Maybe he should just let it go. Mary joked all the time about his determination to fix things that were none of his business. He knew it was about his parents and their tendency to stick their heads in the sand and hope for the best. He loved them, and he’d never say it, but his brother would’ve had a hell of a better shot at survival if they’d stepped up and interfered.
His cell phone rang, destroying the silence of the forest and startling him from his thoughts. He was surprised to get a call out here. Service was spotty even when he wasn’t in the trees.
“Duncan,” he answered.
“We got another letter,” Mary said without preamble. “Where are you?”
“About one minute out from the Chandler house. Where are you?”
“Just pulling up,” she said as lights swept over the trees far ahead of him. “Security guards finally decided to go through the Saturday mail delivery at the courthouse.”
Tom cursed. “Didn’t we ask them to bring any mail to us?”
“I guess the weekend shift didn’t get the news.”
“Hold on,” he said, picking up his pace along the packed trail of snow. “I’ll be right there.”
The lights from the judge’s cabin blazed through the trees. Another car pulled up as he got there. Hannity got out. “A threat to the judge’s family,” he said immediately, falling into place next to Tom as he jogged up the stairs.
“Mary already moved Veronica here,” Tom said pointedly, “so that’ll make this easier to address. What else?”
“He mentioned a bomb.”
“Shit. We’re gonna need another team—”
“Already on it.”
“Anderson?”
“Yes. He says he can have a K-9 unit here in three hours.”
“Have a plan drawn up before he gets here,” Tom ordered. “We’ll sweep the area around the house for footprints and evacuate the judge’s home if we find anything. If not, let’s focus on the courthouse.”
Mary was waiting for him with a copy of the letter. He grabbed it and started through the four pages of single-spaced ranting. Things were about to get a whole lot busier around here.
CHAPTER FIVE
ISABELLE SLIPPED ON her sunglasses, but she still squinted against the bright morning light as she walked through town. Well...afternoon light, maybe. Sunlight was brutal at this altitude and even more brutal when it was shining off the snow piled along the narrow sidewalks of Jackson like a punishment handed down by the cruel god of hangovers.
Halfway through their night out, she and Lauren had decided to throw caution to the wind and get unapologetically drunk. That had meant no ride home for Isabelle and a very cold midnight walk from the bar to Lauren’s house, but it had been worth it. Lauren didn’t have to work today, and Isabelle had needed to shake off the last of the fear Tom Duncan had delivered to her doorstep.
She’d shaken off the fear but had acquired a headache, though she’d managed to sleep off most of the alcohol.
Still, the crisp air helped eliminate the last of her lethargy, and she walked a little taller and unbuttoned her coat to feel more of the sun. She wasn’t worried that she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn the night before. If anyone noticed and thought she was taking an extended walk of shame, she’d be happy for the gossip. Her “creepy hermit artist” reputation wasn’t getting her any dates. Maybe “creepy party-girl artist” would help.
She smiled at the next person she passed and put a little more swing in her step. Maybe she should wear her heeled boots every time she ran errands. It certainly made walking to the post office feel less like a chore and more like the possibility of adventure.
And funny enough, when she turned the corner, adventure was waiting right there for her. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the sexy kind. It was the kind that came with a heavy police presence and a scrum of reporters. She’d accidentally stumbled onto the property of the tiny federal courthouse of Jackson, Wyoming.
For a moment, she just stood there, hand tightening on her little clutch purse and heart ratcheting up her fight-or-flight response.
Funny that she hadn’t thought about this at all. She hadn’t considered what Tom’s job really meant and how much it had in common with her past. She’d been too worried that he was actually here to scout her out.
Her father’s case had never gone to trial; he’d skipped town long before that. But he had been indicted, and there had been hearings and other cases to process, and it had all looked like this, only instead of two satellite trucks, there’d been ten. All the Chicago outlets and a few national ones, as well.
This was an entirely different scene, she tried to tell herself. Nothing like what had happened to her father. Here there were only fifty or so spectators and another twenty press people, and the federal courthouse in Jackson didn’t look much different from the post office. It was a one-story, ugly ’60s structure that evoked none of the gravitas or Greek dignity of the courthouses of Chicago.
So yes, it was a very different scene, but she was still standing there panting as if she were the one in danger. As if that pack of reporters was about to chase her life down and devour it in front of her. Again.
She took a deep breath. Then another.
This had nothing to do with her. It didn’t have anything to do with people she knew. Except Tom.
The threats against the judge really were a big deal. She’d read a few things online, but she hadn’t understood the scope of it. These news trucks had come all the way from Cheyenne, six hours away. They might even be sending coverage to a national feed.
She could no longer feel the fingers gripping her bag, but she’d calmed down a little, so she moved her clutch to the other hand and took a moment to look for Tom. He was likely inside the courthouse, running the show there, but she had a strange urge to see him in his element. She had a feeling that that much authority would look sexy as hell on him, especially when she’d been raised to find that kind of thing manly.
