Fever

by Joan Swan

  “Luke hates me. Blames me for Suzanna’s death.”

  “Your wife? You said it was suicide.”

  “It was. She overdosed on depression meds.” He pushed through the words without attaching emotion or memory. He couldn’t relive the guilt and loss all over again. “It started with hormones from the pregnancy, normal stuff, but got progressively worse. Luke doesn’t think I did enough to help her. He’s been fighting for custody of Kat ever since Suzanna died. Thinks I was a lousy husband and an unfit father.”

  “Why did you choose Seth and Tara?”

  “Seth’s been one of my best friends since I was a kid. He and Tara have been trying to have a baby for years, but can’t. They’re Kat’s godparents and they adore her. Seemed like the best choice.”

  “Why weren’t you shocked when I told you Vasser all but confessed to framing you for Desiree’s death?”

  Teague shrugged. “I knew someone did. I mean, I knew I sure as hell didn’t kill her. But I couldn’t find a trail, a motive. Never found any evidence. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done. I had to let it go or it would have eaten me alive.”

  He pulled into the drive at the cabin just as a light snow dotted the windshield. They fell into a tense silence. No new tire tracks lay in the driveway. No changes to the house.

  “Vasser said he was going to Luke’s,” Alyssa said. “He said the F.B.I. was staging there.”

  Teague’s gaze swiveled toward her. He must have had a what-the-fuck look on his face because she answered his unasked question with, “He was talking on the phone when I approached him. I caught his side of the conversation.”

  “Why didn’t he arrest you?”

  “He must think I’m more valuable to them free.”

  He wanted to ask her why she didn’t just turn him in, but his instincts told him that might start World War III. His instincts also told him that what he was about to say was going to come damn close.

  He turned toward her and laid one arm over the steering wheel. “Look. This has gotten ... well, completely out of control would be a gross understatement. I took you when I shouldn’t have. I kept you when I should have let you go.” Teague ran a hand over his prickly hair. “I want you to call your brother and arrange to have him meet you in Colfax at the gas station where we stopped after the pet store. I’ll drop you there a half hour ahead. This is just beyond dangerous. Vasser knows who you are. If he thinks you have information, if he thinks you’re holding back ...”

  “Um, hello.” She straightened in her seat. “Beyond dangerous? Have I not had a gun at my head? Were we not attacked by gang members? Do I not have stitches in my side? Did I not just have my career and my life threatened by a member of the government whose salary is paid for by my own taxes?”

  “I know you’re pissed off. You have every right, but you don’t understand the magnitude—”

  “Pissed off? Now that is a gross understatement.” But she didn’t sound as furious as he’d expected. Mad, yeah, but also hurt and disillusioned as she shoved the door open. Frozen air whooshed in, stinging Teague’s lungs on his next breath.

  “News flash, Creek.” She glanced over her shoulder just before she got out of the car, her eyes veiled, the way she used to look at him days ago, before they’d meant anything to each other. “I’m making my own decisions now.”

  “And just what would those decisions be, genius?” Alyssa muttered to herself as she lay in the middle of the bed she’d slept in the night before—or part of the night before—at the cabin. The other part of the night, she’d lain skin to skin with Teague.

  The memory sent a delicious shiver along the length of her body and made her groan in a combination of want and anger.

  “Jerk.” She flung her forearm over her eyes. “Didn’t leave me many freaking options.”

  She could stay here with a man she wanted, but shouldn’t want. For a million reasons. Or she could go home to allegations that would cause a troublesome immediate future at best, very well change the course of her life at worst. And if Vasser wanted to get nasty, he could wipe out her career with the same ease he’d stolen Teague’s freedom.

  Mitch had more pull, more power than Vasser gave him credit for, but there was merit to the power structure Vasser had eluded to. An attorney could only get so far fighting the all-powerful government.

