Sting (35 page)

S
haw had followed the scrambled footprints into the thicket.

He was no longer under the delusion that Panella was responsible for the murder and mayhem of the past week. Once he had connected all the disjointed pieces, the picture had become startlingly clear. Elements to the case that had seemed not quite to fit before had suddenly fallen into place.

Josh had impersonated Panella, deliberately turning everyone's focus on the meanie, while the stool pigeon duped them all. Shaw would kick himself later over not seeing it before, but when he'd started into that thicket, his focus had been on protecting Jordie from her deranged brother.

Josh was brilliant enough to have pulled off this elaborate charade, but he was also as crazy as a shit house rat. Like all rats, he got even crazier when trapped. Shaw hoped to God Wiley would have the presence of mind to caution every law officer on their way not to blare their arrival. He'd thought about stopping his pursuit long enough to text Wiley a message to that effect, but that would have cost precious time. He'd kept moving.

It was insufferably hot and sultry. Sweat had begun to sting his eyes. It had plastered his shirt to his torso. But he'd kept up a steady pace until he'd caught snatches of conversation up ahead, which meant that he was gaining on them. Ordinarily he would have been worried that his crashing progress through the brush would alert Josh that he was closing in.

But he'd doubted Josh was aware of his encroachment. Josh had been making more noise than he, snapping twigs, rustling foliage, and he'd kept up a running dialogue at full volume. The guy was completely psychotic.

Which had driven Shaw near crazy himself. He hadn't heard anything from Jordie. Was she seriously wounded or unconscious? Josh might have already killed her and was only carrying her body somewhere for disposal.

That thought had chilled Shaw even as it had caused him to sweat more profusely. He muttered a blasphemous stream, followed by a prayerful chant, rage and worry twisting his gut where he'd felt stitches giving way to tension and exertion.

When he realized Josh had stopped somewhere ahead of him, he'd slowed down and had gone the remaining distance as noiselessly as possible. He'd taken a position behind a tree trunk and peered around it.

Jordie was alive! Thank God. She was standing on her own two feet. But her hands were bound in front of her. She had dozens of bleeding scratches on her arms. Blood had run down the side of her face from her scalp and now dripped off her chin.

Her expression was a tortured mix of compassion, revulsion, and terror, perhaps fully realizing for the first time that not even her selfless, sacrificial love was sufficient to penetrate her brother's madness.

As Josh aimed the pistol at her, her face had remained stark with fear, but she looked him straight in the eye and didn't cower.

Shaw had battled a primitive impulse to drop Josh immediately, but that would have traumatized Jordie. He wouldn't do that to her. Besides, the government didn't want Josh dead. It needed him in order to recover the stolen millions.

So he'd blinked sweat from his eyes and, as an officer of the law, assessed the situation with as much professional detachment as he could muster.

Nevertheless, he vowed that if that crazy son of a bitch killed Jordie he was going to cut his fucking heart out.

Now, not too loudly, but with authority, he said, “You're not killing anybody.”

Jordie's head snapped around toward the sound of his voice. She gave a sob of relief.

Josh didn't even flinch. “Who's that skulking behind the tree?”

“FBI Special Agent Shaw Kinnard. Drop. The. Gun.”

“No.”

“If you don't, you're a dead man.”

Jordie said, “He means it, Josh.”

He yelled at her to shut up.

In his peripheral vision, Shaw noticed motion among the trees and undergrowth on the far side of the bayou. Other officers had arrived and were taking positions. He hoped to hell that if this came down to a shoot-out, they were all good marksmen. Jordie was standing too damn close to Josh.

Josh said, “You really spoiled my plan last Friday, Kinnard. But you can't save my dear sister this time.”

“I can kill you. And I will unless you drop the gun.”

“Josh, please.”

“Better listen to her, Josh. She watched me pop Mickey Bolden without a blink. Last chance. Drop the pistol and back away from her.”

“Do as he says. Please.” She raised her hands and placed them beneath her chin in a begging motion, then dropped them back to waist level. “Put the pistol down, Josh. Surrender. I'll help you.”

“Like you've helped me before?” he screamed. “I don't need your help anymore.”

“Please, Josh.” Her wrists were straining against the flexcuffs. “Please. I implore you.”

“Shut up, Jordie! Just shut up.”

“Josh, please don't make—”

“You ruin everything! I hate you!”

Shaw saw Josh's trigger finger tense, then several weapons fired almost simultaneously.

J
oe Wiley was curious. “When did you put the vest back on?”

“When you left the car to take your call from Hickam's mother,” Jordie said.

“One of Kinnard's rules of engagement?”

“He insisted.” While they were alone in the car, Shaw had made her take off her shirt and put the vest on underneath it. “I thought it was an unnecessary precaution, but if I hadn't been wearing it, I would be dead.” She brushed away a tear.

