by Sandra Brown
Marianne was as pretty and sweet-looking as ever. Her eyes were still guileless. But there were noticeable differences in her appearance. She was wearing her hair shorter, and, always trim before, her belly was now distended with advanced pregnancy.
She spoke his name softly.
“Hey, Marianne.”
Her smile was as wobbly as his felt. She said, “It’s good to see you.”
“You too. You look great.” Awkwardly, he motioned toward her midsection. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“When?”
“April.”
“Not long, then.”
She laughed in her self-deprecating way. “By the due date, believe me, I’ll be ready.”
“I’m glad for you,” he said, meaning it to his marrow.
“Thank you. I’m glad, too.” She continued looking into his eyes for several seconds more before shifting to Kerra.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Marianne, this is—”
“No introduction necessary. Welcome, Kerra.”
“Thank you.” Kerra reached across the threshold, and the two shook hands.
Marianne stood aside and motioned them in. Just as she closed the door behind them, a man stepped into the central hallway from one of the rooms opening off it. “Marianne, who—”
Upon seeing Trapper, he stopped as though he’d run into a glass wall, and, if hostility had a sound, he would have crackled. His bearing indicated that he’d like nothing better than to drop his book and reading glasses where he stood and lay into him.
In her quiet and unassuming way, Marianne tried to defuse the situation. “My husband, David. David, this is John Trapper.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Trapper said, “I won’t be here long.”
“Damn right, you won’t. In fact, you’re on your way out.”
“David, please,” Marianne whispered.
Her husband hesitated as though he might yet whale into Trapper, but he responded to the tension in Marianne’s face and the pleading in her eyes by saying nothing more. He did, however, remain standing in the middle of the hallway with the rigidity of a palace guard and the territorial menace of a junkyard dog.
Marianne broke the tense silence by introducing him to Kerra. They exchanged how-do-you-dos and she congratulated him on the pending arrival. “Do you know what you’re having?”
“A girl,” the couple chorused.
“We’re very happy,” David said, and shot a look toward Trapper that dared him to question his and Marianne’s marital bliss and delight over the baby.
Marianne offered them something to drink. They declined. Then no one said anything for an interminable length of time, until Trapper cleared his throat and gave Marianne a meaningful look.
She turned to her husband. “Trapper’s visit isn’t entirely unexpected, David. I didn’t tell you because, well…I just didn’t. He came to pick up something.”
“What?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
David came back to Trapper looking even more murderous than before. “I don’t know what you’re up to. Still playing government agent, I guess. But whatever your game is, if you’ve put my wife and our baby in any danger—”
“I haven’t. I won’t.”
“You have just by showing up on our doorstep. You’re a nightmare, and I want you to get the hell out of my house.”
Up till now, Trapper had tolerated the man’s animosity because, in David’s place, he would have felt the same. But the chest beating was wearing thin. “Look, I don’t want to make trouble.”
“You are trouble.”
“Once I get what I came for, you’ll never see me again.”
“Which will be too soon.”
They might have continued interminably, but Marianne saw an opening and seized it. “It’s in the kitchen.”
David looked like he wanted to object, but he was simply too well bred to make a scene that would no doubt upset his pregnant wife. Kerra’s presence also might have had something to do with his backing down.
He moved out of the way so Trapper could follow Marianne. David’s drop-dead look was mollified only slightly when Trapper linked his fingers with Kerra’s and pulled her along as they filed down the hall toward the back of the house. Trapper tried his best not to swagger.
Kerra couldn’t help but compare Marianne’s cluttered and homey kitchen to her own. This one smelled like the chocolate cake cooling on the counter. Hers smelled like cake only when she burned a certain candle. There were dishes in the sink that hadn’t yet been loaded into the dishwasher. Kerra’s kitchen needed cleaning only when the dust began to show.
She felt terribly outshone.
“Would you like some cake?”
She and Trapper declined, and Marianne seemed to have anticipated they would. She went to a desk built into the cabinetry, opened a lower drawer, and took out a padded envelope bearing a label that had required her signature. As she handed it to Trapper, she said, “I opened it because it was addressed to me.”
“That’s okay.” He shook the envelope, and an article wrapped in newspaper and cellophane tape dropped into his hand. He ripped open the crude packaging. Kerra wasn’t surprised to see that it contained a flash drive.
Marianne said to Trapper, “Even though there was no return address, I knew it had to be from you.”
“How’d you know?”
“Because it looked like your gift wrapping. And this is exactly like something you would do.”
“I had to send it to somebody who would get that, somebody I could trust to hold on to it until I came to get it.”
They smiled at each other in the way of a pair who are able to communicate without words.
Kerra felt terribly excluded.
She felt terrible, period.
Marianne took the empty envelope and wad of newspaper from Trapper and stuffed them into the wastepaper basket in the knee space under the desk. “Does this have to do with what happened at The Major’s house on Sunday night?”
Trapper made a noncommittal motion with his shoulder. “Better that you don’t know.”
