In the Arms of a Stranger (Entangled Ignite) (13 page)

She handed him a towel, and he dried off. Meanwhile, she pulled the plastic bag from his jacket, opened it, and examined the contents. He’d glanced quickly at the papers inside earlier, just to make sure there wasn’t anything she shouldn’t know, adding the postcard he’d found in the files. In reality, she shouldn’t know any of it, but it was too late for that. He was shrugging into his jacket when she spoke.

“Do you know who Dorie is?”

“No.” Damn, now he wished he hadn’t put the postcard in there.

“He used the name Asa Pickett, didn’t he?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Probably.”

“We have to find where he used that name and go there.”

So matter-of-fact. So ignorant of what could happen. What
would
happen, because JP hadn’t been thinking. He was feeling.

Rule Number Two: feelings get you killed
.

“I need to find a safe place for you. Until this blows over.”

She stared at him incredulously, then shook her head. “Not a chance.”

“Abby —”

“I told you. I’m here to find out what happened to Wade.”

Anger swirled through him, along with a good dose of jealousy, he conceded, despite the anger. She’d loved her late husband enough to risk her life now.

“What the hell do you think this is? A Sunday outing? I just
killed
two men. If I hadn’t, they would have killed us. Dead. Gone. Finito. This is no place for you.”

She hugged herself. “I will not raise my son under the shadow of what Brooks says Wade did. Cole
will
know that his father was a good man. I’m not going to lie to him.” Her words echoed in the small kitchen, then she continued. “I also don’t believe I’ll be safe
anywhere
. Not until we find out what’s happening, who’s behind all of this. You said these men communicated with this Cal. Whoever he is, he has to know I’m with you.”

Despite what she’d said earlier, she was not some mild, meek little schoolteacher. There was nothing mild or meek about her. She was smart and strong. And persistent as hell.

And he was stalling… Stalling and putting them both in even more danger.

Damn
.

“Fine,” he said, hoping he managed to sound dispassionate through his clenched teeth. “But you do as I say. Always. I say jump, you jump.” For good measure, he added, “No questions.”

She smiled, making him wonder what she was thinking, and nodded. “Agreed. You’re the big bad spy.”

That wasn’t at all what he’d expected her to say. “I’m not a spy,” he returned automatically.

She tilted her head. “Then what are you?”

He blinked.
Damn
. “We’re called ‘officers.’”

She stared at him just long enough to make him wonder if he’d convinced her.

And despite the fact that he was really fed up with her stubbornness, the one thing he wanted to do more than anything was pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

For being fierce and tenacious. And brave and loyal. And possibly the sexiest woman alive.

All of it wasted on her dead husband.

…

JP pushed Abby’s car into the dark waters of an isolated bayou. She understood the need, but kept coming back to the practical: What would she do about a car when this was all over? And her clothes? She’d held onto her purse, but had nothing else except what she had on. Jeans, tennis shoes, and a white blouse that needed washing. Heck,
she
needed washing.

All inane things to consider, given what they’d been through. What they still had to go through.

After they’d climbed into his old truck and JP started driving, she again looked through the papers he’d found. A single postcard, one that must have been mailed in an envelope since there was no address and no postmark, from a woman named Dorie. It read:

I thought you’d like this one. Love, Dorie
.

It was a picture of acres of flat land planted in wheat, with a caption that said:

Visit Texas!

Wade had grown up in Texas. The ranch his family had once owned was in Texas. The panhandle.

Was Dorie real? Was she family? A sister, maybe?

A wife?

The zipper bag also contained ten canceled checks, all written over the past twenty years. The first ones were for between one and two thousand each. The last ones for fifteen thousand dollars. Wade, under his own name, Wade Price—if that had been his real name—had written them all to someone named Asa Pickett. Was this Asa Pickett family? Or was it another of Wade’s aliases?

Or was the money about something else entirely? Something that would verify Brooks’s suspicions? Like payoffs. But for what? To keep this Asa Pickett from divulging something Wade was hiding?

