Chill Factor (26 page)

"Your face is gray. I could hear every breath you took when
you were
in the living room. You're struggling."

"I'm struggling with
you
."

This time when she tugged on her hand, he released it. She
took
several wheezing breaths. "Do you want this?" she asked, extending the
last cracker toward him.

"Please."

Rather than holding it within reach of his hands, she held it
a few
inches from his mouth. "Don't bite me."

Frowning as though she had again insulted him, he inclined his
head
forward and caught the cracker between his teeth, being careful not to
touch her fingers. She snatched her hand back. He worked the cracker
into his mouth. She picked up the empty plate and mug and headed for
the living room.

"If you won't let me go, at least move me in there, where I'll
be
able to keep an eye on you."

"No."

"If I'm in there, you'll be able to watch me closer."

"I said no."

"Lilly."

"Not"

"You never did tell me Dutch's theory about the ribbon. What
does it
represent to Blue?"

After a moment's hesitation, she said, "Dutch says he's using
it as
a symbol of his success to taunt the authorities."

"I agree. And that's probably the only time Dutch and I will
ever
agree on anything. The man's a fool for a lot of reasons, one being
that he left you alone on this mountain yesterday with an ice storm
moving in. What was he thinking?"

"It wasn't entirely his fault. I encouraged him to leave ahead
of
me."

"Why?"

"I'm not going to talk to you about Dutch and me."

He looked at her for a long moment, then said, "I respect you
for
that. Honestly, I do. I wouldn't want you talking to him about us,
either."

"There is no
us
, Tierney."

"That's not true. Not at all. And you know it. Before you
decided
that I'm a deviate, we were well on our way to becoming an
us
."

"Don't read too much into one kiss."

"Ordinarily I wouldn't," he said. "But that kiss wasn't
ordinary."

She knew she should separate herself from him without delay.
Close
her ears. Avoid looking into his eyes. Yet they held her in place as
though they'd cast a spell over her.

"Deny it all you want, Lilly, but you know that what I'm
saying is
the truth. It didn't start for us last night. It's been going on from
the moment you stepped aboard that bus. Every second of every day since
then, I've wanted to put my hands on you."

She dismissed the quickening in her lower body. "Is that how
you do
it?"

"What?"

"Do you sweet-talk those women into going with you without a
whimper?"

"You think this is sweet talk?"

"Yes."

"A line to woo you?"

"Yes."

"So you'll unlock the cuffs and I'll be free to ravage you?"

"Something like that."

"Then explain why I stopped with one kiss last night."

His eyes searched hers while he waited for an answer that
never came.

Eventually he said, "I stopped because I wouldn't take
advan—tage of
the situation. We were in dangerous circumstances. Cut off from the
rest of the human race. We'd been talking about Amy, You were
emotionally fragile, vulnerable, in need of comfort and tenderness.

"We were also hungry for each other. If we had continued
kissing, I
knew where it would lead. I also knew that, later, you might either
regret it or question my motives. I didn't want you to have any
misgivings afterward, Lilly. That's the only reason I didn't join you
on the mattress.

He sounded earnest. God, did he ever. "That was quite a
sacrifice.
Saint Tierney."

"No." His eyes speared into hers like twin pinpoints of light.
"If
you had asked me to fuck you, I would in a heartbeat."

Her sudden intake of air caused her lungs to wheeze. "You're
very
good Tierney." Her voice was a mere croak, not entirely from asthma.
"Sweet one minute, erotic the next. You say all the right things."

"Unlock the cuffs, Lilly," he whispered.

"Go to hell."

Last night her survival had depended on trusting him.

Today it depended on mistrust.

CHAPTER 
18

WHAT THE HELL, WES? "

"Before you blow a gasket, stop and think about this." Wes
joined
Dutch where he was standing in front of an electric space heater. It
did minimal good inside the cavernous garage, but the glowing red coils
gave the impression that, by standing near it, he was staving off the
penetrating cold. It was only an impression. The cement floor conducted
the cold up through the thick soles of Dutch's boots and woolen socks,
straight into his feet and legs.