  The mere idea that someone had that type of supremacy infuriated her. The fact it was her government, agents the people had placed in a position of power, twisted her with an injustice that gnawed deep in her belly. And maybe for the first time, Alyssa had a sense of the blinding passion that drove her brother to do what he did for a living.

  Mitch was her safety net. Her go-to guy. He would be the one to give her answers, to guide her through the mess that had become her life. She could trust him with her reputation, her career, her life. And she would. When the time was right. When she had more information.

  Alyssa pushed up on her elbows and stared at the wall. She knew about Desiree’s death. Teague had told her a little about the warehouse fire. She could work with that, take the information and tap deeper sources as she had during college or while performing research, but she had no resource—no library, no Internet. Just Teague, and he liked talking about his past about as much as Alyssa liked working with Dyne. She could call Mitch, but she wasn’t willing to deal with his overprotectiveness yet. She’d rather try to get Teague to tell her more on his own first.

  Alyssa turned into the hallway, her gaze drifting to a door that was cracked open, leading to a room she hadn’t noticed before. She peered around the doorjamb and scanned the space—an office, with an eight-foot map of the United States covering one wall and encyclopedias and reference books lining another. That was enough to have Alyssa’s mouth dropping open. Then she saw the giant flat screen computer monitor on the desk, its blue glare shining on Teague’s quickly lengthening crop of deep gold hair as he ran his fingers through it over and over again, his head tilted down, elbows planted on the desk blotter. To his left sat an all-in-one fax-scanner-printer.

  “What in the heck ... ?” Alyssa muttered.

  Teague’s head came up. “I thought you were going to get some rest.”

  “And I thought this was a hunting and fishing cabin.”

  “It is.”

  She shot him a don’t-even-start look.

  “Doesn’t mean it has to be archaic,” he added.

  “Whose cabin did you say this was?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So, whose is it?”

  Teague let out a long breath and sat back in the black leather chair. “It belongs to the father of a friend. A man who’s been like a surrogate father to me. He’s a history professor at U.C. Davis.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  Teague shrugged, his gaze locked on the spinning hourglass on the screen, indicating that the system was still booting up. “Never knew him. Ditched me when I was little.”

  “And who is the friend?”

  “His name is ... was Quaid.”

  Something connected in Alyssa’s brain. “The firefighter who died at the warehouse?”

  Teague nodded.

  “Friend to Seth and Luke, too?”

  Teague’s jaw pulsed. His eyes darted to hers, then back to the desk, where he picked up a pen and slid it through his fingers. And nodded.

  She tipped her head to the side. “And you don’t think the cops are going to figure out where you are?”

  Teague rubbed at his eyes. “I know they’ll find me here, eventually.” He dropped his hand to the desktop and glared at her. “That’s why the sooner I get this research done, the better.”

  “What are you researching?”

  “Not what, who—Tara. Trying to figure out where she’d go.”

  “Mexico?” she offered. “Europe?”

  “Canada, more likely. She grew up in Banff. Her mother and stepfather lived in British Columbia for a while. Her brother moved
to Anchorage to work in the fisheries for several years. The stepfather died about seven or eight years ago and her mother and brother moved to Oregon.”

  “How do you know so much about them?”

  “I asked. I wanted to know the person raising my daughter.”

  “Canada seems like an obvious place to go if she’s trying to hide.”

  “The thing you learn quickly about Vasser and his group,” he said, his voice flat and serious, “is that there is no limit to their reach. They can find you anywhere. They can get to you anywhere. So if Tara was trying to feel safe, it would make sense to go somewhere she knows people, where she would have a community that might rally around her.” He shrugged and met Alyssa’s eyes. “She’s not exactly your typical criminal mastermind. She’s just a woman afraid of losing her only child.”

  As good as any other theory, Alyssa guessed. She had a few theories of her own to check out.

  “Does there happen to be another computer in this place?” she asked.

  He eyed her for a moment too long, and in that instant she knew there was indeed another computer source. “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to do some research, too. Vasser threatened my career, not to mention my life. I’d like to get a jump start on some background information for Mitch.”

