In Harm's Way (8 page)

“Ms. Higgens, I'm sorry for the deception. I'm with the police and this lady is in grave danger. We need your help.”

She looked at Robin doubtfully, then back at him. “Could I see some identification, please?”

Mitch almost rolled his eyes, but caught himself in time and smiled as charmingly as he could while still looking worried. “I'm undercover and not allowed to carry ID, ma'am. Look, all we need is the back way out of here and your silence if anyone comes asking about us. Can you help me with that?”

She shrugged and sighed as she got up and headed for the door. “This way.” Prancing ahead of them on her too-high heels, she ignored the curious look of the receptionist and led them through a storeroom to the alley exit.

While Mitch opened the door a crack to check whether their pursuers were out there, Ms. Higgens tucked her busi
ness card in his jacket pocket. “In case you ever really need a house…or anything,” she said provocatively. The gesture did not seem business oriented.

Mitch grinned and winked at her, his peripheral vision catching Robin's expression of outrage, quickly suppressed. Jealous? he wondered. Or flabbergasted at the woman's nerve? He didn't dwell on it more than a second before checking the alley again, then taking Robin's reluctant hand and pulling her toward yet another back door.

 

Robin resisted the urge to huddle down out of sight in the taxi as they zipped through downtown Nashville. The back of her neck tingled as if someone had it in the sights of a gun. Her stomach contracted painfully and she felt sick. This must be what a panic attack felt like. Though she'd never had one, this seemed a logical place to start.

“Don't worry,” Mitch told her.

“Right. Why should I worry?” she asked tersely, trying to quell her nerves with anger. She cast a worried look at the cab driver who seemed oblivious to the fact that dangerous people might be following his vehicle.

“We'll be fine.” Still, he spent an inordinate amount of time surreptitiously watching the cars around and behind them. She also noticed that he kept one hand in his pocket, no doubt firmly fixed on that small handgun he carried.

The thing looked hardly large enough to do any damage even if he shot someone more than once. She was admittedly curious about it, never having fired a pistol. The only one she'd ever touched was the one that had killed James.

She nudged Mitch's pocket with the back of her hand. “I thought police officers carried something a bit larger.”

“We usually do,” he admitted, still keeping a vigilant watch on the neighboring cars and trying not to be obvious about it.

“So, where is it now?”

“Boss has it,” he murmured. “Don't worry about it. I can take the eye out of a gnat at twenty yards with this little peashooter.”

“I'm not worried. I merely wondered.”

“You can drop the act, Robin. It's okay to be scared.”

Yes, now was the time, she admitted, but she had encountered situations before that had been almost as frightening. Situations when she didn't dare show any evidence of fright. She remained silent now, furious with herself that she had somehow betrayed her fear, her weakness.

“Don't get me wrong,” he explained, “I'm glad you aren't hysterical or anything, but a healthy dose of fear can keep you alive in a dicey situation. Trick yourself into thinking you're invincible, and you're toast. Remember that and don't let that pretense of yours lull you into thinking you've got things whipped. Know what I mean?”

No, she had no idea what he meant. There had been times when the pretense had saved her. Some men really got off on a woman's fear and she wasn't about to give one that satisfaction if she could possibly help it. She had slipped a little with Mitch. Just enough so that he had found her out. Now she would have to convince him that any terror she had allowed him to see had been thoroughly conquered.

The taxi finally exited the freeway and entered a residential neighborhood. Mitch had relaxed somewhat and seemed satisfied they were not being followed. He began giving the driver instructions.

They eventually pulled into the driveway of a modern split-level that looked as if it belonged on the California coast. Instead it was nestled in a very upscale suburb where each dwelling occupied at least an acre of perfect landscaping.

“Your partner lives here?” she asked, amazed that a detective, especially such a young one, owned such a place.

“Kick said one of his relatives had money and left him pretty well-off recently.”

“So why is he still doing what he does?” she asked.

“Dedicated, I guess,” Mitch said. Kick had gone from poor to rich practically overnight and did flaunt it a little. Still, he remained serious about the job. Sometimes
too
serious.

