by Elle James
“I should have handled it better.” After all, she’d had plenty of practice dealing with death and violence in her short time in the military.
“The offer to come with me on patrol is still open,” he said.
Relief washed over her. She’d been prepared to beg if she had to, in order to continue her research. “Then, I accept.”
“Great.” He drummed his fingers on the table and looked around the trailer once more, avoiding her gaze.
“Is there something else?” she asked.
His eyes shifted back to her. “The G-Man—Graham—thinks there’s something you’re not telling us. About yesterday, when that man was shot.”
So much for her acting ability. Or maybe it was just that she was having second thoughts about keeping her secret. What if Mariposa was somehow tied up with whatever was going on out there in the parkland? By not telling about her, was Abby endangering other peoples’ lives?
“Before I tell you anything else, answer a few questions for me first,” she said.
He sat back, hands flat on the table between them. “All right.”
She couldn’t look into that intense gaze anymore, so she studied his hands. He had long fingers and neatly trimmed nails, and he wore a silver-and-onyx ring on his right hand. They were masculine, capable hands—she remembered the feel of them at her back yesterday. Reassuring. Protective. “You work for Customs and Immigration, right?”
“US Customs and Border Protection.”
“So when you encounter someone who’s in this country illegally, your job is to deport them?”
“That’s more Simon’s territory. He’s with ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement. They’re part of Homeland Security, too. My job is more about protecting our borders, though we work with ICE sometimes. Why?”
She shifted in her seat. How to admit to this man that she’d been lying to him? “I did see someone else yesterday—before the man was shot. There was a woman. She was out collecting plants, too, but for food, not for scientific specimens. She spoke only Spanish and she had a baby with her. She told me her name was Mariposa. She was so young—and gorgeous. I wouldn’t have stood a chance if I’d competed in a pageant with her. Here, I have a picture.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and found the photo she’d snapped of Mariposa. She handed the phone to him.
“She looks young,” he said. “A teenager.”
“Maybe,” Abby said.
He returned the phone to her. “She trusted you enough to let you take her picture.”
“I didn’t ask, I just snapped it in between shots of the plants I was gathering. She seemed surprised, but she didn’t object.”
“We’ll run the photo by authorities, but I doubt we’ll find anything,” he said. “Still, you never know. Did she say where she lived? What she was doing out there?”
“No. Like I said, she didn’t speak English and I don’t know much Spanish. I gave her a couple of protein bars and she seemed grateful. She heard the people who shot that man shouting and she took off. I mean, she panicked and was running for her life.”
“So she knew who they were?”
“That’s what I think. Or at least what they were up to.” She touched the back of his hand. “Do you think she’s mixed up in all this somehow? Maybe she’s being held prisoner by these people or something?”
“She’s probably one of the workers. These drug operations bring illegals in to work their grow operations or make meth. They’re as good as prisoners, isolated out here, kept under guard.”
“Is that what happened to that man—he tried to escape?”
“We don’t know for sure, but that’s a likely scenario.”
“No wonder she panicked and ran.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“She said the baby was a girl named Angelique. And she showed me where to find some of the plants I was looking for. She seemed very familiar with the plants in the area. I got the impression she was hungry.” She blinked back tears, thinking of the beautiful woman and the baby, alone and in danger.
“Maybe we can find her and help her. Even if we send her back to her home, that would be better than the way she’s living now.”
“I guess so.” Better to return to home and family than to live with the threat of danger.
“You competed in beauty pageants?” Michael asked.
Of course he’d picked up on that. Why had she even mentioned it? “Don’t sound so shocked. I was Miss Milwaukee my freshman year in college.”
“How did a beauty queen end up in Afghanistan?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
She sighed. She could try to blow him off, but he struck her as someone who wouldn’t give up questioning her. It was probably a trait that made him good at his job. “I thought it would be a good way to get money for grad school,” she said. “My parents thought I was wasting my time with more schooling, so they wouldn’t pay. And I didn’t expect them to. I was willing to do it on my own.”
“So the beauty queen wanted to be a biologist all along,” he said.
“I didn’t know what I wanted to do,” she said. “My undergrad degree is in communications. But I needed to get away from home. My father is a local celebrity. He does sports for the number one news station in the city, plus he does a lot of voice-over work—ads and public service announcements and things. Everybody knows him. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, but I wanted the chance to prove myself doing something that was just mine. I never thought it would turn out the way it did.”
“No one does,” he said. “I mean, you couldn’t, right? No one would enlist if the first thing that came to mind was dying or being injured.”
“My parents were horrified—first with my enlistment, then when I went overseas. When I was injured they freaked out. My mother burst into tears the first time she saw the scar. She still can hardly bear to look at me.” She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “My dad is always trying to fix me. He wants me to have more surgery, to try special makeup. He can’t let go of the hope that I’ll go into television after all. They think I’m wasting my time trying to be a scientist.”
