by Anna Murray
"I don't know, but we're not going in the car." He ran his hand over the fender of his parked motorcycle.
"You aren't serious?"
Jack's hand flew through his thick dark hair. "We can't get past them going out the front door. We can go out the back door and ride cross country on this bike." He stooped down and handed her one of the helmets stashed in the corner. "Put this on." He pointed at the doors. "When I give the signal you open them, and get on behind me. Good thing I didn't remove the back foot pegs, but it will be tight on the seat, so sit close. Try to lean with me, like you're an extension of my body, when we take the corners."
Jane's eyes were wide and she couldn't speak, so she nodded. She put on the helmet. Jack's fingers ran across her neck as he adjusted the strap.
When he finished his attention went back to the bike. "Damn, I don't have much gas in this thing. We could be riding on fumes. You ready?"
Jane nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"OK, open the doors." Jack pushed up the kickstand, turned on the fuel, applied choke, pulled in the clutch, and kick-started his bike. It roared to life.
Jane turned from the doors, ran behind him, and swung her good leg over to straddle the machine, pushing tightly up against his backside. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pushed up her coat sleeve to lock her gloved right hand tightly around her left wrist.
Jack dropped the clutch and they sped out the back door. They were into the next yard when Jane heard a shot ring out behind them. Jack shifted and they sped past two more garages and across Wheelock Parkway. Then he crossed the southern edge of Phalen Park Golf Course and motored over the public bike path -- the last asphalt before they sped onto the ice.
Jane kept a tight grip as they bumped over curbs and ruts. She knew they couldn't be followed unless their pursuers hijacked snowmobiles, and it wasn't likely. The snow was only a couple inches deep. After minutes of grinding across the uneven ice Jane recognized the lights along Larpenteur Avenue on the east side of the lake. Soon Jack was driving up the street and pulling into a parking lot. She glimpsed the sign: Our Redeemer Lutheran Church. Jack swung the bike into the shadow of the building and switched off the engine.
He turned and yelled through the helmet shield. "You ok?"
"Cold. So cold." Jane's teeth chattered, but she knew it was as much from terror as the low temp. Jane dismounted. "My chest feels h-hot."
"Adrenaline." Jack swung his leg over the bike and lowered the kickstand. He helped her to remove the helmet as he eyed the cars in the lot. They were in luck. It was youth ministry night, and parents were picking up kids. A man stopped his SUV in front, left the motor running, and ran into the building.
"Come on," Jack grabbed her arm and walked briskly and purposefully to the vehicle. The doors were open. They slipped inside, and before anyone could approach Jack pulled away from the curb and out into traffic.
The car was warm. It felt so good. Jane pushed her backpack under her feet and settled into the comfortable leather bucket seat. "You know how to pick cars."
"I do. The tank is full." He pointed to the dashboard gas gauge.
"I'm frozen. How long do you think before this is reported stolen?" She looked at his strong hands on the wheel and wondered how he could be so calm.
"I figure we have an hour," Jack replied. "Maybe two."
"Is it enough?"
"I think so."
"Where are we going?"
"Wisconsin."
"An escape to Wisconsin. That's a good one." She wiped her hands on her thighs. "You know, I didn't know what keeps me going until today. I don't want my friends to have died in vain. I want these guys to be held accountable. What keeps you in this?"
He threw her a queer look. "Isn't it obvious? My friend has a cabin. We can use it." He took off his gloves and threw them between the seats.
"You know the way? We won't get lost?"
"I've been there before. It's near Cumberland. We'll take 36 to Highway 64 and then to 65 and Highway 8 from Turtle Lake."
"Over the Stillwater Bridge?"
"Yes. It's okay this time of year." He waited for a light to turn.
"Right," she muttered, remembering the bridge's lift section operated from May to October. "Mind if I turn on the radio?"
"No. Seeing as I can't drink and drive, I guess music is the next best mind-numbing drug available."
Jane spun the dial, stopping briefly on WCCO.
Gun shots reported in the Phalen neighborhood. Officials are investigating . .
