“This isn’t going to work, Bronte.”
Even he was surprised by the abruptness of his response. But he carefully hid it behind a stone-faced expression as he negotiated the streets.
He could tell she was shuffling through possible responses. Some women would have played dumb and asked what wasn’t going to work. Others might have tried to argue with him. But Bronte did neither one. Instead she sat stiffly looking out the window and softly said, “I see.”
That had been easier than he thought it would be. Why, he didn’t know. And why it should disappoint him was doubly confusing.
“This has nothing to do with what just happened back there,” he felt compelled to say. He cringed, realizing he should have just left things at that, let her come to her own conclusions as to why he was calling a halt to their relationship.
“Oh?” she asked. “Then tell me, Connor, what else has happened between last night and now?”
“Nothing.” He glanced at her pointedly. “And that’s exactly the point.”
He knew by the stricken look on her face that she thought last night hadn’t meant anything to him. The notion pretty near ripped his gut in half. But he stopped himself short of reassuring her.
He sighed and smoothed his hand over the back of his head. “We just weren’t…meant to be, Bronte.” I can’t let you put your career on the line for me. Can’t let you ruin your life.
She seemed to shrink in front of his eyes. “I see.”
Damn. He had done this dozens of times before. Cut off a woman before she had gotten herself in too deep. He’d given this speech, or one very similar to it, so often he could almost recite it verbatim. But somehow blowing off Bronte made him feel like he was cutting off a limb. Perhaps revealing that he, himself, had gotten in too deep this time.
Oh, last night had meant the world to him. Despite what he’d just said, what he had experienced with Bronte…well, something had happened between them that he couldn’t put a name to. Something that made him feel remarkably alive even with a death sentence hanging over his head. Something that made him want to crush her to him and never let her go—the world be damned.
But after taking a fresh look at everything this morning, hashing things out with his brothers, he realized just how much at risk he had put Bronte merely by asking for her help—hell, even by being in her presence now. If she were caught in the truck with him, she might be charged with obstructing justice. Or worse….
He sat ramrod straight. Of course, he could never tell her any of this. If he knew Bronte, and he felt that he did, in every way a man could know a woman, she’d argue with him until she was blue in the face. She would refuse to back off. More than that, even his suggesting she do so would likely trigger a more insistent need for her to stick by his side.
And he couldn’t let that happen.
Slowing, he eyed the passing town houses in Georgetown, then pulled to a stop at the curb. It seemed to take Bronte a moment to realize they had stopped. Then she blinked, glanced around, spotting her own town house a block-and-half up the street. “You brought me home.”
Connor forced himself to stare through the windshield, everywhere but at her, no matter how much he wanted to erase that hurt shadow from her eyes.
“So this is it, then?”
He nodded, keeping his head straight.
“I see.”
Damn. He hated when she said that. He wanted to yell that she didn’t see. That she couldn’t possibly see. That she couldn’t understand that he was doing this for her sake.
The sound of the door opening echoed through the truck cab. Connor tightened his hands on the wheel until he was sure his knuckles would break through the whitened skin of his fingers. It took every ounce of reserve, every iota of restraint he possessed, not to grab her arm and pull her to him.
“Thanks,” he managed to push out. “You know, for everything.”
Peripherally, he noticed her cringe. But it was nothing compared to the way he damned himself for the words seeming so…trivial.
“No problem,” she said a little too lightly.
He reached out and pulled the door closed. Despite his vow not to do so, he looked at her one last time. And the same instant, her eyes widened and she tried to open the door. Connor pressed the automatic lock. She smacked at the window in obvious frustration.
“Connor, wait! You don’t understand!”
It took everything that Connor was to force himself to pull away from that curb, watching in his rearview mirror as she stood staring at where the truck had been much like a bombing victim staring in shock at the debris.
12
CONNOR PULLED UP TO THE McCoy place at a virtual crawl. He wouldn’t begin to link the word melancholy to his suddenly lethargic mood. That was a woman’s word. Men didn’t get melancholy.
Did they?
Still, he did acknowledge that leaving Bronte O’Brien standing alone on the street was the singular most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life. Nothing even came close to comparing to it. Not when Marc had been laid up at the hospital with that broken collarbone. Not when David had run away from home. Not when he’d stood up for David as best man at his wedding.
He slowly drew to a stop next to the other vehicles parked there. Sometime over the past couple of days he had come to care for Bronte in a way he hadn’t thought he was capable of outside his family.
Someone knocked on the closed window. Connor whipped around, his hand on the firearm tucked under his shirt, only to find Mitch standing outside. He’d been so immersed in his thoughts, he hadn’t even noticed his brother had pulled up behind him.
Mitch opened the door, making a point of looking around inside. “Where’s Bronte?”
“Home.” He climbed out and slammed the door. Both on the truck and the conversation. “Everybody here?”
“Fine. If you don’t want to talk about it now, that’s okay. There’s always later.”
“Not in this case.” He reached out for the door handle to the house, then looked up, startled when David’s new wife, Kelli, opened it for him. “What are you doing here?”
She blinked at him, frowned, then looked beyond him. “Where’s Bronte?”
