Tag, You're It!

by Penny McCall

  “Yeah? Well, my gut’s been talking, too,” Mike said. “And this case may not be the open and shut busywork you think. Watch your back.”

  “Spill it,” Tag said, grateful Mike hadn’t questioned his instincts. Tag had been doing enough second-guessing for the entire bureau.

  “Can’t,” Mike shot back, his gravelly voice dropping to what passed for a whisper. “You aren’t the only one who can be overheard.”

  And the FBI offices were hotbeds of gossip, just like every other white collar beehive in every other city in the world. “You saying you didn’t send me on this assignment just to keep me busy?”

  “It may turn out that way,” Mike said, “but there’s been some rumblings coming out of Boston, from Sappresi’s general direction. And before you ask I’m not getting into specifics.”

  “Fucking rules again,” Tag said.

  “Not just the fucking rules,” Mike shot back. “I could be jumping to conclusions, here, Donovan, or I could be flat-out wrong.”

  But he wasn’t. Tag might have lost faith in his own gut, but he’d have staked his life on Mike’s. There was more going on than simple fraud being perpetrated on a bunch of ignorant investors. Still, Mike was right about jumping. Kind of like being pushed; you never knew where you might land. Or on whom.

  “I’ve done what I can,” Mike continued. “I took the regular treasure hunter out of commission and made sure you’d get the gig. It’s up to you to connect the dots. If there is a connection. Just be careful.”

  “You could’ve told me that before I got on the plane.”

  “Hindsight,” Mike said. “Guess you still have to earn his trust, Donovan. He dropped you on the animal lady for a reason, maybe you should focus on that.”

  The rest went unsaid. This case was like all the others— nothing more than a game. Life or death might be the stakes, but there were still rules and players, and a game board. Sometimes the rules were written by a homicidal maniac or a terrorist, or, in this case, a money hungry hem of a con man. Didn’t matter. The rules still had to be followed, at least until all the players were identified and their motives understood. Until Tag figured out Alex’s role, and uncovered her affiliations, he had to play along.

  “Give me her name again,” Mike said, “and I’ll check her out.”

  “Alex Scott.”

  “Alex? That short for something?”

  “Don’t know,” Tag said, smiling at a middle-aged woman and her daughter who were passing by.

  The woman curled an arm around her daughter’s shoulder and hustled her away. The daughter watched him over her shoulder, eyes wide, not sure what to make of him.

  What was with these people? Tag wondered. And then he remembered he was an outsider, which would be synonymous with serial murderer in a little town like this one. He felt something hot on the back of his neck and glanced over his shoulder, thinking they should be more worried about their own citizens. A burly man with bloodshot eyes, a thirty-year growth of beard, and breath like a cesspool stood close enough for Tag to count his nose hairs. Grizzly Adams with an emphasis on grizzly.

  “Phone,” he said, his breath hitting Tag full in the face this time.

  “I did a quick and dirty search,” Mike was saying. “Alexandra Scott, Boston, blue blood and old money, University of Michigan, dual degrees in zoology and some sort of history. Here’s an interesting bit of information—”

  “Now,” the guy behind him grunted.

  “Gotta go,” Tag said to Mike, trying his best not to inhale through his nose when he spoke. He didn’t have any problem dealing with a local yokel, but he couldn’t talk in front of the guy. And anyway, he’d heard enough to light a fire inside him. After being empty for so long it felt damn good. “I’ll call you back when I can.”

  Tag relinquished the phone, headed to the diner, bought a thin local paper, and settled in to wait. It was the only restaurant in town, so he figured someone who’d missed a day’s worth of meals would have to show up there sooner or later. His reasoning was sound, and lots of people came in, but none of them were Alex. And none of them left. Barely a half hour after he arrived, the place was full, a line of people stretched out the door and curved around the sidewalk in front, and faces were pressed to the big front windows, peering in. At him.

  In a small-town diner like this, breakfast conversation ought to consist of work, the weather, whose cow had strayed into the wrong pasture, and the stranger in town. Those topics were pretty popular, but one by one every conversation eventually made its way around to the Lost Spaniard, and the talk gave Tag a pretty good idea what the sheriff had meant when he said “wait and see.”

