Shadow of Doubt

by Linda Poitevin

  Well. That certainly distracted from the discomfort.

  Kate snipped off another piece of tape and laid it against his skin. He waited—half in dread, half in anticipation—for the touch of her fingers to follow.

  "So," she said. "Do I get a name?"

  She moved his hand away from the bandage.

  "I'll make it easier," she said when he didn't answer. "I'm Kate Dexter."

  He jerked his attention away from the fingers stroking the tape onto his thigh. Swallowed. "Burke," he said, his voice somewhat strangled. "Jonas Burke."

  She regarded him. "Actual or alias?" she asked at last.

  "Actual."

  She nodded, then regarded her handiwork with a grimace. "Hardly as professional as Laura’s work, but it should stay on. At least for the night."

  "Thanks," he said.

  "You're welcome." Kate placed the tape back on the desk. "Now then, Jonas Burke, I'm going to get a bowl of water and a washcloth to clean you up a bit. Can I trust you to stay put this time?"

  He knew what she was doing. It was a classic interrogation technique. Build rapport. Do something nice for the interviewee. Get them thinking you're on their side. That you’re there to help them.

  He knew it, but with the codeine kicking in and the memory of those hands trailing across his thigh, he didn't seem to be able to care as much as he should. He sighed.

  "I'll be here."

  Chapter 7

  When Kate returned to the room, Jonas Burke remained where she'd left him on the bed. In fact, from the way he startled when she opened the door, he appeared to have dozed off in her absence. Good. Between blood loss and painkillers, maybe he'd pass out for the night and not make any more boneheaded attempts to leave.

  Because between exhaustion and a throbbing shoulder that demanded painkillers of its own, she was no longer sure she could stay awake to stop him.

  She set the bowl of warm, soapy water on the nightstand as Jonas struggled upright against the pillows. He took the washcloth she offered and, in silence, rubbed it over his face, leaving streaks of mud in its wake. His gaze drifted in and out of focus as he blinked at her warily.

  "I know better than to think you've given up on the questions," he said at last. "What gives?"

  Kate gave a short, mirthless laugh. "To be honest? I don't think I'm up to an interrogation any more than you are tonight. We'll leave it until morning."

  He swiped randomly at his chest. "And if I leave in the meantime?"

  She frowned at the tremble in his hand, her mouth tightening. Even when he managed to make a connection between cloth and skin, all he did was rearrange the dirt.

  "Here," she said. "Let me."

  She took the cloth from him, rinsed it, and began sponging the crusted mud from his face. He stiffened for an instant, then his eyes closed and he subsided with a sigh. Kate moved from forehead to cheeks, nose, mouth, chin. His warm breath caressed the back of her hand. She swirled the dirty cloth through the warm water again. Then she hesitated, surveying the broad shoulders and muscled chest that came next. Remembered that moment of feminine interest when she'd walked into the room to find Laura had stripped him naked. Swallowed.

  His eyes opened. "Is something wrong?"

  Kate's cheeks warmed. "No. Of course not."

  She tore her gaze from his and scrubbed at his left shoulder.

  "Easy does it," he muttered. "I don't think you're supposed to remove the skin."

  Teeth gritted, she eased up on the pressure and coached herself through the steps. One shoulder done. Rinse the cloth. Wash the other. Rinse again. Chest next.

  Crisp, dark hairs tickled her fingers.

  Hell.

  Despite her best efforts, her gaze flicked up to his. Glittering blue eyes watching her from beneath half-closed lids, their slow smolder unmistakable. She scowled in return and bit down on the inside of her bottom lip to distract her brain.

  Rigidly, methodically, she rinsed the cloth and jabbed it at his eight-pack, trying without success to keep her fingers from brushing the hairs that traveled in a narrow line out of sight under the comforter. Trying with even less success not to notice that this hair was softer than it was on his chest.

  Silkier.

