Love On the Run

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  He made every green light and arrived at the federal prison on Union Street only fifteen minutes late. He passed inspection with barely a second glance. Everything was too easy; the men knew him and his sterling character.

  Earl looked up from some papers as he came in from the locker room. “The book that Holbrooke wanted came in. Why don’t you deliver it? Nobody else can stand the guy.”

  “Okay.” Dennis picked up the book. He went down on one knee to tie his shoe, and with the edge of his handkerchief slipped the envelope into the middle of the book. He saw the title: The Faulkner Reader.

  “Why the man’d want to read that junk is beyond me,” Earl said, leaning back in his chair. “I read a few pages and couldn’t understand a thing. Give it a try.”

  Dennis opened the book, but was unable to focus on the words. “I see what you mean.”

  “Reading mixed-up stuff like that’s probably what got him in such big trouble in the first place. There’s such a thing as being too literary. They get so they think they’re better than the rest of us.”

  Dennis didn’t reply. In seconds he was walking down the corridor to Holbrooke’s cell, feeling the ever-present camera burning into his back.

  “Here’s your book,” Dennis said to Holbrooke. He didn’t toss it as was his inclination, but slipped it carefully through the bars.

  “You have a kid?” Holbrooke asked, accepting the book as though it were something special. He looked nothing like his nickname Big Tommy implied. He was of average height, fit and lean, with dark hair that curled slightly at the front. A deep dimple cut into his strong chin, and thick eyebrows framed his black eyes. He had the kind of dangerous good looks women adored—the kind everyone adored. Dennis bet he wouldn’t serve much time, despite his serious crimes. Holbrooke was too much in control.

  “Two,” Dennis replied. “A boy and a girl. Twelve and ten.”

  “My son’s eleven,” Holbrooke said.

  He’d known the mob boss had a son, but the poignancy in the man’s voice brought it home. Holbrooke obviously missed his son and was worried about him. “You’ll be with him soon,” Dennis said.

  “I hope so. And thank you. You’re a kind man. Not like the others.”

  Dennis’ face burned, thinking of the envelope. When Holbrooke found it, would he think Dennis had been bought? Well, he had, in a manner of speaking. But he really hadn’t had a choice. He wondered if Holbrooke would expect more favors.

  “Well, have a good day.” Dennis left quickly, relief flowing through him. Now back to normal, he thought. I’ll pretend it never happened.

  Of course he would now have a million dollars sitting in a Swiss bank account, or at least a half million if the owners of the envelope didn’t follow through with the second installment. Yet Dennis knew they would. When he called later, the money would all be there. But he wouldn’t spend it. No, he would give it to charity. All of it—except enough to take Gloria to Spain and give his kids the karate lessons they’d been wanting. Nothing for himself.

  Feeling much better, Dennis went about his work.

  * * *

  QUENTIN THOMAS HOLBROOKE WATCHED THE guard leave. He’d made a fortune from studying people, and he could tell there was something different about the man this morning. Dennis was scared almost to the point of breaking. Odd.

  He glanced at the thick book in his hand. Printed in 1946, it had a blue cover and the title was in gold lettering, framed by rectangles of black. Very simple. Nothing to be afraid of.

  He wondered what Sampson was doing. If he were here, Quentin would read aloud to him from The Sound and the Fury and then discuss it. The boy had inherited his mother’s love of reading, and the old classics had been family favorites. Quentin had been interested in the classics himself when he was younger, but now read them only when he missed Maura . . . or Sampson.

  It won’t be long now, he promised the boy who could not hear him. If I have to use my whole fortune to get free, or at least all that Laranda left intact, I’ll gladly do it.

  TC, of course, wouldn’t like it. Quentin knew he enjoyed being in charge. But it was Quentin’s empire, after all. He could always build another, but he couldn’t replace the years of Sampson’s childhood. He had to be there for that, especially since Maura couldn’t be.

