by Diana Palmer
Carson averted his eyes. “Thanks,” he said huskily.
“How did you end up with Cy?”
His eyes had a faraway look as he recalled that meeting. “I was doing black ops overseas,” Carson said. “Political assassination, like Grier used to do.” He drew in a long breath. “Cy and Eb Scott and Micah Steele were attached to the unit I was with as independent contractors. We went on missions together, discovered that we worked very well as a group. So I mustered out and signed on with them. It’s been...interesting,” he concluded with a mild laugh.
“I worked with mercs a time or two,” Jake replied. He hesitated. “I also worked in covert assassination.”
“I heard some gossip about that,” Carson replied, without blowing the whistle on Rourke.
“She can’t ever know,” he said, nodding toward the other part of the house where Carlie was. “I gave it up for her. I had a crisis of conscience when her mother died. It took me to a bad place. A minister gave me the strength I needed to turn my life around, to do something productive with it.” He leaned back with a sigh and a smile. “Of course, I’ll starve doing it,” he chuckled. “We’re always broke, and there’s always somebody who wants me fired because I say something offensive in a sermon. But I belong here now. Odd feeling, belonging. I never wanted it in the old days.”
“Your wife,” Carson said hesitantly. “Was she like Carlie?”
Jake’s eyes narrowed with sorrow. “Exactly like Carlie. I didn’t believe in a damned thing. I had no faith, no understanding of how people lived in small towns. I wanted her. I took her. She got pregnant.” His face was like stone. “I married her to stop gossip. Her mother was a slut. I mean, a real slut. She even tried to seduce me! So everybody locally would have said, ‘like mother like daughter,’ you know?” He leaned forward on his forearms. “I refused to stay here and be a tamed animal. I provided for her and the child when Carlie was born. I gave them everything except love. It wasn’t until Mary was dying that I realized how much I had loved her, how much I had cost her with my indifference. You think you killed your wife? I know I killed mine. I’ve been trying ever since to find a way to live with it, to make up for some of the terrible things I’ve done. I’m still trying.”
Carson was speechless. He just stared at the older man, with honest compassion.
“If you’re wondering,” Jake added softly, “this is a moral tale. I’m telling you about what happened to me so that you won’t repeat it with my daughter. I think you have some idea of her feelings already.”
Carson nodded solemnly. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“That makes two of us. You’ve lived the way I used to. Women were like party favors to me, and I had my share...”
Carson held up a hand. “Slight misconception.”
“About...?”
Carson let out a breath and laughed softly. “I pick up women. Beautiful women. I take them to the theater, the opera, out dancing, sailing on the lake, that sort of thing.” He hesitated. “Then I take them home and leave them at the door,” he said with a rueful smile.
Jake’s confusion was evident.
“My wife was my first woman,” Carson said with blunt honesty. “After she died, every woman I took out had her face, her body. I...couldn’t,” he choked out.
Jake put a firm hand on his shoulder, the only comfort he could offer.
“So other guys think I score every night, that I’m Don Juan.” Carson laughed coolly. “I’m a counterfeit one. It makes me look heartless, so that honest women won’t waste their time on me. But it backfired.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “She thinks I’m dirty, because of my reputation. Funny thing, a visionary woman up in Wyoming told me that my past would threaten my future. She was very wise.”
“Some obstacles can be overcome,” Jake commented.
“So, you want me to go out and involve myself intimately with women...?”
“Shut up, or I’ll put you down,” Jake said in a mock growl. He laughed. “I could do it, too.”
“I believe you,” Carson said, with true admiration. “You haven’t lost your edge.”
“Where do you go from here?” Jake continued.
“When we wrap up this mess with Carlie’s kidnapper, I don’t know,” Carson said honestly. “If I stay here, things will happen that will destroy her life, and maybe mine, too. I have to leave.”
“For now, or for good?” Jake asked.
Carson drew in a breath. “I...don’t know.”
“If you graduated, then you got a degree, I take it?” Jake asked.
Carson pursed his lips. “Yes.”
“You couldn’t go into a normal profession?”
“It would mean a commitment I’m not sure I can make. I need time.”
“Most life-changing decisions require it,” Jake agreed. “What degree program were you pursuing?”
Carson smiled. “Medicine. I have my medical degree and I keep up my license. I just can’t practice without doing the internship.” He sighed. “I was going to specialize in internal medicine. I see so many heart patients with no resources, no money.”
“On the reservation, you mean?”
“No. Here, in Jacobs County. I was talking to Lou Coltrain. She said they’re short on physicians, not to mention physicians who specialize.”
Jake searched the other man’s face. He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Going to tell her?”
Carson shook his head. “Not until I’m sure.”
Jake smiled. “I knew I liked you.”
Carson just laughed.
* * *
CARLIE WALKED HIM to the door. “Was Dad intimidating you?” she asked when they were outside on the front porch, with the door closed.