“At least tell me how he’s doing. I’ve been worried.”
“He’s come a long way since Sunday. Looks like he’ll be all right.”
She looked over at Kerra. “What a terrifying experience that must have been for you. Have you recovered from your injuries?”
“If you look closely, you can still see some bruising that makeup doesn’t cover. But I got off light compared to The Major’s injuries.”
“The TV station publicized that you were going to be interviewed tonight on the news, but then had to retract and say that you weren’t feeling up to it.” She looked Kerra over, a question in her kind eyes.
“I had planned to do it, then…” She glanced at Trapper. “I changed my mind.”
Marianne smiled as though she understood how rapidly plans could change when Trapper was involved. She looked at him. “What about you? How are you? Are you taking care of yourself?”
“Aw, you know me. Nothing touches me.”
Her rueful smile said she knew better.
“Excuse me.” They all turned toward the open doorway where David stood. “You may want to see this.”
Kerra was the first to fall in behind him. She followed him back down the hallway and into a den with comfortable furnishings, a well-lived-in ambiance, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall above a low mantel.
“News bulletin,” David said, reaching for the remote and pumping up the volume. Looking over his shoulder at the three of them, he said, “They caught the guy who shot The Major.”
Chapter 22
Who’s this?”
“Trapper.” He was driving with one hand, holding a cell phone to his ear with the other.
Glenn growled. “Aka Unknown Caller.”
“I’m on a burner.”
“Since your phone is busted all to hell.”
>
“I was trying to get a better signal by holding it out the car window. It slipped out of my hand.”
“Sure it did. That was also a cute trick you pulled on Hank. How’d you leave the line shack? Sprout wings? Or have somebody come pick you up?”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Came about too late to notify Hank of the switch in plans.”
“Like hell.”
“I’ll apologize and buy him a beer.”
“He doesn’t drink.”
“A new Bible, then,” Trapper said with mounting impatience. “I’ll make it up to him, all right? Now what about this guy you have in custody?”
“I figured when you got wind of that, you’d reappear.”
“What’s the skinny?”
“Leslie Doyle Duncan. New to us, but no stranger to the law in Oklahoma, where he’s from. He was stopped this afternoon for blazing through a school zone, and when his license was run, come to find out he was being sought for several parole violations, the worst of which is possession of a handgun. One was found under the driver’s seat of his pickup.”
“So far, just another day at the office.”
“Except that the pistol is a nine-millimeter, one bullet missing from the clip, which synced with the number that blew a hole in The Major’s lung.”
“Huh.”
“Feds are with him now, putting on the pressure. ‘We can’t help you if you don’t help us, Mr. Duncan. Talk to us.’ Meanwhile, the pistol’s on its way to have ballistics run.”
“What song is Duncan singing?”
“Denial. He never saw the pistol before the traffic cop pulled it out from under his seat.”
“Who’s it registered to?”
“Number’s been filed off.”
“What was he serving time for?”
“It’s been a revolving door, but his most recent stint was for armed robbery. He was also indicted for assault but made a plea bargain.”
“Where’s he say he was Sunday night?”
“Home in the trailer park with his old lady.”
“What’s his old lady say?”
“We’re trying to run her down. He said she went to Ardmore yesterday to visit her mama.”
“Where’s he work?”
“Nowhere. His last job was at one of the Choctaw casinos. But when it was discovered that he’d lied on his job application and was a parolee, they fired him. He crossed the Red and, lucky us, moved to Lodal.”
“How long ago?”
“Few months.”
“Why’d he choose Lodal?”
“He threw a dart at the map.”
“Why would he want to pop The Major?”
“According to him, he wouldn’t. Said he knew who The Major was because of the picture, and knew he’d been shot because it’s been all over everywhere.” Glenn took a breath. “That’s the latest. Agents are still grilling him.”
“He lawyer up?”
“Not yet.”
“I want a crack at him.”
Glenn laughed.
“You could deputize me.”
“I could also take a winter vacation to Siberia, but it ain’t gonna happen. I’m trying to keep the Rangers and feds from arresting you for making off with their material witness. Where’d you stash Kerra? Because I know she’s not at her condo in Dallas.”
“Why would you think she was? Unless…Glenn, you devil. You browbeat Gracie into telling, didn’t you?”
Without acknowledging that, Glenn continued. “When Kerra failed to answer her phone the many times I called, I spoke to the condo concierge. He said Kerra had been there, stopped at the desk to borrow the master spare key to her apartment because hers had been lost.
“But less than fifteen minutes later he saw her leave on foot, carrying what looked like a gym bag. Funny thing is, her phone is still signaling from the apartment. And all that bears your stamp, Trapper. Where are you now?”
“On my way back. But before I cross into your county, I want assurance I won’t be arrested for grand theft auto.”
“That two-bit lawyer friend of yours called,” Glenn grumbled. “He explained the situation and apologized profusely.”
“So we’re good.”
