Dead Even

by Mariah Stewart

  “Not yet. We thought we needed to go real slow on that. Let her get used to the idea that her mother is still alive, that she’s back home, all that.”

  “That going to be hard on you?” Will asked.

  “Not as hard as it will be on Mara and Julianne,” Aidan told him.

  “It’s starting to get dark,” Miranda noted. “Where do you suppose Flynn is?”

  “He mentioned something about throwing a frozen pizza in the oven. Have you ever known him to show up for a stakeout without enough food to take him—and the rest of us—through a long siege?” Will said. “He arrived with a couple of grocery bags under his arm, so I’m guessing he stocked up.”

  “Ah, that Rob. Always plans ahead.” Miranda turned to Aidan. “Is the house next door open? I’d like to change my clothes and be ready to take my place once it’s dark.”

  “The back door is open; you can go right on in,” Aidan told her. “Annie’s supposed to let us know when Julianne has gone to bed for the night, then we’ll move you and Will inside until dawn. One of you will watch the front of the house, one the back. Rob will be in Mrs. West’s backyard, I’ll take the outside of Mara’s house, side and front.”

  “Will, I need to open the trunk to get my bag out.” Miranda held up her hand, and Will tossed the keys. She snatched them out of the air.

  “I won’t be more than five, ten minutes,” she told him as she started off toward the trunk of the car. “With any luck, Rob has a couple of greasy pepperoni pizzas in the oven and some strawberry ice cream in the freezer.”

  “The pizza’s a definite, but I wouldn’t count on the ice cream,” Aidan called to her.

  “Oh, I’ve worked with Rob before,” Miranda called back over her shoulder. “He knows how to keep a girl happy.”

  Rob Flynn did, indeed, know how to keep Miranda Cahill happy. He brought enough strawberry ice cream, frozen pizza, diet Pepsi, and black licorice to keep a smile on her face for the next week. At ten-thirty that night, she was sitting on the floor outside Mara’s den, her Sig Sauer on one hip, her walkie-talkie on the other, and a strand of licorice dangling from the corner of her mouth. She propped her back against the wall and twirled the licorice between her lips. She had a clear view of the back door, the deck, and, if she stood, the area around the garage, though that was in shadow now. She wondered how long it would be before Jules Douglas showed up.

  She was in complete agreement with Aidan and whoever else had orchestrated this stakeout—probably John, she thought idly. John liked tidy, and this particular scene was tidy. No superfluous personnel. Not that they had agents to spare these days. More and more of the new agents, and plenty of the established ones, were signing up for the terrorist division, like Portia had.

  Portia had tried to talk Miranda into joining with her, but Miranda had never had a feel for the work. This was what she knew, what she liked. She did best in situations where she knew the players, knew what the stakes were. Those tracking the terrorists played a different game, one Miranda wasn’t sure she understood. Portia, however, loved the excitement, the intrigue, the whole chasing-across-continents thing as much as she loved hunkering down in dusty caves with her brothers in arms. Miranda shook her head. For identical twins, they couldn’t be less alike.

  She chewed up the last of the licorice and thought about Portia meeting up with Jack in England. She was certain they had. She just couldn’t decide how she felt about it.

  And then there was Will. She was pretty sure she knew how she felt about him. As soon as this watch was over, as soon as they had Jules Douglas behind bars, she and Will were going to take a long weekend. Maybe at the Fleming Inn, maybe at the beach someplace. Aidan lived near the beach. Maybe he could suggest an inn. Then again, it was pretty cold for the beach.

  Will had been quick to see the parallels between their relationship and that of her mother and father. She’d recognized the similarities herself, of course, but had refused to acknowledge them. Once she had acknowledged them, she’d have to deal with them. In order to do that, she’d have to put a name to her feelings. She’d never been able to do that.

  Will, however, had been far less reluctant.

  “I’m falling in love with you.”

  Yes, well, that certainly put a name to it. How like him to just throw it out there.

