Or was she? Had he made her up? Where had she come from?
“Let’s get breakfast,” she said. “There’s a diner on the other side of the California border. Quiet. Thirty minutes.”
He shrugged. If she was real, she didn’t understand him. If she was unreal, he didn’t understand himself. He would have laughed, but deep sadness overwhelmed him. Tears burned his eyes. She should love him, but she didn’t. She said she did, but she was using him. The thought came to him so clearly, he had a flash of sanity. For one minute he remembered who he was deep down, who he had been before. It was like watching the Wizard of Oz change from black and white to Technicolor. Vivid, clear, awesome … frightening.
For him, horrifying.
He blinked rapidly, the color giving way to shades of gray, then to nothing. Nothing but the steering wheel and the endless road.
“Ethan, it’s okay.”
He drove in silence. What would she do if he tied her down and really hurt her? He knew things he hadn’t shown her. Places on her body that would bring her such pain she would beg him to kill her. And he wouldn’t. He would let her suffer as she let him suffer. Alive.
“I’m sorry, “ Ethan said.
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” She touched him like a lover, fingers soft on his skin. She kissed his cheek. “It’s going to be okay. Exit up ahead. You need a good meal.”
He followed her orders and stopped at the roadside diner in Blythe. Ethan didn’t talk as they ordered. The woman—Ethan wasn’t quite sure what her name was— talked about nothing while they ate.
“When are we going to be in Santa Barbara?” he interrupted.
“Five, six hours. Depends on traffic.”
“Okay.”
She said, “You have to be extra careful. We’re almost done. What if the minivan driver you almost hit took down our plates? Called the cops? We’re too close. I can’t risk screwing this up.”
“I’m sorry.” And he was. “Don’t hate me.”
The woman touched his hand. Ethan didn’t feel it, but he saw her fingers rub his palm. Why didn’t he feel them?
She’s not real, right?
“I don’t hate you,” she said. “I love you, you know that.”
He nodded.
As they were leaving the diner, a man approached. He was short, stocky, balding, and wore small wire-rimmed glasses. The stranger pushed Ethan in the chest. Ethan took a step back and looked down at the man. “Hey.”
“You should have your license revoked!” the man yelled.
“I’m so sorry.” Ethan looked at the blond standing next to him, apologizing profusely. Did he know her? Of course. Yes.
“My husband has been driving all night,” she said, “and I was supposed to keep him awake, but I fell asleep. I know we should have pulled over, but my mom …”
Tears slid down her cheeks. Ethan had never seen her cry. She looked like a sad angel. His angel. He wanted to protect her, take care of her. He put his arm around her. She put her face in his shoulder.
The man glared at them, but stepped back. His wife, a pretty woman devoid of makeup, took his arm. “Don’t make a scene, Ned. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” the blond wept.
“Where are the kids?”
“Eddie is with them. It’s okay.” She smiled nervously at Ethan. “We’re sorry to bother you.”
The blond said—What was her name? Carrie? Annie? Kelly? No, nothing like that. Ethan couldn’t remember. She was a stranger.
“No, I’m sorry. Mom had a heart attack yesterday and we’ve been driving all night from Houston. I have to see her before—” She took a deep breath.
Ethan thought her mom was already dead. She wasn’t a stranger. He squeezed his temples. His head pounded like he had a hangover.
“Let’s go, honey. The coffee will keep us going until we reach San Francisco.”
“I thought we were going to Santa Barbara.”
She squeezed his arm so tightly he would have yelped, except it felt too good.
“San Francisco.” She shook her head and said to the strangers, “My mom moved last year. John never liked her, and—” More tears rolled out. “John, I need to go. Please.”
Who was John?
She pulled Ethan out of the restaurant and back to the truck. She had the keys.
“Get in the backseat and close your eyes. You are screwing everything up!”
Ethan obeyed. There was a blanket on the floor. He pulled it around him. He was so cold.
