Mimosa Grove

by Sharon Sala

  “I never felt like I had the time to relax,” Robert said, and then grimaced. That sounded pompous, even to him. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not that I couldn’t take the time. I just didn’t. I’m a bit of a workaholic.”

  Trigger nodded. “Just like my father.”

  “Yes. Your father is a good man,” Robert said.

  Trigger stifled a sigh. “That’s what everyone says.”

  Robert absorbed the answer, mentally dissecting it and coming to the conclusion that, as a son, it must have been difficult to live up to the reputation of a man like Franklin DeLane.

  “So Laurel is playing lady of the manor, is she?” Trigger asked.

  Robert blinked. The transition from Trigger’s father to his own daughter was more than abrupt, but he chalked it up to the fact that DeLane probably didn’t like being compared to his old man.

  “For the time being,” Robert said. “I’m sure it’s nothing permanent.”

  Nothing was ever permanent, Trigger thought, and pointed to a roadside sign.

  “I’m going to pull off here and gas up. I’m told that towns are few and far between down here. I don’t want to get in the middle of nowhere only to find myself out of fuel.”

  “Good idea,” Robert said. “And you must let me pay. It’s the least I can do for the ride.”

  Trigger gave him his best hundred-watt smile. “I won’t hear of it. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” It may very well be one of your last peaceful days for some time.

  “Thank you,” Robert said. “While you’re filling up, I think I’d better give Laurel a quick call to let her know I’ll be a bit late.”

  Trigger frowned slightly as he angled off the highway, then headed for the small gas station and luncheonette. For some reason, the idea that Laurel Scanlon might know he was with her father made him nervous, but he didn’t know why.

  He pulled up to the self-service island, and Robert Scanlon picked up his phone and began punching in numbers. Trigger was out of the car and reaching for the hose as Robert put the phone to his ear. Trigger ran his credit card through the pump before he thought, then cursed himself for doing it, knowing he’d just left a trail, should the question ever arise as to where he was on this day. However, it was too late to fix it now. He shoved the nozzle into the tank and then stepped back, eyeing the hand-painted sign on the window of the quick stop.

  Chicken and Catfish—Fried Fresh Daly.

  He snorted beneath his breath as he read the sign. Ignorant bunch of hicks. Can’t even spell daily. God only knew what the cooking would be like.

  The heat of the day and the mingling scents of fried chicken and gas fumes were all but staggering as he waited for the tank to fill. He thought about getting a couple of cold drinks and started toward the store when he remembered the stories about Laurel. Now he knew why he’d been leery of Robert calling his daughter.

  He pivoted sharply, staring through the windshield at Robert Scanlon’s face as he talked on the phone.

  Shit! It was too late!

  ***

  Laurel was sitting by the windows in her bedroom, still reading from the diary, when the phone began to ring. She looked up, absently glancing out the window as she moved, and realized that Marie was outside in the herb garden. Reluctant to break her concentration, she made herself get up and answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Laurel, it’s me.”

  “Dad? Is everything all right?”

  “Sort of,” he said. “I’ve had car trouble.”

  “Oh, no!” She dropped down onto the side of the bed and kicked off her shoes. “Do you need a ride? I can come get you. Do you know where you are?”

  Robert chuckled. “No, I don’t know where I am, but strangely enough, I don’t need a ride. You will never guess who was driving along behind me and picked me up.”

  The moment the words came out of her father’s mouth, Laurel was struck by an overwhelming sensation of fear.

  “Oh, God… oh, Daddy… don’t get in the car! Do you hear me? Don’t get in the car?”

  Robert frowned. “What the hell are you talking about? It’s not like I got in a car with a stranger. I’m not that stupid, and please… don’t start with this psychic stuff now. Everything is perfectly fine.”

  As soon as he said it, he thought of the gun in Trigger’s bag and then chided himself for letting Laurel get to him—even for a moment.

  “Dad… Daddy, please! You have to—”

  The moan that came over the phone sent cold chills up Robert’s back.

