Love Inspired Suspense January 2014 (48 page)

“Why not?”

Coach Stan shifted as if he was suddenly uncomfortable on the expensive leather seats. “Max wasn't skating toward the finish line, he was skating to get away from something.”

It was as if he'd spoken the thought that had been humming through her mind since she'd met Max Blanco. “What?” she breathed. “What does he need to leave behind?”

Stan blinked. “Not for me to say. Where shall I drop you, Laney?”

She gave him directions to her father's cab company and he left her at the curb. “Thank you for the ride,” she said. “Where are you heading?”

He again offered the polite smile. “Out and about.”

She was in such a hurry she nearly tumbled from the car, knocking his neat box of pencils and papers out the door.

“Oh, gosh,” she said as she retrieved the rolling items and put them back. “It's a wonder I can even stand up on skates. Major klutz.”

He said something soothing as she retrieved another item, a business card for Diane Morrison, C.E.O. of Morrison Mining. There was a handwritten number in pen underneath the silver lettering, she noticed as she slid it back into the box.

She stared at the calm profile of her coach, who did not look at her as she closed the door.

With a wave in the rearview mirror, he drove away.

SEVEN

M
ax went for a slow jog on the track, letting the tension roll off his shoulders. Through the windows he could see the sun mellowing toward the horizon; the temperature would be dropping rapidly. There were others running the track just then, not speed skaters, but regular folks who chatted with each other as they ran. They belonged to another world to which he could not relate. For them, the exercise was the reward, winning was not even in their vernacular.

It was the only thing in his mind. Laney would win and he would do whatever it took to make that happen.

He hated the harsh way he'd spoken to her, though he knew he had to keep things straight between them. She was the important one, the competitor, not him. Nothing could keep him from doing his job and the last thing he needed was pity from her or anyone else.

You've gone through plenty of self-pity already.

It had started out that way, as he lay in the hospital bed in the very same hospital where his brother had died.
Why me? Why my family?
But long ago that self-pity had evaporated, crystallizing into something harder, a pervasive veneer of ice that had frozen over his soul and sealed in the rage at God. What he feared most was that something would crack that crust and he would succumb to the ire that flowed silently below the surface. Once he let that rage spew forth, he knew he might never be able to stanch the flow and it would drive everyone and everything away.

After a couple of miles, the tension wound down to a bearable level and he was determined to have one more conversation with Laney before the day ended. A professional, objective chat about their goals for the morning and the notes he and Coach Stan had gone over at the lunch break. Trainer to athlete. Professional.

He headed off the track and nearly passed the kid before he noticed him sitting on a bench just outside the ice. Same skinny shoulders, same mop of red hair, maybe fourteen, maybe not, next to a pair of speed skates that were the oldest and rattiest Max had ever seen.

Max stopped. “Didn't I see you at training the other day?”

The kid jolted as if an electric current had been applied to his spine. “No.”

“Sure I did.”

“I left when they told me to,” he said, brown eyes sparking. “You don't own the arena, anyway,” he muttered.

“It wasn't an accusation,” Max said after introducing himself. “What's your name?”

The boy kicked a heel into the ground, considering. “Nolan,” he finally said. “You're a skating coach, aren't you?”

“Trainer.”

“Used to compete?”

Max sighed. “Yes.”

“I knew it. My dad took me to see the trials.”

“I made the team, but I got hurt,” Max heard himself saying.

Nolan's face brightened. “Yeah, yeah. You're Blaze. I watched you tons of times when you skated here.”

Max felt the twin tingles of pain and pleasure that someone, anyone, remembered who he used to be. “They don't call me Blaze anymore.”

Nolan shrugged. “Must have been pretty great. I mean, while it lasted.”

“It was.” Max sat next to him, eyeing the skates. “You want to learn how to race?”

The kid gave an offhand nod of his shaggy head. “Maybe. Classes here are dumb, though.”

Dumb, Max wondered, looking at the hole in the kid's pants, or costly?

“Live close?”

“Close enough. My mom is a janitor here. Night shift. I come along sometimes. We're out on winter break now.”

Max asked what grade Nolan was in.

“Eighth. Hate it. Dumb stuff we're never gonna need.” He kicked his heel with renewed vigor.

“Must be one subject you like,” Max said.

