Truth or Dare (27 page)

“The medics are here, thank heavens.”

Ethan emerged from the bathroom, scribbling quickly in his notebook. “Got her address off her driver's license. She's eighty-two years old. Wonder if I'll still be in this business when I'm her age.”

“You will still be in the business when you're a hundred and two, Ethan.” She gripped Shelley's cold hand more tightly, aware that the woman was slipping away. “Hold on, Shelley, the good guys are here. Everything's going to be okay.”

Ethan opened the door for the medics.

 

An exhausted-looking resident paused in the doorway of the emergency room. “I think Mrs. Russell will make it, thanks to you two,” he said. “She was fading fast. If you hadn't found her when you did, she would have been gone by midnight.”

“Where is she?” Zoe asked. She was almost as tired as the doctor. Her shoulders and neck muscles ached from the tension of trying to tune out the chaos of screaming psychic energy that had soaked into the walls of the waiting room.

“They just moved her into ICU. She's stable and her vitals
are surprisingly strong, given her age and chronic health problems.”

“Is she awake?” Ethan said.

“No, and even if she was, they wouldn't let you talk to her.” The resident hesitated. “Are you family?”

“We're friends,” Zoe said smoothly. “The clerk at the front desk said she doesn't have any relatives here in Phoenix. They notified her son and daughter, but they both live out of state and can't get here until tomorrow afternoon.”

The resident nodded. “Like I said, barring complications, I think she's got a good chance. We see a lot of this kind of thing with older people.”

“What kind of thing?” Ethan asked.

“Medication mix-ups. Accidental overdoses. Unpredictable drug interactions. When it comes to seniors, we're dealing with a frail population taking an incredible amount of very powerful, very sophisticated meds. It's no wonder there are problems like this.”

“You think that's what happened to her?” Ethan asked neutrally. “She took an accidental overdose?”

The resident shrugged. “Sometimes it's not exactly an accident.”

Zoe stilled. She sensed Ethan going on high alert.

“Not an accident?” he repeated very carefully.

“You've probably heard that depression is a huge problem with the elderly,” the resident said. “They get tired of all the meds. Life seems like too much trouble. They're alone. Sometimes they just don't want to go on any longer.”

“Suicide?” Zoe shook her head. “I really don't think—” She
stopped in mid-sentence when Ethan brushed his shoulder lightly against hers in silent warning. She cleared her throat. “Then again, who knows?”

“Right,” the resident said. “When she wakes up, I doubt if she'll remember much about what happened. They'll probably have a psychiatrist examine her, but if she did take too many meds on purpose, don't expect her to admit it. That's another thing about that age group. They usually won't admit that they've got mental health issues. They still feel the old stigma too strongly.”

“They aren't the only ones,” Zoe said evenly. “I know all about that stigma.” She must have spoken rather forcefully because the doctor looked at her with an odd expression.

Should have kept my mouth shut,
she chided herself.

A gurney rolled past in the hallway. The orderly pushing it was almost running. A nurse rushed alongside, an IV bag raised high in one hand. Zoe glimpsed a sheet that was saturated in blood. Her stomach lurched. Another layer of screaming psychic energy was already sinking into the walls around her.
How do the folks who work here stand it?
she wondered.

The resident glanced at the gurney and seemed to wake up. “I've got to go,” he said. “The staff can tell you how to find ICU.”

“Thanks,” Ethan said.

But the resident was already in motion, revving up fast on adrenaline.

Zoe looked at Ethan, who was taking his phone out of his pocket. “Now what?”

“It's nearly seven and we haven't eaten since lunch. Let's grab a bite and head back to Shelley Russell's office.”

“All right. There's a fast-food place across the street.” She turned smartly toward the front doors of the emergency room, trying not to make a fool out of herself by breaking into a gallop.

“Wait up,” Ethan said, striding after her. “I was thinking we could get something from the hospital cafeteria.”

“No,” Zoe said very precisely. “I do not want to eat here in the hospital.”

