Killing Time

by Linda Howard

  The only satisfaction he’d been able to gain was in locating her links and taking them, making sure she couldn’t return. Finding them hadn’t been particularly difficult; the book said to bury them at the transition point so the agent would know exactly where they were, and Stover went by the book. All he’d had to do was locate the disturbed area of leaves and dirt, and dig them up.

  “I can’t wait to see her again,” Ruth said. “I’ve been going over and over in my head what I’ll say to her, to make her go to the doctor and have those tests run. She’s so—she could be so stubborn sometimes. She was busy, with the wedding coming up and trying to get everything ready. She won’t want to go. I’ll have to make her listen.”

  “You’ll think of something.” He smiled a little. “You might have to demonstrate the links before she’ll believe you.”

  “You’ll show me how to do that?”

  “Yes, but you have to be very careful and do exactly as I demonstrate.”

  “I will.” She hesitated. “When will I go back?”

  “When Stover’s dead.”

  Pain flashed across Ruth’s face. “I wish she didn’t have to die.”

  “She has to for my mission to succeed. I don’t want to kill her, I have to kill her. And if I don’t succeed, if she manages to kill me, remember that she’ll be hunting for those links and she’s a highly skilled agent. She has to suspect I have them. She’ll reconstruct my movements, discover where I’ve been, and then she’ll come after you. If I don’t kill her, Ruth, you’ll have to. It’s the only way you’ll be able to save Rebecca.”

  31

  “He’ll be waiting when we go home,” Nikita said. “He’ll prefer darkness, but if he has a clear shot at me, he’ll take it, regardless of the time of day.”

  “Then I’ll have to take someone home with me besides you.”

  She knew what he meant. He needed a woman, but someone who, when she got out of the car, was recognizably not Nikita. Hugh would be in his rental car; Knox would call Nikita’s cell phone and give her the location of the car. In the meantime, she would be approaching on foot. While Hugh was watching Knox’s house, she would be slipping up behind him. She and Knox would have him caught between them.

  The plan wasn’t without risk, to both of them. There was no armor invented, in either this time or hers, that could withstand a laser weapon. But she had a laser, too, and come to that, a bullet could kill someone just as dead. They would have Hugh outnumbered. The odds were in their favor, but nothing was certain.

  After their adventure at Howard Easley’s old house, they were both sweaty and filthy. Knox called his father and asked if they could shower and wash their clothes at his house while he and Lynnette were at work. Kelvin, as usual, asked no questions.

  Knox knew where the extra key was, so they drove straight out there. “You know how to work the laundry machine,” Nikita said as they got out of the car. She pulled her T-shirt off over her head and tossed it to him. “You do that while I get in the shower.”

  Women in her time wore breast bands instead of bras, as they provided better support and were far more comfortable. They fastened by pressing the two overlapping ends of fabric together, so they were completely adjustable. Since her sojourn in the weeds and bushes, however, she felt as if tiny bugs were crawling all over her, and she was dreadfully afraid she had contracted a severe case of chiggers. The breast band came off, and she tossed that to Knox, too.

  He fumbled for the key, not taking his gaze from her as she bent to take off her shoes. “Are you going to completely undress out here?” he asked with considerable interest.

  “If it takes you much longer to get that door open, then—yes.” She threw her socks at him and unfastened her jeans, pushing them down her legs and stepping out of them. Grit scraped at her tender bare feet and made her toes curl. He’d finally found the key but was having a difficult time getting it to fit into the lock. She tossed her jeans over his shoulder and pushed her underpants down. “Hurry!”

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “You could if you’d look at what you’re doing instead of at me!”

  “I can’t,” he said again. “Jesus God!”

  She tossed her underpants into his arms and shouldered him aside, unlocking the door herself. He dropped everything and reached for her just as the door opened. She burst through, skidded to a stop in the kitchen, and said, “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Straight ahead, turn right, second door on the left.”

  The crawling sensation was so horrible she jumped into the shower before the running water had a chance to get hot. She yelped at the cold water, but even if it had been freezing cold, that was preferable to bugs.