  How he had loved her! She had been the only pure thing in his life. What’s more, she’d loved him in return. Yet even with all that love, she hadn’t been able to withstand his corruptness—the secret murders, the bribes, the questionable business ventures. She had planned to take Sampson and leave, and Quentin would have let her rather than see her hurt. Then came the tumor, and all the money in world couldn’t save her. He would have lost her either way, but he would have rather had her live. Sampson needed her.

  Which was another reason why he’d sent Sampson to Cassi. She was much like Maura. Not in the way she looked or acted, but in spirit. Quentin knew Cassi would care for Sampson until he could be reunited with his family—or at least until Quentin found out who was killing his relatives. His suspicions pointed to TC, but he hoped he was wrong.

  Thumbing through The Faulkner Reader, he was surprised to see an envelope tucked inside the pages. Could it be the reason for the guard’s terror? Quentin felt a surge of hope. Maybe there was some way out of this hole. If the guard had been bribed to carry this note, there could be others. The man had children and would not refuse.

  Smiling darkly, Quentin broke open the seal to the envelope. The inside was lined with a thin plastic sheeting. Top of the line. Which of his allies had sent it? What was the plan?

  He pulled a single sheet of thick paper from the envelope. As he unfolded the letter, there was a soft pop and a cloud of something floated into his face. He scarcely had time to view the short note before the symptoms began.

  Bang! I win after all. You’re dead.

  First Quentin’s breath came more rapidly, and then he began gasping. He tried to call out, but he couldn’t make a sound. The room spun crazily around him. His face flushed, and a horrible pounding assaulted his skull. Dropping the letter, he fell heavily to the floor. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears, drumming much faster than it should have. He couldn’t focus on anything in the room.

  Who had done this to him? Could it have been TC? Or was it Donelli, his major competitor? Or perhaps someone else entirely? In the end, it was all the same. He would still be dead.

  His body began to convulse. As unconsciousness took over, Quentin’s last thought was of Sampson.

  * * *

  “WE’RE HERE TO SEE Quentin Holbrooke,” Fred said to the man at the desk. He and Justin took out their FBI identification. “We need to see him privately. It’s been cleared through the warden, if you want to check.”

  The man checked. He had a disgruntled expression on his face, as though he’d been interrupted at something important. Probably a nap, Fred thought uncharitably.

  He was in a lousy mood. He’d slept last night in his office at the Federal Building, waiting for a call from Jared and Cassi. None had come. Where were they now? It was already early Wednesday evening in France, about fifteen hours since he had talked to Cassi. Had they been captured by whoever chased her from the phone? No, he had to believe they were still free and would call him when they could. Meanwhile, he would find his own leads.

  Lightly, he kneaded the flesh under the wound on his right arm. Stupid bandage itched like crazy. At least it fit nicely under his jacket so people didn’t treat him like an invalid.

  “You can see him,” the man finally said, putting down the phone. “But we’re at full capacity right now, and it’ll take me a while to find a room.” He lifted the phone again.

  Fred saw Justin roll his eyes. Even if they were at full capacity, there should be plenty of space for an FBI interrogation.

  The guard suddenly turned white and nearly dropped the phone. “He’s what!”

  “What happened?” Fred demanded, thinking that in spite of the extra security m
easures he knew the warden had ordered, Holbrooke had somehow escaped.

  “He’s—they say he appears to be—uh—dead.”

  “Take me to him. Now!”

  Fred forced his way through the milling guards into the cell, where he found Holbrooke lying on the floor. His body was curled as though it had suffered convulsions, and his skin was abnormally pink. “Get a homicide team in here on the double!” he growled. “And don’t touch anything. It looks like poison.”

  Well, Cassi and Jared, he thought. Someone has just upped the ante. That little boy with you is now a multibillionaire target.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AT A PAY PHONE, JARED called Zack Fields, who had arranged for them to stay at his in-laws’ cabin. “Something’s come up, and we have to leave France now. We’ve left the car here with plenty of money to pay for the parking. And, uh, there’s a broken window and a few holes from some bullets. We’ll send you the funds to pay for it.”

