Where Danger Hides

by Terry Odell

  There was that us again. Some of the chill left her, replaced by a heavy ache in her breasts. She headed toward the kitchen, chiding herself for letting Dalton inch inside her. There was one person in her life she’d been able to rely on. Nancy. Everyone else took what they needed, then disappeared.

  She forced a businesslike tone. “I’ll get her. Right after I start the coffee.”

  He followed her down the hall. She stopped, half-turning.

  “No. You wait here in case she comes downstairs before I get back.” Or was it because she didn’t trust herself alone with him?

  His footsteps retreated, and she was torn between relief that he’d acquiesced and disappointment that he hadn’t.

  In the kitchen, she concentrated on measuring precise amounts of water and coffee into the coffeemaker, trying to find order in everything swirling through her mind with the familiar task. With a shaky exhale, she flipped the brew switch. Afraid if she sat down she’d fall asleep, she paced the room, wondering what she could do for Jillian and Will. A restraining order, maybe. It dawned on her that she’d never asked where Jillian came from. For all she knew, Vic lived out of state.

  The aroma of brewing coffee cleared some of the cotton batting from her brain. First thing Monday, she’d get Jillian an appointment with the attorney. First thing tomorrow morning, she’d call a House meeting and see if anyone knew anything about the meth scheme.

  She rubbed the knot forming in her belly. Had she missed any signals? Residents with extra spending money? Unusual purchases—little luxuries? Furtive whispers, conversations stopping when staff was around?

  No. She hadn’t seen anything. Was she so blinded by her optimism that she could turn everyone around?

  The coffeepot gave its final sputters. She pulled two mugs from the cabinet. In one, she nuked some milk, then added hot coffee to it, stirring in a generous spoonful of sugar. The other she left black.

  Carrying the coffee down the hall, she detected low voices from the reception room. Good. Jillian had come downstairs. She rounded the corner and stopped in the doorway. Dalton and Jillian faced each other on the sofa. He was giving her that lazy smile, and the sparkle in her eyes wasn’t from tears. He might have handed her the moon draped in a necklace of stars.

  He’d met Jillian half an hour ago, and now they sat there like they’d come back from a date, not the police station.

  The man oozed charm. It poured off him like syrup over a stack of pancakes, as much a part of him as his gunmetal gray eyes and the curl in his hair.

  Why did she think she was different from any other woman he came in contact with?

  * * * * *

  Motion and a shadow from the doorway grabbed Dalton’s attention. Miri carried two mugs across the room.

  “Don’t let me interrupt.” With a clunk, she set one on the end table beside him. “You want some coffee, Jillian?”

  “No, I need to get some sleep.”

  Miri went behind the reception desk, dragged the chair out and flopped down. She made a show of squaring piles of paper, leafing through the contents of a file folder and positioning the phone near the edge of the desk.

  He glanced at Jillian, who didn’t seem to notice anything unusual in Miri’s behavior. For all he knew, Miri was a compulsive neatnik. He flashed a smile. “Jillian was telling me how Will’s been training Reggie.”

  “They’re good for each other,” Miri said.

  Dalton wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the warmth dispel some of the chill from the night air seeping through the poorly fitted windows. “We were waiting for you to get back before we started discussing what happened.”

  “I’m back. Let’s discuss.”

  He ignored Miri’s attitude. Something had ticked her off, but he needed to deal with Jillian and Will. If Vic really wanted to find them, a good investigator could track them to Galloway House. He took a sip of coffee.

  “Jillian, what did you tell the police? Did you tell them about Vic?”

  “No.” Jillian shook her head vehemently. “I answered all their questions about the man who paid me to buy the cold pills. I gave them descriptions of the others in the van. But we all used the names on the fake IDs. I don’t know their real names.”

  Miri leaned forward across the desk. “Jillian, did you recognize anyone? Regulars from the food line? Anyone from classes?”