Nolan laughed. “Lunch. Only thing I'm good at.”

“I'm thinking you're probably not too bad at gym class, either.”

Nolan looked at the ground, now swinging his legs back and forth.

“Personally, I always excelled at lunch.”

A grudging smile from the kid.

“You want to learn to skate?”

Nolan stopped kicking, just for a minute, giving him a quick glance. “Maybe.”

Max pointed to the battered skates on the ground. “First thing is, you're gonna want to sharpen those blades.”

“Yeah, I tried, but I don't know how.”

Max thought quickly. “We're training on the ice tomorrow afternoon at two. Come early and I'll sharpen them for you.”

Nolan's expression was hard to read. Wary? Hopeful? “What's it gonna cost?”

Somehow Max knew it must not be charity, a handout that would be more distasteful than a fee Nolan could not pay. “Information. I've got a question for you.”

“About what?”

“Yesterday. Did you leave when Coach Jackie ordered you out?”

“That tough lady with the lipstick?” He looked away. “Sure.”

“So you probably didn't stick around to see the race?”

“The one where that girl crashed? Man, I heard the smack all the way from the top of the bleachers. She slammed right into those pads,” he chortled.

“That's what I thought.” Max hid a smile. “The skater is Laney Thompson, I'm her trainer, and after the race, somebody took her skate.”

“Just one? Why would anybody want do that?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out. Did you see who did it?”

“Nah. I wasn't looking that close.”

“Whoever it was, they tried to get rid of it in the lake later, but that didn't work. They might have dumped it somewhere else. The woods, maybe?”

“I've spent plenty of time messing around in those woods. I can take a look, if you want. You know, in exchange for sharpening my blades.”

“Deal,” Max said, pumping Nolan's hand solemnly. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Hey. If I bring you something else, something I found near here, would you be interested enough to let me watch practice?”

Max figured the boy had found some old iPod or cell phone fallen from a jogger's pocket. “I'll take a look at what you've got and then we'll talk.”

Something triumphant kindled in the boy's eyes. “I got something right up your alley.”

“Oh, yeah? Like what?”

Nolan smiled, a cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. “Something that's gonna get my blades sharpened for life.”

Max leaned forward and offered his hand to Nolan once more. “Okay, then. See you later.”

Nolan didn't hesitate, shoving his cold fingers into Max's palm. “Oh, yeah. It's a deal.”

* * *

A half hour later, Max was heading for the athletes' dorms. He wanted to find Laney and smooth over the awkwardness between them.

Coach Stan walked in from the direction of the parking lot.

“Have you seen Laney?” Max asked.

“Just dropped her in town at her dad's place.”

Max's eyes widened. He should have known she'd find a way. He headed to the lot, fired up his pickup and pulled it onto the road, fighting the urge to speed. Laney was perfectly fine, visiting with her father, he was positive. On the way, he phoned her and she didn't answer. Then he tried Dan Thompson, who picked up on the third ring.

“Are you at the shop, Mr. Thompson?”

“No. I was...running some errands.”

The man sure ran more than his share of errands. “Is Laney with you?”

“Why would she be?”

“She got a ride into town to talk to you at the shop. I tried calling her, but she didn't answer.”

“Max, why do I hear worry in your voice?”

Max wrestled with telling him about his gut feeling that something was wrong. What mattered now was finding Laney.

“No reason. I'm sure she's fine, waiting for you at the shop. Just weird that she isn't answering her phone.”

“I'm on my way.”

“I'll meet you there.” The sun dipped below the mountains, and a dark shadow overtook his truck.

Suddenly, he did not feel quite so positive, after all.

* * *

Laney entered her father's shop, smelling the tang of engine oil and stale coffee that she had always found comforting. “Dad?” she called, poking her head into the tiny office cluttered with piles of papers, cardboard boxes and a crooked office chair that her father refused to part with.

He was not there, and neither were his two drivers, who were probably handling airport runs and downtown fares. She reached for her phone to call him and realized she'd left it on silent after she'd phoned her dad. Two missed calls from Max. She'd call him back in a minute.

She checked the even smaller kitchen. A couple of empty soda cans and plastic containers left in the sink indicated their housekeeping skills had not improved. She washed the plastic ware, gathered up the cans and headed to the garage in search of the recycling bin.

