Exception to the Rule (8 page)

At least she knew Rio was thorough. He’d waited long, long moments before continuing his circuit around the house after he’d heard her. He’d taken all the time he should for that circuit, and then as she watched, used a steady strength to draw himself back up to the second-story balcony.

Then she’d done her own circuits, learning the yard in darkness with the daylight images from her photos guiding her along. As setups went, it was pretty much a disaster. He might stay through this day—she thought he’d show up at the fire station picnic, cementing his easygoing, community-oriented image with the folks of Mill Springs—but probably not through the next.

Then again, maybe Carolyne would apply her genius, solve the guided-missile vulnerability, and they could all just leave.

But Kimmer doubted it.

A
fter a night of too cold and a morning of curling up in bed with the motel room heat turned up, Kimmer emerged to take a warm shower under a spastic trickle of water from the mineral-clogged shower head, mulling her conversation with Owen. She couldn’t watch Carolyne 24/7, not and still have her wits; she’d chosen the postdawn hours as the best time to rest, leaving Carolyne in the hands of her capable cousin. The afternoon she’d pegged for more area familiarization, including a visit to the fire station picnic, which had been a main topic of eavesdropped conversation at Giant Eagle.

But first a quick stop at the outdoor store, where she snagged a coat the proprietor assured her was warm enough for any number of hours of tree-stand vigil, and then tried to sell her ammo for the hunting rifle she didn’t have. Then he wondered if she was with the other
out-of-towner, the tall fellow who’d bought up a bunch of hunting stuff this morning.

“No,” she told him. “I like a solitary patch of woods.” But it set her to wondering what Rio had in mind. It wasn’t bagging a whitetail; she knew that much for sure.

By the time she dressed for the picnic, the day had turned into one of those fall afternoons with leaves bright against a brilliant blue sky, the sun beating down sharp and hard. She settled on a tucked-in soft pima cotton long-sleeved T in a deep maroon and topped it with a worn but personable navy vest, a big textured waffle weave that made it one of her favorites even at home, and that knew her shape so well she barely had to be in it before it fell in flattering lines. Her jeans were ancient, so tired that the material over her thighs and bottom clung softly, highlighting those curvy, tightly muscled areas.

If she ran into Rio Carlsen, she wanted him distracted, but not so he’d notice that she’d done it on purpose.

To her casual look-at-me attire she added standard layers of protection. A miniature war club, six inches long and made from red oak root, an asymmetrical blob of iron nestled into the crook where the root had branched and held tight by thongs. A length of thin mountain rope made a wrist loop on the other end, allowing her to add power to the swing if she wanted. Old, worn and well polished by handling, the little club had taken shape under her own too young hands with her mother’s words of wisdom in mind—the ones about taking care of herself and being ready for anything, anytime.

It weighted her pocket, but no more obviously than a handful of change.

The little toothpick knife went to a back jeans pocket. Her long tang-blade knife, the Colt Guardian, fitted at her ankle. The little weighted Hibben throwing knives she left in her duffel, pulling out her SmartCarry holster and dropping her jeans briefly to snug it into place around her hips like a concealed, fitted fanny pack. It rested low at her pubic bone and once she zipped up, left her wadcutter-loaded S&W revolver—a hammerless 342PD Centennial—invisible even to someone with Rio’s practiced eye.

Well, as long as she didn’t wear low-rise jeans.

The Talon Mini stun gun went into her other pocket. Not as powerful as most, but perfectly effective if you knew where to apply it and for how long.

Kimmer did.

She didn’t expect to use any of them. And if she did need to go for weaponry, she expected to need only one of the many at hand. She merely liked to have a variety of options, so that whatever she pulled best suited the circumstances. Owen occasionally called her “Hunter’s little Klingon,” to which Kimmer would narrow her eyes and add, “With better teeth.”

Armed to those very teeth and with no one the wiser, Kimmer strolled into downtown Mill Springs. The picnic had spread from the firehouse to the adjoining park, and the smells of grilling burgers and franks battled with the astringency of sauerkraut. If she correctly identified that faint whiff of sweetness, someone somewhere had a cotton candy machine.

Initially she occupied herself by taking pictures—typical photos of kids and families and laughter and even a quick flash of tears after a fall. No doubt she’d
delete most of them once she looked them over, but taking them suited her, highlighting little moments of time as she lived—or watched—them.

About the time she’d wandered past the displayed fire trucks—two engines and a rescue squad, all shining so brightly Kimmer thought they were probably sending inadvertent signals out into space—and circled around the life-flight chopper, she found two things of significant importance: Carolyne, bundled up in the world’s bulkiest cardigan sweater, and the cotton candy machine.