  Another head shake, not so vehement. “I haven’t been here that long. I’m working at the motel most of the day, and nights I’m with Will.” She looked from Dalton to Miri. “Honest. You can call my boss. I haven’t missed a shift.”

  “I believe you,” Miri said. The glare she threw Dalton dared him to disagree.

  “We both do,” he said, biting back the urge to ask her what the hell was going on. He kept his tone even. “Jillian, the police are investigating the meth dealers, and that’s their domain. What I’m concerned about is why you think your husband will find you, and what he’ll do if he does.”

  “Nobody embarrasses Victor. For word to get out that his wife left him because he whacked on her and his kid would destroy his standing in the community.” She made a sound between a laugh and a snort. “And nothing is more important to Victor than his standing in the community.”

  “What community?” Dalton asked. “Would your paths cross here?”

  “With Vic, you can never tell. He knows people everywhere.”

  “Where did you come from?” Miri asked.

  “Let’s leave it at a few states away and one hell of a long bus ride.”

  “Why do you think he’ll find you?” Miri asked.

  “He will. He always gets what he wants. It’s a matter of time. That’s why we need to keep moving. But I used up everything I managed to save, plus what I borrowed from a friend.”

  Her words set the hair on the back of his neck on end. Years of experience kept an easy smile on his face. “Your husband know this friend?” He took another sip of coffee.

  “I doubt it. We met at a cooking class, but that was over a year ago, and I don’t see how Vic would connect us.”

  “He let you take classes?” Dalton asked. That didn’t sound like a total control freak. Not the sort who kept hourly tabs on his possession.

  “He was okay with ‘womanly classes’—” she crooked her index fingers to put air quotes around the words “—like cooking or flower arranging. As long as the house was clean and dinner was on the table.” She gave a wry grin. “He did like his home-cooked meals.

  “And I never went out of my way to make friends. The people I met in the classes—we’d be together for a few weeks or a month, then go our separate ways.”

  “What about mutual friends?” he asked. “Yours and Vic’s. Did the two of you socialize a lot?” Much harder for someone to be discreet about his inquiries if a large pool of friends and acquaintances might get suspicious.

  “Lots of socializing, although I don’t know that I’d consider those people true friends. Victor liked having his doting wife at his side. We invited people over, went to their homes. Went to events. Anything to schmooze his way up the ladders he wanted to climb.”

  Her voice dropped, her eyes grew vacant, as if she relived some of those events. The ones where she hadn’t been doting enough and he’d let her know afterward. From Miri’s expression, it was clear to her as well. She left her hiding place behind the desk and perched on the edge of the coffee table.

  “Vic thought I should schmooze the wives,” Jillian said. “The rich ones, of course. Be a lady who lunched. I played cards with them once a week, and that was about all I could stand.”

  She yawned and Dalton stepped up the pace of his questions. “Sorry. I know you want to get to bed. You said none of your social circle knew Vic beat you? One person in your cooking class?”

  Jillian nodded. “If someone knew, I’m sure they would have said something to me.” She tugged on her fingers. “He was careful not to hit me anywhere it would show.”

  Despite th
e knots tightening in his belly, Dalton kept his voice calm. “Okay, that’s good.”

  “Good? Why?” Miri asked. “That means nobody’s going to tell the authorities Vic’s wife ran away because he beat her. He gets away with it?” Indignation colored her tone. “What is he telling people. How’s he explaining his wife not at his side? And taking Will?”

  “I’m sure he’s got me visiting a sick relative or something. He’s probably invented a grandmother or sister I don’t have. Nobody’d bother to check.”

  Dalton picked up the dropped thread. “I meant it’s good because if nobody suspects, Vic won’t feel so pressured to get Jillian back to show everyone she’s fine. He can take his time because everyone will believe his story.”

  He leaned forward, like a friend, not enough to threaten. “Jillian, I need you to trust me. If your husband is serious about getting you back, and if he hired an investigator, I need to know what kind of a trail they might pick up. Especially your financial situation.”

