Shiver

by Karen Robards

  And choked. And coughed. And choked some more.

  “Here.” Tyler, who’d woken up when they’d landed, offered Danny the battered orange juice box that Sam had procured from somewhere and that he’d been sipping on since they’d gotten into the SUV.

  Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have taken the kid’s OJ. For one thing, the box had a picture of SpongeBob SquarePants on it, which made him think it was some kind of kid concoction that he wasn’t going to like. For another thing, it had kid germs all over it. For a third, the kid was kind of pasty and big-eyed and looked like he needed the OJ way more than Danny did. But the pills were stuck in his throat and he really, really needed the pills.

  His leg felt like something was trying to chew it off.

  “Thanks.” Accepting the juice box, he pulled out the straw and squirted some liquid into his mouth straight out of the little hole. Swallowing the stuff—it wasn’t half bad—then restoring the straw to its rightful place and handing the juice box back to Tyler, he encountered a grim look from Sam.

  “He offered,” Danny replied to that look defensively.

  He was in the very back seat, with his leg stretched out straight in front of him. Bandaged and splinted, it rested on a cooler that had been placed between the bucket seats one row up. He couldn’t see exactly how his leg was trussed, because while he had been unconscious his clothes had disappeared, to be replaced by a set of baggy blue scrubs, but the whole thing felt way too tight. The bucket seats on either side of the cooler were occupied by Groves and O’Brien. Sam and Tyler, who like him had been relegated to the very back, bench seat—him, because of his need to stretch out his leg, and them, because of their relatively small size, and because they were the only other occupants of the vehicle who felt like getting that friendly with him—sat on either side of him, Tyler to his left and Sam to his right. In front, Sanders was driving and Abramowitz was once again riding shotgun. All of them looked like the morning after the night before. Danny guessed that he and Tyler were the only ones who’d gotten any appreciable sleep on the plane.

  “Tyler needs breakfast,” Sam said, first to him and then, leaning forward and repeating it more loudly, to the other occupants of the vehicle at large, in a tone that told Danny that she wasn’t in the sunniest of humors. “We need to stop soon.”

  “We’re not stopping until we get where we’re going,” Sanders replied. “Another few hours.”

  “I got a Snickers in my pocket the kid can have,” Groves volunteered, looking around at them.

  “Thank you, but it’s probably better if he doesn’t eat candy for breakfast. Or in the car. It might make him sick.”

  “Ri-i-ight. Don’t want that,” Groves replied, and wasn’t alone in shooting Tyler a wary look.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” Tyler intervened. “I’m not hungry.”

  “What’s in the cooler?” Danny asked, hoping the answer was food, knowing that getting Sanders to stop before he felt safe in doing so was the closest thing to a lost cause there was. If the kid needed breakfast, the cooler was his best hope.

  Sam’s eyes narrowed at him. “G-U-N-S,” she spelled, clearly not wanting Tyler to know the answer. “I already checked.”

  “Guns,” Tyler repeated happily, perking up a little. “Can I see them?”

  “No,” Sam said, looking so cross that Danny had to smile.

  The sharp look she sent him in response wiped the smile from Danny’s face.

  “Good job teaching him to spell,” Danny offered hastily. Sam didn’t look appeased.

  “So where are we going?” Sam’s arms folded over her chest as she settled back against the seat. “Mr. Sanders, I’m talking to you.”

  The vibes she was giving off were pure cranky. A couple of tendrils of sooty hair curled around her face, and Danny guessed that they were coming loose again because her ponytail, which she’d scraped back from her face and resecured once more before they’d left the plane, was already giving up the ghost. The ponytail, plus the fact that she was wearing no makeup—she’d washed her face in the plane’s restroom; he knew because she had emerged while still drying it with a paper towel—should have detracted from her prettiness. It didn’t. What it did was make her look like she was about fifteen years old. Unless, of course, he checked out her body, which he was happy to discover was absolutely 100 percent adult. Since he was taller and she was wearing a clingy, low-cut tank top and was sitting right beside him, the round firmness of her breasts, along with the shadowy cleavage between them, was difficult to miss every time he glanced her way, especially since the Lortab was interfering with his internal control panel to what he suspected was a significant degree. Getting his mind off of the creamy curves that were just a sideways slide of his eyeballs away required discipline, which apparently he didn’t have a whole lot of at the moment. But Danny summoned enough willpower to look straight ahead, out through the windshield at the vehicles rushing by on either side, then kept his mind out of the tank top by focusing on Sam’s chutzpah in continuing to harangue Sanders, which was really quite considerable when he thought about the fact that the other man was a fortyish federal agent of the domineering type and Sam was—well, unintimidating was probably the best way to put it. Danny could have told her that asking the other man where they were going was a waste of time, but he was busy working on enjoying the effects of the Lortab without doing anything too stupid, like getting caught looking down her shirt.

  “Somewhere,” Sanders answered repressively.

