Christmas Getaway (3 page)

Or maybe whoever had framed him was just too powerful to fight?

She'd always trusted her instincts. Of course, her instincts had told her marrying Richard was the right thing to do, and she'd been fighting off a major case of cold feet for the last month. But right now her instincts were telling her that this man was one of the good guys.

She took the open knife and sliced through her skirts, higher up, pulling off a wider ring of fabric. Skinnying out of the hoop skirts and crinolines was a little trickier in the front seat of the car, but she managed, tossing them into the back, along with the long, pouffy sleeves. She looked down at the ruined dress. It was now knee-length, short-sleeved and virgin-white. She grabbed his black leather jacket to cover up some of the blood on the top. She looked like a punk prom queen, and the turquoise Crocs completed the outfit.

She grabbed her keys from the ignition and stuffed them in her purse, then opened the door. James Fitzpatrick didn't move, and if she weren't so well-trained, she'd be worried he was dead.

But he wasn't. Not even near it. He was passed out from loss of blood and exhaustion, if she could judge by the purple smudges beneath his eyes. And there was no way she could abandon someone in need.

The night was growing colder, the snow still swirling overhead, and she shivered inside the leather jacket. There was blood in the lining, smearing her white dress, and she zipped it up to hide it before heading toward the brightly lit big-box store with the flashing green and red lights, the crowds of people. The normalcy of Christmas, peace and love and happiness.

And a gunshot victim in her stolen car who thought she had the clue to a diamond robbery. Tugging the jacket down, she braced herself, and then merged with the late-night shoppers in search of bargains, hoping everyone would be too busy to take a good look at her.

She moved fast, throwing things in her basket, and ended up at the pharmacy. The druggist looked askance at her, but her ID was solid and he had no choice but to fill her hastily written prescription. He also let her pay for everything there, which was a good thing—the checkout lines were endless. By the time she'd hauled all the stuff back to the car she was half-expecting her kidnapper to have disappeared.

He was still passed out on the front seat, and the bleeding had almost stopped. He didn't wake when she maneuvered him over to the passenger side, and she drove out of the parking lot quickly, barely missing an oncoming SUV.

They were out past Cape Ann, somewhere in the Gloucester area, and she could smell the sea. It was a good smell—snow and salt water. She drove until she found a backstreet, pulled over and parked, turning off the headlights. She kept the car running—they needed the heat—and turned to survey her patient.

He looked like holy hell. She stripped the Santa jacket off him, then used the knife to cut off the T-shirt. She concentrated on the wound, only allowing herself an occasional covert glance at the rest of him, lean and muscled and gorgeous. And smeared with blood, she reminded herself, cleaning the wound with calm efficiency. The exit would be messier, and it was hard to turn him over on the front seat, but she somehow managed. She'd left the radio on, and in the background was the soothing sound of Christmas music. She hummed beneath her breath as she stitched him up, trying to keep calm in case he woke up with a roar of pain, then bandaged him, moving him back carefully to finish up the entry wound.

And she had to clean the blood off his chest, didn't she? Using the alcohol-soaked towels was nothing more than she'd done as an intern, and the smell should have reminded her of operating rooms and trauma centers. She let him rest back against the seat while she stripped off her ruined dress. The buttons hadn't gotten any easier, but the knife made short work of it, and she took a certain vicious glee in destroying the damned thing. The jeans and flannel shirt she'd bought herself were a little stiff but a hell of a lot warmer, she thought, fastening the buttons…only to realize that bright blue eyes were watching her.

Her patient was awake.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” His voice was nothing more than a weak croak.

“Getting changed. It's a good thing you're awake—you're a little big for me to be dressing.” She tossed him the packaged T-shirt, then reached for another of the oversized flannels.

He just looked at her. “We're going to be twins?” he said, eyeing the red-and-black checks.

“Kidnappers can't be choosers,” she said, reaching for the
bottle of water and the antibiotics she'd grabbed. “Take these, before you become septic and die a horrible death. Not that you don't deserve to, but I have professional ethics.”

“And those include taking care of someone who steals your car and threatens you?” He was moving slowly, pulling the T-shirt over his head. “I prefer black.”

“If you don't wear white I can't see if you start bleeding again. Not that you will—I did an excellent job of patching you up if I do say so myself.”

He glanced down at his side, at the neat white bandage on his tanned skin. “So you did. Why?”

