“Maybe some other time, Callahan. I don’t have time to fool around right now.”
“When will you fool around with me? I’ll make it worth your while, honey.” He winked. Sweat beaded his forehead.
“Not this week. My schedule’s full.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport.” He swept her up in his arms and walked down the street with her, his red cape flapping with each step, the crowd around them cheering his capture of her.
His elaborate velvet outfit was trimmed in gold and multicolored ribbons. His dark red tights were smooth against his thighs and calves, and the pouf of the pants should have made him look ridiculous, but didn’t. He was gaudy and magnificent, the heavy rings on his fingers flashing and glittering in the night as the torchbearers in the parade danced by them.
Maggie was annoyed. She didn’t have time to waste with Charlie, even though he sometimes made her laugh until she cried with his silliness.
But not in the last few months. He’d become increasingly obnoxious. When had his antics quit amusing her? She hadn’t laughed much at all these last months. Maybe the fault was hers. Charlie hadn’t changed, she had.
The first day she’d arrived in Palmaflora to start her job, she’d heard what a wild and crazy guy Charlie Callahan was—the life of any party. Everybody loved Charlie.
“I’ve had enough. Put me down now.” She was genuinely angry. She didn’t like being the center of attention, and she didn’t like playing captive maiden to Charlie’s conqueror.
“Whatever you want, Mags, but you’re ruining the fun. I don’t like spoilsports.”
“And I don’t give a damn if you do or not. I’m fed up with this charade.” She was furious.
He swung her to the ground with a flourish, his cape whipping behind him. “Pay your forfeit, fair maiden.” His eyes twinkled as he flipped up the visor once again. Bending her backward, he held her in a passionate embrace that had everybody laughing.
Arching so far that her hair trailed on the brick street, Maggie saw the crowd pushing nearer, egging Charlie on to mischief. Lights and color whirling her to dizziness as Charlie’s mock kiss edged into an aggression that had her raising her knee to the pouf of his skirt. Her mouth was tender from the night she’d spent in Sullivan’s arms, her body imprinted with his. She despised Charlie’s taunting kiss.
A float rumbled into view—the queen’s court perched on tiered risers covered with roses and gardenias, the floral scents filling the air and mixing with the smells of sweat and beer. The white-gloved women of the court waved to the cheering crowd, while their escorts strode beside the float, tossing net bags of gold-coin chocolates and hard candies to the children.
The streetlights along the route to the pier glowed yellow, their old-fashioned electric bulbs casting long shadows on the road and the revelers thronging the grassy verges and weaving into the street.
“Don’t do it, Mags. You’ll regret it.” His beard scratchy against her chin, Charlie wasn’t smiling. “Don’t make me look like a fool.” In the helmet, he looked threatening looming over her, one more stranger in her life. Goose bumps shivered over her skin as he kissed her once more before whirling away as the crowd cheered.
“Don’t lose your sense of humor, Mags,” he called back, swinging his visor closed. “Life’s too short.”
She shivered again. Tonight everything seemed threatening to her, even Charlie’s offhand jokes.
Shoved and jostled by the crowd, she worked her way through the costumed mob, using her elbows to clear her way. Sullivan would have cleared a way with a look.
She missed him. She wanted him by her side, the way he’d been during the night—all barriers down, as he’d taken her to heaven and back, their lovemaking an exquisite blending beyond the limitations of the senses.
She slipped on a brick, her foot skidding out from under her, but caught herself. If she fell, this crowd would never see her—would walk right over her. Looking down, she saw she’d stepped in a gooey chocolate melting in the heat. Scraping her sneakers on the sidewalk, she wished she were back with Sullivan.
Waking with him curled spoonlike at her back, she’d crawled over him, touching his bristly face in a brief caress. Following her as she moved, he turned over, sprawling on his back as she left the bed. His hard, bare chest in the early light was beautiful, spare and defined, his ribs outlined by his skin in concave hollows that captured the gleam of the early morning sun.
