by Irene Hannon
He fought the temptation to lean close and inhale a lungful.
“Thanks, Jake.”
He released the coat. “My pleasure.”
“Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay long enough to sample some cannoli?”
She turned his way, and when she smiled up at him he had to remind himself to breathe. How she’d managed to get under his skin in such a short time was beyond his comprehension. But he couldn’t dispute the evidence. His heart was beating double time.
“Not tonight, Liz.” His voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. “But thanks for the invitation.”
“Okay. Your loss.”
She meant the cannoli. He knew that. But as far as he was concerned, missing an evening in her company was a far bigger loss.
The problem was, if he’d accepted her invitation he’d have been tempted to sample far more than the cannoli.
And given the roguish grin Spence directed to him over Liz’s head as they fell into step on either side of her, he suspected the other marshal had figured that out.
This was the weekend.
Martin wiped his palms down his slacks and picked up the snub-nose .38 revolver he kept in his dresser. He’d never had occasion to use it, but he’d always believed in being prepared. The world was getting more dangerous every day. A man couldn’t be too careful.
Or afraid to right wrongs.
As Jarrod always said, if peaceful means of redressing grievances failed, citizens had an absolute right to use force to remove an abusive government and rid the world of a rotting judicial system. Or maybe he’d read that in some of the literature he’d been collecting. In any case, the mandate was clear. And this weekend, he would—
“Marty?”
At the knock on his bedroom door, followed by Patricia’s annoyed call, he fumbled the gun. It fell onto the carpet at his feet, and he snatched it up. He’d been afraid the timing of her visit would make things difficult, and those fears had been realized. She asked too many questions and looked at him strangely every time he left the house.
He’d put his plan on hold if he could, but he wasn’t going to get a decent night’s sleep until it was done. Besides, for all he knew those marshals might move the judge to some new location and he’d have to start all over figuring out where she was. But the clincher was the weather. It was finally cooperating.
No, he wasn’t going to wait. This was his window.
“Marty?” She knocked again.
He shoved the gun under some T-shirts in his dresser and closed the drawer. After crossing the room, he twisted the knob on the door.
“I heard you the first time, Patricia.”
She planted her hands on her hips and gave him one of those narrow-eyed looks he remembered from his childhood. The kind she’d pinned him with when he was behaving in a way that didn’t meet with her approval.
“Are you going to spend the entire evening in your room?”
“No. I just had a few things to take care of.” Josie rubbed against his leg, and he stooped to pick her up, cradling her in his arms. As a companion, she was turning out to be far preferable to his sister. She made no demands and didn’t expect him to communicate.
“You didn’t even try the apple pie I made for dessert.”
“I was too full from your great meatloaf. But I’ll have some now.”
That seemed to appease her. Some of the tension left her face, and she motioned him to follow her back to the kitchen.
“The coffee’s still hot. Have a seat.” She gestured to the table.
He put Josie on the floor and took his place. After setting the plates of pie and two mugs on the table, she joined him.
“You know, Marty, I’ve been here five days and I’ve seen more of your neighbor Molly than I have of you. I had no idea you led such a busy life. With you being off work and all, I thought we’d have more time to spend together.”
He broke off a bite of pie with the edge of his fork. “You’ve been talking to Molly?”
“Yes.” Concern sharpened her features. “I told you all about it yesterday at dinner. How she came by Wednesday night and I went to the grocery store with her. And how she dropped by for a visit yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
He vaguely recalled her mentioning his neighbor. But he didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to Patricia’s rambling monologues. His mind was occupied with his plan for the judge. Still, he couldn’t risk having her think he was getting senile. After all, their father had died with early onset Alzheimer’s.
“Of course I remember. I’m just surprised you two hit it off. She’s only a kid. I wouldn’t think you’d have much in common.”
“She’s a very nice young woman. And she’s fascinated by my stories from Africa.”
Ah. A willing ear. That explained it. Martin took another bite of pie.
“Anyway, she took me out again with her today while you were . . . what was it you were doing again?”
He tried to remember the excuse he’d given her for his four-hour absence while he’d gone to buy the bales of straw and driven to the country to stash them. A visit to the outplacement firm. That was it.
“I was working on my resume and doing some practice job interviews at that place the company sent all the laid-off employees.”
“Oh yes. Now I remember.” She took a sip of coffee, still watching him. Like this was a test or something. “Anyway, with you so busy and all, I thought I might rent a car for the duration. That way, I can tool around and entertain myself while you’re gone.”
Perfect! He should have suggested that sooner. If she was occupied, she’d be less likely to pay as much attention to him.
“That’s a great idea. I’ll run you over to the car rental place tomorrow morning first thing. By the way, did I mention I was going deer hunting this weekend?”
She stared at him. “No.”
“Yeah. Joe Abernathy and I go every fall. He’s got a cabin upstate. We’re leaving Sunday morning and I’ll be back Tuesday evening.”
“I thought you gave up hunting years ago.”
He pressed the tines of his fork against the crumbs from his piecrust. “I did. Helen didn’t much care for it, and I stopped hunting after we got married. Now that she’s gone, I’ve picked it up again with Joe. His wife’s never had a problem with hunting.” The season didn’t start for two weeks, but he doubted Patricia knew that.
