Heart of the Night (20 page)

“You don't date much?”

“I've already told you that, and why. Besides, when do I have time?”

“Weekends.” She let her imagination wander to sweet places. “Evenings before work.” And even sweeter places. “Early mornings after work.”

Early mornings after work.
Following her to those imaginary spots, Jared felt himself begin to swell. “Savannah…”

“What?”

He cleared his throat, which did little to cancel the thickness of his voice. “You have it all figured out.”

“I was just answering your question.”

He swore under his breath, then said gruffly, “I must be nuts, chasing after a lady lawyer. My ex-wife was one. I thought I'd learned my lesson.”

Savannah wasn't sure which statement to react to first—the fact that he was chasing after her, or that he had an ex-wife. A previous marriage meant that he valued the concept of monogamy enough to give it a shot. Of course, something had gone wrong. His wife was an ex.

She closed her eyes. “You're being very unfair.”

Jared was still trying to cool his arousal. “Look who's talking.”

“How was
I
being unfair?”

“Early mornings—do you have any idea what it does to a man to hear a woman talk about early mornings in that soft, very feminine tone of voice?”

“You're a fine one to talk about tones of voice,” she accused. “Yours are nearly pornographic.”

“Does my voice turn you on?”

“Damn right, it does.”

“Then maybe we're even,” he mumbled. A second later, he raised his voice. “How was
I
being unfair?”

“By dropping that little bomb about your ex-wife when I don't have time to follow it up. I'm supposed to be back at Will's by five.”

The thought was sobering. “What will you do there for three hours?”

“Go a little crazy,” she said in a grim tone. “I want to be sure everything's set for the drop, then make sure Will stays sane. If it weren't for Megan, I'd work here until later. But I'm having trouble concentrating, so I wouldn't accomplish much anyway. We'll probably waste a little time ordering in dinner—waste, because I doubt any of us will be hungry. Except Sammy and Hank. They always eat.”

“Can I drive you over there?”

“No.”

“Can I deliver dinner?”

“No—uh, maybe—no, you'd better not.”

“Why not?”

“I don't think it would be smart.”

“I'll take Melissa's Volkswagen, and it'll be dark, anyway. Just call that number I gave you—the private one—when you decide what you want. I'll call in the order, pick it up, and deliver it.”

“What a pain in the neck for you.”

Jared didn't respond with words. She felt his answer in an uncanny sense of awareness that came over the line. He wanted to see her again. She couldn't fight that.

“You have that conference call to make at six,” she said softly.

“I'll make it at five.”

“Can you do that?”

“I'm the one with the most money. I can do it. I'll be free by six.”

“Are you sure you don't mind?” she asked very softly.

“I'll be waiting for your call. Talk with you soon.” He hung up before she could say another word.

*   *   *

At six-thirty, Jared showed up at the Vandermeers' back door carrying an assortment of Big Macs, Chicken McNuggets, salads, fries, and drinks. Savannah met him, led him into the kitchen only far enough to put the bags on the table, then hurried him back to the door. Once there, she tried to press a twenty-dollar bill into his hand. He promptly slid it into the vee of her pale gray wool blouse. His fingers lingered for a split second on her skin, then left. His eyes lingered longer.

“Let me know what's happening?” he asked in a husky murmur.

“I don't know where I'll be or when I'll get home.” She was gently pushing him toward the door.

“Try. Okay?” Taking her hand from his arm, he enclosed it in his. “Why are you trying to get rid of me? Do I embarrass you?”

She tugged her hand free and resumed her pushing. “You're supposed to be a messenger, and a messenger wouldn't stay this long. Besides, I don't want you to see my sister. One look at her and you'll think I'm a dud.”

His eyes strayed past her. “Is that her? The one with the gorgeous red hair, the sexy bod, and the bottle of Chivas?”

Savannah bit her lip, which was precisely where Jared looked next. The cast of his eye became more pronounced, the gray flecks darker, creating a smoky look that made her burn. Her teeth relaxed their hold; her lips parted.