Oh God. She spun the knob, and settled on a pop station playing Jewel's Who Will Save Your Soul?.
Chapter 17
Jack's thawing hand fumbled to dig the key out of his pocket. He managed to open the cabin door on the second try and flipped the wall light switch. Jane stomped in behind him.
Amber light spread from the floor lamp in the corner and settled over bearskin rugs sprawled lazily across the hardwood floor. Racks of deer antlers graced the living room walls, and a pile of dry wood stood at the ready next to the quaint old stove. The smell of pine tar permeated every crack in the log walls. Jane and Jack removed their boots and placed them on the entry mat. Coats were flung over the nearest chair.
"It's . . . cozy," Jane muttered her thoughts aloud as she walked through the small space in her stocking feet. "Only one bedroom?"
"I'll take the couch out here."
"We can take turns using the bed." She twisted her hair.
"Sure." He winked. "Hasn't your computer brain calculated the odds of holing up in outback Wisconsin with a math professor?
"It has, and you know what? You're more likely to be killed by a breaching whale."
"Amazing."
Jane checked the refrigerator and the deep freeze. "Meat in here, but it's frozen solid." She yanked the swollen pantry door. "There's canned goods. Ugh, creamed corn."
"Creamed corn for supper?" Jack shot back from his position near the window.
"Did you know? Sixty percent of creamed corn purchases are mistakes. Nobody likes creamed corn, but they buy it because the word "creamed" is in small print above the word "corn" on the label."
"Sure." Jack was busy pushing wood into the stove. "This will heat up the place while I figure out how to turn things on."
"Also twenty percent of breast milk is consumed by mistake."
"I didn't need to know that," he shot back.
"Is chicken noodle soup ok?"
"Sure, if you make it without creamed corn and breast milk."
"OK." She laughed. Jane dug into a utensil drawer to find a can opener. After a moment he heard her voice again. "Ah, found it!'
"What?"
"Swiss army knife." After a minute she spoke again. "You need a drink? I found the liquor stash."
"I could use five drinks!" Jack called back. A healthy fire started, he headed eagerly into the kitchen.
He eyed the liquor bottles Jane had placed on the counter. "Ah, Korbel brandy. Bill's favorite. Bill taught me how to make a killer brandy old-fashioned sweet."
"A what?"
"The state drink of Wisconsin."
She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. "Gimme a break. Everyone knows the state beverage is milk."
"No way," he laughed. "It's the BOF. What do you usually drink?"
"I don't. But this is as good a time as any to start."
"You sure?"
"I'll try one. Heck, a double even. Stiff or whatever you call it."
He laughed. "It's called sweet."
"Sweet AND stiff. I'll take both." She raised her dark eyebrows suggestively.
"We'll turn you into a lush yet." He crooked a grin.
"Not likely." Jane turned to the stove and stirred the soup while Jack located the glass tumblers and sugar. He opened the refrigerator, and, God Bless him, Bill had a six-pack of 7-Up on the bottom shelf.
Jack spooned sugar into the bottom of each glass, dissolved it with a splash of 7-Up, and added a generous dose of Korb
el. A few ice cubes later he took a sip to taste. "Well, it's not perfect, but it will do the job." He carried the drinks to the round oak veneer table adjacent to the kitchenette.
Jane joined him with the bowls of soup. "Hmmm. Soup and brandy."
He grinned. "Yep. It goes together like ham and eggs."
"One thing I can say: Living with you has been a tortuous path to culinary adventure."
"Likewise, my life was fairly dull until you barged into my office," he rejoindered. "I'm hoping to get back to it someday." They sat down and spooned in the soup. "This could cure a cold," Jack observed.
Sipping the drink, Jane took in the black circles under Jack's eyes.
"I need another one," Jack rose from his chair and headed to the kitchen.
"Me too. The brandy is warming me right up." Jane's eyes had a light-headed look, and Jack noted her hand wasn't reaching for her twiddle hair. Good. She needed the alcohol. No harm in a few drinks between consenting adults, right?
