Deadline

by Sandra Brown

“You could have been identified by the guy who runs the filling station.”

  “Not a chance. We shouted at each other through a downpour for ten, fifteen seconds tops, then he ran back into his shop. He was at least twenty yards away from me. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like. I’ll be a blur to him, too.”

  “You’d better hope.”

  “I don’t exactly look like a spit-and-polish Marine anymore,” he said, patting his expanded belly.

  “What about the boat?”

  “Taken care of.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Weapon?”

  “At the bottom of the sound.”

  “Because we’ve come too far with this to start making mistakes.”

  “Nobody is after me. Okay?” Hitching his thumb over his shoulder, he said, “I picked up groceries, if you’re hungry.”

  “In a while. I need to think.”

  They sat in mismatched chairs and drank their beers. Jeremy was the first to speak. “How are my boys?”

  “Good, last I saw them, which was Monday morning when I drove Amelia and them to the ferry. When I talked to her this afternoon, they were still at the curator’s house.”

  Jeremy thoughtfully picked at a loose corner on the label of his beer bottle. “Do they ever talk about me?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.” Noticing Jeremy’s pained expression, he said, “You haven’t been around for a long time. They’ll have to get to know you again.”

  “When can we get them?”

  “We’ve got to take care of Amelia first.”

  Jeremy shifted in his seat. “About that, why don’t we just snatch the boys and disappear? Why does she have to die?”

  “Because she would never give up looking for them, that’s why. You were married to her, you should know. Even after the law dusted their hands of ever finding them, she wouldn’t. She’s got the means to hire people to track us down. I don’t want to be worrying about that for the rest of my days. Better to simply—” He made a chopping motion.

  “I guess,” Jeremy mumbled and took a swallow of beer.

  “Needs to be soon, too.”

  “You’re right. If we’re going to do it, let’s get it over with. I want my boys. The longer we wait, the dimmer their memory of me becomes.”

  Carl murmured in agreement, but he was only half listening. Thinking out loud, he said, “Something’s not right.”

  “Not right with what?”

  “This situation.” He finished his beer, then got up and began to pace. “I feel like I’m missing something, and when you miss something, you get caught.”

  “Amelia doesn’t suspect that I’m still alive, does she?”

  “She’s given no indication of it. Even when I saw her today, she was definitely upset over the nanny, but she acted like herself and said her sweet good-bye to dear old Bernie. ‘Until next summer…’ Like that. She was sad to be closing up the house and leaving the beach. She loves that place. The kids, too. They play—” That sparked a thought. “Where are the pictures?”

  “Bottom drawer of the bureau.”

  “None of me, right?”

  “No. First thing I looked for. I know how you feel about pictures of us. Mom told me that the maddest you ever got at her was when you caught her taking pictures of me as a toddler.”

  That wasn’t the maddest he’d ever got at Flora, but Jeremy didn’t need to know that.

  He found the pictures—apparently taken by Dawson Scott—in the drawer, paper-clipped together. He took them over to the dining table so he could spread them out for better viewing.

  “Damn fool thing you did to get these,” he said to Jeremy as he joined him at the table.

  “Curiosity got the better of me. I saw y’all leave, saw him jog over to her house and put something under the doormat. He was dressed up, so I figured he was going to dinner, too, and wouldn’t be back for a while. I got back to the CandyCane with time to spare.”

  Carl still thought his son had been reckless to row a dingy to shore and then back to the boat. The margin for error had been huge. And for what? The photos seemed harmless enough, hardly worth the risk Jeremy had taken to obtain them.

  Jeremy picked up a picture of his sons playing in the surf. “As long as he was at it, I wish he’d taken more shots of them and fewer of Amelia.”

  “Why’d he take them at all?” Carl asked. “You checked him out on your computer?”

  “Didn’t even have to dig. He’s exactly what he claims to be. He’s won prizes. He covered Afghanistan for his magazine. Just back from there, actually.”

  “So what’s he doing down here?”

  “Besides lusting for Amelia, you mean,” Jeremy said as he held up a photo of her.

  “Feeling’s mutual, I think,” Carl said.

  “Really?”

  “Something’s there. She looked kinda sick when I told her I’d seen him with Stef.”

  “Is she sleeping with him?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not really. I’d be surprised, is all. Pregnancy killed her libido.”

  Carl wasn’t convinced of Jeremy’s indifference when it came to Dawson Scott and Amelia, but his concerns about the man were much more serious. “What gets me,” he said, “is that this writer showed up out of nowhere, moved into the house next door to your ex-wife’s, and edged in on her and the boys.”

  “You said yourself that he was running down the story of me, Darlene, and Willard.”

  “That’s what I said, but…”

  “What else could it be?”

  “I don’t know,” Carl muttered. “That’s what worries me.”

  “It makes perfect sense that he’d want to interview Amelia to get background stuff about our life together.”

  “True. But it seems to me that he went to an awful lot of trouble to cover a murder trial in out-of-the-way Savannah.”

  Jeremy blurted a laugh. “The man went to freakin’ Afghanistan for stories.”