She didn't have an easy answer for that. She'd decided to help him before she realized how freaking gorgeous he was. She shrugged, untwisting the top of the water bottle and handing it to him. “I was looking for an excuse to ditch my wedding. You provided it. I figure I owe you. And if my best friend's sister was in to something bad, was murdered, then I want to find out what I can. For his sake.”

He still looked at her as if she were out of her mind. “You could have just told your fiancé you changed your mind.”

“Count your blessings, Detective Fitzpatrick. I'm going to keep you alive long enough to find your proof. Then it's up to you.”

She expected him to make some kind of protest, but he said nothing, taking the water from her and pouring half of it down his throat before holding his hand out for the pills. He swallowed them, draining the bottle, and she reached in back for more water for both of them.

“I don't suppose you got any food?” he said finally. “I don't remember when I last ate.”

“There's fast food up ahead. Just tell me where we're going—you're too weak to drive.”

For a moment he said nothing. And then he seemed to make some sort of decision. “Camden, Maine,” he said. “And I'll have a burger and fries.”

“You'll have what I order for you. Cholesterol doesn't help the healing process.”

“You're going to be a pain in the ass, aren't you?”

She smiled at him. “Count on it,” she said. And, flicking on the headlights, she headed north.

F
OOD HELPED
. Closing his eyes while the bride drove was his only choice. If he'd still been a traffic cop, he would have pulled her over and lectured the hell out of her. Right now, as she said, kidnappers couldn't be choosers, and anyone who bandaged him up and bought him a grilled chicken sandwich and an eggnog milk shake was entitled to drive any damned way she pleased. As long as he didn't have to watch.

The Christmas music was still coming from the radio, and almost every damned song seemed to have sleigh bells in it. The sound was making his head throb, but she hadn't responded well to his suggestion that they turn off the radio. So he'd closed his eyes and endured, letting the memories play around inside his head.

He'd known something wasn't right for months. He'd never trusted Connor O'Bannion, and neither had Fitz's first partner, Spinelli, but for some reason O'Bannion and Tommy Morrissey, Fitz's second cousin, had suddenly become as thick as thieves, and Fitz couldn't figure out why. Or why his current partner, Grady Barber, had become more and more sullen. Not that that was much of a change from Barber's usual mood. Someone had paired the two of them together, probably O'Bannion. Fitz was supposed to keep an eye on Barber, but now he was thinking that it might have been the
other way around. Grady had a brutal reputation and pairing him up with Jimmy Fitzpatrick had supposedly been the last step before being kicked off the force.

He was off the force for good now. Fitz had great instincts—they'd saved his life more than once, and they'd saved it a few hours ago when Grady had shot at him. He'd sensed the tension in the air, moved fast and avoided being shot in the head, dropping Grady with a bullet to the throat. He'd bled out as Fitz reached him, and even as he held his dying partner, Tommy Morrissey had emerged from the shadows, gun in hand. Tommy never could shoot straight—he'd only managed to wing him as Fitz dove out the window. Under the circumstances there was nothing he could do but run.

He turned his head to look at the bride. “Why did you decide to believe me?”

“I found your badge and your wallet.” She turned the windshield wipers on to brush the gathering snow away. “I figured you were telling the truth. And if you were, turning you in would get you killed, and I didn't want that on my conscience. I'm supposed to heal people, not deliver them to their executioners.”

“I could be a dirty cop. Maybe I shot my partner because he found out I was part of a jewel heist.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Why don't you explain it to me?”

He was still trying to work it out in his own mind, what the hell had happened to people he'd known all his life. “I can boil it down to three sentences. The way I see it, my boss got word of a major diamond theft going down. The cops interfered, killed the thief and took the diamonds for themselves. I found out, so they framed me and they're trying to kill me before I can find proof. That clear enough?”

“Crystal,” she said, switching the wipers on to a higher speed. “So what's our timetable?”

He stared at her. “Lady, you're out of your mind. You need to drop me off in the next town, and I'll steal another car. If you feel so moved, you could fail to tell the police about being kidnapped and your car being stolen, but that's up to you.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“I'm not dropping you off anywhere.” She sounded maddeningly practical. “I'm not letting you out of my sight until I know you're not going to keel over from loss of blood. You should probably have a transfusion, but that would involve going to a hospital and I don't think you're going to be cooperative.”

“You've got that right. And don't worry about me being down a few quarts. It's not as bad as it looks. I've survived much worse.”