  “What’s going on? The police called and said something about a break-in. Are you guys okay?”

  “Well, sort of.” Jared gave a brief explanation, thanked him profusely, and hung up.

  “How’d he take it?” Cassi asked.

  “He’s worried about us. He asked me when we were going to learn to stay out of trouble.”

  “Seems like never,” Cassi said. “Maybe we really should move to a deserted island like Carl suggested.” Carl Boyer was a friend who lived in Los Angeles, and who had helped them during their last run-in with Laranda.

  “Too late now,” Jared said wistfully. He kissed her.

  Sampson rolled his eyes. “Would you two quit that? You’re embarrassing me. We’re in public, you know.”

  They still had some time before their train left, so they walked until they found a store to buy toothbrushes and a few other essential items. “In England, we’ll do some real shopping,” Cassi told Sampson.

  The train ride took several hours, but was uneventful. Jared even managed to doze part of the time. Sampson was asleep the second the train pulled out of the station, his head falling first against Cassi’s shoulder and then coming to rest on her lap. Cassi stroked the boy’s cheek and blond hair, humming a little song under her breath. Jared thought it was a lullaby.

  They arrived in Calais and waited for nearly an hour for the ferry to arrive. Once aboard the SeaFrance, they dined in style at La Brasserie. “This is good stuff for a ferry,” Sampson said. Sampson with his father’s connections would know, but Jared ate without tasting the food, too tense to enjoy himself.

  It took an hour and a half for the ferry to cross the English Channel to Dover, as opposed to some of the hovercraft which took about a third of the time. This belated discovery, made only once they were on board, worried Jared. He hoped that no one would be waiting for them in England. The fear made his head ache.

  “Look at those beautiful cliffs,” Cassi said, pointing at the English coast. Jared saw long white cliffs shadowed by fluffy clouds that were cottony on top and an upswept gray on the underside. It was an impressive sight, and his headache lightened considerably.

  In Dover, Cassi purchased some English pounds and placed a call to her friend Grant Truebekon. The reclusive man was one of the foremost authorities on Indian art. Under other circumstances, Jared would have been pleased about the meeting, but this wild trip was not exactly how he’d expected to meet the renowned art connoisseur.

  They had to wait another thirty minutes for Cassi’s friend to arrive at the ferry station. Jared studied each passerby as they waited, expecting at any minute to see their pursuers. But he saw no one who appeared threatening.

  “There he is, I think,” Cassi said at last as an older man parked and came around the car to greet them. “Hi, Grant. Thanks for coming.” Cassi hugged him.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Grant said, returning her embrace.

  “You too. It’s been a long time. Grant, this is my husband, Jared Landine.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Grant shook his hand. The man was very tall and lean, except for the modest bulge around his middle. He had brown eyes, dark gray hair, and thick eyebrows of the same color. His presence was commanding, but not overbearing, and Jared liked him immediately.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Jared said. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

  “You too. Cassi’s been like a daughter to me.”

  “I think she feels the same way.”

  Cassi’s smile grew. “I certainly do.” She touched Sampson’s shoulder. “This is Sampson. He’s staying with us for a while.”

  “Some honeymoon,” Grant murmured with a grin. “You never did like to do things in the conventional way, but it is good to see you again. Sophie’s looking forward to your visit.”

  On the drive to Grant’s house outside Dover, they explained their troubles and the reason for the sudden change in their visiting plans. Grant shook his head in disbelief. “I’m really sorry, Cassi. Trouble seems to follow you.”

  “Yeah, you’d think we’d get used to it,” Cassi said wryly. “But it’s a little too exciting for us.”

  “Now that it’s over, it was kind of fun,” Sampson put in. “When they were chasing us, Cassi drove the car like a maniac. You should have seen her! It was like being in a movie. If it wasn’t for her, they would have caught up with us and shot us through the heads. And then thrown us into the ocean or something. Nobody would have ever known.”

