“According to witnesses, during the exchange of fire Loudon was wounded in one leg. He successfully eluded officials and escaped from Kalispell. A massive manhunt is presently underway, according to federal prosecutor Dolph Merriday.
“‘Quinn Loudon has lived a life of deceit,’” Merriday told reporters during a press conference only hours ago, ‘so today’s actions are no real surprise.’ According to Merriday, even Loudon’s superiors at the Justice Department did not realize Loudon’s parents were both career criminals who served long prison sentences.
“‘We caught him in the act, so he blasted up a courthouse to get free,’ Merriday added. ‘But his kind always foul their nests sooner or later.’”
The story was over in thirty seconds and the announcer moved on to other news. Constance felt a sudden numbness at the mention of Loudon’s criminal parents. While nothing in the news story actually contradicted anything he had told her, it lent an official—and damning—authority to the notion that he was a very dangerous felon.
Loudon turned the radio off, cursing softly.
“Well that flat does it,” he declared bitterly. “The bastards broke the knife off in me this time.”
Flat does what, she wondered, frightened by the desperation in his tone.
Loudon lapsed into a brooding silence.
Lance Pollard was right, he told himself. The case against him was indeed all smoke and mirrors.
Unfortunately, a cynical proverb he’d learned in law school was also true: No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people. Smoke and mirrors were enough to convict a man. Well, no doubt Schrader and Whitaker were dancing on his grave already. But damn them, anyway. He wasn’t in it just yet.
Constance had said nothing. Now, as he fell quiet, the awkward silence became unbearable.
“Now, at least, I understand your steamroller methods,” she told him. “This is obviously a very big deal if it led the state news.”
“I know what you’re thinking. There were two unpleasant details I left out of my story to you. Two details called my mother and father.”
The bitterness and hurt in his voice made her think of the pain Doug Huntington had caused her. What if she had been branded a criminal because she slept with one?
“Since when did children get automatic criminal status from their parents?” she asked coolly.
“They don’t. It was a cheap shot by Merriday.”
“Yes. And besides, you deserve credit for having done a lot in the criminal world all by yourself.”
He flinched. Then he almost laughed. “You are one difficult woman. And your damned sense of fair play only makes what I’m doing right now that much more reprehensible. Truly I’m sorry, Miss Adams, I really am. I just…I had no choice but to drag you into this. They didn’t mention on the radio that Sheriff Cody Anders is missing either. I don’t want to go missing like he did, so it’s got to be this way.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered bitterly, not looking at him.
“You still don’t believe me, right?” he pushed.
“No,” she admitted.
After a long silence, he replied inexplicably, “Good girl. You didn’t even know me until a little while ago.” His voice almost seemed to be fading like a weak radio signal.
They passed through the bright glow of a yard light, and she noticed the haggard pockets under his eyes.
He’s exhausted, she thought, and he’s probably lost a lot of blood.
Even as she felt pity welling inside her, a more practical side of her warned against it. Ask every convict in a prison, and he’ll swear he’s innocent, she reminded herself. This was not a field trip they were on; she was his unwilling hostage.
He lapsed into silence, either dozing or close to it. She watched the blacktop streak past under the headlight beams, trying not to dwell on Dolph Merriday’s troubling words: Quinn Loudon has lived a life of deceit.
Constance wasn’t sure how long her passenger had dozed. She suddenly started when his voice abruptly ended the quiet inside the Jeep.
“Where are we?”
“About ten miles west of Bighorn Falls.”
“Is that all?” he complained.
“I’m driving the nighttime speed limit. Would you like me to go faster?”
“No,” he said irritably. Montana state troopers were notoriously vigilant after dark.
“You insisted on taking the back roads to Billings,” she reminded him. “This route is far less direct.”
“I know what I said,” he snapped at her.
He was awake, but his voice sounded exhausted. Something occurred to her.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
“No, but we can’t stop anywhere. I can’t risk it.”
“There’s a few granola bars in the glovebox,” she told him.
He handed her one, too, and they both ate in silence for a few minutes.
Constance was the first to break it.
“You mentioned something about having an ‘ace in the hole’ in Billings. May I ask what it is?”
When he answered, his voice had lost its snappish tone. “I’d better not get too specific with you. You’ll be going to the police eventually. And you may end up being grilled by the same goons who’re trying to put handles on me.”
“I take your point.”
“Now you’re catching on. Actually I doubt if what I have is an ace. But with luck, maybe it’ll turn out to be a king or a jack. So far it’s my secret. All on my own, I was putting together a case against…the two men who are trying to set me up. I kept my efforts secret because I was afraid to jeopardize security until I have some idea just how high up the corruption goes.”
Quinn thought about how one secretly obtained court order had allowed him to painstakingly assemble a damning paper trail from phone and financial records. As huge amounts of money were released from the Federal Highway Fund to a major Montana road-construction firm, he had traced subsequent “portfolio diversifications” by the firm’s attorney— Brandon Whitaker.
