She Can Run (6 page)

They were all filthy and emitted the distinct odor of horse. Sweat glued their hair to their foreheads. It was too hot for anyone to work outside. He hoped Beth didn’t intend to return to the barn this afternoon, because he’d have to veto that idea.

“Can you guys swim?”

“Yes, sir.” Ben kept his head down as he answered.

“You can call me Jack.”
Sir
sounded old. “Well, there’s a pool out there. You can use it whenever you want, as long as there’s an adult with you. Sure hot enough today. Down at the lake, there used to be a beach, too. I’d like to get it and the dock and boathouse repaired.” He glanced at Beth. “We should make a list, and since you’re going to be staying a while, you could bring in the rest of your stuff.” Jack gritted his teeth. He should be getting up and hauling their stuff into the house for them. But no, he was sitting in a chair like a freaking old man.

Both children stopped eating to stare at their mother.

“We’re going to try it for a couple of weeks,” Beth explained.

With a grin that made Jack smile, Ben jumped up from the table and flew out the door, calling out, “I’ll get our stuff.”

At least one of them was happy about the arrangement.

Without her brother’s body to shield her, a panicked look crossed Katie’s face. Her gaze darted to Beth as if contemplating shifting over a seat, but moving closer to her mother would mean moving closer to Jack. Clearly that wasn’t an option. Katie wouldn’t even look at him.

Jack had to do something. There was no reason for her to be afraid of him. And, yeah, damn it, it bugged him.

“Katie, I would like to ask you for a favor.” Jack made it a point not to even lean in her direction. He kept his voice low and even. Still, her face paled and her fingers trembled at the sound of his voice. It made Jack’s chest ache just to watch her, but he continued. “It’s about Henry.”

At the mention of his name, the dog hauled his furry butt off the floor and rested his head in Jack’s lap. Jack scratched Henry’s head. Despite having zero work ethic and the attention span of a gnat, Henry was a good soul. The big dope was simply more of a lover than a fighter.

“Henry is a highly trained police dog, you see.”
Sort of.
He wasn’t exactly lying. Henry had been trained extensively. The fact that none of that training had stuck was another issue. “With my injury, I can’t practice with him every day. He might forget everything. That would be a real shame.”

Henry’s eyes glazed over as Jack rubbed just the right spot behind his ear. Jack focused on the dog, keeping Katie in his peripheral vision. The little girl’s eyes were still wide as saucers, but she no longer looked like she was going to lose her lunch.

“Do you think you could take over his practice? It’s a pretty big responsibility.”

The child’s nod was almost imperceptible.

“Can you read?” How the hell old was she anyway? Five or six? A really small seven?

She nodded again.

“OK then. I’ll write down all his basic commands for you.” Jack picked a small piece of ham off the plate. “You give him a command, like
down
.” The dog didn’t move. “And you give him the treat if he does it.”

Still standing, Henry’s whole butt wagged.

“Only if he does it.” Jack showed him the ham. Henry drooled. “As you can see, he’s already forgotten a lot.”

The dog sighed and sank to the floor with a protesting groan. Jack gave him the treat. “That was a little slow, buddy.”

Henry swallowed the ham and closed his eyes.

“Do you think you can do that?”

She gave him another minuscule nod and looked at him for the first time.
Baby steps
.

Ben came through the door wheeling a large suitcase, a couple small duffels slung over his shoulder. Katie slipped off her chair to follow him down the hall.

Beth cleared her throat as she stood up to follow the kids. “Thank you.” Were her eyes actually misty?

Jack had a moment of satisfaction after Beth disappeared through the doorway before Mrs. Harris burst his Good Samaritan bubble. “Does this mean you’re through feeling sorry for yourself?”

He winced. “Was I that bad?”

Mrs. Harris gave him a pointed stare.

“Sorry.”

“You’re entitled to be angry, even depressed about your injury, Jack. But you’re going to have to move on. Why do you think your uncle wanted you to live here? It wasn’t like he got a kick out of controlling people. You know he wasn’t like that.”

Jack shrugged. She had a point. Danny had never tried to interfere with his life. He’d merely kept in touch and invited him to spend the occasional weekend at the estate.

