Hill Country Holdup

by Angi Morgan

  “Uh…Jane?” He followed her into the tiny kitchen where she frantically opened each cabinet door leaving them swinging on their hinges. Thomas Brant squirmed, clearly not liking the awkward tension of hands holding him.

  He tried to soften his hold, but face it, he’d been undercover and missed being around his niece and nephew when they were this age.

  “He’s not here. There’s no one here. There’s no note telling me where to go.” Jane sank to the floor and burst into tears. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, a forlorn keening sound rising from her throat that sent a chill down his spine.

  The child in his arms seemed stunned and didn’t move. Steve couldn’t move either. Thoughts of Rory paralyzed him, robbing him of positive words she needed to hear. As quickly as she’d lost it, she stopped all the emotion and didn’t react at all.

  “What have they done with him?” She wiped her eyes with her palms and stood. She looked up at him, her eyes as dead as the woman’s on the floor.

  Yeah, it finally registered the woman wasn’t moving. Right, he was the decorated FBI agent. The one who should have checked for a pulse when he came through the door.

  The toddler began to whimper. The kid would be howling louder than a lonesome coyote in a matter of seconds. He handed him back to Jane and knelt by the big grandmotherly-type woman. No pulse. Yep, deader than a doornail, but not quite cold. No blood. No visible wound.

  He worked the room. No signs of a struggle. The vic’s clothes weren’t disordered. No broken glass from windows. But the door had crept open when Jane knocked on it. No facial contortions, no apparent bruising around the neck indicating strangulation.

  “This your neighbor?”

  “She was so kind to us.” Jane looked around the room. “I don’t understand it. Some of Rory’s things are here. A couple of toys, his cereal bowl.” She pointed to the yellow plastic Cheerio on the high chair.

  A very expensive-looking wooden high chair that didn’t match the run-down appearance of the rest of the house.

  “It’s his. He colored on it with my green Sharpie.” She patted the back of the child in her arms. “This little one is wearing Rory’s shirt.”

  “Thomas Brant.”

  Jane shifted from foot to foot while patting the little guy’s back. The kid quieted in an instant.

  Steve took a closer look, taking in details, trying to guess why Jane was led here. There had to be a reason, a reason for everything. A reason the kidnappers wanted the FBI to believe Jane was crazy. But what? He paced the room and gave the woman another glance. What had killed her? She had no obvious marks or wounds. Maybe they injected her with some type of poison. Injected her? Just like Jane injected him. Coincidence?

  “Damn!”

  One bowl of Cheerios on the high chair, another plastic bowl in the sink. Three half-filled cups of juice on the counter. A blanket in the playpen along with two teddy bears. But the small trash can overflowed with used diapers. He wasn’t an expert, but that looked like an excessive amount for one three-year-old.

  “Son of a b— I played right into their hands.” The house hadn’t been tossed. The body was still warm. His instincts should have kicked him in the head to get him moving a little sooner. “Jane, we have to get out of here. Someone’s framing you for murder.”

  “What? But we can’t leave.” She looked at the child in her arms.

  “I’m pretty sure the police will be here any minute, ready to arrest you. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like you were crazy.” He turned her toward him and searched her eyes. Her wonderful innocent eyes. “Trust me on this, Janie. We’ve got to go.”

  “But what about Thomas? We can’t just leave—”

  “He’ll be fine in the playpen. We can’t take him with us. It really would be kidnapping.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance. The police weren’t keeping their arrival a secret.

  “Now, Jane.” He took the toddler and ran him to the playpen in the corner. “Go! Out the back door. Fast!”

  “I don’t understand. Why isn’t there a note telling us where Rory is? How are we going to find him? What do they want now?”

  You behind bars, paying for their crimes.

  “I promise I’ll answer all of your questions as soon as we’re clear of the cops. Now go.” He punched George’s speed dial and tossed the department-issued cell on the floor to guide his team to the house.