“No. He was listening. That’s such a rare gift. Most people want to talk about themselves.”
She nodded. “He’s talked several people out of suicide over the years.”
“He’s a good man.”
“He wasn’t always,” she replied. “I’ve heard a little about his old life, although he won’t tell me a thing himself.” She looked up at him with raised eyebrows.
“It would be the end of my life to say a single word about it,” he said firmly.
“Okay,” she said, sighing.
He tilted her chin up and searched her green eyes. “What color were your mother’s eyes?” he asked.
“They were brown,” she said. “Like the center of a sunflower.”
He traced her mouth with a long forefinger. “You’re very like a sunflower yourself,” he said softly. “Bright and cheerful, shining through storms.”
Her lips parted on a surprised breath.
“I’m leaving, Carlie,” he said softly.
She started to speak, but he put his fingers across her lips.
“You know how it is between us,” he said bluntly. “I want you. If I stay here, I’ll take you. And you’ll let me,” he said huskily.
She couldn’t deny it.
“We’ll be like your parents, one brokenhearted, one running away until tragedy strikes. I don’t want to be the cause of that.”
Her hand went up to his hard cheek. She stroked it gently, fighting tears. “You can’t live a tame life. I understand.”
It sounded harsh. Selfish. He scowled at the look on her face, dignity and courage mixed with heartbreak. It hurt him.
He drew her into his arms and held her, rocked her, in a tight embrace. “It wouldn’t work. You know that.”
She nodded against his chest.
He drew back finally and tilted her face up to his. It was streaked with hot tears that she couldn’t help. He bent and kissed them away.
“I’ll be around for a while,” he promised. “Until we make sure we have the kidnapper i
n custody.”
“Can they catch him, you think?”
“I believe so,” he replied. “Just be careful.”
She smiled. “I usually am.”
“And if someone shows up and says your dad’s been in a wreck...” he began.
She pulled her cell phone out of her jeans. “I’ll call him up first.”
He grinned. “That’s my girl.” He bent and brushed his mouth softly over hers, savoring the smile she couldn’t help.
He left her on the porch and drove away. She stood there until she couldn’t see the car anymore.
* * *
ROURKE HAD FINALLY convinced Matthew Helm that it was safe to trust him. He did a few discreet jobs—mostly by warning the people he was supposed to muscle first, and having them cooperate—and was finally handed something useful. Useful for the case against Helm, at least.
“I want you to go talk to Charro,” Helm told Rourke. He pursed his lips, deep in thought. “That Ballenger man who’s running against me has a following. He’s local. People know him and like him. He’s got three sons. One of them, Terry, is still in high school. I want you two to find a way to plant some cocaine on him. Put it in his locker at school, in his car and tip off the cops, whatever. I don’t care what you do, just make sure you do it. I’ll handle the press. I’ll have one of my campaign workers release the collar, to make sure it doesn’t come directly from me and seem like I’m slinging mud. Got it?”
“Oh, yeah, Boss, I got it,” Rourke said with a nod.
“Get going, then.”
“You bet.”
Rourke was too old a hand to go straight to Calhoun Ballenger or even to Cash Grier’s office, much less up to San Antonio to see Rick Marquez. He wasn’t trusting his cell phone, either, because Helm could very easily find out who he’d talked to recently.
So he went to Cotillo.
Charro Mendez gave him a careful scrutiny. “So Helm trusts you, does he?” he asked.
“He doesn’t really trust anybody,” Rourke replied. “Neither do I,” he added, hands in his jeans pockets. “It doesn’t pay, in this line of work. But he trusts me enough to relay messages, I believe.”
“And what message does he wish you to bring me?” Mendez asked, propping his booted feet on his own desk in the mayor’s office.
“He wants some product planted in a particular place,” he replied, leaning back against the wall.
“Ah. Something to do with a rival in the political arena, si?”
“Exactly.”
“This is not a problem. Who does he expect to perform this task, señor, you or me?”
“He didn’t say,” Rourke replied. “He told me you’d supply the product. I assume that means I’ll have to plant it.”
“I see.” The man grinned, displaying gold-filled teeth. “I would assume that he would not expect a man in my position to perform such a menial chore, however.”
“Exactly,” Rourke said, nodding.
“Excellent! I will have the...product,” he said, “delivered to you across the border. When?”
“He didn’t tell me that, either. But it would be convenient to do two Saturdays from now,” Rourke continued. “There’s going to be a dance at the high school. I can sneak it into the glove compartment of the boy’s vehicle while he’s inside the building.”
“I could almost feel sorry for his father. I also have sons.” His face darkened. “I would kill someone who did that to me. But these rich men in Texas—” he waved a hand “—they can buy justice. I have no doubt the politician can have the charges dropped. The publicity, however, will be very damaging I think.”
“I agree.”
“Give me a cell phone number where my man can reach you,” Charro said.