  She slopped the cloth back into the bowl. Dear lord, what was the matter with her? This was insanity. Despite his assurances to the contrary, he was still a potential threat, and she had no business getting adolescent kicks out of sponging him down. Gritting her teeth, she wrung out the washcloth. She could handle this. She just had his legs left to do, and then—

  Strong, tanned fingers closed around her wrist.

  "Maybe you should leave the rest," Jonas suggested, his voice husky.

  Kate's eyes dropped involuntarily to the sheet covering his lower anatomy. Heat crawled up from beneath her collarbone to scorch her cheeks. Damn.

  It appeared that painkillers and blood loss hadn't put him entirely out of commission.

  She jerked her gaze away and grabbed the bowl, sloshing water over nightstand and floor alike. Ignoring the puddles and shoving aside the melty female part of her, she drew on the tough-as-nails cop she knew herself to be...even if she still couldn't make herself meet his eyes.

  "I'll leave your door open," she said briskly. "If you need anything, shout. I'll be on the couch for the night."

  "Which is between me and the front door, I'm guessing."

  "Close enough that I'll hear you, yes."

  "Or anyone who tries to come in?" His eyes drifted closed as shock, exhaustion, and medication took their toll.

  "That, too." She moved the vial of pills to within his reach, debating the wisdom of helping herself to them as well, then deciding against it. She'd get by on ibuprofen. Just in case.

  "I'll leave the painkillers here in case you need them," she said. "You decide how many you need, but try not to overdo it. I don't think Laura would look kindly on having to come back here for a drug overdose."

  "I don't think your sister looks kindly on me at all," he mumbled.

  A smile tugged at the corner of Kate's mouth. She turned away. "Get some sleep. You need it."

  She made it as far as the door when his voice stopped her. Exhaustion still slurred his words, but there was no mistaking the edge to them.

  "Kate, I wasn't kidding about them being dangerous."

  She hesitated. Who? she wanted to ask him. Tell me. But his breathing was already deepening, becoming rhythmic. Her questions would have to wait until morning.

  She stood for a moment, watching him sleep, remembering the quiet desperation in his blue eyes. Whoever he was, whatever he was hiding from her, that desperation had been real. She'd stake her career on it. Hell, by not calling the OPP right this instant, she was staking her career on it.

  "You'd better have one hell of a good story, Jonas Burke," she growled under her breath.

  Then she flicked off the light switch and left the room.

  ***

  Kate roused groggily to a serious crick in her neck and sunshine streaming through the living room window. She frowned about both, then about the hard lump digging into the small of her back. Wincing at the stiffness of her shoulder, she wiggled her fingers between herself and the cushions, her frown deepening to a scowl when she found her pistol there. Why on earth was she on the couch with her—

  She bounded upright as the events of the night before flooded back. The accident. Jonas. Bullet holes. Questions. So many questions. She'd meant to stay awake, to make sure no one came looking for him—and that he didn't walk out on her. Had he...?

  She listened to the farmhouse, but it sat silent. Too silent?

  Rubbing at the deep, unhappy ache in her shoulder, she forced her brain into gear. How soundly had she slept? Could Jonas have slipped by her? The door...had she turned the deadbolt?

  A half-dozen strides carried her into the cramped front entry. The deadbolt sat in its locked position, a quiet assurance that no one had left the house—and that no one had co
me in. At least not through this entrance. Kate turned her head to look over her shoulder. The bedroom door at the end of the hall sat open at the same angle she’d left it last night.

  So. He was still in there, was he? The man with prison tats and two gunshot wounds, who wanted her to believe his life was in danger from her own colleagues. In the cold light of day, her indecision of the previous night seemed ludicrous at best. What had she been thinking? Not reporting Jonas to the OPP constituted interference with another police force. At the very least, her actions—or lack thereof—would net her a serious reprimand on her file if they were discovered. And the longer she waited, the worse it would get.

  She scowled at the door.

  Her feet remained rooted to the floor.

  If the phone in the kitchen hadn't rung just then, she might have remained there all morning. As it was, she managed to grab the receiver from the cradle in the middle of its second ring, easing the swinging kitchen door closed behind her.

  "Hello?"