  “Laurel? What’s happening?”

  She stuttered, then slid from the bed onto the floor. There was pain in the back of her head; then she felt cold. Her senses were assaulted by the smell of damp earth and rotting vegetation. She tried to see where she was, but everything was dark. She could hear her father’s voice but couldn’t respond. Every sense she had was locked into the vision.

  Then suddenly she saw a face and words came out of her mouth that she didn’t understand.

  “McNamara. He’s there because of McNamara. You have to get out!”

  Robert’s mind went blank. Laurel didn’t know about McNamara’s threats to him and his family, so why would she say something so off the wall? Then he flashed back on the coincidences of seeing Trigger at the airport—of being on the same flight, of breaking down, then being rescued from the side of the road, of the offer to drive him all the way to Mimosa Grove. At that point, another memory kicked in. Just before he’d left D.C., Estelle had mentioned Trigger DeLane calling for Laurel, only to be told that she was no longer in residence. His fingers tightened on the cell phone as he looked out the window—and straight into Trigger DeLane’s frantic gaze.

  The look on the man’s face was a combination of panic and guilt, and for Robert, the last piece of the puzzle that was McNamara’s case fell into place. He had never been able to put together a good enough explanation to convince himself, let alone a jury, as to how McNamara had access to so many military secrets. Yet what better partner than a four-star general’s son?

  “Son of a…”

  “Daddy? Daddy?”

  “Tell them it was DeLane,” he muttered, then hung up and reached for the door.

  ***

  It was momentary panic that made Trigger hesitate, but he knew why he’d been bothered about Scanlon calling his daughter. He remembered the little tidbits of party gossip that he used to hear about her on a regular basis. There were those who swore she was a bona fide psychic, and if that was the case, then there was the chance that he’d just screwed himself up the ass by letting Scanlon even talk to her. What if she could tell, just by talking to her old man, that he was coming to get her? What if—

  Suddenly everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

  Scanlon looked up.

  Their gazes locked.

  He saw the shock on Scanlon’s face, then watched understanding dawn.

  Even though he couldn’t hear him, he saw Scanlon saying his name, then reaching for the door.

  At that point, he bolted toward the car.

  The fact that the gas cap was on the passenger side of the car gave Trigger the edge. He’d parked fairly close to the pumps, which inhibited Scanlon’s escape attempt.

  Trigger circled the car from the front and hit the door with his full weight just as Robert was trying to get out. The momentum slammed the back of Robert’s head against the door frame, trapping him between the door and the car and, at the same time, rendering him unconscious.

  Trigger took one look at the blood dripping from a cut on Scanlon’s forehead and began to curse. Without looking up to see if anyone was watching, he shoved Scanlon’s unconscious body into the car, slammed the door shut, hung the gas nozzle back on the pump and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  The receipt from the gas purchase was printing as he started the car. Then, as if his day wasn’t already screwed, a man pulled a dilapidated truck up to the pumps and parked directly in front
of him. Slamming the car in Reverse, Trigger saw the receipt dangling from the pump as he began to back away. The impulse to retrieve it was strong, but he could tell by the look on the other driver’s face that he’d seen the blood all over Scanlon and was already pointing. There was nothing to do but haul ass and hope that the driver was too busy looking at Scanlon to get a good look at him.

  ***

  Justin was coming out of the grocery store in Bayou Jean when he was struck by a wave of fear so strong that he almost dropped the sacks he was carrying. He turned abruptly, looking behind him, then up and down the street, but he saw nothing except the usual assortment of cars and trucks and familiar faces. There was nothing here that should cause such concern. But the feeling was still there—deep in his gut, hammering at his head—telling him to run.

  Startled by the intensity of the emotion, he tossed the sacks into his truck and then slid behind the wheel. No sooner had he put the key in the ignition then it hit him. It wasn’t his fear he was feeling. It was Laurel’s.

