Maggie's Man

by Alicia Scott

  Cain smiled down at her, his expression wry. "Rise and shine." Her other eye managed to crack open, then she blinked owlishly, blinded by the bedside light. A couple more blinks and Cain came into focus. "What time is—ah!" She bolted upright in the bed. "What did you do to your hair?"

  He grimaced immediately. "I had a feeling it didn't come out right."

  She could only stare at him. "Come out right? What were you even attempting?"

  His shoulders hunched, he definitely looked chagrined now. "I thought I would shave it off."

  "What in the world for?"

  "Hair dye seemed very complicated … and obvious."

  "I see. And a mohawk isn't?"

  "It's not a mohawk." He sat a little straighter. "It's just not … any thing."

  "Cain, you shaved off the sides like … like bald laurels. Why don't you just shave off the rest?"

  He looked very uncomfortable now. Finally, he squared his shoulders and peered at her steadily. He said quietly, "I forgot about my birthmark."

  "Oh. Too distinguishing?"

  "You could say that." He abruptly raised his hands and pulled back the golden locks still waving over his forehead, imitating baldness. "Who do I look like now?"

  She couldn't help herself. She started to giggle. Then she just had to laugh. Then she held her belly and howled on the bed.

  "It's not that funny!"

  "But you're right. It's so true. You look just like Gorbachev!" She collapsed on the bed and laughed harder. He stood with an obvious sigh of disgust.

  "Get ready. We leave in ten minutes. I'm sticking to baseball caps."

  "You're going to go out in public like that?" She was still giggling over his haircut. She'd actually seen similar styles on teenage boys, the shorn sides leading up to longer, fuller hair on top. It suited a young surfer dude a bit more than a thirty-year-old man.

  Cain shook his head, and clearly having had enough of the subject, turned on the TV.

  For a moment, Maggie was too stunned to move. Then she whispered, "My God. Brandon…"

  And it was. Brandon stood before the cameras, looking very serious and composed in a striking charcoal-gray suit. His face was lean, his eyes harder than she remembered, as if the past two years had erased even the memory of how to smile. Oh, Brandon…

  "Turn it up, turn it up." She was on her knees immediately in front of the TV, though it wasn't necessary. With a concerned frown, Cain was cranking the volume.

  "—a reward of one hundred thousand dollars," Brandon had just finished stating. "Of course, I am willing to work with you, Mr. Cannon, and act as a liaison between yourself and the authorities. I will even hire legal counsel to represent you if you desire. All I ask is for the safe return of my sister, Maggie. She's a gentle woman who's never harmed a soul, a warm, caring sister, daughter and granddaughter—"

  Maggie scowled unconsciously. As someone with a psychology background, she understood what Brandon was doing—humanizing her so that the psychotic would stop seeing her as just an object. Still, Brandon made her sound as interesting as Betty Crocker. It couldn't be any worse if they flashed her baby picture across the screen.

  Or could it? As if reading her mind, the TV screen abruptly filled with an eight-year-old photo of Maggie sitting on the back of one of the Tillamook County Dairy Parade floats, a bamboo fishing rod dangling from her hands. C.J. and Brandon sat on either side of her, all of them wearing straw hats, rolled-up jeans and old T-shirts. Maggie was the centerpiece of the picture, however, her red hair in Pippi Longstocking pigtails and her face just plain ridiculous with its huge, delirious smile.

  "Don't look at that!" she cried and flattened her hands over the incriminating photo. The picture was already vanishing, though. Now Brandon filled the screen once more, strong, dignified and powerful.

  "As I have said," he repeated steadily into the camera, "return Maggie to us and no questions will be asked. I will do everything in my power to help you, my family will do everything to help you. We are well connected and well-to-do. Just give us back Maggie, safe and sound. One hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Cannon. One hundred thousand dollars."

  The camera faded back to the newscaster, who recapped that Maggie had been missing since morning and was believed to be a prisoner of the escaped convict, Cain Cannon. Cain's black-and-white prison photo was flashed across the screen, his face grim and appropriately dangerous looking.

