by Karin Story
And for him?
Well, the answers lay out there somewhere. He stared at the empty fields bathed in twilight. No more Maris. No more Sarah. He couldn't rely on Sarah, because he'd betrayed her, too. He'd broken his promise to her; he'd hurt Maris yet again. Plus, he didn't want Maris getting any ideas about following him, so he'd had to sever his ties with Sarah for that reason as well.
Loneliness consumed him, causing an agonizing ache inside him that completely overwhelmed the pain in his head and the fatigue in his body.
Alone.
He had no choice. From everything he'd learned about himself, he, Trent Montgomery, walked to the beat of no one else's drum but his own. So, alone it would be. Trusting no one but himself.
And he had serious doubts about his ability even to do that.
* * *
Maris bit down hard on the hand that covered her mouth, and was rewarded with the contact being broken.
A grunt of pain sounded near her ear. But it was too late.
The car door slammed behind her and the vehicle began to move. Fury and fear pounded through her as she continued to struggle.
"Calm down, Maris. No one's going to hurt you."
The voice was vaguely familiar.
The person who spoke was not the one still holding her roughly from behind, but rather the person she'd been wedged into the back seat next to.
She looked up, and stiffened. "You!"
"Yes."
The man lounging casually next to her was the fake security guard from the morgue. His right eye still sported a swollen, purple bruise where Tom had punched him.
He smiled at her, and waved the brute to release his hold on her. "I promise, no one's going to hurt you. We're not the bad guys here."
"Yeah, right." The shock of being grabbed off the street for the second time in her life had rattled her to the depth of her person. "Who are you?" Her voice sounded breathless.
"My name's Bob Hope."
Maris snorted. "Oh, come on, you can do better than that."
He smiled again. "It's the name I was born with, whether you approve or not."
"Sure, right, but who the hell are you?" The initial numbness of her shock was wearing off, and in its place was the swelling red heat of anger. "And how do you know my name?"
"Everyone in law enforcement knows your name now."
She brutally squelched the panic that caused a sweet, nauseous taste in her mouth. The vision of her own face staring back at her from the TV at May's came back to haunt her.
The man slipped a hand inside his leather sport coat, and she tensed, waiting for him to pull out a gun. But instead, it was an ID badge. He flipped it open and showed it to her.
"DEA." He handed it to her, putting her in the position of having to really look at it.
She did. But what the hell difference did it make? She wouldn't know a real federal badge from a counterfeit. The badge landed back in his lap with a thud.
"Tom suspected you were an agent. But if you're DEA, what were you doing in the morgue poking around on that dead body? Aren't you guys supposed to be, like, raiding crack houses or something?"
"Tom? So that's what he's calling himself. Interesting."
Damn! How had she been so stupid as to tell his name?
"I was merely following a lead at the morgue. The dead gentleman was the right-hand man of one of the biggest drug lords in Mexico."
"Right. But instead of using the proper legal channels like any self-respecting agent would do, you decided you'd masquerade as a security guard just for kicks? Please. You were at that morgue just as illegally as we were."
"This is a sensitive case. The DEA has been trying to keep as much of it as possible under wraps, which is why we didn't consult with the local police in Warstanton Beach."
"Uh huh. And so you held Tom at gunpoint because…?" She couldn't keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
"Strictly for questioning. You have to admit, it was rather damning for him to be at the morgue."
"Yeah, I saw how you questioned him. You wanted to kill him!" she spat out.
"Look, I know this is all strange for you. I know the way we renewed our acquaintance today wasn't the most civilized—"
"Damn right!"
"The DEA office contacted me. They caught sight of you on one of their external video cameras, and asked how I wanted to handle it. I happened to be nearby in El Paso following a lead, so I flew up and just arrived at the DEA office in time to see you jump in the van and take off. We saw you get in the Suburban a few minutes later, then followed it."
Maris glared at him.
"If I'd walked up to you and asked you to talk to me, what would you have done?"
She didn't bother to respond.
"I rest my case. The only way to talk to you was to do it unexpectedly.
"What do you want from me?"
"Maris, all evidence shows that your friend Tom is really a man named Trent Montgomery. He's potentially dangerous. He's wanted as a suspect for murders in New York and Connecticut. And I believe you're already aware that you are also a suspect in one of those murders."
Maris sat stone-faced, not acknowledging or denying anything he said.
"We believe that since you're here in Denver, Trent probably is, too. Or at least was here with you at some point. We really need you to talk to us, tell us what you know. Tell us what he knows." He put his hand on top of hers "If you help us, we may be able to help you and Trent."
She jerked her hand away. "Help how? Help us into a jail cell for murders we didn't commit?"
"You're only wanted for questioning in one of them, the death of the security guard. Trent's wanted for the guard, the woman, and possibly for the dead man you saw in the morgue the night you were there. But I don't believe he committed those particular murders, Maris."
"And why would you believe that?"
"I'm not at liberty to say. All I can tell you is that there are extenuating circumstances that indicate the security guard's murder isn't what it seems. And as far as the other one, the woman, I believe Trent was with you, probably here in Colorado already, when the woman was murdered."