But her interest fled when a car pulled up to the courthouse walkway, and the reporters suddenly surged forward. She didn’t recognize the man who emerged, but everyone else seemed to. Small town or not, these reporters behaved the same way Chicago reporters did, shouting at their crew, yelling out questions, rushing forward like hungry animals.
Isabelle took two steps back and spun to make her getaway, practically running to the next cross street so she could detour around the courthouse to get to her postal box. She never wanted to see that kind of thing again. She never wanted any part of a trial or a scandal or people who shouted hateful things.
Once she was out of sight of the crowd, Isabelle slowed down, but she had to force it. She wanted to run. If she’d had her car, she’d probably have sprinted straight for it and left rubber on the road as she sped out of town. But she didn’t have her car. She was meeting Lauren in thirty minutes so they could have lunch before Lauren drove her home.
She put one foot in front of the other and skirted the rear of the courthouse and then worked back around to the post office.
After giving a wan smile to the clerk, who was ready with a wave, Isabelle got her mail and took it to the recycling box to ditch the junk mail. It was all junk mail. Even the one piece that caught her eye and made her hands start to tremble.
Her name and address were typed, and it looked like any other piece of marketing, except that there was a stamp in place of printed postage. And there was no return address.
She turned the envelope over. It shook in her hand. The return address was printed on the back, but with no name or company logo.
Though she meant to throw it away, her shaking hand reached for the flap of the envelope and slowly worked it open. She pushed up her shades as she pulled out the single piece of paper and unfolded it.
At first, she couldn’t quite see the words. She couldn’t focus. Then she started reading and still couldn’t decipher them. It took her three attempts to read through the half page of text before she realized t
hat it wasn’t from her father. It was only a marketing letter from a Realtor who was fishing for seasonal rentals.
The soft sound that came from her own throat frightened her. Isabelle carefully tore the letter into long strips and dropped each of them into the trash can next to the recycling box. The letter had done nothing to her, but she wanted it gone, not recycled into something else.
She’d always told everyone that her father had never contacted her after he’d run. That he’d never been in touch. She’d sworn that was the truth to every federal officer who’d questioned her and every shady Chicago cop who’d shown up at her place with a creepy smile and assurances that they were there to help. But it hadn’t been the truth.
From the moment he’d disappeared, he’d sent letters. A week of peace would go by. Maybe two. And then she’d get another letter disguised as junk mail in case anyone was watching the mailbox.
He’d pretend to be apologizing or explaining or just sending his love, but he’d always asked for money. Always. She’d sent a little, but after the fourth or fifth letter that she’d refused to reply to, he’d become less apologetic and more aggressive. How can you do this? I’m sorry about everything, but I’m still your father. I need help. You owe me that.
She hadn’t owed him anything. After twenty-two years of being his daughter, she hadn’t even known who he was. She’d thought he was a hero, but he’d killed at least one fellow officer, stolen money from countless others, and he’d brought dangerous people into Isabelle’s life. Isabelle had hated him.
But none of this had to do with today. He wasn’t back. He hadn’t found her. And her immediate terror was pissing her off.
She sorted through the rest of her mail to be sure it was all junk, then tossed it in the trash. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t a scared girl. She’d left all that behind. She’d walked away from it. She’d made a damn decision, and she’d pulled it off.
“Screw it all,” she muttered. Then she slipped her shades back on and stepped back out into the day. She forced herself to walk toward the courthouse instead of avoiding it. She put the swing back in her step, and she didn’t shy away from the news trucks as she made her way through the crowd.
And she was glad she didn’t, because that was the moment she spotted Tom.
In action, he was just as hot as she thought he’d be. His dark gray suit showed off strong shoulders and a slim waist. He wore shades against the bright sun, too, and some sort of earpiece. Leaning in to speak to a man dressed in similar fashion, Tom looked like Secret Service or FBI or something way more urbane than a US marshal.
Damn it. He was sexy.
She saw the moment he noticed her, despite the dark shades hiding his eyes. His head cocked. One expressive eyebrow rose. His lips stopped moving. But for only a moment. He resumed talking, but his head followed Isabelle’s movement down the sidewalk. She raised her chin. Better to think about him watching her than to consider the chaos surrounding both of them.
She’d recognized his attractiveness even when she’d been suspicious of him, but after talking with Lauren about him last night, her awareness had sharpened. She liked the way he looked and moved. She liked his voice. She even liked the way he smelled. His profession was a drawback, but it had somehow ceased to be a deal breaker. In fact, maybe it was a turn-on. The danger. Tempting fate. It was stupid, but she suddenly felt alive.
Hell, she’d been complaining for months that she wanted a hot fantasy man to show up on her doorstep and show her a good time. This man had literally shown up on her doorstep, and she’d be an idiot not to at least entertain the idea. Or so Lauren had told her.
Her mouth refused to hold back a smile when Isabelle remembered Lauren’s assessment of his ass. Something about it being truly bitable.
Isabelle tipped her head toward him just as he turned to gesture toward the courthouse. His suit jacket tightened against his backside with the movement.
She let her smile widen. His ass did look bitable. It was taut and just round enough to make her want to squeeze it. God, she did love a nice male ass. And it had been so long since she’d dug her nails into one.
