Stephen Frey

by Trust Fund

  Bo shoved the Jeep in gear, then looked up and smiled. “Bring Katie and the kids over to the ranch for dinner one night this week,” he called after Blackburn, revving the Jeep’s engine. “I’ve got a saddle I want to give you. It’ll be perfect for your older boy.”

  Blackburn laughed despite his frustration. Bo had that way about him. You liked him even when you wanted to kick his ass. “You know what, Bo?”

  “What?”

  “Dealing with you is like trying to herd rabbits. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind about running you in.” Blackburn turned away as he heard a call coming in over the patrol car’s two-way radio.

  “Goodnight, Sheriff!” Bo shouted as he raced off, spewing gravel at the patrol car. He was dying for another taste of vodka.

  “You seem to know that cop pretty well,” Tiffany observed. She was a tall platinum blond with a mole above her upper lip.

  Bo glanced over at her. She had high cheek bones just like Melissa’s, he noticed, studying her by the greenish glow of the dashboard lights. He checked the rearview mirror. Blackburn had extinguished the patrol car’s cherry-tops, but Bo could see the vehicle’s headlights pacing them several hundred yards back. “Yeah, I know him. We’ve been friends for a while. He’s a good man, but he’s got a den-mother complex. He feels like everybody in town is his personal responsibility.”

  Bo retrieved the vodka bottle from beneath his seat and held it up, considering what Blackburn had said about too much drinking. “Screw it,” he muttered and took a long, defiant swig, then handed the bottle to Tiffany. “He thinks that being a law enforcement officer gives him the right to intrude without restraint.”

  “I hate it when the government sticks its nose into our lives,” she said indignantly, grabbing the bottle. “We shouldn’t have to worry about them digging into our private affairs all the time.”

  “Amen, sister.” Bo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching bubbles rise in the bottle as Tiffany drank. She was pretty, in a hard-edged way, but there was a desperate look about her too. Like life had dealt her more than a few bad hands and there weren’t many chips left on her side of the table.

  She gasped as the liquor hit her hard. “You don’t go long without a drink, do you, Bo?”

  “Well,” he drawled, “some people say I’m an alcoholic, but I think they’re just jealous.”

  Tiffany laughed. She had met many men in her line of work, but never one like Bo Hancock. “It’s pretty up here,” she said, gazing through the twilight at the scenery.

  To their right was the Kootenai, a wide, fast river that cascaded out of British Columbia into northwest Montana, then turned around and retreated as if it hadn’t found the United States to its liking. Majestic pine-covered peaks rose from both banks of the river, and the virgin forests were inhabited by elk and moose, as well as the mountain lions, wolves, and grizzly bears that hunted them. Towns in these parts were isolated and small.

  “Very pretty,” she repeated, hoping that the tiny, needlelike microphone she had attached to the dashboard during the traffic stop was transmitting. She had followed her instructions to the letter.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What kind of name is ‘Bo’ anyway?” she asked.

  “It’s short for Bolling.”

  “Oh.” Tiffany gave the bottle back to him, then put her hand on his thigh and squeezed. “I’m chilly,” she said, shivering.

  Bo flipped on the heat. It was early April, and when the sun went down there was still a bite in the air. Winter hadn’t released its grip on the territory yet.

  “Are you from Montana?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  “No.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Out East,” he answered evasively. Even after a year out here the instinct to protect still kicked in automatically.

  “You know, getting an answer out of you is like paddling upstream on that river over there,” she said, pointing into the darkness. “Will the tips be good tonight?”

  “Should be.” He thought he saw her look of desperation deepen. “Ought to be quite a crew there.”

  Sheriff Blackburn had sized up the situation precisely during the traffic stop. They were heading for Little Lolo’s, a tavern located in a lonely spot fifteen miles east of town beside a long bend in the river. Tiffany would be the entertainment in the back room this evening—as long as Blackburn didn’t show up and spoil the fun. The sheriff had put a stop to exotic dancing at Lolo’s last week.

  Each summer, fishermen traveled to Libby from around the world, and Blackburn didn’t want his quaint Montana town developing a nasty reputation on the Internet as a rowdy place full of seamy strip bars. However, the boys—an eclectic group of locals Bo had befriended last fall—were already starved for female entertainment. Bo had picked Tiffany up this afternoon from a strip bar in Missoula, promising her a thousand dollars plus tips in return for the hundred-mile journey to Libby and a Saturday night performance.

  Bo patted Tiffany’s icy fingers reassuringly. “Don’t worry,” he said gently. He could see she was scared. “You’ll be fine. I’ll take care of you. I’ll drive you back to Missoula tonight when you’re finished,” he promised. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “Thanks.” Tiffany smiled. She had been impressed with Bo’s nonchalance in the face of arrest. “So, what do you do?”

  It was nice to be in a part of the country where people had no idea who he or the Hancock family was. “I’m semiretired,” Bo answered. Though not for much longer, he thought. He’d had enough of Montana—Paul’s campaign be damned.

  “You don’t look old enough to be retired.”

  He chuckled. Tiffany was young, and forty-three would sound ancient to her. “I don’t feel old enough either.”

