A Stolen Chance (2 page)

A half hour later, constantly checking her rearview mirror, praying Dewayne wasn’t behind her, she reached the outskirts of Chicago.

She breathed a sigh of relief and followed the Interstate around until she could pick up old Route 66. It ran through Cicero, home of Chicago mobsters during Prohibition, where the area was riddled with tunnels. If only she could move with as much stealth as the bootleggers had while fleeing the police or Elliot Ness and his Untouchables.

Her new cell phone, the one she’d purchased with her new identity, chimed. She had an instant message.
Please, God, let Lauren be safe.
She grabbed her phone off the passenger seat.
Home safe. L.
Susan released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Thank you, Lord.
She grinned. They’d outfoxed old Dewayne. Her smile wilted. Dewayne might be clueless right now, but he’d be after her as soon as he discovered she’d run.
Don’t let down your guard, Susan.

Just outside of Joliet, she turned onto a gravel country road. Dust and tiny rocks flew out behind her vehicle as she traversed the dark country lane for six miles to an old rundown barn. The structure and ten surrounding acres belonged to her. Her low beams spotlighted the winter grass covering the ruts and hiding evidence of her previous trips. She parked several yards away from the barn, killed the engine and lights, and got out of the car. Freezing air struck her in the face. She pulled her collar closer around her neck and ran to the double doors. Using the key on her key chain, she opened the padlock. Why she’d bothered locking the dilapidated entrance was a mystery, as a swift kick would have loosened the hasp. The appearance of being secure had eased her mind.

The small camper van she’d purchased several months ago sat inside. On previous trips, she’d stocked it with food, clothes and toiletries, reading material, and drugstore remedies for colds and minor aches. Weekly visits to start the motor kept the battery charged. With her flashlight, she searched the ground for critters as she walked toward the vehicle. She unlocked the cab, started the engine, and backed out of the building. She left it running while she moved the car inside, leaving the keys in the ignition. If someone broke in and took the Taurus, they were welcome to the small sedan. Closing the barn doors, she added the padlock to the hasp and snapped it in place.

Inside the van, she rubbed her hands together in front of the air vent to warm up.
Okay, Susan... Oops! Her name was Shannon, Shannon Langley, from now on.
Thanks to an unsavory connection of Lauren’s, she had new identification in her purse and in the glove box as proof. The papers weren’t easy to come by—had cost a small fortune, in fact—but she’d been willing to pay whatever necessary to obtain them. She’d received a decent settlement from Dewayne in the divorce and couldn’t think of a better use for the funds. He’d roar with fury to discover he’d help finance her escape. Her parents had begged her to approach the FBI and ask to be in the witness protection program, but with her luck Dewayne would have an informant on the inside. More to the point, she felt sure he did. She’d not take a chance.

She took a deep breath.
Steady, girl. It’s now or never.
She threw the van into reverse, backed up, and then shifted again and drove forward, away from the barn. Through her rearview mirror, she watched the structure grow smaller as she severed the last tie with Susan Lawton’s past.

****

Dewayne waited, counting the minutes, for an entire hour after the Taurus left Susan’s house. He slid from the pickup and, hunched over, ran down the road, staying to the shadows. He looked over his shoulder—no one there. He scurried across the lawn to the back of the house. Light shone from one window. It illuminated a patch of dry grass. He edged around the window frame to peer inside. Sheer curtains masked his view somewhat, but without a doubt, at the kitchen table in front of a laptop computer, sat the bitch that’d sent him to prison. Head down on her forearms, she appeared to be asleep. Or drunk. An empty wine bottle sat on the table, an almost full glass at her elbow.

His body shook as he struggled to restrain his mirth. Caught her unawares. He stepped onto the porch and inspected the doorknob. Stupid woman didn’t even have sense enough to install deadbolt locks. With his pocket knife, he inserted the blade between the door and the jamb, carefully jiggled the knob, and felt the bolt give. He shoved the door open. Susan didn’t budge. The rotten smell of sulfur hit him in the face. A loud snap, a whoosh, a burst of flame...