She walked on, grinning at the sidewalk in front of her and hoping he had a good view of her own ass from where he was working.
“Isabelle,” he called.
Telling herself not to look too pleased, she turned to see him walking toward her.
“I figured you were too busy to talk,” she said.
“I am, but there’s been a delay in the defense counsel getting here, so we’re in a holding pattern. A cattle truck jackknifed on the highway.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like a setup to me.”
He smiled, and the way the shades hid his eyes made him look dangerous. “Believe me, if it was the prosecutor’s car, I’d be on my way out there with lights flashing. But the defense is on their own.”
“Cruel. And the cows?”
“I gather they’re fine. Regardless, we don’t have the manpower to offer them protection.”
His head rose, and he seemed to give a quick scan to the area before smiling down at her again, his attention tipping a little lower this time. This was a different Tom. He was...almost flirty. And totally confident. “I hope you locked up before you left last night.”
Ah. So he’d noticed she was wearing the same thing. Good. Let him wonder if she’d gone home with someone. Let him wonder what she was like in bed. “I locked the door. I’ll let you know if there’s any trouble when I get home.”
“All right.”
“I’d better let you get back to work,” she said, stepping away with a little wave. “Nice suit, by the way.”
He looked down, brows twitching up in surprise. “Thanks.”
She couldn’t resist drawing it out a little more. She’d fought off her panic, and now she felt powerful. Maybe a little reckless. “Are you going to stop by tonight and check on me?”
He’d been sweeping the area again, but his face tipped back to her. “If you’d like me to.”
She shrugged. “You’re probably busy,” she said casually before walking on. “Good luck with this circus.”
He didn’t reply, but she could feel his gaze on her as she left. Isabelle barely even noticed the loud drone of the crowd around her as she moved through them. She was too busy swinging her ass.
* * *
“K-9 SAYS THE parking lot is clean.”
Tom wiped the frown from his face and immediately spun to follow Mary as she moved through the crowd. She parted groups of people with just a look.
“They’re stationed at the door?” he asked.
She nodded. The K-9 unit had cleared the judge’s home first as a precaution, and they’d been working over the entire courthouse since six this morning, the two dogs taking turns so they weren’t overwhelmed.
“Forensics?” Tom asked.
“Fingerprints confirm it’s him.”
Saul Stevenson hadn’t bothered disguising his handwriting or keeping his prints off the paper last time, either. He wanted them to know who he was.
Mary glanced over her shoulder as they neared the building. “Postmark is Helena, three days ago.”
They both flashed their badges at the security team, despite that they knew every member. It was important that no one get lax.
Tom had gone over the schedule for the day four times already. He trusted his team, and he’d briefed local law enforcement himself. There wasn’t much to do now except watch and wait. The threat was likely just a scare tactic. If Saul Stevenson meant to actually plant a bomb, he’d be stupid to give them a heads-up. Then again, maybe he was stupid.
But it was more likely that the bomb threat was a diversion, meant to draw attention away from his true intentions. “Hannity is sweeping rooftops now?” he asked Mary as they entered the meeting room.
“He’s almost done.”
“A sniper shot would be a hell of a lot simpler for him to pull off than a bomb.”
“May
be he wants the drama of an explosion, though.”
Tom nodded, but the buzz of his phone in his pocket cut off his next words. His thoughts immediately flashed on Isabelle, her smile teasing and her clothes advertising that she hadn’t bothered going home last night. Not to her place, anyway. She’d slept somewhere else.
But when he drew his phone from his pocket, there was no incoming call from the mysterious Isabelle West. It was only his sister. He winced and put it away.
“What is it?” Mary asked.
“My sister.”
He thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. Mary had been invited to dinner at his sister’s place too many times.
“Why are you avoiding Wendy?”
“I’m not avoiding her,” he answered. “I’m busy.”
“Maybe she needs something.”
He glanced up to find Mary leaning against the wall, arms crossed in that stubborn way that said she wasn’t going anywhere. “Aren’t you always telling me not to worry about my family? If she needs something, she’ll call back.”
“I’m also always telling you that one dinner a month is not enough time with your family.”
Tom rolled his shoulders. “I need to send a few emails,” he muttered.
She didn’t move.
“Okay, I’ll text her,” he grumbled, getting his phone back out to let Wendy know he’d call her in a couple of days.
Once he’d hit Send, Mary gave up her stance and sat down at her own computer. He felt bad shutting her out, but he didn’t want to talk about it.
It was his brother’s birthday, and Wendy always called. He always avoided the call. His sister was like his parents. She considered Michael’s death a sad accident. Tom considered it a tragedy that could’ve been averted if anyone had done anything to try to stop it. If they’d even acknowledged his addiction just once, maybe his brother would be alive.
He couldn’t talk to Wendy about how sad it all was, because he wasn’t sad. He was pissed. At Michael. At his parents. Even at Wendy when she wanted to call and reminisce. And he loved his family too much to tell them how angry it still made him.
Flirting with Disaster & Fanning the Flames Page 6