Jack did not regard himself as a hard man to work for—sure, his standards were high, but he paid top wages, provided health insurance and a generous retirement plan for his few but carefully chosen employees. On the other hand, he didn’t tolerate carelessness of any kind, and Vince knew that.
Vince grimaced slightly, keenly aware of Jack’s meaning, and shepherded Rachel toward the kitchen.
“Don’t burn too many lights,” Jack added, “and stay away from the windows.”
Vince stiffened at the predictability of the order, but he didn’t turn around to give Jack a ration of crap, the way he might have done in less dire circumstances.
Jack shifted his gaze to Ardith, but she’d turned her face away. He put a hand to the small of her back and ushered her up the stairs.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“I’m scared to death,” Ardith replied, still without looking at him.
Even through the raincoat and whatever she was wearing underneath, Jack could feel the knobbiness of her spine against the palm of his hand.
“When is this going to be over, Jack?” she blurted, when they’d reached the top. She was staring at him now, her eyes huge and black with sorrow and fear. “When can I go back to my husband and my children?”
“When it’s safe,” Jack said, but he was thinking, When Chad Lombard is on a slab.
“When it’s safe!” Ardith echoed. “You know as well as I do that ‘when it’s safe’ might be never!”
She was right about that; unless he took Lombard out, once and for all, she and Rachel would probably have to keep running.
“You can’t think that way,” Jack pointed out. “You’ll drive yourself crazy if you do.” He guided her toward the room across from his, the one Ashley had set aside for Ardith and Rachel.
Although he’d been the one to send Ashley away, he wished for a brief and fervent moment that she had stayed. Being a woman, she’d know how to calm and comfort Ardith in ways that would probably never enter his testosterone-saturated brain.
And he needed to tell somebody that his mother had died. He couldn’t confide in Vince—they didn’t have that kind of relationship. Ardith had enough problems of her own, and Rachel was a little kid.
Jack opened the door of the small but still spacious suite, with its flowery bedspreads, lace curtains and bead-fringed lamps. He’d closed the shutters earlier, and laid the makings of a fire on the hearth.
Taking a match from the box on the mantel, he lit the wadded newspaper and dry kindling, watched with primitive satisfaction as the blaze caught.
Ardith looked around, finally shrugged out of the raincoat.
“I want to call Charles,” she said, clearly expecting a refusal. “I haven’t talked to my husband since—”
“If you want to put him and the other kids in Lombard’s crosshairs, Ardith,” Jack said evenly, giving her a sidelong glance as he straightened, then stood there, soaking in the warmth of the fire, “you go right ahead.”
She was boney as hell, beneath a sweat suit that must have been two sizes too big for her, and her once-beautiful face looked gaunt, her cheekbones protruding, her skin gray and slack. She’d aged a decade since gathering her small daughter close in that airport.
Ardith glanced toward the open door of the suite, then turned her gaze back to Jack’s face. “I have two other children besides Rachel,” she said slowly.
Jack added wood to the fire, now that it was crackling, and replaced the screen. Turned to Ardith with his arms folded across his chest.
“Meaning what?” he asked, afraid he already knew what she was about to say.
She sagged, limp-kneed, onto the side of one of the twin beds, her head down. “Meaning,” she replied, after biting down so hard on her lower lip that Jack half expected to see blood, “that Chad is wearing me down.”
Jack went to the door, peered out into the hall, found it empty. In the distance, he could hear Vince and Rachel in the kitchen. Pans were clattering, and the small countertop TV was on.
He shut the door softly. “Don’t even tell me you’re thinking of turning Rachel over to Lombard,” he said.
A tear slithered down one of Ardith’s pale cheeks, and she didn’t move to wipe it away. Maybe she wasn’t even aware that she was crying. Her eyes blazed, searing into Jack. “Are you judging me, Mr. McCall? May I remind you that you work for me?”
“May I remind you,” Jack retorted calmly, “that Lombard is an international drug runner? That he tortures and kills people on a regular basis—for fun?”
Ardith dragged in a breath so deep it made her entire body quiver. “I wish I’d never gotten involved with him.”
“Get in line,” Jack said. “I’m sure your parents would agree, along with your present husband. The fact is, you did ‘get involved,’ in a big way, and now you’ve got a seven-year-old daughter who deserves all the courage and strength you can muster up.”
“I’m running on empty, Jack. I can’t keep this up much longer.”
“Where does that leave Rachel?”
Misery throbbed in her eyes. “With you?” she asked, in a small voice. “She’d be safe, I know she would, and—”
“And you could go back home and pretend none of this ever happened? That you never met Lombard and gave birth to his child—your child?”
“You make me sound horrible!”
Jack thrust out a sigh. “Look, I know this is hard. It’s worse than hard. But you can’t bail on that little girl, Ardith. Deep down, you don’t even want to. You’ve got to tough this out, for Rachel’s sake and your own.”
“What if I can’t?” Ardith whispered.
“You can, Ardith, because you don’t have a choice.”
“Couldn’t the FBI or the DEA help? Find her another family—?”
“Christ,” Jack said. “You can’t be serious.”