Wiley, standing at the foot of her hospital bed, cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “Josh…uh…none of you had a choice.”

“I know.”

She had slipped Shaw's palm pistol into her pants pocket when she'd gone inside the house to see for herself what was in there. During her face-off with Josh, realizing that his psychotic determination was to end her life, she'd distracted him with a begging gesture. When she lowered her hands from her chin, she'd managed to ease the pistol out of her pocket.

The shot she'd fired had been one of the barrage that had cut him down.

“The ME says any one of the shots could've been fatal, so unless you really want to know—”

“No.”

“I didn't think so. If it's any comfort to you, he died instantly.”

She'd missed seeing the worst of it. She'd been flat on her back, thrust backward onto the ground by the impact of the bullet her brother had fired at her.

“I hear you have a heck of a bruise,” Wiley said.

“Larger than my fist. The X-ray revealed a hairline fracture.” She touched her breastbone. “Which is why they've kept me here for another night. They're giving me pain meds, and I'm still under observation.”

She'd been transported to the ER by ambulance, although she barely remembered that. It was probably for the best that her recollection of those hours immediately following the crisis were fuzzy.

In addition to the fracture and bruise on her chest, the scratches on her arms had been treated with topical antibiotics. Two stitches had been required to close the cut on her scalp due to the blow. She also had a slight concussion from it.

Added to these physical injuries were the emotional ones. She suffered bouts of uncontrollable weeping followed by periods of depression that left her nearly catatonic. The medical staff concluded that she needed a few days to recover from the ordeal.

“What's one more night? Better to err on the side of caution,” Wiley said for something to say.

She didn't bother to add anything.

It was an obligatory conversation between two people who had survived a catastrophe. They had matters to discuss, but the issues were delicate, and each was as reluctant as the other to broach them right now.

After a lengthy, awkward silence, she said, “Gwen Saunders called. That was thoughtful of her, wasn't it? And Deputy Morrow came by this morning.”

“In an official capacity?”

“Royce Sherman's murder was his case. Josh's confession closed it. But he didn't make the visit seem official. He expressed his condolences.”

“My wife sends hers, too.”

“Please thank her for the calla lilies.” She motioned toward the windowsill where now several flower arrangements were lined up.

“They're from both of us,” he said, “but Marsha picked them out.”

“She must be terribly relieved that you weren't injured yesterday.”

“Pissed off, if you want the truth. She said a glorified accountant had no business chasing around the countryside with a loaded weapon.”

Jordie gave him a weak smile. “She sounds like a sensible woman.” A beat, then, “You told Agent Hickam how it ended?”

“He's on the floor just above you here. Still in ICU, but, yes, I filled him in. He couldn't believe…well, none of it.”

“My brother tried to kill him.”

“He doesn't hold that against you, Ms. Bennett. Josh is the only one accountable for the crimes he committed.”

She picked at the edge of the cotton blanket covering her. “He played all the roles well. The spoiled man-child with acute anxiety. The downtrodden employee corrupted by his overbearing boss. But a cold-blooded murderer? I never would have guessed Josh capable of that.”

“Or of hating you bad enough to want you dead.”

“No,” she murmured. “I never would have guessed that, either.”

Wiley sensed her rising emotion and didn't say anything until she'd used a tissue to blot her eyes. He then told her about a banker in Malaysia who'd called to inquire if Mr. Panella had remembered that second password that had caused him so much consternation.

“The call came in on one of the many cell phones we found in Josh's house. I asked the banker if he'd ever spoken to Jordan Bennett personally. No, he said. He'd never had the pleasure of dealing directly with that gentleman. He'd assumed Jordan Bennett was male.”

“Does that let me off the hook, then? You no longer suspect me of collaborating with Josh and Panella?”

“Your participation in the Costa Rican scam will be reviewed, but I don't believe you'll face charges, especially if you agree to assist us.”

“Assist you?”

“This case has been a multilayered tangle and will continue to be. We still don't know everything Josh and Panella did jointly and separately to try and screw not only their clients but each other. Things like those Malaysian accounts could come to light off and on for years.”

“Years?”

That was a dismal thought. Had she been so naïve as to think that with the discovery of Panella's body and Josh's death, the case would be over, sealed, and forgotten? When she was released from the hospital, the media would be all over her. She intended to ask Adrian Dover to be her spokesperson and release a public statement that hopefully would satisfy them, but she doubted it would.

She also faced the grim duty of seeing that Josh's ashes were interred. He should be placed with their parents, she supposed, although she had no idea whether or not that would have been his wish.

And, it seemed, she would be cooperating with and even contributing to the government's ongoing investigation. It was little enough for her to do in recompense for her brother's crimes. Civic duty demanded it. She also felt a moral obligation. “Possibly I can help restore some of the losses to Josh's victims.” Unfortunately, she couldn't restore what she most wished she could: Shaw's parents.

