The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy

by Pauline Baird Jones

  “What’s that?” His voice was husky, and his eyes had little flames at the back of them.

  It looked as if she’d rubbed the right materials together. She just hoped she could control the fire.

  “Whether you want to take your truck or pile in with me.” She stepped back, against her own inclination and just shy of outright conflagration. “I should warn you, though, I probably won’t be coming back here until…bedtime.”

  For a moment he didn’t have breath to answer. He tried for casual, but his smile wasn’t the only thing woody. “Then I guess I’d better take my truck. I gotta run a couple of errands this afternoon.”

  Like get some ice to shove down his pants. Lots of it. And maybe take a couple of cold showers. He rubbed the back of his neck and wondered what he’d gotten into.

  Her amusement should have taken the starch out of him, but the mischief in her eyes was contradicted by some obvious signs that he wasn’t the only one popping with lust, he decided as his gaze skimmed across that part of her tee shirt lifted by curving breasts.

  It felt good to look at her, but it wasn’t good. She was almost certainly involved with Phagan and Hyatt. Maybe if he made that reminder his mental mantra, his body would get the message and quit sending his blood supply south.

  “Fair enough.” Her lashes hid her eyes. “You can follow me over and sate your curiosity.”

  “Yeah, well.” He stepped back, putting distance that didn’t help between them. “I make it a policy not to get too curious. You know what they say about curiosity and the cat.”

  Her face went blank, her eyes ice cool. “Yeah, I do.”

  It was, Jake thought, more sobering than a cold shower.

  * * * *

  Stern was still at the computer when Peter Harding let himself into the office. He looked up, surprised to see Peter standing there.

  “You been here all night?” Peter asked. He surveyed Stern’s unshaven chin and rumpled clothes with distaste.

  “The whole network was compromised. I had to restore from the backup.” That was the short version of his night but all he’d offer, since Harding wouldn’t understand his pleasure at battling, and beating, who ever had altered the screensaver.

  “Bet you wish you’d known about it before you killed the little bastard.”

  That was true, but not for the reason Harding thought. Perhaps he’d been hasty where Smith was concerned. It was satisfying to kill the good, but even more satisfying to turn them. And Smith, if he was the author these annoyances, might have been able to make RABBIT run.

  Harding’s intercom buzzed.

  “Who else is here?” Stern asked.

  “Just the guard.” Harding depressed the button. “What?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but an Agent Bailey from the FBI is asking to speak with you. What do you want me to tell her?”

  “Her?” Harding looked to Stern for guidance.

  Did he realize how often he did that, Stern wondered? “You’d better see her.”

  “Show her up,” Harding said.

  Stern shut off the monitor. “I’ll wait next door. Leave the intercom open.”

  * * * *

  Phoebe unlocked the double doors of JR’s, releasing the stale smell of bar nights to rush past Jake. There were no windows in the main part of the building, so the rectangle of daylight from the open door was the only illumination in the dark. Jake hesitated, but Phoebe took off her sunglasses and walked forward, the beat of her feet against the wooden floor not faltering once.

  Who was she? And why was she willing to accept “Curious Jake” at face value, give him carte blanche to snoop around JR’s unchecked? Did she suspect him? Was she using this tour to demonstrate she had nothing to hide? Maybe she didn’t have anything to hide. If she didn’t, why did her face keep changing like a turning prism, until he wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t? Was she part of Phagan and Hyatt’s game or someone caught in it like he was?

  It was possible that Hyatt was using her to cover his trail without her knowledge.

  Yeah, and it was possible he was reaching for straws in a high wind. Or even worse, thinking with the wrong brain.

  In the middle of the room one spotlight came on, casting an almost perfect circle on the wooden floor. He pushed the door closed and took a couple of steps forward, then halted when he saw her emerge from shadow, stopping at the edge of the light’s heart.

  “Here it is, Curious Jake.” Her voice was a husky, evocative echo in the big empty room. “The country bar in all its bare, tawdry glory. Go ahead and sate your…curiosity.”