  How like her to wish he hadn’t.

  Well, it was there now, like it or not, and she’d have to deal with it. With Will.

  Static crackled from the walkie-talkie.

  “All quiet back there?” Will asked from his post in the living room.

  “All quiet.”

  “So, whatcha doing?”

  “Thinking about what we’re going to be doing when this is over.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Static crackled at her again.

  “Will?” she asked.

  “Hold up.”

  “Will?” she repeated after several minutes had passed.

  “False alarm. I think. I thought I saw something . . . never mind, it’s Rob.”

  “The static is about to make me deaf,” she complained. “I’m turning this damn thing off now. I’ll check back with you in a few, see if it’s any better.”

  She slipped the walkie-talkie back onto her belt, then stood up and walked to the back door. She peered out across the deck. There was a scant slice of moonlight that fell across one side of the yard. She looked skyward and saw clouds move across the face of the moon. Nothing else moved. For now, all was quiet.

  The clock on the mantel in the living room chimed four. A few more hours and she’d be able to catch a little sleep. She went back to her post outside the door to Mara’s den and slid down the wall until she was seated again. She knew it was unlikely that Jules would have shown up so soon. Tomorrow would be the more likely night for him to make his move. Even if he had managed to make it into the area tonight, he’d be studying the lay of the land. Looking for security. Trying to figure out the best way to strike.

  No, it would be tomorrow night at the earliest, the next night at the latest. It hardly mattered which. Either way, they’d still be waiting for him.

  She pulled another piece of licorice out of her back pocket and began to chew on it, wondering why she felt less afraid of facing Jules than she did of loving Will.

  Burt Connolly lay on his stomach in the damp, cold grass under Helene West’s grapevine and tried to figure out what was going on.

  He’d been watching for the past few hours, and couldn’t figure out which of the two houses Miranda Cahill was in. He’d thought it was the little bungalow there across the yard, but then he’d seen her come out of the house next door and go inside here with the other agent, the big guy. Then some other guy showed up, and the big one left for a while, then came back. Burt had meanwhile backed into the shelter of the grape arbor to hide himself, and he wasn’t certain that she hadn’t come back out again.

  What the fuck was going on around here? What’s up with the house next door, anyway?

  Well, it was a riddle he wasn’t going to be solving for a while, since the sun would be up in another few minutes and he couldn’t very well be caught in the yard there. He eased himself out from under the thick woody vines, using his elbows to propel himself backward to the end of the garage. He raised himself to his knees and crawled along the fence to the place where he’d cut an opening a few hours earlier. He’d found a motel about four blocks away, one street in from the highway, and he’d left the truck there. He hadn’t liked the way the big guy had stopped to stare at the truck when he’d driven past earlier. Probably hadn’t meant much of anything, but still, you never knew with these FBI types. For all Burt knew, the big guy had already called in the license plate. Not that that would tell him anything. He wouldn’t know Burt from Adam. He certainly would never be able to put Burt together with Archer.

  In the shadows of early morning, he brushed off the dirt as best he could, then crept across another yard, wondering if Ar
cher’s body had been found yet. He knew a momentary bit of uncertainty, then shook it off. No one knew he had been with Archer, with the exception of Vince Giordano. And there wasn’t much he was going to say about it, since this whole killing thing was his idea. No one could connect him to any of the murders, except Vince. That would implicate Vince, too, wouldn’t it? Sure it would. Conspiracy and all that. Nah, he needn’t worry about Vince.

  Those FBI types, though, they worried him. There were at least two men with Cahill. Were they guarding her, or someone else? And were there more than two? He couldn’t see what was going on in the front of the house.

  He walked along through the frosty dawn, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t just drop it, walk away with what he had. He’d already come to the conclusion that Vince wasn’t going to hand over the rest of the money unless Cahill was a done deal.

  The questions were, What were the risks of doing Cahill, and was the money worth it? Worth it to go ahead and do her, or worth it to walk away?

