Against the Storm1 (32 page)

“Not for me,” Maggie said.

“We’re fine,” Trace agreed. “We just need you to take a look at this picture. The tattoo is pretty impressive. Whoever did it knew what he was doing. We’re hoping you can tell us the name of the artist.”

Danny studied the photo and started to frown. “It
was done by a guy named Caesar Hernandez. He’s one of the hottest ink men in Houston. Caesar does one-of-a-kind tats. Designs the images himself by hand.” Danny glanced up, his expression less friendly than it had been when they walked in. “Where’d you get this picture?”

“Maggie took it. She’s a professional photographer. What you’re looking at is a digital of a shot taken down at the Blue Fin Marina.” Trace handed him the other close-up images.

“That’s Senator Logan,” Danny said.

“That’s right. We’re trying to locate the girl.”

Danny’s hard gaze zeroed in on Maggie. “When was this taken?”

Her shoulders tightened. The night she had gone to the police she had seen that same look on the detectives’ faces. “I took it around sunset on April 20. The date and time is on the original photo.”

“Stay right here.” Danny left the room, closing the door solidly behind him.

“What’s going on?” Maggie asked, looking up at Trace, a sick feeling curling in her stomach.

“I don’t know. But it looks like Danny knows something that might help us.”

“Or maybe he’s figured out who I am, and he won’t help us at all.”

The door swung open just then and Castillo walked back into the small, suddenly airless room. Another man walked in behind him, stocky, balding, solid as a rock, his expression deadly serious.

“Ms. O’Connell, I’m Captain Roberts. I understand you took this photo April 20 of this year.”

“That’s right. Around five in the evening.”

“The woman in the photo is Isabel Garner. You may
have read about her in the papers. She went missing on April 20, but it wasn’t reported till the next day.”

“Oh, my God.” Maggie remembered, all right. She had seen the report on TV.

“A week later, her body washed ashore. Cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. I’m afraid Ms. Garner was murdered.”

Maggie’s gaze shot to Trace. His face appeared to be carved in stone.

“Then I guess you’ll want to talk to Senator Logan,” he drawled. “Since the senator appears to have gone to great lengths to keep this photo from being seen.”

“Is that right?” the captain said.

“That’s right. You might want to ask him about the man he hired to burn down Ms. O’Connell’s studio—a torch job meant to destroy the photo you’re looking at now.”

The captain gave Maggie the first friendly smile she had received. “That sounds extremely interesting. I believe we’ll do just that.”

I
t was over. Garrett Logan and Richard Meyers had been arrested for the murder of Isabel Garner—though they were already out on bail.

Maggie was back in her apartment. Trace was back in his house. She was taking photos again. She was living by herself.

And her heart was broken.

She’d never had the chance to talk to Trace, never summoned the courage to tell him how she felt. Instead, for a long, miserable week she had tried to pull her life back together, put things back the way they were, only to discover she wasn’t the same person she had been before.

And she didn’t want to be.

Sitting behind the new computer monitor in her half-baked, makeshift office, she thought of Trace and wondered for the hundredth time what would happen if she just drove over to his house, barged in and told him she was in love with him.

Maybe she would, she told herself. But then the telephone started to ring, another excuse that momentarily
saved her. For an instant she thought it might be Trace, and she grabbed the receiver.

It was Ashley. “Hi, sis. I just…I wanted to check on you, make sure you were all right.”

Things had slipped badly, Maggie realized, when little sister worried about big sister instead of the other way around. “I’m fine.”

“I guess, um, you haven’t heard from Trace.”

Maggie sighed. “I didn’t really expect to. I’m sure he’s busy. I’m not his client anymore. I’m sure he has other people to worry about now.”

“I guess….”

She forced a little cheer into her voice. “How about you? Everything good with you and Jason? Are you still walking on clouds?”

She could almost see her sister’s dreamy smile. “It’s just like you said. Jason’s amazing, Maggie. I finally found a guy I really have the hots for. I never thought it would be this way—not for me.”

Maggie smiled into the phone. “That’s wonderful, Ash. I’m happy for both of you.”

“Listen, I gotta go. I’ll be late for work. I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m fine, really. Call me when you have time to talk.”

“I will.” The line went dead.

Maggie wandered around the apartment, trying to get enthused about working. She had some new photos downloaded onto the computer. She told herself they were reasonably good, that with a little tweaking here and there she could use them in her coffee-table book.

She wasn’t convinced.

A knock sounded on the door and she brightened
at the thought of a distraction—Roxanne, perhaps. Or maybe it was Trace.

Her heart kicked up. She looked down at her T-shirt, which had a camera on the front and Flash Dancer printed underneath, and wished she had time to change. Instead, she hurried to the door.

She hadn’t gotten around to upgrading the locks or installing a peephole, but it wasn’t as important as it had been. Maggie turned the knob and pulled open the door, and the breath rushed out of her lungs.

