"Jesus," Val breathed, as if Hank's presence was a gift from God.
Twenty-Two
Carine wrapped herself up in a quilt she'd made one summer and sat on the floor in front of her woodstove. By unspoken agreement, she and Ty had decided to spend the night at her cabin. Gus had left, after a long discussion about defunct dairy farms and how, between farming and logging, much of New Hampshire had been denuded of its forests in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, before so much of it turned into national forest. He'd searched his memory for Sanborns he'd known over the years. But Carine could tell he wasn't that taken with her discovery.
In any case, what did it prove? The man who'd called himself Louis Sanborn was dead. Whether or not he was one of the shooters from last fall, it didn't say who his murderer was.
Ty checked the cabin for various critters—bats, mice, chipmunks, squirrels, God knew what else—and emerged from the cellar, picking cobwebs off his shirt. She had a feeling he'd found a snakeskin down there, but he wouldn't tell her.
"Don't protect me," she said. "Just give it to me straight."
"It was a grizzly bear with cubs."
She laughed, but only for a moment. The fire popped behind the screen, startling her, reminding her of how on edge she still was. "When I think back to Wednesday, finding Louis, it's like my senses were heightened," she said. "I can see myself standing in the hall when I realized something was wrong. I can see the blood oozing toward me—his hand was in it. I can hear myself yelling for help, feel the sun on my neck when I ran outside and Manny was there. I can see the pigeons on the mall. Every detail is etched in my mind in a way it wouldn't have been if I'd just gone back and taken pictures, and it was a normal afternoon."
Ty sat on the floor next to her, not taking any of her quilt. He put one knee up, his other leg stretched out, his toes almost against the stove. He'd pulled off his boots, and she noticed he had on the kind of expensive socks Gus sold. "That can happen when you're under a high level of stress."
"Is it that way for you when you're on a mission?"
"I focus on the job I'm there to do."
"But afterward—"
"Afterward there's another job."
"I didn't have a job to do in the library. I wasn't sent in to rescue Louis or treat him, investigate his murder— I'm a photographer. I'm not a doctor like Antonia, a U.S. marshal like Nate, a military guy like you. I didn't have any protocol or orders to follow. I had no professional responsibility."
"If any of us came unexpectedly upon the murder of someone we knew, I doubt we'd react all that differently than you did."
"Me? I screamed my head off and got the hell out of there."
He smiled. "You see?"
"I remember the shooting last fall in excruciating detail, too. I never thought of my job as having inherent dangers, especially compared to what you do for a living. Dangling out of a helicopter—"
"I don't dangle. I'd be in a shitload of trouble if I dangled."
She looked over at him, picturing him decked out in a flight suit and all his gear, fast-roping out of a helicopter. "The idea would be for you to get people out of trouble, not get in any yourself."
"That would be the idea, yes. But things can go wrong."
"Well, I thought I'd be safe in the woods taking a picture of an owl. And you and Manny and Hank— you weren't on a mission. You were just there to steal my food."
"Share, not steal."
"My point is that anything can happen, anytime. I can't live my life worried about it. I do my job, I take sensible precautions."
He gave her a skeptical look. "You were out in the woods alone."
"I can't take someone with me every time I go out— that's part of my job. I suppose that's one of its inherent risks." She frowned at him and lifted a corner of her quilt. "You cold?"
"No, but I like the idea of being under a blanket with you."
She shook her head. "Only if you tell me what's in the cellar. Snake?"
"Dragon."
She let him under her quilt with her, anyway, and scooted next to him, her leg pressed up against his. "Do you suppose Louis Sanborn really was one of the shooters? He was always so nice to me in Boston." She didn't wait for Ty to answer. "I don't get what's going on. Maybe we're off base totally and Manny was on a secret military mission."
Ty kissed the top of her head. "Maybe you're so tired you're getting screwy."
"I can make us tea—"
But she stopped abruptly, seeing his expression. He didn't want tea.
