Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

  She sighed again. “I have to wrap it. I can’t just hand it to her in the bag. And I have to think of something good.”

  He was wrestling the wheel off now, rolling it to the side of the garage and then rolling the snow tire over. Mac was talking more, something about him giving her a ride, but he wasn’t listening. He was pulling something out from behind the wheel well, something his work light had picked up. Something that definitely shouldn’t have been there.

  He was still on his haunches, turning it in his hand, and Mac said, “Dad?”

  “Huh?” He looked up.

  “What’s wrong? What’s that?”

  He considered not telling her. He didn’t want her to know.

  “If you don’t tell me,” she said, suddenly not sounding like an eleven-year-old diva, but like his responsible daughter again, “I’ll worry about you. It’s not like a . . . a bomb, is it?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “I’m guessing it’s a GPS. A tracking device.”

  Mac crouched beside him, and touched the shiny metal disk on the top. “Is this a magnet?”

  “Yep. Somebody reached right up under the truck and slapped this sucker on there. Could’ve happened anytime.”

  “But why? Who would want to track you?”

  “I don’t know.” But he was getting a pretty good idea.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I’m going to log it in at work. And then I’m going to . . .” He turned the black box in his hand. About three inches long and two wide. “I’m going to figure out what’s going on.”

  “You know what you should do?” She was looking excited. “You should fool them. If somebody’s trying to track you, you should put it on some other car. Except if somebody was trying to hurt you,” she seemed to realize, “you couldn’t do that. If they were trying to find out when you were someplace so they could get you—that would make somebody else be in danger. But you could put it on a—a train, or something. A train that was going to New York City, maybe, and then the person would be driving all the way to New York City, following it. Or not a train, because then the GPS would show the railroad tracks, right? A semi. How about that? That would just be on the highway.”

  He smiled, put a hand out, and tugged her braid. “You know,” he said, “whatever you talk about—you’re pretty darn smart.”

  She smiled, then was serious again. “Do you think they’re trying to follow you to hurt you?”

  “No. Why would they? They know where I live.” That probably hadn’t been the best thing to say, so he went on quickly. “I think I know what this is about.”

  “I only have you, you know.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore. “And you’re a cop.”

  Mac was always confident, but now, the vulnerability was right there. This was the nine-year-old who’d slept with her battered old stuffed rabbit for months after her mother had died, then had put it back on her shelf every morning so he wouldn’t know.

  “You don’t only have me,” he said. “You have Grandma, and you have Aunt Anthea and Uncle Ben and Cole. You’ve got a whole bunch of family, and they all love you like crazy.”

  “I don’t want you to die, though.” Her voice was small, and it tore at his heart.

  “And I don’t want to die. That’s why I’m smart, and I’m careful.”

  “Mom was smart. Mom was careful.”

  “Yes. She was. Mom got unlucky, and so did we. But I’m a lucky guy, mostly. I know that, because I got your mom, and then I got you. And besides,” he said, putting an arm around her, “I have to stick around to do your hair. I have to go to your college graduation and cheer too loud and embarrass you. I have to check out your first car before I let you buy it, and hang the shelves in your first apartment, and walk you down the aisle when you get married, and tell you you’re beautiful and pretend I’m not choking up when I give you away, and be there for you any other time in your life that you need a dad. And I intend to be around to do every bit of that. You bet I do.” He held her a little closer, squeezed her a little tighter, and pretended he wasn’t choked up right now. “OK, partner?”

  She nodded, still not looking at him. “OK. But be careful.”

  “Always. And I’ll think about what you said. About tricking them. That was a good one. I liked the semi idea.”

  She looked up and smiled at last, and he smiled back and thought, Yeah, Lawson. You got pretty damn lucky.

  “But I do need a ride to the mall,” she said. “Please.”

