2000 Kisses (12 page)

When the mayor refused to hear of waiving payment, Tess graciously agreed on ten dollars per event.

Tess chuckled, wondering what Richard would say about that.

She was hot and happy, already sorting through plans for an auction to benefit the clinic that Almost desperately needed. Tess was fairly certain she could find a national magazine that would cover the story as a human interest piece. Then she could barter free medical equipment for the town because of the publicity.

She took Grady's arm, smiling broadly. “What do you say we go have some coffee, Deputy?”

Forty miles away, T.J. crawled across the roof in the shadow of the Dragoon mountains. He was careful to stay in the shade until he reached the edge of the balcony. He straightened his throat mike and activated his tactical headset. “Drake, are you there?”

“Right here. We have you in sight, McCall.”

“You have someone covering the back?”

“Negative. The other teams were tied up on a major cost drug bust in Nogales. I'm afraid you're all we have, McCall.”

T.J. breathed a silent curse. He was sweating beneath his black jumpsuit and tactical vest. It was hot on the roof, and he couldn't move once he was in position. His hands were starting to cramp, but he didn't allow that or any thought to disturb his concentration. He looked into the scope and framed the front window of the bank directly across the street. “Any activity inside?”

“The gunman just told us he wants to talk to the governor. We're trying to arrange it. He also wants a million dollars and a plane to Brazil.”

T.J. sighted carefully.

The man had four hostages tied in chairs by the bank's front window. One other hostage was standing by the front desk. The perpetrator was holding a pistol to her head.

“He's picketed the bank for a month, swearing their computers are cheating people out of their money. He claims he lost twenty thousand dollars last month, but we checked and he's never had an account here.”

“Any priors?” T.J. watched the gunman move restlessly before die window while he talked on the radio with the police.

“Assault and battery on his wife. He did three months of probation, then tried it again. The next day she left for Alaska.”

“Emotional state?”

“Unclear. His landlady said he made four trips to Mexico in the last week, possibly for drugs.”

“How are the hostages holding up?”

“As well as can be expected. “ Drake cursed softly. “One of them is my sister.”

T.J.'s fingers tightened on the rifle. “Which one?”

“That's not a factor here, McCall.”

T.J. knew what Drake was saying. His friend didn't expect special treatment for his relative. In fact, he wouldn't tolerate it. TJ. said one short, angry word. “Get those front windows open. I'll have only one shot, and I don't want to worry about glass deflection.”

“He's not going to like it. Maybe we can turn off the exterior air-conditioning. It's going to be risky, though. It's your call.”

T.J. knew the risks. The added stress might trigger the gunman, sending him on a rampage. But there was no other way to guarantee a clean shot if the situation deteriorated. “Do it.”

Ten minutes later, the windows were open. TJ. adjusted his scope, measuring for wind and range. He had trained at two hundred yards, so the distance was good. It was the gunman's state of mind he was worried about now. He couldn't allow himself to think about Drake's sister being caught inside.

He looked through the scope and framed the front windows. He saw the man turn sharply and gesture, then throw something down on the floor. He shouted as he grabbed one of the women and jabbed his revolver under her neck. “Drake, are you seeing this?”

“Affirmative.” Static crackled, then Drake's voice returned. “You are clear to fire,” he said grimly. “Repeat, clear to fire.”

T.J. tracked the man, waiting until the hostage was out of his line of fire. He focused, fining up for one shot in the back of the head, which would guarantee a clean takedown.

The gunman gestured wildly, slapping the woman and sending her to her knees. TJ. squeezed out one shot.

TJ. slanted his forehead against the steering wheel as wind whipped through his open window.

The desert around him was silent. Only the wind whispered, stirring up sand and shaking the dry branches of ocotillo and smoky blue palobrea. The silence of the high desert could be unnerving to those unused to its secrets, but T J. had always found pleasure in the silence. And he did so now.

Breathing.

Trying to block out images of shattered glass and a fallen body.

He stared down at two hundred miles of snaking canyons red in the fire of sunset. And he breathed. Letting the bright colors and the hot wind heal him, as they always did.

With each breath he restored another piece of his harmony. Violent death was part of the profession he had chosen, and TJ. was in no sense a cowardly man. He accepted the fact of death, even when the personal resonance of those deaths shook him awake at night, sweaty and shaking.

Grady said caring made him a better police officer.

T J. hoped it was true.

By the time he pulled into Almost forty-five minutes later, the sun hung crimson above the horizon. The windows of the General Mercantile glowed hot and red with the sun's reflection. The distant mountains were hazed with pink. Next would come purple, gathering into the
long velvet shadows of twilight, his favorite time of day. Already the moon hung low, a pale sickle in the darkening turquoise sky.