“If you ask the attorney, you’ll find out he wrote that stipulation into his will about a month after your accident—
after
Quinn told him he thought your knee was shot.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open.

“Danny said you needed to come home. You just didn’t know it.” Mrs. Harris’s gaze moved to the glass door. “And I think, somehow, he knew he was going to die.”

“I’m going to miss him. I should have visited more often.”

“Probably.” Mrs. Harris didn’t pull any punches. “He worried about you, Jack. Sean and Quinn have families to keep them on track. Danny thought you needed roots, too.”

“Maybe he was right.” Jack adjusted the ice pack. “So, what do you think of our new houseguests?”

“Something’s not right with them.” Mrs. Harris stepped to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Coors Light. She handed it to him and he twisted the cap off for her. “Do you think they’re in some sort of trouble?”

“Who knows?” Jack shook his head. “But keep your eyes open. Just in case.”

“Don’t you worry. Not much gets by me.” Mrs. Harris tipped the bottle back for a long swallow.

No shit.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sweat rolled down James Dieter’s back as he methodically wiped the kitchen surfaces with glass cleaner. He finished the cabinets and did a quick walk around, checking for any remaining sign of Beth or the kids. He’d disposed of everything that could possibly hold a print or be traced. The place was squeaky fucking clean.

At the other end of the small apartment the window air conditioner groaned. He crossed the worn carpet and switched it off. Summer in Virginia was a bitch, but the heat didn’t bother him much. Anybody who complained about the temperature or humidity should belly crawl through a jungle in ‘Nam in full combat gear.

Before leaving, he glanced out the window at the street below. Droplets of condensation obscured the view, but so far, so good. There was no sign of the slick, pony-tailed man yet, but he was on his way. Coming for Beth. James had envisioned him in vivid detail just this morning. And the hair on the back of his neck itched. A sure sign fate was ready to collect her due. Well, thanks to some funky wiring in his head, James was ready.

He slipped out the door and down the wooden stairs, letting himself back into the small neighborhood tavern he’d owned for more than a decade.

Ten minutes later, as he perched on a stool tallying the previous night’s receipts, the hair on his nape quivered as if the air were charged with a weak electric current. It was an alert system, rather than an indication of fear. His long-conditioned senses recognized when precognition and reality were about to collide. And he knew some major-league shit was about to hit the fan.

Outside, a car door closed.

Slick was here.

He swung his legs over the bar and ducked. The persistent itch felt like an old friend as he strained for a sound that would give away the intruder’s position.

Outside, the wooden staircase creaked. A shadow crossed the window as it ascended. James stepped closer and peered sideways through the mini-blind slats. Morning sunlight glinted off the barrel of the gun in Slick’s hand. The guy thought he was slick all right, sneaking up on an old man, a woman, and a couple of kids, but Slick had a surprise in store for him this morning.

Mr. Magoo was going Rambo on his ass.

James slipped behind the bar, squatted down, and pulled out a locked metal box. He transferred a handgun to his pocket but kept the razor-sharp Ka-Bar in his hand. His fingers curled around the familiar, thick grip of the knife that had been a part of him for decades.

Footsteps squeaked overhead.

Moving quietly, James crept toward the door. He caught the first whiff of smoke. Through another faint creak, he located the intruder on the steps. James timed his next move. The man moved past the door. James opened it and yanked the slimy little weasel inside by his ratty hair.

“What the fuck?” Slick was surprised all right, bested by a senior citizen.

“Who are you?” James held him by his greasy ponytail, lifting him up onto his toes. He pressed the sharp blade against Slick’s throat.

“This place is on fire, man. We gotta get outa here.” Beads of moisture trickled down Slick’s face and soaked through his shirt.

“Everybody’s got to go sometime. I’ve lived a long life. How about you?” The truth was, James didn’t fear death as much as he feared dying. And he’d much rather go out in battle than die piece by piece like Gloria.

“Come on man, let’s go outside and talk.” Slick licked his lips, eyes darting from the crackling sounds overhead to the door.

“No, I don’t think so. I asked you a question, and I suggest you answer it. Who are you? Who do you work for? Why are you looking for the woman?”

Sweat beaded on Slick’s forehead and dripped into his eyes. “Look, I got nothing personal against the bitch or her little runts. It’s just a job.”

