“I know Sam—or at least I did. We grew up in the same neighborhood. His father was dad’s attorney and friend.” She didn’t add that she’d gone out with Sam a few times when she was visiting her father in the summers.
“Maybe I could talk to him,” she went on. “That way, I could find out if he’s learned anything. And if I don’t tell him where you are, he can’t get into trouble.”
“That’s cutting it pretty fine,” Zach said. “Even if you don’t tell him where I am, it’ll be obvious that you know—and he should report that.”
“But would he report it?”
Zach shook his head. “No, I don’t think he would. He was pretty upset about my conviction.”
“Plus he knows me, and that would make it more difficult for him to turn me in. Zach, the problem is that you need the help of someone who knows the community, who can make a guess about why Harvey Summers would try to kill you. He was against your being hired in the first place, so it isn’t likely to be something that happened after you took the job.”
Zach nodded. “Whatever it is, it goes back a ways—and it also must involve Colby. Or maybe not. Maybe Summers has another hold over Colby.”
“I have an old friend I know I can trust. She’s a teacher in the high school, and her father’s a good friend of Harvey Summers’s. In fact, I think they’re distantly related. Her name’s Stacey Robbins.”
“I know who she is. She had me in to talk to her class about drugs.”
“I think that what we’re looking for are skeletons in closets—most likely Harvey Summers’s closet. And if there are any there, I can guarantee you there are people who know about them. There’ve been a lot of new people move into the area in recent years, but the old-timers all know each other well. It’s a close-knit, closed circle.”
Zach chuckled as he set aside the gun he’d started to clean. “This is beginning to remind me of a conversation we had before, that morning at the diner, when we were arguing about how to catch the drunk who killed those kids in the school bus.”
“Are you willing to admit that I was right?” she asked archly.
“Yeah, I am. I knew you were right then, too. I just wanted to get a rise out of you because you were sitting there so calm and cool, while I…” His voice trailed off as their eyes met.
“While I was anything but calm and cool,” he went on. “I wanted to call you after that, but it seemed kind of complicated. I was in the city and you were up in New Haven, and then there was your father. I knew he liked me, and I thought maybe he even wanted to get us together, but…” He shrugged.
“Circumstances,” she said.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Circumstances—and we still have that problem.”
“DO YOU THINK maybe you could trim it a bit?”
C.Z. smiled and shook her head. “It’s fine just as it is—or it will be when your beard grows in.”
“I look like some damned middle-aged hippie—like a Deadhead.” He pulled off the wig and looked at it as though it were some particularly loathsome animal.
“Exactly! That’s the whole idea,” she explained. “What you want is a disguise that not only changes your looks but also changes the way people think about you. I went to Goodwill and got you some old clothes, too.”
“Hmm,” he said, regarding her thoughtfully. “Maybe you’ve got a point. It’s kind of like when I was working street crimes and disguised myself as a homeless person.”
“That’s it,” she said, nodding, amused to see that he could consider the idea only when he thought of it in cop terms.
He grimaced. “Just as long as I can still take showers. I don’t have to smell bad, too, do I?”
C.Z. laughed. “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. You’re an artist friend of Scott’s who’s borrowing his cabin while he’s in Europe. It’s a disguise that could hold up even if the cops show up here at some point.”
“The only problem is that I can’t draw.”
“You won’t have to. There are some half-finished canvases of Scott’s in the closet up in the loft—probably things he was planning to discard. We’ll prop one of them up on the easel. I bought some paints and brushes, too, since Scott didn’t leave anything here. And I can teach you enough to sound knowledgeable—especially to someone who doesn’t know anything about art.”
He nodded, then asked in a carefully neutral tone, “Uh, what’s your relationship with this Scott?”
C.Z. barely managed to conceal a smile. It was the first reference he’d made to the possibility of a man in her life, and he was clearly doing his best to make it sound like a casual inquiry. Careful seemed to be the operative word for them. They were both skirting the issue of their relationship, but she suspected it was on his mind as much as it was on hers.
“Scott and I have been friends since grad school. We met through the drama group. He designed the sets.” She paused for a beat, unable to resist tormenting him a bit. “Scott’s gay.”
“Oh.” His eyes met hers only briefly, but there was no mistaking his relief.
“There isn’t anyone…in my life,” she said, unable to bring herself to say “anyone else.”
“Mine, either,” he said after a brief pause. “There was someone in the city, but it ended after I moved up here.”
Those declarations were followed by silence. Once more to the brink, she thought, amused and frustrated. It seemed that neither of them could get beyond the barriers they’d created.
Zach had turned his attention to the clothing she’d bought for his disguise. When she saw him examine the clothes with obvious distaste, she laughed. “Hippie artists do not buy their clothes at Brooks Brothers or Land’s End.”
“They’re too big,” he grumbled as he looked at the labels.
“No, they’re not. You haven’t seen this yet.”
