Mean Streak

by Sandra Brown

  “I wouldn’t describe him as such. But he does hold sway,” Jack said, thinking of Rebecca’s blind devotion to her brother.

  “Apparently. We’re about to issue a BOLO.”

  “Hold up on that.”

  “Hold up?”

  “Once he knows you’re onto him, you won’t have a prayer of finding him. Believe me, I know.”

  “For my guys only then, what’s he look like?”

  Jack gave him a description, receiving a series of harrumphs in response.

  At the end of it, Knight said, “Six four, two twenty-five, dark hair, unusual blue eyes, and he was tough to remember or describe?”

  “He inspires loyalty.”

  “Or fear.”

  “Or fear,” Jack conceded.

  “Who is this guy? What’d he do? When we ran that print, we struck. But all his files are sealed, classified except for your office. Why’s that?”

  Jack didn’t want to divulge that until he had the measure of this man, Sam Knight. Even if he trusted him implicitly, he didn’t trust other personnel, and the mention of Westboro would spread through small-town officers’ ranks like wildfire. That would be cataclysmic.

  “Don’t issue any bulletins yet,” he said. “I’ll explain everything when I get there.”

  Or maybe not. Depending on how things unfolded, it would be just as well if Sergeant Detective Sam Knight never knew the identity of the man he was seeking.

  Before ending the call Jack inquired about the weather conditions there.

  “Dense fog and snow showers. S’posed to get worse before it gets better.”

  Chapter 31

  A felony, Emory. A felony?”

  “You don’t have to shout, Jeff. I heard you the first dozen times.”

  “I doubt you’ll be charged, but…for chrissake. Think of the negative publicity.”

  “I apologize for any embarrassment I have caused or will cause you.”

  He stopped pacing and turned to face her. “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here.”

  “I’m not. I didn’t mean it sarcastically. You have every right to be upset.”

  He had been humiliated, and she deeply regretted that. Throughout the day, he’d remained stoic and publically supportive. But now that they were alone for the first time since the burglary video had come to light, he was venting justifiable outrage.

  It was a befitting note on which to end a day that had begun with her in the throes of a panic attack. She’d convinced herself of Jeff’s culpability, only to discover that it was she, not he, who might have to face criminal charges. On the bright side, she wasn’t spending the night in jail.

  Upon their return from the cabin, Sergeant Knight had made it clear that she was still a suspect—or, at the least, a material witness—but he had grumbled about the “shit that would hit the fan” if they put her in lockup until they had all their t’s crossed and i’s dotted.

  Lisa Floyd had been questioned by a female deputy, and it was reported to Knight and Grange that the girl had praised “Dr. Smith” to the hilt. It was only after learning that Lisa had told the deputy the nature of her medical crisis that Emory confirmed it to the detectives.

  “Her condition wasn’t immediately life-threatening, but it was traumatic, and she was in a great deal of discomfort. I did what I could.”

  “Those are what I’d call mitigating circumstances,” Knight had said. “Why didn’t you explain all this as your reason for breaking into the doctor’s office?”

  “It would have been a breach of patient confidentiality.”

  “That the only reason? Or are you still protecting your accomplice?”

  She’d said nothing to that.

  “Who got Lisa Floyd pregnant?”

  “That remains confidential.”

  “Him?”

  “No. Lisa will tell you the same. He had never even met her until that day.”

  The defense attorney arrived from Atlanta late in the afternoon. After being fully apprised of the situation, he’d insisted that Emory be detained no longer.

  “It’s the mystery man from the cabin we want, not you,” Knight had told her as, with obvious reluctance, he escorted her out. “We’ll resume tomorrow. Right now I’ve got to drive halfway to Asheville and pick up a fed from New York who got himself lost in the fog.”

  “A fed from New York?”

  “That’s right. Seems this FBI agent has been after Hayes Bannock for several years.”

  “Who is Hayes Bannock?”

  “As if you don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.” Then her lips had parted in wonder. “Is that his name?”

  Reading her reaction, Knight propped his fists on his hips. “Well, I’ll be damned. You honestly didn’t know his name, did you?”

  Hayes Bannock. She had tried it out and decided that it fit him to a tee. Then the rest of what Knight said had sunk in. “He’s wanted by the FBI?”

  “Looks like. Special Agent Jack Connell can’t wait to get here and join the chase.”

  With that troubling thought prevailing, she had hoped that a long soak in a hot bath would relieve her anxiety, but with Jeff’s pacing and haranguing, she could barely hear herself think. Relaxation was out of the question.

  He was saying, “Last night you let me go on about turning over a new leaf. I owned up to having been difficult to live with. I waxed poetic about how vital you are to my life. All the while I was babbling about fresh starts, little could I guess the surprise you would spring on me this morning.”

  “I didn’t spring—”

  “During my mea culpa scene, how did you manage to keep a straight face?”

  “Jeff, nothing I did was done to spite you.”

  “Perhaps not, but the net effect is the same. How am I going to explain this to my clients? To the partners of the firm?”

  “They won’t hold you responsible for my actions.”

