Fatal Strike (29 page)

She arched against him, clutching his shoulders. Totally into it.

Holy fuck. He’d started out just trying to make a point. Now he was pinning her to the wall so she straddled his erection. Her fingernails dug into his neck, her fingers gripped his hair, and her tongue twined with his. Her mouth was so sweet. So were those sounds she made. Her legs clenched him, her cheeks a hot crimson.

He could feel her racing heart, with his face pressed to her tits. Her sweater was shoved up high, puckered nipples poking through the cups of her sheer bra as he nuzzled and kissed—

She arched, making a shocked, low wailing sound. Coming.

He felt it against his cock, right through their clothes.

Oh,
yes.
Oh, sweet.

He held her afterwards, his nose still buried between her tits. Nuzzling the soft curves, the jut of her nipple, waiting for the echoes to fade. Wow. This was going to be hotter than he’d ever dreamed. And he’d dreamed it very, very hot. For years, now.

He lifted his mouth. Her eyes were closed. Two glittering tears quivered on her lower eyelashes. They detached, and flashed down.

She licked her trembling lips. Her eyes fluttered open, looking down, to the side, anywhere but at him. “Put me down, please.”

His grip tightened possessively. He rubbed his cheek against the tender swell of her tit. So very unwilling to do as she asked. “We could take this somewhere, and finish it,” he suggested. Hell, anyplace would do for him. A bathroom, a basement. A broom closet.

“It already is finished,” she said. “Please, Petrie.”

Irrational anger kindled in him. He stared at her, his face stony.

“Call me Sam,” he said.

She licked her lips again, leaving a sheen of moisture that made his cock jump. “Please, Sam,” she said.

He set her down on her feet, and she backed away, hastily rearranging her sweater, her hair, her face. “I . . . I don’t know what happened,” she faltered. “I—”

“I could explain it to you sometime,” he said. “Over dinner.”

She shook her head. “No, no. Things are so strange now, and I—”

“Later, then. When the weirdness is fixed. Dinner, with me?”

She backed away, lips trembling. “I can’t.

“You’re seeing someone else?” he asked.

She shook her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

“Then why?” Frustration sharpened his voice.

“I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t be with you.”

A swift lunge, and he had her in his grasp again. He bent her back, off balance, so she had to cling or fall. Her mouth was so soft.

He had to keep it busy. Better that she kiss him again than tell him to piss off. That was a much better use for her mouth.

The door opened, and Lily let out a squeak. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry.” She snapped the door shut again.

But the moment was killed. Sveti freed herself, wiping her mouth, running her hands over her cheeks like she could wipe that blush away.

“You want me,” he said harshly.

Her face tightened. “Don’t, Sam.”

“Why?” He was fighting not to yell. “Just tell me, already! What is your fucking problem?”

Sveti yanked the door open and ran away. Marco woke up, and began to squall. Lily came back in, pale and nervous, to pick Marco up out of his crib, shooting him sidelong glances.

Petrie’s cell phone started to buzz. He went out into the kitchen to answer it. Sveti by now was nowhere to be seen. The display on his phone indicated that it was Barlow, probably calling to scold him again about how Miles Davenport wasn’t answering his phone.

“Petrie here,” he said.

“We’ve got to bring him in, Sam,” Barlow said. “He’s been keeping someone sequestered in his cabin in the woods. We have reason to think that he’s been holding Lara Kirk there.”

Petrie gaped for a moment, speechless. “That’s not possible.”

“No? Why would you say that, Sam? Do you know something about this guy? Something you’re not telling me?”

“I know Miles Davenport,” Petrie said. “Seven months ago, when she disappeared, he didn’t know that Lara Kirk even existed.”

“We’ll see how he explains his cabin, then. We’ve been there since six AM. Windows boarded over, mattress on the floor, cum-stained sheet, long, dark hairs on a wool blanket. A leg shackle, with blood on it. Food wrappings, MREs, protein bars, a chemical toilet. A little hellhole, Sam. And then there’s the grave, in the back. Three men, throats slit, bled out, duct tape. The criminologists are working it over. It doen’t look good for your boy. And you know what? It doesn’t look too great for you, either. This whole thing is going to suck for you.”

