‘Yeah.’
‘Okay then.’ I opened my door and stepped out into the morning heat. It didn’t seem right that the sun was bright and perky when I felt numb, like something deep down inside me was withering and dying.
Opening the passenger door, I leant inside and undid his seatbelt. I felt his breath warm against my neck. Fought the urge to kiss him and pulled away fast, conscious that Dakota was watching me. Couldn’t let her see how what we were doing really made me feel. Couldn’t let her know the truth, not now.
JT swung his legs out of the vehicle. He was dressed in his bloodstained clothes. Looked real dishevelled, like a fugitive who’d been in the wind a long while should. Ready to play his part.
I took his arm, helped him stand.
He leant against the Mustang. ‘How about a last smoke?’
I studied him, taking a mental picture of how he looked. The way the skin around his eyes crinkled into laughter lines, the smooth line of his jaw, and the intensity of his gaze. ‘Sure.’
He glanced down. ‘Top pocket, if you’d do me the kindness.’
I slipped my fingers into the pocket of his plaid shirt. Found the pack: Marlboros, battered but serviceable. I opened it and saw the Zippo I’d given him all those years back tucked inside. There was one cigarette left.
I felt my stomach clench. I knew that, after we stepped inside the precinct, I wouldn’t be able to control the outcome. I also knew that I wanted to try.
Placing the cigarette between my lips, I used the Zippo to light it, then handed it to JT. Went to put the lighter back in his pocket.
He shook his head. ‘You keep it.’
‘I’ll hold it for you, till you’re out.’
He gave me that crooked half-smile of his. ‘Could be a while.’
I held his gaze. ‘Yeah.’
From the back seat of the car, Dakota said, ‘Momma?’
I leant down, looked through the open door. ‘Yes, honey.’
‘It’s two minutes before eight.’
I glanced at JT. ‘You ready?’
He nodded. ‘You?’
I held his gaze. Said nothing, just couldn’t find the words. Instead I turned back to the car, and peered inside. ‘Dakota, sweetie, you need to come with us.’
She climbed out of the car, and looked up at me, her eyes tearful. ‘Momma, if JT’s not a bad man, why do we have to take him to jail?’
I knelt beside her. ‘It’s real complicated, sweetie. He’s not a bad man, but because of the things that happened he still has to go talk to the cops.’
She looked hopeful. ‘So they won’t put him in jail?’
JT looked down at her. ‘They will, for a little while.’
She frowned. Didn’t understand. Started to cry.
With one hand supporting JT under his elbow, and the other holding Dakota’s hand, I walked across the parking lot towards the booking office. As we drew closer, I spotted two cops waiting inside.
Stopping a few yards short of the doorway, I called out, ‘I’m Lori Anderson, Bounty Hunter. I have Robert James Tate in my custody. We have no firearms.’
A voice from inside said, ‘Keep your hands where we can see them, and no fast moves.’
We did as instructed. The cops, with their guns and tasers pointed right at us, filed through the door.
Dakota gasped and shrunk closer against my side.
I gripped her hand tighter. ‘It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.’
As the cops approached, JT leant closer to me and whispered, ‘Whatever happens, take good care of our daughter, you hear?’
Then they took him.
Four hours later they told me.
JT had been charged. I was free to go, to take Dakota. No charges, no Child Services, just a mumbled apology for the confusion and a dig about never knowing whether to trust a bounty hunter. They had to be sure I’d not broken the law, I could understand that, right? Sure, I’d said. I understood just fine.
What I didn’t understand was why JT talked. He was meant to stay silent, not give them anything. Instead he’d confessed to every crime they threw at him: skipping bail, kidnapping, assault. Homicide.
The cop that told me sounded real smug. He said the prosecutor would push for the death penalty. Might just get it, too. This was a proper career case, and the prosecutor was real ambitious.
The death penalty; what the hell was worth that? I suppose, deep down, I knew. Maybe he’d worried they’d not swallow the lie; or perhaps a false confession had been his plan the whole time and he’d not told me he was going to take the blame so I couldn’t protest none. Either way, he was protecting me, just like he’d done ten years before. Only this time, he was also making sure his daughter stayed with her momma. By taking the fall for everything, he thought he was keeping us safe.
