“Thanks.”
He leaned on my desk again — this time with both hands. I could smell his aftershave. “I’ll have to put those skills of yours to use more often.”
I twisted my ring. “Anytime.”
TWENTY-THREE
Two steps from her room door, Carla froze. A silent second ticked by. Her cell phone rang again.
A vague memory surfaced of lying on the bed hours ago, tossing the phone down by her feet . . .
What if it was Thornby, taunting her? Telling her he was waiting for her outside?
Carla stumbled around her suitcase, looking for the phone. On the third ring she found it half under the bed. She snatched it up, checked the ID.
Java Joint.
She sucked in a breath. Bailey. How Carla wanted to answer. Just to hear Bailey’s voice, to tell her she was in terrible trouble and needed her help —
Any friend who helps you is dead.
A fourth ring. One more, and it would go to voice mail. A friend so near and yet so far. Carla closed her fingers around the phone hard, as if to squeeze out an answer of what to do.
The fifth ring began —
Carla snapped the phone open. Then stared at it, wild-eyed. What had she done?
She steeled herself, willed her voice to sound normal. “Hello.”
“Carla, it’s Bailey! Are you all right?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Oh, I’m so glad. You really had me worried.”
Carla sank down on the bed. The closed drapes cast a blue pallor on the room, turning her beige slacks a sickly gray. “Why would you be worried?”
“Well, you were supposed to meet Wilbur here a long time ago. He’s fit to be tied. I called your office and home but couldn’t find you. And then — ”
“Oh, Wilbur. I forgot all about him. I just . . . I’ve had a busy morning.” Despite her efforts, Carla’s tone took on an edge. “Tell him I can’t come today. I’ll make it up to him.”
“What’s going on?” Bailey’s voice tightened.
“What do you mean?”
“Carla, come on. You don’t sound right. Plus it’s not like you to just not show up somewhere when you’ve promised. And then this strange woman called you a little while ago.”
Carla sat up straighter. “What woman?”
“She said her name’s Ellie. No last name. Said she knew you years ago, and it’s very important that she talks to you soon.”
Ellie?
“Do you know who she is?”
Years ago. The timing couldn’t be coincidental. Carla sorted through old friends’ names. “I don’t remember any Ellie.”
“Frankly, I think she was lying. She hesitated to even give me a name at all. Why she’d lie, I don’t know. And she sounded almost scared. Like she was in a big hurry. She cut off the conversation all of a sudden. Said she’d call you back.”
Ellie . . . Think as Carla might, no one came to mind. Had her old friend Mary Kay called and given a false name? Could she know something?
But Carla had never told Mary Kay.
Who could know something about the past? Could this person tell her why her life was suddenly in danger?
“Carla, you there?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s going on? This is scaring me. After all that’s happened here, it’s easy to think the worst.”
Carla squeezed her eyes shut. How she wanted to tell Bailey. Call Chief Edwards — tell him someone’s trying to kill me. Tell him to protect me; I’m coming home . . .
“I’m fine, Bailey. Just fine.”
Silence. Carla could practically hear Bailey thinking, I don’t believe you.
“She wanted your cell phone number,” Bailey finally said. “Do you want me to give it to her?”
What if this wasn’t a friend at all? What if it was a ruse to find out where she was? Maybe this woman was working with Thornby.
“No.”
But maybe she wasn’t. Thornby already had her cell number. Maybe this Ellie really did have the information Carla so desperately sought.
“Yes.” Carla’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know.”
“Carla.” Bailey’s voice fell to a near whisper. “Tell me what’s going on. I want to help you.”
Carla’s throat tightened. “How did this Ellie know to call me at Java Joint?”
“Scenes and Beans, I guess. Anybody who reads our blog knows you’re here every morning.”
Oh. Right.
“So are you going to tell me?”
Carla rubbed her forehead. Maybe if she rubbed hard enough she’d wipe this nightmare right out of her mind. “I can’t.”
Silence again.
