If he noticed, he misinterpreted. “Don’t worry,” he said. “If something comes up, I’ll handle it. Working with the local LEOs is something I do all the time—you think I had a contact in Bluefield out of coincidence?”
She’d wondered, actually. “So the errand geek is still on the loose,” she said, drawing her knees up to grow pensive.
“Sidelined for a while, I should think,” Dave said. “That rash…it’s going to take him out of work for a while.”
Karin pictured the man, allowing herself a small, tight smile. “All over his hands,” she said. “Ol’Barret’s gonna have to send someone down to get him.”
Dave looked at her another long moment, rubbing a finger just below his lower lip in a thoughtful gesture. “Seriously,” he said, “we could have pressed charges. But I don’t think you could have stayed low-profile, and I’d rather have Barret wondering just where you are. I’ve gotten the impression you feel the same.”
She took a sharp breath at the thought of being discovered. Longsford would know Karin wasn’t the woman he’d dated. Fooling Ellen’s casual acquaintances while leaning on the changes wrought by the accident was one thing…fooling someone who had been intimate with her was something else again.
“Hey,” Dave said. She looked at him, for the moment only blinking. Here she was with the man who’d inadvertently turned her life upside down, the night after her life had literally gone topsy-turvy over the side of a mountain. She’d survived that…she’d survive this. She’d survive being unable to help Rashawn Little—and she’d survive being wanted by Longsford as Ellen and in California as Karin. She’d survive, because it was what she did. But right now…
Right now it all piled up around her in an implacably suffocating way.
Dave made getting-up noises, and rummaged in the overnight bag he’d dropped to the floor on the other side of his bed. “Hey,” he said again, standing there looking as rumpled as she felt, damned adorably rumpled. And in his hand…a flask.
“Ooh,” she said. It was an expensive flask, leather covered. It promised…
Single malt.
“Just a taste,” he said. “It’s cask strength, and you’ve got pain drugs in your system.”
“They’ve worn off. Trust me on that.” She watched—more listened—as he retrieved two hotel glasses, rinsed them and reemerged still shaking them free of excess water; he put them on the little round table. Then he rummaged in the room’s minibar and brought out a bottle of purified drinking water.
“Ooh,” she said again. “We’re going to do this right.”
“Damned straight we’re doing this right. This is a twenty-six-year-old Cardhu. Distilled in ’76, bottled in 2000.”
She dropped her knees back into a cross-legged position, leaning forward a little. “If I didn’t hurt so much, I’d bounce. Twenty-six-year-old Cardhu? Let’s get married.”
He grinned. “Ah,” he said. “A true believer. I’m surprised this didn’t come out when we spoke last year.”
“We weren’t talking about pleasant things,” she pointed out, ignoring her little frill of alarm. This detail wouldn’t be the one to out her. “This is a pleasant thing. A sublime thing.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment, trickled a finger of scotch into each glass, and handed her one, sitting on the edge of his bed. Not so far away, as they each swirled the amber liquid, taking in the smoky scent of a cask-strength malt. Karin sighed with appreciation, then took the smallest sip, holding it on her tongue as it warmed. Woody and citrusy and just a hint of smoky aftertaste when she swallowed.
She stole a glance at Dave, found his eyes closed and his nostrils slightly flared and suddenly fell just a little bit in love with a man who could savor such simple pleasures.
If scotch at nearly two hundred dollars a bottle could be called simple.
When he opened his eyes, he smiled, a self-aware sort of smile. “It’s better shared, I always thought.” He uncapped the bottled water and tipped it at her, and Karin held out her glass, wincing a little at what the movement did to her muscles.
“Never mind,” she said, as he eyed her with concern. “This will help.” She waited for him to pour a splash of water, swirled and took in the aroma all over again. The taste turned smoother, sweet honey on her tongue with a side of citrus and a peaty, smoky aftertaste. “Oh yeah.”
He grinned suddenly, still taking in the expanded aroma from his own glass. “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be wasted.”
“Oh?” She let the glass warm between her hands as he warmed a mouthful of the drink. “How did you come by that?”
He nodded at her sandwich. “The way you eat,” he said. “You enjoy it. You take your time. You…it’s…” He cleared his throat. “It caught my attention.”
Karin let another sip of whiskey sit on her tongue, regarding him from beneath lowered brow. Too observant, this one.
Too engaging.
Too tempting.
And if she was going to hold herself together, to protect her new life…just plain too dangerous.
In the morning, Karin donned her dry underwear and her not-so-dry jeans and held back conversation in favor of ordering room-service breakfast. She had him worried, she knew; now he knew better than to take her for granted. And she caught him watching as she lingered over her spicy sausage and couldn’t believe herself when she flushed. Get a life, Sommers.
Of course, that was the whole point.
She knew he’d insist on escorting her back home, and he did, following her truck with the casual skill of a pro. She knew he’d insist on coming inside, and he did. She knew they’d have another conversation about the safe house and her memories and the boy…and she knew he was running out of time. One way or the other, he’d be headed back to Alexandria soon.