  She had already soaped down and rinsed off when the shower curtain was jerked aside and a tall, naked man got into the tub with her.

  “You’re getting the floor wet,” she said.

  “I’ll mop the water up later.” He moved closer, crowding her, pressing her against the cold tile. His penis was so stiff it was curving upward, poking her in the belly.

  She put her hands against his shoulders and pushed, moving him back. “I’m nice and clean, but you’re all grimy and buggy. Just stand there and I’ll take care of the problem.”

  His eyes were hot and narrow, but he did as she told him. His head was lowered and his gaze locked on her as she squirted a huge amount of liquid soap into her hands and started at his chest and shoulders, working up a great deal of lather. She washed his arms and back, his belly, then started at his feet and worked up. She darted a quick glance at him and saw that his jaw was locked and rigid, his throat working as he made himself stand there. She didn’t look up after that, concentrating on what she was doing, smoothing her soapy hands over and between his buttocks. He made a choked sound, then was silent except for the harsh rush of his breathing.

  She took a long time to wash his penis. By the time she finished his head was bowed and his entire body was quivering, one arm braced against the wall while his other hand was knotted in her wet hair. She simply leaned forward and took him in her mouth, holding him with her right hand and with her left gripping his ass and pulling him to her. A ragged sound tore out of his throat and his hips bucked; when she sensed he was on the verge of climax, she pulled away and stood.

  Before she could wipe the water out of her face, he had her pinned against the wall, one thigh hooked around his waist, and he shoved himself into her so hard she couldn’t stop the small scream that escaped. He didn’t apologize, just pulled back and shoved again, and again. She had known that she was pushing him so far she likely wouldn’t have time to climax but thought his response was well worth having to wait for her own pleasure; to her surprise, that hard, rolling rhythm pushed her into a fierce climax that left her weak and clinging to him for support. He lifted her completely off her feet and hammered into her, too far gone for even the pretense of consideration or sophistication, left with nothing but the blind, single-minded drive to orgasm.

  Gradually she noticed that the water had gone cold. She fumbled for the control and turned off the shower. He remained collapsed against her, his chest heaving, his head resting heavily on her shoulder. If she hadn’t been pinned against the wall, she couldn’t have remained upright herself. She had wanted to play with him, tease him, but somewhere along the way they had both been sucked into a powerful whirlpool that had been too strong to deny or control.

  “It’s too soon to say I love you,” he muttered against her shoulder. “We’ve known each other three days. So I’m not saying it.”

  “I’m not saying it, either,” she whispered, as if by her silence she could deny the storm winds of emotion that were already swirling.

  “I have an idea,” Ruth said. Since Byron had given her the links, she had grown increasingly anxious. She could feel them burning into her skin, even though she wasn’t wearing them. In her mind the links were snapped around her wrists and ankles; in her mind, she was seconds away from seeing
Rebecca again, and snatching her from the cold hand of death. Why did she have to wait? What difference did it make to her if that Stover woman was still alive? She, Ruth, had the links. She had the means to reach her daughter. Byron made his lethal plans and was as patient as a spider, but it wasn’t his daughter in a grave.

  For days she had been drunk with passion and infatuation, but abruptly she was so impatient with him she wanted to grab him and shake him. How dare he give her the means to reach her daughter and then make her promise not to go until he decided it was time? She couldn’t bear it.

  He wanted to take this Stover woman when she was alone, something about not wanting to kill another cop. He meant Knox, of course, because Stover was a cop, too, but evidently she didn’t count. Ruth had always loved Knox, but abruptly he didn’t count, either. If it was he who was standing in the way of her seeing Rebecca again, then she didn’t care if he got in the line of fire. Besides, when she went back to save Rebecca, he’d be alive then, too, wouldn’t he? When she saved Rebecca, everything would change, and this would never happen, so it wasn’t as if she were really risking Knox’s life.

  He was sleeping with that Stover woman. He had forsaken Rebecca.

