The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy

by Pauline Baird Jones

  Luke. That’s who was missing. Luke, who they were pretending this gathering wasn’t for. Just like they were pretending they’d forgotten it was the anniversary of his wife Rosemary’s death. Luke was so easygoing, so even tempered, she sometimes forgot he’d lost his childhood sweetheart to ovarian cancer seven years earlier.

  Bryn dropped into the seat between Debra and Dewey and touched her hand. “Your firstborn working tonight?”

  She smiled, but there was strain in it, as she shook her head. “He’s eluded us. Told Dani he was going up to the cabin. Now the storm has moved in, and he’s got his phone turned off or its not receiving.”

  “Men.” Bryn could feel Dewey watching her, waiting for her attention to turn his way. She ignored him, though she didn’t pull away when his hand found hers under the table and squeezed it. When had she moved from rejecting his advances to accepting them? How long would it be before she was returning them? Dewey had been patient and persistent, but he’d upped the tempo of his pursuit lately. Cheeky devil, she thought, then caught her breath as the tip of his finger traced a heart in the palm of her captured hand. Okay, so maybe there was something more than warm regard in her feelings for Dewey, but she was not in love with him.

  “You’re late,” Matt said, moving a steak knife out of his son’s reaching hands.

  It could be either a comment or a question. The Kirby men were like that, she’d found. The choice of what and how much to share was her responsibility. She never got to claim anything was dragged out of her, but they were free with their assistance and never tried to take all the credit.

  “Had a couple of calls before I could get clear,” she said, adjusting the volume of her voice so it reached only the ears at their table. “Green hit six research labs tonight. East and west coast and a couple in between. Turned a bunch of lab animals loose. Graffiti on the walls about freeing the POWs and hostages. The usual stuff, only this time somebody died.”

  Jake frowned slightly. “Deliberate?”

  Bryn shook her head. “They used a tranquilizer gun on one of the security guards. Shot him in the heart. Guy had a heart condition and couldn’t take it. We’ve been tracking sales of the darts because they always use them, so we know this one came from our area. They want us to check it out.” She looked at Dewey. “Green did their usual pre-screw of the computers. Our guys were wondering if you could fly in and contain the damage once the weather clears. I told them you could.”

  “Am I allowed out of your sight?” Dewey smiled at her, the charm flowing out of him to wrap around her heart like a favorite chocolate.

  “No. That’s why I’ll be going with you.” She tried to keep her expression and her tone noncommittal, but it wasn’t easy with Dewey’s fingers creeping up her thigh. She grabbed his hand and returned it to his own lap.

  Dewey arched his brows wickedly as his hand gripped hers. She could have pulled away, she knew. He knew it, too.

  “You got a couple of calls?” Phoebe asked, as if she knew Bryn needed rescuing. “Don’t people know when to go home?”

  Bryn chuckled. One call had been a report on a right-wing paramilitary group, the Colorado Irregulars, operating out of one of those weekend, “let’s shoot paint balls at each other for fun” camps, but this wasn’t the place to mention that, since it had also proved difficult to infiltrate. “Sometimes I’m not sure Alexander Graham did us any favors when he invented the telephone. Then I got tagged leaving the office.” She looked at Jake. “Did you ever meet a mercenary named Donovan Kincaid when you were in D.C.?”

  Jake frowned. “Ran into him once. Interesting character.”

  “Well, he’s being ‘interesting’ here in Denver these days. He’s a security consultant for Merryweather Biotechnologies. Either of you had dealings with them?”

  Both Jake and Matt shook their heads. Jake, as if he couldn’t resist it, said, “Sounds like a place that would interest Phagan.”

  “Almost everything does.” Dewey looked amused, as if he knew something no one else did. Except maybe Phoebe, who choked.

  Jake looked a question at her, but thought better of it and kissed her instead. Wise man. See no evil, hear no evil, ask no questions and marital harmony is preserved.

  Bryn eyed Dewey. “Any idea what might have interested Phagan at Biotech?”

