PAROLED!

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "She still looks like you."

  "No doubt she hates that." His voice was soft and surprisingly without bitterness. Cait wondered if he realized how he changed when he spoke of his daughter.

  "I'm not sure she knows how alike you two really are. She was so young when you went to prison."

  Tyler stared at the small face of his child. The judge had refused him permission to keep her photo in his cell, so he had tried to keep the memories alive in his mind. Like a miser, he had hoarded every small remembrance—the quick burst of her smile, the music of her laughter, the sound of her voice calling for her daddy. But his memories were fading.

  "Does she still hate tomatoes?" he found himself asking.

  "Like the plague."

  Her gaze meshed with his. It was a mistake. Something softened inside her, urging her to remember other times alone with him.

  "Does she ever ask about me?"

  She shook he head. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. The softness disappeared from his face.

  "Just as well."

  He tucked the photo into his shirt pocket, nodded and headed for the door. Watching, Cait knew the exact instant when he caught sight of the poster. He stopped to read the hand-stenciled letters.

  "Sunset View School. Is that Kelsey's?"

  "Yes. It's her first Christmas play."

  "Says December nineteenth. Two weeks from now."

  "That's the night before Christmas vacation. She's playing one of Santa's elves. She has one line, which she practices for hours in front of the mirror."

  "Are you going?" he asked without turning.

  "Yes, of course." He heard confusion in Cait's tone. But then, he should have known that she wouldn't miss such an important event in his daughter's life.

  His daughter. How long would it be before he stopped thinking of Kelsey that way? Months? Years? A lifetime?

  His hands balled into fists. Never, he thought. Kelsey was part of him. She carried his blood. No matter what the judge said, she would always be his child.

  His face set in grim lines, he turned to face Cait again. "Seven o'clock on the nineteenth. I'll see you there."

  "No! You can't do that."

  He raised one eyebrow. "Why not?"

  "She might see you." Cait forced authority into her voice. "It could be very traumatic. Set her back weeks, perhaps months."

  "I'll come late. Stay in the back. I'll make sure she doesn't see me."

  "But someone else might see you. Someone who could recognize you."

  "In Sacramento? Who would recognize me?"

  Cait's courage wavered, but she made herself plunge ahead. "Kelsey's teacher Mrs. Eddington, for one."

  "Kelsey's teacher? How could she possibly recognize me?"

  Cait's gaze slipped from his. "When I enrolled Kelsey in Sunset View, I showed Mrs. Eddington your picture and told her to call the police if … if you showed up asking to see Kelsey."

  Tyler felt a tightness gripping his chest. He had trouble breathing. Inside, where it had been deeply sheltered and fiercely protected, something very fragile withered and died.

  "I knew that you hated me, Cait. I just didn't know how much until this minute."

  He slammed out of her office and took the stairs two at a time. At the bottom he shoved open the exit door with the flat of his hand and kept going.

  Dark had settled while he'd been in Cait's office. The fog was rising. The air was dank. Tyler quickened his pace. He craved a drink, but he didn't dare.

  Three cars remained in the small lot: a van parked in the far corner, a red convertible in a reserved space near the door and his truck, parked under the security lamp.

  He was about to unlock the door when he froze. It wasn't much of a sound, the faint rustle of fabric, perhaps, but the back of his neck tightened.

  They came from the other side of the truck, three big men dressed in dark clothing. Acting on instinct, Tyler turned so that the truck was at his back.

  "Hey, buddy, got a match?" one of the men asked. The slur in the rough voice and the stench of rotgut whiskey told Tyler that he was drunk.

  "Don't smoke."

  They were all around him now, hulking shadows without faces. "How 'bout a little drink, then?" another voice wheedled. "You got yourself a bottle in that there truck?"

  "Don't drink, either."

  Tyler gauged the distance between himself and the others. Two of them looked slow. The third, the heaviest, had the moves of a boxer. If he had to, he would take that one out first.

  "Don't drink, don't smoke," barked out a new voice. "Looks like we met us a Boy Scout, boys."

