Deadly Pursuit (25 page)

“Okay.” He rubbed his hands together, once more running over his own prop list. Yeah, he had everything. It was all stashed in the truck. He was set. “Let's get this show on the road.”

Bev started for the back door, and he followed.

“So when do you think you'll be back?” Chuck sat at the kitchen table to fiddle with the latest electronic device he'd begun disassembling. A VCR.

“When do you need your truck?”

He shrugged. “Whenever. I'll probably stick close. I got everything here I need.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen drawer where he kept the meth stash and grinned. “Did you take some for yourself?”

“Yeah.” Daryl didn't plan to use it all, but he wanted plenty on hand if his confidence—or courage—began to waver.

“Happy hunting.” With a wave, Chuck bent to his task.

Pushing through the door, he found Bev already in her car, the engine running. Anxious to step onto the stage again. She was getting a real kick out of this.

But he doubted she'd be as gung ho to help him if she knew the full extent of his plans. Even Chuck wasn't privy to the fine points. It was safer this way. The fewer people who knew details, the fewer chance there was for anything to go wrong.

Jiggling the keys in his hand, Daryl double-checked the tarp-covered cage in the bed of Chuck's truck. Once upon a time, it had housed a doomed dog.

And very soon, for a brief time, it would house a doomed social worker.

“What were you thinking!”

At Cole's explosive question, Alison cringed and drew her office phone back from her ear. “Hello, Cole.” She did her best to keep her voice neutral. “How are you feeling?”

“Lousy. Worse, since I found out you drove to work without an escort.”

“My escort was in no condition to get behind the wheel of a car. I take it you talked to Mitch.”

“Yes. I am not happy about this, Alison.”

“No kidding.”

“We had an agreement.”

Her injured leg suddenly cramped, and she rose to stretch it. Long hours in one position—and stress—could do that to her, and today had been filled with both. She hadn't budged from her desk in the past four hours. Not since she'd grabbed her container of yogurt from the fridge at eleven o'clock. Worrying about Cole's impending sure-to-be-furious reaction to her morning commute hadn't helped either.

“I know we did, but an emergency arose. I handled it the way I thought best. As I told Mitch, I didn't take any chances. I only left your apartment and my car when there were a lot of people around. I was perfectly safe. I was in public places, with plenty of witnesses around if someone tried to pull a fast one.”

“That doesn't make me feel any better. You're going to let him escort you home tonight, right?”

“That's the plan.”

He blew out a breath. “Okay. Stick to it.”

“So how's the arm?”

“It's been better.”

“Did you just get up?”

“No. I ate some soup at lunch, and a few of your cookies. But I'm about ready to pop another couple of the painkillers they gave me at the hospital and crash again. I wanted to make sure you were covered first, because these knock me out.”

“Everything is copasetic. Don't worry. By the way, we're going to stop on the way back and grab some Chinese. Any preferences?”

“Mongolian beef. Plus a few egg rolls.”

She smiled at his predictability. That had been his standard Chinese restaurant order for as long as she could remember. “Okay. Now go get some rest. I'll see you around six.”

“Yeah.” He stifled a yawn. “I'd rest better if you'd stick with the plan.”

“Mitch and I have it all arranged. Don't worry. You're the one who was in the line of fire last night.” She gentled her voice. “Just take care of yourself, okay? I want you to be around for a very long time.”

“Likewise. And trust me. I'll be bugging you for many, many years. See you tonight.”

As she replaced the receiver in its cradle, Alison prayed that was true. Both of her brothers were in very dangerous professions. Bingo man's threats notwithstanding, she was the least likely of the Taylor siblings to find herself in a perilous predicament, as last night proved.

But she had an advantage. She knew someone was after her, and the old cliché about forewarned being forearmed was true. Until her stalker was found, she intended to be very, very careful.

And as long as she did that, she'd be safe.

Standing under the hot spray, Mitch tipped his head back and let the water sluice down his body. He'd planned to shower as soon as he got home around noon, but his eyes had been gritty with fatigue. Instead, he'd fallen across the bed—and into an instant deep sleep.

When he'd awakened a few minutes ago, he'd been in the exact same position as when he'd conked out. He doubted he'd moved a single muscle in the four hours he'd slept.

Much as he wanted to stay under the relaxing stream of water, he twisted the knob off and stepped out, toweling his hair dry. He needed to get an update on the homicide, throw on some clothes, and head to Alison's office.

He padded barefoot to his room, then pulled on jeans and a black T-shirt, tucking his off-duty compact Glock into the concealed holster on his waistband.

As he ran a comb through his damp hair, a shuffling noise in the hall caught his attention and he crossed to the doorway. His father was slowly walking toward him, one hand braced against the wall. He was slightly bent, as if in pain, and his complexion was an alarming shade of gray. Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip.