“Do you think it’s a waste of time?”
“No. I’m happier doing this—something that’s all mine—than I would have been competing with my dad. And I would have been competing, at least subconsciously. This is a chance to prove myself on my own terms. I guess it’s what I was looking for in the military all along.”
“Funny sometimes, how life has a way of working out.”
“If you’re talking about fate, I still don’t believe in that. Things just happen for no reason.”
“Hey, I didn’t say anything.” He grinned. “Is tomorrow soon enough for us to go out?”
“Go out?” She blushed, and hated that she did so.
“On patrol. You said you wanted to come with me, right?”
On patrol—of course. What was she, some sixteen-year-old expecting the class jock to ask her out on a date? “Oh, yeah. Sure. When can we go?”
“I’ll pick you up about eight.” He stood, and she rose, also, and followed him to the door. “Thanks for telling me about Mariposa,” he said. “We’ll try to find her and help her.”
“I should have trusted you earlier, but...”
“Yeah, I know. It’s hard to trust sometimes.”
She followed him out the door, reluctant to say goodbye. Now that she’d confided in him, she felt closer somehow. As if she finally had a friend who really understood her. “What’s that on your car?” he asked.
She followed his gaze to the box sitting on the hood of the Toyota Camry. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.”
They walked to the car and she started to reach for the box, but
he put out his arm to stop her. “Don’t touch it yet. Let’s take a closer look.”
Following his example, she leaned over and read the writing on the outside of the small brown cardboard box. Abby Stewart was written in marker in block letters. “I don’t see anything that says who it’s from,” she said.
“So you’re not expecting a package from anyone?”
“No.” She wrapped her arms across her stomach, fighting back a wave of nausea at the idea that a stranger had walked into her camp and left this.
Michael pulled out his radio. “Let’s get Randall and Lotte over to take a look.”
“The dog? Do you really think that’s necessary?” She eyed the box. It looked both innocent and sinister.
“Better to be safe.”
He made the call and Randall said he’d be right over. They retreated to the shade of the trailer’s awning to wait. Abby fidgeted, but Michael leaned against the trailer, relaxed. “It’s probably nothing,” she said. “Maybe we should just open it.”
“Let’s wait,” he said, and she didn’t argue.
Randall pulled in beside Michael’s Cruiser a few minutes later. He got out of the truck, then released Lotte. She trotted forward, eyes bright, tail waving. Randall showed her the box. “Lotte, such,” he commanded.
The dog braced her front paws on the bumper of the car and stretched toward the box, ears flattened, tail low. She retreated quickly, whining, and circled the vehicle, clearly agitated. She paced, panting and whining, looking from the box to Randall and back again. “She doesn’t look too happy about whatever is in there,” Michael said.
“She’s not alerting for bombs or explosives,” Randall said. “But she doesn’t like whatever she’s smelling. Lotte, komm.”
The dog came and lay at Randall’s side. Michael took out a knife. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
He picked up the box and balanced it in his hands. “It’s heavy,” he said. “Maybe three or four pounds.” He opened out a blade on the knife and slit the tape along the sides of the box, then set it on the ground. “Better play it safe.” He picked up a stick from beside the campsite’s picnic table. “Stand back.”
Abby retreated a few steps, chewing her lip nervously. They were probably going through all this drama for nothing, but the dog’s behavior worried her. Whatever was in that box, it had upset Lotte, who still stared at it, her brow wrinkled.
Michael slid the tip of the stick under the edge of the box lid, and with a jerk, flipped it off. The box tilted to its side, the contents pouring out in a rippling, fluid motion. Lotte barked, and Abby screamed as she stared at the huge rattler, coiled and ready to strike.
Chapter Six
Michael pulled out his service weapon and squeezed off two shots. The rattler writhed and thrashed, then lay still. Lotte barked again and whined. Despite the heat, Abby felt chilled through. She stared at the dead snake, shaken more by the idea that someone had intended it for her than by the snake itself.
A gust of wind rattled the branches of the piñons that surrounded the campsite, and tugged at the awning of the trailer. “It’s got to be five feet long.” Randall picked up the stick Michael had used to open the box and lifted the snake.
“Careful,” Abby said. “They still have venom in them, even when they’re dead.”
Randall nodded and glanced around. “Think we should bag it for evidence?”
“Photograph it, then bag it and tag it,” Michael said. “The box, too. Maybe we can pick up some prints.”
“I doubt it,” Randall said. He let the snake drop again. It lay coiled in the dust, still menacing despite its lack of life. “Someone goes to all the trouble to box up a snake and leave it as a present, they’re probably smart enough to wear gloves.”
“Why would someone do this?” Abby asked.
“They’re sending a message.” Michael’s expression was grim. “Warning you off.”
“Warning me off what? I haven’t done anything.”
“You found that dead man and got us involved,” Randall said. “We were close enough to something that sniper fired on us. Maybe they’re trying to frighten you out of the backcountry altogether, in case you stumble onto anything else.”