  Maggie glanced at him surreptitiously. His green eyes remained riveted on the TV, sharp and wary. He turned at her gaze, his face perfectly expressionless.

  "Well connected, well-to-do?" he quizzed.

  She smiled weakly. "Maxmillian had a policy about only marrying rich women. He loved a poor one, but he only married the rich ones. My mother … Brandon's mother, too."

  "Define rich, Maggie."

  Her hands twisted on her lap. She didn't want to give away too much, but she wasn't a match for his hard green gaze either. "Well, my mother's family is remotely connected to the Duponts. Her father had a real gift for the stock market, too, I gather. My mom is an artist, a sculptor. She doesn't make a whole lot, but the trust fund is generous and well, so are her 'benefactors.'"

  "And this Brandon? He could pay a hundred thousand dollars?"

  Maggie nodded even more miserably. "His family had money as well, but then they fell into hard times. And the divorce—it was expensive to divorce Max. Brandon took what was left and went to New York… He's a bit of a Wall Street wizard," she confessed in a rush. "He worked so hard, building the capital into enough to buy back the estate for his mother, though it left him still wiped out. He figured no problem, he'd just work a little harder. Two weeks later, his wife died and the insurance policy paid him a million dollars. It did something to him. Now, he does everything he can to lose that money. Honest. But he has the Midas touch. Every sure loss turns into a sure win and now … he has a lot of money, the poor man."

  Cain shook his head like a man trying to cast off a spell. "Maggie, conversations with you start defying all reason."

  She shrugged. "You asked."

  "So I did," he muttered.

  A new face filled the screen, a young man with pale face, wayward brown hair and dark, burning eyes. "Joel," Cain said softly and instantly stiffened.

  "We're willing to pay fifty thousand dollars for any information leading to the capture of Cain Cannon," the young man announced squarely, his dark eyes blazing. "The reward is simply for information. As a police officer, I must remind you that this man is armed and dangerous—do not attempt to approach him on your own. And ladies, please understand he can be very charming. Certainly my sister…" The man's voice broke slightly. "My sister thought he was very charming. But he is a cold-blooded killer who committed an unspeakable act—"

  Cain's lips twisted. "I knew him when he was just sixteen," he murmured, talking over the young man's laundry list of Cain's sins. Maggie could only stare at him in wordless horror. "Good kid, wanted to be a saxophone player much to his father's chagrin. He was good, though. Kathy I and I used to go listen to him downtown at some of the jazz clubs. I thought he should pursue it, and once as a surprise he took one of the Knight's Tour formulas I had written and translated it to music. Math really is music, or music math, of course. Bright, bright kid." He stopped, the pictures filling his mind all at once. The trial. Kathy's family sitting at the front pew, Ham right beside them. Joel, standing at the end during sentencing, those dark eyes so filled with fury. How could you, how could you, how could you?

  Cain reached out, placing a hand on the top of the TV to steady himself. He was dizzy all of a sudden, and his heart beat fast and almost painfully against his ribs. "I understand he became a police officer in the end. He's sworn to rid the world of all the scumbags like myself."

  His voice trailed off. He couldn't breathe anymore and he had to blink three times to get his eyes to focus. He could feel Maggie's gaze on him, wide-eyed and shocked and of course, filled once more with fear.

&nb
sp; The newscaster reappeared on the TV screen. "The police have set up a special hotline number for any information you may have." The 1-800 number flashed across the screen. "Again, Cain Cannon was convicted six years ago for the brutal slaying of his girlfriend, Katherine Epstein. The man is considered extremely dangerous and is armed. He has an extensive background in weapons and survival training, is rumored to be well connected with various militia movements and should not be approached. Please contact the police immediately with any information you might have."

  The news broke to a commercial. Maggie sat perfectly immobile on the floor. Cain's hands were still braced on the TV and his body felt slightly disjointed, as if it no longer belonged to him.

  "Get ready," he said, his voice faint. He swallowed and forced himself to sound firmer, in control. "We're leaving now."

  Maggie's mouth opened, then closed. Five minutes ago, she would have had something smart to say. Five minutes ago, she'd been laughing at his resemblance to a former world leader. Now, she was terrified of him. Ladies, the man can be charming … but remember who he is.

