Dark Sky (18 page)

“Lucky you didn't run into Joshua. The mood he's in, he might have just shot you. What time is it?”

Ethan pulled off his boots. “Around midnight.”

At dusk, after Wendy's apple crisp, Juliet had driven out to the lake with her camping gear. Matt Kelleher spotted her and introduced himself, then helped her cart everything down the path to her clearing. She'd found herself interrogating him about his dead wife and Arizona and his camper, then backed off. She'd spend the night on the lake. Then she'd head back to New York first thing in the morning. She wasn't accomplishing anything in Vermont except upsetting her family.

“I told Officer Paul that I had a room at a hotel off the interstate.”

“You don't, though.”

He shook his head. “I'm just a poor ex-soldier.”

“Ha.”

“Don't worry, I wasn't protecting your virtue. I didn't want a Longstreet posse hunting me down.”

But Juliet had to admit she didn't want her brothers finding out Ethan had made his way to her tent, either. She'd never brought a guy home to Vermont. Even when she and Rob Dunnemore were together, they seemed to both know it wasn't a forever relationship.

“You're shivering,” Ethan said.

Damn it, she
was
shivering. She had on a flannel shirt and boxer shorts.
Very sexy.

What was she thinking? She was determined to send Brooker on his way. She pulled her sleeping bag back up to her chin. “It's a small tent.”

“Luxury quarters compared to what I'm used to.” He shifted position, setting his boots neatly next to the tent's entrance. “Better company, too.”

“Ethan—” She couldn't believe how cold she was, even with him in her tent with her. “You can't stay here. Really. If you don't want to stay in a hotel, fine. You can find a spot on the lakeshore. Make a nice bed for yourself in some freshly fallen leaves. You're Special Forces—you'll manage.”

“Going to send me out into the cold night?”

He didn't seem that troubled by the prospect, or at all convinced she was serious. Juliet sighed, no longer shivering. “Ethan, I'm not that good at flings.”

He rolled onto his knees and crawled next to her, touching her chin. “Neither am I.”

“But—” She didn't know how to say it. “But that's what this is. The year you've had…” She winced, aware of him next to her, so close. “You've been running from what happened.”

“You mean Char,” he said.

“She must have been some woman, Ethan.”

“She was. We were good together. We didn't see a lot of each other the two years before her death. That got to her.” He spoke very steadily, as if he were describing the particulars of a mission and wanted to get every word exactly right. “But we'd have got through it.”

“I'm sorry about what happened to her.”

He nodded, sitting down next to Juliet, stretching out his long legs next to hers. “I'm not here because of Char,” he said quietly. “I'm here because of you. Now. If you want to go ahead and throw me out into the cold—”

“I don't,” Juliet said quickly, catching her breath.

He wound his fingers into her hair and smiled broadly, and even in the near darkness, she could see the spark in his eyes. “I didn't think so.” He kissed her softly, his mouth opening onto hers, nothing about him cold or shivering. “You're freezing,” he said, trailing one hand down her back and picking up her hand. “Oh, Marshal. You touch me with those icy fingers—”

“I fell asleep outside my sleeping bag.”

“Let's make sure that doesn't happen again.”

He shrugged off his leather jacket and pulled it around her shoulders, then unzipped her sleeping bag all the way down to her feet, which were encased in Smart Wool socks. She rubbed her toes together. “I wasn't expecting company.”

“There's something sexy about a woman in a flannel shirt and wool socks.”

“And what would that be?” she asked skeptically.

He laughed softly. “The mystery of what's underneath.”

“You worked for that one, Brooker.” But she laughed, too, liking the relaxed feeling that was coming over her, that had eluded her all day. “Besides, there's no mystery. Not after the other night—”

“Every night's a new night.”

“You can't even say that with a straight face.”

But a part of him was serious—she could hear it in his voice, the undercurrent of emotion and romantic yearning. He unbuckled his belt and pulled off his jeans, shoving them to the far corner of the tent, and worked on the buttons of his shirt, a dark, soft corduroy from what Juliet had felt of it.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Ethan.”

