Christmas on the Run

by Shirlee McCoy

  Something he’d said hit its mark. Brett stiffened, and then he shouted, “I said, shut up!”

  He swung the gun toward Boone, and that was all the opportunity Carly needed.

  She swooped down, grabbing a shard of glass, the razor-like piece slicing through her palm as she came up swinging. Pain speared up her arm as she punched hard, the glass digging into Brett’s biceps.

  He cursed, firing blindly, the bullet flying wild as someone barreled into him from behind.

  Dallas.

  They tumbled onto the ground, rolling into the coffee table.

  And then the world went still and silent as Dallas knelt over Brett, pressing the barrel of a gun to his jaw.

  “I suggest,” he growled, “that you not even breathe heavily.”

  “You won’t shoot me. I’m not even armed anymore,” Brett sneered, his gaze darting toward the gun that had fallen from his hand. It lay near the stairs, bits of glass glittering nearby.

  “If you want to test that theory, go for your gun,” Dallas retorted.

  “Police!” an officer shouted, racing into the room, gun drawn. “Put your weapon down!”

  Dallas did as he was told, setting the handgun down and pushing it away.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them and step to your right. Over near the recliner.” The commands were clipped and sharp, the officer’s gun swinging from Dallas to Brett and back again.

  Everything should have been easy from there. Cuff the bad guy, frisk him, read his Miranda rights, all of it as polished and predictable as a new penny.

  Except that Brett moved, his hand snaking out, his body rolling over.

  He had the gun and was up as the officer shouted the command for him to stop, and then Dallas was moving, too, diving toward Carly, wrapping his arms around her as the world exploded.

  One gunshot. Two, and she was on the ground, Dallas’s weight pressing her into the floor. Her head was against his chest, and she could hear his slow, rhythmic heartbeat, sense the moment when he started to move. Feel her own heart slowing as she realized he hadn’t been shot. She hadn’t been shot, and Boone...

  She tried to lift her head, but Dallas felt like solid steel. Two hundred pounds that felt more like four, and she could barely breathe.

  “I’d like to live,” she managed to gasp. “Oxygen is a requirement for that.”

  “Boone?” he said. “We’re good. You can get up anytime you want.”

  “Be easier to do if I weren’t bleeding like a stuck pig,” Boone responded, apparently on top of the small mountain of humans they’d become.

  He rolled to the side, managed to make it to his feet. She couldn’t see anything but his black boots and the cuffs of his pants. There were drops of blood on both.

  “He needs an ambulance,” she said as Dallas put a hand under her elbow and helped her to her feet.

  “I need food. Some kind of stew would be nice. With some homemade bread on the side,” Boone retorted, probing the hole in his coat. “I don’t think this is as bad as the bleeding makes it seem. The bullet went right through the fatty part of my arm.”

  “You don’t have fat on your arm,” she said, and he grinned.

  “Yeah. Like I said...stew would be nice.”

  “I’ll make you a pot after you’re out of the hospital.”

  “You’re not going to be doing much of anything with your hand like that.” Dallas eyed the deep gash in Carly’s right palm. Thick rivulets of blood flowed out of it, dripping down her knuckles and onto the floor.

  She’d had worse cuts, and she shrugged off his concern, tried to step past him to look for Jazz.

  “It’s probably best if you wait outside,” he said, and she realized he’d positioned himself between her and Brett. Boone had moved into position just a few inches behind him. They were purposely blocking her view. She craned her neck to see around them, caught a glimpse of feet. Legs. Brett’s body lying still on the floor.

  Dead?

  She thought so, but she didn’t have the guts to ask.

  “I need to find Jazz,” she said instead.

  “She’s outside. There should be an ambulance on the way.”

  “Is she...okay?”

  “She said he put something in her juice. She was shaky but lucid when I was talking to her.” He edged her toward the door, and she went, because whatever Brett had done, whatever he’d been involved in, whatever had caused him to turn on people he supposedly cared about, she didn’t want him to be dead.

  She gulped cold, clean air as she walked outside, tried to tell herself that everything was okay. That the police had the person who’d been blackmailing her, that all the bad times were over, but then she saw Jazz, sitting on a blanket in front of the house. Dallas’s coat lay beside her, and a police officer and an EMT crouched beside her.

  She wasn’t looking at either of them.

  Her gaze was on the horizon, her body turned slightly away from the house. She looked lonely and lost and sad, and Carly’s heart broke into a million pieces for her.

  “She’s going to be okay,” Dallas said, his hand on her elbow as he helped her down the slippery front stairs.

  “You can’t know that.”

  “Yeah. I can. Because she’s your friend, and you’re going to make sure she is. Besides, she’s tough and resilient. Like you.”

  “I don’t feel tough. I feel tired,” she said.

  “I guess you won’t be up for a run on my favorite trail, then. Don’t worry, though. I can think of plenty of things we can do together,” he said with the sweet, gentle smile she was beginning to love.

  “Like what? Hide in snowy fields and avoid bad guys?”

  He chuckled. “I was thinking more along the lines of hot chocolate and warm fires. You, me and Zane watching old Christmas movies together.”

