Good God. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
It came only as a second thought that she’d done it on purpose. Manipulating him.
Oh, yeah, Ellen Sommers had changed all right.
She moved on before he could call her on it. “I still don’t remember any of it. And why haven’t the Feds grabbed him?”
He grimaced, a fleeting expression. “You think it’s easy to close in on someone with his influence?”
The dog decided Dave wasn’t part of the problem and ambled over to the shade cast by the porch, flopping down to maintain his alert watch from there. Ellen let him go; her narrowed gaze stayed pinned to Dave—and then she lifted her head with dawning understanding. “No one else believes you.”
He did little to hide his annoyance, both because she was right, and because she’d figured it out at all. “They can’t afford to believe me. Not with the little evidence we’ve got.”
“But you know better,” she said flatly.
He did. He was the only one who’d received a phone call from Barret Longsford, a condolence call for Dave’s failure to find Terry Williams in time. On the surface, a perfectly normal call, made by a man with political aspirations who’d been questioned simply because, like Ellen, he’d been in the park the day Terry disappeared. But his voice…
Something in his voice had chilled Dave on the spot. He’d made the required polite small talk, all the while his mind racing, trying to make connections…
He couldn’t. Not then, not now. Not the solid connections necessary to push an investigation, not when the feebs had already been warned to tread lightly—and when they were just putting up with him after his failure.
Good health insurance, good retirement benefits, a chance to keep jobs about which they were otherwise passionate…Dave didn’t blame them for their caution.
But Dave paid for his own bennies. He had nothing to lose.
Nothing but an already damaged reputation.
Ellen waited, more patiently than before, and he nodded. “I know better. And you’re my chance to prove it. You were with Barret the day Terry was taken from Melton Run Park. You know his habits, his emotional buttons, his private hangouts. You might well not remember, but somewhere in your head are all the details I need. Because Barret Longsford has Rashawn Little.”
Ellen stirred uneasily—and then she winced, looking down at her bruised arm in surprise. The man who’d grabbed her hadn’t been gentle. When she looked at Dave again, she left her eyes in shadow. But her voice was resolute. “Then you’d better get back to the city and find him,” she said. “Because I can’t do anything to help you.”
Chapter 4
Karin Sommers’s Journal, March 13, part II
I remember my funeral. Closed casket, of course.
It should have been about you, Ellen. Your name being spoken, your life honored. Instead it was all about me. The platitudes, the niceties…the tears. And a few people who couldn’t see past the bruises the accident left on me to notice it wasn’t you at all. Of course, I told them I’d broken facial bones. No point in taking chances.
The cop was about me, too.
I was so caught up in it all. Losing you hurt. More than grief…guilt and an unbearable sense of wrongness. It was wrong that you died, helping me run from Rumsey. It was wrong that you didn’t even have your own funeral, your own headstone. God, yes, it hurt. The cop noticed, though I didn’t see him until he stepped up and took my elbow. I suppose he thought I was going to faint. Maybe I was.
He was nice enough. He asked me about the accident. He asked if I’d known you were wanted.
(That would be me, again. The wanted one.)
I couldn’t believe it. Since when? Rumsey knows how to cover his tracks. I mean, sure, the locals knew we were active, just not how active. But he knew how to play them, tossing just enough dirt their way to keep himself useful and harmless.
But it looks like he wasn’t careful enough. Maybe my escape rattled him. But somewhere along the line, the cops must have gotten close—and he pointed the finger at me.
That bastard.
I don’t even know what I’ve done. The cop wasn’t talking. So I guess it was bad enough. You know, I had planned to be me again. I planned to give you back what’s yours. Your name. Your own headstone, for God’s sake. But now it’s just about staying out of Rumsey’s way until he doesn’t care anymore. Now I’m Ellen…at least long enough to find out what I’ve “done.” And to hope the statute of limitations is…limited.
Crap.
Well, you’ll have your headstone one day. I’ve already made arrangements. When I’m beside you, they’ll swap the headstones. Then things will finally be right again.
But until then, I’m you. Even if poor Dave Hunter can’t understand why Ellen Sommers isn’t even willing to try.
Karin closed the journal, her hand lingering over the sturdy leather binding.
No cheapo little diary for her letters to Ellen, oh no. Deep burgundy leather over thick, sensual pages, a blank book already half filled with her impossibly tiny, impossibly tidy handwriting. A book she shouldn’t even be keeping, given the risks of it…but a book she couldn’t stop herself from writing if she’d tried. Her final connection to Ellen.
She shouldn’t have taken the time today. She had decisions to make and livestock to feed. But the book had drawn her—the day’s events gave her reason to think of Ellen. Of the funeral. Of her new life here, now threatened.
Anyway, the rifle was up here. So were the cartridges. And from here Karin could look out over the driveway, watching Dave Hunter refuse to leave while she went about her business. Which—aside from sending a quick “just in case” e-mail to Amy Lynn, the neighbor who swapped chores with her—meant double-checking her retreat options and varied stash of IDs.
