Code Name: Willow

by Paula Graves

  "We did both," Remy answered for Jack, ducking past him and entering the bedroom. "Whatcha doin'?"

  Maggie turned the lap top computer around so Remy could see it. "Someone found a dead body floating in the Pontchartrain."

  Remy's eyes widened and his face went pale. "The Bakers?"

  Maggie moved the laptop aside and stood, cupping Remy's cheek. "No, honey, not the Bakers." Not that she held out much hope they were still alive, but she should've thought of Remy's fragile emotions before she threw around words like "dead body."

  "The man Remy saw killed?" Jack suggested.

  Maggie steeled herself against the questions lurking behind his wary blue gaze. "Maybe. White male, late thirties or early forties. Definitely a homicide, according to detectives quoted in the story." She rubbed Remy's back. "Sound about right?"

  Remy nodded. "Yeah."

  "I'll go see if any of the news stations have the story." Jack headed out of the room.

  Maggie and Remy followed him out at a slower pace. Maggie ruffled Remy's damp hair. "Swimming in the creek, huh?"

  Remy nodded. "Jack's idea."

  Heat crept up Maggie's neck. She could guess why. She looped her arm around Remy's shoulders. "Have fun?"

  "Yeah." Remy grinned up at her. "You were right, you know. Jack's okay. For an old geezer."

  She let herself smile at that.

  They entered the small den, where Jack was working his way through the satellite channels, looking for news. "It may not be a big story outside New Orleans," he warned.

  As the channels clicked by, Maggie glimpsed her father. Tension bloomed like nausea in her stomach. "Wait—go back."

  Jack backtracked, stopping on one of the cable nets. James Cole was talking to a bespectacled male anchor. "I'm hoping that the boy will get in touch with us. Tell us what he wants."

  The station went to split-screen, showing a slightly fuzzy school photo of Remy. He looked a year or two younger, with a bowl cut hair-do and his eyes half-closed from the camera flash. The graphic below the photo said, "Abduction suspect."

  "Oh, geez!" Remy groaned.

  Maggie exchanged a look with Jack. "Remy, they still think you've kidnapped me. But it's okay—we'll sort things out."

  "Well, yeah, I figured it'd go down like that." Remy rolled his eyes. "But man, did they have to pick that picture? I look like a total Poindexter."

  Jack laughed. "Well, at least nobody would recognize you now as the same guy, right? Suits our purposes."

  "'Former President James Cole,'" Remy read the graphic under Maggie's father's image. "Doc, what's a president doing looking for you?"

  Maggie looked at Jack. He arched one eyebrow. She looked back at Remy. "He's looking for me because I'm his daughter."

  Remy grinned. "No, really, why's he helping look for you?"

  "He's my father," Maggie said. "Really."

  Remy's eyes widened. He looked to Jack for confirmation. Jack nodded. Remy shook his head. "I'll be damned."

  "Language, Remy," Jack reminded.

  "Your old man was president? Cool!" Remy's eyes sparkled. "So you, like, lived in the West Wing and everything?"

  "Second and third floors, actually," she corrected, "And I was in college during my father's term in office. But I spent holidays and summers there."

  "And you had people waitin' on you and stuff?"

  Maggie smiled at his enthusiasm. "Something like that." She looked at Jack. He'd turned back to the TV, but she could tell by his posture that he was listening to the conversation.

  "Hey, you musta had a bodyguard, right?" Remy asked.

  "I did," she affirmed. Jack turned and met her gaze.

  "I bet he was a big ol' gorilla."

  Jack's brow furrowed with mock indignation.

  Maggie grinned. "Not quite. Matter of fact, Remy, you've met him." She gestured toward Jack with her head.

  Remy turned around to look at Jack. "No freakin' way."

  "Yep," Jack affirmed. "I was her bodyguard when she was twenty-one. Longest year of my life." He shot her a wry look, softened by an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes.

  "So that's how you know each other." Remy nodded, putting everything together now. "Hey, I bet that's why you call her Willow, right? That was her code name."

  "Yep," Jack confirmed.

  Remy looked back at the television, frowning slightly. "Then how come your last name's Stone, not Cole?"