  “What did you do before you retired?”

  “I was a farmer.”

  “A farmer?” she repeated, surprised.

  “I grew money,” he explained, laughing.

  “So you’re good with numbers.”

  “Yes.”

  “Real good?”

  “Try me.”

  “What’s seventy-two times thirty-nine?” she blurted out.

  “Two thousand eight hundred and eight,” he answered immediately.

  Tiffany closed her eyes and did the calculation slowly. “Hey, that’s right,” she said. “At least I think it is. How did you do that so quickly?”

  “I’ve had the ability ever since I was young.”

  “Can you do that every time?” she asked, sounding impressed.

  “Every time. You see, numbers are one of the best things in life, Tiffany.” He checked the rearview mirror. Blackburn was still back there pacing the Jeep. “They can tell you almost anything you want to know and they’re completely dependable. They never lie, unlike people.”

  “Why did you stop working?”

  “I needed time off.”

  “Will you go back?”

  He hesitated. “Why do you want to know?”

  She slid her hand along his leg and squeezed. “Because I like you. I don’t want you to go back East—I’d never see you again.” She moved her hand higher on his leg so that her fingers disappeared beneath his baggy khaki shorts. “You’re thinking about going back, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What did you say?” she asked. “I couldn’t hear you over the engine.”

  “I’m thinking about it,” he said in a louder voice. “Montana is nice, but I love the financial world. New York City is where I belong.”

  “What’s keeping you here?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  Bo peered out into the darkness.

  “Tell me about your family,” she said, removing her hand from his leg and tugging at the hem of her miniskirt.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I was just making conversation,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to pry.�
��

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, embarrassed. He’d been thinking about how difficult it was going to be to defy Jimmy Lee.

  “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

  “Two brothers and two sisters.”

  Tiffany brightened. “So do I. What are their names?”

  “My brothers are Teddy and Paul and my sisters are Catherine and Ashley.”

  “Are you close to them?”

  “Catherine and I have always gotten along pretty well,” he answered, “and I was very close to Ashley when she and I were young, but after college she went to Europe and never came back. That was almost twenty years ago.”

  Tiffany’s eyes widened. “You haven’t seen your sister in twenty years?”

  “I’ve seen her a few times,” he said. “When I was traveling over there. Not for very long when I did though.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  Bo jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid the carcass of a rabbit killed by a passing car. “I think it was because she couldn’t stand my father, but we’ve never really talked about it.”

  Tiffany nodded as if the explanation had struck a nerve. “Why were you close to her and not the others?”

  Bo hesitated. “I guess because we were the two youngest.”

  “Do you miss Ashley?”

  “What?” He’d been a thousand miles away, thinking about why he and Ashley had been that close growing up. It wasn’t simply because they were the youngest. They’d shared a deep bond that he’d never been able to explain. “What did you say?”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Yes,” he admitted quietly.

  “Maybe you could help me invest my money.” Tiffany sensed that she had struck a nerve and that it might be best to change the subject. “I’ve built up a nest egg to—”

  “Uh-oh,” Bo interrupted. In the rearview mirror he saw the patrol car’s emergency lights go on. He shoved the vodka bottle beneath the seat as Blackburn raced toward them. “Here comes trouble.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The sheriff must have decided to run me in after all.” The boys at Little Lolo’s were going to be disappointed. Blackburn would undoubtedly force Tiffany to go to town as well and miss her performance.

  But the patrol car tore past them, siren blaring, and disappeared around a curve.

  “What was that all about?”

  Bo shook his head. “No telling.”

  A few miles down the narrow, twisting road they came upon several emergency vehicles, red lights flashing. Bo slowed down and guided the Jeep cautiously past burning flares, Blackburn’s patrol car parked at an angle to the side of the road and an ambulance parked the same way. At the center of the cluster was a late-model sedan, upside down, roof flattened into the passenger area. Extending from the driver’s side of the car was a limp, bloody arm. The entire scene was brightly lighted by the high-beams of the emergency vehicles.

  “Is it bad?” Tiffany leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the wreckage.

  “No.” Bo pushed her back into her seat, then took one more look as they passed within several feet of the wreckage.

  “I hope the people were all right,” Tiffany said softly. “My little brother was killed in a car accident.”

  “I’m sorry.” Anyone inside the wreckage was dead. Blackburn wouldn’t be coming to Little Lolo’s. He’d be filing fatality reports.

  They rode in silence for several minutes, then Bo turned off the state road onto a gravel lane cutting through a thick patch of tall cedar trees. It was pitch-black in here and he flicked on the Jeep’s high-beams.

  “Pull over,” Tiffany directed suddenly.

  “What?”

  “Here.” She grabbed the steering wheel and aimed the Jeep at the trees lining the lane.

  “Hey!” Bo slammed on the brakes and the vehicle skidded to a halt, the front bumper inches from a thick trunk. “What are you doing?”

  “I want some time alone with you before we go in.”

  “Huh?” Bo glanced at Little Lolo’s a hundred yards ahead of them. Music was blaring from inside and there were already a few cars parked out front.

  Tiffany leaned toward him until their lips were close. “I like you, and I need to get warmed up before I go in there.”

