Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  A river of cold air rushed over Spense’s skin, but he no longer heard the mechanical sound of the central air. He was in his zone. That place where the adrenaline pushed out all the distractions that lived in his head. That place where all sounds disappeared—­except the ones that mattered. Even the dog’s barking was a shadow of its former self . . . and then he heard the creak. That wrong sound he’d been waiting for.

  Footfalls.

  Other room.

  Then scraping. Behind that next closed door, someone waited. Spense felt another’s presence, and he knew whoever it was could feel him, too. They were too close not to be aware of each other. He stuck his gun out the door and followed it into the hallway, keeping his back off the wall where a ricochet might hit him. He arrived at the closed door. Kept to the side. The wood wouldn’t protect him from a bullet if the intruder decided to shoot through it blind. Spinning, he kicked the door open and burst through. “Police! Freeze!”

  He looked left, then right. Clear. The window stood open, curtains knocked to the ground. He flashed across the room and scanned the area outside the window. A giant weeping willow guarded the back of the house, its branches strong enough to hold a man’s weight—­long, thick, and perfect for climbing to the ground. He heard a soft thud, and looked down. A figure, tall and muscular, rolled down an incline, jumped up, and took off running.

  Spense shoved his pistol in its holster, freeing both hands. As he crawled out, his head cracked against the windowsill, sending dull vibrations ringing through his skull. With his body half-­out the window, his knees hooked over the sill, anchoring him, he stretched out his arms. But he couldn’t grab hold of that supporting branch. No time to doubt himself, he scrambled back, threw his legs in front and got himself into an upright sit in the window. He concentrated on the branch.

  See the branch.

  Get the branch.

  Jump!

  His chin hit something hard, slamming his teeth into his tongue. Blood trickled down his face. He wrapped his arms around the tree’s fat trunk, monkeyed his way from branch to branch. The rough bark tore his flesh as he slid down, down, down. He scrambled just far enough to know the fall probably wouldn’t break his legs. Braced his feet together.

  Jump!

  He landed feetfirst, and his knees absorbed the first brunt of the impact, then his shoulder slammed into the ground. Something burned, but he didn’t care. Adrenaline propelled him onward. Back on his feet, his pistol drawn, he gave chase. “Stop! Police!”

  A male figure dressed in jeans and a dark shirt scrambled over a tall masonry fence into the neighbor’s yard. The intruder had a good head start, but Spense wasn’t far behind. His senses went on highest alert—­for innocent civilians and kids. And for new threats—­like that barking dog.

  How dangerous could a Gizmo be?

  His mind raced as he hurtled over the fence, a few beats behind his rabbit. He dropped into the next yard, where a blue pool glistened in the evening light. Shadows fell across the neighbor’s back lawn, heavily edged with bushes. The intruder could be anywhere . . . then a man darted out from behind a fountain, spotted Spense, and froze. He’d have to run right past him to make it to the gate.

  Advantage: good guys.

  Spense held his pistol steady and aimed, while, at light speed, his hyperaware brain catalogued details of the man’s appearance. Dirty blond hair. Scar on right cheek. About six feet. Gym rat. Late twenties. Their gazes connected—­and Spense knew if he ever saw the guy again, he could easily recognize him by the bizarre emptiness behind his blue eyes—­painted orbs, jerking around with no human purpose.

  “FBI! Hands behind your head. Get on your knees.”

  Crazy eyes raised his hands slowly. Took a step backward.

  “On your knees! Now!”

  Bam!

  From nowhere something knocked Spense’s feet out from under him, and his pistol to the ground. He flew backward into the pool—­the water like concrete when it met his back. His head hit the side of the pool. Then darkness enveloped him, filling his eyes, his nose, his mouth. As consciousness receded, weird images passed across his mind: eyeballs on springs, bulging from their sockets, a canine missile launching into outer space, a bathtub filled with black blood.

  Fight it or die.

