The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (111 page)

They approached the time Tawney had predicted she’d be home before they left the prison behind. Fiona kept the window of the car open, breathed in the air.

“I can use my phone now? I need to let Simon and Sylvia know I’m delayed.”

“Go ahead. I contacted your stepmother,” Tawney told her. “I left Simon a voice mail. He didn’t answer his phone.”

“Between the machines and the music in his shop, he never hears the phone. But Syl would let him know. She’s taking my classes this afternoon. I’ll wait until we’re about to board the plane.”

“Erin said you didn’t eat.”

“Still a little unsteady in that area. You have to tell me something. You have to tell me if this helped.”

“You’re going to be disappointed.”

“Oh.”

“Disappointed that Erin’s back there on the phone right now, checking out some of the information Perry gave us, coordinating agents to various mail drops Perry said he lined up to contact Eckle over the next few weeks. He gave us locations, trolling sites they agreed on and the two alternate identities Eckle’s using.”

“Thank God.”

“He wants Eckle to go down. One, because he’s no longer subservient, no longer obedient. And two—and I believe this cemented it—he doesn’t want you to win again. He doesn’t want to risk you going up against Eckle and winning. You convinced him not only that you could, that you would, but that you were looking forward to it. Hell, you convinced me.”

“I’d just as soon not have to try to prove it.”

Mantz returned. “We’ve got agents on the way to the locations he gave us, and a team to the trolling site, which geographically should be next on Eckle’s list. We have another taking Kellworth’s college, as that should have been his target for this time frame. He could repeat there if he decides to go back to Perry’s game plan.”

“I don’t see that,” Tawney said, “but it’s better to cover it.”

“We’ve issued a BOLO for Eckle, including his aliases. And we got a jackpot, Tawney. We have a 2005 Ford Taurus, California plates, issued to one of those aliases. John William Mitchell.”

Tawney reached over to lay a hand briefly on Fiona’s. “You’re not going to have to prove anything.”

 

 

MIDAFTERNOON , MY ASS , Simon thought. At this rate, they’d be lucky if she made it home by six. Hearing her on his voice mail helped, but he wasn’t going to be able to relax until he saw her for himself.

He’d kept busy, and having Syl pinch-hitting on the classes saved him from a trip to town as she’d hauled off the new stock he’d finished. Plus, she’d made him lunch. Not a bad deal.

He set the last of the window boxes he’d spent most of his day making on its bracket, then walked back into the front yard, surrounded by the pack of dogs who’d rarely left his side all day, to view the results.

“Not bad,” he murmured.

He hadn’t used the design Fiona cadged from Meg—what would be the point in making something you could buy in a damn catalog? Anyway, his were better. He liked the marriage of mahogany and teak, the slightly rounded shapes, the interest of the Celtic design he’d carved into the wood.

Needed hot colors in the flowers, he decided. And if she tried to do some wussy pastels, she’d have to try again.

Strong, hot colors—nonnegotiable. What was the point in planting flowers if they didn’t make a statement?

When the dogs turned as one, he swung around himself. He thought,
Thank God ,
when he saw the car on his drive.

He had to force himself not to race to the car, pluck her right out through the window and check every inch of her to make sure she was untouched, unhurt, unchanged.

He waited, with roiling impatience, while she sat, speaking to the agents. They’ve had you all day, he thought. Say good-fucking-bye and come home. Be home.

Then she got out, walked to him. He barely noticed the car drive away.

He heard her laugh as the dogs surged to greet her, watched color bloom in her cheeks as she stroked and ruffled. My turn, he thought, and moved toward them.

“Back off,” he ordered the dogs, then just stood looking at her. “Took you long enough.”

“It feels even longer from this side. I need a hug. A really long, hard hug. Crack my ribs, will you, Simon?”

He put his arms around her, gave her what she needed short of snapping bones. Then he kissed the top of her head, her temples, her mouth.

“Better, better.” She sighed it out. “So much better. You smell so good. Sawdust and dogs and the forest. You smell like home. I’m so glad to be home.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m okay. I’ll tell you all about it. I want to shower first. I know it’s completely in my head, but I feel . . . I just need a shower. Then maybe we can toss a frozen pizza in the oven, crack a bottle, and I’ll . . . You made window boxes.”

“I had some spare time today since you weren’t around interrupting me.”

“You made window boxes,” she murmured. “They’re so . . . just exactly right. Thank you.”

“They’re my window boxes on my house.”

“Absolutely. Thank you.”

He yanked her back into his arms. “Making them kept me from going crazy. Syl and I worked on keeping each other from going crazy. You should call her.”

“I did. I called her, my mother and Mai from the ferry.”

“Good, then it’s just you and me. And them,” he added as the dogs sat at their feet. “Have your shower. I’ll deal with the pizza.” But he caught her chin in his hand, held it while he searched her face. “He didn’t touch you.”

“Not the way he hoped, no.”

“Then I can wait for the rest. I’m hungry anyway.”

 

 

THEY ATE OUTSIDE on the back porch with the sun beaming through the trees and the birds trilling like mad things. Outside, Simon thought, where it made a point. They were free. Perry wasn’t.

Her voice stayed steady as she took him through it, step-by-step.

“I don’t know where some of it came from. I’d worked it out in my head, the approach, the tone, the basic thrust, but some of it was just there, coming out of my mouth before it really seemed to plant in my head. Telling him if Eckle kills other women it has nothing to do with me. I’m usually a lousy liar. It’s just not natural to me, so I tend to fumble it. But it just flowed right out, smooth and cold.”

