What's in a Name?

by Terry Odell

  Not quite—she went to her suitcase and found the small jewelry pouch buried in its depths. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she withdrew her wedding band and engagement ring. Determined not to think of them as anything other than props, she slid them onto her finger. Her breath caught when she pulled Charles’ ring from the tissue she’d wrapped it in all those years before. Would it fit? Blake’s hands were much larger than Charles’, but while Charles had small hands, his fingers were thick and powerful. Blake’s were long and slender, although she doubted they were any less strong.

  She slipped the ring onto her thumb and walked around the bedroom, holding her head high, shortening her normal stride as she adjusted to the low-heeled leather pumps. Would Emily’s hips sway a little? Probably. Would she defer to her husband? Hell, no. Well, maybe at a cocktail party. Look up at him and smile. She’d done that enough as Casey, although there was no deference, only pride, when she’d done so. Maybe a little Casey, a little Mrs. Swensen, the story lady from the library when she was a kid. She was kind, but nobody messed around when she was reading. With a satisfied nod, she went out to the living room.

  “What did you do with Hollingsworth’s research?” she asked.

  Blake retrieved the envelope and dropped it alongside the one from Stockbridge. His eyebrows lifted and his gaze moved up and down her body, but he didn’t say anything.

  “There are a few things in the box for you, too,” she said, trying to ignore the tingle his obvious appraisal sent through her. “Stockbridge sent some dress slacks and a few shirts in case you need more than jeans.”

  Blake nodded. “What’s in there?”

  “More of our cover.” She upended Stockbridge’s packet and dumped the contents on the table. A couple of file folders, two letter-sized envelopes and a fat manila one. She opened the first envelope and gave a nod of approval. Stockbridge was good and he was fast. A set of car keys and a note saying a car would be parked at the airport in the slot where the truck had been.

  The reminders of the roles they were playing settled her. “We’ve got wheels at the airport. I’ve applied for temporary driver’s licenses—poor Bill and Emily managed to lose theirs—but it’ll take another day to get them.” She opened the second envelope.

  Blake leaned forward and rested his hands on the table. “Stockbridge seems to be going a lot more than the extra mile here. Am I allowed to know why?”

  She glanced up from the things scattered on the polished wooden expanse. Did she see jealousy in Blake’s face? And why did it please her? “He thinks he owes me. His kid was having problems when we first met. I kind of helped out.”

  She handed Blake a corporate Visa card. “Here. Charges go to EnviroCon. Sign it William Cranford.” She caught herself before she looked him in the eye. “Don’t abuse it.” She tucked the second one in the pocket of her slacks.

  “Are you ready to talk to me yet?” Blake sat down across the table again, his eyes narrowed. There was an edginess to his tone, one she hadn’t heard before.

  “About what?”

  “Don’t play games. Start anywhere. Maybe with who we are, how I’m supposed to act, where all this cloak and dagger stuff is coming from. I figure pretty soon you’ll be telling me EnviroCon is a front for one of the government alphabet agencies.”

  “No. It’s exactly what it claims to be. Stockbridge is CEO and he has a few connections, but he’s not doing anything shady. Bill Cranford works for him, pretty much the same way I do. I’ve never met him, but according to Stockbridge, at the moment he and Emily are on vacation, sailing all over the Caribbean. The main thing is they’ve never been on a project in Oregon before. EnviroCon has three possible new ones coming up and it’s normal for them to bring in potential consultants for site visits, discussing the scope of work, meetings with brass, should anyone wonder what Bill and Emily are doing here. But the biggie is we now have credit cards. And ID—more or less.”

  She showed him an EnviroCon ID card with his name on it. “I’ve got one, too, even though Emily doesn’t work for EnviroCon. Let’s hope nobody checks that deep. We’ll need to add photos—laminating would be good, too. Why don’t you find a phone book and see if there’s someplace nearby that does passport photos.” She pulled open the big manila envelope and dumped stacks of bills on the table. “Four thousand cash advance. I believe I owe you about three hundred, plus whatever you think you’ll need.”