She had to force herself to quit thinking about it because she just kept going around in circles.

By midnight, they were traveling north, with JP constantly checking his rearview and side view mirrors. They spent the night well off the highway on an isolated side road, hidden from view by trees and bushes. JP slept sitting up behind the steering wheel. She’d lowered her seat as far back as it would go and tumbled into an exhausted sleep.

The steady movement of the truck jolted her awake. The sun had barely risen above the horizon. They were driving on a country road, going through pastures and woods. Kudzu grew in massive random shapes up power lines and trees.

She didn’t say anything, just lay still and watched JP drive. His hands were fixed on the wheel, his attention on the road. But he heard her because he turned, his dark eyes making a quick sweep over her, then he focused on the road again.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice rough from sleep.

“Northeast Louisiana. There’s a little town up here,” he replied, glancing back at her. “We can pick up some clothes, get something to eat.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll need to switch vehicles.”

Of course. They’d know his truck. “How long before we get where we’re going?”

“Depends on how long it takes us to find another car.”

“And then?”

“We’ll stop someplace safe where we can figure out what to do next.”

That seemed to be the end of that conversation. They hadn’t said much to each other since they’d left Ocean Springs. There wasn’t much to say, she supposed.

Apparently JP agreed, because they didn’t utter another word for the next hour. He continued north, along a road that meandered next to the Mississippi River levee, then along some more isolated roads before coming to a tiny little town. It was just inside the Arkansas border and consisted of nothing more than a town square, a mom-and-pop eatery, and a strip mall with a few shops still in business.

“You can buy a couple of changes of clothes in there,” JP said, pulling the truck to a stop in the parking lot of a thrift shop. “Do you have any cash?”

“Some, but I have my credit card.”

“No cards. Don’t use yours for anything from here on out.”

Right. Credit card transactions could be easily traced. She’d seen that in movies.

Movies!
This was what her life had become. God help her.

She bought a pair of shorts, underwear, socks, two tops, and a dufflel bag. They went next door to a convenience store to buy toiletries.

JP bought another car at a tiny used car dealership. She didn’t see him transact the final deal and pay, but he must have had enough cash to cover it. They left the dealership with her driving a sedate older Taurus. JP led the way in his truck.

Minutes later, they were on a deserted gravel road. JP pulled to the side and waited until she stopped behind him before getting out.

“There’s an abandoned clay pit at the end of this road,” he said, bending to speak to her. “I’m going to dump the truck there, in the lake. I’ll need to drive down the fence line until I can find a way to get through. Follow me, but stop when you reach the fence. I’ll walk back to you. Give me at least fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes that stretched into a lifetime, she decided after checking her watch for the hundredth time, ten minutes later. Finally, she got out of the car, too restless to sit behind the wheel any longer. He’d never said what she was supposed to do if fifteen minutes passed and he didn’t show up…

Another five minutes passed. The sun rose higher in the sky, and the temperature and humidity began to take their toll. Hot and miserable, she heard a car coming down the road to the clay pit. Frantically looking around, she saw a pile of debris, discarded lumber, and other construction material, large and small tree branches, piled high on one side of the road. Refusing to think beyond hiding, she got back in the car and drove it behind the pile, stopping when she was as sure as she could be that it couldn’t be seen from the road.

But what about JP? What if he didn’t see the car back here? Worse, what if whoever was out there saw him?

Not sure she was doing the right thing, she got out of the car, taking care not to slam the door. Ducking low, she crept close to the limbs and lumber and, heart pounding in her ears, peeked around it.

It was a sheriff’s department cruiser. Barely moving forward, the deputy inside looked from side to side, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. He was searching for something.
Them?

She ducked back down, looking toward the clay pit beyond the fence. Waiting. JP was late. Had the deputy seen him? Killed him?