“How did you find the place?”

“We were tipped off. Thaddeus Greaves had paid a team to investigate. They’d tracked her down to that cabin in the woods. They contacted their employer, and then he didn’t hear anything more from them. That was yesterday. So he called us. They’re the ones who are in the grave, Sam. Your boy’s a killer. Among other things.”

“It’s not possible,” Petrie said again. “It’s a set-up.”

Barlow was silent for a long moment. “Don’t protect him,” he said heavily. “This is going to mess you up, Sam. It’s a career killer.”

“I’m not protecting him,” Petrie said, teeth gritted. He glanced over through the kitchen entrance, and saw Lily in the doorway, holding a suitcase and knapsack. The kids were gathered by the front door. He glimpsed Bruno, Kev, Edie. They were mobilizing.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m outside the motel where he stayed, Pine Manor. It’s on Cleary. He never checked out.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” he said, and hung up.

He walked into the living room. Bruno and Kev were both looking suspicious and hostile. They’d probably heard about the hot tryst with the Snow Queen, and violently disapproved.

Good. It was time for all of them to start getting used to the idea.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you today after all,” he said.

“Why?” Sveti’s voice rang out. She came walking out, bundled up in a thick, black down jacket, hair tucked under a hat. “It’s your job calling you, no? More important than anything else?”

This was not the time or place for that charged conversation, so he shined it on. “I need Miles’ number. His new one,” he said to Kev.

“Yeah?” The man’s voice was truculent. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m about to completely screw myself and my career by letting him know he’s about to be charged with kidnapping, rape, and murder. And I need to go talk to the guy who’s got the case. I have to tell him exactly what’s going on with Greaves. All of it. I don’t think anybody has anything to lose, at this point.”

Kev and Bruno exchanged glances. Kev nodded, pulling out his phone. He read off the number. Petrie plugged it in.

“I’ll take my car, with Kevvie and Jeannie,” Sveti announced.

Bruno looked displeased. “I wanted two adults in each car, at least one of them armed.”

“Edie can drive, and I’ll be the one who’s armed,” Sveti said.

Petrie whipped his gaze around, startled. “You? Armed?”

“Of course. Tam taught me.” She lifted the side of her sweater, and showed him the pistol tucked into the little holster snugged inside the waistband of her jeans. It had not been there during the kiss. He was sure of it. He’d had his hands all over that girl.

Whoa. He shook his head and pointed himself out the door.

He spent the seventeen minutes it took to speed to Barlow’s location wondering how to phrase this crazy story in such a way that Barlow wouldn’t call the psychologists and tell them he’d snapped. It was going to be a challenge, to gloss over the weird stuff when the omissions left gaping, improbable holes.

Barlow’s sedan wasn’t in the hotel parking lot, and he didn’t see it on the first pass around the block, either. He was just about to call again when he finally glimpsed it parked in an alley behind the hotel. It was raining. He could see Barlow in the front seat.

He tapped the horn, thinking he’d suggest the nearby Dunkin’ Donuts, or any other warm, dry place to talk this out over coffee.

Barlow didn’t move. Petrie jerked up the parking brake and got out, turning his collar up against the damp wind, the sideways raindrops. Barlow’s window was open, the rain blowing right in.

Barlow’s total stillness sank in.

An icy claw tightened deep inside him. His feet slowed, but he did not allow himself to stop. He kept walking, bracing himself. By the time he peered through the window, he knew what he would see.

And knowing didn’t help.

Barlow’s eyes were wide open, frozen in surprise. His shirt had a vivid splotch of red. A gunshot wound, straight to the heart.

L
ara was stiff with cold when they finally cruised into a medium-sized town. They drove up and down the downtown streets, as if he was looking for something specific.

He pulled to a halt in a parking lot outside a fifties-era brick factory building with a faded sign that read, “St. Vincent’s Thrift Store.”

