“You stole my credit card, too?”
That was it. The last straw. Now he was out for blood. “It wasn’t enough that you told me a cock-and-bull story. ‘Trust me, Nick’—” he parodied a high-pitched woman’s voice “—‘I don’t know how I got here,’ and ‘I’m lost, I can’t remember anything.’ No, then you run out with my money and my credit card and you’re sorry?”
He was shouting now, and several customers looked up from their drinks and conversations to stare at him. He turned his back to the crowd and continued more quietly, but just as intensely. “Look, idiot that I am, I didn’t report the money, but if you stole my credit card, too—”
“So, you haven’t reported it?” Carly interrupted. She’d been wincing under the barrage of Nick’s angry words, but now she leaned back in the seat with relief. One load off her mind—no one was hunting for her. For theft, anyway. “Oh, thank you, thank you, Nick. As soon as I can, I’ll mail back the card and the money and everything. You have my word.”
“I have your what?” His tone dripped sarcasm. “Your word, you said? What do you think I am? A moron?”
She flinched again at the hostility in his voice, but she knew she owed him an explanation. “Nick, I...I’m in trouble. There are things going on, things I can’t talk about—”
“What things?” he barked.
Through the glass window, Carly watched as a van pulled up to the auto entrance. On its side, painted with large enough letters for her to read was written AIRPORT SHUTTLE. Airport, she thought. She needed to get to the airport. Now. So she could go home. Home, where it was familiar. Safe. No palm trees, no yachts, no murders. No ambivalent attractions and messy emotions.
“Carly?” Nick drew her attention back to the phone call.
“I have to go now,” she said quickly. “I want you to know that I’ll always be grateful. You saved my life. I’m...I wish... Goodbye.”
She hated to do that, hated to leave him like that, but really, she had no choice. She hung up and without allowing herself to think again, called an airline and used Nick’s credit card to make a reservation on the next flight to Boston.
By the time she got outside, the shuttle had left, but a taxi driver said the ride to the airport would cost about twelve dollars, so she got into the cab. Rap music was playing softly on the radio. “Would you mind putting on the news station?” she asked him.
Without answering, the driver punched in a button. A traffic report came on, with all kinds of freeway numbers and names that were totally unfamiliar to her. Then, after a few minutes of listening to sports scores, she was rewarded.
“Authorities are still keeping mum about the murder of underworld figure Pete Demeter, late last night on his Marina del Rey yacht. So far, all police will say is that some articles of women’s clothing were found on board, but further details were not released. What is known is that Demeter had, since the death of his wife, Amanda, become a near recluse on his boat.”
Amanda.
“Police are asking anyone who might have information to call...”
Amanda. Nick had called her Amanda this morning. Carly stared at the back of the taxi driver’s head. Somewhere in her mind, new images were forming, floating, waiting for her. “Amanda...Amanda” played like a melody inside her head, like some kind of audio flashback. When she closed her eyes, the picture followed right behind.
A sobbing man, kneeling on the floor in front of her, crying the name Amanda over and over again. Noise. Explosions. Carly is looking at her hand In her hand is a gun. The man is lying down, half his face shot off, blood pooling all around him.
Just as abruptly as the image had come to her, it stopped right there again. She clasped her hands together, squeezing for dear life. She had been there, had been involved, had held the murder weapon in her hand, had...
No. She balked at the thought that she might have pulled the trigger. No, her mind screamed at her, even as she had to admit that, logically, it was all too possible that she was a murderer.
“Are we almost there?” she asked the driver, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Five more minutes.”
She hardly dared breathe for the rest of the ride, paid him quickly when he pulled into the terminal and got out on the run. It was now five-thirty and her flight was at eight. Maybe there was an earlier one. She had to get away, get home, get safe.
There was a long line at the terminal ticket counter, but a sign indicated that people with reservations and without luggage could pick up their tickets at the gate. She couldn’t make out her gate number on the overhead departures monitor, so had to ask someone to read it for her, then got directions from a skycap on which escalator to take to get there. Running through the crowded, bustling terminal and onto the moving ramps, she elbowed her way past everyone, up some stairs and reached her destination.
There was a line at the gate, too, but only three people. She got in place, willing those ahead of her to take care of their business quickly. She squinted up at the monitor again, trying to find an earlier flight, but without her glasses it was impossible, so she asked the man in front of her to read them to her. There was a six o’clock flight to Chicago.
Maybe she could get on that one and make a connection to Boston from there. Would that be the smart thing to do? She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, but was going on pure animal instinct to escape from danger. She had to get away from California.
She didn’t hear him approach. He made no noise and no warning alarms went off in her head, until she felt something solid being rammed into her back and heard a whispered, “Not a word. I have a gun.” She gasped, then stood very still while he went on. “Good. Now, quietly and quickly, I want you to turn to the right and walk away. Do not look around, just walk toward the escalator. Remember, I have a gun and I will use it.”
Her thudding heart was in her throat. Almost afraid to breathe, she did as she was told, not looking back. She went down the escalator and stepped off at the bottom. The man was right behind her. Now he whispered, “Walk slowly on the floor between the moving ramps toward the exit. Try anything funny and I’ll kill you.”