“You're not shivering.”

“Ethan, I'm not going to ask for more than you can give. Just don't pretend—”

“I'm not pretending.” His voice was low, and he brushed a curl off her forehead, let his fingers linger there. “When I was in Colombia, I kept thinking that I didn't want to end up dead in some jungle never having made love to you.”

“I'm glad you got out of there alive.”

“Meeting you that day in Tennessee—” He paused, as if to lend weight to his words, to make her understand that he wasn't just talking to talk, saying things to get her not to zip back up in her sleeping bag and send him on his way. “I could have gone past the point of no return. I was close. But Sarah Dunnemore, Nate Winter came along and helped. You. Without you, I don't know where I'd be.”

Juliet touched her fingertips to his mouth. “You stopped yourself from crossing the line. You'd never have gone completely off the deep end.”

“You're good at what you do. You could have kept me from taking off.”

“Hell, no. I had cracked ribs and that road rash from hell. I was in no shape. And you weren't sharing your gun, as I recall.”

“Night's Landing was crawling with you law-enforcement types. You know damn well you could have made me stay put, held me for questioning. You let me go. Then in August—you could have thought of a few reasons to cuff me—”

“I can think of a few right now.”

He grinned suddenly, taking her breath away. “Can you?”

“Damn, Brooker,” she said, gulping for air. “But you know we have to discuss your Texan and your vigilantes and—”

“Later.”

She smiled. “That's what I was saying. We have to discuss them later.”

He caught an arm around her waist, and she fell back onto her skinny roll mat, taking him with her, relishing the heat of his body. She clasped her hands behind his back, under his shirt, and if they were still icy, he didn't complain, just found her mouth again, kissing her as he felt for the buttons on her shirt. He missed one and ended up ripping it off—it ricocheted off his belt buckle and disappeared.

“Friday night wasn't a mistake,” he said. “I never should have let you think it was.”

“That made it easier for me. Both of us.”

He kissed her again. The contrast of the cold night air and his hot mouth, his warm body, made her hyper-aware of her surroundings, the moment. The dark tent, the owl, the shadows, the brush of his soft shirt against her breasts. She grabbed at his shirt with both hands, but a jolt of reality stopped her from tearing it off him—what if it was his only shirt? There'd be no explaining a torn shirt to her brothers.

So she undid the remaining buttons one by one, painstaking in her efforts, and Ethan let her, but his breathing grew ragged by the time she finished and pulled the shirt off his shoulders. She could see the outline of the black graphic tattoo on his upper arm, the shape of the muscles in his shoulders and arms.

He groaned at her. “Juliet.”

She cast the shirt aside and smiled. “Serves you right for torturing me.”

“You're a little breathless there yourself, Juliet.”

“I love the way you say my name. It doesn't come out like that when anyone else says it. I think it's the accent—”

“Juliet,” he whispered. “Juliet, Juliet, Juliet. I'll say your name anytime you want.”

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. The sleeping bag twisted around her, but she managed to push it off her, no longer minding the cold air. He smoothed his palms up her stomach and over her breasts, and she fell onto him, the last of their clothes off in seconds, coming together in a frenzy of heat and raw, open need.

“Ethan—” She didn't care that she couldn't breathe. “Don't stop. Don't
ever
stop. You're perfect just as you are.”

Grabbing her hips, he pulled her harder onto him, thrust deeper into her. “I'm not perfect.”

“Perfect for me.”

She hadn't meant to reveal that kind of emotion, but the words were out, and she was exposed, to herself and to him. He seemed to sense her unease and he held them both still for a moment. The owl hooting, the night suddenly seeming darker, colder. “It's okay.” He skimmed his hands up her arms and caught his fingers in her hair, bringing her face closer to his own. “I'm not going to get scared and run away because you're in love with me.”

“I'm not—”

He smiled, kissing her. “You repressed Yankees.”

