Dangerous To Love

by Chevon Gael

  It was Tara's turn to interrupt. “How the hell would you know? You just happened to stumble onto us. This whole thing would still go on as planned regardless of whether or not you found me. So you can either sit back on the sidelines and bitch or you can help us. What's it going to be, Brett?"

  * * * *

  He sat there for a few moments, looking from Tara to Carter and back again. He knew there was nothing he could say that would change their minds. There was only one way to stop them and keep them safe. And if he did that, then he might as well cut himself loose from Tara forever.

  "You get caught breaking any laws across the border, I can't help you. You'll never be allowed back into this country, Tara. You might even lose Patrick. Do you want that?"

  "God, No! But I refuse to stand by and let this opportunity slip away. It might be a year before we get another chance. You don't understand, Brett. He's not guarded as heavily at the camp. Carter has someone in the inside willing to help us. The border is just a short drive away. We've got everything covered."

  "Except for one thing. If you get caught, have you considered what will happen to you, not only by the police, but by Roman? And what about Patrick? His father's going to know the kid was conspiring to escape. How is it going to affect him? You think what you saw is bad? A bad-ass like DeMarco won't be above breaking a few bones to prove a point about disloyalty."

  "That's enough, fed,” barked Carter as Tara gasped suddenly and nearly sank to the floor. Brett jumped up and caught her as she leaned against the computer table. Carter hobbled over and put his arms around her.

  "He doesn't mean it, sweetie. He's only trying to make a point.” He glared at Brett over the top of her head. “You can leave anytime and take your interrogation room manners with you."

  Brett fumed back. “Are we done playing good cop, bad cop? Yes, I can see we are. This is like talking to a brick wall. All I can say is, good luck to you, to all of you. You're going to need it.” Brett stalked out of the room before either Carter or Tara could stop him.

  * * * *

  Tara made a dash for the door, but Carter stopped her. “Let him go, Tara. I had him pegged the first time I met him. He's nothing but a hard-ass. He only sees things in black and white. He pisses rules and farts regulations. He's trained to get a hard-on only when he gets a chance to cock his pistol."

  "Wanna bet?"

  Carter's eyebrows shot up.

  "Oops!” she muttered. “Over share. You're not going to shoot him, are you?"

  Carter gave her his best disapproving-father look. “No! As much as I'd like to though. You're too old for me to lecture, so it's enough that you know he's gonna walk and you'll get hurt."

  Tara's attention was called away from Carter as she heard the unmistakable sound of the front door slamming. Seconds later, a car engine roared to life. The basement windows suddenly filled with light, then faded as the car backed out of the driveway. Tara's hopes about Brett faded, too. Her shoulders sagged. What she'd suspected all along about Brett was true, despite their passionate interlude this afternoon. When the going got tough, the tough bailed. She couldn't blame him. She knew from the beginning that getting involved with him would only end in disaster, and she'd been right. Brett didn't want a ready-made family with a lover whose personal history was fodder for the next reality movie of the week. Brett deserved better. A nice, respectable woman who wouldn't embarrass him or cost him his job. She tried to tell herself they were both better off. Her head was listening, even if her heart wasn't.

  She looked at Carter and thought about what he'd said about getting hurt. Tears stung her eyes as she murmured. “I'm already there."

  CHAPTER 11

  The O'Conners were up before dawn on Friday. Carter packed his van, while Tara and Rachel made sandwiches and played a game of acting as normal as possible.

  "Mustard or mayo,” Tara absently asked Rachel.

  "Hmm?” Rachel was filling a thermos with hot coffee.

  "Carter's ham sandwich.” Tara held a butter knife, poised over two open jars of condiments.

  "Oh. Both."

  "Lettuce, Rach?"

  "Uh, huh."

  "Nervous?"

  "Not too much. He's watching his cholesterol."

  Rachel stopped pouring the coffee and looked at Tara. “I wish I was going with you like we planned."

