Dark Waters (2013)

by Anderson, Toni

  The foreign landscape hadn’t improved his mood. He missed the ocean. This vast expanse of land felt too static, claustrophobic. How did anyone stand it without going nuts? Plus there were all these cars going in every direction. Cars on both sides of him, pressed close, front and back. His stomach started to churn.

  What sort of pansy-ass was scared of fricking driving?

  Gritty eyed, he signaled and pulled into a drive-through for coffee. Glancing quickly at Anna dozing in the passenger seat, he couldn’t help thinking that this was the sort of future he’d denied himself when he’d killed his father.

  Too bad. Get over it.

  He ordered them both coffee at the window and Anna woke up, blinking widely. “Where are we?”

  “Thirty minutes out. You want to drive?”

  “Sure, you must be exhausted.”

  He wasn’t tired. His brain felt like it had been hotwired, and until this thing was finished, he didn’t feel like closing his eyes. But a mental break would help, and she knew her way around the city.

  Pansy-ass.

  They swapped seats, and before long they pulled up in a neighborhood of bungalows and swing sets. He frowned. “Where are you going?” They’d agreed on finding a motel and contacting some of her friends and colleagues from the school.

  Her back was straight. Jaw set. “It’s early. We should check the mail at my house before there are too many people around. And I can grab some stuff from my house.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Work, for school.” Tendons shone white through the skin on her knuckles. This was her way of gaining control of the situation. He got that, but…“It’ll take just a couple of minutes. I have everything on an external drive and in a single box file. That’s all I need.” Her eyes were hard, determined. “We grab it, the mail, and get out of there.”

  His heart turned into a stone that rattled around his chest. He should have known she’d do something like this, and with her hands on the steering wheel, he was powerless to stop her without crashing the damn car. Although maybe it was better to get this over with. A quick in and out early in the morning. He ran his hand through his short spiky hair. “Fine. Don’t pull up outside your place. Do a drive-by, we’ll see if anyone is camped out front, then park around the corner.” He grabbed his hat and put it on her head. “Keep it on,” he ordered when she went to jerk it off.

  “But the car windows are tinted.” She scowled but left the hat in place. They pulled into a quiet street lined with mature trees. He saw the white picket fence ahead on the right and immediately knew it was hers.

  “Don’t slow down.”

  She drove past and Brent checked it out. Pink roses nestled in green leaves, looking like some idyllic grotto. It wasn’t his beach, but it was pretty. He hated it, and didn’t know why.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone watching the place from the street. “Pull over up ahead.” They were far enough away to not be noticeable.

  The silence was intense. “They can’t watch everywhere, right?”

  “They tracked you all the way to Bamfield. Putting someone on your house seems like a no-brainer.”

  She went white, but these guys were not playing games. He wasn’t going to sugarcoat reality just so she could get herself killed. It was early. The neighborhood was quiet. That perfect morning light filtering through the leafy canopy.

  “It’s a nice spot,” he conceded.

  “I know it isn’t a million-dollar home, but I like it.” There was longing in her eyes as she stared toward her home and his heart shriveled a little. He understood exactly what it meant to love a place. Just another reason things would never work out between them, even if he wasn’t a convicted killer and she wasn’t on the run.

  “How long do we just sit here?” Anna asked after a minute’s silence.

  Brent laughed. “Well, an hour would be sensible but I figure you have thirty seconds tops.”

  He could feel her energy growing, sparking off her skin in invisible waves. Her hand slid to the door opener.

  “And we’re done.” Junkies craving a fix had more patience than Anna. Hell, mental patients on a psychotic break had more patience than this woman. He blew out a massive breath and climbed out of the car. Stretched his back as cool morning air swept over him. Anna came around the front, still dressed in figure-hugging black with the cap on her head. Hot, even after a night sleeping in the car.

  Shit.