He didn’t know about Dakota’s illness. About how, if the cancer returned, she’d need a bone-marrow transplant, and that the ideal match was most likely a relative, a parent. He couldn’t know that I’d been tested, and I’d failed to be a compatible match, or that he, her father, might be her best chance.
Right then, I vowed I’d do whatever it took to keep JT safe and alive, for Dakota’s sake, and maybe, also, for mine. So I swallowed down my fear, and made the call. Knew it was the right thing to do.
Even if I had to tell the truth.
Epilogue
I take a sip of the raspberry-flavoured water. Look up, and meet the gaze of the man sitting opposite me. It’s the first time I’ve looked at him since I began to tell my story. ‘That’s it. You know the rest. I called you, you came here, we’re talking.’
Special Agent Monroe nods. ‘I believe you. Sounds a hell of a three days.’
‘Sure was. Do we have a deal?’
‘Thing is, I could’ve cut a deal for you. Got you out, charges dropped, no problem. That data you sent from Winter Wonderland, it’s good. My people are on it. We’ll shut down anything continuing without Emerson. But Tate’s already confessed.’ He shakes his head. ‘Making that go away? That’s a bigger ask.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘I need to make a call.’ He pulls out his cell and starts dialling.
‘And then?’
He holds up his hand. An order: Be quiet. I watch him turn away, pace across the windowless room to the corner. Speak real hushed into his cell. He glances back at me once, twice. Keeps talking.
While I wait, I stare at the docket on the table. JT’s booking ticket, proving I’ve brought my fugitive in before the deadline. It’s all I need to claim my percentage of the bond from Quinn: fifteen thousand dollars. I’ll be able to pay the final demand for Dakota’s medical treatment and put a little aside for a few months’ rent.
Sure, I knew I had to do it. Collect on the bounty, use the cash, but still, it doesn’t feel right. Feels like blood money.
Monroe crosses the room. Catches my eye. ‘Gibson Fletcher – you caught him?’
I nod. Two years ago. He was my biggest bounty, more even than JT. Without Gibson ‘The Fish’ Fletcher, I’d never have paid for Dakota’s initial treatment. I’d have lost her. Been lost. My eyes start to well up, but I blink the tears away. This isn’t the time for emotion.
Monroe doesn’t notice. ‘Think you can do it again?’
I shrug. ‘If I caught him once, I could find him again for sure. But there’s no need; he’s serving triple life in super max.’
‘Not as of two days ago he isn’t. His appendix busted; got transferred to hospital for urgent medical attention. The op was successful. Few hours later he killed three guards and shook off the marshals. Could be anywhere.’
‘There’s plenty of other people who’d like a shot at him. Why ask me?’
‘Like you said, you caught him once. Plenty had tried then, no one else got close.’
‘And if I do?’
‘We’ll ensure leniency for Tate. Make sure he doesn’t get the death penalty, and have him moved somewhere comfortable to do his ti
me.’
I shake my head. ‘Get him free and I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘Isn’t that simple. He’s confessed to murder, assault, kidnapping. There’s a State Trooper fighting for his life in—’
‘That State Trooper saw Boyd. He knows JT wasn’t the one who shot him.’
‘Which he’ll be able to tell us, if he lives.’ Monroe’s expression implies that isn’t so likely. He shakes his head. ‘Look, these aren’t misdemeanours, they’re—’
‘I know what they are. What I need for you to do is tell me whether you can get him cleared.’
He makes another call. It’s shorter this time, less than a minute. He goes back to the corner, turns away, voice too quiet for me to hear.
When he’s done there’s something new in his expression. Triumph? Satisfaction perhaps? He comes back to the table. Sits down opposite me. ‘Reduced sentence, ten years tops. With good behaviour he’ll be out in eight. It’s a good deal.’
Monroe doesn’t need to tell me the deal is sweet. I know it, but I still feel uneasy. There’s a knot of tension tightening in my belly. Something’s not quite right. To deal down that fast from the death penalty to ten years, Monroe must have the ear of someone very high up. That, or he’s playing me.