"Extenuating circumstances? You know something that could clear us, don't you, you bastard?" She lifted her hand with the intention of slapping him across the face, but before she could move it, he grabbed it hard around the wrist in a vise grip.
"You managed to nail me pretty good the other night, little lady, but don't make the mistake of thinking I'll let you get away with touching me again." His voice was tempered steel, and his blue eyes flashed with cold anger."
She swallowed hard and stared at him.
His fingers slowly uncurled from her wrist and she snatched her hand back, rubbing it to restore the circulation.
He gave her another frosty, meaningful glance before he continued where he'd left off. "There's also the fact that someone injured Trent. The gunshot and the knife wounds you told the 911 operator about. That makes him a victim. Now, that doesn't necessarily mean that he wouldn't be capable of hurting someone else. But it does increase the possibility that someone wants to set him up for some reason."
Like she didn't already know they were being set up. For all she knew, this might be the man who was behind it all. The person who'd tortured Tom in the first place.
A shiver traveled through her, along with a growing sense of dread.
She had to get out of here. Fast.
A quick glance at the man who'd grabbed her on the street convinced her there was no way she was getting out of the car past him. He was a big guy, all bulky muscle. He smiled at her cheerfully, like some kind of overgrown, slow-witted bar bouncer. She grimaced at him.
The driver looked generic. No outstanding features that she could make out, just one of those blend-in-with-the-crowd types.
Then there was Special Agent Bob, if that was really his name. He might treat her as if he thought she was a fool, but she doubted he was one.
A glance out t
he side window showed her that the car was nearing downtown Denver.
"Maris?"
She turned back toward him.
"I want to help Trent. But I can't do that unless I know what he's thinking, where he's going. You're in a position to help us, and help him."
This speech was getting old. Yeah, she'd help Tom all right. She'd help him by keeping her mouth shut. Not that she knew where he was anyway. A bitter jolt of hurt and anger shot through her.
She glared sullenly at Bob, furious at him, furious at Tom, furious at the world in general. And that fury gave her strength. She let it rush through her, let it force blood through her veins, let it build inside her until it was a solid steel infrastructure supporting all her biological, mental and emotional functions.
The high pitched ring of a telephone broke the silence.
"Excuse me." Bob pulled a cell phone out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Hope here."
Maris snorted again. Hope? What kind of sick joke was that supposed to be?
Bob put his hand over the phone, and spoke to the driver. "Marty, pull over. I need to have this conversation, but I'd prefer to do it privately." He glanced sidelong at Maris.
Marty changed lanes and stopped at the curb. Bob climbed out and pushed the door shut so he could have his "conversation."
Maris's gaze focused on the door, certain she'd never heard it click. Which meant it wasn't closed all the way. Which meant, hypothetically speaking, that she could push it open.
Thinking quickly, she unzipped the side pocket of her pack. The big brute watched her closely, but seemed to lose interest when she pulled out a tube of Chapstick. As she took the cap off, she purposely dropped the tube, making sure it landed under his feet on the floor.
She motioned like she was going to get it, but he smiled. "No problem, I'll get it for you."
As soon as he bent over, she kicked her legs hard against the car door, sending Bob flying as the door hit him in the backside. She threw herself out of the car into the middle of the traffic, alternately sprinting and dodging cars, not daring to look back.
A strange burning sensation in her calf caused her to stumble, but she never stopped, constantly in fear of feeling hands grab her from behind again. Or worse, feel a bullet sear into her back.
Sheer terror kept her moving, in and out of cars, behind buildings, through more cars.
It all became a blur to her, buildings, streets, cars, sidewalks, until finally, it sunk into her mind that she'd been running for a long time and no one was chasing her.
Only then did she slow down.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her and she stopped, her chest heaving, having no idea where she was.
She glanced up, trying to get her bearings, and with a start, realized she was standing next to the Brown Palace Hotel. Rather ironic, since this was where the Sandervilles had been so proud to sleep last night.
The triangle brick building rose up out of the sidewalk like some giant monolith. Well, at least now she knew where she was. She'd even been in the place a few times.
A quick glance around indicated she wasn't being followed. At least not obviously. She slipped down the street and into a parking structure. Finding herself a nice, dark corner, she hunkered down to catch her breath and get her bearings. Her leg ached and she looked down, surprised to see blood on her jeans.
Startled, she seated herself more firmly, and pulled up her pants leg. Fresh blood rushed from a two-inch wound on the side of her calf. Then she remembered the burning feeling she'd experienced as she ran away from the car. She'd thought she strained a muscle or something, but a closer look at her jeans revealed they were torn at the wound site.
Holy hell! Her heart pounded and she had trouble catching her breath. She'd been terrified of being shot in the back as she ran away, and without even knowing it until just now, she had been shot. That sharp pain in her leg…
That bastard Bob Hope had shot her!
Taking several deep, gasping breaths, she managed to regain some control. A thorough exam showed it to be only a superficial wound. The bullet hadn't gone into her leg, just nicked her on its way by. But somehow, that knowledge didn't ease her terror.