  “That sounds nice,” she said.

  They reached Jazz as two ambulances sped up the road, sirens blaring, lights flashing.

  Jazz didn’t seem to notice. She was still staring into the distance, her face paper white, her eyes hollow.

  “Hon?” Carly said, crouching in front of her, touching her cheek and then smoothing the tangled hair from her forehead. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

  She nodded but didn’t speak, and that was almost worse than anything else, because Jazz always had words and songs and smiles, and now she was just an empty shell of herself, sitting in the middle of snow-covered grass.

  “Are you in pain?” Carly asked, reaching for Dallas’s coat.

  He was already lifting it, setting it around Jazz’s shoulders over a blanket the EMT had already placed there.

  “I’m not the one bleeding,” she responded, her voice raspy and worn. “Did he do that to you?” she asked.

  “No. I did it to myself.”

  “You’re going to need stitches.”

  “All I really need is to know that you’re okay,” she responded.

  Jazz finally met her eyes. “I will be. Eventually. Where’s Zane?”

  “At Dallas’s place. With some of his coworkers.”

  “Sounds interesting,” she said, her gaze cutting to Dallas.

  “Not really,” she replied, her throat burning with tears she refused to let fall.

  “Liar.” Jazz’s voice was gentle, her expression soft.

  “Maybe some of it is interesting,” Carly admitted, grabbing her hand and holding it, as if she could will some life and warmth and joy into her. “I’ll tell you stories on the way to the hospital.”

  “I’d rather just stay home,” Jazz said, her gaze shifting to the brownstone and the police milling around it. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?”

  “I...”

  “Saying it can’t make it worse. Or better.” She p
ulled her knees up to her chest, resting her head against them as the ambulance crew approached. “So just tell me. Is he dead?”

  Carly glanced at Dallas, and he offered a quick nod.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry, sweetie.” She dropped her left arm around Jazz’s shoulders, hugging her because she couldn’t offer anything else.

  They sat like that while the EMTs worked, while Carly’s hand was wrapped and Jazz was asked a dozen questions. While Boone was loaded into an ambulance and more police cars arrived. They sat for what might have been minutes or hours, and when the gurney was rolled across the grass, Carly still didn’t want to let go.

  “You can ride in the ambulance with her,” Dallas murmured in her ear, his hands on her shoulders, his breath ruffling her hair.

  “Are you coming?” she asked, allowing herself to be led away from the crew that was strapping Jazz in.

  “Do you want me to?” he asked.

  “Does a wildflower want sunshine?” she replied without thinking, and when she heard him chuckle, she realized what she’d said.

  “What I mean—”

  “Tell you what, Carly,” he said, turning her so they were face-to-face. “How about you explain what you meant while we’re watching those movies and drinking that hot chocolate?”

  She almost kept backtracking and offering words that would have meant absolutely nothing. But Jazz was being lifted into the ambulance, and an EMT was asking if Carly planned to ride along, and...

  And Dallas was staring into her eyes, waiting for her to respond.

  “Okay,” she finally said. She saw him smiling as she turned away, knowing that for once she’d made the right choice.

  He walked her to the ambulance, waited while she was helped on board.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he promised as the door closed.

  And after hundreds of promises that had been made to her during her life, hundreds that had been broken, she suddenly knew what it felt like to have faith in another person, to believe without a shadow of a doubt that what he said was what he would do.

  FOURTEEN

  Neither Carly nor Jazz had been willing to spend another night in the brownstone.

  Instead, they’d found a weekly rental and started looking for another home.

  They’d moved into it a week before Christmas, relocating from the city to a farmhouse thirty miles away. It was a long commute, but Carly had spoken to the new director of operations at the Smithsonian, and he’d been eager to allow her a flexible schedule. They’d agreed to four ten-hour shifts. It was tough, but doable. She took the Metro in and back most days. Her contract would be up in six months, and she figured she could do anything for that long.

  Of course, she was already being offered a salaried position. With nice pay and good benefits.

  She was thinking about taking it.

  Her cynical side thought the Smithsonian was offering her the position because it was afraid of bad publicity. She couldn’t help thinking that the director thought keeping her close would keep her quiet. If he’d asked, she would have told him she had no intention of talking. With Brett dead and Michael in prison, she had no reason to do anything but move forward.

  Although she wouldn’t be able to do that completely until Michael’s trial ended.

  He’d pleaded not guilty to charges of attempted murder, extortion and attempted kidnapping. He’d been telling anyone who cared to listen that he’d had nothing to do with any of those things. Like Carly, he’d been blackmailed by Brett. They were old friends, and when Michael and his wife decided to adopt their second child, they’d contacted Brett to find out if he knew anyone who could help shorten the process. Brett had put them in touch with an international adoption agency that worked in South America. Less than nine months later, they had a son. A month after the baby was placed with them, the agency closed and the owners disappeared. There were whispers of child trafficking, federal charges and stolen babies, but Michael and his wife weren’t contacted by the police, so they went on with their lives and tried to put the experience behind them.

