Fever

by Joan Swan

  “I don’t have time for that.” Teague started for the driver’s side. “You can do all the detective work you want, but I don’t give a shit about Vasser anymore. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  As soon as Teague slid behind the wheel, the familiar shhhh of a Glock slide sounded beside him. In his peripheral vision, Teague registered the weapon pointed at his chest and the man behind it.

  “You’re not going anywhere without us,” Luke said. “You’ve pulled us all into this, Teague. Our lives, our careers—we’re all exposed. You made your choices. Now you’re going to live with them, just like we have to.”

  Anger, frustration and uncertainty zapped like an electric current in the air of the cab as they all piled back into the truck. Teague took the back roads until he pulled up behind Mitch’s black BMW and cut the lights, letting the truck idle as Alyssa pushed the passenger door open and climbed out.

  While Mitch finished up a phone call, Teague watched flames and water battle over Rawlings’s rooftop, creating billows of charcoal smoke that rose and then disappeared into the night. A painful twist of emotions ached in his chest, too many to define and identify before Mitch disconnected and scribbled an address on the back of his business card.

  “You two ditch this eyesore and take that piece of shit Creek stole and meet us here,” Mitch said. “We can clean up, regroup and do some research—”

  “Look,” Teague started, “I don’t mean to be unappreciative, but—”

  “I’m obviously not making myself clear.” Mitch slapped the card onto the dash and slid off the seat, turning to settle one of those Foster family this-is-the-way-it-is stares on him. “That was not a request.”

  He slammed the door, took Alyssa’s arm and strode to the passenger’s side of the BMW, opening the door for her.

  “Even though he’s a shark,” Luke said, moving along the bench seat toward the passenger’s door, “I think I kind of like him.”

  “I think I kind of hate him.” Teague turned on the next street, driving toward the Toyota 4Runner he’d stolen and parked.

  “I know. That’s a big part of why I like him.”

  Teague slid a look at Luke. “Don’t point that fucking gun at me again.”

  “Then don’t think of doing stupid fucking things, like running.”

  Teague pulled in behind the 4Runner, reached under the dash and yanked at the wires of the Ford, cutting the engine. This was going to be one long-ass night.

  Luke got out of the truck and crossed to the driver’s side. “I’m driving.”

  “Sure you want to risk getting caught driving a stolen vehicle?”

  “I’ll just tell them you took me hostage.”

  “Funny. Then get your ass under the dash and see if you can still hot-wire a car, Agent.”

  Luke swung the driver’s door open. “Still a premium asshole.”

  Teague rounded the truck, dropped into the passenger’s seat and waited. He’d already done all the groundwork, Luke only had to twist a few wires. Without Teague’s sparking ability, it took Luke longer to get the engine turned over, but he managed.

  He settled himself behind the wheel and let the truck idle. A little too long. Teague knew what was coming. It was inevitable. The anticipated knock-down, drag-out fight for Kat. His shoulders tensed in anticipation of the pending confrontation.

  Luke had the clear advantage. All he had to do was deliver Teague to the closest police car at the fire scene, claim he’d started the whole thing and killed the men inside. Luke could send him straight back to prison, never to be heard from again. Simple plan. Effective solution to Teague ever taking Kat back.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Suzanna?” Luke turned in the seat, partially facing Teague. “Why didn’t you tell me about the depression, about the problems she was having?”

  Teague’s brain stopped spinning, leaving him woozy from the sudden tilt. This was not the confrontation he’d been expecting. “What ... ?”

  “Alyssa showed me her journal.” Pain and anger seethed through Luke’s words. “Why? Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t someone tell me my sister was suicidal?”

  Alyssa. The journals. It all made sense now. A sweet, sick, convoluted kind of sense.

  And while his past with Suzanna was the last thing Teague wanted to talk about at this moment, the pain in Luke’s voice touched something deep inside him.

  “Nobody knew she was suicidal,” he said. “Not even me. She was depressed. She couldn’t think straight enough to walk to the mailbox. She sure as hell wasn’t in the right frame of mind to go around explaining her bizarre feelings.

