LANYON Josh (10 page)

foreign postings, but then he’d never been so far out of his own element.

Not even in an Afghan embassy compound surrounded by a desert full of hostiles.

He wasn’t sure how long he followed Orrin and the others, but he was headed back through one of the meadows he and Will had crossed earlier that day when he saw motion in the darkness ahead.

Not far enough ahead, unfortunately -- as an indescribable heavy oily scent of wet fur, fish, and grass resolved itself into an enormous black bulk that suddenly rose up on its hind legs.

A bear.

Taylor stopped dead, hand reaching automatically for his shoulder holster -- which was not there.

The bear, a weaving shadow in the darkness, made a heavy blowing out sound and then a strange wooden clicking noise.

Jesus. What was he supposed to do -- besides not run? That much he knew. You didn’t run from a bear. And you didn’t try to climb a tree. What the hell had Will said about this? Play dead with grizzlies and fight back with black bears. And there were no grizzlies in the High Sierras so…yell, make noise, clap hands -- and if he started yelling and screaming he was liable to alert Orrin and his pals that he was alive and on their trail.

Taylor took a careful sliding step backward. The bear was still blowing and making those clacking sounds. It had to be six feet tall and about three hundred pounds. It looked like it was all claws and teeth to Taylor.

Funny. They looked so cute in the zoo.

“Get the hell out of here, you sonofabitch,” Taylor growled, trying to look and sound aggressive. He bent down, hands skittering over pine cones, rejecting them -- he didn’t want to merely annoy the thing

-- and caught up a stone, pelting it hard at the bear. It bounced off its head. The bear made more exhalations and chomping sounds, and Taylor, scrabbling for more stones, wasn’t sure if he was merely pissing it off. He pitched another couple of hard balls -- putting everything he had into his throw -- and to his relief the bear dropped back on all fours and lumbered away, crashing through the brush and bushes.

For a few seconds Taylor stood there panting; he hadn’t thought he had that much adrenaline left. He mopped his wet forehead with his sleeve.

“I
hate
camping,” he said softly, just for the record.

* * * * *

He was weaving with exhaustion when he gave in to the need for sleep. Even after he decided to rest, it took him time to find a safe and suitable place. Safe and suitable being relative. Finally he took shelter in a small cavity in the hillside. It wasn’t large or deep enough to be a cave, but that was fine by Taylor. A cave was likely to be already inhabited, and he’d had all the close encounters with local wildlife he could handle for one night. He tucked himself in the little vault made by a couple of precariously balanced boulders, huddling, arms wrapped around his bent knees, head resting on folded arms. The rocks weren’t warm, but they protected him from the wind and the night air, and at least it was relatively dry.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

He closed his eyes.

The night seemed alive with sound. Far noisier than the city ever had.

He let himself dream of Will. Only half dream really -- and half confused memory. Memories of when they had first been partnered. Nothing dramatic. Not like TV shows where the partners hate each other on sight but then come to like and eventually trust each other. The fact was, he’d liked Will right away.

Liked his seriousness, his professionalism. Will was relaxed and experienced, and his calm approach to the job was a good balance for Taylor’s own more…intense work style. He’d liked Will’s sense of humor, and when he’d realized Will was gay…

For the first time ever in DS he’d felt completely at ease, completely comfortable…understood and appreciated. Up until this week, he couldn’t have conceived of voluntarily seeking another partner.

He tried to picture that: getting used to someone who wasn’t Will. Maybe someone who took his coffee black, who didn’t like overpriced bourbon or dumb action films, who dated girls from the Computer Investigations Branch, and didn’t own a beer-drinking dog or listen to Emmy Lou Harris. Someone who wasn’t allergic to penicillin or who wasn’t an expert marksman. Someone who might not be there the next time he got his ass into a jam.

He thought of waking up in the hospital with Will sitting right there. His eyes had been bluer than summer skies, and his smile had been sort of quizzical. “Welcome back,” he’d said in that gentle voice he’d used for the first few days after Taylor recovered consciousness. And Taylor had managed a smile because it was Will -- despite the fact that he’d never been in so much pain in his entire life.

