Blind Faith (19 page)

"Hands on the roof, keep them where I can see them," Alan ordered.

Sam complied. It was the only way to get the answers he needed. "This your car, Alan? What happened to the Beamer?"

"Had to leave it on the coast when I moved out here to this godforsaken frozen armpit. How did you stand living here for so long, Stan? Must have been hell for a surfer boy like you." When Sam remained silent, Alan crossed around to the other side of the car, resting his gun along the roof, aiming at Sam. "These folks think I'm a goody-two shoes victims' rights lawyer, so had to look the part. Of course, when I started I had no idea it would take two fucking years out of my life. But now," he rapped the gun against the roof top, "you're about to make it worth my while. Give me the account passwords. Tell me and I'll let you live."

"Yeah, right. Just long enough for Korsakov to kill me. Don't try to kid a kidder, Alan. I learned from a master, remember?"

Alan nodded, accepting Sam's backhanded compliment. "And here I thought you were too lazy to pay attention to anything but where your next wave and next lay were coming from. You set this up from the beginning, didn't you?"

"Most of it," Sam admitted. Best way to get the information he needed was to keep Alan talking. Lord knew, Alan loved nothing more than to hear himself talking.

"Once I figured out what was going on, I went back, re-traced your steps. You took your time—maneuvering, pinching a little here and there. Once you had the money, why not just take it and go? Why turn Korsakov into the Feds? You knew that was signing your death warrant."

Sam's fingers scratched along the roof, curling with frustration. He needed to get to Sarah, get her out of here, to safety. But he couldn't—not without coming to an accommodation with Alan. Or killing him.

Of course, the nine millimeter semi-automatic hovering three feet away from him made the last option a bit more difficult. He still had Richland's gun tucked in his waistband beneath his flannel shirt. Every time he touched the weapon he felt the burn of a bullet slamming into his own side. Sam had never killed anyone in his life. He wondered if he had the nerve to do it now.

His scar itched and sweat gathered where his T-shirt was tucked into his jeans. If the choice came down to Sarah's life and Alan's it would be an easy one to make. Even if it might mean his death as well.

But what he really needed were answers. And time. Time to talk to Sarah, let her know where to go to find Josh, who to trust—and who not to. "It was the Feds that led you here, two years ago, wasn't it?"

Alan nodded. "I know some people in the FBI and they have connections. Marshal Richland was becoming disillusioned protecting crooks and thieves like you. He set you up. Only cost me a hundred thousand. Cheap when you think of the payoff waiting for me."

"How'd you get Damian Wright to come here? Why'd you let him kill those other boys?"

"Richland orchestrated that—I only paid the bills. Although I did sweet-talk Damian into lying his way onto the fast track to lethal injection once Richland went missing and everything fell apart." Alan shrugged. "Nothing went as planned, but things still worked out my way. Just like they always do."

"Why did Wright confess to killing me and Josh?" Sam asked the questions that had been nagging at him ever since that awful, bloody night two years ago. "And how did you get him to waive his appeals, plead guilty?"

Alan's teeth gleamed like a predator's in the moonlight. "That was the easiest part of all. Didn't cost me anything. Turns out Damian always knew he'd be caught someday. He had a fantasy of his life story becoming the next Hollywood blockbuster. Even knew who he wanted to play the lead—Tom Cruise. So all I had to do was dummy up some contracts guaranteeing Tom Cruise as the star of the Damian Wright Story, production to begin no later than one year after Damian' death." Alan's laughter sliced through the night. "After that, Damian was in a rush to die, couldn't wait to get the needle so ol' Tom could make him immortal."

Darkness gathered around them. Two old friends chatting under a full moon. Except one of them was a heartless killer and the other was running for his life.

"Poor Sarah," Alan continued. "You should have seen her after Wright died without telling her where you and little Josh were buried. It almost broke her. Good thing I'm here to pick up the pieces. We're getting married."

"Like hell you are!"

"Who's going to stop us? A dead husband with a price on his head? You going to run shouting up the church aisle, stop the wedding and put her in Korsakov's sights? No way, you know what Korsakov is capable of, you've seen it first hand."

