Hide and Seek (2 page)

Holt strode past the various concessions set among the different tourist-oriented stores at
Casa de Fuego.
He glanced toward the parking lot. Apparently the green-eyed woman had taken his advice and abandoned her Ford. She had probably entered a store to escape the heat and call a towing service.

Fireworks exploded and Armor cowered. Holt reached to stroke the dog’s sun-warmed back, but his thoughts were on his father’s predicament in hurricane-ravaged Richmond. When Holt had finally reached his father, the retired colonel’s voice hitched as he described brutal winds in excess of a hundred miles per hour and the resulting damage to his home.

Holt devoured a hamburger from one of the stands, purchased cherry bombs and lady fingers for his nieces, then headed back to the camper. He opened the door and lightly grabbed Armor's back end to help the elderly dog up the steps. Once inside, Holt tossed his purchases onto the sofa across the aisle from the booth.

Another small fireworks detonation sounded outside and Armor barked. Holt considered his dog. "You’re right, pal. We're outta here."

A sweet scent wafted around Holt.
Peach
? He gave his head a sharp shake. He had been on the road too long, suffering from mind-addling fatigue. Since early that morning, he had driven nearly four-hundred miles from Florida’s far western panhandle, trading central time for eastern.

Holt opened the refrigerator and removed a Coke. He popped the lid, listening to the jabbering of vacationers and the traffic from the nearby highway. As the beverage’s sweet effervescence cooled his parched throat, he sat behind the wheel, flipped the key, and the engine revved. He inched his vehicle forward, craning his neck, watching for families.

Back on the highway, Holt jammed the accelerator, and the engine responded. If he pushed hard, he would make Richmond before the ten o'clock curfew imposed by the National Guard.

Armor’s wet nose nudged his elbow. The shepherd barked, and his raised hairs created a ridge along his back. Holt’s nape prickled as well. Did he have guests? He should have heeded that South Carolina trooper's warning about punks hijacking recreational vehicles, and locked his camper.

His lips compressed with gritty determination as he pulled off the road and cut the ignition. He leaned toward the passenger’s side, opened the glove compartment, and shoved aside insurance and registration papers until his fingers gripped the Glock’s handle. With a flick of his thumb, he released the safety. Dismissing traffic sounds, Holt listened then stood. He looked at the dog and kept his tone casual. "Another walk, Armor."

Stomach rumblings emanated from somewhere. His fingers clenched the pistol’s grip, but silence reigned.
Hell
. He'd probably heard Armor's stomach. That was it.

Holt strode down the short hall toward the motorhome’s back and slid the pocket door aside, but his room was exactly the way he had left it. Perfect. A crumpled shirt and a pillow were on the floor. The sheets from his last fishing trip to Lake Okeechobee still lay in tangled folds on the bed. While he kept the weapon pointed to the floor, Holt checked his closet then shrugged. Nothing amiss in there.

He ran a hand over his face.
I'm edgy from driving, and Armor's suffering from the same malady.

He turned ready to resume driving when a loud yawn emanated from the bunk.
Hell’s bells!
A long and skinny, jean-clad leg appeared. The teenager’s sneakered-foot swung from side to side, searching for the top step.

Taking a spread-eagle stance, Holt raised the gun. "Freeze!"

The kid hesitated then stretched back into the bunk as if to retrieve something, a weapon perhaps. Deciding the element of surprise was to his advantage, Holt grabbed the kid’s waistband and yanked…hard.

The punk released a high-pitched shriek and tumbled to the floor.
Pansy!
Holt grabbed a handful of the guy’s shirt, hauled him up from behind, and gripped him around the middle. He shoved the pistol’s business end into a mass of thick, auburn hair.

Between a profusion of vulgarities, the kid heaved for air, and that’s when Holt became aware of feminine softness. A female hijacker?

"You effin’
bod
! Let go!”

Bewildered, he released her, but that was a gross, tactical error. With swift reflexes, she spun and blind-sided his upper cheek with a rigid, irregular object before it thudded to the floor and rolled.

“Nobody touches me. Do you understand?" Her voice trembled with fiery indignation. "Nobody."

As the area below his eye began to swell, Holt stared dumbfounded. The woman in the Ford SUV at
Casa de Fuego
. She was tall and lean as the pine trees that dotted Okaloosa County. Miniscule freckles covered her face, and her eyes glittered like green glass shards in the sun.