She picked up a shopping bag and drew out its contents. “This is body padding, so you can be a middle-aged, slightly overweight hippie.”
“You didn’t get carried away or anything, did you?” he asked dryly.
“Just wait until we put it all together. You won’t recognize yourself.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Of course, you’ll have to act the part, too,” she went on.
“Meaning?” he asked, arching a dark brow.
“Meaning you have to practice not sounding like a cop. Take the edge out of your voice, relax your posture.”
“Maybe it would be easier to disguise me as one of those weekend militia types.”
“Perhaps so, but that could draw unwanted attention. You want to seem laid-back and nonthreatening—the opposite of what you are.”
The words came out without thought. She was focusing on the role he would have to play, and then it was too late to take them back.
“It’s pretty hard to act laid-back when you’re the object of a manhunt,” he observed with a grim smile. “And as for my being threatening…”
“I didn’t mean that, exactly,” she told him.
“Yes, you did. You still aren’t sure about me, are you?”
His tone was neutral, but his ice-blue gaze was intent, and she met it with considerable difficulty.
“If I felt threatened by you, I wouldn’t be here.”
“But you’re still not sure I’m telling the truth, are you?”
“I’m a psychologist, Zach, and we’re never really sure about anything.”
He reached out suddenly and placed his hands on her shoulders. She felt the strength of his grip and the heat of the contact—and the stirrings of the hunger she’d been keeping at bay.
“It happened exactly the way I told you, C.Z. It’s really important to me that you believe me.”
“I want to believe you, Zach, and I think I do. But none of it makes any sense. I’ve met Harvey Summers. I like him—and I know Dad liked him, too.”
He took his hands away and nodded. “I know. Everyone likes old Harvey. But the fact is that he tried to kill me.”
He leaned forward in a manner clearly intended to intimidate her. “I could get a court order to waive confidentiality, Doctor. Courts have granted that before in felony cases—and escape from prison is a felony.”
C.Z. didn’t know if that was true or not, though she suspected it might be. She hadn’t been able to discuss the matter with Jack Sanford, her boss, because the detectives had been waiting for her when she arrived at the prison.
She studied the top of her desk, aware of the two men’s gazes on her. Finally, she shrugged. “That won’t be necessary. He didn’t tell me anything that could help you in any way.”
“We’ll be the judge of that, Doctor,” the other man said. He was older, probably close to retirement. Both of them were investigators with the state police.
“Mr. Hollis asked to see me to express his concern about coming back here. He was certain there would be another attempt on his life—particularly now, with the sick-in. I told him that the warden had ordered a lockdown and assured him that I would speak to the warden on his behalf.”
She kept her tone cool and professional, even though images of Zach filled her mind and his brief, parting kiss was still on her lips. She’d left him only hours ago, waking before dawn to make the long trip.
The kiss had been unexpected, unplanned—and all too brief, as though he’d instantly regretted his impulsive behavior. They’d talked about so much—everything, really. Everything but their feelings for each other, that is.
“In fact,” she went on, “I’d already spoken to the warden, and when I told Mr. Hollis the warden said moving him would accomplish little, he agreed with me. I told him the warden planned to move the others as soon as possible, though.”
“According to the guard on duty at the hospital when you went to visit Hollis, you were carrying an attaché case in addition to your purse. Why was that?”
C.Z. sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she had prepared for this question. But even so, icy fingers were playing along her spine. She gestured to the attaché case, which she’d set on her desk.
“I carried it in because my recorder was in it, together with several books I’d gotten for him, books I thought might offer him some…comfort. Open it if you like. It’s all still there. He didn’t want the books.”
“You recorded your conversation with him?” the older detective asked as he took the device out of her attaché case.
She nodded. “I generally do. He was aware of that.”
The man rewound the tape and pressed the play button. The first voice was her own, giving the time and date and her name and Zach’s. Although she’d listened to it several times on her way from the cabin, hearing Zach’s voice still had the same effect.
While the two detectives listened intently, C.Z.’s mind went to the time of the recording, which, of course, wasn’t the date and time she’d indicated. They had recorded the conversation last night at the cabin, sitting before the fire and trying to ignore what both of them were feeling.
She watched the faces of the two men as Zach said that sooner or later, someone would probably succeed in killing him no matter what the warden did. Their expressions gave little away, but she thought the older one, at least, seemed to be showing some sympathy for Zach.
When the recording ended, the younger one glanced through the pop psych books she’d stopped at home to collect. The recording had been Zach’s idea, but the books were hers. Partners in crime.
The two men finally left her office, seemingly satisfied. But C.Z. barely had time to breathe a sigh of relief before Jack Sanford put his head through the door they’d left ajar. His expression was grim.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as he came in and sagged into the chair across from her.
“The program has been terminated as of now.”
“But we have contracts,” she protested for Jack’s benefit. “How can they do that?”