  After thinking about it some, he put the device back where he’d found it, got the tires on the truck, dropped Mac at the mall, then paid a visit to Vern’s Auto, catching them right before they closed. And then he drove back to the mall, sat in the parking lot waiting for Mac to text him, and called Hallie.

  When he explained it to her, she sounded scared. Of course she did. It was scary stuff.

  “The motel . . .” she said.

  “It wasn’t on my truck then,” he said. “I had it in for some work on the transmission a little over a week ago, and Vern says, no way that was on there. He would’ve seen it when it was on the rack. So it’s recent. My guess is, they couldn’t get you with the letters, they heard about the garage being graffitied, and they went for this.”

  “You mean,” she said, “that they’ve moved on. Escalated. That there’s something like this on my car, too.”

  “I’m betting. I’d like to come over and check it out.”

  “Uh . . .” she said.

  “Mac’s got a birthday party thing tonight. If I were to come over after dark . . . the snow’s supposed to get worse after seven. Most people will stay indoors.” And it was just about checking out her car.

  Yeah, right.

  “But—” she said. “The tracker.”

  “I’ll deal with that. I’ve got a couple ideas.”

  There was a long pause on the other end, and he tried to tell himself that this was just about her safety, and knew it was a lie.

  Finally, she said, “If you get rid of it tonight . . . nobody would catch on to that instantly, would they? It would take them a while to figure out it wasn’t working. So they couldn’t find out if you came to my house for an hour . . . or two, especially if your truck were in the garage.”

  “You’re right. They couldn’t. If I traded cars with Anthea for the evening and it was snowing, it wouldn’t even matter if there were a camera set up on your mailbox or someplace like that. Not if I drove straight into your garage and went back to Anthea’s afterwards, switched cars again, and drove mine into my garage. Just in case anybody was watching.”

  “Do you think there’s a camera set up at my mailbox?”

  “No. But I’d like to check and make sure.”

  “It’ll be dark, though.”

  “I can check in the dark. There’d only be a few places to look. I’ve got a powerful flashlight. I can take care of it.”

  Another pause. “OK,” she finally said, and he let go of the breath he’d been holding. “That’d be good. And you could . . . if you wanted, you could come over and play pool. You know how we said . . .” She sounded like she was stopping to catch her breath herself. “That you wanted to play on my pool table. We could do that. If you wanted.”

  “You been a badass with it yet?”

  “I haven’t been a badass at all.”

  “Then,” he said, “I guess I’d better come over.”

  Then he hung up, Mac texted him that she was ready, and he got a strong dose of reality.

  “All set?” he asked when they were back in the truck. The snow was still drifting down in fat white flakes, and he turned the defroster up and the windshield wipers on, glad he’d changed out the tires.

  “Yeah. Except I have to wrap it.” She held up the bag.

  “What did you get?”

  “A really cool coloring book and new colored pencils. And lip balm.”

  “Uh . . . isn’t that a little . . . young?”

  “
Dad. No. That’s what everybody does.”

  “Oh. I guess it’s a girl thing.”

  “Boys color, too. Didn’t you?”

  He had to smile. “Well, no. I did not color. Not after I was, you know, five.”

  “It’s very good for concentrating. You should try it.”

  “I’ll probably give that a pass. I’m reasonably good at concentrating.” He pulled up at the house again. “Right, then. You can get that wrapped up, and I’ll take you over there.”

  She didn’t get out of the truck, though. “What are you going to do while I’m gone?”

  He hesitated. How was he supposed to answer that? This single-dad thing was getting trickier all the time.

  “I’ll probably go out,” he finally said.

  She was giving him the side-eye again. “With Ms. Cavanaugh?”

  “I might.”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to go out with her.”

  “I told you. She’s a friend.” Which wasn’t honest communication, but there was no way Mac needed more information than that. Or that she should be carrying his secrets for him.

  “When we were over there before, you were hugging her. You kissed her, too. You called her ‘baby.’ That’s not ‘friends.’”

  “I thought you liked her.” All right, he was weaseling out.