  When Blake’s hand reached for the money, she raised her gaze. He took several hundred dollars, stuck it in his wallet and went to the couch. “Your eyes are green. Too much,” he muttered. “I’m in a fucking James Bond movie. Too fucking much.”

  “Enough is all I’m asking.” She opened the file folders and stared at EnviroCon’s Camp Getaway records. There had to be an answer in there.

  * * * * *

  Blake turned away from the television and watched Kelli at the computer, amazed at how she could focus on the screen for so long. Watching her gave him eyestrain. She’d been at it for hours. Even from his vantage point across the room, he saw the fatigue and frustration. She clicked, took notes, referred to her files. Every once in a while the printer would whirr and she’d pull pages out, make more notes and stack them in piles. He stepped behind her chair and rubbed her neck. Her scent wafted up to him and he longed to bury his face into her hair. He pushed the thought away, accepting it as progress when she didn’t jump at his touch.

  “Time for a break,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re burning out.”

  She lowered her head, giving him clearer access to her shoulders. “You’re probably right. I’m missing something.”

  When she ran her fingers through her hair, he saw the rings on her left hand and another one on her thumb. He touched it and she spun around, as though he’d given her an electric shock. She yanked it off her hand and thrust it at him.

  “I forgot. I’m not sure it’ll fit, but if it does … well, we’re supposed to be married.”

  He accepted the simple gold band. When it fit over his knuckle, he saw her eyes tear up. “Stockbridge didn’t send this, did he? It was … your husband’s.”

  She wiped her eyes, but couldn’t wipe away the blush. “I need to work. I’m good for a while longer.”

  “I’m not, and the passport photo place closes in an hour. Let’s get that done, and we can have a drink at the bar in the hotel. Dinner, too, unless you’re afraid to be out in public too long. I’m going stir-crazy in here.”

  “I guess so.”

  He took her hand and touched her rings. Then his. “I know this is tough.” She looked so vulnerable, so lost, he’d pulled her against his chest before he realized what he’d done.

  She stayed there for a long moment and he felt their heartbeats pulsing in rhythm. When she broke away, he gave her hands one last squeeze.

  He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “We’d better get going.”

  “Tell me what you found,” Blake said over drinks at the hotel bar. He let himself enjoy Kelli as Emily. She dressed—well, none of those overalls, baggy sweats and flannel shirts. Thinking of the utilitarian cotton undergarments he’d seen in her dresser at Camp Getaway, he wondered if her new image extended below the surface. He chided himself for being so crude, but he’d caught her looking at him every once in a while and there was something in her eyes. Or should he chalk it up to the rush of surviving a life-or-death situation?

  “Not nearly enough.” She crumpled a cocktail napkin. “Camp Getaway’s been planned for years. Thornton’s a philanthropist—he’s backed half a dozen projects geared toward inner city kids. But he’s got connections to all sorts of companies, corporations, foundations, you name it—it’s going to take a lot longer to see if there’s any way to connect him to Robert. So far, he’s exactly what he seems to be.”

  She was having white wine, but spent more time spinning her glass than drinking. Kelli seemed totally in control of everything except taking care of her own personal needs. A blind man coul
d see the headache behind her eyes.

  “You want to order something to eat?” When she shrugged, he motioned to the bartender for a menu. What would Bill Cranford like? Or, more appropriately, what would Emily Cranford eat? “An order of crab rangoon, please.”

  He swiveled his stool to face her. “Okay, Sweetheart. I forgot to ask you before. How long have we been married? Do we have kids?”

  Her eyes twinkled and The Shake came back. “Eleven years. Two girls. Amanda and Angela.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “For real?” When she didn’t answer, he followed her gaze to the television above the bar. Although the sound was muted, the caption said, Murder in the National Forest and there was a formal photograph of Park Ranger Doug Peterson in uniform, smiling. Kelli’s face lost its color.

