by Joanna Wayne
“I doubt it. His blood was on my shirt and a scrap of his shirt was in a bush out on Glenn Road.”
“Which doesn’t necessarily mean he was seriously injured. The amounts of his blood were minimal. Most of the stain was a perfect match with yours. He might have torn his shirt chasing, or hiding from, the attackers.”
“So now he just disappears, makes a few phone calls, and people go on as if nothing were the matter.”
“Apparently he’s made more than a few phone calls. He’s talked to you, his foreman, his secretary, even a reporter he had an interview scheduled with this morning.”
“What did he tell the secretary and the reporter?”
“That he’s taking a break from the media and all their hype, that he needs some time to himself to think things through.”
“But surely you don’t believe that.”
“I would, if we didn’t have a murderer after you. And if McCord wasn’t so persistent that I drop the investigation.”
“Does McCord know someone tried to kill me the other night at the hospital?”
“I haven’t told him, but then I haven’t had the opportunity to talk to him.”
It would have been impossible to mistake the sarcasm in Clint’s voice. The better she got to know him, the more convinced she became that he was downplaying the distrust that existed between him and McCord—making light of an issue that sat heavily in his heart, the same way he talked of their having been lovers. As if it were just something that happened, like a disagreement about whether to have steak or chicken for dinner.
She pulled her legs onto the seat and wrapped an arm around her knees, turning to watch Clint’s profile as he drove. The truth was, she liked looking at him. Liked the way his cowboy hat topped off the dark locks of hair that were always dancing about his eyebrows. Liked the color of his skin: bronzed from the sun. Liked his nose. Not classic like a Hollywood star, but solid, angular—a real man’s nose.
Memories. Somewhere in the ones she’d misplaced, she had shared a relationship with the mysterious sheriff. They’d kissed. They’d made love. But had it been with the same passion they’d drowned in this morning? And if it had, how could she have endured losing him?
Clint swung his visor to the left, blocking out the penetration of the sun. Then he glanced her way. “McCord is worried about you, Darlene. I think you know that. He wants you to go back to Washington. He thinks you’d be safer there. He’ll hire protection for you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Caulder told me last night.”
“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“At the time, I thought it would be a mistake. I thought you’d be safer here, where I could watch you. Where you could tell me if you remembered anything, the way you did last night.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m not so sure. Maybe it would be better for you if you were in your own place, surrounded by your own things, talking to friends unrelated to the trauma.”
Last night he thought she should stay. This afternoon he thought she should leave. But only one thing had changed in the intervening hours. She had spent the night in his house. And they had kissed. One taste of what they’d had before and he was ready to push her out of his life.
If she could remember what had come between them before, what had severed their relationship and killed their love, she might agree with him. She might be running back to D.C. today instead of riding down a straight Texas highway with him at the wheel.
Only she couldn’t remember any of that. All she knew was that the taste of him was still on her mouth and that she wanted to kiss him again so badly that she ached.
“I’m staying here, Clint, until everything is settled. Until the killer is apprehended and I know for certain what I witnessed last Monday night.”
“You might be making a mistake.”
“It probably won’t be my first.”
She scooted closer, near enough to inhale the musky scent of him. Familiarity draped about her, cocooning her in its embrace. All the facts of their past relationship still eluded her, but the feelings had resurfaced, found a way to escape the darkened dungeons created by amnesia.
Why else would being with Clint seem so right in a world that had gone so wrong?
THE MAN REVVED THE ENGINE of his pickup truck and pulled onto the highway, bound for Prairie, Texas, and Jeff Bledsoe’s ranch. How thoughtful of the sheriff to make his task so much easier. A nice isolated, one-man operation.
A quick, effectual strike, and one half of his current mission would be completed. Of course, Clint Richards would probably have to die as well. The plan: take no prisoners.
Too bad. It would have been nice to have a snappy little FBI babe to do his bidding for a while. And he bet she was really good at what she did. At least the sheriff didn’t seem to have any complaints.
But too much was riding on the success of this mission. Darlene Remington had to die. And tonight wouldn’t be any too soon.
Chapter Nine
Darlene shifted in her seat. The comfort level of the ride had decreased significantly when they pulled onto a bumpy dirt road, but the scenery had remained basically the same. Hilly, tree-dotted pasture edged with rows of barbwire. They had met few vehicles on the Farm-to-Market Road they’d just left, and this one appeared to be considerably more deserted.
“How much farther?” she asked, rummaging in her purse for her sunglasses.
“Another thirty minutes.”
“I’d say Jeff Bledsoe isn’t bothered by door-to-door salesmen.” She pulled out the sunglasses and wiped them with a tissue before settling them on her face. “Does all this land belong to him?”
“No. We have to go through several gates before we drive onto his land. He only has the right of passage through this property. I won’t have any trouble finding it, though. A cousin of my dad’s owns the land that borders his. I’ve been out here a time or two when my dad was still alive.”
“I know Bledsoe’s supposed to be a good friend of McCord’s, but how do you know him?”
Clint fingered the brim of his hat, tugging it a little lower over his forehead. But not so low that a sneaky shock of black hair didn’t manage to escape.
