Facing It (4 page)

Her figure wasn’t half-bad, either. Like her siblings, she was tall, but she had definite curves, probably enhanced a little by motherhood. Her waist nipped in between full breasts and softly rounded hips. Someone who would fit perfectly against a tall guy, the kind of woman with a hint of softness, the kind of woman it felt oh-so-good to hold when dancing or kissing or—

Jiminy Cricket, what was he doing thinking about that, about her, anyway?

This was Tick’s sister, the one he was supposed keep safe. She was
married
, for God’s sake, even if she’d run from the mockery of a union. The last thing Chris needed was to look at Ruthie Chason with any kind of male interest.

Because the last woman he’d looked at that way had almost done him in.

By the time they reached St. Simons Island, Ruthie wanted to scream. The quiet in the truck, broken only by the radio and Chris Parker’s occasional question and her short answers, smothered her, pressing against her ears, the tension inside her winding tighter and tighter with every mile.

She wanted…well, she wasn’t sure what she wanted. Maybe for John Robert and Camille to get into an argument, the way she and Will had as children. Or for Ainsley to pitch a fit, like Tori had been prone to do as a toddler. She’d possessed a perfectly ordered life, had been forced into it every damn day for the past eight years or so.

Now she wanted normal so bad she thought she could literally bite down and taste it. Darn it, she wanted that for her children. They’d have it too. She hadn’t risked everything to get this far and fail.

John Robert drew in a sharp, audible breath as they started up the Sydney Lanier Bridge, its apex five hundred feet above the water. She glanced at him over her shoulder. Eyes wide, he pressed his nose to the glass and stared down.

She laughed, the sound feeling a little rusty. “Pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

He nodded but didn’t pull his attention from the view. Chris darted a look at her son and the hard lines of his face softened. She reached back to pat John Robert’s knee. “Maybe you’ll get to play on the beach later. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Another sharp nod. “We’ve never done that before.”

This time, Chris’s gaze settled on her for a split second before he shifted his attention back to the road.

“I thought y’all lived in Charleston,” he said, his voice pitched low.

She folded her arms, trying to smother the grinding tension. “We do. I mean, we did.”

His eyebrows winged upward in silent inquiry. She sighed. “Stephen doesn’t like the shore. He hates everything about it.”

She regretted invoking his name as soon as it left her lips, as John Robert subsided against the seat with a troubled expression. “But I like the beach. All that sand between your toes and salt to wash off later.”

“Seaweed to wrap around your ankles.” Chris’s gaze lifted to the rearview mirror. “We’ll be within walking distance of the pier. Maybe we’ll do some fishing or go crabbing while we’re here.”

“Crabbing?” Camille perked up then, shifting forward in the seat.

Chris nodded. “Yeah, we’ll need some crab baskets and some bait. Hot dogs or chicken or something.”

“Real crabs, with big claws?” Impishness lit Camille’s eyes. She curved her hands into an imitation of those claws and moved them toward John Robert, who giggled.

Chris laughed, a resonant, pleasant rumble of sound that lasted mere seconds. “Really big claws.”

The bridge ended, opening up into the island’s main entry thoroughfare. Chris navigated the interplay of streets with the ease of someone intimately acquainted with a location, taking them farther into the island until they reached the historic village area with its narrow streets, big trees, old houses and glimpses of the bay.

Ruthie couldn’t resist rolling down her window for a whiff of salt air. In the backseat, John Robert and Camille indulged in one of the quick sibling tussles she so longed for, to see who could get closest to the window to see the water, although it was much quieter than the ones she remembered from her own childhood.

At a stoplight, Chris squinted up at a street sign. “Have you been here before?”

She nodded, the sweet warmth of memories wrapping around her—playing in the waves with her brothers, holding her father’s hand as they walked along the bay front, sharing a family picnic in the park at the town square. “It’s been forever, though. Right after Tick graduated from high school, so it’s been almost twenty years. It’s changed a lot.”

“I’ll bet.” He swung into a right turn followed by two lefts, taking them deeper into the crowded neighborhood around the village area. The knot of coiled stress in Ruthie’s abdomen relaxed slightly. It would be difficult for Stephen to find them here, even if he knew she was on the island.

She trusted Tick enough to believe he didn’t.

Chris slowed to pull into a long, thin driveway fronting several tiny cottages. He parked beside the last, a small whitewashed building with faded turquoise shutters and a minuscule screened porch. It was the furthest thing possible from the kind of trendy condo Stephen would have chosen.

She loved it.

Sliding from the truck, she marshaled the two older children to help unload and even found a way for Ainsley to pitch in, having her open and close the front door once Chris unlocked it. Together, they made short work of unpacking the cargo area.

