Worth the Trip (13 page)

She didn’t go. Reality was crashing the party. “Do you really think a motorcycle is a good idea? It’s not much protection.”

He sighed, shot her the we’ve-been-through-this-already look, then explained anyway. “First of all, they won’t harm you. You know the location to the treasure. And they won’t harm me because I’ll be driving the motorcycle, and harming me will harm you. They will follow us, and the motorcycle is a lot faster and a lot more maneuverable, which means we can lose any tails.”

“Not much cargo space,” she said, noting there wasn’t so much as a leather saddlebag, let alone the storage compartments some motorcycles sported. Her small overnight bag was strapped behind the seat, along with Trip’s.

“We won’t need space if someone takes the loot away from us.”

“Kind of a catch-22, isn’t it? The motorcycle gets us to our destination alone, but it makes the return trip problematic.”

“Let me worry about the return trip.”

She gave him a look. “Do you want to pat me on the head and call me a good little girl, too?”

“Will you just get on the damn bike?”

Norah tried to comply, but her feet stayed frozen to the ground, and her features tightened into the kind of expression mothers warned their children to avoid if they didn’t want their faces to freeze that way. This is what I wanted, she reminded herself, eyeing the motorcycle but still not making any move toward it, even when she tried to remind herself this was an ADVENTURE. Problem was, she wanted movie adventure. She wanted car chases and gunplay and treasure hunting all from the safety of her La-Z-Boy, with a bowl of popcorn in her lap. She wanted, Norah thought in bitter disgust, to be a spectator.

Fuck that
, was her next thought, the
fuck
part startling her a bit because she never allowed herself to think like that. Thinking that way might lead to talking that way, and she’d spent her entire adult life keeping up appearances, atoning for the neon sign she was sure everyone could see on her forehead, the one pronouncing her the daughter of a con artist/bank robber. Trip already knew who she was and where she came from, and he didn’t care. Of course, Trip thought of her as a means to an end, first and foremost, so the rest of it didn’t matter to him, as long as she served her purpose.

But it damn well mattered to her. He might be okay with blind servitude; she wasn’t. She’d made her position clear to him at the jail yesterday; now all she had to do was convince herself that she meant what she’d said. Watching from the sidelines would be counterproductive to that goal.

“Look, I know you don’t trust me,” Trip said, mistaking the reason for her hesitation.

“You’re FBI—”

“And your father drummed a distrust of authority into your head, starting at an early age. But you are authority, Norah.”

“Not the kind that can send you to prison for life.”

“Are you planning to break some laws?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Then I’m no threat to you.”

Yes, he was, and not just because of the effect he had on her personally.

“Your concerns are valid, Norah. I’ll admit the suits at the Bureau don’t let me in on the high-level decisions, but I’ll do my best to look out for you and your father.”

“Telling me what I want to hear?”

“I’m making you a promise.”

“Those
suits
you mentioned don’t give a damn about your promises. You know that as well as I do.”

He met her eyes. “So where does that leave us?”

Right where she’d been yesterday, facing the same truth and coming to the same conclusion she’d come to at her father’s bedside. If she left his fate, and her own, in the hands of the FBI—and Trip was the FBI—she was a fool.

She stepped toward the bike.

“Hi, there!”

They both sighed this time, the voice enough to demoralize them even before they saw Bill Simonds speed-walking over from his house next door. He was coatless, his hands in his pockets, braced against the chill in the air but more worried about catching them than pneumonia.

“Where are you off to?” he said with excessive cheer-fulness.

“We’re going to jump off a bridge,” Trip said, dead-pan, “want to come along?”

“Well, now,” Bill said, his face folding into no-call-for-sarcasm lines, “I thought maybe you’d need someone to pick up your mail, Norah, take in the paper, that kind of thing.”

“I thought you got the message when she took her spare key away from you,” Trip said. “And changed the locks.”

“You’re right, you’re right, I overstepped. But I’m really sorry, like I told you the other day,
Norah
, and I promise not to do it again.”

“You were watching the news the other day, right Bill?” she said. “The part where I reminded everyone how the Chicago PD and the FBI searched my house fifteen years ago and found nothing?”