  Would he take the bait, she wondered, trying to slow her wildly beating heart. It was as provocative, as dangerous as climbing without a proper belay, but Phoebe couldn’t help herself. You know what they say about cats and curiosity. Was it a threat? If he was dangerous, why did she feel safe around him? There was no way to know anything for sure, only her instincts to guide her on a path that even Pathphinder couldn’t see the end of.

  On the other side of the light she heard Jake walking toward her, his measured footsteps on the wooden floor beating the same tempo as her heart. He stopped just shy of her circle. She wanted to invite him to step in, and wrap herself around him. She wanted to heal herself in his eyes and to warm herself against his body. She didn’t dare move toward him, couldn’t make herself move away from him.

  All she could do was wait and see what his next move would be.

  He stared at her, felt the pull behind her neutral eyes and still body. Longed to close the space that separated them. He’d felt lust before, even felt a longing for the emotional completion his brothers had found with their wives. He remembered Luke saying he’d known the first time he looked in Rosemary’s eyes that his life would never be the same. At the time, he’d thought it was Luke’s hormones talking. Now he understood what Luke meant. How ironic that he was feeling it for the one woman he couldn’t have.

  He couldn’t cross the line. This was business, not karma.

  He looked past her with the bitter bite of regret tightening his chest and stared at the stage, where he could see the muted gleam of musical equipment. In his mind he peopled it with Phoebe and the other band members, saw them playing, their music fueled by audience excitement, felt again the strange synergy between singers and audience.

  When he thought he could trust his voice, he said, “What’s it like to be up there, on stage?”

  “What’s it like?” She hesitated, then said, “It’s like…safe sex that feels wild and dangerous.”

  Heat came back like flames shooting up a flue, feeding the longing that cycled between them in unsteady bursts, trying to burn through his control.

  He jerked his gaze away. He counted to fifty, mentally added an arctic wind, and managed to ask, “You ever dream of the big time when you’re playing? Of a bigger audience?”

  “No.” She walked around the circle toward him. “I have almost everything I want in the little time.”

  He walked away from her around the circle. “Almost?”

  “If I had everything, there’d be nothing to—want.”

  Even in the dark he could see the bewildered pain, mingled with longing in her eyes. His control slipped, and he took a step into the circle toward her. “Phoebe—”

  The door opened and a moment later the place was flooded with light. The shadows fled, leaving the questions dancing in the air with the dust motes.

  “I came to log in a load of booze,” Chet said from the doorway.

  For a moment longer Phoebe stared at Jake, then she turned from him and said, “I’m glad it came. I was worried we’d run out tonight.”

  “No fears,” Chet said.

  She hesitated, then looked at Jake, her eyes showing only friendly interest. “Have you seen enough, Curious Jake?”

  “No.” He stared back. “I’d like to see more.” And understand everything.

  “Come on then.” She turned and walked away from him, the sas
sy sway of her butt laced with bravado.

  Jake gave himself a little shake and followed, knowing in his gut that something important had just happened. He wasn’t sure in what context—business or personal—it mattered. He did know he had to find out before it was too late.

  * * * *

  Peter Harding shook hands with Agent Bailey, smiling at her with his patented charm. She smiled back. All women did. They couldn’t help themselves. It had always been like that and always would be until he didn’t have to play the PC game any longer, didn’t have to disguise his contempt for women like this one. Women who thought they were powerful enough to play men’s games.

  Women never should have been given the vote. It was too late to turn back the clock now, but there were other ways to punish their presumption.

  “I’ll be in touch if and when we know more,” she said, her voice brisk as she tried to pretend she was as good as a man. “Let me know if you see anything suspicious.”

  “I feel safe knowing you’re on top of things,” Peter said. He held on to her hand a little longer than he should have, squeezing it just enough to bring a satisfying flash of annoyance to her eyes. “Thank you for keeping us informed.”

