Читать книгу Christmas On The Run - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 12

TWO

She screamed.

She couldn’t stop herself.

And then she ran faster, racing away from the man with the gun, the one who’d been following her.

Racing away from Dallas. He was in danger because of her. She could try to deny it. She could tell herself all kinds of pretty lies, but if he’d been shot, it was because she’d dragged him into trouble. She glanced over her shoulder, stumbling as she reached the transition between pavement and park path.

Nothing in the street. No sign of Dallas. No guy with a gun. Lights had come on in a few houses, and she could hear sirens in the distance. Someone had called the police. She could stay and tell them what she’d seen. She could talk to them about the gemstones she was supposed to be cutting, the threats against Zane. She could put her faith and trust in fallible human beings and an overburdened criminal justice system.

Or she could keep going and leave Dallas to face the consequence of her decisions. She could let him talk to the police, explain what he’d seen, what she’d said.

And while he was doing that, she could be packing and leaving town.

But if he’d been shot...

She stopped, eyeing the empty street, the lit houses, the rising sun glinting off winter-bare trees. Nothing moved, and she took a step back the way she’d come, because she couldn’t just abandon Dallas. No matter how much she might want to.

She stopped in front of his house, scanning the yard, looking for signs that he’d been injured. She found what might have been a splotch of blood on the pavement, another drop of it a few inches away. But there was no one lying bleeding on the ground. There was nothing but the gold-gray light of dawn, the chilly winter breeze and the sound of screaming sirens.

She found more blood on the grass, and she followed the trail of it around Dallas’s house and across the field that separated his property from the park. The police would arrive soon, and she shouldn’t be there when they did. She’d blown it. She’d made that first cut in the stone and she’d gone too deep, pushed too hard. There was nothing to do when that happened but scrap the old plan and come up with a new one.

But she couldn’t leave until she knew Dallas was okay. This was her fault, her trouble coming to call on him.

She should have thought about that before she’d taken the chance, but she’d been desperate to keep Zane safe, and Dallas had seemed like the kind of guy who could hold his own in a battle. On paper, he’d even looked like a hero. Not that she believed in those. The fantasy of a white knight riding to her rescue had died about three months after she’d married Josh, right around the time she’d seen a florist receipt on the floor of their closet. For his mother.

She’d believed the lie because she’d wanted to, but she’d never again believed he was everything he’d pretended to be.

But those were thoughts for another time.

Right now, she needed to find Dallas and make sure he was okay. Once she did that, she’d do what she should have a month ago. Plan B: leave town, her life, her career. Leave Jazz.

Zane would be devastated. Especially with Christmas coming. It was his favorite holiday. He loved all the traditions. More than anything, he loved having his little family together. Not this year, though. This year Jazz was going to be with her fiancé’s family, starting new traditions. Zane had cried when he’d found out. He’d cry more when he realized that he was never going to see his aunt Jazzy again.

But he’d be alive. He’d be safe.

That was what mattered.

She pushed through a thicket and found herself on the trail she’d run in on. No blood there, and the earth was too packed for footprints to be visible. She crouched, searching the ground for any sign that Dallas had been there. The sirens stopped abruptly, and she knew the police had arrived. They were probably questioning whoever had called in the report of gunfire. It wouldn’t be long before they found the blood. They might call in a K-9 unit and extra manpower, and she’d be out in the woods, ready to be found and questioned.

Don’t go to the police. Don’t tell anyone.

She hadn’t gone to the police, but she had tried to tell someone, and now the police were closing in. The people who’d been following her had to know it.

Fear zipped through her, the metallic taste of it filling her mouth. While she was tromping around in the woods looking for Dallas, the people who’d been threatening her could be knocking on the door at her place, making up some excuse for entering the premises.

“Dallas?” she called quietly, the word barely carrying on the morning air.

There was no response. She hadn’t really expected there to be.

The blood, the silence. He was injured. Or worse.

And it was her fault.

“Dalla—”

A hand slapped over her mouth, and she was pulled back against a rock-solid chest, her arms pinned to her sides by someone much larger and stronger than she was. She’d learned to fight the same way she’d learned to run, because she’d had no choice. It was that or be used and abused and tossed onto the side of the road like garbage.

She went lax, her weight dropping against her attacker’s arm.

When that didn’t loosen his grip, she went for his instep, shifting her weight and stomping down hard.

“Stop,” he hissed in her ear. “It’s Dallas, and there’s some guy with a gun wandering around out here. You want him to hear us?”

She shook her head, and his hand slipped from her mouth.