  “This is crap.” Sam’s eyes snapped. They had dark shadows beneath them, from lack of sleep Danny was sure, but, seen by daylight, they looked even bluer than he had thought they were the previous night. Lapis lazuli, maybe, or sapphire. Her lashes were long and thick and unmistakably girly, and as inky black as her hair. Her eyebrows, black, too, and delicately arched, almost met above her nose as she scowled at Sanders. Her mouth, for all her irritation, which was causing it to tighten, was full and naturally pink and temptingly soft looking. Just like the upper slopes of her breasts, barely visible above the curve of her top, looked temptingly sof—

  Hold it. No. Not going there.

  “What, exactly, is crap?” Sanders countered.

  “This whole freaking mess. From beginning to end.” Her eyes lifted, and collided with Danny’s. “When do we get to go home?”

  There really wasn’t any truthful answer to that, so Danny gave her a semiapologetic grimace.

  “Soon as possible?” he tried.

  “More crap.”

  “Best answer you’re going to get,” Sanders put in. Unwisely, in Danny’s opinion, but at least it got Sam’s attention off him.

  The Lortab was really kicking in, he realized just then. Jerking his eyes up from where they had landed during their latest accidental downward slide, Danny focused on something, anything else—her eyes—instead. They now blazed at Sanders—thank Jesus—who, with his back turned, was oblivious. Danny was only glad that her ire was directed toward Sanders and not at him. From the way the other men subtly adjusted their positions so that none of them was looking in Sam’s direction any longer, Danny got the feeling that he was not the only one glad not to be in the line of fire.

  “I want to know where you’re taking us.” Sam’s tone was even sharper than before. “I have a right to know.”

  Through the rearview mirror Danny saw Sanders’s eyes narrow, and surmised a reply was in the offing that would piss its target royally off.

  “We’re in Nevada,” he intervened, before Sanders could respond with something that would just make life more difficult for all of them. “Going north.” Glancing toward the mountains in the distance, making a quick calculation, he added, “I’m guessing we’re heading toward Idaho.”

  Sanders’s through-the-mirror frown told him that he was correct.

  “Where in Idaho?” Those big blue eyes turned on Danny. They were not filled with sweetness and light. Damn, he should have stayed out of it.

  “Don’t k
now,” he had to admit. She glared at him.

  “Where in Idaho?” Sam addressed the back of Sanders’s head.

  Sanders threw the reply over his shoulder. “That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

  “So I need to know.”

  “I was told to keep our destination a secret until we get there,” Sanders said grimly. “And that’s what I mean to do. It’s for your safety, Ms. Jones. All of our safety.”

  Watching Sam’s lips tighten—and, as an adjunct, her chest swell—Danny forced his eyes forward again even as he braced himself for a blast of indignation.

  “Are the bad men still looking for us?” Tyler piped up, his voice sounding small and strained. He sidled a little closer to Danny’s side as he spoke, prompting Danny to glance down at him. On Danny’s other side, Sam made an inarticulate but pained sound. Her eyes had darkened and she was giving Tyler a worried look.

  Before she could say anything else, or Sanders could come out with something that might be even more kid-fear-inducing, Danny said lightly to Tyler: “Your mom scared all the bad men off. Think about it: would you go anywhere near her if you thought she had a gun?”

  That made Tyler chuckle. He shook his head. “No.”

  “Me neither.” Danny grinned at him.

  “We’re fine, baby. You don’t have to worry.” Sam’s voice had lost its edge as she sought to soothe her son.

  “I know, Mom. We’re safe now that we’re with Trey.”

  From Sam’s expression, Danny could tell she didn’t exactly buy into that. He also knew she wasn’t going to argue. Then Danny felt a small hand sliding into the crook of his elbow. Glancing down, he saw that Tyler was hugging his arm. Apparently feeling Danny’s gaze on him, the kid looked up and smiled at him. He had black-lashed blue eyes that were exactly like his mom’s—except Tyler’s shone with trust. In him. Bandaged finger or no, Danny shifted so that his arm was draped around the kid’s shoulders. Tyler snuggled closer against his side.

  The small action touched something deep inside Danny that he hadn’t even known was there.

  Whatever happens, I’m keeping this kid—and his mother—safe.

  Sam gave him a look that he found impossible to read. He was pretty sure that it didn’t translate into thanks for being nice to my son, however.

  He smiled at her. She scowled at him.

  For a while they rode in silence except for the hum of the pavement beneath the wheels. The sun rose, and the day got hotter. Danny knew, because even inside the SUV it was starting to get warm. At least, it was getting warm in the backseat, where the air-conditioning apparently didn’t altogether reach. With both Tyler and Sam leaning against him, drowsing, Danny felt himself starting to sweat. Plus, his leg was starting to hurt, which meant the Lortab must be wearing off. Now was the time to pop a couple more pills—before the pain set in again for real—but he hated to reach for the plastic bag in which they were tucked away in the seat back pocket in front of Sam because he didn’t want to wake up either Sam or Tyler.

  He set himself to endure.

  The marshals were talking quietly among themselves. Danny couldn’t really hear what they were saying, and he didn’t much care. He watched out the window as the flat plains turned into wooded hills and thunderheads rolled in to obscure the mountains to the west. An eighteen-wheeler roared past, shaking the SUV. Beside him, Tyler gave what sounded like a little burp.