  "Negative, sis. You're in the family way and my kid needs a sitter.” She didn't voice her most profound fear. My kid needs a parent if this goes to hell in a handbasket.

  Rachel went back to the coffee and poured a generous amount of sugar into the thermos. “We should go over everything one more time, Tara."

  "We've been over it a dozen times already."

  "Just humor me, okay. Where's your purse?"

  "In the hallway where I left it yesterday. It hasn't moved. I checked it this morning."

  "And Pat's birth certificate?"

  "In the purse."

  "The court order."

  "Ditto. Stop worrying Rachel. It's not good for you."

  "I know. Uh-oh. You finish, Tara. I have to do something."

  "What?"

  "Throw up."

  Rachel bolted from the kitchen into the bathroom. Tara shook her head in empathy. Been there, done that. She wrapped the sandwiches and screwed the top on the thermos. She spotted a wad of American money on the kitchen counter Carter had withdrawn from the bank a few days ago. She decided the safest place for that was in her purse. She tiptoed down the hallway, careful not to wake Kerry.

  She opened her purse. Her heart darted downward and her breath lodged in her throat. The envelope with Patrick's papers was gone.

  * * * *

  "BASTARD!"

  "Slime!"

  "Miserable son of a bitch! I should have shot him.” Carter pounded away at his computer. “I know I scanned copies of both kids’ papers. Rachel can get a duplicate court order when the office opens at nine-thirty. In the meantime, we'll have to be happy with a copy of the birth certificate. And we only need it if we're stopped at the border. But by the time we get there, DeMarco's goons will have had time to alert the authorities. If we're really lucky, we can tie ourselves up in red tape and stall long enough to get the court order faxed to the border. Found it. Just take a minute to print off a copy. Tara, go start the van. Rachel, stop worrying. And both of you, stop swearing. I'll deal with Brett Sinclair later."

  Tara would deal with him herself, if it was the last thing she ever did. But after Patrick was safe. She still couldn't believe it. Not that he ran out on her, but that he stole her precious envelope. She would never forgive him.

  They were on their way within the hour. They knew they'd lost precious time and Carter might have to make it up on the highway.

  "Hey, this retiree's badge has got to be good for something,” he quipped when Tara mentioned the liberties he was taking with the provincial highway speed limit. “Besides, it's getting close to shift change. Nobody wants to be handing out tickets this close to off-duty."

  Tara could only smile and nod as she sat, white knuckled, and strapped into the passenger seat. However, Carter's theory was put to the test about an hour later as a car pulled out of a side road and flagged them over with lights and sirens.

  "Oh f-u-c-k! It's the white doors."

  Tara pounded the divider between them. “Will you please tell me what that means?"

  Carter pulled over to the shoulder and brought the van to a halt. “It's what the Indians call the Mounties because of their marked cars. The cars are all white except for the logo on the doors. At night, all the Indians see is that great big buffalo head on those white doors. Hence the nickname. Right now, it means trouble if your fed is the prick I think he is and has done what I think he's done."

  Carter had his identification ready and waiting when the young officer approached the van's window.

  "Morning, folks. You know how fast you were driving, sir?"

  "A little heavy on the right foot, was I? It's th
is bum knee of mine, sometimes my foot falls asleep."

  The officer perused Carter's I.D., then handed it back. “Okay, Detective O'Conner. Take it easy next time. Have a good day."

  "You, too.” Carter waited until the officer was back in his car before he let out a huge breath.

  "Shit! That was close."

  "Hmm.” Tara scowled at him. “Let's take it easy. We can't afford any more attention."

  A few hours later, they sat in line at the border crossing. Carter tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music playing on the radio. Tara busied herself by knitting on a sweater she'd started for Kerry.

  "Try to relax, Tara. You're too tense. Just look busy, like you don't even realize we've stopped and let me answer the questions.” Tara nodded, not even trusting herself to answer him. The knitting needles shook between her fingers. She was making a mess of the hem. But it didn't matter, it was something to do.

