Hide and Seek (20 page)

“Let go!” Twisting free, she tumbled into the water, losing her only sandal. The earthy smell of aquatic vegetation reached her nostrils as eel-shaped, algae-covered leaves slithered across her exposed arms, legs, and neck. It took all her control not to lose her focus as cool silt oozed between her toes.

His features etched with pain, Holt slogged toward her, tearing cattails from their saturated roots. A brown snake wove close to her hip, disturbing neon green duckweed, and this time she shrieked.

"I've got you, sweetheart," he breathed, pulling her into his arms. "I've got you. Come on."

“You’re hurt.”

“My leg. I’m okay.”

In the cascading rain, they trudged to the soggy bank. She stared at his battered truck and bile rose to her throat. “Oh, my God! Shawn!”

“Hold on. He’s safe with Billy Jo.”

Thunder clapped as Alan crawled onto the Cadillac’s hood. His soaked suit coat twisted around his middle, encumbering his movements.

Holt stiffened and raw fury entered in his eyes. "Holt, don’t. He's not worth..."

He started toward Alan. "Montero, I’m gonna kill you!”

From his perch, Alan sprang for the bank, but his smooth-soled oxfords slipped on the red clay, and he splashed into the bog. When Holt reached him, Alan rammed his shoulder into Holt's side. Holt staggered and his features were pain-wrenched.

Alan started out of the ditch, but Holt caught the jacket. Enraged, Alan spun and struck Holt's jaw. Caprice screamed, fully aware of the cruel force behind Alan's big fist.

Holt recovered and buried his fist into Alan’s stomach. He doubled-over, but Holt caught his shirt. His bunched fist shot up into Alan’s chin. "That's for Caprice and Shawn, you ugly sonafabitch!"

Alan crumpled, sagging on the bank. Holt straddled him, his hands at Alan’s neck. The wail of approaching sirens sent Caprice back into water. She sloshed toward them twisting her way through the tangled vegetation.

"Holt! That's enough!" She gripped his bunched shoulder and hollered over the downpour. "Stop! Let the authorities handle him."

To Caprice an eternity passed before Holt released a disgusted snarl and shoved Alan away. With blood dripping from his mouth and nose, Alan fell into a bed of cattails.

Three patrol units and two emergency fire-trucks arrived. Soon, deputies in yellow rain slickers questioned her and Holt over constant radio static. Caprice refused medical attention, and Holt barely tolerated a paramedic’s care of his bullet-grazed thigh. Meanwhile, a burly lawman escorted a hand-cuffed and bleeding Alan to a waiting paramedic.

“LeBerger, I want a word with you and the lady.” Holt visibly stiffened as a lean, grim-faced man in a black sheriff’s uniform approached.

Holt gestured. “Sheriff Radashack…Caprice O’Brien.”

The man smiled. “Ma’am.” He looked at the car then back at her. “It appears you had a harrowing ride.”

She nodded, slipping her arm around Holt’s solid middle. “As you can imagine, I’m grateful to be alive.”

Radashack turned to Holt. "I see you busted up our politician’s pretty face." Before Holt could respond, the older man waved his hand, a dismissive gesture. “Under the circumstances, I might have done the same. Besides, that’s not what I want to discuss. After thirty years with the department, I’m retiring and plan to take up ranching. I like the look of your stock and would appreciate a tour of your operation."

Holt relaxed, and the two men talked a moment longer before Radashack left to respond to a deputy’s question. The rain stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. Caprice looked down and considered her appearance. Like her clothes, Holt's jeans were wet and mud covered. His harsh, slashing features made him look unapproachable, but she knew better.

She took his hand. "Holt, I'm grateful you know the old railroad beds, or I’d be in Georgia by now.” She shuddered. “Or, worse.”

Using his two fingers, Holt tilted her chin to study her cuts and bruises. He sucked his breath. “Damn, Montero to hell!”

“I’ll live.”

“Hey, don’t try to sound like me.” His smile faded. “I was resetting fence posts and checking stock. Why didn’t you call me?”

"There wasn't time. Alan had Shawn."

"Caprice, I want to take you home and wrap you in rolls of cotton."

A deputy approached and lowered the speaker on his shoulder. "Mr. LeBerger, the wrecker’s here. The driver will need instructions about your truck.”

"Sure." Holt kissed her uninjured cheek. "I'll be right back."