He fell asleep before they reached the interstate.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Megan called J. T. Caruso at seven Thursday morning while Hans was on the phone with Quantico and Father Francis was celebrating Mass in the church. At that moment, she didn’t know where Jack Kincaid was, and that was probably a good thing. She was too aware of his presence, of the way he looked at her, of his quiet arrogance and intense loyalty. The latter two reminded her too much of the men she respected more than anyone, her father and her brother. She’d instantly felt an odd kinship with the mercenary; yet at the same time was acutely aware that he was not related to her.
“It’s five o’clock in the morning,” J.T. answered unceremoniously.
“I know.” She’d forgotten about the time difference. “It’s important, and I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Now you really owe me one. I’m going to be off-stride for the rest of the day.”
She doubted that. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell me.”
She filled him in on what she knew—and what she didn’t know. “I need information on Jack Kincaid, Francis Cardenas, and Jerry Jefferson,” she concluded. “I need to make sure that what I know is accurate.”
“Don’t you have paid staff to run background checks? I know budget cuts are hard, but I didn’t realize how bad.”
“Please, J.T. The wheels of the bureaucracy grind slowly. I need this information before I retire.”
He let out a brief laugh. “Kincaid. Common name. Jack. Even more common. Jerry Jefferson? Really, Meg. I’m good, but I need a little more.”
She looked at the notes she’d written when Hans had filled her in on the plane trip down the night before. “Jack Kincaid, thirty-nine, father is Patrick Kincaid, Senior, retired colonel, U.S. Army. His brother Dr. Dillon Kincaid is a civilian consultant for the FBI at Quantico. Jack enlisted when he was eighteen, based in Texas— Army Rangers. I don’t have anything about his service, except that he went to Fort Bragg at some point and trained for Delta Force. He left ten or so years ago and is now a soldier for hire based in Hidalgo, Texas.”
“What type of mercenary work?”
“Primarily hostage rescues in Central America, according to what I’ve learned, but I don’t have independent confirmation. He’s at least bilingual—Spanish and English—and I suspect he might know other languages.”
“Suspect?”
“He has a lot of books, not all in English and Spanish, and I don’t think they’re for show.”
“One of the Rogans should know of him. Why?”
“He’s a potential victim of our killer. And he has weaseled himself into my investigation.” She didn’t honestly believe Jack was a possible victim, though she suspected Francis Cardenas was in danger. But it sounded better than her simply wanting to know everything about Jack Kincaid because he’d gotten under her skin. Besides, she was running a murder investigation. She had every right to know about Kincaid.
“Anything else?”
She gave him what little she knew about Father Cardenas and his friend Jerry Jefferson. “Jefferson is supposedly still enlisted and stationed in Afghanistan. I need to make sure. If not—”
“He’s in danger.”
“Or a killer.”
“Is it always black or white with you?”
“Are there other colors?”
“You think a priest is involved?”
“I think he’s a target. I want to
get him into a safe house, but he refuses to leave his church. Somehow thinks that because he’s a big bad former Delta warrior he’s invulnerable.”
“All of us special forces ‘warriors’ are invincible,” J.T. said. “I thought you knew that.”
She sighed. “Right. You bleed just as red as the rest of us, J.T. The four known victims were all Delta trained, I remind you. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Kane yet.”
“Not yet. I’m on it, Meg. Be careful. Matt is ticked that you’ve been calling me and not him.”
“I’m thirty-eight years old, I don’t need to call my big brother every day.”
“But you’ll do it because he’ll worry.”
“Right, as soon as I can. Thanks, J.T.”
She hung up.
“So who has the privilege of giving my life a rectal exam?”
She jumped and whirled around. Jack Kincaid stood against the wall, trying to look casual yet was anything but. He was angry. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t noticed he was standing there. Talk about stealth …
“You’re a potential target, and—”
“Bullshit. All you had to do was ask me.”
“I don’t know what to ask.”