The man was hard to get to know. Instead of the close relationship that usually existed between partners on the force, Mitch and Kick had a sort of surface friendship. They joked around with each other the way all the guys did, but there was still a reserve there Mitch couldn't seem to break down. They'd probably never be tight the way partners ought to be. Sometimes it worked out that way, but it would be a first for Mitch.

He'd keep working on Kick, trying to loosen him up a little, find some common ground. This offering his home to Mitch when a safe place was needed seemed a sign that the kid was coming around after all.

R
obin started to open her door, but felt Mitch grab her arm.

“You know what?” he asked. “I think this is a really bad idea, us staying here.”

“Why? You think whoever is after me might be watching Detective Taylor's house?”

He paused, looked out the window at the surrounding grounds. His eyes were narrowed, assessing the place as if he'd never seen it before. “I don't know why. Can't put my finger on it, but I just don't think this is a wise move.” Without any further explanation, he raised his voice to the driver. “Let's go.”

“Where to?” the cabbie asked as he turned around to drive out.

“Just drive. Out of town. Take I-65 South.”

Robin watched out her window as Nashville flew by. Com
pared to New York, the buildings sat low on the landscape, sprawled lazily as if the city had all the room in the world to grow. Maybe it did. She had never seen the outskirts or whether anything confined it in any way. “Do you know where we're going?” she asked in a near whisper.

“I'm thinking.”

She left him alone and let him do that while she tried to figure out why he hadn't taken his partner up on the invitation to stay at his house.

When they had cleared the city Mitch got his phone out again and dialed. “Calling the boss,” he explained to her, then turned his attention to the phone. “Captain Hunford, please.” A short pause followed. “Hey, Cap, this is Winton. Thought I'd better check in with you. Ms. Andrews is still with me… Yes, sir, I remember what you said. Look, when you see Kick, tell him I said thanks but I made my own arrangements. We're going out of town.”

He listened to the reply, making a face at Robin, probably indicating his boss was not pleased with this turn of events. “Yeah, we'll be back by then.” He clicked the off button and stuck the phone in his pocket.

“You didn't explain about the attack in the diner,” she accused. “Why not? And why didn't you tell him about the man who stole my purse and tried to get at me?”

“Because he would say it was a random robbery at Dylan's. That's a rough neighborhood, anyway. Stuff like that happens all the time. Same with the purse snatcher. Could have been a crime of opportunity. The guy saw you enter the rest room with a purse on your shoulder. Not many people around. He went for it.”

“Bull.”

“Right. But you sort of had to be there to determine that, y'know? On the surface both incidents look pretty common
place. Unrelated to what happened to your husband. You and I realize that's not the case, but Hunford might not see it that way. Neither would Kick.”

“You don't trust either of them, do you?”

He sighed and stared out the window. “I need to think about it. We're dealing with something big here, Robin. Probably even bigger than murder. And to tell you the truth, I don't know who we should trust. Nobody but Hunford knew where I was taking you when we left the precinct. And only Kick knew we were headed for the coffee shop today. I know I shook our shadow before we got there.”

The driver kept looking in the rearview mirror as if waiting for further instructions.

Eventually Mitch told him to take an upcoming exit where they ended their ride at a convenience store and gas station. Mitch paid the fare, then headed for the pay phone.

A few minutes later he rejoined her. “We'll need some toiletries and a couple of those T-shirts over there,” he told her. “Why don't you pick out some while I get the other stuff?” He grinned. “Looks like it's your day to shop.”

Robin did as she was told, wondering all the while where this was leading. Even if she asked him where they were going and he told her, it wouldn't mean a thing. She had no clue where they were now and wasn't acquainted with anything in this area.

He answered her unspoken question after he had paid for the items and they exited the store. “We're going fishing,” he explained. “You ever fish?”

Robin slowly shook her head.

“Nathan will be here in a few minutes. He's taking us to the river. There's this fishing camp.”

“The river,” she repeated, trying not to scoff, entertaining some not so pleasant visions of camping in a zip-up tent on
a muddy bank and slapping at mosquitoes. “What about the disk? Shouldn't we give it to someone?”

“I've got a friend, Damien Perry. He used to be with the FBI and still has contacts. When we get back, I'll give him a call. He speaks several languages. One of them might be Russian. At least he can tell me who we should go to with what we have.”