"Suppose instead of tea," he said, "I carry you up to bed."
"You can't. There's just a ladder."
"Bet?"
She had no time even to scramble to her feet before she was over his shoulder, sack-of-grain style. She didn't ask him to put her down. She didn't kick or thrash. Without even the hint of a misstep, he had her up the ladder and into her loft, then flopped her onto her back on her bed.
She laughed and whacked him on the shoulder. "You're insane!"
He wasn't particularly out of breath. "Tell me this isn't better than tea."
She smiled, rising up off the bed to hook her hands around his neck and kiss him, bringing him back down with her. "Much better," she said against his mouth. "What if you'd tripped?"
"I didn't trip."
He settled on top of her, the weight of him firing her senses, burning up her ability to talk. She let her hands drift down his back to his hips, pulling him against her, knowing they wanted the same thing. They'd been dancing around it for two days, trying to be sensible and not repeat their body-clawing, mind-numbing madness at her apartment.
But he resisted her attempt to get on with it before she could think too much. He eased back, slipping one knee between her legs. "Not so fast."
There'd be no crazed lovemaking that she could attribute to stress and the moment in the morning—it would be slow and deliberate, and she might as well give herself up to it.
It was, and she did. At least for a time.
"We should have been making love like this for months now." His voice was a whisper as he lifted her sweater over her head, tugging it off, casting it onto the floor. "Maybe years."
He touched her breasts through her bra, a kind of erotic torture, then unclasped it, not fumbling even the slightest. Because his movements were unhurried, she had time to think, react, even feel a spurt of self-consciousness when she was exposed to him. In so many ways, they weren't the same people they'd been last winter, before he'd knocked on her door. He'd gone back to fight. She'd fled to Boston. The falling in love, the cutting and running, the pain and anger and embarrassment—they'd all had their effect, not just on her. On him, too. She could feel it in his tenderness, in his determination to give her the chance to make sure this was really what she wanted.
She could have dumped him back down the ladder, but she didn't, and she knew he didn't want her to.
It was warm in the loft, the heat of the woodstove rising, and it was dark in the loft, the only light from the fire's glow through the rail. She could see him outlined above her, feel him as his mouth lowered to her, taking first one nipple, then the other. She moaned, but he didn't pick up his pace. Her jeans came next, an even slower torture of hands, tongue and teeth, as if he was oblivious to her mounting urgency. She fought back, tearing at his clothes, and finally got her chance.
But he was ready for whatever tortures she had in mind.
When at last she straddled him and he lifted her hips, lowering her onto him, his hands smoothing up over her stomach and breasts, she gasped as if it was the first time.
Everythingchanged.Shecouldn'tholdbackandsaw thathecouldn't,either,notanylonger.Shewantedspeed and heat and ferocity, and he responded in kind, his strokes hard, fast, relentless. She ended up on her back, taking all of him she could get, and when she was filled up,spillingover,hecameatheralltheharder,againand again. Her release washed over her, endless, and her cries seemed to echo across the isolated meadow. S
he knew she was spinning out of control and didn't care.
But he didn't stop. He was slick with sweat, his heart beating rapidly against her, and when he came, she thought she would die.
Her vision blurred, and a treacherous mix of love and raw need ripped through her.
She'd promised herself never again. And here she was.
* * *
Later, Ty slipped down the ladder and tossed another log on the fire. He debated sleeping on the couch, but Carine would take it the wrong way. Or so went his rationalization as he climbed back up the ladder and into bed with her. She had a mountain of quilts and blankets. He thought he'd suffocate. He peeled one off and threw it on the floor with their clothes.
"Gus says we never returned the snowshoes he gave us for a wedding present," she said sleepily.
"Only Gus would give someone snowshoes for a wedding present, and we did return them. He tried to send them back to the manufacturer. He said they were tainted."
She rolled onto her side, pulling the covers up over her breasts. "I don't have to marry you, Ty, but I can't— I can't just be there whenever you decide you want me there."
"I know."
