Читать книгу Valley of Shadows - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 11

“Did the phone call not go the way you wanted?” Hawke broke into Miranda’s thoughts, his voice gravely and harsh.

“You knew it wouldn’t.”

“I knew that it would give you a truth you might not have accepted from me.”

“What truth? That I’m wanted for accessory to murder?”

“That returning home isn’t the answer to your troubles.”

“And staying with you is?”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Your body rotting in a shallow grave somewhere.”

“You act like it’s a done deal.”

“Walk away from me and it is. Stay with me and we’ll find what we need to prove our innocence. Once Liam and Green are behind bars, you can safely return to your family.”

What family?

As much as Miranda loved Max, he had a life completely separate from hers, his Chicago apartment too small to offer guest quarters, his accounting firm busy enough to make vacationing nearly impossible. Lauren was the opposite, traveling the world as a runway model and only stopping to visit Justin when she couldn’t put it off any longer. Or that’s what she’d done before. Now that her son was gone, Lauren would probably never return to Maryland. Which meant Miranda would be returning to an empty house, a business and memories.

She shoved the thought aside, forcing back the sorrow that came with it. “How long will it take?”

“I don’t know.”

“I need to be home tomorrow.” For Justin’s funeral. She didn’t add the last, knowing the words would mean nothing to the cold-eyed man beside her.

“Sorry, babe. That’s not going to happen.”

She’d known it, but she’d hoped anyway, the small part of herself that refused to believe that things were as bad as they seemed telling her that everything would be okay in the morning. A few more hours of darkness and she’d wake from the nightmare. Wasn’t that what she’d told herself when she’d been a kid, the darkness pressing in around her, filled with monsters? “Then what? A few days? A week? I’ve got a business to run. I can’t be away from it for long.”

“Will your business matter if you’re dead?”

There was nothing to say to that, so she remained silent, turning away from Hawke and staring out the car window.

Outside, life continued as always, people traveling home from restaurants, friends and parties, making plans for the next day as they ended this one. A week ago, Miranda had been doing the same, leaving home on Friday evening to attend a bridal shower on the eastern shore. With Lauren committed to caring for Justin until the following night, Miranda had imagined hours spent window shopping, sampling pastries from local bakeries, enjoying the simple pleasure of no responsibility for the first time in way too many months.

And in one moment of senseless tragedy it had all changed.

Even if she made it home in one piece, life would never be what it had once been. Hot tears filled Miranda’s eyes, but she forced them away. Crying couldn’t bring her nephew back. Nor would it change her situation. Only God could do that, and she wasn’t sure He would. Watching Justin die while she prayed for him to be healed had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. In the dark hours after his death, she’d wondered if God heard her frantic pleading or if He even cared. Now, she wanted desperately to grasp her tattered faith, to believe that He would work everything out for the best.

“You’re crying.” The gritty texture of Hawke’s voice matched the rough callus on the finger he swept down her cheek.

Her skin heated in the wake of his touch and she brushed her hand down the same path his finger had traced, wiping away tears she hadn’t realized she was shedding. “No, I’m not.”

“I suppose the moisture on your cheeks is nothing.”

“A few tears on my cheeks doesn’t mean I’m crying.”

“No? Then what does it mean?”

“That I’m releasing some pent-up emotion.”

Hawke chuckled, a deep rumble that was a soothing balm against her frazzled nerves. “You’re an interesting lady, Miranda.”

Interesting? Quiet, sweet, helpful, those were the words most often used to describe her. Never interesting.

Before she had a chance to respond, Hawke’s cell phone rang and he lifted it to his ear.

“What’s up?” The words were his only greeting, his scowl deepening as the caller spoke. “What time? We’ll be there.” He dropped the phone onto the console, pulled the car onto a side road, then another and another until Miranda wasn’t sure where they were or which direction they were headed. Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and turned to face her.

“We’ve got a decision to make.”

“We?” He acted as if they were a team, working together toward a common goal. And maybe they were, but it didn’t feel that way. Not when Hawke knew so much more about what was going on then she did. And not when he seemed so determined to keep it that way.

“We.” He winced, putting a hand up to the back of his head and bringing it down again, something shiny and moist staining his fingers.