Pack a suitcase, Dave Hunter had said. If only he knew. She was packed and ready to go, but not with him. If she could help with this investigation, she would…and she half wished she could. But putting herself into the middle of it when she had nothing to offer…nope, not in the plan.
Karin slipped the journal into her big leather courier bag, next to the lining pocket she’d created for her IDs. She slung the strap over her shoulder and picked up the .22 rifle, heading down to the main floor to deposit her things by the door.
At the rumble of a male voice, she discovered Dave Hunter on the porch bench, yellow pad of spiky-scribbled notes balanced on his knee as he spoke into the phone. Tea sat on the bench beside him, condensation trickling down the glass and a blue steel and black composite semiautomatic pistol looking incongruous beside it. Ruger. The porch wind chime stirred only enough for a trill of notes, then silenced again.
He didn’t notice her. Because surely if he had, he’d have lowered his voice. His peeved, impatient voice. “I don’t know how long, Owen,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Does it matter? After that business in Pittsburgh and Kimmer Reed, I think I’ve earned enough family player points to get myself a safe house for as long as I need it.”
Owen, whoever he was, must have said something conciliatory. Dave sighed. “Ribs are ribs…they take a while to heal. Collarbone’s taking a while. Wouldn’t set properly…I don’t know. No—no, I—”
Interesting. Family player points. And someone who not only interrupted this strong, straightforward man, but who got away with it. Older brother.
“Okay, I hear you. It’s not gonna happen, but I hear you. Now—that safe house?” He straightened on the bench, closing his eyes with evident relief at the response even as he winced, rotating his shoulder without lifting his arm. “Good. Great. Thanks. I’ll let you know more when I have it.” He closed his phone and tipped his head back against the siding. She watched him, resting her eyes on his profile—a nose for which the word aquiline had been invented, and a jaw angled sharply from ear to chin. Misleadingly, really, given the width of it. Maybe that was why he had those little parentheses of dimples that lay
quiescent in repose.
They’d be there all the time when he got a little older, she decided. It would be a nice look. Mature without being weathered. One of her favorites.
For what it was worth.
Rumsey supplied her with the answer to that. Absolutely nothing. Wasn’t cash, wouldn’t save her hide, wouldn’t catch her an advantage. If anything, the opposite. It’d be too easy to go mmm, nice and lose track of her priorities, especially the one that said the sooner she separated from this man, the better.
Karin nudged the door with her foot, opening it farther. She knew it would squeak; she counted on him to notice, whatever deep thoughts ran behind those closed eyes.
Squeak.
His eyes flashed open, eerily, icily blue in the afternoon light. His gaze landed unerringly on hers. She kept her voice soft, but the words had no give to them. “Making plans?”
“Trying to.” He placed the iced tea on the porch floor, tucked the Ruger into his coat pocket. “Come out and talk to me?”
She came out, but she didn’t sit down in the spot he’d made for her. “Come out and be talked into something, you mean.”
He didn’t bother to deny it, though it did give him an instant’s hesitation, a double take. Recognizing something other than Ellen, not knowing what to do with it. “It doesn’t really matter what you remember. Longsford isn’t going to let things rest once they’ve gone this far.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “His errand boys sure didn’t seem to be empowered to consider it.”
“And that means you must know something that can damage him—something that can help me.”
She dropped her head to look up at him. “Or it means he thinks I know something. Or maybe he just doesn’t want me spilling the beans on his other endeavors. What did you call him? A player? Likes his money, likes his power? He’s probably got plenty of things he doesn’t want me to talk about.”
“It doesn’t matter what he’s protecting. We’ve got to get you somewhere safe until I work this thing through.”
“We’re agreed on that,” she muttered, knowing full well that his concept of safe had nothing to do with hers.
He looked up at her, hope showing in his eyes. “Then you’ll come with me now. I’ve got a place just outside Alexandria—”
“Now? You think I can just walk away from all this?” She gestured around the yard, realizing it would mean nothing to him. The animals and the garden were half hidden beyond the trees and the hill behind the house.
He didn’t back down. In fact, he stood up, moving in on her until she retreated to the screen. Not intimidating…just close. Close enough to take in all the personal things. The scents, the small white scar in his brow nearly hidden in the blond hair, the faint gust of breath on her lashes. She should have been annoyed or offended or concerned. She wasn’t. Instead, a smile lurked at the corner of her mouth.
“We think he keeps them alive for a while. Long enough to manipulate and control. And that means I’ve still got a chance to find Rashawn—but I can’t risk scaring Longsford into moving too soon. And you’re—” He blinked. “You’re smiling.”
Karin glanced down, as if she could see her own mouth. “And you…you’re close.”
It startled him. He looked at her, he looked at himself. Then he said, “Huh.” As in, look at that.
She didn’t ask him to move. He didn’t. He lowered his voice and he said, “I need you. I need your help.”
She pitched her own voice to match, meeting his gaze with a boldness she was quite certain Ellen had never shown. “And what if I don’t remember anything? Ever?”
“Then you’ll have tried. We’ll have tried.”
She didn’t immediately respond. For the second time in a very short day they stood within inches of each other, fully engaged in their silence. That connection zinged to life again; Karin felt her smile fade.