“Hello, my dear. I’ve missed you.”

Her chest clenched and for an instant she couldn’t breathe. As Phillip Coffman shoved his way into her apartment, she thought of the dozens of photos of herself she had seen on his bedroom walls, and fear made her legs feel weak. She told herself to stay calm. Phillip had never actually hurt her. He hadn’t set the fire, they now knew. Senator Logan was responsible for that. Phillip had mostly just spied on her and followed her and made eerie phone calls. And aside from his size, he seemed more pathetic than dangerous.

Still, she eyed the door, trying to judge whether or not she could get past him and make a run for it.

She might have tried—if he hadn’t pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket. A big black semiautomatic, something like the one Trace carried.

“Phillip…” she said with a disbelieving breath.

“I’ve come for you, my dear. It’s time for us to be together. Just the way I promised.”

Her pulse raced. Her heart hammered so hard she could hear it.

“I thought…I thought you were in the hospital.” In for psychic evaluation. Dear God, had they released him and not told her?

“My daughter, Susan, is such a good girl. She and her friend Clayton Arnold made arrangements for me to be released. Clay’s a lawyer, you see.”

Oh, she saw, all right. Clearly, Coffman had enough lucid moments or his daughter had enough money to pressure the right people into letting him go.

“I was feeling much better, so I came here first thing.”

“Why…why did you bring the gun?” she asked.

Coffman looked down at the weapon as if he didn’t know he held it in his hand. Then he smiled. “Because it’s time, my dear, for us to fulfill our destiny.”

Oh, my God, the guy was even further over the edge than he had been before. She started inching around him, moving a tiny bit at a time toward the door.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He swung the gun in her direction. “Don’t you see, my love? I’m the only one who can save you.” He leveled the weapon at her chest, freezing her where she stood. “But first we need some together, time to talk about our future.”

What future?
she thought.
We won’t have much of a future if we’re dead!

Phillip motioned with the pistol toward the living room. “Why don’t we sit down and make ourselves comfortable? We don’t have much time.”

Maggie swallowed. If she ran, he might just shoot her, end things now. But maybe if she bided her time, she could talk him down, or find some way to distract him long enough to escape.

She forced herself to smile. “That’s a good idea…dearest.”

Trace’s fingers felt damp where they held the bouquet of red roses. He hadn’t been sure what to buy, but
most women liked roses and red ones always seemed the most romantic.

He figured he needed all the help he could get.

For nearly a week, he had talked himself out of coming here, just showing up unannounced at Maggie’s door. But the longer he stayed away from her, the more he realized how much he loved her. And he was afraid if he called, he would say the wrong thing.

He might do that anyway. He wasn’t great at this love stuff. It had been easy to say the
L
word to Carly, because at the time he didn’t really know what love was, and he just figured it was the right thing to do if he was going to marry her.

This time he meant it. He was in love, big-time, and he wasn’t going to let this last chance at happiness slip away without a fight. He was a Ranger, wasn’t he? At least he had been. Surely he was tough enough to fight for what he wanted.

The only trouble was, he had no real idea what Maggie felt for him, and the last thing he wanted was to marry a woman who didn’t love him.

Been there, done that.

There was only one way to find out, he figured, and that was just to straight-out ask her. After all they had been through, he believed she would tell him the truth.

He stepped out of the elevator onto the third floor and started down the corridor to her apartment. Outside the door, he paused long enough to shine his boots on his pant legs. He’d reached for the bell when he heard voices. Maggie’s he recognized, the other was clearly male. Trace’s chest tightened. Maggie was in there with a man.

His hand squeezed around the stems of the bouquet. He considered tossing the roses away and just leaving,
but he had come this far and he wasn’t a quitter. Maybe the guy was a client or something. Trace couldn’t hear what they were saying, but if that wasn’t it, at least he would know the truth.

He reached out and rang the bell, and the conversation inside the apartment instantly stopped. No one came to the door, and he felt as if his heart had stopped, as well.

He summoned his courage. “Maggie?” He rang the bell one last time, knowing she was in there.

No answer. Clearly, she was too busy with her visitor to care if he had come. He dropped the bouquet beside the door and turned to leave, heard the crash of something breaking, then Maggie’s high-pitched scream.

“Trace!” she cried out.

Adrenaline shot into every muscle in his body. He raised a booted foot and kicked as hard as he could, felt the door give way and knew a moment of gratitude that there wasn’t a dead bolt. “Maggie!”

She stood in the living room, Phillip Coffman behind her with a big-ass semiauto pressed against her head.

“You need to leave,” the man said. “This is a private conversation.” Coffman’s thick arm wrapped around her neck and dragged her more solidly against him. “Get out now.”

“Take it easy,” Trace soothed. “We’re going to work all of this out.”

“You aren’t supposed to be here. You’re interfering with our destiny.”

