Into the Fire (36 page)

Nash savagely cut her off, his hand out, one finger up, as if warning her not to come closer. “
You
stay the fuck away from me. I don’t need your
help.
”

“That kind of language isn’t necessary.” Dave was somehow channeling Decker. All trepidation and uncertainty were gone, and he seemed almost taller and broader. And absolute. “We all agreed to talk to Dr. Heissman. If it’s not going to be now, it’s going to be later. You can make this worse, James, or you can—”

“I changed my mind,” Nash said, his voice harsh, loud. “I’m not talking to her.” He spat at her. “Fuck you.”

Dr. Heissman didn’t so much as flinch, but Tess was aghast. “Jimmy!”

He turned back to her. “And
fuck
you, too, for making this so hard. I’m done, okay?
I’m
done.”

He turned and walked away, with long, hurried strides that put him nearly around the side of the motel before anyone could speak, move, breathe.

Tess broke this new, awful silence. “I love you,” she called after him, anguish in her voice.

Nash didn’t stop, didn’t turn around. He just kept walking.

Dave was ready to follow him and try to beat some sense into him. Sophia could see it.

But Tracy had her phone out and open, and she crossed the parking lot now, holding it out toward Dave. “Decker’s been trying to reach you,” she told him. “The FBI just called. They located Murphy. He’s at a hospital in Sacramento, in the ER—with a gunshot wound.”

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

S
ACRAMENTO
, C
ALIFORNIA

M
urphy had been shot, too.

One of the emergency room nurses had noticed that he’d started leaving behind a sneaker-print of blood, and he was now up on the bed next to Hannah’s.

They’d been moved into a more private room a few minutes ago—it came with a door that closed. And an armed police guard outside that door. Murphy’d noticed that, too. He nodded when Hannah’d met his gaze.

No doubt the police on the scene had entered their names into the system, and his had come up red-flagged.
Wanted for questioning by the FBI…

“You okay?” Murphy asked her for the twentieth time.

Hannah nodded. Again. “I’m not the one who didn’t know I was shot,” she pointed out.

“I honestly didn’t feel it,” he told her, wincing as the doctor cut open the leg of his jeans. “I do now.”

It wasn’t that much of a surprise that he hadn’t felt it—and it wasn’t a bullet, it was a ricochet—a piece of wood from the stairs, lodged in his muscular calf. He hadn’t felt much of anything because he’d gone a little crazy in the moment.

Hannah could only imagine the awful sense of déjà vu Murphy must’ve been having. The blood from the bullet that had passed neatly through the fleshy part of her arm had sprayed her face and gotten in her hair. She must’ve looked as if she’d taken a hit directly to the head.

The way Angelina had.

Murphy’s face was still a little red where Hannah had slapped him. She’d needed his ears—needed him to stop shouting. She’d needed him in the here and now, not flung back to that terrible evening, all those years ago.

He’d thrown up again, after they’d gotten to the hospital. And he’d even cried a little, too, holding Hannah so close, she almost had trouble breathing.

Or maybe she was the one who held him that tightly—she wasn’t quite sure.

The police had been willing to wait to ask most of their questions—they’d gotten Hannah into an ambulance within moments of their arrival at Steve and Paul’s apartment. Murphy’d insisted that he ride with her.

Was the shooting gang related?

That was the question of the hour, asked not just by the police but by the hospital personnel as well. Their concern was understandable. If there was some kind of gangland fatwa going down, they wanted to know about it before it came bursting in through the hospital’s automatic doors.

Problem was, it was Murphy whom they looked at sideways, as if, had there actually been gang violence, he was either the target or to blame.

He’d rolled his eyes and shrugged it off, but Hannah was offended for him.

“We’ll let the anesthesia take hold before I go digging around in there,” the doctor announced before vanishing out the door.

Leaving them alone for the first time since the police burst through Steve and Paul’s kitchen door.

“I don’t get it,” Hannah said. “Why would the Freedom Network follow us?”

Murphy shook his head. “God, I’m sorry, Han,” he said. “I thought I made sure they weren’t. Following us. I was careful, but…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she told him.

“Apparently not careful enough,” he finished, misery on his face. “I almost got you killed.”

“But you didn’t,” she said. “Instead you saved my life. Let’s focus on why they followed us. Not how they did it or whose fault it is that they found us—shit! GPS, Murph. If you didn’t see anyone…”

“There was no one behind us,” Murphy told her again. “No cars. No one to see.” He realized what she’d said. “But a GPS tracking device? How…?”