He was standing at the counter when she crept up behind him. "Teach me how to make a brandy old-fashion?" She leaned against him at the counter as he measured out the sugar.
"Brandy old-fashioned sweet," he corrected. "It's sweet if you make it with 7-Up or Sprite. It's a plain old fashioned if you use club soda. You have to remember when you place your order, or you'll get the wrong version." He tried to keep his attention on her blue eyes as he reached for the brandy bottle, but his gaze wandered down past her pixie nose to rosebud soft lips. Then he wondered what it would feel like to kiss those lips, and, half-intoxicated and unable to stop himself, he bent over and brushed his mouth against the pink flesh.
He certainly didn't expect Jane's response: A frantic full-frontal assault, indeed, a tongue plunging, breast-mashing, pelvis-gyrating-against-his-thigh torrent of need. It was clear -- Jane Nelson hadn't had action of the sexual variety in a long time. Jack had never known a woman to come on to him so fast.
Christ, I buried Jillian three weeks ago. Jack abruptly pulled back from the kiss, breathless. "I can't take advantage of a woman under the influence."
She blushed. "Sorry. What did you put in my drink? I lost all control for a minute."
Jack patted her hand lightly. "Don't worry. I understand. Hey, do you play cards? There's a deck in the cupboard."
She shrugged. "I play crazy eights with my nephew."
Jack reached up to get the cards and guided her back to the table. He dealt the hand, pulling a couple from the bottom. Anything to make her smile.
Jane sat across from him, and she picked up each card as he passed them. When he finished he slapped the remaining cards face down and turned one up. "Six of hearts."
Jane pulled a king of hearts from her hand and laid it on top of the six. "Got it covered."
Jack followed with a three. "So, uh, after the loser guy, you had other boyfriends?"
"None to write home about. I had the occasional date -- the matches my friends attempted. Rather annoying, really." She shifted on the chair. "After I was doored my friends saw me differently. It's too hard, really an ordeal, to tell a guy on the second date you can't have children. My pelvis was broken. My insides were messed up. I can't, I, I shouldn't, you know, get pregnant."
"Doored?"
"On Lexington Avenue. I was riding my bike and a parked guy opened his car door. I was thrown into the street and run over by a passing truck. I didn't have head injuries, thanks to the helmet, but my pelvis was broken, and my leg in three places. It took a year to recover, but the old guy in the truck is still having trouble. He sends me a Christmas card every year, and I send him one back to reassure him I'm well."
Jack was speechless. No doubt about it, she wouldn't have divulged this information if not for the brandy buzz. He digested it for a minute, and decided one candid personal revelation deserved another. He cleared his throat. "Maybe you noticed I don't have children." He paused and his voice went low. "I don't have, um, swimmers. It's an obstruction problem."
"Oh," she exhaled.
"The doctor said there was surgery, thought I had a two percent chance of it being successful. He said, 'maybe we can turn you into a man.''"
Jane frowned deeply over her cards. "Nothing like making you feel whole, is there? A nurse said the same thing to me, only it went something like, "even though you're not a real woman you'll still have monthly periods, and how unfair is that for you?"
His eyes flickered. "You look real enough to me."
"Back at ya', on the manhood deal."
"Thanks," he smiled, and dimple formed in his right cheek.
"Jack, I can't give you much advice, but when you start dating again it will be hard to tell, or to know when to tell the woman. I do it after the first date, but then I usually don't get a second. My sister says I can probably find a divorced guy who already has kids. You could find someone like that too, or a woman who doesn't want children. Or adopt. My mom says there's a match for everyone. After all, she found a mate, and she's no beauty." She shuffled the cards in her hand.
"Hmmm."
"You know what else I did?"
"What?"
She laughed. "OK, I've never told anyone this before. I was at a trade show, and the booth lady at Crystal Software was giving away flip-flops -- you know, those plastic sandals. She handed me a pair and I dropped them in the loot bag without looking. Later, in the hotel room, with Sandy, I pulled them out, only to find they were men's size XXXL. Yeti shoes." Jane spread her hands wide, as if she were indicating the size of a fish she'd caught. "Then we went down to the hotel bar for a drink, and Sandy said she'd set me up with a hot guy. I said, 'only if he can fit in those flip-flops!' You know, it totally stymied her. Because it worked so well, I developed a habit of telling well-meaning matchmakers that my "mandarella" had to have big feet."