  When she pulled away, he let her go. Let her walk away in her power suit and do-me heels. He waited until he heard the ping of the elevator before relaxing his guard. He heard Stern come back.

  “She thinks we might be a target for a burglary.” He laughed as he went to pour himself a drink.

  Stern lit up and blew smoke, looking as amused as he was capable of.

  Peter looked at his watch.

  “Gotta go. Mind the store.”

  Stern watched Peter saunter out like a man on top of the world. He crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray, then pulled a slip of paper from his inside pocket and unfolded it. Inside, the words hadn’t changed since the last time he read them: Knowing isn’t always a good thing. Hope you have your back covered.

  Stern re-stowed the note, pulled his piece and checked it. The clip was full. He restored it to the holster and sauntered over to the bar. It might be time to reconsider his association with Peter. He was getting cocky, careless. That business with the FBI agent was stupid. Peter thought all women were stupid. He was wrong.

  About so many things.

  * * * *

  “There he goes.” Dewey Hyatt looked away from the computer screen, which was tapped into TelTech’s security system, and smiled at Kevin. “Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

  Kevin’s grin was still wary but had the promise of great charm. He’d picked up on their basic course in hacking with admirable speed. Definitely a natural. Trust would come when the bruises his stepfather had left on his face had faded. There had been a lot of Kevins in the years since Nadine had died and there were a lot of Kevins and Karens still out there. Phagan couldn’t save them all, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

  Dewey grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers for Phoebe’s beeper. When prompted, he punched in the code that would let her know it was time for the white queen to make her move. He grabbed his coat and started to leave, but a tingling on the back of his neck made him pause.

  He looked around the apartment, then at Kevin. “Think it’s time to move out of here. Can you break it down while I take care of business?”

  Kevin nodded, trying, like any teenager, not to look pleased. “The fallback?”

  Dewey nodded. “When I’m done, I’ll meet you back here to do a sweep.”

  A look of anxiety crossed Kevin’s face. “Do you think they’re on to us?”

  For Kevin, Dewey knew, everyone was a they, with only a few us that he wasn’t all that sure he could trust yet. He grinned. “Kev, my friend, they are always on to us, always close, but it’s a game. A dance. Sometimes they lead. Most of the time we lead. If they do pick you up, we’ll have you out before you have time to get used to that great jailhouse food. The trick is to stay calm and say nothing. Got it?”

  The anxiety didn’t leave, but Kevin nodded.

  “Good.” Dewey mock socked his chin. “Be gone an hour, two tops.”

  * * * *

  Jake prowled the tiny room while Phoebe sat at the desk, running figures on an adding machine. It looked normal but felt wrong.

  There was no computer, no sign there’d ever been a computer there. The only other machines in the room, besides the adding machine, were the telephone and a manual typewriter. Off to one side were some file cabinets, off to the other a stool sat in front of a modest shelf that was attached to the wall beneath a substandard mirror. A row of bulbs ran along the top of the mirror and some cosmetics dotted the shelf. Next to it was a door that was probably a closet, since it was on an inside wall. On the opposite wall was cloudy window.

  She wasn’t making it easy. He didn’t realize he’d sighed out loud until she looked up and asked, “Disappointed in bar world?”

  He grinned. “Maybe a little. You got any family besides the Mentels?”

  Phoebe looked at him, felt his curiosity, but that wasn’t what fueled the compulsion to be honest. She couldn’t deny her sister’s existence. Not now, when the game for her was running. “I…had a sister. She died…young.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Phoebe looked down at her pencil, rolling it between her fingers. “Yeah, me too. I still miss her.”

  “My sister-in-law, Dani, lost a baby. She says you never get over the missing.”

  “She’s right.”

  A beeper went off, and the pencil in her hand snapped. Jake groped for his pager, but found a blank screen. He looked at Phoebe.

  “It’s my chess partner. He’s finally made a move.”

  “Chess?”

  She shrugged. “I like games.”

  Jake felt his gut tighten. “Okay. Chess?”

