Nowhere Safe (15 page)

“Hi,” Lucky said.

“How do you like Fun Night so far?” he asked as his wife’s grip tightened.

Lucky almost felt sorry for her. “It’s—fun.” She felt her own smile freeze. She’d never been good at this kind of thing.

But DeForest didn’t seem to notice. “PTA got rid of it, for a while. Kept the jog-a-thon, and the wrapping paper sale, you know, and of course, the silent auction.”

“Mmmm,” Lucky said.

“Fun Night’s a lot of work, and everyone thought the kids would want to just stay home and play video games, that kind of thing. But it’s turned out to be really popular.”

His wife was practically digging her nails into her husband’s arm. “After what happened this week, we really needed to come together,” she said, her eyes sharply cataloguing everything about Lucky. This was no good.

“That’s why we have the guard,” DeForest told her, his jaw tightening a bit.

“Good,” Lucky said, for lack of anything else to say.

The wife asked, “You have a boy, or a girl?”

“Patti, don’t grill Mrs. Trent.”

“I wasn’t,” she protested, but Lucky smiled and moved through the doorway into the hallway again.

Trying to pick up on the man’s aura, she wandered the halls for another half hour, peeking into the rooms but staying well out of them. She watched kids shoot suction-cup darts at a bull’s-eye, and drop a fishing line over a curtain that adults were clearly behind, slipping toys they’d caught onto the plastic hook at the end.

She couldn’t get a trace of his scent, so she headed back toward the front door and stepped outside, afraid she’d taken a big chance for no good reason.

Pushing through the door, the odor hit her like a choking wave.

She looked up sharply. Across the lot, a man was just climbing into a black sedan. Lucky moved behind one of the posts that held up the portico over the front door, just in case there was any chance he might notice her and remember her later.

As he turned from the lot, she bent her head and walked rapidly to her car. He was in a black Lexus. And damn. He was moving fast.

She ran the last few yards. Jumped in the Nissan. Stuck the key in the ignition, fumbling a bit, swearing. Then she was after him. Pulling out to the street in the direction he’d taken, driving as fast as she dared within the speed limit.

At a cross street she glanced left, then right. She saw taillights far ahead. Had to be him. Driving carefully, but racing like a madwoman inside, she took off after him.

But when she got there, the taillights were wrong. Not the Lexus.

“Shit!”

She gazed frantically around. Ahead of the car she was following were familiar taillights. The Lexus! Chafing, she tried to figure out how to get around the loser driving like a turtle. Damn, damn, damn! She couldn’t lose him. She didn’t want to ever go back to Twin Oaks again. She’d overplayed that hand. She needed to find him
now!

And then, achingly slowly, the car in front of her took a left-hand turn and she hit the gas, watching the speedometer needle rise five miles above the speed limit. Even that was dangerous, but she had to risk it. Had to.

The Lexus wasn’t waiting around. Her nerves were screaming as she followed after him, not closing the gap, but not falling behind. When he hit the freeway she was ten car lengths behind him and she breathed a little easier.

A police siren suddenly wailed behind her. Her heart leapt to her throat. Oh, God! Oh,
God.
She was going to have to run for it. She couldn’t be stopped. Not with the guns. Not with sweet dreams.

The lights flipped on behind her. A swirl of red and blue.

“Shit!” Lucky thought she might faint. No. Nope. Couldn’t do that. Had to draw from her courage, rely on adrenaline, recognize that this could be her last hurrah.

Mouth dry, she touched her toe to the accelerator.

Woo-woo-woo-woo!
The police car suddenly zoomed around her in a flash of color, its siren blaring.

Lucky gasped in shock and relief. The Lexus suddenly slowed down as if encountering a wall of water. She came up on him fast and had to tromp on the brakes.
Damn!
She drew back slowly, wondering if he’d noticed her abrupt rush toward him, her heart rate out of control, feeling slightly sick from the backlash of adrenaline.