  He took her hand so she didn’t disappear on him. Instead of walking up to the front door he cut along the street behind her property. He felt exposed out here on the asphalt. The desire to carry a gun was overwhelming but he knew he was going to run into the cops eventually, and didn’t want to be armed when he did. Deportation held no allure if he ended up back in prison. Even being with Anna was dangerous if she was implicated in Davis’s misadventures. But he gripped her fingers tighter and she squeezed back. It shocked him almost as much as that kiss.

  Don’t think about the kiss. It had been one of the most innocent kisses of his life and had seared his feet to the floor.

  “Let’s cut through the neighbor’s garden,” he said.

  “I don’t think the Radmundsens are going to enjoy two people sneaking through their yard.”

  “The whole point about sneaking is they don’t find out.”

  She laughed quietly. God. Was that the first time? He wasn’t exactly known for lightening the moment.

  They cut through the neighbor’s neatly trimmed lawn, strewn with kids’ bikes and balls. Goalposts against the rear fence. He held out his hands to give Anna a boost over the fence, ignoring the feel of her body against him.

  Too good for you, pal.

  He vaulted the panel and dropped beside Anna, who was staring at her back door with a frown.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “Something looks different…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Blinds? Plant pots? Length of the lawn?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped.

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

  Those green eyes narrowed into a death glare.

  “You do wear panties, right? Because I’ve heard stories about you schoolteacher types—”

  Her elbow struck his solar plexus and he stopped talking.

  She got to the back porch just ahead of him. He stopped her with a hand to the shoulder. “Let me go first.” He took the keys from her fingers and took a step forward.

  She gripped his arm. “Be careful.” She was getting a vibe and he was getting it too. A frisson of danger, an undercurrent of warning.

  He opened the door onto carnage. The smell hit him first. A man lay in a pool of crimson. His ears had been mutilated, face sliced, shallow cuts all over his body, marked by bloodstains. Red smears across the floor that suggested he’d spent a lot of time writhing in agony and trying to escape—drag marks showed he hadn’t gotten far.

  Anna gasped. He tried to grab her before she went inside, but hell, she was slippery.

  “Peter? Oh, no, Peter!” Her hands went to her mouth.

  “He’s dead,” Brent said roughly. His skin prickled with something that felt a lot like fear. He grabbed her hand, intending to drag her away from this scene of violence when the tiniest sound made him whirl.

  The guy from the subway station photograph stood in the kitchen doorway with a smile on his face and a knife in his right hand. He wore gloves and a wool hat. And had the coldest eyes this side of death. “Anna.”

  Brent launched himself at the stranger. He had the advantage of size, surprise, and twenty years in one of the toughest survival situations in the world. “Run!” he yelled at Anna.

  He hit the guy hard and they flew through the doorway. The fucker twisted and they crashed to the floor and rolled, taking out half of Anna’s living room furniture with them. He jabbed the guy’s nose, blood gushing over his jaw.

  “That’s your DNA all over your crim
e scene, buddy. You’re done.” Brent punched him again.

  Black eyes hardened and Brent got flipped in the air. “Not. Unless. They catch me. Asshole.” The other guy had the advantage of military training and the desire to not end up where Brent had spent most his life. Anna stood in the doorway as the killer got to his feet. She screamed—which wasn’t real useful when it came to getting the hell out of there. Brent roared and he was back on the floor with his arms wrapped tight around the bastard’s neck while that knife flashed way too close for comfort. Adrenaline primed his body for action. Heart drilled. Lungs bellowed. No way was this guy getting through him to Anna.

  A fist to the balls had white-hot agony flashing along every nerve, but he didn’t let go. Knew, if he did, both he and Anna were dead. Where was she? Why the hell wouldn’t she get out of here?

  Jesus.

  He had the guy’s knife arm pinned under his leg. They were so close he could smell the guy’s sweat and soap. They grunted, muscles straining as they wrestled for supremacy. With a bullish grunt the other guy bucked free and twisted around to face him. Both on their knees facing one another, the knife flashed and Brent hissed with pain as the edge nicked his chin. The force was enough to throw him on his back. The guy loomed over him, aiming to shove that blade right through his gut, but there was a loud crash and he collapsed limp on the floor as wine and glass rained all around.

