But regardless of who profited from John’s death, how would that be a motive for killing the witnesses? In fact, it would be just the opposite. Whoever inherited would have benefited from John’s death and wouldn’t have a very good motive for wanting the witnesses dead. The more he tried to put logic to the problem, the more confusing it became. The murders of the witnesses had been very clever, devious and intricate. Perhaps the motive was equally intricate. Something was missing. There had to be a key piece of information that hadn’t surfaced yet, something that would tie all the loose pieces together so that the puzzle would make sense.
The entire thing had him baffled, a situation compounded by an undeniable attraction to Tara that grew more intense each time he saw her. He recognized the signs of her stress and sympathized with her plight. He had seen it with threatened witnesses and knew how it played havoc with their nerves. And for Tara, this was her second time of having to go through the pressure of being threatened and having no control over her own life. Combined with the bits of her past that he had begun to piece together from her various comments, it certainly explained her anxiety-ridden outbursts. And it made him all the more determined to protect her from harm.
The silence increased the intensity of the energy that crackled between them, fed by strong emotions on both sides—anger, anxiety, suspicion, confusion. And underlying all of that was a sexual tension hot enough to scorch everything in its path. It had been the farthest thing from his mind to have her spend the night in his bedroom. It violated all the rules of professional conduct connected with his job, but since the circumstances dictated that she be his overnight guest he didn’t want to have an evening filled with undue stress and wariness. He didn’t want to ask her any more questions about the Vincent family or the case…at least not that night.
“You…uh—” he gestured toward her shoulder “—have some blood smeared on your clothes. I’m sorry about that. It must have happened in the garage when you got out of the car trunk. If you’d like, we can put what you’re wearing through the washer and dryer. Do you have anything to change into while your clothes are washing? If not, maybe I can find something of mine that will do in the interim.”
She had forgotten about the stain on her blouse. She had tried to forget about everything—about the trial, about the feeling of being watched, about the horror of the car bomb, about suddenly needing to flee for her life. She hadn’t been any more successful at that than she was at convincing herself that being in Brad’s arms didn’t excite her physically and touch her emotionally.
She glanced up at him, but her attention fixated on the bandage on his arm instead. The wet red stain had seeped through the gauze, a vivid reminder of the danger that surrounded her. A little shiver darted through her body, an involuntary reaction to the knowledge that she was responsible for his injury.
“This is more important.” She reached for the bandage. He started to move her hand away, but she brushed aside his effort. “You really should have a couple of stitches for the wound to heal properly. It’s going to leave a scar like this.”
“Another scar will hardly be noticed.” He closed his hand over hers before she could undo the bandage. “You really don’t need to do this. It’s just a scratch.”
“It’s not a scratch. It’s a—” The words caught in her throat. She had no experience with guns or this type of violence. The guilt welled inside her, compounded by the concern emanating from the depth of his blue eyes. She couldn’t keep the quaver out of her voice. “I’m so very sorry—”
He put his fingertips to her lips to still her words. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. It’s one of the hazards of the job, nothing more.”
“I’m not the type of person who takes chances. The most daring thing I’ve ever done was agree to testify at John Vincent’s trial.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “If I hadn’t testified, none of this would have happened.”
“If you hadn’t, a criminal might still be on the streets.”
“There were plenty of other witnesses who provided much more damning testimony than I did. The prosecution didn’t need me in order to get a conviction.” She spoke reflectively, almost as if she were talking to herself. “The first time I ever took a risk and look what happened. I guess that should be a lesson for me.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the inside of her wrist. “People who don’t take risks might protect themselves from the lows, but they never get to experience the highs.”
“Is that why you’re a deputy marshal? You like to take risks? To experience those highs?”
A little chuckle escaped his lips. “If you’re asking if I’m an adrenaline junkie, the answer is no. I chose this as a career because I wanted to make a difference, do something positive. For the most part it’s been very rewarding, but every now and then I run into a situation that…well…” He couldn’t find the right words without taking a chance on making her feel worse than she obviously already did. Besides, talking wasn’t what he wanted to do.
He placed his fingertips under her chin and lifted until he could look into her eyes. He lowered his head and a moment later his mouth was on hers. There would be no more conversation that evening. What started as a casual kiss quickly escalated. He wanted more of her. He knew he wanted too much. He wanted what he had no business even thinking about doing. He wanted what broke every rule and code of ethics he had ever lived by.
And at that moment he didn’t care.
He shoved everything from his mind except Tara Ford—how she felt in his arms, the taste of her mouth, the sensation of her body pressed against his. It was a kiss he didn’t want to have end. He ran his fingers through the silky strands of her hair, caressed her shoulders, then pulled her body tighter to him. Everything about this was wrong, yet nothing had ever felt so right.
His kiss deepened, sending Tara’s desire into overload. She wrapped her arms around his neck before she could stop herself. No one had ever created the depth of excitement or the height of desire in her the way he did. She had often speculated on how miserable her life would have been with Danny, but she couldn’t even imagine what life with Brad Harrison might be like.
