No Rules (2 page)

Donovan considered how much to tell him. Someone had tried to get information from Wally. Telling Rasmussen and the sheriff wouldn’t help Wally, but there was more than one life at risk here. “Walter Shikovski was murdered. I can’t prove it, but I can tell you that his daughter is in danger from the same people who killed him.”

Sheriff Mosely straightened. “What people? What do you know about it?”

“I don’t know who they are.” Not yet. But he’d sure as hell find out.

Mosely followed him as Donovan went to the other room and snatched his helmet off the chair. “You know something. What did they want from Wally?”

He stopped, looking Mosely in the eyes. “That’s the million-dollar question, Sheriff. I don’t know the answer.”

He’d find out that, too. Or a whole lot of people were going to end up dead, starting with Walter’s beloved daughter, Jessie.

…

Jess turned her collar up against the frigid wind, shivering from head to toe. The funeral director had insisted on sticking with the outdoor service her father had arranged and paid for years before, even though Walter must have envisioned dying in the summer. Michigan’s November cold was playing hell with her Southern blood.

Not that there were many who suffered along with Jess. She eyed the small group of mourners standing around the mahogany casket for the graveside service. Had
anyone
liked her father? Only a handful of his coworkers from the university had shown up, anonymous figures in long coats and hats who murmured introductions she immediately forgot. And Tyler Donovan. He’d lurked in the background during the service, still in motorcycle leathers, as if he’d brought nothing else with him to Nipagonee Rapids. To her annoyance, he’d shown up at the funeral home, too, never speaking to anyone, just watching. Each time his gaze had met hers she’d found it hard to look away, his intent stare compelling and unnerving at the same time. It sent shivers across her shoulders; she hadn’t decided if they were good shivers or bad ones.

He hadn’t called her to go through the house yet.

She looked for him now as the small group dispersed, determined to ask exactly what work he’d done with her father and why his friendship had meant so much to Walter Shikovski that he’d left all his personal possessions to him. She scanned the surrounding tombstones and scattered pines as the service ended, but saw only two men in heavy coveralls leaning against a backhoe in the distance, waiting for everyone to leave so they could lower the casket and finish the burial. No Donovan. He was probably hanging back, waiting for the last mourners to leave so he could approach her again about going through his newly acquired possessions.

Cold raindrops mixed with the November wind, hurrying the last of the mourners toward their waiting cars. She ignored their footsteps crunching the dead leaves behind her, giving her father’s casket one last look. An official good-bye seemed called for, but she had no words to offer. No words that could express the hurt of losing the beloved father of her childhood, and nothing to say to the man who’d turned his back on his thirteen-year-old daughter when she’d needed him most.

Cold rain bit at her exposed legs below her trench coat, prompting her to hurry and be done. “Screw it,” she muttered aloud. “Good-bye, Dad—”

With a rush of movement behind her, her words were suddenly cut off. A hand snaked around her throat and clamped over her mouth, rough fingers mashing her lips against her teeth. Jess screamed, the muted sound vibrating against the hand.

Whose hand? Her mind flew to Donovan and the way she’d lost track of him, yet hadn’t seen him leave. Would he attack her? Who the hell knew? He was a mystery. She should have mentioned him to someone, asked who he was. Too late now.

Panic tore through her and she clawed at the arms pinning her against a tall, male body. Strong arms, hard and muscular beneath thick sleeves. Donovan’s? They could be. Against her ear, a rough cheek brushed hers, igniting new terror. She struggled wildly, then froze as the man’s harsh voice rumbled into her ear.

“Hand it over,” he growled. “Or end up in the ground with him.”

Not Donovan’s voice. The unfamiliar accent proved it, but provided no reassurance. He pushed her forward, still holding tightly, and her foot slipped into nothingness—the edge of the grave.

A green felt tarp covered the grave, a fake grassy border to hide the yawning hole beneath the casket. The tarp gave way beneath her shoe. Another scream tore from her throat, muffled against his hand as he forced her other foot to the edge of the grave. She shook her head, both a plea to stop and confusion over his demand.
Hand what over?
Her wallet? Her house keys? The rest of the threat was all too clear.

She dug her fingernails into his coat sleeves, hanging on as she lost her footing. For a heart-stopping instant she dangled above her father’s open grave. The man shifted, and she thought he was going to pull her back, message delivered, but he simply switched his grip to his left arm, still covering her mouth while his right hand moved away. He lifted it again, and she flinched as he nicked her neck with the point of a knife.