“Listen, James Fitzpatrick, I happen to be the doctor here, and I know just how bad your wound is. You're right, it's not life-threatening. Unless you decide to keep driving in this lousy weather and pass out behind the wheel.” She flicked on the turn signal and started toward the exit.

“Where are we going?”

“To find some place to spend the night. The weather is lousy, I can barely see, and if I go off the road, people are going to be asking questions. There's a lot of blood in this car. We'll find a motel, I'll change your bandages and we'll get some sleep.”

“Honey…”

“Ellie,” she corrected him. “Or Dr. Pollard if you want to be formal. I'm not leaving you until I'm sure you're okay, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“Wanna bet?” He reached down, ignoring the searing pain in his side, and when he sat up he had his gun in his hand. “You're going to pull over right now and let me out.”

She glanced at the weapon, then turned her attention back to the snowy roads. “Or you're going to shoot me? I don't think so. That's a hell of a way to treat your doctor.”

“I don't need a doctor…” He could feel the wetness at his side again—he must have pulled at the wound to start it bleeding again.

“You don't have a choice. Now put that stupid little gun down and behave yourself.”

“I'll have you know this is a Glock.”

“I don't care what it is, you aren't going to shoot me. Now put it down and behave yourself.”

“You've got a hell of a bedside manner, Doc,” he said.

“When I have to deal with recalcitrant adults, yes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Recalcitrant. It means balky, uncooperative…”

“I know what the hell
recalcitrant
means, lady. I went to college. What did you mean by adults?”

“I'm a pediatrician. Fortunately I don't usually have to deal with gunshot wounds.”

“Great,” he said. “I have an amateur taking care of me.”

“Top of my class, Fitzpatrick. You're in safe hands.”

“People call me Fitz.”

“I imagine they do. Do they realize it's shorthand for bastard?”

She was a cocky creature. And to think he'd been glad she wasn't the weeping, trembling type. He could have gone for some hysterics about now. “Tell that to half of Ireland,” he grumbled.

“Illegitimate children weren't called by their parents' name, they were called the Fitz-somethings. Illegitimate son of Patrick. A bastard.”

“In more ways than one, babe,” he snarled, leaning back
carefully. “Believe it.” His side was on fire, and he'd been an idiot to try anything.

She glanced over at him. “Okay, Fitz, here's the way it's going to be. We're stopping for the night because the roads are too bad and I can't drive any longer. You'll get a good night's sleep to recover from your wound and you'll have several doses of the antibiotic in your system. If I think you're in good enough shape, then I'll go out and rent a car for you to finish your drive up into Maine, and I'll go home and deal with the mess I've made of my life.”

He considered it. She was right. He was weak and exhausted and the driving looked like utter hell—each snowflake was divebombing the windshield and he could barely see the oncoming traffic. He'd be in better shape tomorrow, and if she kept her word, he'd have a legal car to make it the rest of the way up to Hidden Harbor. He'd lied about Camden—she didn't need to know everything. His destination was about three hours farther up the east coast, and it was going to be one hell of a drive.

“All right,” he said finally. “But you'd better rent me an SUV. The roads along the coast are treacherous when there's snow.”

“Humph,” she said.

“You mind telling me where the hell we are?”

“Just over the New Hampshire border. I figured you'd be in a better position if we crossed state lines. The Boston police would have no jurisdiction outside of Massachusetts, right?”

“They have no jurisdiction outside of Boston, but they could get the staties involved.”

“Staties?”

“State police.”

“But not the New Hampshire state police, right?”

“In theory. In fact, every law-enforcement official in the northeast is going to want to bring down a cop killer.”

“Even if it's a fellow cop?”

“Even more,” he said in a bitter voice. “Right now I'd like nothing more than to blow a hole in O'Bannion's thick skull. And Tommy's going to break my second cousin's heart.”

“Who are O'Bannion and Tommy?”

He considered whether he should tell her. Right now he was so cold and wiped out he wasn't thinking too clearly, but he couldn't see any reason not to.

“O'Bannion's the chief detective. My boss, and I'm betting he's behind the whole scam. Tommy Morrissey is a cousin, and he's up to his neck in it, as well. They've got to be the ones who framed me.”

“Why?”