Over time a clear pattern emerged. So regular you could plot it like a graph. A pattern known as “the kickback curve” among prosecutors. After each federal payment to Montana, Whitaker initiated lucrative transactions involving preferred stocks and leveraged buyouts. It was only circumstantial. But it would warrant judicial examination; Quinn was sure of that.
Despite her resolution to remain skeptical, Constance again felt herself wanting to believe her abductor. True, he was holding back specific details. But ever since their paths had crossed earlier, he had insisted on his innocence.
He didn’t really need to bother doing that—he had a gun, after all. A true criminal would simply rely on intimidation to gain her compliance.
Once again he lapsed into a long silence. His labored breathing became more obvious to her as he nodded out once more. Before long, his head had slumped onto her shoulder.
No question about it now; he was fast asleep. She glanced down. The greenish glow of the dashboard lights showed that his coat was open.
I could maybe get the gun, she thought.
But then what? She knew full well she wouldn’t use it, and he probably knew that, too.
She thought about her cell phone. Had he been thinking like a real bad guy, he would have taken it from her. But he didn’t. She could get it out, dial 911, and perhaps whisper to the emergency operator. Give their location and let the police take it from there.
Yet, she made no move to try. It wasn’t just fear he’d wake up and catch her. As much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to see this mess from his perspective, too.
If he was innocent—a strong possibility in her mind—then she might be condemning him to prison—or worse. If he were simply running to get away, Billings was the last place he’d head for. From frontier days to the present, Montana fugitives chose the Canadian Rockies to the north as their favorite refuge from the law.
Even as all this
looped through her mind, a blue-and-yellow sedan eased by her in the passing lane—a Montana state trooper.
Her pulse leapt into her throat. The cop wasn’t pulling her over, just passing on his way to someplace else.
Flick the bright lights on and off a few times, she thought. That cop will pull you right over.
And then what? Loudon was armed and desperate—this time he might not aim high.
Wracked by indecision, she did nothing as the red-glowing taillights receded ahead.
She assumed Loudon was sound asleep. So hearing his voice made her nearly crawl out of her skin.
“Missed your chance,” he told her in a sleepy voice. “S’matter, you soft on crime?”
“Maybe I don’t want to get caught in the middle of one of your shootouts.”
“Oh. Here I thought maybe it was my sexy eyes.”
Heat came into her face. “I could floor it and still catch that cop.”
“You’re the driver.”
Despite his exhaustion, she detected a smug, mocking tone to his voice. He had called her bluff. It wasn’t bad enough that he had kidnapped her—now he had to toy with her to amuse himself.
“Since you’re awake, kindly remove your head from my shoulder.”
He complied, slumping against the passenger’s window.
“Do you know how nice you smell?” he murmured sleepily. “Your perfume is Gardenia Passion, right?”
He was right, but she said nothing. He didn’t even wait for a reply, going back to sleep immediately.
She stared ahead at the glowing pinpoints of the trooper’s taillights. If she did want to catch him, this was her last chance.
Her anger notwithstanding, she held the Jeep at a steady 55 m.p.h.
Another twenty or so miles rolled past, and Quinn Loudon’s breathing became ragged and uneven. Constance took one hand off the wheel to touch the seat near his left thigh.
A prickle of alarm jolted through her when her fingertips came away wet and sticky with blood.
“Mr. Loudon! Mr. Loudon, wake up!”
“Hunh?”
He twitched awake, one hand automatically starting toward his gun.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“It’s you, that’s what wrong. You’re bleeding again. And you sound just awful. You need medical help.”
“No. Just keep driving.”
“Look, these back roads wind all over the place. We aren’t even a quarter of the way to Billings. You’ll never make it.”
“I have to make it.”
“No,” she insisted firmly. “I am finally rebelling. I will not assist you in killing yourself. There’s lights up ahead. I’m pulling over and finding out where the nearest doctor or hospital is.”
She braced herself for his next strong-arm tactic. But he surprised her.
“All right,” he agreed in a flat tone that should have warned her. But in her agitation, she missed the clue.
Up ahead lights blazed a halo around what turned out to be a little crossroads service center—a motel, an all-night diner, a gas station.
“The motel clerk can probably help us,” she said as she turned onto an apron of gravel in front of the motel. It was one of a dying breed of mom-and-pop independents, a run-down establishment called Sleepy Pete’s Motor Inn. An ancient neon VACANCY sign winked on and off like a lighthouse beacon.
“I’ll be right back out,” she promised as she reached to turn off the ignition.
His steel-trap grip stopped her hand.
“Just leave it running and get out,” he told her.
“What?”
“Lady, I’m weak but not incoherent. You heard me. Look, I appreciate your concern. But leave the Jeep running and get out.”
Plenty of light washed over them now—harsh, anemic light that made his haggard and pale face seem almost cadaverous.
“You’re stealing my car?”
“In for a penny, in for a pound. I’ve fired on feds and kidnapped you all in one day. Why balk now at grand-theft auto?”
He took several bills from his wallet and thrust them at her. “Here. I can’t pay for the Jeep, but I can at least cover your room and a hot meal.”
