She tried not to groan. She crept up to him, turned him slowly toward his room. “You’re in the hospital. Do you remember why you’re here?”
“Am I sick? I don’t feel sick,” he mumbled as he shuffled to his room.
Lacey glanced toward her end of the hall and saw that her guard had awakened and was on his feet. She lowered her eyes. “You might be sick. I don’t know. But you have to get in bed.” She opened the door and helped him inside his private room.
Her heartbeat thundered when the door clicked behind her. She wanted to scream in frustration as she helped the man into his bed. She forced her movements to remain steady, gentle.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice laced with panic.
She sighed. “I dunno. But you’re going to be okay.”
She tucked the covers over him, straining to hear voices, footsteps running down the hall, maybe a siren. She was about to turn when the old man grabbed her arm. Frail as he was, his bony fingers ground into her muscles and stopped her.
“It’s so dark, you know? I’m afraid.”
She frowned. But he wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were fixed past her.
Icy fingers ran up her spine. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to go.” She swallowed, then backed way from him.
His eyes focused on her. In the wan light, he looked like a prisoner of war attached to life support, bony and weak. “Run.”
Her eyes widened; then she turned and gripped the door handle. She heard him groan as she opened the door and peeked outside.
Her NSA guard had just run past the door. She watched, her heart in her throat, as he flung open the door at the end of the hall and ran down the stairs.
Lacey glanced back at the old man. He lay, eyes open, staring at something. Was he breathing? Running toward his bed, she hit the code blue button on the wall, spun around, and raced out the door. She ducked into a room opposite the man’s room before it filled with nurses and on-call doctors. Then she walked briskly down the hall and out the opposite exit door. Taking the stairs two at a time, she hit the outside exit and picked up her pace.
The cool, moist night air hit her face, her lungs with the taste of freedom. She ran through the parking lot into the street and began a stiff walk. The drizzle slicked her hair to her skin, and the shoe protectors on her feet did little to shield her from the wet gravel. She finally kicked them off.
On a side street, shadowed by a giant, creaking elm, she found an unlocked, mid-eighties Volkswagen Rabbit. The door creaked open with the accumulated rust, and she mumbled apologies to the owner as she crept into the driver’s seat.
In less than two minutes she had connected the wires and popped the car into drive. She roared off, cringing at the noise, and pushed the pedal to the floor.
She’d find the real copy of the nearly finished program in Ashleyville. If the U.S. government thought she’d sacrifice her daughter’s life for the key to the nation’s secrets, it hadn’t learned anything from Kazakhstan. She’d spent the last seven years running.
If she had to, she’d do it for the rest of her life.
Micah knew it. Just knew it. Still, the sight of a group of NSA regulars swarming around the hospital and Lacey’s room made him a little sick.
She’d run. Fled the sanity of organized help for some hysteria-based mission to find her daughter. Or maybe it was more than hysteria. Maybe someone would discover she was lying about the entire daughter thing in the first place.
That thought made him find a bench in a deserted hallway, sit down, and cradle his head in his hands. He listened to his pounding heartbeat. Lacey, what have you done? Where are you?
Conner’s voice returned to him. “Do you still have feelings for her?”
A smart man would get up, go back to the motel, and force himself to sleep. And in the morning, apologize to his friends and drive back in disgrace to Ashleyville and …
Ashleyville.
The Galloway farm, where Sam Galloway, Lacey’s brother, still bred Thoroughbreds. Lacey hadn’t been back there in years … according to Sam. But if there was one place Lacey wanted to hide something, Micah knew where it would be.
He stood, walked away from the convention of cops and toward the emergency exit.
“Jim Micah, what are you doing here?”
He whirled and nearly died on the spot when he saw Deputy Director Berg stride toward him. Berg’s eyes were cracked with red and his suit looked rumpled, as if he’d slept in it. Although Micah hadn’t seen him since right after John’s murder, Berg looked painfully similar to the last time they’d chatted—wrung out and furious, gripping his last fraying thread of nerves. Of course, then Micah had been hovering over Berg’s desk, talking in a low, dangerous tone, suggesting that Berg should elaborate on Lacey’s disappearance.