“Clothes,” Miles said, in answer to her silent question. “Hope you don’t mind used. Too many cameras in the Walmarts and the BiMarts and the Targets. I don’t know how far their ability to mine data reaches, and I don’t want to test it. But this place won’t have security vidcams.”

“Used is fine,” she said. “I like thrift shops.”

“Good. Pick out some stuff, fast. I’ll make some calls, set up the ID and credit cards. Then we’ll grab a bite and get you to the station.”

His brisk tone felt distant. “I want to stay with you,” she said, instantly wishing she had kept her trap shut.

He gave her his implacable look. He didn’t even have to say it.

The store itself was big and drafty, smelling faintly of mildew and old shoes. A grizzled old man sat behind an ancient cash register near the door. He appeared to be dozing.

Miles trailed protectively close behind her as she wound her way through the tables of miscellaneous junk, ceramics, old appliances, junk jewelry, shoes, dishes, glassware, furniture. At the racks of clothing she eyeballed the sizes, picked out two pairs of faded jeans that looked about right, a button-down of slate-blue cotton, a couple of long-sleeved tees. Miles plucked a big, wool army coat, olive drab, and tossed it on top of her pile. It looked huge for her, but warm. There was another one there, even larger, and he grabbed that one too, presumably for himself. Muttering on his phone all the while.

“. . . goddamnit, how many times do I have to go through this? You’re dealing with fucking telepaths, Seth. All the rules change when they . . . yeah, well, look what they did to Davy! He’s already fingered Davy’s and Connor’s families, do you want him to go after Jesse and Chris and Mattie and Raine, too? . . . we’ve been through that, and we can’t. I appreciate the offer. Pick a town at random and send the . . . yeah, to a big chain hotel and—fuck, no! Don’t tell me where it is! I can’t know! Jesus, Seth, keep your finger on the page!”

Miles noticed her listening and gestured sharply, frowning, toward the racks of clothes. She turned her eyes to the hanging shirts, picked out a forest green pile sweatshirt.

“. . . debit card and a credit card, too. You sure there’s no way you can score a passport for her? It would be great if she could leave the country . . . yeah, well, work on it, then. Work on it fast . . . hey, don’t get twitchy on me, man. I’m having a hard enough time as it is.”

She kept her ears perked up as she circled the racks, flipping through totally irrelevant used vintage dresses—and then she saw it. She caught her breath, and lost the thread of Miles’ phone conversation.

It was the dress. The exact dress that she had worn in the Citadel. The dress he had torn off her, or thrown the skirt up, countless times, in countless erotic episodes. Ivory white, low cut, with a satin underskirt, a gathered chiffon overskirt, a ruched chiffon sash. Right down to the rosettes that trimmed the bodice, though one was ripped loose, dangling from a single thread. Swatches of white chiffon for straps over the arms. It made her toes curl.

She peered at the size. One size smaller than what she used to wear in her former life. Which was about right, or even a little large, in her current state. Maybe it was a discarded bridesmaid gown. In perfect condition, other than a little yellowing on the satin lining inside of the bodice, and what looked like a coffee stain on the skirt.

Her heart was thudding as if she’d seen a ghost. She wanted to think of it as a hopeful omen, but she was afraid to. It was so frivolous. Mortal danger, death on every side, innocent children threatened, and here she was swooning over a dress? Time to grow up.

She was embarrassed to show it to Miles, or more to the point, to ask him if he would buy it for her, being as how she didn’t have a cent to her name. But he would probably say something cutting, in his present, edgy mood, and she didn’t want to deal with that.

She couldn’t leave the dress, either.

Lara yanked it off its hanger, and peered at the price. $16. Whoop de doo. As deceptions went, it was a relatively harmless one, and she would make it up to him. If she got the chance.

She folded it up as small as it would go, which wasn’t very, it being big and pouffy. She sandwiched it between the practical clothes and the big coat and circled the rack back to Miles again.

