Cold Target (48 page)

He would keep a closer eye on him, especially in the next few days.

No, he never left anything to chance.

B
ISBEE

Holly answered the phone after listening to it ring for several moments. She was in the midst of one of her pieces. But the insistence alarmed her.

By now most of her friends knew that if she didn't answer, it was because she couldn't.

She picked up the phone.

Marty's voice was as insistent as the ring had been. “Liz, I have to see you immediately.”

Holly didn't like the tone. It was almost frantic. Marty didn't get frantic.

“Where?”

“Somewhere Harry can't hear us.”

“My porch. Or your shop.”

“I'm on the way.”

“Do you have someone to watch the shop?”

“I'm closing it.” She hung up.

Holly suddenly felt cold. Whatever made Marty decide to come over had to be urgent. This was her busiest season, and Marty very seldom locked the door against potential customers. She might be an ex-flower child who still liked her hair long and clothes flowing, but she also wanted to survive. She had become what she had once most hated: a capitalist.

Marty was on her doorstep in less than five minutes.

Liz gave Harry a glass of milk and some cookies, then found a movie she'd rented and he hadn't seen yet.

Then she went outside and sat on the steps with Marty. “What is it?”

“All of a sudden, I started getting a lot of queries about your work,” Marty said. “At first I thought it was the novelty, but I just received a call from someone in New Orleans.”

Fear froze Holly. She prayed her face didn't reflect the pure terror she felt.

Apparently not. Marty continued as if the world hadn't just ended.

“She was worried. She was afraid she might have made a mistake. She said two people—a man and a woman—came in looking for one of your metal sculptures. They started out by saying that they had seen one and wanted one for themselves. When she said she would try to find one for them, they said something else altogether. One said she was your sister and feared you were in danger. The other said he was a detective. The woman did look a little like you—same eyes, she said. They appeared so worried.…”

“And Mary—” Holly caught herself.

“Mary Sartain.” Marty confirmed the name. “She'd seen your sculptures when hunting through craft websites. She showed it to these two people.”

“I don't have a sister,” Holly said hopelessly. It didn't matter what she said. Her house of cards had finally tumbled. She hadn't thought it would happen. Not after all this time. What a fool she had been.

“I can stall them,” Marty said, “but all they have to do is ask anyone here a few questions about a woman who sculpts with metal. A woman and her son.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Holly said. She had to start packing. She had to leave immediately. “When did she talk to them?”

“Yesterday. Then she worried about it all night. She called me this morning.”

“Thank you. I have to go.…” Her voice trailed off. She felt cold, so cold. And numb. She didn't want to lose what she'd gained here—a home, friends, a sense of belonging as she'd never had in New Orleans.

“What's wrong, Liz? Tell me. I'm not going to judge you. I was involved in some nasty things years ago. I have no right to judge anyone. It's obvious you and Harry need help.”

“I can't get you involved.”

“I am involved. I'm your friend. So are Doug and Russ. Let me call Doug.”

“He's a lawman.”

“He's also in love with you.”

“I can't do that to him. I can't make him choose between duty and me.”

“I can't imagine anything you could have done that would make him have to choose.”

“Imagine the worst possible thing.” She couldn't keep it in any longer. “It's in the envelope I gave you.”

“An abusive husband?” Marty probed.

“If he was only that.”

“Then what?”

There was no resistence left. She had just regained her life. She loved this life. She knew Harry was happy for the first time. She knew she was.

“My husband tried to murder me. I woke up to noises in the house. Someone with a gun, and the key to our house, and the numbers to our alarm system.”

Marty didn't say anything, just waited.

“I used my husband's gun. I shot him. Harry was in the house and—”

“Dear God,” Marty said. “And I thought you were a timid soul.”

“I was. I am.”

“The hell you are. You picked up and ran and made a life for yourself. But did you ever think about going to the police?”

“My husband is a state senator. He's running for Congress. He's very powerful.” She hesitated, then added, “So is my father.”

Marty's face screwed up in a frown. “Your father?”

“He's … he's …” How do you tell someone your own father probably tried to have you killed? A father who was also one of the most respected jurists in the state of Louisiana.

Marty stood. “You can tell me later. Right now we're getting you the hell out of here. Get Harry. I know a place you can stay about fifteen miles from here. No one knows about it. I always thought I might need a place to hide. There's plenty of canned food. A well. Worse comes to worst, I'll take you across the border. They will never find you then.”

“I don't have papers for Harry.”

“A few of my friends have questionable backgrounds as well. In an hour, I can get a forged copy of a letter of permission from your husband to take him across the border. Now come on and get off your ass. Ten minutes and we'll be on our way. I'll take care of this sister of yours.”

“They might come after you.”

“An old activist like me? Let them try. Now about the sister—do you have any idea who it could be?”

“No. It's just me. I always wondered why there wasn't another child. My mother once said it was my father's fault, that she wanted a dozen little girls like me.”

She heard herself and trembled. It was long ago. Her mother had wanted a doll, and that was what she'd made Holly into. Holly shook her head and rose. “I'll be ready in a few moments.”

“You can follow me. I want you to have a car.”

Holly didn't waste any more time. She'd wasted enough.

She gathered up their clothes; there weren't many. Then her tools. Harry looked at her with wide-eyed surprise as she packed what books they had. Marty helped carry them out to her car.

“I don't want to go. I want Sher'f Doug,” Harry said, his mouth drooping.

“Just for a while,” she said, knowing it would probably be forever. She felt sick to her stomach. Worse. “I thought we would go out and explore the desert.”

“Is Caesar going with us?”

“Of course he is.”

His face was dubious. She remembered the last time she had rushed him out of his home. She closed her eyes for a moment. It wasn't fair. It wasn't.

