by Joyce Lamb
Checking her watch, she saw she had about ten minutes to spare. Plenty of time to dive into the chocolate chip cookies Emma had loaded into the cookie jar just that morning.
"Hello, Alaina."
She stopped dead.
The man leaning casually in the dining room doorway on the other side of the kitchen was a stranger. Serial killer was her first thought. He was unusually pale, with pock-marked cheeks and watery blue eyes, his light brown hair thin and graying. He wore an old maroon Members Only jacket, faded jeans and black Chuck Taylor sneakers.
He'd called her Alaina.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice firm in spite of the fear that threatened to clamp around her throat.
He ambled toward her, hands in his back pockets, his sneakers silent on the tile floor. "Relax," he said softly, smiling. His teeth were surprisingly straight and white, a toothpick clenched between them. "I'm not here to hurt you."
She didn't believe him for an instant, and she ticked off in her head the locations of everyone she cared about. Jonah had at least an hour left of school. And moments before, Emma had been in the bookstore discussing the latest Stephen King novel with a male college student who'd seemed surprised that such a senior citizen was familiar with the horror writer's work. There would be no reason for Emma to leave the store unattended to come upstairs.
"Tell me what you want," Alaina said, infusing her voice with strength.
The intruder continued to smile, the toothpick wiggling as he repositioned it with his tongue. "I got a proposition for you, Ms. Chancellor. You know who I work for?"
"Yes, I've figured that out." She clenched her teeth against the impatience. She was due in the bookstore in a few minutes. If she were late, Emma might come looking for her.
"Mr. Keller wants you bad. You and the kid."
"You said you have a proposition."
His grin broadened, and retrieving the toothpick, he pointed it at her. "Five grand, and I report back to Mr. Keller that I hit another dead end."
Alaina's knees began to tremble. Five thousand dollars? She didn't have even one thousand. How would she get five? "I don't have that kind of money."
"Yeah, but you're smart. I bet you can figure out how to get it."
"I can't."
His gaze hardened. "You're not even going to think about it?"
"I don't have to think about it. I don't have access to that kind of money."
He glanced around the tiny kitchen as if regrouping. Clearly, he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. He hadn't been able to tell by observing her life that excessive cash was not a part of it. His expression brightened. "The old lady downstairs," he said. "What's her name?"
Alaina's muscles tensed so hard they began to ache. "She doesn't know."
"I don't give a shit. This her place?"
"Yes."
"Geezer like her's probably got cash stashed between her mattresses, stuffed in stupid places in the kitchen." He grabbed the cookie jar shaped like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, ripped off the lid and tipped it upside down. Fresh chocolate chip cookies tumbled onto the counter.
Alaina eased away from him, until her back encountered the edge of the doorway. A slight turn to the right, and she could be down the stairs and into the stock room of the bookstore in just a few seconds. But then what? He would chase her right into the store. He might be armed. She looked him up and down, searching for a gun, a knife.
Catching her seeking look, he dropped the cookie jar, which shattered at his feet. The greed in his eyes shifted to something far more terrifying. "Were you just checking me out?"
Her heart seized into a tight fist. "No." The word nearly strangled her.
His grin returned, accompanied by a leer. "Yes, you were. You were checking me out."
She raised her hands, palms out. "Look, I'm sorry. But I don't have any money. I can't pay you."
His tongue flicked out over his bottom lip as his gaze slithered down her body and back up, mentally stripping away her jeans and bulky sweater. Her skin crawled as if he had touched her with a clammy hand.
He swallowed, and his pale cheeks pinkened. "You know what? I'm thinking we can work something out."
She pressed against the doorjamb. A quarter turn. The steps were right there. But that would put Emma and her customers at risk ... Alaina still didn't know if he had a weapon.
Then her dangling fingers brushed against smooth, cool wood, and she remembered the baseball bat propped in the corner. She'd fussed at Jonah that morning to put it away, but he had either ignored her or forgotten.