She placed her palms on his shoulders and raised herself off him, moving in such a way he had no choice but to suck in a breath. She grinned. “I thought that'd shut you up.” And when he responded, quickening his pace, she cried out in surprise, unable to focus on anything but the feel of him inside her, the release that was building in every cell of her body. When it came, she felt him moving with her, timing his own to coincide with hers, until they both collapsed, breathing hard, the sleeping bag shoved at their feet.

“Hey, Marshal.” He dragged a finger across her back. “You're sweating.”

Juliet reached for the sleeping bag, pulling it over them both as best she could. “We'll be freezing our butts off once our heart rates slow down.” She snuggled against him, his heart beating rapidly, every inch of him toasty warm. “Although I think the temperature would have to get below zero to make you shiver.”

“If I start shivering, I'll find a way to warm up.” He kissed the top of her head, then held her close. “Sweet dreams.”

“You're a complicated man, Ethan,” she said.

He didn't answer her, just found her hand in the dark, intertwining his fingers with hers as she closed her eyes.

M
ia crossed her arms over her chest to ward off the cold out on the street behind her hotel. She'd slipped into jeans and a blouse but hadn't bothered with a jacket. She'd done her graduate work at Columbia—she was comfortable in New York. But not in the middle of the night, not for the reasons she'd left her warm bed and her third movie of the night. She'd known she wouldn't be sleeping before she saw the FBI and the marshals in the morning, but she hadn't expected a jaunt outside.

“You want to meet me? Be outside your hotel in twenty minutes. Back entrance.”

How, how, how—how had he known she was in New York? How had he known what hotel she was in?

Had he followed her? Had someone else followed her? Had someone told him?

But who knew? Special Agent Collins, maybe Chief Deputy Rivera.

Her caller—she'd recognized the voice—once again hadn't given her a chance to ask any questions. He'd disconnected, leaving Mia to decide what to do.

She'd debated getting Collins out of bed, but not seriously. Her caller would sniff out the FBI, and she'd lose this opportunity to find out who he was, what he wanted, what game he was playing. He'd helped her in the past. He'd put Ham Carhill in touch with her. Even if this guy was a nut, Mia wanted to believe he was, in his own mind, at least, on her side. She knew she was taking a risk, but didn't see what other choice she had. She didn't own a gun, didn't even know how to use one.

Huddled now in the entryway in the back of her hotel, Mia waited. Within minutes, an SUV with New York plates pulled up to her.

Something's wrong.

Mia took a step backward toward the door. She already knew she'd made a terrible mistake, but a man leaped out of the back seat and caught her around the waist, his hand close to her mouth but not over it. “Quiet. Not a peep. Do as I say or I guarantee Carhill and Brooker die. Got it?”

She nodded, even as he threw her into the SUV, shoving her onto the floor. Her face hit first, the carpet scratching her right cheek, smelling of mud and a man's sweat.

The SUV sped up the street, putting more and more distance between her and all that she'd left behind.

The man straddled her prone body. She couldn't get a good look at him now, and she'd only had a glimpse of him as he'd grabbed her. He had dark curly hair; he was familiar, somehow. He patted her down, taking her cell phone, her small handbag. She'd left her briefcase in her room. Her movie was still playing, the lights were still on. Would anyone on the staff notice and check on her?

Mia tried to adjust her position to take the pressure off her right elbow, which was under her, but the man in back with her pushed a foot into the small of her back. “Don't move.”

“I can't—I can't breathe with your foot on me.”

“Too bad.”

She lifted her rib cage up as much as she could and tried not to tense up, aware it would only make breathing more difficult. But she had no confidence in her ability to resist her kidnappers. She wasn't an operative, trained in self-defense or anything else. She did Pilates and yoga. She read books.

“Who are you?” she asked, trying to keep her tone curious, without fear or any sense of entitlement.

Without letting up on his foot, he leaned down close to her face, his breath hot and foul on her left cheek. “You fucked with the wrong people, Doc. These bastards don't like corrupt White House advisers.”

“You're not—”

His foot pressed firmly into her back, quashing her ability to speak. “Shut up.”

From the way the SUV was moving, Mia suspected they were on a highway. The Henry Hudson Parkway, probably. Who was driving? How many were there in the car? Where were they taking her?

