Not a Moment Too Soon

by Linda O. Johnston

  “No, but we’ve been busy.” Banger gave a rundown on all the guys he had out searching for Andee and for clues, what the Fibbies were up to, the works. They had been busy. And it was a miracle that the news hadn’t grabbed it up by now. But he’d continued to talk to his troops in person, mostly early in the mornings, in the roll-call room. Or by phone to senior officers, instructed to keep their guys looking for a kidnapped kid but to keep it quiet. Nothing went out over police channels, where messages would be susceptible to media scanners. “But we’re reaching that wall, Hunter. We need the public’s help—tips and so forth.”

  “I know,” Hunter replied. “That’s why I called. Give me one more day, till tomorrow. If we haven’t found her by then, go ahead and pull out all the stops…no matter what the SOB who has her has threatened.” His insides went icy, but he knew he was doing the right thing.

  To keep Andee alive, they needed media pressure. And more.

  “I don’t like it,” Banger growled. “But…okay. No guarantees, but I’ll try not to let it break before then. We don’t have a lot of control.”

  “I know. I owe you.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  Hunter hung up. He hadn’t realized he had grabbed his glass in his other hand. Nor how tightly he was gripping it.

  Not until he felt Shauna’s smaller, warmer hand on his, guiding it back to the table.

  He put the glass down gently, then turned his hand over, grasping Shauna’s hand as if it was an IV line that pumped strength and resolve into him.

  And maybe, for the moment, it did.

  Chapter 9

  They had until tomorrow morning before all hell was likely to break loose. Hunter had to find Andee before then.

  But at that moment, he was nearly out of clues. He had done almost everything in his plan and still hadn’t found his daughter. That meant he had to work on his strategy, all night if necessary. He’d use the home office in his bedroom. That way, Shauna could get some sleep, even if he couldn’t.

  He also had one more chance to set things straight in Shauna’s story before he sent her home. Whether or not he chose to accept that her stories came true, the one on Andee’s abduction was a loose end. One way or another, he had to figure out a way to change the ending. Even if he couldn’t do it on paper, he absolutely would change it in real life.

  As soon as they finished their meal with Simon, he and Shauna got back into his car. Parked on the street a block from the restaurant, Hunter had Shauna make more calls on her cell phone, in case those on his list who’d been absent earlier had returned to their lairs.

  No more success than before.

  “He’s still not home,” Shauna said in frustration when she tried again to call Conrad Chiles. “Or at least he’s not answering his phone or returning messages. I really want to talk with him.”

  Hunter hated delays. Worse, he hated anything unforeseen. This time, he’d anticipated the result of Shauna’s call.

  That was why he was already headed north, toward Conrad’s.

  Daylight was nearly gone and the outside light was on at Conrad’s, but that didn’t mean he was home. Hunter accompanied Shauna to the front door and watched as she rang the bell. Once. Twice. Three times.

  “Okay, we tried,” Hunter said. “We’ll find him tomorrow.” He hoped that was true.

  Could Shauna be right—that the Chiles fellow was actually three of Margo’s neighbors in Shauna’s story all rolled into one?

  Might he have seen something important without recognizing its significance? Hunter would find out, whether or not Shauna was around.

  They were around the corner from Margo’s, but he didn’t particularly want to see her. He used his cell phone to call—his eyes steadily on Shauna’s in the fading late-evening light. Hers were quizzical until he said, “Hello, Margo.”

  “Have you heard anything?” Margo asked excitedly. Which told him a lot. She hadn’t gotten any further communication from the kidnapper.

  “No,” he said. “I was just checking in to see if there was anything new from you.” Anything requiring an impromptu visit.

  After the standard stuff with Margo—including her teary entreaties to find their daughter and bring her home—he hung up.

  “Is she all right?” Shauna asked.

  “Yeah, for Margo,” he replied. “No need for us to stop in.” He turned the key in the ignition and headed home.

  “Do you want something to drink?” he asked Shauna after they arrived. They had entered his house through the door from the garage into the kitchen. He carried the case with Shauna’s computer, which she always brought with her.

  “A glass of water would be great. I’ll get it myself.”

  He watched as Shauna reached into the cabinet near the sink. She was tall enough that it wasn’t much of a stretch for her to grab a couple of glasses—just enough that her blue T-shirt and snug pants hugged her tempting curves more tightly. Curves that Hunter had an urge to caress as her clothes were doing.

  Forget it, Strahm. Shauna would go home tomorrow. That would be best for both of them. She wasn’t really involved in what had happened, even after writing about it. He didn’t need her shrink-style sympathy. Or her insistence on rushing in where he, the P.I., should be handling the investigation.

  Plus, he didn’t need the distraction of having her with him, teasing his mind away, even just for seconds, from where it needed to be. Teasing his body, constantly, with wanting her.

  Mostly he hated her certainty that the ending of her damned story was unchangeable. And that something as bizarre as that might have control over an important aspect of his life.

  Like before, when he was with the Phoenix P.D.

  Shauna was looking at him.

  “I think I’ll have a beer,” he said. “Want one?”