And all the other times Will had shown up bearing magazines and fruit and CDs -- sometimes only managing to squeak in about five minutes before visiting hours were over.

A million memories. A million moments. Will’s laugh, the way his eyes tilted when he was teasing, the way he bit his lip when he was worried, that discreet tattoo of a griffin on his right shoulder -- the way his skin had tasted this afternoon. The way his mouth had tasted…

* * * * *

It was still dark when Taylor woke. He was freezing. He was starving. He could hear the high-pitched yapping hysteria of coyotes. They sounded close by. Too close. But he knew enough to know it was unlikely coyotes were going to attack a full-grown man. He pressed the dial of his wristwatch and studied the luminous face. Two-thirty in the morning. Still a couple of hours of darkness. He needed to get moving again.

But as he crawled outside his shelter, he was seized with doubt. Was he making a mistake following Will and his captors? What if he couldn’t catch up with them in time? He had no idea how long they would keep Will alive. Would the smarter move be to go for help? Get off the mountain and get down to the nearest ranger station?

For a moment he was torn. If he got this wrong, it meant Will’s life.

* * * * *

“So what was it? You didn’t like the retirement package?” Will asked conversationally as Orrin settled across from him, rifle across his lap, when they finally stopped for the night.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“Can we have a fire?” Bonnie asked.

“Nope. We don’t want to attract any more goddamn rangers.” Then Orrin nodded at Will as though acknowledging a point scored. “Yeah, it’s always the quiet ones you’ve got to watch. I pegged you for trouble right off the bat.”

Will ignored that. He wasn’t going to be distracted by the pain of remembering Orrin playing God. He couldn’t let himself think about Taylor, couldn’t let himself grieve until he’d done what he needed to do --

starting with surviving this night.

“You’re a cop?”

“Deputy sheriff. Used to be.” Orrin watched Bonnie huddling down in her sleeping bag, preparing to sleep. Just for a moment something softened in his weathered face. Bonnie didn’t fit Will’s idea of a femme fatale, but to each his own.

“Let me guess. The line got blurry watching all those bad guys get away with it year after year,” he mocked.

Orrin shrugged genially. “Something like that. Anyway, it’s not like we robbed a mom and pop store.

We hit a casino.”

“And killed two sheriff’s deputies and the pilot of the plane you hijacked.”

“And your partner,” Orrin said evenly.

Will said very quietly, “And my partner.”

For a moment Orrin’s gaze held his. He said softly, “You’re not going to get the chance, son.”

Will smiled -- and had the satisfaction of seeing Orrin’s eyes narrow.

“Was it really just a coincidence you were up here?” Bonnie asked suddenly, opening her eyes.

Will turned his head her way. She had a hard, plain face, drab blonde hair. Maybe she looked different when she wasn’t cold, miserable, and had fixed herself up, put a little makeup on. Or maybe she had nothing to do with it; maybe she was just one of the perks for Orrin.

“It was just a coincidence,” he replied.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” she said. “I don’t even believe in luck.”

“The house always wins?” Will said.

“That’s right.”

“Stop jabbering and let me get to sleep,” Stitch complained, lying a few feet away.

Will stared across at Orrin. Orrin stared back.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

* * * * *

He thought about the days after Taylor had been shot -- days spent prowling Little Saigon looking for the two punks that the restaurant owner next door had seen screeching away from the parking lot behind the nail salon.

With the help of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department he’d tracked Daniel Nguyen and Le Loi Roy to their favorite noodle shop where the teenage gangstas were scarfing down pigskin-filled rice paper wraps. Nguyen had surrendered without trouble, but Le Loi Roy had gone for a shoot-out at the bok choy corral and wound up with a shattered hip and a couple of missing fingers. He was fifteen. Nguyen was thirteen.

When questioned about the nail salon incident, according to Nguyen, the FBI guy -- who was Taylor, apparently -- had drawn his gun but had hesitated -- and Le Loi had shot him. To Nguyen’s way of looking at it that made it self-defense.