Chapter Two

Light exploded in his face. A force lifted and propelled him out the door. He landed on his back, twenty feet from the house, with a loud thud knocking the breath out of him. Shit. What’d happened? Smoke rose off his clothes and grew to tongues of flame. He slapped at his body to extinguish the fire licking at him as he screamed.
My hands, oh God, my hands!
He touched his face and shrieked. Horror stole what little air he had in his lungs.
The bitch has disfigured me.
His face and hands... The aroma of burnt flesh filled his nostrils. Nausea rolled in his stomach. His eyes stung. He whimpered. Was he blind? He squinted and through a cloudy fog watched as flames shot from the door and window of the kitchen. The entire house would be engulfed within minutes. Susan couldn’t have survived such an inferno. Damn, the bitch had screwed him once again.

Coughing, gasping for air, Dewayne rolled to his feet. Through a haze, he stared at the fire as he staggered toward his pickup, wincing with each step. The cold winter wind against his inflamed skin drew a groan from his throat.
I have to get out of here.
The fire department would be here soon.

He struggled to get the truck door open. It hurt like hell. By the time he got inside, tears were rolling down his face. Thank God he’d left the keys in the ignition. Gritting his teeth, he grasped the key and turned. He shuddered at the pain and drew in deep gulps of air.
Don’t faint, man.
The engine turned over and started. He curved his arm around the gear shift, put it in drive, and then spun gravel in his hurry to get away undetected. Hell, if caught in the area, they’d blame the explosion on him and send him back to prison.
No shit, Sherlock. If you killed her, they’d know it was you who done it and send you back to the joint.
But he’d had a plan all laid out, an alibi, one that was foolproof. Guess he didn’t need it now.

Struggling to see, he slowed down and gained control of the skidding vehicle. Hunched over the steering wheel, he fought his near blindness to stay on the road. His head swam, blackness threatened. He shook himself to stay alert. As he moved along at a crawl, flashing lights and blaring sirens raced toward him. He pulled over onto the shoulder to allow the fire trucks to pass. Pain shot to his brain as the bright rays seared his eyeballs. He threw his hand up to protect against the glare. Nausea choked him, and he gritted his teeth to ward off the sensation. Sweat rolled off his body, dampening his clothes. He shivered and turned up the heater. When all the vehicles had passed, he eased back onto the road.

He needed medical help fast, but no way could he go to a hospital. With his record and the explosion of his ex-wife’s house, the police would be on him before he had time to take a pain pill. There was only one man in the area with the power to provide prompt, discreet treatment—Leo Sharp, Dewayne’s past employer and one of Chicago’s crime bosses.

Dewayne would owe him, big time.

****

Carson Rhodes drove into the parking lot of Albuquerque’s downtown police department. He sat for a moment and looked on the familiar scene. Regret filled him. This was his last trip to his workplace. Fifteen years down the drain. He sighed and patted Hans, his German shepherd. The dog turned intelligent brown eyes on Carson and nudged him sympathetically. “I’m okay, boy. You stay put. I’ll be back.” He lowered the windows a fraction, just enough for some fresh air to invade the truck cab, and locked the doors.

The cold January air nipped at his ears, and he pulled the collar up to block some of the chill. Inside, as he walked to his chief’s office, the room hummed with activity. Phones rang and officers hauled cursing drunks to holding cells while others took reports from victims. Captain Farley sat behind his desk, bent over a stack of paperwork, sleeves rolled up to expose bulging forearms. He looked up as Carson laid his badge and gun on Captain Farley’s desk.

The burly captain, expression grim, scooped them up, placed them in an open drawer, and shoved it closed. “I hope you’ve made the right decision, Rhodes.”

“I have, Captain.” He offered his hand.

Captain Farley stood, clasped it with his meaty paw, and shook vigorously. “All right, then. If you change your mind, we’ll be here.”

“I don’t expect that to happen, but I’ll keep your offer in mind.” Carson started for the door but stopped and turned. “If you ever get any time off, I know a quaint little motel in Siesta that offers rooms by the week, cheap.”

The big man snorted. “I haven’t had a vacation in five years. Do yourself a favor and don’t hold a room for me.” He waved. “Get out of here before you get caught in five o’clock traffic.”

