Survive the Night

by Marilyn Pappano

  Either Carole Boone had had a cruel streak running through her, Ashley thought grimly, or she had been too much a fool to consider what she was doing to her son with that name. If Alexander Waters had despised his ex—Whathad Carole been to him? Lover? Mistress? Plaything? Amusement? Whatever role she had filled for him, if he had come to despise her for the gossip and the notoriety, he surely must have despised their son as much. Giving Dillon the man's name—particularly when Alexander's legitimate son already had a claim to it—must have been like rubbing salt into an open wound. It must have made Dillon's life inWaterston,Georgia, pure hell.

  "How long did you live there?"

  "Until I was twelve. Things had gotten kind of tough by then. Alexander's family was determined to run us out of town so they wouldn't have to face the product of Alexander's indiscretion every day, and I was determined to help them. I hated it there. I hated the talk. I hated the way they treated my mother and especially my grandfather, just because the almighty Waters family decreed that they should be treated that way. I hated Alex beating the hell out of me every time I left the house … although I have to give him credit." He grinned sardonically. "He taught me how to fight dirty, and that surely did come in handy inAtlanta."

  She set aside the filled bottle,then reached for another empty. "You've either been looking for trouble or running away from it most of your life, haven't you?"

  Sometimes she thought his face should be permanently etched with a scowl. In less time than it took to blink, it chased away his grin and the faint softening that had accompanied it and left him looking hard and unforgiving. Ignoring her question, he returned his attention to the atlas, flipping open to a map of theUnited States. "If I want to head out west, we pick up the interstate and cross intoTennessee. How far can you take me?"

  Swallowing a sigh, she glanced at the map. "You want to try forCalifornia?"

  The scowl deepened. "Be serious."

  "Iam serious. I told you that I haven't seen my family in over three years. I wouldn't mind surprising them."

  "You think Bessie could make it all the way across the country?"

  The scorn in his voice turned her smile sad. "Stranger things have happened." In spite of her insistence, ithadn't been a serious offer, she told herself. She couldn't just lock up and leave. If she wasn't here, she wasn't making money, and without money, she couldn't hold on to this place. It wasn't much, but it was all she had. It was her life. The offer had been a joke, all in jest.

  So why did it sting just a little that he hadn't jumped at it? That he hadn't found anything the least bit attractive about it? That he no more wanted to take her with him than he wanted to stay here?

  "How aboutNashville?" It was four, maybe five hours away. The city was large enough that he would have some options, close enough that she could make the trip there and back without too much cause for concern.

  He located it on the map, stared at it for a moment, then silently nodded.

  "It would be in your best interests to wait at least a few more days."

  "Why?"

  "The roadblocks will have to come down pretty soon. It costs a lot of money to have officers assigned exclusively to one location, doing only one job. Frankly I don't think you're important enough to justify the expense for too long."

  "You said you could get through the roadblocks."

  She acknowledged that with a shrug. "There's also the risk of recognition. I imagine your face has been plastered all over the newspapers and TV stations for miles around. It's not an easy one to forget."

  "And what am I supposed to do while I wait for the roadblocks to come down and for something more important to bump me off the front page of the paper?"

  She could tell from his expression that he expected her to repeat yesterday's invitation, to say,Youcould stay here. I could hide you. Of course, that was what she wanted to say. She wanted to ask, beg,plead . She wanted to argue with him, wanted to insist, wanted to somehow convince him thathere was exactly where he belonged. Instead, though, she shrugged carelessly and repeated an earlier suggestion.

  "You could turn yourself in."

  * * *

  Turnhimself in.

  For the first time in more than eleven months, Dillon gave the matter serious consideration. Always before, he had dismissed it out of hand as utter foolishness, a mistake he would pay for with the rest of his life. After all, who would believe anything he had to say? When he was pointing fingers at people like Russell Bradley, when he had a history of unreliability and minor run-ins with the law, when he had fled town that night last April like the guiltiest of the guilty, who would even listen?

  Ashley believed Seth would. Maybe she was right. Maybe he would not only listen but actually even believe…but could Dillon stake his life on it?

  What life?a mocking voice asked. On the run was no way to live, she'd once told him, and she was right. It was the loneliest, most miserable life he'd ever known … and growing up as Alexander's bastard son and Alex's punching bag, he'd known some miserable times.

  But surrendering wouldn't give him any other choices. Instead of being miserable and free to go where he chose, he would be miserable and behind bars.

  Unless Ashley was right. Seth could help prove that he'd been set up, she'd said. If he told Seth everything, if he revealed the entire story that he'd never shared with anyone, if Seth believed him and agreed to reopen the investigation… Dillon could clear his name and be free to live wherever he wanted, however he wanted, with whomever he wanted.

