CARRIE'S PROTECTOR (6 page)

He pushed that thought away and tried to focus on what he needed to do.

But thoughts swam in and out of his head the way they often did these days.

He could almost remember when the fuzzy feeling had started. Almost, but not quite.

But he wouldn’t give in to the brain fog. He had to keep going, projecting the iron will that had always stood him so well.

Thank the Lord he’d had Patrick to help him keep his finances straight—and make decisions about Carrie.

Patrick had combed through a list of security experts and picked Wyatt Hawk to keep Carrie safe. No, wait. Patrick hadn’t picked Hawk. He’d recommended someone else. But Douglas had thought Hawk was better. Had that been a mistake?

He cursed under his breath. Had he made a foolish decision that had jeopardized his daughter’s life?

He went from cursing to praying. He hadn’t prayed in years, not for himself. But he could pray for Carrie, couldn’t he?

She must still be safe. Or why would these men be holding him captive?

He wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure about anything beyond his hostage status.

When the doorknob turned, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

A shaft of light fell across his face, and he heard men talking.

“How long do we have to keep the old guy?”

“Until we know the daughter’s taken care of. Then we can wash our hands of him.”

“She won’t know the difference if we off him now.”

“That’s against the boss’s orders.”

The door closed again, but the men must have been standing right on the other side because Douglas could still hear their voices. He strained to hear the rest of the conversation.

“The boss is a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah. But we’re getting paid enough to put up with it. We already got a payment.”

“Not enough. I want more of it now. As a gesture of good faith, you know.”

The voices faded away, and Douglas sat up in the bed. Had he really heard that conversation, or had he made it up to fit the situation? In his current state, he honestly didn’t know.

* * *

C
ARRIE
LAY
WHERE
Wyatt had left her on the bed. She’d thought about curling her body away from him. Instead, she’d kept her gaze on him as he walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, then walked to the table and pulled his computer toward him.

She’d almost gotten in over her head with him a few moments ago. But he’d done her a favor by pulling away.

Or
was
it a favor?

She felt too confused to make up her mind about that. Maybe because she’d had so few intimate relationships with men.

Wyatt had asked her about Patrick. She’d never thought of
him
that way. He’d always been too much like a brother to her.

In college, she’d had some relationships, but they’d been with guys who’d turned out to be looking for more of a bed partner than a life partner.

Or maybe that was her fault. Maybe she’d given off vibrations that had kept them from getting too close to her.

If you didn’t feel good about your relationship with your father, could you feel good about your relationships with other men?

She’d never gotten that analytical about it. She’d just always known that it was hard for her to trust anyone with the intimate emotions she’d always kept to herself.

That didn’t seem to be true with Wyatt Hawk. She wanted to feel close to him. But was she deliberately picking a guy she knew wouldn’t let it happen?

She hated second-guessing herself. And him.

Was the danger swirling around them making her reach out toward him? Or was there something real developing between them—if both of them were willing to take the chance and let their guard down?

Chapter Six

Wyatt kept his gaze away from Carrie and forced his mind back to what he was supposed to be doing—figuring out who could be responsible for both the ambush and the kidnapping.

He walked to the table and picked up his computer, opening a web browser.

“You mentioned a Quincy Sumner?” he said.

“Yes.”

“He lives in Fairfax?”

“Yes.”

He put in the name and the Virginia city and came up with several hits right away. After scanning them quickly, he raised his head.

“It’s not him.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s dead.”

“He is?” she asked, surprise in her voice.

“Yeah. He had retired—then had a heart attack on the golf course a few months ago.”

“Dad didn’t mention it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t even know.” Wyatt studied the obituary, looking for names of next of kin. “I suppose it’s possible that someone in his family could still hold a grudge against your father, but it seems unlikely that they’d be executing such an elaborate plan.”

From the bed, Carrie murmured in agreement.

Wyatt bent his head to the computer screen again. “I’ve got some other ideas,” he said as he scrolled through some of the files he’d stored in his mail system.

“Like what?”

“Let me check an address.” He found the house he was searching for, then looked up. “I think the next step is to have a talk with Aaron Madison.”

“Who is he?” Carrie asked.

“Another Federal prosecutor. He was working with Skip Gunderson.”

“And you think he might know something?”

“He was in a position to know. This time you stay here, and keep the door locked.” He closed the computer and stood up, thinking that going to Madison’s house would get him away from Carrie for a while. And right now, he needed that distance. He’d done something stupid, and he didn’t want to remain in the way of temptation.

But she apparently didn’t understand his point of view—on any level.

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

He turned and faced her. “You don’t think what?”

“I don’t think you’re leaving me here.”

“It’s the safest alternative.”

Carrie stood and crossed the room, putting a firm hand on his arm.

He turned and looked at her. “Your father hired me to make judgment calls. It’s safer if you stay here.”

“Nothing’s safe.”

“But there’s less risk keeping out of sight.”

