside the closet of Kerra Bailey’s room during the ensuing discussion, which seemed to have lasted forever.

  Somebody, probably the skittish motel employee, had conscientiously turned out the light as they went, so the room was in darkness when Jenks moved soundlessly from his hiding place.

  His plan had been to be waiting inside the room for Kerra Bailey when she returned.

  His plan was now screwed.

  The closet had been a tight fit for him, but he thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t been discovered. He crossed to the door, opened it a crack, and made certain that the coast was clear, that the TV people weren’t yet making their way back from the motel office, then slipped out.

  Although he wasn’t too worried about anyone seeing him leave. The weather was keeping motorists off the roads. Even if he were spotted by a passerby, so what? He was a deputy sheriff. One would assume he was guarding Kerra Bailey.

  Inside her room?

  If challenged, he’d come up with a rambling explanation that would sound plausible to a civilian even if it was nonsense. But he returned to his car confident that his break-in and breakout of Kerra’s room had gone unseen. He slid behind the steering wheel and pulled out his cell phone.

  His call was answered with a brusque, “Done?”

  “She didn’t come back.”

  “What?”

  “I was in place. All set. Except she didn’t come back from the hospital with the TV crew.” He related the rest of the story. “Narrows down to her being with the deputy. Or Trapper.”

  “Shit!”

  “Her coworkers are checking it out.”

  Jenks had won favor by returning from Monday’s predawn excursion alone, without Petey Moss. He had a story prepared to tell anyone inquiring after Petey: He’d had to hightail it to Tennessee to lay low with a cousin until his ex, who now lived in Wisconsin or someplace equally remote, stopped hassling him about delinquent child support checks.

  Petey wasn’t likely to be missed by many. His ex was long gone. He never saw his kids, never bothered to contact them. He had lived alone and had claimed few friends.

  Jenks had twinges of remorse whenever he recalled how trustingly Petey had accompanied him out to The Pit. Too large to be called a pond, too small for a lake, The Pit was an abandoned gravel pit that years ago the county had filled with water to create a swimming hole. The first summer it was open, two fourteen-year-olds had gone out there in the middle of the night to smoke dope and have sex. While skinny-dipping, both had drowned.

  Their parents, looking for somebody to blame, had sued the county and won. After taking that financial drubbing, county officials hadn’t had the budget to reopen The Pit. The only thing out there now was a rusty eight-foot cyclone fence with rustier “Keep Out” signs posted every so often. It was a good place to do something you didn’t want witnessed.

  Jenks had lured Petey to it by suggesting they kill a six-pack of Bud while watching the sunrise and commiserating with each other over the ass-chewing they’d received for botching the job at The Major’s place.

  Of course that wasn’t what had gone down when they got there. Petey hadn’t been given time to drink even one beer. He didn’t regret tricking Petey. If he hadn’t acted first, Petey would have. In which case, his carcass would likely be decaying on the bottom of The Pit right now.

  Anyhow, it was done, and now he was faced with new concerns, like the disappointment and anger he sensed coming at him through his phone from the man at the other end of the call.

  “With Kerra wanting to go on TV again tomorrow evening and talk about the Pegasus, The Major’s near miss, all that, tonight’s timing was crucial.”

  Jenks thought it best not to try to defend himself against the subtle rebuke. Instead he said, “What do you want me to do now?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  Oh, Christ. Rarely did anything good come of that.

  Chapter 14

  Frigid as it was outside, Kerra was smoldering. “Bait?”

  “Well, when you say it like that—”

  She unbuckled her seat belt, launched herself across the console, and grabbed Trapper’s arm. The SUV swerved, went into a three-sixty spin, then another, and when it stopped, its rear tires were in the ditch, and it was resting at an angle so steep its headlights were projecting up through the sleet and snow mix.

  Trying to shake her off, Trapper shouted, “What the hell?”

  “Turn this thing around and take me back to town.”

  He swatted her hands away and yanked his head from side to side to prevent her from slapping him. “You could have gotten us killed.”

  “I’m going to kill you!”

  “Okay, you’re furious.”

  “That doesn’t come close.”