“I’ll be praying for you, Carla. Hard. I suppose you know you’re scaring me silly.”
“I know.” Carla could barely speak. “I’m scaring me too.”
Her eyes fell on the clock. Almost ten thirty. Anxiety knocked through her veins. She should have been out of here long ago. She pushed to her feet.
“What do you want me to do about Ellie?” Bailey asked. “Give her your number or not?”
Scenes and Beans. A terrorizing thought pierced Carla. Bailey was right — hundreds of people across the country read the blog each weekday morning. If Ellie knew Carla’s close ties to Java Joint, so did everyone else. Like Thornby. Come to think of it, when he’d first called about the Edna San estate, he’d mentioned the blog.
What if he had someone watching Carla’s cell phone account to see if Java Joint called when she didn’t show up? Was it possible to listen in on cell phone calls? Or what if they were watching Java Joint’s phone?
“Bailey.” Carla’s voice sharpened, and she couldn’t stop it. Not now, not after realizing just by answering her cell she may have placed Bailey in danger. “Just ignore that woman. She’s some crackpot. And don’t call me again, you hear? I do not want to talk to you! I don’t want to talk to anyone at Java Joint. And in fact, you should mind your own business and quit talking on that phone so much.”
Carla jerked the cell away from her ear and snapped it shut. With a heavy punch of a button, she turned it off.
She fell back onto the bed, dropped her head into her hands —and shook.
Ten minutes later, feeling lonelier than she ever had in her life, Carla checked out of the hotel and limped outside to the parking lot, pulling her suitcase. From the recesses of her mind rose the image of Bryson Hanley, smiling at her across a desk. The smile that had brought her to this day, this moment.
Weighted with memories and fear, Carla set out on what could be a death walk to her car.
TWENTY-FOUR
It happened today. The thing I’ve been dreaming of. And scared to death of.
Ever since that day two weeks ago, when Bryson Hanley leaned over my desk and smiled at me — hadn’t I known deep in my heart I wanted it? Even though I tried to tell myself I was crazy.
Now I can hardly see straight. He’s all I can think about.
Every time I was in his office the past two weeks, the air sort of tingled. Bryson would dictate letters or explain some project he wants me to do — no more going through Jilke. But no matter what he was talking about, he’d get this look in his eyes. The same look Scott gets. Only it’s . . . older. Wiser. Like he knows just what I need, and he’s going to take care of me. Like he wants me so much, and the only thing holding him back is Jilke in the next room, and — oh, yeah, his wife.
Yesterday Bryson (I still have to call him Senator Hanley in front of anybody else) handed me some papers, and our hands touched. I swear I felt like I’d been plugged in. He felt it too. He stopped, those deep brown eyes of his just looking at me. His fingers slid over mine and pressed. Good thing the door was closed. Anybody seeing us could tell what we were thinking. Jilke would’ve had a heart attack. I think he’s about to have one already. Every time I come out of a private meeting with Bryson, Jilke shoots me this hard look, like he’s trying to see right through me. Like he knows.
/> I got all fluttery when Bryson held my hand. I started to breathe hard. His gaze dropped to my chest, then back up to my face. I couldn’t think of one smart-alecky thing to say. We just stood there looking at each other. Then he let go of my hand.
After work that night I went out with Scott. We parked in our usual place in the forest. And every time he touched me, I thought of Bryson.
I love Scott. But Bryson’s so much more. He’s everything I ever needed. He makes me feel safe. I know he could sweep me away like a prince. Away from this run-down house and Mom’s sarcastic mouth, and her cigarettes, and her hatred of life — which she always takes out on me.
But there’s this thing about Bryson. He’s strong and powerful, and everybody in the city loves him. But sometimes when he looks at me, I see his needs. Almost like he’s lonely. Like I could make him happy, while he’s stuck dealing with his jealous wife and doing everything the public wants him to do. He looks at me in a way that makes me think, I’m the only one who knows your struggles. Who really understands you.
Then — today.