Connor stepped around her into the kitchen. “Home. And you didn’t answer my question.”
David leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s here because I asked her to be here. We need all the help we can get.”
Marc walked in from the living room, Melanie following in his wake. “Mel for the same reason.”
Connor bristled. He didn’t have to ask. He already knew Mitch’s wife, Liz, would also be around somewhere, and by the sound of a little girl’s laughter coming from upstairs, he guessed Michelle was there as well.
Great. Just great. It had been difficult enough having to accept his brothers’ help. He’d forgotten about his new sisters-in-law. He’d seen the situation as something the McCoy men could handle.
Another aspect the women’s presence emphasized was the gaping hole in his chest caused by leaving Bronte behind.
Aw, hell.
“How’d it go?” Pops asked, coming into the room.
Mitch answered him. “Like clockwork.”
David unbuttoned the top of his uniform shirt. “Too bad you couldn’t fit into one of my uniforms—or Kelli’s, for that matter—Mitch. You were swimming in Pops’s duds.”
“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t nearly scare Bronte into traffic. Jesus, David, what did you say to her? She looked about ready to jump out of her skin.”
“Why? What happened?” Kelli asked.
Marc grimaced. “I don’t know, but whatever it was, she purposely walked in the opposite direction. I didn’t think I was going to be able to catch her before she got into that other taxi.”
“How’d you get a hold of that ancient monstrosity, anyway?” Jake asked.
Mel sat beside her husband. “A cousin of a friend of mine let me borrow it.”
> “And those barricades at Dupont Circle were a work of art,” Marc said. “Thanks, Kell.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Connor listened to the conversation rolling along without him, feeling two clicks behind. The women had helped? How? When? He and his four brothers had put the plan together in this very kitchen, without any of his sisters-in-law present. And only because he insisted on making that noon meeting come hell or high water. He’d promised Bronte he’d be there and he was there.
The incongruity of the situation struck him. Yeah, he made the meeting all right. Only so he could pretend to call things off between them. Hurt her in a way that seemed to hurt him more.
Connor looked to where Pops was eyeing him from the doorway. He grimaced. Just when in the hell had the old man gotten so attentive?
“So, where do we go from here?” Mitch asked, referring to a pad full of items they had discussed earlier.
Pops pushed from the doorjamb, coming to stand next to Connor. “Can I talk to you for a minute? Outside?”
Connor wanted to tell him no. He didn’t think he could handle another father–son talk with Sean right now. His nerves were too raw, his stomach too unsettled.
Still, he began to follow him out, only to be halted by his father’s hand in the mudroom.
“The first thing we have to do is call you an attorney.”
Connor wanted to tell him he had an attorney. Bronte. But he couldn’t say that anymore.
“Why? What is it?” he asked, noticing the severe expression on his father’s face.
Pops nodded toward the door. “It seems our adversaries aren’t as dumb as we think. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a representative from the U.S. attorney’s office, along with half the state highway patrol.”
Despite the conversations going on in the kitchen, everyone appeared to hear. Chair legs scraped against tile as his brothers and their wives hurried for the door.
“Plan B,” Jake announced.
“Plan B?” Connor echoed.
Marc grabbed him by his collar. “Yeah. You get upstairs into the attic. Now.”
Connor shrugged his younger brother off. “I’ve never hidden from anything in my life. I’m not about to start now.”
Mitch looked at him square in the face. “There’s not much you can do for yourself while sitting in jail, Connor.”
He stiffened at his point. But the thought of cowering in the attic while his family dealt with officials sent to arrest him didn’t sit well with him. It wasn’t even an option as far as he was concerned. “What? Do you think you’re just going to tell those guys I’m not here and expect them to leave? What planet are you from?” He pointed toward the door. “Those guys are not going to leave here without me.”
Pops sighed. “He’s right, guys.”
“But we can stall them,” David said. “Wait ’til dark, then devise a plan to smuggle Connor out of here.”
“Not on your life.” Connor straightened. “I may not know how in the hell I got into this mess, but I’m not about to run away from it either.” He stared at each of them in turn. “And Pops and I certainly didn’t raise any of you to be cowards either.”
They all looked down at their shoes and boots like chastised children. And, right at that moment, that’s exactly what they appeared to be.
Still, Connor couldn’t help but feel proud of the way they all had immediately jumped to his defense, willing to risk it all in order to protect him.
The significant pounding on the door forced an unnatural silence in the room. “Connor McCoy, come out now with your hands up!”
He stood-stock still for a moment, looking at his family surrounding him, and catching sight of little Lili from where she was peeking around the doorway. Michelle followed his gaze and hurried to take the little girl away, but the image of her scared little face would remain etched in Connor’s mind forever.
Exactly what he had feared would happen was happening. He was being arrested in front of everyone that mattered in his life. And, despite his innocence, he couldn’t help feeling ashamed.
He started to move toward the door. Pops held his hand against his son’s chest. “We’ll have you out of there before you can blink, Connor.”
He wanted to tell him not to bother. He’d rather rot in prison than have to see himself brought down even further in his family’s eyes.
He took his father’s hand from his chest, then opened the door. And the moment he did, everything came together.
