Suzanne Brockmann - Team Ten 08 - Identity Unknown

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He pulled away from her to cover himself, and she resisted the urge to cling to him. She knew he would be back in a matter of moments. Still, she would use this as practice for the real thing, for when they would part for good.

  He held her gaze as he came back to her, as he joined her in one slow, perfect thrust.

  It was too good, too perfect, and Becca pulled him to her and kissed him, afraid of what he might see if he looked too close.

  She shut her eyes and loved him.

  All night long.

  r

  Chapter

  ' 'Mr. Haymore?"

  "Only folks call me Mr. Haymore be bill collectors and magazine salesmen." The tall African-American man stood at one of the sinks in the church kitchen. His back was to Mish and Becca, but he didn't turn around. He kept right on washing stalks of celery as he spoke. "If you're here on that sort of business, you might as well just walk right back out the door. You'll have to catch me some other time. But if you're here for something friendlier, call me Jarell, wash your hands and roll up your sleeves. I could use some help chopping this celery. Got two hundred forty people to feed tonight, and time's wasting."

  Mish moved to the next sink over and started washing his hands. "Jarell. I spent the night at the shelter here two weeks ago. Do you remember me by any chance?"

  Jarell's face broke into an enormous smile. "Well, I'll be! If it isn't Mission Man! Mish! You are looking good,

  my man! Out of uniform, but still doggone good! Staying clean, I'll wager." He held out a big wet hand for Mish to shake, then pulled him in for an embrace. "Glory be, it is a good day!"

  "Out of uniform...?" The words had a strangely familiar ring to them.

  "Yeah, you're here for your jacket, aren't you? I'm afraid it's pretty badly stained, though, and..." Jarell caught sight of Becca as he released Mish. "Hey, who's this?"

  "Becca Keyes," Mish told him. "A...friend of mine."

  She met his eyes briefly in acknowledgement of his hesitation, and he felt a wave of heat as a vivid memory of the night before flashed through him as clear as day. He could see Becca shattering as she sat astride him, head thrown back, breasts taut with desire as he, too, exploded in perfect slow motion. Friend, yes, but friend wasn't a big enough word for what she was to him. Except lover didn't quite cover the intensity of their relationship, either.

  Jarell wiped his hands on a towel before enveloping Becca in a welcoming hug.

  "Did I leave...a jacket here?" Mish asked.

  "I knew you'd be back for it." Jarell picked up a knife and set to work chopping celery. "You were pretty out of it the morning you left. You were wearing it when you came in, along with a shirt, but they were both soaking wet so Max and I took 'em off you so as you wouldn't catch a chill. I apologize for not reminding you of that in the morning, although, like I said, I'm pretty sure the jacket's ruined." He set down the knife and wiped his hands again as he headed toward the office door. "I'll get that for you."

  "Thank you," Mish said. His jacket. And a shirt. He

  had no idea what they would look like, but maybe—just maybe—they would trigger more memories.

  Becca touched his hand. "Don't expect too much," she said softly.

  He forced a smile. "I never do."

  "Here you go," Jarell said, coming back into the room, carrying a plastic grocery bag. "If you get it cleaned, it'll keep you warm at least. Not that you're needing to stay warm with this heat wave we've been having."

  Mish took the bag from Jarell, glancing inside. The jacket was black. From what he could tell, a plain suit jacket. Nothing special, nothing strange. He felt a rush of disappointment. Still, maybe Jarell could provide some other information.

  Becca had picked up a knife and started chopping celery,, earning one of Jarell's million-dollar smiles. Mish was afraid he'd cut off a finger if he tried to help, afraid his hands were actually shaking. Please, Lord, let him either find some answers or the peace to live with never knowing the truth....

  " "I was wondering," Mish said, "if that one night was the only time I stayed at the shelter, or..." He cleared his throat, "I know this sounds awful, but I was wondering if I spent the night here any time before that."