She picked out a red and a blue cone, paid for them, and walked quite deliberately over to Carolyne. She’d reached the woman and had the blue cotton candy stretched out as an offering before Carolyne ever truly focused on her; it took another obvious moment before recognition hit. “You were at that little store!” She clutched her cerulean sweater more tightly; it did amazing things for her eyes. But those eyes were red rimmed—which Kimmer would have taken for understandable fatigue had she not also seen the giveaway tint of red at the tip of Carolyne’s nose. Quiet crying, right here in front of everyone.

But Kimmer pretended she hadn’t seen and recognized Carolyne’s distress, or that she didn’t understand the anxious body language and the way Carolyne stood literally on the edge of bolting. Rio was a fool, leaving her here alone—though she’d no doubt he was nearby, working the situation to its fullest advantage. Kimmer nodded, gesturing with the candy. “Here, take it,” she said. “I got it for you when I saw your friend had left you alone. Off hitting up on someone, is he?” And at
Carolyne’s surprised look, her hand closing around the paper cone but failing to remove it from Kimmer’s hand, Kimmer added, “Is he your boyfriend, then? I thought you two looked like brother and sister.”

“We’re family,” Carolyne agreed numbly. “He’s just not the sort to prowl. He went to get me something to drink. I’m supposed to be standing in the sun and soaking in the fall ambience.” She looked up at the bright sun, over at the equally bright leaves and around at the happy picnickers. “Which I am, I guess. Soaking.”

“It’s why I’m out here, too.” Kimmer switched to a confiding sort of voice. “It’s good for what ails you, you know?”

“I…I heard about your…situation,” Carolyne said awkwardly, picking at the cotton candy with thumb and fingertip and tucking a tiny portion into her mouth.

Not comfortable with such conversation
. Not used to gossip and the art of spreading it—or mining it.
Not used to lies
. This situation must be driving her crazy. Kimmer said, “Everyone has. I made sure of it. If my ex sends any of his pals up here, I want to know about it
before
they find me.” She gave Carolyne an obviously assessing eye. “Not to be nebby, but you don’t look like you want to be here.”

Carolyne dipped another pinch of cotton candy into her mouth. Just as well she was eating it slowly—the coloring was likely to turn her gums and lips blue if she didn’t. “Nebby?”

“Oh, you know. Nosey. And that’s what you say right before you’re about to be nosey anyway, like that makes it okay. It’s just…you don’t look very happy.”

“I guess I’m not.” This admission earned the cotton
candy a rip, after which Carolyne looked at the separated portion as though she weren’t sure what to do with it. “It’s a fiancé thing.”

No kidding. Seemed to be a popular cover story.

“You think he’s going out on you?” Kimmer asked, more because it was the thing to say than because she thought it was so.

But Carolyne shook her head. “No. I mean, I suppose that sounds like typical denial, but really, you’d have to know Scott. I guess I just feel like he knows everything about me—my life’s pretty much an open book up to this point—but that there are things he just doesn’t talk about, especially not his childhood. I know it was tough. What good is a relationship if he feels he can’t trust me?”

“Men aren’t always talkers,” Kimmer observed in wise tones.

“I know.” Carolyne’s face crumpled slightly, her lips pressing together in her effort to maintain her composure, her fair skin flushed.

She’s not meant for this kind of pressure
. Kimmer thought it not critically, but as knowledge to tuck away. Such things mattered in the course of life and death, especially when it came to how Kimmer could count on the woman to react.

Carolyne cleared her throat, looked away. “And honestly, I like that he’s proud of me, that he’s proud of my work. But sometimes I wonder if he’d want to be with me if I was still at entry level. If there’s a status thing going on, y’know? Lately I’ve begun to wonder about whether we’re really good for each other. Except now…”

With the wistful expression on her face, Kimmer didn’t even need to guess. “Now you miss him.”

Carolyne nodded. “Terribly.” And then she stuffed the chunk of candy floss in her mouth and chewed vigorously.

Kimmer wanted to tell Carolyne that of course she missed Scott Boyle. Here she was under a constant, tremendous threat, and her salvation, as far as she knew, depended on her cousin’s ability to protect her and her own ability to resolve the laser-guided-missile weakness while on the run. She didn’t know that Scott had arranged for further protection, and Kimmer couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t tell her any of it. So Kimmer stared out over the tree-sprinkled park. Badminton, horseshoes, playground equipment…this place had it all, and the picnic had filled it to overflowing with families. She spotted some of the store proprietors she’d spoken to, and Missy the cashier—who for all her young age, had a toddler on her hip with hair every bit as fair as Missy’s. She saw Kimmer watching and gave a friendly wave, and the toddler gleefully emulated her.