But he was just as shaken by the police as she’d been, apparently, as the Lexus kept a slow, even pace after that, making it easy to follow him.

When he turned off the freeway onto a main artery into Laurelton, she eased even further back and then made the turn after him. When he slowed for the entrance to Bad Dog Pub, she drove around the corner and pulled to the curb on a side street with a view of the parking lot. She wasn’t sure she should face him just yet. Too dangerous. She definitely needed a little more intel on the guy.

And she needed to go check on Stefan Harmak. Living with his mother was helpful, as it made it harder for him to lead a secret life. And leaving him tied to the pole had gotten him some unwanted notoriety. Still, she didn’t trust him. Once more she kicked herself for not giving him an overdose when she had the chance. In fact, if she found that he’d managed to attack someone in these few days, she would feel completely responsible. She should have killed him. She should have—

Her thoughts shut off as she saw him walking back to the Lexus alone. He hadn’t stayed at the pub long. What was that about? Had he made some kind of connection? It wasn’t the kind of place for a pickup of the nature he was looking for.

Hmm . . .

Keeping way back in his rearview, she followed after him through traffic that grew lighter as he hit a residential neighborhood. When he turned into a long drive with landscaping that obscured the house, she drove on past and zigzagged up and down several streets until she felt secure in parking. She hadn’t had time to change her clothes yet, so she just threw the bulky sweatshirt on over her blouse and grabbed her sneakers, running barefoot as she had no time to put on the shoes, skirting puddles that had formed from a light rain.

There was a brick wall that ran alongside the property, dividing it from the neighbors. On the neighbor’s side, she moved cautiously through wet, cold grass, hugging the brick wall, hoping to God they didn’t have a dog. The bricks changed to chain-link about two-thirds of the way down, and then the neighboring property ended at a chain-link section that branched out perpendicularly and encircled their property in a wide rectangle. Beyond the fence lay open field and the house at the end of the long drive that her quarry had turned into. The chain-link was the neighbor’s fence because her target’s property was not fenced past the perimeter of this fence. She could see a ranch style house with a detached garage. The garage door was down; presumably the Lexus was now inside, though there was a station wagon parked outside. A Chevrolet, she thought.

Light filtered from the living room, but she couldn’t see anything from her angle. Quickly, she tossed her sneakers to the ground and squinched her cold feet inside, lacing them up.

Grabbing hold of the fence, she carefully climbed up, glad it wasn’t so high that she couldn’t work her way over. Dropping down, she slipped a little on the wet field grass, catching her sleeve, hearing the sweatshirt tear.

No time to see if she’d left any threads. Carefully, she made her way to the front of the house, staying to one side of the driveway, moving just near enough to see inside the window.

To her surprise she caught her quarry in a warm embrace with a middle-aged woman. She was just pulling back and smiling and talking in an animated way. He was stiffer, his body language hard to read.

Lucky had a moment where she wondered if she’d picked up on the wrong guy. She memorized his features. He was cruising into middle-age himself, she thought. Had a strong jaw and even features and all of his hair. Looked fairly handsome, as far as she could tell.

Then he suddenly looked straight out the window and she held her breath in shock. Nope. This was the right guy. She could
feel
it. She didn’t know what the hell was going on with his female companion, but her radar never failed her.

From faraway she heard the mournful howl of a coyote and it raised the hair on her arms. When the woman suddenly grabbed his arm and led him away, out of sight, Lucky faded further into the shadows. Carefully, she slid along the shrubbery that lined the drive, ran lightly along the curving blacktop to the street, then slowed to a walk as she worked her way back to the Sentra.

The clock inside her head suddenly ticked loudly. The seconds of her life rapidly flying past.

Not much time left.

Time to take care of Stefan Harmak,
she thought, and turned the nose of her car back toward his mother’s split-level home.

