Catch a Shadow (23 page)

“What happened to those missiles?”

“I heard they were taken out by an air strike. I don't know the details.”

“Then they never discovered who and how they were acquired.”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Did this drug lord have a family or close associates?”

He glanced over at her. “A brother,” he said. “He handled the business end.”

“Maybe he would like to know what happened.”

He liked the way her mind worked, exploring every possible angle, letting one clue lead to another. Hell, he liked everything about her.

And the last place she should be is here beside him.

“You're thinking of catching a thief with another one.”

“Something like that.”

“The CIA would do well to recruit you,” he said.

“I take it that's not entirely a compliment.”

It was growing dark, and he was hungry. She must be as well. All they'd had were the rest of the donuts he'd bought yesterday, and coffee.

“Hungry?”

She nodded. “I also need some makeup. Maybe dark glasses. People will think you're beating me and call the police.”

He took his eyes off the road and glanced at her. Her eye was no longer swollen, but the area around it was several different hues of purple. She still had a small bandage on her cheek and one large one on her arm. There were a few other small healing abrasions. “God, I'm sorry about those injuries.”

“You shouldn't be. You didn't have anything to do with it. I really don't like someone else to take responsibility for my actions.”

“I think that's what they call independent to a fault.”

“Can you ever be too independent?”

The way she said it surprised him. Combative. Challenging.

“You're divorced?” he asked.

She stared at him. “How did you know that?”

He didn't want to lie to her. He'd done too much of that already. “I did a search on you.”

She shrugged. “For a short period. I got sucked into the ‘everyone should be married' philosophy. I soon discovered my husband had a very different idea of marriage than I did.”

Before he could ask her more, she turned the question on him. “And you? Were you married? Or
are
you married?”

Touché. He usually didn't let people get into private places. Yet he'd asked her. Damn hypocritical of him to ask without being willing to discuss his own personal life, or lack of it. Still, he never talked about his father or his ex-wife.

The silence lengthened between them.

“You were, then?” she said finally.

“Yes.” The curtness of his reply didn't invite more questions.

“No more?”

“No more.”

To his surprise, she dropped the subject. “The numbers,” she said. “Any more thoughts about what the numbers mean?”

“Telephone number, foreign bank account, safe-deposit box numbers, post office box numbers. Or none of the above. Del never mentioned numbers.”

“Could it be a pin number for a computer program? A password?”

He took his eyes off the road for another second to glance at her. There was little traffic, even on this heavily trafficked interstate highway, and he couldn't resist. She kept surprising him with that quick mind. He supposed she was a good paramedic. She soaked up information like a sponge and seldom became rattled, even when her own life was in danger. She also had an empathy for people—and parrots—that made them trust her.

“I don't know,” he said frankly. “At this moment, anything seems possible.”

“I'll help.”

He was reminded again that he wasn't alone, that whether or not he liked it, she intended to be a partner and not a damsel in distress.

He nodded and felt her sense of surprise rather than saw it.

“Good,” she said, as she sat back.

He didn't want to go back to the silence. 2He liked the sound of her voice. He liked the companionship.

“Where did you come by the name of Kirke?” he asked. He'd never heard the name before, but somehow the uniqueness of it fit her.

“Ah, something you couldn't find on the Internet,” she said. “I'm amazed.”

He shrugged.

She was silent a moment, then said, “My grandfather's last name. He didn't have sons. My mother thought he would like it. At least enough to get some money out of him.”

“Did he?”

“He never said.”

“And your parents?”

“Never knew my father. He split when I was born. My mother died of a drug overdose.” She said it without rancor. More matter of fact, and he hurt for her.

“Then who raised you?”

“My grandfather. He was rather stern, but he knew his duty. I was mostly farmed out to boarding schools.”

“Is he still alive?”

“He died just before I finished college. He paid my college tuition and left me enough to buy the duplex. I've always been grateful for that.”

He heard the affection in her voice. And, for the first time, a hint of loneliness. Small tidbits about her that didn't really didn't tell him why she was sticking out her neck such a long way for him.

He noticed a sign for a restaurant and left the interstate. “Choices,” he said. “A hamburger chain or a truck stop.”

“Truck stop,” she said immediately. “I love them, and they might have some makeup.”

“A truck stop?”

“There's lots of women truck drivers these days,” she said.

“Truck stop it is.” He concurred. He'd always found the truck stop food far superior to chains, but the ambiance usually sucked. He drove into the huge parking lot, passing at least twenty long-haul trucks and several passenger cars.

As soon as they stopped, she got out and stretched. She was still clad in shorts and T-shirt, and he admired her athletic legs and curves.

The restaurant was one of those rambling structures with showers in the back for truckers. Even at ten p.m., the restaurant was more than half-filled.

She slid into a booth, and he sat across from her. A waitress appeared with two menus she handed to them. Her eyes rested on Kirke's face, and he saw cold hostility as she turned toward him. “Coffee?” she asked.

Both of them nodded, and the waitress hurried back to the counter.

Kirke scanned the menu. “Can you order the hot roast beef sandwich for me? I'm going into the restroom.”

Before he could stop Kirke, she was out of her seat, and the waitress was back with two cups. She set them down, blocking his exit from the booth. Then her hand brushed the coffee cup and it turned over, the hot liquid running over the table and down his jeans.

“Oh I'm so sorry,” she said. She grabbed some napkins and tried to wipe up the coffee dripping off the table onto his lap, apologizing profusely all the jeans.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, standing. He didn't want to leave Kirke alone. Not even for a minute. But then a second waitress joined the first in sopping up coffee from his pants. Together they blocked the way out, unless he wanted to leap over the table.

“You aren't burned, are you?” said the first waitress.

The coffee was hot but not steaming. “No.”

