Perfect Assassin

by Wendy Rosnau

  He had decided that Alun Beltane didn’t exist, and that Holic had no system or order to the bogus kill-file he’d manufactured.

  Both conclusions stunk.

  Was he losing his touch, or was Billy wrong about the name? And was Merrick on a witch hunt?

  Koko had said the name Alun didn’t fit his houseguest. And he could count on one hand the number of times his grandmother had been wrong.

  So where did that leave him?

  No one had come forward looking for a missing person. Not one inquiry.

  Jacy shut down the computer and left his office. He stepped into the hall, his eyes locking on the scene in the living room. She was in a tug of war with Matwau. He was growling playfully, and sisttsi nan was more than a little frustrated.

  “Bitte geben Sie es mir, Matwau. Bitte!”

  Jacy had become fluent in a number of languages working for Onyxx, and he knew German as well as French and Italian, and a dozen other languages. Now he was once again sorting out the words, wondering who the hell she was.

  “What’s going on?”

  She looked up, frustration had colored her cheeks. “He took my sock and he won’t give it back.”

  “I’ve heard you speak German before. Where do you suppose you learned that? You speak it like a native.”

  She let go of the sock and Matwau—thinking he’d won—hopped up on the couch, tucking his prize between his huge paws.

  “I…don’t know.”

  It was clear she was uncomfortable with the question. He’d caught her in a number of awkward situations in the past weeks since she’d been staying with him. And if she could lie about this, what else was she capable of lying about?

  He heard his phone ring, and he stepped back in his office and closed the door.

  Pierce was calling to discuss cold trails, more dead bodies, and the fact that Holic’s replacement had managed to make the kills even though his shots were not perfect.

  “More messy shots, taken in haste,” Pierce was saying. “Merrick told me you’ve been working on the kill-file. That there might be a way to decode the pattern. Find anything?”

  “No. And I don’t think that I’m going to.”

  “Holic still claims someone else is shooting those agents,” Pierce said. “He claims his replacement wouldn’t take a bad shot.”

  “Those agents are dead,” Jacy reminded. “I don’t consider a shot that kills someone a bad shot. Do you?”

  “No, but he still claims it’s not his man. What do you think?”

  “I’ve looked over the data you sent me on the first four kills. It’s true the killer’s shots have changed since the first two, but maybe there’s a reason for it. Maybe this is part of Holic’s game. Maybe his man was told to dirty things up a bit. Hell, I don’t know.”

  “You sound stressed out. What’s going on with you?”

  Jacy hadn’t told anyone about his houseguest. He said, “I’ve got a situation here. A woman staying with me.”

  “Is she pretty? Your type or mine?”

  “She’s too young for both of us.”

  “How old.”

  “Not old enough.”

  “Too vague.”

  “She went down in a plane in the mountains. She doesn’t know her name or where’s she’s from.”

  “What’s the hold-up? You’re the detail man. You should be able to figure that out.”

  “That’s just it. I’ve hit a roadblock at every turn. Someone has to be looking for her.”

  “Meaning she’s pretty and you’re frustrated.”

  Jacy set his jaw. “Like I said, she’s too young and innocent for someone like me.”

  “Can I help?”

  “You’ve got your hands full chasing after dead bodies. I’ll work this out.”

  “If I get anything new on Holic’s replacement, I’ll give you a call.”

  “It’s a date.”

  She would stay until the weekend and then disappear. She’d been at Moon’s house almost a month and it was past time she move out. Her ankle had mended, and Moon had removed the stitches one night after he had made her drink three glasses of wine.

  Prisca stepped out of the shower, glanced down at her leg. She would always have a scar, but Vic had done the best he could.

  She needed to get back to her old life, back on the trail of Jacy Madox and Bjorn Odell. But it wouldn’t be easy to leave Moon’s cabin. She had slipped into a routine. She had become comfortable living with him. That sounded crazy, but the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave.

  She was more than attracted to him. Looked forward to seeing him each morning. Sharing kitchen duties, and caring for the animals. She’d even ventured out to the barn and had made friends with his horse, Pete.

  It was infatuation, she told herself. Moon had become her lifeline, and he was as dependable as cement. She’d had that with Otto, too, but this was different.

  Moon was different.

  She dried off with a towel and then slipped on a pair of jeans and a black sweater. Towel-drying her hair, she opened the door. The smell of fresh bread told her that Moon was in the kitchen. She smiled in anticipation of seeing him, knowing how she would find him—he was as comfortable doing dishes as he was chopping wood for the fireplace.

  He didn’t look like the cooking type, but he had more skills than any man she knew, and more energy—he did more in one day than most people did in a week.

  Weeko scurried by and disappeared into her bedroom. She followed, speaking to the raccoon like an old friend. That was the problem. She was getting too comfortable here. She was forgetting who she was, and in a frightening way it felt good.

  The phone rang and she heard Moon’s heavy voice as he answered it. She entered the hall again after slipping on shoes. She was still using the towel on her hair when she entered the kitchen.