Rourke handed him a slip of paper. “It’s a throwaway phone,” he told the other man. “I’ll answer it this once and then toss it in a trash bin somewhere. It will never be found or traced to me.”
“A wise precaution.”
“I try to be wise, always,” Rourke replied.
“Then we agree. I will have my man contact you within the week.”
“I’m certain my boss will express his appreciation for your help.”
“Indeed he will,” Charro returned thoughtfully. “Many, many times, whenever I ask.” He smiled coldly. “I will have him, how do you say? over a barrel.”
“A big one,” Rourke chuckled.
“Very big. Yes.”
12
ROURKE COULDN’T RISK being seen with any law enforcement official, or overheard talking to one, not with things at this critical juncture. He called Carson.
“Have you been to see Marquez yet?” he asked quickly.
“Well, no,” Carson replied. “Something came up over at Cy’s ranch...”
“This is urgent. I want you to go see Marquez right now. I’ve got some news.”
So Carson drove up to San Antonio to relay the information Rourke had transferred over to another throwaway phone, a pair he and Carson had arranged at an earlier time.
Rick Marquez did a double take when he saw Carson. The other man was almost his age, with the same olive complexion and long, black hair in a ponytail.
“Lieutenant Marquez?” Carson greeted the other man when the clerk showed him in.
“That would be me. Amazing,” Rick mused. “We could almost be twins.”
Carson smiled faintly. “Only if you turned out to be from South Dakota.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. Mexico. Well, that’s where my father was born. He’s now president of a small Latin American nation. Sit down.” He offered his visitor a chair.
“I assume you have regular checks for bugs in here?” Carson asked, glancing around.
“My father-in-law runs the CIA,” Rick told him as he dropped into his aging desk chair. “He might bug us, but nobody else would dare. What can I do for you?”
“There have been some new developments that you might not have heard about,” Carson began.
“Jake Blair’s daughter was kidnapped, you and her father freed her and took out two guards, the kidnapper got away,” Rick rattled off. “I know everything.”
“Not quite,” Carson replied. He pursed his lips. “How about coffee?”
“We’ve got a pot right over there...”
Carson shook his head. “Real coffee. Come on.”
Rick was puzzled, but he caught on pretty quickly that Carson didn’t trust telling him in the office.
They drove to a specialty coffee shop and moved to a corner table.
“Sorry, I know you think it’s secure in your office, but this information could get Rourke killed if it slips out somehow. He’s working for Matthew Helm and there’s a plot underway. But let me tell you this first. Carlie Blair’s kidnapper was wearing a watch. An expensive watch that chimed an old Joan Jett rock tune—”
“You’re kidding!” Rick exploded. “We thought the watch burned up with the man who was wearing it, in Wyoming!”
“No,” Carson replied. “I was there when he died. There was no watch on him. The local police were trying to backtrack him to any motels he’d stayed at. I assume his boss’s men got to the room first.”
“What a stroke of luck,” Rick said with a short laugh. “That watch, if we can get our hands on it, is the key to a murder and perhaps the end of a truly evil political career.”
“The problem is that we don’t know where the watch is. The kidnapper has vanished into thin air.”
“We have to find him.”
“I agree. Rourke’s working on it. He’s wormed his way into the political process. That’s why I’m here.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“Helm sent Rourke over the border today to arrange for the delivery of some cocaine
. Enough to charge someone with intent to distribute. The idea is for Rourke to plant it in the glove compartment of Calhoun Ballenger’s youngest son, Terry, at a school dance in two weeks.”
Rick’s face hardened. “What a low-down, dirty, mean...”
“All of the above,” Carson agreed grimly. “But we know it’s going down, and when, and where. Believe me, this is going to send Helm up the river. All we have to do is set a trap and spring it.”
“Why isn’t Rourke here?” Rick asked.
“Because he’s being watched, and probably listened to, as well. We used throwaway phones to communicate, just to exchange this much information.”
“And you think my own office isn’t secure?” Rick sounded a little belligerent.
“This man has ex-cops working for him,” Carson explained. “They’ll know all the tricks. It isn’t far-fetched to assume he has a pipeline into your office. The missing evidence the assistant D.A. had on Helm, for example, that was destroyed right here in impound?”
Rick let out a heavy sigh. “I get your point. I’ve been careless.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. Helm has some pros on his team. His main enforcer is gone, but he’s got others. One is an ex-cop who got fired for using excessive violence. Carlie’s kidnapper. He knocked a perp down the stairs when he caught him beating a child.”
“Know where?” Rick asked suddenly.
“Carlie said the kidnapper had an accent, like you hear in those old gangster movies of the ’30s and ’40s.”
“Chicago, maybe, New Jersey, New York...” Rick’s eyes were thoughtful. “I can send out some feelers to people I know in departments there, ask around. Some of the veterans might remember something.”