“It's you I want,” he whispered. “Call me later?”

She gave a jerky nod, which was all her hammering heart would allow.

“Promise?”

She nodded again, then gripped the door as he left. It seemed the only static thing in sight. She closed it, locked it, took the twenty-dollar bill from between her breasts, and buried it in her pocket. Then she turned.

Susan, who'd been watching her, put down the bottle of scotch and began to unload the first of the bags. “A messenger, you say? He sure didn't look like a messenger, not the way he was dressed. That jacket didn't come from K mart. How well do you know him?”

“Not well.”

“Did you see the way he was looking at you?”

“He was delivering our dinner.”

“He looked like he wanted to eat you for his.”

“For God's sake, Susan!” Scowling, Savannah glanced nervously toward the hall.

“He was big for a delivery boy. Looked more like a bodyguard. You should have invited him in. He could prove helpful later.”

Savannah set one drink after another on the table. With each she regained a bit more control. “He won't be needed. Everything is going to be just fine, Susan. Just fine.”

*   *   *

At first, it looked that way. Will was nervous, which was understandable, but he seemed to know exactly what he was supposed to do, and he hadn't lapsed into wildness again. So Savannah, Susan, and Hank were optimistic as he and Sam left.

The plan was for Sam to follow him most of the way, wait until Will made the drop, then trail him home. Both cars were equipped with two-way radios. If Will panicked at any point, Sam could help.

Will didn't panic. As though taken by a drugged calm, he put the paper bag filled with money into the dumpster as directed, then sat quietly in his car.

When he didn't signal that he was leaving, Sam began to get nervous. “Will? Can you hear me, Will?”

“I'm waiting,” Will informed him.

“For what?”

“That guy.”

“No, you're not. Get out of there, Will.”

“I'm waiting. That man hung up on me before I could speak with Megan. I want him to know that if he dares harm her—”

“Buddy, he'll do more than harm her if you don't get your tail out of there.”

“I'm waiting.”

“You do that and you'll blow the whole thing.”

“I'm waiting.”

Sam touched the gun holstered under his arm. “Fine. You wait, and I'm coming in with my lights flashing and my badge on display. You want that?”

“I'll report you.”

“I don't give a shit. We've played by certain rules this far, and we're gonna go all the way. Now, do you come out, or do I come in?”

There was a lengthy silence. Sam was reaching to start his car when Will said, “Fuck you.”

“What does that mean? Are you coming or not?”

“I'm coming. But I'll report you.”

“Fine. Just get the hell out of there, and do it now.”

Two minutes later, Will's car bombed past. He was suddenly in a big rush to get home, so much so that he ran two red lights. Shoving a portable flasher to the top of his car, Sam followed him right through and stuck close behind until he'd pulled up at the house.

Savannah was on her way out, working into her coat as she ran. She stopped first at Sam's window. “The call just came in.” She gave him the address of a phone booth on the street corner in Warwick. “The Warwick police are on their way. They'll be there before we will. Did you see anything?”

“I didn't, but my plants did. A battered blue Camaro, a gray Plymouth, and a dusty LeMans. We've got plates for the last two. I've already called them in.”

“Megan will have to tell us more. The state police are on alert. They're setting up ID checks at the local points of departure and will question anyone who looks suspicious. They're ready to move on whatever Megan gives us.”

Susan was climbing into the car. “You go with Will,” she told Savannah. “You're better with him than I am.”

Hank had already pushed Will over to the passenger's side. Savannah ran to the rear door and climbed in. Her door was barely shut when they were off.

The drive seemed endless. If Savannah had been able to tell Will that Megan had been the one on the phone, things would have been better. But Megan hadn't called. The voice had been the same as the one that morning, this time offering nothing more than an address. Megan's condition was still unknown. And given that, every doubt, every fear of the past two days surfaced.