Bryson asked me to come into his office. Jilke was out meeting with some campaign donors. I walked in with my pad of paper and pen, pretending to be all business, when deep down I knew. Bryson closed the door. He had his suit coat off and hung on a hook on his wall, as usual. I love to see him like that. The politician, taking off his jacket to get down to work. I sat in my usual chair. He walked over and stood looking down at me. My heart started beating so hard, I thought it would rip out of my chest. He gently took the paper and pen from my fingers, placed them on his desk. Then he held out his hand to me. I stared at it for a second, then took it. He pulled me to my feet.
Bryson ran a finger down my cheek. He had to feel me shaking, but he didn’t let on. “You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.” His voice sounded low and rough. “That black shiny hair, your dark eyes, your body. Everything.”
He slid his hands to my shoulders. I could feel heat coming off him. It was sure coming off me. I knew if the next move happened we could never go back. I didn’t care. I wanted it more than anything.
Washington State Senator Bryson Hanley — next year US senator — pulled me close and kissed me.
At first it was gentle. Like the first time Scott kissed me. Then a shuddering breath passed through him. He gripped me tighter, and my arms slipped around him. He started kissing me with a passion I’ve never felt before. Nobody has ever kissed me like that, not even Scott in his wildest moments. Bryson wasn’t some guy my age kissing me; he was a man. Out of control and in control at the same time.
I don’t know how long we kissed or what finally broke us apart. But it seemed like a long time. He held my face in his hands. “I think about you every waking moment. You make me feel so . . .” He shook his head.
“I know.”
What a dumb thing to say. Like I’m the one who had all the power over him. But I still just couldn’t believe what was happening. That this man cared about me. Me.
He pushed back a strand of my hair. “You can’t tell anyone, you know that, don’t you? I’m risking so very much just being honest with you.”
The words hung in the air. Risking so very much. I knew he was. And just to be with me. Bryson Hanley — Washington’s favorite son. I have never felt so worthy, so special, in all my life.
“I won’t tell anyone, ever. Promise. I would never hurt you.”
He smiled and kissed me again, slow and easy. Like we had all the time in the world and we’d take every second of it. Suddenly I realized I wasn’t shaking anymore.
Bryson pulled away. “Is there a way I can see you this weekend? Alone?”
Was he kidding? Name the hour. “Yeah, sure.”
He closed his eyes, as if to say, Yes, oh, thank you!
“Tell you what, Carla.” I tingled all over again at the sound of my name. Somehow now, coming from lips that had kissed me, it sounded different. “I have a cabin in the woods. It’s my private place. No one goes there but me. I often visit it on weekends just to get away for a while. Can you meet me there tomorrow?”
I thought about it. What I’d tell my friends. How I’d get there. None of that mattered. I’d walk if I had to.
I looked into his dark eyes and nearly drowned in them. “Sure. Just tell me the time.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Less than five hours.
Tony punched the steering wheel. He was parked outside a hotel on Highway 95 south of Moscow, feeling like a wreck. Ten minutes ago he’d gone in to use the bathroom and buy some coffee and a bagel. The food hadn’t helped much. His face still looked like he’d spent two days in the sun. He was dog tired and madder than ever. And that was the good news.
All night and long after dawn he’d searched for Carla Radling — at every motel in Moscow, then Pullman. As much as he’d wanted to flash her picture to every clerk behind a counter, he’d resisted. He couldn’t afford to have someone connect his face with hers once she was officially “missing.”
Finally, after making a needed purchase, he’d headed back to Highway 95. The trooper patrolling twenty miles south hadn’t seen Carla’s Toyota. But according to the Durango’s navigation system, there were quite a few motels along that twenty-mile strip. Tony should have checked them hours ago — but had no time until now. Even if Miss Wit had stayed in one, she was probably long gone.
No matter. If she was headed south, he’d hear about it.
Impatient as he felt, Tony knew he was closing in on her. Shouldn’t be long now. He had new pairs of eyes watching the roads to the west and north, and in Moscow. And Andy, his buddy from Spokane, had called in early that morning when he’d taken up his post in Kanner Lake.