  Bo felt her fingers sliding inside his shorts again. “What do you mean, ‘warmed up’?”

  “Before I go onstage, I need to be ready.” She kissed his jutting chin. “You know what I mean.”

  Bo smelled her perfume. It was cheap, but somehow that seemed appropriate and his excitement intensified. “I can’t do this,” he mumbled, thinking of Meg. “I—I can’t.”

  Tiffany pulled back, laughing confidently as she undid her halter top. “You can and you will.” She pulled the top away and her breasts spilled out.

  Bo gazed at them in the dashboard light. They were large and firm. As he stared, she cupped them in her hands and brought one nipple to her mouth, running her tongue around it. He felt himself losing control. “Please don’t.”

  She reached over, undid his shorts, then leaned down and carefully pulled him out.

  Instantly he could feel her hot breath on him and excitement surged through his body. A moment longer and it would be too late. “Tiffany, stop!” He grabbed a fistful of her blond hair and pulled her head up violently.

  At the same moment the Jeep’s door flew open and a camouflage-clad man burst into the vehicle, clamped a damp rag over Bo’s face, forcing it against his nostrils and deep into his mouth, and pinned him to the seat.

  Blind, Bo reached beneath the seat, desperately grasping for the gun as he struggled against his attacker. He could feel himself weakening as he inhaled the awful odor of the substance soaking the rag. His fingers closed around the 9 mm pistol lying beside the near-empty vodka bottle, but it was too late. His eyes flickered shut and the last thought that went through his mind as his fingers went slack around the gun was that he hadn’t heard Tiffany scream.

  Up to this point it had been an easy assignment, his easiest yet in his four years as a Hazeltine employee. Move to the tiny town of Libby, Montana; keep a casual eye on Bo Hancock for the people back East; report in once a week. Nothing tricky, just don’t screw up and let Bo figure out who you are or what you’re doing. Those had been the orders. With all of his expenses paid for, ample free time, and no superior on-site to answer to, things couldn’t have been much better for him—until tonight.

  Hands and feet tightly bound behind his back, he was powerless to defend himself as the three men forced his head beneath the river’s icy surface and into the muddy bottom of the shallows. He screamed into the black water out of instinct, not because he believed they would take pity on him. He knew better.

  When they were certain he was dead, they pulled his limp body out of the water, onto the bank, and up into the cover of the thick forest. Here they were hidden from any prying eyes, though the precaution was hardly necessary. They were three miles from the nearest farmhouse, and at this late hour there were no fishing boats on the Kootenai.

  “What do we do with him?”

  The leader nodded into the darkness. “Carry him halfway up the side of this mountain and bury him. No one will ever find him out here.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “How do you feel?”

  Bo brought his hands slowly to his face.

  “You don’t look so good,” the voice continued.

  Bo tried to sit up but fell back on the couch with a loud groan. “Where am I?” he mumbled, trying desperately to clear his head. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  Bo took a deep breath and made another painful attempt to lift up, managing this time to pull himself to a sitting position. It was all coming back to him. A wild struggle in the Jeep, viselike hands smothering his face with a foul-smelling rag, then darkness.

  “Are you all right?”

  Vaguely aware that his hands and feet
weren’t bound, Bo tried to stand, hoping that whoever had brought him here wouldn’t expect him to run so quickly. Once more his body failed him and he tumbled back on the couch, head spinning.

  “I wouldn’t advise moving so fast just yet. Give yourself some more time. Apparently you’ve been through a very difficult experience.”

  Through the dense fog dulling his senses, Bo recognized Michael Mendoza’s distinctive voice. It was deep and melodic, still faintly tinged with an accent acquired during early childhood in Castro’s Cuba. Bo relaxed and let out a relieved breath. Somehow he had been rescued. Mendoza was an old friend.

  “Should I request medical assistance?” Mendoza asked, his baritone laugh filling the room. He was well aware of Bo’s fondness for scotch. He was also aware of how unhappy Bo had been during his exile in Montana and how the drinking had spun out of control in the last few months. Jimmy Lee had communicated with Bo only twice since sending him far away from the spotlight a year ago, but he’d kept close tabs on his son with constant reports from a Hazeltine employee who had quietly taken up residence in Libby to watch over Bo from the shadows. Mendoza had spoken to Jimmy Lee on several occasions over the past month and received detailed updates on Bo’s activities in Montana.

  Bo managed to pry his eyes open slightly, but the world was lost inside a kaleidoscope. “Where am I, Michael?”

  “In a hotel room.”

  “I mean, where—”

  “Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I’m in town for an international trade summit.”

  “How did I get to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, from Libby, Montana?”

  “A couple of my aides brought you down here to me,” Mendoza explained. “I found out at the last minute that I was going to be the summit’s keynote speaker because the senator who was supposed to speak fell ill suddenly. Anyway, I knew you were out here, so I tried to call as I was leaving Washington yesterday. Since we haven’t seen each other since you left for Montana, I thought it would be nice to get together. I’ve missed you. Your cell phone went straight to voice mail every time I tried to make contact, so I sent a couple of my people ahead looking for you. I was worried.”