“You,” he said, staring into the face of the U.S. attorney who had made frequent visits to Melissa Robbins. What was his name? Dennis Burns. Yes, that was it. Could he have been the associate Bronte had referred to? The one who had wrestled control of the Pryka case out from under her nose?
He knew instantly that he was.
He also knew that he was looking into the face of the real killer.
Several state highway patrolmen stepped forward, one wielding handcuffs. The sound of a car spitting up gravel in the drive gained all their attention, as did the frantic honking of a horn.
Bronte.
Connor straightened his shoulders. With his new knowledge, he wanted to fight the men now binding him—anything but to have to bear this with Bronte also looking on.
She ground to a stop next to a patrol car, her tires kicking up a cloud of dust that made the men nearest her cough.
“Uncuff that man right now.”
The patrolmen glanced warily at each other, then back at her. Bronte flashed her ID. “I’m U.S. Attorney O’Brien. Do as I say.”
The guy Connor knew as Dennis Burns stepped forward. “Leave them where they are. Ignore her. She’s not in charge of this case. I am.”
“Not anymore you’re not.”
Connor eyed her, thinking he’d never seen a woman so beautiful in his life. Her green eyes sparked a warning fire. Even her red hair seemed to crackle with energy.
She pulled something out of that suitcase of a purse she carried. He realized it was a videotape. He grimaced.
“This will explain everything.”
She brushed past the men, taking the keys from one of the patrolmen’s belt and tossing them to Pops. “Unlock those cuffs.”
Pops did as requested and they all followed Bronte into the house, through the kitchen, and into the living room like a military squadron.
She ejected Lili’s video of The Lion King from the VCR, then popped in the one she held. Connor instantly recognized the security tape taken the day of Robbins’s murder. He jerked to look at her even as he rubbed his wrists. He didn’t get it. Why was she showing them something that so clearly implicated him in the murder?
“God, Connor, is that you?” David asked.
Bronte stepped in front of the screen, then slipped in another video she produced from her bag.
It appeared to be footage from another security camera. Connor squinted. It was from the lobby where the U.S. attorney’s office was based. He looked at her, wanting to trust her, but afraid he had taken things too far by rejecting her so thoroughly. Was she deliberately out to hurt him? He couldn’t bring himself to believe it.
She pressed the freeze button on the image. She pointed to the screen. “Looks an awful lot like Connor, doesn’t it?” she asked everyone and no one in particular.
“Sure looks the same to me,” Jake said, earning him stares from half the room.
Bronte smiled. “No, that’s okay. That’s the response I was looking for. Because you see, this,” she tapped her finger against the screen, “is not Connor. This footage was taken at the U.S. attorney’s building this morning.”
Connor stared at her along with his brothers. They all knew he hadn’t been at the U.S. attorney’s office that morning.
Dennis Burns sighed. “It doesn’t matter where or when it was taken, Bronte. It’s clearly McCoy.” He cleared his throat. “Let me clarify that. It’s clearly Connor McCoy.”
Bronte’s expression seemed to scream “gotcha,” and Con
nor couldn’t help the thrill that raced through his stomach. She held up a finger. “Excuse me for a minute?” She stepped a short ways away from the group, clicked open her cell phone, then spoke quietly. When she turned, she did so still holding the phone open. “Connor? Would you mind pressing Play for me?”
Unsure what to expect, he did as she asked. The man on the screen continued to walk away, about to disappear into the revolving doors without his face being seen. Then he suddenly turned, as if summoned by an unseen someone. The image froze itself, then zoomed in on the face.
Dennis Burns.
Connor swung on the man in question. But he seemed as unmoved now as before. “So what’s your point, Bronte? That Connor and I happen to have the same type of coat and haircut? That from behind we look similar?” He shook his head, a smug smile creasing his face. “You’re reaching, Bronte, and you know it.”
“Not when combined with this.”
All of them turned to find Connor’s co-worker Oliver Platt entering the room. Bronte closed her phone, the smile on her face so full of pleasure Connor wanted to kiss her. Somehow he managed to suppress the desire and hear out his co-worker.
“U.S. Marshal Platt,” he said, flashing his ID. “And this here is a copy of the real log from the day of Melissa Robbins’s murder. On it you’ll clearly see Dennis Burns’s name logged in and logged out, corresponding with the times you saw on the security video.”
Burns scoffed. “It’s a copy. Completely inadmissible. Easily doctored.”
“Yes, but when combined with the testimony of the man who logged you in and out, it’s pretty convincing, wouldn’t you say?” Bronte asked. “Yes, that means that we found Dan Wagner, Dennis, right where you sent him.”
“This is ridiculous,” Burns said, though he began backing up, making his way for the door. “You can’t prove a thing.”
Connor crossed his arms. Everything finally clicked into place. “I wouldn’t count on it. Though you can explain the physical evidence found in Robbins’s quarters away as a result of normal everyday activity, what will a forensics team pick up at your place, I wonder? Traces of Robbins’s lipstick on your collar? Microscopic but conclusive proof that the two of you were intimately involved?”
Never Say Never Again Page 17