No Turning Back

by Nancy Bush

  “Federal Agent Vandeway.” Hey, he could be as friendly as the next guy.

  Vandeway surveyed the cast, which stuck out across the worn red carpet. No more cabbage roses from the days of the Candlewick Inn. A small pang of regret slipped through him. Nope, he wasn’t going to think about Liz now.

  “You really took it,” he observed.

  “Mmm,” Hawk shrugged.

  “So, what do you want to know, Detective? I’m sure someone else would be better equipped to find your sniper, but if I can help in any way—”

  “I’m going to tell you a story,” Hawk broke in. “It’s one of those fill-in-the-blank things. When I stop, you fill in the blank.”

  “Well, if I can.” He sniffed.

  “There were these two guys, Barney Turgate and Manny Belding. They had a neat little deal going. They alone held one of a handful of permits with the Forest Service to harvest yew bark off national forest land.” Remembering his buddy Ed’s comments about how Manny had connections, he added, “Belding was tied in by a relative of his. I’m not sure how.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Belding fingered you. And all you can talk about is some ‘delicate’ operation. It’s this yew bark thing.”

  When Vandeway didn’t immediately start filling in the blanks, Hawk went on impatiently, “So, something goes sour and somebody gets pissed off and blam! Barney Turgate’s history. Then Manny goes the fugitive route, and whoosh! Falls over a cliff. Except that he talked to someone he shouldn’t have first.”

  At Hawk’s pause, Vandeway said in a bored tone, “You?”

  “Good guess.” His gaze on Vandeway, Hawk thunked his cast with his finger. “So, Barn’s dead, Manny’s dead, and I’ve got a bullet hole in my leg. Good old Manny laid all the blame at your feet.”

  Although Hawk hadn’t believed it was possible, Vandeway pursed his lips even tighter. Without managing to unwrinkle them, he said, “So, that makes me guilty?”

  “It makes you involved. So, what’s it all about?”

  For about thirty seconds Vandeway wavered, then he said, “You seem to know enough to be dangerous.”

  “Thank you.” Hawk’s voice was ironic.

  “They did have a legal permit. Belding had a relative who works for ChemTek. Ever heard of them?” Hawk shook his head. “Big Midwest chemical company interested in yew bark for the production of Taxol.”

  “Go on.”

  “This relative worked it so Manny was the liaison out here and the relative facilitated the contracts. Manny got the permits in his and Barney’s name, using his connections with ChemTek. Then he befriended a secretary at the Forest Service who helped keep the arrangement trouble-free.”

  “So, Manny and Barney could harvest yew bark and sell it to ChemTek.”

  “Manny and Barney were nearly the sole permit holders. They were one of the few legally allowed to harvest Pacific yew bark off U.S. Forest Service land. They were damn near it. A monopoly, Detective Hart. Forest Service land is where all the yew bark is, and they were practically the only ones allowed to strip the bark.”

  “So, why were they chosen?”

  “Connections. They had a sweet deal. Got in when no one was looking and milked it. And it gets worse.”

  Hawk lifted a brow. “Worse?”

  “ChemTek’s got an exclusive contract to collect yew bark for one of the nation’s largest pharmaceutical companies. This pharmaceutical company then inked an exclusive deal with the National Cancer Institute to be the one company producing and testing Taxol in the whole damn U.S. of A. for the next ten years. Ten years.” Vandeway was working himself up just relating the story. “The problem is: everything’s exclusive—right down the line. Nobody wants anybody else to get a piece of the pie. So, it all funneled through Manny and Barney. It was—golden.”

  “So, where do you fit in?”

  “I complained. I warned the Forest Service this would set up a gold-rush mentality, with everybody jumping in and pushing their poached bark through Manny and Barney. I said they’d steal it from all over and send it through that one legitimate route.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “And that’s exactly what happened,” Vandeway went on in disgust. “Now we’ve got poachers all over the place who sold to Manny and Barney because Belding and Turgate could claim they harvested the bark off Forest Service land, and then show the goddamn permits to back themselves up.”

