Seeing Red

by Sandra Brown

  “Thank you. I’ll overlook that you arrived at the shack an hour and a half later than you said you would.”

  “It was snow-ing.” Carson paused, then asked, “Do you think the preacher showed up there this morning?”

  Trapper nodded. “Yep. With a posse.”

  When they’d reached the line shack and Trapper had explained to Kerra how he planned to ditch the stolen vehicle and throw Sheriff Addison off their trail, she’d been flabbergasted.

  “You manipulated Hank so well, even I believed you,” she’d told him. “How do you know he’ll tattle?”

  “Because he always comes clean. He’ll have been on the phone with Glenn in a matter of seconds.”

  He’d explained that Glenn and Hank would judiciously wait till morning to come to the shack and that by that time he and Kerra would be long gone. Through the windshield there had been absolutely nothing to see except for the darkness, dervishes of snow, and the vague outline of an inhospitable looking structure. “Long gone to where?” she’d asked.

  That’s when he’d told her the second half of his plan, and they’d begun the seemingly interminable wait for Carson Rime, who’d had to rely on GPS coordinates to locate them. Trapper had kept the SUV’s engine running so they could use the heater. He had urged her to recline her seat and sleep while he kept vigil.

  She had leaned her seat back as far as it would go, but she never went to sleep. She had been chilled and tired and plagued with the fear that she was engaging in something doomed to end in disaster.

  The lawyer had finally found them. On the way back, he’d talked nonstop, telling anecdotes about his clients, until they’d reached the motel, which he’d designated as “perfect for their purposes.”

  Now, Trapper polished off his sandwich, took a sip of coffee, and said to Carson, “Tell me about Thomas Wilcox’s daughter.”

  “Name, Tiffany. She came along late in the marriage. He and his wife, Greta, doted on the kid. Which you’d think would make her a spoiled rich brat. But looks like she was everything a parent could hope for. Straight A student. Lots of friends.” He enumerated her achievements and told them she’d excelled at horseback riding. “The English kind. Little saddles, funny hats, fences to jump.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “You know how those private all-girl schools get together with all-boy schools for dances? Like that. But no one steady, nobody unsavory, nobody her daddy would disapprove.”

  “So no sex scandals, abortions, nothing like that?”

  “If there was such, my research assistant didn’t find it.”

  Trapper gave him an arch look. “Did your research assistant learn if Tiffany Wilcox was ever in trouble with the police?”

  “Un-huh. Not even a traffic ticket.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Not unless you count the overdose that killed her.”

  Trapper exchanged a look with Kerra before he went back to Carson. The attorney shrugged. “The obituary said she died of respiratory ‘complications,’ when it was actually respiratory arrest. Basically she stopped breathing and died of asphyxiation. And she stopped breathing after ingesting a massive amount of heroin. Official ruling was accidental intravenous overdose.”

  “Self-administered?”

  “That could be what the Wilcoxes wanted hushed up.”

  “Could be? Or…?”

  “You’re the investigator, Trapper, not me. It’s all foggy.”

  “Is this research assistant reliable?”

  “Reliably criminal. But I trust the information because he owes me a favor.” Looking at Kerra, he added, “I got his last sentence reduced to time served.”

  Trapper ran his hand over his bristly jaw. “Where was she?”

  “The Wilcox girl? When she died? Don’t know. My assistant didn’t get that.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Didn’t get that, either. She was pronounced DOA at Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas. After the autopsy her body was cremated. No funeral. No nothing. Her horse was donated to a ranch that has riding programs for autistic kids, and this is no nag, it’s a fancy horse.

  “The music room at her school has been named after her, but, at the Wilcoxes’ request, there was no big to-do made over it. It’s like Tiffany…” He made a fluttering motion with his fingers to indicate that she’d been dispersed into the air.

  A car horn sounded. “My signal.” Carson stood up and divided a look of worry between them, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Wilcox walks in tall cotton. Y’all know what you’re doing?”