“. . . don’t know what else I can do at this point, so don’t give me any more shit,” Miles was whispering savagely. “Yeah, you think? And let them kill Jeannie and Kevvie? He would do it, Seth. Davy, too. He’s one psychic finger jab away from death right now. The guy could probably do him from a car driving past the fucking hospital.” Miles caught sight of her standing there in the aisle between the racks with her armful of clothes, and gestured her toward the wall. “Move over there, against the white wall,” he directed. “No, a little to the left, so the light hits you. Hold on a sec,” he said into his phone. “I’ll take this picture for you right now, and call you right back.”

Lara lay her armful of clothes onto one of the tables, and stood against the wall. He thumbed his smartphone and framed her, squinting intently through the viewfinder. “Smooth down your hair a little,” he ordered her. “It’s all over the place.”

She did her best, unfastening her braid and finger-combing the wind-whipped tangles around her ears. She posed again.

He still didn’t look happy. “Hold your head up straighter,” he said, frowning. “Try not to look so scared.”

“Try not to be a jerk,” she suggested.

His grin flashed. He snapped the picture, gave it a long, critical once-over, then tapped the phone again.

“Let me see it,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. You look beautiful.” He thumbed open his call again, held it to his ear. “Yeah. Me again. Sent. Yeah, okay. I’ll pass you to her.” He held out his phone. “Here. Talk to my friend, Seth.”

She looked at the proffered phone as if it were a snake that might bite her. “What . . . who?”

“He’s helping us,” he explained, impatiently. “He has information for you. Info I do not want to store in my own head, so I can’t pass it on to you. He has to give it to you directly. Got it?”

She still hesitated, so he just grabbed her hand and slapped the phone into it. She held it up to her ear. It was so warm from his hand.

“Um, hello?” she said. “This is Lara.”

“Hey. I’m Seth.” The guy’s deep voice sounded angry. “Miles wants me to give you some coordinates, so pay attention. Buy a bus ticket for Pendleton, via Eugene, then Portland. There’s one that leaves in an hour and ten, and if you miss it, you’ll wait four more hours, so don’t. Once you’re in Pendleton, get a cab to the Hampton Inn. The front desk will be holding a package for Melissa Whelan. Got that? Melissa Whelan, that’s you, now. Your wallet got left behind, so you had it couriered to your hotel. Your room for the night is paid. In the morning, you rent a car, and blow on out of there, fast. Once you’re off, none of us will know where you are. Still with me?”

“Yes,” she said.

“The debit card has twenty-five grand on it. When it runs out, use the credit card. I would quiz you on all this, make sure you’ve got it, but Miles doesn’t want to contaminate his pristine brain with your data,” the guy grumbled. “Fucking nuts, if you ask me.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” she said.

“Another thing. We need a way to communicate, which is tricky, since we could be monitored by the big psycho badass. So, as per his Royal Highness’s strict instructions, I opened up a new Yahoo account. Username, UHaveGot2BKidding, all words capitalized, U and B single letters, “to” the number 2, no spaces. Password, PsiFreakBGone, no spaces, all words capped, B a single letter, and follow it with two exclamation points. You need to communicate with us, log onto that account and leave me a message in the drafts folder. Got that?”

Lara squeezed her eyes shut, pummeling her tired brain into a mode that could take in and efficiently store that kind of information. She had to visualize it written. “Um . . . I think so,” she faltered.

“Not good enough,” Seth barked. “Go find a goddamn pen and paper, if you’re not sure!”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” she assured him.

“So this is the deal. I’ll check that account a few times a day. You ever need anything, money, documents, help, whatever, you let us know. Got it?”

The subtext was clear. That if she ever needed his help, it was because the worst had happened and Miles was gone. And they were helping her for his sake. In his memory.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice thick. “Thanks. I really apprec—”

“Thank Miles, not me. He made it happen.”

“Oh, I do. I have. Several times,” she told him.

“Good,” the man said. “He needs to hear it. Good luck, and be careful. Pass that crazy bastard back to me.”