  “It’s more interesting than checkers.”

  Jake hesitated. “I’m curious again.”

  “He lives in Australia. Beep is cheaper than a phone call. See.” She showed him the beeper. Queen to king’s three scrolled across the tiny screen.

  Jake didn’t stiffen against the kick of instinct in his gut, but it wasn’t easy. His smile easy, his voice light, he asked, “How did you get an Aussie chess partner?”

  “Same way I got a Curious Jake. Met him here in the bar. He was in Denver for a convention a few years back.”

  “Oh.” She played chess. She played chess with an Aussie? He felt as if he’d missed a beat and rubbed his face. “Australia. You can’t play with someone closer to home?”

  Phoebe tossed the beeper onto the desk and leaned back in her chair. “Sure, I could. But I have to keep taking his hand off my knee, and, besides, it makes a better story to play an Aussie.”

  “A better story?” Jake dropped into the chair across from her. “You play intercontinental chess because it makes a better story?”

  “According to my mama, ‘story’ is everything.”

  Jake propped his elbow on the armrest, his face crinkled into cute confusion.

  Phoebe grinned. “My mama wasn’t a prize, but every now and again she’d sock home an important life lesson with a story.”

  “And having a better story was one of those important life lessons?”

  Jake may have an ear for southern accents, Phoebe thought, but not for their idiosyncrasies. “Ever try to say, ‘don’t do that,’ to a thirteen-year-old?”

  “No,” Jake admitted. “What were you doing that your mama didn’t want you to?”

  She smiled. “I was in love for the first time. He was the pastor’s wild child, and I was heading for trouble. Mama took me shopping, I saw these red shoes in a window, and she had me.”

  “Had you? With red shoes?”

  “I was thirteen. I wanted those shoes bad. Real bad.”

  “First love and red shoes. Sure, I’m getting this.”

  Phoebe shook her head. “I have to lay the threads of my story before I can draw them together, cowboy. You Yanks are so impa
tient.”

  Jake crossed one leg over the other and relaxed in the chair. “Lay your threads, I’m patiently listening, Reb, but you’d better deliver.”

  “If I don’t, I’ll buy you a drink. Now where was I?”

  “Red shoes and first love.”

  “Right. Well, naturally I asked my mama for those shoes. I was sure my future happiness depended on having them on my feet ten minutes ago.” She smiled at Jake and almost lost the thread of her story when he smiled back. “My mama told me that she’d buy me those shoes if I’d dump the boy.”

  Jake straightened. “That’s cold.”

  “No, that’s ‘story.’ She knew I’d break up with him sometime anyway.” Jake faded away, and she was back on that hot street with her mama. “My mama smiled this smile that was part evil and part wise, then she said to me, she said, N—” Phoebe faltered, almost losing herself in the near slip. “—now—girl, you and I know you’re not gonna love this boy forever. When you’re old like me and your young’uns ask you about your first love, which’ll make a better story? I broke up with my first love? Or—and she smiled again—I gave him up for red shoes?”

  Would he understand? Phoebe wondered, as she smiled at him.

  Her smile, Jake suspected, was her mama’s. There was evil round the edges—and a boatload of charm.

  “You took the shoes, didn’t you?”

  “Course I did. Mama was a drunk, but she was a smart drunk, ’cept when it came to men.” She shrugged, her eyes filled with bygones that weren’t really gone.

  “Great story,” Jake said.

  “My mama had her moments.” For an instant sadness almost overwhelmed her. There were so few of those happy moments kicking around her memory; it had been easy to push them into the deep, dark recesses of her mind. Was it the game that was bringing them bubbling to the surface, or was Jake somehow the catalyst, opening up her personal Pandora’s box by making her feel again?

  Because she couldn’t help it, she looked at him and found him looking at her. Was that the same longing she felt, peeking out of his eyes, or was she projecting what she wanted, needed, to see? There was no way to know with this liquid fire creeping through her veins.