Carson chuckled as he walked from the building into the brisk forty-five-degree weather. Hans woofed in greeting as Carson opened the driver’s-side door of the F150 pickup and slid into the cab.

“Hey, Hans, ol’ boy. You ready to head home?”

Tongue lolling, tail beating a rhythm on the seat, Hans yipped happily.

“Yeah, me too.”

The truck started instantly, and he eased out into traffic. He headed north on Rio Grande Boulevard, and when he reached I-40, he turned west. It would take almost three hours to reach Siesta, the small town halfway between Gallup and Thoreau. He’d visited often as a child. Now it would be his home.

Ten years ago his grandfather had passed away and left Carson a small travel court and restaurant on old Route 66. His aunt and uncle had been managing the Siesta Inn for years and now begged for a reprieve. He planned to give it to them.

After his accident on the job, one he couldn’t put behind him, he’d decided to leave the force. Counseling had helped, but in his sleep he still saw the life drain from that little girl’s eyes. He shuddered and directed his thoughts to the Siesta Motel and Café. It was time for Carson to step up and take over the business. He’d worked there during the summers until going off to college, so he knew the management process. Gramps had seen to it.

He’d thought of selling the place, but feared Grandpop’s ghost would haunt him. He grinned at the tales his mother, aunt, and uncle had told. Apparently they believed Grandpop, Carson’s great-grandfather, couldn’t rest and haunted the motel looking for some treasure he’d hidden and not revealed before his untimely death in 1974. No one knew exactly what the treasure was, but Gramps said the Great Spirit came to him in a dream telling him he must help his people save face. His mother and Aunt Leona always believed that story was merely the ramblings of an old man, one whose mind wasn’t as sharp as it had once been. Carson considered their attitude insulting to his grandfather. He remembered Gramps as a quick-witted individual, one finely in tune with his surroundings and his Native American culture. If the spirits of his Laguna heritage spoke through him, that was fine with Carson. He’d felt the Spirit’s pull himself from time to time.

Just after eight p.m. the neon lights of the Siesta Motel and Café came into view. The vintage sign, a red sombrero below a green-and-brown palm tree with a blue moon behind, greeted him like an old friend. That it still worked properly amazed Carson. Most of the old advertisements along Route 66, as well as the properties they’d promoted, were broken, mere shells of their former glory. He drove into the parking lot, passed the café and registration office, and pulled into the small garage beside cabin number six. It’d been the innkeeper’s lodgings since his grandfather built it in the late 1960s. A light glowed inside. Aunt Leona no doubt had the place spotless and well-stocked with supplies for his arrival.

He got out, grabbed his duffle bag, and called Hans out of the truck. At a lope, the dog headed for the scrub brush area on the north side of the building, stopping to sniff and mark his territory. Tomorrow would be soon enough for Hans to explore. Tonight Carson wanted something to eat, a beer, and bed.

“Take care of business, boy, and come right back.”

Hans raised his head and then searched with purpose. Carson stuffed his hands in his pockets and breathed in the cold, clean desert air. Stars dotted the dark open expanse above him, reminding him of his smallness in this great universe. Having given up what he’d known and loved doing for the past fifteen years, he felt particularly alone. He’d adjust, given time. He sighed. Nothing like the scents of the desert to heal the soul. He could hope, anyway.

Hans returned and sat at his feet.

“All right, boy, let’s take a look at our new home.” He opened the unlocked door, stepped inside, and flipped on the overhead light. The old furniture sported new covers, and the linoleum on the floors had been replaced. Even with the changes, a subtle scent of his grandfather’s pipe tobacco lingered in the air. The place brought back memories of fun summers spent with Gramps. He’d worked days in the café, scrubbing floors and waiting tables. As a teen, he’d learned to flip burgers and cook breakfast. Some nights, he and Gramps camped out in the fields behind the motel, where tales of spirit talkers and
nukpanas
, evil spirits, filled his head, interfering with his sleep. He’d loved his grandfather, and the familiar space wrapped around him like open arms. For a moment he half expected Gramps to walk out from the bedroom.