  Teague wiped both hands down his face, leaned over to pull open a bottom desk drawer and lifted out a laptop.

  Alyssa’s heart picked up speed as she stepped forward and took a blank notepad and pen from the desktop. “Does it have an Internet connection?”

  “Wireless. But don’t—”

  “Puh-leeeez give me some credit.” She took it from him over the desk. “I’m here by choice, remember?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “And I’m still questioning your sanity.”

  “Join the club.”

  Alyssa retreated to the privacy of the bedroom. She would have preferred the ambiance of the living room with the big, soft sofa, high ceilings and the crackling fire, but she didn’t want Teague seeing all her topics of research. Yes, Vasser was on her list, but so were Teague and Luke and Seth and Quaid and Desiree and the murder and the warehouse fire and anything else that popped up along the way that connected the previous topics. She also planned on looking into these abilities Teague had and what chemical change in the body could cause them.

  She sank into the soft bed, propped herself up on the slatted wooden headboard with a mound of pillows and tried to squeeze months of research into a few hours.

  By the time the computer battery waned and the screen went black, Alyssa couldn’t squish another word onto the notebook and she was seeing double. She rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock on the nightstand, only slightly shocked to see that over three hours had passed as fast as three minutes.

  She’d always been absorbed by research. And she had found some interesting tangents regarding DNA mutagens that could cause the powers Teague had experienced the last several years. She’d also uncovered loads of photos of Vasser with Senator Schaffer and Jocelyn Dargan, the Director of D.A.R.P.A., both of whom were well-known advocates of experimental scientific studies for the advancement of military warfare. Amped and ready to dig back in, she stretched her back. All she needed was a power cord ... and maybe a cup of coffee.

  Standing, she tuned in to the silence. No Teague tapping on the keyboard. No distant, muttered curses. She started toward the office and poked her head around the jamb. Computer and lights were still on, but no Teague. She turned toward the living room where the hallway opened into the main space, and paused when she saw paper and folders. Everywhere. Piles on the coffee table. On the sofa. Lining the floor. And Teague, asleep on the sofa, with what looked like photographs lying facedown against his chest.

  On a quick indrawn breath of excitement, Alyssa realized what lay spread out before her. Information. Research. Answers. All at her fingertips.

  She darted a look at Teague where he lay sleeping and tip-toed around the piles as she made her way closer. Then she stopped and simply admired him. He wore nothing but those gray gym shorts again. Bare chest, bare arms, bare belly, bare legs, bare feet. She could stare at all that muscle definition forever. And that face—the masculine jaw. The straight nose. The full lips. And the golden eyelashes brushing his cheeks. There should really be a law against men getting the great lashes.

  In sleep, his intensity simmered down a notch to merely serious. When her brothers slept, Alyssa always saw the youth come out in their eased faces. But whatever little boy had once lived in Teague was gone. This man was definitely one-hundred-percent warrior, one hundred percent of the time. And, she had to admit, she admired that about him. She also knew the toll that role took on a person. She lived it.

  Alyssa took in the piles again. Two empty boxes sat by the coffee table, two full boxes with the lids askew by the arm of the opposite sofa. Colorful photographs drew Alyssa in that direction.

  Excitement sparked like firecrackers. The same burning inquisitiveness that drove Alyssa to uncover the source of a patient’s illness nagged at her now.

  With another glance at a still-sleeping Teague, she crouched and lifted the edge of the top box. Inside lay more photographs, along with files and notebooks. She fished out a handful of pictures and eased to a seat on the edge of the sofa, studying the image of someone dressed in full firefighter gear. The heavy, yellow turnouts were covered in soot, the man’s face so black the only immediate part visible was a gleaming, white grin.

  She looked closer, searched the shadows and found Teague’s face. His smile was so clear, so crisp, so pure. She hadn’t believed him capable of such joy, and her stomach tightened with a mix of sadness for what he’d lost and hope for the possibility that grin held.