  “I like her dog. She’s a good teacher. I didn’t say I wanted you to marry her.”

  “I didn’t say I was marrying her. I said she’s a friend. I like her very much, and I was trying to make her feel better about her garage. And come on.” He opened the door. He was out of ideas, so he punted. “Go wrap your present so I can drive you to this birthday party before everybody hands out all the jewelry-box kits.”

  PLAYING GAMES

  After Jim had called, the first thing Hallie had done was to go out to the garage and walk around her car, then look under it with a flashlight. She hadn’t known what she was looking for, though, and she hadn’t seen anything.

  The thought of driving around with somebody virtually watching her movements—it was more than creepy. She walked down to the mailbox in the fading light with Cletus beside her and checked it over, but there was nothing. She ran her flashlight down the light pole beside the driveway, too. If there were a camera there, surely she’d see it.

  And anyway . . . even if there were a secret camera recording here, what would anybody see tonight? Anthea’s car coming over for a couple hours. And Anthea wouldn’t say anything if Jim asked her not to.

  He’d said he’d be there at seven. “I could bring another pizza,” he’d said, “but it might be better not to show my face anywhere public tonight. Just in case.”

  “That’s fine,” she’d said. “Besides, maybe we should, ah . . . use our time for the pool game. And checking my car, of course,” she’d added hastily. Now, she went back up to the house, ate a quick salad and some cheese on bread, and then . . . didn’t take a shower. She took a bath, instead. A long one.

  Whatever he said, she knew it wasn’t a relationship. It sure wasn’t a romance. Tonight, it was Jim checking her car out, helping her with her problem. Playing a game of pool with her and helping her with her other problem. One more time. Just once more. Last chance, because they had to be even more careful now. Surely she deserved one last time.

  At seven o’clock, Cletus barked, and she went out to the garage with the dog following behind, opened the huge rolling door, and watched headlights coming up the winding driveway through the snow, which was falling faster now, and blowing so hard that nobody would have been able to identify those headlights, or the car, even if there had been a camera. Jim pulled in beside her own car and turned the engine off, and she punched the button and watched the garage door roll closed.

  Cletus barked once but stayed beside Hallie, his tail whipping a mile a minute while Jim got out of the car, came around it, and said, “You know, I’ve never felt more like I’m having an affair. I shouldn’t like it. Too bad I do.”

  He bent and gave Cletus a thump, then said, “Sit,” and the dog did.

  “He doesn’t mind me as well as he does you,” she said. “Unfair.”

  “Because I say it like I mean it.”

  “That’s probably it, Sergeant.”

  He smiled a little, her heart gave a skip, and the rest of her got busy waiting to get kissed.

  He wasn’t doing it, though. Why not?

  “I’ve never had an affair, either,” she said, for something to say. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be exciting, but it is anyway. Sort of—forbidden fruit, I guess.”

  His face changed. He reached down, threaded his hand through her curls, tipped her face up, pulled her close with his other hand, and finally gave her the long, slow kiss she needed.

  By the time he was done, she was hanging on hard. “It is,” he said. “Because you’re my forbidden fruit for sure. I’m hating this, and, man—I’m loving it. Tonight—I couldn’t wait. I’m all messed up, and you’re the one doing it to me. Leaving you feels bad every time, and so does seeing you and not getting to touch you. And here I am, back for more anyway, because there’s no way in hell I can stay away.”

  “Better make it good, then,” she murmured against the faintly rough texture of his neck. It felt good, so she nuzzled under his ear some more, wrapped her arms around the very satisfactory breadth of his back, and snuggled in. He was wearing a blue plaid flannel shirt and jeans tonight, and he was so wonderfully warm and solid.

  “Guess I’d better,” he said. “And I should’ve shaved. I didn’t want Mac to notice, though. She’s a little suspicious.”

  “Mm.” She should care about that, and she would. Later. “I like it a little rough. Exciting again.”

