Licensed for Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  She’d probably wait for Jeremy for the next little chat, although the invincible feeling had her wanting to pull into the place and ask for an oil change.

  She turned off the highway and onto Old Mill Road, the one that wound around the lake, over Maximilian Bay Bridge. The lake was choppy, foam piling on shore. She passed mansions set back from the lake, long front lawns. From this entry, she could make out the backyard of the mushroom house, the lawn gristly and wild, leaves papering the yard. Hopefully Max and Dog had returned, and Max hadn’t simply run, again.

  Jeremy’s words hung in her mind. “Knowing means you have to live with it.”

  Max had used the word terrifying. Yes, perhaps if she found out that she’d killed someone she loved, she might find her past terrifying. . . .

  Maybe it was time to let Max fade into his future.

  But it didn’t mean she would give up.

  Not on Bekka. Not on Joy. Not on herself.

  And not on Jeremy.

  Not when she could still hear the voice.

  Or maybe it sounded more like a song.

  Princess.

  Soaring across the sky, the earth’s breath swelling her lungs.

  Princess.

  The smell of the leaves stirred by the wind.

  Princess.

  The word tasted like a McIntosh apple, crisp and alive in her mouth.

  Princess.

  Maybe this was what it felt like, that fresh start. Not wiping out the past, but getting a view of everything from above and seeing it with a new perspective. The perspective of joy, of invincibility, with a new breath, a new taste in your mouth. A new name—

  Something bumped her from behind. Her head jerked forward. “Hey!” She glared in the rearview mirror.

  A white Pontiac nearly climbed up her backside. She hit her horn.

  The car banged her again, and she fought the wheel, gunning it. “What—knock it off!”

  She couldn’t make out the driver behind his visor. He came at her again, and she floored it, coming up fast on the car ahead of her. “Sorry!” But she couldn’t pass—not with oncoming traffic. The approaching car passed, and the lane looked open, so she gunned it out into the opposite lane, shooting past a red Honda.

  How about that. She’d left the Pontiac a car length behind. She scooped up her phone, debated for a second, then speed-dialed Boone.

  At the moment, he was the only one still talking to her.

  He picked up on the second ring. “PJ?”

  “I’m being followed. White Pontiac. It’s too dark to see the plates. I’m on Old Mill Road, about a mile from the bridge—”

  “Someone is following you?”

  “They’ve bumped me twice.”

  “What? Just keep driving; don’t panic—”

  “I’m not panicking—oh, wait . . .” The Pontiac passed the Honda and moved in behind her.

  “What?”

  “Okay, now I’m panicking—it’s on my tail again.”

  She could hear him yelling something to Rosie. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m coming up to the bridge. I can see—”

  The Pontiac bumped her again, a neck-jarring smack that carried her forward. “Boone, it’s pushing me—” She dropped the phone, grabbed the steering wheel, her adrenaline like fire in her body. “Stop!”

  She slammed her brakes and heard squealing, lifted her own voice in a scream. Burning rubber fouled the air. They topped the bridge, the guardrail too close.

  Suddenly the Pontiac veered into the opposite lane.

  It nudged her on the outside—Brakes! PJ heard the impact at the same instant it surged through her. She slammed her feet on the clutch, the brake pedal, grinding it into the floorboards.

  The Pontiac smacked her hard against the back fender. As though it had wings, the little car lurched forward, then bounced against the rail. Metal screamed as the rail tore at the Bug. PJ fought to control the wheel, to get out ahead, but the Pontiac had pinned her, pushing her . . . over . . . into the lake?

  No! PJ gunned it, but the Pontiac moved abreast of her, sideswiping her. The guardrail whined, then surrendered with a rending scream.

  “No!” She slapped the window. “Help!”

  Her seat belt strap strangled her as the VW slipped over the rim of the bridge, the steel rail like teeth, raking the short length of her Bug.

  The vehicle teetered, rocking, a pendulum ticking off the seconds toward fate. Below, the lake’s frothy tongues lapped at her, ready to slurp her in. The cell phone bounced on the floorboard. “Help, help!”

