by Alice Sharpe
“You’re full of it.”
“You need someone with a heart to give,” he said, his voice so soft she wondered if he was close to sleep.
“You have a heart,” she said.
“A little one,” he mumbled.
“No room in it for me?”
“Not the way you want. Not the way you deserve.”
“And how do you know what I want or what I deserve?”
“Don’t tempt me, Katie.”
She turned her head away as two tears slid out of her eyes and onto the pillow. She left her hand cradled in his and she could tell by his breathing that he’d fallen asleep.
She’d been treating him like an ordinary man and he wasn’t. Some code of honor had propelled him to agree to help her. But it wasn’t affection for her; he wasn’t doing this because she needed or wanted him to do it. He was honoring his family name, so to say. He was taking care of business his ne’er-do-well father began. Yes, he’d kissed her a couple of times, but so what? It had been an emotionally charged two days. She needed to back off and leave him alone to do what she couldn’t do, couldn’t even imagine how to do: find and save her mother.
Her mother, held for ransom with a group of people infamous for their disregard of human life.
She closed her eyes again and breathed in the good, fresh smell of Nick’s skin. She replayed his drowsy warning, but superimposed over it was the interlude in the trees when they’d stopped the snowmobile in the snowy lane and he’d turned and kissed her. The way he’d looked at her.
The urgency of his kisses.
Nick was two men. One wanting, one refusing. She considered shaking him awake.
Instead she fell asleep.
THE NEXT DAY BEGAN before dawn when Nick roused her with a quick, “It’s time to get ready.”
He was in the act of pulling on a sweater—a new one, undoubtedly belonging to Doc. She was about to comment on this when she saw her own suitcase on the dresser. Someone must have retrieved it from the plane before waking her.
Showered and wearing clean clothes, her hair freshly washed and still damp, a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast in her stomach, she was ready to leave when Nick was. The plane was off the ground soon after.
“Let’s use the flight to Juneau to review what we know about Carson.”
Katie sat back in her seat and adjusted her headphones to a more comfortable position before saying, “Okay. There are two groups of bad guys, a cop named Carson and the mob. Carson wants your dad dead.”
“And probably us as well.”
“And the mob who have my poor mother hidden away somewhere. At least I hope they do. There’s nothing to keep them from killing her, is there? I mean what would they have to lose?”
Nick put his hand on top of hers. She met his steady gaze and swallowed her panic. It wasn’t fair to expect him to sweep up after her emotionally all the time. She said, “There I go again. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Back to Carson—”
“He searched your house so he had to know something was there.”
“I think my father bargained with Carson—the money for his life. Then my father must have escaped from Carson, Carson followed, decided the money was a ruse, shot my father, got wounded by me and fled.”
“Then the next morning you blew up Carson’s snowmobile and we left. He decided he might as well search the house. I wonder where he got another snowmobile? He was riding it away from the house when I rescued you.”
“You rescued me?”
“Don’t quibble semantics. So, where did he get the other snowmobile?”
“He must have come across the one my father used to get to my house the night he was shot. They must have come together, more or less. We don’t know if Carson left on that red-and-white plane or if he stayed in Frostbite in which case, he’s no doubt in the process of destroying my house.”
“At least we’re not in it,” Katie said softly.
The hours passed in a flash, both of them well rested and anxious about what was to come. Nick landed in Juneau at a water airport. There was no snow on the ground though it was raining steadily. They took a cab to the commercial airport, bought the tickets Helen had reserved in their names, went through the procedure of locking the gun in a suitcase and signing the proper forms, and were the last people to board the plane.
As soon as they were in the air, Katie thought to ask Nick if Doc had mentioned Nick’s father having any moments of lucidity during the night.
“Just one and it wasn’t that lucid,” Nick said. He reached in his pocket and took out a scrap of paper. “This is what Doc could make out of Dad’s ramblings. ‘Caroline, car chase, south, emeralds, nightgowns, wedding and clams.’”
“It sounds as though he’s mixing his time periods. Two years ago with a few days ago,” Katie said. “But some of those words are ones he repeats over and over again. They have to mean something.”
“Yeah, but what? We’ll rent a car—”
She put a hand on his arm. “About the money for all this,” she said. “I don’t have much of my own, but I do have my sister’s credit card and there should still be a few hundred on it. I’ll take care of the car and I’ll repay you for fuel. I don’t see how I can compensate you for your time.”
“You can’t,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You can’t afford me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How much do you charge?”
“By the week? Six thousand.”
“Yikes.”
“It’s all-inclusive,” he said. “Cameras if need be, flight time, food, entertainment, lodging…although in your case, we have to factor in my father. He got you and your mom into this so I figure a big discount is in order.”
“Good. Let me know how much I owe you.”
“I will,” he said.
“I will repay you,” she insisted.
“You can repay your half if you want.” His face hardened as he added. “But not mine. You understand I’m here for reasons of my own, right?”
She understood.