No one had ever touched her existence the way he did. She had never really trusted anyone in her entire life, especially not where personal matters were concerned. But deep in her soul she knew Brad was different. In spite of his words about her possible involvement, and in spite of her anger and resentment at those words, she knew he was only trying to find the truth and do his job. And that truth would prove she was innocent of any wrongdoing. She trusted Brad. She trusted him with more than her physical safety…she trusted him with everything.
She melted into the passion of his kiss, blocking from her mind everything other than the way he made her feel, the desires he stirred in her, the surprising emotions that pushed to the surface of her consciousness…emotions that she had never experienced before.
Brad wasn’t sure exactly what to do. No one had touched him emotionally the way Tara did, not since his wife died. He had been afraid of this moment…afraid that it might happen and equally afraid that it would never happen for him again. And he didn’t know what to do. He very much wanted to make love to her, but beyond that…well, he was afraid to speculate beyond that.
So he reluctantly broke off the kiss and forced his attention to what needed to be done in the morning.
Chapter Eight
“Here’s a picture of her.” Brad handed Ken Walsh the head-shot photograph he had taken of Tara the previous night along with the necessary vital statistics of height, weight and a fictitious date of birth. “I need an out-of-state driver’s license and I need it right away.” He looked at his watch. “It’s seven-thirty now. Could you have it for me by ten-thirty? The driver’s license is the only thing I need…” He paused a moment, concentrating, then, “Better add a couple of membership cards just to lend legitimacy and corroborate whatever name you decide to use, something like a library car
d and maybe an automobile club card.”
Ken looked at his longtime friend and slowly shook his head. “What have you gotten yourself into, Brad? What’s going on that you can’t go through proper Marshals Service channels to get this done? And why the extreme rush?”
“I can’t trust anyone else with this, Ken. I think there’s a leak somewhere in the office and this woman’s life hangs in the balance. That’s all I can tell you for now other than this is, of course, strictly between you and me and it’s life-and-death important. No one else can know about this.”
“I don’t like it, but if you say it’s that important then it stays just between us. I can’t have this for you until eleven o’clock. That’s in three and a half hours. That’s the best I can do.”
“That’ll be fine. Thanks, Ken. I owe you one.”
Brad left the home of retired Deputy Marshal Ken Walsh, the man who had been his mentor when he first joined the Marshals Service and had remained his close friend. Ken was the only person connected with the Marshals Service that he could trust with anything having to do with Tara.
He continued on to the office. He had several things to do and not much time. As soon as he arrived he checked his e-mail. There was a message from Steve Duncan in Portland. The body of Andrew Carruthers had been found underneath a pier in the Columbia River. Andrew Carruthers had been identified as a professional killer who went by the one-name alias of Pat.
He had been the primary suspect in the contract killings of no less than thirty-five people in the last fifteen years with no two deaths being identical. He was an expert with disguises and proficient with guns, knives, explosives, poisons and had been known to use several other unique means in dispatching his victims. He had been arrested several times, but there was never enough evidence to make any of the charges stick and he was released and the charges dropped. He had been the only suspect, subsequently those murders had never been solved.
According to Steve’s information, Pat had been killed by a single shot between the eyes from a small-caliber handgun at very close range. Unfortunately, with the body having been in the river, there wasn’t much chance of being able to collect any forensic evidence to help with the investigation.
Brad stared at the computer screen as he turned the information over in his mind. It must have been someone Pat knew and did not fear, for the person to get that close with a gun to a professional contract killer.
It had been determined that Pat was in Portland at the time of Phil Winthrope’s death and had since been in Seattle. It was unknown why he had returned to Portland, but a gas receipt found in his car placed him fifty miles north of Portland at eleven-thirty last night. The coroner put the time of death a few hours later, at approximately two o’clock in the morning.
Brad printed out the e-mail then deleted it from his computer. Steve’s information had Pat in Seattle at the time of the bombing of Tara’s car and would also have allowed him to have been the one who shot through the motel window and still be in Portland shortly after midnight. Had he gone to Portland to meet someone? To collect his money for killing Phil Winthrope? To explain why Tara Ford was still alive? Perhaps it was an explanation that did not sit well with his employer and had gotten him killed for his failure.
Had Pat been responsible for all the deaths? The duplication of a woman’s presence in two of the deaths—both of them involving poisonous foods and a short-haired red wig—confused the issue. Did Pat work with a female partner that no one was aware of?
Brad concentrated as he tapped his pencil against his desk. He took a sip from his coffee cup while toying with a new thought. He needed more than a photo of Andrew Carruthers. He needed a physical description. Was Carruthers slight enough in stature to be able to disguise himself as a woman? The name Pat could belong to either a man or woman, which would allow him to present himself to his clients as either one, providing himself with an additional layer of anonymity. It was a thought worth following up.