  “She and I were separated so long after the fire because of that damn quarantine that by the time we figured out how bad it was ... she asked me not to tell you. She was ashamed of how she’d changed. She felt like a failure—as a wife, as a mother, as a sister. We tried every doctor, every specialist, every medication. But nothing worked. Neither of us had an answer or a solution and without one, she didn’t want to face you.”

  Luke turned to look out the driver’s window, one hand over his forehead. A lone streetlight created vague light and shadow over his face, but Teague couldn’t miss the signs of anguish there. He’d seen it in his own expression too many times to count.

  “And Desiree?” Luke asked in a hoarse voice.

  “You blamed me for Suzanna’s death. You tried to take my daughter from me because you thought I was an unfit father.” An old, deep wound split open. Pain seeped out. So much pain, it threatened to drown him. “Of all the people in the world, I shouldn’t have had to tell you I didn’t kill her. You should have known.”

  Teague clamped his mouth shut. There were so many other accusations he wanted to make. So many other blames he wanted to lay at Luke’s feet. But that was all moot now.

  Let’s make new memories. Alyssa’s voice drifted through Teague’s head. We’ll wipe out the bad memories with good ones. That’s what Teague wanted. More than anything else. He wanted to let go of all the pain, the resentment, the anger and just move forward.

  Luke remained silent another long moment. There was no point in either of them apologizing now. They’d both already suffered so much, the words would only magnify the chasm created by events that couldn’t be changed.

  “Alyssa and Mitch are into this up to their fucking eyeballs now, Teague. And look at what happened to Desiree. Jesus, if you’d just taken Hannah, none of this would have happened. You’d probably have dumped her over the side of the Bay Bridge just to get rid of her.”

  “There’s a vote of confidence in your choice of women. But then, everyone but you knows how royally you fucked up when you let go of Keira.” Teague huffed a laugh of disappointment. “When I got that first push back from Alyssa, saw that first spark of personality, I thought, shit, maybe he’s pulled his head out of his ass and started dating real women again. But no. I should have known Alyssa was far too much woman for you. Just like Keira.”

  “I didn’t let Keira go.” Anger and pain vibrated in his voice. “She walked away.”

  “You pushed her away.”

  Guilt slid through Luke’s eyes before he broke contact, which gave Teague the opening he needed to hammer the idiot like he’d wanted to ever since he’d heard of their breakup.

  “Ever heard of a fucking phone?” Teague taunted Luke with his own words. “A goddamned letter? Ever think of discussing something before you go and cut your own throat? You could have talked to someone about it before you ruined the best thing you had going in your life.”

  Luke jammed the SUV into drive and doubled back on the street, avoiding the emergency vehicles spread out for the fire. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

  Jason felt a cough crawling up his chest and lifted a hand. “Hold up, Doc.”

  The kid suturing his scalp at the emergency room in Klamath Falls, Oregon, who couldn’t have been older than twelve, pulled the needle from his head and waited while Jason convuls
ed, hacking up a fur ball of black lung. At least that’s what it felt like.

  “If you hadn’t smoked for twenty-five years,” the tiny tot of a doctor said, “your smoke inhalation wouldn’t have affected you as severely.”

  “I’ve been telling him to quit forever.” The female voice brought both men’s gazes to the door where Jocelyn stood. She wore skintight black yoga pants and a purple spaghetti-strap top that dipped in the front to show off her cleavage and left those toned, evenly tanned arms bare.

  Inside, hope floated to the top of Jason’s murky emotions. “Did someone tell you I was dying? What the hell are you doing here?”

  She flicked another glance at the doctor, then settled her clear, blue eyes on him with a not-now message. “We need to talk when you’re done.”

  Hope turned to lead and bottomed out in his stomach. She hadn’t come because she’d feared she’d almost lost him when she’d heard the firemen had dragged him out of the burning structure unconscious just seconds before the roof had caved in. No, this was a how-could-you-have-fucked-up-so-badly call.

