by Wendy Rosnau
It was true. He worked out, and six months ago he’d proven that he could keep up with his men even in the field. But how long would that last?
A year ago he’d believed he was going to die. His doctor had discovered a brain tumor after he’d begun to have headaches. He’d stalled having surgery as long as he could. Six weeks ago he’d had the damn thing cut out, and his doctor had assured him he would recover completely.
He felt good, no more headaches. It looked as if he’d been given his life back; but recently he’d been thinking about retirement. Hell, if Jacy could do it, so could he. He could start over somewhere.
And do what?
Merrick slipped on his black peacoat and headed out the door. He was alive, he reminded himself, and even though the cases they were working on seemed a long way from being solved, the one thing that was certain in his life was that he knew how to do his job.
Even though they had Holic behind bars, the kill-file was still missing. This was no time to walk away. It would be admitting that the Chameleon had won.
No, he couldn’t quit yet. He’d gotten a second chance at life, and a second chance to send the Chameleon to hell, personally. Quitting wasn’t an option.
The Chameleon was his, and they would face off one day. If he had to wait another year or two, even five, he would.
He’d made a promise to Johanna years ago, and he would keep it. He would kill the Chameleon. For Johanna he would not walk away, no matter how long it took.
Merrick walked to the corner coffee shop, the collar of his peacoat high and his hands in his pockets. He entered the All Nighter five minutes later and ordered black coffee, then found an out-of-the-way booth to wait for Pierce.
Ten minutes later Pierce arrived wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket. He stopped at the counter, ordered coffee, then slid into the booth.
“Damn, it’s cold out there tonight,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I thought it was supposed to warm up.”
“It’s winter. What do you expect?”
“A vacation somewhere warm,” was Pierce’s pat answer.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“I think we’ve identified Holic’s shooter.”
“We?”
“Jacy and I.”
“Jacy?”
“He called. Gave me a name.”
“A name?”
“Otto Breit.”
“Breit?” Merrick recognized the name. “There was a Jakob Breit killed on Glass Mountain when Holic was captured. Any relation?”
“His son.”
Merrick raised an eyebrow. “How did Jacy come up with that?”
“He’s…been doing a little work on this for us.”
Merrick knew when one of his men was sidestepping a question. “I’d like to know more.”
“And I’d like to tell you, but first I want to see if I can find Otto.”
“And then?”
“I’ll bring him back here and we can question him.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re only telling me half of what you know?”
Pierce warmed his hands around his coffee cup. “You’ve always trusted me in the past, Merrick. Trust me now. If things work out, this could be wrapped up in a matter of days.”
Merrick sat back. “That definitely means you have more than you’re sharing.”
“Forty-eight hours. That should do it, I hope.”
“All right. Actually your timing is good. My superiors okayed Holic’s surgery, but I’ll sit on that if you think this lead is legit.”
“It’s pretty solid.”
“I don’t think it’s Otto Breit. Why would Holic trust him? Bjorn says he doesn’t trust anyone. It doesn’t fit.”
“Maybe Otto is working with a partner.”
Merrick was in the middle of taking a swallow of coffee. He set his cup down. “A partner? Jacy come up with that, too?”
“Actually, he did. Like I said—”
“Who would he be working with, Pierce? I need to know all of it.”
“Jacy thinks it’s Holic’s daughter.”
Merrick suddenly remembered what Holic had told him on one of his visits to Clume. He’d said perfection had replaced perfection.
Like fine wine, it’s all in the fruit and how it’s taken care of while it matures on the vine.
“Hell, he was talking about his daughter.” Merrick swore. “Why didn’t I pick that up?”
“Because only a sick bastard would turn his child into a killer? She’s only nineteen.”
“Remember the tape I recorded of his conversation with me weeks ago? He said perfection had replaced perfection. He’s been grooming her for this.”
“I agree with you. I went back over his file. After Bjorn was in Austria, and Holic was captured, we were able to get a few pictures of his family. One of them shows Prisca Reznik on a firing range.”
“She’s been missing for several months.” Merrick started to put it together. “We haven’t been able to find her.”
“The time fits. If I can hunt down Otto Breit, we might be able to force him to talk.”
“She could be with him.”
When Pierce didn’t agree on that possibility, Merrick knew there was more he wasn’t saying.
“So I’ve got your go-ahead to pick up Breit, if I can find him?”
“Something tells me you already know where to look.”
“I do, and a plane to catch.”
“When do you leave?”
Pierce finished his coffee, then looked at his watch. “I fly in an hour.”
Jacy was on the phone all night. He called every motel between Cut Bank and Heart Butte, with an extended fifty miles in all directions. Many of the resort hotels were closed in the off season, so it made his job a little easier. He had trimmed the list down to sixty-four.