  Jarell blew out a stream of air as he began cutting celery again. "Whew, it was a bad one, huh? Mish, I can't tell you how often I've seen it happen. A good man gives in to the temptation, takes a drink and ends up on a binge, God knows where." He laughed ruefully. "Then he spends the rest of his life unable to reclaim those days of blackout, always wondering just where he was and what kind of trouble he got into while he was gone." He sighed again. "As far as I was aware, the first time you used a bed at the First Church shelter was the only time. The

  night you were brought in was my fifth night on in a row. Rico's brother got arrested down in Natchez, and I was covering for him, working more nights than usual. So unless you were drinking hard for more than a week, and sleeping somewhere else, which of course is entirely possible..." His eyes were dark with sympathy. "How many days of blackout you trying to recall?"

  Becca was watching him, and Mish glanced at her only briefly. He liked Jarell, but the truth made him uncomfortably vulnerable. He didn't want to tell anyone about his amnesia. "Too many," he answered vaguely.

  "Hmm." Jarell frowned down at his celery. "Is it good news or bad news if I tell you a couple of men were in here a few days ago, flashing your picture around, looking for you?"

  Damn. "One of them have barbed wire tattooed around his biceps?" Mish asked, managing to sound matter-of-fact. "Other one blond, dresses like he comes from California?"

  "Barbed-wire tattoo, yes," Jarell said.

  Becca exclaimed softly, and Mish looked up to see her nursing her finger where she'd nicked it with the knife.

  "But his friend was Native American. Big man. Dark hair. Quiet. Reminded me of Chief from Cuckoo's Nest." Jarell gestured with his head toward the sink. "Run it under cold water," he advised Becca. He glanced back at Mish. "They also wanted to know if you'd been here more than just one night. They seemed friendly enough..."

  "But...?"

  "But dangerous," Jarell admitted. "It was just a hunch, a gut feeling, but they were the kind of guys you'd want to make sure were playing on your team. Whether the game's softball or something else, you wouldn't want 'em

  to be part of the opposition." He paused. "You want to leave a message in case they come back?"

  "No," Mish said. "Thanks, but I know where to find them."

  "You want me to tell 'em you've been here if they come back, asking, or...?" The old man's eyes were knowing. He'd done his share of hard, harsh living.

  Mish shook his head. "I'd appreciate if it you could forget to mention we were here, but I wouldn't want to ask you to lie."

  Jarell smiled. "Wouldn't have to lie. I'd just have to start spouting scripture. I'm sure you know what would happen then. They'd be done with their questions soon enough."

  Mish laughed. "I'd appreciate it."

  "No problem, my man."

  Mish glanced inside the bag again. He wanted to examine the jacket and shirt more closely, but not here. Somewhere more private. Like maybe back in Becca's motel room. Maybe after they'd pulled the curtains and spent an hour or two naked....

  He was staring at her. And she was gazing back at him, trepidation in her eyes.

  She hadn't truly believed him when he'd told her about recognizing the men in the van. But she did now. And now she was realizing that—what had she called it?—this Clint Eastwood thing wasn't a movie, but was, in fact, Mish's real life.

  Mish pulled his gaze away from her, and forced a smile in Jarell's direction, holding out his hand again. "Thank you so much. For everything."

  Jarell slapped him five. "You're welcome so much. I'm glad I could be of help."

  Mish opened the door to the parking lot and stepped back, waiting for Becca to go first.

  "Just remember," Jarell called after them. "One day at a time, Father. Jus
t one day at a time."

  "Father?" Becca said. Had Jarell just called Mish Father?

  Outside the church kitchen, the early-afternoon sun seemed brain-searingly bright. Mish was scanning the surrounding neighborhood, as if searching for any sign of the tattooed man or his friends from the surveillance van. God, could those men really be looking for Mish?

  Mish shook his head, obviously distracted. "He's full of weird nicknames."

  She unlocked the passenger side door to her truck, then crossed around the front. "Why did he call you Mission Man?"

  Mish reached across the cab to unlock her door. "I don't know." He glanced down at the bag he was holding before he went back to scanning the world outside the truck's windshield. "Do you mind if we go back to the room?"