September sipped at the glass of red wine and watched Jake as he barbecued steaks in the rain. It was more a light drizzle, really—regular Oregon rain—but it was still wet and dark, and he wore a gray hoodie that obscured his face.

A few moments later he slid open the door from the back patio, a flurry of wind and rain following him inside. “Almost done,” he said, picking up his own glass.

“Don’t overcook mine. Please, God,” September said.

“Not a chance.” He smiled and she lifted one brow because the last time he’d barbecued they’d gotten distracted and her steak had turned into the proverbial shoe leather. Jake didn’t mind his meat well done, but September felt medium rare could maybe have been left on the grill too long.

“So, tell me what Pauline Kirby said,” he prompted her.

“Not until after you finish the steaks.”

“Huh.”

September didn’t really want to talk about the voracious reporter who’d called her just as she was getting ready to leave work. Kirby had wanted information on Stefan Harmak and had called September, who she felt was her liaison within the department, a situation Lieutenant D’Annibal had actually set up as a means of fostering good relations with the press. To that end, he’d given her September’s name, making her the sacrificial lamb.

“I threw Wes under the bus,” she admitted through the crack in the door Jake had left open. She watched him fork the steaks onto a platter before coming back inside, shutting the slider firmly behind him.

“How’d you do that?” he asked.

“I told her that Wes was investigating the attack on Stefan. Didn’t mention that I was working the Ballonni angle.”

“Wes can handle it.”

“I know, but his surgery wasn’t that long ago. The last thing he needs is Pauline climbing up his ass.”

“There’s an image.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” September said glumly. “She only wants to talk to me.”

“You’re her favorite,” Jake said with a grin.

“D’Annibal’s fault. He threw
me
under the bus and now she thinks she can only talk to me.” September reached into the refrigerator for the bowl of “salad in a bag” she’d mixed together. She set it on the table as Jake refilled their wineglasses. It was after nine by the time they were seated at the kitchen table. September cut into her steak, forked a bite into her mouth that felt like it was melting on her tongue.

“Mmm. You’re getting the hang of this,” she said with a sigh.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She could feel some of the tension dissolve from her shoulders. She hadn’t told Jake everything about the call from Pauline Kirby. It wasn’t just D’Annibal. The pushy reporter seemed to think they had some special bond since September had done the on-camera interview for her. Or, at least that was the tack Kirby took whenever she wanted something, and today she’d wanted information about Stefan Harmak. September had braced herself, expecting Pauline to have made the connection between herself and Stefan, but that hadn’t happened. Maybe she didn’t know yet, or maybe Pauline was playing her, which wasn’t above the woman’s tactics.

“She started out asking me a lot of questions about the fire at my dad’s place,” September admitted. “I thought, wow, really? The fire? Maybe there is something to July’s theory. But it was just to show some interest. Like we’re buddies and she had to ask.”

“Ahh. What was she really after?” he asked.

“What they all want now. Information to connect what happened to Stefan with what happened to Christopher Ballonni. Like I said, I tried to give her to Wes, but she wouldn’t go there. When I stalled her, she even moved on to questions about the suicide victim, Carrie Lynne Carter.”

“That’s definitely suicide?” Jake asked.

“It looks that way. Carrie Lynne’s mother’s convinced her daughter committed suicide, and maybe she did. Pauline was just fishing around, asking me any questions she could think of, but the real story she was after was Stefan’s.”

“Does she know yet that you and Stefan were related?”

“Nope. She didn’t bring it up, and she probably would’ve if she had known. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her. Verna, Stefan, and I are not friends.” She finished up her plate and picked up her glass of wine, heading toward the sink. “She’s going to think I was purposely holding out on her when she does find out.”

“You are.” Jake followed and helped her clean off the dishes and load the dishwasher. Then September wiped down the table while Jake went at the grill with a steel brush.

Afterward, they moved into his family room with their wineglasses. September eased herself onto the couch, lying the length of it, while Jake took the recliner in front of the massive television. Once settled, they looked at each other and laughed, and Jake said in mock horror, “My God. We’re like an old married couple.”

