by Nancy Bush
“No!” Jesse’s fist had balled. If he’d ever wanted to hit Brad it was right then. At least he hadn’t said, “Did you do her yet?” Tawny wasn’t like that. Jesse doubted she’d French kissed a guy yet, and although he’d never admit it to a living soul, he was fairly limited in experience himself.
But, Jeezus, Brad’s timing and crassness pissed him to no end.
“She’s a prude,” Brad guessed with a disparaging snort.
“You’re a dumb shit.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Asshole,” Jesse repeated right back.
“Dumb shit.”
That established, they’d kept on running, letting the argument simmer. Now, however, Jesse’s blood boiled all over again. He simply couldn’t hear anything bad about Tawny.
His lips twisted. He sure as hell hoped he’d get back to his dream—minus the crying. He might not be able to get on Tawny, but it didn’t spoil the fantasy.
Which reminded him of his dad’s reaction to Miz Havers. Whoa, wouldn’t that be something?
Jesse chuckled, loving the irony. Dad falling for the shrink. What a joke! He hoped to hell it was true because he liked the lady. She was cool. And God knew his father needed to get laid.
* * *
If Hawthorne Hart had to do his life over again, he would change two things: Laura’s and Joey’s deaths. But he wouldn’t, he realized with a sense of awakening, change the time he’d spent with Liz Havers—and not just because of Jesse, like he’d always told himself.
His Jeep bumping over the rutted track that rimmed this section of federal Forest Service land, Hawk couldn’t quit reflecting on Liz. No . . . that experience had been character building. He’d needed it to snap him out of his alcoholic misery, and he’d needed it to realize that life went on.
If only she’d been there after Joey’s execution, he thought, his lips twisting grimly in memory. Just his thoughts touching on that time brought back the shakes. Internal this time. His hands were steady; it was the steering wheel that was jumping. That very instant the front bumper yawed downward, the Jeep slammed forward, nearly jerking Hawk’s arms from their sockets.
He swore softly through clenched teeth. The track ahead zigzagged through stands of firs and pines, forcing his full attention on driving.
Finally, he came to a small clearing and stopped the vehicle, listening to the engine tick and ping as it cooled. Stepping from the Jeep, he stretched his back until it popped, his mind still on Liz instead of the task at hand.
Liz Havers. He could almost smell her on his skin. He’d wanted to make love to her something fierce and to hell with the consequences.
He still felt that way.
“Damn,” he muttered, closing his eyes and fighting the feeling. Too long without a woman; that’s what it was. Way too long. He should have been looking before this happened.
He felt spent. Used up. He wished he were more involved in this case than just going through the motions, but he knew his heart was somewhere else. With Liz? God. Maybe. He hated to think. But also, he was distanced from Barney Turgate and deadly bullets and stolen yew bark. He just didn’t care that much.
Memory stirred. He ignored it. Wanted to slap it away like an irritating gnat. He kept telling himself he wanted to forget Liz, but it was really all he wanted to think about. He didn’t want to stop to examine this buzzing memory, but it was too insistent to ignore. Shoving thoughts of Liz aside, he concentrated on what was bothering him.
Barney Turgate . . . yew bark . . . Manny Belding.
Hawk snorted in disgust. No mystery there. He was finally getting to meet the ever-missing Mr. Belding, although the scenario was rather interesting. Apparently, Manny shared the same affinity as Barney when it came to rendezvous sites: he liked the forest. Either that or both men shared the same paranoia.
Probably a bit of both.
It didn’t matter either way to Hawk who’d taken Manny’s breathless, panicked call with a measure of amusement. Manny was sure someone was after him. The same killer who’d wasted his good buddy, Barn. Could Manny tell Hawk what it was all about? Hawk had wanted to know. No! Absolutely not! But he could meet him if Hawk would be at the Elbow Room in ten minutes and wait for Manny’s call.
Sure, why not? If Manny Belding believed his life was in danger, and he wanted to resort to clandestine meetings and secret codes, hey, Hawk could do that.
So, here he was, following Manny’s telephone instructions and feeling like a bit of a fool. Still, it gave him time to ruminate on his attraction to Liz Havers and wonder what the hell he should do next
Yew bark.