  And then, with a final, deadly screech, the railing opened its mouth. PJ threw out her hands, feeling them hit the windshield as she splashed, bobbed like a buoy. Then the lake drank her in with a triumphant gurgle.

  “No, no, no!” The water spilled in through her open window. Maybe if she could open it wider—

  She grabbed the crank handle, fought it. But the Pontiac had crumpled the door, and the window didn’t budge. Water rose from the floorboards, freezing, needles creeping up her ankles, her calves.

  She unbuckled her seat belt as the water climbed to her thighs. She pounded on the window. “Help!” Her hand found the door handle, and she wrestled with it, throwing her shoulder against the door.

  Nothing. The water crept to her chest. She launched herself at the other door. That, too, had been crushed.

  The water already engulfed the backseat, the heavy engine nosing the car up. Water climbed up her back, ripping at her breath as she banged on the side windows. Kick them out! But she had no leverage, not with the water now to her shoulders.

  No—no—oh, please, God, no. I’m not ready . . . “No—” The moan of her own fear shook her as she pressed her mouth up to the vinyl-covered ceiling. Please, not like this. Not when she hadn’t said good-bye, not when she’d left things so badly with Jeremy.

  As the water reached her chin, she took a final breath. Then the water closed over her nose and she went under.

  Chapter Sixteen

  PJ had been fourteen the first time she dipped her toes in the ocean. She’d watched the water for hours first as it curled onto the shore like a giant fist, reaching with foamy, weedy fingers, then dragging pieces of shell, sand, crabs, and the occasional sand toy back to the depths. Over and over. Tireless.

  The fingers were cool and even gritty on her skin when she finally slipped her foot into the waves. Her mother read a book onshore; her father collected seashells. Connie lay on a blanket, already brown to PJ’s reddened skin.

  A wave slid over her ankles, jostling her bare feet as they sank into the watery sand. Pulling away from shore, the wave tugged at her, an invitation to the depths.

  Again. And again. Until the waves seduced her in up to her chest. She consented to float, lifting her feet off her moorings, letting her body undulate in the rhythm of the sea. From shore, Connie waved and yelled something, but PJ couldn’t make out the words. She held out her feet but couldn’t see them, the sand like a cloud, a layer of grit on her skin.

  Connie was still waving.

  She waved back and Connie shook her head, pointing.

  She turned in time to see a wall of water twice her height, dangerously silent as it rolled toward her. She caught her breath—probably the intake that saved her—and raised her arms, trying to protect herself.

  The wall crashed on her. Knocked her from her feet. Like a tentacle, the wave wrapped around her, spun her. She gulped briny water; her eyes burned with salt, the horizon turning milky.

  Her toes scraped the bottom once, twice. Her fingers clawed against seashells; her shoulder scrubbed the seafloor.

  Then hands reached down and caught her upper arms. Pulled her free from the ocean’s grasp, into the hot, full sunlight.

  Her father stood, breathing hard, still in his T-shirt, his eyes reflecting her own fear.

  “Just stand up,” he said. “If you get tossed by the waves and turned around, if you’re blind and can’t figure ou
t how to get your footing, just calm down, find the bottom, and stand up.”

  Stand up.

  Black dotted her eyes as her breath began to leak out.

  Stand up.

  She pounded the Bug’s ceiling, frantic, hit fabric.

  The ragtop. Maybe the water had bowed it back, loosened it. She was already crammed against the roof. She groped for the handle. Please, God, let this work. She wrestled with it. It didn’t budge. No! She hit it once, again. More. C’mon!

  It popped free. Yes—air—

  She reached up to pull herself through, burping as the last of her breath leaked out. Don’t breathe in; don’t—

  Oh, she had to breathe!

  Hands grabbed hers and yanked her through the roof. She tried to kick, but she had no energy, no . . .

  A mouth covered hers and blew in air. Light strobed in her brain as she gulped it in, trying to hold it.

  Then they burst to the surface.

  Air. Sweet—she gasped.

  “You’re okay . . .”

  She coughed, tried to breathe, choked on the water in her lungs.