“Not quite. Kerra with you?”
“How about I deliver her to your office in the morning?”
“How about you deliver her now?”
“Because you have your hands full applying pressure to the Okie. You already have Kerra’s signed statement and recorded interview, and anything she might possibly add can wait till tomorrow. And by the way, I didn’t kidnap her. She came willingly. We cool?”
“That time you substituted raw Easter eggs for boiled ones?”
“Yeah?”
“I shouldn’t have talked The Major out of paddling you.”
Trapper laughed. “See you in the morning.”
“Wait. Where are you—”
“Bright and early,” Trapper said, and then clicked off.
Kerra, who’d remained silent but had been following the conversation, asked, “Will we be there?”
“You bet. I really do want a crack at that guy.”
“Even if you twist the sheriff’s arm, the FBI will never permit it.”
“You’re right, they won’t. But I have an ace to play.”
“The flash drive?”
“Flash drive?” He looked across at her and asked innocently, “What flash drive?” Her expression made him chuckle. “No, I’ve got another ace.”
“Goddammit!” Glenn swore when Trapper hung up on him.
He swiveled his desk chair around to the credenza. The carafe of the outdated coffeemaker had been made cloudy by oceans of bad coffee, and the dregs in it now smelled burned and looked as thick as tar, but he emptied it into his mug anyway. The stronger the brew, the better it masked the aroma of the whiskey he laced it with.
He was pouring from the bottle he kept in his bottom desk drawer when one knock landed hard on his office door before it was pushed open and Jenks strode in.
Glenn expelled a gust of breath and sucked sloshed whiskey off the back of his hand. “You almost gave me heart failure.” He recapped the bottle and returned it to the drawer.
“You ought to be more careful,” the deputy said. “I could’ve been anybody.”
“That’s what scared the bejesus out of me.” Glenn took a drink and sighed appreciation. “What’s up?” He nodded at the form Jenks had brought in with him. “No, don’t tell me. That’s Leslie Doyle Duncan’s signed confession.”
The deputy snorted. “Missing person report.”
“She’s with Trapper.”
“Huh?”
“Kerra Bailey.”
“This isn’t about her.”
Glenn reached across the desk to take the sheet from the deputy and read the typed-in name. “Petey Moss.” He looked up at Jenks and frowned.
“His neighbor went over Monday evening to collect a ballpeen hammer Petey had borrowed from him,” Jenks said. “Petey wasn’t there. Neighbor’s been keeping an eye out for him ever since. He really wants his hammer back.
“There’s been no sign of Petey. Neighbor called his workplace today. His boss hasn’t seen him all week, either. The neighbor, who’s also his landlord, went over to his house again this evening, and when he got no answer, let himself in. Said Petey’s mailbox is overflowing, his goldfish are belly up, and everything in the fridge has gone bad.
“I told him the last time I saw Petey he was talking about cooling his heels in Tennessee for a while, but I agreed that it wasn’t like him to leave town without giving his boss notice and settling his lease.” He motioned at the report. “I thought you oughta know.”
“I’ll put somebody on it right away,” Glenn said. But he didn’t. He slid the form into a stack of other unattended-to paperwork and sipped from his mug of coffee. “Now to the real problem.”
Without even having to think about it, Jenks said, “Trapper.”
“They won’t let us see The Major at this hour,” Kerra said as she and Trapper stepped off the elevator on the ICU floor of the hospital.
“I won’t ask permission. If necessary, I’ll beg forgiveness.”
He had to do neither. They waited until someone exited the pneumatic doors and slipped through before they closed. The corridor was empty. Unobserved, they went into The Major’s room. It was lighted only by the glow of the various machines to which he was still attached. He was sleeping.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him since it happened,” Kerra whispered. “It comes as a shock. The last time I saw him, he was his robust self.”
“Stunned me to see him like this, too,” Trapper said. “The white whiskers really threw me.”
“I talked to him this morning—”
“It was yesterday morning.”
At the sound of his voice, both she and Trapper reacted with surprise and moved closer to the bed. The Major opened his eyes. She smiled down at him. “I stand corrected. It was yesterday. I’ve lost all track of time.”
He seesawed a look between them. “What have you been up to since we talked?”
Rather than address the question, Trapper asked how he was feeling.
“Fair to middling.”
“You’d look better if you’d lose the scraggly beard.”
“You could stand a shave yourself.”
Kerra interceded. “Are you eating yet?”
“Tomorrow. Broth and applesauce. I can hardly wait.”
“It’s progress,” Trapper said.
“Too slow.”
He told them he’d been tested on mobility, dexterity, and coordination, language retention and memory, and had passed all. “They did another brain scan today, looking for bleeders. None were found.”
“That all sounds good,” Trapper said. “How’s the breathing?”
“Better at times than at others. I’m still so damn weak.”
Hearing the discouragement in his tone, and knowing how the former soldier had prided himself on staying fit and strong, Kerra patted his shoulder. “Don’t rush it.”