  The answer to that was complex, so Maggie settled for part of the truth. "I didn't like the attention that comes with being the president's daughter. I changed my name so I could pretend that my father was just some regular guy."

  Remy looked at her as if she were nuts. "If my old man was the president, I'd have t-shirts printed up or something."

  Chuckling, Jack turned back to the television as the segment with Cole ended. He began switching channels again.

  "Didn't you have even a little fun having the president as your dad?" Remy asked.

  "I sometimes enjoyed the parties," Maggie admitted. "I liked to hear the music and the food was always good."

  "Stop!" Remy gestured at the television. "Go back one."

  Jack flipped back a channel. On screen was a drawing of a man's forearm bearing a large tattoo in the shape of a coiling snake. The reporter's voiceover revealed the tattoo had been one of the only identifying marks on the body found in Lake Pontchartrain early that morning.

  Maggie turned to look at Remy. He wore a huge grin.

  "See that tat?" Remy asked. "It's the dude Blevins popped."

  The iced tea at the Mercury Grille was strong and sweet, with a bright hint of peppermint. It was the best thing the hole-in-the-wall dive had going for it, though the burgers and cheese fries were decent. Mark Blevins shared his fries with the bald man sitting across the table from him.

  "We think the Donatellos may be back in town," assistant D.A. Clint Cambridge said around a bite of cheeseburger. "Whoever popped our d.b. knew exactly what he was doing."

  "The Donatellos?" Blevins' voice betrayed no tension. Grace under pressure had moved him up in the force, put money in his pocket and just might fix the problem that had washed up on the shores of the Pontchartrain earlier that day.

  Cambridge wiped a trail of ketchup from his chin. "The headshot was a pro job. Base of the skull, out the mouth. No bullet to test. That's a Mickey Lombardi style hit."

  Blevins had worked mob cases in his early days and remembered Lombardi's signature style. Easy to pick the bullet out of the mess beneath the body and toss it into a soda can in a trash bin miles away after dumping the body into the lake.

  He'd put a lot of thought into taking out Tamburello. Played the hick southern cop, lulled the nasty little thug into a sense of control, then took him out with one shot.

  He felt no regret. Offing Tamburello was like shooting a rat. Rigging it to look like a Lombardi hit was grave, siccing the Feds on another scumbag who needed taking out.

  Now to snip the last dangling threads.

  "Any I.D. on the d.b. yet?" he asked Cambridge.

  "Not, but it's a matter of time. He's in pretty good shape, considering how long we think he's been in the lake."

  Better shape than he should have been, Blevins thought. The extra rain a week earlier had messed with currents in the lake. He'd figured the body would wash up eventually, but not for a few months yet, giving the lake and its inhabitants time to render his body almost unidentifiable.

  Blevins had been smart enough to go out of town for a hit man. Unfortunately, Blevins' information about Tamburello hadn't included the man's penchant for blackmail. He'd paid Tamburello enough to keep the bastard swimming in cheese steaks for a year. He'd never expected to see the Philly hit-man's face in New Orleans again, much less within a couple of months.

  Picked up on a drug charge in Philly, he'd headed south as soon as he made bail, threatening to make a deal with the feds if Blevins didn't cough up another fifty grand. Blevins had answered with a one way trip to La
ke Pontchartrain.

  At least, he'd thought it was one way.

  "We already have a lead on his tattoo," Cambridge added. "Looks like a biker tat-we've got some feelers out."

  The fry Blevins had just swallowed stuck in his throat.

  Jack looked across the table from Maggie to Remy and back, his expression serious. Remy seemed oblivious, his attention focused on the turkey sandwich he was eating, but Maggie felt a quiver of alarm move through her stomach, driving away what little appetite she had. "What is it?"

  "We need to talk about what to do next," Jack said. "We can't stay here forever, Maggie. We need to do something to get you and Remy out of trouble. The sooner the better."

  "You could smuggle us into Canada," Remy suggested.

  "You're not draft dodgers," Jack said. "We have to figure out a way to prove Blevins shot the man you saw. We need help."

  Maggie shook her head. "No."