He was going to kill her. Her stomach flipped, bringing a sour taste of bile to her mouth. She wondered fleetingly if throwing up would make him jump away, or if he would slash angrily with the knife. The thought was aborted by a sudden impact. Something hit him—hit them—from behind. In a blur of black leather, her attacker lost his hold on her and fell to the ground with Donovan on top of him.

Flung from the man’s grip, she staggered forward. A weak cry escaped her as she groped at nothing and fell to her knees.

And kept falling.

Her fingernails clawed briefly at the smooth, hard mahogany of her father’s casket as she slipped past it. Beneath her feet, the tarp gave way, and in a sudden nightmare come true, she slid like a wet noodle down the narrow space between the casket and the dirt wall of the grave.

Pain. Blackness. The smell of damp earth. A bone-deep panic that raked at her chest like an animal trying to get out.

On her hands and knees, Jess clenched her fingers in cold soil, then recoiled. The exposed dirt of the grave seemed far more sinister than the ground above. With a shudder, she lifted her head.

A dirt wall rose on her right, ending in a gray slice of sky. Cutting off most of the view, her father’s casket hung above her on a framework of boards. A view not meant to be experienced by the living. A wild thought flew through her mind: if she survived, how many additional years of therapy would this require?

A sound like a mewing kitten squeaked from her throat, pitiful even to her ears. It didn’t come close to reflecting the depth of her fear. She inhaled deeply, allowing the smell of damp earth to fuel her terrified cry. “Help me! Someone!” Pushing herself to her feet, she nearly collapsed again at the stab of pain in her right ankle. Injured and buried alive. Terror shook her voice as she cried out again, “Help! Help! Help!”

A dark form appeared above her. A man, bare-headed in the increasing rain, dark hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His face was in shadow, but still lighter than the gloom of the grave. Light enough for her to recognize the hard stare and unsmiling face of Tyler Donovan.

“I’ll be back,” he yelled and disappeared from view.

“What? No, wait.” Her only chance at getting out of her father’s grave was about to disappear. Utter fear trembling in her voice, she called out, “Come back. I’m hurt.”

Far above, she heard a vicious curse and the scramble of feet on wet leaves. Seconds later, Donovan’s grim face peered over the edge of the grave above her. “How bad?”

Was he kidding? Was there a sliding scale for open-grave injuries, a one-to-ten gradient? She needed to get out of here. With fear clutching her chest, she yelled back, “Bad. My ankle feels broken.” Actually, she could probably walk it off, but exaggeration seemed warranted if it got her out of here faster.

“Is it bleeding?”

Oh, for God’s sake. Was he really prepared to leave her here alone? “How the hell do I know? Her body shook uncontrollably, and her voice choked with the tears she tried desperately to hold back. “It’s dark as Hades down here and I can’t tell mud from blood. Just get me the freaking hell
out of here.”

“Fuck.” But with the decision made, he lay on the ground and reached into the grave. “Grab my hand.”

It was grudging, but it was also the only offer she was going to get. Wobbling on her good leg, she reached up to clasp his wrist. He gave a hard pull, grunting as he rose to his knees. She dangled, feet off the ground and chest against the cold, muddy wall of the grave. Closing her eyes against a flood of horrifying images, she hung on. A second later, matted grass tickled her cheek.

“Grab my other hand.”

She opened her eyes and did as he ordered. With one hard tug, he pulled her up until she slid belly-down onto the wet ground, gasping like a landed fish.

He knelt beside her, rolling her over and gently probing her ankles. Raindrops hit her face, stinging cold. She welcomed the feeling as proof she still belonged with the living.

He patted her cheek. “Are you okay?”

The stupidest question ever. Anger helped her focus and was a good substitute for the terror still pumping through her veins. Narrowing her gaze, she snapped, “No, I’m not okay.” Sitting up, she swiped at the rain on her face with a trembling hand. “I just got shoved into my father’s open grave and you ask me if I’m okay? I am f-freaked out and scared and injured,” she gulped as her voice faltered, “and c-covered in mud. And I am definitely not okay.”

She pushed herself up, then balanced on one foot while gingerly putting her right toes down, testing their ability to take her weight. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.

He knelt at her feet, probed her ankle again, then rose, crossing his arms. “It’s not broken,” he said, clearly an accusation. “It’s not even bleeding.”

She stared, incredulous. Brushing hair aside in order to give him the penetrating glare he deserved, she finally met his eyes. She froze as her thoughts tumbled into a void and disappeared.

Unlike when they’d met in the lawyer’s office, the circumstances were not polite and civilized. Neither was he. His hair was wild and wet, his expression annoyed, and his firm jaw shadowed with stubble. His dark gaze was piercing and intelligent and something else that made her knees weaker than they already were. He looked tough and dangerous, like someone she wouldn’t care to meet in a dark alley. That he also looked inexplicably sexy had to be due to her rattled brain.

