Accompanying Alice (2 page)

Something pulled at the front of her blouse. Stifling a yell, Alice looked down to see a muddy hand getting a better grip on the left side of her blouse and slip. For half a tick,
paralysis set in, then a slight motion drew her attention to where a single hollow metallic eye stared her straight in the nose. Her eyes crossed as she peered down her nose at it in disbelief. Where had he gotten the gun? Even her mother’s Good Samaritan policy didn’t extend to victims who carried—

There was a clack, and the bullet she’d seen in the uppermost cylinder revolved slowly into the chamber. In that split second, Alice knew she was going to die. She’d saved his life and now he was going to kill her without so much as a
by your leave
, or time for an act of contrition. Then
she’d
be the body at the side of the road that someone else would find. Well, damn! You just couldn’t help anyone these days.

In the other half of the split second it took her to think this, reflex took over where instinct should have been, and the yell she’d saved up till now erupted. She screamed and jerked backward, scrabbling to get away, but for an apparently dead man he was very strong, holding her still. While she watched in panic, he gulped breath painfully through his teeth, as though deprived of the taste for a very long time. The gun didn’t waver.

“Who... who...?
”
It took him two ragged breaths to get out the partial question.

Alice opened her mouth to answer, but somewhere between her scream and his question her throat had frozen all
sound. She shook her head jerkily at him. In a moment she would die and all that would be left of her life was a clutter of things to be gotten rid of so new owners could occupy her house. She wanted to leave more behind her than a houseful of years, two teenage daughters and an unborn grandchild. Somehow her life was supposed to mean more than that. Not to mention that she wasn’t finished with it yet. She still had potential to fulfill, a mark to make on the world. She’d been too busy raising children even to take the time to figure out her life yet. So you see, she had no time to die. Not today.

The drag on her blouse increased, and the gun bobbed slightly and bumped her nose.

“Who... are... you?” The raspy voice was insistent, almost desperate.

“A-Alice.” The gun wobbled again, and she shut her eyes. Just do it, she begged silently. Just do it and get it done. Oh, please, let me be brave.

Behind the gun, the man’s pale face twisted painfully.

“Alice what?”

“Alice Meyers.”

Breath wheezed, grew stronger in his lungs. “Prove it.”

Alice felt herself going giddy. Something about this whole scene seemed to be happening in another lifetime, a parallel universe—on television, perhaps, where she was watching it. “What?”

“I.D.,” he snapped. “Driver’s license, credit cards. Photo I.D. Show me.”

Sound throttled by fear rushed around her ears as she tried to bring some sort of sense to the situation. The distant whoosh of traffic along Waterford’s Dixie highway, the slight rattle of leaves in the rain... Both spoke of normalcy continuing alongside abnormal circumstances. Dear God, Alice prayed, this couldn’t happen. She couldn’t possibly be responsible for saving the life of a bad man, and certainly never a
killer.

Panicking at the thought, she turned too quickly, scrabbling for the purse at her side. He jerked at her blouse, using it to haul himself upright, and jabbed his weapon hard at her.

“Slowly,” he hissed. “Do it slowly.”

Fear anesthetized her, left her without thought or will, staring at the medal lying askew on his chest. Faintly, and from a great distance, recognition stirred her fright. St. Jude. He wore St. Jude, patron saint of impossible causes, around his neck. Hope sprang eternal. She’d grown up with St. Jude, the Lives of the Saints, with a mother who believed firmly that despair was a mortal sin and that wherever there was life you’d better not quit.

She clutched at recognition like a lifeline, let it galvanize her frozen limbs and brain. Slowly, deliberately, she searched her purse, withdrew her wallet and opened it, holding first her state of Michigan driver’s license, then her shopping center security pass up for his inspection.

“I don’t have any credit cards,” she began shakily, “just a Sam’s Club card, a library card and my pharmacy rewards card… A-and, um, look here’s my car registration, health insurance and auto club…” While her mouth ran on, she dug through her purse for anything else that might help reassure him, anything that might buy her more time. “H-here’s an envelope with my name on it for yesterday’s church collection. I didn’t go because my girls…” No, he didn’t need or want to know that. “Ah, here’s my gas and electric bills, my voter registration—” she paused, dug deeper, unaware he’d begun to relax “—a locket with my initials engraved on it that the girls gave me and–oh! Here’s a birthday card and–and—”

“Enough,” he said. Relief eased his grip on her blouse and the barrel of the gun dropped away from her nose. “Enough. You’re not one of them. Thought you might… Can’t trust any… They killed–tried to kill—”

He stopped, visibly attempting to collect himself. Alice tried to think, tried to breathe. The fear between the man and
herself was palpable, as much his as hers. She hated fear, hated what it did to her, what it could make her do.

She stole a glance at him, a frightened little jerk of her eyes in his direction, hoping he hated fear, too. Watching her, all the time. His gaze seemed to have a weight she could feel, a touch that made her shiver somehow with apprehension and anticipation. So little expression was visible behind the beard, the eyes, as though the only emotion he had left in the world was fear—and how to use it.