“Are you hurt?” she whispered, trying to turn, but his arm was still locked around her, and she couldn’t move.

“Quiet,” he said, his lips nearly touching her ear, his warm breath tickling the hair near her temple. She could feel the heat of his body through her vest and T-shirt, the strength of his muscles against her arms and abdomen. It had been a long time since she’d been physically close to a man, and if his grip hadn’t been viselike, she’d have jerked away immediately.

“He’s gone,” Dallas finally said, releasing his hold and stepping away from her.

“Who?” she asked, turning so they were facing each other. He was taller than she’d thought. Much taller than Josh had been. Probably six-two or -three.

“You tell me,” he responded, his eyes an odd green-blue that seemed to glow in the dim morning light.

“How would I know?” she asked.

“You said you needed my help, Carly. Two minutes later some guy I’ve never seen before took a potshot at me. You knowing something about him seems like a logical conclusion.”

She couldn’t deny it, and she couldn’t waste time discussing it. “I need to go.”

“So you said, but here you are, still hanging around in the park.”

“I was looking for you. I thought you were hurt, and I was worried that...”

“What?”

“That you’d been shot and it was my fault,” she admitted.

“Why would it be your fault?” he asked, circling the conversation back around to get the information he wanted. But she didn’t know who the guy with the gun was. If she did, she’d have gone to the police long ago.

“It’s a long story. I don’t have time to tell it. I left you a note. Read it. Decide what you want to do about it, if you want to do anything, but right now I have to get to my son.”

“Your son?” he asked, and she heard the hidden question, the words he didn’t say.

“Mine and Josh’s.”

His face went blank, every bit of anger and annoyance seeping from his eyes.

He hadn’t known.

Of course he hadn’t. Just like with everything else, Josh had lied about telling his brother about the baby.

“He said he told you,” she said into the awkward silence, and his jaw tightened.

“Josh said a lot of things that weren’t true.”

“I know.”

“So maybe you could have made sure his family knew about the baby instead of believing him.” He started walking away, and she should have done the same, but she felt the desperate need to make him understand, because she needed his help. She needed it more than she’d ever needed just about anything else.

“I didn’t have contact information for your parents, and I only found contact information for you after Josh died.”

He just kept walking.

“I sent you a note when he passed away. You sent a signed card with no indication that you wanted anything to do with me.”

He stopped short. “I know what I sent. I figured you were like every other woman he’d ever dated.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing anymore. He’s gone. You’re here, and you’re telling me I have a nephew. You’re also telling me you need help, but you’re not saying anything about what kind of help.”

“I...can’t. Not here.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

He was walking again, and she was just standing there watching him go, because she couldn’t tell him what was going on, how much was at stake, how scared she was. The words were stuck in her throat, the threats she’d been hearing for two months echoing through her mind.

“Dallas,” she said, her voice raspy and harsh.

“What?”

She might have answered—she might have told him everything—but her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the caller ID, sure it was Jazz asking why she was out running in twenty-degree weather.

Only it wasn’t Jazz.

It was him.

Unknown caller. Texting words that made her breath catch, her heart stop.

I hope you kissed your son goodbye last night.

Her breath caught, the veiled threat filling her with terror. She hadn’t shared anything with Jazz, hadn’t even hinted at the trouble she was in. Jazz wouldn’t be on guard, because she wouldn’t be expecting trouble. Fingers shaking, she texted her friend, telling her to keep Zane inside until she got home. She’d explain when she got there.

She didn’t wait for a response. She didn’t bother explaining to Dallas. She needed to get home to her son before it was too late.

* * *

Dallas needed to talk to the police. He’d discharged his weapon, and he’d obviously hit the perp. He’d seen the blood, but the guy had moved fast, running between houses and preventing Dallas from getting another clear shot. He hadn’t wanted to risk a bullet going through an exterior wall and injuring someone. He’d sprinted after the guy instead, his bum knee keeping him from going full-out. He’d turned around at the path, worried about Carly, concerned that she might be heading straight toward the perp. And, of course, she had been.

And now she was on the move again, sprinting along the path, her long-legged stride even and practiced. She was a runner for sure, an athlete. Young. Pretty.

A mother. And Dallas was an uncle.

If what she’d said was true. He didn’t know her, hadn’t been invited to the wedding, hadn’t received anything but a cursory email from Josh that said he’d been married. By the time he’d received Carly’s note about Josh’s death, it had been too late to attend the funeral. Even if it hadn’t been, Dallas had been in no shape to travel. He’d been in the hospital recovering from the car accident that had taken the lives of Lila and the twins. He’d spent three weeks there, the burns on his arms and chest healing a lot more quickly than his heartache ever would.