  He could stay here. Withher.

  Ifthere was evidence to clear him.If Seth believed him.

  "What happened that night, Dillon?"

  Those were mighty big ifs. Besides, he knew better than to want what he couldn't have. That was one lesson he'd learned when he was a kid. He was wrong to want Ashley. To want to stay here. To want to make this old farm into a viable proposition once more. To want to spend his days working in the fields, the way his grandfather had, and hisnights making love with her. He was wrong to think about watching a lifetime's worth of sunrises from that front porch with her, about sharing just as many sunsets.

  He was wrong to think about marrying her, having children with her, growing old with her.

  "I can't tell you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because there are people out there who want me dead! Have you forgotten that?"

  Her gaze shifted to his shoulder, to the dressing that was hidden underneath the sweatshirt he wore. Though still tender, the gunshot wound was healing. Sometimes, if not for the sling, he could forget it was there—and that was dangerous. As long as he was here, as long as he was around Ashley, he needed to always remember that there were a lot of people out there who would be better off ifhe were dead.

  "So tell me again what happenedthen—when they tried to kill you. You said the first night that you and Tom Coughlin were on your way toCatlin when you got ambushed at Sadler's Pass, that three men opened fire on you."

  He made no response.

  "Did you see them very well? Did you know any of them?"

  When he still said nothing, she left her chair and came around to crouch beside him. Her fingers, very delicate and feminine in spite of their short, unpainted nails, rested on his thigh. "Dillon, you aren't protecting me by keeping silent. Someone tried to kill you because of the bank robbery. You believe they're out there looking for you along with the police. If they find you here, what will they do?"

  "They'll probably take me into custody to turn over to the sheriff. Unfortunately, somewhere between here and town, I'll try to escape, and they'll have to shoot me. No one will even question their story because Idid get away twice before."

  "I'llquestion it, and when I do, what willthey do?"

  Sliding back on the seat, he rested his head on his arms and stared down, seeing nothing. If Russell and his accomplices were willing to kill to keephim quiet, would they balk at using the same deadly force to silence Ashley? He would give his
soul to believe that the answer was yes—that, while they had no qualms about murdering someone who had been part of their plans from the start, they would draw the line at killing an innocent woman who'd been dragged into this mess through no fault of her own.

  But try as he might, he couldn't believe it. Russell and everyone else involved had a lot to lose, and who better to put them in jeopardy than the investigating sheriff's ex-wife and best friend? They weren't fools. If they found him here, they would kill them both. Whether Ashley knew the truth would be irrelevant.

  Tilting his head to the side, he met her gaze. "Two of them were strangers. The third one—the one who shot the deputy… I'd seen him before, but I don't remember where."

  "Could it have been someone who worked for Bradley Electronics?"

  He shook his head. "Not while I was there. I knew everyone."

  "A friend of Bradley's? Someone you saw with him inAsheville?"

  "No." That meant it was probably someone he'd seen aroundCatlin the weeks he'd lived there. An employee of the bank, maybe, or a regular customer at the diner where he'd eaten.

  Her muscles growing tired. Ashley drew back, pulled a chair over and sat facing him. He immediately missed the touch of her hand on his leg. "What did he look like?"

  He thought back to that morning in the cruiser. When theSylvanCountydeputies had turned him over to Tom Coughlin, they had cuffed his hands tightly behind his back. Without a word to them, Coughlin had removed the handcuffs,then refastened them just tight enough to keep Dillon from slipping free, and he'd done it with his hands in front. Having ridden in aSylvanCountycar with his hands behind him and the cuffs tight enough to make his fingers turn blue, Dillon had appreciated the small consideration.

  The drive, for the most part, had passed in silence. The deputy had been all business, no chitchat or small talk. Dillon had asked him about the belongings he'd left behind in Asheville, and the deputy had told him that the law allowed the landlord to dispose of them as he saw fit. That was the extent of the conversation until they'd reached Sadler's Pass. Coughlin had slowed down for a tight curve, then suddenly hit the brakes and muttered, "What the…" and all hell had broken loose. Dillon had had only seconds to take in the scene ahead—the black van, its windows tinted,the three men. They had been all business, too—so cool, so collected, so deadly. As if this sort of thing came naturally to them. As if violence came naturally to them.

  With a deep breath, he tried to focus on the man he'd recognized. He'd stood apart from the other two, right out in the middle of the lane, as if he'd had no fear. It was his shot, Dillon was pretty sure, that had hit Coughlin. He had no idea who'd shothim because the car was already going off the side of the mountain; the shot had come from behind, and he was being tossed around like a rag doll.