  Brent climbed to his feet, dripping alcohol and green shards.

  “Is he dead?” Anna’s eyes were huge. She held the broken bottle in her right hand. She dropped it and it rolled on the floor.

  Brent checked the guy’s pulse. Felt it flutter. “No.” Then he picked up the unbroken neck of the bottle and wiped the fingerprints off with his T-shirt, dropped it. “Just in case,” he said, catching her eye. No way was she doing prison time for saving his ass. Then he heard sirens. “One of your neighbors must have reported the noise. Let’s get out of here.” He acted on instinct. He wasn’t sitting around to be questioned by cops and stuck in a cell for God knew how long. Dread rammed his heart into overdrive. He dragged Anna out of the house. Both of them battered and covered in dark stains. Blood. “Are you hurt?” he asked as they hopped the fence and jogged toward their rental.

  She shook her head. Peter’s blood then—whoever the fuck Peter was. Poor bastard. She tripped but he kept her moving.

  “Keys,” he demanded.

  She was fishing in her pocket but the sirens were getting too close. He slipped his hand in her pocket, got the keys. Put her in the passenger seat and then got in, started the car, and turned and drove slowly away. “Which way?” he asked.

  Anna sat in stunned silence as he searched the neighborhood for a clue of which way to head. He wanted to get on the highway and take them as far from here as possible. “Which way to the freeway, Anna? Or a mall?” They needed to get cleaned up, buy supplies, and regroup. They needed to get the fuck out of here. He needed Holly’s help to get Anna into protective custody. That was the only place she’d be safe. He was done with these pricks. Davis had managed to poke a stick in the wrong fucking hornet’s nest.

  Anna had hit zombie land. He passed a squad car speeding toward her house. Checked his speed. Saw signs to the 494 and Mall of America. Now there was the place to get lost. They needed to disappear, to get off the grid until the cops got a goddamn handle on this shit. Hopefully finding that asshole unconscious in Anna’s house with a dead guy in the kitchen would speed things along.

  “Who was Peter?” he asked.

  Nothing. No flicker of reaction. She’d shut down and wasn’t coming out anytime soon.

  He followed signs and buried the car among thousands of others outside the giant mall. He grabbed their bag from the backseat, changed shirts. He undid the buttons of Anna’s black shirt and pulled it over her shoulders. She sat there unmoving in a pretty navy bra and he could think of nothing except how vulnerable she looked. He dragged a plain blue T-shirt out of the bag and pulled it over her head. He put the ball cap back over her long hair and adjusted it so her face would be hidden, hair pulled up. He climbed out of the car, slung the bag over his shoulder as he got Anna out of the car, and guided her into the mall.

  He’d just left the scene of a crime and it was enough to put him back inside indefinitely.

  Time to run.

  An ear-shattering noise pulled Rand out of the fog, and he was on his feet and out the back door before he’d even figured out what it was. Cops. He vaulted two fences and tore off his hat and wiped the blood off his face. He stank of booze and there was a lump on the back of his skull that throbbed like a grenade.

  He’d had the big guy and had been about to gut him when that bitch had nailed him. The situation had turned into another shitfest and he needed to get the fuck out of Dodge and figure out where Anna Silver had run this time.

  Peter had been a waste of time. The guy really did know nothing and the idiot had twisted at exactly the wrong moment and a harmless jab had ended up pricking the guy’s kidney. Bye-bye Peter. Poor schmuck. She’d strung him along. Hell, Rand had done him a favor putting him out of his misery.

  He’d dropped his knife in the house. Shit! And bled all over the living room. Cops were going to be all over him for murder if they found him.

  They weren’t going to find him.