Ardith fell onto her side on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest in a fetal position, and sobbed, deeply and with a wretchedness that tore at the fabric of his soul. It was one of the worst sounds Jack had ever heard.
“You’re exhausted,” he said. “You’ll feel different when you’ve had something to eat and a good night’s sleep. We’ll come up with some kind of solution, Ardith. I promise.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, then in the hallway, and Rachel burst in. “Mommy, we found beef stew in the fridge and—” she stopped, registering the sight her mother made, lying there on the bed. Worry contorted the child’s face, made her shoulders go rigid. “Why are you crying?”
Stepping behind Rachel so she couldn’t see him, Jack glared a warning at Ardith.
Ardith stopped wailing, sat up, sniffled and dashed at her cheeks with the backs of both hands. “I was just missing your daddy and the other kids,” she said. She straightened her spine, snatched tissues from a decorative box on the table between the beds, and blew her nose.
“I miss them, too,” Rachel said. “And Grambie and Gramps, too.”
Ardith nodded, set the tissue aside. “I know, sweetheart,” she said. Somehow, she summoned up a smile, misty and faltering, but a smile nonetheless. “Did someone mention beef stew? I could use something like that.”
Rachel’s attention had shifted to the cheery fireplace. “We get our own fireplace?” she enthused.
Jack thought back to the five days he and Rachel had spent navigating that South American jungle after he’d nabbed her from Lombard’s remote estate. They’d dealt with mosquitoes, snakes, chattering monkeys with a penchant for throwing things at them, and long, dark nights with little to cover them but the stars and the weighted, humid air.
Rachel hadn’t complained once. When they were traveling, she got to ride on Jack’s back or shoulders, and she enjoyed it wholeheartedly. She’d chattered incessantly, ev
ery waking moment, about all the things she’d have to tell her mommy, her stepfather, and her little brother and sister when they were together again.
“Your own fireplace,” Jack confirmed, his voice husky.
He and Ardith exchanged glances, and then they all went downstairs, to the kitchen, for some of Ashley’s beef stew.
* * *
Ashley waited until she was sure Olivia and Tanner were sound asleep, then crept out of the guest suite. The night nurse sat in front of the television set in the den, sound asleep.
Behind Ashley, Mrs. Wiggins mewed.
Ashley turned, a finger to her lips, hoisted the kitten up for a nuzzle, then carried the little creature back into the suite, set her down, and carefully closed the door.
Her eyes burned as the kitten meowed at being left behind.
Reaching the darkened and empty kitchen, Ashley let out her breath, going over the plan she’d spent several hours rehearsing in her head.
She would disable the alarm, then reset it before closing the door behind her. Drive slowly out to the main road, waiting until she reached the mailboxes before turning her headlights on.
Ginger, snoozing on her dog bed in the corner, lifted her golden head, gave Ashley a slow, curious once-over.
Ashley put a finger to her lips, just as she’d done earlier, with the kitten.
A voice bloomed in her mind.
Don’t go, it said.
Ashley blinked. Stared at the dog. Shook her head.
No. She had not received a telepathic message from Olivia’s dog. She was still keyed up from the family meeting, and worried about Jack, and her imagination was running away with her, that was all.
I’ll tell, the silent, internal voice warned. All I have to do is bark.
“Hush,” Ashley said, fumbling in her purse for her car keys. “I’m not hearing this. It’s all in my head.”
“It’s snowing.”
Unnerved, Ashley tried to ignore Ginger, who had now risen on all four paws, as though prepared to carry out a threat she couldn’t possibly have made.
Ashley went to the nearest window, the one over the sink, and peered through it, squinting.
Snowflakes the size of golf balls swirled past the glass.
Ashley glanced back at Ginger in amazement. “Well, it is January,” she rationalized.
“You can’t drive in this blizzard.”
“Stop it,” Ashley said, though she couldn’t have said whether she was talking to the golden retriever or to herself. Or both.
The dog simply stood there, ready to bark.
Nonsense, Ashley thought. Olivia hears animals. You don’t.
Still, either her imagination or the dog had a point. Her small hybrid car wouldn’t make it out of the driveway in weather like that. The yard was probably under a foot of snow, and visibility would be zero, if not worse.
She had to think.
As quietly as possible, she drew back a chair at the big kitchen table and sat down.
Ginger relaxed a little, but she was still watchful.
Just sitting at that table caused Ashley to flash back to the family meeting earlier that evening. Meg and Brad, Melissa, Olivia and Tanner—even Sophie and Carly and little Mac, had all been there.
As the eldest of the four O’Ballivan siblings, Brad had been the main spokesperson.
“Ashley,” he’d said, “you’re not going home until McCall is gone. And Tanner and I plan to make sure he is, first thing in the morning.”
She’d gaped at her brother, understanding his reasoning but stung to fury just the same. Looking around, she’d seen the same grim determination in Tanner’s face, Olivia’s, even Melissa’s.
Outraged, she’d reminded them all that she was an adult and would come and go as she pleased, thank you very much.
Only Sophie and Carly had seemed even remotely sympathetic, but neither of them had spoken up on her behalf.