  He looked delighted to have her full attention. “They dabble in a lot of different stuff. Been messing around with genetically engineered foods and done some interesting stuff with protective gear.”

  “Such as?” Debra asked.

  “Well, they developed a jump suit that mutes the body’s heat signature,” he said, winking at Phoebe. Her eyes widened, then she looked away, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Once again Jake looked curious but restrained himself. Marriage to Phoebe was teaching him a lot about self-control, Bryn decided with an inward grin.

  “I also heard they were doing some interesting research in protective body armor,” he went on. “They have some super brain, name of John Knight, in charge of the research.”

  Bryn twitched at the name, earning a quick look from Dewey. He hesitated, then continued, “If he succeeds, it could impact more than personal protection. And be mega-valuable.”

  “How?” Bryn asked, though she knew she shouldn’t.

  “Well, who wouldn’t like body armor that was light and cool and could beat cop-killers?”

  Bryn nodded. Armor-piercing bullets were the bane of law enforcement existence.

  “Why would a biotech company be working on body armor?” Debra asked.

  Bryn looked at her with respect. It was a good question.

  Dewey shrugged. “Buzz is Bio-Tech is looking to Mother Nature for a solution to the problem of protection and weight. Nature kicks butt when protecting itself from predators.”

  “Did they do it?” Bryn asked. “Did they succeed?”

  “I don’t know. I promised this judge I’d be good,” Dewey said, his arm finding its way to the back of her chair, his smile worming its way into her heart.

  Did that mean he wasn’t in contact with Phagan? She wished she could ask him. Or Phoebe. She’d be glad when they weren’t on parole anymore. If she lived that long.

  “What did Kincaid want?” Matt asked. It was typical of him to bring the conversation back on point.

  Bryn related the gist of Donovan’s visit and handed over the envelope. “I was hoping to hand it off to Luke.”

  Though now she was wondering if she should. Was it possible Prudence Knight’s disappearance was the beginning of a move on Merryweather? Could it be connected to Green’s other activities this evening? It could be a coincidence, she supposed, but biotech companies were a favorite target of Green.

  Matt glanced at the contents, Dani taking a peek over his shoulder, and then he handed them to Jake.

  “If she is playing hooky, the storm would complicate things for her,” Jake said as he took his turn at the contents, the pages angled so Phoebe could see them, too. “I wonder how close Knight was to succeeding?”

  “Want me to find out for you?” Dewey asked, giving Bryn a provocative look.

  Bryn kicked him, then gave Jake a pointed look. “Is your gut twitching?” She had enormous, though reluctant, respect for Jake’s gut.

  Jake shrugged, his mischievous gaze catching Phoebe’s. “Not about that.” He jumped as if Phoebe had kicked him and asked Bryn, “Any other trouble signs?”

  “Not that Donovan mentioned. Gonna be a bitch to investigate right now. They were saying on the radio that the storm is going to shut us down for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “Longer in the mountains,” Debra said, her look of worry deepening.

  “Luke’s a big boy, Mom,” Matt said. “He can take care of himself.”

  * * * *

  The Colorado Irregulars were one of his more brilliant inspirations, Leslie decided as he relaxed in the leather seat of his private jet, even in a host of brilliant ideas. Who’d look in a right-wing par
amilitary camp for the leaders of the Green? Most of the men who patronized the camp were weekend warriors looking to play soldier with guns and paint. A few were extreme right-wingers with a grudge against a government they felt no longer listened to them. They were inducted into the secret sections of the camp and encouraged to play soldier for real. Grady O’Brien, the camp commander and Leslie’s second-in-command inside Green, had recruited a couple of right wingers to run the public section of the camp. Because Grady encouraged them, they thought the camp was a cover for plotting the overthrow of the government.

  Leslie had met Grady in college. If they both hadn’t been straight, they’d have been lovers, so instantly had they been drawn to each other. The friendship they’d forged was stronger than any sexual bond could have been, despite their vast differences.