  Neither answered.

  “What are you doing?”

  Neither answered.

  “Well, if you ever need a lawyer…” He moved toward the door.

  Trapper asked him if he’d seen anybody who didn’t belong lurking around their office building.

  “Nobody. Guess everybody knew you’d be up in Lodal with your daddy.”

  Another horn honk sounded. Trapper opened the door and, despite Mrs. Rime’s dislike, gave her a friendly wave, in response to which she laid down on the horn. Trapper merely laughed.

  On his way out, Carson handed him a set of car keys. “Not pretty to look at, but my new brother-in-law swears it runs like a Swiss watch.”

  Trapper glanced out at the car and grimaced. “Well, he wasn’t lying about its looks.” Then, “Really and truly, Carson, thanks for all this.”

  “I don’t do anything out of the goodness of my heart. You ever heard of billable hours? I’m chalking ’em up.” He blew Kerra a kiss and left to join his impatient bride.

  Trapper shut the door and went through the locking process. He checked the contents of the shopping bags Carson had left on the bed and lifted one in each hand. “Boxers or briefs?”

  “Briefs.”

  He passed her one of the bags. “Briefs and other girl stuff. You can shower first, but save me a towel.”

  “We didn’t finish our conversation.”

  “Yeah, we did. Message received. You’re morally superior and don’t want to screw the likes of me. Fine. Occasionally I ask, but I never, ever beg.”

  “Trapper—”

  “I got a call to make.” He turned away from her, picked up his coat, and took from an inside pocket one of the several cell phones he’d retrieved from under the seat of the SUV.

  He placed his call. “Hi, this John Trapper. How’s The Major this morning?” He listened for several moments, then said, “Really? He’s up to it? That’s a good sign, right? Sure. Hold the phone to his ear.” Then, “Hey. You’re doing even better. The nurse said—”

  As he listened, Kerra watched his smile gradually turn into a thin, stern line. “Yeah, I guess you could call it a wild goose chase.” More listening, then, “No matter what I say in my own defense, you’ve already judged me.” Several seconds later, he gave Kerra a sharp look. “She’s standing right here.”

  He walked over and ungently thrust the phone at her. “The Major wants to talk to you.”

  Chapter 18

  Trapper brushed past her and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

  She said into the phone, “Major?”

  “Kerra. I’ve been beside myself ever since I was told you got hurt. Are you fully recovered?”

  His voice was faint and scratchy, but she smiled at the sound of it. “Almost. Soon you will be. I’m so grateful.”

  “You might have been killed.”

  “I survived. We survived. Don’t think about what could have been.” She laughed shakily. “Of course, I’ve had to tell myself the same thing numerous times.”

  After a brief lapse, he said, “Lucky for me, the nurse John schmoozed was right here in my room when he called her.”

  “That was lucky.”

  “I’m surprised he called to ask after me.”

  “Why would that surprise you? He’s terribly worried about you.”

  “Then why isn’t he here with me instead of out doing…what he’s doing?”


  During her hesitation to answer, The Major muffled the phone and asked the nurse to give him a moment’s privacy. Then he asked Kerra if she was alone. “Can we talk candidly?”

  She could hear the shower running through the closed bathroom door. “Yes.”

  “I know some of what’s going on because Glenn stopped by earlier,” The Major said, still speaking in a rasp. “He was fit to be tied. Told me how John had tricked Hank.”

  “He went to the line shack this morning?”

  “Glenn with him. As John knew would happen. Hank’s always been gullible, but Glenn was also made a fool of.”

  “That wasn’t Trapper’s intention. He only needed to buy some time.”

  The Major pulled in a ragged breath. “Kerra, is he chasing that notion of his about the Pegasus?”

  She didn’t say anything, which was answer enough.

  The Major sighed. “When he was here last night, I was barely conscious, but he launched right into it. Said I hadn’t listened when he warned me, and as a result you and I nearly got killed.”