  He looked up, but he didn’t smile. He was arguing with whoever had called.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll have to see. She wouldn’t want to come. It’s not the kind of place she would enjoy. Sure, I’ll mention it, but I don’t think you’ll see us there.”

  When he hung up the phone, he swore.

  Pris was about to ask who it was—rarely did he get any calls—but he answered her question before she asked it.

  “That was Tate. It’s his birthday today. He’s having a party at the Sun Dance. He wants us to come.”

  Us…

  “I told him you wouldn’t want to go.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He frowned. “Because it’s a bar. Loud music. Drinking. People acting crazy.”

  “You don’t want to go?”

  He hesitated.

  “I’ve been in this house for weeks. It would be fun to get out.”

  “So you want to go?”

  She had only met Tate twice. Both times he’d come to Moon’s house, but he hadn’t stayed long. He was a full-blooded Blackfeet Indian with a long braid down his back. Moon had explained that his mother had been married once before she’d married his father. That Tate’s father had died in a hunting accident when Tate was a few years old.

  He was looking at her, still waiting for an answer. “You can go by yourself if you don’t want to take me.”

  That gave him pause. “Why wouldn’t I want to take you? I just thought—”

  “I wouldn’t fit in. That’s okay. I understand.”

  “You don’t understand anything,” he grumbled. “Would you let me finish?”

  “Okay. What’s the problem?”

  “Tate’s parties usually end up turning into a bar fight. I don’t want you anywhere near that.”

  His answer surprised her. She recalled him telling her about his days with the Hell’s Angels. About his wild brother Tate, and their even wilder escapades.

  “I have you to protect me, right?”

  He just looked at her. She’d caught him doing that a lot. Studying her as if he was trying to see inside her head. R
ead her thoughts.

  “This is a hard-party crowd.”

  “Maybe I’m a party girl.”

  He snorted. “I don’t think so, honey.”

  Honey…

  He’d called her that a few times over the past weeks, and like now, after he’d used the word, he was frowning.

  “Call him back and tell him we’re coming. And don’t forget to ask what time.” Pris headed past him toward the fresh bread on the counter, tossing the towel on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Can I have a piece?”

  “You know you don’t have to ask. You can have whatever you want.”

  “And the peanut butter. What cupboard again?”

  “Top right. You sure about this? You want to go to Tate’s party?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Prisca found the peanut butter, then sliced the heel off the bread. When she left Moon’s home she would miss his fresh bread, and the wonderful smells that he created in his kitchen. She would miss his jeans hugging his hips, and the way his flannel shirts outlined his strong shoulders and sturdy back. But mostly she would miss his generosity and the way his deep voice always turned soft when he spoke to her. How he dragged out the word honey.

  He said it as if she was important to him. As if he really cared about her.

  Six hours later they were on the road headed for the Sun Dance Saloon. She had pulled her black hair back from her face, and put on a little makeup, which had gotten her a second look.

  When they parked in front of the Sun Dance Saloon, she looked over the building. It was rustic, similar to Moon’s log cabin. The parking lot was full, and she could hear music coming from inside.

  They got out of Moon’s black pickup. He ushered her up the steps and into a smoke-filled entry, then into a mix of partygoers. She had never been to a place where the stools lining the bar were made out of saddles. Where pool tables were as important as tables and chairs.

  The crowd was laughing, all enjoying the music and the drink in their hands.

  Moon was right. She was no party girl. She had lived a sheltered life with her mother, only seeing her father a few times a year. She’d never been allowed to go to bars, or parties with the local kids in her neighborhood. She’d only sneaked out a few times, but even then she’d never done anything that could be labeled as wild or reckless.

  Even her travels with Otto had been structured and uneventful. Work trips had taken her to cities she had never seen before, except from a rooftop, or a ten-story window.

  To say that she was excited about the evening was an understatement. The rowdy music made her smile and the anticipation of what the evening would bring made her forget about what would come in the days ahead.

  A night of fun…what could it hurt?

  When Tate saw them he dismounted a saddle at the bar. A beer in hand, he came toward them smiling.

  “Hey, beautiful, I guess I owe you a dance for saying yes and getting my little brother to show up. Thought he was going to sit this one out.”

  Tate was thick-shouldered wearing jeans and cowboy boots, once again his hair braided halfway down his back. He was shorter than Moon, and not in as good shape—but there was a vague resemblance, even though Moon’s features were softer, and his skin lighter.

  If she had to choose between them she would pick Moon, but then she’d seen him in his home, and with his animals. It wasn’t just his good looks that had attracted her to him.

  He made her feel good, feel things she’d never felt before.

  She reached for the beer Tate offered her, but before she could take it, Moon intercepted it. “She’s not old enough to drink, Tate.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know,” Moon insisted.

  She wasn’t, but the idea of having a drink was also exciting. She had liked the taste of the wine Moon had given her the night he had taken the stitches out of her leg.

  “Maybe I’m old enough,” she said.

  “Or not.” Moon gave her a look, then led her to the bar. He said to the man behind it, “Rusty, she’ll have a soda. Anything else touches her lips, and you and I will be going head to head outside.”

  “Whatever you say, Moon.”