He stamped his feet to keep the blood circulating. He also
stamped
with impatience. Cal Hawkins had been in the men's room since they
arrived. The last time Dutch had checked on him, he was still heaving
into a nasty toilet.

"They were going to follow you anyway," Wes said of the two
FBI
agents who had trailed him to the garage in
their
own
car. They'd remained inside the sedan with the motor running. The
tailpipe was emitting a cloud of exhaust, which to Dutch looked like
the breath of a beast on his tail.

"This Begley character wants to get to Tierney just like you
do,"
Wes continued. "So instead of tearing up the mountainside on your own,
why not let them shoulder some of the responsibility?"

As much as Dutch hated to admit it, Wes made sense. If
something bad
happened up there—for instance, if Tierney sustained a fatal
gunshot
wound while trying to escape—there would be inquiries, and
review
boards, and paperwork out the wazoo. Why not let the feebs bite off a
chunk of that?

"If this doesn't work," Wes said, nodding toward Hawkins, who
had
emerged from the restroom looking like a walking cadaver, "the feds
have choppers, trained rescue teams, high-tech tracking equipment, all
that."

"But if I use them, I answer to them," Dutch argued. "That
galls.
Big time. Besides, when I get to Tierney—"

"I hear you, and I'm with you one hundred percent on that
issue,
buddy," Wes said in a low voice. "Especially if he's our woman
snatcher. All I'm saying is—"

"Use the FBI up to a point."

Wes slapped him on the back and gave him the grin he used to
give
him in the huddle when they'd agreed on the play that would leave the
other team bumfuzzled and beaten. "Let's get this show on the road."
But as they walked toward the sanding truck, he frowned. "Is he all
right, you think?"

Hawkins was in the driver's seat, but his arms were draped
over the
steering wheel, hugging it like a life preserver. "He'd better be. If
he fucks this up, I'm going to kill him, and then I'm going to keep him
in jail for the rest of his natural life." Dutch opened the passenger
door and climbed in.

"I'm right behind you if you need me," Wes told him.

When Wes closed the passenger door, Hawkins flinched. "No need
to
slam it," he grumbled.

"Start her up, Hawkins," Dutch said.

He cranked the ignition key. "I'll start her, but it ain't
gonna do
no good. I've said it a thousand times, and I'll say it again. This it
nucking futs."

Dutch eyed him suspiciously. "Do I smell liquor on your
breath?"

"Last night's. Recycled," he replied as he checked his side
mirrors.

Dutch looked into the mirror on the passenger door and watched
Special Agent Wise back up the sedan. Then Wes backed his car into the
street, leaving Hawkins a clear route.

No more than ten seconds out of the garage, the windshield
became
blanketed in snow. Hawkins's glance toward Dutch said,
I
told you
so
. Muttering to himself, he turned on the windshield wipers
and
shifted gears. With a great deal of reluctance— or so it
seemed to
Dutch—the rig chugged forward.

The plow attached to the truck's front grille cleaved a
temporary
path for the cars following them. Hawkins also laid down the mix of
sand and salt. It helped, but each time Dutch looked into the side
mirror, Wise and Wes were searching for traction. So he stopped looking.

He had set his cell phone to vibrate rather than ring. Knowing
it
hadn't, he checked it anyway to see if he had a voice mail. He didn't.
He dialed Lilly's cell number, hoping that on a fluke he would find a
signal. He got the expected No Service indicator.

She would call if she could, he told himself. Her cell phone
was as
useless as his. Otherwise she would contact him.

He leaned into the windshield and craned his neck to look
toward the
crest of Cleary Peak. He could see no farther than a few feet above the
roof of the truck. It was total whiteout beyond the point where
individual snowflakes were distinguishable as they kamikazed into the
windshield.

If it was this bad down here, it would be far worse at the top
of
the mountain. Not wanting to spook his driver, he didn't say that out
loud, but Hawkins read his mind.

"Higher we go, the worse it's gonna get," he said.

"We'll take it a foot at a time."