"Big feet? That's all?"
"Ha." She blushed. "They say size doesn't really matter."
"You mean you haven't done a study on it?" he chided.
"I've only been with one guy."
He raised an eyebrow. "It appears your avoidance strategy works."
"I guess. Did you know less than one percent of the male population has extra large feet?"
"No, but somehow I figured you'd have the stats on it. Oh look, my feet don't make the cut," he teased. He pulled a foot from under the table and lifted it up for her to see.
"Yep. Too small." She threw down a card and spied the gold band on the third finger of his left hand. "I'm sorry about coming on to you like I did. I feel bad. You've been through a lot. You don't need more hassles right now. Ha. Neither do I."
"It's OK." He pulled a three of spades and placed it on top of her three of hearts.
"I guess I'm coming down from the panic of fleeing your house, and I'm a tad nervous on two-wheeled conveyances --"
"It's all right. I've already forgotten about it." It was a lie. Jack knew he'd never forget the kiss. Her body had felt softer than he'd expected, and his arousal had surprised him. She was one hot lady, even if she didn't think so, and under different circumstances he'd love to show her just how hot she made him.
"Oh. Good." Jane bit her lip. She smiled but it didn't reach her eyes, and she laid down an eight of diamonds. "Hey, biker bad boy. I'm changing the suit."
Chapter 18
Felipe Moreno had never been more frustrated. They'd come within a cow's breath of apprehending Jane Nelson!
Damn it, Mark. That's what he got for taking a chance on the junior guy. He'd figured it was safe to send Mark over to the U to interview Jack Anderson, because the odds on the lead were slim. Mark missed seeing the professor by a few minutes, as the man had ended his class early, and then Mark, who decided there was nothing of interest there, had taken lunch before proceeding to Anderson's office. By then the professor had gone home for the day. Instead of going straight to the Anderson home, Mark had stopped by the Woodbury PD to collect some data.
Mark had erred in his assessment of the mild-mannered math pro
fessor. It turned out he was anything but, and, unfortunately, somebody else was also pursuing Dr. Anderson. Minutes after Anderson fled his domicile, under extreme duress, Mark had arrived in the Phalen neighborhood.
Now Felipe Moreno was standing in Jack Anderson's kitchen, deploying all available resources to focus on this new development. Sally and Tony were interviewing neighbors; Moreno was getting updates from the forensic team inside the house. Jack Anderson, an avid cyclist, had spun out, through the back door, on a motorcycle he apparently had kept in the living room. The tracks led to the east. The guy was in such a hurry he left his best tail-wagging friend behind.
Moreno rubbed his forehead. Who was after Jane and why?
He watched as Sally stepped over the yellow police tape and came in the front door. "Hey, boss."
"Sally. What have you got?"
"Not much. The neighbor behind saw them rip across the yard. She said there was a smaller rider on the back, a woman."
"OK."
"His coworker showed up this morning to take his dog. She said Anderson asked her to stop by to feed and let him out. He told her he was going to Canada for the weekend, to ice bike races. I checked. There aren't any races this weekend up there." Sally set the Strib on the kitchen counter. "People keep kicking this newspaper around on the stoop. OK if I leave it here?"
"Sure. They've left nothing here except their DNA. Border boys alerted?"
"I already did it, on the off chance they did head north."
"Good job."
His phone rang, and he plugged it to his ear.
"Moreno here."
"It's Ray. Phil, we followed the tracks across the lake. We found the motorcycle outside a church along Larpenteur."
"Yeah?"
"A car was reported stolen from there last night. A guy was picking his kid up from Bible school, and he left it running, ran in to get the kid. Witnesses said two people, a man and woman, got into the car and drove off. The timing is right to be them. Looks like they dumped the bike and hijacked the car."
"Looks like. Got the word out on it?"