'Twas the Night

by Sandra Hill

  “Hell, JD! Sorry, Mrs. Smith. For a cop, JD, you sure are a dumb one.”

  “Ex-cop. But, yeah, looks that way now. You’re going to have to lend me money when I get there.”

  “How the hell you going to make it there now?”

  I’m just a couple of blocks away,” he said. Glancing out the window, he watched the fat snowflakes falling fast and steadily. “I’m going to have to walk, but I can make it, if I don’t die of exposure.” He glanced at info kid. “I’ll need directions.”

  “Ms. Zook can show you the way,” she chirped, her hands still clutching Amish babe.

  She’s staying at the farm right past the truck stop.”

  Kevin suddenly loved info chicks worldwide. He’d jump over the desk and hug the girl, if it weren’t for the fact that the blushing Amish lady had just paled to snow white, and shook her bonneted-head frantically before she realized he was watching.

  “I’d be so appreciative,” he boomed, because the thought of checking this woman out for a while longer appealed. Really appealed. The tingling hadn’t stopped, and he was happy for a few more moments to try and figure out its source.

  She looked at him then, full-face on, and the tingling exploded. Green eyes. About five feet three inches tall. Slender. Beautiful. Just like the glossy of Cassandra Lee Brandt that was sitting in his backpack. If he could pull the bonnet off of her head, he’d bet the ranch, so to speak, that it was covering wild ebony hair.

  When he’d first studied the picture that had accompanied the file on her given to him by defense attorney Willard Plunkin, he’d looked at that hair and decided that no one could hide in a crowd with that hair, it was so distinctive. The woman would surely have to cut it off, which was a real shame. He hadn’t counted on her disguising herself in a get-up that effectively kept her mane under wraps, so to speak. Clever. Too bad for her, he was even more clever than that.

  Busted, baby.

  “Ach, but I’m sorry,” she said. “It would not be proper.”

  He offered up his winning smile. “But wouldn’t it be nice – especially at this time of year – to offer a stranger a favor? Just come outside with me and point me in the right direction.”

  “For a hundred dollars,” she blurted, and there wasn’t a hint of German in her voice, but a whole pile of desperation.

  Greedy little Amish babe, wasn’t she? Kevin glanced at the gaping info girl, then back at greedy Amish babe, and while he kept his eyes focused on her general face area, his peripheral vision took in her drab attire. And though he was no fashion expert, he had to concede that as far as plain clothes went, hers were tailored quite nicely. As if sewn by a professional dressmaker type person.

  Definitely busted, baby.

  He sure wished he could rip off that bonnet and catch her with her hair down, framing that heart-shaped face even cupid couldn’t rival.

  But he wasn’t about to do that in public. He’d probably get arrested for assaulting a poor defenseless religious person.

  “Well?” little heart-faced-larcenous-fake-Amish-babe demanded. “Well, what?” he responded, with all the brains of a snowflake.

  “I shall show you,” she said, resuming that bad accent and speaking very, very slowly, like he needed to absorb the words in bits and pieces, “the way to the truck stop.”

  “Deal.”

  “For one hundred English dollars,” she added, holding out her hand, palm up. It didn’t help her Amish disguise that she rubbed her thumb over her fingers in the international “show me the money” signal.

  “Deal,” he said again. “You’ll get it the moment my buddy shows up at the truck stop.”

  “Yeah, Truck You,’” the goody-two-shoes-greedy-gorgeous-faux Amish babe whispered under her breath, probably not realizing that Kevin had amazing hearing, too, in addition to amazing skills at recognizing a fake when he smelled the perfumed scent of her.

  “Thank you for all your help,” he told info babe, then grabbed the elbow of the faux Amish lady and smiled. “Where does our chariot await, milady?”

  Callie Brandt was ready to scream. If Kevin Wilder had figured out who she was, he was being really cool and innocent-acting about it. Why didn’t he just get it over with and arrest her?

  And how badly did the lawyer in New York want her, if he’d sent the most notorious – and, unfortunately for her at the moment, most successful – private investigator in the state?