  Carl turned to Jeremy and must have telegraphed his rising anger, because his son’s amused grin collapsed. “Are you humoring your old man?”

  “No, Daddy.”

  “You think I’m getting soft in the head?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You think you’re smarter than me?”

  “No! Jesus!”

  “Others have thought they were. They didn’t listen to what I told them, and you know what? They’re either dead or fighting off queers in a goddamn prison.”

  “Daddy, I—”

  “The day you think you’re smarter than me—”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Is the day somebody will take you down.” His left hand had been maimed, but his right hand worked just fine, and he emphasized those last words by poking Jeremy in the chest with his index finger. Carl held him in a hard stare for several moments more, giving the message time to sink in, then removed his hand and turned away. “I’ve worked up an appetite.”

  They fixed thick sandwiches of deli meats and cheeses. The freezer wasn’t that great, so the ice cream was soft, but it tasted good. Over cups of coffee they continued their discussion.

  Carl said, “Look, son, I get cranky sometimes. I know you’re eager to get your boys back. Hell, I can’t wait until we’re all together, either.”

  “They’re gonna love British Columbia. I remember those days we spent there as the best time of my life.”

  During one summer vacation, Carl had agreed to meet the Wessons—after so many years, even he had come to think of Randy and Patricia by that name—near Vancouver. They’d rented a cabin on a lake and had spent their days fishing, lazing about, and having cookouts on the shore.

  They were scheduled to stay for two weeks. He and Flora left after six days. She’d cried when he’d made her leave, but he’d become anxious and paranoid. Even the patrolling park rangers made him nervous. It was never a good idea to stay in one place for too long.


  As an afterthought, Jeremy added now, “That was the summer before my senior year. It’s the last time I remember feeling like a kid.”

  “You had to grow up soon after that.”

  Jeremy sipped his coffee and lapsed into a brooding silence that reminded Carl of Flora. He left the table and began to pace again.

  Watching him, Jeremy asked, “Does your hip hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s with the face?”

  “I still think that something is off.”

  “Off?”

  “Like I don’t have the full picture. I’m missing a critical piece and it’s nagging me.”

  “What could it be?”

  Carl scowled. “Hell if I know. I’m thinking.”

  Chapter 19

  It certainly wasn’t the worst sight that had ever greeted her first thing in the morning. Dawson, his back to her, was bent low over the countertop, watching freshly brewed coffee as it dripped into the carafe.

  “Can’t brew fast enough?”

  He straightened and turned around to face her as she entered the kitchen. “Not nearly fast enough, and this is the second pot.”

  “How long have you been up?”

  “A few hours.”

  “Hours? Did you get any sleep?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “The sofa is too short for you. You should have taken the bed when I offered.” She had also offered him Stef’s room, which he’d declined.

  “I wouldn’t run you out of your bed. Besides, it wasn’t the sofa keeping me awake.”

  “Nightmares?”

  His gaze moved over her, causing fillips of sensation everywhere it lingered. “General restlessness.”

  “Me too.”

  He arched his eyebrow with interest.

  Quickly, she went to the cabinet and opened it to get a coffee mug for herself, but her movements were arrested when he crowded in behind her, trapping her between him and the counter.

  Pushing her hair aside, he nuzzled her neck behind her ear. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

  Her head tipped toward her shoulder as his mouth applied damp pressure to the side of her neck. “Deserve what?”

  “Two mornings of you showing up, fresh out of bed, looking all rosy and warm, like you’ve either been well fucked or are about to be, and making me crazy wanting to be the man who’s given you that look.”

  She offered up no resistance when he turned her and drew her to him. Being held flush against his torso made her weak with longing to be skin-to-skin. One of them, maybe she, made a throaty sound of both hunger and appeasement when their mouths came together in a blatantly carnal kiss. Several times they changed the angle of their heads, but they didn’t break contact until he withdrew so his lips could nibble at hers.

  Those sweet pecks tingled and delighted and excited, especially when paired with the prickle of his scruff. His hands moved over her back, their possessiveness tempered by the syllables of longing whispered against her lips.

  Bending his head lower, he pushed aside the strap of her tank top to give him access to her collarbone. But even as she sighed with pleasure, she plaintively murmured his name.

  “Hmm?”

  “We can’t.”

  “I know.” But he didn’t stop at her collarbone. He continued down, placing soft kisses on her chest.

  “Really,” she said weakly.

  “I know.”

  Through the thin cotton tank top, his hand cupped her breast and pushed it up to swell above the neckline. He rubbed his rough cheek against it, then turned his face into the plumpness and kissed it open-mouthed. Hard with arousal, he fit himself into the V between her thighs. The sensation was so intense, she gasped.

  “Dawson, we can’t. I mean it. We can’t.”

  He went perfectly still, then raised his head and looked down at her. His eyes were glazed with passion, but he gave a slow nod, released her, and moved back a step. They stood there, breathing unevenly, staring at each other.

  Finally he said, “Afraid the people guarding you will see us?” He gestured toward the window above the sink.