“I never did see the fascination in tracking down innocent animals for sport. And I don’t like guns.”
“Neither does the government.”
“What do you mean?” She gave him a puzzled look as she scooped up her last bite of pie.
Martin stifled a disgusted sigh. That was the problem with most Americans. The government was undermining their freedom right and left, and they didn’t even realize it.
“Do you know how hard it is to get a gun now?”
“I know there are regulations about it. To protect people.”
He snorted in disgust. “That’s a crock of . . .” He bit off the last word. Leaned forward. “Patricia, wake up. The government wants to destroy our Second Amendment rights. To disarm all Americans. Our liberty is in jeopardy from the very arms of government that are supposed to protect it, especially our courts and our judges.”
“Goodness, Marty.” Her eyes widened. “I haven’t seen you this riled up since your eminent domain fight. When did you start worrying about the government?”
Back off. Let it go.
As the warning sounded in his mind, he bit his tongue. Patricia wasn’t a recruit for Jarrod’s group. She didn’t even spend much time in the United States anymore. And he didn’t need to further arouse her suspicions by acting out of character.
“I’ve been reading a lot lately is all.” He adopted a nonchalant tone. “Seems like the country’s in a lot of trouble these days. I guess you’re a little out of touch over there in Africa.”
“I keep up with things. I haven’t read much about people being
up in arms over gun control, though. Pardon the pun.”
“Depends on who you talk to, I guess. Do you want me to drive you to the rental place after breakfast tomorrow?”
“That would be fine.”
“Good pie, Patricia.” He pushed his plate aside. “Best I’ve had since Helen died.”
“I’m glad you liked it, Marty. I know apple was always your favorite. I remember once when you were about eight, Mom had a pie cooling on the counter and you ate off the entire crust.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Mom was fit to be tied.”
“That doesn’t ring any bells.”
“I guess not. That’s a long time ago, and you were little. Do you remember Mom at all?”
“Not anything specific. I have much clearer memories of Dad.”
Twin furrows appeared on Patricia’s brow. “I’m not sure that’s a good thing. He was always too stern and controlling. And he was awfully hard on you. I’ll always remember the time you won first place in that art fair and he wouldn’t let you go accept the prize because you didn’t get an A on your calculus exam.”
He remembered it too. It had been one of his bitterest disappointments. But he hadn’t thought about it in years. And he wasn’t going to start now.
“That’s ancient history, Patricia.”
“Maybe. But I was always sorry you gave up your drawing after he told you it wasn’t a manly pursuit. You had a lot of talent.”
He lifted one shoulder. “I guess he was being practical. Can’t make much of a living drawing pictures.”
“Some people do.”
“It’s a tough life, though. Things turned out okay. I liked my work.”
“You still miss it?”
“Yeah. It was a good job. I felt like I was doing something important, something that mattered.” A surge of anger welled up inside him. “Too bad the government didn’t.”
She reached over and patted his hand. “Priorities change, Marty. Times change. You have to go with the flow.”
“If we keep going with the flow, this country’s going to go under.”
“My! I think my low-key brother is becoming a radical in his old age.”
She smiled, but he saw the speculation in her eyes.
Somehow he dredged up a smile of his own. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you. You know what they say about teaching an old dog new tricks.” Rising, he picked up his plate and carried it to the sink. “What do you say we watch an old movie tonight? I’ve got a DVD of North by Northwest.”
“Cary Grant! Now that would be a treat.” She gave him a pleased smile. “Maybe we can make popcorn later too.”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
She joined him at the sink and put her arm around his shoulders. “You’ve seemed really different since I’ve been back, Marty. But tonight I’m seeing the little brother I remember.”
“He’s still inside, Patricia. I’ve just had a few rough years.”
“I hear you. Let’s hope it’s smooth sailing from here on out.”
It would be, Martin resolved, as he went to retrieve the DVD.
Particularly when it came to finishing off Judge Elizabeth Michaels.
15
______
“Happy birthday to you!”
As the three Taylor siblings finished their rousing if off-key rendition of the familiar ditty and the waiter delivered a cake glowing with candles, Eleanor Taylor beamed at them. “This is the nicest Saturday night I’ve had in years. And I couldn’t ask for a better birthday present—all my children with me to celebrate.”
Jake grinned at his mother, pleased to see her so happy. “You didn’t think you’d get rid of us just by moving to Chicago, did you? We’re not that easy to shake.”
She smiled and shook her head. “As if.”
“Make a wish, Mom,” Alison encouraged.
“And make it good,” Cole added. “You only get one shot at this every year.”
She looked around the table. “My wish has already come true. But I think I’ll make one for all of you.” Taking a deep breath, she blew out the candles.
“Wow! Now I know where Alison gets all her hot air.” Cole winked at his mother and grinned at his sister.
Alison countered by jabbing an elbow in his ribs.
“Hey!” He feigned injury. “Watch it or I’ll have to book you for assault and battery.”
“Try it.” Alison made a face at him. “So what did you wish for, Mom?”
“I think I know.”