Wiley nodded, but uncomfortably shifted his stance again. “As to your personal loss, Ms. Bennett, I'm sorry it ended the way it did.”

“I'm not.” Seeing his surprise, she smiled wistfully. “Before you start thinking what a wretched person I am, let me explain. I mourn my brother's
life
far more than I do his death. What other outcome would have been better or more merciful?

“The indignity of a trial where he would be on constant display, gaped at? Years spent in prison where he would be subjected to God knows what kind of cruelty? No, Agent Wiley, that would have been torture of the worst sort. When I pulled that trigger, I wasn't saving myself. I was saving Josh. I can't mourn that his torment has ended.”

“The torment he caused you is over, too. You must feel freed.”

“I do. Actually what grieves me most,” she said, her voice cracking, “is that I don't grieve him. That makes me truly sorrowful. For both of us.”

His look of compassion and understanding touched her deeply and brought tears to her eyes.

Discomfitted by them, he coughed. “Well, I'll leave you to get some rest. You've got my number if you need anything.” He turned and headed for the door.

“Agent Wiley?”

He stopped and turned but had trouble meeting her gaze. When he finally did and saw the unspoken question there, he heaved a sigh and shook his head. “I don't know, Jordie,” he said, using her given name for the first time. “He pulled a lot of stitches and was brought here to be stitched up again, then came to the office last night and filled out all the required paperwork. I stepped out to grab a coffee. When I came back, he was gone. Nobody's seen him since.”

She pressed her head into the pillow and closed her eyes. “Nobody will.”

J
ordie and her Extravaganza staff celebrated the transfer of ownership.

The party commenced at four o'clock when they presented her with a crystal-studded Mardi Gras mask as a going-away gift. They ate canapes. They raised toasts. They said their collective and individual good-byes and swapped promises to stay in close touch.

At five o'clock, she called an end to the farewell party before it became maudlin. “My last official act as boss—former boss—is to send you all home. I'll turn out the lights and lock the door when I leave.”

They must have sensed that she wanted to spend a few moments alone in the space in which she'd built her business. One by one, they hugged her and left. Her personal assistant was the last to go. As she swiped at her tearful eyes, she said, “As we were uncorking the champagne, a package was delivered to you. Probably from a grateful client. I left it on your desk.”

When Jordie was alone, she went into her private office. All her personal things had been packed and removed already, but the space was still so familiar. She listened to the whistle in the AC vent and noted that the crack in the floor tile was the same length it had been the day she moved in. The window blind had never hung straight, no matter how often she'd tried to balance it. She would look back on these imperfections with fondness.

For the last time, she sat in her desk chair. She reached for the FedEx envelope, opened it, and dumped out the contents.

A heap of camouflage-print bandanas landed on her desktop.

“They come twelve to a pack.”

He was standing in the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the jamb, dressed very much as she'd seen him the first time. The pearl snaps on his shirt winked in the late-afternoon sunlight coming through the window with the crooked blind.

She found her breath, her voice. She'd lost her heart three months earlier. “Wasn't it I who owed you a twelve-pack?”

“Was it?” He shrugged. “Who's keeping count?”

Afraid he would see the emotion threatening her eyes, she looked down at the bandanas, picked up one and rubbed the fabric between her fingers. “This supply should last me awhile.”

“Depends on what you use them for.”

“They have lots of uses.”

In a voice husky with suggestiveness, he said, “I can think of several right off.”

She stood up and rounded the desk, but that was as far as she got before her knees went too weak to go farther. He pushed away from the doorjamb and walked toward her until only a few feet separated them. For the next few moments they just took each other in. His scar stood out against his scruff. His hair was uncombed and needed cutting. He looked completely disreputable and altogether desirable.

“How did you get past the guard in the lobby?” she asked.

“I'm a fed, remember?”

“Oh, right. You're carrying an ID now?”

“No. I just got past the guard in the lobby.”

Naturally he had. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She motioned toward his left side. “How is it?”

“Good. Only pinches every now and then.”

She took a swift breath. “I'm so sorry for that.”

“I had it coming.” His eyes were as incisive as ever as they scaled down her and remained. “First time I've ever seen you in a skirt.”

“Shaw?”

“Damn. Those legs.”

“Shaw?”

“Hmm?” His eyes tracked back up to hers.

“I…I…” She stopped, then said on a gust of air, “I'm surprised to see you.”

“Your sign is gone.”

“What?”

“The one on the freeway. Extravaganza. Glitter letters. Fireworks. I came down to get some work done on the cherub. As I was driving in from the airport, I noticed your sign had been replaced by one with a bucket of fried chicken.”