  Hawk thought it all through. He could see that some poacher had stolen Anita Brindamoor’s trees and probably sold the bark to Manny or Barney. Except Barney had already been dead . . .

  Or maybe it was the cause of Barney’s death . . .

  “Belding and Turgate were morons,” Vandeway added, breathing out heavily through his nose. He was big into nose noises. “They fell into a sweet deal by virtue of this relative who only wanted to get Manny off his back. I talked to the man. He had no idea how big yew bark was going to get. I mean, yeah. Who would know? It’s like the lottery, and once in a while, some undeserving schmuck scores big.”

  Vandeway clearly resented the fact that Barney and Manny had been suddenly prosperous. He seemed to keep forgetting that both men were dead, probably as a result of this extraordinary windfall.

  Hawk rubbed his chin and glanced around the bar. He wanted a drink, a rare urge these days. Maybe he should have swallowed the painkillers. It might have helped after all. “So, Barney and Manny were the funnel, and they weren’t averse to taking yew bark from others, no questions asked.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then why would someone kill them?”

  “I don’t believe they were killed because of this deal,” Vandeway said firmly. “Belding fell to his death. An accident, by your department’s own account. And Barney Turgate was a womanizer from way back. Probably wound up on the wrong end of some husband’s gun.”

  It was Hawk’s turn to snort his disbelief.

  “Would it make more sense that I killed Turgate?” Vandeway wanted to know. “Like you just said, to what purpose?”

  “You were pissed that they were making a killing,” Hawk suggested, aware of how lame that motive sounded but unwilling to give up.

  Vandeway trilled out a scale of laughter. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  “Someone shot at me while I was looking at yew bark,” Hawthorne reminded him grimly. “It wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t some jealous husband.” When Vandeway had no response to that, Hawk added, “I’m going to check with the Forest Service to see who else owns permits.”

  “There’s hardly anyone.”

  “Well, fine. I want to know who they are.”

  “Stay out of it,” Vandeway suddenly warned, leaning close to Hawthorne. If he were a different kind of man, Hawk may have felt threatened. But instead, with Vandeway, he was merely interested. “There are undercover agents involved in this deal, searching out poachers,” he hissed. “Your meddling could jeopardize their sting. Hell, you already got yourself shot.”

  “Ah, so you don’t think it’s a jealous husband,” Hawk drawled.

  “I just want the local cops out of it, and that includes you.”

  Oh, there was no way Hawk was going to stay out of this one, but he was on thin ice with Dortner already and he didn’t need Vandeway running to the chief and whining and complaining. “I’ll let you know before I do anything,” he said, lying easily. He didn’t like Vandeway on principle.

  “Don’t do anything,” Vandeway warned, picking up the tab for the two soft drinks they’d ordered. “Understand?”

  Hawk had to refrain from saluting the man.

  * * *

  Liz held the phone away from her ear as if touching it to her skin would cause irreparable harm.

  “Are you there?” Avery Francis asked, his voice sounding thin and far away because she’d stretched the receiver the length of her arm. She had to force herself to bring it back.

  “Um . . . right here,” Liz murmured.

&nbs
p; “Would you care to have dinner with me?” he repeated, a smile sounding in his voice. He was so sure of himself, so smug. She’d gone from thinking he was fine to flat-out not liking him.

  Still waiting around for Hawk?

  She forced herself to say, “Dinner would be great.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  Wonderful.

  Long moments later, Liz considered whether she’d actually answered Avery or if she’d hung up without a word. She truly couldn’t remember. She couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or amused, for she’d prided herself on her sensibility, practicality, and basically being a good person ever since she’d screwed up her life so horribly when she was in high school.

  Of course those moments on Hawk’s couch weren’t exactly sensible and sane. They were, in fact, insane. And what was worse was the way she played and replayed them in her mind, over and over again.

  She’d fallen in love with him half her life ago, for Pete’s sake. It was high time to get over it.

  Especially after what a bastard he’d been to her at the hospital.