“You’re bleeding.” Miranda reached out, wanting to help, but Hawke’s quick, hard glance froze her in place.

“I’ll live.” His hand fisted around the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “We have more important things to worry about. We’ve got six hours to make it to Lakeview, Virginia. Do you know it?”

“No.”

He nodded. “We’ll map it out in a minute. My friend will have transportation waiting for us there. If we’re late, we may not have a second chance.”

“A second chance at what?”

“Someone set me up, Miranda. Planned everything that happened tonight to make me look guilty of a crime I didn’t commit. Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“You’re honest, at least.”

“And you haven’t answered my question. What won’t we have a second chance at?”

“Getting out of the state. Out of the country.”

“Out of the country?” She tried out the words, found them bitter on her tongue. “No.”

“If we stay here, we’ll be caught. I’ve got few friends that I can turn to. No one that I’m willing to drag into this mess. My home is in Thailand. The DEA recruited me there. They hired me to come to the States and bring down a drug trafficker named Green.”

“Harold Green?” He owned several businesses in Essex. A moving company, a local grocery store. The funeral home.

“Right. He’s been importing drugs from Thailand for years, selling them, then laundering the money through his businesses. The DEA knows it, but finding the proof to close him down and put him away has been difficult.”

“So they sent you to do it for them?”

“I was sent in deep under cover. The only people who know I’m working the case are in Thailand. Their hope is that once they pull Green in, he’ll give them the names of his overseas contacts. I think someone in Thailand doesn’t want that to happen. Someone working for the DEA. I plan to find out who it is. It’s the only way to clear my name. And yours.”

“The DEA here…”

“Thinks I murdered one of their agents.”

“But—”

“Babe, we’re out of time. It takes five hours to get to Lakeview. Before we get there I need to know you’re with me on this.”

Was she? Miranda wasn’t sure she trusted her own judgement in the matter. The stakes were too high. She was too scared. “Do I have a choice?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He grimaced, his jaw tight. “You saved my life. I don’t want to leave you here to die because of it.”

There was truth in his words, in the grim determination in his eyes as they met hers. And despite herself, despite her doubt, Miranda knew she had to go with him. If there was a way out of this, it lay in the direction Hawke was going. That, at least, she felt sure of. “I guess I’m with you on it, then.”

Hawke smiled, the expression softening his face, changing it from danger to safety, from ice to warmth. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

“So, now what?”

“Now, we head for Lakeview.” He turned toward the backseat, swayed, then slumped toward Miranda, his weight pushing her back toward the door and stealing her breath.

“Hawke? Hawke!” She pushed at his chest, her heart pounding. She slid her hand up to his neck, feeling for his pulse and finding the slick warmth of blood there.

“Hawke!” She shouted in his ear, desperate for a response.

This time he groaned, shifting slightly, his chin brushing against her cheek, razor stubble scratching at her skin. She shivered, pushing at him again and finally managing to maneuver him into his seat. His head slumped forward and she could see blood pooling in the hollow of his throat.

Miranda brushed a hand against his forehead and cheek, feeling for a fever the same way she had so many times when Justin was sick. But Hawke wasn’t a boy, he was a man, and he wasn’t sick, he was hurt.

And Miranda had no idea how to help him.

Yes, you do. You’ve taken first-aid classes. You know what to do. Stop panicking and think. Check respiration and pulse. Find the wound. Stop the bleeding. Get him to a doctor.

A doctor! That’s exactly what they needed. She could call 911, get an ambulance to take Hawke to the hospital while she spoke to the police and told them Hawke’s story and her own. The plan seemed reasonable, good even. Except for a few small things—Hawke was wanted for murder, she was wanted as an accessory and at least one person wanted them both dead.

Miranda frowned and leaned over the seat, searching for something to staunch the flow of blood that seemed to be coming from the back of Hawke’s head. She found a backpack on the floor, a map on the seat. She grabbed both, opening the first and pulling out packets of dried food, a bottle of water, a T-shirt and hat. At the bottom of the bag, she found a small plastic container. She opened it quickly, her hands shaking with adrenaline and fear. Gauze, bandages, needle, thread, several white pills packed in plastic bags, antiseptic wipes, an EpiPen—Hawke had prepared for minor medical emergencies. The only problem was, Miranda wasn’t sure minor was what she was dealing with.