Chapter Thirteen
The flashlight beam had grown increasingly weak until now its wavering beam glowed more yellow than white. Caroline was afraid to leave it on for very long. The thought of losing even that fledging bit of light made her throat constrict.
The hole in the ground hadn’t improved, either. In fact, over the days it had become damper as though it had rained and the water had seeped into her cell. The floor wasn’t exactly muddy, but it felt slimy and uncomfortable and sometimes she felt slippery things. Paying the price for a flash of light, she’d discovered worms. She wasn’t alone anymore.
If she lived through this, she would never dig a hole and plant a flower again. Never.
One thing she knew. Bill was dead. He would have saved her from those men if he could have, her poor darling, and by now he’d had plenty of time to call the police. But hour after hour—day after day—passed without rescue and now she had to face the fact that none might ever come.
There was only one apple left, though she’d tried to eke them out. One. Did the number of apples signify anything important? Would someone come back and empty the bucket she had placed as far away as possible from where she sat and replace her food and give her new batteries?
Sure they would. Or maybe she should just ring for room service.
Where was she? Why could she hear almost nothing, even when she put her ear against the plywood roof or that little pipe of fresh air?
And why had this happened to her? Those men had broken into the room all of a sudden, bursting through the door like the vice squad. They’d dragged her and Bill out of bed, struck him on the head and stuck a cloth over her face. That was the last thing she recalled until waking up in this hole. If they hadn’t murdered her outright, did that mean she was a hostage? And did that mean Bill was even now trying to dig up enough money to free her?
But Bill didn’t have a lot of money. He did the books for a doze
n small businesses, but there was no money in that. She didn’t have much either. And Tess? Maybe a little nest egg—the girl was a tireless worker and had a good job with a successful veterinarian practice—but enough to justify trying to extract a ransom for her mother?
No way.
Did Tess know about this? She and Bill had canceled their fancy room in Seattle, so did Tess just think they’d taken off for Canada or who knows where? Had her only child realized yet that her mother’s honeymoon had turned into this nightmare?
Only child?
So, was this some kind of cosmic retribution for what she’d done when she was young? Was it payback time?
She closed her eyes, and this time when thoughts of the past crowded in on her, she had a plan. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Memories were selective; she didn’t have to be their victim.
This realization was empowering. Yesterday or the day before, when she’d relived the shock of delivering twins and not the lone baby she’d so desired, she’d felt that old pain, that old guilt…
Why not just remember it differently? Remember it happy and relaxed, remember how she’d felt a sense of wholeness she’d never experienced before—
It was no use because none of that was true. It hadn’t happened that way and pretending it had wouldn’t work. The fact was the temporary awe of having two babies fled as reality reared its ugly head. Her marriage was a sham, and now there were two little individuals to look after. Not that they seemed to need much. They shared a crib, they shared coos and first smiles. She could tell when she was around them that they would cling to each other for the rest of their lives. They would nurture and love each other. Instead of creating one person in the world who would love her unconditionally, she’d created a self-sufficient duo. She would be the outsider. Forever.
The sense of betrayal. The doom. The guilt for having feelings so awful and self-centered.
Suddenly, she hadn’t wanted either of them. Taking care of them became a nightmare. No one knew about postpartum depression then. No one had a nice name for it and caring doctors and medications. Once again, no one listened, no one helped, she was alone. A zombie. A failure. Scared.
She pushed the pain away. She had to. She closed her eyes and hummed, trying to relax in her cold, mucky hole, pulling the wool blankets tighter around her body. She’d erase her mind, make it blank, fill it with silly things like lyrics of songs or strings of numbers…
If madness lay in this direction, she was ready to embrace it. What did it matter?
THE PLANE LANDED south of Seattle at the Sea-Tac airport. It was almost noon and so foggy Nick was relieved not only that they were on the ground but that he hadn’t been in the pilot’s seat. Katie insisted on renting the car using her sister’s credit card. He didn’t argue. He understood her brand of independence and admired it. Instead he reclaimed their luggage, most importantly of all, his handgun.
Katie’s presence delighted him more than he’d ever tell her. He’d told himself that since she was privy to the same information he was, and since she was as stubborn as they came, she’d no doubt follow him and become an additional liability if he sneaked off without her. But the truth was simpler. It had been a long time since he’d felt part of something bigger than himself. And she was right. He wasn’t great with people.
What dangerous thoughts, he mused as she checked out the rental for any existing scrapes or dents. She was so young, she had a rich, full life ahead of her. Him? He’d had his rich, full life. It had died with Patricia, out on the street, and now he knew more about life and love and loss than Katie—hopefully—ever would.
Not that she hadn’t had her fair share of drama for a woman her age. Not that at times she didn’t seem wiser than he would ever be, but it was a wisdom based on fearless innocence and not experience.
Okay, he craved her. First woman since Patricia to create those tender feelings, to incite lust, to tease his senses. She was a treat to look at, a challenge to communicate with, frustrating and delightful. Her quirks ignited his imagination and the way she felt in his arms, pressed against his body, the feel of her warm lips was—well, it was kind of like coming home after a long, long absence.