  Shit. He’d figured Peterson was dead from the way Scumbag had talked, but he hadn’t mentioned it to Kelli. He gripped her elbow to steady her, but she squirmed away and bolted.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kelli’s hands shook as she fumbled with the key card for their suite. When the green light flashed, she shoved the heavy door open and raced for the TV remote. Stopping at Headline News, she paced, waiting for the story to cycle back. Doug Peterson was dead. She remembered Scumbag wearing the soiled uniform. The uniform she’d crammed into Blake’s lockbox. Blood, not mud. She remembered the baseball cap in the Park Service truck. Decker must have killed Doug Peterson.

  The door opened. Blake didn’t speak, simply took her hand and led her to the couch. He dropped a small Styrofoam box on the coffee table. Smells of grease and seafood brought a wave of nausea and she pushed the box away. “Can’t.”

  He got up and took it to the small refrigerator. When he came back, he handed her a tumbler. “Some brandy might help.”

  Her hands shook, but she managed to get the glass to her lips and take a swallow. It burned all the way down and her eyes watered, but she felt a little calmer. Together, they waited out a blur of news stories until Doug Peterson’s face stared at her again. She strained to listen, to make the words penetrate the buzzing in her head.

  Doug’s body—his naked body—had been discovered this afternoon by a group of hikers who had been clearing debris left by Saturday’s storm. The medical examiner estimated he’d been dead since then. The exact cause of death had yet to be determined. Animals had interfered with the integrity of the body. Kelli swallowed.

  “Easy,” Blake whispered.

  Scumbag’s picture flashed on the screen, with a booking photo identifying him as Sanford “Sandman” McGregor. The newscaster’s dispassionate voice said McGregor was suspected of Doug Peterson’s murder and an assault on a local merchant.

  She gasped when Hank’s wizened face appeared, with a General Store Owner Henry Digby caption below it, tape footage dated the day Scumbag had attacked her. Hank was standing in front of his store with a bandage on his forehead.

  A newscaster’s arm held a microphone to Hank’s face. “He came in wanting to find that new kids’ camp they’re building near the park. When I asked why, he got mad. It takes more than a whack with a stick to get past my hard head, though.”

  Hank’s voice faded and a man identified as a deputy sheriff came on screen. “There appeared to be signs of a struggle at Camp Getaway, a joint effort of philanthropist Phillip Thornton and Spokane-based EnviroCon. Two employees working on the project are missing. We are continuing to explore all avenues in our investigation.”

  A phone number to call with any information was superimposed on McGregor’s picture and the news moved on to the next story.

  “They’re not likely to release much to the public at this point,” Blake said.

  Cold sweat trickled down her back. “He … he must have killed Doug right before he came for me.”

  The idea he was cold-blooded enough to murder someone and carry on a friendly conversation kicked her in the gut. Her head swam and her stomach roiled. Was she responsible for Doug Peterson’s death? She’d accepted the burden of Robert—he’d died by her own hand. But Doug had been a dedicated ranger, committed to nothing more than protecting what he considered his land. Anger overpowered her nausea. She pushed away from Blake and went to her computer.

  Blake followed and stood behind her. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got a name for Scumbag. I’m going to find out everything there is to know about him and see why he was looking for me—you—us.”

  “Can you do that? Isn’t that information all classified, or secure, or whatever?”

  She turned and gave him a long, hard stare. “You’re Blake Allan Windsor. Your thirty-sixth birthday was April seventh. You own a sixty-one Corvette. You graduated from Central High twenty-fifth in a class of two hundred. Excellent credit rating, don’t carry balances on your cards. Payments on your Chicago apartment are deducted from your checking account on the fourth of every month and for that kind of money, it’s probably a very nice place.”

  “Condo, to be technical, but go on.”