He finally got lucky on number fifty-eight. The Circle R—damn near in his own backyard—had a guest with a ’92 blue Bronco with a license number that matched the one he’d memorized off the paperwork at Thomas Auto. The only problem was the name on the registry wasn’t Denise Gordon. It was Susan Croft.
How many damn fake IDs did she own? And where the hell had she kept them while she was in his house? He’d gone through her bag and every stitch of clothes before he’d given them to her.
Jacy headed for East Glacier at eight o’clock, praying she didn’t make another move before he got there. He was dog-tired, but determined to find her. He pulled up across the street from the Circle R, a two-story motel with a view of the mountains.
He scanned the lot and saw the Bronco. Deciding his tenacity had finally paid off, he got out of his pickup and settled his hat on his head.
It had snowed all night, and he ignored the drifts as he crossed the street.
He pulled his Stetson low over his eyes when he entered the motel’s office. A woman stood behind the counter, and when she looked up, she smiled.
Jacy said, “I’m looking for my wife. We were supposed to meet here last night but the weather held me up. The name’s Croft.”
The woman looked down at the registry. Jacy leaned into the counter and followed her finger as she ran it down the short column of names. He saw the name Susan Croft halfway down the page.
“She’s in number eight.” She looked up, met his eyes. “We don’t get much business this time a year. Only got eleven sleepers in last night.”
“Number eight,” Jacy repeated, then tipped his hat. “Thanks.” He winked.
Her smile spread, and he left, his limp substantial. He’d been on the move since early yesterday morning, pushing himself harder than he had in months. But he wasn’t about to let her slip through his fingers again. If she was in number eight, the hunt was over.
It would have been easier getting into the room if he had asked for a key, but he didn’t want to raise any suspicion. He didn’t need the clerk making a call to the police on a harassment call, or giving number eight a call and a heads-up.
Let her think that his wife would be anxious to see him and would greet him with open arms at the door.
Pierce located Otto Breit thirteen hours after he flew out of D.C. He’d done his homework, cross-checked his references. It had only been a few days since the last hit had been made.
Their records showed there had been at least a week to ten days between hits. Otto had three current residences, Berlin, Vienna and London. Pierce had decided to stake out the flat in Vienna since the last hit had been made in Munich. If Otto was their shooter he would want to get out of the country after the hit.
He pulled a photo from a file he’d assembled on his target and studied it. The apartment complex wasn’t busy, but he kept an eye on who came and went.
Otto Breit was six feet three, had a blond crew cut, and weighed two–thirty. Pierce sat for two hours before a man fitting the description appeared on the street and headed for the apartment building. He wore a black leather coat, a gray scarf around his neck, and a gray stocking cap. But the face… Pierce picked up the photo.
Otto Breit had a memorable face. Not a good thing in this line of work, Pierce thought, as he matched the photo to the man who disappeared into the building.
He sat tight, watched and waited, scanned the windows. Minutes later a light came on in a room on the fourth floor. Otto’s room faced the street. Of course it would.
Pierce got out of his rental car.
When Prisca woke up she realized she had slept for over ten hours. She’d thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep at all, but when her head had hit the pillow she had passed out hard. She climbed out of bed, went into the bathroom and stripped off her bra and panties. Turning on the shower, she stepped inside, eager to feel the warm blast of water.
Five minutes turned into ten, as Pris slowly began to wake up. She leaned against the shower and let the water beat down on her. Today she would make her decision. And if she decided to stay in Montana, she would need to move again and trade the Bronco.
Thirty minutes later, wrapped in a white towel, she stepped back into the bedroom and got the shock of her life. Jacy Madox was seated in the chair by the window.
She froze in surprise, never expecting that he would find her. She’d covered her tracks. Had changed her name twice in less than six hours.
“What are you doing here?” A stupid question to ask, but it was a place to start.
“I was worried about you… Susan. Or is it Denise?”
Pris decided to bluff. “I’m not sure. I just picked the names so that…”
“So that what? I couldn’t find you? Where did you get the fake IDs?”
“I…I found them.”
“And the money to buy the vehicle?”
“I stole it.” Prisca decided to continue to play the amnesia game. What choice did she have? “Look, I don’t know who I am. Actually, I’m afraid to find out. What if I’m a bad person?”
He was standing now, his eyes slowly going over her body, reminding her that she was wearing nothing but a towel.
“How could a sweet little thing like you be bad? No, I think you’re confused is all. Come here.”
He had opened his arms, and if she didn’t go to him he would know she was lying. Still, if she let him touch her…
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be around me.”
He dropped his hands and started walking toward her. “That’s crazy. You wouldn’t hurt me. Why would you? Why would you want to?”
Because you helped destroy my father and kill my mother, Prisca wanted to say. Instead, she backed up until she felt the wall behind her. He kept coming, took off his hat and tossed it into the chair. His coat came off next, and he dropped it on the floor. He had a shoulder holster strapped to him and she suddenly realized that she was no longer in the company of the man she knew only as Moon. Since yesterday, he’d turned into Jacy Madox.