“And he bought it.”

“Apparently so. He gave them what they were after: locations, mail drops, aliases. They tracked a car and plates with one of the aliases. They’ve got agents scrambling out to do what they do.”

“And you’re out of it.”

“Oh God, Simon, I really think I am.” She lifted her hands, pressed her fingers to her eyes for a moment. “I really think I am. And more, it was so different from what I expected, what I’d prepared for.”

“How?”

“He was so angry. Perry. I expected him to be smug, full of himself and his ability to pull all these strings even from prison. And he was, on one level. But under it there was all this anger and frustration. And seeing that,
knowing
that, seeing where he is, how he looks, it felt—feels . . .”

She fisted a hand on the table, studied it. “Solid. It feels hard and strong and solid.” She lifted her gaze again, the soft blue clear again, calm again. “It feels over. What was between him and me, still there in the shadows and the dark, it’s done now. We’re finished.”

“Good.” He heard the truth of it, felt it—and realized that until that moment, he’d carried those shadows inside him, too. “Then it was worth it. But until Eckle is in the same place, things stay the same here. No chances, Fiona.”

“I can live with that. I’ve got window boxes, and pizza.” She unfisted her hand, reached for his. “And you. So.” She took a long breath. “Tell me something else. What did you do besides window boxes?”

“I’ve got a few things going. Let’s take a walk.”

“Beach or woods?”

“Woods first, then beach. I need to find another stump.”

“Simon! You sold the sink.”

“I’m keeping that one, but Syl got a look at it and says she’s got a client who’ll want one.”

“You’re keeping it.”

“Half-bath downstairs needs a bump.”

“It’ll be fabulous.” She glanced over at the dogs, back at Simon. Her guys, she thought. “Come on, boys. Let’s go help Simon find a stump.”

ECKLE FELT SOMETHING, too. He felt freedom.

A new task, a new agenda. New prey.

He knew he’d severed the strings that held him to Perry, and rather than falling limp, an untethered marionette, he stood strong and vital. He experienced a new sense of self, one he’d never felt before, not even when Perry had helped him reach inside to the man he’d hidden for so many years.

He owed Perry a debt for that, and one he fully intended to pay. But the debt was one of student to teacher. A true teacher, a wise teacher knew the student must step away, must carve his own path once the roadbed was laid.

He’d read, with interest and pride, the article in
U.S. Report
. He critiqued the style, the voice, the content, and gave Kati Starr a solid B.

As he would have done in his other life, he edited, corrected, made suggestions in red pen.

He could help her improve, he had no doubt of it. And he’d considered communicating with her, collaborating, so to speak, to give her series of articles more depth.

He’d never realized how addictive notoriety could be, how
piquant
the flavor once tasted. But his new self wanted more sly licks and nibbled bites before the end. He wanted to feast. To gorge.

He wanted to sate himself on legacy.

As he’d studied his potential student’s habits, routines, read her other articles, researched her personal and professional data, he detected in her what he’d often seen in his own students.

Particularly the females.

Bright, clever Kati was, in his opinion, too headstrong, too rash, too sure of herself. She was a manipulator, and wouldn’t take instruction or constructive criticism well.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be useful.

The more he observed, the more he learned, the more he wanted. She would be his next and, in a very real way, his first even as she might be his last. His own choice, rather than a mirror of Perry’s needs.

She was older, not particularly athletic. More inclined to hours at a desk, a keyboard, a phone than physical pursuits.

Yes, she showed off her body, he thought, but didn’t tend it, didn’t discipline it. If she lived she’d grow soft and fat and slow.

Really, he’d be doing her a favor, ending it while she was still young and smooth and tight.

He’d been busy during his time in Seattle. He’d changed his license plates twice and had the car painted. Now when he returned to Orcas any cops watching the ferry traffic wouldn’t note the return of the car—not that he gave barely educated hayseeds that much credit.

Still, Perry had schooled him carefully on precaution.

He considered the best time and location to take her, then simply waited for Seattle’s weather to give him the final element.

 

 

KATI SHOT UP her umbrella and stepped out into the drenching rain and gloom. She’d worked late, polishing up some details on her next article. For now, she didn’t mind inhabiting a cubicle in a small building in the rainy Northwest.

It served as a stepping-stone.

Her series was gaining her the attention she wanted, not only from readers but from the powers that be. If she could keep the heat turned up, just a little longer, she had every reason to believe she’d be packing her laptop and looking for an apartment in New York.

Fiona Bristow, George Perry and RSKII created and stamped her ticket out of Seattle and into the Big Apple. And it was there she’d shop her book.

She needed to crack Fiona open a bit, she thought as she dug for her keys. And it wouldn’t hurt for RSKII to take another coed, keep that flame high—and her byline front and center.

Of course, if the feds broke the case, that wouldn’t hurt either. She had sources primed, including the one who’d fed her the information that the Tawney-Mantz team had interviewed Perry again that day—and the fresh, hot juice that Fiona had joined in.

Face-to-face with the man who abducted her, killed her lover. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall in that room. But even without the access, she’d gotten enough from her sources for a solid piece—above the fold—for tomorrow’s edition.

She hit the unlock button on her key ring and in the flash of lights saw the flat rear tire.

“Crap. Crap!” She hurried closer to make certain. Even as she turned, digging into her bag for her phone, he boiled out of the gloom.

Out of nowhere, no more than a blur.