Hank followed Sam, who was given detailed directions by radio. Will sat stiffly in the passenger's seat, staring at the road. Savannah was grateful to be alone in back.

When they crossed into Warwick, they were met by a local cruiser. Given the day and hour, lights and sirens were unnecessary. But the escort was a help, showing them the fastest way to the commercial district, then the telephone booth that stood at the designated spot.

A ring of police cars were already there. Sam and Hank pulled up quickly. Will was out of the car and running almost before they'd stopped. The others were close behind.

At first Savannah saw nothing but police officers. Several stood clustered around the phone booth, several knelt by its door. They parted for Will, who came to an abrupt halt. Two steps behind him, Savannah did the same, then caught her breath.

Megan was huddled in a corner of the phone booth floor, looking as though she had seen the far side of hell.

C
HAPTER
9

Savannah remembered the first time she had seen Megan as though it had been fifteen hours, rather than fifteen years earlier. They'd been starting their sophomore year in high school. She and Susan had arrived at the academy old hands at knowing what to do and what not to do, and, along with their friends, had taken pleasure watching the new girls arrive. As veterans, they felt cocky; the initial fear of leaving home, looking right, fitting in was a thing of the past. They smirked at the girl who arrived in a stretch limo trying to impress someone, smiled warmly at the one whose gorgeous older brother was helping her move in, laughed at the one who came laden with every electrical appliance imaginable since there were only two outlets per room.

Megan had been one of the last to arrive, and she had been different from the rest in every regard. Her clothes were not chic, her nails were not painted, her hair was not carelessly arranged, and if those things hadn't given her away, her mother would have. The woman drove an old Ford and was as unadorned as the headmistress's secretary.

Megan was clearly on scholarship, which wasn't unusual at the academy. What was unusual about Megan was her sense of dignity. Her eyes held fear of the unknown, yet she went about the business of unpacking and settling in as though she intended to do as fine a job at that as she would at everything else. For a girl who had come from modest means at best, her poise was remarkable.

Her mother was equally remarkable. Though plain, she was incredibly warm. Savannah and Susan, who had lost their own mother three years before, gravitated toward her.

And they adored Megan. She liked the music they liked, hated the teachers they hated, and was always ready to try something new with them. She was the third Musketeer. The fact that she looked like Savannah, far more than Susan did, was a constant source of amusement, but she complemented them in other ways, too. When they were impractical, she was down to earth. When they acted spoiled, she was sparing. When they opened her eyes to certain pleasures in life, she reflected those pleasures back with fresh insight.

Savannah had always know that, of the three of them, Megan was the brightest. Her grades were consistently the highest. She was imaginative, hard-working, and street-smart in ways that Savannah and Susan, for all their travels, never were. And she always had a smile, which made her a joy to be with.

Savannah saw nothing remotely joyous about the woman huddled on the floor of that phone booth. When Will called her name in a broken voice and reached for her, she shrank into the corner. Her eyes were forbidding as she looked up at him. Without a sound uttered, everything about her screamed, “Don't come near!” The Megan who had always been eminently approachable didn't want to be touched.

“It's me, Meggie,” Will cried brokenly. “It's over. Thank God, it's over.” He tried to touch her arm, and she flinched, crowding into her little corner with her legs drawn in ever tighter. “No one's going to hurt you. I've come to take you home.” Again he reached out. She made a faint sound, gave a short, harsh shake of her head.

Frantic, Will looked up at Savannah. “What's wrong with her? Jesus, what have they done?”

Savannah didn't know. Megan's eyes were hollow, her face ashen, but there were no bruises to suggest she'd been beaten. She looked dirty—her face, her hair, her hands—though her robe was as fresh and clean as ever.

“Meggie?” Savannah said in a voice that was soft and far steadier than her insides were just then. She crouched beside Will. “We want to take you home, Meggie. It's cold here. Your robe isn't heavy enough, and your feet are bare. Can we take you home?”