  Tyler knew that voice. But from where? An ex-con from Vacaville? Someone nursing a grudge? It was possible, he knew. He'd made more enemies than friends in prison.

  "That right, cowboy? You as straight as you advertise?"

  "Nah, he's got him plenty of bad habits," interjected the familiar voice. "Ain't you heard? Our boy here's done hard time."

  Tyler saw the knife then, a big one with serrated edges. "You got a problem, friend?" he asked with just enough ice in his voice to let them know it would cost them to jump him.

  "’Pears like you're the one with the problem." The man speaking walked into the light, deliberately giving Tyler a good look at his face. It was Big Mike.

  "Surprised, cowboy?" The biker's grin was a malevolent slash in the cold fog.

  "Hello, Mike." He flavored his words with contempt. "I thought I smelled something rotten."

  Mike's grin vanished. "Big talk for a guy who's about to eat this here blade." The others laughed at that and edged closer.

  "Three against one and a knife?" Tyler taunted. "Didn't know I scared you that bad."

  "Screw scared, McClane. You'll be begging me to kill you after I'm done with you."

  "Not on your best day, slick."

  "Bastard," Mike hissed. "I been following you for days, waiting for just the right time. Looks like this is it, don't it?"

  A familiar calm came over Tyler. He figured he had no more than minutes before Cait walked out of the door behind him. Whatever he did, he had to do it now.

  Mike had him on reach, but he was quicker. Folding into a wrestler's crouch, he beckoned derisively.

  "C'mon, slick. Let's see what you've got."

  With a guttural cry, the biker lunged out with the knife. At the same time, one of the others hurled a punch at Tyler's jaw.

  It was an old prison trick, take a man from all sides, one that Tyler had anticipated. He ducked, and the man's fist smashed into the window behind him. It exploded inward, showering the inside of the truck with safety glass. At the same time Tyler sent his knee crashing into the man's groin and shoved him toward Mike. The two collided in a tangle of arms and legs.

  Meanwhile, the third assailant aimed a haymaker at Tyler's gut. Tyler moved, but not fast enough, and the blow smashed into his ribs, doubling him in two and knocking off his hat. Pain seared through him, paralyzing him for an instant.

  By this time Mike had freed himself and come at Tyler from the left. The knife flashed. Tyler leaped backward, but the truck impeded his escape. His jacket and shirt slowed the blade, but the edge still managed to slice deeply into his shoulder. Pain seared his flesh like a hot lash.

  As he dodged away from the blade, he saw Cait come through the door and into the circle of light from the security lamp. She was so close he saw the shock come into he eyes.

  Cait stopped in midstride. Oh my God, she thought on a swift indrawn breath. The biker from the bar! And he was trying to kill Tyler.

  "Stop it, you bastards!" she shouted. "Right now!"

  Heads turned in her direction. Someone spat out an obscenity. Tyler shot her a quick glance. At the same time he hit the smaller one low and hard, a quick one-two that doubled the man into a helpless ball. He heard Cait shouting something about the police.

  "No police!" he rasped as loudly as the pain permitted. "Just get out of here."

  "Are you crazy
? You need help!"

  Cait jerked open the door and ran inside. Instead of waiting for the elevator, she ran full tilt toward the stairs Halfway there, she slipped on the marble floor and nearly went down.

  Muttering a curse, she paused to kick off he suede pumps before sprinting for the steps. She took them so fast her breath was coming in harsh gasps by the time she reached her office.

  She wasted precious seconds unlocking the door, and then she was racing across the waiting room into her office. Fighting for breath, she snatched up the receiver and punched 911.

  No police! Tyler had sounded so insistent. But why?

  She smashed down the button and bit her lip. Think, Cait. Why…? The answer came quickly. What had he said to her, a man on parole didn't need the police hassling him?

  But that was a minor scuffle. This was serious. Tyler could die. If she made the wrong choice…

  The wrong choice. Once Tyler had asked her to trust him.

  She had refused. This time she would do as he asked.

  Quickly, before she could think better of it, she flipped he

  Rolodex to the Ds.