“The billboard rental came up for renewal. I declined because the advertising budget is no longer up to me. My former employees pooled their resources and bought me out.”

“You sold your house, too.”

“Joe Wiley told you?”

“I called him from the car. He said y'all have been tying up all the loose ends.”

“I think—hope—that my part in the Panella-Bennett case will soon be over. But for a while yet I may be needed to verify this or that.”

“Wiley said Hickam's able to put in half days now.”

“He's thinner.”

“His happy tailor will get backlogged.”

She smiled. “Hickam does credit you with saving his life.”

“He'd've done the same for me.” He paused, then said, “So you're leaving?”

“After everything…” She made a small gesture with her hands. “I have to make a change. Start fresh.”

“I get that.” He looked around the empty office before coming back to her. “Where are you going?”

“I haven't decided.” Then she blurted, “You had work done on the cherub?”

“Oh. Yeah. It would've been cheaper to buy another one. But Mom put her there, and she loved the thing, so I had the missing arm replaced. Also had a landscaping service come in and clean up the courtyard, paint the staircase. It looks almost respectable.”

To cover the catch in her throat, she asked if he was going to make the townhouse in the Quarter his permanent address.

“No. It'll still be a place I come back to.”

“When you need somewhere to lay low.”

He slid his hands into the rear pockets of his jeans. “Actually, I'm not working undercover these days.”

That goosed her. “What?”

“You remember the girl in Mexico?”

“Who would die bloody without better training?”

“I said that so many times to so many people that it finally made it to the wrong ears. Or the right ears, I guess. The right ears said if I didn't want people dying bloody, why didn't
I
start training them better? Piqued my interest. But I laid down some conditions.”

“Such as?”

“No relocation to Quantico. I'd get final say on accepting or rejecting a candidate, and I'd be a hard-ass because I'd be teaching them stuff that's not in the handbook.”

“And?”

“No bureaucrat looking over my shoulder and harping about policy or proper procedure. I won't have my methods second-guessed by someone who's never wallowed in the gutter with the Panellas of the world.”

“And?”

“No necktie or haircut like Wiley's. That would have been the real deal breaker.”

“What did they say?”

He raised a shoulder. “They said, ‘You got it.'”

“They must value what you have to offer.”

“Galled Hickam no end. Anyhow, I'm working out of a facility near Atlanta, the location of which is classified. Of course most of the training takes place outside the classroom.”

“That sounds exciting. Will you be—”

“Jordie?”

“What?”

“Enough of this shit.”

He was on her in an instant, his hands clasped around her head, his mouth on hers. They kissed with such heat and hunger that she was surprised when he ended it way too soon. “Jordie, when it all went down, I had to walk away. I—”

“I know.”

“I was still undercover. It was about to become a zoo.”

“I understand that. I do.”

“You weren't seriously injured. I made Wiley swear to that on the heads of his children. So after completing all the official BS, I split.”

“And stayed away,” she said in a voice that was unexpectedly husky with emotion.

His regret plain, he sighed. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

He looked away, took a breath, came back to her. “Because I didn't know how you felt about Josh and the way it ended. My bullet took him out.”

“They don't know which—”

“I do. He didn't feel it or any that came after. I couldn't stand to see you hating me for that.”

“I don't.”

He clasped her head tighter between his hands. “You need to know this. You need to
accept
it. If I had it to do over again, I still wouldn't hesitate. I would do—”

She laid her fingers vertically against his lips. “I would do it over again, too. It ended the way it had to. Josh was liberated, and so was I.”

“Wiley told me that was your feeling.”

“To the bottom of my soul.”

“Years from now you won't—”

“No.”

He searched her face and seemed satisfied that she was speaking honestly. Then his expression turned wry. “Then Wiley—who's like an old woman busybody—said that as long as I was in the neighborhood, I might want to touch base with you.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “Remind me to send him a bottle of wine.
Fine
wine.”

“I want to touch base, all right. Especially third.” He slid his hands to her bottom and brought her up against him. They kissed again and when he at last raised his head, the sharp eyes she loved speared into hers. “They throw fancy parties in Atlanta. I've never been to one, but that's my understanding.”

“That sounds like a promising market. Certainly worth exploring.”

“I've been giving thought to upgrading my accommodations. You know, buy some furniture. A kitchen stove.”

She laughed.

He smiled, but then turned serious. “Jordie. I was lousy at this before, and I may still be lousy at it. But I don't want to spend the rest of my days wondering about what might have been with you. With us. I for damn sure don't want to spend another night without you. I already formed the habit of you. I want you in my bed and under me every night. Even if it means tying you up with those hankies and hauling you off like I did before.”

She kissed the C-shaped scar on his chin. “What if I want
you
under
me
?”

He grinned, swept his thumb across her lower lip, and just before kissing it, whispered, “Still mouthy.”