  He’d have to sleep on it. Rest for a few hours, have a nice big breakfast, then reevaluate the situation with a clear head and a full stomach. All those FBI agents around the house had made him nervous.

  Then again, the thought of all that money, just waiting for him someplace, pricked at his streak of greed. All that cash, just waiting for him . . .

  It would be a toss-up which would win out in the end: fear or greed.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Mara paced anxiously in the kitchen, wondering when her daughter would come downstairs for breakfast—if she’d come downstairs—and if so, if she’d have what Julianne wanted to eat. Was she a cereal eater? If so, what kind?

  For the tenth time that morning, Mara opened the cabinets and checked the cereal boxes.

  “I’ll bet they’re the same boxes that were in there ten minutes ago,” Annie said from the doorway.

  “I don’t know what she eats.” Mara turned to her sister. “She’s my child, and I don’t even know what she eats for breakfast.”

  “And until yesterday, you didn’t know what she looked like after seven years. Now you do. Take it easy, Mara. It will all work out. Just stop being so anxious about everything. You’re going to make yourself crazy.”

  “I’m afraid I’m already a little bit crazy.” Mara closed the cupboard door. “I think I need coffee.”

  “Let me make it.” Annie smiled and came the rest of the way into the kitchen. “Your coffee is atrocious.”

  “You sound like Aidan.”

  “Hey, those Shields boys know their coffee.” Annie’s smile still dimmed a little when she spoke of her late fiancé, Aidan’s brother, taken out by a drug dealer’s bullet over a year ago. “Dylan made a mean pot of coffee in the morning. He liked it strong enough to walk on, but it was still pretty damned good.”

  “I don’t recall that I ever had the pleasure,” Mara said.

  “Hey, you’d remember. Trust me. Dylan’s coffee was potent enough to put hair on your chest.”

  “Now that I would remember.” Mara nodded, a weak smile on her face. Then, a moment later, she said, “I wonder if she slept all right.”

  “I’m sure she was fine.”

  “Spike stayed in her room all night. He hasn’t even been outside yet.”

  “Want me to try to get him? I’ll take him for a walk,” Annie offered.

  “Let’s wait until he shows himself. I’d hate to wake her if she’s still . . .”

  Mara’s attention was drawn to the doorway, where Julianne stood, holding Spike in her arms like a shield.

  “I’m awake,” Julianne announced flatly. “You don’t have to worry about waking me.”

  “Did you sleep well?” Mara asked, trying her best to sound calm, normal.

  “I didn’t sleep much.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry—”

  “You should have thought of that before you had me kidnapped,” Julianne said flatly.

  “Julianne, I did not have you kidnapped,” Mara protested.

  “What would you call it?”

  Mara thought it over, then looked to Annie for help.

  Annie had gone upstairs.

  Coward, Mara thought.

  “I don’t know what they call it. A rescue—”

  “I didn’t need to be rescued. I was with my father.”

  “Your father who stole you from me seven years ago, changed your name, and hid you away so that no one could find you.”

  “That’s not why he changed my name,” Julianne shot back.

  “Oh? Why did he change your name?” Mara felt her patience slipping in spite of her best efforts to hang on, to be nonconfrontational.

  “Because he said . . . he said . . .” For the first time, Julianne faltered.

  “He said what?”

  “He said that when you died, you took my name to heaven with you.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Mara asked gently. “I don’t understand.”

  “I guess he meant . . . well, that it was a name that you chose.” Julianne’s face clouded. “That you wanted to keep it close to you . . . ?”

  “Does that make sense to you?”

  “It sort of did when I was little,” Julianne said uncertainly.

  “You’re not a little girl anymore. You’re almost a teenager. A very smart teenager. Think about the things he’s said to you. Do they make sense?”

  Julianne made a circle on the tile floor with her bare toes, but did not respond.

  “What do you like for breakfast?” Mara asked, deciding that she’d do well to take the pressure off Julianne for a bit. She’d given her something important to think about. She didn’t want to burden her with too much at once.