  Oh God, oh God, she had forgotten. She looked at him and she just saw a man, a stoic, desperate man ready to take on the world and her heart bled for him and she wanted to help him.

  He had her exactly where he wanted her. Ready to aid and abet a felon.

  "Maggie, move."

  "You can't outrun an entire state," she whispered abruptly. Her gaze lifted to his face. Her eyes pleaded with him.

  "It will be a challenge."

  "You could still turn yourself in. My brother is a man of his word. He'll help you, he'll hire you the best lawyer—"

  "Do you think I'm stupid?" The question was abrupt, his voice louder, harsh.

  Helplessly, she shook her head.

  He took a deep breath. She saw for the first time that his hands were gripping the edge of the dresser so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Tension corded his neck and rippled down his back. He looked very, very, dangerously on edge.

  He spoke, the words carefully enunciated. "For six years, Maggie, I've been using the legal system. I've reviewed my case, the trial transcripts. I've gone over similar cases with a fine-tooth comb. I've filed motion after motion, seeking some flaw in the testimonies, the evidence, police procedure, trial procedure, anything. There is none. I had a decent attorney, I had due process, and a jury of my peers found me guilty—all according to the book. There is nothing a lawyer can do for me."

  "You could try to plead insanity," she suggested weakly.

  "Do I look insane to you? Do I?"

  Of course she shook her head. He didn't foam at the mouth, he didn't rant and rave. He was a computer programmer, a mathematician at heart, and he couldn't stop acting like one any more than he could stop breathing.

  He picked up the backpack he'd purchased earlier and started stuffing all the supplies in it. Tentatively, hesitantly, Maggie rose.

  "How does Brandon know you were kidnapped?" he asked abruptly.

  She froze. "I … I imagine C.J. contacted him."

  "So he is around as well?"

  Wordlessly, she nodded.

  "Do you think offering a reward is all that they will do?"

  Her gaze fell. Miserably, she shook her head.

  "They'll come after me," he stated. "I bet Joel will as well. As well as the rest of the police and any bounty hunter or get-rich-quick schemer who likes the sound of fifty thousand dollars. Then there's Ham. This state is getting very crowded, Maggie."

  "Well what did you expect?" she fired back abruptly. "You murdered someone! Even if it was a rash act of passion, you're still planning on killing your own brother. You knocked out a guard. You took a hostage. You've … you've done bad things!"

  He opened his mouth, and for a moment she saw something work in his eyes. He looked on the verge of protest, then he just looked disgusted. He shook his head, his eyes suddenly flat.

  "Get ready to go. Now."

  Maggie couldn't take it anymore. She didn't know this man. She didn't know herself. She leaped to her feet and did as she was told. She didn't know what else to do.

  Cain hefted the backpack over his shoulder and pulled the baseball cap low on his head. Without another word, he opened the door and gestured for her to lead.

  It was now eleven o'clock. Rain had started to fall. There was no moon; the night was black.

  She was scared.

  The rain had picked up pace by the time they walked to the theater and reclaimed the truck. From a spring sprinkle, it turned into a thick torrent, solid sheets of water fired from the sky.

  They both scrambled into the truck quickly, their shirts already soaked. Cain turned on the heater, flipping on the truck lights and the windshield wipers. Even then, visibility was poor.

  Tough night for running, but it meant it was also a tough night for chasing.

  Cain stopped on the outskirts of town and filled the tank, then hit the road.

  The night was quiet, almost peaceful with the thunder of the rain, the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers, the thickness of the night. He'd expected something harsher. He'd open his door and encounter a posse. He'd make it to the highway and the entire state police force—led by burning-eyed Joel—would pounce.

  His hands gripped the wheel too tightly. He felt the tension, raw and painful in his gut. His shoulders were beginning to cramp and knot from the unrelenting strain.

  The world swirled around him, cops running, brothers chasing, bounty hunters… He stood in the eye of the storm, fighting for a way out. Justice for Kathy, justice for himself. And the great Cain, the brilliant computer programmer who'd once thought he held the world in his palm, didn't know the answer this time. He didn't know what to do, and he didn't know what would happen when he finally caught up with Abraham.