She did not intend to spend one single minute longer there than was absolutely necessary. The years of pain, fear, hope, desperation and rage accumulated in these walls were starting to overwhelm her psychic barriers. It had been a trying day. She could handle only so much.

“You okay?” Ethan asked, voice sharpening in sudden concern as he fell into step beside her.

“I will be in a few seconds.” She pushed through the glass doors and sighed in relief. “I don't like hospitals.”

“Who does?”

But he did not try again to persuade her to go to the hospital cafeteria. Instead, he busied himself punching in a number on his phone while they crossed the parking lot to the SUV.

He did not believe that she was truly psychic, but he was willing to change his plans because she had told him that she was uncomfortable. This wasn't the first time he had done something like this, she recalled. Looking back over their short marriage, she had to admit that he routinely made allowances for what must seem at best an overly active imagination.

He put up with what other people would consider exceptionally flaky behavior with little more than a shrug, as if her claims to being psychic were nothing more than a minor eccentricity.

Could this man walk and chew gum at the same time or what?

Maybe it was time she learned how to do the same thing.

For the past few weeks she had been increasingly frustrated by Ethan's refusal to accept the psychic side of her nature. She had told herself that unless he bought into the reality of her sixth sense, their relationship would suffer. She was convinced that she needed him to acknowledge the part of her that was different.

Now she wondered if that was absolutely necessary. Ethan accepted her the way she was, no questions asked. That was a rare and wondrous gift in this life.

Her musings were interrupted when Harry answered his phone. Ethan gave him a quick summary of events.

“I agree, things are getting complicated.” Ethan unlocked the SUV and got behind the wheel. “But keep working your LA connections. Everything points to me being the target, not Arcadia. Looks like her cover is as solid as it ever was, just as the Merchant claims.”

Zoe fought a wave of panic as she fastened her seat belt. Arcadia was safe, but the situation had not improved, because now Ethan was in danger.

“No, we're going to be here in Phoenix for a while.” Ethan switched on the engine. “We're headed back to Shelley Russell's office. The doctors think she accidentally took an overdose of meds, but her computer is missing and there's no file on me.”

There was a pause while Harry said something on the other end. Zoe's blood chilled another few degrees.

“No, I didn't find one on Arcadia, either,” he told Harry. “But Russell has to be the woman with the camera and the shopping bag Arcadia noticed. Yeah, right, stay in touch.”

He ended the call and punched in another number. “Come on, Cobb, pick up.” He paused. “What the hell were you doing? . . . You did? Shit. Sorry about that. I had the phone turned off for a while. Hospitals don't allow them to be used around the high-tech equipment. . . . No, we're both okay. It's a long story. I'll explain later. What have you got for me?”

Zoe sat tensely, listening to the one-sided conversation. When Ethan severed the connection, she pounced.

“Well?” she demanded.

“He went to some on-line sites that cater to military types and asked some questions about Branch's tattoo. He found out that the design is the emblem of a very elite, very low-profile Special Forces re con group.”

“So you were right,” Zoe said. “Branch is military.”

“Not exactly. Not any longer. Once Singleton identified the re con group, he was able to hack into their database. It's a small organization. He used a physical description of Branch to find his file. Turns out Branch was selected to enter the initial training program but he flunked out the first month.”

“Why?”

“Singleton says the records are vague but it looks like Branch had some kind of mental breakdown. He wound up in the psych ward of a military hospital for several months. Eventually he was discharged from the service.”

“Crazy,” she whispered. She thought about the dominant emotion that had moaned in the walls of Branch's cheap motel room, an obsessive desire that bordered on lust. “He wanted something very badly.”

“Singleton said that after Branch was released from the
hospital, he left the country and worked as a professional mercenary for a few years. He returned to the States about eight months ago. The trail ends there.”

“Maybe we should go to the Phoenix police and talk to them about Shelley Russell.”

“What are we going to tell them? All we've got at the moment is a little old lady who, as far as the medics are concerned, probably got her pills mixed up. I don't see anyone getting too excited about it.”