Lingering, drawn by the sculpture of his body, she’d brushed her mouth across the muscled ridges of his abdomen. He’d muttered and turned again, toward her. He’d had black circles under his eyes and his face was drawn with fatigue. She’d slept through part of the night, but he’d been awake for most of it, obviously. She’d let him sleep.
She needed to think through the next steps of her investigation, too, but she’d wanted to see first what had been done about Paul Reid’s murder.
Jackson had had the previous afternoon and evening to set some kind of investigation in place. Even with the added pressure of Palmaflora Days, surely he wouldn’t let the murder slide.
He’d told her to finish her own investigation, and she intended to.
Scooping up her clothes, she’d headed for the bathroom, casting a sideways glance at the monitor Sullivan had left on. She didn’t intend to violate his privacy, would never have read the screen without his permission, but two phrases leapt out at her and she stopped, the clothes falling in a heap at her toes.
This was what Sullivan was working on? She skimmed the file, scrolling through to get the gist of it after she’d seen the note about the meeting at the pier. When she’d read enough to grasp the general concept, she picked up her clothes, sick at heart.
She recognized some of the names, Sullivan would, too. But at least she hadn’t seen Royal’s. Or Jackson’s. Nobody she knew personally. Of course, she’d only raced through a small part of the material, while Sullivan had worked on it all night. And there would be names not yet known, names Reid—the files had to have come from him—hadn’t discovered.
She dragged her clothes on, hurrying. If she stayed, Sullivan would confront her with this material, would think she’d covered up for Royal. She had. But not in the way he thought. During their slow, sweet lovemaking just before dawn, she’d felt as though she’d finally come home after a long, terrifying journey. In the aftermath of that tenderness, she couldn’t bear to see him retreat behind his cynicism.
She couldn’t bear to see him look at her with judgment and doubt in his eyes. Not now.
Worse than his suspicions, though, would be the consequences if any of the conspirators knew he’d found this material. His life wouldn’t be worth any more than Paul Reid’s had been. Maybe less, since Sullivan had the paper as a potential loudspeaker for whatever he discovered.
She sent a silent prayer of thanks into the vastness of space that she hadn’t revealed the fact that Sullivan knew the clerk’s identity. She’d bought him time. And now she needed to find out more than ever what Jackson was doing about Paul Reid’s murder.
The more she’d thought about Jackson’s behavior during her conversation with him, the more uncomfortable she became. Telling Sullivan about her reactions had clarified for her why she was uncomfortable.
Jackson’s eyes had said one thing, his mouth and body language another. Had he been her friend? He’d acted like it.
“Acted” was the key. She’d always known Jackson was an actor, the way good politicians are, knowing the right thing to say, the way to smooth over unpleasant moments and always knowing how they looked to people observing them.
Jackson had always been a performer.
Sullivan was in danger. She saw the message as clearly as if it had been written in enormous white letters across the bright blue of the morning sky. Sullivan was in danger.
It would be her fault if anything happened to him.
She would do anything to keep him safe.
Her heart pumped with sick dread as s
he shut the door of the cottage behind her and raced across the lots between the beach and the bay toward where she’d left her car. Her hands shook as she stuck the keys into the ignition, and the first time she tried she couldn’t start her car.
Urgency filled her.
In the pounding of her heart, she heard the echoing tick of a clock measuring out the moments of Sullivan’s life.
*
In the dark, and surrounded by revelers hurrying to find the best seat for the waterfront fireworks, she scraped her shoe free of candy and felt even more acutely that sense of time accelerating.
All day long she’d hurried. And discovered nothing. The clerk had been identified. An autopsy was being done. She hadn’t seen Sullivan all day. She’d gone with Royal to the coroner’s office. Jackson had absented himself to check personally the parade route and police assignments. She’d been frustrated at every turn, not knowing where to search, whom to trust, knowing only that Sullivan was in danger and she could save him if… She frowned, a vague idea stirring in her mind.
If she hurried.
Darting through a break between the floats, she raced to the opposite side of the route, which looked less crowded.