“Oh, they’ll honor the contract. We’ll both be paid for the next six months. But there won’t be any program. The warden convinced the people in Albany that we weren’t making any headway. Can you believe it?”
She could. It had been obvious to her almost from the beginning that neither the warden nor the staff counselors had wanted them there. Still, she’d thought the program would be allowed to run its course.
“He used the fact that all the men involved in the fight were part of the program,” Jack went on angrily. “Never mind the fact that they were chosen because they were known to be violent.”
“I’m really sorry,” she told Jack sincerely. She was sorry—for him. This project had meant a lot to him. He’d had hopes that it could become a model program to be replicated at other prisons.
She was, however, anything but sorry for herself. And she was also well aware of the irony that the state would be paying her salary while she aided and abetted an escaped felon. Zach would probably say it was justice of a sort and perhaps it was.
They talked for a while about the project, commiserating over the obtuseness of the warden and the rigidity of a prison structure that thwarted any attempts to improve things.
“Well,” said Jack as he got up, “I guess it’s back to private practice for me. What about you? I’ll help in any way I can.”
“Thanks, Jack, but since the state is going to pay me for doing nothing, I think that’s just what I’ll do. I never really took a break after grad school, anyway.”
“Good idea.” He nodded. “Enjoy yourself.”
Enjoying herself wasn’t in the cards right now—though her plans were not without their pleasures. She wondered what Jack would think when it all came out.
Or would there be anything to come out? What if they couldn’t prove Zach’s innocence? The task before them seemed daunting to her, though Zach seemed so confident.
Shutting down the project required little effort on her part, though Jack would be there for a few more days. She left behind the chain link fences and the razor wire and the armed guards in their towers and didn’t look back. Even if Zach hadn’t come into her life, she would welcome the end to this job. Perhaps that had made the decision to help him a bit easier.
She drove home to her condo, fighting the urge to continue to the cabin. She had suggested coming back at mid-week, but Zach had argued against it—particularly if the police showed any signs of suspecting her. And now that they had questioned her, she knew it was too dangerous.
Chapter Four
C.Z. pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, then turned off the engine and sat there, watching the traffic. No one else pulled in—or even appeared to slow down. Maybe she was being paranoid, pushed into that state by a nagging conscience.
In the two days following her meeting with the detectives, she’d become increasingly certain she was being followed. Twice, she’d seen a black Bronco parked in the visitors’ lot at her condo complex. Under ordinary circumstances, she paid no attention to vehicles parked there, but both times, the Bronco had been parked in the one spot that had an unobstructed view of her front door, an inconvenient spot at the far end of the visitors’ lot. And on one occasion, she’d seen the same vehicle, or one like it, behind her in traffic.
As she was about to get out of the car, a boxy black vehicle that looked very much like the one she’d seen before passed by on the highway, slowing down then speeding up.
How many vehicles like it could there be? Probably dozens. Sport utility vehicles were very popular. Besides, she couldn’t really be certain that this one was the same as the one at the condo. She’d known it was a Bronco only because she’d seen the name on it.
She hesitated, then decided to wait in her car to see if the truck came back. She was a bit early for her dinner date with her friend Stacey. Stacey had chosen a restaurant mid-way between their homes, and C.Z. ha
dn’t been certain how to get there.
As she was about to go into the restaurant, the truck passed by again, this time moving fast, too fast for her to get a look at the license plate. But it was definitely a Bronco, and it was now headed in the opposite direction.
Stacey pulled into the lot in her cherry red Miata just as C.Z. got out of her car, and as the two women embraced, the black Bronco slipped from her mind.
Stacey Robbins had been C.Z.’s best friend during their childhood, and while those bonds had loosened somewhat after C.Z. moved away, they’d never been broken. In recent years, the two women had seen each other only on rare occasions, but their phone bills attested to a friendship that had continued despite the distance.
“So how does it feel to be gainfully unemployed?” Stacey asked after they were seated. C.Z. had already told her about the loss of her job.
“It feels quite nice, frankly. The prison was a rough place.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Stacey stated dryly. “Wonderful atmosphere. Fascinating people. I never understood why you took the job in the first place.”
C.Z. sighed. “I think it had something to do with my feelings of guilt over my father. I guess I thought that working in the law enforcement field would be a sort of tribute to him.”
“My guess is that he would have wanted you to do what you liked best.”
“You’re right,” C.Z. admitted. “Maybe I’ll get into family practice.”
“Good, because I’ve just learned about something that might interest you.”
“Oh?”
“Ondago Family Services, a nonprofit group, is going to be looking for a psychologist. They have several, and one of them is leaving in another couple of months. She’s pregnant and she plans to take a few years off after her baby is born. They’re a good agency. I think you’d like them.”
Over dinner, Stacey told her more about the agency and its work. She was familiar with them because as a teacher and a member of her school’s student assistance program, she regularly referred kids and their families to the agency. It sounded to C.Z. like the kind of job she wanted, and if Zach cleared his name and stayed on…
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