By sheer habit, T.J. swept his gaze along the street, looking for anything out of the ordinary that would require his professional attention. Three children were laughing, walking hand-in-hand as they crossed to the library. A truck was parked outside Mae's cafe, and Mae's nephew was unloading sacks of cornmeal. T.J. saw Grady's truck parked beside the bank. Near the heart of town, at least a dozen people were milling around outside Almost's historic jail, now a tourist attraction and museum.

T.J. stiffened. What in holy thunder was going on?

Music drifted through the Blazer's open window as T.J. pulled up beside Grady's truck. The high school principal waved to him as she drank from a white Styro-foam cup. Beside her, Doc Felton stood drinking from a similar cup.

As T.J. strode from the car, the music grew louder, its beat sharp and hot, flooded with a brooding bass. Fusion Spanish, he thought. Definitely no? Grady's kind of music.

The door of the historic jail swung open again. People spilled outside in a wave of laughter. T. J. recognized two women from meetings of the town zoning committee. Three others were the wives of ranchers to the north, all with pre-school-age children.

“Evening, Sheriff,” one called gaily. “Mighty nice sunset, isn't it?” T.J. noticed that she had a white cup, too.

He tipped his hat back in answer and managed a smile.

Where was Tess?

Where was Grady?

His grizzled friend emerged a moment later, balancing a tray with a dozen more neat white cups.” Anyone care for refills? Remember, drinks are on the house.”

His words produced the nearest thing T.J. had ever seen to a human stampede. Whatever was in those cups had to be pretty amazing. T.J. hoped it wasn't a controlled substance.

He was striding toward Grady when Doc Felton cut in front of him and slapped him on the back. “This was a damned good idea you had, T.J.”

“What idea?”

“We should do this more often. That young woman is right.”

“Do
what?
”

“Socialize. Laugh. Present our complaints. It improves communication. As a man of medicine, I might even speculate that it lowers blood pressure and reduces systemic stress.” The doctor thrust something into his hand. “Have a cup.”

T.J. looked down.

Not a controlled substance, but the creamy brew in the cup didn't smell like Mae's usual concoction, which was generally strong enough to bend metal. Her late-night specialty at the cafe wasn't called the Yuri Geller Surprise for nothing.

He lowered his head and took a suspicious sniff. “Is this Mae's coffee?”

The doctor laughed. “Miss O'Mara made it. I believe you're holding a double latte.
Skoal.”
He raised his own glass.

T.J. toasted back, took a sip. Definitely not Mae's coffee.

His eyes focused on Grady. “Can I see you for a minute?”

“In a second, Sheriff. Right now I've got to—”

“Now.”
T.J. caught Grady's arm and pulled him away from the others. “Where's Tess?” he hissed.

“She was here a few minutes ago.”

“Amazing as it may seem, that's not a hell of a lot of help.” TJ. took another drink of coffee his gaze sweeping the crowd. “What's going on here?”

“Nothing much. Tess and I took a walk around town. Then some of the boys from the Lazy Y came in, and the high school principal just happened to drop by when the coffee was nearly done.”

“Just happened to drop by?”

“That's right. After that Mae's brother showed up. You know Bob. He works at the Auto Palace.”

“I know Bob,” T.J. said grimly. “What I want to know is where Tess has gone to.”

“There was something wrong with her car. Doc Felton said it might need a new fuel line, so she went out to get something from the trunk. After that she was going to make a call from your office.”

T.J. strode toward Tess's car. “You'd better pray she's there.”

She wasn't at her car.

She wasn't browsing through the Wild West memorabilia in the visitors' room behind the old jail, nor was she admiring the views of the foothills from the garden behind the courthouse.

Where in heaven's name
was
the aggravating female?

T.J. strode into his office, Empty. She wasn't on the cot and she wasn't at his desk making calls.

Fear locked down hard. “Tess?”

He sprinted across the room and threw open the door to his private office, only to find it empty. “Dammit, where are you?”

Something rustled in the bathroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he pulled his Smith & Wesson from his holster. Silently, he inched toward the door, keeping his shoulder to the outside and his right arm free for a clear shot.

Focus.

Breathe.

He balanced on the balls of his feet, leveled his gun, hit the door in one smooth motion. “Police. Don't move,” he growled.

The door snapped open.

Tess stared back at him, white-faced. She had a scrap of lace clutched to her chest and a skimpy pair of electric-blue underwear that clung like a dream to her backside.

And she wasn't wearing a hint of anything else.