  “Sure.” She turned back to his cupboard to put the glasses away. He got another glimpse of material stretching over her taut, alluring behind.

  He headed for the refrigerator and removed two bottles from the back of the top shelf. He pried the caps off with the bottle opener attached to the end of a counter, watching the soft sway of Shauna’s hips as she crossed his kitchen floor toward him.

  “Here.” He proffered an open bottle and she took it, brushing his glass-chilled hand with her warm fingers. “Let’s toast Andee’s safe return.”

  She clinked her bottle gently against his. “To Andee,” she agreed, not quite parroting his toast.

  He looked into her eyes. No challenge there. Or sympathy. Instead, their glowing depths surrounded him, cushioned and cocooned him like a warm, whirlpool bath.

  She was leaving tomorrow, he again reminded himself, breaking eye contact by tipping his head back and taking a long gulp. He would miss her. Miss talking with her. Hearing her intelligent insight into the search for his missing daughter, despite her not being a law-enforcement professional or P.I.

  Having her by his side in this difficult quest.

  Having her so near him again…

  While another of her stories and its blasted consequences wreaked the worst kind of havoc on his life.

  “Why did you do it, Shauna? I mean the last time. Why didn’t you tell me about that bank robbery until it was too late?” The words burst from him before he considered them.

  Her eyes widened in obvious surprise. “Do you really want to talk about it?”

  “Would I ask if I didn’t?” He turned his back long enough to walk around his small table and take a seat. He pointed to the one across from him, but she didn’t take the hint. Instead, she continued to stand there, watching him.

  Studying him, as if she expected him to sprout horns and breathe fire like the devil himself.

  “You refused to talk about it before,” she said. “That’s why I asked. And I’m sure you know the reason I didn’t call you sooner back then.”

  Yes, actually he did.

  He’d known when his mother had met Shauna. At first, Elayne hadn’t explained wh
y she found the young woman so fascinating. But when she’d introduced Shauna to him, he’d found her more than fascinating. A manager at a chain restaurant at the time, she was the prettiest, sexiest, most wonderful woman he’d ever met. He’d fallen for her. Hard.

  And then came the stories that wound up involving him. She’d helped find a missing child, and afterward had admitted to him—and some other cops he was close to—that she’d written a story about the scared little kid that came true. Only then had his mother told Hunter about the story that had introduced Shauna to her.

  He hadn’t believed any of it. Coincidence, that was all. Some of his friends on the force, though—a bunch of credulous fools. They believed in her.

  Especially after the serial bank robberies started. He’d been put in charge of the investigation. Shauna had called him all excited one day. She’d written a story that had said where the next robbery was going down—at that very instant.

  “You know full well why I didn’t believe your stories, Shauna. That first one you wrote about those punks who were robbing banks in that northern Phoenix suburb wasn’t true.”

  “Yes, it was,” she said, her eyes fixed on his. “The problem with it was that I made a mistake interpreting which branch it was in.”

  “I’ll say.” Not really believing, but also not wanting to fail to pick up on a tip that had a chance of being real, he had grabbed a team and run off to the branch she said—while at one six miles away tellers and patrons were robbed at gun-point.

  He’d looked a fool.

  “You must have believed me at least a little then,” Shauna said, “or you wouldn’t have paid any attention at all. And then you were so…” Her voice tapered off as her face reddened.

  “I was a nasty SOB,” he finished. “I know I gave you a hard time.”

  “You made fun of me.” She looked away. “Since we were so close by then, it really hurt.”

  “I figured.” Damn. He’d felt like a jerk then, and the feeling washed over him all over again. Not for doubting her, but for being so hard on her. He’d known she believed in her stories, and he’d fried them. And her. “But you didn’t give up your faith in what you wrote, did you?”

  “Of course not,” she shot back. Her chin raised defiantly as she regarded him again, more coolly this time.

  “So why didn’t you tell me about the next story you wrote?” They hadn’t talked much about the first fiasco, though he’d remained angry about it. The second was at the dead center of the big blowup between them.

  His fellow cops would have believed, if she’d told them. And he, even not believing, would still probably have done something—even if it was just to send a patrol car by to check. But she hadn’t said anything at first. Until it was too late to save the three civilians the lousy suspects had blown away before making off with a bunch of the bank’s cash.

  At least they’d been captured later that day—thanks to good police work, not Shauna’s story.

  “I did tell you,” she replied quietly. “I struggled with it first. That was the problem. I didn’t want…” Her voice tapered off, and she looked away. But only for an instant. When she turned back, her eyes were defiant. “I didn’t want to be ridiculed again by the man I loved. I had to risk it, though, to prevent the tragedy I’d written about.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “But I’d hesitated too long. It was already too late. Things had been set in motion, and—”

  Her voice broke. Hunter had an almost irresistible urge to cross the gulf between them—his damned kitchen table—and take her into his arms. Comfort her now, the way he hadn’t back then, when he’d taken the heat for failing to listen to her. For even when she had gotten around to telling him, he’d taken his time about sending someone to check it out.

  “And that was before I’d become so sure that what I wrote couldn’t be changed,” she finished hoarsely.