  The first hint that something was about to go terribly wrong came when she glanced in the side mirror and noticed someone placing orange cones behind the van. The traffic officer redirected the cars behind them into another lane.

  "Relax, Tara. The guy's probably going for a pee break after he finishes with us."

  Tara bit her lip and watched the shaded booth ahead. She saw two uniformed guards enter the booth.

  "Carter..."

  "Relax. They're probably just doing a routine check. Even if they pull us over to search the van, it doesn't mean anything's wrong. Vans are notorious vehicles for smuggling. We have nothing to hide. Listen to the music. Keep knitting."

  At last they were given the signal to proceed to the border stop. Tara listened as the border guard droned out all the usual questions.

  But instead of, “Thank you, have a nice trip,” she heard the guard tell Carter to pull the van over into a secluded area.

  She strangled a cry in her throat.

  "Take it easy. We've been secondaried, just like I expected. They won't keep us long, only until they're satisfied we're not smuggling anything illegal."

  Carter parked the van and got out. Tara grabbed her purse and got out her side. She came around to join him. Carter slipped his arm around her and hugged her reassuringly. “Let's use this time to stretch our legs and hit the washroom. Maybe grab a snack."

  Tara smiled at him and they went into the border office. Tara sat in a visitor's chair and watched while Carter hobbled off to the men's room. She looked around the office. Something wasn't right. Despite the number of vehicles pulled over for inspection, she and Carter were the only two people in the office. The main doors slid open and two uniformed men approached her. Panic welled up inside her. She gripped her knitting needles, bowed her head and pretended to count stitches. Each of the men took a stance on either side of her. Suddenly another man stood directly in front of her, shielding her view of the men's room. The man knelt down in front of her. He was wearing a highway uniform similar to the officer who stopped Carter earlier.

  "Good morning, Miss Morgan. I'm Sergeant Oglethorpe. Don't be frightened. Would you come with me, please?"

  * * * *

  "Detained? In God's name, why?” Carter's panic bordered on hysteria. And where had they taken Tara?

  "She hasn't done anything. She's an American citizen. Look at her birth certificate. Anything else is just a misunderstanding. Call Constable Sinclair, he'll tell you,” Carter argued with the sergeant.

  "Which is why, detective, you of all people should know that harboring, aiding and abetting a fugitive is a federal no-no."

  "Don't patronize me! I know damned well what's behind this. I was told Tara has immunity. She's free to come and go as she pleases. She has a court order, well, she will have it as soon as it gets here. Call the Winnipeg court house, Judge Elsie Dixon. It was issued this week. You can't hold us."

  The sergeant folded his arms across his chest and regarded Carter with a cool expression. “We'll just wait for the copy to be faxed to us. In the meantime, feel free to enjoy the hospitality of this office."

  It literally was an office. Four very small walls, a plain white ceiling, and a door with one very large lock. He wondered how Tara was faring.

  She was faring just fine. A female officer offered her refreshments, let her call Rachel and escorted her to the bathroom where she stood over the sink and splashed running water on her tear-stained face. She didn't care who saw her or what they thought. She cried and cried and begged to be let go. All she got was the same placating answer, “Soon."

  The female officer touched her shoulder and handed her a tissue. Tara sniffed loudly and brushed her hair over her shoulder. “It really is going to be all right, Miss Morgan. You'll see."

  Tara said nothing as she accepted the tissue and blew her nose. “You don't understand. None of you understand. It's not going to be okay unless you let us go.” No matter how many times they tried to tell her that because she'd entered the country under less than normal circumstances and computers and paperwork took time, it didn't help. True, the sergeant had been very kind and even managed to look disapproving every time she mentioned Brett's name, still it didn't help.

  Time and time again she looked at her watch. Precious minutes were ticking away. She could feel Patrick slipping farther and farther from her grasp. Poor little boy, scared and alone and waiting for a rescue that might never come. Or had he been caught? Tara refused to let herself think of the nightmarish consequences. A sharp rap on the ladies’ room door snapped her attention away from her fear. The officer answered the door, spoke to a man, then returned to where Tara stood looking into the mirror and trying to repair her make-up.

