Cocked And Loaded

by Desiree Holt

  "Bodies of little girls?” Jamie was horrified. She couldn't even imagine something so vile and terrible.

  "Yeah.” Zane rubbed his jaw. “What mystifies me, though, is why someone would pay top dollar for this, then kill the child before they even get her out of the area."

  Jamie's stomach turned over. “Maybe she was too much trouble? Or something happened?"

  Zane shrugged. “I don't know. I get a weird feeling something else is going on we don't know about. Skip agreed with me."

  "Does he have any idea who's behind all this?"

  "Oh, yeah. So do I, much as I tried to avoid it."

  Jamie looked at the expression on his face and chills prickled her skin. “Grayson Ballou."

  Zane nodded. “He's the only one around with enough clout to run the kind of operation Skip's talking about."

  "So what will you do?"

  "Skip's getting me the federal warrants I need and driving them here himself along with two other agents. But he may not be able to get them until tomorrow. Then we'll go from there. Meanwhile, I'm going to see what we can dig up about Danny Christopher and also pull up anything on your father for the past twenty years."

  "My father? You think he was involved?"

  He shrugged. “I don't know, Jamie. If the property was used, he had to know about it. Besides, he kept it together for you without much visible means of support. And that money you found had to come from somewhere."

  She shook her head. “I don't see what help a drunk like him could have been to anyone. Unless he was doing something that stuck in his craw so badly he drank to forget about it. Do you think that's possible?"

  "Maybe. It could have something to do with why Grayson Ballou wants your property so badly. It's possible they were using your place for the ‘exchange,’ but we don't have any evidence of it yet."

  "You'd think he'd worry about making me suspicious with his out-of-the-blue offers."

  "Not necessarily.” Zane shifted uncomfortably. “I'm not bringing this up for any reason except to suggest why he thought you'd jump at his offer. You didn't leave here on the best of terms with Amen. When you returned—"

  "I know. It was under a black cloud, which, by the way, is still hovering over me. And no one exactly welcomed me with open arms."

  He stroked her arms, emotions dancing in his eyes. “But at least one of us has come around.” A smile played across his lips. “Come being the operative word?"

  "It's a good one,” she agreed, then frowned. “Something bothers me, though. I can't see a man like Ballou getting his hands dirty with something like this. He has so many other things going."

  "Maybe. But that's usually the kind of person that sees the dollars in this kind of thing and figures out how to take ownership of it. And maybe he thought you wouldn't entertain an offer from someone without his so-called position."

  "I guess."

  "We can talk ourselves to death on this, but what I really need to do is dig into it more and find some answers.” He picked up one of her hands and held it gently in his. “Jamie, we have so much to talk about, and this damn situation just keeps getting in the way. I need to make sure you know how I feel about you. What I want for us. To know if you feel the same—"

  She reached up with her other hand and touched her fingers to his mouth. “We don't need the words right now, Zane. It's there, for both of us to see. I feel the same way you do. So let's get this taken care of and get on with our lives.” She let out a soft breath. “Together?"

  "No other way, darlin'.” Relief washed over his face, as if he'd worried she might not feel the same way he did. He stood up and kissed her once more. “I picked up a robe for you in the city this morning. It's in the closet. I think you'll find it more comfortable against your skin than clothes. It won't bother your cuts and bruises as much."

  She pushed herself out of bed and went to the closet, tears pricking her eyelids when she felt the soft, light cotton material. That he would think of something like this in the middle of all that was going on...

  Zane cleared his throat, obviously fighting his own emotions. “Come on. Get back in bed. I'll tell Kit you're ready for lunch."

  He made her memorize the alarm code and repeat it back to him three times. “Don't turn it off unless you know who's on the other side of the door. That would be me or one of my deputies. No one else. I'll be home tonight as soon as I can. And I'll bring take out."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Seventeen

  After he left her with Kit, Zane drove to Jamie's house and went through it again himself, inch by inch. Not that the techs hadn't done a good job. He just wanted to satisfy himself that nothing had been missed. But between the clean up job Jamie and Kit had done, the painting, and the crime scene unit, every space had been examined. They'd even taken out the board in Jamie's hiding place and scoured the space for anything else.

