Licensed for Trouble (33 page)

She turned to them. “I think Windchill was the one who burned down the house, killed Bekka, dumped Owen's body, and then killed Ratchet today.” She stood, hands up. “What if Windchill was the one who pushed me off the road?”

Had she seen the GT at the jump school? Oh, why couldn't she remember?

“Why didn't he just unhook me in the air?”

Sergei and Connie were staring at her as if they might be watching a teenage horror movie, mouths agape.

“Because if you're gone, how would he find Max?” Connie asked, suddenly finding her lawyer face.

“Connie, you do have sleuthing genes! Good question.” PJ stared at her sister. “So maybe he wasn't the driver—maybe he just wanted to use me to find Ratchet, then track me back to Max.”

“Why would he want that?”

“Oh no. I'll bet he
was
going to unhook me—because I was a liability—until I opened my big mouth and told him about the teddy bear.”

“Why would he care about the teddy bear?”

“Because . . .
Windchill never got the diamonds
! Because the package hadn't arrived yet, only maybe he didn't know it. He tossed the house, and when he didn't find them, he set it on fire—to cover his tracks. I knew it!”

“Diamonds?” Sergei asked.

“Maybe he thought they'd never surface, and he didn't want to raise suspicions . . . until, of course, I told him that yes, the package
did
arrive. . . .
Oh no!
Windchill asked me if Max was going to get his memory back, and I said
maybe
! He's going to finish what he started with Max and then find that teddy bear—”

Davy ran back into the room with the pen and handed it to Connie.
“Ya tebya lublu,”
she said, tousling his hair.

PJ patted Davy's head. “I gotta go, little man.”

“Are you coming back?” Connie asked, a flare of panic in her eyes.

PJ grabbed her keys, tugged on her Chucky T's. “Oh, I certainly hope so.”

Chapter Nineteen

It would really help a PI catch her villain if her cell phone weren't waterlogged at the bottom of Maximilian Bay.

So, well, what was a girl to do? PJ drove to the Kellogg Police Department.

“Detective Buckam's not here,” said the night clerk, a woman PJ didn't know, but who knew her based on the way she looked her over with cool eyes.

Perfect. He was probably out on a date with . . . what's her name. Thankfully, this time the thought didn't plunge like a knife straight into the center of PJ's chest.

Not that she was ready to do wild cartwheels or anything.

PJ stood outside the police department, smelling the crisp, loamy October air, and wondered where Max would go.

What did she know about Max? He was a survivor . . . he'd managed to live through Iraq and a head injury. He was a rescuer . . . he'd taken in Dog. And somewhere deep inside, he was loyal. With everything inside her, PJ knew that Max had gone looking for his child. She'd seen the look on his face when he thought Tyler might be his.

Longing.

So where did a loyal, rescuing, survivor-type go . . . a guy who wanted to make amends?

Was it too much to ask—the mushroom house? After the destruction he'd wrought, she'd bet he was still attempting a rescue of her plumbing, because he'd promised. Because he wanted to put things right.

PJ climbed into the Vic.

An eerie white moon dangled half-full over the lake, winking. Stars needled the cover of night, and the air breathed the watery scent of rain.

Please, God, let Max be at my house.
With any providence, Jeremy wouldn't have found him yet; it would give her space to explain the truth to Max. Convince him that he wasn't a murderer, but a survivor.

She knew it, and that knowledge swelled inside her.

She almost rear-ended Boone's Mustang, parked in her circle drive. Her headlights flashed across the fender and then scraped across Jeremy's microbus in front of it.

And Max's Cutlass in front of that.

Oh no. In her head, she saw the scenario—Jeremy had called Boone after tracking down Max. Boone had arrived, and who knows what sort of altercation had gone down behind her unassuming dark windows.

In fact, the house looked lifeless, the only movement her dead hanging plant, its spindly arms tangling in the breeze as she approached the house.

Dog barked, running to her, his voice carried away in the breeze. She knelt and rubbed her hands over his neck. “Hey there, Bruce.”

Dog gave her a lick, jumped on her, knocking her back, then bounded away. PJ pushed herself up, dusting off her hands, wet from . . . She held them up in the moonlight.