“I really was worried, honey. After all, we got so close.”
There was a tone of sarcasm in his words.
If he touched her she would scream. She tried to dart past him. She didn’t make it. He lifted her off her feet, then dropped her on the bed. He came down on her fast, straddling her between his thighs before she could roll away.
“What are you doing?” she panted.
“I’m going to ask you some questions. I want you to answer them. I want truthful answers this time.”
“But I…can’t remember.”
He pulled something from his back pocket. He had her fake IDs she’d secured in Canada.
“I found these in your bag while you were in the shower. In the lining of your bag, along with forty thousand dollars. Explain it to me.”
“I…can’t.”
She twisted and tried to throw him off her, but he was rock-solid, and there was no way she was going to get him to move unless he wanted to.
She couldn’t let this happen. If he learned who she was, she would be dead, just like her mother.
She went limp, as if she was giving up. She turned her head away. “Why are you doing this?”
“You know why.”
She turned and looked at him. “I wish I could remember, but I—”
“The game’s over.”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid so, honey. The truth is, I don’t want you to be the person you are, but I can’t change that, any more than you can.”
Her towel had slipped open, and she saw him glance down at her bare breasts. Then suddenly he leaned forward, as if he was going to kiss her. He didn’t. Instead, he whispered, “He taught you well. You fooled me…almost.”
“He?”
“Holic must be very proud of you. His daughter has turned out just like him.” The minute the words were out, he climbed off her.
She started to sit up, to rescue the towel, but he reached out and grabbed her arm and propelled her off the bed.
“Get dressed.”
She was a good little actress, Jacy thought. A good little liar, too. But not good enough.
He rejected the innocent look she gave him, and concentrated on all the lies as he watched her grab the towel off the bed and wrap it around herself.
“I have a question for you.”
“Don’t bother asking. You’ll get nothing from me.”
“Tell me, what makes a young woman hate so much that she can pull the trigger on a man she doesn’t know? Why would she want to? A better question is, what would make her do it? What did daddy say to you to make you want to do his dirty work?”
“I guess I’m just a heartless bitch.”
No, as much as Jacy wanted to believe that, he didn’t. He’d seen another side to her, and as many lies as she’d told, he still couldn’t convict her. Not yet. There was something else going on, something he was missing.
And why did she have his shirt in her bag?
“I said, get dressed.”
She picked up her pants and a sweater and started toward the bathroom.
“Right here.”
“Check the bathroom. There’s nothing in there.”
“Right here.”
She swore at him, then dropped the towel and pulled on her pants without underwear. Then the sweater.
He watched every move she made, remembering everything from two nights ago. How she’d reacted to him touching her. How she’d fallen asleep in his arms, her fingers splayed across his chest.
She turned around and looked at him. Glared.
She was wearing soft brown corduroy pants and a brown sweater. The style wasn’t from around here, and he realized that was another mistake he’d made—her clothes were European in style.
He decided that in the beginning he was simply looking at the entire package and feeling what any man would feel when faced with a sexy young woman in need of help. A woman who had settled into his home as if she belonged there.
But she didn’t belong there, he reminded himself. She’d come to kill him, it was the only explanation for why Pri
sca Reznik had traveled to Montana.
She’d played the amnesia card to get close to him and he’d bought it. But then, why hadn’t she finished what she’d come to do?
He reached for his coat and pulled out a pair of handcuffs from the pocket. Looking at her, he said, “Come here.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to keep you from getting into any more trouble.”
He cuffed her hands in front of her after he made her put on her coat. He packed her bag, slung it over his shoulder, then opened the door.
Prisca walked out into the crisp morning air, having no other choice. She glanced around, looking for a way to escape, but even if she could outrun him, the handcuffs were a problem.
Somehow he’d learned who she was, and that had to have happened yesterday when he’d gone to see Billy Mason Crow Feather. What had Billy told him? What had they found at the crash site?
There was only one incriminating piece of evidence that she’d been carrying with her. That had been her father’s gun. Had the gun been tossed from the plane with her other bag?
If it had, it would have been buried under the snow—it had been snowing for weeks in the mountains. No, the gun was lost. Gone.
But then what had flagged his suspicions? Certainly not her leaving. Maybe the multiple identifications and the money, but she felt almost certain that he knew who she was before he’d entered the motel room. She had never seen any guns in his house. Never seen him carry one.
He helped her into his pickup and then climbed in and started the engine. He glanced her way and said, “So, Prisca, why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me how you got into the business. Did you always want to follow in daddy’s footsteps?”
“Go to hell.”
“Where’s the kill-file?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve got your calling card. Billy recovered your camera bag.”
He didn’t need to say more. He had her gun. Somehow it had been recovered on the mountain.
She stared out the window. “Where are we going?”
“Home.”
She turned and looked at him. “Home? And then what?”