  "You can go now, Miss Morgan."

  Somehow, the woman's face seemed to beam at the prospect. Probably glad to get rid of a sobbing female, thought Tara, although she took her first deep breath in what seemed like hours.

  "We just need you to sign some papers."

  "Anything,” she sighed. “Just as long as I can leave here in the next five minutes."

  The woman ushered Tara behind the main counter and toward a large office away from the main lobby. Hopefully, Carter was there, too. Or perhaps he was in the van waiting for her. Regardless, freedom was the only thing on her mind.

  Which was why when she opened the door, the shock of who was waiting for her caused her knees to give out even as she clutched her escort for support.

  It was no good. The impact of the greeting knocked her off balance and she landed on the floor.

  "PATRICK!"

  "MOM!"

  * * * *

  He cried and ate. And laughed and ate. And talked non-stop while he ate. What he talked about most was his new friend, Constable Brett. They all decided that food and rest was the order of the afternoon before any thought of getting back on the road and going home.

  Carter leaned over and whispered in Tara's ear. “Do all twelve year-olds eat this much?"

  Tara could only sit and stare cow-eyed at her son, one arm around his shoulder while constantly smoothing his hair. If only he didn't start every sentence with “Brett said” or “Brett did.” Frankly, she was still in awe of what “Brett did” in spite of what “Brett said.” It didn't matter. Patrick was here. She was holding him. And he was holding his own against the restaurant menu.

  "Earth to Tara."

  "Sorry, Carter. In answer to your question, when you get there, let me know."

  Patrick gulped down the last of a large chocolate milkshake and let out a manly belch, causing Tara to stare wide-eyed at him. “I beg your pardon, young man."

  "Sorry, Mom. I mean, excuse me. Can I have some blueberry pie? Constable Brett likes blueberry pie, don't you, sir."

  Brett had largely been excluded in Tara's view, except that Carter insisted that he join them for lunch. He apparently had had some time to talk to Brett before the reunion took place. Typical of men to stick together, she seethed inwardly. Maybe Carter was ready to forgive Brett, but he still had to settle with he
r.

  Brett grinned at Patrick and they gave each other a high-five.

  "That's nice, sweetie. Eat some more vegetables first, please."

  "I have a sister I've never met. Did you know that, Constable Brett?"

  "Yep. You only told me about eight times."

  "You've met her, haven't you, sir. What's she like?"

  "Messy."

  Carter intervened. “She's a toddler, Brett, what do you expect? I've been changing the kid's diapers since she was born. Be lucky she's almost toilet trained."

  "She's a lot like your mother, Patrick,” said Brett.

  "Cool! Did you know my mom has a store?"

  Brett raised his eyes and looked at Tara. “Yes, I know."

  * * * *

  For the first time that day, Tara's expression softened as she looked at Brett. If he was lucky he might end the day unscathed from Tara's wrath and vindicated by his actions. It didn't matter. It was worth it to see Tara with her son. All that false reserve was gone. There was no tension in the air, except the first few times she looked at him after the shock wore off. Once she got past the if-looks-could-kill stage, he knew he'd be back in her good books. He also knew it wouldn't be a matter of who made the first move. They both had issues to put on the table. But not now.

  "Mr. Oglethorpe gave me a skateboard! I'm gonna build a ramp and thread the needle just like Tony Hawk!"

  "Would somebody like to translate?” Tara addressed her question to the table.

  "I think that means, get him a helmet and some padding."

  "Awe!"

  "Sorry, sport. Rules is rules. All skateboarders need to wear helmets."

  "Better listen to Brett, my love. He's a real stickler on rules. Aren't you?"

  Brett looked at the woman across from him. “It's starting already is it?"

  "Yep."

  "No chance of reprieve?"

  She shook her head. “Nope."

  "How much penance and for how long?"

  "I haven't decided,” said Tara as she glanced over the menu. It had not gone unnoticed that she hadn't ordered anything except tea.