“Because I stumbled across what they were doing and they knew I'd turn them in the moment I got proof.” He blinked. She was looking like someone in a movie—all soft focus and backlit. And he could feel himself beginning to slip away again. He closed his eyes, listening to the soft sound of the windshield wipers battling the snow, the whisper of Christmas music coming from the radio, the sound of the tires on the slushy roads. He needed to get rid of her—she was in danger, and as a cop his first duty had always been to protect the innocent. It had been drilled into him from childhood, growing up as he had in a family of cops and firefighters, and in kidnapping this very bossy woman he'd betrayed his code of ethics, just on the slight, unlikely chance that she knew something.

Of course, he'd only meant to take the car and dump her someplace safe as soon as possible. But all that had taken a flyer when he'd passed out and she'd gotten all medical on his ass.

“If you want me to be able to make it into the motel on my own, you better find it soon,” he said, groggy.

He didn't hear her answer. Things weren't making much
sense—he was cold and he needed a bed. He tried to fight it—he needed to keep it together long enough to get rid of her, or she'd be a sitting duck. But he could barely focus enough to form words.

The car stopped moving, and suddenly all noise was gone—the jingling music, the comforting whoosh of the wipers, the soft purr of the engine.

He heard her voice from far away. “I'm going to get us a room. Don't move until I come back.”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. He needed to get away from her, for her own sake. He waited just long enough, and then fumbled with his seat belt. It took him forever to unfasten it, and he reached for the door handle, pushing it open as a blast of snow hit him in the face. It took too much effort to swing his legs out of the car, and he lifted himself up from the seat, determined to get away from her.

A moment later he was facedown in snow, and the darkness began to close in for good.

 

“B
LOODY HELL
,” Ellie said, moving around to the side of the car. Her patient lay sprawled in the snow, and he'd probably pulled his stitches loose. Irish cops were even more stubborn than Aussie men—she was going to have her hands full keeping him alive.

Fortunately the cheap, no-tell motel was practically deserted—it was a ways off the main highway and the snow was falling so thickly people were just staying home. She'd parked in front of one of the tiny cabins, and while the sullen teenager minding the front desk had warned her the heat left something to be desired, she took the room anyway. There was no guarantee she'd find another place on this back road, and she was on her last legs. She just had to hope
Norman Bates wasn't about to pop around the corner with a butcher knife.

She hauled Fitzpatrick to his feet, careful to favor his wounded side, and he was just conscious enough to help with the effort. He was bigger than she'd realized, and he was lucky she didn't have to drag his sorry ass through the snow. It probably would have left a trail of blood, making their situation even worse, but he managed to stay on his feet while she steered him toward the tiny cabin.

He collapsed on one of the twin beds, out cold, while she quickly fiddled with the space heater. The temperature in the room was icy, and she took the covers from the second bed and piled them on top of him before she went out to the car to get their stuff.

There was a patch of blood on the snow, and she quickly kicked at it, spreading more snow around to cover any traces of blood. She squinted up at the night sky—the snow was still coming down hard and fast. With luck there'd be no sign of the blood by morning.

The room was marginally warmer when she went back in, and she double-locked the flimsy door behind her before she turned to look at her patient.

He was still, his eyes closed. His color was slightly better, and she was going to need to wake him in a short while to get another pill in him and change his bandages, but for the time being he was better off huddling beneath the blankets until she could warm this place up.

The cabin was tiny—barely enough room for twin beds and a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs. There was a television on the rickety table, and she turned it on, keeping the sound low as she sat on the floor near the heater and pulled off his wet sneakers. She'd kept his leather jacket around her,
but it didn't provide much warmth. She thought of her sterile apartment back on Beacon Hill. It wasn't much but at least it was warm and had one hell of a shower. Right now she would have killed for that shower.

She just wouldn't have killed her patient, and if she left him, there was a good chance that would happen.

She channel-surfed while the room slowly filled with a surly heat, pausing at WSBK for a news report. A terrorist bomber had been suspected of planning an attempt on Farnham's, the store had to be evacuated but the terrorist had gotten away.

Ellie shook her head. The perfect way to manipulate people—play on their fears and they'd shoot first and ask questions later. She half expected to see a police sketch of Fitz dressed up in Middle Eastern clothing, but they stopped short of that. She pushed up from the floor, feeling stiff and sore, and moved to look at Fitz. Her patient, she reminded herself. She'd bought orange juice and crackers at the store, and she poured him a glass of juice and fed him another pill. He opened his eyes for a moment, then closed them again, but he'd looked relatively lucid. She hated to uncover him in the still chilly room, but she had no choice.