by Pamela Clare
Oh, Hunt!
Yes, he was a killer, but he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. He had taken a man’s life, but he hadn’t done it out of malice. That might be a small distinction from some peoples’ points of view, but to Sophie it meant everything.
Yes, she would help him, but discreetly and on her own terms. She had promised to keep everything he’d told her tonight in confidence, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t dig deeper and start piecing it together. Hunt and Megan deserved justice, and maybe one day Sophie would be able to help them get it.
KRISTY HADN’T RECOGNIZED him till she’d gotten in his car, and by then it had been too late. It had been years since she’d seen him—if you didn’t count her nightmares. She might have told him to fuck himself and jumped out of the car if he hadn’t offered to pay so much. Usually she got no more than fifteen or twenty for a blow job, so fifty bucks was like a reverse twofer—do one, get paid for two. She’d liked that idea. That meant one less cock she had to suck or fuck tonight. And she had to admit that there was something perversely satisfying about making the rat bastard pay for something he’d stolen so many times before. When he’d offered her a few grams of heroin on top of the fifty, she’d called it a deal.
She’d sucked him off with her eyes closed, trying to block out the sound of his voice, then pocketed both the fifty and the drugs.
“Where does a cop get heroin?” she’d asked.
“Where do you think? We bust people, take their shit, and use it or sell it.”
That didn’t seem fair, but she hadn’t said so. All she’d wanted at that moment was to get as far away from him as possible. She’d stepped out of his car, watched him drive away, then puked in the snow. Then she’d started back toward the cheap-ass apartment Rodney made her share with two other girls, looking over her shoulder the entire way.
Finally home, she let herself in and locked the door behind her, glad to find herself alone. She threw down her purse, took the baggie out of her pocket, took a small amount of heroin and put it in the bottom of the torn beer can she used as a cooker. Then she added a little water from the tap, held her lighter to the aluminum, and waited.
It had to be complete chance that she’d run into him tonight. He’d seemed just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. Well, she hoped she never saw him again. That fucker and his friends had taken whatever innocence she’d had left and shredded it. She’d have to hide if she saw him coming. No matter how much he paid her, she wouldn’t do him again.
She watched the small chunk of heroin bubble down to liquid, tossed the lighter aside, and drew the precious fluid into an old syringe. Then she tied off her right calf with the leather belt she used as a tourniquet. The veins in her arms were getting worn out, and guys didn’t want to buy sex from a whore who had big bruises on her arms. But no one ever looked at her feet, and the veins there were easy to find and still strong.
She wiggled her toes, slapped the top of her foot, picked her spot. Then she slid the needle into the vein, drew back on the plunger till she got blood, and injected salvation straight into her bloodstream. Tossing the syringe onto her bed, she pulled off the tourniquet and sank down onto her pillow, warmth shooting up her leg like liquid happiness.
It took her a few seconds to realize something was wrong, but by then she didn’t care.
CHAPTER 12
SOPHIE DRAGGED HERSELF out of bed and toward the shower, feeling worn to the bone. She’d been too upset, too tense, too worried to asleep. She’d stared at the ceiling for what seemed forever, mulling over every word Hunt had said, trying to align what he’d told her with the facts of the case until her tired brain was tied in knots. Then, when she had finally managed to drift off, her thoughts had taken a disturbing X-rated turn.
She’d dreamed that she and Hunt were having sex—slow, sultry, mind-blowing sex. She’d felt every kiss, every touch. She’d even felt him moving inside her, silky smooth thrusts that had driven her to the edge. She’d jerked awake more than once to find herself alone, her body on the brink of an orgasm.
She felt like she hadn’t slept at all.
She stepped under the spray and began to wash her hair, wishing her shampoo had caffeine that could sink directly into her brain. She’d began to wonder whether such a thing were chemically possible, when she realized that she was drifting into dreamland again.
Caffeinated shampoo?
Wake up, Alton.