  And then Brett had called. He needed cash to pay back a debt he owed. Gambling money that he’d never be able to repay. He’d told Michael that if he didn’t help him out, the police might come knocking on his door, asking about the baby’s adoption.

  Terrified, Michael had given him what he’d asked for, but it hadn’t been enough. Brett had been well connected. He’d heard about the Smithsonian’s newest collection of antique jewelry and the estimate of its value, and he’d come up with a plan to get his hands on it.

  Or that was what he’d told Michael, anyway. No one would get hurt. The forged jewelry would be nearly identical to the original pieces. It could take years for anyone to discover the truth. No harm, no foul. He’d outlined the plan, including hiring Carly and having her forge the gems. She’d be the perfect scapegoat if anyone noticed the forgeries. If anyone ended up in jail, it would be her. That was what Brett had said, and he’d seemed happy for that to happen.

  Michael had gone along with the plan because he’d had to, but the longer things went on, the more he’d begun to suspect that Brett was more interested in getting Carly out of his life than he was in selling jewelry for money.

  It was possible that was the truth. Brett had taken ten thousand dollars in cash from one of his accounts. The man who’d been apprehended at the hospital had deposited five thousand in cash the morning before the attack. A second man had been arrested at a Virginia hospital where he’d gone to have an infected gunshot wound treated. His blood type matched that found at Dallas’s house, and he’d confessed to being paid to follow Carly, take photos of her son and send her anonymous messages. The police suspected he’d set the fire at the brownstone and that he’d been attempting to kidnap Zane. A metal bat had been found in the trunk of his car, and they believed it was the weapon he’d used to attack Jazz.

  The fact that Brett had taken out a one-million-dollar life insurance policy on himself and one on Jazz had added to the police speculation. He’d also talked her into allowing him to have power of attorney if anything were to happen to her. Jazz had said he’d done it all under the guise of preparation for their marriage. In reality, he’d owed a lot of money to men who’d been eager to collect, men who weren’t known for their patience. The police speculated he wanted Carly out of the way because she was the only family Jazz had. Without her around, there’d be no one to question an accident or a suicide.

  She frowned, lifting a string of garland from a box and weaving it around the mahogany banister on the front staircase. Dawn had barely touched the sky with gold, and she was up decorating, because her in-laws were coming over to spend the day.

  She wanted to be happy about it, but she wasn’t feeling very festive. Neither was Jazz, but Sarah had asked if they could spend Christmas Eve as a family—baking cookies, drinking hot chocolate, cooking Christmas dinner, going to Christmas Eve service, spending time getting to know one another. Dallas’s mother had been so sweet about it, so kind that Carly hadn’t the heart to say no. Even if she had, she would have agreed. She and Jazz weren’t feeling festive, but Zane was.

  He’d been talking nonstop about Christmas for weeks. When he wasn’t talking about it, he was in his room with the door shut, making Christmas gifts for all the people he loved.

  Apparently, that list was much longer than it had been in previous years.

  It had taken two packing boxes to carry the gifts to their new home. Carly hadn’t been allowed to help. Zane had asked Dallas to transport them.

  Dallas...

  He was taking up a lot of her thoughts, filling a bunch of empty places in her heart that she’d barely even realized were there. The fact that she didn’t mind, that she wasn’t putting up roadblocks and building walls and trying to keep him at a distance should have scared her, but this
was Dallas she was putting her hopes in, and the only thing she felt when she was around him was happiness.

  She eyed the garland, decided it looked good enough and walked into the living room to grab a few red velvet bows from the coffee table. The room was cold, winter air seeming to seep in through the windowsills. Unlike the brownstone, the farmhouse needed some work. It was functional and sturdy rather than fancy and polished. She liked that. Still, she hadn’t planned to buy it. She’d been leaning toward something modern. A new townhome a little closer to the city, maybe, but Jazz had seen the old house while she was doing a real estate search, and she’d told Carly they needed to see it.

  So, of course, they had. Anything to get Jazz out of the house. Anything to make her smile. It had been a hard few weeks for her. She still had migraines from her head injury and pain from her shattered collarbone. She still had nightmares. She still sat in front of the window and stared out at nothing.

  She’d told Carly repeatedly that she was healing, that she felt okay, that she was going to be just fine. There was no mistaking her sadness, though. Nothing she could ever say would convince Carly that she wasn’t heartbroken and mourning.

  Brett had been a horrible person, hiding a secret life that Jazz had known nothing about.

  But she’d loved him. A person couldn’t just turn that off.

  Carly knew that firsthand.

  She’d hoped that the house would give Jazz something to focus on. They’d talked about decorating it, and Jazz had even managed to pull the Christmas boxes out of the pile of storage items they’d stuck in the walk-up basement.

  She hadn’t opened any of the boxes, though.

  As far as Carly knew, she hadn’t done any drawing or designing since the accident. She hadn’t been to church, hadn’t talked to friends, hadn’t done anything but pretend she was okay.

  Carly’s cell phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen, smiling when she saw that Dallas was calling. He’d be returning to work after Christmas, and that seemed to be his excuse for spending as much time as he possibly could with her and Zane. As if he needed an excuse.