Acid burned Sam's throat as he fought against a wave of nausea. He did indeed know what the Russian was capable of. He'd watched and listened for over two hours as a man screamed and begged for mercy. Korsakov's response had been to peel the flesh from the man's face and then burn his eyes out with a plumber's torch.

"You can't let him get Sarah." He forced the words past his clenched jaws. "Please, if you care anything at all about her—"

Alan's chuckle wasn't the answer he'd hoped for. "Oh my heavens! You dumb bastard. You really did come back for her, and not the money? Hell must be freezing over because I would have bet good money that no woman would ever make you think about anyone but yourself." He cocked his head, staring at Sam as if he were a zoo specimen.

Sam bit back his retort, not wanting to make things worse than they already were. Alan now knew his weakness and that was dangerous for both him and Sarah. He was tempted to reach for his gun, had never felt more ready to kill a man. But he needed to know what Korsakov had planned, who else knew he was alive. Just taking Sarah wouldn't be enough, even if he were able to get her across the border—not if Korsakov had the Feds in his pocket.

After everything they'd been through, Korsakov was going to win after all. But maybe he could at least save Sarah and Josh. Give Sarah back her son, Josh back his mother, earn a small piece of redemption for himself.

Sam stared into the soulless eyes of his former best friend. The only way to ensure Sarah and Josh's safety was to buy Alan's loyalty. Sam knew all too well the price he'd have to pay.

"Is that why you didn't touch the money all this time?" Alan continued. "I thought you were being especially careful, were suspicious that someone was on to you. But that wasn't it, was it? You were waiting until you could come back for the girl. How deliciously romantic!"

"You want the money, you can have it. All of it." Sam tried giving Alan what he wanted. "Just leave Sarah out of it. Let her go and I'll get you the money."

"Fool me once, old boy," Alan replied with a shake of his head. "Besides, you've been legally declared dead. Far easier for me to kill you, marry her, arrange a little accident and then claim the money as her heir. A lot less worry and hassle for me that way."

Alan raised the gun, aiming it between Sam's eyes. Sam stood his ground, met his oldest friend's gaze. Jeezit, if Alan was ready to kill Sarah for forty-two million dollars, how much would it take to convince him to let her live? His scar began to throb as he forced himself to smile at Alan.

"A lot less hassle, but a lot less money." Sam stopped there, dangling the bait. The only time he'd ever seen Alan make a mistake it had been fueled by greed. That was how Alan had gotten in deep with Korsakov to start with.

Alan's eyes narrowed. He licked his lips. "What are you talking about?"

"You found one account—my safety net. How'd you like access to three times as much money?"

The gun didn't waver but Alan went rigid. "A hundred twenty million? How?"

"Probably a bit more than that by now. The feds didn't get all of Korsakov's funds—and I'm the only one who knows where they are." He paused, watching as Alan's mouth tightened with greed. Gotcha. "Of course, we'll have to hurry. Korsakov's getting out."

"Got out. Today," Alan said absently. He drummed the fingers of his free hand against the Volvo's roof.

Sam weighed the odds of his being able to reach his gun and kill Alan before Alan could fire. Pretty damn poor. And if he was dead, who would save Sarah? Time to push the lie. "I'll make you a bargain. You let me take Sarah to Josh and I'll get you the money and I'll make sure Korsakov never knows you have it."

"No way I'm letting you out of my sight."

Sam shrugged. "Fine. Kill me now. Korsakov will find you and kill you long before you have a chance to enjoy a dime."

Alan tapped the gun in annoyance as he considered Sam's offer. A stray wrinkle appeared between his brows, a sign of real concern. The only other time Sam had seen him this worried was after Alan's Grand Jury testimony during Korsakov's trial. The lawyer had tap-danced his way out of that, protecting both himself and his employer in the process.

The wrinkle quickly disappeared and Alan's customary expression of smug superiority slid back over his features. "No. You go get the kid, bring him here."

Sam wasn't about to bring Josh anywhere near here. Not with Korsakov on the way and Alan on a rampage. "I'm not going anywhere until I talk to Sarah and see her safely out of here. Away from Korsakov."

Alan shook his head sadly. "No can do. That little lady is my ace in the hole." He tapped the gun on the roof, producing a hollow thud that sent a ripple of fear down Sam's spine. "I like Sarah, I really do. But if I don't have the money in twenty-four hours, I'll tell Korsakov where to find her. She can run, but she can't hide, not from Korsakov. She'll die cursing your name with her last breath."