  The doctor tied off the last of Jason’s eighty-seven stitches over various parts of his body and excused himself with promises of a nurse coming in to bandage.

  “Sorry to have pulled you away from your all-important workout, Joce.” Jason pushed himself off the gurney, tugged his singed T-shirt over his head and stuffed his arms in as pain bounced around his body. “Give me the abbreviated version of the lecture, which I’m sure starts with, ‘The senator. . .’ and maybe you can make it back in time for six a.m. aerobics.”

  “All right then.” Her chin dipped. “To say the senator is ... upset ... with your lack of results on this case would be an extreme understatement.”

  “I’d like to see his fat ass out here on the line. I’m guessing the prick didn’t use the words ‘lack of results.’ ”

  “Uh, no. No, he didn’t. The point is that he wants you to put an end to this. It’s obvious Creek is going for the girl after all. If he gets her, Creek might disappear, but we’ll never know for how long. He’ll always be a liability. And Tara Masters will also become a problem.”

  “I’m going to get Creek,” Jason said. “He’s learned a few good tricks inside prison, for God’s sake. I just need a couple more days.”

  Jocelyn didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. They both knew the senator wanted this problem solved yesterday. There was no “a couple more days.”

  “What’s the senator’s brilliant plan?” he asked.

  “To get to Tara and the girl before Creek does, use them to lure Creek to us. And once we have him, eliminate all three.”

  Jason picked up his jacket. “Well, see, Joce, there’s a little twist the senator doesn’t know about yet.”

  She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “What now?”

  “If he’s looking to eliminate everyone who’s in the know about Creek and that trial and Tara’s involvement, he’s going to have to up the numbers, because now Ransom and the Foster twins have joined the fun.” He leaned into her, enjoying the shock in those wide beautiful blue eyes as he whispered, “I told you the senator should have either faced the American public with the truth or gotten rid of the evidence. But he wanted to play mad scientist. He wanted to go for the big, secret payout.” He whisked a piece of her soft blond hair off her temple and let his finger trail over her smooth cheek. “We all make sucky decisions we have to face eventually, don’t we, baby?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Teague crossed from the massive bathroom where he’d just showered to one of the two bedrooms in the guest wing of the house—correction, mansion—Mitch had secured for them for the night in Klamath Falls, Oregon. Mitch had already designated sleeping arrangements for the rooms, each furnished with two queen-sized beds, dressers, desks, lounge chairs and huge flat-panel televisions. Teague with Luke, Mitch with Alyssa. No surprise. But there was just something about a guy who could make one phone call from a random city and arrange lodging, clothing and food on the fly like this that you couldn’t trust. Mitch Foster was sure as hell no ordinary defense attorney.

  Teague paused at the banister over the stairs leading to the living room, where the four of them had set up shop with all their evidence. The fact that they were all sacrificing their time, their resources, their reputations to clear him ... it still made him shake his head in disbelief.

  Alyssa had brought documents from Teague’s boxes at the cabin, Mitch had collected accordion folders filled with research, Teague had thrown the papers he’d pulled from Rawlings’s house into the pot and the four of them had pored over the information until Teague thought his eyes would bleed. Mitch, Alyssa and Luke were still huddled around the room, flipping through papers and God-only-knew what else.

  Mitch’s voice drifted up from below. “Where did you get these pictures of Vasser with Jocelyn Dargan? And Dargan with Senator Schaffer?”

  “Internet,” Alyssa answered.

  “Where on the Internet?”

  “Washington Post image archives.”

  “You hacked my account?” Mitch’s voice rose. “Someone gave me that access as a favor, Lys. Do you know how confidential those files are?”

  “I wasn’t hurting anything,” Alyssa tossed back in a huff. “I just downloaded a few pictures. And you gave me your user name and password yourself. That doesn’t qualify as hacking.”

  “Like, two years ago when you were trying to dig up dirt on that psycho internist stalking you.”