  He had more false identities than Jason Bourne. He made himself stop and buy a newspaper. Changed his gait from leaving a crime scene to taking a morning stroll. Kudrow was going to be pissed. There was so much heat right now he didn’t even want to talk to the guy, but he didn’t have a choice. He got back to his motel room and climbed into the shower, fully clothed. When the water ran clean he stripped off and shampooed his hair. Once he was thoroughly clean he got out, dried off, and punched in the number.

  “She’s in Minneapolis,” he said.

  “You have her?” Kudrow asked.

  “No.”

  Kudrow started swearing.

  “She’s still looking for that envelope. Got a guy in tow—Carver.”

  “I’ve got two dead cops. A private investigator in the ICU. Marco’s dead and the fucking RCMP are sniffing around.” Kudrow sounded like he was about to stroke out.

  “Cops might want to talk to her now. There was a murder at her home…”

  Kudrow growled. “You’re fucking this up, Rand.”

  “It’s been fucked up from the moment it started and you know it.” Anger swelled inside him. He was the one chasing across continents and fighting for his life, and this guy was criticizing him? He hung on to his temper. Just. “The guy helping her is an ex-con. He’s got to be connected.”

  “We’re running out of time,” Kudrow said quietly.

  Rand heard the subtle edge of desperation in the guy’s voice. “You are working on an alternative plan, right?”

  “We’re sorting things out at the office.” Code for packing up and moving out. Kudrow’s voice dropped lower. “You need to find that girl.”

  That I do.

  “We need that money, Rand.” Kudrow knew it was only a matter of time before the feds caught up to them.

  “Got any cop connections in Minnesota?” asked Rand.

  Kudrow thought for a minute. “No, but Petrie claims he can hack into any police database in the country. Let’s see if he can live up to his big-mouth boasting for a change. Sixty million dollars. It’s a lot of money.”

  Sixty frickin’ million. No kidding.

  “Mail service can take a week for a letter to get anywhere.” Rand stood naked, looking out of the motel window, trying to think.

  “We don’t have a week.”

  “They’re going to need transportation. Somewhere to stay. She can’t run on cash forever.” And he wanted to be there when she stopped running. He clenched his jaw thinking about how close he’d been to her. He’d seen her pupils flare, seen the flush of rose on her skin. Smelled the slight musk of her sweat. He’d had her within arm’s reach. So close. So damn close. No way was
he letting her win. But his first priority was getting his hands on that money because he could always come back for his revenge another day, when she least expected it. A thought suddenly struck him. “We’re going about this all wrong.”

  “No shit,” Kudrow snarled.

  Rand smiled. “But I know how to do it right.” Finally.

  CHAPTER 11

  Anna followed Brent in a daze through the brightly lit aisles of another big-box store. Peter. Dead. Blood all over her kitchen floor. The images revolted her. The look of excitement in the killer’s eyes when she’d met his gaze—like he knew her, like he owned her. She shuddered. She recognized that predatory glint.

  Tears welled in her eyes. Poor Peter. She’d treated him dreadfully. He’d gotten nothing for his trouble except the dubious pleasure of her company, and the first time he kissed her, she’d dumped him. Now he was dead. She wasn’t worth that. No one was worth that.

  Brent had kissed her. She touched her lips.

  Why had she reacted so badly to being kissed by a nice guy like Peter, but enjoyed the touch of Brent’s lips against hers? Had Peter just tasted wrong? Or was she still punishing herself for the past by being attracted to someone so completely unsuitable?

  “Snap out of it, Anna.” Brent clicked his fingers under her nose. “I need you with me until we get out of the city.”

  She blinked. Brent. They were in danger. He was in danger. She swallowed and nodded. They both wore ball caps and had changed shirts. She frowned. When had they done that?

  He picked up a large box from the shelf. “Hold the cart.”

  She grabbed the handlebar. He dumped the box and strode to grab sleeping bags off a shelf, and a first aid kit. He got the biggest one on the shelf and then she remembered all the blood.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” Her hand flew to her mouth and he grabbed her wrist and strode down an aisle that led to the bathrooms. He didn’t even hesitate, just strode into the ladies’ room and held her hair while she vomited into the toilet.