  “The hell they won’t. And what about your associates? I put Alice off, telling her only that you were clearing up paperwork. But how are you going to explain your criminal activity to her and Neal? To your patients? Your behavior has placed the future of your precious clinic in jeopardy.”

  “I’ll explain it to them just as I explained it to the detectives, to you, and to the defense lawyer. I did what was necessary to treat a patient. Even if no one else understands that, I’m confident that Neal and Alice will. They would have done the same.”

  “At the risk of a malpractice suit? I don’t think so. Neither of them would be that foolhardy.”

  “I didn’t take potential lawsuits into account. Not at any time. I was concerned only about Lisa’s welfare.”

  “Oh, it’s a compelling argument. I’ll hand you that. The lawyer can make a case with it. He’ll probably even spin the burglary till it looks noble and just.”

  “Then why are you so angry?”

  “Because, as your husband, I’d like to know what happened in those four days that changed you from the reasonable, rational adult who left Atlanta on Friday into a hillbilly outlaw.”

  “Isn’t that a rather ridiculous overstatement?”

  “Not from where I’m standing. The Emory I know—knew—would have taken the girl to the emergency room if she were that concerned about her condition.”

  “Lisa refused to go.”

  “This mysterious man, Bannock, he didn’t factor into your decision to treat the girl at home?”

  “He pleaded with her to call nine-one-one. He offered numerous times to drive her to an ER, despite the icy roads. It was only after she refused that he…involved me.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Emory.”

  “Yes, I know. But that happens to be the absolute truth.”

  He snorted with skepticism as he walked over to the bar that separated the living area from the kitchen.

  They had rented a suite in a chain residence hotel that didn’t meet Jeff’s standards, but which he deemed a huge improvement over
where he’d spent the last several nights, courtesy of the sheriff’s office. The suite was bi-level, with the bedroom and bath upstairs.

  On the way there from the sheriff’s office, he’d stopped at a liquor store and bought a bottle of the single malt scotch he preferred. He poured himself three fingers’ worth.

  “Want one?” he asked.

  “The Emory you know doesn’t like scotch.”

  He frowned at her drollness. “This qualifies as an emergency. Can I get you anything from the minibar?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Let me know when you get hungry. I’ll have to go out and bring something back. No one in this town has heard of room service.” He sat down in an easy chair and placed his feet on the matching ottoman. Pressing his thumb and middle finger into his eye sockets, he sighed. “Jesus, what a nightmare. But stay tuned. There’s more to come.”

  Emory, semireclined on the sofa, hugging a throw pillow to her chest, watched him. It disturbed her to realize that she was looking for dishonesty or perfidy, which, under the circumstances, was unfair. And yet…

  “Jeff?”

  “Hmm?”

  “How did you know that my sunglasses got broken when I fell?”

  He lowered his hand from his face and looked over at her. “What?”

  “Last night, you asked me who had fixed my sunglasses. How did you know they’d been broken?” He looked stumped. She repeated, “How did you know they’d been broken?”

  “Because of the sloppy repair job. You were wearing them on Friday when you left the house. They were fine. Yesterday, when you were changing out of your clothes in the ER, an orderly, someone, handed your things over to me. I had to sign an inventory form. As I was putting everything into the plastic bag they provided, I noticed that one of the stems on your glasses had been glued together.”

  “It’s hardly noticeable.”

  “I noticed. You know I have an eye for detail.”

  She nodded.

  “Anything else?” he asked tightly.

  “Actually, yes. Are you having an affair?”

  He seethed for a moment, then turned to the end table at his elbow and decisively set his glass of whiskey on it. “Let me get this straight. You’re the one who went missing without explanation, and, as it turns out, went on a crime spree with a man of mystery under whose roof you spent four nights, and I’m the one being put on the defensive?”

  “Are you having—?”

  “Yes!”

  She took a deep, stabilizing breath. “Since when?”

  “Makes no difference now. It’s over.”

  “Oh?”

  “I called an end to it.”

  “I repeat, since when?”

  “Recently.”

  “How recently? Since my disappearance?”

  “Well, it wouldn’t have been seemly, would it, to be dallying with a lover when the fate of my wife was unknown.”

  “Do the detectives know about it?”

  “They discovered it, yes.”

  “While investigating you?”

  “That’s right. They were delighted to find you alive, but I think they, particularly Grange, were disappointed that they couldn’t charge me with murder.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Did it delight you that I turned up alive? Or not?”

  The skin covering his face actually tightened. “I’m not even going to honor that with a reply.”

  “Which is not an answer, is it?” she murmured.

  If he heard her, he didn’t acknowledge it. He reached for his drink and sipped at it again.

  “Who is the woman?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  “She’s unimportant, Emory. I didn’t begin the affair because of burning desire or unrequited love.”

  “You wanted to hurt me.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Why?”

  “Quid pro quo. You have your other loves, and they consume you. They’re all more important to you than I’ll ever hope to be. Your medical practice, your patients, your marathons, your charities.”

  “It had nothing to do with the drug trials and my lukewarm opinion?”

  “No more so than anything else.”