The garage was dark, the massive sliding door closed. The only vehicle parked there was an unfamiliar dark blue sports car. Moving closer, she was shocked to discover it was an Aston Martin in pristine condition. She and her father had gone to many car shows in their time, and this vehicle would have fit in with any of them with its sleek lines and immaculate interior. Where had it come from? None of her father's drivers could afford such a vehicle; neither could their employer. She heard a thump in the darkness.

“Daddy?” she whispered, skin prickling.

“Not Daddy,” a voice replied. A bare overhead bulb flicked on.

Stomach twisted in fear, she watched as a short, bushy-haired man stepped into the pool of light. They stood for a moment, sizing each other up. Fear rose inside Laney's throat along with a good measure of anger. It was the man she'd seen attacking her father outside the oval.

She swallowed. “I almost didn't recognize you without your club.”

He cocked his head and then smiled, giving her a full array of very white teeth. “Funny.”

“Who are you?”

“Trevor Ancho,” he said.

The name rippled through her memory. Hugh Peterson had asked if she knew him.

“And I already know you are the talented Laney Thompson, speed skating star.” Ancho's tone was derisive. “Prone to accidents, though.”

Accidents. “What did you do to my father?”

Ancho stuck his hands into the pockets of his wool coat. “What makes you think I've done anything to him?”

“Maybe because you were trying to beat him to death last time I saw you, and here you are in his place of business.”

“I wasn't going to beat him to death. Bad for business. Dead people don't pay up.”

She felt a trickle of dread ice up her spine. “Does he owe you money?”

He drew his hands out again, patting all his pockets and hooking his thumbs in the coat with a sigh. “Trying to give up smoking, but my hands are the enemies. Ever smoke?”

“No.”

“Don't start.”

She looked past Trevor to the exit, but it seemed so far away. The button to open the big garage door was on the far wall, and the thing opened so slowly she did not think she'd be able to get out before he caught her. Her phone was in her hand. Could she call Max? The police? First she had to know about her father. “What do you want?”

“To talk to your father, but now that you're here we can take care of both birds.”

“Where's my dad?” she said louder.

He ignored the question. “I admire your determination and athleticism. I was an athlete myself. High school wrestling.”

She waited, forcing herself to breathe slowly.

“You had that shot at the Games four years ago, but things didn't work out. Now, what you're doing here, it's not going to work out, either.”

“What I'm doing? You mean trying to make the team again?”

He nodded, unwrapping a stick of gum and popping it into his mouth, offering her a stick. “Gum?”

“How do you know it's not going to work out?”

He chewed for a moment. “Lots of reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Let us just say, there are people who would like you not to compete.”

Cold seeped up the concrete floor into her body. “Who doesn't want me to make the team?” she forced herself to ask. “I have a right to know.”

He snapped the gum, eyes gone hard. “No, you don't have the right. You're not that important. You're just a girl trying to be important, and you're gonna have to find some other way to do that.”

Her fingers found the phone and sought the emergency-dial button. “And you're going to hurt my father to make me quit?”

“No,” he said. “What's between your father and me isn't your business, but if you dial the cops on that phone in your hand right now, then I'm gonna have to think about changing my mind.”

She jerked her finger off the button. “Don't hurt my father. Please.”

“There, you see? I knew you could be reasonable. Smart girl like you.” His eyes roved her body. “Good legs, pretty face. Plenty of opportunities.”

“Who wants me to quit? If I'm going to give up my dream, I should at least know a name.”

His smile vanished, and he spat the gum onto the floor. “So presumptuous. That's the problem with certain women. You have no power, no rights, no leverage. You got nothing, so don't put on airs. Same thing I told your father. No rights, no power, no leverage.” He stabbed a finger in the air for each point.

She flinched, legs trembling. “I want to see my dad.”

“He's closer than you think.” His smile was sly. “I want to show you something,” he said, tone easy and calm once again. “See the car? Turn around and take a look.”

She turned reluctantly.

“Nice, isn't it? That right there is a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Top-of-the line sound system. Carbon-ceramic brake rotors. Personalized door sills. It separates people, you know? Those who can own something like this from those who never will. You feel it when you're driving, in the pulse of the engine, the way other people look at you. They get this certain expression on their faces, which shows that they know they'll never possess a machine like this.”