Deadly Pursuit (24 page)

And in the meantime, he knew how to chase away the worry.

Resuming the task he'd been performing when Bev interrupted him, he shook a line of meth onto a dollar bill, started rolling it up—and quashed a fleeting qualm. He wasn't going to get addicted. He just needed a boost of confidence to help him get through the next couple of days.

After that . . . after Alison Taylor paid the price for ruining his life . . . he'd move on. Away from this filthy trailer. Away from Chuck and Bev. Away from meth. To . . .

That's where his vision faded.

He knew what he wanted to run away from. He just didn't know what he wanted to run
to
.

But he'd figure it out. Later. Right now he had more important things to do.

Smiling, he picked up the dollar bill and got ready to rock.

Someone was in Cole's apartment.

As a surge of adrenaline kick-started her brain, vanquishing sleep, Alison rose on one elbow to check the digital dial on the bedside clock.

Four fifteen.

Heart pounding, muscles quivering, she cocked her head and listened for another sound that would confirm she had company.

All was quiet.

But she hadn't imagined the muffled thump. It had been loud enough to penetrate the mind-numbing slumber that had finally sucked away her consciousness at two thirty. And it had come from inside her brother's apartment. The prickle on her skin told her someone else was close by.

It had to be Cole, though. He'd said he'd be late, and no one else could have gotten past the dead bolt.

Could they?

Doubt lingering in her mind, she swung her feet to the floor and crept toward the closed door. She'd noticed Cole's old hockey stick in the corner of the bedroom, and now she felt for it in the dark. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

She held her breath and eased the door back, relieved when it didn't creak. Peering through the crack, she looked down the hall.

Empty.

Was it possible she'd imagined the noise, after all? Had it been part of some vague dream that . . .

She froze as a ragged sound emerged from the stillness. One she recognized instantly from the anonymous phone calls she'd received.

Labored breathing.

The person in the apartment wasn't Cole.

A wave of panic surged through her, and her fingers tightened on the hockey stick. She needed to call 911.

Except . . . her cell was in her purse in the kitchen. On the counter next to Cole's remote phone.

Her stomach clenched as her panic ratcheted up another notch.

She tried to think rationally, run through her options. But only one came to mind. And while waking the neighbors wouldn't win her any popularity contests, she wasn't about to take chances with her life.

As she prepared to shut and lock the bedroom door before banging on the ceiling with the hockey stick and yelling for help at the top of her lungs, a dark figure started down the hall.

With a gasp, she jerked back and opened her mouth to scream.

“Sorry for waking you. I tripped over your briefcase in the entry.”

She closed her mouth and peeked into the hall.

“Cole?” The slightly slurred voice sounded like him, but why were his words garbled? If she didn't know better, she'd say he'd been drinking.

“Yeah.”

He stopped in front of the bathroom and reached in to flip on the switch. Light spilled into the hall, illuminating his pasty face and the bulky white bandage that encased the upper part of his left arm. An arm that now rested in a sling. A blood-spattered shirt was draped around his shoulders.

“Cole! What happened?” Shock ricocheted through her as she barreled down the hall toward him.

“Tangled with a punk who didn't like our questions and decided to demonstrate his displeasure with a knife.”

“He cut you?” She stared at him, appalled by his pallor.

“He was more into stabbing than cutting.” Cole leaned against the edge of the door, looking like he was about to keel over.

“How bad is it?”

“I'm okay. Nothing hurts. Arm's still numb. But that painkiller did a number on my brain.”

“How many stitches did you get?”

“I don't know. Fourteen, maybe. I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine. You're pale as a ghost.”

“Guy nicked an artery. I lost a little blood.”

The bottom fell out of her stomach. Taking his uninjured arm in a gentle but firm grip, she guided him back to the bedroom she'd just vacated. “You need to lie down before you fall down.”

“I'm okay.” He staggered as he muttered the reassurance, and she tucked her shoulder under his arm to steady him.

“Yeah, yeah. You're in great shape. How'd you get home?”

“Mitch drove me. He's a good guy.”

She already knew that.

After guiding him through the door, she pulled his cell phone and his gun from his belt and set them on the nightstand. Keeping an arm around him, she eased down beside him as he sat heavily on the bed. Once he was settled, she stood, removed the bloody shirt from around his shoulders, and draped it over a chair on the other side of the room.

“Lie down.”

“You sure are bossy.”

Despite his complaint, she noticed he didn't argue. Once he was on his back, she tugged off his shoes and covered him with the sheet. Snagging the extra pillow, she tucked it under his injured arm.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No. Sorry I woke you.”

“Go to sleep, Cole.”

“Yeah.” His eyes were already drifting closed. “Thanks, Alison. You're a good sister.”

Before she even reached the door, she heard the slight snuffle in his rhythmic breathing that told her he'd already caved.

As she stood in the hall, her pulse galloping, Alison debated the merits of trying to catch a bit more shut-eye on the couch. But that was a lost cause. By the time her adrenaline spike subsided enough to let her drift off, it would be time to get up.

Knitting. That would help pass the next hour. It had often been her solace during the long, pain-filled nights after her accident, as she'd waited for dawn to signal the start of a new day. The rhythmic clack of the needles would soothe and calm her—although it would never again have quite the same consoling effect without Bert cuddled up at her feet.