In the distance the sound of screeching tires penetrated her mental fog, followed by the muted roar of an overworked engine. Her attacker was getting away. Donovan stepped back, his impatience reignited. “Go home.”

“Huh?” She watched in confusion as he took a few running steps, motioning at the same time toward the two workmen who were jogging toward them between the headstones. “See that she gets to her car, would you?” he called out.

The men paused, baffled, watching him run off. When the first man reached her, he took her elbow and stared at her muddy coat and legs. “Are you okay, miss?”

She didn’t bother with a scathing retort, watching instead as Donovan disappeared down the slope toward the drive where everyone had parked. Seconds later she heard the throaty roar of his motorcycle as he raced off.

“Miss? Do you need help?”

She jerked her attention back to the concerned face of the man beside her. Struggling to sound lucid, she pulled her arm away and brushed futilely at the mud smearing her coat. “I’m okay, just a little shaken.”

“Are you sure? Can you walk?”

No. She wanted desperately to collapse to her knees. But even more than that, she wanted to get out of here. “Yes, of course.” She took a couple steps to prove it and nearly fell as pain shot through her right ankle. Recovering, she tested it gingerly. Sore, probably a mild sprain, but she could manage. “I’m fine, really. But would you mind walking me to my car?”

“Sure, sure.” The men exchanged worried looks and stayed close as she began walking carefully. She was certain she could make it unaided but wasn’t at all sure the lunatic with the knife was gone for good. As much as she wanted to go home and dry off, she would need to drive to the small police station first. The police needed to know her life had been threatened, even if the attacker had most likely been some deluded psycho who’d gone off his meds. In a town this size, they’d probably know who he was and where to find him.

Then she’d get out of the godforsaken, backwoods hole that was Nipagonee Rapids, Michigan, as soon as possible.

Chapter Two

Donovan pulled his black knit cap over his ears and hunched his shoulders against the sleet. Staking out the frigid woods behind Wally’s house was the last place he wanted to be right now. That he was here was all Jessie’s fault.

There couldn’t be a better illustration of why Wally had stressed the need for someone in their line of work to avoid family ties; in two days’ time his daughter had thrown a major wrench in the works. It was easy to see the wisdom of avoiding the sort of complications Jessie’s presence had caused. If Wally hadn’t had a daughter to go after, the bad guys would have hit a dead end when they killed him.

And she hadn’t shed a tear over his death. Wally deserved better.

She’d gone back to the house. How stupid could you get? It was the first place someone would go to look for her, and she had to know the guy with the knife would be seriously looking. He aimed a resentful glare at the cottage and the rental car in the driveway. Wally’s daughter was not at all what he’d expected.

She should have been smarter and gone back to the motel where having people around might discourage an attack. She should have sought him out right away with the information Wally left with her. And damn it, she should have looked the way he’d expected her to: like Wally Shikovski in drag.

His first sight of her had taken him aback when she’d stepped off the plane at the Traverse City airport. He hadn’t seen a recent photo and Donovan had pictured Wally’s overly large nose, chubby figure, and friendly smile on a young woman’s body. He’d been wrong on every count. Jessie’s nose was as perfect and fine-boned as the rest of her, her brown eyes deeply set and shot with gold, and her shapely pink lips capable of soft smiles that knocked his concentration for a loop.

It had nearly gotten her killed. He should have been sharper, should have prevented the attack at the cemetery. Instead now he was freezing his ass off in the woods, waiting for the guy to come back. As much as Donovan needed whatever Wally had given Jessie, others needed to keep him from getting it. Which meant eliminating the only person who knew what it was—Jessie Shikovski.

Jess Maulier, he corrected himself. She’d taken her mother’s maiden name when they left Wally, divesting herself of anything to do with her father. As much as he disliked her for it, that anonymity had probably saved her life. He doubted anyone outside of the Omega Group had known she existed until she showed up for the funeral.

That safety net was gone now, and they’d be coming for her.

He didn’t have long to wait. Even with the sleet changing to soft snow, icy leaves still crunched beneath the man’s feet as he crept toward the back of Wally’s house. Donovan hunkered lower in the dense tangle of sumac and wild raspberry that concealed him and slipped the night-vision goggles on. A single splotchy yellow blob of body heat moved toward him through the trees, walking slowly without the aid of a flashlight. Just one man. Good.

As he’d expected, the man headed toward the dark back door of the house, a door that Donovan knew led to a mudroom. Wally had an intricate alarm system, but Jessie wouldn’t know about it, much less know how to arm it. The door’s simple dead bolt wouldn’t stop anyone determined to get in.