Sam swallowed hard. Alan's expression and voice never varied even as he condemned Sarah to an unimaginable death. Sam tried to speak but couldn't force words past the knot in his throat as an image of Sarah, her skin ravaged and raw, her screams shrill with terror, filled his mind.

"Don't even think about trying to kill me," Alan continued. "I'm not in this alone. Anything happens to me, Sarah dies."

Alan opened his car door. "Now that we have an understanding, get in the car. We'll do this together."

Sam knew that if he did, he was as good as dead. Probably Sarah as well. "No."

Alan jerked up, surprised at Sam's defiance. "Excuse me? Do you really want me to go get Sarah? Shoot her here and now?"

Now it was Sam's turn to smile. It was a fake grin, took all his will power to keep his mouth stretched wide. "You can't do that, Alan. She's your ace in the hole. I just need a little time. I'll meet you back here tomorrow night."

"Not good enough. Korsakov could be here by then. Why should I risk letting you out of my sight?"

"What have you got to lose? You still have Sarah. You know I won't let anything happen to her."

"If you're not back here by midnight tomorrow, I swear, money or no money, I'll kill her myself."

Sam's pulse beat in his temples as a red haze of rage swept over him. "Not going to happen, Alan."

"It will if you try anything funny. That's a promise, old friend. One wrong move and Sarah's dead."

Caitlyn and Hal reached his SUV. Darkness had fallen swiftly, transforming the funeral home into a looming hulk casting a menacing shadow. This time she allowed Hal to hold the door open for her and accepted his hand as she climbed into the passenger's seat. He spread her suit jacket across the rear seat, dwarfed by the folds of Hal's black and blue neoprene wetsuit.

"You still look a little queasy," he said, standing in the open door, his hand lingering on her arm.

The raised seat allowed Caitlyn to finally meet his gaze head on. "A little," she admitted, surprising herself.

"Mind if I try something?" Before she could answer, he reached for her wrist and used his fingers to press down on two areas on either side.

At first all she felt was the pressure against her wrist bones. Then slowly, like a breeze traveling down a mountain ridge, forcing the trees before it to bow to its will, her nausea vanished.

She gasped. It was the first time in two years she hadn't felt turbulence splashing through her gut. Hal smiled, his teeth were a little crooked and stained yellow, but the dimple his smile unmasked overshadowed those small imperfections. He strolled around to the driver's side, his boots crunching in the gravel like a gunslinger's.

"How did you do that?" she asked after he climbed in and began to pilot them back up the mountain to Hopewell.

"My wife, Lily, she taught me lots of stuff like that. Holistic healing. We'd go to seminars on yoga, acupressure, tantric sex, herbal medicine. She even had her a bee hive, used to harvest the queen's jelly, make a special tonic from it." He paused for a moment, the dashboard lights revealing the spasm of his jaw muscle. "When she left, so did the bees."

Caitlyn laid a hand on his leg. Nothing sexual, merely a comforting touch. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Well." He gripped the wheel in silence, then abruptly turned to her, his voice bright. "So, where are you from, Agent Tierney?"

She sat back in her seat feeling blissfully free. No headache, no nausea, no motion sickness. She felt almost normal. "Believe it or not, Chief, I'm from a town even smaller than Hopewell."

"No sir."

"Yes. Evergreen, North Carolina. Population 318. We didn't have our own police force. Cherokee County Sheriff was the best we had to bring law and order to our mountain."

"You don't sound like a Southerner."

She swallowed hard against the memories the funeral carnations had resurrected. "When I was nine, we moved up to Chambersburg, Pennsylvania to live with my father's mother."

"Chambersburg. That's right outside of Gettysburg, right?"

"I soon learned my accent didn't endear me to the locals. But it was all right. My dad grew up there and he never had a Southern accent. So I learned to talk like he did."

"Your dad a law man?"

"Deputy Sheriff."

"Uh huh. Thought as much." His hands gracefully steered them around a hairpin curve. "Killed in the line, was he?"

"Something like that. How'd you know?" She'd been asked the question so many times that avoiding the truth came natural. But for some reason, this time, she felt a twinge of guilt after lying to him.