  It wasn’t a smile she got from him. It was just a lightening of his eyes. A gleam. Something like that. “Well, damn, girl. Let’s go inside, then.”

  She realized what she’d said and could feel the warmth stealing up her cheeks. She thought about saying that wasn’t what she’d meant, then abandoned the idea. One thing she was sure of—Jim wouldn’t hurt her. “Uh—yeah,” she said, instead. “You came over to show me how to be a badass. Shouldn’t you check out my car first, though?”

  “I thought I would. But I just changed my mind. Hang on one second.” He opened the passenger door of Anthea’s car, pulled out a paper bag, and said, “Have to have the right drink to be a badass.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed. “Right. Well, uh, come inside.”

  Now that he was here, she was nervous again, and she didn’t have two and a half drinks in her this time to quiet the voice of caution. She opened the door to the house, and Jim followed her inside with Cletus bringing up the rear, then took him into the family room.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  He looked around. Soft blue walls, chalk-white trim, squishy couch in pale-blue velvet, and a row of three velvet cubes in front of it serving as a coffee table, thanks to a tray on one of them. A mahogany bar with its shelves empty, because only the wine fridge had anything in it. Pale-blue drapes behind the couch pulled tight against the winter dark. And the pool table, all soft green felt, leather bumpers, and rich mahogany legs that matched the bar, complete with a rack of cues against the wall.

  “That’s one sweet table,” he said, running a hand over the felt. “That’s solid. And the rest of the room isn’t half bad, either.”

  “Yep.” She pulled the bottle out of his paper bag. “Single-malt scotch, huh?” Two-thirds full, coming out of his liquor cabinet, she guessed. Avoiding a telltale trip to the liquor store before their clandestine meeting. “Am I worth it?”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re going to be. How about I pour the drinks and you go on up and change out of those jeans into a skirt, so we can get started with this game of ours?”

  “What, my jeans aren’t good enough for you?” She wanted to play pool with him. She did. But not if he was going to tell her what to wear. She’d had enough of that in this house.
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br />   He looked at her, his gaze measuring. “The kind of pool I had in mind,” he said, “was strip pool. You could say that I’ve been thinking about that for, oh, about two months now. I’ll play with you either way. Any way. But if you changed into a skirt and kept that pretty sweater on, let’s just say that it would give me one hell of a head start.”

  “Oh,” she said weakly.

  He didn’t say anything else, just stood there, leaning up against the bar, big and patient, and waited, his dark gaze on her face.

  “I’ll be back,” she finally said. “Cletus, come.” Maybe she could be a badass if she didn’t have an audience. Even a canine one.

  He’d thought, for a minute there, that he’d pushed her too hard. The problem was, he had been thinking about this pool table for months, and since the locker room and the motel, he’d thought about it more.

  “Thought about it more” sounded better than “had nonstop fantasies about it,” anyway.

  Then Hallie came back downstairs in the same little buttoned-up, pale-pink sweater with a wide V-neck and not much under it that he could see, a silky gray skirt that didn’t reach her knees, and her cowboy boots.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “That’s good.”

  She shut the door and said, “I left Cletus upstairs. In case we, um . . .”

  He handed her a tumbler of ice, scotch, and water. “Good. Because we’re definitely going to ‘um.’”

  She gave him a little smile that might have meant anything or nothing, picked up a remote, and turned on some music. A little bit loud, and plenty hot, right from the start, all guitars, fiddles, and slow, insistent drumbeats.

  Then she took a drink, racked the balls, chalked up her cue, and it was on.

  She was a decent pool player. Unfortunately—or fortunately—he was better.

  “No fair,” she said after he sank four in a row. “You didn’t tell me you were a shark.”

  “I was a soldier.” He watched her lean over to take her shot in that short gray skirt, and that was a very nice view. “It’s a pretty fair bet that any soldier’s going to be a good pool player. Too many hours in too many bars too far from home.”