  Anyone who lived in New York and didn’t recognize the name or face of Kevin Wilder didn’t read newspapers and didn’t watch television. In the last five years the man had appeared in more high-profile court cases than F. Lee Bailey. He’d been dubbed in all the newspapers and local news stations as “Mister Justice, PI.”

  Was it possible that she was wanted badly enough by the New York court to warrant sending their number one guy to track her down? And how had he found her?

  She supposed she should be happy that he wasn’t making a huge scene in front of all the people milling around and looking lost in the train station. But she was pretty sure she should be protesting his big hand on her elbow, making certain she didn’t run away.

  Callie thought through her options, and came up woefully empty with alternatives. This being on the lam thing sucked. Especially when she was stuck in a floor length bag of clothing that itched and made forging a successful getaway somewhat improbable.

  She wished she had more experience in this fugitive business, but unfortunately, she was short on criminal knowledge. But one thing she knew for sure: she had to keep this guy from taking her in until after Christmas.

  “Ms. Zook, is it?” this heathen said. This very, very good-looking heathen.

  “Ja,” she answered, keeping her head low, and trying unsuccessfully to disengage her elbow from his hand.

  They approached the side entrance, and when she attempted, once again, to gain her freedom, he stuck to her as if sealed to her with Crazy Glue. Callie blew up. “Would you get your freakin—” She cleared her throat. “Please, sir, release me,”

  “Freaking?” Kevin asked. “Is that German?”

  “Yes, sir. German for donkey, you see.”

  “You’re calling me an ass?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He let her go, but dogged her steps. Callie would have loved nothing better than to kick back and shatter a knee cap, but if she remembered correctly, her Amish friends were the non-violent types. Too bad. It might have been better if she’d grown up as neighbors of mobsters, instead of these gentle folks. For sure, the wardrobe and transportation would be much improved.

  They passed by the rest rooms, and inspiration struck. “Please, sir,” she said, going for demure. How did an Amish person ask to be excused to go to the bathroom? “I must . . . freshen up before I go.”

  For a mere instant his eyes narrowed, and he hesitated. But then he glanced at the ladie’s room door and nodded. “Be my guest.”

  She didn’t rush until she got inside the bathroom. Luck was with her, as it was completely empty. She rushed right to the window, which she’d always thought was strange to have in a bathroom, but right now she blessed it for the escape route it was. The window was high up along the wall, way too high for her to reach the lock standing on the ground.

  Glancing around frantically, she found a small step stool, probably there so the cleaning staff could reach the panes to clean them. “Bless you, bless you,” she whispered, while speakers piped in cheery Christmas tunes. Feverishly she worked the rusty lock, which wasn’t all that interested in cooperating with her. She put her heart and soul into it, desperate to get away from the turkey who was going to ruin her life if she didn’t make good her escape.

  Well, truth was, her life was probably already ruined, she thought glumly, as she tried to battle stark raving hysteria. But if she could just hide out until after Christmas, at least she’d be making others have some final happy moments. And that meant more than anything.

  She finally wrestled the lock free of i
ts crusty nest, “Yes!” she grunted, as she fought to lift the recalcitrant window pane. “Come on, come on,” she pleaded, as if that would help. She worked out with weights. She might be small-boned, but she wasn’t a weak woman. But this window was bound and determined to fight her all the way.

  Finally, finally, it gave an inch, then another. After what seemed an eternity, she’d created enough of an opening to slip through. With a triumphant grunt, she hauled herself up to the sill. Behind her, the speakers belted out a hearty rendition of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.” She was feeling ebullient enough to sing along as she made her getaway. She just altered the lyrics a little to “Bad Guy Got Outsmarted by a Rookie.”

  She was so busy feeling smart and wicked and felonious—in the most innocent type of way, of course—that she squawked in alarm when a hand clamped around her ankle. She peered back over her raised butt and almost groaned when said bad guy stood there, calm as you please, eyebrows raised in inquiry. “Trying to get some fresh air?” the idiot asked as he tugged her back from the window, wrapped his arms around her waist and swung her down into his arms. “That’s no way to earn a hundred bucks, you know.”