Digging through her backpack, she pulled out the first aid kit. She cleaned her leg with an alcohol pad, then put a bandage over the wound. The mechanical motions of giving herself first aid helped calm her so she could finally string thoughts together coherently.
Damn, she needed to get in touch with Sarah. Sarah had to be able to give her some answers about what had happened this afternoon. Another surge of rage coursed though her and it felt good. Centered her.
That damn Bob Hope. Liar. Manipulator. Well, she damn well wasn't going to be manipulated by anyone anymore.
Okay then, get to a telephone. Call Sarah.
She took a deep breath, and forced herself to eat a package of slightly smashed peanut butter crackers. Then she set out to find a phone. She didn't have to look far, immediately spying one wedged into a corner near the stairwell of the parking structure. Pulling out a handful of change, she dialed Sarah's number and waited. It rang fifteen times before she hung up.
Cold terror pulsed through her.
Something had to have happened to Sarah.
A sick feeling cramped her stomach. Sick for Sarah, for getting her involved in this mess. Sick because she didn't know where to go or what to do from here without Sarah's help. The only lead she'd had was the DEA office.
She knew Trent Montgomery was supposed to have something to do with a Mexican drug cartel, but she wasn't sure how to find out where that organization was based. Besides, there was no way to tell what was on Tom's mind. He could be anywhere at this point.
It was like chasing a tiny little golf ball on a course the size of the entire earth. Hopeless.
She slunk back to her dark corner, depression and loneliness overwhelming her. A sudden vision of Tom, leaning over her, a smile on his gorgeous face, his eyes alight with passion, filled her mind.
How could this be happening? How could her Tom, the man who'd tried to protect her from Jerry with the fire poker, who'd held her while she cried over the memories of her kidnapping, who'd touched her inside and out in ways that no one else ever had, be the same person the whole world was out to get? She couldn't believe he could be.
But what was she supposed to think when Sarah's information revealed him to be part of a drug organization? When the man this afternoon, Jess whatever his name was, thought Tom was responsible for his son's death? When the DEA, the cops, and the bad guys were all chasing him?
After that man Jess's description, there didn't seem to be much doubt that Tom and Trent were one and the same.
Then she remembered again the cold fury in Tom's eyes, the hardness, the aloofness he'd shown her at times. She shook her head and rested it briefly on her knees. She was so confused right now that she couldn't even think straight.
Thoughts of the old house in Connecticut came rushing in at her. The fire burning in the fireplace, her mother's piano, all her own books and pictures. Strangely enough, though, those thoughts didn't comfort her as she'd assumed they would. Instead she felt detached from it all, as if she were a visitor to those memories.
What she needed and wanted was Tom. She felt it at the deepest part of her.
That's why she was sitting in this cold parking garage in the middle of Denver. That's why she'd stolen a van, held a man at gunpoint, been accosted by, then escaped from the DEA, and why she'd been shot.
It had been a hell of a day.
A group of people entered the structure from the elevator, so she pushed herself deeper into her corner. When their voices passed, she looked up again and breathed a sigh of relief. She had to get out of here soon.
A plan. She needed a plan.
Should she try to contact Jerry? But what good would that do? Jerry wasn't going to be able to tell her how to find Tom, wouldn't want to even if he could. Besides, she was hesitant to bring him
into this mess any further than he already was. If all the law enforcement types in the universe were already looking for her, chances were they'd eventually have a chat with Jerry, if they hadn't already, since he was her best friend. She didn't dare take a chance on contacting him. For his sake, and for his wife and twin babies.
She took a deep breath. Okay, then who?
Goose flesh prickled her skin as she had a sudden thought.
Genny.
No. That was too bizarre. She needed facts, not some eerie kind of ESP. Besides, if someone was trying to track her down, Dad and Genny's Manhattan apartment would be an obvious place for them to look, or to tap the phones, or whatever else cops and criminals did.
The quivery, shivery feeling didn't go away, however. The more she tried to thrust the thought aside, the more it bored into her brain, becoming a mantra.
Okay, maybe if she just called quickly. Damn it! She was desperate. What else could she do?
She glanced around to make sure she was alone, then sprinted back over to the pay phone. Her change clinked into it, and she dialed the familiar number.
It only rang twice before it was picked up. "Hello?" Genny's voice.
"Genny—"
"Maris! Listen to me, love. Listen carefully. Remember that picture your dad and I had made three summers ago? Go to the place where that picture was made. You'll find what you're looking for there."
Maris's mind whirled, trying to lock onto the picture and place Genny was referring to.
"Think, honey. You know."
Suddenly, it clicked in her brain. "But, Genny…how do you know?"
"I just know. Follow your heart. He needs you. Go."
A click and then the phone went dead.
She stood there, holding the receiver. Jesus, Genny hadn't even asked if she was okay. And she was starting to get pretty damn tired of having people hang up on her. Frustration oozing out of every pore, she slammed the receiver back into place.
The urge to throw something or hit something flooded her, but she tamped it down with difficulty. With a muffled grunt, she leaned back against the brick wall to think. She was sick and tired of cowering in a dark corner. If someone wanted to find her, then let them come on. But right now, she needed to think.