Inside, the house was small but spotless, making economical use of the limited space. The first bedroom held a double bed with a smaller single pushed against the opposite wall while the second smaller room contained a pair of twin beds. A tiny bathroom stood between them.

Chris paused in the small hallway outside the bedrooms, his duffle slung over one shoulder. “If you need both rooms, I can bunk on the couch.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” Ruthie tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “The girls and I can sleep in the double and John Robert can have the single. There’s no sense in your not having a real bed.”

“All right.”

She got the children started on stowing their things in the bedroom and wandered through to the small galley kitchen. Beyond that was another small porch and from the window over the sink, she could see the bay, the waters gray and a little choppy under the overcast sky. Chris appeared with the bags of kitchen staples they’d picked up in Waycross. Without speaking and with economical movements, he began putting them away. Ruthie moved to help, casting quick looks at him while she placed canned goods in the small pantry.

“I can do the cooking while we’re here,” she said, aligning the cans in tidy rows. She glanced at him. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“Deal.” He shrugged. “Because I’m pretty bad at it. But I’ll clean anything we catch.”

She laughed, with the realization that she’d done more of that, real laughing, today than she’d done in ages. “That was always my parents’ arrangement.”

“Mama.” John Robert appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and combined living and dining area. His eyes shone with muted excitement. “Did you mean it about going to the beach? Can we?”

“Well…” She looked toward the sky again. No thunderclouds, but a good drizzle seemed likely. John Robert’s eager face fell.

“They’re going to get wet anyway.” Chris leaned against the counter and rested his hands along the edge. “Right?”

“Right.” She reached out to tousle her son’s thick dark hair. “Let’s go.”

It didn’t take long for them to gather what they needed and drive the few blocks to a public beach. In minutes, Camille and John Robert’s excited shrieks filled her ears as they dipped their toes in the waves and ran along the shore. Ainsley, more reserved than her siblings, clung to Ruthie’s leg, but jumped up and down in vicarious exhilaration with each of their yells. Ruthie’s eyes burned as she found herself caught between warring desires to laugh and cry.

His shoes dangling from one hand, Chris chuckled beside her. “They’re having a blast.”

“Yes, they are.” She glanced up at him suddenly. He stared across the sand at her children with his customary serious expression, but his eyes glinted with good humor. She started to reach for his hand and stopped. What was she doing? But the gratitude bubbling through her wouldn’t be silenced. “Thank you.”

He looked down. “For what?”

She waved toward John Robert and Camille, splashing each other, the droplets of seawater sparkling under the weak sun fighting through the clouds. “For this. I know we’re intruding, probably ruined your vacation.”

He stiffened, his face seeming to shut down. She tensed, a damper falling on her newfound sense of momentary joy. Oh Lord, now she’d offended him. She took a step back. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.” If anything his features tightened further, but he smiled, although the expression was definitely forced. “It’s not…you’re not ruining my vacation, all right?” His gaze drifted to the children. “I’m glad I was around to help.”

She nodded, still feeling as if something was off between them. Between them? She barely knew him. They weren’t even fledgling friends. He was watching over her only as a favor to her brother. Turning her attention to Ainsley, she tilted her head toward the water. “Let’s go see what all the fuss is about, shall we, Ains?”

“Beecham, you didn’t answer the question.” Jennifer scrambled from the rental car and met her partner at the hood. “What makes you think Calvert will talk to you?”

“We got history, babe.” He tossed the keys in the air and caught them with a grand gesture. “Lots and lots of history.”

Jennifer shook off the momentary shock of his offhand “babe”. A carryover from their undercover work for sure, since he’d used the endearment she normally hated when they’d been posing at social functions. It had fit his persona then, and because it was so at odds with his staid Bureau personality, she liked hearing
him
say it.

She fell in beside him as they mounted the steps to the Chandler County Sheriff’s Department, a small two-story building with a rather forlorn air behind a gleaming new courthouse. “What kind of history?”

He shrugged. “We were at Quantico together. Spent a couple of years both working OCD after I left the behavioral unit. We’re friends.”

Jennifer gave him a cheeky grin as he pulled open the door. “I wasn’t aware you had friends, Beech.”

He shot her a quelling look. Inside, the scent of over-brewed coffee hung in the air, mixing with the low murmur of a busy department. At the small front desk, a brunette in a sleek navy suit argued with the young officer manning it. “Roger, I’m not asking for the keys to the jail. I just need to get in his office for two minutes—”

“Agent Falconetti, I’m sorry, really I am, but rules are rules.” Roger held out his hands in a helpless gesture.

The brunette tilted her head back, thick black hair falling over her shoulder blades with the movement. “I don’t believe this—”

“Well hello, darlin’.” Beecham rolled out the greeting and Jennifer gaped at him. The word “darling” was in his vocabulary? “It’s been a long time.”