  ***

  Marie was coming in from the herb garden when she heard a car pulling up in front of the house. She glanced at the clock, surprised that Robert Scanlon would be arriving this soon, then remembered the men who were going to hunt the painter and set her herb basket on the table.

  Before she could get out of the kitchen, she heard loud knocking on the front door, then the sound of running footsteps inside the house.

  Frowning, she stepped out of the kitchen just as Justin came running down the hallway.

  “What on earth?” she murmured.

  He grabbed her by the arms. “Laurel! Where’s Laurel?”

  “Uh… upstairs in her room, I think. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, but something is,” he muttered, and bolted up the stairs.

  Marie grabbed the stair rail and started up behind him.

  Justin’s heart was hammering against his chest as he reached the second-floor landing. The door to her bedroom was slightly ajar. He hit it with the flat of his hand as he ran inside, sending it banging against the wall.

  She was on the floor, motionless. All he could think as he ran toward her was, Please, let her still be breathing.

  He felt for a pulse, relaxing only after he felt it beating steadily against his fingers. Then he examined her head, searching for a wound, or a knot that would indicate she’d been injured. When he felt nothing, he began running his hands over her body, searching for something that would explain her state.

  “Laurel… darling… it’s Justin. Can you hear me?”

  “She must have had a vision,” Marie said.

  At the sound of her voice, Justin jumped. He rocked back on his heels and turned around.

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Enough,” Marie said. “Put her on the bed. I’ll get a wet cloth.”

  Justin lifted her gently, then laid her carefully on the bed.

  She moaned.

  “Laurel… honey?”

  She opened her eyes, then grabbed Justin’s arm.

  “Daddy.”

  “No, baby, I’m not your father. It’s me, Justin.”

  She rolled over, then sat up on the side of the bed.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant.”

  Marie appeared, then handed Laurel a cool, wet cloth.

  “Here, baby girl. Maybe this will clear your head.”

  Laurel wiped the cloth across her face, then handed it back to Marie.

  “I’m gonna go call Tula. She’ll bring some of her tea. It’ll help calm you down.”

  “No, I don’t—”

  But it was too late. Marie was already on her way out the door.

  “I’ve got to call his office,” Laurel muttered.

  “Whose office?” Justin asked.

  “My father’s office. He’s in trouble. It has to do with McNamara.”

  “You’re not making sense,” Justin said.

  Laurel took a deep breath, then shoved her hands through her hair. Red curls tangled and caught in her fingertips as she looked at him in frustration.

  “I know. I know. It’s always like this. I see what I see.” Then she slid her arms around Justin’s neck. “Help me,” she whispered. “Help me find my father. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know something is very, very wrong.”

  Justin frowned and then pulled her close against him. She was trembling, and her tears were so close to spilling over. He wanted to make everything okay, but he didn’t know how. All he could do was be there for her.

  “Then let’s go make that call,” he said gently, brushing his mouth across her lips.

  When he would have pulled away, she took his face in her hands and held him close, kissing him back with a slow, hungry need.

  Justin groaned.

  “Oh, Laurel, Laurel… you are in my heart so deep I don’t know where I stop and you begin.”

  “I know,” Laurel whispered. “I feel the same.” She started to move, then stopped. “Justin?”

  “What, baby?”

  “How did you come to be here?”

  He slapped a hand up the side of his head.

  “Damn… I’ve got melted ice cream on the seat of my truck.”

  “What?”

  He grimaced. “I was coming out of the grocery store when I felt this… for lack of a better word… overwhelming sense of fear. It took me a few moments to realize it wasn’t my fear I was experiencing. It was yours. I drove straight here and found you on the floor.”

  Laurel was listening, but it was difficult for her to wrap her mind around everything he was saying.

  “You felt fear?”

  “All the way to my toes. Scared the hell out of me. So I’m telling you now, for future reference, you can’t ever accuse me of not knowing how you feel, because honey… I was inside your skin.”

  “Oh, Justin,” she whispered, and hid her face against his chest.

  “Look at me,” he said, then put a finger beneath her chin and pushed just enough to tilt it upward.