“Dad?” He tossed the comb on the dresser and started toward his father. “What's wrong?”

Walt stopped, grimacing, as he rubbed a hand over his chest. “I'm not sure. Must be that frozen Mexican dinner I ate at lunchtime. It was a lot spicier than I expected. I just want to lie down for a while. It'll pass.”

He made an attempt to continue down the hall toward his bedroom, but Mitch stopped him with a firm hand on his arm. “Tell me what hurts.”

“My chest. Like a real bad case of indigestion. And my arm. But I was working in the garden earlier, and my muscles are out of shape.”

Mitch tried to rein in his panic. “We need to get this checked out.”

“I know what you're thinking.” He propped a shoulder against the wall, breathing heavily. “But it can't be a heart attack. I just had bypass. They fixed all my clogged arteries.”

“I know that, but we're not taking any chances. Did you take an aspirin?”

“No. There's a bottle on the counter in the kitchen.”

“Okay. I'll get one for you. Sit here.” He tried to ease his father to the floor, but Walt shook him off.

“I'll sit in a chair.”

Before Mitch could stop him, he pushed off from the wall and retreated six steps to his favorite easy chair in the living room.

Expelling a frustrated breath, Mitch strode to the kitchen and grabbed the portable phone. After punching in 911, he propped it against his shoulder, shook an aspirin out of the bottle, and filled a glass with water. He gave the dispatcher all the particulars, then returned to the living room.

“Here. Take this. Drink all the water.”

His father's hand was shaking, and as Mitch bent down and cupped his own around the gnarled fingers that had taught him how to wield a saw and tenderly plant seedlings and bait a fishhook, tears pricked at his eyes.

Please, God, don't take him yet. Give us some more time together. Please!

The plea to the Almighty came unbidden, surprising Mitch as much as he suspected it surprised God. It had been years since he'd prayed. Years since he'd felt the need for divine intervention in his life. But back in the familiar home of his youth, where the seeds of his faith had been planted and nurtured, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to direct a request to God.

Or perhaps observing the powerful, fortifying faith that was so important to his father and Alison was making him take a second look at the possibility of a relationship with the Lord.

Now wasn't the time to mull that over, however. As his ears picked up the distant wail of an ambulance, he refocused on his father. The only thing that mattered at the moment was getting him through this crisis.

The two paramedics had the same priority. After asking Mitch a couple of questions, they gave the older man their full attention. But Mitch did step in when his father began protesting about a trip to the hospital.

“Dad . . . don't fight us on this, okay? The paramedics think you need to go, and I agree.”

“Look at it this way, Mr. Morgan. If everything checks out, you can say I told you so to your son.” The paramedic grinned at his patient and continued to ready him for transport without missing a beat.

Walt aimed a peeved look at the three of them. “I'm telling you all, it's a lot of fuss about a bad case of indigestion. I know better than to eat that spicy Mexican food. But fine, I'll go. Waste of time and money, when a few Tums would take care of the problem.”

As Mitch followed the paramedics out, locked up, and slid behind the wheel of his car, he hoped his father was right. He'd like nothing better than for this to be a false alarm—but he wanted that verified by medical professionals. He'd come home to spend time with his father. And he intended to do everything he could to ensure that time wasn't cut short.

Daryl wiped his palms on his slacks and looked toward Alison's office building from the passenger seat of Bev's car. In fifteen minutes the nosy social worker would walk out that door.

And they were ready for her.

Bev had followed him to the deserted storage-unit facility he'd found on his scouting expedition. He'd left Chuck's truck in an isolated corner of the parking lot, and they'd continued to Alison's South County office.

Although Alison had left at quarter to five the day he'd followed her home from here, white-collar types didn't punch a time clock. She could cut out early if she wanted to. That's how life worked for the lucky people. He and Bev needed to be set to move the second she appeared at the door.

“You ready?” He shot a quick glance at the woman beside him.

Bev examined her makeup in the mirror and patted her wig. “As soon as you say the word.” She rubbed at a smudge of lipstick with her finger. “You know, you never did tell me exactly what this woman did to you.”

“She got me sent to prison.”

“Yeah?” She stopped rubbing and slanted a glance at him. “How'd she do that?”

“By sticking her nose in where it didn't belong.”

“A busybody, huh?” Bev sniffed and tucked a stray strand of hair back into the wig. “I don't like snoops either. There was a brownnoser in high school who was always ratting on her classmates to the principal. Got me busted once for smoking in the girl's john. And it was just a plain old cigarette. Like that was some huge crime.” She rolled her eyes. “You point her out and I'll be ready to give the performance of my life. What're you gonna do with her, anyway?”