  “Not much in that department. I’d sneak extra cash when I used my debit card. An aunt sent money for Christmas and birthday gifts, and I squirreled that away, too. One of my cooking school friends loaned me some cash.”

  “Credit cards?” he asked. “ATM?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve watched enough television to know better.”

  He felt more optimistic that she was a few steps ahead of Vic. But she was using her maiden name, which wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for any halfway decent PI, and he was sure Vic wouldn’t have hired anyone but the best. And he worried that if Vic found the cooking school friend, he’d find a way to make her talk.

  He finished his cold coffee and set the mug on the table. Miri’s eyes snagged his and he knew, no matter how irrational, he’d made his decision. He took Jillian’s hands in his. “Jillian. I work for a company that has a lot of experience with people who don’t want to be found. If you want me to, I might be able to help you disappear.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  He nodded. She shifted her gaze to Miri, who shrugged.

  Speaking more to Miri than Jillian, he went on. “I know Galloway House has an excellent reputation. And I know they do a lot of good. But eventually, Vic is going to think about places like this.”

  “I know,” Jillian said. “That’s why I need to keep moving.”

  “Which is no life for you and Will,” he said.

  She eyed him warily. “How much will this cost me?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you go upstairs, get some sleep. Have a nice, normal Sunday tomorrow, and I’ll have some answers for you by Monday.”

  Hope replaced the despair in her eyes. Even more than gratitude, that look gave meaning to his job. But the look also meant he’d have to do some fast talking and a lot of string-pulling with Blackie.

  On the other hand, Miri’s eyes held more questions than either hope or gratitude. With a spark of irritation as well. He avoided meeting them until Jillian left the room.

  He inhaled a long breath, exhaled slowly. Tried for a smile. He patted the couch cushion beside him. “You want to get some sleep? Let me return the favor from the other night?”

  “Go home, Dalton,” she said, moving behind the desk. She didn’t sit, though. She placed both hands on the desktop and leaned forward. “I appreciate what you’re doing for Jillian and Will. But I need to sort things through. Alone.”

  “Miri—you’re doing good work. Don’t ever forget it.”

  She shook her head. Sadness filled her eyes. “Good night, Dalton.”

  He took one pace toward the desk. She stiffened, which stopped him as quickly and painfully as the time he’d run into the sliding glass door to his grandmother’s patio when he was six.

  He told her what he’d told himself so many times. “It’s not your fault. None of this is. You do what you can.”

  And then you lie awake wondering if it will be enough.

  Chapter 17

  Dalton shoved thoughts of Miri inside one of the compartments he kept in his brain, where he put things to be dealt with later. If only she’d stay there, instead of sneaking out and hovering in front of his eyes. Closing them didn’t help—her image was etched inside his eyelids.

  He poured a generous shot of scotch and settled into his leather recliner, his one piece of what he considered grown-up furniture. Maybe concentrating on Rafael would displace the visions of Miri. But thinking of the drug lord brought him to Jillian’s plight, which segued right back to Miri.

  He sipped the whiskey as he listened to the night sounds filtering through the open kitchen window. Leaves rustling in the trees. A dog barking. In the distance, the drone of traffic lulled him into that ethereal place between being asleep and awake.

  He woke a little past dawn to a stiff neck and a cottony mouth. After a shower and breakfast of leftover Chinese takeout, he felt moderately revitalized. He bundled his tux to take to the cleaners tomorrow, then drove to Blackthorne’s offices.

  Walking down Blackthorne’s deserted halls at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning filled him with a sense of gloom. He shook it off. He let himself into one of the computer rooms and worked on a cup of vending-machine coffee while he searched computer files for Blackthorne’s list of hideaway homes. When a name jumped out at him, he choked on his coffee and ran, coughing, out to his car. Rummaging through the pocket of his tux jacket, he found the card Grace slipped into it at the Sandersons’ party.