It had cost him a lot to put her off the previous night and he blamed himself for her assumption he wanted more to happen. He shouldn’t have kissed her even one time, let alone a dozen times. He shouldn’t have flirted with her out in the snow with the towering trees like a cathedral above their heads, nerves honing every sensation. He’d been powerless to resist her chilled lips and porcelain skin, powerless to resist his longings.
Excuses.
Face it, her enthusiasm and passion were like a life force of their own. When she’d crawled into bed with him the night before, he’d had to remind himself she was also too precious to waste on an old fool like himself.
None of this mattered.
Time was running out.
Concentrate on the task at hand. Time for what-ifs and if-onlys later…
As he was more familiar with the city than she was, he did the driving. It was one in the afternoon by the time they took the exit to the waterfront which, they both decided given the mention of water and clams, was as good a place to start as any.
“Your dad’s preoccupation with clams is an odd one,” Katie mused as he dealt with the midday traffic.
“You should have asked Tess for the wedding-day menu. It could be as innocent as clam chowder,” he said, cutting her a quick glance. She looked wonderful, glowing in a pink sweater, the red tresses falling around her delicate features, setting off the wild blue yonder of her eyes. She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap.
“Turn up the heater if you’re cold,” he told her.
“It’s this fog,” she said. He agreed. Chicago’s fog might creep in on little cat feet, but Northwest fog oozed through the streets and hung over the water like an extra on a horror movie set.
“It seeps into your bones,” Katie added. “And it looks to me as if it’s getting worse instead of better.”
“You’re from the Oregon coast. You must have lots of experience with fog.”
“Doesn’t mean I like it,” she grumbled. “Where did you grow up?”
“Born in New Jersey, moved to California when my mother remarried. We lived in Los Angeles. I’m more used to smog than fog.”
“And this traffic doesn’t faze you.”
“Nope.”
“And after Los Angeles,” she said, turning in her seat to watch him, “you joined the Army?”
“And went to war. Ex-Ranger,” he added, though in his mind, that had all taken place at least two lifetimes ago.
Katie, who always appeared to be tuned into his thought processes in an alarmingly accurate way, said, “My dad used to say life was like a book with chapters. Childhood, coming-of-age, career, building a family, old age—he always urged me not to rush one stage along in order to get to the next stage faster.”
“It’s sounds to me like your father was a philosopher.”
She was quiet for a second and then she said, “You know, I guess because Dad is dead and beyond questioning, my sister and I have blamed everything on my mother. How could she separate us and keep us apart? Could you have given away Lily’s twin and sworn never to see or touch her again?”
He glanced at her as he merged lanes. “I don’t think so. But everyone has different breaking points. Your mother must have been under considerable stress.”
“Yeah. But I don’t understand it.”
“Katie, did you have a happy childhood?”
She pondered this for a moment before saying, “In many ways, yes. Dad was a good father, but he was fighting a gambling addiction so money was always tight and he was away a lot and I was on my own. I always knew something was wrong and, like kids do, I always felt it was somehow my fault. I think he loved me as much as he knew how.”
“And I guess there are worse ways to grow up,” Nick said.
“And bett
er ways. I look at you with Lily and it just makes me smile inside.”
She’d just managed to chip away another piece of his defenses. He’d told her last night that his heart was too small to hold her inside and it was true. He knew the stories about how love expanded a heart and there was always room for one more, but his was battle weary and ready for semiretirement. There was room for Lily. Acres of room for Lily. The rest of that precarious real estate had to be labeled off-limits, flood plane, earthquake zone, tsunami warning, bridge out ahead, no lifeguard on duty.
If Katie would stop being Katie, he could stop thinking about her. Since that seemed unlikely to happen, he would have to do the next best thing. He would have to solve this current situation posthaste and go home to Lily.
He said, “We were talking about the possibilities of the word ‘clam.’”
She graciously accepted getting back on track. “Okay. Well, clam chowder, like you said. Clambake. Clam diggers. Clam up. Plain old clamshells.”
“Piece of cake figuring out the right one,” he said drily. They ended up driving along Puget Sound, the underpinning of a raised highway on one side, restaurants, gift stores and piers on the other. On this cold, late February afternoon, the tourists were few and far between and the scenery was distorted by the pea-soup fog.
“All this talk of clam chowder has made me hungry,” Katie said. “Let’s park and get something to eat.”
Nick found a parking spot and they bundled back into their coats and scarves and gloves. The weird thing was that it was so much warmer here than Frostbite and yet the fog made it seem colder.
“The emerald thing,” Katie said. “That has to be gemstones.”
“Or maybe the color of your mother’s eyes.”
Katie stopped walking. “I don’t know the color of my mother’s eyes. I still haven’t ever really seen her.” She looped her arm through his and squeezed him. She was always doing little things like this. Warm things, friendly things, ordinary affectionate things. With a sigh he added, “Nightgowns and your mother’s name, those seem obvious.”