Again, Carly did as she was told. She had no doubt he would do as he promised.
But her mind was working. Escape, she thought wildly. She had to escape. She shifted her glance from right to left, looking for something, anything, she could use to get free. Passengers moved in both directions on the ramp. By squinting, she could see that coming toward them was a small vehicle, either an airline maintenance vehicle or one of those carts that gave rides to passengers.
The man behind her nudged her to one side, to get them out of the vehicle’s way. But Carly kept watching until she could make out the figures of two men in gray uniforms. She had to do this, and it had to be...now!
Surprising her captor—and herself—with her audacity, she stepped in the path of the vehicle, screamed and fell down to the ground, praying the man with the gun wouldn’t be stupid enough to shoot her right there. The brakes squealed as the vehicle screeched to a halt. In moments, the walkway was filled with the sounds of the angry driver yelling at her and other pedestrians running up to help her.
She lay still for several heartbeats, but there was no gunshot. Allowing herself to be helped to her feet, and murmuring assurances that she was unhurt, Carly was just in time to see the back of a man as he pushed his way through the crowd. Her immediate impression was that he was short, no more than five-six, with brown hair. He wore a tan raincoat that seemed too long for him. He did turn once, and she might have imagined the waves of pure malevolence emanating from him, but she didn’t think so. Then, like a scurrying rodent, he melted into the crowd.
Safe, she thought with a shudder. For the moment. And she’d had an admittedly nearsighted glimpse, more of an impression, of his face. Pale skin, high forehead.
As the people gathered around her asked if she was sure she was all right, Carly made a quick decision not to mention the man or the gun
. That would involve the law, and she wasn’t eager to deal with them.
She’d caught her rubber-soled thongs, she told the maintenance men, on something sticky. Again assuring everyone that she was fine, she thanked them all and headed back toward the gate. Now thoroughly out of breath, but with adrenaline roaring through her, she pushed past a small white-haired lady wearing a flowered dress. Murmuring apologies, Carly stood before the ticket attendant.
“I’m sorry, but I’m in a huge hurry. I have a reservation, under Holmes, but I need to change my flight.”
The woman, all crisp efficiency in her uniform and short, no-nonsense hairdo, seemed annoyed. “I’m sorry, too. But you can’t push ahead of someone else.”
“It’s all right,” said the white-haired woman, raising her hand to indicate her acquiescence. “I have lots of time. You go on, dear.”
Carly practically sobbed her thanks, then watched tensely while the pursed-mouthed attendant processed her ticket. “Did you check any luggage?” the woman asked.
“No. I don’t have any.”
“How are you paying?”
“Credit card.” Carly placed it on the counter.
“ID, please.”
“What?”
“I need to see a picture ID before I can process your ticket.”
“Why?”
“It’s the rule.”
“Since when?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It’s been that way for a few years.”
But Carly hated being enclosed in planes, and hadn’t flown anywhere in eight years—not while she was conscious, anyway, she reminded herself bitterly. She sure hadn’t expected this and was thrown by it.
“I’m afraid I lost my purse, so I don’t have ID. I really need that ticket. Look at me.” She tried to smile. “I’m not a criminal or anything. Please, give me the ticket.” She was close to grabbing the woman by the uniform lapels. “Please.”
A tall man in an official-looking blue jacket stepped up to the counter. “Problem?”
Picking up the phone, the attendant punched in some buttons. “This woman has no ID,” she told the security guard. “I’m checking on the credit card to see if it’s been reported stolen. It has a man’s name on it.”
“My husband’s name,” Carly lied weakly. The guard, an unsmiling, imposing man with a build like a bricklayer, stared back at her. “Please, I’m begging you.” She gripped the edge of the counter. “I have to get to Boston.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” the guard said, taking her arm just above the elbow.
“Uh-huh,” the ticket attendant said into the receiver, then read the numbers on the card. “I’ll do that,” she said, then hung up, a look of triumph on her face. “This card was reported lost fifteen minutes ago. I’ll have to confiscate it. And I’d advise you to go along with the guard now, quietly. Unless you’d rather be taken off in handcuffs.”
Chapter 4
Sunday Night
“Nick? It’s Carly. I hope you don’t mind...”
It was 6:00 p.m. Nick was home, hungover and not happy. The last thing he wanted to hear right now was her voice. He almost slammed down the receiver, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do that. “What do you want?” he growled.
“I need your help.” Even through the sluggish pounding in his head, he could hear her tension, like a thin wire stretched to the breaking point.
He steeled himself against her. “Tough.”
“Nick, please.” Her voice broke on the last word. “I’m being detained by airport security for trying to use your credit card. I promise I can explain—”
“I’ll just bet you can.”
“—but not now. I wouldn’t have called you, honestly, but you’re the only one I know in California.”
“Then I guess you need to make some new friends.”
She didn’t respond to his sarcasm for a moment. Then, she said brokenly, “They’re about to turn me over to the police. I can’t...” He heard her swallow. “I told them you lent me the card. They don’t believe me, but they said I could call you.”