“What about the pictures she had developed at the photo lab?”

“Russell didn't break any laws taking those shots. Hell, we can't even prove she took them in the first place.”

Shelley Russell's office was shrouded in night. Ethan used a flashlight to do a cursory check of the aging Ford parked in front. When he found nothing of interest in the vehicle, he led the way back into the run-down building.

He stood in the center of the office for a while, not moving, not speaking; just brooding on the surroundings. Zoe waited quietly. She had seen him go through this ritual on other occasions. She wondered if he was unconsciously opening himself up to some of the psychic energy in the space. If so, she was certain he would never in a million years admit it. When she had asked him what he felt when he did this kind of survey, he had said simply that he was looking for whatever didn't look right.

After a while, he started to prowl. He stopped at the desk and looked at the mug full of cold coffee.

“She made herself a fresh pot of coffee,” he said. “Doesn't seem like something you'd do if you were getting ready to overdose yourself on your meds.”

“No,” Zoe said. “And the pot is still almost full. She only poured one cup and she didn't get a chance to drink any of it.”

“Must have collapsed right after she poured that mug for herself. The full pot indicates that she was planning to work for a while.” He went to the counter and studied the aging coffeemaker. “It's switched off.”

“She changed her mind? Decided to go home?”

“Why pour a full mug in that case?” Ethan continued to contemplate the coffeemaker. “Okay, she makes the coffee, pours a mug and carries it to her desk. But we found her collapsed halfway across the room. So for some reason she decides to go back across to switch off the burner beneath the nearly full pot. Why would she do that?”

“What's with the coffee?”

“It's the one thing in this room that doesn't look right.” He lifted the pot off the burner and set it aside. Then he picked up the coffeemaker and whistled softly. “Just as I thought, Shelley Russell, you are a lot tougher than you look.”

Zoe hurried toward him. “What did you find?”

He scooped up the object that had been hidden under the coffeemaker. “Her notebook.”

“Oh, wow. Who says you're not psychic?”

34

T
he uniform was a lousy fit and the cap smelled of someone else's sweat, but it would do for his purposes.

Grant Loring stood in the shadows of the narrow walkway that separated the bookstore from a clothing boutique and watched the entrance of Gallery Euphoria.

It was just past eight o'clock. The Fall Festival was in full swing. The evening had been a nightmare. He'd been forced to listen to group after group of schoolchildren singing and performing on the outdoor stage. Their shrill, high-pitched voices had given him a headache. The throngs of laughing, chatting people milling around the outdoor mall had driven the decibel level up a few more notches. And if that damned miniature engine pulling the small cars filled with squealing kids went past him one more time, he would be tempted to stage a train wreck.

He watched the window of Gallery Euphoria. The Bitch was showing a necklace to a customer. Her assistant, a large woman with short brown hair, was busy with another potential buyer.

There had been a steady stream of people in and out of the shop all evening. Looked like his wife was turning a nice profit in there. One thing you could say about the Bitch; she was a natural when it came to making money. That talent was what had made her so useful to him in the past.

His plan had finally come together. True, Branch had screwed up by failing to take out Truax, but the desired objective had been achieved, regardless. It would have been better if the PI was dead, but the fact that he was even now chasing his own tail in Phoenix worked just as well. If Truax got lucky and found Branch's apartment, all signs would point back to LA. If he actually got as far as Shelley Russell's office, he would find nothing but a little old lady who had overdosed on her meds.

The time had come to grab the Bitch and be gone, Grant decided. He'd focused the revised plan on tonight, the evening of the Fountain Square event. He wanted the cover of crowds and noise.

All he needed were three or four minutes alone with the Bitch. He had hoped to pick her up half an hour before when she had taken a break to go to the rest room on the other side of the square. But that walking cadaver had accompanied her right to the door of the facility and then waited there to escort her back to the gallery.

Grant was annoyed that Russell hadn't supplied any photos or background on the skeleton in a plaid sport shirt. Sheer incompetence.