She hadn’t known he’d left his boxers on the floor of her bathroom. She tossed them at him and he caught them without comment, stuffing them into his overnight bag. Didn’t even blush, darn it. She picked up a crumpled towel—more evidence of his attempts to shake off the drug she’d given him.
She could also take it as evidence of his frantic reaction to her disappearance. Probably somewhat like Rumsey’s reaction…only she found she didn’t mind. Not this time.
She let Amy Lynn know she was home but that she wasn’t likely to stay, and she pointed Dave at the living room where he could make his phone calls. Then she went into her bedroom to peel off his sweatshirt—how could it still smell enticingly like him when it had clearly been freshly laundered?—and do what she’d been studiously not thinking about since her interminable night on the cliff.
She went up to the dormer.
To the storage off the dormer, where she’d carefully packed away Ellen’s most personal things.
Not before she’d had a good look at them, of course—the amnesia defense could only take her so far. The official stuff—bank information, old taxes, insurance papers…she’d kept those out in the file cabinet just as though they were hers. By default they were; she paid the bills and made decisions and signed Ellen’s carefully forged signature. But in storage…notes, old letters, photographs…
She’d taken a couple of ibuprofen, made herself a stiff cup of coffee, and disappeared upstairs.
“We have to talk—” Dave had said to her on the way by; she’d merely lifted a hand in acknowledgment. She’d told him she wanted to check her things, to try to jog her memory. Close enough to the truth. She figured she had until dinner to sort out what came next.
Dewey had followed her up the stairs; now he curled up beside her as she sat cross-legged beside the half-height door to the eaves storage. Ellen’s old letters had told her next to nothing; she wasn’t a woman who’d made close friendships and as Karin looked at the stack—a few holiday cards kept through the years, one wistful note from a former coworker and several of Karin’s quick missives from the years before e-mail and library Internet access—Karin suddenly felt awash in the sadness of such a solitary life.<
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And then she realized she had even less to show for herself, closed her eyes long enough for tears to form but not long enough for them to fall and set the letters aside. She flipped through Ellen’s photo album—scenic shots from a handful of vacations, several parties from work…And here were several captioned photos clipped from the society page, with Ellen on the arm of Barret Longsford. She was dressed more expensively than Karin ever would have guessed. Longsford must have provided those glittering gowns, that cocktail dress….
Karin ran her finger over a picture that showed Ellen in detail. Her makeup, flawless…the dress, formfitting. Like Karin, Ellen had a lean figure…lean unto boyish, Karin had always thought, but there was nothing boyish about Ellen in this dress. “Wow,” Karin whispered at her sister. “You look amazing.” And I never knew….
Beside her, Longsford had a publicity smile pasted on his face, his hand at Ellen’s elbow and the other hand giving a princely wave to the media. He wore a tux for this particular benefit event, his hair—blond or light brown, it was hard to tell in the black-and-white photo—conservatively styled, his teeth straight and white, and just enough smile lines at the corners of his eyes to look both dignified and a little dashing. She tapped the picture, tapped his face. “And do you really steal away little boys, Mr. Longsford? Do you kill them?”
And if he did…would Dave be able to prove it?
Stashed with the society clippings in the back of the album, loose photos sat unorganized and unsecured. More from the Longsford days. Exclusive resorts, a cruise ship, several outings that appeared to be more mundane trips to local parks.
A careful study of those photos revealed nothing of significance. Ellen and Longsford, his arm over her shoulder, a fountain behind them. Or a bandstand with band, or a sculpture…Karin would have guessed them to be events of political significance except for their dress…always casual, jeans and a polo shirt for Longsford, light sweaters and pretty shirts over slacks and jeans for Ellen. Longsford always had dark glasses on, always a cap of some sort.
But hey. Even an aspiring politician, son of a U.S. senator, and social gadfly needed some time to himself. Maybe that’s why Ellen had taken these pictures…reminders of her private time with a public man.
Still. They did nothing to prove Longsford was a monster. They did nothing to pinpoint where a small boy might be stashed.
“Crap,” Karin said into the quiet room. Dewey’s tail thumped twice on the carpet in response. “Crap,” she repeated, just so he’d do it again. Then she kissed him on the head and piled the albums, letters and loose photos away in their box, and pulled out the next one.
The old date book. Hmm, this could be promising. It had been on Ellen’s desk when Karin arrived to this unfamiliar house that was suddenly her home. At first she thumbed randomly through it. Plenty of days with Longsford’s name on them. Karin settled in to turn the pages, swiftly but in order. A doctor appointment, an office event…blah, blah, blah…and then a series of Realtor connections. The bank. The moving date. Long before then, Longsford’s name ceased to show up. Karin wasn’t sure if it reflected the assimilation of the man into Ellen’s life, or the breakup. If she’d spent enough time with him so she no longer noted it on the calendar, then there was no telling when they actually broke up.
Maybe it had been when she first talked to Dave Hunter. She had it in the book, right before the evidence of her intent to move.
And again, the day before she had left to meet Karin in California. Call Dave Hunter.
But she hadn’t. Karin had called her late the night before, asking for help.
So what had triggered her intent to contact Dave?