  “Oh, I see. There are more offenses I’m not even aware of.”

  “That’s precisely the point. As my wife, you should be aware of them, shouldn’t you?”

  She was about to speak, but he held up his hand.

  “I began the affair because you had turned me into a cliché. It chafed, Emory. I resented the role of underappreciated hanger-on, a shadow in your dazzling presence. I went in search of attention and affection.” He slammed back the rest of the whiskey. “And enjoyed a lot of both.”

  “Then why did you end it?”

  “Dealing with your little escapade has kept me busy. I’ve hardly had time to think about her, much less screw her.”

  The snide words were intended to wound. They were lancing, but they didn’t pain her as much as they might have even a week ago. She also should have felt gratified or vindicated by his confession. Oddly, she didn’t. It only made her feel more alienated from him. Truthfully, she hadn’t slept with someone else out of spite. But Jeff had.

  His resentment didn’t come as a surprise. She’d felt it on occasion. But she hadn’t known until now how deeply embedded it was. She couldn’t help but wonder just how far his hostility toward her extended.

  She actually started when the doorbell rang.

  Jeff got up to answer, momentarily disappearing into the small entryway of the suite. Emory heard him say, “Who’s this?”

  “Special Agent Jack Connell. Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Chapter 32

  Upon hearing the man introduce himself, Emory’s heart sank like a stone. She stood up, facing the entry, as Jeff led Sam Knight and the newcomer into the living area.

  Jack Connell was of average height and weight, in his midforties. He was dressed in slacks, sport jacket, and overcoat, but in place of a tie, he had a wool scarf around his neck. His hair was reddish brown. There were dark crescents beneath his brown eyes. He looked road-weary.

  Sam Knight said, “He insisted on coming to talk to y’all right away.” The detective sounded no happier about this meeting than she was. “Grange’s kid is sick, so I told him he could skip.”

  “Dr. Charbonneau.” The FBI agent crossed over to her, removed his leather glove, and extended his right hand. “Jack Connell.”

  “How do you do?” They shook hands. “I understand you got lost in the fog.”

  He smiled with a chagrin that made him human and likable. She resisted the appeal of those traits. She didn’t want the man hunting Hayes Bannock to be engaging.

  He said, “I was afraid I would drive off a cliff, so I pulled over at a roadside stand that sells boiled peanuts. Just a lean-to and a chicken wire fence securing the cauldron. There was no one around, but I stayed put until Sergeant Knight met me and guided me in the rest of the way.”

  “I know firsthand how impenetrable the fog in the mountains can be.”

  “I want to hear about that.”

  They remained in an awkward tableau until she invited everyone to sit down. The two arrivals discarded their outerwear. With a noticeable lack of cordiality, Jeff offered them something from the minibar. Jack Connell declined refreshment. Knight asked for a Diet Coke, adding, “And are there any peanuts or a snack of some kind?”

  Emory returned to her place on the sofa. Connell took the easy chair recently vacated by Jeff but moved aside the ottoman. Yielding the floor to the federal agent, Knight carried his canned drink and a bag of cheddar-flavored popcorn to the dining table. Jeff sat down beside Emory. She caught herself moving her knee from within touching distance of his.

  Connell began. “Sergeant Knight provided me an overview of your experience. As soon as I read his e-mail, I traveled s
traight here. That fingerprint is the first tangible—”

  “Excuse me. Fingerprint?”

  He explained to her how it had been retrieved. “It’s the first tangible lead I’ve had on Bannock in years.”

  “What did he do?”

  “We’ll get to that, Dr. Charbonneau. And, by the way, we here in this room, and Sergeant Grange, are the only ones privy to this information, and for the time being I want it kept that way. Can I count on your discretion?”

  Jeff said, “What’s the big secret? This individual is a fugitive or you wouldn’t be here.”

  Connell said, “It’s sensitive,” then dismissed Jeff and directed his attention to Emory. “I’m very interested to hear firsthand about the time you spent with Bannock. Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

  She did so—omitting the personal aspects. “I assume you know about his altercation with the Floyd brothers?”

  “Sergeant Knight filled me in,” Connell replied. “Bannock left them in bad shape.”

  “After leaving their house, he drove me into Drakeland and let me out near the Chevron station.”

  “Did he say why he let you out on the roadside?”

  “No. But he…he did ask me not to call anyone until I reached the gas station.”

  “Giving him a head start,” Connell said.

  She didn’t tell him those had been Bannock’s words exactly.

  “How’d he look?” the agent asked. “I mean overall. Healthy and fit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he seem depressed?”

  “I wouldn’t call it depression.”

  “What would you call it?”

  She searched for a word to describe Hayes Bannock’s reticence. “Introspective.”

  “Hmm. Was he hostile?”

  “Toward the Floyds? Yes.”

  “Toward you.”

  “No.”

  “Toward anything else?”

  “Such as?”

  “The government.”

  She shook her head. “Not specifically.”

  “What was his attitude about life in general?”

  Again, she took time to find the right word. “He seemed resigned.”

  The agent nodded as though he understood her meaning. “What did you two talk about?”