They all turned toward Eleanor’s sister. Six years older than her sibling, she was tall and thin as a rail, with snow-white hair she’d worn piled on her head in a loose chignon for as long as Jake could remember. His mother, on the other hand, was shorter, more stout, and still had quite a bit of brown in her stylishly coiffed graying hair. No one would ever guess they were related.
“Catherine! If you tell, it won’t come true,” Eleanor admonished her sister.
“I bet these three smart children of yours can figure it out, anyway.” Aunt Catherine scanned the table, then glanced toward a young couple holding hands in a nearby booth.
Noting Alison’s sudden pained expression, Jake was about to step in when Cole beat him to it.
“Well, if you’re wishing what I think you’re wishing, your oldest son might come through for you.”
At his mother’s interested—and hopeful—look, Jake’s neck warmed. His brother was as bad as Spence.
“Do you have some news to share, Jake?”
“No, Mom. I don’t. And Cole has a big mouth.” He shot Cole a dark look.
“Oh, go ahead and tell her about Liz.” Alison joined in the fun, making an obvious effort to shake off her melancholy. “If you don’t, we will.”
“Liz who?” His mother directed the question to him.
He was stuck. Four pairs of eyes were riveted on him. And he’d rather his mother hear his version of his relationship with Liz than the embellished one his siblings would no doubt concoct.
“Liz Michaels, Mom. She’s a federal judge. I’m heading her protection detail. She used to be married to Doug Stafford. She kept her maiden name.”
“I remember Doug well from your college days. Nice young man. It was such a tragedy when he died in that car accident a few years ago.”
“Yes, it was. Anyway, Liz and I have enjoyed getting reacquainted. She’s a very nice woman.”
He shot a silent warning to his siblings. Alison was grinning as she cut the birthday cake. Cole was sitting back, arms crossed over his chest, enjoying the show.
“Is she in danger, Jake?”
At his mother’s question, he refocused on her. Unlike his brother’s and sister’s smirks, which suggested they were getting a kick out of putting him in the hot seat, a slight frown marred her brow, and she was leaning forward, her posture intent.
He’d never told his mother much about the dangers of his job. When they talked, he tended to share the humorous or glitzier elements, trying to shield her from worry.
Kind of like Alison had done with him when he’d been in Iraq.
That sudden realization forced Jake to view his sister’s actions in a more sympathetic light.
Before he could respond, his aunt touched his mother’s shoulder. “Eleanor . . . Elizabeth Michaels is the judge we’ve been reading about in the Tribune. The one whose sister was murdered.”
His mother’s complexion paled. “Oh, dear.” She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “Are you worried someone is after her too?”
“It’s possible. But we have a full contingent of deputies assigned to her detail. And the FBI is working hard to find the person who killed her sister.”
“I’m certain she’s in good hands, then. But I think I’ll say a few prayers for her safety, anyway.”
Alison distributed the slices of cake, and the party shifted back into a lighter mood. But as he ate his piece, Jake was grateful for his mom’s promise of prayer.
Because even though thi
ngs were quiet at the moment, his gut told him the danger wasn’t over.
And as he’d confided to Liz not long ago, he always listened to his gut.
“You sure you don’t want to go to services with me, Marty?”
Martin stopped shaking his cereal into a bowl and surveyed Patricia, who was all gussied up for church. When Helen was alive, he’d gone every week. Now, he got there once a month. Maybe. And today he had other things to do.
“I’m sure, Patricia. I need to get my stuff together for my hunting trip. I’ll be gone when you get home, but if anything comes up and you need me, call my cell phone. I’ll leave the number on the kitchen counter.”
“I expect I’ll be fine. Molly’s husband is heading out of town again this week, so we’re going to lunch tomorrow. And I thought I’d play tourist on Tuesday. Visit the Arch and the Art Museum.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“I agree. You’ll be back on Tuesday night, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’m off.” She bustled over and gave him a hug. “Good hunting.”
“Thanks.”
He remained at the counter, cereal in hand, until he heard her car door slam in the driveway. Setting the box down, he hurried across the kitchen and through the living room to the front window. As she pulled out and headed down the street, his pulse kicked up a notch.
This was it.
No longer hungry, he dumped the cereal in his bowl back into the box and headed for his bedroom. After pulling the flat garment box out from under his bed, he took a quick inventory. Latex gloves. Regular gloves. Heavy-duty cording. Strips of rags. A large round tin, filled with cookies he’d bought at the bakery yesterday. The mustache and spirit gum he’d purchased earlier in the week at a theatrical supply shop, plus a gray woman’s wig. Sunglasses. Several pairs of nylon restraints a cop buddy had given him years ago as a gag gift. The two letters. Large sheets of clear heavy plastic. Preaddressed, stamped envelopes. Extra ammunition.
The only thing he still needed to retrieve was the gun in his dresser. His rifle was already at the cabin—hidden under the floorboard, in case someone with sticky fingers broke in.
Opening the drawer, he withdrew the revolver and slipped it in his pocket. Then he took the plastic and a roll of duct tape and headed for the garage, where he set about covering the front seat of the car with the plastic, taping it firmly in place.