  And he saw his brother, the last day of the sentencing hearing, sitting cool and composed at the front of the courtroom, not even blinking as they sentenced Cain to twenty years in prison, ineligible for parole for ten years.

  Cain had stood at the end, his arms and legs shackled and he'd stared into his brother's calm blue eyes. "Why?" Cain had whispered under his breath. "If you wanted revenge that badly, why not just kill me? Why her? Why her?"

  And Ham had replied in a deep rich baritone, "'If anyone kills Cain, he will suffer vengeance seven times over. Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.'"

  That was it. Ham came, Ham plotted, and Ham won. Cain couldn't even say he'd put up a decent fight. At least, not until now.

  He forced himself to take a deep breath and relax his death grip on the wheel.

  He was in eastern Oregon now and there was nothing, absolutely nothing out there. The road was straight and lined with night. No homes, no cars, no streetlights. By day this land was red dust, sagebrush, and barbed-wire fencing. By night, it was simply a dark womb, protective, embracing and safe.

  He relaxed by degrees. The rain banged on the roof, soothing and rhythmic. The inky-black well of night remained reassuringly unbroken. Dark and soft. Maggie curled up in a ball on the seat, clutching her locket, and seemed to fall immediately to sleep. He relaxed even more.

  He could do this. If he remained calm, remained logical, he could do this. He'd already covered two hundred miles. He'd been careful to pay for things only with cash in Bend, he'd monitored the phone call between himself and his father. All the police—or this C.J., or Brandon, or Joel and Ham—knew was that he'd last been seen heading southbound outside of Portland. Maggie had withdrawn money in Tualatin, as bank records would show. After that … nothing.

  Now, he was 250 miles from Boise, traveling through terrain where the sagebrush outnumbered the vehicles one hundred to one. He would need to stop one more time for gas, but they could be in Boise by morning.

  He would head north then, up to the mountains that had raised him, and travel to the crest where he could still hear the sweet, fading echo of his mother's lilting voice singing,
"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…"

  He pushed down on the accelerator and the truck picked up the pace. The night remained thick. The sound of the windshield wipers comforted him.

  After another forty miles or so, Maggie finally roused herself. He glanced at her once, seeing her grimace as she stretched out her arms and rubbed her crooked neck. Her long red hair was tangled around her like a subdued mink and her features were flushed with sleep. Then she yawned, a cute little stretch that reminded him of a kitten.

  At last, she leaned back in the seat, no longer looking as timid or stiff. She appeared to be an amazingly resilient woman and sleep had restored her. He had to force his gaze back to the rainy road.

  "Are you hungry?" he asked at last. "We still have some pizza."

  "I'm fine. Where are we?"

  "About fifteen miles from Riley."

  "Oh." Obviously, Riley didn't ring any bells for her. It wouldn't have rung any for him except that he'd just seen a green highway sign advertising its presence. "It's still raining," she observed after a few minutes of silence.

  "Yes."

  "Awful night."

  "Yes."

  "Is it hard to drive?"

  "Road's too straight for the rain to make a difference."

  "Oh." She knotted her fingers on her lap, tapping her index finger against one knuckle.

  Silence resumed its reign and they stared out the windshield at the thundering night. She seemed lost in thought or maybe she was just half-asleep.

  "Cain," she asked abruptly, "why didn't you kill the prison guard?"

  He was so startled, he flinched. He stiffened his shoulders as quickly as he could, unconsciously clearing his face and erecting smooth, tough barriers all around himself. "Pardon?"

  "You're the one who said there are economies of scale with crime. But even after escaping, you haven't hurt anyone else."

  "It's only been fifteen hours."

  "But you've had opportunity and motive," she replied shrewdly. "I mean, you have this militia background, everyone says you're dangerous. You grew up with a … different perspective on society and government and law enforcement. Yet when you escaped, you didn't shoot the prison guard, you knocked him unconscious. I would think you would've bought more time by … killing … him, and I would think you of all people know that. But you didn't do it. You didn't shoot him."