It wasn’t.
Driven now by the need to get to the place, she wove her way through the conquistadors striding down the street, dodging their outstretched arms. Ahead of her she saw the pier where everyone would gather to watch the fireworks explode over the water.
The bridge was south of the pier. The meeting mentioned in Paul Reid’s notes would probably take place at the pilings on the far side of the pier. That made the most sense to her. Isolated, it afforded the advantage of providing a reasonable explanation for anyone being found there.
Looking over her shoulder, she thought she glimpsed Sullivan like a specter at her back, but then, surrounded by the crowd, the black-clad figure merged into the dark.
Running flat out now, her feet slipping on the grass, Maggie veered to the left. She would go around the back and through the roped-off area set aside for the fireworks. Police barricades would be up there, preventing the crowd from surging into the zone.
She patted her pocket for her badge in case she needed to identify herself. She pulled her Smith and Wesson free of her purse and stuck it in the back of her jeans. Her hands were slippery with sweat, fear urging her forward.
The metal barrel against her back was uncomfortable and she was too aware of it. She didn’t want to use it. It had become alien to her, and she’d thought briefly about leaving it at home.
But the oppressive sense of danger had been too great, and she’d stuffed the semiautomatic into an old purse. Empty now except for an extra clip, which she slid into her left pocket, the purse dropped at her feet as she ran.
The fireworks would begin within minutes.
*
Sullivan had spotted Maggie as Callahan swung her into the air. He’d wanted to punch out Callahan’s lights. Would have if he could have gotten to him through the marching band that came around the corner, majorettes twirling, cartwheeling and tumbling in every spare inch of space on the road.
When Callahan kissed her, Sullivan had taken a running jump over two garbage cans stacked with plastic cups and paper plates, sending garbage spilling behind him. But he’d missed her. Ahead of him, he saw the red swing of Callahan’s cape.
Torn, Sullivan hesitated.
Maggie had escaped.
He saw her dash across the street between two floats, narrowly missed by a group of buccaneers wearing eyepatches, all swinging their swords in a precision routine. The metal glinted menacingly as the pirates wove in and out between the floats, throwing their swords high in the air to the delight of the crowd.
When she veered off, he wasn’t sure what her plan was, but he knew her ultimate destination. She would go to the bridge pilings away from the pier. He could catch her before she got there. He was faster than she was.
And when he did, he was going to kill her. With his bare hands. Slowly.
How dare she spout off to him about trust, and then take off in the morning, leaving him behind like some gigolo? What had she been thinking of? He’d find out before he killed her. He didn’t want to believe she’d run to Gaines and Jackson, but the thought, once lodged in his brain, had taken root and grown steadily with each passing hour of the day.
With the fragrance of her clinging to him like a gentle promise, he’d rooted out the idea like a maniacal gardener, but the poisonous roots spread and sprouted, appealing to every rational cell in him.
She was still hiding something from him. With his instinct for detecting lies, he’d heard her evasions. She was keeping something from him. How could he trust her without proof that she hadn’t slipped up somewhere?
Unlike her, he figured trust required some kind of proof. And all she’d given him was her sweetly whispered plea. “Trust me,” she’d said. But where was she today? And why hadn’t she left him a note?
But he’d catch up with her and make her tell him everything this time. Damned if he’d be as weak as he’d been last night. He pushed down the memory of her curled trustingly against him, tried to forget the reflection of her in his monitor as he’d worked for long hours.
A beefy arm grabbed him from behind, stopping him. “What ho, me bucko! No beard?” The pirate sported his own thick black beard and an eyepatch. “Off to jail with you,” he blustered.
“Don’t even try it,” Sullivan grunted, losing sight of Maggie once more.
“Hey, no offense, buddy. The money’s for charity, you know.”
Throwing bills at the pirate, Sullivan took off once more, dodging the onslaught of a squad of men on small tricycles.
He couldn’t see Maggie at all. He’d been so sure he could stop her before she arrived at the pier. Whether she was a pawn or not, she was in danger.