  But she knew Knox, knew his habits, knew how close he was to his father. A thought bloomed, and that was when she said, “I have an idea.”

  Byron turned to her, immediately attentive. Her impatience with him faded, because he always listened to her.

  “I think I can find Knox,” she said.

  “How?”

  “His father.”

  “How so? I refuse to kidnap his father in order to bait a trap. The more people are involved, the greater the chance for failure.”

  “No, no, of course I don’t want you to kidnap him. All I have to do is call him and ask if he knows where Knox is. He might not know, but it’s worth a shot, because they have such a close relationship.”

  He thought that over for a moment; she could also see him adding up the pros and cons. Finally he said, “Normally I would say it’s too risky to connect your name to his, considering what our intentions are, but since you’ll be leaving, I don’t see that it matters.”

  It didn’t matter anyway, she thought with another swift spurt of impatience. What mattered was getting to Rebecca.

  She looked up the number of the hardware store and called it on her cell phone. Kelvin answered, his voice so much like Knox’s that for a moment she was taken aback.

  “Kelvin, this is Ruth Lacey. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Knox all day and I’m not having any luck. Do you know where he is?”

  “Sure. He’s at my house, taking a shower and doing laundry. I didn’t ask any questions,” he said, laughing. “I figure the less I know, the fewer gray hairs I’ll have.”

  She laughed, too, then said, “Thanks. I’ll get in touch with him there.” She clicked off the call and with a triumphant expression turned to Byron. “He’s at Kelvin’s house, taking a shower and washing clothes, according to Kelvin. And if Knox is there, you can bet Stover is, too.”

  After Ruth hung up, Kelvin went back to stocking merchandise and waiting on his customers, but something kept nagging at him. When Knox had called to ask about using the house, he hadn’t said not to tell anyone where he was, but maybe he figured he didn’t need to say it, that Kelvin would automatically know what to keep quiet about and what didn’t matter. Kelvin didn’t automatically know, and that worried him.

  Fifteen minutes later he gave in to his worries and called Knox’s cell phone.

  “Yeah, Dad, what’s up?”

  The wonders of Caller ID, Kelvin thought. “Are you all showered and laundered?”

  “Showered, and the clothes are in the dryer. Is that why you called?”

  “Reckon not. You didn’t say, but was I supposed to keep quiet about where you are?”

  “Meaning it’s too late?”

  “Yeah, afraid so. Ruth Lacey called, saying she’d been trying to get in touch with you all day. I didn’t think anything about it, told her you were at my house. Has she called?”

  “No, and she has my cell phone number anyway. She hasn’t called it.”

  “Hmm. Guess this might be a heads-up, then. You should probably put your pants on.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Knox said. “Thanks for the warning.”

  Disconnecting the call, Knox turned to Nikita and said, “Ruth called Dad asking if he knew where I was. He told her. We’d better get dressed.”

  Their clothes weren’t dry—except for Nikita’s underwear, which seemed to dry within minutes—so they raided Kelvin’s and Lynnette’s closet. Knox was just a hair taller than his father, so Kelvin’s jeans fit him fine. He grabbed the first shirt that came to hand and put it on, then pulled another one off a hanger and tossed it to Nikita. “Put this on, doesn’t matter what it looks like. Just get dressed.”

  The first garment she’d pulled out was a pair of shorts, which thank goodness had an elastic waist, because Lynnette was about two sizes bigger. Nikita pulled them up her legs, her mind racing. “He won’t just drive up. He’ll stop and approach on foot, trying to take us by surprise. We can’t assume his laser is like mine; he may have one like Luttrell’s, with a much greater range. Get Luttrell’s out of the trunk. I can show you how to use it; the aiming principle is the same except you don’t have to allow for drop or wind. Just aim dead-on, and that’s where the beam goes.”

  “You’re his main target. You take that one, and give me your small laser.”

  “But he might expect me to have it. He doesn’t know what equipment I brought, because I’m the one who chose it, not McElroy. You’re more likely to take him by surprise than I am.”