  Pris watched the grinning man behind the bar set a can of soda on the bar. Moon put his hands on Prisca’s waist and picked her up and sat her astride a saddle while Tate’s friends gathered around.

  Pris assessed her surroundings. The log ceiling was low, lit by hanging lanterns. There were pictures of horses in rough wood frames hanging on the walls. The floor was covered in wood chips and peanut shells.

  Tate sat beside her and leaned in, as Moon stood close behind her. He was hovering like a parent, one hand on the saddle a few inches from her butt.

  “Well, honey, what do you think of our home away from home?” Tate asked.

  Pris didn’t understand at first.

  “You know, my party palace.”

  “I like it. I’ve never seen a place like this.”

  “That you remember,” Moon added, his voice lacking enthusiasm.

  Tate emptied his beer bottle and flagged Rusty for another. While Pris sipped her soda, Moon slowly nursed his beer as though he had a sore throat. He had told her he used to drink a lot, but it looked like that had changed.

  Suddenly Tate asked, “How about that dance, Alun?”

  “She hasn’t been walking on her ankle all that long, Tate, so I don’t think—”

  “I’d love to.” Pris butted in, deciding if she was going to have any fun at all she was going to have to speak up.

  She ignored the scowl Moon gave her as Tate stood and lifted her out of the saddle. He led her onto the dance floor while a fast dance was just ending. The next one was a slow song, a Western ballad, and to her surprise, Tate was as good at dancing as he was at drinking. She went into his arms willingly and worked to keep her body in time with the music. He whispered that she was pretty, thanked her for coming, and she smiled up at him.

  They danced another slow dance and then the music changed and Tate was twirling her around and she was laughing and loving it.

  Her ankle began to hurt, but she didn’t want to stop. But then Moon appeared just as the song was ending. He said, “You’re favoring your ankle.”

  “Just a little,” she said, “but I’m okay.”

  “You won’t be in the morning. Come on. Sit down a while.”

  “Hell, Moon, let her have a little fun. Who appointed you her daddy?”

  “I did. You got a problem with that?”

  “What crawled up your ass, Little Brother? Loosen up.”

  Pris felt the crowd’s eyes on them and she knew she needed to do something. “I am a little tired, Tate. I’ll sit for a while.”

  “Only if you want to. Don’t do it for him.”

  “It’s for me,” she promised and headed off the dance floor to return to her seat at the bar.

  Before she could climb back onto the saddle, Moon said, “I’ll get Tate off your back. Stay put, I won’t be long.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Moon was gone before she could say a word. She watched as he met his brother halfway between the dance floor and the bar. He grabbed Tate by the front of his shirt and pulled him toward the door and they walked out.

  She was about to get up when Rusty said, “I’d do what Moon says, if I were you. He’s got a trigger temper.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” she argued.

  “Trust me, it’s best if you stay put.”

  He winked and she decided to do what he said. She saw Moon’s beer sitting on the bar, and she snatched it up and took a large swallow. She’d never had beer before, and she expected to like it as well as she had the wine. She didn’t, but she took another gulp, then another. Determined to try again.

  There was less than an inch in the bottom when Moon walked back through the door. She quickly slid the bottle to the side, and picked up her soda.

  When he reached the bar, he again leaned in. He g
lanced at his beer. Then her.

  “We’re going.”

  “But we haven’t even been here an hour.”

  “It’s past your bedtime.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be.” He reached for her and she slapped his hand away.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “I’m leaving, and I’m your ride.”

  “I’m sure your brother will bring me home if I ask.”

  He stared at her a moment, then said, “Have it your way.”

  She watched him back away. She didn’t believe for one minute that he would leave her, but that’s what he did, just stopping long enough to say a few more words to Tate, who stood in the entry with a scowl on his face.

  She saw Tate look at her as Moon spoke to him, and then Moon left, not even looking back.

  Pris scrambled off the stool and hurried to the door. She said happy birthday to Tate, kissed his cheek, then hurried out the door. The pickup was gone, and she scanned the parking lot. He was pulling out, headed for the stop sign to get back on the road. She cut across the lot, ran on her sore ankle to catch him before he drove off.

  She darted in front of his headlights. Hands on her hips, she was determined not to move. As though they were in a stand-off, he sat with the engine idling while she stood her ground. When she heard him put the vehicle in Park, she rounded the hood and climbed into the passenger side.

  He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. They drove home with him smoking one cigarette after the other, while she stared out the window.

  Chapter 8

  He had acted like an overprotective jealous ass, and Jacy could count the number of times he’d played that role—damn few. And yet he’d played the role like a pro tonight.

  He pulled into the driveway, knowing no amount of explaining would fix it. What would he say? You’re mine, and I don’t want any other man’s hands on you?

  The truth was, she wasn’t his. Even though he’d come to think of her in that way over the past weeks, he would be the first to admit the feeling was unfounded.

  She was ahead of him when they reached the house. He opened the door, and she stepped inside. The fire crackling in the living room gave off enough light to see, and she stopped behind the couch. So he didn’t say or do something stupid and compound the problem, he headed past her, intending to go to bed.