At his voice, the brunette spun to face them, surprised pleasure lighting her features. “Beecham.”

Her argument with the deputy forgotten, she moved to embrace Beecham. Jennifer bristled. Who was this woman, anyway? Returning her hug, Beecham took it a step forward, planting a kiss on her mouth and actually
dipping
her in his arms with a flourish as he did so. Jennifer stared, a slow burn of jealousy starting in her chest. This was not the Harrell Beecham, stolid FBI agent, she knew so well. This wasn’t
her
Beecham.

The door squeaked open behind Jennifer.

“Hey, buddy, unhand my wife.” The deep drawl held a slight edge of menace beneath the teasing note.

With a slow chuckle, Beecham restored the brunette to her feet but didn’t release her, his arms looped lightly about her waist. “Knew I should have stolen you away from him when I had the chance.”

Sure she’d stepped into the twilight zone, Jennifer glanced backward. The lean dark-haired man standing just inside the door was at least four inches taller than Beecham. Clad in khakis and a dark green polo, he grinned at the tableau, but the expression didn’t quite meet his brown watchful eyes.

Thumbs tucked in his pockets and his stance one of forced relaxation, he lifted his eyebrows. “What chance?”

Beecham returned his grin. “Hey, I had chances. Didn’t I, Cait?”

The brunette patted his arm in a gesture of friendly comfort before she stepped away. “Sure you did, Beech.”

Beecham seemed to return to himself with a start. “Jennifer, let me introduce you. Caitlin Falconetti, one of our fellow agents, and her husband, Tick Calvert.” He waved a hand behind him. “Lead investigator here now, right?”

Calvert nodded and Beecham continued, “My partner, Agent Jennifer Settles.”

Once the murmured hellos subsided, Calvert eyed Beecham. “So what brings you to this neck of the woods? The wilds and badlands of south Georgia usually aren’t your stomping grounds.”

“You have to ask?” Beecham glanced toward the front desk, where the young deputy was taking everything in with keen interest. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

Calvert gestured at the hallway. “We can use the conference room.”

Conference room was a generous term for the cramped area he ushered them into, filled with mismatched furniture and crammed with storage boxes. Jennifer took a seat, as did Falconetti, but the two men faced off on foot at opposite ends of the table once Calvert closed the door.

Beecham shook his head. “Damn it, Tick, I’m here because you’ve already given two agents the runaround today.”

With a careless shrug, Calvert dropped into the chair next to Falconetti. “What makes you think you’re getting anything different?”

“I can help. You know that—”

“What I
know
is that if you’re here, you were aware she was in trouble and you didn’t do a damn thing to help her.”

“Tick—”

“Why don’t you cut the bullshit, Beecham, and tell me what’s really going on?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

His attitude grated its way under Jennifer’s skin. She leaned forward. “We could charge you with obstruction. Sitting in a cell for a couple of days might change your mind.”

He laughed aloud, a near-mocking snort. Beecham turned a glare in her direction. Falconetti tensed and rolled her eyes with a muttered, “Oh, God.”

Jennifer’s neck burned with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Beecham was supposed to be on her side. They were a team and heaven knew they’d worked that tactic before. Now, the rules had changed and no one had given Jennifer the revised copy.

It royally pissed her off.

She returned Beecham’s narrow-eyed stare. He looked away first, returning his attention to Tick Calvert. “I need you to trust me.”

“If we were working a case together, in a heartbeat,” Calvert replied. “This is different. This is family.”

“Cait?” Beecham slid an entreating glance in Falconetti’s direction. “Help me out here.”

“Sorry, Beech.” She lifted one shoulder. “For better or worse, putting him before everyone else, all that jazz. You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”

With a rough sigh, Beecham rubbed a hand over his nape before he pulled a card from his credentials case. “Listen, I’ll be here a couple of days. This has my cell number if you change your mind—”

The cell phone in question rang, cutting him off. He tugged it from his belt and glanced at the display. “Excuse me. Beecham.” He listened, his face tightening. “You’re sure? Absolutely positive? Yeah. I hear you.”

Unease shivered along Jennifer’s spine.

“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know. Keep us updated.” He snapped the phone closed and returned it to his belt. He flicked a look at Jennifer before meeting Calvert’s inscrutable gaze. “That was Weston, our supervising agent. He’ll have my ass in a sling for telling you this without clearance, but you need to know. The agents who’ve been shadowing Stephen Chason lost contact with him. Supposedly he was checked into a hotel in Virginia Beach and supposedly they’d verified his presence, but now no one seems to know where he is.”

With his words, Jennifer’s unease flared into downright dread. Calvert’s face tightened, darkened. “So he knows Ruthie’s gone and y’all have no idea where he is.”

