Dirty Deeds (13 page)

He dug around in the bathroom drawers and was rewarded by the discovery of a brand new toothbrush, still in the package. Who'd have guessed the simple act of brushing his teeth would be this incredible? He rinsed his mouth and ran his tongue over his clean teeth. He was beginning to feel human again.

He gazed at his reflection in the mirror and gave thought to passing up a shave. The stubble he now sported sort of made him look dangerous and not much like himself. Then it occurred to him a beard wouldn't be much of a disguise. Letting his beard grow out would be a different look and that's about it. Nothing could be done about the damn red hair. Neither he nor Paul had ever been able to blend into a crowd thanks to their fine Scottish heritage. Too bad he hadn't thought about hair dye. He sighed, grabbed the razor and went to work on his face. A few minutes later, he looked up. He still didn't recognize the pale, trembling reflection that stared back him from the mirror, but at least it was clean.

Now for clothes. Paul was taller than Jamie and more muscled, thanks to plenty of time on the ice and in weight rooms. The star-turned-coach didn't expect anything of his players he wasn't willing to do himself. More than once, Jamie watched Paul in the gym side by side with his young players working just as hard as they were.

Jamie hadn't skated or worked out in years, and as much as he hated to admit the truth, it showed. Once he'd figured out he could never become the player Paul turned out to be, he'd stopped trying. What was the point? That was pretty much the way it was between them. Paul excelled and Jamie fell a thousand miles short.

But, enough with the poor me crap. What he really needed to do was find some clean clothes. Fortunately, the size difference between them wasn't enough to be a problem. Jamie rifled through the closet, found clean jeans and a shirt. Over the shirt he slipped on an old Vancouver Canucks sweatshirt.

And now for shoes, because his sneakers were filthy. Jamie studied the row of black, brown, and tan shoes lined up with military precision on the closet floor. Where was Paul's sense of adventure? Not a decent pair of sneakers in the bunch. Jamie cocked an eyebrow and leaned down. He shouldn't do it. No, he really shouldn't. He knelt down in the closet and moved the shoes around until all the colors were mixed together. Some shoes faced forward, some backward. A couple he turned upside down. When he stood up, he was smiling. So much better.

It didn't bother him a bit to wear Paul's clothes. What Jamie couldn't deal with were the old guy shoes. He was going to have to be content with his dirty sneakers. His handiwork inside the closet completed, he went to the bed. He sat down and slipped on his own old sneakers over the nice clean socks. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head. Showered and dressed, Jamie felt like a new man and with it came a rush of hope. Maybe things would work out after all.

His stomach growled loudly in the quiet of the bedroom. He didn't realize until now how hungry he was. Downstairs, he found food and tea, exactly what he needed after the craziness of his life during the last interminable hours. While he ate breakfast and drank three cups of strong tea, he made his plans. If he played his cards right, he could make it to the border crossing north of Metaline Falls in a couple of hours.

Once he got back to Canada, what could they do to him? If he laid low long enough, they were bound to forget about him eventually. There was, after all, a statute of limitations. All he had to do was ride it out and then he'd be in fat city. It seemed to him that in spite of his arrest and Kendall's murder, patience could very well have its rewards.

The thought of Kendall made his heart ache. He didn't think that particular ache would ever leave him. He'd have to learn to live with it and without Kendall.

Cleaned up and with food in his stomach, Jamie's optimism grew as did the sunlight out the window. He left the kitchen, dishes still on the table, and walked outside. In the bright sunlight, he got another great idea. He backtracked into the kitchen and through the door connecting the kitchen to a short breezeway attached to the three-car garage. At the garage, he reached out to flip on the overhead fluorescent light. He shook his head as he looked around the garage. In typical Paul style, it was finished top to bottom and painted a bright white. Only his brother would have a garage as nice as the house. As much as he admired Paul, the guy did have some weird quirks. Wound a little tight in Jamie's opinion.

Just as he hoped, the sleek blue Harley Davidson Fat Boy sat in the corner as though it waited just for him.
Yes
.