“Put the gun down, Phillip, so we can talk.”

The big man shook his head. “You’re making this happen too fast. Maggie and I…we need time to make plans for our life together once we reach the astral plane.”

She made a little whimpering sound in her throat. Trace wished he could look at her, try to reassure her, but he needed to keep his focus on Coffman. Sometimes he carried a little .25 in his boot, a habit that had served him well on occasion, but it hadn’t seemed appropriate to bring it with him today.

“So that’s your plan?” he asked Phillip, just to keep him talking. “You both die and go on to live in some other world? What about staying here? You and Maggie making a life together right now?”

Coffman frowned, seeming confused. “Could we do that?”

“I don’t see why not. What do you think, Maggie? Don’t you think that’s a better idea?”

She swallowed, her fingers digging into the arm beneath her chin. “I think it’s a fine idea. Phillip and I could get married. We could live right there in his house.”

The older man stiffened. “That was Angela’s house. We couldn’t live there. We have to go somewhere else.” He adjusted the gun, pressing it more squarely against her temple. “It’s time for us to leave.”

“Wait!” Trace moved closer. “If you stayed here, the two of you could go dancing. Remember that night? Remember the way you danced together? Don’t you want to dance like that again?”

Coffman smiled. “I remember. Maggie looked so beautiful that night.”

“And you…you were so handsome,” she said. “It…it felt wonderful to be held in your arms.”

Trace eased closer and Phillip’s gaze sharpened. He turned the gun away from Maggie and pointed it squarely at Trace’s chest.

“You don’t belong here.” Something hard and deter
mined moved across his features. There wouldn’t be any more words.

Maggie must have read his intent, for just as Phillip squeezed the trigger, she jerked away, knocking his gun hand sideways, destroying his aim. A shot went off with a violent roar. Maggie grabbed for the pistol at the same instant Trace leaped forward. The three of them went down in a heap. Maggie struggled with Coffman, the gun wedged between them. Trace fought to pull her out of danger, and the pistol exploded again.

“Maggie!” Blood poured onto the carpet. Trace heard her soft moan as he leaped to his feet. She lay motionless on top of Coffman. “Maggie!”

She moved just then and he saw it, realized the bullet hadn’t hit her but had fired into Coffman’s chest. That the blood soaking her clothes belonged to Phillip and not to her. Relief hit him so hard he swayed on his feet. “Trace…?”

He pulled the gun from Coffman’s limp fingers and tossed it away, saw that the shot had torn a ragged hole in the big man’s heart. Trace drew Maggie to her feet and eased her into his arms.

“Easy, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

“Oh, God, Trace.” She just hung on and so did he. He wasn’t letting her go. Not this time.

“You okay?” he finally asked, though he could feel her trembling.

Maggie clung to him. “I’m okay.”

Trace dug his cell phone out of his jeans pocket and punched 911. He reported what had happened and gave the police the address.

The call ended. Maggie still held on to him and a faint sob escaped. “I thought I was going to die,” she said. “I thought I would never have a chance to tell you
how I feel.” She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes. “I love you, Trace. I love you so much. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid.”

He clasped her closer. “I love you, too, Maggie, darlin’. And I’m an even bigger coward than you.”

Her pretty green eyes sparkled with tears. “Can I…can I come home?”

His heart swelled with love for her. “That’s what I’m here for, darlin’. I came to take you home.”

Maggie packed an overnight bag, and once the police allowed them to leave, Trace drove her back to his house.

She had thought all this was finished, first when Phillip Coffman was taken into custody, then two days ago, when the police arrested Garrett Logan for the murder of Isabel Garner. Confronted with traces of the murdered woman’s blood on the deck of his yacht, Logan hadn’t denied his involvement with the beautiful young woman, but claimed her death was an accident.

His story was that Isabel, who had moved from Memphis to Houston only two months before she disappeared, had tried to extort him for money. Logan had overreacted, pushed her too hard, and she had hit her head on the railing of his yacht. He’d been frightened and confused, he had said. He had called his aide, and Richard had urged him to take the boat out to sea and dispose of the body.

Meyers had also been arrested.

Both men had denied any knowledge of the fire that destroyed Maggie’s town house, though there wasn’t much doubt who was responsible.

Logan and Meyers were going to stand trial, and Phillip Coffman was dead. Maggie felt sorry for Coff
man’s daughter. According to Detective Sayers, Susan Coffman had taken the news of her father’s death extremely hard. She had blamed herself for what had happened. Considering Susan was responsible for her father’s early release from the psychiatric ward, to some extent, Maggie agreed.

But all that was behind her now. Her life was her own once more, and this time she meant to make the most of it.

It was evening. A soft spring rain had started to fall, pattering softly against the roof. Maggie had showered away some of her fatigue, washed and dried her hair, and put on the white satin peignoir set she had bought after the fire to wear for Trace, but never got around to using.