He pivoted, grimacing at the suddenness of his movements, and she knew that despite the paramedic’s attempt to bandage his leg, Holt’s injury was painful.

“Miss O’Brien.” A female officer pointed to Caprice’s leg.

"Ugh!" With lightning reflexes, Caprice plucked a leech from her thigh and flung it into the water.

A sheriff’s deputy escorted Alan toward a white sedan marked Okaloosa County Sheriff’s Department. His usually handsome features were distorted and scratched. His hands were cinched behind him, and he looked haggard, painfully aware his promising future had come to a dead end.

"Deputy, wait. I have something to tell him."

The pain and confusion she had seen in Shawn’s eyes gave her the courage to meet Alan’s defiant gaze. "For the sake of Vincent's wife and children and all those who loved him,” she said, surprised by her steady tone. “I won't rest until you're found guilty of murder and receive a life term."

The officer gave her a thumbs-up, then set his hand on Alan’s head, ushering him into the unit.

Holt returned to slip his arm across her shoulders. A man wearing tan Dockers and a plaid shirt stepped from a black Tahoe. He scanned the officers and the different vehicles then started for Caprice.

“Know him?” Holt asked.

She sensed something familiar about him. “I’m not sure.”

Their gazes met and his brows rose. “Ms. O’Brien? I’m Steve Lyons, FBI.” He reached into his back pocket, and flipped his billfold open.

Caprice stared at a gold, eagle-topped badge with photo identification. “Ahh, Agent Lyons.” She gestured to Holt and made introductions. Now her sister’s description of the man who had been watching her house made sense. "Sorry, I couldn’t make our appointment in Commerce,” she said, “but now the planner is with a State of Florida representative."

“Daniel Adder.” When her brows rose, Lyons’ grin broadened. "Dan and I go way back with The Bureau." Sheriff Radashack joined them, and Agent Lyons added, "We picked up Johnson twenty minutes ago, and most of Montero's associates."

"That's an immense relief,” she said. “Vincent's family and all of West Virginia will finally know the truth."

Lyons addressed Sheriff Radashack. "May I borrow your facility?"

"We're always happy to accommodate a federal officer, and our dispatcher is famous for his coffee too."

The agent’s gaze rested on her. “I'll need some information from you and Mr. LeBerger for my reports.”

Caprice shook her head. “I'm not answering any questions until I can hug my son."

****

Three evenings later, Holt saddled two horses, while Caprice relished their new freedoms. They had taken Shawn to the beach the previous day, but his greatest joy was Holt’s horses, or sitting on a tractor. Caprice smiled and shook her head. Who would have known her son, raised in suburban Charleston, would be his happiest on an isolated cattle ranch?

Holt rode Shadow with Shawn sitting in front. Caprice halted Jezabel whose preferred gait was a smooth, sitting-trot. Mingled with the honeysuckle, a warm breeze tossed a nosegay of scents in their direction. Not far away the broad canopies of live oaks, their undersides trimmed by bovine incisors, cast evening shadows.

Her heart squeezed. How tempted she was to capture the detail, textures, and colors on canvas! Caprice applied pressure to the horse's sides. The animal moved under her with confident, powerful strides. She wanted to do the same, step forward and release her guilt over Sandra and her mother.

Yards ahead, Holt halted Shadow. Shawn lifted strands of the gelding’s black mane then pointed to a doe foraging near the pasture’s wooded edge. Caprice would miss everything about Holt. Never would she forget his mouth on hers, or the exquisite memory of his hands gliding over her body, but she had failed to pick the locks to his heart, and tomorrow they would return to Charleston.

****

In the days that followed, Holt resumed chewing the cud of his responsibilities. One afternoon, he removed his gloves and set a hand on a new fence post as a sense of isolation filled him. Except for the detailed oil of his rolling pastures and grazing Limousin cattle that Caprice had mailed him two weeks ago, he was closed off from the world, especially from a woman and a boy.

At the same time, he was proud of Caprice for releasing her guilt to put her soul into depicting the land he loved. He wanted freedom from his past shadows too, but like the barbed wire he strung and tightened from post to post, fear had him resisting.

On a gusty day in October, Holt haltered a young bull with a glint in his eyes. After tying the lead rope to a metal pole set in concrete, Holt gripped Angel’s hefty back leg and set it on his thigh. With a squeeze bottle of seven-percent iodine in his hand, he bent over to treat the bull’s hock for barbed wire scrapes, and an infected puncture wound.