It was a thing of beauty and he'd been impressed with it since the day Paul brought it home. Jamie remembered the day well. It was one of the last times they spoke to each other. The very next day Paul made it very clear Jamie was never to call him again. That, like his beautiful Kendall, was something he didn't want to think about. He really wasn't stupid, and knew refusing to think about it was little more than sticking his head in the sand. He didn't care if it was stupid. He had a bigger problem: just staying alive.

He turned his attention back to the motorcycle. The paint was a deep blue that by itself was impressive. What Jamie liked most were the flames that were so realistic he could almost feel the heat of the fire coming off of them. Even with his own artistic background, he could never figure out how someone was able to create the realism of the waves of flickering fire. Paul must have spent a fortune on the paint alone. Jamie ran his fingertips across the flames. Paul was bound to be furious when he discovered the bike missing. Jamie sighed and pulled his hand away. He didn't have a choice. Or rather he didn't have a better choice. It had to be the bike.

As if to further reinforce his sense of absolute destiny, it didn't take him long to find the keys. Paul hadn't changed much over the years and was a creature of habit, at least to someone who grew up with him. Jamie remembered how Paul would line up his hockey sticks in a perfect row, and stack the pucks in piles five high. Never six, never four—always five.

Back in the garage, Jamie put the key in the ignition, pulled out the choke, and turned the throttle. The bike roared to life and with the rumble of the big engine bouncing off the garage walls, Jamie's hope rose even higher. Things were falling into place like magic. It was all going to work out.

Jamie sat on the Fat Boy and with the toe of his shoe, popped it into neutral. With his feet on the concrete, he pushed it backward out of the garage and into the driveway. It took a few minutes to maneuver it around until he and the bike faced the street. In less than ten minutes he had the house and the garage locked back up, or at least locked up as well as he could, considering he'd knocked out one of the window panes in the back door. He didn't feel great about leaving Paul's house with a broken window. Still, some things couldn't be helped and if things went as he hoped, someday he'd be able to make it up to his brother.

As soon as everything was done, Jamie once more straddled the bike and this time, put it into first gear. It lurched when he slowly released the clutch and his heart jumped with it. He pulled the clutch back in and took a breath. He could do this. After all, he and Paul spent their childhoods riding dirt bikes behind their cabin up in the mountains. If he could ride those dirt bikes, he could master the Harley. He tried again, letting the clutch out slow and easy. This time, the bike purred without jerking forward. His confidence steadied. In the bright morning sun, he glided away, his sights set on the border crossing ninety miles to the north.

The cool morning breeze kissed his face as Jamie wove in and out of traffic. Once he reached the open stretch of highway, he kicked the Harley into fifth gear and roared north.

* * * *

Paul was less than wild about the idea of leaving Louie. At the same, he couldn't fight her logic. Though she was giving him the bum's rush, she was right. He'd have to go home at some point and yes, he did have a hockey franchise to run as well. Fall was starting to roll in, pre-season games were on the agenda, and league games would start soon enough. His team was good and he was confident they'd have a stellar season. Still, if he neglected the team, it'd show and his hopes for a title would fade in a flash. It wouldn't be fair to the young men who counted on him. For his older players, it could mean the difference between going to the NHL and going home.

So he gave Louie a quick kiss and left her on the front steps. He didn't look back, afraid if he did, he'd change his mind and pull her back into the house. It was hard work being a gentleman.

The early morning traffic was pretty light. Francis Street had a nasty habit of clogging up at peak rush hour times and he didn't want to find himself staring at a row of red lights right now. Somebody was looking out for him, because he made it across Francis and up Maple in record time.

He didn't bother with the garage and instead parked in the driveway closer to the front of the house. He wouldn't be home long enough to put the car away. A change of clothes, a quick of check of emails and messages, then on to the arena for a couple hours. If everything went well, and he had no reason to believe it wouldn't, he'd make it back to Louie's office by lunch.