  “Just juice is okay.”

  “Maybe some toast with it?”

  “Okay.”

  Annie called the dog from the living room.

  “Walk, Spike. Let’s go.”

  She didn’t have to call him twice. Spike ran to Annie, his tale wagging a mile a minute, eager for his morning excursion.

  “Can I go, too?” Julianne asked.

  Mara felt the panic rise within her. Jules could be out there, anywhere, waiting.

  “Not this time,” Annie told her as she snapped Spike’s lead to his collar. “He wants to go out now, and you’re not dressed yet. Next time, maybe.”

  “Okay.” Julianne nodded and reached for the glass of orange juice Mara held out in trembling hands.

  Julianne watched her with wary eyes.

  “What would you like to do after breakfast?” Mara asked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t go anyplace. I don’t have any clothes.” She took a sip of juice. “If you’re going to make me stay here, you’re going to have to get me some clothes to wear.”

  “I’ll ask Annie when she gets back,” Mara told her.

  “Why do you have to ask her?” Julianne frowned. “Can’t you take me?”

  “I’ve been having problems with my car. She’d have to drive.” Mara averted her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her daughter that she was afraid to let her leave the house.

  Maybe we can get Miranda to come along. She has a gun. Annie doesn’t carry a gun. . . .

  “Do you work?” Julianne asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a lawyer. I work with the courts. I’m what they call a child advocate. When there are custody disputes in families, I represent the child or children.”

  Julianne stared at her, then said, “So if my dad came for me and went to court with you, they’d give you custody because they know you. That won’t be fair.”

  Mara bit her lip. She wasn’t going to get into what could be an ugly discussion with Julianne. She wanted to tell her daughter that the courts would give her, Mara, custody because her father had broken the law, but she couldn’t let her feelings for Jules surface to sour this time with Julianne. So she said nothing. She poured herself another cup of coffee
and sank into a chair at the table.

  “Does she work?” Julianne pointed out the window to where Anne Marie stood chatting with Aidan.

  “Yes.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She works for the FBI.”

  “Oh.” Julianne watched Annie for a few minutes, then asked, “Who is that man?”

  “His name is Aidan Shields. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Why is he here?”

  “He works with Annie.”

  “He’s an FBI man?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s waiting for my father to come for me, isn’t he? He’s going to arrest my father, and they’ll let you keep me because you work with those people.” Julianne threw the glass of juice across the room. It hit the cabinet above the stove and shattered.

  “Julianne . . .” Mara jumped out of her chair.

  “I’ll tell them I want to be with my father. I’ll tell them how you had those people steal me away. How my father had to keep me away from you because you were a bad—”

  “Stop it,” Mara said softly. “You know that isn’t true. I have never stopped loving you. I never stopped praying that you’d come home.”

  “Then why did it take you so long to find me? If you were looking so hard, why did it take you so long?” Julianne sobbed and rushed from the room.

  Mara followed her daughter to her room and opened the door that had just been slammed in her face. She leaned against the doorjamb and watched as Julianne threw herself facedown onto her bed. Hesitating for just an instant, Mara went to her, sat down on the side of the bed, and gently rubbed her daughter’s back, trying to think of the right thing to say.

  Hell, how could anyone know the right thing to say?

  When no words came, she lay down next to the sobbing girl and held her. Brushing Julianne’s blonde hair back from her face, Mara cried tears of her own.

  “Why are you crying?” Julianne demanded.

  “Because I don’t know what else to do,” a weary Mara told her, her emotions worn to the quick. “I don’t know what to say to you, or what to do for you. I want to tell you that everything your father told you about me was a lie, but I know I’m not supposed to say that, because it would make you feel conflicted. But obviously he didn’t tell you the truth about things. Look at me. Certainly I’m not dead. And I was a good mother—I was a very good mother—but if I start telling you all the ways in which I was a good mother, then I’ll be wrong for showing your father up as a liar. I am damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t.”