  No one had the slightest notion where the treasure was, but everyone had a plan to find it. He wasn’t shaping up to be the most popular guy in the room, either. It seemed the idea of an outsider finding their treasure made the Castil a bit touchy. By the time Alex showed up at the door he was thinking of her as the only friendly face in the town, even if her expression when she spotted him was a few degrees south of polar.

  Tag gestured to the seat across from him, but she looked around, took her time assuring herself there were no other empty places. Even then she remained reluctant, but he could see the moment when hunger got the better of her.

  She made her way to his table, dropped her satchel on the bench seat opposite his, and slid in next to it without hesitation or complaint—or greeting for that matter. But he caught the way she scoped out the place again, taking the pulse of the crowd, much like he’d done when he first arrived. She might not be a pro, but she seemed to have an instinct for reading situations. And people.

  “Deputy Dawg was right,” Tag said to her, “I wouldn’t’ve believed the news would get around this fast if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  Her gaze circled the place again; when it got back to his face she didn’t look encouraged. “A lot of these guys are unemployed, and every one of them wants to find the Lost Spaniard for himself. I’d watch my back if I were you.”

  “I’d rather watch yours.”

  “My back’s not the one with the target on it,” she said. “The treasure isn’t the only part of the story they’ve heard.”

  “Then they know you came into town with me, and they’re probably wondering what part you’re playing in all this.”

  They’d kept their voices down, but it didn’t do them much good because a man appeared at her shoulder, a man about a hundred years old. Faded blue eyes peered out of a seamed face with so many age spots they’d blended together into a natural suntan. He had a slight palsy, no teeth, and ears big enough to pick up a sneeze in Reykjavik. He stood there, looking at Alex, twisting an ancient hat around in his hands.

  “It true you’re looking for the Lost Spaniard, Miss Alex?” he asked in a voice that sounded like it had come from someone half his age and twice his strength.

  She looked up at him, her expression softening. But not her attitude. “No, Jess,” she said.

  “Because you’d tell us, right? I know you keep to yourself out there, and we understand when somebody wants to be let alone—”

  “Not everybody understands that.” She looked around the room, a familiar hard light in her eyes. More than one man fidgeted and looked away.

  So that was why she carried a gun, Tag thought, and why she didn’t trust strange men. It must have been a hell of a culture shock for a woman like her, educated, refined. Blue blood and old money.

  Something had driven her out here, and not just studying mountain lions. Tag stuck with his first guess that it was a man. And then a couple of the bastards around here had finished the job by deciding to try their luck with a woman on her own seventy-five miles from anyone who gave a damn. And more than one of them looked like they wouldn’t take no for an answer—if they even bothered to ask. That thought almost took him out of his chair, his hands clenching with the urge to beat somebody to a bloody pulp.

  He stopped himself, regulated his breathing, a
nd unknot his muscles one by one. He didn’t waste a minute deliberating over the emotion burning through him, either. He’d learned a long time ago that emotion was dangerous. All emotion. He wanted Alex, even bruised and groggy he’d wanted her. But that was lust and lust could be dealt with. What he felt when he looked at her now was respect. Respect was acceptable, and in this case it would also make his life a hell of a lot easier. She could take care of herself, so he wouldn’t have to waste time watching out for her.

  That would make up for the time he’d need to spend convincing her.

  He checked back in to her conversation with Jess, figuring he hadn’t missed anything since they were talking about someone named Maudey, who needed braces and wanted to be a zoologist, just like Alex.

  “He thinks the treasure can help him put his granddaughter through college,” Alex said after Jess shuffled off. “The treasure could help a lot of people in this town. If it was ever found.”

  “You still don’t believe it will be.”

  “If it is, it probably won’t be anybody from Casteel. Matt’s right about news traveling fast,” she said. “Most of the people in here are local, but the ones waiting in line outside aren’t. They’re drifters, itinerant cowboys, opportunists. They won’t waste the effort of looking for the treasure but they’re more than willing to take advantage of the nutcases who will.”