“Oh, well, sure I saw that.”

“But you didn’t believe it. Look, we’re going to find the loot today. My father told me where it is, and we intend to retrieve it and turn it over to the FBI.”

Trip caught her by the elbow and hauled her up next to him. “What are you doing?”

“Letting the neighborhood know there’s no point in breaking into my house. By this time tomorrow it’ll all be over, Bill.”

Trip thrust a helmet in her direction. “What she really means, Bill, is run along and spread the news.”

Norah opened her mouth. Nothing came out because she did want him to run along and spread the news, and if she said anything else, it wouldn’t have been sincere, and a jerk like Bill Simonds would pick up on that in a heartbeat. Taking her key back and telling him never to darken her door again he misunderstood, but the least amount of insincerity in her voice and he’d be all hurt and insulted—Just like that, she thought as he took himself off in a huff, closing the window of opportunity on her chance to defuse his hard feelings.

It didn’t help when Trip laughed.

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” She shoved the helmet back at him with enough force to get a little
oof
out of him. “Especially nasty ones.”

“He’s a putz.”

“A putz I have to live next door to,” she said, winding her scarf around her neck and jamming her arms into her jacket. She took the helmet back, only to have her cell phone ring. She shoved the helmet back at Trip—he stopped it short of his solar plexus this time—and took out her cell.

He slid up next to her and peeked over her shoulder.

Norah flipped the phone open and said, “Hi, Myra,” sidling away when Trip tried to lay his head next to hers so she could hear the call.

Having his head next to hers meant there’d be no conversation because having his head next to hers meant having the rest of him right there, too, and that would be totally discombobulating and probably rob her of the ability to talk. And now she’d completely lost the conversation. “What?” she said to Myra. “I’m getting some interference.”

“The interference wouldn’t be named Trip, would it?”

Trip was coming to the same conclusion, judging by his grin.

“What’s going on, Myra?” she said, ignoring him and his ego.

“I saw Hollie’s stunt yesterday. Are you okay? I mean, it seemed to end on a high note, since people will stay away from your house.”

“Yeah, it actually worked out in my favor.” For a change.

“I thought I’d come over later, bring a couple of dates.”

“Dates?”

“Ben and Jerry.”

Norah huffed out a laugh, her eyes shifting to Trip. “Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo might be a better idea.”

“I could swing that. We’ll order Chinese.”

“You don’t know how good that sounds, Myra, but I’m going to need a rain check.”

“You’re busy?” Myra asked, her voice sounding bright and hopeful. “With that yummy man, I hope.”

“Sure,” Norah said, sending Trip a sidelong glance. “Yummy.”

“You’re not still with him?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t want to tell me about it. After we’ve been friends for all this time?”

Norah was a bit startled by that. They’d known each other a couple of years, and they were friendly, but not morning-after-spill-the-intimate-details kind of friends.

“Never mind,” Myra said, “we’ll have lunch when you get back and I’ll martini the truth out of you.”

Norah couldn’t help but smile. Maybe they weren’t bosom buddies, but Myra was irresistible.

“And before I forget, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?” Norah asked her.

“I heard Raymond put you on hiatus. He’s a putz.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Listen, Myra, can I call you later? We need to talk about the book anyway.”

“Fine,” Myra said, a shrug in her voice. “Listen, I got a call from the
Sun Times
this morning. Are you available tomorrow for an interview?”

“How about Monday? That would work better.”

“I have to wait until Monday? You’re killing me, Norah. Can’t you give me just a hint of what’s going on?”

“I’ll just say the next book better do well. Talk to you later.” And she disconnected before Myra dragged the truth out of her. She hadn’t quite come to terms with losing her job, even temporarily, herself. The last thing she needed was somebody else second-guessing her decisions.

“You ready?”

No, she thought, then took another look at the motorcycle and changed her mind. She was looking forward to the adventure, damn it, because it would be over soon enough, Trip would take off, and she’d be left in her own boring world again. Nothing new, except this time she’d be aware of it. Every day for the rest of her life.