Donovan didn’t intend to let the man get that far, and with any luck, he’d force him to give up the information Wally had been unable to deliver. He set the bulky night-vision goggles aside and waited, tense, as the figure came closer. The man was dressed in dark clothing and a ski mask, appearing hardly more than a moving shadow in the dark woods. He came close enough to the dry tangle of branches for Donovan to see the puffed breaths escaping the ski mask, mingling with the first snowflakes. Donovan noted the gloved hands, empty, with no weapon ready, and smiled grimly.

The man moved past him, heedless of what he’d just passed in the thicket. Three feet. Five.

Donovan lunged. Prickly branches tore at his jacket but he barely noticed as he barreled into the man’s back, knocking him down. With one knee he pinned the man’s thigh as he wrapped his arm around the guy’s neck and squeezed.

The man’s arms flailed, then braced against the ground as he heaved and twisted, reaching for something. Donovan flattened himself into the guy’s back just as one arm flashed backward. The sharp sting of a blade grazed his hip, slicing through chaps and jeans to open a line in his skin.

“Son of a bitch,” he growled and squeezed harder. Guttural sounds issued from the ski mask as the man stabbed ineffectually behind himself. The man outweighed him by a good thirty pounds, all of it apparently muscle. He bucked and kicked, doing his best to loosen Donovan’s grip as he slipped closer to unconsciousness. His struggles had nearly ceased when one final heave banged Donovan aside, knocking his head against a sharp rock, stunning him.

It was only a moment. Enough that the man was suddenly on his feet, turning to fight. Donovan shot upward, reaching blindly for the hand holding the knife as he aimed his head at the man’s chin. The impact was dizzying and fast. Donovan’s still-stunned mind knew only to keep the knife away from his own body, forcing the hand downward as they fell again, grunting and panting and rolling.

Donovan’s head was still spinning when he realized the fight had gone out of his opponent. He raised himself, becoming gradually aware that the man’s rapid breaths had become shallow as his head rolled slowly from side to side.

It was too dark to see the problem. He couldn’t have fallen on the knife; he’d forced the man’s hand down and back, near their legs, away from vital organs. His hands followed his thoughts, feeling beside them in the thin layer of snow. His fingertips touched something thin and hard—the knife.

Soft puffs of steam came from the mouth beneath the ski mask. They were fainter than they’d been seconds before. Fainter than they should be.

“Shit.” Slipping one hand from his glove, he felt frantically along the man’s leg. The thigh was wet, soaked with warm liquid. His fingers found the tear in the jeans and felt the slight spurt from the femoral artery.

Panic swelled inside his chest as he reached beneath his jacket, fumbling at his belt. “Don’t you die on me, damn it,” he muttered, whipping the belt off and cinching it around the man’s thigh. He pulled it tight until the tiny spurt of blood stopped.

He crawled to the man’s head, pulled the ski mask off, and slapped at the pale cheeks beneath. “Come on, damn it. Hang on.” The man’s head tilted gently to the side, sightless eyes staring into the falling snow. He was gone.

Donovan sat hard on the snow beside the body, defeat sweeping over him. Nothing had gone right since that last urgent message from Wally. Jessie damn well better have the answers he needed, because lives depended on it, and this man wouldn’t be talking ever again.

…

Jess nearly jumped out of the leather armchair at the sound of the doorbell. She’d been dozing, but now alarm tingled through every nerve ending as her nostrils flared, senses alert and pulse pounding—the exact sort of reaction that Dr. Epstein explained was a hypersensitivity to the unknown and a tendency to invent threats where there were none. Classic paranoia.

Except she hadn’t invented the attack by a knife-wielding lunatic.

Would a lunatic ring the doorbell?

She rose shakily to her feet and stood there, frozen by indecision, weighing the facts. It was nearly eleven at night. Who would come to her father’s house this late? No one knew she was spending the night at the house, and if Donovan hadn’t been so intent on pillaging her father’s possessions, she wouldn’t be here, trying to figure out which of her mom’s paintings she could smuggle out without him knowing it.

Besides, she didn’t know anyone in Nipagonee Rapids. Even a stranger wouldn’t arrive unannounced at this hour, would they? Unless the sheriff had new information for her. That was possible. Not probable, but…

The doorbell sounded again, a double, insistent ring. Jolted out of her mental fog, she took a deep breath and imagined Dr. Epstein’s advice—
stop inventing dangers. Just because something was unexpected didn’t make it threatening. Answer the door.

