The Right Kind of Trouble (36 page)

Logically, he knew that dead weight was just that. Dead weight. She might only weigh roughly one hundred twenty pounds, but that weight seemed magnified when she hung limp over his shoulder.

He didn't have time to spare either.

He suspected half the dose he'd given her had been wasted, and he couldn't risk giving her more. Not with her small frame and her tendency to react badly with medication anyway.

The single dose he'd given her earlier should have only put her under for an hour, but she'd been unconscious for nearly three. He'd needed her to sleep longer this time and had prepped a dose that he would have thought would suffice, but after how long she'd stayed asleep, he'd modified it slightly, squeezing half a milliliter out.

Then she'd gone and fucked things up good and proper, jamming that blanket into him as he'd gone to inject her, as if she'd known.

She slept now, but he didn't have the time he'd hoped for to prepare her.

They had to hurry.

Off to the northeast, he could hear dogs barking.

That stubborn old git who'd caused trouble early on.

Charles hated those miserable dogs. He wished they'd just turn on their master.

It had been nearly ten minutes since he'd started down a path he knew like the back of his hand. The barking had stopped maybe five minutes earlier and he breathed a sigh of relief when he caught sight of the small boat, powered by a quiet little trolling motor.

He dumped Moira into the boat and then slid in as well, sitting down. The motor purred to life. A cold breeze blew off the Mississippi but he had worn a coat, prepared for the chill. Moira shivered by his feet. He ignored it. She didn't need to be comfortable now, did she?

The low-lying branches bent over the river, forming a tunnel of sorts. This was one of the few places he actually enjoyed here. If he couldn't be at Edgeworth House, then this place was one of the few he wanted to be. Edgeworth House … the house his father had been forced out of when he'd only been a boy, recently orphaned.

Of course, he'd take the place that
should
be his.

McKay's Treasure.

Here, people hailed that worthless sod Patrick McKay as a hero, but they didn't know what Charles knew. Patrick had been a vile, violent man. The men he'd taken onto that boat he piloted up and down the river had been former pirates, yet he had the nerve to act outraged when others looked to the river for a profit themselves.

He'd just wanted it all for himself.

As he cut through the water, Charles heard his father's voice, reading the stories from the journal to him. That journal and a few other trinkets, a locket that had belonged to Elizabeth … all that was left of the Whitehall family.

Do you think it's still there?
Charles imagined he was asking his father the question again.

George would suck on his pipe and ponder the night sky.
Who is to say, boy? McKay was like any Scot—crazy and paranoid. Sly, though. Very sly. He went aground once, just before he would have been ambushed, they say. Old Whitehall wrote in his journal that people said the water would talk to him. Maybe it did, because no pirate alive ever got his hands on McKay. McKay, though, he got his hands on many a pirate and he stole the treasure from many a pirate. And Whitehall says he buried some of it in the very cove where the pirates tried to end him.

Do you think it really happened?

There's no telling, boy.
Then he'd smile at Charles, his teeth a bit crooked and yellow from the smoke. He looked rakish, Charles had always thought. Like a pirate himself.

Charles had spent a great deal of his life hunting down artifacts and treasures for others all for one simple purpose. The better he became at it, the more he would learn about the art of
finding
things.

Because there was an art to it.

Coming here all those years ago had been a strategic move and it had allowed him the time to begin his own search.

Moira might insist no such treasure existed, but she was wrong.

The town whispered of it.

Entire legends were based on it.

And every legend began somewhere … many even had a thread of truth.

Charles was willing to lay odds that this was one of them.

At his feet, Moira moaned.

He smiled down at her and stroked her hair.

“Soon,” he murmured. “Soon.”

*   *   *

Zeke had seen weirder things for certain.

However, he couldn't recall if there had ever been a time when he'd seen a man dressed like he might be a banker out on a business lunch sitting in a jon boat trolling down the lazy waters of the Mississippi. It was a chilly day and the idiot did have the presence of mind to put on a coat, but he didn't have on a hat or gloves and he definitely didn't look like the kind to be out fishing.

He also looked like he was talking.

While Zeke didn't see anybody else, he had a strange feeling the man wasn't just
talking
 … he seemed to be listening too.

A crazy man on my river
. Shaking his head in disgust, he almost turned away, but then he paused, watching as the man looked down at something in the bottom of the boat. Whatever it was, Zeke couldn't see it. But the man bent, touched it.

Was it an
it
?

Solo whimpered, his ears pricking up.

He was staring at the boat, too.

Zeke settled back behind a tree and gave the dog a low command. “Quiet, Solo. Quiet.”

It was a simple command and the dog obeyed, going to the ground with his head resting on his paws, but he continued to watch the boat. Zeke knew his dog well enough to know one thing.

It wasn't the man that held his interest.

Solo had been trained as a rescue dog and he'd always shown an interest—a soft spot, almost—for people in distress and needing help. He was displaying some of those signs now.

Making a decision, he tugged out the sat phone he'd grabbed on his way out the door and punched in a number.

Nobody answered.

A quick search yielded the information he needed and he shot another look down the river. They were getting farther away. “Come, boy. Watch.” He pointed at the boat, signifying that they were going to keep an eye on the boat. If he gave another command,
follow,
they'd be moving in much closer, and he didn't want to do that yet.

Solo crept along close to the ground while Zeke followed, ever vigilant, watching for any sign that the man might have heard them. He was so far down the river, it wasn't likely, and Zeke was worried they'd fall too far behind.

“I need to speak with Chief Marshall,” he said when a woman's harried voice finally came on the line.

“I'm afraid he's unavailable.”

“Make him available. I think I might have a line on the man he's got a BOLO out on.” He hesitated before adding, “Tell him it's Zeke Sanders—and FYI,
he
owes
me
now.”