  "We're the only ones in the world who believe Mark Blevins is anything but a saint. It'll take evidence to change that, evidence we won't find sitting here eating turkey sandwiches."

  "Because it worked so well the last time you called in reinforcements," Maggie countered bitterly.

  "Laura didn't betray us." Jack glared at her.

  "You called her on Sunday. On Monday, bad guys came calling. That was—what? Coincidence? Bad karma?"

  "Who's Laura?" Remy asked.

  Maggie and Jack both turned to look at him. The boy's expression was a mixture of confusion and anxiety, as if he half-expected them to tell him mommy and daddy were getting a divorce. "Who's Laura?" he repeated.

  Maggie touched his arm. "Someone Jack used to know. He thought she might have information about Blevins. She didn't."

  Jack made a soft noise deep in his throat. "Actually, that's not all I asked her."

  Dread slithered through Maggie's chest. "What d'you mean?"

  Jack met her gaze, apology in his eyes. Her heart sank.

  "I had her check up on you and Remy as well," he admitted. "I wanted to know what you'd been doing since you moved to New Orleans. I also asked her to find out if Remy had a reason to pin a murder on Blevins that the man didn't commit."

  "And what did she say?" Her voice betrayed her growing anger more than she planned.

  Jack's lips pressed together, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "You checked out fine. Remy's been up front with me about some of his previous problems, and they matched what Laura told me, too. I'm satisfied you're both telling me the truth."

  "Mighty nice of you." Unable to hide her bitterness, Maggie wrapped her nearly untouched sandwich in a napkin and got up from the table.

  "Are you going to eat that?" Remy asked.

  Maggie handed him the sandwich and went outside.

  Overhead, the blinding sun leached all color from the day. Maggie squinted, already regretting her behavior. She still thought Jack was wrong to trust Laura with information about them and their whereabouts, but she should have been able to handle the conversation without acting like a jealous teenager.

  And she was jealous. She hated the thought of Laura Sandoval in Jack's bed, sharing lovers' secrets. That he still thought enough of Laura to trust her with their safety. Worse still, she hated how she was acting like the brat she'd been ten years ago, the girl who'd spent more than a few hours seething over the thought of him in the arms of the beautiful attorney.

  She'd worked hard not to be that girl anymore, to struggle through fears and doubts to make peace with her pain. Unable to reach a rapport with her father, she'd found the strength to let go and stop putting herself at risk to get his attention. She'd learned from Tim's lies as well, learned how to take charge of her own life, her own emotions.

  But here she was, acting pouty and hurt because Jack Bennett hadn't behaved the way she wanted him to. What next—tequila shooters and dirty dancing with the next jerk she met?

  Almost on their own, her feet started moving, faster and faster until she was hurdling the low boxwood hedge separating her from the edge of the woods. Her feet hit the narrow path through the underbrush and she picked up speed, the afternoon breeze whipping her hair into her eyes and out again.

  Still running, she thought, remembering Jack's words to her just two short days ago. Always running.

  Chapter 9

  Jack cleaned up after lunch, trying to ignore Remy's accusing gaze. The boy might be oblivious to most of the undercurrents flowing between Maggie and Jack, but he hadn't missed the pain in Maggie's eyes when she left the kitchen.

  Jack hadn't missed it, either. Part of him wanted to go outside and take her in his arms, tell her he was sorry. But he wasn't sorry. He was furious. She'd pulled the sex-kitten act that morning, not him. Too bad if she didn't like having the tables on her. And too bad if she didn't like Laura Sandoval, either. His ex was their best hope of getting out of the mess Maggie had dumped into his lap. She'd just have to deal.

  "You and this Laura had a thang, right?" Remy broke the tense silence between them.

  Amusement deflated Jack's anger. "None of your business."

  "If Doc says we can't trust her, it's good enough for me."

  Jack stopped himself from saying something unkind about Maggie, as much for his own sake as for Remy's. If he didn't know Laura so well, he might question the timing of the two cops who'd showed up at his house the day before. But Laura hadn't betrayed them. So who was left?