Within ten minutes, they were ready.

Holly didn't want to leave the little house she'd decorated and come to love and think of as a safe haven.

She bit back tears, took Harry's hand and called Caesar, who knew something was wrong. He hung back, his tail tucked between his legs. He didn't want to leave, either.

Then she tugged Harry outside and put him in the car seat. She picked up Caesar and plopped him inside. Marty had already started her little Bug.

As they pulled away, Holly didn't look back. She hadn't looked back at her house in New Orleans, either. But that had been because of fear. She'd hated the house.

It was totally different when she was leaving a place, and people she loved.

The funky little store was closed.

Disappointment coursed through Meredith. She'd felt during these past few hours that she was reaching the end of her search. Anticipation had built inside her. She would finally meet her sister.

Gage and Dom had napped on the plane. It had been late reaching Phoenix and they had just barely made the connection to Tucson, where they rented a car. She'd had no sleep. Questions kept running through her mind during the drive to Birmingham, the two flights and the drive from Tucson to Bisbee.

Only adrenaline kept her going.

But it was three o'clock Arizona time and they'd expected to find the shop open. Finding it closed was a huge downer.

They went to the businesses next door, one an art gallery, the other a small grill advertising tacos. The owners of both expressed surprise that the shop was closed.

“She'll be back soon,” one said.

Meredith took out a photo of Holly that they'd printed from a newspaper article. “Do you recognize this person? She's my sister. Holly. We had an argument years ago, but now I realize how important family is, and I'm trying to find her.” She couldn't explain the true story, or they would be here all day.

Both owners—one a man and the other a woman—glanced at the photo, then shrugged. “Can't recall that I have,” said one.

“Doesn't look familiar,” said the other. “Never heard the name.”

“She's a sculptor,” Meredith tried again. “In metal. I think she does work for Special Things.”

“Wouldn't know anything about that,” said the man who owned the taco business.

“Still doesn't look familiar,” said the woman in the art gallery.

The three left the store and stood on the street.

“I would have sworn they recognized the photo,” Dom said.

“Then she has friends.”

“Protective ones.”

“Maybe Mary Sartain called and warned them,” Meredith said. “Just in case something was wrong.”

“And the whole town is in on it?” Gage frowned.

“It couldn't be,” Meredith said. “There wasn't enough time.”

“Let's start at real estate companies,” Gage said.

Holly followed Marty. Fifteen miles out of town, Marty turned down a dirt road that very nearly didn't exist. They bumped over ruts and across a dry stream bed and came to a stop at a cabin abutting a bare hill. One lone cottonwood struggled for existence in front.

Holly got out of the car, unstrapped Harry from the car seat and met Marty.

Marty unlocked the heavy door and opened it.

It was hot. Stuffy. But the furniture looked comfortable and Marty turned on lights, so it had electricity.

“A generator,” Marty explained as she handed Holly her cell phone. “Keep this with you.”

Holly's heart felt tight. Constricted. She had just gotten over fear. And now it had come tumbling back into her life, taking it over again. She didn't want to hide for the rest of her life. She didn't want it for Harry. She didn't want it for herself.

But the fear. God, it was overwhelming.

“I'm going to tell Doug about this place,” Marty said.

“No.”

“You don't have a choice any longer,” Marty said. “I know him. He has been my friend for years.”

“But his duty—”

“There's something more important to him than that,” Marty said. “Integrity that supercedes what others might call duty. He knows about me. He knows that I participated in something unlawful long ago. He's never told anyone.” Her mouth slanted at Holly's start of surprise. “Trust me,” Marty said. “Trust him.”

Holly hadn't trusted anyone in a very long time. But Doug had protected Marty's secret.

She knew she had nothing to lose.

She nodded.

Doug heard about the queries about a woman and a boy immediately. Mr. Santos from the taco shop called first. Then Mrs. Carson from the art gallery.

“Thought you should know,” Mr. Santos said.

“Maybe I should have told them,” Mrs. Carson worried.

“You did right,” he reassured both of them.

He left his office and drove to Holly's house. Her car was gone. Still, he knocked. No one answered.

He sat in front of the house for several minutes, then decided to try Marty. She might know something. He might also get a glimpse of the three people asking questions about someone who sounded very much like Liz.

He found them in a bar across from Special Things. It was quite obvious that they weren't tourists. They were staring across at Marty's store.

He wandered in and ordered a Coke. He sat at the bar and studied the trio.

A pretty young woman. A man in his early fifties who looked like an ex-boxer and a man who looked like a cop. He could always spot them. Their eyes never stilled. Just as this one's didn't still.

He finished his Coke and sauntered over. “How do you like our little town?”

The woman looked disconcerted, then smiled. “I like it,” she said.

He stiffened. Her eyes looked just like Holly's. So did the smile.

Nothing else did. She was slim, but more roundly built than Holly. Taller. Her face didn't have the fine bones that Holly's did, and the nose was larger, yet the accents were similar. So was the musical quality of their voices.

“Good,” he said. “I'm the county sheriff. Anything I can help you with?”

He saw them stiffen this time. He didn't wear a badge on his shirt, nor did he carry his gun in an obvious place.

The man he had pegged as a cop stood. He held out his hand. “I'm Gage Gaynor. Detective. New Orleans.”

“Doug Menelo. You here on official business?”

“No. Vacation. My girl is trying to find her sister. Meredith's mother just died and left them both a rather large estate.”

“What's her name?”

“Holly,” the woman said. “Holly Ames.” She pulled out a photo. It was Liz.

He shook his head. “'Fraid I can't help you. Don't know anyone named Holly.”

The woman persisted. “She might be using another name. She has a son. She might be in a great deal of danger. We have to warn her.”