Near the parking lot, several groups of men had gathered. Kimmer quickly scoped out the dividing line between family man and bachelor. They weren’t, of course, too far from the food tables—the industrial-sized grill still sizzling with burgers and franks, beside tables laden with every variety of egg salad, beans and chips…and then there was the dessert table. Dangerous territory.

It did not, apparently, deter Rio Carlsen. For there he stood, making conversation with the man Kimmer had encountered at the gas station just outside town—and after watching a moment, Kimmer was quite sure she saw the man nod at her.

Great. Evidently still convinced he’d met her before.
Maybe it was time for her to admit that she and her ex-boyfriend had come up from the Burg to one of the local canoeing outlets. That was the problem with cover-story lies…they could take on a life of their own.

Another car arrived in the lot, stopping so precipitously as to be unkind to the gravel. A handful of men poured out; Kimmer perceived right away that they’d circumvented the picnic’s no-liquor rule by storing all their booze in their bellies before arrival. Nor did the two existing groups of men offer any warm welcomes; distantly cordial was as close as it got, evident even from across the park.

She thought Rio might have broken away from Garage Boy at that point, but Garage Boy stopped him, a hand to his arm, his question insistent.

When the new arrivals separated from the other men and headed into the park with the aimless expressions that meant they had nothing particular in mind, Kimmer glanced over at Carolyne and said, “I think we should move. Between the trucks, maybe.”

“But Rio told me to—” Carolyne cut herself short, giving a slight shake of her head. Whatever Rio had told her probably revealed too much about her true situation here.

Well, the bubbaboys weren’t completely sloshed, just a little happy. And although they moved with a lot of swagger, Kimmer pegged them at the level of “nothing I can’t handle” with a troubling undertone of “handling them might draw more attention than is good for anyone.”

Rio said something to Garage Boy, gesturing. Garage Boy made a dismissive motion. He knew the bubbaboys,
it seemed, and had no concern about them. And the bubbaboys spotted exactly what Kimmer figured they’d find interesting: two new female faces, no men about. She stuck a hand into her pocket, snaking her hand through the thong of the miniature war club. Her other hand, still filled with the paper cone from the half-eaten cotton candy, hovered just above the hidden grip of her .38. Too bad she hadn’t brought the little Kel-Tec mouse gun for this one.

“Hey, there,” one of them said. Might as well have been all of them; they looked to be in accord. Two of them wore jeans and handsome, colorful Western shirts. The other two had apparently been out and about in the woods before their buddies caught up to them, and sported camo pants and green T-shirts under jackets with blaze-orange accents.

“Hey.” Kimmer gave a vague wave of the candy in greeting and gave them her best bored-already tone.

It might have worked, too—if Carolyne hadn’t stiffened like a fawn trying to decide whether to bolt.

“Looks like you could use some introductions.” That was one of the Western shirts, a fellow who looked as if he might even be pleasant under other circumstances. Average in all respects, aside from a truly cute dimple. He pointed at each man in turn and recited, “Jonesy, Bob, Matthew and Shaun.” He, apparently, was Shaun.

“Thank you,” Kimmer said, which was meaningless under the circumstances but she thought it might discourage them without antagonizing them. Had she been on her own…not so much of a worry. But Carolyne didn’t need any more excitement.

She received three smiles and one frown, the other
Western shirt. Bob. Wouldn’t you know one of them would still have a brain cell not affected by alcohol. Cheap beer, by the smell of it. Just enough to make a man lose some inhibitions. Put them into a group, let their macho vibes start bouncing against one another…

These guys had a habit of it, judging by the crowd’s reaction to them. Kimmer hardly needed her knack to know they’d go over the line.

Bob said, “Be friendly. Tell us your names, so we know who we’re showing a good time.”

Carolyne cast Kimmer a trapped look. Kimmer fought an instant surge of reaction; she couldn’t stand that look, that remembered feeling of
no way out
. A glance toward Rio showed him hesitating, unwilling to make things worse if a few moments could take care of the situation. The men were oblivious, or merely the look on Rio’s face and the deliberate cant of his shoulders would have sent them scurrying away. Kimmer stepped a little closer to Carolyne and offered the men a sweet smile. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you know, we were just having a personal conversation, and neither of us really feels like manly companionship right now, if you know what I mean?” She turned back to Carolyne, who suddenly looked just as wary of Kimmer as she did of their unwanted company. “Gawd,” she said, picking up in the middle of their imaginary conversation, “you’d think the cramps would be enough. But nooo, I’m going through tampons like tissues. They call
that
a super?”