“It’s only because of my shoulder,” September disagreed firmly. “As soon as I’m 100 percent I’ll prove you wrong.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll wrestle you for the recliner.”

“You’re going to have a fight on your hands,” he warned her.

“Just so you know, this is all an act. I’m tougher than I look.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You don’t believe me?”

He was looking at her, his eyes full of amusement. September felt her breath catch a little as she smiled back. Sometimes she could hardly believe she and Jake were together and she was moving in. Actually, she was moved in already, really. Tomorrow they were just bringing in the final pieces of her furniture.

The wine created a pleasant lethargy and when Jake turned on the television her thoughts wandered to her work, her mind reviewing all the pieces of the cases that she’d been working, picking at loose threads. She was drifting off to sleep when a cell phone started ringing somewhere, and she jumped awake before she realized it was Jake’s, not hers.

His phone was still in the kitchen, so he made a sound of annoyance as he got up to answer it. While he was gone, she eased onto her side and faced the television. Jake had turned the sound down low, probably when she started to fall asleep, and she could hear him as he answered his cell.

“Hello,” he said in such a cautious way that September’s ears pricked up. He was silent for a few moments, then he said, “Loni, I really can’t talk right now.” A pause. “Well, I’m kind of tied up this weekend, but maybe next week.”

Jake’s tone was polite but disinterested. It was clear he was just trying to put her off. September tried to tamp down her anxiety about Loni; Jake and his ex-girlfriend had been together too long for her to consider it nothing whenever Loni contacted him. But she could tell Jake didn’t want to talk to her and it wasn’t because September was in the other room.

Loni, apparently, heard it, too, because after another long silence, Jake’s voice remarked, “I’m not available this weekend. That’s all I said.” Another pause while Loni spoke, then, “Sure. Just call. I’m around.” After several attempts at trying to say good-bye, he was able to finally hang up.

A few minutes later he returned with a full glass of wine. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Loni wants to see you.”

“Man . . .” He shook his head, then seeing her empty glass, said, “I’ll get you another.”

“No. No, thanks.” She pulled herself to a sitting position. “I don’t think I can handle another glass. I’m already passing out.”

“Go ahead and pass out. Get some rest because we have a big moving day tomorrow.” He came over to her and leaned in and kissed her, holding her tight. “Don’t let her bother you.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” she denied.

“Yeah, it does.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Okay, it doesn’t bother you.” He pulled back to look at her.

“Well, shit,” September muttered, which made him laugh.

“One of these days she’ll get the message,” he assured her.

“Yeah.”

“I’m serious.” He kissed her on the mouth, then said lightly, “But I might have to marry you to get it across.”

“Who says I’d marry you?”

“Will you marry me?”

She looked at him sideways. “No.”

“Yes, you will.”

“You’re an arrogant son of a gun,” she muttered.

“Oh, come on. When it’s time, it’ll be a yes, right?”

“What are you saying? Is this something I should be worrying about?” she asked.

“Worrying,” Jake repeated on a groan. “That’s not the word.
Anticipating
.”

“Is this something I should be anticipating?” she asked.

He gazed at her hard, the smile slowly disappearing from his lips. “Yes,” he said, and then he studiously ignored her while he channel-surfed, and September tried to tamp down the sweet feeling spreading through her like a hot wave.

 

 

Graham was sick with fear and excitement and a kind of latent desire left over from Jilly that he was seriously trying to channel toward Daria, though he was afraid if she pushed things, he wouldn’t be able to perform. It was a delicate balance with him trying to trick his mind into believing she was something she wasn’t, and he was afraid he was getting worse at it.

She’d come home unexpectedly and had damn near given him a heart attack. What if he’d been scoring with another girl and brought her home? God, he could just imagine Daria walking in on
that
!