  Ten minutes later she was in the Miata, driving toward the police station with some vague idea of confronting Hawk. Ridiculous. He wouldn’t be there. But she couldn’t stop herself from cruising by and was, once again, helped along by fate. Hawk had just pulled to a stop in front of the station and was struggling to get out of his Jeep.

  She made the colossal mistake of trying to help him. She grabbed his upper arm when he was turned toward the seat, hobbling on one foot, reaching for a crutch. She surprised him. He jerked around, lost his balance, nearly crashed down on her before looping one arm over the door and hanging, practically ripping his arm from the socket in the process. A spate of swear words followed.

  “I’m . . . sorry,” Liz breathed, embarrassed.

  “Just—leave me alone.”

  She felt terrible. He was really hurting, and she couldn’t seem to do anything right around him. “Want me to get that crutch?”

  “No.”

  “I know you’re angry. I’m sorry. But I just . . .” She squeezed around him and dragged the crutches from the Jeep, one by one. Holding them out to him, she tried to meet his eyes, but he was staring at the ground.

  All she could think of to say was, “I’m sorry,” but she’d already tried that twice, to no avail. Hawk’s forehead had broken out into a sweat and she felt even worse. “Here,” she said, thrusting one crutch under his free arm. The other still hung over the door for support.

  “Thanks.” His ironic tone would have cut except she knew he was hanging on by a thread.

  “No problem.”

  She waited in silence as he mustered the strength to balance his weight on the crutches and swing himself up the two steps to the station and inside the front door. Heads turned, but upon spying his expression, everyone quickly went back to work, even if it meant only shuffling papers. No one wanted their head bit off.

  “Holy moly,” Chief Dortner greeted him, his friendly freckled face mock-woeful. “Look what the cat dragged in. Hello there,” he added for Liz’s benefit as she walked in behind Hawthorne. “You should be home,” he said to Hawk in an aside.

  “Hmph,” was Hawk’s answer.

  Dortner quirked a brow at Liz and pulled out a chair next to Hawk’s desk.

  “No, thanks. I was just . . .” What the hell was she doing? “. . . checking in. I wanted to see how Detective Hart was faring.”

  “Detective Hart should be on medical leave,” Dortner said, his gaze pointedly on Hawk.

  Hawk’s eyes were closed, his cheeks white, his lips colorless. He’d overdone it and it was obvious.

  “I’m going to have someone take him home,” Dortner added, moving back toward his desk.

  “No!” Hawk protested.

  Chief Dortner called over one of the junior officers. A brief argument ensued. Liz knew Hawk was steaming inside, especially having her as witness, and while they were sorting through “who” was going to do “what” to get Hawk “where,” the door buzzed open and a woman walked in and stood beside Liz.

  She was in her late thirties or early forties, with that worn-down look of too much work and too little joy. As she was closest to her, Liz might have asked if she could help her, but the newcomer’s eyes were fixed on Hawthorne.

  “I heard Manny Belding’s dead,” she rasped, as if her voice were overworked or she hadn’t slept in a month.

  Liz glanced to Hawk. He’d managed to get over the worst of the pain and recover his composure enough to keep Dortner and company at bay. Now, he focused on the woman, and to Liz’s surprise, his expression softened a bit.

  “Yeah. That’s true.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry. It’s Manny’s fault, y’know,” she said. “Barney’d be here if it weren’t for him. But there are others.”

  “What do you mean? Who?” Hawk gave her all his attention.

  “There were a bunch of them, all trying to screw each other over.” Her mouth turned down in distaste. “Scumbags who’d do anything for a few bucks. They took him from me.”

  So, this was Barney’s girlfriend, Liz realized. She radiated pain. Hawthorne clearly felt it, too, and he motioned her to a chair, to which she shook her head.

  “We’ll keep working on the case,” Dortner put in, but the lady cared only for Hawk’s opinions.

  “When will you get them all?”

  “As soon as we can,” Hawk promised.

  “When?”

  “Lora Lee,” the chief said, holding out his hand to guide her back out the door, “it will be as quick as humanly possible.”

  “I want Detective Hawthorne.”

  “He’s had a bit of a setback,” Dortner began.