  "Dante, Dante," she muttered. "Here it is … home … office." She glanced at the digital clock on her desk. Six forty-five. She would try the attorney at home.

  "Please be home, please be home," she repeated as she punched out the number. There was an agonizing pause; then the phone began to ring.

  * * *

  It had been pure reflex that sent Tyler's head turning her way as she disappeared inside. In that split second his mind was on Cait, not the man with the knife.

  Mike lunged. Tyler moved, but not fast enough. The blade gouged his side. Stumbling backward, he fought to clear his head. Already blood was saturating his shirt.

  Mike moved toward him, arms outstretched, knife poised. The others yelled obscene encouragement. Oozing confidence, the biker put his head down and charged.

  It was the mistake Tyler had been waiting for. He sidestepped clumsily but managed to plow a fist into Mike's throat. The knife flew sideways as Mike's hands came up to clutch his gullet. Tyler managed to scoop it up before the nearest man could get to it.

  "Don't try it," he warned. One of Mike's friends turned and ran toward the van. The other one froze.

  Mike coughed violently before bringing up a mouthful of blood. He spat viciously. Blood spattered his boots along with the pavement.

  "You win this time, McClane. But I know where to find that whore of yours now. You can't watch her all the time."

  "I won't have to." Tyler's words were dangerously hushed, like stones falling one by one into a quiet pond.

  "Oh no? Why not?" Mike sneered.

  Tyler's slow smile had chilled edges. "Because you're too much of a coward to want to die."

  Mike gaped at him. "I heard you put the first guy who made a move on you in the prison hospital for a month, but that don't make you tougher'n me. I was king when I done my time."

  Tyler held up the knife and tested the edge with his thumb. A thin line of blood appeared. The light was full on his face, and he let Mike see the man he'd had to be in prison, the man he'd never wanted to be again.

  "I was a surgeon once. A good one. I can carve up a man in seconds without raising a sweat. On the other hand, I can take a long, long time before I let him die."

  Mike's mouth twisted and he spat. "Go screw yourself, McClane. I ain't impressed."

  "If you show up here again, if you even set eyes on the lady again, I'll kill you."

  "C'mon, Mike," one of the other men rasped. "This ain't goin' down the way you promised."

  "Screw you," Mike muttered before lurching to his left, away from the knife, away from the man with a steady hand and steel in his eyes. The others followed.

  Tyler managed to hold on until the van peeled out of the parking lot. And then he crumpled unconscious to the tarmac.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  "Jess Dante."

  "Dante, this is Caitlin Fielding. Don't talk, just listen. Tyler came to see me at my office tonight. After he left, some men attacked him in the parking lot. They're still here. He needs help."

  "Where's your office?"

  Cait told him. "Tyler said not to call the police, but—"

  "He's right. No police. Stay where you are. Lock your door and don't open it for anyone but me or Tyler. I'll be there in ten minutes." He hung up.

  Cait let the receiver fall from her hand. It hit the desk with a sharp crack, but she was already running. Seconds later she reached the door to the parking lot. As she pushed it open, she saw him. He was lying near the fender of his truck. There was no sign of Mike or the others.

  It seemed like hours instead of seconds before she reached his side and sank to her knees. He was lying on his side on the dirty pavement. Mike's knife was in his right hand. His knuckles were swollen and bruised.

  "Tyler." She thought she was shouting, but her voice came out in a shaky whisper. She touched his shoulder, and her fingers encountered something wet and sticky. Blood.

  Choking back a cry, she leaned closer until she could see his face. His eyes were closed, but he was breathing. With shaking fingers she checked the pulse in his neck. Rapid but strong, thank God. And his skin, though waxen, was warm.

  "Tyler, it's Cait," she cried. "Can you hear me?"

  He felt himself drifting. Grit dug into his hip where it rested against something hard. The air was clammy and smelled of old oil and dirt. His body was numb with cold, except for a hot spike stabbing his side. He tried to turn away from the pain. It followed him.

  "Tyler, listen to me." Cait's voice caught, and she paused to repair her faltering composure. "Dante is coming. Everything's going to be all right."