Now Micah was on the side of information. He wasn’t so sure Berg wouldn’t get the same answer he’d received from Lacey … nada.
“I thought I told you long ago to stay out of the Montgomery case,” Berg said, without greeting.
Micah bit back a retort and mustered up a blank demeanor. Okay, so he’d also bypass niceties. “Did I miss a memo? I don’t recall ever being a part of the Montgomery case. I nearly got a nosebleed when you slammed the door in my face seven years ago. Sorry, pal, I’m here with my SAR team, looking for a lost child.”
Director Berg narrowed his eyes. “Emily Montgomery, maybe?”
The name hit Jim in the soft tissue of his heart and nearly made him flinch. The final confirmation of Lacey’s honesty. He swallowed and kept his face stoic. “Emily Montgomery?”
“Oh, please. Like Lacey didn’t tell you about John’s daughter. We don’t miss much, you know.”
Micah hid a smirk. “Nope. You guys are pretty smart. So what happened? Did Lacey give you the slip?”
Fury gathered in Berg’s eyes, and he poked a finger into Micah’s chest. “You’d be smart to put mileage between you and Lacey Montgomery. Besides, she’s trouble. If you have half a brain, you’d turn around and go back to whatever region of the world you’re saving at the moment.”
Micah stared at him, a sick feeling in his gut, recalling a certain telephone call that had full-stopped his inquiries.
“Besides, you don’t want news to get back to the army that you’ve been helping a fugitive, right? That might make it difficult to get reinstated,” Berg sneered. “Unless you’re looking to do a tour or two in Leavenworth.”
Micah gauged the director’s height and weight and whether he’d fit into the trash can beside the front doors. “No, sir. Like I said, I’m just here with my SAR team. I’m not looking for trouble.” Yet.
“Good boy.” Berg turned and walked away.
Nope, the man wouldn’t have fit into the can … his head was too huge.
What did Lacey have that NSA poured over the hospital grounds like cockroaches looking for? If they were truly after Lacey, then they’d have a team on their way to Kentucky.
Unless they were already there.
The sick feeling in his gut turned into a full-out burn as he stalked out to his pickup.
Chapter 7
LACEY PRIED HERSELF out of the rattletrap Rabbit, wanting to throw it into the next county. No, the next state. Instead she kicked the beater. Pain spiked up to her knee. She bit back a cry, glad that the hurt swept her feelings away from horror, if only for a second. She needed shoes, clothes, a decent meal, and sleep.
No, she just needed Emily. Emily’s voice had burned into her brain and kept her foot to the floorboard for the past three hours, through the fog and drizzle, along the deserted Missouri back roads, to the Kentucky state line.
It seemed some sort of divine retribution that her stolen car should die within sight of the Kentucky Welcome sign.
Thankfully, the rain had stopped and only the coolness of early morning remained. She crossed her arms against the prickle of her skin and began to trudge along the ditch. Her feet would harden in an hour or two. Or maybe she’d find a
nice person to pick her up before then. Good thing she still had her fork.
The dawn had dented the eastern horizon, a simmer of rose and lavender that hinted at a warm and hopeful day. She cast it a glance and was reminded of the sunrise over the Rockies. For a time she’d been holed up in a cabin nestled in the pine and birch of Glacier National Park working on Ex-6. One morning, lost in the tangle of programming language and loneliness, she’d ventured out to greet the dawn. Perched on a rock, she watched the light glide over the mountains, gilding the trees, turning each rock to gemstone. Out of the darkness emerged detail, color, blemish, and beauty. When the sun broke free of the horizon, it warmed Lacey’s face like a long-awaited kiss.