Fighting back a pang of sorrow, Alison extracted the mass of pink yarn from her knitting bag and settled into Cole's recliner. She wasn't going to give in to grief. Instead, she would focus on gratitude and say a few prayers of thanks. Cole could have been killed tonight. But he was okay. And she would be too.

She'd knit for a while. Check on Cole. Grab a quick breakfast. Then she'd go to work a lot earlier than usual. No way was she going to let Cole drive her—if he was even allowed to get behind the wheel in his condition. As long as she was careful, she'd be fine. She'd wait until she saw some other residents walking toward their cars. Safety in numbers and all that. The coffee shop near her office was always busy in the morning. There'd be plenty of people coming and going in the strip mall parking lot, too, at an early hour.

And if Cole wasn't happy about her solo trek, too bad.

At 7:10, Alison's cell rang. Closing the case file she'd been reading, she swiveled in her desk chair, pulled the phone out of her purse, and checked caller ID.

Mitch.

Smiling, she pressed the talk button. “Good morning.”

“Hi. Did I wake you?”

“Hardly. I've been up for hours—and that's no exaggeration.”

“I take it you heard Cole coming in?”

“Yeah. He tripped over my briefcase and scared me to death. I was about to scream and start banging on the ceiling with his hockey stick when I realized it was him.”

“How is he?”

“Last time I checked, he was sleeping. What happened? I didn't get much out of him last night.”

“We were following up on a lead in the homicide and the guy didn't like our questions. He pulled the knife before either of us had a chance to react. I'm happy to say he's now resting not so comfortably in the county jail. In case Cole didn't tell you, the guy nicked an artery. The doctor said he should take it easy for a few days.”

“I knew about the artery. He didn't say anything about taking it easy. Not that he'll follow that advice, anyway. Thanks for driving him home.”

“No problem. And speaking of driving, he told me about the latest communication from bingo man—which I just delivered to the lab. I'll be relieving him of chauffeur duty for the next few days. What time would you like me to pick you up for work?”

She took a deep breath. Mitch wasn't going to be happy about her decision either. “I, uh, decided to come in early. I got here about six thirty.”

Several beats of silence ticked by.

“Look, I'm fine.” She jumped back in, feeling the need to defend her actions. “I waited until there were people around before I left the apartment and also before I got out of my car in the parking lot here. I locked my doors. It was very safe.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

“You were up all night too. You have to be beat.”

“It will be hours yet before I have a chance to go home and crash.”

“All the more reason not to bother you.”

“It's not a bother. Until we catch this guy, I'd prefer you not take any chances. What time are you planning to leave work tonight?”

“My normal quitting time is 4:45.”

“I'll swing by, walk you out, and follow you home.”

She tapped her finger on the desk, debating how best to respond. Firm, but conciliatory, she decided. “I appreciate the offer, but that's really not necessary. We have a guard in the lobby who can walk me out, and once I'm in my car, I'll lock the door. I'll be fine.”

“You know . . . I'm beginning to see why your brothers get frustrated with you.”

His tone was mild and half-teasing, but Alison also heard a faint touch of exasperation. Her heart thudded. Okay, time to regroup.

“Goodness. The last thing I want to do is force you into my brothers' corner.” She hoped her joking response would ease the sudden tension. Mitch was exhausted after a long night, and he didn't need push back from her when he was only trying to help. “You win. What time works for you?”

He released a breath, telling her he was relieved she'd capitulated without further argument. “Sometime between 4:45 and 5:00. I'm hoping to get home by noon, clean up, and grab a couple hours of shut-eye. I'll call you when I'm ready to leave the house. How's that?”

“Fine. And thank you.”

“It's my pleasure.” The warmth in his response sent a little tingle through her. “Maybe we can pick up some Chinese takeout to share with Cole. I saw his arm before it got stitched up, and I'd be willing to bet he'd appreciate a little distraction by tonight, once the high-powered painkillers have worn off.”

Touched by his thoughtfulness, she smiled. “That's very kind of you.”

“Hey, I figure I owe him. He introduced me to a very special woman.”

She could get used to having this man around, no question about it. “I think I'm in his debt too. But if you ever tell him I said that, I'll disavow any knowledge of this conversation.”

Mitch's deep chuckle came over the line. “Understood. I'll call you later.”

As they said their good-byes and Alison dropped her cell back in her purse, she checked the clock. Nine hours and forty minutes to fill until she saw Mitch.

It was going to be a long day.

Chuck tossed Daryl the keys for the truck and grinned at him. “Good luck, man.”

Clenching the ring in his hand, Daryl smiled back. He'd snorted another line an hour ago, and he was pumped for the finale of Operation Alison. “This is gonna be a piece of cake.”

Bev sauntered into the living room from the back of the trailer, and he gave her a quick inspection. She must have raided the prop closet Chuck kept for his smurfers again. In addition to the short black wig, she'd dug out a pair of glasses, a white schoolgirl-style blouse, and a gray, knee-length skirt. She looked like a conservative, decent, law-abiding citizen. In other words, perfect for the part. There was nothing in her demeanor to arouse suspicion.

Maybe that theater stuff she'd done would come in handy, after all.

Chuck hooted as she came into view. “Hey, Bev, are you in there somewhere?”

“Bev?” She gave him a guileless smile. “I'm sorry, sir, you must have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Caroline. But have a nice day.”

Not bad. She might pull this off after all. “Are you about ready to go?”

She turned to him with a smile and lifted the oversized purse she'd scavenged from the closet. “All my props are in order. My lines are down. Just point me to the stage.”