  Finally, frustrated, he went back to the office to find Roy Galvan waiting for him, two folders in his hands.

  "First of all, Dave's gone over Frank Randall's truck a hell of a lot better than he did the last time.” Roy shook his head. “This is a good lesson to all of us not to jump to conclusions."

  Zane grunted. “Me, especially. He found something?"

  "For one thing, Jamie was right about the scrapes. The paint underneath hasn't weathered like the rest of it."

  "Shit. She tried to tell me that, and I blew it off."

  "Not only are the dents in the back made by another vehicle, there are some paint chips that stuck to the truck's tailgate. Dave sent them to the state lab to see if their mass spectrometer could pinpoint what kind they are. They can run the manufacturer through their database."

  Zane sighed. “I'll have to eat plenty of crow when I tell Jamie about this. Tell Dave I want a full report as soon as he's got it."

  "Will do.” He handed over one of folders. “Here's everything we've got so far on the highway wreck. The car's downstairs still being taken apart, and the lab is testing all the various fluids and materials we found.” He rubbed his jaw. “Jesus, what a slob the guy was. He had junk in there so old it was almost fossilized."

  Zane dropped his hat on top of a file cabinet and lowered himself into his desk chair. He opened the folder and began flipping through the sheets of paper. “Anything I should look at first?"

  Roy nodded. “Page three. Contents. We found a knife with blood on it in one pocket of his pants.” He paused for effect. “We have to wait for final DNA, of course, but the lab says it's a match for Jamie Randall's."

  Zane's stomach clenched, and a sour taste filled his mouth. Again, he imagined all too vividly what could have happened if Kit hadn't returned exactly when she did.

  "What about the money? Any prints?"

  Roy shook his head. “Looks like whoever put it together used latex gloves. So far only Danny's and what will probably turn out to be the bank teller who put it together. But I told the lab to go over every single bill anyway and test it."

  "This money didn't come from any one bank. Fifty thousand is too big a withdrawal not to cause attention. Besides, it would leave a record. More likely, this came from someone's private stash."

  "Who keeps that kind of money around the house?” Ray frowned. “And why?"

  "I have some ideas, but I need more information.” He closed the folder. “Tomorrow an ICE agent, Skip Conway, and two other agents will be showing up here with some federal warrants. Be prepared for whatever we have to do, but don't let it get around the office. We need to keep as tight a lid on this as possible."

  "Why are they coming?"

  "Because I asked them to. Keep yourself available. Meanwhile, keep backtracking Danny Christopher's movements for the last couple of days. Where he was. Who saw him. What he was doing."

  "Finding out who hired him may not be too easy,” Roy warned.

  "Someone paid him,” Zane reminded him. “And it's probably not the first time. Also, I want hourly patrols past t
he Randall house. During the night, too."

  "You got it."

  * * * *

  "There's nothing left in the house for us to find,” Manny spoke into another disposable phone. “Zane Cameron and his crew have gone over every inch of it twice. If they discovered anything, we'd know about it."

  "Fuck.” Grayson Ballou usually kept his cursing under control, but he was rapidly approaching peak meltdown. “Where the hell is that money?"

  "Maybe the Randall woman is just hanging onto it,” Manny suggested.

  "As close as she and that half-breed sheriff have gotten, I'd think she'd tell him about it if she had it."

  "You'd know if she had, wouldn't you?"

  "Maybe. But that line of communication isn't as open as I'd like it to be."

  "We're still on for tomorrow night,” Manny reminded him. “That was all the extension I could get. Some of the clients are getting a little, shall we say, testy?"

  "They can't get too testy,” Ballou snapped. “They'd have to find a new source and that's easier said than done. At least for what they want."