She rinsed the lather from her hair, worked conditioner through to the ends, then began to shave her legs, the hot water slowly bringing her to life again, her mind sorting through the facts.
Cross had come by Hunt’s house, where Megan had seen him and become hysterical. Hunt had pieced together what she was saying and had confronted Cross. Cross had admitted he’d raped Megan and laughed about it. Enraged, Hunt had pulled his gun and shot Cross in the chest—three bullets through the heart and lungs. Hoping to spare Megan the ordeal of being questioned, he’d sent her out the back door, not knowing that by doing so he was setting himself up for a life sentence. Then he’d taken responsibility for what he’d done and surrendered himself to police.
Though Sophie knew she was far from objective, she believed Hunt had told her the truth. It wasn’t just the fact that nothing he’d said contradicted the facts of the case. It was the way he’d said it.
She’d seen the anguish on his face as he’d recounted Megan’s ordeal. She’d noticed how his fists had clenched when he’d spoken of Cross. She’d seen the way he’d shut his eyes when he’d described the shooting—as if closing them could make the images in his mind go away. Underpinning it all, she’d sensed the deep love he felt for his sister. No wonder Megan viewed him as a hero. He had avenged her, protected her, looked after her.
She’s my sister. She’s the only family I have. I would do anything to protect her.
If anyone understood what he felt, it was Sophie.
What if someone threatened David? How far would she go to protect him?
Would she kill?
God forbid she was ever in a position to find out.
She finished her shower and toweled off, then dried her hair and put on her makeup, trying to hide the circles under her eyes. She leaned closer to the bathroom mirror and began to trace her lips with lip liner, her gaze falling on her own mouth. Her motions stilled, lip liner forgotten, sensation flooding her memory.
I’m sorry I frightened you tonight, Sophie, but I’m not sorry I kissed you.
Sophie regretted the kiss—but only because she’d enjoyed it. A couple minutes of lip-lock, and she’d been trying to get into his pants. And she’d thought he was a good kisser in high school.
Just because he’s a good kisser doesn’t mean you have to go into heat.
Except that he wasn’t a good kisser. He was an amazing kisser. She’d had sex with men who gave off less heat with their entire bodies than Hunt generated with his lips and tongue—and not just when he was kissing her mouth.
Her gaze dropped to her bare nipples, which instantly began to tighten.
She remembered how wonderful it had felt to have his mouth—
Oh, no! You’re not going there, Alton.
The last thing she needed was to get physical with an escaped felon. Contact with him was a good way to end her career and land her own butt behind bars.
Sophie hurried through the rest of her morning routine, dressing in her silk-lined gray woolen suit, more for warmth than style. Eager to get to work, she skipped breakfast and headed through rush-hour traffic to the newspaper, stopping for a cup of spiced chai along the way.
It was still cold outside, but the sun shone brightly in a blinding blue sky, the sight of the snowcapped peaks to the west lifting her spirits. By the time she reached her desk, she had her day planned out and was feeling more like herself than she had since all of this began.
She sorted through her e-mails and press releases, then listened to her voice mail. There was another message from Ken Harburg, ca
lling once again to check up on her.
“I’d like to see you again—when you’re ready, of course. I know this can’t have been easy for you.”
She wrote down his phone number, feeling a little guilty that she hadn’t returned yesterday’s message. It wasn’t his fault seaweed had gotten caught between his teeth. That sort of thing happened to everyone eventually.
But do you really want to go out with him?
A few days ago she might have been able to muster some enthusiasm for the idea, but now it held absolutely no appeal. And it wasn’t hard to figure out why.
Get your mind off Marc Hunter, Alton. Low probability of having a meaningful, long-term relationship, high probability of going to prison.
She was busy getting her mind off him and organizing her notes for the I-Team meeting when her cell phone rang.
It was Tessa. “Hi, Sophie. How are you holding up?”
“Better. How are you and your little body buddy?”
“The baby’s had hiccups all morning. It’s driving me nuts. Every few seconds my whole belly jumps. It’s almost as annoying as having them myself.”
