The Kill Wire

by Nichole Christoff

  “Can I help you?” another person demanded.

  It was Dr. Ekhardt, the physician Marc and I had spoken with earlier in the day. Or rather, had spoken with yesterday. Because the dawn of tomorrow was just a few hours away at this point.

  The doc should’ve been home, sleeping peacefully. But here he came, striding up to us, his cheek creased with the fold of a pillow and his lab coat, snowy white this time, hanging askew. He fumbled with it as he walked and shoved a breath mint into his mouth.

  I frowned at him. “Does this hospital keep you chained in the basement or something?”

  Dr. Ekhardt smiled weakly. “Flu is running through the residents like you wouldn’t believe, so I agreed to take an overnight shift. And that, God willing, usually comes with a nap in the doctors’ lounge right about now.”

  This evidence of Dr. Ekhardt’s dedication made me feel a lot better. And with a glance toward Helena Preble, I asked, “Is there someplace where we can speak in private?”

  “Sure,” he said, and the nurse at my elbow glowered at me. “Let’s make it an exam room. Looks like that should’ve been your first stop, anyway.”

  I turned toward a metal cabinet, squinted at my wavy reflection in its surface. Thanks to the knit cap pulled low across my brow, my glasses had remained on my face, but they sat askew on the bridge of my nose, bent by the dirty cop when he’d bounced me off the side of the garage. And that wasn’t the only damage. Where my cheekbone met my eye socket, a rose-red scrape had scuffed my skin and what was left of it was on its way to turning a spectacular shade of blue.

  “Come with me,” the doctor said. “I’ll take a look at your face, and you can tell me what this is about.”

  A half hour later, the doc had me cleaned and patched up, and had twisted my eyeglasses into fairly good order. While he worked, he’d listened to my highly edited account of Elena’s disappearance. And of how three heavies had staked out the home where Helena Preble and her husband had been attacked—presumably in case Elena came to call.

  I warned, “You could have some rough customers on your hands if they decide to wait for Elena Preble here in your ICU.”

  “I’ll alert the head of security and the nursing staff myself.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course. At the first sight of anyone suspicious, they’ll call the police. That way, Mrs. Preble will only have to worry about getting well.”

  “Will she? I mean, do you think that’s likely?”

  Dr. Ekhardt sighed—and offered me a chemical ice pack.

  “Where there’s life, Ms. Sinclair, there’s hope.”

  I clung to that philosophy all the way back to Hearth’n’Home. Once there, I managed to return to my room without an audience. By then, the chemical pack Dr. Ekhardt had given me had warmed to room temperature, and to make matters worse, the rest of my body began to complain about cramping up thanks to lack of oxygen—and being bounced off the side of a building.

  I swallowed a couple of the Motrin the doc had spilled into an envelope for me. And even though the ice machine on my floor seemed like half a world away, one look in the bathroom mirror convinced me to make the trip. Shaking by the time I returned, I climbed into the shower. Weak as water, I sat in the tub and let the spray stream down on me. Dawn came as I dozed in bed with a cold compress on my face.

  Getting dressed didn’t make much of an improvement in the way I looked. But at least it made me feel ready to face the day. And Mrs. Sandoval.

  She opened the door when I knocked at the family suite.

  The grim twist to her mouth suggested she hadn’t had a change of heart about me. But then her eyes flew wide when she saw the state of one of mine, puffy and on its way to purple. She pointed me toward a seat at the breakfast bar and shoved a mug of steaming coffee into my hands.

  “I made breakfast,” she said, sliding a glass of orange juice and a plate within reach. The plate was piled high with homemade pastries. “Eat. You’re too skinny.”

  Skinny was debatable, but I accepted the comment as a peace offering, smiled as best I could with the side of my face bashed in, and hid that smile behind my coffee mug.

  That’s when Cody and Marc emerged from the bedroom, ready to roll. Cody buzzed to his book bag, balanced on a chair. Marc took one step toward me and froze.

  “What the devil happened to you?” he demanded.

  I glanced at Cody, but to my relief, he was engrossed in sorting through his crayons.