Hawk frowned. He’d stopped by Sarah Lister’s, but there was no boyfriend in sight. She’d been mighty reluctant to talk about him, too, but Hawk thought it was something a little closer to home than being a yew bark poacher. He wasn’t sure, but before he could follow up Manny had stepped into the picture.
Memory swirled like a storm, then abruptly cleared. In his mind’s eye he saw the pieces of wood on the counter of Barney Turgate’s apartment. It had been bark, he realized now, the significance registering. Pacific yew bark, he would bet.
So, Barney Turgate’s big deal had to do with yew bark? Was he a poacher? Highly likely, based on what Hawk knew of his character.
Hawk’s interest sharpened. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait for Manny to provide some answers. Maybe the guy’s life was in danger after all. Money had a tendency to put unnatural spins on things. Big money, that was.
With growing impatience, Hawk walked around the Jeep, searching the shadows of the forest beyond the clearing for some sign of the mysterious Mr. Belding. He wished now that Manny had been more specific.
The hairs on his nape lifted. He jerked around, heart racing. There. On the edge of the brushy woods. A flash of color.
While Hawk narrowed his gaze, a man slowly half-rose from a crouched position. Skittish as a deer, he motioned to Hawk to come closer. As soon as Hawk started moving, he vanished into the thicket, and it was only after Hawk had traversed the clearing and was fifty feet into the trees did Manny address him.
“Over here” came the whisper.
Following the sound, Hawk moved deeper into the forest. He’d brought a handgun, but it gave him no comfort. His passion for guns had ended with Joey.
Suddenly, Hawk was upon Manny. One moment he was breaking his way through underbrush and low fir limbs, the next he was stumbling over a stone-rimmed fire pit and sleeping bag.
“I been livin’ here,” Manny told him.
He was seated on a stump, newly made, Hawthorne suspected, as a small fir was cut into neat hunks and obviously used for firewood. A spit stood over the fire pit with the remains of what looked like a charred rabbit sticking from the wooden skewer.
Hawk might have pointed out the danger of a forest fire, but given Manny Belding’s appearance, Smokey the Bear was the furthest thing from the man’s mind. Manny was scared shitless. Petrified with fear. He periodically shook all over, his small, wiry frame thrumming like a tuning fork. His hair was matted and dirty, and God knew the last time he’d seen running water. His eyes were a sharp blue in a dirty, lined face. He could have been thirty or a hundred. Impossible to tell.
“I been scared to talk to anyone. Heard you were lookin’ for me, though. Hate to involve cops, but I’m a dead man.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know?” Manny gave a soft whoop of laughter.
“Yew bark?”
He blinked several times, taken aback. Another whoop. “Guess you do. That’s what killed Barn, y’know. All that money.”
“Barney Turgate was a poacher.”
“What? No!” Manny shrugged. “Maybe a little on the side, y’know. But not since the permits and all.”
“Permits to harvest yew bark off Forest Service land?” Hawk asked, surprised. To Manny’s nod, he added, “Barney had permits? I heard those were hard to come by.”
“Oh, they are. Real hard. You gotta h
ave connections. But we do, and that’s why Vandeway got upset.”
“Vandeway?” Hawk inserted, but Manny was still going.
“He’s the one that murdered Barn. Mean as crabgrass, y’know. Didn’t like it that me and Barn had the permits and were legit. You check him out, Detective. Fuckin’ bastard killer.”
Hawk rubbed his nose, thinking hard. “Your name came up as a possible suspect in Turgate’s murder,” he pointed out softly.
Manny was incensed. “Who the hell would say that? Barney was my friend. We were partners.”
“Partners sometimes have a difference of opinion.”
“That’s crap! Barn and I were like brothers! Who said that? I have a right to know. Oh, shit!” He waved Hawthorne away as an idea struck him. “Lora Lee’s been talkin’ trash, ain’t she? Goddamn that woman. She’s looney over Barn. That’s all.”
Since it was Lora Lee who’d named Manny, Hawk kept his own counsel. He let Manny run on about Lora Lee for a solid fifteen minutes before he intervened. “So, who’s this Vandeway?”