  She wanted to scream. She wanted to pummel him with her fists. But her ruse was all she had left. So she lowered her lashes and resurrected her accent. “Please, sir, unhand me.”

  To her surprise, he set her down gently, rather than dump her straight on her rump.

  “You should not be in here!”

  “I was gettin’ real worried about you, darlin’.”

  “Sir, I must insist you remove yourself.”

  “How about you removing yourself, doll?” he said, and before she knew it, he untied her bonnet and flung it off her head, and all of her hair came tumbling down.

  “Oh, honey, that is some pretty hair,” the gorgeous jerk said. “The unforgettable kind, you know? The kind where if a guy sees it on, say, a wanted poster, he never forgets.”

  She sputtered in pure anger. “Sir! You take horrid liberties, you stinking swine of a lowlife . . . something!” as she tried to grab back her bonnet.

  “Awww, Ms. Zook, I’m sorry to hear you feel this way. I’m a swine, no doubt about that. But really, I’m usually a great guy.”

  “You do a real dandy job of hiding it,” she said, not even trying to keep the German accent. Truly, the gig was up.

  He laughed. “Aw, honey, you wound me deeply,” he said, rooting around in his backpack.

  Then to Callie’s horror, his hand shot out and grabbed hers. She felt cold, cold steel slap around her right wrist. “Cassandra Lee Brandt,” he said, “I’m taking you into custody in the name of the State Of New York, on an outstanding warrant for your arrest and recovery.” As she glared at him, he had the nerve to smile. Then start singing. “Rookie just got busted by the good guy.”

  She wanted to slump down and cry, but that never got her anything but puffy eyes and a stuffy nose. So she shot daggers at him instead and said, “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

  “Born and bred. Now let’s start heading toward that truck stop, sweetheart.” He stuffed the bonnet thing back on her head. “Put this back on. I couldn’t stand for my prisoner’s pretty pink ears to get frostbit.”

  “How’d you find me?” she asked, still biting back the need to sob.

  “You found me, honey. All I was looking for was transportation to Maine.”

  “Where are you taking me now?”

  “The way things are looking, appears you and I have a date with Santa Claus.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Callie sputtered. “You are not going to frisk me. No way, no how.”

  “Now be reasonable, Ms. Brandt. You can’t really expect me to let you waltz on a bus with a bunch of innocent senior citizens without making sure you’re no threat to them.”

  Callie snorted at the good-looking bully. As many times as she’d seen him on TV, semi-respectable looking when testifying in court, she had to admit that he appeared a boat-load sexier—and more dangerous—in his Urban Cowboy attire. “I look like a real thug, don’t I?” she asked sweetly.

  “And John Hinckley was a choir boy. Look, this will be painless, I promise.”

  “Oh, yeah, your word means plenty.”

  “Hey, I promised to make sure your horse and buggy were taken care of, didn’t I?”

  She couldn’t argue that, so she ignored it. “This has got to be violating my civil rights somehow.”

  He winced a little, but kept tugging her toward an alcove in the nearly deserted truck stop. Even the coffee shop had shut down. “I’m not feeling you up, lady. I just want to be sure you’re not carrying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Good, then you’ve got nothing to worry about, Cassandra.”

  “It’s Callie, all right? Callie.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, even as he pushed her coat off her shoulders and began feeling up and down the arms of her dress. “Nothing up your sleeves,” he said brightly.

  “You jerk,” Callie said, horrified to find that even while she felt utter outrage, she also felt something else. Like the warmth of his big hands seeping through the rough cotton.

  “And what puny arms you have, I might add.”

  “Turkey,” she said, and wasn’t happy the word came out a little breathy.

  “Now don’t take offense here, but a woman’s bodice is a good hiding place.”

  “You wouldn’t—stop that!” she said as he started patting her chest. She tried to slug him with her fist, but unfortunately it was the one shackled to his, and he just held his hand out where she couldn’t connect.

  To his credit, although she hated giving him any credit at all, he didn’t actually touch her breasts. Just all around them. Nonetheless, “I’m going to press charges.”

