Runaway Heart

by Saranne Dawson

  If they stopped her, could they search her car? Didn’t they have to have a reason? She was angry with herself for being so frightened. The only emotion she’d ever felt toward the police was reassurance, a sense they were doing their job, and she was therefore being protected.

  But now it was different. She wondered how anyone could contemplate a criminal act when the result was the terror she was feeling now. Were they wondering what she was doing on this deserted road only used by a few locals? Might they even now be calling in her license number? Could she already be on some list of possible suspects who had aided Zach in his escape?

  The cabin was not in Ondago County, where both her father and Zach had been chief, but was just over the line in a neighboring county. Still, she was fairly certain the insignia she’d seen on the car was the one she remembered from her father’s car.

  Fear prickled her spine, and her hands were sweating as she gripped the wheel. Her gaze shifted constantly from the rearview mirror to the speedometer and back again. At any moment, she expected to hear a siren or see flashing lights.

  Daughter of Former Police Chief Aids Convict’s Escape. She could see the headline now—perhaps with a subhead about a lovelorn psychologist falling for a handsome expolice chief.

  Ahead of her was the curve and beyond it the turnoff to the cabin. She wanted nothing more than to run to the safety of Zach’s arms—which was totally absurd, since his arms were anything but safe. And yet, such was the power of his presence that she truly believed she would be safe with him.

  She passed the turnoff and continued along the winding mountain road, trying to remember what lay ahead. There had to be at least five more miles before she would reach the small village of Neff’s Mills. Any intersecting roads before that were likely to be gravel or dirt roads leading to hunting cabins or vacation homes.

  She could pull into a gas station in Neff’s Mills—assuming there was one. Probably there was. Not even the smallest village was without a combination gas station and convenience store. But what if the police car pulled in, too? Wouldn’t they be very suspicious of any strangers in the area right now? And she was a stranger, even if she’d once lived here.

  She drove on, trying out in her mind various excuses for the men’s clothing and the money—ignoring the gun because she couldn’t think of any explanation for that. She was pretty sure that carrying a handgun in her car was illegal.

  Then there were lights ahead, and she was coming down a long hill into a tiny village. She reached the single traffic light as it turned red. She waited, praying the police car would turn onto the intersecting road. But when the light changed, it continued to follow her.

  Then she saw a brightly lit gas station a half-block ahead and put on her turn signal before she could talk herself out of it. She would have to take her chances. Being a stranger shouldn’t arouse too much curiosity. In recent years, many people from the city had begun to build weekend homes up here, and it was a holiday weekend.

  For one exhilarating moment, she thought the cruiser would continue on its way, but then she saw its signal begin to wink. So terrified she could scarcely draw a breath, C.Z. pulled up to the self-service gas pumps. The cruiser pulled up near the entrance to the convenience store.

  The single officer inside got out as she got out to go to the pump. She could see the insignia clearly now, and it was an Ondago County car. She didn’t recognize the young officer, but she knew he might recognize her. All her father’s men had attended his funeral, and she knew that, being cops, they had long memories.

  They exchanged brief glances and then he went into the store. C.Z.’s hands were shaking so badly she nearly spilled gas all over herself. The tank was nearly half-full, and she worried the cop might see that from the display inside and wonder why she’d stopped. She stopped trying to tell herself how irrational she was being.

  The officer was still inside, talking to the clerk, when she replaced the gas cap and got out her purse. Don’t ignore him, she warned herself as she started across the lot to the store. Maybe you should even flirt a bit. It worked with the guard at the hospital.

  Both men turned toward her as she pushed open the door. She managed to fix what she hoped was a pleasant but neutral expression on her face, though she felt the movement of every tiny muscle. Her legs were trembling, but somehow she managed to walk to the counter.

  The clerk glanced at the device that showed the amount she owed. The officer stepped back to make room for her at the counter. She could feel his eyes on her, and she thought about her father telling her how easy it was to spot someone who was trying to hide something.

  She handed the clerk her money. Her gaze dropped to the counter—and she froze. Staring at her was a large black and white photograph of Zach!

  It was a head shot, professionally posed and an excellent likeness. Above it, in bold print, was the word ‘Wanted,’ and below it a warning that he should be considered armed and dangerous, together with a phone number.

  Her hand had frozen in place, and the clerk was giving her her change. Her mouth had gone dry, and she could see the tremors in her hand as she fumbled to put away her change. Some coins clattered to the floor, and before she could bend to retrieve them, the officer got them for her. She managed to smile and murmur thanks.

  She became convinced he was going to follow her out to her car, so instead of leaving, she made her way over to the refrigerated cases that lined one wall. Behind her, the two men resumed their conversation.

  “He’d have to be nuts to come back here,” the clerk said.

  “Yeah, but you never know,” the officer replied.

  “You must have known him pretty well,” the clerk remarked.

  “Sure. He hired me just a couple of months before it happened. Hard to figure. I really liked the guy. Most of the others did, too—except for Colby. We all figure he went back to the city, but Chief Colby is convinced he’s around here somewhere.”