“The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.” The verse echoed through time in the voice of her father. She blinked and behind her eyes she saw Gerald Galloway holding his weathered Bible and reading the book of Isaiah. She swallowed a ball of grief before it lodged in her throat and threatened to cut off her air. Her father had been the voice of reason, the calm behind her storms. How many times had he told her, as if he were the prophet Isaiah, that she was heading into darkness if she ran after John? As if he could see the future.
She swiped away tears, or maybe it was just dew on her face. Still, her chest clenched as her mistakes ran rampant through her mind. She was living in the shadow of death. But no light was about to dawn for her. Now or ever. She’d lived in the shadowlands far too long to turn toward the light. The illumination would decimate her from the inside out, like the sweep of a laser, burning a trail across her heart. She knew her sins. She didn’t need to pour light on them for God or anyone else to examine.
She balled her fists and ignored the throb of her cold feet as she passed the Welcome to Kentucky sign. The sound of a truck engine behind her made her turn. Headlights pushed against the waning vestiges of night. Hope lit inside her as she held out her hand, waving.
The vehicle slowed. With the sun glaring on the windshield, she couldn’t make out the driver. She hoped he might be elderly, perhaps a farmer. But the pickup looked too new, despite the layer of dirt and grime. The truck crunched to a halt next to her. She reached behind her, where she’d shoved her fork into her waistband.
The window rolled down. “Would you like a ride?”
Oh no. She made a wry face. “No. I guess I don’t.”
“Get in, Lacey.” Micah didn’t look any happier to see her than she was to see him. Weariness etched his dark eyes, and his hair looked like it had gone through a baler. Dark whiskers layered his chin, giving him a renegade look.
Then again, he’d come after her. Just like some kind of rebel.
Or hero.
“What are you doing here?” She took a step away from the truck.
No Jim Micah. Her heart plummeted. After all she’d done to ditch him, and here he was, as if she had a GPS system strapped to her that linked directly to his brain. Hadn’t he received her message loud and clear in the hospital? Or did he need army speak to hear and obey? She went cold at that thought. Maybe he’d been sent by the NSA. Micah was red, white, and blue to the bone. He believed in the system. Had given a good chunk of his life to support it.
She took another step back. “Go away.”
“I want to help.” His tone tugged at her defenses, rattled them. He sounded genuine.
No, Micah, don’t make me believe you. Don’t play with my heart. “You’ve already helped. I have to do the rest on my own.”
He hit the steering wheel with his palm. “Good grief, Lacey! Get in the truck! It’s cold out, and you’re freezing. I promise you, I want to help.”
“Oh, sure you do. Just about as much as you believe I didn’t kill John. C’mon, Micah, I’m not stupid. You’d love to see me in jail for a small eternity.”
He winced, and she swallowed hard. She had only voiced her theory, but the look of shame on his face solidified all her suspicions into a hard ball. She turned and stalked down the road.
“Lacey! Stop!”
She strode ahead, her fists closed.
The door slammed and boots scuffed on the gravel, rushing up behind her. She broke into a run. But she was barefoot, and he not only was fully dressed but hadn’t recently dislocated his shoulder.
He caught up easily, then spun her around by her good arm. “Stop it!”
“Get away from me!” She pushed him and swung around to kick him. He caught her foot and she went down.
“What’s the matter with you, woman?” He scooped her up as if she were a small child.
“Micah, put me down.”
“No.” He started for the truck.
Her bad shoulder was crunched into his chest and screamed with agony. “You’re hurting me.”
“The feeling is mutual, honey.” By the whitened look on his face, she wondered at his words.
She stopped struggling when he set her down beside the passenger door. He was breathing just a little too quickly for a man who had spent the better part of his life with a rigorous PT schedule. She glared at him.
“Get in.”
“Why? So you can take me back and the NSA can arrest me? No.” She put a hand on his chest, meaning to push him away, and felt his heart pumping, his chest rising and falling with effort. Her heart hiccuped. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” But he wasn’t fine. She could tell by his heaving breathing and the look in his eyes. He looked … wounded.
Her anger died in a snap. “What’s wrong?”