  “I know, darlin’, I know. Almost done.” His hands whisked over her waist, her hips, then her butt and she squawked again. He ignored her again, and just glided down the outside then up the inside of her legs, from thigh to ankle. She almost wished she were packing heat, so she could blow a hole the size of Manhattan through his heartless chest.

  “Nothin’ up the pantaloons, either,” he said, grinning as he straightened.

  “Oh, you’re going away for a long, long time, mister.”

  “Just one more thing,” he said, ignoring her some more.

  When she saw where his hand was headed, she jerked violently. “No! You can’t go looking in—”

  But his arm was already buried in the pocket of her coat. “Well, what do we have here?” he drawled, withdrawing his hand. “Damn, damn, damn,” Callie muttered.

  “Why does this wallet look familiar?” he asked. “Oh, that’s right, because it’s mine.”

  Callie tried to widen her eyes innocently. “How’d that get there?”

  “Sticky fingers Brandt, add petty theft to your sins.”

  “Hey, Slick,” Kevin said, and was a little embarrassed at the husky emotion in his voice. He stuck out his hand.

  Sam stared at his outstretched palm in surprise, then glanced up. “What the hell is that, JD? Come here.” Then Sam grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him closer for a bear hug. Which of course managed to yank Callie closer, too. “Good to see you again, buddy.”

  “Yeah, you too,” Kevin said, returning the hug one-handed. “You’re not too much uglier than last time.”

  The woman shackled to him made a snorting sound. Kevin figured it was her way of commenting on the relative good looks of the two of them, and finding Kevin falling way short. Kevin was fairly used to that kind of reaction. Beside Slick, Brad Pitt would look like a dog. Still, it irritated him. After all, according to the info babe, Kevin resembled Harrison Ford. A younger Harrison Ford. And though Kevin wasn’t an expert on the matter, women tended to find Mr. Ford sexy.

  “And you’re still as charming as ever,” Sam said, grinning and stepping back. He swiveled toward Cassandra. “Now who’s this poor thing?”
<
br />   “Slick, meet Cassandra Lee Brandt. Ms. Brandt, the overblown fly-boy here is Sam Merrick.”

  “It’s Callie, actually,” the shrew said, gracing Slick with a smile that she sure as hell up to now hadn’t used on Kevin. Not that he could blame her, but still it irritated him. She’d done nothing but scowl and cuss at him the entire trip.

  The woman thrust out her right hand—and his left hand in the process—which he’d covered with the blanket to hide the cuffs binding them. The blanket dropped to the ground.

  Sam started to return her handshake when he spied the silver bracelets encircling their wrists. He glanced up sharply. “Holy shit, JD! What kind of sick—”

  “He’s kidnapping me,” Cassandra Lee said, puffing out her lower lip. “I demand to be released into the custody of a sane person.”

  “Boy, have you landed in the wrong place,” Slick commented, then turned his attention back to Kevin. “You’re kidnapping an Amish woman? Even for you this seems a little . . . bizarre.”

  They were standing outside the outlandish-looking, very, very red bus, and Kevin was acutely aware of eyes glued to them, watching with a great deal of interest. Kevin growled. “She’s about as Amish as I’m Turkish. She jumped on a subpoena, and there’s a bench warrant for her arrest in New York. I’m taking her in.”

  “Taking her into where? This bus is headed for Maine, buddy.”

  “We just need Betty to make a quick pit stop at the nearest Sheriff’s Department so I can hand her over.”

  “You’re turning in a poor Amish lady? At Christmas?”

  “Trust me, she’s not Amish and she sure as hell isn’t a lady.”

  “Look, you toad—”

  “How are you going to explain to the Santa Brigade that you’re shackled to an Amish woman?”

  “Listen real carefully, Slick. She’s not—”

  “Merrick! Wilder!” Betty Morgan barked, loud enough to set off avalanches in hill country. “Get your asses on board ASAP or you’re walking to Maine.”

  “Be right there!” Sam yelled over his shoulder. He turned back to them. “How are you going to explain dragging a criminal on board?” he asked, eyes squinted with humor.