“Your meal will be free, of course,” the second one said. “And we'll pay the cleaning bill.”

“That won't be necessary,” he said, trying to see the hall Kirke had walked down.

Then someone who said he was a manager joined the crowd. More apologies.

“Look,” Jake finally said. “I don't care about the cleaning bill. I'm not going to sue, but I do want to get to the restrooms.”

He finally managed to push through the growing crowd and headed in the direction Kirke had taken.

“Where's the restrooms?” he asked someone.

“Down the hall and to the left,” said the manager.

Jake ran down the hall and saw a sign saying Office. He retreated and went to the right.

Two doors across from each other. One said Guys, the other Dolls.

He knocked at the latter door.

No one answered.

He opened the door.

It was small. And empty.

CHAPTER 20

Kirke stepped into the small, old, but scrupulously clean facilities.

She glanced at her face. Didn't look any better than it had this morning. No wonder she was getting some strange looks from people in the restaurant.

She rinsed the sleep from her eyes. She felt refreshed after her nap and, she hated to admit even to herself, looked forward to more time with Jake.

She'd never been with a dangerous man before. And he was that. Everything about him shouted
danger
and
beware
, and not only because of the present threat.

From the fitness of his body—how many push-ups did he do daily in prison?—to the dark, impenetrable eyes to the quiet efficiency with which he seemed to handle everything, he radiated warrior. She was far more fascinated with him than she wanted to be. And she was trusting him far more than she probably should.

A persistent knock came at the door. She frowned, but it continued. She started to open it to give someone a piece of her mind.

The waitress peered inside. “Just wanted to make sure you're okay, hon,” she said.

Kirke nodded.

The woman's eyes went to the bruises on her face. “You in any trouble, I gotta bunch of truckers who will help.”

Kirke winced at the thought of being considered a battered woman. “Thanks, but I'm okay. A purse snatcher did this two days ago. The guy I'm with … he's one of the good ones.”

The woman didn't look convinced. “He doesn't look the type, but you never can tell … My friend …” Her voice trailed off.

“Thanks for caring,” Kirke said and meant it. Too many people didn't bother to help when they saw something off-kilter.

“Okay, you need anything, hon, just let me know.”

Kirke closed the door again and decided to take another look at her face. Terrible. They should have sunglasses at a truck stop. And a cap. She would look while waiting for her meal. Which reminded her how hungry she was.

Another knock.

Good Samaritan or not, this was getting ridiculous.

She opened the door again. A big burly guy was waiting across the hall for the men's room. Before she could react, he pushed her back into the restroom and shoved a cloth to her face.

She instantly knew what it was and tried not to breathe in the fumes. She was dragged several steps while she desperately held her breath. The door opened, and she slumped against his body as if unconscious.

He loosened his hold, released the cloth, and started to pick her up. She swung around and kneed him in the groin. He grunted and released her right arm but kept an iron grip on the other. She screamed as loud as she could.

“Bitch,” he yelled, and threw her against the side of the wall. She was barely aware through a growing mental fog that she was now somehow outside the building. The chloroform was working.

She heard a car engine, the crunch of tires spitting up gravel.

“No!” she screamed as loud as she could before a hand clamped on her mouth again.

She bit down hard. The man roared with rage, and she heard a shout. Jake's voice. She was tossed like a sack of potatoes and landed in strong arms.

There was a slam of a car door, then the revving up of a car speeding off.

“Kirke?”
His
voice. Jake's voice.

She tried to focus.

He leaned over her. His face looked blurry, but his words came through clear enough.

“Gone? Is he gone?” She suddenly felt sick. The chloroform. She turned and threw up as he held her.

She was mortified. But grateful, too. She was
alive
!

“God, I'm sorry. I was coming after you, and a waitress spilled coffee and … I shouldn't have let you out of my sight. Then I heard you.” His voice was raw. There was an emotion in it that she hadn't heard before.

“Someone knocked at the restroom … held a cloth to my mouth. Chloroform … I tried not to breathe it in …”

He continued to hold her, even cradling her as she became aware of the many eyes on them. Her scream had apparently emptied the restaurant, and everyone who had been inside was now watching avidly.

He looked up. “Her ex-boyfriend,” he explained. “Almost killed her a few days ago. I was helping her get away. I don't know how he found us.”

“Had to be two or more of them,” said one whip-thin trucker dressed in jeans and a New York Mets ball cap. “There was a driver.”

“Must have been his brother,” Kirke said. “Just got out of prison.”

“Wish I got my hands on them,” the trucker said. Others nodded.

“He must have had some kind of tracking device in my car,” Jake said.

The waitress who'd knocked at the door of the restroom kneeled beside Kirke. She was ashen. “You shoulda told me someone was after you. We thought it was the guy you were with …”

Kirke was having a hard time keeping up with her lies, especially in her muddled state. To her surprise, they just came bursting from her mouth. She'd never had to balance them before, not before Jake. “I … was ashamed,” she said. And she was. Lying was becoming all too easy.

“I'll call the sheriff,” the waitress said.

That, Kirke knew, was the last thing they needed. She shook her head. “I just want to get back to my family. They'll see that I'm safe.” She didn't have to fake the tears that formed in her eyes. She couldn't forget her terror as she was being dragged away.

A trucker nodded. Then another. They obviously didn't want to hang around to give statements. She knew truckers were on tight schedules.

“Anyone going to Richmond?” Jake looked at the assembled truckers. “I can't risk taking the car. I can't put Jenny into more danger.”

Her earlier wounds were evident. She saw belief on faces and regretted the subterfuge. Her hand dug into Jake's. It was big and strong, and his fingers tightened around hers. “Gutsy girl,” he said in a voice so soft she doubted anyone else heard it.