  Grady was the brilliant son of poor parents, attending Yale on a scholarship. Every course of study to which he turned his attention came as easily to him as a hooker with a pimp to pay. He’d wandered between colleges, trying this discipline and that course. So quickly did his ability to learn outstrip the teachers ability to teach, that he’d be bored before the semester was half over and move on. When he finally flunked out, Leslie left with him. It was a great way to piss off his father, his main goal at the time, and besides, he’d learned more from Grady than any program could teach him. Their passion to change the world flowed into the cause of the environment, but neither could settle for throwing money at politicians and whining to the media. They both wanted to change the world.

  During the cross-country drive from the East Coast to Colorado, they’d planned and brainstormed a long-term plan for taking back the world from the techno-tyrants. Ironically, they’d applied for and received a government grant for their initial start up.

  When Leslie appeared at the camp, usually before an op, the men treated him with rough contempt, which suited him. As long as they saw him as a wealthy dilettante playing soldier, they wouldn’t put their tiny brains together and figure out his real purpose—and theirs.

  When he discovered his father’s research project, it was to Grady that Leslie turned for help. He’d talked to John Knight at the company party to annoy his father. Old bird looked like he wished he were anywhere else. Leslie had first flashed his charm on the old man’s prim and proper daughter, but she was dead from the neck down. She’d blinked a couple of times and then excused herself to find the lady’s room. The lady’s room. Who talked like that now? After the party, whenever he was in town, Leslie made a point of stopping in to see Knight in his office, because he knew it would bug his old man. One day Knight had let him sit in on a test of the prototype of his bio-tech body armor. Why shouldn’t he? Leslie was the boss’s son.

  The experiments his father and Knight were conducting were unnatural. How dare they attempt to merge living organisms and technology into a design to protect man from his own violence? It was an affront to nature, as unnatural as any experiment of Dr. Frankenstein’s. He’d known then, even as he smiled at the dried-up old man, that he was going to kill him. First, Green had tried to steal Shield to prevent his father from continuing after Knight’s death. That’s when he’d discovered how important the Knight’s daughter was to their plan and to Donovan Kincaid.

  Donovan Kincaid.

  It had been a stroke of luck, a gift from Providence, though Leslie hadn’t realized it when he had first met Kincaid, the newly hired security consultant, at that same party. Another environmental group had been sending his father threatening letters and emails when Biotech acquired animals for research. It was this kind of rampant stupidity that kept him from merging Green with any of the environmental groups. Why would you warn someone before striking?

  Leslie hadn’t found Kincaid interesting at their first meeting, except as someone to joke about later with Grady. Kincaid reminded him of a paranoid Indiana Jones. He dressed like a soldier, though his uniform belonged to no army on this planet, and he had that “corncob up the ass” bearing, too. The ladies seemed to like him, even though he was pushing sixty.

  When Kincaid showed up at the Colorado Irregulars camp, Leslie had wondered if his father had found out about it and sent Kincaid to infiltrate them, but Kincaid had asked no questions about him or anyone else. It seemed he liked to play war. He and Grady let Kincaid shoot paint at the other players, while they considered whether he might be useful to them. When anyone appeared at the camp, they were rigorously, but quietly, investigated. The Feds had attempted infiltration several times without success.

  Grady had an instinct for finding out interesting facts about people and a gift for getting them to tell him their secrets. He was almost a male version of that empathic woman on Star Trek, the one who could adapt herself to the personality of the man she was with. It was Grady who’d turned up Kincaid’s odd interest in Knight’s daughter. Grady had noticed Kincaid’s reaction when Leslie had mentioned Prudence Knight and had had Kincaid’s apartment discreetly tossed. The search turned up hundreds of photographs of her. What they couldn’t figure out was why. It didn’t appear Kincaid had done more than wish her good morning, but the photos proved he was obsessed. It would have been interesting to know why, but it didn’t matter to their plan. She was his pressure point and that was all that mattered. When Leslie saw Kincaid’s full dossier, the plan had exploded in his head, with most of the pieces already in place. Green ought to have its own expert marksman/sniper—especially one who could be traced right back to his dad and Merryweather Biotech.