"And you—it's not right for you to be there whenever I want you."
"Right."
"Ty?"
He smothered her urge to talk with a kiss. It seemed like the right thing to do, and in a minute, she was the one kicking off blankets.
Twenty-Three
Val talked Hank into going out for coffee. They took her car, but she asked him to drive, because she was too damn nervous and barely knew her way around Washington, D.C., on a good day. For all she knew, her caller was around the corner with night-vision goggles, watching her every move. Maybe he was a law enforcement officer. The CIA. Military intelligence. Maybe she was out of her mind.
Plus, she had an unloaded Glock in her glove compartment, and she couldn't reach it if she was the one driving. And she'd seen in the movies—when you kidnap someone, you make them drive.
Except she wasn't kidnapping Hank. Really, she thought, sitting next to him. She was just going to ask him to drive her to Cold Ridge. Or not? Should she pretend she'd never gotten that bizarre call?
He had on a sweater and a lightweight suede coat.
It'd be colder in New Hampshire, but he'd be fine. She'd resisted the impulse to drag out her winter coat and instead pulled on a denim jacket. Jeans, turtleneck, sneakers, denim jacket—she looked perfectly normal, even if she felt as if she should be locked up somewhere.
"Where to?" Hank asked, mercifully oblivious to her wild thoughts.
She chewed on her lower lip. Should she tell him about the call? Or just make up some story about why she wanted him to drive her to Cold Ridge?
"Val? What's wrong?"
He was frowning at her, absolutely one of the best-looking men she'd ever met. And kind. So kind. It was dark on her street, not busy. A beautiful Saturday night in Washington. She and Manny should be at the movies. Eric—even if her life was normal, Eric would be in Cold Ridge. But that's what he wanted.
Hank pulled out into the street and headed to the main intersection and onto a four-lane highway of strip malls and chain restaurants. He seemed to sense something was up. He was so quiet, just glancing at her occasionally out of the corner of his eye. Val almost started crying. She couldn't believe what she was about to do. "Hank, I can't stand it," she said. "I—I need to see Eric. He didn't sound that great the last time I talked to him. If I leave now, I can be there by morning. But I can't— I'm too out of it to drive."
"Do you want to take the shuttle? I can drive you to the airport."
"No." She shook her head, not knowing what the hell she was doing. Why not just tell Hank everything and let him help her figure it out? He was a retired air force major. He'd performed combat missions. He was a damn senator. A Massachusetts Callahan. He knew everyone. He had connections. "Never mind. There's a place where we can have coffee down the street."
"Val, I know this has been hard on you—"
Her cell phone rang, and she jumped, gasping in an exaggerated startled reaction. She answered it, her hands shaking violently. She could feel Hank's narrowed eyes on her.
"You have him?"
Again it was that toneless voice. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. "What am I supposed to do now?"
"Do you have him?" the caller repeated calmly.
Hank slowed to a crawl on the busy Arlington street. "Val, who are you talking to?"
"I hear him." But there was no note of satisfaction in the caller's tone. "Good work. Bring him to Cold Ridge. It's your only chance, Val. Do you understand me? Your only chance. Manny's only chance. Do what you have to do. Just get Senator Callahan to Cold Ridge."
Her hands were like ice, her fingers gripping the phone as if it might suddenly fly itself out the window. She moaned in despair and frustration. "Don't you get it? I can't drive all the way to New England with a senator!"
Hank slammed on the brake and snatched the phone out of her hand. "Who the hell is this?" He listened a moment, then handed the phone back to her. "Get rid of him. Understood?"
She nodded, although she was past understanding anything.
"Cute trick," the caller said. "I told him I'd only talk to you. Val, be strong. I'm trying to help. The only way I can help is if you bring Hank Callahan to Cold Ridge tonight."
"But—"
"I know it sounds scary and strange." This time, she thought she sensed an undercurrent of friendliness, caring, in the otherwise unchanged voice. "But once I can reveal what I know, once you have the whole picture— both you and the senator will thank me. In the meantime, you must follow my instructions to the letter."