 

AS SOON AS SHE GOT ON THE BIKE THE
ADVENTURE
was back. The sun shone, the motorcycle thrummed, and Trip was between her thighs—not in the way she might have preferred, but she held on tight, her arms around his waist, her front pressed to his back, living in the moment, in the feel of his muscles rippling and flexing as he shifted and balanced, working his way through rush-hour traffic on I-94 heading north out of the city. The horns blaring behind them, however, had nothing to do with his driving.

“We’ve got company,” Trip said via the Bluetooth earpieces he’d insisted they wear so they could keep in touch, even on the bike. “Hell, it’s a damn parade. There are at least three vehicles following us.”

Norah looked over her shoulder. It wasn’t hard to pick out the offenders. Bill Simonds’s white and rust minivan, a black Honda Pilot, and a maroon BMW X3. They were all bigger than a standard sedan, and they were having a lot more trouble maneuvering around the other vehicles than Trip was having. “Hollie Roget is driving the BMW.”

“What is it going to take to stop that woman?”

“A wooden stake.” Norah watched the three vehicles jockey for position. Hollie seemed to be aware she had company, but even though Norah could see her homeless camera man riding shotgun in the front passenger seat, he made no effort to film. “She’s awfully persistent for someone who has no connection to the robbery.”

“The Bureau’s background check didn’t pick up anything,” Trip said. “There wasn’t time for a really deep dive, but if she was after the loot why would she publicize it and put herself in competition with half of Chicago?”

“You have a point,” Norah said grudgingly. She wanted to believe Hollie was in it out of greed, but what Trip said made sense. “So what do we do about the people following us?”

“Did you ever see the
Matrix
movies?”

“No.”

“Good.” And Trip punched it.

The bike leapt forward, Trip working his way through the gears and taking bigger risks in traffic. Norah clenched her hands at his waist and stared over his shoulder, paralyzed by fear and morbid curiosity. If her cinematic repertoire hadn’t been so sadly lacking, she’d already know what a top-speed motorcycle escape in heavy traffic looked like. Probably not from the back of the bike, with the wind rushing by and an overwhelming feeling of complete exposure and incipient disaster.

Trip shot the Harley between a semi and a sedan, laying the bike over so far Norah could see beneath the SUV in front of them, her peripheral vision filled with the blur of pavement whizzing by. The driver of the sedan laid on the horn and the brakes, giving Bill Simonds’ aging white minivan an opening to slip through and take up a position behind them, fenders rattling, motor sounding ready to explode.

Hollie’s BMW crowded through after Bill’s minivan, and the Pilot lumbered around behind the sedan to come up on their left. Suddenly Trip had nowhere to go, the SUV’s driver communicating with Bill Simonds through some sort of criminal telepathy to box them in against the semi, still on their left. The vehicle in front of them was at the mercy of traffic, hundreds of weekday commuters juggling hot coffee, putting on mascara, eating breakfast, and talking on cell phones. The ones who weren’t multitasking were running late and fighting road rage.

“This isn’t good,” Trip said.

“How would they get out of it in the movies?”

“Keanu Reeves would lay the bike on its side and slide it under the semi.”

“I don’t suppose that works in real life.”

“Maybe for a stuntman wearing leather who doesn’t have to worry about a passenger.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“You don’t have any ideas, do you?” Trip asked her.

She’d wanted him to treat her like an equal partner, and here she was, completely devoid of helpful suggestions. “Not at the moment,” she said, watching Bill’s minivan shudder up on them, “but if I survive this I’m going to watch more action movies.”

Trip laughed grimly. “I’ll give you a list,” he said, the last word all but drowned out by the blare of horns.

Norah looked over her shoulder and saw Hollie’s maroon X3 straddling the lanes behind Bill and the SUV, her bumper against his, her motor roaring as she stepped on the gas. At first glance it appeared she was hell-bent on crushing them between Bill’s grille and the vehicle in front of them. Instead, she backed off, eased over a few feet, and sped up again, crashing into the side of the minivan, which was no competition for German engineering. Bill and his minivan had a close encounter with the side of the semi’s trailer. The semi driver tried to stop on a dime, the squeal of air brakes and the smoke of his tires burning on the roadway and sending the rest of the commuters into a tizzy.