He was terrified for her. She had no idea what she was dealing with. If she’d read the monitor screen and passed on the tidbit that he had Reid’s files, she’d be in even more danger. She didn’t know how far evil had cast its sticky web.
And she trusted Royal with her life.
Sullivan had roamed around town all day, one step behind her, missing her at every stop. He couldn’t let her go to that meeting.
If she did, she was dead.
They wouldn’t let her walk away.
Something twisted inside him at the thought of Maggie dead. It wasn’t possible that fate would deal him the same cards over again in life. He’d sworn to protect her. And he would.
With his own life.
Whether he trusted her or not, he would protect her.
Hurrying toward the bridge, he saw the first of the fireworks light the velvet southern sky, exploding in a shower of red and green sparks that faded to gold even as the next series detonated behind them.
Clapping and whistling, the crowd oohed and ahhed after each booming explosion. One rocket, shrieking as it detonated into a pinwheel of yellow whirls, sent sparks to the river’s edge, where they hissed and died.
Approaching silently in the intermittent darkness, Sullivan heard the muted voices before he saw the men.
Reid’s information was accurate.
Only one of the men grouped together under the bridge surprised him, the rest he’d expected. One was missing.
And he couldn’t see Maggie anywhere.
Stepping around the barnacled pilings, he edged closer, the voices growing louder in argument as he closed in. Shrieks and cheers muffled the next words, but he heard Reid’s name. White-and-yellow sparks lit up the sky as he moved to the shelter of the next piling. He had to get closer, find Maggie and get her away from here before they were spotted.
Where the hell could she be?
River mud squished under his boots and a fiddler crab skittered away in front of him. He stopped at the last piling, carefully swiveling his head, looking for Maggie.
He was three feet away from Johnny Jackson when Ryder Thompson, Palmaflora’s mayor
, said something that was muted by a rocket flare. Charlie Callahan, who’d been Lizzie’s childhood friend, threw back his head and laughed, his beard backlit by fireworks, his cape twirling behind him. Jackson scuffed at the mud, chuckling, and picked up a shell, pitching it out into the water.
As he flung the shell, Jackson turned toward shore, and in the red flare of a series of explosions, saw Sullivan stepping out from behind the piling.
“What the—” Jackson’s mouth dropped open. Red-faced in the reflected light, he took a step forward.
“Barnett?” Jackson turned to Callahan and Ryder. “Charlie? This your idea?”
“Not mine. But opportunity knocks, Johnny.”
His right hand moving downward to his pistol, Jackson turned back to Sullivan.
In that red-tinged moment, hearing a scrape of shoes against shells, Sullivan glanced to his right. His heart stopped, paralyzed by fear. And then it raced, leaving him drenched in sweat and mind-numbing terror.
Unseen by Jackson or Callahan, Maggie was slipping between the pilings, coming closer by the second, her small, determined face concentrating on him. Behind her, Royal Gaines stalked her like a cheetah on the scent of prey. Not yet near enough to leap, he was a red-gold flash in the exploding night, closing in on her.
In a moment of clarity like none he’d ever experienced in his life, he knew she had nothing to do with what had happened. She had never betrayed him—not with these men, not with anyone. Loyal and honest, she had followed her best instincts.
The terror he hadn’t felt for himself when Jackson turned to him, his gun in hand, exploded inside Sullivan like fireworks. But he couldn’t call to her, alert her, or Jackson would swing and fire at her instead of him.
Distracting the police chief, Sullivan bent sideways even as he saw the man slide his gun free. Knowing it wouldn’t be enough to save him, Sullivan flipped a handful of river mud thick with shells and weeds in Jackson’s direction. Sprinting left, away from Maggie, Sullivan leapt for the river, giving her a chance.
Hugging the safety of the pilings, Maggie saw Chief Jackson fling the shell into the river and turn toward Sullivan, saw her boss’s hand reaching for his gun.
SULLIVAN'S MIRACLE Page 21