“Hiccups? I didn’t know unborn babies got hiccups.”
“Neither did I till my midwife told me. Julian thinks it’s funny. He sat there with his hand on my tummy during breakfast, a big grin on his face.”
Sophie couldn’t help but smile at Tessa’s happiness. No matter how annoyed Tessa sounded, Sophie knew her friend was deeply in love with a man who loved her right back. And now they were expecting their first baby. Life didn’t get better than that.
“He won’t find it so funny when he’s pregnant with the next one.”
“Exactly.” Then Tessa’s voice grew serious. “I know you’ve got an I-Team meeting in a few minutes, but I wanted to let you know that Julian got the preliminary report on DOC’s internal investigation yesterday afternoon. This is really going to tick you off. They’re blaming you for part of it.”
“What?”
“The report claims that if you had notified DOC about the anonymous call, they would have realized Hunter was planning something and would have been able to stop him.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Sophie laughed. “So it’s my fault I was taken hostage?”
“Do you want me to read this to you?”
“Sure.”
“‘It is the determination of this panel that the victim bears some responsibility herself for being so eager for a news story that she ignored standard protocol and failed to report the circumstances of her interview with Hunter. Although there is no evidence that the victim colluded with Hunter in the escape—surveillance videos, in fact, show her attempts to fight back—her willingness to conceal certain facts from DOC officials enabled Hunter to accomplish his goal of escaping DOC custody.’”
Sophie found herself on her feet, her face burning. “That is a load of crap! I didn’t violate any ‘protocol.’ I’m not required to report contact from inmates. They’re trying to undermine my credibility!”
“I’m sorry to have upset you, Sophie. I know you’ve had enough to deal with.” Tessa sounded upset herself. “Julian was so angry I thought he was going to hit something. He says they’re just trying to cover their butts. He thinks they’re hoping to take some of the momentum out of Reece’s legislative investigation by decreasing public sympathy for you.”
“All they have to do is make the accusation, and someone will believe it. People love to think the worst of reporters.” Sophie turned to find the rest of the I-Team watching her. “When are they making the report public?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll fax you a copy. But remember—you didn’t get it from us.”
“Thanks, Tess. I suppose I should tell Tom.”
“Good idea.” Tessa’s voice went sweet as sugar. “He’ll rip their little heads off.”
HER TEMPER ON low boil, Sophie sat quietly through the I-Team meeting, while Tom checked in with each reporter. Matt was writing a follow-up to yesterday’s article about the city councilman who’d tried to bribe his way out of a drug arrest. Kat needed ten inches for a piece about the natural gas boom and how the explosion of wells was impacting air quality along the Front Range. Natalie had a small story about a drug overdose in Federal Heights.
“It looks like she died after injecting fefe—fentanyl-laced heroin. Her roommates came home and found her dead on her bed, a small amount of the drug in a sandwich bag beside her. Police are worried that we’re about to see an explosion of fefe-related deaths. The last time a batch of this drug hit Chicago, more than a hundred people died in a single week.”
Tom raised an eyebrow—an unusual display of surprise. “Any chance you can find out how this shit gets into the state, where it comes from?”
Natalie nodded. “I’d also like to head out on the streets with the needle-exchange folks and see what the response is out there.”
Matt looked over at Sophie. “Isn’t that the same drug that killed that inmate?”
Sophie nodded. “I hope we’re not on the brink of an overdose epidemic.”
Tom turned to Sophie. “What’s eating you this morning, Alton?”
TOM WAS JUST as furious as Tessa had predicted he’d be. He stomped out of the I-Team meeting, his copy of the report in hand, then he’d dialed the head of DOC and interviewed him as only Tom could. He started out with small talk, then moved on to the prison break, toying with DOC’s director like a cat toying with a mouse, not letting the poor guy know he had a leaked copy of the report until the director had admitted Sophie had done nothing that violated DOC procedures. Then he laid into him, throwing the contents of the report in his face and letting him know that the paper would hold DOC accountable for every word.