Uncomfortable on three legs, the heavily-muscled bovine retracted his leg at the hock joint, but Holt maintained his grip. “Damn your hide! Hold on,” he barked, the fine threads of his temper fraying in the relentless heat.

Displeased, the animal strained backwards. The halter broke. When Angel snapped free of his restraints, Holt released him. Angel regained his footing and struck out once with his good leg. The bull emitted an agitated snort, lowered his head, and his hind-quarters bunched.

Holt had read that same rear-side body language for years with ornery horses. He started to bolt, but Angel’s cloven hooves jack-hammered his buttocks, and he was propelled ten feet onto a grassy patch of real estate.

After several seconds, Holt caught his breath. Fiery pain stabbed his bad shoulder. He rolled onto his back, and stared at a cloudless sky. It had finally happened. He had been thoroughly double-barreled.

“Sonafabitch!” As surely as he heard Angel lope away, Holt knew his backside would turn the color of a rich eggplant. Armor approached from the protection of a maple tree’s cooling shade. Holt gripped his throbbing shoulder and tried to sit up, but pain knifed his buttocks.

What you need is a swift kick in the ass.

His father’s prophetic words taunted. Holt swore, fell back and Armor’s wet tongue flicked his ear. “It wasn’t your fault, pal. It was mine. It’s been mine all along.” Holt studied trusting eyes of chocolate. He realized his dog expected unconditional love and received it. “Armor, I’ve been a frickin’
gobshite
to a beautiful, trusting woman.”

His backside throbbed as he threw his arm over his eyes. Perhaps it was possible to learn a new trick from an old dog and…a misnamed bull.

****

Two days later, Holt left the Freelander idling in the driveway. He approached his father at a defined limp. Jack LeBerger, for the umpteenth time since his early morning arrival, smoothed the plane’s fuselage with a polishing rag.

“Dad, I’m leaving now.”

“Yep.” Jack pulled on a yellow, nylon rope he had slipped through metal loops on the underside of the Cessna's wings and secured to metal rings set in concrete. “But did I mention I’m not doctoring any ass-kicking bulls?”

“Several times.” He started to turn away, but a new thought occurred. “And, don’t over-feed my horses.”

“Sure. Sure.” His father gestured to the twin engine. "She checks out, son. Leave the motorhome, and get a bird’s eye view."

"Another time. And speaking of checking out…be sure to stop by Billy Jo’s.” Holt colored his next comment with an untruth. “She says you never paid an old grocery bill.”

“What!” His father’s lips compressed. “I should have buzzed her house at dawn.”

Holt kept his expression deadpan then followed Armor to the motorhome, and soon they were out of the drive and turning north.

On a curving, black ribbon of asphalt just two miles away, a dozen vehicles, in various stages of depreciation, were parked on the grassy shoulder. Holt recognized the anvil bolted to the bumper of Puddin' Morrison's horse-shoeing, utility truck. Doc Goff's red pickup held veterinary supplies. Jason’s Plumbing and Supply had an aluminum ladder mounted on the van’s side, but the semi with
We Move America
painted across its glossy, brown doors wasn’t from the area.

Impatient to make some time, he drummed the wheel with blunt fingertips. Had the veterinarian been called to euthanize a loose cow, or a horse struck by a car? Holt braked alongside several men clustered around the raised, blue hood of a dated Mustang. He leaned out the window. "Hey, Doc! What's going on?"

Doc Goff reached up to reset a floppy-brimmed cap covered in fishing lures. "Apparently her radiator boiled over.”

Her?
The group parted, and Holt’s disbelief made his brows collide, but before he had time to comprehend the alluring vision, Doc blocked his view. “LeBerger, I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”

Holt leaned to peer around him. And there stood his spell-caster in a leg-exposing, jean skirt that enslaved men. And it appeared as if every male in Okaloosa County was willing to labor, sweat, and toil on Caprice’s behalf.
Hell’s bells!
They were gathered around her like ants to spilled honey.

“Oh!” Using her hand, she shielded her eyes. “Hi, Holt.”

Wiry in stature, Puddin’ spit into a clear soda bottle that sloshed with his spent chew. “No need to stop, Holt. I’ve got this.”

Ignoring him, Holt jabbed a finger at Caprice. "Don't move." He pulled over onto the shoulder. Along with the slamming in his chest, his limping gait accommodated his injured left buttock as he crossed the road.

Bobbers and lures swung. "Taking a trip, Holt?”