Tony didn’t have all the resources he wished he had — not what would be available to him if he appealed to his boss. But that was out of the question. On the other hand, every person he brought in only increased his risk of getting caught.
Best-case scenario: you do a job yourself, no help. Which is exactly what would have happened at the Edna San estate. Now he’d had to bring in other people. When Miss Wit’s picture started showing up on the news as a missing person, somebody just might remember a certain assignment — and wonder about the connection.
In the end, Tony counted on their own guilt to keep them silent. What state trooper would admit being paid to hunt down a woman?
Tony started the car. “I finish this job, I’m out of here.” The minute he got paid, he’d move Robyn and Timmy as far away as he could get. Like to China.
The “Barry” cell phone rang. Tony snatched it from a cup holder on the console and flipped it open. “Yeah.”
“Andy here. Got a couple of hits for you.”
“Shoot.”
Andy told him two pieces of information. The first was useless, except that it told him he’d succeeded in scaring Carla Radling away from her friends. He smiled at that. The second made no sense. Heat flushed through Tony. “That it? That’s all you got?”
“Hey, man, I’m just the messenger.”
He gritted his teeth. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks a bunch.”
Tony slapped the phone closed, then on impulse flipped it open again. Time to rattle Miss Wit’s cage. Make her pay for the night she’d cost him. He punched in her number, threats crowding his tongue.
The line clicked on to a recorded message.
Tony smacked his cell shut and threw it on the floor.
He pressed back in the seat, glaring out the windshield. In a field beyond the parking lot, tall green-yellow grasses rippled in a breeze. His mind flashed to a summer outing with Timmy, when they’d run through open land, trying to fly a new bird-shaped kite. Timmy had finally given up, sinking to his knees with the melodrama of a three-year-old. “I can’t do it, Daddy,” he sobbed. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can, Son.” Tony plunked down beside him, pulling Timmy to his chest. “Sometimes the best things in life are hard to do. You just have to keep trying . . .”<
br />
Tony shut his eyes and tried to push the memory away.
Four hours.
His thoughts returned to his target. How sweet the revenge would be when he found Carla Radling. The hunting knife he’d bought that morning in Moscow cried to be used. Over eight inches long, with a four-inch razor-sharp blade. Its outer layer was of 420 J2 stainless steel, covering an inside layer of VG – 10 steel. The handle curved perfectly in his hand.
If Miss Wit had taken something important from her home and hid it somewhere, thinking to save her own skin, she was sorely misguided. His knife would soon prove that. And if she hadn’t taken anything — too bad she’d aroused his suspicions. With such a fine instrument in his hand, he wouldn’t be persuaded easily.
Tony opened gritty eyes and focused on the blowing grass. The alternating yellows and greens flashed his thoughts to the two baseball caps topping the stack in Carla Radling’s hatbox. Had she taken something from there? Something from years ago?
Years ago . . .
The words triggered a replay of his phone conversation with Andy. The man’s second piece of information had included those two words. Tony honed in on them. What could they mean? Could be important. Made no sense to him, but it could mean a great deal to his boss.
Which meant he should report it. Besides, it could spell possible interference with his own plans.
But if he reported it, he’d have to say where the information came from. There’d be questions. Answering those questions would mean admitting he’d lost his target. Robyn and Timmy would be in instant danger.
Besides, it couldn’t matter. He’d have his target within a few hours at most. Not enough time for some outsider to cause problems.
Tony thumped a fist against the steering wheel, weighing his options.
He had no choice, really. For his family’s sake, he couldn’t tell his boss.
His nose was running again. He wiped it with two tissues and tossed them in the plastic bag on the passenger seat. Time to get back to his search. Only a few more hotels between him and that twenty-mile mark. If those were all clear he’d return to Moscow, knowing he was that much closer to his very enjoyable meeting with Miss Wit.
Crimson Eve Page 8