“You can’t hold me prisoner here,” Ashley had protested, her heart thumping, adrenaline burning through her veins like acid.
“Oh, yeah,” Brad had answered, his tone and expression utterly implacable. “We can.”
She’d decided right then that she’d get out—yes, their intentions were good, but it was the principle of the thing—but she’d also kept her head. She’d pretended to agree.
She’d helped make supper.
She’d loaded the dishwasher afterward.
She’d even rocked one of the babies—John, she thought—to sleep after Olivia had nursed him.
The evening had seemed endless.
Finally, Meg and Brad had left, taking Mac and Carly with them. Sophie, having finished her homework, had given Ashley a hug before retiring to her room for the night.
Ashley had yawned a lot and vanished into her own lush quarters.
She’d taken a hot bath, put on her pajamas and one of Olivia’s robes, watched a little television—some mindless reality show.
And she’d waited, listening to the old-new house settle around her, Mrs. Wiggins curled up on her lap, as though trying to hold her new mistress in her chair with that tiny, weightless body of hers.
Once she was sure the coast was clear, Ashley had quietly dressed, never thinking to check the weather. Such was her state of distraction.
Now, here she sat, alone in her sister’s kitchen at one-thirty in the morning, engaged in a standoff with a talking dog.
“I can take the Suburban,” she whispered to Ginger. “It will go anywhere.”
“What’s so important?” Ginger seemed to ask.
Ashley shook her head again, rubbed her temples with the fingertips of both hands. “Jack,” she said, keeping her voice down because, one, she didn’t want to be overheard and stopped from leaving and, two, she was talking to a dog, for pity’s sake. “Jack is so important. He’s sick. And something is wrong. I can feel it.”
“You could ask Tanner to go into town and help him out.”
Ashley blinked. Was this really happening? If the conversation was only in her mind, why did the other side of it just pop up without her framing the words first?
“I can’t do that,” she said. “Olivia and the babies might need him.”
Resolved, she rose from her chair, crossed to the wooden rack where Olivia kept various keys, and helped herself to the set that would unlock and start the venerable old Suburban.
She jingled the key ring at Ginger.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Bark.”
Ginger gave a huge sigh. “I’ll give you a five minute head start,” came the reply, “then I’m raising the roof.”
“Fair enough,” Ashley agreed, scrambling into Big John’s old woolen coat, the one Olivia wore when she was working, hoping it would give her courage. “Thanks.”
“I was in love once,” Ginger said, sounding wistful.
Ashley moved to the alarm-control panel next to the back door. Racked her brain for the code, which Olivia had given to her in case of emergency, finally remembered it.
Grabbed her coat and dashed over the threshold.
The cold slammed into her like something solid and heavy, with sharp teeth.
Her car was under a mound of snow, the Suburban a larger mound beside it. Perhaps because of the emotions stirred by the family meeting, Tanner had forgotten to park the rigs in the spacious garage with his truck, the way he normally would have on a winter’s night.
Hastily, she climbed onto the running board and wiped off the windshield with one arm, grateful for the heavy, straw-scented weight of her grandfather’s old coat, even though it nearly swallowed her. Then she opened the door of the Suburban, got in and rammed the key into the ignition.
The engine sputtered once, then again, and finally roared to life.
>
Ashley threw it into Reverse, backed into the turnaround, spun her wheels for several minutes in the deep snow.
Swearing under her breath, she slammed the steering wheel with one fist, missed it, and hit the horn instead.
“Do. Not. Panic,” she told herself out loud.
Just how many minutes had passed, she wondered frantically. Had Ginger already started barking? Had anyone heard the Suburban’s horn when she hit it by accident?
She drew a deep breath, thrust it out in a whoosh.
No, she decided.
Lights would be coming on in the house if the dog were raising a ruckus. The howling wind had probably covered the bleat of the horn.
She shifted the Suburban into the lowest gear, tried again to get the old wreck moving. It finally tore free of the snowbank, the wheels grabbing.
As she turned the vehicle around and zoomed down the driveway, she heard the alarm system go off in the house, even over the wind and the noise of the engine.
Crap. She’d either forgotten to reset the system, or done it incorrectly.
Looking in the rearview mirror would have been useless, since the back window was coated with snow and frost, so Ashley sped up and raced toward the main road, praying she wouldn’t hit a patch of ice and spin off into the ditch.
I’m sorry, she told Tanner and Olivia, the babies and Sophie and the night nurse, the alarm shrieking like a convention of angry banshees behind her. I’m so sorry.
* * *
Her kitchen was completely dark.
Shivering from the cold and from the harrowing ride into town, Ashley shut the door behind her, dropped her key into the pocket of Big John’s coat and reached for the light switch.
“Don’t move,” a stranger’s voice commanded. A male stranger’s voice.
Flipping the switch was a reflex; light spilled from the fluorescent panels in the ceiling, revealing a man she’d never seen before—or had she?—seated at her table, holding a gun on her.
“Who are you?” she asked, amazed to discover that she could speak, she was so completely terrified.
The man stood, the gun still trained squarely on her central body mass. “The pertinent question here, lady, is who are you?”
A Stone Creek Collection, Volume 2 Page 60