  As he looked at his watch, the plane hit an air pocket and dropped with a jolt, then popped up again. He buzzed his pilot. “Gave me a bit of a jolt there, Harry.”

  He’d spent a lot of time building a reputation as an idiot. Not even an air pocket would make him to break character.

  “I was just going to call you, sir,” Harry said. “There’s a storm in Colorado. We’ll have to divert.”

  “Well, find someplace interesting. You know how I hate being bored.”

  Leslie closed the intercom with a frown. He’d have to postpone his meeting with Kincaid’s girl, it seemed. He grabbed the onboard phone and dialed Grady’s private number. It was late, but he’d be up. Grady never slept.

  “Yo.”

  Leslie grinned. Grady had his own deceptive persona cultivated through years of practice. “So, how did it go?”

  A silence was his first intimation of trouble.

  “I don’t know yet. The boys got grounded by the storm.”

  And they’d agreed on radio silence for security purposes. Too many people had scanners these days.

  “Right.” He tapped the table top. “Storm’s shut me out, too.”

  “Gonna be a couple of days before it clears,” Grady said. “Where you gonna be?”

  “Someplace fun.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Grady chuckled. “How’d it go in California?”

  “Barrels of fun. Dad’s pissed at me as usual. And I made some new friends.”

  “Well, when we’re all swinging from the trees again, we’ll need ’em. Night, Les.”

  “Night.” Leslie leaned back in his seat, stretching out his long legs. He pressed the intercom again. “Where we going?”

  “Vegas.”

  “Very good.” Vegas. He could use a woman tonight. Maybe gamble a bit. Reinforce his image as a useless waste of space. What he really wanted to do tonight, he realized with a shocked thrill, was to kill someone himself, not just order it done. He wouldn’t, but he wondered how long he’d felt like this and not realized it.

  FOUR

  Luke knew it was morning because it was light and stormy instead of dark and stormy. They’d played Trivial Pursuit and Goldie had whipped him. Then, in a moment of weakness, he’d shown her how Phoebe’s karaoke machine worked. What she didn’t know about popular music and popular musicians was as interesting as what she had known at Trivial Pursuit. Neither of them had a wonderful singing voice, though he was the only one who knew it at the star
t. He’d been too tired to let it stop him, and truth be told, he was glad he hadn’t.

  He grinned as he remembered how bad they sounded. She had no instinct for music, yet she’d forged ahead, her warbling not awful, but not wonderful either. Despite her lack of memory, he felt he knew her. She didn’t fling herself into risk, but she didn’t back away from it either. There was a buoyancy and a delight for life beneath that rather prim exterior.

  He frowned, straining for the right analogy, like it mattered, and then it came to him. She reminded him of the space shuttle breaking free of gravity. As it strained up, it shed those tiles, as if it had to shed weight to make it. That’s what she reminded him of, someone straining to break free. The effort had cost her. She’d sank onto the couch, laughing one minute and the next she was asleep, the transition as swift as a child’s. He’d lifted her legs up and covered her with blankets, resisting the impulse to touch the smooth curve of her cheek. Her soft sigh had shaken him enough to make him retreat to the other side of the coffee table.

  He’d slept too, waking to find the fire dying and the power gone. He felt as stiff as his high school English teacher—and about as cheerful—from falling asleep in his chair. When he managed to unbend his body, he built up the fire again, filled the coffeepot with water and hung it over the heat. He knew a watched pot never boiled, but he watched it anyway and dang if it didn’t boil. God bless the altitude. He poured water in his cup, added instant coffee and drank it down in two gulps. It scalded all the way to his stomach, then kicked his butt from the inside. That’s when he allowed himself to look at Goldie.

  He’d wondered if he dreamt her, but there she was, her position almost unchanged from when he’d tucked the blankets around her last night. Sometime in the night, she’d tucked her uninjured hand under her cheek. The injured wrist clutched the edge of the quilt as if to keep her from falling. The temperature in the room had dropped enough that each breath from her parted lips puffed white into the air around her face. In the storm-pale morning light, he could see the bruises and scratches standing out in sharp relief against her pale skin.