The good news was that the guy didn't look like he'd be much of a problem. He was probably an underpaid accountant or maybe a funeral director. Other than that brief trip to the ladies' room with the Bitch, he'd spent the evening on the bench directly in front of the door to Gallery Euphoria, making phone calls. A
lot
of phone calls. Maybe he was a bookie.

The Bitch's taste in men had certainly changed. Either that or she had deliberately chosen a lover who was the exact opposite of the type of man who had once appealed to her, for the same reasons that she had bought a new identity and altered her style of dress. The silly woman had tried to reinvent herself because she knew that he might still be alive and would someday come looking for her.

It was getting late. There weren't going to be any more easy opportunities to get her. He couldn't afford to wait any longer. It was time to make his move.

He was so eager to finish this business and disappear again that he could taste it.

 

Ethan sat down in Shelley Russell's chair and was not surprised to discover that he felt instantly at home. The squeak was just right. Russell kept a supply of yellow pads and unused notebooks in a drawer and a bunch of pens in a tray. The items on the surface of the desk were well ordered and comfortably arranged.

“I think the two of you may have a few things in common,” Zoe said dryly. “Her notes even look a little like yours.” She leaned over his shoulder to get a better view. “Hieroglyphs.”

“Everyone who takes a lot of notes ends up inventing his or her own form of shorthand,” Ethan said absently. “But she was careful to spell out all the names, and she took pains with numbers. See? Here's the number on the plate of that van that Branch was driving.”

“Why would she take down a client's license plate?”

“I do the same thing. Standard procedure as far as I'm concerned. You can't have too much information on a client.”

“Now that's a heartwarming comment.” She perched on the corner of the desk. “If I'd known that when I decided to hire you the first time, I probably would have gone to Radnor, instead.”

“Yeah, but just look at all the great sex you would have missed.”

“Well, there is that.”

After Branch's name and license, the first thing that caught his attention was the word
Fed.
It was underlined twice.

“He told her that he was some kind of secret federal agent,” he said. “Probably figured that would keep her from asking too many questions.”

She swallowed. “Do you think it's possible you're the target of some kind of federal investigation? Maybe that's why someone wants you dead. So you can't talk to the Feds.”

“Relax,” Ethan said. “If that was the case, we would have been buried in Feds by now.”
I think,
he added silently. He paused to decode a couple more sentences. “Looks like Branch took his time getting around to the reason he wanted to hire her. Feeling her out, making sure he could rely on her to do the job and keep her mouth shut.”

 

“Appreciate the info, Carl.” One foot resting on the wrought-iron bench, forearm propped on his thigh, Harry watched Arcadia through the shop window while he finished the conversation with his old associate in LA. “Consider that favor we both agreed did not exist to be repaid in full.”

He ended the call, never taking his eyes off Arcadia.

Six weeks ago, before he had come to Whispering Springs to give Truax a hand, he would have laughed at the idea that guys like him could ever get this lucky. A lot of things had changed for him in this town. His life would never be the same.

On the other side of the glass window, Arcadia smiled at a customer. A warmth that was still strange and unfamiliar flowed through him.

He made himself switch his attention to the people milling around the square, scanning for both those who stood out and those who faded into the background a little too easily.

His gaze lingered on a security guard who was about to slip into a narrow passageway between two nearby shops. The back of the man's jacket was emblazoned with the words “Radnor Security Systems.” He had a cap pulled down low over his eyes.

This was the third time in the past hour that the guard had ducked into that shadowed space.

Security guards made him nervous. It was easy to overlook them, for one thing. For another, most of them walked around with sets of keys.

He glanced once more into the windows of Gallery Euphoria.
Satisfied that Arcadia and her assistant were both busy with a crowd of customers, he took his foot down off the bench and strolled toward the entrance to the lane.

The whistle of the miniature train shrieked on his right.