  “You’ve got me, Lora Lee,” Hawk cut in at the same moment.

  That seemed to finally get through. She nodded bravely, glanced at Liz blankly, then gazed once more at Hawk. “They got my Barney all turned around on that deal. They need to pay for it.”

  “They will.” Hawk was positive.

  In silence, they all watched Lora Lee shamble out the front door, stand on the street for a moment in confusion, start one way and then turn back and head another.

  “Barney’s death’s sure done a number on her,” the chief said.

  “She loved him,” Liz said. “She’s lost in grief.”

  “Is that your professional opinion?” Hawk asked coolly.

  “Why, yes, it is,” Liz shot back.

  Perry Dortner held up both hands and looked from one to the other of them.

  Liz had had enough. “I’m sorry I bothered,” she said, and marched out of the station, telling herself she would never, never, never, ever, seek out Hawthorne Hart’s company again.

  * * *

  Casually, oh, so casually, Jesse reached around Tawny to switch off the lamp. Images flickered across the TV screen, lending some light, and the moon was doing its romantic best to sparkle a trail of bluish illumination across the heartwood pine floor.

  It was the first time Jesse had brought Tawny to his house and he was enjoying the intimacy. His dad was at the Dortners’. Perry’s wife had insisted Hawk have dinner with them and she’d called Jesse to come also, but because he’d had a chance to be alone with Tawny, Jesse had bowed out. That had been an hour ago and he figured Dad would be gone a while longer.

  Which left the two of them alone.

  They were sharing a bowl of popcorn. The buttery scent couldn’t quite eclipse Tawny’s perfume—which was somewhere around the flavor of ripe berries and made his throat ache with wanting.

  Jesse shook his head. He was getting downright poetic.

  “Do you like this show?” Tawny asked.

  Jesse glanced at the TV without interest. Reruns from one of last year’s midseason replacement series. “No.”

  “Would you like to do something else?”

  His interest piqued. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Listen to music.�
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  Quick as a cat, Jesse was off the couch and turning the dials on his dad’s ancient stereo. Okay, it wasn’t ancient. But it wasn’t from this decade, so it was by his standards. Hawk didn’t care a whit about music, but at least there was a CD player.

  His first inclination was to put on Nirvana. Kurt, after all, was the master. Then he thought about Kenny G. He detested jazz, but chicks seemed to go for that mellow instrumental stuff. Still . . .

  “What do you want to hear?” he asked, searching through his father’s CDs, a pathetically small collection and all bad. He made a mental note to buy his father some decent music.

  “Nirvana?” Tawny suggested, and Jesse grinned his pleasure.

  Putting the music on ridiculously low, he flopped down on the couch beside her, touching shoulders. He wanted to lean close to her and did so because, damn it, he couldn’t help himself. She didn’t seem to object.

  “How’re things going with your mom?” he asked.

  “She’s still doing okay. My father’s coming for my dance recital.” Her voice darkened. “I wish he’d just stay in Seattle.”

  “Yeah. I wish my dad had stayed in California.”

  “Then you wouldn’t be here either.”

  Jesse turned his face into the glory of her hair. Strawberries. Or raspberries. The smell went straight to his head. “Yes, I would. I was destined to be here.” He blew in her ear and she scrunched her shoulders and giggled.

  “Why?”

  “Because we were meant to be together.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You think I’m kidding?” He pretended affront. She elbowed him and they started wrestling. Before long, Jesse had her pinned on her back and was staring into her golden eyes, reading the sudden wariness there. Instantly, he released her, jumped to his feet, and crowed, “I won! You’re a wimp. I won!”

  She leaped up beside him and pushed him before he knew what was happening. He sat down quick, flung against the couch cushions. “I won! I won!” she mimicked him, teasing.

  That did it. Jesse reached for her hand and with a muscular twist brought her onto his lap. They grinned at each other, and he leaned forward and kissed her. She responded cautiously. He took his time, though a beat in his head told him to hurry, hurry, hurry, before she changed her mind. Girls were tricky. Especially nice girls.