“Federal agent. Thinks he’s hot shit on a gold platter, but he’s a cold turd on a tin-can lid. He’s your killer, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Why would he murder Barney?”
“I told ya,” Manny sputtered, frustrated. “Couldn’t stand me and Barn bein’ successful, y’know. Hey. C’mere. Let me show you something.”
Manny headed deeper into the forest. He stopped by an old-growth tree Hawk couldn’t instantly identify, but as soon as he stripped off some of the bark, Hawk knew he was looking at a Pacific yew.
“Takes a shitload of this stuff, but they pay good.”
Hawk rubbed the reddish bark between his fingers. “You’re telling me that a federal agent killed Barney Turgate because he didn’t like it that you and Turgate had permits to harvest bark on federal land?”
“That’s what I’m tellin’ ya,” Manny agreed stubbornly.
“Have you and Turgate been in other deals together?”
Manny blinked. “Sure.”
“Legit and otherwise?” Hawk guessed.
“Hey, I’m not sayin’ nothin’ that’ll get me in worse shit.”
“Turgate’s been murdered. I don’t think there is worse shit,” Hawk pointed out with a certain amount of irony.
Manny pondered that heavily, checking its merit. “Okay, we’ve poached a little, and pulled some strings, but those permits are one hundred percent real. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.”
Hawk nodded. “How long are you planning to stay out here?”
“’Til you catch the bad guys, Detective.”
“Would you consent to a polygraph test?”
“Yes, I fuckin’ would!” Manny declared heatedly. “I wanna catch this guy’s bad ass. I’m not shittin’ around.”
“So, what do I have to do to convince you to come to the station?”
“I—”
Manny never got any further. Hawk barely had time to register the blast when yew bark flew from the tree as a bullet whizzed between him and Manny. Blam. Pain ripped through Hawthorne’s shin. A burning sensation. He toppled over. A scream sounded in his ear. Manny’s—as he crashed like a bull elephant through the undergrowth.
Faint acrid smoke. Pain so intense it caressed him all over. Hawthorne inhaled deeply. His senses swirled. He dreamed. “Joey?” he asked.
Footsteps followed Manny. The unseen sniper. Hawk tried to lift his head, but he felt trapped in a body that wouldn’t move.
Then there was only silence. That ungodly stillness that had fallen after Joey’s shattered body slipped from his kidnapper’s limp grasp into the arms of death.
* * *
Liz sat in an orange molded plastic chair in the waiting room of Woodside General Hospital. Rhythmically, she squeezed and unsqueezed her empty Styrofoam cup. The self-serve coffeepot was empty and no one looked about to refill it. There just wasn’t a lot of personnel about. Woodside Hospital was small, friendly, and reasonably efficient, and the doctors were able, if not brilliant, and most common problems could be taken care of locally.
A broken leg caused by a bullet fell into that category—at least Hawk’s did. No artery had been severed, and the bone, though chipped a bit, had broken clean. Woodside General Hospital had operated, reset, and casted his right leg, then sopped up the remaining mess.
Detective Hawthorne Hart was A-OK and would be released this afternoon or tomorrow morning at the latest. His excellent health should speed his recovery, but his attitude was piss-poor. Nurse Friendly hadn’t said those exact words, but Liz, being the crack professional psychologist she was, had picked up the implied message.
She’d gotten the word about Hawk from Tawny, who’d heard that Jesse’s dad was in the hospital from Brad. Without a thought to convention, Liz had grabbed her woven bag and driven straight to Woodside General, belatedly conscious of her denim shorts, sandals, and white tank top, and only caring then because the air-conditioning in the waiting room was likely to freeze her to death.
She’d been here for three hours. Hawk was in recovery. Jesse was somewhere; she’d seen him cruise by and had waved. What he thought of her vigil she couldn’t say. She didn’t know what she thought of it herself.
School was starting in thirteen days. Tawny’s dance recital was even closer. But the man she loved had nearly gotten himself killed.
The man she loved. More like the man she loved to hate. She’d had some bad moments rethinking that night on Hawk’s couch. This physical attraction thing was downright pathetic.