“That crowd in the parking lot.”

He stared at her. “The hikers?”

Hannah nodded. “Maybe they weren’t really hikers.” And if one of them had attached a portable GPS device…

Murphy just shook his head in disbelief.

“There was enough time,” Hannah persisted. Even moving at highest possible speed, it had taken them close to two hours to get from the fence back to the car. “We set off the alarm back in the compound, everyone’s on high alert, right? So Craig Reed sends his Freedom Network minions out to all the parking lots near the popular hiking trails outside the compound—not to stop us—we’re armed and dangerous—just to monitor us—to be able to follow us. We fit the description given by the guards who saw us—so the minions-slash-fake-hikers call in to the mothership and let Reed know that the GPS they attached to the white Volkswagen Rabbit with Alaskan plates in lot six is live and running.”

“Why?” Murphy said, clearly not buying it. “Those miniature GPS things cost money. We’re out of there—we’re gone. Why the hell come after us and try to kill us?”

“Maybe it was only meant to be a warning,” Hannah theorized. “Shots fired across our figurative bow.”

“No,” Murphy was positive. “That first shot? Han, you sat down and…If you hadn’t, that bullet would’ve been square in your face. I saw where it hit.” He looked green, as if he were going to get sick again.

“I’m okay,” she reminded him. But, God. She hadn’t realized that. If Murphy hadn’t written that note—that she
still
hadn’t read, because her pathetic, mixed-up feelings—including jealousy of her dead best friend, way to go—were extremely low priority at this point. “So why do they want us dead?”

“Maybe they know something we don’t know,” Murphy said grimly.

“Such as?”

“Maybe they have proof that I killed Tim Ebersole,” he told her. “And now? They probably think you helped me do it, too.”

S
AN
D
IEGO
, C
ALIFORNIA

Eden was quiet as she followed Izzy up the stairs to his apartment.

She’d slept most of the long ride home from Las Vegas. Izzy’d turned on the radio—the rental car got XM satellite, which was sweet—and had cruised, flipping back and forth between the sounds of the sixties and the seventies.

They’d actually played
The Night Chicago Died,
which had made him want to wake up Eden, to share it with her. But she was so freaking young, she’d probably never heard the song before and upon listening would stare at him as if he were out of his mind. And he’d have to explain that he only knew it himself because his oldest brother was fifteen years his senior, and it was the song’s off-the-chart dork-factor that made it great and…nevermind.

And then they’d both sit there, uncomfortably, listening—nah-neh-
nah,
nah-neh-
nah,
neh-neh-
nah
-nah—thinking,
Holy shit, what have I done?

Instead, he’d let her sleep.

And tried not to think about anything at all.

Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me…

Come and get your love…

If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true…?

Baby, baby, try to find, hey hey hey, a little time and I’ll make you happy…

I don’t know where, but she sends me there…

Wild thing, you make my heart sing…

Baby baby, feels like maybe, things will be alright…

Izzy now fumbled the key into the lock as Eden looked around the neatly manicured courtyard.

“It’s so quiet here,” she whispered.

“The complex has strict rules and restrictions about noise at night,” Izzy told her, which was a stupid-ass thing to come out of his mouth. Rules and restrictions? Since when did he aspire to be the world’s hall monitor? He pushed the door open and stepped back to let her go in first.

But, “I understand,” she said as she went past him. Her hair was still up, and despite the too-large tent of a hand-me-down maternity dress that she was wearing, she managed to look beautiful. She smelled really good, too.

Too good.

Izzy turned on as many lights as he could after he closed the door behind him. Yup, the place was a total cluttered craphole.

But Eden didn’t seem to notice. She just stood there, in the middle of his living room, looking as nervous as he felt.

“This is…weirder than I thought it would be,” she said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Sorry about the mess.”

She glanced around her, then, at his various piles of laundry, at the pizza boxes, the empty bottles of beer, his dive suit dangling from the dining area ceiling fan like a hanging victim, his guitar, which he’d taken to playing again, these past six months, the box of rock-climbing gear that he’d dumped onto the floor in his search—last month—for the right size clip, and, of course, a virtual mountain range of video games.

“If you want,” she said, “I’ll clean the apartment first thing in the morning.”

“
We’ll
clean it up in the morning,” he said.

Eden nodded. “Of course. You can show me where everything goes.”