  “Yeah.” Cassi’s smile was grim. “Some fun.” She looked at Jared as though wishing for a change in subject. Like him, she knew their troubles weren’t over as Sampson seemed to feel.

  The sun had already begun to set over the countryside when they arrived at the quaint cottage surrounded by magnificent ash trees and smaller maples. Neatly trimmed hazelnut shrubs lined the cobbled walkway where they were greeted by two sheepdogs and Sophie, Grant’s wife of thirty years.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” she said, enfolding Cassi in a warm embrace. “The rooms aren’t quite ready. But I’m so glad you’re here.” She hugged Jared next, as enthusiastically as she had Cassi. Sophie had blond hair, kind blue eyes, and a vibrant face. Much shorter than her husband and only slightly plump, she reminded Jared of his own mother.

  “And who is this young man?” Sophie asked, eyeing Sampson. She didn’t try to hug him, probably a good thing from his expression. “Why, you’re very tall, aren’t you?”

  Sampson wasn’t exceptionally tall, but at her words he smiled for the first time since they’d arrived.

  “I do declare you must be about thirteen, by the looks of you,” Sophie continued.

  Sampson beamed further. He cast a glance at Jared and Cassi that said, “This woman knows children.”

  “He’s eleven,” Jared said.

  Sampson scowled.

  “Well, come on in. You must be hungry. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten much of anything, and I have dinner all ready.” She sounded so content that Jared hadn’t the heart to tell her they’d eaten on the boat.

  “She’s a great cook,” Cassi whispered to Jared. “But don’t get used to it.”

  “Maybe she could give you lessons.”

  “Ha!”

  While the others helped bring the food to the table, Jared called Fred in San Diego. The secretary told him that Fred was at the prison checking up on some things. When Jared mentioned his name, she forwarded the call to Fred’s cell phone. No answer. Jared left a message saying he would call back later.

  Before sitting down at the table, Jared slipped outside and walked around the house, checking for anything unusual. The house was not really a cottage, and it was much larger than it appeared from the front side. The air of it appealed to Jared. He would hate their trouble to mar the atmosphere or to affect their hosts. As soon as he talked to Fred and made plans, they would leave.

  Just to be sure, he walked up the long drive. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Maybe they were safe. But how long would it take who
ever was after Sampson to trace them? It wouldn’t be too hard for experts, he knew. They would have to move on tomorrow, even if he didn’t talk to Fred.

  “Where have you been?” Cassi asked when he arrived back at the house.

  “Taking a little walk. I just wanted to be sure.”

  She frowned and her voice became tense. “They’re going to find us, aren’t they?”

  “We should be safe for tonight.”

  “I’ll let the dogs out,” Grant said, coming from the kitchen. “They’ll let us know if anyone comes. And it might just be harder to track down this place than you think. It’s not listed in any phone book, and when I have visitors, we usually have them at the apartment in London. Come on now, eat. You did right in coming here.”

  The meal was everything Cassi had promised. Thick beef stew with fresh herbs, a chicken casserole with broccoli, lightly steamed vegetables, and fresh-baked bread. Jared found himself asking for the recipes.

  Sophie blushed. “Oh, I just threw that together with what I had on hand. And the casserole—well, that’s left over from last night. I didn’t know you were coming, or I would have had something better.”

  Cassi helped herself to another slice of homemade bread, and Jared followed suit. Sampson downed two more thick slabs and another bowl of stew. At the rate he was eating, Jared was sure he would grow two inches by the next day.

  While they helped Grant clean up the remains of the meal, Sophie made their rooms ready. “I’m sorry the rooms are so far apart.”

  “Anything will do.” Jared thought the farther apart they were from Sampson, the better. After all, they were still on a honeymoon of sorts.

  Sophie showed them first to the room on the second floor that she had prepared for Jared and Cassi and then took them to the small room on the main floor near the library where Sampson was to stay. There was a single bed and a low dresser topped by a lamp, the only light in the room.