The vision of what could have happened had left him on edge from the moment he’d walked in the house to find her already home. Her bags were on the dining room floor and he’d asked in a voice pitched much too high, “How did you get back?”

“I called a taxi.” She’d come toward him then, but he’d turned to the living room, needing some space. She’d caught him in front of the window and embraced and kissed him.

“I meant, how did you get back so soon?” he said.

“I’ll tell you later. I see you’ve been driving my car instead of your old station wagon,” she added, a soft rebuke.

The Chrysler wagon was one of his dad’s cars that Graham had appropriated. It wasn’t that old, really, but it was a
station wagon
. He wanted a sports car, and he was determined to have one. He just didn’t have the money right now. He’d been sucked into an investment that had turned out to be a Ponzi scheme, and he was still fighting his way out of it.

“C’mon,” she’d said, clasping his hand and dragging him forward.

His pulse had fluttered in his head when he saw she was dragging him toward the bedroom—would she see the semen stain he’d quickly wiped off the cover? He’d dropped her hand, made some excuse and headed for the kitchen instead. A few moments later she’d returned, questions in her eyes, and for a moment he’d thought the gig was up. But then she’d said, “I’m hungry. Anything in the refrigerator?”

“Uh . . . some leftover pizza?”

“Good. Anything.” She flopped a slice of pizza on a plate and put it in the microwave, then pulled out the stainless steel pot from the coffee maker and began making some of the horrible coffee she brewed.

Then his throat tightened when she said, “Something sticky here on the floor.”

He didn’t answer. Pretended he didn’t either hear or care.

But she persisted. “What spilled?”

“Huh. Oh, some lemonade.”

“Since when do you make lemonade?”

He shrugged. “I was thinking of making us some lemon drops. . . .”

“Well, look at you,” she said, amused, which got under his skin.

After the pizza, he kind of thought he was home free, but suddenly, as if drawn by a magnet, she’d walked over to the mantel and picked up the Maori figurine, fingering it lovingly for a few moments.

Shit.
Fuck!
He’d thought he might die. He’d actually stumbled toward the entry hall, his gaze frantically searching for any telltale sign that would give him away: a drop of blood, a strand of long hair,
anything
he’d forgotten.

His movement only drew her closer to him, closer to the scene of the crime. He’d stiffened when she’d suddenly wrapped her arms around his waist and drew herself against him, purring, “I missed all this, and you most of all.”

She’d been gone less than three days.

“I missed you, too,” he lied, his eyes traveling to the entry hall floor.

Then she was nuzzling his neck, but his mind was traveling. The one who hadn’t been missed, apparently, was Jilly. There’d been nothing on the news about her disappearance. Maybe no one would report her. Maybe the douche bag she’d been with would just think she went home, wherever that was, and not worry about her. He sure hadn’t seemed all that interested in having her around. Maybe she lived alone and it would be weeks, or months, before anyone thought about her again.

But no. That was fantasy shit talking. He couldn’t lie to himself. Too dangerous. She’d been a student in his
sixth-grade class,
for God’s sake! She’d gone to Twin Oaks ten years earlier. My God.
Ten years.
It made him feel old and now, being with HER, just made him feel older.

And Jilly . . . someone would realize she was gone and it could happen as early as tonight, twenty-four hours after he’d picked her up. Then what? They would trace her back to the guy with the BMW and probably then to Gulliver’s. Mark, the bartender, would remember him, but
he’d left without her
. He’d made certain of that. She’d driven off with her boyfriend, or whatever he was, and no one knew about
him,
so he should be safe, he really should, but if they believed the boyfriend’s story that he left her in the parking lot, and Mark talked too much, and the police started looking around, and—

“Graham,” Daria said, breaking into his frantic thoughts.

“What?” he bit out. Everything about her just put his teeth on edge.

“I’m talking to you. Good heavens, where are you?” She snapped her fingers in front of his face, smiling, but though she was teasing, he wanted to smash his fist into her mouth.