  The nutcases, Tag decided, were the ones approaching Alex. They came to the table in ones or twos, to ask her about the Lost Spaniard.

  Tag recovered his coffee and sat back, feeling pretty smug until Alex stood up, raised her hands, and said into the sudden hush, “I don’t know anything about the Lost Spaniard, and I don’t want anything to do with it.”

  “C’mon, Alex,” somebody called out, “Trankey said you and that fella you’re with was talking about some new clue—”

  She stood up again, meeting the speaker’s eyes, then doing a slow visual survey of the room. “This fella is Tag Donovan. Neither of us has eaten or slept in thirty-six hours. We’d appreciate being left alone to have our breakfast—if we can ever order it,” she added, glancing at the counter where the lone waitress stood glaring at her, arms crossed. “After that, feel free to ask him your questions.” More grumbling. “Or maybe you’d like him to announce what he knows to the room at large.”

  That did it. The crowd went completely silent. Then the whispering began, people huddled together over their tables, wanting to pick Tag’s brain but not in front of everyone else. Alex knew it was only a matter of time before someone worked up the gumption to approach him. The waitress broke the ice by sashaying over, steaming coffeepot in one hand, order pad in the other.

  “I’ll have a ham and cheese omelet, hash browns, wheat toast, and orange juice,” Alex said before she could ask Tag what he wanted, “and coffee.”

  The waitress gave her a dirty look, so Alex stood up and yelled her order to the cook. She looked at Tag, he shrugged, and she added, “make that two of everything,” then sat down, pulling Tag’s freshly refilled coffee over in front of her.

  “Let me guess,” he said as the waitress flounced off, “that’s Annabelle, the sheriff’s new girlfriend.”

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “I generally like conversation with my meals, but if you’re going to be nasty…”

  Alex smiled and tipped her head toward the line that was forming. “I don’t think you’re going to lack for conversation.”

  Tag retrieved his coffee cup. “I don’t know if you can call it a conversation when I’m expected to do all the talking.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll be asking questions. Lots of questions.”

  “I have a feeling there’s going to be a common theme.”

  Alex laughed. It was almost worth the ordeal ahead to see her guard drop. Almost.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance they’ll believe me if I deny it,” Tag wondered. “It’s just a rumor anyway.”

  “Rumors are gospel in this town,” Alex said, waiting until Annabelle set their plates on the table with a cranky little snap and walked away before she continued.

  “That leaves me with two choices, misdirection or silence.”

  “Lie,” Alex said. “You’re good at that.”

  “Thanks. What do you suggest I tell them?”

  “You’ll figure it out,” she said around a bite of omelet. “You seem to be very resourceful.”

  Okay, she was challenging him to handle this without her running interference. It should have ticked him off, but he was still smiling. “I’m sure you understand why I’m keeping what I know to myself,” he said loud enough for the whole room to hear.

  Alex’s gaze lifted from her plate, her eyes narrowing on his face.

  “I will tell you that I’m hoping Alex will be my guide,” Tag finished.

  “Her?” one old man scoffed. “She’s from Boston.” Which might as well be Mars, judging by his tone. “Hell, Harp Santiago knows these valleys like the back of his hand.”

  “Really?” Tag said. “Where can I find Mr. Santiago?”

  “In the cemetery,” someone called out, and the whole restaurant erupted in laughter.

  Tag joined in, but he was thinking, great, I finally found people who don’t laugh about the treasure and they’re all as crazy as a three-dollar bill. And apparently he was one of them. It didn’t say much for his chances of success. “Anyone else who could help?”

  Names were called out, but those who were present in the diner immediately supplied a reason they couldn’t guide Tag. Some of the reasons were pretty lame, and as people realized they’d gotten all they were going to get out of him, they began to leave.

  “I guess it’s you as my guide or no one,” Tag said to Alex.