Dropping the shopping bag, she swung the bat up at the same moment that the intruder rushed her. Almost by accident, the bat caught him in the crotch, more of a glancing blow than a dead-on home run. He folded nonetheless, going down on one knee, his hands cupped over his groin. "You bitch," he wheezed. "Fucking bitch."
He was down, but his body blocked her escape route. She pivoted, intending to bolt through the dining room. Despite his pain, he moved like lightning, grabbing the back of her sweater and swinging her into the kitchen counter. The edge caught her hard in the hip, the impact knocking the bat from her fingers. As it clattered to the floor and rolled, she threw a hand out to keep from falling, her fingers crushing through cookies. She hurled crumbs in his face.
He stumbled back, sputtering in surprise, and she tried to dodge by him. But he snatched her around the middle and slammed her back against the refrigerator. Pain zinged down her spine, and her knees almost buckled. Locking them, she aimed for his eyes.
He screamed as her nails scratched his scarred face, and enraged, he jerked her away from the refrigerator by the collar and ruthlessly hammered her back against it. Her legs turned to jelly, and as he backed off and let go, she slid down the fridge, gasping.
He glared down at her, one hand pressed to his bloody cheek. "Now I'm really pissed off." Reaching down, he grasped the collar of her sweater and yanked her to her feet. Levering her against the counter, he snarled, "I'm going to take what I want. Then I'm going to kill you real slow."
She groped behind her for a weapon, a pan to hit him with, a glass, anything.
His breath was hot on her cheeks, his face mottled red with rage. "And when you're good and dead, I'm going to wait for your kid to come home and I'm going to start on him --"
The Chicago Cutlery slipped easily between his ribs, and blood warm and thick gushed over her hand, spilling a sweet, coppery scent into the kitchen.
For a stunned instant, his forehead creased as if he'd felt a pain but didn't know what it was. Then he released her and staggered back, staring down at the handle of the knife sticking out of his gut.
Gagging, Alaina sank to her knees, her vision graying. Perspiration dripped into her eyes, and she fought to keep from blacking out. She had to get out, had to get out.
The intruder wobbled, sweat making his face appear greasy as it faded from red to gray. "Oh, shit," he mumbled as his legs gave out and he pitched forward.
Alaina couldn't move, her breath sawing in and out of her chest.
He was lying face down in front of her, and she concentrated hard on his back. A pool of dark red blood seeped from under him, oozing toward the bloody hand she braced on the tile floor. He wasn't breathing.
She'd killed him. A roar began in her ears, became deafening.
"Anna?"
Alaina raised her spinning head and saw Emma standing in the kitchen doorway. As the older woman digested the scene before her, her stunned disbelief gave way to horror. "Oh my God, Anna!"
Emma lurched forward, reaching toward Alaina, as if to help her up or comfort her. But before she got there, she froze and clutched at her chest. Her soft pink complexion turned white, and she grasped the back of a chair for support. She made a strange sound, a gurgle or maybe it was a gasp, and then she crumpled to the floor, dragging the chair down with her.
Her brilliant blue eyes stared up at the ceiling, unseeing.
* * *
; Alaina's eyes snapped open. It took a moment to orient herself. She was in the car with Rachel. It was dark outside. "Where are we?"
"Just crossed the Wisconsin border. You didn't sleep long." Rachel glanced at her in concern. "You okay?"
A fine sheen of perspiration coated her face, and Alaina wiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead. A bump in the road sent a jolt through her shoulder, and she winced. The drugs were wearing off already. Even so, her head was still woozy. But not so woozy that she couldn't curse herself for letting Rachel talk her into this insanity. If Rachel were to get hurt, or worse, Alaina would never forgive herself.
"Alex?"
"I'm fine."
Rachel suppressed a smile. "Of course you are. Like you would admit it if your hair was on fire."
Alaina didn't laugh. "You're checking to make sure we're not being followed?"
"So far, so good. If anyone does start to tail us, this puppy'll outrun them, no problem." She stroked the dash of the Thunderbird.