  The next photo was of Teague centered in a group of five other firefighters in some type of training setting with a crumpled vehicle in the background and monstrous-looking tools scattered around the asphalt at their feet. Each of them—three men, two women and Teague—wore heavy turnout pants held up by thick red suspenders and navy T-shirts with Nevada County Fire stretching across their chests. Every one sported a grin that spoke of serious fun, loyal camaraderie and common purpose.

  Envy stirred deep inside Alyssa. She was not a jealous person. Competitive, yes. Driven, sure. Ambitious, absolutely. Envious? Never. But, as she turned through picture after picture of Teague in his element, at the height of a meaningful career he loved with people he adored, Alyssa definitely felt a little on the green side—both jealous of a camaraderie she’d never experienced and sick over what he’d lost.

  With her curiosity electrified, Alyssa crouched beside the boxes and peeked in again. A pastel floral cover stood out against the cream file folders.

  She drew out the notebook and looked at the front cover. Dates from six years ago were scrawled on the front in a woman’s cursive handwriting. Alyssa opened the book to a random page about one third of the way in, chose a passage and read.

  It’s nice to have Teague home, but I’m worried. He’s not the same man who left the house that day before the warehouse fire. He’s distracted and preoccupied. He says he’s just worried about me, but I know something’s going on. He’s researching doctors for me again.

  He also found a woman to watch Kat on the days he works. We both know I can’t take care of her. From one moment to the next I can’t recall if I’ve fed her or changed her. It scares me. I’m afraid to be alone with my own baby.

  Sympathy bloomed in Alyssa’s chest. She turned to a halfway point in the book and skimmed another passage.

  I’ve felt like death all day. I’ve cried from the moment I woke up. I feel as if I’m dying from the inside out. What scares me the most is that as I have more and more days like today and the hopeless, deep, dark, torturous feelings last longer and longer. I feel as if I don’t have anything left to fight with.

  The fire crackled. Alyssa started, her gaze darting to Teague. But he remained still, eyes closed, chest rising and fal
ling in a peaceful rhythm. His words filtered back through her mind: She’s dead. And before you ask, no, I didn’t kill her. She committed suicide... .

  The quick beat of Alyssa’s heart created a painful stab beneath her ribs, but she needed to know how the dominoes had fallen, how Teague had ended up in this position, and how her own life had been ultimately and irreversibly changed because of it.

  She opened the diary past the halfway point and picked another passage.

  Ambilify, Zoloft, Prozac, Paxil, Citalopram, Celexa, Ativan, Xanax, Lorazepam, Ambien, Lexapro ... I’ve tried them all. I still can’t get rid of the headaches. I can’t stop crying. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t FEEL. I’m dead inside.

  “Jesus.” Alyssa breathed the word. Those were heavy drugs for severe depression—bi-polar, manic depression.

  She overdosed on depression meds.

  She sure as hell had. Alyssa’s mind tripped over the course of events. Fire, Teague’s strange powers, Suzanna’s suicide, Desiree’s murder, Teague’s imprisonment. A downhill spiral destroying a previously perfect life—all starting with that fire.

  She turned to the last page of the diary. This passage was different from the rest. Suzanna’s writing was smooth and clear, the words centered and double-spaced, more like a letter than a journal entry.

  Teague, I love you dearly. I’m so very sorry for everything I’ve put you through. You have been the best husband I could have ever dreamed of, the best father Kat could ever want or need. I hope you’ll both be able to forgive me someday.

  The torment throbbing in Alyssa’s chest had to be nothing compared to the pain Suzanna had gone through or the trauma and loss Teague had suffered.

  Exhaustion layered over Alyssa like a heavy blanket. A person could only take so much physical and emotional turmoil. And as she closed the diary with Teague’s promises that he’d die before he went back to prison floating through her head, she couldn’t help wondering how much stress was too much. At what point did a person break and do the unthinkable?