Oh, God! She was losing it. Why would a deputy in another county, another state, want to kill JP? This man was probably out here on a totally unrelated matter. Not looking for them.

Then again, he could have been alerted by Brooks. Brooks could have told several states and counties to have their officers be on the alert for JP. For them both.

No, not for her. They didn’t know about her. Unless Brooks was the one who’d sent Cal and the men JP had killed in Ocean Springs. Which, even if she didn’t trust Brooks, sounded paranoid.

From beyond the pile of debris, the cruiser continued moving, tires making crackling noises as they rolled over loose gravel, closer and closer to the dead end at the fence.

Suddenly, she thought of something.
Tracks
. Damn!

He was going to see her tire tracks and follow them. JP had gone down a path along the fence line. But just now she had panicked and driven over tall grass and weeds. Why hadn’t she thought of the tracks she was leaving behind?

Because you’re a schoolteacher, not a spy
.

Certain she was shaking, she glanced at her hands. No, not shaking. She heard the drone of insects all around. The cruiser continued moving slowly down the gravel road. Getting closer and closer.

Then it stopped. A cicada that had been screaming went abruptly quiet. Abby waited in the deathly silence. Sweat trickled down her temple, between her breasts.

A car door opened and closed. Footsteps sounded on loose gravel. Movement whispered through dry brush.

She held her breath.

Endless moments passed. She heard the bushes rustling.

Don’t come back here. Please, God, not back here
.

Unable to contain her panicked curiosity, she maneuvered herself to peer around the pile of debris.

The deputy, an older man, had pulled himself halfway up the chain-link fence. He was looking around from his perch.

She ducked back down. The cicada began its piercing song again. A thud told her that the deputy had jumped off the fence. Seconds later, footsteps sounded again on the gravel. A car door opened and closed. It sounded like the cruiser was backing and turning. Then the steady crunch of gravel signaled that it was moving again.

Oh. My. God
. Her breath whooshed out in relief.

This time on hands and knees, she crept to the other end of the pile and, back against a rotting limb, watched the cruiser drive slowly away. The deputy continued to search the woods from behind his sunglasses.

She watched until he disappeared around a small bend in the road. Heaving another sigh of relief, she sat back, exhausted, her head on her knees.

That’s when she felt it. Something crawling on her back. She twisted, one arm behind her, swatting at whatever it was.

Lots of somethings.

Ants
.

Oh, crap
. She grabbed her T-shirt and pulled it up in the back, reaching around to get the crawly things off.

Then she felt a sting, followed by another.
Ow!
She ripped the shirt off over her head as her back exploded in fire. Her hair caught in the neckband.
Ow! Ow! Ow!
She jerked at it, and her hair fell over her face. Stifling a cry of dismay, shoving it back out of the way, she slung the shirt to the ground and began circling, batting and brushing desperately at her back.

…

JP watched the cruiser disappear down the dirt road from his hiding place behind a huge oak. Where was Abby? The car?

He sprinted to the chain-link fence, climbed over, then listened, moving only his head, looking for any sign of her, trying not to panic.

Sweet Jesus, where was she?

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. Turning toward it, he heard a moan, and shuffling and stomping coming from behind a pile of debris. He dropped the jacket he’d removed because of the heat, pulled his Glock from its holster, and carefully, aware that anything could be making the noise, he eased around the pile.

He saw the car. Hidden. The same instant, behind it, he saw Abby.

Without a shirt on, twisting and turning, reaching for something on her back, her hair a wild tumble around her face and shoulders. She looked on the verge of a meltdown.

“Abby?” he called, jogging toward her as he holstered the gun.

She jerked her attention toward him. “Get them off, please!” She brushed desperately at her hair.

He reached her. “What?” he asked.

“Fire ants,” she said on a gasped breath. “Please. Get them off. They’re in my hair!”

She bent, flinging the tangled mess over her face, her hands frantically digging at her scalp.

Several of the insects crawled on her back. Red bites marred the smoothness of her skin.