  “Just keep breathing,” said a voice, husky, ragged, as her rescuer dragged her toward shore.

  Everything inside her burned—her throat, her arms, her legs, her belly. She gulped in more air, and it razored down her throat.

  Breathe.

  Her feet touched ground, but she had no strength, became a rag doll. His hand wrapped around her waist, and then he simply lifted her into his arms and walked to shore.

  Her body wracked as she coughed, but still he held her. Water dripped into her eyes, shivered over her skin.

  “You’re okay, PJ; you’re okay.” He set her down on the sandy shore, kneeling next to her.

  Jeremy. His curly brown hair was slicked to his head, and his eyes betrayed how close she’d come to drowning. His breath came fast, tumbling out with his words as he ran his hands down her arms. “Are you okay?”

  She leaned over and coughed up lake water from her lungs.

  Sirens in the distance and more voices. The sun had nearly deserted them, and long shadows pressed into the beach, over the gurgling, hungry water.

  Jeremy sat behind her, wrapped two arms around her, and pulled her tight to his chest. His heartbeat thundered, banging inside him, a bullet against her back, and he shook. He had his face buried in her neck. “What if I hadn’t made it?”

  She hooked her hands over his arms, let him pull her tighter. Floodlights scraped the shore as red lights splashed against the sky. Then came an outline in the darkness, and Boone burst across the grassy park.

  “PJ!”

  Jeremy raised one hand. “Here. We’re here. She’s okay—right? You are okay?”

  Boone didn’t stop at the shore, came right to her, dropping to his knees before her. “Are you kidding me? I thought I was going to find you trapped in your car, dead.” He sank back on his haunches and scraped a hand over his face, bracing himself with the other on the sand. “You are going to kill me one of these days. I swear it.”

  “Or get herself killed,” Jeremy said, his voice still wrecked. “Please tell me you’re on this guy’s tail. I saw his car—late model white Pontiac GT convertible. I didn’t get the plates.”

  “How’d you get here so fast?” Boone seemed to be checking her over.

  “Believe me, after the thirty or so messages she left on my phone, and especially the last one, I had to track her down. I heard the accident as I came onto the bridge. I spotted the Bug right before she . . . went over.” Jeremy sucked in a watery breath and let her go.

  PJ watched as he got up and stalked away from her. He became a silhouette of agony in the darkness as he braced himself against a tree, then bent over the nearby garbage can.

  She turned back to Boone, who tore his eyes from Jeremy, shaking his head. “I feel like doing the same thing. Who was it, do you know?”

  Her teeth clacked together. “Not a clue. Although I have a sick feeling it has something to do with Max. Have you seen him today?”

  “No.” Boone took off his jacket, draped it around her shoulders, then turned at the sound of another approaching siren. An ambulance pulled up.

  “Really, I’m fine, Boone.”

  “Good, because after they confirm that, they can shoot me with a couple of sedatives.” But for the first time, he gave her a soft smile. Reached out and touched her cheek. “I hate to admit it, but I’m glad Jeremy is in your life.”

  “PJ!” A dog barked as Max tried to wrestle past a couple police officers.

  Boone waved him over and the officers freed him. Max tore down the grass, his flannel shirt flapping, Dog leading the way.

  The animal launched into her arms, and she caught him as he slathered her face. “I love you too, Butch.”

  Dog danced away, past her, unfazed. When Max caught up, he looked from Boone to PJ. “Was that you who went into the water? I was at the house and saw the entire thing through the back windows. I couldn’t believe it when I saw your Bug go in. Are you okay?”

  Jeremy had returned, treading up silently in the sand behind her. “Were you really at the house?” he asked, his voice calm. Deadly calm.

  Max glanced at him. Silence bulged between them until finally Max gave a small shake of his head and crouched before her. “Do you know who did it?”

  “Someone who didn’t want her sniffing around . . . someone,” Jeremy said, now kneeling beside PJ. His hand went to the back of her neck, wiping away her sodden hair.

  Max ignored him, worry in his eyes. Yes, little Tyler had to be his son.