  “That, yes, but…” She swallowed. “I wouldn’t even if they weren’t out there. I wouldn’t with the boys in the house. I know it’s old-fashioned, laughably old-fashioned, but I made myself a rule never to…It wouldn’t have happened the other morning, either. I’d have come to my senses before it got that far. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay. I know it’s not. But I have to think about how impressionable the boys are. Even—”

  He stopped her by reaching out to slide her strap back into place, then put both hands on her shoulders. “I understand.”

  “That’s very decent of you.”

  He gave a lopsided grin. “Yeah, I’m a rock.”

  She smiled. “You agreed that we had to stop.”

  His grin faded as he removed his hands from her shoulders. “But not because of the boys.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then why?”

  He looked away from her for several seconds. When his darkly ringed eyes came back to hers, he said, “Because I won’t subject you to me.”

  * * *

  Dawson collected his socks and boots from the living room where he’d left them on the floor near the cursed sofa and took them upstairs to the bathroom designated as the boys’. By the time he had showered and dressed, their beds were empty. Following the sound of their voices, he went downstairs to the kitchen to find the family and Headly gathered around the dining table.

  “Look, Dawson, doughnuts,” Grant chirped. In the center of the table was a large white box from which Grant picked out a doughnut frosted with pink icing and covered with sprinkles. He passed it up to him.

  Amelia said, “Grant, you should have let Dawson choose which one he wanted.”

  Because of Grant’s handling, the icing had smeared and some of the sprinkles had shaken loose, but not for the world would Dawson have refused it. “Just the one I wanted. Thanks, buddy.” He ruffled the boy’s hair as he took a big bite.

  “He brought them,” Hunter said, pointing to Headly. “His name’s Mr. Headly.”

  As observant as a hawk, Headly was leaning back in his chair and sipping from a cup of coffee with a casualness that Dawson knew was phony. He missed nothing, possibly not even the faint whisker burn on Amelia’s throat.

  “Mom doesn’t let us have doughnuts for breakfast except sometimes on Saturdays. But she said it was okay today since Mr. Headly already brought them.”

  “Then this is a treat.” Dawson licked the icing and sprinkles off his fingers.

  Up to that point, he and Amelia had avoided looking directly at each other, an avoidance also noticed by Headly. Now, still not quite meeting his eyes, she offered Dawson coffee and started to leave her place at the table.

  “I’ll help myself.”

  He filled a mug with coffee and leaned against the counter to drink it while the boys finished their doughnuts. When they were done, Amelia sent them to wash their hands and faces. “Just what they needed,” she said, looking askance at Headly as she wiped the table with a damp sponge. “A sugar high.”

  He chuckled. “We’ll figure out a way to let them run it off later.”

  “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

  “In the meantime, the three of us need to talk.”

  Amelia said, “Then I’d better figure out something to entertain the boys.”

  Everything that she’d packed into her car the day before had been unpacked and put back in its proper place. While she was settling the boys down with a DVD on the TV in the living area, Dawson joined Headly at the table and assessed the doughnut inventory. “Any with Bavarian-cream filling?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Then this will have to do.” He selected a plain glazed.

  “How’d it go last night?”

  The question immediat
ely put Dawson on the defensive. “How’d what go?”

  “Did you get the shakes?”

  “I told you. I’m not a damn addict.”

  “Any nightmares?”

  He rolled his shoulders in a gesture that could have meant anything or nothing.

  “Only because you didn’t sleep at all.”

  Dawson silently endured Headly’s appraisal of his haggard face and the dark circles under his eyes.

  “If she ever sees you looking normal, she might not be attracted. It may be the zombie effect she finds appealing.”

  Dawson finished the rest of the doughnut, asking around the last bite, “Haven’t you got more important things to do than to try and piss me off?”

  “What’s giving you nightmares?”

  “I don’t recall telling you I had nightmares.”

  “You didn’t deny it, either.”

  Dawson folded his arms over his chest, letting his body language speak for itself.

  But Headly wasn’t through with him. “When are you going to tell me what happened to you over there? Why are you afraid to fall asleep?”

  Dawson mentally counted to ten, then repositioned himself in his chair to signal a change in topic. “Have you talked to Eva?”

  “This morning.”

  “How is she?”

  “Worried.”

  “She knows you don’t eat right when she’s not around.”

  “Not about me, about you.”

  “Then she’s worrying for nothing. How many times do I have to tell the two of you that I’m all right?”

  Headly took a deep breath, blew it out. “I shouldn’t have sent you down here.”

  Dawson snorted a laugh. “Too effing late.”

  “I know.” Headly looked at him meaningfully, then glanced over his shoulder toward the living room where the boys could be heard arguing over which movie they would watch. “How is she?”

  “She slept alone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It isn’t.”

  Dawson knew the more defensive he was, the more Headly would browbeat him, so he addressed his question about Amelia without reading a subtext into it. “She’s brave. Tougher at the core, I think, than she appears on the surface. Steelier.”

  “I’m afraid that before this is over, she’ll need to be.”