  His eyes opened, then narrowed immediately as he winced. Slowly he rolled to his back. Even that simple movement sent agony spiraling into his side.

  "Shouldn't be here," he muttered. "Dangerous. Might come back." His voice was slurred but strong. His eyes were glazed. Shock, she thought. And pain.

  "Don't try to talk, please. Just lie quietly."

  Tyler felt the softness of wool beneath his cheek. Cait's body, warm and supple, was curled around him. Gentle, soft hands stroked the damp hair away from his face.

  The clean flowery scent of her skin enveloped him. It was so foreign to the life that he had led for so long that it stunned him. A rough yearning uncoiled from the dark, cold emptiness inside him.

  "Cait," he muttered. His hand was heavy. Clumsy. Somehow he managed to lift it high enough to touch her cheek.

  "I don't want you to be hurt anymore," she whispered with a sob in her voice. Her fingers closed around his hand.

  "Used to it." His eyelids closed drunkenly. In the harsh light, his thick lashes made dark crescents on his too-pale skin. He muttered something she didn't catch, and his hand fell away.

  Cait bit her lip. She cradled him against her and tried not to think of the pain that had put deep lines in his face and silver in his hair.

  His body was a dead weight against her thighs. It had a hardness to it and a heat that penetrated her clothes to touch the skin beneath. She smelled blood and sweat and dirt; harsh masculine scents. His jacket was torn. His shirt hung open where the buttons had torn loose. He—

  It was then that she saw the large splotch of fresh blood, low on his belly where his jeans rode. The waistband was frayed and sodden where Mike's knife had sliced.

  The panic that had begun to subside flared anew. She bit her lip and shot a frantic glance toward the lighted window on the third floor. At that moment she heard the throaty rumble of a high-powered motor.

  The car came from the west, moving fast. She knew that it was Dante's the moment she saw it. It was a low-slung, vintage Mercedes, exactly the kind of a car she would expect a former race driver to own.

  The light at the intersection was red, but Dante slowed only long enough to make sure there was no cross traffic. Seconds later
the Mercedes screeched to a stop only yards from her. Dante was out of the car and moving toward her before she could call his name.

  "How is he?" he threw at her as he bent over them.

  "Bleeding badly. Methodist Hospital isn't far. We can have him there in minutes."

  "No hospital." The voice was Tyler's. Cait felt him stir against her.

  "This is serious, Tyler," she said as she gently but firmly tightened he grip on his uninjured shoulder. "You need a doctor."

  "I am a doctor," he muttered. "Or I used to be. Forget sometimes."

  Cait and Dante exchanged looks. "We can't take him to my house," she whispered. "Kelsey's there. And Sutter Creek is too far."

  The big attorney hesitated before replying curtly, "My place."

  Dante cast a quick glance up and down the street, then bent closer. "C'mon, buddy, let's get you out of this parking lot before a beat cop comes nosing around."

  Dante slipped his arm behind Tyler's back and helped him to his feet. Tyler's face turned white, and he bit off a groan.

  "Bastards jumped me," he muttered as he draped an arm over Dante's wide shoulders.

  "So I hear. You must be losing your edge."

  "Had … something on my mind. Got careless."

  With Dante's help, he managed a few steps, then a few more. Big as he was, Dante, too, was staggering under Tyler's weight.

  "You're both going to need a doctor," Cait muttered. Before either man could protest, she took Tyler's other arm and draped it over her shoulders. He staggered, throwing the hard weight of his hip against hers. She reeled but managed to remain upright.

  The three of them headed for the Mercedes. It was slow going. Tyler was breathing heavily. His teeth were clenched, and large drops of moisture beaded his brow.

  By the time they reached the passenger side, Tyler's arm was a crushing weight on her shoulders. His head sagged, and his eyes were closed.

  Dante took a tighter grip on Tyler's almost-limp body. "I've got him," he grated to Cait. "Get the door."

  Cait leaned forward and opened the car door. Between the two of them they managed to get Tyler into the bucket seat. He slumped against the leather upholstery and closed his eyes.