Josh’s death had been a tiny pinprick of pain compared to the agony of losing his wife and unborn children.

He shook the thought away, concentrating on the run and on keeping his gait even. Carly was sprinting west along a dirt trail that wound its way to one of several parking lots, running like her life depended on it. If he hadn’t been so much taller than her, he and his bum knee might have had trouble catching up. As it was, he caught up to her on the first hill, his knee twinging with pain as he matched her pace. His doctor wouldn’t be happy. His physical therapist would read him the riot act, but he wasn’t going to let Carly head off into the sunrise while an armed man wandered the park.

He grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop.

“Let go,” she muttered, tugging away.

“Running isn’t going to solve your problems,” he said, and she swung around, her face white, eyes blazing. He’d been afraid she’d be crying, but she looked angry, her words hard and staccato.

“Neither is staying. Go back home, Dallas. I never should have tried to contact you.”

“You didn’t try. You did contact me.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Mistakes can’t be unmade,” he replied, and the muscles in her jaw tightened, her lips pressing together. “You came to me, Carly,” he continued. “So did some guy with a gun. I want to know who he is and what he wants.”

“I told you—”

“Nothing. Except that you left me a note. And that I have a nephew. Do you think I’m going to forget about him now that I know?”

“I think that you’re not going to believe he’s your nephew until I offer proof,” she countered, swinging around to run again.

“Josh didn’t want kids,” he responded, because it was true, and because he wanted to push a little harder, force her to give him the information he needed.

Behind them, the woods were filling with voices as the police hunted for the person who’d left the blood trail. He’d need to check in with them. If he didn’t, his boss, Chance Miller, would want to know why he hadn’t. As a member of the hostage-rescue team, Dallas had an obligation to follow protocol. Even when he wasn’t on duty.

“Sometimes we don’t get what we want,” Carly panted. “Sometimes we get what we don’t want. Zane is Josh’s son. He’s your nephew. And he needs me. I have to go home.”

“You left him alone?”

“Of course not! He’s only six!”

“There are plenty of people who leave kids younger than that at home alone.”

“I’m not one of them. He’s with my friend, and... I’m worried.” They’d reached the end of the dirt path and pounded onto a paved one, their steps in sync, their breathing almost synchronized, her gasping breaths matching his steadier ones almost perfectly.

She was obviously a long-distance runner, but he doubted she was a sprinter. She was slowing, the speed zapping her energy. He slowed with her, his body humming with adrenaline as he scanned the woods to either side, looking for a glint of metal, a subtle movement. The perp would be a fool to stick around when the police were so close, but people were often willing to be fools if the cause was important enough, what they stood to gain big enough.

“You’re worried about the guy with the gun,” he said.

She nodded but didn’t speak, every bit of her energy pouring into muscles that he could see trembling.

She was done, but she’d keep going. Whatever was driving her—her son, her fear, her need to escape Dallas—forced her to continue. He grabbed her arm again. Gently, because his adoptive father, Timothy Morgan, had taught him how real men were supposed to treat women. It had taken him a couple of years to learn the lesson, to understand that true strength lay in gentleness, calmness, kindness. Once he’d learned it, he hadn’t forgotten. Sometimes, though...sometimes he reverted to the troubled inner-city kid who’d walked into the Morgans’ suburban home carrying nothing but a plastic bag filled with old clothes.

She jerked away, stumbling as she accidentally stepped off the pavement and onto icy grass.

“Stop,” he said as gently as he’d grabbed her arm. His work gave him plenty of practice calming frantic people. He’d dealt with parents who’d lost kids, spouses who’d lost partners, people desperate to find friends, neighbors, lovers. He knew how to keep his voice steady and his approach soft.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. There were no tears in her eyes or on her cheeks, but she was on the verge of losing it.

“Eventually, you’ll have to.”

“Not until I’m home.”

“What’s your address?” he asked, studying her face, trying to find some hint of who she was, what she really wanted. All he saw was a woman who shouldn’t have been his brother’s widow. She was too young, too tired, too skinny. Too desperate. Josh’s widow should have been full figured, smiling, made-up and fake. She wouldn’t have had a care in the world, and she sure as anything wouldn’t have had a son.

“I told you, I made a mistake contacting you,” she panted.

“I’m sure you remember my response.”

“I don’t have time to play games, Dallas.”

“Neither do I. You said you needed my help. I plan to give it.”