  Battling the instinct to inhale, he made a fist and thumped his chest, forcing himself to exhale the contents of his burning lungs. Bubbles floated up around him. He kicked hard, shot to the surface, and gasped a breath that stung like hell. That first gulp of air went down like a shot of straight bourbon. His brain jolted into awareness, and he swam toward the edge of the pool. Then his foot hit the plaster bottom. He’d made it to shallow water. He stood up. If his head weren’t throbbing like the devil, if he didn’t know that his rabbit was long gone, he might’ve laughed. He’d been knocked into a pool by a dog named . . . wait . . . could that be Gizmo?

  Shaking his head, he blinked water from his eyes. Dutch should’ve warned him that his neighbor’s dog, Gizmo, was a Doberman. He braced his arms on the side of the pool and was just about to hoist himself out of the water when someone called out. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  The trembling voice came out of a bald guy wearing nothing but a pair of lime green boxers. The Glock shaking in his hands looked a lot like Spense’s.

  Spense lifted his hands. “FBI. You think you could put down the gun, sir? I can explain everything.”

  A gentleman in a dark suit appeared behind boxer guy. Boxer guy passed him Spense’s Glock.

  “You in the pool. Hands behind your head, then turn around. Ease on over to the steps and get out of the pool nice and easy. Keep your back turned.”

  Spense did as he was told, then, anticipating the next command, he knelt on the ground. “FBI. Creds in my pocket.”

  Boxer guy stuck his hand in Spense’s pocket, fumbled around then pulled out his wallet.

  Seconds later the suit said, “You can get up, Agent Spenser. Sorry about that.”

  Spense got up and turned around. He knew a government agent when he saw one. What the hell? “You Secret Ser­vice?”

  Suit didn’t answer, but boxer guy pointed to his right and squinted. “See that gate down yonder?”

  Spense nodded.

  “Behind it, that’s George and Laura’s place.”

  As if that explained everything. Gizmo nudged Spense’s wet crotch with his cold nose.

  “Sorry, again.” The owner motioned the Doberman to heel. “I’m talking about Dubb ya.”

  “Dubb ya?”

  “You still got water in your ears, son. I say George. Dubb Ya. Bush. Lives right down yonder. So we got a hell of a neighborhood watch around here.”

  Chapter Six

  Thursday, October 17

  2:15 A.M.

  Preston Hollow, Texas

  CAITLIN TIPTOED DOWN the hallway and eased the door to the library open, cringing when the hinges squeaked. Spense and Dutch were both asleep, and she didn’t want to disturb them. They’d all been forced into guest rooms on the first floor because the upstairs remained in total disarray. Though the crime-­scene techs had come and gone, the cleanup would have to wait until morning.

  After his submersion in the neighbor’s pool, Spense had submitted to her brief mental-­status exam and a quick listen to his heart and lungs—­acting randy and cracking wise the entire time. To hear him tell it, it had all been a big adventure—­jumping out of trees, chasing bad guys, confabbing with the neighbor. He’d been especially animated when describing that neighbor and his colorful choice in underwear. More than once, he imitated the man’s Texas drawl and pantomimed the part where the Secret Ser­vice showed up. He razzed Dutch repeatedly for not warning him about Gizmo. She suspected Spense would’ve been damn well pleased with the whole evening if only he hadn’t lost track of his rabbit. She also suspected he hadn’t given
a second thought to the fact that he’d lost consciousness in a swimming pool and very nearly drowned.

  Satisfied, after observing him sleep for several hours, that he was breathing easily and hadn’t aspirated enough water to cause him any harm, she’d kissed Spense on the forehead and gone back to her designated guest room. Dutifully, she put on her pajamas and climbed into bed, but she couldn’t sleep. The realization that without a single bullet being fired, Spense could’ve been taken from her, drove her to prowl the house. She found the kitchen and made herself a cup of warm milk, but it didn’t seem to help. After sipping it, she wasn’t the least bit drowsy.