  “Mmm, yeah,” Alyssa said. “Maybe that’s where my skewed sense of ‘highly confidential’ came in. Besides, if you’re really worried about people using the passwords you gave them, you should change them more often.”

  Mitch grumbled something under his breath that made Luke laugh.

  “How did you connect the three of them anyway?” Mitch asked.

  “Internet,” she said.

  “Alyssa.”

  “It’s called Google, Mitch. I think you’ve been letting your paralegals do a little too much of your research.”

  Teague leaned his elbows on the rail and raked his fingers through his now inch-long hair. These two had far too much brain power. They were obviously dangerous enough on their own, but put them together and—

  “Well.” Mitch’s voice cut through Teague’s thoughts. “I think we’ve got enough. At least for now.”

  “Enough to what?” Luke asked, irritation boiling in his voice. “We still don’t know what was in that warehouse, or what the seven of us were exposed to, or what killed Quaid. We sure as hell don’t know where Kat is.”

  “Enough to keep Teague out of prison,” Mitch answered. “Enough to get these assholes off our backs so we can search for Tara and Kat without guns in our faces and freak car fires lighting up houses.”

  Alyssa dropped her stack of papers with a thwack. “When are you going to stop harping on me about that? How many times do I need to say I’m sorry? It didn’t go the way I planned.”

  “Whatever,” Mitch mumbled. “You just stick to gouging people with needles and shooting dye in their veins and shit, okay? Look at my hair. It’s freaking singed. It’s going to take me an hour to convince that damn two-hundred-dollar-an-hour hairdresser—wait, excuse me, stylist—of mine not to whack it all off.”

  “Good.” A note of superiority edged Alyssa’s voice. “I’ve been telling you it’s too damned long for months.”

  “Hello?” Luke interrupted. “Back to my daughter, please.”

  “Teague’s daughter.”

  Alyssa’s bite stopped the conversation dead. Emotion welled up inside Teague, pressing his lungs against his ribs. She was still fighting for him. Fighting for Kat. Fighting for them to be together. Even after everything she’d been through because of him.

  “Right,” Luke conceded with a mixture of anger and anguish in his rough voice. “Teague’s daughter.”

  Teague hung his head. He hadn’t expected to feel guilt toward Luke. There had always bee
n too much betrayal standing in the way, but it was only natural for Luke to feel as if Kat were his own child after all this time. Being here not only put Luke’s career and life at risk, but it put his custody of Kat at risk as well.

  “And on that note,” Mitch said. “I’m going to get a couple hours of sleep before we head north.”

  North? Teague straightened, his mind clearing. When had they decided to move?

  “Lys.” Mitch’s voice sounded in the hallway, directly beneath the walkway where Teague stood. “Come here a minute.”

  Teague stepped back from the railing, out of their line of sight.

  “Alyssa, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you about—”

  “Mitch, don’t. I’m tired.”

  “I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at Creek all night.”

  “Like I’m dying for a game of pin the tail on the donkey with a handful of spinal needles and Teague as the ass?”

  Teague winced and dropped his head back against the wall.

  “I’m not going to lecture you. I just want you to know what I know. I’ve worked with guys like Creek a long time. No man I’ve ever met came out of prison the same way he went in—innocent or not. These guys are tormented. They drift. They have problems with depression. They have nightmares. You know post-traumatic stress disorder is real. Guys like Creek have learned violence as a way of life in prison and use it when they get out. They can’t get a good job, and they can’t hold a job once they get one. They need years of counseling.” Mitch paused and let out a long, frustrated breath. “I just—”

  “I hear you, Mitch.” Her voice softened. “And I love you for worrying about me. Get some sleep.”

  They said good night and Alyssa returned to the living room. Mitch started up the stairs and Teague considered ducking into the bedroom, but why? Everything Mitch had said was true. And Teague found he was tired of running. Tired of hiding.

  When Mitch reached the top stair and caught sight of Teague standing in the shadows, he stopped in midstep.

  “Why are we going north?” Teague asked without moving.