  Risking precious time, he looked closely at Mrs. Newinsky’s arms and found what appeared to be a puncture wound. He was almost certain that she’d been killed with the same formula that had paralyzed him less than two days ago. The kidnappers had stolen Jane’s serum along with the Brant ransom and were using it against her.

  No time to search the house for the money, but it wouldn’t be here.

  Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to frame Jane. They just weren’t counting on him being around to help her.

  CLIMBING THEIR SEVENTH FENCE, Jane accepted Steve’s lift to get her over the top and promptly plopped onto the thick carpet of St. Augustine grass. He, on the other hand, hit the ground running, coming back when he realized she hadn’t followed.

  “I’m sorry, Steve. I just can’t do this anymore. My legs are like jelly.”

  “This is the only way.”

  “Can we hide? Sit for a moment?”

  Steve hadn’t said anything since leaving that house. He must hate her. Could she forgive him if he’d cost her career? And when she told him Rory was his son…what then? Even if he didn’t, she hated herself enough for the both of them and no longer cared if she got caught.

  Without another note she didn’t have any clue how to find Rory. And as long as he was running, Steve couldn’t find him, either.

  “Let me stay in this yard until they find me. It’ll give you time to get away.” She nodded to a shed in the corner. “You know, one or two fences from now, a Doberman is going to be waiting.” Smiling kept her from crying another flood. She had to have some self-respect around this man.

  “Jane—”

  “Please don’t. I know you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you?” He pulled on her arm, trying to get her to stand. “Shoot, there’s another patrol car. Come on.”

  “We can’t outrun them.”

  “We aren’t going to. See if the shed’s unlocked and if there’s a lawn mower inside.”

  “What are—”

  “We’re going to hide in plain sight.”

  “What if they’re home, for goodness’ sake?” she asked, but kept running toward the shed.

  “Then we’re sunk, babe.” But he looked in the kitchen window and carefully walked through the gate and looked in front.

  Jane pulled the lawn mower and gas can out the door. There were gardening gloves, a floppy hat and a baseball cap on a shelf so she grabbed those, too. Seeing the shears, she poked a hole in her jeans leg and cut. She pulled and ripped the remaining pants leg, then threw them in the far corner of the building.

  Steve had his shirt off and pulled the water hose from where it hung neatly at the side of the house. He stuck his head under the water and plastered his hair back. Then reached for the cap and tucked his longish strands under it.

  “Take your bra off and knot your shirt between your breasts.”

  “What?” She couldn’t believe what he asked.

  “Just do it, Jane. I hope if a cop does stop that it’s a guy.”

  Like most girls, she learned at an early age how to take off her bra without removing her shirt. Even though it was a sports bra, she managed to pull her arms through, stuff it in her back pocket and knot the T-shirt, exposing her belly.

  A scream escaped when Steve turned the cold stream on her. “What are…” Her mouth filled with water.

  “You’re the distraction, babe.” He had the gall to smirk before he shut the faucet off.

  “If I ever have the opportunity to finish this water fight, beware.” She could
n’t think of anything appropriate while she wiped the moisture from her eyes.

  She heard the mower start behind her and hoped no one thought it odd that a Texan would be mowing his yard on a hot July day, in long pants and a worn pair of cowboy boots.

  With the floppy hat pushed as low on her head as it would go, the gardening gloves and the pruning shears, she marched to the rose bushes bordering the front hurricane fence and trimmed. Determined to look as if she knew what she was doing, she snipped withering buds as fast as she could and let them fall to the ground.

  A patrol car passed.

  Then it backed up.

  Oh, God.

  What would she do? She couldn’t lie her way out of a paper bag.

  The officer got out of his car and walked toward her. So absorbed in the policeman, she didn’t register that Steve had cut the engine until his warm arms spun her around to face him. The direction of his eyes fell to her lips. He was going to kiss her.