Something dark and sticky smeared them. She smelled it. Recoiled.

Blood?

She wiped her hands on her pants. “Dog?” He hadn't appeared wounded.

The door creaked open, nudged by the breeze. PJ stilled, staring at it, a fist closing over her heart. Something felt . . . off.

She eased, whisper silent, to the door and edged it open. For once, it decided not to whine, and she slipped inside. She paused, listening to her heartbeat swish in her ears.

Then she heard it: cursing, a thump, people grunting.

“Why do you always have to be a hero, Owen?”

And then a roar, a sound that grabbed her insides and squeezed.

She ran to the front room, stopped, crouched by the door. In the dim light cast by the night into the main room, she saw Max on the floor, Windchill on top, his hands wrapped around Max's neck.

Squeezing.

“Why can't you just stay dead!”

Max's legs kicked up, wrapped around Windchill's neck. Jerked him away.

Behind him—no, no! Boone lay on the floor, handcuffed, bleeding from his shoulder.

Max grabbed his throat, sucked a breath, then pounced on Windchill just as he found his feet. They slammed into a wall.

PJ averted her eyes as they pummeled each other.
Do something.

She needed a weapon—if she dove into the fight, Max would only try to protect her and get hurt in the process. She'd learned that much about the heroes in her life.

And then she saw him—the dark form of Jeremy collapsed and unmoving beside the open doorway. And lying in the center of the room, what looked like a gun.

PJ pressed a hand to her stomach.
Breathe. Just . . . breathe
.

“You killed my wife!” Max's fist slammed into Windchill's chin.

“You killed her by trying to stop me!” Windchill grabbed Max around the waist, tackling him to the ground. They wrestled, and PJ winced at the grunts of pain.

Oh, see, someone should listen to her—and her instincts! She knew Max wasn't a smuggler.

Windchill found Max's neck again. Max's face whitened as Windchill's fingers dug into his throat.

Jeremy stirred.

Windchill turned at the movement. Max threw him off. Scrambled for the gun.

Windchill tackled him. The two slammed into the French doors. Glass shattered, littering the floor.

PJ scanned the room for a weapon. Soggy lath and plaster littered the floor, none of it weapon-worthy.

She spied Max's toolbox across the room. His tool belt lay on the floor. But what was she going to do—throw a hammer? She'd hit Max or Boone or even Jeremy.

The two men hung on to each other's throats, deadlocked.

Oh . . . oh . . . God, please! Help me think!

Max's grip fell from Windchill's neck. He fought Windchill's stranglehold.

PJ launched herself to a spot behind the compressor still set up in the middle of the family room debris field. Gun—the
nail gun
! She snaked her hand down the hose, fumbled for the gun.

Please, let it still be loaded. Please . . .

She pointed at Windchill, hoping it worked like one of the weapons Boone had taught her to use, and pulled the trigger.

A nail shot out, ricocheting off the fireplace.

She fought the recoil, pulled again.

This time, it might have chipped something—hopefully skin—off Windchill. He whirled around with a roar. Max lay on the floor, barely moving.

She ducked behind the compressor, hands over her head as he scooped up the gun and popped off a couple shots. The sound shook through the empty house.

Dog exploded through the front door, and Jeremy erupted from the floor. Crashing, grunts, roars of fury. Boone shouting. Glass shattering.

Two more shots.

She heard more scuffling, then a shout—

Jeremy skidded to his knees in front of her.

She dropped the gun and launched herself at him.

He grabbed her shoulders, stopping her. His gaze raked over her. “Are you okay?”

“Are
you
okay?” She caught his face in her hands.

“You're going to kill me one of these days.”

“I hope not. Oh, I hope not.”

Shots popped off, outside.

“Max!”

Jeremy put her away from him, met her eyes, and she nodded.

He scrambled out the back after Max. Outside, a motor kicked up in the wind.

Boone lay in the middle of the room, eyes closed, face a little white.

“Boone?”

“I'm okay,” he said in a voice that most definitely did not sound okay.

She sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed one of her new towels, returned, and pressed it to his wound. He turned his face away.

“Get a knife—you need to cut through the flexi-cuffs he put on me.” Boone grunted, rolling to his side, revealing plastic zip-tie handcuffs.

He was still breathing through his mouth, long, controlled breaths.

Outside, more shots popped off. One crashed through the window, splattering glass across her floor.

She crouched, zagging to the kitchen, yanking open drawers.

Another shot, and—

Boom!
The wall exploded in, splinters flying, a fireball hurtling into the great room. The force rocketed PJ back. She slammed against the wall, hitting her head.

Fire plumed into the room, hot, black, acrid smoke fogging the ceiling. Her eyes watered; her head hammered. She wanted to retch with the pain. Rolling onto her stomach, she tried to find her feet.

Then, like a hand over her eyes, everything went dark.

* * *

“Wake up. Wake up!”

A hand on her face, slapping, and not gently either. PJ roused, then bent over, coughing.

Smoke blackened the house, filling every corner. She couldn't breathe, couldn't see. Except for a flicker of light from the flames.

And in the flicker she saw a face.

She screamed.

The roar of the fire ate it. “C'mon, soldier, let's move it.”

Hands around her collar, pulling her by the scruff of her jacket. Pushing her close to the floor as she obeyed. Next to her the man crawled as if in a combat zone. They reached the stairs to the basement, and he yanked open the door.

“Down!”

She found her feet, but he kept his grip on her shoulder as she stumbled to the basement, her hand dragging down the side for balance. Light buzzed in cages, illuminating the underground passage past the service door.

“Move it; move it!”

“What about Boone?”

“Not now, PJ.”

PJ turned. In the wan light, she saw the Kellogg hobo, Murph, gaping at her. Brown teeth against a beard tangled like seaweed. His grimy stocking cap pulled low. And blue eyes, that seemed, at this moment, clear and bright. “Get moving!”

Then he pushed her down the passage.

PJ half ran, half stumbled in front of him. The musty smell of the tunnel pressed against her as they tripped into the darkness.

Halfway in, Murph hooked her arm. “Up! We go up!”

And sure enough, a door in the wall opened out and emptied into the little room she'd fallen into that first day. The gaping hole opened to the glowing sky.

“How do we get out?”

He bent down, hooked his fingers together, and she stepped into the web. He hoisted her up, hard, and she found herself airborne as if he'd actually tossed her from the pit. She landed on her stomach, her breath whooshing out.

Ten feet away, Boone stood with a group of EMTs, hands on his knees, bent over, coughing, spitting out something from his mouth. One man kept trying to give him oxygen even as he pushed it away and stared at the house.

“Boone!”

His eyes landed on her, some sort of disbelief on his face. “She's here! Jeremy, she's here!”

From out of nowhere, Jeremy came at her without stopping, a crazed expression on his face, in his eyes. He grabbed her forearms and yanked her off the ground. “How'd you get out? I thought you were still in there. I thought . . .” He looked unable to breathe as he pulled her to himself.

He didn't even bother, it seemed, to hide his emotions. Just let them shake out of him, his arms so tight around her, his breath erratic as he picked her up and carried her away from the tunnel.

“Where's Max?”

“He's hauling Windchill out of the lake.”

She looked over his shoulder, and her stomach lurched at the flames curling like tongues over the house.

Her mushroom house.

“My house . . .” She sucked in a tremulous breath. Shook her head, her hand over her mouth. “Oh . . . my house.”

A fire engine had already arrived, firemen in full gear, running with hoses inside her front door. She heard a yell over the din: “We found her!”

Jeremy set her down but kept ahold of her and now took her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. Tears pooled in his eyes despite his ferocious expression. “Are you kidding me? You're worried about your house? I thought you were burning alive. I tried to get back in—”

“I'm okay. The—” She looked past him, at a fireman now hauling Murph from the cellar opening. “Murph . . . saved me.”

Jeremy wore a strange expression, that information registering as something besides shock. “He's the one who's been squatting in the carriage house. Boone had a little chat with him last night after I brought you home. Apparently he knows the way into the house.”