Before hitting the back roads heading north, Rachel had called on her on-again, off-again relationship for help. Tom Peters, who worked in accounting at the Trib and had been smitten with Rachel for years, met them in a Target parking lot and agreed to trade his late-model red Thunderbird for Rachel's RAV4. Alaina still couldn't believe he had been so agreeable, asking only a few questions that Rachel had deftly deflected, promising to return his car in a few days.
"You really shouldn't be doing this, Ray," Alaina said.
"Just shut up and let me help you. Can you do that?"
"Those men who shot up your house --"
"There was only one, and he got away." Rachel paused, as if letting that sink in. "Which is another reason you couldn't stay in the ER. You were a sitting duck."
"There are probably others besides him."
"Then we'll deal with them," Rachel said lightly. "They won't know what hit them."
The false bravado brought tears to Alaina's eyes. She couldn't have asked for a better friend.
Rachel cleared her throat. "So ... what should I call you? Alex? Alaina?"
Alaina couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of the quandary, considering the circumstances. "You can call me Al."
Rachel grinned at her. "You're not going to sing, are you? Because if you do, I'm turning around."
Alaina considered breaking into a showstopper. Anything to protect her friend. But it would never be that easy. Rachel wouldn't let it. "You're sure the house is safe?" Alaina asked.
Rachel nodded. "It's been vacant since Aunt Rita died a couple months ago. It's not too much farther. It's in Middleton, just outside Madison."
Alaina longed for Emma, for the life she and Jonah had had with her in Madison.
"My name isn't attached to it in any way," Rachel said. "She left it to my Uncle John, but he's been living abroad for the past two years."
Alaina gingerly massaged the ache in her shoulder. "In Rome."
"So you were listening to me all those times I rambled about my dysfunctional family."
Yes, she had listened, and envied Rachel her quirky but loving relatives. "I've got you hands down on the dysfunctional family," she said.
"Oh, you think so? My cousin Bobby literally ran away to the circus, to be a lion tamer. Last I heard, he's missing a few fingers and the tip of his nose. And my Uncle Louie? Well, he's a she now. Aunt Louise. I'm still not used to it."
"My sister is married to Jonah's father." Alaina instantly regretted the words. That's what happens when you let your guard down, she thought as she glanced over to see Rachel staring at her. "I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"How did that happen?" Rachel asked.
"I opened my mouth, and out it came." She smiled, even though she knew Rachel wouldn't let her joke her way out of this one.
"You know what I mean," Rachel replied, impatient. "If he's such a jerk that you went on the run to keep him away from your kid, how'd he get both you and your sister into bed? I mean, I've never known you to even want to be touched --"
She broke off, and Alaina imagined she could hear the gears grinding in her friend's head. She didn't say anything, not sure she could. Other than a counselor 10 years ago -- who had maintained a cool and professional distance -- she had not told anyone who wasn't her family, not even Emma, that Layton had raped her.
Rachel gripped the steering wheel harder. "That prick," she said, her voice soft and strained.
That was all she said. As it became apparent that a barrage of sensitive questions was not coming, Alaina slowly relaxed, grateful that for once Rachel wasn't eager to dissect her feelings.
Alaina let her eyes close. Almost immediately, an image of Mitch -- kneeling at her feet, his hand gentle on her ankle -- popped into her head. She may have been out of it with pain at the time, but she'd seen the unmistakable change in his dark eyes. Warm, worried. No anger. As if his opinion of her had shifted somehow.
Puzzling over what could have caused the transformation, she sank into sleep.
Chapter 16
Layton Keller had put out a contract on Alaina's life.
Norm Potter, Mitch's former FBI colleague, had just confirmed it as he'd handed Mitch a cup of coffee.
They had left the hospital little more than an hour before to go to the FBI's Chicago office, where Norm had led Mitch to a glass-walled meeting room that was serving as Norm's makeshift workspace. Between them on the conference table, Norm's briefcase was open, folders and papers strewn across the surface of the blond wood.