She hated herself. She loved him. She wanted to make love to him. She hated them both.
Ripping off a piece of Styrofoam with her fingers, she tossed the little scrap into an ashtray, glancing up to the NO SMOKING sign to verify the rules. Talk about your mixed message.
She stared at the carpet. Gray. With little wavy sections that reminded her of water. She concentrated, but all she saw were Hawk’s biceps as his arms enfolded her, the tautness of his stomach and his happy trail, that feathering of hair leading from his navel down to his groin.
She rubbed her face with one hand, hating the memory and her reaction to it. Good God, she could get turned on just thinking about it and the man was lying in a hospital bed with a hulking cast on his leg.
Not enough experience as a teenager, she determined. A few groping encounters and then Hawk. Magically. Wondrously. Only he’d fouled up what should have been a lot more groping encounters until she found her perfect soul mate.
Except . . . except . . .
She bit into her lower lip until she tasted blood, seeking to shut off her thoughts. Well, now, isn’t this just great? she thought, feeling like an utter fool. Self-inflicted physical torture. As if this mental torture wasn’t pure and terrible enough.
But it didn’t matter. She was consumed with the memory of that night. The rhythm of his body atop hers. The wild eagerness of her own to be possessed. The touch of hard, male body and wet, thrusting tongue. His heated breath. Soft moans. The anticipation at the brink of penetration as his body sought entry and hers opened in eager, breathless—
“Miss Havers?”
Liz started guiltily, her thoughts naked. But the nurse before her smiled a greeting and directed her to Hawk’s room. Chastised, Liz slung her bag over her shoulder, ridiculously embarrassed and angry with herself. She had to get over this obsession.
Jesse stood to one side of the bed where Hawthorne, appearing unfairly healthy with beard shadow rakishly darkening his chin, turned toward Liz. Her internal femininity responded to him despite herself.
“Hey there,” she said.
For a heartbeat, she thought she saw his eyes warm with welcome. But then he remembered himself and charged gruffly, “What are you doing here?”
“I just came to see that you’re all right.”
“Don’t bite her head off,” Jesse said. He scowled at his father and flipped his hair from his eyes. “God, what a grouch.”
> “You don’t have to be here,” Hawk snapped, turning away from Liz.
The snub hurt. It shouldn’t. She couldn’t expect him to embrace her, especially with Jesse so nearby. But, hell yes. That was what she expected. After those hot moments on the couch she’d believed he would treat her differently. But nothing had changed and she’d better damn well remember that.
“No, I don’t have to be here,” she agreed.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t want you here.”
Now that couldn’t be ignored. Jesse’s face registered shock at his father’s rudeness. Liz reslung her purse over her shoulder. “Okay. I won’t dare to ask what happened,” she added stiffly as she turned toward the door. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
She was in the hallway, fighting the burn of unformed tears, when she heard Jesse call to her.
“Hey, Ms. Havers!”
It took all her willpower to cool the evidence of Hawk’s rejection and pull herself together, but she managed to do it. And the smile she threw her son was easy to find; she just felt that way about him.
“Hey, don’t listen to him. He’s hurt and he’s just trying to cover it up. That’s why he’s acting like a jerk-off.”
“I know.” Then, feeling the need to explain, she added, “I talked to him about some theories about why Mrs. Brindamoor’s yew trees were cut down. When I heard he’d been shot . . .”
She’d nearly gone crazy. Her knees had sagged and she was in her car and driving before she’d damn near taken a second breath.
“Yeah, I know. Jeezus.” Jesse shuddered. “He’s a pain in the butt, but I’ve only got one parent left. Be weird if they both died. I don’t think I could take it.”
Liz counted her own heartbeats. “I didn’t realize your mother was gone, too,” she said slowly.
“She died in a car wreck. Dad nearly went nuts. He really loved her, and he’s never gotten over it.” He shrugged. “At least that’s what everyone says.”
“Do they?” Liz murmured.
He’d confounded her. Of course Hawthorne would spin that tale. Why not? Few people knew the truth and they were spread far and wide or long gone, like Liz’s own parents. No wonder Jesse seemed to have no curiosity when it came to his mother.