  Not just a passing peck on the cheek or a casual “take care” kiss. But a real one. She recognized the look from their brief affair. That was how he’d looked every time he’d kissed her back then.

  Had time stopped? If it hadn’t, why was it taking him so long to bend his head and connect with her? She rose on her tiptoes and felt the soul-jerking wrench of her body aching for more as soon as their lips met. She parted her mouth and tried to bring him closer.

  It wasn’t just her. Steve wanted her, too. He couldn’t hide his reaction or the sound of pleasure vibrating from his body to hers. His hands were just bringing their bare skin even closer when the patrolman cleared his throat.

  Steve raised an eyebrow and took a step back. “Hey, sorry, honey. I didn’t realize we had company. Can we help you, Officer?”

  He casually hooked the T-shirt around his neck and pulled on both ends. She wanted to concentrate on the way his muscles grew when he reached over his head or just how good he looked. After all, four years was a long time. And good grief, that kiss. Was she really supposed to think now?

  “You two been outside long?”

  Steve put an arm around her bare waist. “What, about an hour?”

  Jane nodded and kept the brim of the hat between her face and the officer’s gaze. A gaze that rarely left her breasts. There wasn’t much there, but everything she had was outlined by the wet T-shirt. Including her now-erect nipples. Willpower kept her arms at her sides instead of across her chest. Fortunately they’d given her a dark blue T-shirt that morning.

  “Winnie, do we have any iced tea in the fridge?” Steve pinched her behind to get a response to the strange name.

  It could have been worse. He could have called her Winifred.

  “I think so…Fred. Do you need a drink?”

  “Yeah. Could we offer you a glass?” he asked the officer.

  “No, thank you, sir. We’re looking for a man and woman. They’re armed and considered dangerous. I need to get back to the search.”

  “Dang.” Steve drew out the four letters like only a Southern man could. “Really? What did they do? Is Winnie in danger?” He draped his arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to his side. “I told you we shouldn’t have moved to this neighborhood.”

  The teasing look in his eyes encouraged her to play along. “You were the one who wanted to move closer to your mother, dear.”

  “Should we go inside and call 911 if we see any strangers?” Steve asked the policeman. “You said they have guns?”

  “Yes. I need to be on my way.” With one last look at her chest, the officer left.

  As soon as the car was out of sight, Jane elbowed Steve in his stomach.

  “Ooomph.”

  “And just how was I supposed to get into a locked house and get that tea?”

  “I was betting that he wouldn’t accept, darlin’.”

  “And what if you were wrong, Fred?”

  “I would have kidded you a lot about locking us out of the house, Winnie.” The smile he flashed made what was left of her heart melt. It seemed so genuine, as if he were actually flirting with her. He pulled the back door to the garage open. “Now for some transportation.”

  “You aren’t seriously considering stealing?”

  “I’m not going to steal a thing,” he said as he took a screwdriver to the inside door. “We’re just going to use the phone.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Gee, Winnie, I thought I was the federal agent.”

  Jane couldn’t bring herself to enter the house. She stood dripping at the garage door and watched for the police, a neighbor or the owners of the cute little home with the yellow rosebushes she’d butchered.

  “All done, cab will be here in half an hour.” Steve lifted an arm as if he were about to drop it across her shoulders, but he changed his mind and direction. “You didn’t touch anything, did you?” he asked as he stepped down into the yard again.

  “Just the shears. And the rest of my jeans are in the shed.”

  “That was quick thinking.” He eyed her legs, then her wet T-shirt. His hungry look made her unknot the wet material and tuck it into her new shorts. He laughed at her grimace when the cold touched her heated skin. “Let me put away the lawn mower, wipe everything down, then we’re going to talk.”

  She handed him the borrowed gardening supplies. Her eyes were glued to his sculpted back and swaggering hips until he disappeared into the shed.

  Quit it.

  Concentrate. Remember how the house looked. Remember everything inside. Imprint your horrible brain with the picture.