Unable to breathe properly, she grunted, and the foot eased off her back slightly.

She didn't ask any more questions. She thought of her mother, ironing in front of the television. And her father, off early each morning, uncomplaining, glad he had work, glad it was something he didn't mind doing. Her parents, content with their lives.

She'd tried so hard to do the right thing, not wishing ill for others, trying never to lose sight of rules, standards, procedures, a process, ethics—she was a moral person. She wasn't idealistic so much as determined to believe no one was ever faced with only bad choices.
Always
there was, at least, a right choice, if not an easy one. But Mia had no idea what her choices were now.

The man in the back seat with her removed his foot from her back and had her raise up her head slightly, then slipped a bandanna over her eyes. It smelled like stale sweat. He tied her wrists together behind her, using what felt like flexible plastic cuffs.

He chuckled. “Life is full of surprises, ain't it, Doc?”

“Where are you taking me?”

“No questions.”

“But I—”

He smacked her, hard, on the side of her head, pain slicing clear through to her teeth. Her stomach lurched.

She could feel his breath hot in her ear. “Nobody told me how pretty you are.”

The movement of the car added to her nausea. Before she knew what was happening, she vomited.

When she tried to sit up, he hit her again, a slap on the left side of her jaw that sent hot needles of pain straight up her cheekbones and through her eyeballs.

“Up you go.” He pulled her up by her hair, turning her onto her back and sitting her up on the floor of the SUV. “I've got a little drink for you.”

“No…”

“That wasn't a request, Dr. O'Farrell.” He seemed to enjoy her suffering. He put what felt like a paper cup to her lips. “Relax. It's just water.”

He started pouring, the lukewarm fluid spilling down her chin and throat, into her blouse. Her mouth opened involuntarily. Her jaw was swelling, bruised, the pain even worse now.

“Drink,” he ordered. “I don't want you passing out.”

Pulling her hair, he yanked her head back and dumped the water down her throat. She choked on it, coughing. Something was wrong—it had an off taste.

It's bad water.

“Come on. Up you go.”

His voice seemed far away. He got her to her feet and slung her over one shoulder, and she couldn't make herself kick or flail—couldn't move at all. And she was sinking into unconsciousness. She knew it was happening but couldn't stop it.

He'd drugged her.

Panic fluttered through her, but there was nothing she could do, and she could feel her eyelids droop, her muscles relax, as the darkness came.

 

Joshua had finally just dozed off when someone pounded on his front door.

“It's me, Barry,” his downstairs neighbor yelled. “Open up!”

“What the hell—” Joshua pulled on his bath robe and glanced at his bedside clock. It was 3:00 a.m.
Jesus, Barry.
He hoped the poor guy wasn't having a heart attack, although from the vigor of his knocking, Joshua doubted it. He staggered into his living room and out to the entry, the tile floor cold under his feet. He pushed back the dead bolt and opened the door. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. You got your TV on?”

“Barry, it's three o'clock in the morning. No, I don't have my television on—”

“You work odd hours sometimes. You never know.” He pushed his way past Joshua into the living room and switched on his television, picking up the remote. “I was up with sciatica. Half the time I don't sleep regular, anyway. I'm used to it. How the hell you work this remote? Put CNN on.”

“Barry—”

“That guy—what's his name? The one who attacked your daughter in New York—”

Joshua felt gut-punched. “Bobby Tatro?”

“Yeah. Him. He broke out. Faked appendicitis or some damn thing, and they took him to the hospital—they figure he had help from accomplices—”

“Tatro escaped?”

“That's what they're saying on the news.”

Grabbing the remote from the old man, Joshua clicked on CNN and caught the tail end of the report. It confirmed the outlines of what Barry had just told him.

“They had it as Breaking News at first,” Barry said. “I hate to admit it, but I get an adrenaline rush when I hear the Breaking News music.”

“When did Tatro escape? Did they give a time?”

“About an hour ago.”