“I know you’d like to believe reporters owe you the inside angle on every story involving your department, but the truth is we don’t have to tell you anything! The bottom line is this: one of my reporters came to your facility, which is supposed to contain and control bad guys, and ended up being taken hostage at gunpoint! Why she was there is irrelevant to your investigation. What happened once she got there is what matters!”
Watching Tom work, Sophie remembered why she respected him. He might be a jerk now and then—okay, most of the time—but there wasn’t a fiercer protector of the First Amendment on Earth or any other planet. He was hard on his reporters, but when the shit hit the fan, he stood by them.
She came to appreciate this even more two hours later when Glynnis, dressed in a bright pink column dress, called her into Tom’s office and started questioning her. “You must have realized something was out of order.”
In disbelief, Sophie looked to Tom, saw that he was surprised, too. “I knew Hunter had to be connected to make it happen, but it seemed to me to offer this newspaper an advantage. I had no idea what he had planned.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that DOC officials should have known about this?”
It was everything Sophie could do to keep the rage out of her voice. “I don’t work for the DOC. I wasn’t about to give them information that might impede my ability to gather information. If I’d have told them, I never would have gotten the interview.”
Glynnis opened her mouth to speak, but Tom interrupted.
“Where, exactly, are you headed with this, Glynnis?”
“One of your reporters found herself in a life-threatening situation. I’m trying to determine whether her own actions contributed to—”
“Alton followed the book. She acted exactly as I’d expect one of my reporters to act. She was taken hostage not because she failed to disclose privileged information to DOC, but because one of their guards put this asshole in cuffs instead of full restraints.”
Glynnis’s mouth went flat. “There’s no reason for coarse language.”
“And there’s no reason to waste Alton’s time with this bullshit. You can go, Alton.”
Sophie stood and hurried out of Tom’s office, shutting the door behind her just as Tom and Gly
nnis started shouting.
IT TOOK MARC two minutes to shut down the alarm system and break into his new home. He moved in without fanfare, dropping his backpack on the master bed. Then, Glock in hand, he gave himself a tour of the place.
Master bedroom, master bath. Guest room, guest bath. Third bathroom. Another bedroom. Home office. Sitting room with the praying hands. Family room with a plasma TV and a fully stocked bar. Living room with a fireplace. Big-ass kitchen. Walk-in pantry with a freezer full of rib eyes, lobster tails, and chicken breasts. Formal dining room. Laundry room. Fourth bathroom. Sunroom with a patio that opened to a…deck with a hot tub.
Well, it wasn’t the presidential suite, but he supposed he could get used to it. While Mr. Rawlings’s pants were too big around the waist and his shirts and jackets were too tight around the chest and shoulders, his supply of scotch and steak fit Marc just fine.
He found the attic with its sea of trunks and boxes, checked out the finished basement with its home gym, ridiculous fifth bathroom, and storage rooms, then made his way to the garage. He opened the door, flicked on the light, and felt some of the dark mood that had been eating at him all day lift.
Wheels.
They’d taken the Lexus, but they’d left a fancy black Jaguar XK. It was probably the vehicle Mr. Rawlings had bought for himself when his dick had stopped working—which, given the cold bitch he’d married, might have been his wedding night.
Marc grabbed the set of spare keys hanging from a hook just inside the garage door and in a matter of seconds was sitting in the driver’s seat, grasping the leather-bound steering wheel with both hands. It wasn’t his old Chevy, but it would do. No more trudging for miles through the snow. No more risking hidden cameras on the buses. No more wasting cash on cabs.
Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings had hooked him up—no doubt about it. He had everything he needed—food, shelter, transportation, satellite TV, Internet, and solid cover. No one would ever think of looking for him in this neighborhood. He’d be able to search for Megan over a wider area, and when he wasn’t on the streets he’d be here, digging through boxes.