  At the sound, Sam woke up instantly, straightening away from him like he’d suddenly turned red hot. She stretched a little, glared at Danny in passing—maybe she was pissed because she’d been leaning against his shoulder as she slept? Otherwise, he didn’t have a clue what that was about—then looked anxiously at Tyler.

  Tyler was awake, too, ducking out from under Danny’s protective arm, rubbing his hands over his face.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Danny leaned forward to grab the plastic bag of pills.

  “Mom,” Tyler said in the tiniest voice Danny had yet heard from him. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Sick? As in, upchuck?

  After one frozen-in-place instant, during which Tyler made a terrifying gagging sound, Danny had his answer: yep.

  Galvanized, desperately thankful that the Lortab had worn off enough for his reflexes to be halfway close to normal, Danny dumped his pills from the plastic bag into his lap. Even as Sam leaned across him, crying, “You need to pull this car over right now,” to the unsuspecting chumps up front, Danny took one look at Tyler, snapped the plastic bag open, and held it by its handles in front of the kid’s pale and perspiring face.

  Just in time for the kid to fill it up.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It had been, hands down, the worst twenty-four-hour period of Sam’s life. Mrs. Menifee was definitely dead: that information had been relayed to Sanders right before they had boarded the plane. Sanders had passed it on to the other marshals, who had passed it on to Sam, and she felt by turns heartbroken, horrified, grieving, and guilty. So far she hadn’t told Tyler. She wasn’t sure that she would, certainly not if he didn’t ask. She and Tyler had nearly been killed, too, and were still, she feared, marked for death, so she was in a constant state of low-grade fear. Plus they’d been ripped away from their home and everything they knew, and she had no idea when they would be going home again. In other words, her life been run off the rails straight into the twilight zone, and she didn’t see any way that it was going to improve anytime soon.

  Head pounding, so tired that just putting one foot in front of the other was an effort, Sam walked out of the unfamiliar bedroom in which she had just told her son what felt like a million bedtime stories—usually she read to him, but here they had no books—until he had fallen asleep. What she saw as she stepped into the darkened hall stopped her in her tracks. In the bathroom opposite, wrapped in a white toweling robe, Marco stood balanced on one foot, leaning precariously against the sink, the aluminum crutches he’d switched to upon reaching this house leaning against the sink next to him, his head tilted back and his hand at his mouth as he swallowed. The small brown plastic pill bottle clutched in his other hand told the story: he was downing more pain meds.

  Her brows snapped together.

  Crabby didn’t even begin to describe how out of sorts she was feeling. It was after 11:00 p.m. mountain time, which meant that it was after midnight back home in East St. Louis. Except for the catnap she’d grabbed in the SUV earlier—annoying to remember that she’d wound up snoozing against Marco’s shoulder—she’d had no sleep for about thirty-six hours. Lunch had been McDonald’s, procured on the fly via a drive-through after Tyler, poor baby, had done what she had feared and succumbed to motion sickness. It happened sometimes, usually when his stomach was empty. She should have insisted that they stop for food, but she hadn’t. She had still been running scared, damn it, and Tyler had been the one to pay the price, which wasn’t going to happen again if she could help it. Supper had been pizza, picked up on their way through the small town of Pocatello, Idaho. That’s where they were currently holed up, in a three-bedroom town house in a quiet middle-class neighborhood near the Portneuf River. Upstairs, which was where she, Tyler, and Marco presently were, there were two full bathrooms—one connected to the master bedroom—along with the three bedrooms. She had the master, Tyler had the bedroom next to hers, and Marco had the third, on the opposite side of the hall. Downstairs, there was a half bath, plus a great room with a huge fireplace, a kitchen with an eating area, a den, and a screened porch. O’Brien was at that moment standing guard—or, rather, watching TV—in the great room. Having apparently drawn the night’s short straw, Groves was stationed in the SUV, parked strategically in the driveway next door, keeping watch through its tinted windows. Sanders and Abramowitz, meanwhile, were in the town house that belonged to the driveway, one assigned to watch the security cameras that monitored all entrances to the town house where she, Tyler, and Marco were holed up, and the other presumably getting some sleep.

  T
hese security arrangements had been explained to Marco when they had first arrived at the town house, while she had listened in. None of the men had bothered to explain anything to her. At the time, with Tyler plopped down beside her on the couch, nibbling on a slice of pizza while watching TV and apparently paying no attention to what was going on around them while she knew perfectly well that he was actually absorbing everything like a little sponge with ears, she hadn’t asked any questions, not wanting to let on to Tyler how worried she was about the situation they were in.

  Which didn’t mean, then and now, that she wasn’t bursting with them.

  How long would they be there? She had no idea. What were they supposed to do now that they were there? She had no idea about that, either. What was happening at home? Same answer. She had no idea about anything, and anxiety about it was driving her around the bend. The icing on her particular cake was that she had a splitting headache: the blow she’d taken to the head before she was dumped into the Beemer’s trunk was definitely making itself felt. Or maybe it was a tension headache, because she definitely was experiencing tension. Whatever, she was feeling decidedly subpar. Plus she wouldn’t be surprised if Tyler woke up with screaming nightmares.