  And that’s how she wound up here, at the first-­floor library. A good book would be just the thing. A good book would make her forget, for a few minutes at least, that Spense was a certain kind of man.

  The kind who answered when trouble knocked.

  The kind who ran into the blaze, in case there might be others trapped inside.

  The kind who would never play it safe, and therefore was sure to find himself in harm’s way on a regular basis.

  And the terrible truth was that even if she could, she wouldn’t change a thing about him. Because then he wouldn’t be Spense. Falling for him was dangerous business—­but she didn’t know how not to. Swiping her eyes, she whispered a little prayer to keep him safe and stepped into the library.

  She closed the door behind her, but not all the way, to prevent the noise of the latch. She considered searching by the ambient light coming in through the windows and the flashlight app on her cell, but it would certainly be difficult to locate a book that way. Patting her hand around for a light switch, she found nothing, but her eyes began accommodating to the low light, allowing her to see a little better. Then a shadow at the desk revealed itself to be no shadow at all. For what seemed like an eternity, but couldn’t have been longer than a heartbeat, she stood paralyzed. Panic clutched at her throat, but then, her psychiatric training kicked in. This was one scenario she was better equipped to handle than Spense.

  She infused her voice with authority, but spoke quietly so as not to startle. “Put down the gun.”

  Dutch, keeping the pistol pressed to his temple, swiveled his chair around to face her. In the moonlight-­varnished room, his face, hair, and clothes held little color. She might’ve been looking at a black-­and-­white photograph of the man. Without the vibrant red of his hair, without the startling blue of his eyes, he became a stripped-­down version of himself. Only the essential definition in his face remained—­the shape of his eyes, his strong jaw, that hauntingly familiar mouth and chin . . . his expression. It was as though she were seeing him, really seeing him, for the very first time.

  And what she saw shocked her.

  Like a song with the bass turned up, her heartbeat thudded in her ears. A thousand concerns battled for precedence in her mind, but instantly, she focused on the most important one. “Put down the gun, Dutch. I’m going to walk over to you now.”

  “Okay.” He didn’t lower the pistol. “You can come closer.”

  She stepped forward and stumbled, her bare foot catching the edge of a rug.

  With his free hand, he switched on the desk lamp. “Careful.”

  Her feet had turned to lead, but she managed to make her way across the room. He sat at a massive desk made of some kind of dark wood. Cherry maybe. Up close, she could see his cheeks were wet, his eyes swollen and red-­rimmed. A half-­empty bottle of whiskey stood open on the desk next to an empty tumbler.

  She reached her hand out, palm up, and looked him directly in the eye, “Give me the gun.”

  The room went silent.

  Too silent.

  Neither one of them was breathing.

  With their gazes locked, his finger tapped the trigger.

  She knew he expected her to look away. “No way,” she said. “If you’re going to pull that trigger, you’ll have to look me in the eye when you do.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. A few tense moments passed, then he dropped his gaze . . . and lowered the gun.

  She exhaled a long breath.

  He released the magazine, showing her it was empty. “I wasn’t going to shoot myself. It’s not even loaded.”

  Oh, he wasn’t getting off that easy. As if this was all so innocent. “Maybe you’ve got a bullet in the chamber.”

  He shoved the magazine back into place, raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Her knees gave way, and she had to grab the desk for support. Her heart pounded hard and fast against her ribs.

  He had the balls to smile at her. “I told you it wasn’t loaded.” He arched one brow at her. “You should’ve taken my word for it.”

  Leaning in, she reached out and slapped his face, leaving a red mark in the shape of her hand.

  He rubbed his cheek. “Sorry.”

  “Not good enough. That was cruel, and you know it.”

  “It was for your own good.”

  “Gee thanks.” Her hands balled into fists, and she stuck them behind her back. Her body trembled as her stomach twisted into a hard knot.

  “I just thought you should know who you’re dealing with. I’ve been watching you watching me, and I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Is that so?” She clamped her teeth together and willed her breathing to normalize. He didn’t get to make her feel this bad for more than a few seconds.