  Quietly, I said, “I took a look at some real estate last night and—”

  “Without me?”

  “I work without you all the time,” I reminded him.

  And Marc’s black eyes flashed.

  Sensing an impending argument, Mrs. Sandoval herded Cody into the bedroom. “Come. It’s time to get your coat…”

  As soon as they were out of sight, Marc reached for me. He tried to cradle my face in his palms. Uncomfortable with this display of affection, I brushed his hands away.

  “It’s all right,” I told him.

  “Like hell—”

  “Do you want to know what the investigator you begged to come out here learned last night, or are we going to fight like an old married couple?”

  Marc’s arms fell to his sides.

  He circled the breakfast bar, grabbed the coffeepot, and topped up my mug.

  “Look,” I told him. “You led me to believe you wanted me to come to Colorado because you needed to keep your distance from a sticky investigation—not because you wanted to get closer to me. If that’s the case—”

  “I didn’t mislead you,” Marc snapped, returning the pot to the coffeemaker with a bump. “But can’t it be both?”

  “No,” I said. “It can’t.”

  “Because of the jarhead,” he muttered.

  Maybe so. Or maybe not. In retrospect, my relationship with Barrett seemed doomed from the start. Not only had the distance between us been a hardship—with me in DC and him wherever the army sent him—but our respective professions often got in the way. As a military police officer, his duty was to the U.S. Constitution, the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and the men and women who served alongside him. My responsibility was, and always would be, to the client. Which meant I sometimes bent the laws that Barrett had sworn to live by. Goodness knows I’d been quick to do that just three short weeks ago in Mississippi. And I wasn’t proud of what I’d brought about as a result.

  Maybe my outlook was symptomatic of the real divide between me and Barrett. Maybe, with my shortsighted priorities versus his enduring respect for the law, I simply wasn’t good enough for him. But the thought made me heartsick—and it didn’t address any of Marc’s concerns.

  “It can’t be both,” I told him, “for a lot of reasons.”

  Marc shook his head, stormed into the little living room, and grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. “I’ve got to take Cody to school.”

  “You might not want to do that.”

  Marc’s frosty demeanor thawed as I brought him up to speed on the events at Alpine Place—and Dr. Ekhardt’s promise to be on the lookout for anyone too interested in Helena and her visitors.

  And then I hit Marc with the bottom line.

  “The guys who roughed me up are trying to lure Elena. They probably killed her father and they likely beat her mother when messing with her car didn’t work. And that’s proof they don’t care who they have to hurt to get to her.”

  Marc sank into the chair, his coat still in his hands.

  “I think you should pack up your mom, pull Cody out of school, and put them on a plane,” I told him.

  Marc nodded.

  When he got to his feet, he was a different man. Decided. And determined.

  “You shouldn’t have tracked down those guys on your own, Jamie. Alone. At night.”

  “You asked me to help you and Cody, Marc. I don’t quit just because the sun goes down.”

  “Are you telling me you go to these lengths for every
client?”

  I wouldn’t have done any such thing for the fat-cat advertising executives worried about their fancy storyboards floating around New York City. But Cody was a little boy who’d come into this world with the deck stacked against him. And Marc…what was Marc?

  “You risked your neck,” he said, “for my son and me.”

  I opened my mouth to reply. But in that moment, I saw the blurred line between professional responsibility and personal feeling. And that I was the one who’d blurred it.

  Marc saw it, too. He closed the gap between us in the blink of an eye, caressed my battered cheek with a careful hand. Embarrassment had me blushing—or maybe it was some other emotion.

  In any case, I glanced away. I couldn’t let myself look at Marc head on. And that was just as well, because at that moment Cody thundered into the room, coat zipped to his chin, to throw himself at me for a morning embrace.

  With a cry, the little boy mourned the “ouchy” scabbing over on my cheekbone and turning my eye socket black and blue. And his sympathy was a balm to my soul. In the meantime, Marc had a brief word with his mother—and the lady got in motion instantly.

  At the airport, Cody grew unnaturally quiet. He clung to Marc’s hand from check-in all the way to security. There, Mrs. Sandoval kissed her son. And when Marc knelt to have a word with his boy, she turned to me.

