Into the Fire (23 page)

“I'll check on her,” he said. He was wearing a jeans jacket that had seen better days, and at the last minute he shrugged out of it, tossing it at her. “You look cold,” he said.

Nothing compared to his icy demeanor. She could hear sirens in the background, getting louder and louder, and knew the police were coming, knew and felt nothing but panic.

She pushed herself up off the floor, trying to catch her labored breath. “You have to get out of here,” she said. “The police…”

He seemed unfazed, and she realized he must have heard the sirens before she did. “I'll check on your mother,” he said again.

“And then run. Nobody has to know you were here—I'll come up with something.”

He shook his head in what could have been refusal, could have been disbelief. And then he walked out of her life without another word.

J
amie moved home for Christmas. They'd kept her in the hospital overnight, stitched up her various cuts and slashes, watched her for signs of a concussion, sent her back to Rhode Island with a police escort, including Detective Drummond, who spent the entire time questioning her and giving nothing in return but a thoughtful “hmm.” She didn't tell him a damned thing, pleading shock and an unlikely amnesia, and after a while they stopped trying. She'd hoped she could protect Dillon, but she knew it was too late for that. She wasn't going to tell them anything to make it worse. The source of evil was gone—Dillon deserved to be left alone.

At least he'd gotten far enough away. He wouldn't have gone back to the garage—they'd find him there. No, he'd probably disappeared, created a new life for himself. When she saw him again, if she ever did, he'd be sixty years old and unrecognizable.

 

And who the hell was she kidding? The way he was going he'd be lucky to reach thirty-five.

Her mother stayed behind in the hospital for another two weeks, then returned home with the fanfare reserved for a duchess. She'd lost a lot of blood, but by sheer luck Nate's bullet had missed any vital organs, and when Isobel returned it was as if nothing had happened. Gracious, elegant and ruthlessly proper, she refused to even talk about Nate. And there was no way of ever knowing if she'd made the extreme effort of getting in her car and driving to Connecticut to save Jamie. Or Nate.

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, just one day following the next. Nate was buried quietly in the family plot, and the only people in attendance were Jamie and Detective Drummond, who'd made the forty-five-minute trip from Danvers just for the occasion. And to ask more questions that Jamie refused to answer. Jamie's mother declared herself too frail to leave her bed to even attend the ceremony, but Jamie knew better. Isobel Kincaid just refused to accept the finality of Nate's death.

Days turned into weeks, and the police stopped asking questions. Everything had been tied up quite neatly, thanks to the wonders of DNA testing, and the short, violent life of Nate Kincaid was only a
file in some storage vault. And there was no word from Dillon.

Christmas was shaping up to be a bleak holiday. Her mother insisted on a tree, even though neither of them felt like celebrating, and it was up to Jamie to buy it, decorate it, find a wreath and pretend that everything was normal.

There was something inexplicably lonely about the holidays when your heart was breaking, she thought, wandering through the parking lot and the rows of freshly cut Christmas trees. It was cold, and she pulled the jeans jacket around her. Isobel despised it without even knowing who it had belonged to, but Jamie had stopped listening to her mother somewhere along the way. She even took the jacket to bed with her at night. If Dillon could hold on to her old striped dress then she had every right to cling to the jacket he'd tossed her the last time she saw him.

The smell of the Christmas trees was heavenly, but for some reason it reminded her of Wisconsin. Her mother would never have anything less than a real tree at Christmas, and she decreed tiny white lights and the collection of German glass ornaments and French crystal that had been handed down through generations of Kincaids.

Jamie pulled a tree upright, but she wasn't look
ing at it. All she could see was Dillon, watching her.

She blinked, and it was nothing more than a dream. Part of her life that was past. So why was she crying?

She put the tree back against the fencing and walked back to her car. None of the well-proportioned trees would meet her mother's exacting standards—she'd have to drive to the next town over to check.

She was driving the Cadillac—always a mistake when she was feeling vulnerable, but Isobel's stately Mercedes wouldn't hold the size of tree she demanded. The thing ate premium gas like a starving man at a feast, and she pulled into the self-serve on the edge of town and pulled out her credit card.

She was a quarter full when the police car pulled up beside her, and she watched Lieutenant Drummond get out and head over toward her. Her stomach constricted, but she kept a calm expression on her face as the gas tank kept guzzling.

“Nice car,” he said by way of greeting.

“It belongs to a friend of mine.” Wrong thing to say. He gave her a swift, questioning look, and she could have bit her tongue. Lieutenant Drummond had handled the investigation into Nate's death and
her mother's shooting, and he'd always been gentle and circumspect with her. But she didn't trust him.

“Lucky man,” he murmured, and Jamie didn't dare ask him how he knew the car belonged to a man. “You staying around for the holidays?”

“Why? Am I supposed to?”

“No, ma'am. The case is closed, everything's all nice and tight. I was just being sociable.”

“Sorry,” Jamie said. “After the last few weeks I guess I'm a little bit edgy. I'm not planning on going anywhere. Just keep my mother company for Christmas.”

Drummond shook his head. “Your mother's quite the character, isn't she? Scared the heck out of me, and I've faced some of the worst criminals you could imagine.”

“My mother can be very intimidating.”

Drummond grinned, running a hand through his thinning hair. “Well, I was over this way on business and I thought I'd stop and wish you a happy holiday, and find out how you're holding up.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Drummond. We're fine.”

“No, I meant you, personally,” he said. “And I figured I ought to tell you that Gaynor's been cleared of any charges in Wisconsin, as well. They decided your cousin must have pushed your car into
the ravine before he left Wisconsin. I have my doubts, but I figure Gaynor's been through enough.”