“I’ve handled a few cases with him. He was a Texas Ranger. Worked the area around Vaquero until about five years ago when he lost a good friend and partner to the bullet of a two-bit gang leader. After that, he claimed he lost his taste for the job.”
“I can’t say that I blame him.” Law enforcement, dealing with criminals and their victims every day of your life—it was an odd way to spend one’s life. And yet she’d apparently made that same choice. The reasons for her decision were but another facet of her life locked in the hidden recesses of her mind.
Darlene had gotten her exercise, jumping out at each gate, swinging it open and then closing it after Clint had driven through. The one they were approaching now sported a crudely carved sign announcing they’d arrived at the Borrowed Time. The name triggered unsettling feelings.
“This is the beginning of Bledsoe’s place,” Clint informed her as she yanked the truck door closed behind her. “He said to take the left fork, and we’d be able to see the roof of his house over the tree line.”
“Would I have had reason to come out here before, Clint?”
“Possibly, but Bledsoe didn’t mention it when I called.”
She cupped her hands under her elbows and struggled for a deep breath.
“Are you cold? I could turn the heat on.”
“No. It’s just a feeling I have, that I’ve been here before or that I know something about this place.”
“A good sign that your memory’s on the rebound. I’m sure you’ve heard McCord mention his old army buddy Bledsoe before.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Only it didn’t feel like a good sign. It felt dark and ominous, chilling her clear to the bone. Dr. Bennigan’s recommendation that she see a psychiatrist
was actually beginning to seem like an excellent idea. She couldn’t go on like this, jumping without cause from normalcy to paralyzing fear.
Only there was cause. She’d escaped two attempts on her life in the last few days.
Clint slowed the truck to a stop under a canopy of branches. Apprehension crawled up her spine. “What is it? Why did we stop?”
With a finger to his lip to quiet her, Clint lowered his window and pointed to a rustle of feathers in the high grass a few yards off the road. Four turkey hens ignored them and went about their foraging.
Her trepidation dissolved in a flurry of pleasure. “They’re not afraid of us at all,” she whispered in a voice low enough not to spook the fascinating creatures. “Are they pets?”
“No, they’re wild, but no one bothers them out here. They think they own the place. Still, they’d run for cover if you walked toward them.”
Clint indulged her delight for a few more seconds and then eased the truck back into gear and slowly rounded the next curve. The house came into full view at that point, a rambling one-story that looked as if it had withstood the ravages of decades of changing seasons.
A railed porch ran across the entire front, the landing spot for a couple of rocking chairs, an aluminum table and a long-haired cat who had claimed the top of a foam cooler.
Darlene steeled her nerves for what was to come as Clint descended the hilly drive and parked behind a black pickup. Clint expected her to rehash the images that had tormented her last night at the Altamira, give Bledsoe all the gory details, and then see if he recognized them as an experience McCord had shared with him either in grisly, living color or in conversation.
If he did, they would know the events were not an unrelated hallucination, but part of the truth Darlene had learned, part of the horror that had shut down a vital part of her mind and left her a stranger in her own body.
The only redemption in such a revelation would be that they would gain insight into the events surrounding Monday night’s attack. Looking for the guilty parties would be less a stab in the dark and more of a process of elimination, if they knew what McCord had told her that last time they’d been together.
If the waking nightmare of the other night was actually a memory from McCord’s life, perhaps Bledsoe could tell them who from that scenario might be seeking revenge thirty years after the fact.
By the time Clint had parked the truck and they had started up the steps, she was shaking. He laid a reassuring hand at the small of her back. “I wish there were another way to do this, Darlene, but it’ll be better if the images you saw the other night come from you. The details will be sharper, and you might even remember more of them once you start talking.”
The prospect of pulling out the horror again and sharing it with a stranger strained her control. “An FBI agent with weak knees and a cowardly heart. My supervisor must love me.”
“Cut yourself a little slack. FBI agents aren’t usually investigating their own attempted murder or the mysterious disappearance of a longtime friend.”
“I’ll try to remember that on my next case, if there ever is a next case.”
He dropped his right hand from her back and used it to knock on the door. The gray cat took that as her summons and jumped from the cooler, padding across the bare planks of the porch to wrap herself around Darlene’s ankle.
She bent and dipped her fingers into the luxurious fur of the cat, sliding them along the slightly arched curve of her back. Wish me luck, cat. Or give me one of your nine lives to save until I need it. The third time might just be the charm for my would-be assassin.
THE CAT HAD STAYED curled up on the couch beside Darlene while she’d recounted her story. But the temperature of the room had taken a sudden downward spiral in the last few seconds, and the cat had better sense than to stay for a demonstration of her master’s cold anger. She pounced from the couch to the floor and raced into the calmer climate of the kitchen.
Darlene doubted she had that option. She scooted to the back of the couch, amazed at the change that had come over Jeff Bledsoe as she’d reached the end of her tale.
“I’m mortified that you put Darlene through this, Clint. You, of all people.” Bledsoe narrowed his eyes and squared his shoulders, his stance and steel-gray eyes conveying belligerence. “That story Darlene told is groundless, and you should know that. McCord would never have been a willing guest at a hanging party.”