  Not wanting to be argumentative, as Trapper would be, she chose her words carefully. “If Sunday’s incident had nothing to do with our reunion and the Pegasus bombing, the timing is uncanny.”

  “I agree, but it’s not up to us or to John to decide that. If he thinks the two are connected, he should take it up with the authorities. Federal authorities.”

  “He tried,” she reminded him.

  “Yes,” he said with discernible regret. “I got frustrated with him over that, and I was wrong. But John is his own worst enemy. A superior calls his methods into question, he shoots off his mouth, gets into trouble, causes grief for himself and everyone around him.”

  Kerra knew that to be true, but The Major’s labored breathing concerned her. “We shouldn’t be talking about this right now. It’s upsetting you.”

  “I’ve been upset for three years. John was a bright and shining star at the ATF until his obsession with the Pegasus took hold. He stopped at nothing to try and prove that he was right and everyone else wrong. He disobeyed orders to drop it, and that cost him his career. Cost Marianne hers, too, and destroyed their future together.”

  The last statement struck Kerra like a blow to the chest. She took several steps back and dropped down onto the edge of the bed.

  Oblivious to his unwitting revelation, The Major continued. “He took his failure hard. We had a vicious quarrel. Issues that had been brewing between us came pouring out and…Did he tell you about Debra’s diary?”

  Marianne had obviously been someone important to Trapper. That didn’t trouble her as much as the fact that he’d never even mentioned her name. However, he’d spoken freely about his mother’s diary and how he had used it as a weapon against his father, but it would be a betrayal of his confidence to admit she knew about that.

  When she didn’t respond to his question, The Major wheezed, “Well, no matter. Each of us said things that damaged our relationship.”

  “That saddens me.”

  “Me too. Can’t speak for John.”

  “I believe he regrets the rift. Deeply.”

  “If he does, he sure hasn’t shown it.”

  “I don’t believe it’s irreparable.”

  “Because you don’t know John. He gives no quarter. He can be unmerciful. Harsh. Cruel, even.”

  Kerra’s throat grew tight. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “According to Glenn, you’ve ‘taken up with him.’ You’re adults. It’s not my business except that—I suppose because I saved you once before—I feel a certain responsibility toward you, Kerra.”

  “What about Trapper? Don’t you feel a responsibility toward him?”

  “Of course I do. I love my son, but he rejects it,” he said, his voice cracking. “He’s discarded everything and everyone who cares about him. He’s chosen a destructive path and is determined to stay on it. If only to spite me,” he added in an undertone.

  She disagreed. Trapper wasn’t motivated by spite, or jealousy, or the pettiness The Major attributed to him. But she wasn’t going to get in the middle of the conflict between them, which was already complicated enough.

  She said, “Trapper believes he’s right.”

  “If he is, that makes him a target. Don’t you see? Like I was Sunday night. Like you were and still are. Take my warning to heart, Kerra. John is reckless and won’t listen to anybody, and as long as you’re with him—” He broke off. “The nurse is back and reclaiming her phone. I have to go.” He heaved a rattling breath. “For god’s sake, be careful.”

  “I will. Now please rest.”

  They exchanged subdued goodbyes. For minutes after they disconnected, Kerra remained seated on the bed, her posture slumped with despondency over everything The Major had told her.

  She didn’t realize the shower had stopped running until Trapper opened the bathroom door and came out, a cloud of steam escaping with him. “I hope I didn’t use all the hot water.”

  He was wearing only a towel around his hips, his hair still soaked and dripping onto his shoulders. His torso was lean, skin tightly molded to muscle and rib cage. The wedge of damp, softly curled hair over his pecs tapered to form a sleek, yummy trail. The landscape beneath the towel was so well defined it was decadent.

  He would have looked delicious if not for the hostile glint in his eyes as he walked over to the bed and held out his hand. “Give me the phone.”