  “What did Colby have against him—before it happened, I mean?”

  Unfortunately, the clerk’s question went unanswered as a group of young men came in, laughing and talking loudly. C.Z. took a bottle of fruit juice from the case and went to the counter to pay for it, stealing another glance at Zach’s photo in the process. It really was an excellent likeness. Probably he’d had it taken for publicity purposes when he was named chief. Even in black and white, his remarkable eyes stood out.

  She pushed through the door and started across the lot, fearful the officer would follow her. She risked a backward glance as she reached her car. He was pouring himself a cup of coffee from the machine opposite the counter.

  She sighed with relief as she slid into the car, then started it and rolled toward the street. As she began to turn the wheel, she realized he might notice if she went back the way she’d come. So she turned in the other direction, and after several more turns through back streets, she was on her way to the cabin, her gaze once again shifting constantly from the road to the rearview mirror.

  WHEN SHE REACHED the cabin, there were no lights showing, and she traded her fear of exposure for the fear that Zach had vanished. But how could he? Where could he go?

  Cautiously, she opened the car door, leaving the engine and lights on. As she stepped out, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness at the side of the A-frame. A scream had started to well up in her when he called out.

  “It’s me. Just being careful. I saw your lights as soon as you drove up to the other cabin.”

  C.Z. sagged against the car door, no longer trusting her legs to support her. Zach reached past her to switch off the engine and the lights, then went around to open the trunk. Her fear turned rapidly to annoyance. Couldn’t he see how terrified she was?

  “Food!” He proclaimed as he lifted the first of the bags from the trunk. “The cupboards are bare here.”

  She walked toward him, fighting her anger. It was her fault, after all. He had told her to get out. She had no right to expect his sympathy.


  He reached into the trunk for a second bag, then stopped as his gaze swept over her. He set down both bags. “Something happened.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He hesitated, then reached out to her, a slow, tentative movement, as though he feared she would reject him. And she almost did. In her mind’s eye, she was seeing that flyer at the convenience store, and the words “armed and dangerous.”

  “Charlie,” he said softly, taking her hand, and then, when she didn’t resist, drawing her carefully into his arms, treating her as though she were made of glass, which wasn’t far from the way she felt at the moment.

  He felt so good—so solid and reassuring and safe. She didn’t understand how she could be feeling this, but within seconds, she wasn’t even trying to understand it. Instead, she was back to those moments in his hospital room when a raging hunger had very nearly burned away all reason.

  “The groceries can wait,” he said, releasing her and then taking her hand to lead her inside.

  She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, though her body seemed to know. He led her to the cushions in front of the fireplace, then lit some kindling and turned on a lamp, as well.

  “Your friend has good taste in cognac. Do you want some?”

  She nodded, still not sure what he intended and what she wanted.

  He brought two large snifters, then sat beside her. “Tell me.”

  Only when it was clear that what he wanted was an explanation did she realize she wasn’t yet ready to take that final step into intimacy. Did he know that—or hadn’t he even been thinking about it?

  So she told him what had happened, the words pouring out in a great rush, interrupted by a coughing spasm as she drank too much cognac too quickly. He patted her on the back gently.

  “Cognac is meant to be sipped, not gulped. Do you want some water?”

  She shook her head. “I know that. I just…wasn’t thinking. I’ll never wonder again how people can come to have such irrational fears.”

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of paranoia,” he replied dryly. “But in this case, it’s a healthy response.”

  She stared at him over the rim of the snifter. “Who’s the psychologist here?”

  He chuckled. “Okay, I’ll admit that I once bought some textbooks and studied them on my own. I didn’t have the time or patience to take courses. But you weren’t being irrational. If that officer had had more experience, he’d probably have questioned you. He would have noticed your behavior. On the other hand, you might have concealed it better than you thought.”

  His gaze remained fixed on her steadily. “In a way, I’m glad it happened. I don’t know what you’ve decided, but at least now you understand what it will be like if you…stay involved with me.”

  It was that brief hesitation she heard far more than his words. It told her the uncertainty wasn’t hers alone. He wanted her help, but it troubled him, too.

  “You need my help, Zach—now more than ever with Colby so sure you’re here.”

  He studied her for a moment in silence and she saw not his face scant inches from hers but that flyer again and those words. It felt surreal. How could she, who’d never even gotten a speeding ticket, be here with a man who was wanted by the police?

  “There is one more way you can help me,” he said slowly, “and then I want you to go home and stay there.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, ignoring his final words. Despite what had happened, she knew she wasn’t going to walk away from him. She couldn’t. Life with him would certainly be dangerous—but life without him was unthinkable. The certainty of that shocked her, yet there it was.

  “You mentioned you’d worked in theatre and you might be able to help me disguise myself. If you can do that, it would mean I can move around—at least to some extent.”