Jogging up the front steps, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Paul paused the moment his feet hit the tiled entry. His eyes narrowed and his gaze swept the entry. He missed it at first. He took a breath and looked again. Then he saw that the light on the alarm box glowed pale green. It was blinking bright red when he left the house yesterday.

Did he forget to the set the alarm? No way. Not once had he forgotten since his house was burglarized and his skates from his last championship were stolen. He still watched the sports memorabilia sites waiting for those skates to make an appearance. Had the thieves come back for his stick?

Except it didn't feel like as simple as a theft. The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and after what he witnessed at that poor girl's house, a knot hit like granite in the pit of his stomach. Like he didn't have enough on his plate already. He should turn around, head back outside and wait for the police to show up. He didn't have the time to be a careful man and frankly, he didn't have the patience. Instead, he stood still and listened. Nothing except the tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock in the living room.

Relatively certain he was alone, he walked through the entire house, upstairs and down. His initial sense of disturbance was spot on. The first thing he found was a broken window in the kitchen door. Shards of glass were scattered across the cocoa-colored quarry tile like tiny glittering crystals. At least he knew how they got in.

He quickly figured out who the intruder had been and it wasn't a
they
or a stranger. The wet towels in his bathroom, the filthy clothes left on the floor, and the kitchen that looked as though a gang of teenagers assaulted the refrigerator were all achingly familiar. The handiwork possessed a signature he knew well. Jamie.

Back downstairs in the kitchen, Paul picked up the phone, and after a moment of hesitation, put it back down. Instead of a call, he left the kitchen and headed to the garage. Relief washed over him when the lights came on to reveal his treasured Mustang still parked safe and sound in its customary spot.

He was just about to leave the garage to go back in and call Louie when he stopped and did a slow turn. Son-of-a-bitch. Despite his initial observation, everything in the garage was not as he'd left it.

The little bastard had taken his Harley.

When he left the garage, his blood was boiling. This was not good, not good at all. The worst part wasn't the fact Jamie took a very expensive custom bike with trick paint and tons of chrome. The worst part was Jamie was an inexperienced rider. All it would take to destroy both Jamie and the beautiful bike would be a tiny slip on gravel. Did Jamie's stupidity have no end? He hurried to the phone while digging out Louie's card from his pocket. She picked up on the first ring.

"We have a problem," he told her. "A big problem."

When he finished explaining what he'd found, she asked. "Where do you think he's headed?"

The answer didn't require much in the way of thought. "He's going home."

"As in Canada?"

"One and the same. He'll be heading to British Columbia. I'd bank on it."

"We have to grab him before he gets into B.C."

"That shouldn't be too hard. I mean, how's he going to get across the border? Aren't the feds looking for him too?"

Louie was quiet for a moment and then asked. "Have you seen your passport lately?"

"Damn it," he muttered as he ran up the stairs and through the door of his office. Now he walked into the room and studied his desk. Every drawer was open at least a crack. He closed his eyes and let out a big sigh. He didn't need to open a single drawer to know what he'd find. He did anyway, his hand going to the top drawer on the left hand side. He stared at the empty spot where yesterday his passport had been.

"Jamie looks a lot like you." Louie's voice was soft. He'd forgotten he was still holding the phone to his ear.

Paul gripped the handset with one hand and rubbed his throbbing temple with the other. Yeah, he knew they looked alike. Even though Paul was older, they both had fair complexions, green eyes and the distinctive red hair. Paul was taller, though he doubted anyone would notice unless they stood side by side. Jamie's odds were better than average of breezing right through at the border and no one would be the wiser.

"We need to haul ass," he said.

"Well put."

"I'll be at your office in twenty minutes."

He was still cursing under his breath as he put the handheld's receiver back into the cradle on the kitchen counter. He had ten minutes to shower and put on clean clothes. As for his team, well, what were assistant coaches good for if not to cover for him when he couldn't be there? He called his first assistant, Michael Curry, on his cell while he sped through traffic. Michael tried to pump Paul for details. He didn't get far because Paul ended the call mid-sentence. Michael would just have to wait for all the nitty gritty.