"If I don't?"
"Then you'll bear the responsibility for whatever happens. Good or bad. I'm being honest with you. I have the means to help your husband, but only if you're willing to do your part." A pause, calculated, she thought, to further unnerve her. "Mrs. Carrera, please don't mistake me. Some very bad people are after your husband."
"It's something like ten hours to Cold Ridge." She avoided looking at Hank next to her, felt her stomach muscles twist, aching, acid rising up in her throat. "We can take the shuttle and be there in a couple of hours."
But the caller didn't even hesitate. "You know that won't work. Too many air marshals. Drive all night. It'll be okay. Just do as I say. I'll call back when you're farther north and tell you where to bring the senator."
"What if I call the police the second I hang up? What if Hank does?"
"If either of you contacts the police—if you tell anyone—all bets are off, and you'll have to live with the consequences."
He hung up, and Val gulped for air, not thinking as she yanked open the glove compartment and fumbled for her Glock. She pulled it out and pointed it at Hank, who just stared at her, his jaw set, his teeth clenched. He wouldn't know it was unloaded."Val, for Christ's sake."
"Please." She didn't know what the hell she was doing. "We can't call the police. Something bad'll happen, and I couldn't live with myself—just drive to Cold Ridge. It's a long way. I'll—I'll figure out something in the meantime."
Hank was steely-eyed, outwardly calm. "Your hand's shaking. Mind not pointing that thing at me?"
She didn't lower the gun. She'd meant to check out Washington D.C. gun laws but hadn't gotten around to it. She was fairly certain that handguns, concealed or otherwise, were illegal in the nation's capital. But, kidnapping a U.S. senator was illegal everywhere.
"Hank—please, just do as I ask and let me think. I need you to drive us to New Hampshire tonight.You and me."
"I can't do that, Val. I have a wife. I have a job to do."
She pretended not to hear him. "Take I-95. It's an awful road, but it'll be the fastest."
"Why should I do as you say? What was that call all about? Val—"
"Goddamn it, Hank, my head's spinning. Give me a minute, okay? And get back on the road. Don't fuck with me right no
w. You know I can shoot."
"You won't shoot me."
"Not dead, but I can make you bleed."
He glanced at her. "And I can feed you that damn gun."
"You won't." She managed a faltering smile, even as she fought back tears. "You know I'm desperate. I'm— I'm trying to buy us some time. I don't know if this guy's on the level. If he is, great, at least he's on our side. If he's not—well, then we're screwed, anyway."
"Val, trust me. Talk to me." His voice was earnest, serious, and she remembered Manny telling her Hank Callahan was one of the coolest pilots under fire he'd ever seen. "Tell me what's going on. I can help."
"Just drive."
"Let me call the police."
"No. I can't risk it." Her head was throbbing, as if she had cobwebs growing in her skull, multiplying, squeezing her brain, so that she couldn't think. "Manny's incommunicado. Tyler's already in Cold Ridge. Eric—I talked to him a little while ago. He's in his dorm, asleep. I'm out of the loop. If I do something wrong—I couldn't live with myself."
"You're doing something wrong now."
"He—at least I think it's a he. Maybe not. Anyway, I'll get another call with more instructions when we're closer to Cold Ridge. Jesus, that's a long time."
"You're goddamn right it is."
"But you'll do it, won't you?"
Hank nodded tightly, turning onto the interstate. Traffic was heavy, endless rows of headlights and brake lights, the whoosh of passing cars and trucks, all of it adding to her confusion and anxiety. He had a thousand options, but Val suspected he wanted to buy himself some time to think, too. And he'd want to find out what was going on in Cold Ridge as much as she did.
He sighed at her with his first hint of real irritation. "Just put the fucking Glock away, will you?"
"The f-word, Hank?" She smiled faintly, not letting go of her gun. "If your constituents could hear you now."
Twenty-Four
Cold Ridge Page 20