  Travis Cooper, the F.B.I. agent he'd contacted? Cooper wasn't a friend, exactly, but Jack had never known the agent to be dishonest or corrupt. Though maybe he didn't have to be. He could have mentioned Jack's call to someone connected to Blevins, maybe mentioned Jack's connection to Maggie, to explain his interest. It wouldn't have taken much creative thinking for Blevins to figure out Maggie might come to him for help—if they knew she wasn't really the kid's hostage.

  It was a lot more believable than Laura Sandoval betraying him or her own ethics as a U.S. Attorney.

  "I'll go see what Doc's up to." Remy headed for the door.

  Jack caught his shoulder. "No, you go find out more about the body they fished out of the Pontchartrain. If there's nothing on TV, check the Internet."

  Remy frowned but obeyed, leaving Jack alone in the kitchen.

  Taking a deep, bracing breath, Jack opened the back door and went outside. The sunlight was blinding, and he almost stumbled over Maggie on the back stoop. Regaining his balance, he sat next to her.

  She'd spent their time apart running; heat rose in fragrant waves from her body, and her skin glistened in the sunlight. A tempting trickle of perspiration traced a lazy path down the patch of skin bared by her V-neck t-shirt. He watched the droplet slide beneath the three-diamond ring Maggie wore as a pendant and disappear into the hollow between her breasts.

  She turned to face him. "I don't want you to contact Laura again until we know what's going on."

  He didn't like being told what to do. But he bowed to Maggie's suspicions for the moment. "Okay."

  Though she quickly schooled her expression, he didn't miss the look of triumph mingled with surprise that crossed her face. Naughty Marguerite, getting her way again. He was already beginning to regret giving into her.

  "Does Laura know about this place?" she asked.

  "No."

  "Is there any way for Blevins to find it? They'll be looking for places we can hide."

  "It would take a lot of luck to connect us with this place. They'd have to subpoena my records, and even then, my company has a lot of clients. This isn't the most obvious place for us to have gone. Plus, we have good security and the bolt hole if we need it." He looked at her. "But we are low on cash."

  Between them, they'd been able to get eight hundred dollars from ATMs on the way out of town, but he hadn't had time to get the emergency cash he kept at the office. Going to another ATM was too risky now. Their stash was dwindling quickly, thanks to the gas-guzzling Blazer and Remy's voracious appetite.

  "I can get more money if
we can just—"

  "They'll be watching your bank accounts."

  She looked away, lifting her hand to her chest and worrying the diamond ring between her thumb and middle finger, a familiar, tell-tale sign of anxiety. She'd always treated the ring like a talisman, rubbed it for luck, touched it when she was confused, as if she drew power or comfort from it.

  He laid his hand on her back. "We'll know more once the New Orleans police identify that body they found."

  She laid her head on his shoulder and slid her hand into the crook of his arm. "I'm just so tired."

  "I know." He brushed her hair away from her forehead, his gaze drawn to her parted lips. They looked pink and soft, as sweet as he remembered. Did she have any idea, that first time she'd kissed him, just how hard he'd struggled to resist what she was offering? How hard he was struggling now?

  Maggie touched his jaw. Awareness coursed through him like a brushfire. "We agreed this wasn't a good idea." he said.

  "I don't know why we're fighting it." Her thumb snagged his lower lip. "It doesn't have to be anything but just sex." She drew his mouth down to cover hers.

  A scrap of sanity in the recesses of Jack's overloaded brain shouted to be heard over the clamor of his hungry body. He forced himself to release her, to rise from the step and move away. He sucked in a deep breath to drive away the gauzy haze of lust fogging his brain. "I can't do this, Maggie."

  Maggie rose slowly, her mouth curving in a knowing smile. "I sure didn't get that impression this morning."

  He shook his head. "This is a distraction I don't need."

  Her face went stony, but not before he caught a glimpse of pain dart across her face. He took a step toward her in spite of his best intentions. "It can't be just sex with us. We're not strangers meeting at a bar and scratching an itch. We end up in bed together, somebody gets hurt. We don't need that."

  She narrowed her eyes. "You're right."

  He didn't like the tone of her voice, but there wasn't much he could do but follow her back inside the lodge.

  They found Remy in the great room. From the set of his shoulders, Jack could see something was wrong. "What is it?"