“I don’t need money. I need my vehicle!”
“Why is it always about you?” he joked brusquely. “Now get.”
Summoning whatever reserves of strength he still possessed, he climbed over the gearshift knob and bodily forced her from her seat.
“Right when I start to feel sorry for you,” she spat at him angrily, “you have to show your true colors all over again.”
Instantly, even as angry as she felt, she regretted that “true colors” remark. His eyes met hers, and beyond the blurred focus caused by pain she could detect a deep well of hurt—she, too, was accusing him of hereditary evil, just as Dolph Merriday had done by way of the radio.
But there was no time for regrets or apologies. He pushed her roughly away from the driver’s door.
“Auf Wiedersehen, fraulein,” he said in a weary voice, tossing her a two-finger salute. Then he shut the driver’s door and put the transmission in reverse. Only seconds later he was back on the road, taillights receding in the night.
For perhaps a full minute Constance just stood there, staring after him. Her anger receded quickly, replaced by a numb confusion—she didn’t know what to feel now.
He can’t make it, she thought. Even if he really did have some important evidence in Billings, he couldn’t make it.
She gradually became aware that she was chilled. Even though the winter night was unseasonably mild, she needed at least a sweater. Clutching her elbows against the cold, she turned and headed reluctantly toward the motel.
From the outside, Sleepy Pete’s Motor Inn featured a 1950s motif best described as Luau Gothic. But the interior, she realized the moment she stepped into the front office, was a surprisingly authentic throwback to the nineteenth century.
Reproductions of Currier and Ives color prints adorned the walls, alternating with portraits in gilt-wood frames of prominent Montanans from the frontier days. The old-fashioned lamps had milky glass shades. There were even brass cuspidors in the corners.
The night clerk was a taciturn old man who looked to be straight out of Genesis. She signed the register and paid in advance with a credit card. He gave her a room key and a remote for the television.
Constance knew, of course, that she had to call the police. But once in her cramped, mildew-smelling room, she began pacing, occasionally staring at the telephone on its battered nightstand.
She couldn’t understand what she was feeling right now. After all the pain Doug’s duplicity had caused her, she ought to hate Quinn Loudon. Or if hate was too strong, at least despise him.
Instead, she actually felt that she was somehow on the verge of betraying him. She could still see the hurt in his eyes when she alluded to his “true colors.”
“This is stupid,” she said out loud, addressing her own image in the narrow mirror above a battered oak chiffonnier. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” The man was a dangerous criminal, for God’s sake. She should be unspeakably relieved he let her go with her life.
But…
Her expression darkened in the reflection.
With resolve she didn’t feel, she crossed back toward the phone. She finally noticed the varnished oil painting on the wall and recognized the beard-grizzled face immediately. It was Jake McCallum, Hazel’s great-great-grandfather, founder of her world-famous Lazy M ranch in Mystery Valley.
Jake, too, had the distinct prussian-blue eyes that lived on in Hazel. As Constance stared into them, Hazel’s words from earlier today whispered in memory: Does one bad burn mean you must remain in the cold forever?
Steeling herself, she turned her back on Jake and picked up the telephone.
Chapter 5
As it turned out, the dreaded ordeal Constance anticipated from the Montana State Troopers never materialized.
They did respond to her call i
mmediately, of course. But she merely told her story to a polite, professional, plainclothes detective whose interview lasted less than thirty minutes. He even kindly arranged for a rental car to be delivered to the motel so she could drive home next day.
Somehow, though, it all seemed too easy.
She went to bed that night with a strong sense of foreboding. Even calling her parents had left her feeling strange. She’d wanted to tell them everything, but instead found herself holding back. It was as if she didn’t want to fully admit a crime had taken place. Somehow she had an inexplicable need to keep the details to herself for a while, as if she still needed to sort out bad from good.
She passed a fitful night in the lumpy bed, dreaming she was back in the Jeep with Quinn Loudon. But with the cartoon logic of dreams, Loudon’s face would transform into Doug’s.
“Miss Adams? Miss Adams, are you in there?”
Someone’s insistent banging on the motel room door startled her awake on Saturday morning. She sat up suddenly, heart thudding, and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand: just past 7:00 a.m.
“Who is it?” she challenged.
“Miss Adams, my name is Roger Ulrick,” responded a voice she instantly disliked. “I’m the assistant district attorney out of Kalispell. I need to ask you some questions about Quinn Loudon.”
“Just a minute,” she called out, flustered and irritated. She hated wearing the same clothes two days in a row, yet she had no choice but to don her wool skirt and blazer again. At least she had been able to take a long shower the night before. She hurriedly ran a brush through her sleep-tangled hair, trying to ignore the puffy circles around her eyes.
She slid the chain back on the night latch and opened the door. Two men stood waiting in the chill, their breath ghosting.
“Miss Adams, this is Todd Mumford,” Ulrick said in a self-satisfied voice that irked her. “He’s with the FBI District Office in Billings. May we come in?”
The Lawman Meets His Bride Page 5