  "So we can pull the curtains and hide?" she wondered aloud as she started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot. "Mish, maybe you should just walk up to these guys, find out who they are and why they're looking for you."

  He was silent, unwilling to give her a long list of reasons why approaching these men could be a terrible mistake. It was possible they had been sent to fix the bearded man's botched job. Maybe they would grab him, pull him into the van, drive him someplace isolated and pop him— plug two bullets into the back of his head. It was also possible that before they did that, they'd take him somewhere isolated and ask him questions he couldn't possibly

  answer, no matter the pain they inflicted upon him. And wouldn't that be fun?

  But the thought that they might get their hands on Becca and threaten her safety to get him to talk made his blood run cold.

  "Or maybe," Becca said, "we should just get our things, check out of the motel, and go back to the Lazy Eight. You can work for me as long as you want to—as long as you need to. If you want, I could teach you how to care for the horses. I could teach you to ride. I could—" She broke off, as if suddenly aware of how desperate she sounded. "I like you, and care about you," she tried to explain. "You know that. I haven't exactly tried to hide that from you. All I'm saying is that if you do want to put whatever this is behind you, I'm here to do whatever I can to help."

  Mish felt a rush of emotion that pressed behind his eyes and made his chest feel constricted. I'm here... He didn't have to be alone in this—he wasn 't alone. Yet at the same time, he felt this odd mixture of disappointment and relief because she hadn't told him that she loved him. The disappointment didn't make sense—he was already terrified of hurting her, terrified of getting her inextricably involved in any of this, of putting her into physical danger.

  And heaven help them both if she decided that she loved him....

  *'Thanks," he told her. "I just... I want to look at this jacket and shirt before I decide what my next move is going to be."

  "I don't suppose there's a name tag sewn inside the jacket?" Becca laughed. "Probably not. It's probably been a few years since your mother sent you to summer camp."

  Mish couldn't manage more than a wan smile. "Look, Bee, I know you need to get back to the ranch—''

  "I can call Hazel, find out what the guest load is like, find out if I can take a few more days. Last I knew, the week was only lightly booked, so unless we've had a party check in at short notice, I won't need to get back right away."

  She pulled into the motel lot and parked near her room, turning to look at him almost challengingly. "Unless you still want me to leave."

  Mish got out of the truck, unwilling to sit there on display, where anyone could see them. "I don't want you caught in the crossfire. If someone's gunning for me—"

  "Then let's both leave Wyatt City." Becca had to run to catch up with him. "Right now."

  He unlocked the door, and they stepped into the room.

  It was welcomingly cool and soothingly dark after the harsh brightness of the afternoon heat. They'd left a Do-Not-Disturb sign on the door, and the bedcovers were still rumpled from the night before, the colorful wrappers from the condoms they'd used still scattered on the floor.

  Mish locked the door behind them, aware that they'd also locked the door the night before, aware that he wanted her again, just as badly as he'd wanted her last night.

  More so.

  And she knew it, too. She kissed him lightly, brushing both her lips and body against him in a message that was impossible to miss. And in case he did miss it, she said, "Why don't we wait to leave until tonight? We can take our time, take a nap—maybe catch a few hours of sleep."

  Mish caught her, pulling her tightly against him, kissing her hard, letting her feel what she did to him. "Sleep?"

  Becca smiled, glad he was no longer trying to ignore

  the attraction that sparked and ignited between them with little more than eye contact. "I did say maybe. But...first things first."

  She pulled away from him, picking up the plastic grocery bag from where it had slipped out of his hands and taking it to the little table by the window. "Oh, this is what I smell." She pulled the jacket out, held it up. It was stiff, encrusted with mud, stained and spotted. And it smelled bad. "Wow, if you smelled even slightly like this when you woke up in the shelter, I've got your nickname figured out. Jarell wasn't calling you Mission Man, he was calling you Emission Man."

  She handed the jacket to Mish, who winced. "Whoa, man! I'm sorry—I can take this outside if you want."