“Who is this Nathan who's coming to get us?”

“Another friend. Lives a couple of miles from here,” he said, his gaze on the road opposite the way they had come. “I arrested him once. He owes me a favor. That looks like his pickup now,” Mitch said, pointing at a rust-colored vehicle in the distance.

“Oh, joy,” Robin muttered darkly. In what way would a criminal repay having been arrested? However the man intended to reward Mitch, he seemed in a devilish hurry to do so. And drivers of these trucks traveled armed to the teeth, didn't they?

The dilapidated vehicle roared up to the station and parked beside a pump. The man climbing out was every yankee's nightmare, Robin thought. “My God, he's right out of
Deliverance.
”

Mitch laughed out loud and took her by the arm, guiding her toward the three-hundred-pound gorilla. Sure enough, there was a three-tiered gun rack in the truck, though there was only one weapon visible. One seemed enough to Robin.

“Hey, Nate! What's happenin'?” Mitch greeted the man, slapping him on the shoulder, shaking his hand as if they were long-lost brothers. “Did I wake you up?”

The giant grinned, showing a missing eyetooth and others that looked in grave peril. “Naw, I was just cuttin' me a bear.”

Mitch inclined his head to her and said in a mock whisper. “Nate's a sculptor. Uses a chain saw.”

“Oh…well, that's…great.” Robin wondered if there was a way back up the rabbit hole she had fallen into. “Hello, Nathan.”

She tried not to stare at his hair. It was curly, long and caught up with a rubber band on top to keep it out of his eyes. It was mostly gray, though he couldn't have been much past thirty. His skin was pockmarked as if he'd suffered a terrible case of acne. Someone had broken his nose, flattened it, really. He wore a plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging loose over a once black, now gray, T-shirt with a horizontally stretched motorcycle logo on the front. Robin figured you could probably read a newspaper through the fabric it was so thin. His well-worn, dirt-smudged jeans rode low beneath his tremendous belly. She could imagine cleavage showing in the rear. The indentation of his navel, at the bottom edge of his shirt flirted with the open air. Scuffed, round-toed boots completed his outfit. He might have modeled for
Bubba Monthly.

“Pleased to meet ya, ma'am,” Nathan said, his voice surprisingly gentle and well mannered. He raked her with what appeared to be an appreciative look, though it didn't seem lecherous. His eyes were kind. “She a cop?” he asked Mitch.

“Nope, she's a friend.” Mitch reached in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and handed Nathan a twenty. “For gas,” he said.

Nate pocketed the money with a nod and proceeded to disconnect the gas pump nozzle from his tank. “The cabins is all vacant so you can have whichever one you want.”

Mitch smiled at Robin. “How about that? We're in luck.”

“Right. Lucky us.”

While Nathan went inside to pay for the gas, Mitch walked her around to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door. Robin knew she had little choice but to get in and spend the duration of the trip sandwiched between Mitch and the chain saw sculptor.

“Hold that for me?” Nathan asked with a wide smile when he returned and opened the truck's door on the driver's side. Without waiting for her answer, he gingerly placed a cold six-pack of beer in her lap.

Robin politely declined when Nathan offered her a stick of chewing gum. He unwrapped several and folded them into his mouth, squeezed his frame behind the steering wheel and twisted the key with fingers that looked like dirty bratwursts. Nathan smelled of wood shavings and fish. At least there was no foul body odor.

“You like squirrels?” he drawled, popping the gum.

“Me?” she asked, looking up at him, and she did have to look up. He was very tall, even taller than Mitch.

“Yes, ma'am.” His attention remained mostly on the road as he drove, but Robin was very aware of his interest in her.

“I don't really know,” she replied to the squirrel question.

“I got one I'll give you,” he said. “You'll like it.”

Robin darted a look at Mitch, who wore a benign smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary had been said.

After jouncing around on rutted pathways through what seemed a jungle, they finally arrived at a grouping of modest little cabins built of cinder blocks, all painted chocolate brown. The shutters and woodwork were bottle green.