  “Either way, we need to get the hell out of this house.”

  Nikita slid her bare feet into her sneakers, not stopping to tie them. Every second counted. Knox’s sneakers were in the trunk of his car, and he didn’t bother with his boots or take time to grab a pair of Kelvin’s shoes. Instead he ran barefoot out the back door, grabbing his holster on the way out. Nikita jerked her purse from the kitchen table and was right behind him.

  He’d just popped open the trunk when they heard the faint sound of a car on the road, moving slowly. Kelvin’s driveway was so long that during the summer, when the trees and shrubbery were in full leaf, the road wasn’t visible from the house. The sound stopped. Hugh had arrived.

  There wasn’t time for Nikita to show Knox how to use the XT37; he grabbed it out of the trunk and tossed it to her. “Over there,” he said in a low, urgent voice, pointing to a thick line of shrubbery on the right. “Behind the shrubbery, on the ground. And for God’s sake, don’t get anywhere near the propane tank.”

  “The what?” she whispered.

  “The big silver tank! It’s gas.” He pointed at the tank in question, closed the trunk, then took off running to the left. With any luck they’d catch Hugh in a cross fire. There wasn’t any convenient shrubbery in this direction, which was why he’d sent Nikita the other way. He flattened himself behind an oak, hoping it was large enough to hide him, and drew his weapon.

  The car started up again. He listened to the sound of the motor growing closer and closer; then it came into view as it crested the small, curving hill. Knox moved back just a fraction of an inch, trying not to make any sudden motions that would draw attention, but in that fraction of a second he’d recognized the car. It was Ruth Lacey.

  She parked behind his car and got out. He glanced at her, slim and neat in oatmeal linen pants and a royal blue shirt, then turned his attention to where Hugh was probably working his way up the hill on foot. It broke his heart to see Ruth involved with the murdering bastard. She reminded him so much of Rebecca, the way she looked and moved, but in that instant he felt that soft spot in his heart crust over and harden. Because of her, Nikita’s life was in danger. She had placed herself irrevocably on the other side.

  She went up the front steps and rang the doorbell. If Kelvin hadn’t warned
them, if they hadn’t already realized Ruth was helping Hugh, whoever had answered the door would have been a sitting duck. Knox studied where Hugh had most likely positioned himself, letting Ruth’s location point the way to him. She would have been instructed to give him a clear shot.

  Nikita wouldn’t have been likely to answer the door, Knox thought; he himself would have done that. So had they planned to shoot him on sight, or try to draw both him and Nikita out of the house?

  It didn’t matter. Either way, Hugh planned on killing both of them, and Ruth knew it.

  He saw a slight movement of the bushes. Could be a breeze, he thought, except it seemed to be right where he’d placed Hugh, and nowhere else.

  Ruth rang the doorbell again, waited, then knocked vigorously. “Knox!” she called. “Knox Davis, you answer this door! Your car is parked right here, so don’t think you can pretend you’re not in there.”

  She waited and listened, growing increasingly more agitated from the sound of it. Knox risked another look at her. She was pacing back and forth on the porch, fiddling with a pair of silver bracelets. Suddenly she burst into tears—and did something incredibly stupid. Whirling to face away from the house, she shrieked, “They aren’t here! There’s no sound at all inside!”

  Instantly Knox knew what Hugh would do, knew the flash of rage that would overwhelm everything else, and he stepped out from behind the tree already firing. A laser burst bored into the house just to Ruth’s left, then swung wildly to the side. Nikita launched herself from the shrubbery, firing as she ran to keep Hugh from targeting Knox. Both of them plunged through the bushes at the same time, and almost stumbled over the man lying on his side.

  Knox’s lucky shot couldn’t have been any better aimed if he’d been standing not ten feet away. The bullet had entered at an angle, the entrance wound just under Hugh’s left arm, and the exit wound had taken out a chunk of his spine. If he lived he’d be paralyzed, but Knox knew immediately Hugh wasn’t going to live. The damage to his left lung, and probably part of his heart, was too great.