“Who hired you?”

“I don’t know. I never meet my clients. It’s all done online now.”

Fucking Internet.

The smoke thickened. A few flames licked down from the rafters. The old structure creaked and groaned. From the intensity of the heat radiating from the fire upstairs, James thought the ceiling would collapse soon.

Slick coughed.

James had already decided Slick wasn’t leaving. He would only try again. James removed the blade from Slick’s neck. Although an effective interrogation technique, throat slitting was messy, and not at all his style.

Slick breathed a sigh of relief.

It was his last.

James pushed the long, sharp blade upward into his back, neatly puncturing the hired killer’s heart. The wound barely bled. Killing was like riding a bike. Twenty years of retirement hadn’t dulled his skills. But then, the government had trained him well.

James looked around the burning bar. There was nothing here for him now. It was time to go. He wiped his blade on Slick’s pants, then reached down and removed the dead man’s wallet and keys from his pockets—anything to delay the official identification of this Anthony Cardone.

Sirens approached. James left by the back door and climbed into Slick’s black SUV. Three blocks from the bar, he parked the truck right in front of a local chop shop. He left the windows down, the doors unlocked, and the keys inside because spray-painting “steal me” across the windshield would be a little too obvious. Within the hour, the local boys would strip it like a school of piranhas.

His small bungalow was a fifteen-minute walk away. Once there he packed a small duffel bag. Until Beth showed up last spring, he’d been holding this place, and Gloria’s memory, in a tight fist. Not really living, just existing, idly passing his remaining time on Earth. Now, anger kindled emotions he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d missed this rush of adrenaline through his veins.

He sat on the edge of his mattress and opened his nightstand. With a sigh, he pulled out the silver saint medal he’d found under her couch. Remembering Beth’s tears the day she’d lost it, guilt pricked his conscience. He flipped it over on his palm to reveal the figure and writing on the quarter-sized disk. Saint Florian, the patron saint of firemen. Someday he’d return it to her, but for now he needed it. Weak visions were stronger if the object had personal significance. He curled his fingers around it and waited.

The vision hit him like a blow to the head. Pain. Fear. A faceless man loomed in the darkness. A knife flashed. Blood flowed, warm and wet. Terror rose in his throat and choked him. A suffocating weight held his body down. His arms were yanked over his head and pinned in the dirt. A blow to the face blurred everything.

His hand opened. The pendant dropped to the wood floor. The sunlight pouring through the window burned his eyes. Squinting hard, James used a handkerchief to pick up the pendant. He stuffed both into his pocket.

He hadn’t survived twenty years in Special Forces—and worse—on luck and skill alone, but his
gift
had some definite drawbacks. It had been a real bitch knowing ahead of time which of his men weren’t going to survive the mission.

The details of the dream were still vague, and he didn’t know how much time he had. Whether his dream described an event that was a few days or weeks ahead was hard to say, but as the time drew closer, his visions tended to gain clarity and intensity. When they rolled through his head in high definition, Beth was in imminent danger. Given the power of the one he’d just had, he’d better get moving.

He gathered his things. After a detour to his kitchen for a bottle of ibuprofen and water, he slid into his sedan.

Beth and the kids were four hundred miles away with a man no one would ever connect with him. Hell, he hadn’t seen Dan O’Malley in over thirty years. But he had no doubt O’Malley would do as he’d asked. O’Malley owed him, big time, and for Beth, James would collect. As Gloria’s niece, she was almost family.

Or would have been if he’d married her aunt. But enemies were a natural by-product in his former profession. And how could he have married a woman when he couldn’t even tell her his real name? Ironically, it was the fact that he wasn’t actually related to Beth by blood or marriage that had made their relationship hard for anyone to trace—and his house the perfect hiding spot. He’d lost Gloria to a faceless disease he hadn’t been able to fight. But with a little luck, he could save Beth.

James mentally kicked himself. Beth had refused to tell him why she needed to stay with him. Or why she needed to use a fake last name. But he could’ve, should’ve found out what she was running from when she had shown up at his door with her two kids in tow. Only after the visions started last month did he discover that her situation was more complicated than a nasty, high-publicity divorce.