"More like an inch." After a moment, he said, "What I'm
wonderin'…"

Dutch looked over at him. "What?"

"Does your old lady want to be rescued?"

"What do you think, Hoot?"

"About what, sir? Specifically." Hoot was focused on the
center of
the car's hood, trying to keep it in the middle of the chute that the
sanding truck had opened for them.

"Dutch Burton. What's your read on him?"

"Extremely sensitive to criticism. Even when it's only
implied, he
immediately gets his back up."

"The common reaction of one who perpetually fails and/or has
low
self-esteem. What else, Hoot?"

"He wants to get his former wife away from Ben Tierney, more
from
rank jealousy than a conviction that Tierney is Blue. He's reacting
like a man, not an officer of the law."

Begley beamed at him as though he were a prodigy who'd given
the
correct answer to a trick question. "What did Perkins unearth about the
lady?"

While waiting for Chief Burton to arrive at Ritt's store, Hoot
had
used the pay phone to call the Charlotte office. He had his laptop with
him, of course, but the computers in the office had faster and better
access to more extensive information networks. He'd asked Perkins to
see what he could find on Burton's ex and had warned his counterpart
that Begley was in a hurry to get the information.

Perkins had said, "Damn. Okay. Give me ten." He'd called back
in
under five.

"She's editor in chief of a magazine called
Smart
,"
Hoot
told Begley now.

"You're shitting me," he exclaimed.

"No, sir."

"Mrs. Begley swears by that magazine. I've seen her spend a
weekend
with an issue. She redecorated our living room to match one she saw in
it. Are you married, Hoot?"

The sudden question gave him a start. "Sir? Oh. No, sir."

"Why not?"

He wasn't opposed to the idea. In fact, he favored it. The
problem
was finding a woman who wouldn't become bored with him and his ordered
life. That had been the pattern with him and women. There would be a
few dates, some of them overnighters, before he and the woman drifted
apart for lack of enthusiasm.

Recently he'd begun exchanging e-mail with a woman he'd met on
the
Internet. She lived in Lexington and was pleasant to "talk" to. She
didn't know he worked for the FBI. Women were often more infatuated
with the macho image of the bureau than with him. All
Karen—that was
her name—knew of his work was that it involved computers.
Miraculously,
she was still interested.

Their last chat had lasted an hour and thirty-eight minutes.
She
actually had him sitting at his computer in his immaculate home office
laughing out loud over an anecdote involving her one and only attempt
to save money by coloring her own hair. She assured him that the
disastrous result had been remedied in a salon and had been worth every
penny spent on it. It had got him to thinking that maybe he needed a
little zaniness in his life.

More than once she had mentioned to him how pretty Kentucky
was in
the spring. If that lead-in resulted in an invitation for him to come
and see the splendor of a Kentucky spring for himself, he would
seriously consider going. He got nervous thinking about meeting her
face-to-face, but it was a good kind of nervousness.

Hoping that Begley couldn't see the flash he felt in his
cheeks, he
said stiffly, "My focus the last few years has been the pursuit of my
career, sir."

"Fine, well, and good, Hoot. But that's your job, not your
life.
Work on that."

"Yes, sir."

"Mrs. Begley keeps me sane and happy. Don't know what I'd do
without
her. I'd like you to meet her sometime."

"Thank you, sir. It would be an honor."

"Lilly Martin. It's safe to assume that she's a savvy lady?"

Hoot's brain tried to shift tracks with the agility of
Begley's.
"Yes, sir. She holds dual degrees in art and journalism. Started out as
a gofer at another magazine and came up through the ranks to her
current position. Perkins passed along some websites we can look at
later. He said photos show her to be quite attractive."

He cast a glance at Begley before continuing. "And there was
something else, sir. About Ben Tierney. Perkins said that on one of his
credit card statements there was a charge to a catalog that sells
paramilitary gear. He purchased a transponder and a pair of handcuffs."

"Jesus Christ. How long ago?"

"The charge was on his August statement."

Begley thoughtfully tugged on his lower lip. "Mr. Elmer told
us that
Tierney had met Lilly Martin last summer."