“Coming through.” The conductor was a large man who looked as if he'd been forcibly stuffed into the tiny cab. There was an expression of malignant glee on his broad face. “Make way for the Fountain Square Express.”

Harry stepped back quickly, barely managing to get his left foot out of the path of the oncoming train. The conductor smiled maliciously. The children screeched and clapped.

The conductor blew the whistle in a long, satisfied blast of triumph and drove off in the direction of the fountain. The kids waved at Harry.

When the last car full of laughing, giggling children went past, Harry saw that the security guard had disappeared into the darkness of the small passageway.

Something prickled at the back of his neck.

He went swiftly toward the lane and stopped briefly at the entrance, trying to peer into the unlit shadows. The bright lights that illuminated the square did not penetrate far. For a few seconds, he was almost blind.

Then he saw movement at the end of the lane. The guard's hand lifted. Harry could just barely distinguish the outline of an object in the man's hand.

 

Arcadia heard the phone ring. She glanced at the nearest instrument and saw that it was her private line.

She looked across the room. Molly was involved with a customer. They were discussing the artistic merits of a handcrafted ceramic bowl. Three or four other shoppers were scattered about, waiting their turn.

She smiled at the woman who had just purchased an expensive ring and handed her the distinctive silver-foiled shopping bag.

“Thank you so much,” she murmured. “I know you'll enjoy wearing it.”

The phone rang again.

“I certainly will,” the woman replied. She took the Gallery Euphoria bag from Arcadia's hand and went toward the door.

The phone warbled insistently. Very few people had the number of her private line. Zoe was at the top of the list, and Zoe was in Phoenix. Maybe there was news.

She did not want to take the call out there where the customers could overhear her.

Hurrying to the end of the counter, she turned into the short hall and opened the door to her office.

A large palm slapped across her mouth. Simultaneously the barrel of a pistol pressed against her throat.

The man tilted his head slightly and she saw the familiar face beneath the oversized cap. Grant had come for her.

Panic slammed through her, stunning in its intensity. She started to shake.

“Try anything, my dear wife, anything at all, and I'll shoot the first person who walks through that door.”

She did not doubt him for a moment.

“I know you, Bitch.” He sounded coldly satisfied. “You won't
let some innocent die if you can help it, will you? We're going out the back.” He slapped a strip of duct tape across her mouth. “Make one sound that brings anyone running and you've signed that person's death warrant. There's a silencer on the gun, by the way.”

She thought about the pistol she had bought for just such an occasion as this. It was safely locked up at home, right where it could not do her any good.

He shoved her through the back-room door and outside onto the bricked walkway. The path led to a service lane and the employee parking lot. Thickly planted oleander bushes served as a decorative fence between the walk and the lane.

Hope rushed back into the empty places inside her. The service lane was almost never entirely deserted; even at night shop clerks took smoking breaks back there. Some of the teenagers who worked in the fast-food restaurants occasionally met near the cover of the trash containers for purposes that would no doubt horrify their parents. Transients often came there to mine the piles of garbage in the massive dumpsters and drink cheap wine.

She heard low voices coming from the other side of the oleanders and caught the faint scent of marijuana. How did Grant think he could possibly get her out of there unnoticed?

And then she saw the large janitorial cart looming directly in her path. A rack at the front bristled with a variety of brushes, brooms and mops. A cardboard carton stood on a tray attached to one side.

“You're going to get into the garbage container and you're going to stay down,” Grant commanded. “I won't shoot you
unless you give me no choice because I'd rather keep you alive so that we can do a deal for that file you hid. But if I run out of options, I'll kill you, I promise you.”

She forced herself to walk toward the cart, trying desperately to think.

When she got close he yanked a bucket off the front of the cart and turned it over so that it functioned as a step. “Use that. Hurry, damn you.”

She stepped up onto the bucket and looked down. The interior of the trash container was empty. There was just enough room inside to conceal a slender, full-sized adult crouched on her knees.

Despair struck hard. No one would look twice at a janitor and his cart, she thought.

“Get in,” Grant rasped.