He could hear her suck in ragged, desperate breaths. It got to him. Something about her had gotten to him from the first. Damn, he wished he didn’t feel so plugged into her, wished he could ignore his own knight-to-the-rescue inclination where this woman was concerned.
He made a last attempt to fight it by reminding himself that he had some pride left and was angry at her. But the day had been spent with too much anger, too much wounded pride. Also too much beer, too much trying to ignore his injured knee, too much trying to forget the night before.
Carly was at the end of her rope, he could hear it in her voice, feel it in his gut. She sounded lost and frightened.
She needed him.
He clenched his jaw, then said, “Put the head of security on the phone.”
She whispered her thanks and, after a minute, a male voice came on. “This is Evan Williams, LAX Security.”
“This is Nick Holmes. It’s my credit card you’re holding. What’s going on there?”
“Well, sir, this woman said she was your wife, then she changed her mind and said you were friends, that she borrowed the card and you’d say it was all right. She has no identification and frankly, her story sounds fishy.”
Nick rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. His body was screaming at him to fall into bed, most definitely alone, and sleep off the beer. He told himself Carly had gotten herself into this situation, so she could damn well get herself out of it.
Instead, he said, “Yeah, she’s right. She’s a friend. She can use it.”
“Then why did you report it lost?” The guard’s voice was filled with suspicion.
“Because I didn’t know she had it.”
“So, it was stolen.”
“No.” He sighed. He’d phoned the credit card company after hearing from Carly an hour ago. Now he wished the whole thing would go away. “Look, the lady and I are friends. Really good friends. Okay? It was a screwup.”
“Well, the card’s no good till they issue you a new number. Ms. Terry wants to buy a one-way ticket to Boston but she doesn’t even have ID.”
Oh? Did she? Good, he told himself. If she were gone, she’d be out of his hair. Out of his life, probably. She would disappear.
He frowned. She would disappear, again. With no explanation. And he wanted to know what the hell was going on. “Look,” he told the security guy, “I’ll be right down.”
“Wait just a minute. I—”
“I’m a copper. Just hold on to her till I get there.”
Carly sat perched on the edge of the bench in the small, windowless security office. Nick was coming, the guard had said, and she was to wait. But why was he coming? she asked herself, rubbing her hands together nervously. She hadn’t asked him to come, didn’t want to see him. He’d been so angry on the phone—what would his mood be when he got here?
Should she try to look on the bright side? she wondered wildly. Maybe it would turn out all right; maybe he was worried about her, would offer his help, with no strings attached. Right. Tell me another one.
She was doing something she’d done all her life, she realized, engaging in magic thinking—the wish of a child who hoped her fairy godmother would arrive to save the day.
Not that Nick fit that description—Carly almost laughed out loud at the thought—but she sure did need some rescuing.
Except... No, Nick was a cop. She had to avoid the police. She might be a murderer.
She had no idea how much time had passed when the door banged open and he stepped into the room. He stood still, hands fisted at his sides, a fierce look on his face. She offered up a tentative smile and started to rise from her chair.
But he didn’t smile back, didn’t open his arms to her, just stood there glaring at her. He seemed tired, but even so he radiated power and strength and an unmistakable maleness. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt over a black
turtleneck; his eyes matched the shirt and his mood matched the turtleneck.
He was still angry. Even more so than he’d been on the phone.
A shudder rippled all through her body, and she sank back onto the bench. Nick wasn’t going to save her, wasn’t going to make everything all right. The shaking began in earnest then, and she didn’t seem able to make it stop. It was as if she’d been plugged into a mixing machine. She hugged herself, but a sob rose in her throat. She made an effort to cut it off, but this time she could do nothing to keep the pain from coming up.
By sheer strength of will, Carly had been holding herself together for hours, but she had no more strength left. For the first time since she’d woken up that morning in a strange, terrifying world, she felt herself coming apart, and even though, years before, she’d been trained by a master not to cry, tears pooled from some secret river behind her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and, turning toward the wall, began to sob uncontrollably.
It was too much. It had all been too much. There was nowhere safe for her. Nowhere in the world.
Carly’s despair sliced through Nick with the impact of a bullet, and his righteous anger evaporated quickly. Crossing to her, he grabbed her elbows to pull her out of her seat. The action dragged her hands away from her face, revealing tears streaming down her cheeks. Her expression was one of such utter desolation and helplessness, he felt at a complete loss.
“Over here,” he said gruffly, pulling her to him. Still sobbing, she tried to push him away, but he was stronger. Gathering her to him, he cradled her in his arms, caressing the back of her head. “It’s okay, Carly,” he soothed. “It’s okay.” “Look here.” The uniformed security officer had been observing the whole scene without Nick even registering his presence. “I don’t know what’s going on, but—”
“Are you Williams?” Nick asked. “The one I talked to on the phone?”
“Yes.”
He sized him up; the tall, dark-skinned man with a military bearing seemed solid, a man just doing his job. Without releasing Carly, Nick reached into his back pocket and extracted his wallet. Offering it to Williams, he said, “Flip it open and check out my ID, okay?”
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