“Maybe he wasn’t willing.” Clint didn’t back down to Bledsoe. Neither did he adopt the man’s fury. His voice was calm, steady. “Maybe McCord was just there. A lot of brutal villainies occurred in Vietnam.”
“I’m not saying they didn’t. But if Jim McCord had witnessed anything even remotely similar to what Darlene described, he would have sought out justice long ago. The man sacrificed a leg in that war. Saved my life and a handful of others. Now you’re ready to buy into this damnable lie just because a woman who can’t even remember who she slept with last had a vision?”
Darlene bristled. Yet, she couldn’t argue the point of it.
“Who Darlene has or hasn’t slept with isn’t an issue here,” Clint stated, scooting to the edge of his chair. “What happened to her Monday night in the company of McCord is.”
Bledsoe shrugged. “I’m sorry, Darlene. I didn’t mean for my tirade to offend you. I know you can’t help what goes on in your mind after you’ve been hit on the head, but I expect a damn sight more from Clint. He’s an officer of the law.”
Clint ignored him. “So, let me get this straight, Bledsoe. Are you telling me that you have never heard McCord speak of an incident in which someone in his troop was murdered by one of his fellow soldiers while a small group of his buddies watched?”
“I think I’ve made that plain enough for a blind man to see.”
Clint sauntered over to the kitchen door and leaned against the door frame. “That’s plain enough for me.” His lips split into a friendly smile. “I’m not out to do McCord harm. I’m just looking for answers. And trying to stop a killing.”
Clint’s refusal to fly to the defense had taken the steam out of Bledsoe’s anger. Darlene watched the good sheriff at work. He was good. She could learn something here.
“Have you heard from the senator in the last few days?” Clint’s tone stayed friendly, as if he were making idle conversation.
Bledsoe scratched his chin and then jammed both hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, rocking forward to the toes of his scuffed boots. “I haven’t seen him since this trouble came up. Matter of fact, I haven’t seen him in a month of Sundays. He’s busy courting the nation’s favor. I fully expect him to be the next president of the United States. Unless people start filling the press with the kind of crap you and Darlene are spouting.”
Still frowning his displeasure, Bledsoe picked up the beer he’d been nursing ever since they’d arrived and finished it off, holding his head back and giving his Adam’s apple a full workout. Bending, he sat the empty can on the boot-scarred edge of his coffee table. “I can’t imagine why he’d want to be president, but then I could never imagine him running for the Senate either, and he’s been the best thing that happened to Texas since Santa Anna got run off.”
“I hope he makes it to the election, Bledsoe. I hate to say it, but I. think he’s going to have to walk over a madman first, the one who attacked him and Darlene. I’d like to help McCord with this, but I can’t find a starting place.”
Bledsoe shuffled his feet and diverted his gaze to the floor. “I’d help you out if I could, Sheriff. You know that.”
“I’d like to think you would. I’d like to think you’d care more about helping McCord than about keeping a boyish pledge of secrecy. Especially if it meant saving Darlene’s life and maybe McCord’s as well.”
Bledsoe paced the floor. “I don’t know anything, Clint. I’d help if I could, but I don’t know anything.” He stopped his pacing abruptly and looked at Clint. “No,” he said, “that’s not quite true. I’m goi
ng against my word to tell you this, but I know someone’s after him. He was shot Monday night. Just a flesh wound, but now he’s a man obsessed.”
“Does he know who shot him or why?”
“No, but he’s working on finding the answer to both of those questions. That’s all I know. He called last night to tell me he was safe and that the gunshot wound was healing, but he wouldn’t even tell me where he was.” Bledsoe turned to Darlene. “That’s all I know. I’m sorry I can’t help you any more than that.”
“You can only tell what you know. But I’m glad you did that much.” Clint’s gaze swept the kitchen. “Darlene and I might as well be on our way then. No use wasting your time. Mind if I use your bathroom first?”
“Help yourself. It’s down the hall.”
A few minutes later, Bledsoe excused himself and walked into the kitchen. Darlene walked to the front door and opened it. Her friend Cat was waiting for her. Evidently he had an escape hatch from the kitchen.
She stepped onto the porch. Cat disappeared under the front steps for a second and then came out with something in his mouth. He crept over and dropped his prized gift at her feet: a dead rat.
Her stomach lurched. “No wonder you’re so fat,” she scolded.
Cat nudged the rat in her direction. Darlene looked around and spotted an old cardboard box in the corner of the porch. She tore off a piece of the corrugated material and made a scoop. Avoiding any contact with the rat, she dipped it up and headed to the trash barrel at the side of the house. She elbowed the top off and dumped Cat’s prize—
Her heart plummeted to her stomach. Buried near the bottom of the barrel was a piece of fabric exactly like the one she and Clint had found stuck in the brush out on Glenn Road. Exactly like the shirt McCord had been wearing on the afternoon of the attack.
She was about to dig the cloth from the leftover food and debris when the screen door squeaked open. She jumped away from the can, hoping Bledsoe wouldn’t notice what she’d been doing. Faking an air of nonchalance, she strolled toward them.