She shrugged, rattling off an address in DC. He knew the neighborhood. It was part of a revitalization project designed to beautify the city. Not far from HEART, and filled with young professionals who loved the hustle and bustle of city life, young families who enjoyed the community vibe, older men and women who were on their own and loving it. It was the kind of neighborhood he and Lila had planned to live in until they’d found out she was pregnant. Then they’d chosen a cute house in the suburbs halfway between his parents and hers. They’d decorated the nursery yellow because Lila hadn’t wanted to know the gender of the babies. He tried not to think about that or about the way she’d looked when she’d picked him up from the airport that last night—her belly softly rounded and pressing against the pink sweater she wore. She’d been six months pregnant and glowing with it. He’d told her that she’d never looked more beautiful.

He released Carly’s arm, pulled out his cell phone and sent a text to his boss, shoving aside all the old memories and focusing on the present. That was how he’d survived the first year, and it was how he continued to survive.

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

Only Dallas hadn’t been ready to let Him take anything, and he’d spent most of the past few years trying to get over the anger and bitterness the loss had caused.

Chance replied to his text, promising to send someone over to Carly’s place to keep an eye on things. He also asked for an explanation.

Later was all Dallas offered. Something was going on. Something that was putting a six-year-old kid in danger. He wanted to find out what, and he wanted to know exactly how Carly had gotten involved in it. Maybe she was an innocent bystander who’d been pulled into something, or maybe she was responsible for the trouble she’d found herself in.

Either way, he planned to keep the kid safe.

If there was a kid.

He slid the phone back in his pocket, made certain his Glock was hidden beneath his jacket and reached for Carly’s arm again.

She sidestepped him. “Who were you texting?”

“My boss.”

“Why?”

“He’ll send someone to your place. We need to speak with the police.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“They threatened to take my son,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

“The police?”

“No.”

“Then who?” He knew he sounded impatient—because he felt impatient. He didn’t play games, didn’t keep secrets. He was a straight shooter and honest, almost to a fault.

“If I knew that, I’d have called the police the first time I was contacted.” She started moving again. In the wrong direction. Heading for her vehicle, he assumed.

“We need to talk to the police,” he repeated, not following her, because he knew she wouldn’t go far. She needed his help more than she probably needed just about anything. She’d admitted as much when she’d given him her address.

She made it about a hundred feet before she stopped, turning around to face him, her dark ponytail swinging in a wide arc as she moved. “If they find out I’ve gone to the police, they’ll take my son. I’ll never see him again.”

“Is that what they told you?”

“Yes.”

“They’ll have to get through some very well-trained people to get to him, Carly. Come on.” He held out his hand and was surprised when she moved toward him. “We’ll talk to the police, and then I’ll bring you home.”

“I can bring myself home,” she muttered, but she’d reached his side, her eyes vibrant green against her tan skin. He could see that clearly now. Just like he could see that her running vest was navy blue rather than black. The world was waking, the sun bringing color to life—light brown grass, gray-black pavement, and the dark brown freckles on Carly’s cheeks, threads of red and gold in her dark hair. She tucked a loose strand back into her ponytail holder, white scars crisscrossing a couple of her knuckles, her fingernails short and chipped. She worked with her hands, he’d guess, but he wasn’t sure what kind of manual labor would afford her a place in a posh neighborhood in DC.

“What’s your friend’s name?” he asked, wondering if she lived with a boyfriend who paid the bills. It wasn’t a very nice thought but was more in line with what he’d have expected from any of the girls Josh had dated when he’d lived at home.

“Jazz,” she responded.

“He play in a band or something?”

“She is an author. Jasmine Rothschild. We went to college together. She moved in after Zane was born, because I needed the help and she needed a place to stay.”

“You said your son is six?”

“Yeah.”

The twins would have been nearly seven.

If Zane was his nephew, there was a very real possibility that Lila and Carly had been pregnant at the same time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, wasn’t even sure he was supposed to feel anything. It sure didn’t change what had happened.

He scowled, his knee aching as he walked. They weren’t far from the neighborhood, but the woods were thick on either side of them, the dawn light only deepening the shadows of the forest. They’d walked past the same trees a few minutes ago, and he’d felt nothing. Not even a twinge of nerves. Now the woods had gone silent. No chipmunks or squirrels or tiny birds flitting from tree to tree. The breeze had stopped and the leaves weren’t rustling, but somewhere in the deepest part of the shadows, a twig snapped.

He grabbed Carly’s hand, feeling thick calluses on her fingertips but silky skin on her palms.

