Dead Ringer (26 page)

"Good." He brushed the hair away from her forehead, drinking in the sight of her. "Before I go, I'll wash out the glass and refill the bottle with tap water. You do the same every time you come back to the room."

She nodded again. "The same."

"And no food unless it's what everyone else is eating. I left a couple of power bars on the dresser. If you're not sure about the food, eat the bars. If you don't ingest any more, whatever they gave you should be out of your system soon. And, Angelina"-he took her face in his hands to force her concentration on him-"you can't let them know. If they figure out the drug isn't working, they'll find something else to use on you."

She blinked, trying to stay focused. "Pretend."

"That's right. Can you do that?"

"Been... doing it"

Another wave of respect ran through him, mingled with a burgeoning fear at the base of his spine that he didn't want to face right now. "Yeah, I guess you have." Then suddenly he remembered the other reason he'd broken into the house. "One more thing. Victor has an appointment with a Dennis Copley tomorrow. Do you know him?"

"Dennis?" He could see her trying to focus on the name.

"He was at your wake for Beaman."

She nodded slowly. "Horses."

"That's right."

"Friend of Beamer's. Went to... Kentucky Derby. Sat in... his box."

Christ.

"Okay, look. Stay in bed tomorrow. All day."

She gave him a small, crooked smile. "No ... problem."

"Let's hope Copley won't stay the night. But if he does, stick to your room. You're sick. It's as good an excuse as any, and it's true."

"I like... bed."

Was that a joke? If she could joke, she couldn't be as bad off as she sounded.

He stood and let out a huge breath. "All right, then. Let's get you into it" He slid his arms under her and lifted her off the chair. She snuggled against him, sending waves of heat through him. God, just the smell of her made him crazy.

"You coming ... too?" she murmured into his neck.

He smiled inwardly. God knew he wanted to. "Not this time, Angel."

He laid her in the bed.

"No sex on the job for... straight-arrow Carver?"'

He tried not to let the smile show and ruin her impression of him. "You know it's against my code of honor."

He settled beside her, tucking the quilt around her, and studied her emerald eyes, now dull as moss. Another icy flash of fear rattled him. How the hell could he make himself go?

"You don't have to do this, Angel. Why don't you just walk away?"

Her luscious mouth tilted up in a small smile as she closed her eyes. "Because I'd... miss you, Sharkman."

* * *

With careful precision, Finn slipped through the trees toward the checkpoint, trying not to remember that Angelina was still inside the ranch, strung out and vulnerable. The thought made him want to charge forward but he forced himself to go slow, senses on alert for the slightest sound. No point getting caught now. Her life depended on it. He picked his way in the darkness. A few yards, and the Jeep and two men, automatics cradled in the crook of their arms, came into view.

Going back to the mine would've been easier, but getting transport from there was tricky and slow, and he needed to get his test sample out as soon as possible. He felt around his pocket for the aspirin bottle he'd found in Angelina's purse, the one he'd rinsed out and tilled with a sample of the tampered water. He'd told himself she'd be all right, but he had to be sure. And he'd promised to be back within a day, so speed was essential. Mike and Jack were the fastest way out. They were due for a shift change in a few hours and he could hitch a ride back to town with them and deliver her drawing and the water sample.

He ducked behind a tree as a patrol Jeep passed by. The second Jeep stopped at the first and the driver called out.

"Fall back. We've had reports of a prowler and everyone's ordered up to the house for reconnaissance."

Finn stopped breathing. He swore he'd made it out with no one the wiser.

A big man with a clipboard jumped out of the first Jeep. "That's crazy. No one could get by us. And if there's a prowler, someone should guard the gate. Who gave the order?"

The man in the patrol Jeep thumbed over his shoulder toward the house. "Came from up there."

That seemed to stem the other guy's resistance. He grumbled, but turned the car around and wound toward the ranch house, the second Jeep following.

Now that was a lucky break. Maybe Borian wasn't as smart as everyone thought. Still as stone, Finn waited until both cars disappeared, then took a wary step toward the unguarded gate.

Behind him, the crunch of tires on gravel warned of a vehicle approaching from the ranch. Quickly he ducked behind a large rock. A black Suburban bumped over the path toward him. The all-but-invisible driver slowed as he neared the gate, then pulled into the trees until out of sight. The engine grumble cut off and a car door opened and closed. Heavy footsteps tramped in the underbrush. Moments later metal scraped on metal like a latch lifting, and a slow, mechanical whoosh followed.

Whoever was in the car had opened the gate. Were they checking the outside perimeter? Looking for him?

He peered out from his hiding place into impenetrable darkness. The footsteps faded toward the highway, leaving him wondering who, if anyone, was left inside the car.

Trapped, he muttered a curse. How many more obstacles would he encounter tonight? He had to make sure Angelina was okay and the fastest way was to get that water sample to the lab at headquarters where it could be analyzed.

Eyes on the road, he strained to hear any sound that would tell him whether it was safe to venture out. Had he screwed up and revealed his position? Teeth on edge, he sat motionless, listening. Nothing but crickets and wind fluffing trees.

He'd tried checking in with Mike and Jack before he left the house, but couldn't get a signal on the sat phone. Now, he unhooked the phone, punched in the number, and waited for someone to pick up.

No one did. Wasn't the damn thing working?