“I’m frightened, all right.” She shuddered. “I could have been killed.”
Michael rested a hand on her shoulder. “You might have been scared half to death. And you’d probably be pretty sick for a while,” he said. “But the hospitals around here probably carry antivenin, so chances are good you’d have survived. But whoever did this probably doesn’t care one way or another. You’re a threat to them, so they’re threatening back.”
“I haven’t done anything to anyone,” she protested again.
“You witnessed an execution,” he said.
She shuddered at the word. But that was what the murder of that man had been. They’d hunted him down and killed him, like predators hunting prey. “But I didn’t see anything. I couldn’t identify anyone.”
“They can’t be sure of that.”
“But...how did they know my name?” She shook her head, the reality of what had happened refusing to sink in. “I hardly know anyone in the area—no one who would do anything like this.”
“It would be easy enough to learn your name,” Randall said. “They could look up your car registration, or get it off your camping permit at the park rangers’ office. Using your name makes something like this more personal. More threatening.”
She shuddered. She felt threatened, all right. And a little sick.
Michael squeezed her shoulder, then dropped his hand. “You can’t stay here,” he said.
“No, I can’t.” This time, whoever hated her had left a snake. What would they do next time? “But where can I go?”
“We’ll find you a hotel in town,” Randall said. “Register you under an assumed name. One of us can stay with you.”
“One of you?”
“I’ll stay with you,” Michael said.
“You don’t have to do that.” She straightened her shoulders. “I have a weapon, and I know enough to be careful now. I can look after myself.” She’d fought so hard to be independent. She couldn’t let this faceless stranger or strangers take that from her.
Michael set his mouth in the stubborn line she was beginning to recognize. “Until we determine how big a threat these people are, I’m going to stay with you,” he said.
“I don’t need a babysitter.” She especially didn’t need him hovering. Just because he’d saved her life once didn’t mean he was responsible for her the rest of her life. Now that the shock of what had happened was starting to fade, she could think more clearly. “Like you said, this was a warning. If someone had really wanted to hurt me, they wouldn’t have bothered gift-wrapping the snake—they’d have turned it loose inside the car.” She shuddered at the idea.
“I’m not going to give them a chance to get that close again.” His dark eyes met hers, their previous warmth replaced by cold determination.
“You might as well give up,” Randall said. “He’s stubborn.”
“Fine,” she said. “But I’m not sharing a room with you.” Having him that close, that...intimate...would be too much.
“I can get a room next door to yours.”
“All right.” She’d have to learn to live with that.
Randall pulled out a camera and began taking pictures. “Let me see that box,” he said. “Maybe Lotte can pick up a scent trail.”
But the dog found nothing. Abby went into the trailer to pack while the two officers collected evidence and disposed of the snake. She came out with a suitcase in one hand, her laptop bag and purse in the other, her backpack on her back. “All right, I’m ready,” she said. “But in the morning, can I still go out on patrol with you?”
“If you still want to.” He took the suitcase from her.
“I want to. Working is better than sitting around brooding about the fact that someone I don’t even know hates me enough to attack me with a snake. Besides, I have a lot of territory to cover and only a few weeks to do it. I can’t let a threat from a stranger stop me.”
* * *
MICHAEL TOLD HIMSELF he shouldn’t have been surprised by Abby’s toughness. She’d already proved she was a survivor. He glanced at her as they negotiated the winding road that led away from the park. The afternoon sun slanted across her face like a spotlight, glinting on the silver earrings she wore. She definitely looked like a beauty queen, or a movie star. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
She turned toward him, her dark blue eyes wary. “You can ask. I don’t promise I’ll answer.”
He focused on the road again. “What happened after you came back to the States—after you were wounded?” he asked. “I mean, how long were you in the hospital? Did you have any kind of rehab, or did they just send you home?”
“I went to a hospital in Germany first. They did surgery there to remove shrapnel, and the surgeons saved my eye. They had to repair my broken cheek.” She touched the scar. “I have a titanium plate holding everything together.”
He winced. “Sounds brutal.”
“I guess it was, but I was in a fog a lot of the time—partly from the drugs, partly from the trauma itself.”
“I think that’s a protective mechanism the mind has—blocking out trauma that way.” In his PJ training, he’d been taught that the wounded seldom remembered what happened on the helicopters.
“I guess, but it bothers me sometimes that I can’t remember,” she said. “After I was transferred back to the States, to a hospital in Milwaukee, people came to see me and I have no memory of it. And yet the silliest things stay with me.”
“Like what?”
“Like I remember I asked my mom to bring me some clothes to wear besides the hospital gown—sweats and things like that. She brought me this yellow blouse I’d always hated. I yelled at her for bringing it and she started to cry. My dad yelled at me for hurting her feelings and then I started to cry.” She shook her head. “It was just so stupid—what did it matter what color the blouse was?”