  He rubbed a hand across his stubbly cheek. “When my beard comes in, it’ll be gray—all gray. I grew one once a couple of years ago, when I was up here at my place recovering from a gunshot wound. That should help with the disguise, but it won’t be enough.”

  C.Z. nodded. “It will help,” she agreed. “But it’s your eyes, Zach. Even in the black and white photo, that’s what people will notice first.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, my biggest asset. The guys in the precinct used to call me Ice Eyes. They work pretty well against suspects.”

  “And with women, too,” she said, then immediately regretted it.

  He smiled at her. “That, too. So what about them? Could I get some plain contact lenses to change them?”

  “Yes, but I won’t be able to get them for you. They have to be fitted to your eyes.”

  He nodded. “Then I’ll get them in the city. I need to go down there anyway, to get some new ID.”

  She gave him a blank look, and he explained. “All it takes is money and you can get whatever you want, driver’s license, Social Security card, credit cards. But first I need to work on my face. I should have a decent beard by the end of next week, and the cut will have healed well enough by then, too.”

  She studied him. “If I get you a gray wig to go with the beard, that and the contact lenses should do it.”

  “Where can you get a wig?”

  “There’s a store in Poughkeepsie that supplies the drama groups at Vassar College. I went there for my undergraduate work. And the store’s open on Sundays, so I can go tomorrow.”

  “You’re not getting out, are you?”

  “No, I’m not” But don’t ask me why, she pleaded silently. I’m not ready to talk about that.

  Perhaps he wasn’t, either, because he stood and said he would bring in the groceries. She sat, staring into the fire and sipping cognac. Was she in love with him? Was that possible? She didn’t know, and she decided it was time to stop trying to find reasons for this madness. She would help him to the extent she could—which would be very little, since she had a job several hours away—and then, if he managed to prove his innocence, she would see what developed.

  There were many stories about people thrown together by circumstance who developed intense relationships only to have them fall apart when they resumed their normal lives. It was a primitive bonding born of mutual dependence and need, perfectly understandable to any psychologist.

  She began to feel much better, and when Zach brought in the groceries, she volunteered to fix dinner for them. She was unpacking the bags when she saw him take the gun out of the plastic bag. He examined it with a sound of satisfaction.

  “It’s the same model I had,” he pronounced.

  C.Z. stared at the gun, her thoughts veering to her father. What would he say if he knew she was doing this? He’d had enormous respect for the law, but he’d also said on more than one occasion that the law wasn’t always just.

  Zach glanced at her as she tried to blink away the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes. She managed to smile. “Sorry. It’s my dad’s. You’d think by now I’d be over his death. Most of the time, I am. But it was just so sudden and so…pointless.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I heard about it when I came up the following weekend. I don’t hunt myself, but from what I knew of him, he was a careful man. Hunting accidents are sort of the rural version of drive-by shootings.”

  “He was careful—careful about where he hunted and about wearing the right clothes. He knew more than most people what can happen because he’d investigated a number of hunting accidents. The men who were with him never saw the hunter who shot him. They said he must have been using a really high-powered rifle. And everyone said the killer was probably some idiot from the city, out to shoot anything that moved, even if it walked upright and was wearing fluorescent orange. There had been a similar shooting the previous year, but Dad caught the guy.

  “What bothers me most is that I’d spent so little time with him. I was so selfish. I had my life in Rochester and then college and grad school, and so many times when he wanted me to come visit him, I had a reason I couldn’t come. He came to see me, thou
gh, and he called me every week.”

  She was standing on one side of the island counter while he sat on a stool on the other side. He reached out to take her hand. “I don’t think he’d want you to be carrying around a load of guilt, C.Z. Let it go.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. He wouldn’t.” She withdrew her hand and returned to her dinner preparations, then asked him why he’d decided to leave the NYPD to come up here.

  “Believe it or not, I started to think about it after your father’s death. Before I could decide, they appointed Strasser. Then, when I found out he had to retire on disability, I made up my mind.

  “The work was getting to me. I was in homicide, one horrible mess after another, day after day. I looked at the older guys and saw that half of them had been through a couple of marriages and were on their way to alcoholism—and the other half had become so cynical they couldn’t enjoy their off-duty hours. I’d been shot at four times and hit once, and I wondered how much longer my luck would hold out.

  “Your dad came over sometimes when I was up here. He’d talk about his work, and it sounded to me like the kind of work I’d wanted when I decided to become a cop. He tried to talk me into taking a deputy’s position when one came up, but I wasn’t ready to make the move and the pay wasn’t good enough.”

  “After you took the job, were you happy?” she asked curiously.

  “Yeah, I liked it a lot—except for Summers, that is. And Colby, although he wasn’t any worse than a few I’d worked with in the city. I liked living up here, but I knew it was going to take a long time to fit in.

  “The only real friend I made was Sam Gittings, the lawyer who ended up defending me. We went fishing together and played some chess. I’ve been trying to decide whether to ask him for some help. He knows I’m innocent and he’s still trying to prove it. But I’d be putting him into a bad situation if I made contact with him.”