She blinked. “Gaynor?”

“Come on, Miss Kincaid. You didn't think we didn't know what was going on, did you? We had Dillon in custody before you were even in the ambulance. He was with your mother, waiting for us. Not that she was particularly appreciative. She was bitching him out, big time.”

“He was there? Where did he go?” she asked faintly. She hadn't felt this disoriented since Nate had cracked her across the face with the butt of a shotgun.

“I'm afraid he spent three weeks as a guest of the state. Given his record, the D.A.'s office thought he might not be so innocent in the matter. But DNA testing cleared everything up—the wonders of modern science. He was released last Thursday, and he's back in Wisconsin.”

“He was in Connecticut all this time? In jail?” She was going to throw up.

“Your mother knew. She said not to bother you with that information—it would only upset you.”

“She was right.”

“Anyway, good to see you. Happy holidays!”

“Merry Christmas,” she replied absently.

There was a Wal-Mart just down the road, part of a new strip development that her mother had decried. Jamie found what she wanted in record time—a pink tinsel tree with flashing lights and a revolving base that played Christmas carols on a tinny computer chip.

Isobel was taking her afternoon nap when Jamie returned home. It took her fifteen minutes to set up the tree, another five minutes to write the note, and ten more minutes to pack. And then she was out of there before her mother even knew she'd lost her.

She threw everything in the back seat of the Cadillac, including the wallet he'd given her when he'd sent her away. She stopped and looked at the leather seats, remembering the first time she'd been there. And the last.

It started snowing when she reached the Wisconsin state line, and she almost laughed. The AM radio was playing Christmas carols, the heater was pumping out enough heat to warm half the state, and by the time Jamie pulled up to Gaynor's Auto Restoration it was almost midnight.

She turned off the car and sat there in the darkness for a moment. Mouser was gone, and she hadn't even had time to mourn him. Everything had changed. She'd been out of her mind to show up
without warning, and she should get her ass out of there before he realized she'd arrived.

There were lights on in the garage, and she could hear Nirvana blaring. She could just walk in the open door, leave the keys and the wallet on the kitchen table and take off on foot. She wasn't about to give up the jacket. Of course, there was the problem of her suitcase. She could always stash that and come back and get it after she rented a car. It couldn't be that far to civilization, even if it seemed as if the garage was at the back end of beyond.

She climbed out of the car, and her sneakers sank into the snow. She grabbed his wallet and walked to the door.

She was right, it was unlocked, as it always was. But she was wrong, the kitchen wasn't empty. Dillon was sitting at the kitchen table. Looking up at her in shock.

She almost backed out again in panic, but it was too late. She stepped inside, into the warmth, and closed the door behind her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Where had she heard those words before? She swallowed. The room seemed different. Different refrigerator, and the table seemed even more battered than before. Only one chair, and it looked as if it were held
together with duct tape. And no cigarette smoke in the air.

“Did you stop smoking?” she blurted out.

“A while ago.” His voice was flat, uncompromising. “I repeat, what are you doing here.”

She walked toward the table, carefully, as if approaching a hungry polar bear at the zoo. He looked about as welcoming. “I brought your wallet back. I don't know how much money you had in it, but if you let me know I'll write you a check—”

“Shut up, Jamie. I don't want your money. You could have sent the wallet. Hell, you could have had it dropped off at the correctional center.”

“I didn't know you were there. I would have come—”

“And brought me a file baked in a cake?” he mocked her. “Just as well you didn't know. I wouldn't have wanted you there.”

Another slap, but she'd become a glutton for punishment. “I also brought the Cadillac. I couldn't very well send that.”

“I figured we were even. I destroyed your car—I owed you one. I should have realized the Cadillac would be the last car you'd want. Give me enough time and I can find a car just about identical to yours, though maybe with fewer miles on it.”

“I don't care about my car.”

“Fine. I don't care about the Cadillac. So where does that leave us?”

“Nowhere, I guess. I just thought we should have some closure. That we should say goodbye or something.”

“Goodbye.” It was immediate, flat and uncompromising, and she had no choice. She turned and headed for the door, almost tripping over a cat that wove its way around her ankles. She stopped to pick it up, and it purred happily, rubbing his face against hers.

“Where did the cat come from?”

“I have three of them. A bequest from Mouser. I figured I needed something to help with the rats since Nate's not around anymore.”

His flat statement was so shocking she almost laughed. Instead she put the cat back on the floor, giving it one last stroke.

She didn't want to leave. Couldn't leave. But he was giving her nothing to hold on to.

“My mother's doing well,” she said suddenly. “The bullet missed her heart.”

“The Duchess doesn't have a heart. And I didn't hear me asking about your mother. I don't give a shit.”

“No,” she said. “Of course you don't. Sorry I bothered you.”

“You always bothered me.” She already had her hand on the doorknob, but something in his voice stopped her. Some last, crazy flash of hope.

“Ask me to stay,” she said, her back to him, her voice so quiet he probably couldn't hear her.

But he did. “Stay.”

She turned around to look at him. “Just like that?” she said.

He pushed away from the table. “Just like that.” And he crossed the room and pulled her into his arms.

He didn't kiss her. He didn't need to. He just held her, against his warmth, his strength, and she felt whole for the first time in weeks.

He slid his hand up under her hair, rubbing the back of her neck. “This will never work,” he murmured against her hair.

“Of course not,” she said, rubbing her face against his chest. “But think how much it would piss off my mother and Nate.”

She heard his laugh, deep in his chest. “Good enough for me,” he said, kissing her, hard.

And it was good enough for her.