“That’s not what you said before.”

“The situation’s changed.”

“If you’re going to talk to Madison, I’m going with you,” she repeated. “I’m the one they’re trying to kill, and I have the right to know what’s going on.”

He wanted to say they were trying to kill him, too. He wanted to add that she would be the next person to get any information he picked up, but he knew she wasn’t going to accept that.

He sighed. “Okay.” Walking over to the bag of clothing they’d bought, he pulled out black jeans and a black, long-sleeved polo shirt, which he took into the bathroom and put on.

When he came out, she gave him a curious look. “Are we going to talk to the man or break into his house?”

“You never know.”

“Give me a minute.”

She grabbed similar dark clothing and stepped into the bathroom. When she closed the door, he thought about leaving her in the motel but decided not to take the underhanded approach.

She came out a few moments later, and he handed her the hat and sunglasses he’d bought. “Put these on.”

When she had complied, he studied her, trying to assess how much she looked like the woman he’d just seen on television. She’d lost weight since he’d met her, which made her face more angular.

“I can’t wear the sunglasses after dark,” she muttered.

“You’ll wear them to the car now.” He stopped and gave her a direct look. “And the same rules apply as when we were in the field outside the safe house. If I tell you to do something, you have to obey me.”

“You mean like an S-and-M master?” she shot back.

He snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

“Then let me go out first.”

“You wouldn’t have tried to make me stay here if you thought it wasn’t safe,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, but I’m not taking any chances. When I give you the all clear, don’t run to the car. Walk like we’re here on a fun vacation.”

“In Columbia?”

“Maybe you’re planning a shopping trip to the Columbia Mall.”

When she laughed, he said, “The point is, we don’t want to attract any attention.”

There were no problems on the way to the car. When Carrie had settled into her seat, he pulled out of the parking space. Twisting the wheel made his arm hurt, but he figured the pain would keep him focused. Beside him, Carrie took off the sunglasses, tucked them into her purse and folded her hands in her lap. She sat very still, and he wondered if she was thinking she shouldn’t have come along.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Tell me about Aaron Madison. Why do you think he could be a problem?”

“He certainly had access to the information about your trip downtown.”

“Didn’t a lot of government people?”

“Not really. They were trying to keep it under wraps so nothing bad would happen.”

She made a dismissive sound. “Well, that certainly worked out well.” After a few moments of silence, she asked, “What else about him made you wonder?”

“It’s hard to say. There’s something about him that I can’t put into words. I guess you’d call it a hunch that he could be a problem. Maybe because he always seemed on edge when I talked with him.”

“Meeting with me was a big responsibility. That could be why.”

“Maybe,” he said, but he was still wondering if it was something more sinister.

They rode in silence for a while before she asked, “Where does he live?”

“Bethesda,” he answered, naming a close-in, expensive D.C. suburb.

“Won’t his family wonder why we’re dropping in after hours—or at all?”

“He doesn’t have any children, and he and his wife, Rita, recently separated,” he answered, glad to put the focus on Madison again.

“Do you know why?”

“No. I only know that she moved out a few months ago and got an apartment in one of the luxury buildings near the D.C. line.”

“Isn’t it unusual for the wife to be the one to leave?”

“Yes. That’s one of the things I noticed.”

“You had him investigated?”

“Not with any depth.” He tightened his hands on the wheel. “Which may have been a mistake.”

He waited for a comment on that, but she said nothing about his investigative skills. Instead, she said, “I met him briefly.”

“How did he seem?”

She thought for a moment. “Anxious not to spend too much time with me. Now that I think back on it, I felt like he didn’t want to get to know me very well.”

Not a good sign, Wyatt thought as he drove down Route 29 to the Beltway, where he got off at the Connecticut Avenue exit, then took Bradley Boulevard, which was a shortcut to the section of the posh suburb where the Madison house was located.

Wyatt turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, then onto a side street where the houses were mostly brick two-stories that looked as though they had been built in the forties or fifties. Large trees marched up the green parkway between the curb and the sidewalk, and all the lawns and shrubbery were well maintained. It was obviously an upscale environment.

“A solid old neighborhood,” Carrie remarked as she peered into the gathering darkness. “Which house is it?”

“157.” He pointed to a redbrick colonial where most of the lights were turned off. When he got to the end of the block, he turned the corner, then did it again, putting them on the street in back of the Madison house.

“What are you doing?” Carrie asked.

“Taking precautions. I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”

“It would make for a quicker getaway if we parked closer.”

“You think we’ll need to get away fast?”

She shrugged. “I hope not. I guess I was thinking of what they do in action movies.”

As they walked up the sidewalk and around the corner, Wyatt kept their pace moderate, as if they were out for an evening stroll. As far as he could see, there was no one else doing the same, and he hoped no one was looking out their windows trying to figure out who the man and woman were.

As they walked past parked cars, he looked inside but found them empty.