Brad went to the files to see if they had a picture of Andrew Carruthers, a.k.a. Pat. He had been arrested, so there had to be at least a mug shot of him somewhere. Unfortunately it didn’t exist in the U.S. Marshals’ files, either on paper or in the computer. The ATF would have a file on Pat and so would the FBI, but he preferred not to draw more attention to his activities by requesting more information from another federal agency than he already had. So he did the next best thing…he called Steve Duncan and asked for a picture along with physical description including any known disguises and aliases. Steve promised to send it to Brad’s home computer right away. Brad would show it to Tara. Perhaps she’d recognize him.
Brad took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly let it out. Tara. He had spent a very restless night on the sofa bed in the den. He couldn’t get her off his mind or out of his senses. Nor could he ease the internal conflict that had plagued him all night long. He had started something when he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, something he thought he could easily control.
He was wrong…very wrong. There had been nothing easy about putting a stop to the electricity that sizzled between them, and equally difficult had been his attempts to ignore the emotional pull on his senses—an emotional toll he knew he could not afford and wasn’t sure he wanted even though he couldn’t deny its existence.
He tried to shove away the distracting thoughts. He didn’t have the luxury of indulging his personal desires or exploring the possibilities presented by this woman’s presence in his life. A murderer was on the loose and people were still dying. Even if the now-deceased Andrew Carruthers, a.k.a. Pat, had been the perpetrator of one or more of the murders, he was now dead at the hands of someone else. Brad was sure that person was a direct link to the John Vincent case rather than someone connected to Pat’s shadowy past. He couldn’t trust his colleagues or even his boss with the information he had gathered…at least not yet.
Brad glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot, then made another phone call. A moment later he had the flight coordinator for the Marshals Service on the phone.
“Yes, myself and one other person. We need to leave by noon today.” He listened for a moment, then responded. “No—a witness, not a prisoner in transit.” There was no reason for anyone in the office to know about his plan as he was using an entirely different computer software system and he had the authority to order space on a Marshals Service flight. He gave the coordinator a job charge number used for miscellaneous transactions, confident that it was secure.
Next he phoned Tara using the agreed-upon calling code of two rings then calling back. She hadn’t appeared downstairs by the time he left that morning. He didn’t want to wake her, so he left a note saying he had an early meeting and would call her in a few hours. “I’ll be picking you up in half an hour.”
“Where are we going?”
He heard it in her voice, the anxiety tinged with despair. It tugged at his already rattled emotions. “I’ll see you in half an hour.” He didn’t want to say any more on the phone than was absolutely necessary for fear someone would hear him. He shoved his chair back from his desk and rose to his feet. As soon as he looked up he saw Thom Satterly standing at the door of his cubicle. A quick jolt of apprehension darted through his body. How long had Thom been standing there? How much had he heard? Had he been there long enough to hear his call to flight operations?
“Did you need me for something, Thom?” He forced a calm to his voice, not wanting to alert his boss to anything being amiss. “I was just about to leave.”
Thom glanced at his watch. “It’s only nine o’clock. A little early for lunch, isn’t it?”
“Not lunch. I’ve got two more of these files of yours that need follow-up and closing-out. A couple of these people aren’t reachable by phone, and since I’m on restricted duty anyway, I thought I’d see them in person so I can finish up this project.” He grabbed a couple of file folders and shoved them into a large envelope already stuffed full of other fil
es and computer printouts. He added a computer diskette to the envelope.
Brad locked his desk, then glanced at Thom. “The doctor should be giving me a release next week to return to full duty and I want everything cleared off my desk so I’ll be ready for a new assignment.”
The words might have sounded convincing but Brad knew he’d have some tall explaining to do when the doctor got a look at his most recent run-in with an armed assailant. Even though it had only nicked his arm, it was still a bullet wound and one he had not seen the doctor about—or even reported to anyone.
“You’ll be gone the rest of the day?”
“Yep, the rest of the day.”
He stepped into the hall and found Ralph Newman next to the cubicle door getting a drink from the water fountain. How long had Ralph been there? Things were going from bad to worse. Could either one of them have overheard him making arrangements for a flight for himself and one passenger? He wasn’t sure. He had to take a chance and proceed as if everything was okay.
“Ralph, I need your signature on this report—” Shirley Bennett emerged from the cubicle next to Brad’s, stopping in midsentence when she looked up at him. She looked questioningly from Brad to Ralph. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
Ralph gave a sidelong glance in Brad’s direction, then addressed his comments to Shirley. “You’re not interrupting. I was just getting a drink of water.”
Brad’s mind raced ahead as he left the building. That made three people who could have overheard his phone conversation. Not just anyone could call and get the information about his destination. The pilot had to file a flight plan, but someone would have to know to ask for the information and have the proper authority code to get the details. Brad didn’t like the uncertainty, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it right now other than try to convince himself that there weren’t going to be any problems.
In His Safekeeping Page 12