  "I'm going to plant myself somewhere hidden and check what's happening at the house tonight. Patrols have been going by all day, even though no one's there."

  "It's empty? Is that little whore still in the hospital?"

  Manny had to swallow his pleasure in knowing something the great Grayson Ballou hadn't yet found out. “The sheriff took her home with him. Her friend, too."

  There was a long silence, then a soft chuckle. “Anita will have a heart attack over that. She has big political plans for her son that don't include white trash. If she plans to capitalize on what she calls his ‘mixed heritage,’ she'll want someone with a lot more class standing next to him."

  Manny gritted his teeth. Ballou constantly made unnecessary ethnic references that irritated him. Manny was sensitive about his own diverse background and wanted to point out to the man that a good portion of Texans had more than one kind of blood running through their veins.

  "Manny?” Ballou's voice was irritated. “You still there, amigo?"

  Amigo? Like hell. Ballou thinks he can throw in a Hispanic word now and then and that makes him one of the crowd. Asshole.

  "I'm here. I have to get moving. I have things to do."

  "What you have to do is make sure we're set for tomorrow night and that no one is showing unusual interest in the Randall place. And make sure that Randall female stays put.” There was a brief silence. “Damn it all, anyway. I'll kill whoever set Danny Christopher on her. That's liable to stir up a hornet's nest we can't control. Did you find out yet where he got the money?"

  Manny was sweating again, even though he was sitting in an air-conditioned environment. “Not yet. It's not exactly as if I can come right out and question people, you know."

  "Damn it. Squeeze your snitches. I want to know who's playing in our sandbox."

  "I'll get on it right away."

  Manny tossed the cell phone down and let out a long breath. Things were getting far too dicey for him.

  * * * *

  Jamie dozed off and on during the day. The hospital had given her a prescription for pain pills, which Kit had filled at the hospital pharmacy, but Jamie insisted on sticking with acetaminophen if she could stand it.

  "My head's a lot better,” she insisted. “And I might want to have a glass of wine with Zane tonight."

  "Up to you. I called the hospital to see if you could take a bath—I thought it might help with those bruises and sore muscles—and they said yes if you cover the bandages with plastic.” She grinned as she held up a box of plastic wrap. “So come on. Let's make a present out of you."

  The heat from the bathwater made the plastic stick to her like a second skin, but she couldn't deny how good it was to sit in the hot, scented water and let it caress her skin. She soaked in it until she pruned, then let Kit help her dry off and peel away the plastic. A lot of the soreness went down the drain with the bathwater.

  Kit changed her bandages again, and Jamie smoothed scented lotion everywhere on her body that she wasn't injured in some way. At least she felt halfway to human. The robe Zane had bought for her was light as a feather against her skin. Again, she was touched by his consideration.

  They were watching television in the great room when Zane walked in at seven o'clock, bringing the promised pizza, beer, and diet soda.

  "No alcohol for you,” he teased Jamie. “At least until tomorrow."

  "Phooey,” she grumbled, taking the can of soda he handed her. “I avoided the heavy meds so I could have a glass of wine.” She fluttered her lashes at him. “Pretty please?"

  "Not until tomorrow,” he repeated. “Just in case."

  While they ate, he brought them up to date on what little he'd been able to find out.

  "I feel as if I stuck my hand in a bowl of spaghetti and all the limp strands are falling every which way.” He finished the last of his beer. “My gut tells me there's more than one person pulling strings here and more than one agenda, but damned if I can figure out what."

  "Maybe when your friend from ICE gets here tomorrow, you'll be able to get a better handle on things,” Jamie said.

  "I will if he brings the warrants I asked for."

  He was about to add something when the doorbell rang. The three people at the table exchanged glances.

  "Don't look at me.” Kit got up and began clearing the table. “I don't even know anyone in this town."

  "I do,” Jamie put in, “but not anyone who'd care to see me."

  Zane pushed his chair back. “It could be one of my deputies, but they'd most likely call first."