I look him straight in the eye. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’
He smiles. It’s a nice smile, looks genuine, and stretches all the way to his eyes. I notice that they match his hair – dark brown. His voice is rich, confident as he says, ‘You’ve got my word.’
As I stare into his eyes, I think of Dakota sitting outside with a female agent. Remember how it felt when she was lying in that hospital bed, face as white as the sheets around her. Of how it felt every time I couldn’t make the pain go away. If this deal will let me stay with her, pay for her treatment, and keep her father alive, then I’ve no choice but to take it.
So I nod, get us to fourth base, and the game ends win-win.
I hope to hell it’s enough.
Acknowledgements
I fear that this may turn into one of those rambling, overlong Oscar-acceptance speech kind of monologues but, in truth, there are many people who have helped me on my journey to publication, and it’s only right to acknowledge how much the support of these fabulous folks has meant to me. So here goes…
Thank you Mum and Richard, Dad and Donna (my technical adviser on Americanisms!), and Will and Rachael – for being there, no matter what. Special thanks to Mum for making me believe anything is possible with enough determination, and to Pod for showing me that it’s true (and made easier with gin!).
Thanks to my friends – Jitse for encouraging me, Caroline for bringing the awesomeness, and Baz for being fabulous and providing much tea. And to the NOMAD writers – Jock, Tors, Steph R, Flick, Tony, Ro, Iti and Davina – for the laughs and encouragement along the way.
To my crime-writing sisters – Alexandra, Helen and Susi – who have kept me sane with a heady mix of advice, hugs and wine – I love you and owe you muchly. And to Jock, Steph R, Susi, Rod and Andy, for reading Deep Down Dead in draft (sometimes multiple drafts) and giving your critique. Your insights are appreciated, always.
To Rex – a real bounty-hunting legend, and as generous and gentlemanly a guy as you could ever hope to have train you – thank you doesn’t seem enough. You are a guru. For any inaccuracies about bounty hunting in this book, I apologise; they are entirely my fault.
To my tutors and mentors at City University, London – Laura Wilson, Claire McGowan, and Zoe Sharp – your advice and feedback has been invaluable, and your own writing an inspiration. To the City Writing crew – Rod, David, Laura, Rob, James, Seun, Jody, Emma, Philip and Kylie, plus ‘original band member’ Mark – it’s been one hell of a journey, and all the better for making it with you guys.
The crime-writing community is a warm and welcoming place and big thanks has to be given to the special group of crime writers who have made me laugh, gasp (usually with shock at their smuttiness) and have shown me the ropes. You guys rock!
To the amazing Karen Sullivan, the mastermind behind Orenda Books and the most energetic and passionate book person I have ever met, I cannot thank you enough; it is a thrill and a delight to be part of the fabulous Team Orenda. Thank you to editor West Camel for teaching me about grammar (I’m trying, honest). A big pom-pom shake to the effervescent blogger Liz Barnsley for being the best bookish cheerleader you could wish for. And a big thank you to my brilliant agent, Oli Munson, from A. M. Heath.
And finally, thank you (I think) to the US car-hire company that gave me a car with a broken taillight. I got halfway from West Virginia to Florida before I realised, but without the fear of getting pulled over by a State Trooper for the rest of the trip, Lori and her story might never have been conceived!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steph Broadribb was born in Birmingham and grew up in Buckinghamshire. Most of her working life has been divided between the UK and USA. As her alter ego – Crime Thriller Girl – she indulges her love of all things crime fiction by blogging at www.crimethrillergirl.com, where she interviews authors and reviews the latest releases. Steph is an alumnus of the MA in Creative Writing (Crime Fiction) at City University London, and she trained as a bounty hunter in California. She lives in Buckinghamshire surrounded by horses, cows and chickens. Deep Down Dead is her debut novel, and the first in the Lori Anderson series.
You can follow her on Twitter @CrimeThrillGirl and on Facebook at Facebook.com/steph.broadribb, or visit her website: www.crimethrillergirl.com.
Copyright
Orenda Books
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West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
This ebook first published in the UK in 2016 by Orenda Books
Copyright © Steph Broadribb 2016
Steph Broadribb has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–910633–56–4
Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd
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