  "I can handle it. I work with horses," she reminded him as she pulled the shirt out of the bag. "You know, I was kidding about the name tags sewn in, but sometimes cleaners stencil part or even all of a customer's name onto the tail of a shirt."

  Yet there was nothing there. The white shirt itself was unsalvageable, permanently stained dark brown in places from blood. Mish's blood.

  He'd been shot and left for dead, bleeding in an alley. The thought made her a little light-headed.

  "Check the pockets of the jacket," she told him, trying to sound as if searching articles of clothing for any identifying marks was something she did every day. "I didn't check the pockets."

  "Empty," he reported. "But..."

  Something in his voice made her turn toward him.

  "I think there's something sewn into the lining. Here at the hem."

  He held it out to her, and sure enough, there was some-

  thing hard in there. Something small, but something that didn't bend.

  "I have a Swiss army knife in my bag," she told him, but he'd already torn the lining open.

  It was a key. An oversized key that might unlock a hotel room or a locker, with the number imprinted right on it: .

  Mish tore the lining completely out of the jacket, but there was nothing else hidden there. No notes, no messages, no nothing.

  As Becca watched, Mish hefted the key in his hand, "How much do you want to bet this key fits one of the lockers at the bus station?" He sounded so grim, considering they'd just found a major clue.

  "But that's great," Becca said. "Isn't it?"

  He didn't say anything, and she realized, bus station. The men in the van had been parked outside of the bus station. Was it possible they knew Mish had something— a suitcase, a duffel bag—stashed in one of the lockers Obviously, from the look on his face, Mish thought it was

  He picked up the plastic bag, ready to stuff the ripped jacket and shirt back in, but Becca could tell from the way he was holding the bag that there was something else still inside. He pulled it out. Like the shirt, at one time it had been white and...

  Mish stared at it.

  Becca stared at it, too, reaching behind her for the bed. She had to sit down. ''Is that.. .yours?'' she asked inanely. Of course it was his. He'd been wearing it. It was stained with his blood.

  She'd never seen one up close before, but there was no doubt in her mind as to what it was. A liturgical collar. Some kind of clip-on version. The kind that a priest would wear.

  A priest.

  With any other man, Becca might have laughed at the absurdity of the joke, but with Mish, it just was possible.

 
And it all suddenly made sense. His quiet watchfulness. His compassion, his gentleness. His ability to listen.

  Jarell had known, and had called him Father.

  Mish looked stunned. "No," he said with conviction. But then he added a whole lot less certainly, "I don't think..."

  He sat down next to her.

  On the bed.

  On the bed where they'd made love last night and again this morning and—oh, God, what had they done?

  "Well," Becca said shakily, "I guess you were right about not having a wife." She laughed, but it was borderline hysterical and tears filled her eyes. She closed them tightly, forcing herself not to lose it. However upsetting this was for her, it had to be ten times worse for Mish. "Let's go to the bus station, find out if this key does fit one of the lockers. Okay? Let's go right now, see what's in there."

  She didn't know what else they would find. God, what had she done?

  "It doesn't make sense," Mish said, as if he hadn't even heard her. "If I'm a..." He took a deep breath. ' 'I'm not. I know I'm not. Because why would I have a gun in my boot? How could I know so much about weapons and ordnance and... What about all this money I'm carrying? No. I'm not. I'm—"

  "If you are a...priest..." She had trouble saying it, too. "I'm the one responsible for making you break your vows. I seduced you. This isn't your fault, it's mine." Try as she might to be tough, she couldn't fight her tears. They escaped and she dissolved. "Oh, Mish, I'm so sorry."

  "Hey." Mish put his arms around her, pulling her close as she cried. "Shhh. Bee. This is going to be okay. I promise. Even if I am a..." He took a deep breath and let it out in a burst. "Look, what we've shared was amazing. It wasn't wrong. It was special and perfect and... It was a gift, Becca—something most people don't ever get to experience. And no matter what I find out about myself, I'm not going to regret it. I refuse to regret it. Not ever."