  The card showed a neatly penned telephone number. Nothing more. He compared it to the one on the computer. The same. His pulse raced, but as he reached for the phone, his mama’s words echoed in his head.

  A civilized person doesn’t call before ten on a Sunday morning unless someone’s died.

  He glanced at his watch. Seven-forty. Giving in to Mama’s deeply ingrained rule, he refrained from calling. He’d use the time to dig into Grace’s background.

  Satisfied with his internal compromise, he clicked through the information in Blackthorne’s files. Whistling softly as he read, his innate respect for Grace grew tenfold. She and her husband spent decades in the Intelligence community, beginning in World War II. When her husband had died, she volunteered her services to Blackthorne, Inc., opening her home and offering cover stories for people on the run or those who might need to lie low for a while.

  He paced the room. Had she ever taken in one of the people he’d rescued on an op? Would she be willing to help Jillian and Will start a new life? Excitement, the kind that preceded a new mission, thrummed through his veins. He peeked at his watch again.

  Eight forty-five. Close enough. He picked up the phone.

  * * * * *

  Miri stood on Grace Ellsworth’s spacious front porch and shook her hand. “Thank you so much.” She embraced Jillian, then crouched to hug Will and scratch Reggie’s head. “You be good, guys.”

  Will swiped his hand across his mouth, smearing a trail of sugar cookie crumbs. “You’ll come visit, won’t you, Miri?” His voice trembled as he clung to Jillian, much the way he had when she’d first met him.

  “I’ll sure try, kiddo. And your mom has my number. You can call me anytime.”

  Grace stepped forward and placed a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Will, there’s a park with a huge playground not far from here. After you get settled, maybe you can show me what Reggie can do.”

  Will’s eyes brightened. After one final tousle of Will’s hair, Miri trotted down the porch steps to where Dalton waited in his car, cell phone to his ear. Miri’s spirits lifted.

  She climbed in and buckled her seatbelt. He mumbled something into the phone and set it down.

  “Ready,” she said.

  He nodded and backed out of the driveway. She leaned out the window and gave one last wave to the trio on the porch.

  On the ride home, she struggled to stay awake. Last night—more like early this morning—she’d collapsed on the couch as soon as she walked in the door. She’d managed about t
hree hours of sleep before Dalton called to tell her he found refuge for Jillian and Will, but they needed to get going right away.

  “What happened to ‘have a normal Sunday’? Do you really think someone’s going to storm Galloway House and yank her away in front of everyone?”

  “Not really. But since I found a place for them, I’d rather not take any chances. If whoever’s involved knows she was at the police station, they’re liable to want her conveniently out of the way,” he’d said.

  Sleep-deprived, she’d obeyed without question, not bothering to change clothes. She’d awakened Jillian, telling her to pack everything while making sure Will wasn’t frightened by the sudden urgency of their departure.

  Now, with them safely ensconced in the warm, caring atmosphere of Grace Ellsworth’s home, where Jillian would serve as a live-in cook and housekeeper while establishing a new identity, her breathing returned to a normal pattern for the first time all day. Until she started wondering how that sweet woman could finagle a new identity for Jillian. New identities definitely fell into those shadowy areas of the legal system.

  It was one thing to let him help her, but she’d put the lives of two other people—one a mere child—in Dalton’s hands when she’d hung up the phone and told Jillian to pack. She decided she didn’t want to go there. Not yet, anyway. Accepting Dalton’s plan meant she trusted him.

  She looked across the car at him. No white knuckles on the wheel. A half-smile on his lips. In control of himself and the situation.

  “I don’t think I thanked you for what you’ve done,” she said. “Like I said last night, Jillian’s not your problem.”

  He stared straight ahead. “I wanted to help.”

  “How did you put this all together so fast?” she asked. “Have you known Grace Ellsworth a long time?”

  His shoulders inched up a fraction, then dropped. “Not really. As a matter of fact, I met her the same night I met you. At Patterson’s gala.”