Le Loi’s story -- when he was well enough to offer one -- was that the FBI guy had hesitated a moment too long -- obviously thinking they were a couple of dumb little kids. Too bad for him. Le Loi had been chagrined to hear that he had not actually killed the FBI guy as this was seriously going to damage his own newly-minted street cred.

The couple of times Will had tried to talk to Taylor about it, Taylor claimed he didn’t remember much of anything. He didn’t want to discuss it -- didn’t want to hear about the fate of Daniel Nguyen and Le Loi Roy, and Will -- reprimanded and removed from the case himself -- let it drop. The trial was scheduled for May, still two months away. It seemed moot now with Taylor dead.

* * * * *

Once, Will thought Orrin might just be drifting toward sleep, but he sat up, shifting the rifle abruptly, and pinning his gaze on Will’s watchful face.

“If I were you, son, I’d grab some shut-eye.”

“You’re not me,” Will said pleasantly. “And I’m not your son.”

Orrin laughed. Glanced at his confederates, who were soundly sleeping. Stitch’s snores were loud enough to echo off the mountains.

“What was his name? Your partner.”

“MacAllister. Taylor MacAllister.”

“Partners a long time?”

“Three years.”

“That’s a long time in law enforcement. How’d that work? You and him being…?” Orrin made a seesawing hand gesture.

Will opened his mouth and then recognized that sorrowful inevitable truth for what it was, and changed what he had been about to say. “It worked fine till you killed him.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

“I had a partner for a few years. Meanest sonofabitch you’d ever want to meet.”

“That’s quite a compliment coming from you,” Will said.

Orrin laughed. Then he called to Bonnie and Stitch. They came awake immediately, rolling over and sitting up. Will noted that Bonnie reached for her rifle first thing. Stitch went for his boots. Good to know.

“Orrin, can we please have a fire? I’m freezing my butt off,” Bonnie complained through chattering teeth, pulling her boots on.

“Yeah. Stitch, collect some firewood and we’ll have some coffee and breakfast. We got a long day ahead of us.” Orrin pulled out Will’s map and studied it by the light of his flashlight.

“How long are we --?” Bonnie nodded toward Will.

“We’ll see how useful he makes himself,” Orrin replied.

“I’ve gotta pee,” Bonnie announced, and wandered off into the bushes.

She wandered back a short time later and took Orrin’s place while Orrin vanished to relieve himself. He left his rifle propped against a rock, but Will knew he was carrying Taylor’s SIG. He had taken it from Stitch; spoils of war, apparently. All the same, this was probably as good a chance as he was going to get. He studied Bonnie. Rifle aimed at him, she stood poised and ready for him to try something --

dangerous with nerves and fatigue.

“Quit staring at me,” she said shortly, though it was too dark for either of them to really see what the other was looking at.

“It’s not too late to get yourself out of this,” Will said. “You’re not the one who shot a federal agent. If you help me --”

“Orrin!” she yelled.

Orrin came back fast, zipping up his pants. “What’s going on?”

“He’s trying to work me! He’s going to try and play us off against each other!”

“Of course he is,” Orrin said reasonably. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, well, it just might work on that moron Stitch.”

“Where
is
Stitch?” Orrin said abruptly, looking around the clearing.

“He’s gathering wood for the fire,” Bonnie said.

“We’re not building a bonfire, for God’s sake.” Orrin walked out a little way, yelling for Stitch.

The silence that followed his call was eerie.

“
Stitc
h!” shrieked Bonnie. Her voice seemed to echo off the distant mountains and come rolling back
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

louder than before.

Orrin shushed her impatiently. They listened intently. “Okay, keep an eye on him.” He added as Will moved to stand up, “No, you don’t. Stay where you are, son.”

“No!” Bonnie said. “We need to stay together.”

A tall shadow stepped out of the trees: Orrin’s flashlight gleamed off the rifle barrel pointed straight at him.

“Together is good,” Taylor said.

Chapter Seven

For one very strange moment Will thought he might -- for the first time in his entire life -- faint. He could actually hear the blood surging in his head, drowning out coherent thought. The shock was enough to send him rocking back on his heels, staring in disbelief at the slender shadow that resolved itself into a tense and familiar outline.