That wasn’t why he’d said
we.
What was it with this girl? She was either submissive to the point of creepiness or talking about three-ways with his super-religious friend.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked, going into the kitchen, flipping on all of those lights, too. Please Jesus, let him have beer in the fridge. He opened it and…jackpot. He found his bottle opener and damn! She was right behind him—she’d followed him in.

“If I’m going to live here,” she said, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few short seconds, because she was currently in her where’s-my-burka mode, “you shouldn’t be getting me…things.”

“Please help yourself,” Izzy said. “There’s soda in the fridge, although…” He opened it and checked again. “Nothing without caffeine.” He’d noticed over the past few days that she was staying away from it.

“That’s okay. I’ve really been trying to stick with milk and water,” she told him, opening cabinets until she found his glasswear, most of it beer pints with the logo from the Ladybug Lounge. She took one, went to the tap and filled it, then took a sip.

“We’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow,” he told her. “I’m pretty sure the milk in the fridge is from last October.”

Her smile was a ghost of its usual brilliance. “I appreciate the warning.”

The kitchen was a mess, too. The dinner he’d never eaten because Gillman punched him in the face was still in the microwave. Damn, when he opened that, it was going to smell like rotting ass. The past two days had surely taken their toll. Best to wait until Eden wasn’t in the room. Pregnant women and bad smells were not a good combo. He knew that one from experience.

Izzy finished half his beer in one long pull, aware that she was watching him. Expectantly. As if awaiting further instructions. His gorgeous new Stepford bride.
Rumor has it I give good head.

Fuck that. “Stop,” he said, much too loudly, and she actually flinched.

But instead of dropping to her knees in total submission, she got defensive. “I’m not doing anything,” she said, but she was obviously working to keep from sounding too hostile.

So he pushed it. “Yeah, you are,” he said. “You’re…” What? Too hot? Too pretty? Too wearing his wedding ring? “Just…stop, okay?”

“I’m looking at you,” she said, unable to disguise her annoyance. “I’m thinking. I’m drinking water. Which of those is the big problem for you?”

“You’re waiting for…something,” he accused her. “You’re freaking me out.”

“You’re freaking
me
out,” she shot back. “And if I
am
waiting? Maybe it’s for you to turn back into Izzy instead of this…angry, too-polite stranger.” She put her glass down on the counter and wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were cold. Or maybe as if she were trying to rein herself in. “You know, if you’re having seconds thoughts, we can get it undone. What’s it called? Annulled.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not having second thoughts,” Izzy admitted. “I’m having twenty-second thoughts.”

Again she flinched as if he’d smacked her. “And you’re mad at
me
?” she asked, all pretense of patience and obedience kicked out the window as she let fly with what she was really thinking. “What kind of idiot are you? If you didn’t want to get married…If I’m going to live with someone who’s mad at me for no good reason, I might as well go back and stay with my mother and Greg!”

“I’m not mad at you,” Izzy told her just as heatedly. “I’m mad at me.”

“Yeah, well, big diff,” she said, heavy on the attitude. “Either way? Right now? You’re not much fun to be around.”

“Fun?” He couldn’t believe it. “You thought fucking up my life would be
fun
?”

Okay, so that was much too harsh, and indeed, she took a solid step back, bumping the counter. “No! I just…” She was stricken, but before he could backpedal and apologize, she got her mad back on. “God, you
are
an idiot! It was
your idea.
And
I’m
an idiot, too, because I actually thought it wouldn’t be awful. Guess I’m
wrong
again.” She exhaled her disgust. “I thought you were different. Everyone wants me to be ashamed or…remorseful. To walk around apologetic and…and…mournful because I made some terrible mistake and got knocked up. But I’m not going to do that. I’m
not
ashamed. I married you because it was okay with you when I laughed. Because I thought you were funny and…Because this is my life that I’m living—right now—and if I’ve got to spend the next three months with someone, I thought that it wouldn’t suck too badly if it was you.”

“Oh,
that’s
nice,” he said.

She started to cry—and was obviously furious at herself for it. “And if I looked like I was waiting? You were right. I was.” Her sadness overcame her anger and she crumbled. “I was waiting for you to turn back into your real self and put your arms around me and tell me that you know I’m scared, but it’s okay because everything’s going to be all right.”

Way to be a total, solid piece of shit. Izzy’s own anger instantly evaporated and he reached for her, wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m completely fucking this up.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she sobbed. “I was waiting for you to tell me what to do. I know what you want, at least I think I do, but I don’t know how to give it to you. I don’t know how to be that person.”