  “You should take some aspirin,” she scolded me, “for that eye of yours.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And be sure you eat. Women these days don’t eat. They just suck down those weight-loss shakes. Eat some good food.”

  “I’ll eat,” I assured her.

  “I don’t suppose you cook?” she mused, as if I were an applicant for the job of daughter-in-law.

  I suppressed a smile.

  “A little,” I admitted. “But not as well as you.”

  She filed that away.

  And I took my turn handing out advice.

  “Stay on the lookout for anything suspicious,” I told her. “If the slightest detail feels off, if anyone follows you and Cody, or even if they look at you too long, don’t hesitate. Call the police. Then call Marc.”

  Mrs. Sandoval snapped a curt nod. She hiked the strap of her no-nonsense handbag higher on her shoulder. Not that the thing had dared to slip down her arm.

  “You’ll put an end to this,” she said. “You’ll find Elena.”

  “I will,” I told her. “I’ll find her for Cody.”

  “For Cody,” Mrs. Sandoval agreed. And her brow arched. “And you’ll find her to settle things for Marc.”

  Before I could demur, she seized me in a hard, heartfelt hug. Then, just as quickly, she let me go. She gathered Cody’s hand in hers as gate announcements echoed over the terminal’s loudspeakers.

  “Say goodbye,” she told her grandson. “We have to catch our plane.”

  Cody’s black eyes brimmed with tears. And Marc swallowed hard. He riffled his son’s hair one last time.

  “Be good, little man. Remember I love you, and I’ll see you soon.”

  Cody nodded. But when Mrs. Sandoval tried to steer him toward the TSA checkpoint, he tore away from her and launched himself at me.

  Instinctively, I dropped to one knee. I caught Cody in my arms. He buried his face against my neck.

  “Can you come with us?” he pleaded.

  I cleared my throat. “Not this time.”

  “But where will you be?” he wailed.

  He misses his mother, I reminded myself. He senses her absence. He’s not really missing me.

  But even in silence, that sounded like a lie.

  “Here,” I told Cody. “I’ll show you where I’ll be.”

  Curiosity calmed Cody down, just like I’d hoped it would. The little boy released me. And I swept up his right hand, traced a heart in his palm with my fingertip.

  “This is where you are,” I said.

  As Cody studied the hand, I gathered his left.

  “And here is where I’ll be.”

  I sketched an X in it.

  “Now, one of these days, we can visit.” I cupped the boy’s hands in mine, pressed his palms together. “I’ll find my way to you and you’ll find your way to me. When that happens, we’ll be together because…”

  Cody clasped his fingers.

  In wonder, he gazed up at me.

  “It’s like a map!” he cried.

  “It is,” I told him.

  Because I remembered all too clearly how Cody had trusted me not that long ago to make everything right so we could watch TV together while a cartoon monkey found his way, thanks to a map.

  And I didn’t think I’d ever forget it.

  Chapter 13

  Marc’s sorrow in sending his son away cut into him as sharply as a flint blade. Not that he told me about it. But I could sense it as we stood side-by-side, rooted to the concourse, watching Cody and Mrs. Sandoval pass through security and out of sight.

  Once they were gone, headed to San Antonio and safety, I managed to say, “This is the right thing to do, Marc.”

  “I know.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “You always do the right thing, babe. I count on you for that.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t.”

  If I always did the right thing, I wouldn’t have done what I’d done to extract the truth from some poor slob in Mississippi three weeks ago. I wouldn’t even have dreamt of crossing such a line. I wouldn’t have lost two of my oldest friends, Barrett’s confidence, and my self-respect in the process. But I had on all counts. And I wasn’t sure I could forgive myself for any of it.

  I ducked from Marc’s embrace, made tracks toward the exit. Given that the goons who’d pounded me were still on the loose, and that the gray suits I’d spotted at Cody’s school were still unidentified and out and about, I’d advised we trade the Santa Fe for another vehicle. And now was the time to collect it.