Beecham planted his palms on the table and leaned forward. “But you know where she is, don’t you, Tick? We can keep her safe—”

“Like we kept Tessa Marlow safe?”

Beecham recoiled slightly, stiffening as if in response to a physical blow. “That was different.”

“No. This is different. This is my sister and no way in hell am I letting the Bureau use her as freakin’ bait to draw Chason out.”

“That’s not our intent—”

“That’s not
your
intent, Beech. But we both know how it works. I’ve been there, remember?”

“Damn it, Tick. He’s going to look here first.”

“Of course he is.” Calvert shrugged. “Let him look. He won’t find anything more than you have.”

Beecham’s frustration manifested in his inarticulate growl. Jennifer held her fisted hands in her lap. The futility of this was making her crazy.

“Beecham?” Falconetti spoke, her husky voice quiet and intent. “What do you know about Chason?”

Beecham looked at Jennifer with a you-handle-this-one expression. She shifted, leaning forward. “He’s all about control. His business dealings, the house, the children, his wife. When you look at the man, you never know what he’s thinking. Hides his emotions well.”

Falconetti nodded and turned to her husband. “Tick? What do you know about him?”

“I’ve only met the guy a couple of times, Cait, in the entire time Ruthie’s been married to him. He was quiet, distant, when I was around him.”

“Sounds like him,” Beecham said. “When we’ve tried to get to him in social situations, engaging him in a conversation is damned near impossible.”

A frown drew Falconetti’s elegant brows together. “Did it feel like social incompetence or removal?”

“Removal.”

“Why are we having this conversation?” Jennifer asked, a trace of her earlier pique twisting through her in a painful spiral. She was missing something and she didn’t like being the outsider in the shorthand conversation taking place. She met Calvert’s unreadable gaze dead-on. “All you have to do is help us and we can help her.”

Beecham didn’t move his eyes from Falconetti’s, but waved a silencing hand in Jennifer’s direction. She snapped her mouth shut and subsided, arms crossed over her chest. Intensity vibrated from his body and he leaned forward. “What is he going to do, Cait?”

“I don’t know enough.” Annoyance colored her words. “You have to give me more. What happens when he loses control of a situation? Even a small one? Is he a shouter? A hitter? What?”

The memory filtered through Jennifer, bringing with it the lingering nausea. The single time she’d seen Ruthie Chason attempt to stand up for herself, the dark rage on Stephen Chason’s face, icily controlled, his words not audible to Jennifer’s ears from her vantage point on their adjacent patio, but his actions speaking loud and clear. “He crushes.”

Falconetti’s attentive gaze flickered to her. “What?”

“A couple of months ago, there was a little stray dog that tried to take up at their house. I think Ruthie wanted to keep it. She fed it, watered it. Chason was…furious.” Jennifer shuddered. “He doesn’t let the anger control him, though. He killed it. In front of her, with his bare hands. Crushed its skull.”

A sick expression twisting his face, Calvert muttered a pithy oath and looked away.

Beecham stared at her. “You didn’t tell me that.”

She swallowed, remembering still, recalling how she hadn’t wanted to relive the experience by verbalizing it. “At the time, it didn’t seem relevant to what we were doing.”

Bleak realization haunted Falconetti’s eyes. “Tick…maybe you should talk to them.”

His own lips formed a taut line. “Cait—”

“I don’t think he’ll look for her at your mother’s first, like Ruthie said.” Falconetti caught his hand, intensity trembling in her voice. “He’ll want control of the situation. Control doesn’t involve him looking for her. Control means making her do what he wants, which is to—”

“Come out of hiding,” Jennifer finished for her, queasy awareness settling in her belly.

Calvert jumped to his feet. “How long has he been unaccounted for, Beecham?”

Beecham’s face distorted. “Six to eight hours.”

“He could already be here,” Falconetti murmured.

“We don’t know that he knows she’s gone,” Beecham said.

Falconetti and Calvert exchanged a glance. Calvert nodded sharply. “He knows.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Shit, shit,
shit
.”

Beecham shook his head. “Cait, what do you think he’s—”

“He wants her to come out,” Jennifer said quietly. “What’s the best way to do that?”

Falconetti’s gaze met Jennifer’s, respect shimmering in the dark green depths. “Target her family. Probably the member he’d see as most vulnerable or the one Ruthie would be most attached to.”

“Fuck.” Beecham closed his eyes on the whisper.

“Call your mother, Tick.” Falconetti’s command vibrated with urgency. “Have you talked to her today?”

“This morning, after…after. I called and explained, asked her to be careful.” He pulled his cell from his belt, his face pale beneath his tan. Phone at his ear, he listened, expression growing grimmer with each second. He slapped the phone closed. “She’s not answering. And it’s Wednesday. Damn it, Cait, she has Lee, remember?”