  He strode into the foyer and opened the door. As soon as Jamie spied Anita Cameron, she nudged Kit into the kitchen.

  "I'm sure she's here to give Zane grief about me,” she whispered.

  "He's a grown man,” Kit pointed out. “Besides, this is his house."

  The voices were low enough that they couldn't make out what the two were saying.

  Then Anita's strident voice rose. “I won't have it, Zane. I simply forbid it."

  "I'm a little old for you to be giving me orders.” His voice had the timbre of cold steel. “I make my own decisions. If that's all you came for, I think it's time for you to leave."

  "We're not done here,” she retorted. “Close the door."

  "Yes. We are. And I think it's time for you to go."

  Jamie and Kit heard the door close with a hard snap, but it was almost five minutes before Zane came into the kitchen.

  "Kit, would you mind cleaning up the rest of this?” he asked. “I need to speak to Jamie privately."

  "No problem,” she assured him. “Then I'm going to put on my iPod at full volume and get back to my book. I won't be able to hear anything.” She grinned. “Not a thing."

  "I can help,” Jamie protested and started to gather up the debris.

  "Not tonight.” Zane picked her up in his arms and carried her up to their room.

  "Zane, put me down.” She struggled against him. “Listen to me. I think it would be better if Kit and I go back to my house. I knew us being here would cause a problem, and I was right."

  He set her on her feet and threaded his hands through her hair. “The only one with a problem is my mother, and I can handle her. She wants to run my life, and I don't want the agenda she's selling. I never have, but I can't seem to make her understand that."

  "But—"

  "But nothing. You're mine now, Jamie. That's what I was trying to say earlier. We can finally admit how we feel about each other, and we belong together. Permanently. Nobody, not even my mother, is going to take that away from us."

  "I don't want to be responsible for a rift between the two of you,” she insisted.

  God, that's the last thing I need to cause.

  His face hardened briefly. “There's a lot more between my mother and me than this. Years of history she refuses to acknowledge. Not to mention the fact that she wants to plan the rest
of my life for me, and our agendas are miles apart."

  Jamie looked up at him. “In what way?"

  "Politics.” He grimaced. “Haven't you heard? It's fashionable to have Native American blood these days."

  "And a white trash girl friend won't make it on the political scene,” Jamie guessed.

  "You're not white trash, but it doesn't matter. Politics is the last thing on my list of career aspirations. Can we not talk about this right now?” He kissed her lightly. “How are you feeling?"

  "A lot better than I did yesterday, that's for sure."

  He smoothed her hair back. “I had plans for us tonight, but I think we'd better hold off until I'm sure you're healed. The last thing I want is to bring back that headache or do anything to aggravate your wounds."

  She wanted to stamp her foot. “I am not an invalid, Zane Cameron. My head is great, and my cuts, not wounds, are healing just fine. I'm not some china doll to be wrapped up in silk, you know."

  His mouth quirked in a reluctant hint of a grin. “Apparently not. But—"

  "But nothing. I'm certainly not ready to do cartwheels, but I don't think anything else is going to put me back in the hospital."

  "I think we should have a quiet night,” he insisted, his jaw set at a stubborn angle.

  Her lips turned up in an impish grin. “Then I'll just have to be very quiet."

  "Jamie, you're not being reasonable."

  "That's the last thing I want to be. What I want is to feel alive. To wipe away the feeling of that creep touching me.” She looked up at him. “Please don't make me beg."

  "Okay,” Zane gave in. “Then we have some personal business to attend to."

  "Business?” Her heart began to trip-hammer.

  "Uh huh.” He untied the robe and slowly slid it down her arms, leaving her naked in front of him. “Very. Important. Business."

  He bent his head and kissed each nipple, careful to avoid the bandages. Because of the cuts, she wasn't wearing a bra, and his lips made the plump buds harden at once. When he looked at the new bandages Kit had placed there earlier, anger burned in his eyes.