“You sure knew what to ask J.T. J.T. who? Some snot-nosed desk nerd at Quantico running me through his fancy computer database?”
“That would be Harrison Ng,” she retorted. “I decided to keep this off the books.”
“Off the books?” He took a step toward her. “Dragging my name, and my life, through some slimy private investigator? A former cop maybe? Your lover?”
“What’s with the attitude, Jack? You’d do the same thing in my shoes. And I’m not going to apologize for doing my job. I’m not going to violate your privacy.”
“You already have.”
This was important to him, Megan realized. His privacy, his anonymity. He lived in the far reaches of a distant county next to a depressed border town where he was smarter and sharper than the entire police force put together. She couldn’t help but wonder why he chose to live here, why he had become a soldier for hire, why he’d distanced himself from mainstream society.
“J. T Caruso. He’s a principal with Rogan-Caruso Protective Services, and a good friend of the family. He and my brother were Navy SEALs together. When I say this is off the books, it’s way off the books.”
Jack’s anger faded away. Not just because he had heard of Rogan-Caruso—and had taken a few assignments from Kane Rogan—but because Megan was sincerely contrite, flatly honest, and she didn’t back down. This was her job. He had to remember that. Her job was going to come first. It was helpful now, but later … later he would have to re-evaluate.
“I called in Lucky, one of my team members. He’s going to sit on Padre twenty-four/seven. Tim is coming down from San Antonio as well, and I even got Mike coming in. They’ll be here tonight. It’s probably a good thing, with Perez showing his true colors yesterday, and Hernandez sending his goons after me.”
He stepped closer to Megan. She had changed clothing, but he couldn’t tell much difference. Another blouse, another cami peaking out, tailored slacks. Low-heeled boots. He liked the shoulder holster she wore. Most female cops he knew wore their guns on their belt. Her hair was tied up in the back, like she’d had it yesterday when she burst into the jail cell to save him. He had no idea how she got that much hair to stay in place. He’d like to watch her put it up sometime. And take it down.
His eyes betrayed his thoughts. Megan flushed slightly, her red lips parted to reveal straight white teeth. Her green eyes darkened, then glanced almost demurely downward. She blinked, then looked at him, expertly hiding her reaction to his close proximity.
Before she could say anything snappy or formal, Jack touched her on the shoulder where the Taser darts had penetrated. “I noticed you were bruised last night. Does it still hurt?” Jack wanted to deck Perez for firing the damn Taser at Megan. Not just because she was a fed. Not just because she was a woman. But because she was …
What? What exactly is Megan Elliott to you, Jack?
No one. Blondie was no one to him, and he needed to remember that.
“Not much. Funny thing was, I’ve never been hit with a Taser before, and I swear, it hurt more than the time I was shot.”
“Shot? Where?” He’d seen a lot of her skin the night before. White, creamy, perfect. He hadn’t seen a bullet scar.
Her face changed, dramatically, from light to very, very dark. Bad memories. He recognized the transformation and wanted to know the circumstances of the shooting.
“Kidney,” she said quickly, her hand unconsciously moving to her lower right side. “But God gave us two just in case someone shoots you in the back, right?”
She was trying to lighten it up, but Jack saw that her mind was years in the past. He wanted to know who shot her and why. Was she on the job or not?
Padre came into the kitchen. “I saw a Ranger’s truck drive past as I was leaving the church. They were headed toward the police station.”
“That’s my cue,” Megan said. “I’ll find Hans and gather as much information as we can about Scout’s murder, and then come back here and talk about what you remember, Padre.”
Jack stole a glance at her. Did she even notice she’d adopted the nicknames of his friends? He didn’t think she did. She spoke smoothly. He actually liked it, she’d personalized the case, which meant, at least to Jack, that she cared about the people involved. Even Scout. A drunk, but a loyal soldier. A friend. Damn. Jack didn’t want to think about him being dead.
“Agent Elliott—” Padre began.
“Call me Megan, okay?”