With a jittery, half-expectant heart, she watched him. All her life she’d longed for adventure, daydreamed about being the plain little schoolmarm swept off her feet by some masked desperado on his way to Hole in the Wall or the Alamo, about how courageous she would be in the face of the terrifying and unfamiliar, how she would beat the odds against her and emerge the torch-bearing victor.

Now here she was, six days out of mother-may-I-hood and scared to death to see what might happen next. She’d often had the strange and nonsensically guilty feeling that she’d given in to Matt that night on purpose so she’d get pregnant and have to get married. That way, she’d never
have to put her money where her mouth was, never have to live up to her dreams, never have to find out what she’d often suspected about herself: that she hadn’t really any courage at all and that she was actually a stickin-the-mud coward.

She could have done without proof.

Rain dribbled off her bangs, dripped off her chin and down the front of her blouse, but she barely noticed it. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man and his gun. Staring down at the weapon as though seeing it for the first time and wondering what to do with it, he rubbed his sore temple
with the heel of his hand, jarring open his wound. Fresh blood trickled down his cheek, and he viewed his bloody fist with surprise.

“You’ve been hurt,” Alice said tentatively. “You need a doctor, maybe the police—”

“No.”
Panic roused him suddenly, tightened his hold on her blouse.
“No
police, no doctor. Gunshot wound they file a report. They file a report and they find me. They find me and I’m dead. Do you understand that? They’ve already killed Nicky and God knows who else. I’m next, unless I stop them, and maybe even then, but I’ve got to try.” He shook her in despair. “Do you understand? I don’t have time to die right now.”

Her sentiments exactly. For the barest instant Alice stared at him wildly, wondering if she’d spoken her own thought aloud. Then sheer will let him twist his legs underneath him and push himself upright, drag her up with him. “Come on,” he urged. “Can’t stay here. Got to leave. Got to move before they find...”

Vertigo staggered him, rocked him back. For the first time in her life, Alice recognized opportunity when it slapped her in the face: she shoved him hard, yanking away from him
at the same time, making a beeline for the car. With stunning speed he recovered and caught her, tossed her against the station wagon’s mud coated tailgate and pinned her there. He breathed hard, his breath warm and human against her rain chilled face. Gathering the courage she didn’t think she had, she lifted her chin defiantly and matched him stare for stare. “I won’t go quietly,” she spat. “I won’t lie down and let you kill me.”

He recoiled as though slapped.
“Kill?”

Stunned, he stared at her, and all at once the balance between them shifted perceptibly. Her eyes took him by surprise. Where he’d expected ordinary brown he found mocha, cinnamon, flecks of chocolate.

And directness.

His mouth went dry. In a flash he saw himself the way she must see him,
not
as Gabriel Lucas Book, who’d fifteen
years ago sworn to serve and protect, but as Luke Book, the corrupt cop, the bastard he portrayed, the man at home among killers, drug runners and thieves. He licked the rain off his lips, trying to moisten his tongue.

Unsettling. He wasn’t prepared. He’d pegged her as a nice, naive, everyday sort of woman with a social worker’s conscience, easily mired in extraordinary circumstances, not the type of woman to make a man uncomfortable with his stray thoughts. Not the kind who could tell a man to go straight to hell and leave him standing there like a dummy asking for directions. Not the kind of woman who’d be worth that particular emotional trip.

Distracted, he looked at her again. Dark hair short enough to require little care, but long enough to tangle his fingers in, brushed her neck as she cocked her head to view him from another angle, waiting. Her eyes told him she’d had a lot of experience with waiting, with fear.

He blinked and looked elsewhere, trying to escape her eyes.

Step back, Book, he told himself. It’ll eat you alive.

Concentrate. This is life ‘n death you’re messin’ with here—her life, your death. You owe her something, but don’t go gooey and screw it up.

“Listen, lady,” he said softly, and felt his gut cramp.

Telling her who and what he was violated all the rules, but he didn’t see where he had much choice. He had to trust someone. If anything happened to him, someone had to know why. Someone had to speak for him. Someone had to forgive him. “We have to get out of here
now.
I know this is tough for you, I know you’re frightened, but I’m not the killer here and I don’t have time for long explanations.”

He pulled her around to the open driver’s door of her car and slid in across the seat, drawing her in behind him. “My name’s Book, Gabriel Lucas Book. I’m a federal agent—FBI—working internal affairs undercover at the request of the Oakland County prosecutor’s office.” He grabbed up a
pile of paper napkins that sat in a tray on the floor hump, then angled the rearview mirror and wiped the mud and blood from his face and hands. “You’ll have to take that on faith. I don’t have any I.D. Last night somebody killed my partner and shot me. I think it was a cop—in fact I’m sure it was a cop. Had to be. Only three people know who I am and why I’m here. One of ‘em’s dead and the other two...”

He stopped, turned a blind eye to the rain rolling down the windows, looking for courage, for relief from the pain. “The other two are friends.”

Abruptly, he tapped the keys she’d left in the ignition.

“Drive,” he ordered. “I have to pick up some stuff, then I need a phone. Whether I want to or not, I’ve got to find out whose gun this is. After that...” He stared bleakly at the weapon in his lap. “After that,” he said grimly, “I’ll need a new identity and a place to hide for a while. A safe place.” He turned to her and the depth of his ocean-bay-colored eyes was intense and endless. “Your place should do.”

*