  “Can I at least count on you for one thing?” Marc asked, catching up in an easy stride. “Can I count on you to be honest with me?”

  Offended, I rounded on him.

  But before I could serve Marc the rough side of my tongue, he said, “Be honest and tell me how bad you’re hurting.”

  Marc’s statement brought me up short. I halted in the middle of the terminal, frightened that this man could see into my heart of hearts. But Marc merely touched a fingertip to my chin—and studied my black-and-blue eye.

  “You took quite a drubbing,” he murmured. “Your face has to ache, and I doubt the rest of you feels much better. I can put you on a flight back to Washington, Jamie. Be honest. Tell me if you should go.”

  Relief made me smile.

  Because Marc had no more idea of what stirred in my heart than I did at the moment.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Or I will be as soon as I take more of the Motrin I’ve got in my pocket. Plus, I’ve got no altitude sickness this morning or anything like it. But this is your shootin’ match. If you want me to pull up stakes—”

  “No.”

  Marc’s jaw rippled. He didn’t say any more. And he didn’t get chatty by the time he’d appropriated the driver’s seat in the black Jeep Liberty we rented to replace the Santa Fe.

  He pointed the Jeep toward the town of Manitou Springs and the salon where Elena earned her living these days. I doubted she’d left a road map and forwarding address with her employer, but she might’ve confided in a coworker. And after running into the creeps lying in wait for Elena across the street from her parents’ home, I was more anxious to find her than ever.

  Long ago, the people of Manitou Springs adopted the town motto At the Foot of Pikes Peak—and they weren’t kidding about it. Nestled in a bowl at the base of the mountain, Manitou Springs was founded in the 1800s for travelers inclined to seek health benefits at the nearby natural mineral springs. The added attraction of fresh air and gorgeous terrain kept them coming back. Today, the modest town offers a plethora of quaint
cafés, galleries, studios, and eclectic boutiques, as well as outfitters’ shops for outdoorsy types and tourist traps for all tastes. Plus, it boasts a nice collection of businesses to meet the locals’ everyday needs as well.

  One of these businesses was Shear Madness, the salon where Elena worked. It occupied a storefront between a real estate agent’s office and a payday loan establishment on a nice, quiet side street just off the main drag. A sign propped against the glass announced WALK-INS WELCOME, but I didn’t think that would be the case today. Because just outside, a patrol car crouched at the curb, its blue and white lights cycling in warning. Marc parked in the metered spot behind it, and we got out of the car.

  As if someone had thrown a brick through it, the salon’s glass door was nothing more than shards hanging on to the frame around a hole big enough to duck through. Still, the door swung open when I yanked on the handle. Marc and I entered, setting an electronic bell signaling.

  Bee-bong.

  The sharp scent of too much ammonia and spilled acetone nearly knocked me on my heels. I clapped a hand over my nose, but it was too late. My watery eyes made the scrape sitting high on my cheekbone sting. And it was no wonder. Every product in the place had been stripped from shelves up front, the stylists’ workstations ranging down the side of the salon, and the manicure cart in its own spot in the corner. The linoleum was sticky with shampoo from ruptured containers and shattered nail polish bottles. Plastic clips and combs crunched underfoot.

  “Shop’s closed,” a uniformed police officer barked over his shoulder.

  Standing on this side of the reception counter, he didn’t even turn to look at us as he took the statement of the agitated woman who was probably the owner. Marc’s face hardened. And reaching for his shield, he waded into the conversation.

  “I’m looking for Elena Preble,” he announced, flashing his badge at the cop.

  And though Marc didn’t say it, I was pretty sure whatever had happened here had happened because of Elena.

  I couldn’t be certain that that was the general consensus, but farther on, three nervous employees hovered near a bank of sinks. The first one kept her arms tightly crossed against her overdeveloped chest, and her arms tightened more when Marc said Elena’s name. The second stylist, with red hair so realistic it had to be fake, hovered at her shoulder. And a third woman—a shy one—lingered behind the other two as if she wanted to bolt through the heavy purple curtain that divided the business section of the salon from storage in the back. But I wasn’t going to let her get away.