“Can you find out about Scout’s body? I want to have a funeral and arrange for his body to be transported to Arlington.”
“Of course.”
Jack said in a rough voice, “He wanted to be cremated.”
“I remember,” Padre said.
“I’ll let them know,” Megan said. “There should be no reason you can’t have the body by the weekend.”
Hans drove Father Francis’s Jeep to the police station and parked next to the Ranger truck. He hadn’t said anything to her the entire ride, and Megan couldn’t help but worry that she’d overstepped her bounds last night or this morning or … when?
“Are we okay?” she asked when they stopped. She looked up at the sky. A dark blanket of clouds blocked out the sun, but still no rain since the brief downpour last night. A flash of lightning made Megan jump, and the responding thunder had her grabbing the dashboard.
“I should be asking that.”
“I’m fine.” She hated storms. She’d spent two months in New Orleans after Katrina. Her experience in Kosovo identifying the remains of the dead had been invaluable in Louisiana, and while she’d been good and much in demand at that distasteful job, it had been emotionally and physically devastating. Ever since, she dreaded storms, knowing that floods and levees breaking and high winds created not only property damage, but extensive human casualties.
“Meg?”
“I just need to know that we’re okay.”
“Of course we are.”
“You acted like I was a dumb rookie last night. What did I do wrong?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t there—”
“But you assumed I did something wrong.” It hit her hard.
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what?”
Hans ran his hand through his thick head of salt-and-pepper hair. “I was scared to death. I care about you, Meg. Too much, I know. It’s more than a partnership.”
Meg’s stomach churned and her face burned. “Hans … I …”
He laughed, took her hands. “Oh, God, Meg, you should see your face.” He squeezed her hands and said, “I love you like a little sister. Hell, I’m almost old enough to be your father.”
“Hardly. You’d have been a very young dad.” But she smiled. “Okay. As long as we’re good.”
&nbs
p; “I overstepped last night, and I’m sorry.”
“No apologies. I understand. I would have done the same if the situation was reversed.”
“I don’t know if I would have had the courage you showed last night.”
“Courage? I don’t know about that.” She’d been as scared for herself as she was angry at the sheriff as she was fearful that she’d have to use lethal force.
“Courage doesn’t mean you’re not scared.”
“I know,” she said firmly, though she wasn’t quite sure about that. “I’ve run the scene through my head a dozen times and I can’t see any other way to have done it.”
“Then you did it right. Besides, even if you did think of a better way, you can’t go Monday-morning quarter-backing your split-second decisions. You’re one of the best on your feet, Meg.”
She jumped when the thunder rolled again. “Let’s go in and talk to the Rangers.”
They got out of the Jeep and she added, “I called J. T. Caruso and asked him to quietly look into Jack and Father Francis. I don’t think there’s anything suspicious about them, but I need to cover all the bases.”
“I’ve already talked to Quantico about them.” Hans sounded contrite.
“You had to.”
“Jack’s brother Dillon is a good friend. I don’t like going behind anyone’s back.”
“Well, I didn’t. Jack overheard part of my conversation, so I told him exactly what I was doing.” She paused. “What do you think of Jerry Jefferson? Did you find him?”
“Working on it. I’m going off Father Francis’s knowledge that he’s in Afghanistan. I should know exactly where within the next couple hours.”
“If he’s not there?”
“Then we’ll find him.”
The two Rangers were standing outside the main entrance, one smoking a cigarette. Hans extended his hand and flashed his badge. “Assistant Special Agent in Charge Hans Vigo, FBI. My partner SSA Megan Elliott.”
The Rangers tipped their hats. “Pleasure.” The smoker was Rich Barker; the quiet Ranger was Ted Hern.
Hans glanced at the station, then pointed to the threatening sky. “Is there a problem here? Where’s Perez?”
“Hasn’t come in yet,” Barker said, taking a drag on his cigarette. “So the Hamstring Killer hit Hidalgo. You sure?”
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