She did so, her throat too tight to speak, and gathered up her armful of clothes. Miles hunched over the phone again, pulling her behind him as he muttered and argued into it. He stopped a few times on the way to grab a big, multicolored knit cap, which he tossed onto her pile. Then it was a pair of somewhat wacky, battered, mirror sunglasses, big, perfectly round discs, like John Lennon specs. With the pea coat and the hat, it was going to be quite the bold and edgy look. Certainly not her usual style, but she supposed that was the point.

The last thing he grabbed was a bright-blue canvas gym bag. He tossed it on the counter, turning away to finish his conversation. Lara lay her pile on top of it, and the old guy began ringing them up. Miles didn’t turn to look, even when her frothy ivory dress was sprawled all over the counter and spilling halfway to the floor.

Miles pried out his wallet and handed it to her, just as the guy announced the grand total of fifty-two dollars. He had no small bills, just a thick, intimidating wad of hundreds. She handed one over.

The guy peered over his glasses. “Got anything smaller?”

“Sure don’t,” Lara said. “Sorry.”

He grumbled, but made the change. Lara packed the stuff into the duffel. She donned the coat, which lapped down over her shoulders and almost reached her ankles. Miles shoved the hat down over her eyes, and perched the sunglasses on her nose. She swatted his ass smartly when he dared to laugh at the resulting outfit.

Then it was down the block and across the street, to the funky little diner for a meal. They were very quiet after the waitress took their order. Miles put his hands out on the table, like he was going to reach for her hand, but his phone rang.

He pulled it out. Stared at the buzzing thing. Not answering.

“What? Who is it?” she asked, unnerved.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Only Aaro, Sean, Connor and Kev should have this number. This was the burner. I didn’t give it to anyone else.”

“Don’t answer it,” she said swiftly.

He shrugged. “If they know that I answer this phone, then they probably know where I am already. I might as well learn what there is to learn, rather than stay ignorant.” He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”

He listened quietly, for several minutes, not looking Lara in the eye. “No shit,” he muttered. “Wow. Yeah, of course. I’ll come in and defend myself as soon as possible, but I can’t now, because I . . . yeah, I know, but . . . I will, as soon as I can, but . . .”

He covered his face with his hand. Lara could hear the guy on the other end literally bellowing at him.

“Look, man.” Miles’ voice was hushed. “I appreciate the heads-up. I am so sorry about Barlow. Jesus, Sam. I’ll do everything I can to make this right for you, but right now, I have to go.”

He hung up the phone and immediately turned it off.

“Who was that?” she asked.

He took so long to answer, she started getting scared. She drummed her finger on the table. “Miles,” she said, imitating his alpha master and commander voice. “Spit it out. Right now.”

Miles dragged another item out of his bag, a nylon pouch with long straps and clasps, still refusing to meet her eyes. “That was Sam Petrie. A cop friend of mine.”

“And?” she prompted. “What’s the heads-up for? Sorry about what? Defend yourself against what? What’s happening?”

He rubbed his face, glancing around at all the other customers in the diner, and leaned closer. “Greaves has been busy,” he said quietly. “He’s set me up. I have this shack, on some land I own up in the Cascades. They staged the place to look like I’m the one who’s been holding you captive. And they buried those guys I killed out back.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to process it. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said sharply. “All I have to do is tell them the truth.”

He shrugged. “Your trustworthiness as a witness will be in question if they think you were sequestered and brainwashed.”

Something rose up inside her, close to hysteria. “So they’ll call me crazy? They’ll lock you up? They won’t believe what I say about you?”

“We can’t afford to worry about this right now,” he said. “Let’s just pretend that it never—”

“No! I’m not going to pretend! I’m on to you, Miles. You don’t expect to live through this, so it’s not really your problem, right? You’re just blowing it off!”

He grabbed her hand, squeezed it. “Lara,” he said. “Please.”

His eyes were anguished. She cut off her rant, and pressed the paper napkin against her eyes.

When she was back under control, she blew her nose into the napkin and stared down at Miles’ battered, scabbed brown hand, enveloping hers. His other hand held the canvas bag, and when she met his eyes, he shoved it across the table at her. “Put this in your bag. There’s about thirteen grand. The debit card has twenty-five more.”