  "Oh, thank God! You're still alive."

  Kate grinned at the heartfelt relief in her sister's voice. "You were expecting otherwise?"

  "I didn't know what to expect under the circumstances," Laura grumbled. "Did he behave himself?"

  Heat flared in Kate's cheeks, and her jaw dropped. How had Laura known—

  She realized her sister referred to Jonas's attempts to get out of bed, and not the sponge bath incident. She put her free hand up to cover her eyes, shoving away the images of broad shoulders, powerful arms, and a trail of downy hair disappearing under the sheets. Good lord, what had gotten into her?

  "Kate?" Laura prompted.

  "Of course," she croaked. "Everything is fine. Jonas took the painkillers after you left, and he's still sleeping."

  "Jonas—that's his name? Did you find out anything else?"

  "Not yet."

  "Damn it, this is dragging on too long, Katie. You should have called the police last night. The longer you wait—"

  "I know, Laura."

  Silence. Guilt stabbed at Kate.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped like that."

  "I'm worried about you, Katie. Blurring the lines like this—it's not like you. I may not know much about your job, but I do know you take it seriously enough to be professional about it."

  "I know. I just—" Kate broke off. She just what? Got sidelined by a pair of shocking blue eyes and a rugged physique? No. That wasn't it at all. Understanding slithered through her and settled in her belly, its presence cold and sobering.

  It wasn't Jonas's blue eyes at all, but what she'd seen in them. The shocked vulnerability of someone who'd come face to face with his own mortality. She knew the look. Had faced it in the mirror herself, along with the inherent terror that underlined it. And because almost dying once was freaking bad enough, she wanted to make bloody sure she wasn't responsible for someone taking another crack at him.

  "I'll call them," she said. "As soon as I've spoken to him. I promise."

  If I think it's safe.

  "Kate—"

  "Let me do this my way, Laura. Please."

  Please. Jonas's voice echoed in her head. She pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.

  "Fine," Laura huffed. "Look, I have to run. Erin has soccer practice this morning, if the field isn't under a foot of water. Call me later, okay? After the cops pick him up."

  Kate said goodbye to her sister, then replaced the receiver in its cradle. She turned to lean her back against the familiar, ivy-papered wall, studying the farm kitchen. It looked exactly as it always had. Unchanged. Unchanging. The one part of home she’d always relied on to be there for her with its soft, south-facing light, its bottomless pot of coffee, and its endless supply of cookies that had awaited her and Laura when they’d trooped in from school.

  Even in her later years—the ones where home hadn’t felt like home anymore because of the constant friction between her and her parents—the kitchen had somehow been there for her until she’d finally stopped coming back.

  And now...now it stood empty. Devoid of her parents. Devoid of any lingering warmth she remembered. Devoid of everything except...that.

  Her gaze fell on the mud- and blood-encrusted pile of clothing on the counter by the sink, starkly out of place in the immaculate room. Her mouth pulled tight. If her mother were still alive, she'd tear a strip three feet wide off Kate's hide for sullying her domain in such a way. The kitchen had been the one place on the farm where dirt had simply not been tolerated.

  Rain, snow, or shine, hands were washed at the tap in the barn and boots came off in the enclosed back porch, and woe betide the child—or man—who claimed to have forgotten. A half-smile formed at the memory of her mother tying into her father the time he'd dared bring a piglet, the runt of the litter, into the kitchen for extra care. He'd never repeated the mistake. And her mother had spent the next three nights in the enclosed back porch with a space heater, bottle-feeding the piglet every two hours until it gained enough strength to be returned to its litter.

  Guilt prodded Kate into detaching from the wall. She retrieved a paper grocery bag from the space between counter and fridge. Her mother had eschewed all things plastic at the farm, and the clothes had been too wet to bag in paper last night, but they should have dried a bit by now. She shook the bag open and picked up Jonas's T-shirt, grimacing at the clammy feel. After the deluge he'd been through, it was unlikely forensics would find much in the way of evidence on anything, but holding onto them would be expected.