"Odds aren't good my agents are going to find them quick," Norm said, taking a seat on the other side of the table. "They got too much of a head start."
Mitch scrubbed his hands over his face. Keller had duped him, and he felt like a grade-A, extra large jerk. Except the egg wasn't just on his face, it was dripping all over his entire head. "If that son of a bitch gets his hands on her, I'll never forgive myself."
"How'd you end up working for Keller anyway?" Norm asked.
Mitch sipped coffee and grimaced. "Why is Bureau coffee always shit?"
Norm shrugged. "Far as I know, it's the law."
Mitch drank it anyway, needing the caffeine. He itched to be out in the field, helping to track the women, but Norm had insisted Mitch accompany him to the office to answer more questions. He suspected that Norm would have arrested him if he'd refused.
Mitch set down the cup. "I've been doing employee background checks for two years. He asked me more than a month ago to find his kid and the kid's mother."
"Background checks?" Norm asked. "He's awfully high up in the company to be dealing with the person who does background checks."
"We went over this two hours ago."
"Humor me."
"The security checks were on his top lieutenants, something he wanted handled discreetly," Mitch said. "It wasn't a full-time job."
"So you don't work inside PCware."
"I went to his home a few times, but mostly we talked on the phone."
Norm pursed his lips. "Why'd he send you and not one of his goombahs after Alaina and Jonah?"
"Apparently, I am one of his goombahs," Mitch said with disgust.
"But he didn't ask you to take her out."
"Jesus, no."
"So he just hired you to find them, then sent someone else in to grab the kid and try to kill the mother."
Nodding, Mitch swallowed hard against the guilt. "He played me. He knew exactly which buttons to push."
"How do you mean?"
"Shirley took my kid away from me. Alaina took his kid away from him. He wanted me to equate the two women, and I did." He drew a finger down his sore nose, remembering his rage when she'd hit him. "I wanted to hurt her, like I could never have hurt Shirley, because I was too civilized. But with Alaina, there were no repercussions. I didn't have to be civilized." He felt sick as he recalled how rough he'd been when he'd tackled her and how much he'd frightened her when he'd handcuffed her to the bed the last time. Jesus,
he thought, nausea churning in his knot-filled belly. He'd handcuffed her to a bed. "Keller wanted someone who would find her and wouldn't sympathize, someone who he wouldn't have to worry about trying to be a Good Samaritan."
Norm waved a dismissive hand. "You're overanalyzing. Keller needed a damn good investigator, and he got one. It took four of my best agents to track her down in the time it took you to find her on your own."
"I had help," Mitch said under his breath, thinking that Julia was going to want to throttle him when she found out what was going on. Dammit, he should have listened to her. His partner had good instincts, and he'd brushed her off. Another instance in this case where he'd let his idiotic ego dictate his actions rather than common sense. He was listening to those instincts now, and he hoped to hell Norm would be able to provide some answers without copping the usual FBI "I can't tell you that" bullshit.
Mitch cleared his throat. "Don't you think it's odd that we were able to find Alaina and her son in weeks when Keller's had detectives looking for fourteen years? Only one of his men was able to track her down."
A look of confusion crossed Norm's features. "When?"
"I don't know anything about it except Keller told me she killed the guy."
Norm's bafflement seemed to deepen. "That doesn't make any sense."
"Then your people haven't linked her to anything like that? She would have had a different identity then, one I'm not familiar with."
Norm shook his head. "Once we get her prints, we can run them through the system to see if we get any hits. As Alaina Chancellor, she was never arrested and fingerprinted, so her prints aren't on file. But they'd be in the system unidentified if she left them at the crime scene." Snagging a legal pad, he jotted a note, then stared down at it as if he'd just written in a foreign language.
"What is it?" Mitch asked.
"Before now, Keller didn't want Alaina found, so I don't get why one of his people would actually track her down."
Stunned, Mitch stared at his former colleague. "I think I need you to elaborate."