“I’m not meant for this,” she told Dewey, who of course thumped his tail at every word. “I’m meant for creating situations, not untangling them. What a good boy.” And he understood those last words as she’d meant him to, and offered up a flurry of wild thumps. Therapy dog.
Karin flipped through the remaining blank pages in frustration. Bad enough she’d had to look through all these things—to immerse herself, once more, in the loss she’d barely accepted.
A photo fluttered out.
“Hmm,” she muttered, reaching for it. “And why aren’t you with your little photo friends?”
The date on the back stamped it as being from one of the last batches, one of the park photos. And when Karin turned it over, she saw exactly why it had been pulled aside.
There was Longsford, leaning over to talk to a small boy. Karin turned the pages of the date book, tearing paper in her haste. There. The discussion with Dave Hunter…dated only a week before these photos were developed. Too bad the picture itself didn’t bear a digital time stamp; there was no telling the exact date of the event.
But what if that little boy was Terry Williams?
Dave would know.
No. She couldn’t show it to Dave. Not just yet. He’d have questions she couldn’t answer…and it wouldn’t bring him any closer to finding Rashawn Little.
The photo trembled in her hand. God, she didn’t need to show it to Dave. She knew. Why else would Ellen have pulled this photo? Why else would she have planned to call Dave? Karin didn’t know if Ellen had realized the photo’s exact significance, but she’d clearly put two and two together.
Dave was right. Longsford was his man. And while Longsford’s willingness to let his errand boys push her around—and then leave her on a cliff to die—had been pretty damning, they spoke only of the man’s ruthlessness. Not of his guilt in the kidnapping and murder of little boys. This photo…
This photo drove it home.
Longsford was a predator.
Ellen would have been able to help nail the bastard.
But Karin…all Karin could do was hand over this photo and shrug. Somewhere out there Rashawn Little was sitting on a figurative cliff, helpless. Waiting for someone to drop him some tire chains. To give him that wondrous feeling Dave had given Karin…that for one moment, she wasn’t alone in the world.
As Ellen, she couldn’t help at all.
But Karin had resources Ellen had never even imagined.
Chapter 10
Dewey warned Karin out of her deep contemplation by lifting his head from his paws and then stalking out. By the time Dave got there, she was waiting for him—still sitting cross-legged, still holding the clues Ellen had left. Things that had meant nothing to her when she’d packed them up but now suddenly meant everything.
Dave waited in the doorway, as if sensing this was her most private space. More private, even, than the bedroom.
Not that she’d had visitors to either.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the door frame, a casual posture for someone who couldn’t possibly feel casual inside. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but…we need to talk.”
“Hey,” she said. Odd to see him there, draped in the doorway with all his innate grace and still wearing his sweatshirt as though it were designer goods. She could feel his presence from here…a baffling awareness. What was she supposed to do with that?
Enjoy it.
She blinked at the unexpected little voice in her head.
Huh.
He rubbed that spot below his lip, just above the cleft in his chin. Not a Kirk Douglas dimple, a more subtle thing at the bottom of an angled jaw. It balanced his nose—a strong nose, at that—and somehow always drew her eyes to his mouth.
At least it did when he hadn’t already caught her gaze, holding it in silence as he so often did. Like now. Then that mouth went wryly crooked. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Ellen, but…I’m running out of time. Rashawn is running out of time. I’ve got to go back…and I want you to come.”
She gave her next line on cue…the line that would make sense if she was who she’d told him she was. “You still think I’ll remember something?”
Dave gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. But it’s not safe for you to stay here by yourself. Not now. And that’s my fault.”
&
nbsp; “Yes,” she murmured. “We’ve established that.” Not that he had any true idea of the potential ramifications. Of course, he was so damned honest that if he had even an inkling of her warrant, he’d probably put her on a plane to California himself.
That’s not fair, said her pesky little voice. He might believe you didn’t do whatever Rumsey claims you did. He might even help you.
As if she could take the chance.
She was hardly the innocent. She might not have done what the warrant claimed, but she’d done plenty. The long-term scams were her specialty, but she’d pulled plenty of high-pressure investment scams. She’d muled for Rumsey, she’d picked pockets when she was younger…she’d done plenty. She’d done it to survive and she felt no particular guilt even though she’d been ready to leave it behind.
That, she suspected, would bother Dave most of all.
She savored the physical tension between them. If he wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, then there was the rest of the afternoon…the evening…
Take what you can get.
It had always been a motto of sorts.
Her glance fell upon the items in her hand. She looked over at him, gestured with them.
He took the invitation, coming in to kneel beside her when he saw the nature of what she had, exhaling with the surprise of it. She offered the photo; he took it, holding it out at a distance.
“Need those glasses?” she asked.
He shook his head, his mouth gone tight. “Do you know who this is?”
“Longsford,” she said, her inflection saying isn’t it obvious? even if her words didn’t.
His finger—abraded and bruised from the cliffhanger antics—stabbed at the picture. “No. The boy. Terry Williams.”
Karin looked away. “Crap.” And then, still looking away, said, “Check the date book.”
He did. Something like wonder came into his voice. “You were going to call me.” It changed to demand. “Why the hell didn’t you?”
Survival Instinct Page 10