It didn't take thirty seconds before his call was connected to Gideon's. There was some interference and he could tell that Gideon wasn't in the station, but that didn't matter. “I hear you're wanting to find yourself a man. He about your age, Marshall?”

Gideon wasn't one to mince words and he didn't waste time with chatter. “Yes. Where are you?”

“Out by my place. Along the river. Dark hair, looks pretty neat? Like a banker?”

“Well … yeah, I guess that suits him. Build, eye color?”

“Wasn't able to discern that much. He's in a jon boat, Gideon. Heading north up the Mississippi. I got eyes on him but I can't chat and keep watch, too.”

“He got a woman with him?”

The tension in the chief's voice had Zeke biting back something ugly. “I can't say yes or no to that. I think he might have somebody with him. He was…”

“He was what, Zeke?” Gideon snapped.

“Talking to somebody. Down in the floorboard of the boat. At least it looked like he was.”

*   *   *

Wait for the ideal moment. You might only get one chance.

Moira kept the words at the forefront of her brain as Charles climbed nimbly out of the boat.

She'd sort of been planning on taking
that
chance, because the man she'd married had been an absolute nightmare in nature. Or so he'd always seemed to be. They'd gone camping once—Charles' idea of camping. It involved luxury tents and catered meals. He'd decided then and there that he loathed the outdoors and never wanted to go anywhere that didn't come with air conditioning and hot tubs. He'd been uneasy under the wide-open skies and he'd fumbled when their guide had shown him how to pilot the pontoon out on the glittering blue waters of the lake.

That man had disappeared, replaced by somebody who handled the jon boat capably, tying it off at the small dock as though he'd done it every day since he'd been a boy.

Through her lashes, she watched him, her hair providing additional coverage, but she suspected he was getting suspicious. He hadn't given her as much medicine and the lulling rhythm of the boat ride had made it hard for her to tell how long it had been since they'd gotten out of the car.

She didn't know how long she'd been unconscious, either.

Something nudged her shoulder.

She shrugged it away and grunted.

It came again and she swore, batting at it with her hand before lifting her head.

She wasn't going to be able sell this one as good and when she saw Charles standing on the dock, looking competent and comfortable, she wanted to scream. The idea to grab at his legs and just jerk them out from under him came over her, but she didn't think it would do any good.

“Get out.” He eyed her expressionlessly.

“Kiss my ass.” She shoved her tangled hair back and shivered, the cool air seeping through the hoodie she'd swiped from Brannon's.

Charles hunkered down on his heels, a placid smile on his face. “You can fight this all you want, love. But in the end, you will do what I say.”

“Yeah?” She jutted her chin up. “Or what?”

He lifted his right hand.

A cold, hard knot settled in her throat at the sight of the matte-black gun he held.

Moira hated guns.

Brannon had a keen, crazy love for them, but she didn't like them. She didn't have some driving urge to see them regulated, though, and the fact that her brother enjoyed his indoor firing range with what she considered a boyish zeal really didn't bother her.

But Moira hated guns.

That was the beginning and end of her knowledge.

However, she had a feeling that the weapon Charles held aimed at her was more than enough to do whatever damage her ex-husband had in mind. “Wow,” she said, keeping her tone steady through sheer will alone. “So this is the treatment I get for
not
taking your shares away from you when you cheated. Maybe I should have gone for the balls in the settlements.”

“Your jokes aren't going to do you much good here. But if you want to pretend they will…” Charles shrugged. “Don't make me say it again, Moira. Get out of the boat.”

Curling her lip, she shifted around until she had her balance and then went to brace her hands on the dock. She'd never been quite the river rat her sister had been, but she knew her way around a boat well enough. Her legs were stiff though and the drugs were making her head woozy. She groaned a bit as her vision tried to do a tilt-a-whirl on her. Instinctively, she lifted a hand and pressed the heel of it to her eye—or she tried to. The boat wobbled and she gasped, immediately scrabbling at the dock to steady herself.

Charles swore and bent down, grabbing at the back of her sweatshirt, hauling her upward.

Wait for the ideal moment. You might only get one chance.

One chance.

He was off-balance.

So was she, but she didn't have her head pointed down with her butt sticking up in the air.

Taking a deep breath, she lunged for his belt and pulled.

Charles howled and she flung herself into the floor of the boat as he tried to grab her. He missed, barely, toppling into the murky waters of the Mississippi. No sooner had she heard the splash than she was hauling herself up onto the dock. Her bare feet slapped against the boards of the dock as she hurled herself farther and farther away from Charles.

Get away.

That was her one goal.

Get away.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Zeke had hung up the phone with one final order for Gideon,
Bring her damn dog, you jackass
.

Frost was riding shotgun with him, ears pricked, eyes watchful.

He was muttering to himself and every so often, her head would swing his way, like she was listening to him. “You know, you could nod or wag your tail. Something to make me feel like I'm on the right track,” he said.

Frost went back to staring out the window.

“Not much for false reassurances, I see.” She was the perfect dog for Moira.

Images of what might be going on flashed through his mind, but he refused to give into them.

Four cars sped along behind him while in front of him, a state trooper from Louisiana was speeding with lights and sirens as they hurtled ever closer to the house where Kevin Towers had taken that fateful shot of scotch just a few days earlier.

Gideon heard from the sheriff who was in charge of handling Towers' case. Apparently, the computer geeks from the state had been able to give him good news—and bad news.

They'd traced the feed from the cameras that had been recording everything going on inside that house.

It came from a hotel.

It had been paid for a month in advance … under Kevin's name.

But the clerk said the man who came and went from the room wasn't Kevin.
Tall, hot. British.