Not time enough for him to reach Vermont. To reach Wendy. Juliet. Joshua forced himself to concentrate on the report. Tatro had been taken to the hospital just before two o'clock…within fifteen minutes, someone complained of a noxious odor. A woman went into seizures. Another lost consciousness. In the resulting pandemonium, Tatro took off. One of his guards was found doubled over, puking his guts out due to the fumes; another had his throat slit, but he was lucky—doctors found him and stitched him up in time. Although the exact substance used to cause the nerve reactions was still a mystery, it hadn't caused any fatalities, the only good news of the night.

According to the news report a massive manhunt was under way. As yet, there was no sign of Tatro or his accomplices or any indication of who his accomplices were.

Barry was shaking his head in amazement, his thin white hair sticking out above his ears. He had on a pilled red tracksuit that was at least twenty years old. “What a hell of a thing to happen.”

“You okay?” Joshua asked him.

“Yeah, yeah. My ticker can handle a breakout. You?”

“I'm good. I'm going to make a couple calls, see what I can find out—”

As if on cue, his telephone rang. Barry plopped down on Joshua's couch and motioned for him to go ahead and answer.

He expected it to be a fellow state trooper. “Longstreet—”

“Trooper Longstreet, right? Juliet's brother?”

“One of them. You're—”

“Mike Rivera. Chief deputy—”

Joshua's heart jumped. Had she gone back to New York and not told him? He warned himself not to speculate. “I'm Joshua Longstreet. What can I do for you, Chief?”

“I'm trying to reach your sister. I was hoping you could help me. Her cell phone's off or something.”

“She's in the woods. No cell service out there. I just heard about Tatro.”

“A dozen things could have gone wrong with Tatro's plan, but nothing did. Worked like a charm. He must have had it worked out in advance in case he got picked up, because he sure as hell didn't have any company while he was in custody.” Rivera sounded grim, but he didn't need to go into detail of what federal, state and local law enforcement were doing to find Bobby Tatro—Joshua knew a national manhunt was in progress. “Juliet needs to know. How far out in the woods is she?”

“She's camped out on a lake a fifteen-minute walk from our folks' place.”

“She's in a tent?”

Rivera sounded incredulous, which made Joshua smile in spite of his tension. “That's right. She owns five acres on the lake. She likes to camp there during decent weather.”

“Well, Tatro can't know she's in Vermont, and it's unlikely he'd get there even if he does know. Juliet's on high alert as it is. She's brought us up to speed. What is it, one, two hours before daylight? Have her call me after sunup.”

Joshua didn't argue with him. The chief deputy would have a clearer picture of the situation. He hadn't gotten the news from Barry Small and CNN. And Joshua had no desire to traipse out to his sister's tent. Ethan Brooker was in town, and Joshua doubted he was staying at a hotel.

“How's your daughter doing?” Rivera asked, his tone softening.

“Okay. Thanks for asking.” But Joshua knew he didn't sound grateful—he sounded worried and irritated and helpless, because the man who'd terrorized his daughter was on the loose. “Who helped Tatro escape?”

“We don't know.”

Joshua could imagine what was happening in New York. He raked a hand over his close-cropped hair. “I'll have Juliet call you.”

After he hung up, he resisted an urge to kick the wall.

Barry sat on the edge of the couch. “Anything I can do?”

“Stay here. Let me know if anyone else calls. I'm going up to my folks' place and keep an eye on things there.” He'd also get in touch with his colleagues with the state police and find out what they had on Bobby Tatro. “Barry, you okay? Not too much excitement for you?”

“Nah. I'll be fine.”

When Joshua arrived at his folks' house, all was quiet. Lights out, doors locked. Using his key, he slipped inside, not turning on any lights as he made his way to the living room. Spaceshot didn't even trouble himself to bark. Having raised five sons and a daughter, his parents had no doubt heard his truck. But they'd figure he'd come over because he couldn't sleep worrying about his own daughter.

Let them roll over and go back to sleep, Joshua thought, stretching out on the couch. There was no reason to panic. He pulled a knitted afghan over him, thinking about his daughter upstairs in his old room, telling himself that their luck was due for a turn and the marshals or NYPD would pick Tatro up by morning.