"Lay one finger on me again and I'll kick your friggin’..."

"Touch you? Hell." His face throbbed and his eardrums reverberated from Armor's barking. "Silence!" Armor stopped, lowered his head, and cowered under the booth. Holt reset the Glock’s safety and glared. “Thief."

She flushed a culpable pink. “I can explain." Her gaze dropped to his hands. "But first, put your weapon away."

"Answer some questions."

"Mister, I'm terrified of guns.”

"Lucky for you, the safety is on."

"You don’t understand. My son's very curious."

Holt's gaze lowered to small breasts, a flat stomach, and hips that flared slightly. She was young, no more than twenty-two. “Let me amend my earlier comment,” he said. “You’re not only a thief with plans to steal my vehicle, but you’re a liar as well. There’s no kid.”

Her lips compressed. She turned and pulled aside the bunk’s curtains. “See for yourself.” Holt eyed a small, pale-skinned boy sleeping on his back. A dingy, stuffed animal lay in an open palm. “Mister, it’s imperative that I get to my sister's house in Commerce, Georgia.”

“Try flying."

Her eyes widened. “That’s an idea, but I’ll need to avoid commercial flights.”

Briefly, she turned to watch the whizzing traffic, giving Holt a chance to study an angular, tension-filled profile. A small bump on the delicate bridge of a long, pointed nose made him suspect it had once been broken.

"The problem is…” she said with a thick as molasses drawl, “he's powerful and has access to my personal information.”

"Who is he?" Holt demanded but knew she had been thinking aloud.

Nevertheless, her expression turned expectant. "Mister, I hate, loathe, and despise guns. Put it away." She released an impatient breath. "Please."

The skin under his eyes twitched. "Get this. I hate, loathe, and won't tolerate a woman whose grave misfortune was to step into my lair. Why are you here?"

She lifted her chin. "I'll explain when there are no threats of violence."

Along with the southern accent, she sounded upscale, refined. He relented and placed the Glock in a high cabinet. She was unarmed. He knew that from their little tussle, so if the need arose, he could easily subdue her.

"Thank you.” She exhaled. “As I’ve said, I must get to my sister's house in Commerce, Georgia."

He shook his head, refusing to play into her hand. "I'll be in Richmond tonight."

“Richmond? Oh, no. We’re not heading north, are we?"

He released a snort. "
We
are not, but
I
am." His fingers explored the swelling under his eye, and he winced. “Damn! What did you hit me with?"

She pointed to a bleached, conch shell on the floor. "It’s my son’s. He’s fascinated with the ocean, and I’ve promised him a visit." She ripped some paper towels from the dispenser, soaked them at the faucet then handed the wet wad to him. "You're bleeding." As he set the compress to the tender swelling, she said, "I can't be seen walking along the roads. Besides…uh, John, that’s my son, is recovering from a severe strep infection that has caused some stomach issues. He’s had a tough go. Will you take us to Raleigh-Durham Airport?”

He stared confused. This weapon-slinging, hellcat thought on a different hyper-cognitive plane. "Didn't you say Georgia?"

"Yes, but maybe I can charter a private flight from Raleigh-Durham to a town close to Commerce."

He ran a hand over his mouth and openly studied her. "Do you have a name?"

She hesitated for a second too long. "It's O'Keeffe. Georgia O’Keeffe."

"I'll give you this much, Ms. Thief O’Keeffe. You're a creative liar."

"O’Keeffe is a fine Irish name. Now, about taking us to RDU.”

She was brimming with some crazy, desperate notions. “No.” He shook his head. “I’m not doing it.” Raleigh was out of his way. He was Richmond bound, and he needed to beat the National Guard’s mandated curfew.

“I’ll pay you for your time.” Her gaze skimmed his faded and torn clothing. “This old camper must be a gas guzzler. Couldn’t you use the money?”

“Well, well.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you’re traveling with cold, hard cash, Ms. O’Keeffe?” She blanched at his words. She had some sense after all.

“I could write you a check,” she offered.

“I’m not interested in your money.” As far as he could tell, this woman was a bad omen which was an excellent reason to get rid of her. He changed positions, feeling torn. His father needed him, yet this pointy-nosed female had a kid, possibly her son. He couldn't just abandon them on the highway.