“We'll take the one at the far end,” Mitch told Nathan. “Probably be here about two or three days. I'll send you a check for it when I get home. That okay?”

“Sure. Y'all need anything, just come on up to the house and get it. If I ain't there, I'll be down at Peggy's. Just go on in.” He took the beer from Robin. “I'll bring that squirrel by in the morning. Got a little work to do on'er yet.”

Robin nodded, wondering what one did to a squirrel to get her up to par. She dearly hoped he was talking about one of his sculptures and not the real thing.

 

The thick woods they had traveled through backed the row of six tiny structures and one large one that sat well away from the rest. Nathan's house, Robin guessed. He proved her right by heading off toward it with a backward wave of one hand, the other clutching his six-pack. Beside his front door a huge figure of an Indian stood guard. It had been hacked out of a log. Chain saw art had a certain rustic charm.

“What did you arrest him for?” she asked Mitch.

“Trumped-up charge of drunk and disorderly. He was planning to fight Peggy's old boyfriend who was due home that evening from a stint in the army. See, Nate used to be a boxer. If he had killed Tommy, it would have been murder.” Mitch made a fist. “Lethal weapons.”

“Did he resist arrest?”

Mitch laughed. “No. We got him drunk first. He went like a lamb. By the time he'd sobered up and we cut him loose, Tommy had said his hello to Peggy and left for…Montana, I think it was.”

Robin didn't blame Tommy at all. Montana sounded good.

Mitch pushed open the door to the last cabin and entered first. “Looks okay. Come on in.”

The place surprised her with its cleanliness. Plaid café curtains covered the windows, and there were matching spreads on the two sets of bunk beds.

“Indoor plumbing,” Robin muttered as she checked out the interior of the boxy little unit Mitch had chosen.

One large room served as the living and dining area and contained a tiny kitchen set into one corner. Built into another corner of the square floor plan was a small bathroom and closet. She explored, opening the doors and checking out the cabinets.

Linens, paper products and cookware were furnished, but there was no food. “What do we eat?”

Mitch stowed the items he had bought at the gas station shoppette. “We have soup and crackers,” he said holding up a can. “Beans,” he added, “and cookies.”

Robin rolled her eyes, stifling a cutting remark about his unhealthy choices. Secretly, however, she sort of anticipated eating what he had bought and was glad he'd left her no alternative. Especially for those cookies.

“Nate will have potatoes, meal, oil, soft drinks and whatever else we need. He keeps a sort of store with things people need to cook fish. Also has bait.”

“Worms,” Robin said, making a face.

“Want to go catch dinner?” he asked, thumping the cabinet door closed. “I'll borrow some rods. We can fish off the jetty.”

“What's a jetty?” she asked, truly curious. “It's not a boat is it? Tell me it's not a boat. I do not like open water.”

“Come on, city slicker, I'll show you,” he said, holding out his hand. Reluctantly she took it and followed him back outside.

“All this fresh air,” she said, taking a deep breath and then another. It smelled damp and vaguely like mildew, Robin decided, rethinking her need to indulge herself in it.

He walked her across grass splotched liberally with weeds and onto a long, weathered dock that stretched over the water and rested on stilts. Waves lapped at the pilings just below the surface of the boards.

The fishing camp was located on a section of bank that curved in, a sort of bay, that began with the dock, or jetty, and formed a semicircle that reached well beyond the far end of the camp where Nathan's house stood. She could just imagine Nathan and his screaming saw hewing out the trees and creating a clearing for this place.

“River's high,” Mitch commented, looking out across the
expanse of water. The opposite side was not visible but hidden by thickly treed islands that blocked the view.

“This so isn't me,” Robin mumbled to herself.

“I know, hon, but it'll do for a couple of days, won't it? It was this or involve family, which I didn't want to do.”

“No, no, of course not. I completely understand. It's fine.”

He went on. “Damien and Molly have little kids. I didn't want to go there, maybe put them at risk. If we'd gone to a motel, I'd have had to use a credit card. Easy to trace us, then. I was afraid somebody might be picking up transmissions from Kick's cell phone and would know we were at his house. I can't decide how else anyone would have known where to find us to get your purse.”

Robin nodded. “Makes sense.”