  She laid it in his palm. He took the back off and removed the battery. In a dull voice she said, “I thought the number was untraceable.”

  “Not worth chancing. You and The Major have a nice chat?”

  “Not really.”

  It wasn’t the reply he’d expected. He stopped fiddling with the phone and focused the cold blue eyes on her.

  “He said that I should take warning.”

  “Against?”

  “You.”

  “Figures.”

  “He called you reckless, and said that you can be harsh, cruel, and that you’ve chosen a destructive path.”

  He assimilated all that, then smirked. “You know where the door is.”

  He moved away and took a pair of Levis from one of the shopping bags Carson had brought. Turning his back to her, he dropped the towel and pulled on the jeans sans boxers or briefs.

  Kerra stood up. “Who’s Marianne?”

  He froze for a five-count, then hiked the jeans over his butt and did them up before coming back around. “I hate new jeans,” he muttered and began rummaging in the shopping bag.

  “Trapper?”

  “Hmm?” He snapped the price tag off a long-sleeved black t-shirt and pulled it on over his head, seeming to have forgotten that his hair was wet. After pushing his arms through the sleeves and working the shirt over his chest, he bent down and scooped the towel off the floor, then vigorously rubbed it over his head.

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  “Obviously, if the old man is that talkative, he’s recovering. I should stop wasting good worry on him.”

  “Answer me!”

  He dropped the wet towel back onto the floor, then placed his hands on his hips and glared at her from the opposite side of the bed.

  She didn’t cower.

  He raised his hands at his sides in a no big deal gesture. “Marianne Collins. She was another ATF agent.”

  Kerra held her ground but didn’t say anything.

  He stayed as he was for a few seconds, then picked up the shopping bag and dumped the contents onto the bed. He found a pair of socks among the items. He ripped open the packaging with his teeth and sat down in one of the chairs at the table to pull them on.

  As he reached for his boot, he glanced at Kerra, who hadn’t moved from her spot. He cursed under his breath as he pulled the boot on. “If he brought up her name, the least he could have done was give you the nitty-gritty. Or did he?”

  “He said your obsession with the Pegasus cost Marianne her job, too.”
>
  “It did. She defended me and supported my hypothesis about an instigator. The bureau decided that if her loyalty to me outweighed her loyalty to it, she should go when I did. The difference was…” he said, taking up his other boot and shoving his foot into it, “…she gave a fuck.” He stood up and tested the feel of his boots and the stiff new jeans before looking across at her. “The hot water’s probably been replaced by now.”

  “Marianne wasn’t just a colleague, was she, Trapper?”

  “Too bad none of this was covered in all those Internet articles you read about me. You could be taking a nice, hot shower, and I could be left the hell alone!”

  “You were together?”

  He hissed an expletive, but then took a breath and flatly stated, “We were engaged.”

  “She broke the engagement after she was fired?”

  “No, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she was learning what life with me would be like. How reckless, harsh, cruel, and…What was the other thing?” He snapped his fingers several times in rapid succession. “Destructive.”

  Suddenly, his head dropped forward. He pressed his thumb and middle finger into his eye sockets. When he lowered his hand, he walked over to the window and parted the curtains to look out. Kerra knew he wasn’t taking in the scenery. There was nothing to it except a potholed asphalt parking lot and tumbleweeds trapped against a leaning, snaggle-toothed fence.

  He was quiet for so long, she thought he was done talking about it. Then he began in a monotone.

  “I came home one day. Middle of the day. Marianne was in bed, crying. Like, sobbing. Wracking sobs. Inconsolable. She cried for a long time.” A beat later, he said, “While I cleaned up the blood on the bathroom floor.”

  Kerra felt as though she’d swallowed a stone. She stood as unmoving as one.

  “Marianne hadn’t told me she was pregnant, not wanting to add to the pressure I’d been under at work. But that only compounded the pressure she was under. All that stress and bitterness and uncertainty about the future didn’t make for a healthy environment for an embryo.”