He prodded the throbbing wound on his face and anger swept over him. "My eye is swelling shut. And, all thanks to you."

"I'm sorry, but you frightened me." Her brows rose hopefully. "Will you take us?"

He gestured to the dark bruises on her forearms. "What happened to..."

The bunk’s curtains parted, and Holt faced her sleepy kid. If he was her son, then he had inherited his mother's freckles and reddish-brown hair. The child's innocence jarred Holt's memory to a time when he had started a new life on his grandparents’ ranch. He’d been as young and as frightened as this kid.

Ms. O'Keeffe went to the bunk. "Hi, honey." She helped him down then hoisted the child into her arms and peered over the boy’s thin shoulder at Holt. "A man at
Casa de Fuego
was looking for us, so we hid in here after smoke appeared from under the hood.”

“I told you to kill the engine.”

“I couldn’t take the chance. That's the second car I've abandoned in four days. The first one was my old Mustang. I had to leave it in Greensboro.”

“Then naturally, you stole the Escape.”

She lifted her chin. “Mister, I am not a thief. It was a rental.” She became distracted with a new thought as she raked her fingers through her hair. “Dammit! I can't shake Alan or his goons."

He stared unable to comprehend her thinking. This woman switched channels faster than he could thumb his flat screen’s remote. "Alan? Who is he?"

“Mom?”

Smiling brightly, she kissed her son's cheek and smoothed the hairs from his forehead. "By the way, this is Shawn."

Holt experienced indignant incredulity, and his suspicions rose. "Lady, I have excellent hearing. Earlier, you said his name was John."

"Did I?" Wide-eyed, she captured his reluctant attention. Her cheekbones were high and her accent was strong as his best bottle of Michael Collins. "Now, could we discuss Raleigh-Durham?"

This green-eyed witch was relentless, but despite his better judgment Holt said, "Fine. I'll take you."

"Thanks, Mister..."

"Holt LeBerger.” Realizing he was losing valuable time, he sliced her with a dark glance. ”And, for the record, that's my real name."

Shawn squirmed, and she set him down. He clung to her legs as Armor, his tail wagging, investigated the boy's shoes. "Mom."

“He's afraid of the dog,” she said.

Holt pointed. "Armor, go." The dog sighed, but turned and slunk to find a comfortable spot in the bedroom.

Ms. O’Keefee bit her lower lip with even white teeth. "At
Casa de Fuego
you were using a cell phone. Mine is dead, and I need to call my sister.”

Barely able to keep up with her bullet train of ideas, comments, and requests, Holt slipped his thumb and forefinger into his back pocket and retrieved the phone.

“Make it short,” he ordered. “I forgot the charger.”

She hastily thumbed a number. After a moment her brow puckered. “No answer. Grace is busy with my nephews and often forgets her phone. If she’s not home, I’ll leave a message on her land line.” After a few seconds she spoke. “Grace, I’ll charter a flight from Raleigh-Durham this afternoon then call when I arrive.” She handed Holt his phone. “Thanks. Now, where do you want Shawn to sit?"

Holt pointed to the table, wondering if he had just experienced a human cyclone in the form of this female.

****

Caprice half-climbed into the bunk to rummage in the duffle for Shawn’s crayons. Digging deeper, she shoved aside the sign language book. When her knuckles scraped Alan's leather planner, her stomach clutched.

Like a neon sign on a Vegas strip, last spring’s news images flashed before her of a Piper Seneca’s mangled fuselage resting on a West Virginia mountainside. Now Vincent Murphy's two children were fatherless.

The innocent scent of wax did little to soothe her anger toward Alan as she snatched yellow, orange, and red crayons. By now, the plane's mechanic was probably in France enjoying his blood money, but did anyone on the state or federal level realize that Alan Montero had financed a murder? Along with her immediate transportation concerns, a hard resolve filled Caprice. It was up to her to expose Alan before he could arrange another murder, possibly hers.

Caprice stepped down from the bunk and handed the crayons and a coloring book to Shawn. Holt gestured to the passenger's seat next to his, but he was too big, too physically powerful. Just as unsettling, was the fact that she couldn’t see his face behind the beard. He was shadowed and unreadable.