She pulled out the gauze, then shifted Hawke’s head to the side, trying to find the wound. Her fingers probed the flesh behind his ear, wound through silky strands of hair. At the back of his head, close to the base of his skull, a hard lump oozed warm, sticky blood. She pressed the gauze to it, wincing in sympathy, though he seemed completely unaware of her ministrations. That couldn’t be good.

“Hawke?” He didn’t answer, and Miranda shook his shoulder, praying for some reaction.

His eyes remained closed, his head a leaden weight against her hand.

“Now what?” She whispered the question out loud, her mind scrambling for a plan, her eyes scanning the interior of the car. Hawke’s cell phone lay on the console between them, and she grabbed it. Maybe she could find the number of the person they were supposed to meet in Virginia.

She scrolled through the options, searching for an outgoing call log, praying that she’d find what she was looking for.

“What are you doing?” The words were a harsh growl, the hand that wrapped around her wrist just short of painful.

She gasped, her heart skipping a beat as she met Hawke’s cold gaze. “Trying to decide if I should call for help.”

He stared at her, his gaze never wavering as he straightened in his seat, slid his free hand over the gauze Miranda still held, and nudged her hand away from it. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

His tone matched his gaze—icy and unyielding, and Miranda knew he wasn’t a man who would take betrayal lightly; that he’d demand his own justice for any wrong done to him. She swallowed back her fear, tugging at the fingers still wrapped around her wrist. “You were unconscious and unresponsive. You need a doctor.”

“I need to catch our ride. I need to find the man who betrayed me. I do not need a doctor.” Hawke tried to add emphasis to his words, but they came out weaker than he intended. The fact was, he probably did need a doctor, but he didn’t have time for one. They didn’t have time for one.

“You’re bleeding pretty badly.” Miranda leaned in close, the scent of apples and cinnamon enveloping him.

No woman had a right to smell that good.

And Hawke had no business noticing.

Unless he missed his guess, Miranda was one of those rare people who remained untarnished by the world. He, on the other hand, was more tarnished than most.

He scowled, frustrated as much by the direction of his thoughts as he was by his physical weakness. “Bleeding is a whole lot better than being dead. Which is exactly what we’d both be if you’d been foolish enough to call an ambulance.”

At his harsh words, Miranda jerked back, her face pale in the dim light, her dark hair a mass of curls around her face. Hawke knew enough about fear to recognize it in her eyes. Guilt at putting it there made him want to wrap an arm around her shoulders and reassure her that everything was going to be okay.

Instead, he kept the gauze pressed to his head with one hand and grabbed the road map with the other. “Our six hours are ticking away while we sit here arguing. Put your seat belt back on and let’s go.”

The fear he’d seen in Miranda’s eyes disappeared, replaced by stony resolve. “I may not be able to make you see a doctor, but I’m not going to let you drive. Not when you could pass out again.”

She had a point, even if Hawke didn’t want to admit it. His head throbbed with each heartbeat and sudden movements made him dizzy. Losing consciousness again was a real possibility no matter how hard he might fight against it. Passing out while driving could get them both killed. Then again, giving Miranda control of the car might do the same. It would be easy enough for her to drive to a police station and turn them both in. “I’ve driven under worse conditions.”

“And tonight you don’t have to. I don’t see a problem. Unless you don’t trust me.” She was issuing a challenge, but Hawke wasn’t in the mood to meet it.

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“That makes two of us.” She opened the car door, got out. “So, I guess we’ll just have to figure out how to accomplish our goals anyway.”

Hawke figured he had a few options—tell her to get out and go it alone, or pull out the gun and demand she get back into the passenger seat or let her have her way.

The first appealed only in as much as he could convince himself he didn’t care if Miranda lived or died. Which wasn’t much. The second might have worked, but imagining the fear and horror on her face when he pointed the gun at her made Hawke hesitate, a strange and alarming development in an already frustrating night.

“I don’t like losing.” He ground the words out, but Miranda just smiled.

“I guess that’s another thing we have in common.” With that, she shut the door and started around the side of the car, leaving Hawke wondering how a woman who didn’t look capable of hurting a fly had bested him.