  But that wasn’t a problem. She could answer anything about the way that house looked. Anything. Especially how Mrs. Newinsky’s eyes had been staring at her as beady as a dead lab rat.

  Half an hour to talk. Where would they begin? More important, where would they go from here? She sat in a covered swing near the corner of the yard by the rosebushes.

  “What did you mean back at the house when you said someone was framing me for murder?” she asked him across the yard. “What went wrong? Why leave the Brant baby and not Rory? It doesn’t make sense. Do they expect me to pay a ransom, too? I have a little money from my parents’ estate, but not anything close to the million the kidnappers have already received.”

  “Quiet.” He popped out from behind the door, shut it and sauntered toward her. “Want everyone and their mothers to hear you?”

  “What did you mean?”

  Sitting next to her, he hesitated—as if he didn’t want to frighten her. He’d acted that way when he told her to take the job at Johns Hopkins.

  “I think the kidnappers’ accomplice, the woman you knew as Mrs. Newinsky, was killed with your serum. Whoever did this went to a heckuva lot of trouble.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s something I couldn’t tell you yesterday.” He leaned forward on his knees, stopping the natural motion of the swing. “I tried to get you alone, but McCaffrey wouldn’t let me see you again. By then…”

  “What is it?”

  Steve watched her dark blue eyes dart back and forth, barely blinking in their intensity. All he wanted was to kiss her. The blood surged away from his brain, but he knew he couldn’t act like a seventeen-year-old kid.

  How could he say this without her falling apart again? The kidnappers didn’t intend to return Rory and she needed to know.

  Damn it, she probably already knew. He didn’t know how to say it delicately even though he’d said something similar exactly nine times before.

  “Whoever arranged Rory’s kidnapping forged a death certificate. For Rory. That he died three months ago. They made it look like you kidnapped Thomas Brant as a substitute for your son.”

  She didn’t say a word.

  “We received a doctor’s record of you being on antipsychotics. No record of a Mrs. Newinsky in your building. Add that not one thing was left in your apartment to indicate a child was ever there and it looked like Rory never existed.”

  “I
see.” Her mouth formed a tiny O as she shook her head. “You think I’m crazy.”

  “No. No, I never doubted you,” he said firmly.

  “But the FBI does.” She stood out of his reach and covered her face with her hands, then miserably dropped them again.

  “They’re following the evidence, Jane.” I followed my heart and every instinct in my body that told me you wouldn’t lie. He wanted to say it out loud. But couldn’t. Not yet. Not until they found her son. He stayed on the swing, pushing away the need to hold her.

  “They’re not searching for him. No one’s searching for him. Last night…with the camera. You…that’s why you told me to run to the Hilton. Oh, my God. They all think I’m crazy.”

  “I keep saying this, but we will find him. I swear if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll find Rory.” He would find Rory and return him to his mother. A mother that he’d prove had nothing to do with the Brant kidnapping. He’d prove it whether employed by the Bureau or not. Confident? Cocky? He’d been called that before. This was more important than anything he’d ever done and he wouldn’t let Jane or her son down.

  “How?”

  “We’ll find him.” He thought better on his feet and began to pace. “Our highest priority at the moment is getting out of here without leaving a trail. I have fourteen hundred dollars in cash but that won’t last long. We can’t risk a bank now.”

  “Do you always travel with that much cash?” She was carrying on a coherent conversation with him, but he could tell her mind was sorting through facts.

  “I withdrew it last night.”

  “So you thought something would go wrong?”

  He couldn’t answer that. But withdrawing everything in his checking account had been a precaution he wished he hadn’t been right about.

  “I have a friend who owes me a favor. He should be somewhere in San Antonio. He’ll be able to loan me money and a car.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  He stopped. “No, but I’ve chased a lot of men who have.”

  “Did any of them evade you and your team?”

  “No, Jane. They didn’t.” He clenched his teeth. Sometimes her being so smart was a major pain in the ass.