  “I met a guy today who said you needed to watch your back. He knows you.”

  Max appeared dazed, as if he was clearing water from his brain. “He knows me?”

  “At least, he said he recognized the picture we put in the paper.” She couldn’t help a slight wince at that. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “Not if they’re trying to kill you,” Jeremy said with an edge to his tone.

  PJ put a hand on Jeremy’s arm. “That might not have been the smartest move, because apparently, someone else—someone you might have needed to hide from—might have also recognized you.”

  “Someone I needed to hide from?”

  “You may have been mixed up in something overseas.” She couldn’t look at Jeremy for the next part. “Apparently you were some sort of special ops soldier and you were in Sierra Leone, helping de-mine the country. But you were wounded, a head injury of some sort.”

  “I have scars.” His hand went to his head. “I wondered what happened. I thought maybe it was related to that night.”

  “No, Windchill—”

  “Windchill?” Max asked.

  “My jumpmaster.”

  Boone didn’t move. “Did you say jumpmaster?”

  “Oh yeah. Probably I shouldn’t tell you that I went skydiving today.”

  “Yes, I’m going to be ill.” Boone shot another look at Jeremy.

  Jeremy’s mouth tightened into a granite line.

  “Hey—it could be worse. I didn’t go and talk to Ratchet on my own.”

  “I’m not even going to ask.”

  “Windchill said you were shipped stateside, but when you got here, your wife was murdered, and your son—”

  “So he is mine?” Max sat back with a thump on the sand, pressing a hand to his chest. He looked like he might be the one who needed the oxygen.

  PJ glanced at Jeremy, who closed his eyes, almost in a wince. She turned to face Max. “He has your dimples.”

  “Okay, yeah, he’s probably yours,” Jeremy said. “Although right now, you’re the best guess to be the murderer, so I wouldn’t go knocking on his door just yet.”

  “I told you, I’m willing to pay for my crimes,” Max said, his voice solemn. “I’m just hoping that . . . I’m not that guy.”

  Oh, see, this was why she needed to prove it wasn’t him—that look of sheer torture on his face, in his eyes. “You’re not that guy,
Max. I think you may have had information about some diamond heist in Sierra Leone, where you were injured. And apparently you already had a paranoia meter—so much so that your wife didn’t even tell her mother you were home. But there might have been someone who knew—a guy named Ratchet came looking for you. You and he were POWs together in Iraq a few years back.” She pointed to his arm. “Ratchet might have been the guy the landlady saw, the one with your tattoo.”

  Silence. The murmur of spectators and car engines entwined with the lake still raking the shore, the wind shivering the trees.

  “He has my tattoo?”

  “He was a POW in Iraq. So he might be the guy Jinx was talking about. The bad news is that Ratchet is still out there, and Windchill thinks that the picture in the newspaper may have resurrected ghosts from your past.”

  “Why would Ratchet want to kill him?” Jeremy asked, his hand still on her neck, warm on her skin.

  “Windchill seems to think that Owen was involved in diamond smuggling—maybe even smuggled the diamonds home for Ratchet. I’m wondering if Ratchet showed up later on Owen’s doorstep, armed with a little ‘Tell me where they are or else,’ and Owen and he got into a fight. Maybe Ratchet even killed Bekka to get Owen to talk, except I keep thinking about the fact that Owen was injured. What if Owen didn’t have anything to do with the diamonds—what if they sent the package home, not expecting him to recover? He wouldn’t even have known what they were talking about. And Windchill did say that he and Ratchet had some bad blood between them. Maybe Ratchet came over to get the package, and Owen surprised him.”

  Jeremy sucked in a breath, and she heard his words in her brain: “You have to stop investigating with your hopes and dreams and take a look at the truth.”

  But for some reason, her words felt like the truth. Max, as Owen, couldn’t be a diamond smuggler. “I’m wondering if Ratchet thought Owen might be dead—or close to it—when he dumped him into the bay. And then there’s always arson as a cover-up for murder evidence.”

  “Do you think this Ratchet guy might have been at the wheel tonight?” Boone asked.