  Her eyes widened as their gazes locked.

  “Sometimes what you do scares me, but not in the way you’re thinking. I’m afraid for you… not of you. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “So let’s go make that call, and remember, no matter what they say, I’m behind you all the way.”

  “Ah, Justin…”

  He saw it on her face, but he wanted to hear it from her lips.

  “Say it, baby. Say what’s on your heart.”

  “I didn’t think I would ever find a man like you.”

  “What kind of a man is that?” he asked.

  Saying the words was as frightening as anything she’d ever said before, but she could no more deny her heart than she could have quit breathing.

  “A man I could love.”

  Justin sighed as he slid his arms around her waist.

  “And am I that man?”

  “You know you are.”

  “Then say it,” he urged. “I need to hear it.”

  “I love you, Justin. So much.”

  Emotion swelled within him, making his answer much harder to say than he’d intended.

  “You’d better,” he said gruffly. “Because I’m so connected to you that I’m discovering I don’t know how to function without you.”

  She smiled. “I don’t have anything to do with that.”

  “It wasn’t a complaint. It’s just overwhelming, that’s all.”

  “I know. For me, too,” she said, and took him by the hand. “Now, let’s go make that call.”

  Marie was off the phone when they got downstairs.

  “Tula’s comin’ right over with a tisane. It’ll make you feel better, baby girl.”

  “What’s a tisane?” Laurel asked.

  “Sort of a cobbled-up assortment of herbs that’ll make you feel better.”

  “Well, okay,” Laurel said. “But it better not taste bad.”

  Marie rolled her ey
es.

  “It’s tea. You’ll drink it and like it.”

  Laurel managed a grin.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Go make your call,” Marie said. “I’ll tell you when she gets here.”

  16

  For the first few minutes out on the highway, Trigger drove like a man gone crazy, weaving in and around traffic, trying to put as much distance between himself and the gas station as possible. He kept glancing in the rearview mirror, afraid that he would see a highway patrol car on his tail, but when the miles passed and it didn’t happen, he began to realize that if he got stopped by the highway patrol, it would be for speeding and not kidnapping, so he slowed down.

  Scanlon had bled all over the front seat of his rental, but that didn’t concern him as much as the fact that the man was still unconscious. This shouldn’t have happened. If he’d left well enough alone and kept driving, then followed Scanlon like he’d planned to do, he wouldn’t be in this fix. But he hadn’t, and now he had a whole new set of problems. He needed to talk to McNamara, and he needed a fix. He cursed the man for miles because he had not called. The fact that he was in prison was not an excuse. All prisoners were allowed phone time.

  A short while later, he realized he was approaching another small town, which meant he was going to have to slow down. The last thing he needed was to get caught in some local cop’s speed trap.

  He glanced at Scanlon, grimacing at the blood all over the man’s face and hair, as well as down the front of his clothes, and knew it would be a miracle if he got through the town without being seen and stopped.

  That led to a panic he didn’t know how to control. The easy way out would just be to get off the main road, finish Scanlon off and bury the body. But he didn’t have a shovel and wasn’t sure how Scanlon’s death would play out for McNamara. If Scanlon was gone, they would have to assign another prosecutor to the case, and then McNamara would demand that Trigger get involved even deeper to make things go his way. He even thought about turning his gun on himself, but he was too big a coward to linger long on the thought. He wanted to live, but to do that unfettered, he still had a loose end to tie up. Scanlon had been talking to his daughter when he’d gotten suspicious, which meant he’d probably told her who’d given him the ride. And that meant that when Robert Scanlon went missing, the first person they were going to want to talk to was the last person to see him alive. Since that wasn’t an option Trigger wanted to consider, now he really needed to find Scanlon’s daughter, but not to put her on ice, as McNamara had suggested. He needed to shut her up permanently, so she couldn’t report where her father had been—and with whom—and hope that the new SOB that took McNamara’s case was more willing to deal than Scanlon had been.