  She shrugged. “You’ve never been married. One brother. Your father died eight years ago. You went to your junior prom with someone named Bambi.” She grimaced. “Bambi. Sheesh, Windsor—and I’ll bet you scored, too. Your choice in condoms is—”

  “Enough.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t suppose you Googled all that?”

  “Only the high school yearbook stuff. You were cute. Had to hack for the rest.”

  “Don’t tell me you could find out what brand of—”

  She had to laugh. “No, I saw them in your bathroom kit.”

  “Of course you did.”

  Was it annoyance she saw in his face? She pressed forward. “Seriously, Windsor. I looked at the so-called dossier Hollingsworth gave you. If he paid anyone to dig that out, he was robbed. All it said about me as Casey was that I worked with computers. Ever hear of CompSecure?”

  “No. Some computer security company? You worked for them?”

  She shook her head in amusement. Blake smiled back.

  “Windsor, I was CompSecure. I designed security systems for a lot of the big players out there. I’d tell you who, but I’d have to kill you.” She felt her face get hot, then cold.

  Little black specks swam in her peripheral vision like gnats. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean that—how could I say something like that after what just happened?”

  Blake took her ice-cold hands in his warm ones. “Hey, it’s okay. Those clichés pop out and I know you didn’t mean to belittle Peterson’s death.” He rubbed her hands between his. “I’m thinking it’s going to be room service for dinner.”

  “Not hungry.”

  “That’s not the issue. You’ll eat. The only question is, do you order or leave it to me?”

  * * * * *

  Blake set the tray of dishes in the hall outside the door and returned to the couch. Kelli had eaten a bowl of soup and half a portion of salmon while some computer program ran. Swallowing his frustration at not being able to help, he deferred to her request that he stay out of sight and alternated his attention between her and the television set. Most of the time she stared at the monitor, sometimes chiding, chastising, or praising the readouts as screens blinked in and out while he tried to watch television. She’d looked at him and smiled once or twice, but he felt about as useful as one of the throw pillows. He yawned. Kelli’d gotten her second—or was it her third?—wind and was muttering to the computer again.

  “Oh, no you don’t. Don’t mess with me, baby. That’s better. Right.”

  He stretched out. After giving up on Celebrity Poker, he went back to a Queer Eye for the Straight Guy marathon, always good for a laugh. Thom and Carson were trying to make over some poor slob when he heard a choking noise from the desk and Kelli dashed past him to the bathroom. The door slammed, but he could hear her being wretchedly ill. He looked toward the closed door, then crossed to the desk to see what had upset her. He was fairly certain it hadn’t been the salmon.

  Whe
n he saw the display his own stomach churned. Rape. Assault. Manslaughter. More rape. Murder two. Scumbag liked to take his time with his victims. Cut them. He’d been arrested numerous times, in and out of prison on lesser charges. Apparently he had some damn good lawyers. A block of ice settled in his belly when he pictured what could have happened to Kelli.

  He’d thought the guy was a two-bit punk. He cursed his stupidity. He should never have left the SOB. They should have tossed him in the back of the pickup and dropped him in front of a police station. He heard the bathroom door open and a white and shaky Kelli emerged. She met his gaze, then straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  “Sorry. I freaked.” She headed back to the computer and pulled the chair out.

  He put his hand on hers. “Do what you have to do to shut this machine off. You’re going to bed.”

  He saw her glance at her watch and checked his own. After eleven. Defiance sparked in her eyes, followed by resignation.

  “You might try asking once in a while, instead of commanding.” She clicked the mouse a few times and he watched the screen fade, then go black.

  “Commanding? Me? Wait an effing minute. I’ve taken your pills, flooded myself with your fluids, sat around like an idiot while you tell me who I am, where I can and can’t go, what I can and can’t say. Your turn to listen to me.”

  She rubbed her temples. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not used to having anyone around.”

  He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Like white on rice.”

  She nodded and gave him a feeble imitation of The Shake.

  “You ought to watch that,” he said.

  “What?”