  “You’re thinking, poor Dutch. He’s holding all his grief inside. He’s acting tough, trying to make us believe he’s bad, but deep down inside, he’s really good.”

  “Wow. That’s exactly what I was thinking.” She pulled her hands from behind her back and braced her palms on the desk. Leaned in close enough to smell the booze on his breath. “Right up until you pulled that trigger. That was quite a stunt. How dare you put me through that, then tell me it was for my own good?”

  “Because I’m not a nice guy, Caitlin. You’re wasting your time trying to help me. But if I’d simply said so, you wouldn’t have believed me. I had to find a way to make you understand what an asshole I really am. You didn’t believe me when I told you the gun wasn’t loaded, so I thought I’d prove both points with one trigger pull.”

  “Well it worked.” She sat down hard.

  He poured two fingers of whiskey in his glass and held it out to her. She took a slug and passed the glass back to him. “Okay, asshole. If you’re really so terrible, why are you protecting Spense and me?”

  His turn to drink. He polished off the whiskey and set the glass on the desk.

  “I’m waiting,” she said.

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “When Edison offered you an advocate from the Bureau, you specifically asked for Spense and me. Now you’re doing all you can to piss us off or scare us off. You’re trying to get rid of us. I’m sure of it. I think that you think we’re better off not getting involved.” She leaned back. “I just don’t understand why. If you didn’t want us here, why ask for our help in the first place?”

  His answer: stretching his legs and giving her the one-­shoulder shrug.

  “You don’t want to talk things out, fine. We should get you to the hospital now anyway. We can finish our discussion later.” Maybe the gun wasn’t loaded, but he hadn’t been holding it to his temple for grins. He hadn’t expected her to walk through that door, so it wasn’t for show either. He’d been rehearsing. Next time it might be loaded.

  “No hospital.”

  “You can go voluntarily, or—­”

  “Or what. You’ll call the police? Have me admitted on a three-­day hold? You can try, but you won’t succeed.”

  “I’d rather not have to commit you. But you’re a danger to yourself, so if you won’t go in on your own, I’ll be forced to do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

&nbs
p; “I’m safe now.”

  “Most suicides are impulsive. You’ve just lost your wife. You’ve been singled out as a likely suspect in her murder. This is probably the lowest point in your life. Right now. This minute.”

  His chest heaved. He turned away from her, refusing to meet her eyes.

  “If we can just get you past the next few days . . .”

  “You can’t force me to go. Even if you convince the cops to drag me down to the emergency room, I know the questions I’ll be asked. And I know just how to answer them to get out pronto:

  “Yes, I have thought about dying since I lost my wife, but I know this too shall pass. Occasional thoughts of suicide cross my mind. I won’t deny it—­but a plan? Why no. I haven’t given the slightest thought to how I would do it. The gun? I never held a gun to my head at all. The room was dark, and Dr. Cassidy misinterpreted. I’d be happy to hand over all my bullets, to her, if she’s concerned. And I’ll make an appointment with a grief counselor in the morning. Scout’s honor.”

  He turned his palms up, as Spense often did. “I’ll be released within the hour, and there won’t be a damn thing you can do about it.”

  She knew it was true. If she were on her home turf, maybe she could persuade the attending in the ER. But here, she wouldn’t have the clout to override a patient who knew the drill and gave all the right answers. Even if Dutch was a danger to himself, he could make it seem to the doctors that he wasn’t. He was simply too sophisticated, and he knew the system too well. There was no way to force him to get help.

  But she still had hope she could convince him to go in on his own. “I’m not buying it. You can turn over your bullets, your pistol, whatever. I know you can get your hands on more anytime you want. So how about being honest—­with yourself, if no one else. I know that when you put that empty gun to your head it was a dress rehearsal. You were working up your nerve.”

  “No disrespect to your shrink skills, but I wasn’t. I’ve got the nerve. I’m a stone-­cold SOB, sweetheart. You want the truth?”