  He had believed at that moment that he was going to die.

  It still might happen.

  "He was young, probably in his mid-twenties," he said at last, his voice flat. "He was about six feet tall, maybe a little taller, with black hair, kind of shaggy, a mustache, kind of cocky. He was wearing jeans and a green-and-yellow jacket—youknow, a high school letter jacket."

  More than a little of the color drained from her face, but she tried to hide her shock with a smile. It didn't work. "You just described Steven Vickers."

  "Who is that?"

  "My kid sister's ex-boyfriend. Thestar quarterback for theCatlin High Wildcats eight or ten years ago." That sickly little smile reappeared. "A member of the search party that came through yesterday. And one of Seth's deputies."

  For a moment Dillon felt nothing. He sat there, leaning on the back of the chair, hearing her words in his head but not understanding them. Then he realized that his fingers were gripping the chair tightly enough to hurt, that his stomach had gotten queasy and his lungs felt as if they just might burst. The man who had tried to kill him had been right outside the cabin yesterday morning, and he was a cop. He wasn't sure which frightened him more.

  A cop. He hadn't expected that. He'd known that there was more than enough corruption in this mess to go around, but he hadn't thought that it might have reached the sheriff's department. He hadn't considered that Russell might buy himself a cop, but really, it made perfect sense. If Dillon had been arrested eleven months ago, a deputy on Russell's payroll could have kept his old friend informed. He could have passed on every bit of inside information on the case. He could have told Russell and the others things like what Dillon was telling the sheriff. Things like if and when he was being transported, and by what route.

  A cop. Even worse, a cop who had shot another cop, who had been willing to kill a fellow officer, a friend. It seemed the stakes had gone even higher than Dillon had imagined.

  "You can't be sure that the guy with the gun is your deputy," he said stiffly. "Vickers can't be the only man in the county with shaggy black hair and a mustache."

  Ashley gave him a chastising look. "Haven't you heard about the death of small-townAmerica? Young people want excitement, education, opportunity, so they move away to the city. There aren't more than two dozen men inCatlin between the ages of twenty and forty, and only one who fits that descriptionand has a Wildcats letter jacket." She drummed her fingers agitatedly on the tabletop. "I have to tell Seth."

  "Like hell you do." Reaching out, he grabbed her hand and held it tightly in his. "What are you going to tell him?"

  "That he might have a dirty cop working for him!"

  "And he'll want to know where in God's name you got that idea.Then what are you going to tell him?"

  "The truth. Dillon, he can help you!"

  "I don'twant his help. All I want is to get out of here." But that wasn't true. In the best of all worlds, accepting help from the sheriff would rank right at the top of his priorities. Getting help, clearing his name, staying here, making a life, loving Ashley—those would be his goals.

  But this was far from the best of all worlds. If the sheriff knew he was here, Benedict would arrest him. He wouldn't believe his story about Russell and the money. He wouldn't make an effort to clear Dillon's name. He would lock him up in a cell guarded by the very man who had tried to kill him. Dillon would be lucky to live long enough to go to trial.

  "So you're just going to run away without even a look back." The accusation in her voice made him uncomfortable, made him feel weak and cowardly. He wasn't weak—the fact that he could walk away from her proved that—but hewas a coward. He was afraid of going to prison. Afraid of failing in exactly the way that Alexander and so many others had expected of him. Afraid of losing his freedom, his dignity and whatever was left of his pride.

  Running away without looking back. "That's what I do best," he replied grimly.

  But that was a lie, too. He would be looking back. Until the day he died, he would look back with great regret on this place, this time and especially this woman.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  The dinner dishes were done and night had fallen when Ashley took her shawl from the peg near the door. "I'm going outside," she announced, then, at Dillon's sharp look, she hastily added, "Just to the porch. Just for a few minutes."

  He didn't offer her permission, didn't respond at all except to watch with a scowl as she stepped into her shoes,then wrapped the shawl tightly around her shoulders. She gave him a quick, reassuring smile before she went out and closed the door behind her.

  It waschilly, the sort of crisp, sharp cold that made her think winter was coming, not leaving. It felt good, though. Refreshing. The icy air chased away the heat that seemed to have seeped into her very bones, cleared the cobwebs from her head and cleaned the pungentwoodsmoke from her lungs. It made her feel stronger. More alert. More alive.

  She also felt incredibly alone.

  With a heavy sigh, she moved a few inches closer to the steps. If the moon weren't so bright, she would go to the top step to sit, to breathe and brood. Tonight, though, she stayed in the shadows, nothing more than a
darker shadow to anyone who might be out there looking.