Flirting was one thing. Appreciating…even flinging. She was no stranger to the semicasual fling, though she’d avoided the totally random fling and the formal fling. Semicasual suited her. Suited her life.
But her life had changed. And there was nothing casual about this moment.
She slid aside, leaving him in communion with the screen door. “Even if I leave, I can’t just walk away. I’ve got to make arrangements.”
He backed up until his calves bumped the porch seat, putting distance between them and rubbing one eyebrow as though he weren’t quite sure what had just happened between them. “Then you’ll come to the safe house? Revisit Melton Run Park?”
She gave him a shrug that looked like assent…and was anything but.
Like most marks, he saw what he wanted to see.
He tagged along on her chores. She set him to pumping water from the old-fashioned hand pump by the goat shed and left him to ration out alfalfa pellets for the two nanny goats, one of whom had a young kid at her side.
“You should wait—” he started, stopping only when she cocked her head at him, raising an eyebrow in clear excuse me? fashion. “I’d prefer to keep you in sight.”
She snorted. Not at all genteel. “You think Dewey is going to sit quietly while anyone unfriendly approaches?” At his name, the dog waved his plume of a tail, on his way to the crest of the hill that overlooked the property.
He grunted, still pumping. “Not likely.”
She unabashedly watched the play of muscle beneath his rolled up shirtsleeves. His jacket lay on the fence in a spot that no man familiar with goats would have risked, and the Ruger now sat in a belt holster. “If you think these guys are that much of a threat, then why aren’t you calling your feeb friends?”
That got a wince. “I’m not high on their list right now.” Still pumping, still looking good. “They’d send someone out, and then they’d shut me down.”
“Wow.” She kept her voice light. “You do lay all your cards on the table, don’t you?”
He stopped pumping, straightened. “As opposed to reassuring you that everything’s under control, blah blah blah? That’s just what I don’t want to do. I want you to leave with me as soon as possible, not dawdle here over a billy goat.”
“They’re girls,” Karin informed him primly. “And be nice to them—you’ll be drinking Agatha’s milk tonight at dinner.”
He didn’t seem to have a response for that. Just as well. She ducked into the shed, where she clattered around measuring pellets, tossing hay out the back for the beef cow and the sheep and nabbing a stool and then a milk pail. She tossed pellets into the ground feeder for Edith, and Agatha jumped to the raised milking stanchion in anticipation of her own meal and milking. Dave watched with a distracted fascination.
Off on the ridge, Dewey got to his feet, glanced back at Karin with another acknowledging wave of his tail, and trotted down toward the end of the wooded hill. “He’s okay,” Karin said, before Dave could ask. “Just a squirrel or maybe a snake.”
“A snake,” Dave said, quite abruptly checking the ground at his feet. “You’re not just saying that to—”
“Copperheads,” Karin said cheerfully. “Rattlers. We got ’em. And who is this Owen guy, anyway? Your brother?”
He lifted his head to stare at her. “How did you—”
“Because you talked to him like a brother,” she told him briskly, pulling the pail out from under Agatha so the goat could finish eating in peace. The kid eased warily around her legs; Karin dipped a finger in the milk and gave it to him. “Like a big brother, actually. A big brother who can supply a safe house. Now there’s something you don’t find every day.”
“No.” Dave’s features closed down. No trespassing.
Except she’d never been one to heed the signs. Stay off the grass, no trespassing, members only…those were for people who didn’t bother to get around them. Karin did what she needed to accomplish her goals, signs or no signs. “What’s that about?” she asked. “You two don’t get along?”
He shook his head, short and sharp. “It’s irrelevant.
”
“Oh-ho,” she said, scratching the kid behind the ears and heading for the gate, a solid wood slat gate that stood up under any goat onslaught. “You think you can break into my life, bring along some goons, push me about lost memories I have no desire to regain, and then draw the line at answering a question or two? I don’t think so.” She felt not a moment’s guilt that they weren’t her memories. It was her life now, and that was enough. “Fair’s fair, Mr. Hunter.”
His impatience turned to outright annoyance. “That’s the way it is. I’m the investigator, you’re the witness. One of us asks questions, and the other answers.”
She gave him one of Ellen’s shrugs just to keep him off balance; made her voice into Ellen’s softer tones. “Except you’re not in the best position to make the rules, are you? You can’t even go to the FBI—not until you have the proof you need. So really, whether I feel like helping depends on you.”
Dave jerked his gaze to hers, eyes deep with disbelief. “A little boy’s life—!”
“Exactly,” she said. He stared; she added another shrug.
He shook his head. “You’re not like you were,” he said, out loud for the first time, though Karin knew he’d been thinking it. Just as well. Face the issue head-on.
“Yeah,” she told him. “You might say it was a life-changing accident.”
True enough.
He narrowed his eyes. “If you really don’t want to cooperate, I can just walk away. Leave you here. Of course, I don’t think you’d be alone for long.”
Karin couldn’t help it—she burst into laughter. Not this man. She knew that much already. “But you wouldn’t.”
Survival Instinct Page 4