  She pushed her empty plate aside and drank some more of his coffee. “You know all those people who couldn’t guide you?” she said. “They’re going out to look for the treasure themselves. Within a week the hills and valleys around here will be so crowded they’ll be tripping over each other. They’ll all be carrying guns, and some of these people shouldn’t have passed the three-day waiting period to own one. They’re harmless most of the time, but I wouldn’t want to be wandering around with armed men all over the place.”

  “You think they’re going to shoot at me?”

  “I think they’re likely to hit you. Hunting accidents happen all the time.”

  Tag thought about that, and while he was mulling, Matt came in and stopped at their table.

  “Is it as bad as we thought it would be?” he wanted to know.

  “Worse,” Alex said. “A lot of these guys are from out of town.”

  “I was kind of hoping the people around here would keep this to themselves.”

  “Word got out a lot sooner than you expected.”

  “Yeah.” Matt gave Tag a hard, warning look, and wandered off to the counter. Annabelle was there almost before he got his butt on the stool, pouring him coffee and batting her eyes.

  “Isn’t he going to do anything about these lunatics?” Tag asked.

  Alex shook her head. “From what I understand this happens about every ten years and blows over in a few months. Your best bet is to wait it out.”

  Except he didn’t have a few months, Tag thought. He had to figure out what was going on. In order to do that he needed Alex’s cooperation, and she was still refusing to come on board. Things could probably get worse, but he didn’t see how.

  “There’s some sort of commotion outside.” Alex stood up so she could see out the windows.

  Tag retrieved his coffee and racked his brain for a way around the dead end.

  “Looks like more newcomers,” Alex said, “in black SUVs. And the guy in charge is really… short.”

  She headed for the door. Tag kept his seat. The dead end had just grown another wall. Shit.

  Chapter Seven

  BY THE TIME THEY GOT OUTSIDE, A HUMMER, A Land Rover, and a Jeep were parked in the middle of t
he street. All three of the vehicles were shiny, unadorned black, and all were equipped with tire chains. The rear license plate on the Hummer read “Eureka 1” Alex figured the others were “2” and “3,” since the overall theme was “private army” and armies generally encouraged uniformity.

  The Hummer was dragging the kind of trailer workers used to transport a lot of tools, shiny black and completely enclosed. Keeping its own secrets. The Land Rover and the Jeep were keeping their secrets, too, the drivers staying inside, behind dark tinted windows.

  The Hummer driver was standing on his running board, one hand on the open door, the other on his hip, surveying his surroundings like Bluebeard on the poop deck of his pirate ship. Hilary atop Mount Everest. Pee Wee Herman in his playhouse.

  His head barely reached the top of the Hummer’s windshield and Alex caught herself craning her neck to see if he used a booster seat. She was having a hard time taking him seriously, but she was the only one holding back her merriment. The rest of the crowd was speechless—which was saying something in Casteel—huddled together like a herd of wildebeests sharing their water hole with a leopard.

  Alex was puzzled about the fear until she looked into his hard black eyes, and then she understood. Cold was the word that came to mind, along with unfeeling, cruel. Ruthless.

  He peeled off a pair of leather driving gloves, one finger at a time, and took off his Ray-Bans to look around the town, ending with a slow and disdainful perusal of the people crowded along the sidewalk. They recoiled like baseball fans doing a reverse wave. Since Alex and Tag had chosen to remain by the diner’s door, the disdain passed them by. Alex still couldn’t suppress the sudden urge for a shower.

  “What’s he compensating for?” she asked Tag from behind her hand.

  “Nothing,” Tag said, “the guy is good at what he does.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He finds things for people.”

  “Sounds like you know him.”

  “Mercenary,” Tag said grimly. “I ran across him a few years back.” Tag had been undercover working for one side of a mob turf war, the Hummer driver, at his mercenary finest, on the other. Tag could have said a lot of things about the guy—all of them bad—but he had great instincts, great enough that somehow he’d smelled the end coming and had gotten out before it came down to handcuffs and mug shots. Good for Tag, since his FBI affiliation hadn’t been discovered. Bad because a criminal was free to roam the world doing anything he wanted, for anyone. And apparently he held a grudge. “Name’s Pierre Phillipe Francois Dussaud II.”