He stared at her. For a second she saw something akin to fear rise in his eyes, something she’d seen only once before on the night John died and she’d been stabbed by Ishmael Shavik and left to die. It spiraled her back to the very real terror on Micah’s face when he’d gathered her in his arms and raced through the streets toward the hospital. He hadn’t been winded then. At least not until she told him she’d killed John.
The past vanished as she remembered the look of hatred in his eyes. She’d wanted to cry then. Now it only made her moan. Micah couldn’t be a casualty here. She’d made enough mistakes. “Please, Micah. Let me go. Before you get hurt.”
He opened the passenger door, pointed at the seat. “I’m already hurt. Get in. I’m sure the NSA is on my tail, and if you have any hope of getting to the farm without being caught, you’re going to need me.”
Micah wondered if fatigue had melted his brain cells, stopped his synapses from firing. It was the only reason he could scrounge up for sitting in his pickup with a known fugitive, a murderer, the one woman who could pry his heart out of its hiding place with a smile … or a glare.
At the moment, she wore a death-ray look that could deep-fry him if she turned it in his direction. Thankfully, she had crossed her arms over her chest and stared straight ahead, glaring as daylight swept over the Kentucky meadows.
What was he doing here? A guy who had spent a good part of his life figuring out tactics and learning how to negotiate with hostiles in their own territory should be able to untangle his motives in tracking down a national fugitive. But other than reverting back to his reset mode—save Lacey—he couldn’t account for why he’d raced across the Missouri countryside, praying he might find the woman who could cost him his career.
It was Emily. Of course. His insides turned into hard knots when he thought of her in the hands of … whom?
Or maybe this was all a big game, cooked up by Lacey to make her look less guilty. To make him believe she might have a reason for fleeing NSA custody.
He slammed the brakes, made a U-turn, and took off for Poplar Bluff going seventy.
“What are you doing?” Lacey yelled.
“Coming to my senses.”
“Turn this truck around right now.” Lacey’s voice held a sharp, low edge.
“No. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Jim Micah, you turn this truck around or you’re going to regret it for the rest of you
r life.”
“Believe me, I already do.” Acid pooled in the back of his throat as he said it.
She sucked a quick breath.
Better angry and alive than dead. Well, maybe, he thought. A live person could call him up, torment him with requests, a smile, a pleading voice. Then again, a dead person could haunt him with regrets.
At least putting Lacey in custody could give him time to figure out why his heart took a leap and tumble every time he looked at her and why he’d run to her aid in Missouri in the first place.
“I said turn the truck around.” The sound of her dangerously calm voice was accompanied by a sharp prick at the base of his neck, at his jugular.
He stiffened. “Is that my knife?”
She pushed hard; he felt heat. “I said turn it around.”
He kept driving. “Were you this cold-blooded when you killed John?”
“Jim Micah, if you care anything about John’s daughter, you’ll turn this truck around or at least stop it and let me out.” Her voice softened. “Please.”
He clenched his jaw but applied the brakes. The pickup skidded to a halt. Sudden silence saturated the truck, fractured only by the thunder of his heartbeat. He finally ground up words. “This is a bad idea, Lacey. You can’t run from the law. You know they’ll find you.”
“I’ll find Emily first.” She inched toward the door.
“Are you going to run all the way to Ashleyville in your bare feet?”
“I would have been closer ten minutes ago, if you hadn’t lied to me.”
He whirled, made a grab for her left hand. She hit him with her right, a chops-ringing blow for someone who had just dislocated her shoulder. Still, he didn’t even grunt as he hung on. “You attacked me with a fork?”
She launched herself back and kicked him hard in the chest. He gasped, let go. She was out the door and running across the weedy ditch before he caught his breath.
He hurtled out of the pickup. “Lacey, stop! Okay, you win!”
She ran down the road, unfazed. She never had been one to listen to him. Not that he’d spoken up much. No wonder she fled from him like he might be the grim reaper. He certainly hadn’t given her reason to think otherwise.
Flee the Night Page 8