She didn’t jerk back, didn’t attempt to pull away.

“What is it?” she whispered as he dragged her off the path and tugged her down into thick undergrowth.

He leaned close, whispering in her ear, “Stay down and stay quiet.”

She didn’t respond, and he took that as agreement.

Someone was out there with them. And not the police. They’d have announced themselves by now.

He shifted, easing out from behind the brush and scanning the area. Staying low because, as far as he knew, the guy was still out there and still armed. Hopefully, he’d be too afraid to fire a shot and risk attracting police attention.

A phone buzzed, the sound a discordant note in the eerie silence.

He turned, gesturing for Carly to turn the thing off. She had it in her hand, was staring at the screen, her face leached of color.

“We need to go,” she said, jumping up and trying to dart past him.

“I don’t think so,” he muttered, but there was something about her expression, the tension in her face, in her muscles, that made him snatch the phone from her hand and glance at the text she’d opened, the photo it contained. A white wicker table and chairs, bright red mums near a back door. A kid staring out from behind a window, his dark curly hair a lot like Carly’s, his eyes...

Pale blue. Just like Josh’s had been.

Dallas’s pulse jumped, his mind racing with the possibility that Carly was telling the truth, that Zane really was his nephew.

She snatched the phone back, tucking it into her vest pocket, her hands shaking.

“They’re going to take Zane. I’ll never see him again,” she said, her voice trembling.

“No. They aren’t.”

“They’re outside my house, watching him.”

“So are my coworkers,” he responded, the hair on his nape standing on end, his skin crawling. A warning that he needed to heed. Someone was watching them. Someone was watching Zane. Someone who was very clearly trying to manipulate Carly.

They could go back and talk to the police. They should go back and talk to the police, but getting to Carly’s place was suddenly just as important. Yeah, someone from HEART was already there, but Dallas wanted to get a closer look at Carly’s son, see if his eyes really were the same color blue as Josh’s.

“What are you involved in? Drugs? Organized crime?” he growled, stepping back onto the path, his Glock in hand. Let the perp see that. Let him think twice about attacking.

“I’d starve to death before I did something illegal to earn money,” she responded, her tone just as harsh as his had been.

“Someone is stalking your house, taking photos of your son. Seems like a warning to me.”

“It is, but not because I’m involved in something I shouldn’t be.”

“Then what do they want?” He started running again, heading away from the police, away from his house. She had to have parked in the west lot, five or six miles from his place. A long run, but she’d had her agenda.

Now he had his. He wanted to meet Zane. He wanted to look in the boy’s eyes, see if Josh was reflected there.

“They want me to use old-school techniques to create polished stones out of rough-cut gems.” She was panting, running hard to keep pace with him, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

“They want you to cut gemstones?”

“Yes.”

“Because?”

“It’s what I do. I’m a museum conservator, and I specialize in restoring antique jewelry. I’m one of a handful of people in North America who know and use Victorian-and Georgian-era stone-cutting methods.”

That explained her scars and calluses. It didn’t explain why someone was taking photos of her son.

“And?”

“Someone wants me to make replicas of some gemstones in a collection I’ve been working on for the Smithsonian.”

“That isn’t necessarily illegal.”

“Not if they want replicas for personal enjoyment, but if that’s what these people want, then why not just pay me to do it?”

“I’m assuming you’ve thought of a few answers to that.”

“There’s only one answer, Dallas. They’re going to replace the originals. The gemstones I’m cutting are worth a tenth of what the originals are. On average, we’re talking the difference between five and fifty thousand dollars. If they’ve gotten a metalworker to make facsimiles of the original settings, they’ll be replacing fourteen pieces of jewelry worth one point five million dollars with forgeries.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through to get you to cooperate. It might have been easier to find someone willing to do the job for a price.”

“There are only a few people in North America who can do what I do with enough expertise to make new cuts look old.”

They’d reached the west entrance of the park, still running hard, his knee throbbing in protest, the muscle in his thigh cramping. He didn’t slow his pace, though. Carly was heading for a black minivan parked beneath a streetlight. It looked like a family vehicle, the kind of thing suburbanites everywhere drove.

She unlocked the doors, jumping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine before he got his door open. He jumped in and yanked it closed as she took off.

Maybe she’d hoped to leave him behind.

But even if she could have, he’d have found her again. The story she’d told was interesting, and maybe it was true.

He’d find out, and while he was at it, he’d get a good look at the kid in the window, because sometimes pictures lied, sometimes memories did—and sometimes what a person wanted to believe made him see things that weren’t really there.