  She went for him again. This time her palm connected with his cheek, and it smarted. “Dammit, Kerra, stop it! I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He finally managed to get hold of both her wrists and trapped her hands inside his coat against his chest, then took a moment to catch his breath. He said, “That was a dumb thing to do.”

  “I lost my head. Can you blame me?”

  “Maybe my tactic wasn’t the best.” She seethed, but that was all the apology she was going to get. “Ready to listen?”

  Her eyes were still murderous. “Is this your scheme to prevent me from doing that interview tomorrow night?”

  “This is about something a hell of a lot bigger than that.”

  She continued to breathe heavily and angrily, but at least he had her attention. She had calmed to a simmer. “I want my hands back.”

  “Are you going to pound at me like a crazy woman?”

  “Maybe.”

  He released her, but she didn’t go manic again. She settled into her seat. “All right, I’m listening.”

  He opened the driver’s window a crack so he could safely leave the engine running, but he switched off the headlights. He organized his thoughts and decided to simply lay it out there.

  “Kerra, twice in your life, you’ve narrowly escaped being killed. And both times you were with The Major. Now, you can lie to yourself, talk around it, rationalize, theorize about fickle fate, karma, and whatever other crap you want to throw into the mix, but you know, I know, there’s only one explanation. The two of you survived the bombing, and somebody is scared of what will come of you and The Major putting your heads together and comparing notes on what you saw and heard that day.”

  “A generally speaking somebody?”

  “A particular somebody. Which is why I kept going back to it.”

  She shook her head in confusion and stroked the bruise above her brow.

  The reflexive motion concerned him. “Kerra, are you dizzy? Feeling sick? Does your head hurt?”

  “Yes. No. I’m fine.”

  “You shouldn’t have been flailing around like that.”

  “You shouldn’t have kidnapped me.”

  “Do you want me to take you back?”

  “Not until I’ve heard this. I’m all right. Tell me what you meant when you said you kept going back to ‘it.’ The bombing?”

  “I studied it from the inside out.”

  “While you were with the ATF?”

  “In my spare time.”

  “To what end? The case was solved.”

  “‘Solved’ isn’t the word I would use,” he said. “There was never a mystery as to who’d done it or why. The guy confessed, said that he and two ot
her men carried the bombs into the Pegasus Hotel and set them to detonate because they held a grudge against the hotel’s parent company.”

  “The petroleum company.”

  “Yes. Everything he confessed to was substantiated by the FBI and ATF’s investigations. The blasts were devastating in terms of casualties and destruction of property. But as far as bombs go, they were nothing fancy, and nothing fancy was needed for a building only sixteen stories tall. C-4, a high explosive. Blasting caps. Timers. One of them, swear to God, was an egg timer.

  “The blast radius of each wasn’t that large, but it didn’t have to be. What made the Pegasus bombs effective was that they were strategically placed. You know like when an old building is imploded, the explosives are set near support beams, either around the perimeter or in the center? Same principle. Collapse the infrastructure, building crashes down.”

  “That sounds scarily simple.”

  “It doesn’t take a genius. Nowadays we’re conditioned to be on the alert for stray backpacks and the like. But two decades ago, three men dressed as businessmen carrying briefcases and rollaboards into a hotel wouldn’t have been given a moment’s notice.

  “The confessor was an architect. He’d acquired a set of plans, all the schematics of the building, knew how to access the areas they needed to get to, and he had his escape route mapped out.”

  “Remember, I’ve studied the bombing, too,” Kerra said. “One of the things I found incomprehensible was that he was the one who set the timers, then lied to the other two about how much time they had to get clear before detonation.”

  “Exactly,” Trapper said quietly. “He planned it so he would be the sole surviving bomber. But only so he could confess? Does that make sense to you?”

  “That’s what bothered you, what got you interested?”

  “It was one of the things,” he said. “When I first got into the ATF, I was merely curious to learn more about the event that had dominated my life since age eleven. I wanted to tackle it, like a foe, and now I had access to files, reports, information that the general public is never exposed to because it’s either too technical or too graphic, horrific, gruesome. I was like a scholar deprived of books who suddenly finds himself locked inside the Library of Congress. But for all the access I had, the deeper I dug, the more curious I became.”