She did, but stealthily. Peeking through the curtained window beside the door, she frowned at the figure illuminated by the porch light. It was Donovan, wearing that same leather jacket and looking impatient, casting glances at his watch, the surrounding woods, and the closed door in front of him. Also looking cold, with his hands stuffed in pockets, shoulders hunched, and dark hair glistening with melting snowflakes.

Maybe not a lunatic, but not anyone she wanted to see. Making no move to open the door, she yelled out, “What do you want?”

His head whipped toward the door, that piercing gaze fastening on hers at the window. “I need to talk to you. Let me in.”

She almost snorted with laughter at the request. He must be used to giving orders and getting his way if he thought that would work. “I don’t think so. Come back tomorrow.” Preferably after ten, when she’d be gone.

“It can’t wait,” he snapped.

As if a bad attitude would convince her to open the door. “If it’s about the guy who attacked me, you need to speak to the police. And if it has to do with my father’s job, talk to the college.”

“It’s not—”

“Look, I don’t really know you, and I’m not letting you in tonight. Now go away.”

She swished the curtain back in place. He immediately began pounding on the door. “Jessie. Open up, goddammit.”

The sheer forcefulness and command in his tone made her shiver in fear. He desperately wanted in, which only served to arouse her paranoia. “I have a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it.” she yelled.

Sudden silence.

Ha. She should have thought of that sooner. Letting out a shaky breath, she walked back to the chair and huddled into the soft leather, pulling an afghan around herself. Confrontations were upsetting, but overall she thought Dr. Epstein would be pleased with the way she’d handled that one. She’d stood up for herself without panicking, and she’d been just as forceful about it as the man outside. The next sound she’d hear would be his car starting up as he left.

She listened, the ticking of the mantle clock loud in her straining ears.

A soft
click
sounded, followed by the front door opening, then shutting hard against a gust of wind. Jess jumped to her feet, her heart slamming back into panic mode.

Donovan’s wide, angry stance was imposing in the small entryway. Broad shoulders filled the black leather jacket, and she swallowed nervously when he flexed his gloved hands at his side. His jeans and boots were marked with wet smudges of dirt and what looked alarmingly like blood on one thigh. Everything about him screamed danger.

He scowled at her as he marched across the Oriental rug, leaving wet prints on the hardwood floor before tromping onto the huge Persian rug that covered most of the living room. His gaze darted over her, then her chair. “Where’s the gun?”

She stared, first at him, then a quick glance at the front door, unable to process what she was seeing. The dead bolt had been locked, she was sure of it. She made one false try at talking before her voice managed to squeak past the lump in her throat. “You broke in.”

Reaching past her, he felt beside the chair cushion, then grabbed the afghan and shook it. Her book tumbled out. He tossed it aside with a disdainful look. “I sure hope that’s not loaded.”

His sarcasm roused a spark of anger and she used it, shaking from the inside out. “Get out.”

He sighed wearily. “Look, Jessie, I told you who I was.”

His use of the name her father had used didn’t help; the warm feelings it recalled hadn’t been her reality for fifteen years. She didn’t want to be reminded of it now. “I don’t care what your name is. Get the hell out of this house.” She pointed at the front door for emphasis, her hand trembling only the slightest bit.

His brow furrowed in obvious puzzlement. “Wally didn’t mention me?”

“Who?”

“Wally,” he repeated more slowly. “Your father?”

Her father was Walter Shikovski. Wally sounded like someone’s golden retriever, friendly and happy. The kind of man who would never reject his only child and shut her out of his life. “No,” she bit off. “He didn’t.”

“Damn it,” he mumbled, obviously irritated. “He said he would.”

It was probably a good time to press her advantage. She blew out a breath, gathering her outrage. “Listen, Mr. Donovan. I haven’t been on speaking terms with my father in fifteen years, so no, he didn’t mention you. And call me crazy, but I don’t care for men breaking into my house in the middle of the night. Now, are you leaving, or do I have to call the sheriff?”

She lifted her chin with determination and hoped he didn’t know about the miserable lack of cell phone service out here, or the fact that she’d already had the phone company disconnect the landline, not thinking she’d need it.
Bright move, Jess.

Her threat to call for help didn’t appear to bother him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a key and dangled it in front of her with exaggerated patience. “Call if you want. It’s not breaking in when you have a key.”

She blinked as he slipped it back into his pocket. “Why do you have a key to my father’s house?”

“Because we were close friends.”

“Professor Drake said my father didn’t have any close friends.”

“Oh, for…He left me the contents of this house, didn’t he?”

“Yes, very suspicious, seeing that no one else at the funeral seemed to know you.”

He looked annoyed at having to explain himself. “Our friendship wasn’t exactly public knowledge.”