His head snapped up as footsteps crackled in the brush again. He stowed the phone, listening, and like a movie going backward, the sounds he'd heard earlier repeated themselves in reverse order. The low, mechanical slide and metallic scrape of a latch, the click of a car door opening, the slam of it closing. Then the ignition turned over and the car backed up toward the ranch, setting off the way it had come, slowly, ponderously, wheels crushing gravel.

He stood rock-still. A cold sweat set in on his neck and he shivered, waiting out the silence. Ninety seconds and nothing moved but the trees, topknots swaying. Sliding out from behind the shelter of his rock, he raced to the next, making his way toward the gate.

From the safety of the scrub line, he gauged how badly he'd be exposed once he stepped in front of it. But there was no help for it; an angel was counting on him.

A deep breath and he stepped out into the road, facing the gate in full view of anyone who happened by. His heart thudded in his chest, but he was concentrating so hard on estimating the height of the gate he barely noticed.

He leaped.

And landed halfway up. He scuttled the rest of the way as fast as he could, then dropped onto the road on the other side.

Dusting off his hands, he looked around quickly. The gate loomed unguarded behind him. If everyone was looking for him, they'd done a sad, sorry job of it.

He smiled to himself and scurried into the shadow of the roadside scrub. To his left he could make out the outline of the dilapidated shack across the road.

Ducking low, he slid through the rocky brush until he was opposite the hut, then jogged across the road and flattened himself against the side, easing slowly around to the front.

The old truck and rusty van were parked with then-backs facing the shack. Finn took in the hay bales and pitchforks resting against the side of the pickup and wondered if Jack or Mike had dreamed up the props. Either way they were a nice touch.

He eased behind the pickup and over to the van, rapped lightly at the back doors, calling low. "Hey-it's Carver. Let me in."

He waited for the sound of the lock turning, but nothing happened, and he rapped again. "Quit fooling around and open the door, Jack."

Nothing. He moved between the two vehicles and into the line of sight of the van's driver-side mirror, so they could see him. Since he wasn't where he was supposed to be he could only imagine what they were saying to each other. Nothing printable, that was for sure.

Returning to the van's back doors, he knocked louder. "Jack! Open the goddamn door."

He rattled the handle, but the door was locked. Muttering a curse, he slid along the driver's side of the vehicle.

His foot crunched on something and he shot a quick glance down. Visibility was nil, so he took out the pen-light he always kept in his pocket and using his body to shield the glow, knelt and turned it on. The beam lit up a spray of broken glass at his feet.

He rose slowly, and the light rose with him, revealing the jagged remains of the driver's side window.

Jack's head lolled against the doorjamb, blood black against the light hair at his forehead.

CHAPTER
15

F inn sat grim-faced on the edge of a desk. The back room off the Helena airstrip was antiseptically clear of clutter, with only a couple of gunmetal-gray chairs and a steel filing cabinet to break the monotony of hospital-green cinder-block walls. Behind the desk, a broad window looked out over the airstrip, showing an empty runway and a bleak, overcast afternoon.

Roper stood with his back to the view, eyes sharp and focused on Finn. "Tell me again," he said for the umpteenth time, and again Finn repressed the acid rage of guilt blistering his heart and repeated what he'd seen forty-eight long hours ago.

"I saw the car, a black Suburban, pull into the trees. Someone got out. I heard footsteps, probably the gate lifting." Finn let the room's harsh bareness burn into his brain, whitewashing out the other sights branded there. Jack's lifeless eyes. The defensive wounds in the hands Mike had held up in a futile attempt to stop the bullet that killed him.

"Any sense of how big a person made the footsteps?"

Finn knew where his boss was going with this- Grisha. Too bad Finn couldn't help out. "They were footsteps. Scrabbling in the brush sounds. That's all." He stood and shot a glance out the window. "Look, I can guess as well as you can, but I didn't see whoever it was and can't ID him."

Roper frowned. "Do you think Borian's men knew you were there?"

Finn shoved away from the desk, fury making his neck ache and grief taking up permanent residence in his chest. "I don't know. Maybe. More likely Borian cleared the area so no one could witness the car or ID the shooter inside."

He rolled his shoulders trying to loosen the tension, and looked out the window again. No incoming planes marred the horizon. He suppressed a growl and began to pace the room, fear tightening the already tight ball of panic in his gut.

Angelina was next. Every fiber of his being screamed that she was in mortal danger, but the decoder was still en route from Washington. A line of violent thunderstorms had grounded the flight yesterday and today's arrival was behind schedule. He scanned the glowering sky, reliving the last few moments with her in the moonlit room. He should have dragged her out of there by her hair.

As if reading his mind, Roper said mildly, "You couldn't have known what Borian would do. Angelina made the right decision to stay, and you did right to let her."

"Tell that to her corpse."

Roper didn't respond, and Finn swallowed the nausea that threatened to spew out his throat. He'd called the ranch all day yesterday, and each time had been told that Angelina couldn't come to the phone because she wasn't feeling well.

Not feeling well my ass.

But if Borian wanted her dead, he would have killed her not drugged her.

At least Finn could rest easy on that score. The water sample had turned up convallatoxin. The lab theorized that it was plant-derived, possibly from something as innocuous as lily of the valley, which was so toxic, even the water in which cut flowers were kept was dangerous. He remembered flowers in Angelina's room. Luckily, the sample contained only trace amounts, enough to sicken but not kill. If Angelina stopped ingesting it, she should be fine.