  Damn. They’d gone full circle. “It will be changed,” he insisted. “This time. Andee will be fine.”

  “Hunter, you know that’s what I wish, too, but I really think you should talk—”

  “So, are you ready?” He kept his voice as cool as his drink. Her voice was stronger now, more assured, and though her face was pale, she regarded him with sympathy.

  He bet she was going to start some shrink talk about letting his feelings hang out.

  The problem was that, even if she was right, if he started describing how he felt, he’d come apart like one of Andee’s old stuffed animals where the seam had ripped and mounds of white cotton innards had spilled all over the place.

  “Am I ready for what?” Shauna asked.

  “To work with your story again. See if you can save any changes.”

  “If that’s really what you want,” she said. Her reluctance was as obvious as if she’d shouted “no” right in his face.

  “Yeah, that’s what I really want,” he said. Picking up her computer case, he preceded her toward the guest room.

  Shauna wasn’t sure what to expect.

  But she couldn’t just stand around with Hunter in his kitchen any longer, rehashing their painful history—or watching his frustration and pain on his face as clearly as if he spilled it like a patient participating in therapy.

  So, without further prompting, she withdrew her laptop from its bag, put it onto the small table in the guest bedroom, and booted it up. She scrolled through menus until she reached the file containing her story about Andee. And opened it.

  She scanned it briefly. It read the same as last night, after she’d been able to save the single small change: Andee knew her daddy was already home from his trip.

  She still didn’t understand why the modification remained. It meant nothing, except to make her look like a liar to Hunter.

  But he’d thought her that, and worse, before.

  She looked up at him. He stood close to her, just to her right, and now he knelt so he could see the screen, too.

  This close, she could clearly see the shadow of his dark beard deepening the shade of his cheeks. Could watch the way his Adam’s apple worked in his neck as he tensed his jaw.

  Could breathe in the clean scent of soap, for he must have washed his face when he’d excused himself briefly to go to his bedroom.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “What would you like me to write?”

  “Go to the day after Andee’s disappearance and add some stuff about how we looked for her. Stick yourself in the story. You weren’t there before, but you’re in the thick of it now.”

  She had tried to insert herself into the story of her father’s final illness: talking to his doctors, trying to find some new therapy to help him. Then there’d been her growing grief and her ultimate despair—oh, yes, she had tried to add all sorts of things to that tale.

  To no avail.

  She had shouted at night, in her own room, to her Grandma O’Leary, who had talked with her often when she was a child about how her very special abilities would mature as she did. Grandma O’Leary’s response, in her mind, was always the same:

  You can’t change your stories, Shauna. They come to you as our family gift. You’ll learn to live with them. All the O’Leary women who have the gift do.

  And she had. But her “gift” had cost her Hunter once.

  She didn’t have him now to lose again, but even so, when the ending didn’t change but came to pass, his hating her again—even more this time—would be too hard to bear.

  “Are you going to try it?” he demanded in her ear.

  She’d been staring at the screen in her dismal reverie. Procrastinating.

  “Sure,” she said. She moved the cursor till she reached the spot he’d mentioned. “Here?”

  “Fine.”

  “Tell me how you want it to read.”

  “This is your ball game. You pitch it any way you want.”

  A strange analogy, but she understood it. “Okay. How about this?” She wrote, Andee’s daddy, Hunter, had a friend named Shauna who lived in Arizo
na. To help Hunter find Andee, she traveled with him to Los Angeles. She had a very special skill: writing stories that came true. She wanted more than anything to write a story for Andee’s safe return.

  Shauna looked at Hunter. His head was so close that he could have rested it on her shoulder. She inhaled the warm, musky scent of his short, black hair and the scalp beneath. She resisted tilting her head so that it touched his, instead saying, “What do you think?”

  “Not bad. Now, right here—” he pointed farther down on the screen “—stick in a little about going to Margo’s, talking to her neighbors, then dropping in on people who didn’t like Andee’s dad, that kind of thing.”

  “Okay.”

  Shauna started typing on the keyboard. At first, she watched the screen, then her fingers, then—

  “Hey, are you writing in your sleep?” Hunter’s deep voice resounding in her ear caused her eyes to pop open. It sounded vaguely amused.

  “Kind of,” she said, finding it interesting. She often went into some kind of trance when she wrote, whether stories for Fantasy Fare or her tales that came true.

  When she woke, she was often surprised by what she saw on the screen.

  Like stories about strangers in emotional situations that rousted her now and then. Stories she’d written about Hunter over the years, the way she had kept up with his milestones.

  And the terrible story about Andee.

  But she hadn’t expected to go into a dream state here, with Hunter there, watching what she wrote. Watching her.

  “Did you read everything as I wrote it?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It seemed to track what we did pretty well.”

  “Just pretty well?”

  “All right. You did a damned fine job.” He was smiling, his face still close to hers. So close that she could lean over and plant a kiss right on that sexy, grinning mouth while hardly moving at all. If she wanted to. Which she didn’t.

  “Thanks. Now keep still while I read it.”

  “But my legs are going to sleep.” He rose, and suddenly it was his waist that was directly beside her. If she looked down only a little, there was his groin….