They reached 157 and turned into the driveway, which was about twenty-five yards long and sheltered by a tall hedge between Madison and the neighbors. At least that gave them a bit of privacy.

Carrie stared at the large two-story looming before them. “How can the guy afford all this on a government salary?”

Wyatt’s thoughts were running along the same lines. “Maybe he inherited money. Or maybe he’s got another source.”

Wyatt walked softly up the blacktop driveway, trying to make as little noise as possible, listening for sounds from the house or the surroundings. There were none.

He got to a place where someone who pulled up in a car could turn off and take a path of wide stepping stones to the front door. Instead, he kept walking along the driveway. Carrie followed, and he was glad she wasn’t asking questions.

They arrived at a six-foot-tall wooden fence to the backyard. The gate was standing open. Wyatt stepped through and looked around, then motioned for Carrie to follow. Inside the yard he led her toward the back door, which featured glass panes in the top half. Like the gate, it was standing ajar.

Beside him, she drew in a quick breath. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

He shook his head, drawing his sidearm as he peered through the glass into the empty kitchen, where cabinets stood open and boxes of cereal and pasta had been thrown from the shelves onto the counters and the floor.

He cursed under his breath, wishing he’d insisted that Carrie stay at the motel. But she was here now, and he had to deal with it.

“Stay by the door,” he whispered.

Entering the kitchen, he held his gun in a two-handed grip, swinging it in all directions, looking for whoever had made this mess. There appeared to be no one in this part of the house, but he took a quick run through the first-floor laundry room, then the living room and dining room before motioning Carrie to follow. Both rooms were in disarray, as though someone had conducted a search without caring how much mess they made.

“It’s spooky.” Carrie wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “What do you think happened?”

“Someone was searching—in a hurry.”

“Are they gone?”

“It looks that way, unless they did the same thing we did and parked around the corner.”

They walked quietly down a short hall toward the front of the house. On one side were double doors that led to a home office. Wyatt could see books pulled from the bookcase, the rug turned up, credenza drawers open. There was also a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s spilled on the rug.

It was a worse mess than in the kitchen, but there was something even more disturbing—a pair of men’s shoes and trouser-clad legs sticking out from one side of the desk.

Carrie gasped.

“Stay back.”

Wyatt rushed forward and found the man he’d been looking for lying on the floor behind the desk.

Aaron Madison was in his early forties with a receding hairline. Once, his features had been handsome. Now his face was battered, and his glasses lay on the floor near the wall, shattered. His eyes were closed, but one was badly swollen. His nose was smashed, and his lips were split and bloody. His shirt was open, and Wyatt saw that a knife had been used to carve up his chest, but not so deeply that he was going to die right away.

He’d hoped to spare Carrie the gruesome sight, but he knew she was right behind him.

“Oh, Lord,” she gasped as she stared at the man. “Who did this to him?”

“I hope it’s not someone trying to get information about you.”

When she sucked in a sharp breath, he wished he’d kept that thought to himself. As he knelt beside Madison, he pressed two fingers to the man’s neck, where he felt a faint pulse.

“He’s alive.” Barely, he thought. “Someone worked him over. The same someone who trashed the house. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

The man’s good eye fluttered open and focused on Wyatt. “Too late,” he whispered. “Internal injuries...bad.”

“Who did this?”

Instead of answering, Madison asked, “Wyatt Hawk? What...are you doing...here?”

“A hunch. Who did this?”

Again Madison ignored the question as though it were dangerous to tell what had happened to him. Even now.

“They didn’t get into the safe,” Madison whispered. He dragged in a rattling breath.

“You need—”

“To tell you the combo...twenty-six right.” He paused. “Fifteen left.” Again he stopped to catch his breath. “Double right turn to seventy-two.”

After delivering the message, he closed his eyes again. Wyatt gripped his shoulder. “Where is the safe?”

“Behind...medicine cabinet in bathroom down the hall.”

“Stay with him,” Wyatt said to Carrie. “See if he can tell you anything else.”

Carrie knelt beside the man. “You need medical attention,” she murmured.

Wyatt left the gun with Carrie and hurried down the hall to the bathroom. The medicine cabinet stood open, and the contents were scattered around the small room, but the cabinet itself was undisturbed. It was not a standard model but an ornately carved wooden box that was fixed to the wall with hooks above the top pediment. The bottom rested on a bracket.

Wyatt lifted the cabinet up, detaching it and setting it on the floor, revealing a safe embedded in the wall. Quickly he began spinning the dial, working the combination that Madison had given him.

Twenty-six right, fifteen left. Double right turn to seventy-two. With the last turn, the lock clicked, and he pulled the door open. There was a wad of folded bills inside—ranging from twenties to hundreds. Beside them was a small notebook. Wyatt left the money and took out the book, thumbing through the pages. There were number notations, but he couldn’t tell what they meant, exactly. He’d have to ask Madison.

A noise behind him made him whirl. It was Carrie, her face stark.