  Of course, so would notifying the OPP.

  Jonas Burke's story had better be worth the fallout she risked from this. She sighed and shoved the T-shirt into the bag, then lifted the blue jeans Laura had sliced away from their injured guest. A wadded-up paper dropped from the folds onto the counter.

  Chapter 8

  Well. How interesting.

  Kate studied the paper she’d coaxed open. It was wrinkled and damp, and the blue ink was smeared, but the phone number was still legible. And it wasn’t a local one.

  She shot a glance at the kitchen door, then crossed the room and picked up the phone's receiver from its wall cradle again. Given Jonas's reticence the night before, she wasn’t expecting much in the way of cooperation from him this morning, either. If she could find out who was at the other end of this number before she spoke to him, however, it might shake a few answers loose.

  She jabbed the star button followed by the code needed to block her caller ID, then punched in the phone number from the paper.

  A clipped male voice answered on the second ring. "Yeah."

  Hardly an informative beginning.

  "Can you tell me if I've reached the right number?" Kate rattled off the number she'd just dialed. She walked across the room to the windows overlooking the driveway, phone cord stretched taut.

  "That's it. Who's this?"

  Give her name to a possible murderer? Not.

  "I'd like to know who I've reached first, please." She toyed with the damp paper, not really expecting an answer, debating how she could officially-slash-unofficially have the number traced. If only her parents had believed in the Internet. Or computers. Or technology of any—

  "How did you get this number?" the voice at the other end demanded. A flurry of activity sounded in the background, followed a click as someone else came on the line.

  "Who—" Kate broke off as the kitchen door crashed open behind her.

  Furious blue eyes glittered from a face stark with pain. Clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist and swaying on his feet, Jonas ground out, "Hang up."

  Kate dropped the paper and reached behind her. Her fingers closed over the pistol grip. Then she gaped at the phone—at what the voice at the other end had just said. Or what she thought it had said.

  "What?" she asked. "Could you repeat that, please?"

  "I said you've reached the ATF, lady, and this is no time for goddamn games. I want to know how you got this number."
>
  "ATF," she echoed. "As in the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and—"

  "Hang up, damn it!" Jonas roared. "Now!"

  He lurched toward her, staggered against the edge of the table, almost fell. Reflexively, Kate took her hand from the pistol and leapt forward to steady him, but Jonas shoved her aside and levered himself upright again. He ripped the telephone away from her and put the receiver to his ear, muffling the unintelligible shouting emanating from it. His flint-like gaze didn’t so much as flicker when Kate leveled her gun at him.

  "Go to hell, Lewis," he snarled into the receiver, and then he slammed the receiver into its cradle.

  Kate's heartbeat hammered in her ears and the pistol grip bit into her hand as she stared at him. Breathing harshly, he stared back. The yellow, teapot-shaped clock on the ivy wall ticked off the seconds.

  What the hell had that been?

  Her guest’s face paled to a ghastly shade of gray, verging on linen-white. He put a hand out to the wall for support. Kate hardened herself against the sympathy that threatened once more to overcome her good sense. She had to draw the line somewhere, and her parents’ kitchen seemed a good place to start.

  Jonas pointed at the paper she'd dropped. The towel wrapped around his waist slipped a fraction. "You found that in my clothes?"

  She nodded.

  "Figures. They'd want to know when my body surfaced."

  She shook her head, trying to make sense of his words. Failing. "That number is for the ATF."

  "I know."

  "You said you weren't a criminal."

  "I'm not."

  "An informant, then?" she hazarded.

  "No." He reached to pull a chair out from the table, nodding at the gun trained on him. "You may as well put that away. I think I've used up my quota of fast moves for a while."

  He sank with a grimace onto the sturdy maple, letting out a soft hiss of air. Kate hesitated, then lowered her weapon, accepting the truth of his words. The man looked like he might pass out any second. Size and conditioning aside, he posed no immediate threat, and they both knew it. But she kept the gun out anyway, setting it on the table and resting her hand atop it as she sat across from him.