by Julia Harper
“I prefer to think of it as a liberation.”
“Now you sound like an ecoterrorist,” he chided. “What’re you wearing?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of a question is that?”
“A kinky one.”
“I don’t think I know you well enough to play those kind of games.”
“Don’t you?” His voice was very low now, like a growl.
She glanced blindly out the truck window at the night. If he were close, she’d be frightened, and not just of being arrested. Why did he have to be so perceptive, so smart, so appealing? “I don’t even know if you’re married now.”
“I’m not.”
“You’ve never met me,” Turner whispered.
“I’ve been through the panties in your dresser drawer.”
What? She straightened. “You had no right—”
“It’s my job,” he clipped out. “You know that. The moment you opened Hyman’s desk drawer, the moment you smirked at that surveillance camera in the bank, you set in motion events that can’t be changed. By you or by me.”
She clenched her fist into a ball. She knew all that, but to have him put it so bluntly was shocking. “You—”
He raised his voice over hers ruthlessly. “I’ll be doing more than looking in your lingerie drawer soon, honey. I’m going to take you down. I’m going to be the one to put the handcuffs on you. No one but me.”
She found she was gasping for breath, her chest felt so tight. “Why are you saying these things to me?”
“Because I’m the damned FBI, that’s why. This isn’t a game for me, it’s my job. It’s what I do.”
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“I don’t know.” He sounded like he was biting off the words and crunching them between his teeth. “You made up the rules to this thing before I was ever on the scene. I’m just along for the ride.”
“I should hang up on you.”
“You should,” he agreed, quieter now. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” She felt close to tears. “We’re on opposite sides, so far apart we might as well be on different continents. Different worlds.”
There was a silence from the other end, and she closed her eyes, simply listening to him breathe.
“I talked to your brother today,” he finally said.
Her eyes snapped open. “Brad?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“It’s standard procedure to talk to the relatives of fugitives.”
She made a rude noise. “Fugitive—”
“And he’s your only living relative, isn’t he?”
She shut her mouth.
He waited, then continued softly. “Besides your father, that is.”
“You’ve done your homework.” She drew a deep breath. “I don’t think Dad really counts as family, since he moved away when I was barely three.”
“Does Brad count?”
“Sure.” She wrinkled her nose impatiently. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“He says you hardly ever talk. The last he heard from you was a card on his birthday.”
“So? We’re both adults. What do you expect, daily phone calls?”
“Why not? I talk to my eldest sister at least once a week. More, if her teenagers are giving her hell and she has to vent.”
This was the second time he’d mentioned his family. She hadn’t pictured him with relatives of his own—it didn’t click with her image of a tough FBI agent. Intrigued, she asked, “How many sisters do you have?”
“Three.” He sounded like he was smiling. “One older, that’s Lisa, and two younger, Sheryl and Karen.”
“No brothers?”
“Nope.”
“That must’ve been nice, growing up in a large family.”
“Not when you’re trying to get ready for school and there’s three girls in the bathroom, putting on makeup.”
“Even so—” She interrupted herself to yawn.
“You’re tired.”
“Sort of.”
“I should let you go so you can sleep.” But he didn’t hang up.
She cradled the phone between her shoulder and cheek and let her head fall against the seat. Outside, the crickets were in full chorus, a sweetly sad sound.
“Goodnight, John,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, Turner,” he murmured in her ear.
She listened for the click and then hung up herself.
Through the windshield she could see a half-moon shining serenely in the night. The temperature had finally dropped, and she shivered and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. There was nothing more melancholy than gazing at the night sky all alone.
Chapter Seventeen
C alvin Hyman peered through the windshield of his cream 2006 Cadillac DeVille. He was looking for the turnoff, but the road was pitch dark because it was almost midnight. The only part he could see at all was in the V of his headlights, and even that was weirdly colorless, making it hard to identify anything. Everything else beyond the headlights was lost to the night. The turnoff was somewhere around here, he knew, but he hadn’t been to the lake in years, and it was so goddamn difficult to—
There! He almost missed it, but he braked hard and swung into the dirt road, the Caddy kicking up gravel. He winced as a rock dinged off the door. With his luck lately, the door would be scratched. He’d have to check the paint later, maybe take it into the body shop up in Superior. There was no way he’d let the local idiots in Winosha within ten feet of his Caddy.
Calvin slowed the car to a crawl. The road was rutted, and he didn’t want to lose the muffler on a pothole. He’d told Shannon that he was at a men’s poker night, but it’d be just like her to examine the car for signs of duplicity. For some reason she worried about his fidelity, even though he’d never given her cause to doubt him. If she thought he’d lied, she would become hysterical, which was the last thing he needed right now.
God, the previous couple of days had been hell. First the bank robbery and all the anxiety that had gone along with that. And then, just when he’d begun to relax, thought the thing had come off and he was home free, no more disastrous audit hanging over his head—at least for the foreseeable future—he’d watched Turner Hastings rob his safe deposit box. He’d nearly stroked out right there in the Winosha municipal building. What the hell was she doing? He’d thought—no, he’d hoped—it was some kind of fluke. Old-maid librarian going off the deep end and turning to a life of crime. But even on Saturday night, watching the tape, he’d known it was no fluke.
And that had been before she’d broken into his computer at home.
There was no way to deny it now. The woman was out to get him. After four years, she was coming after him for Russell Turner’s sake. Because of the sacrifice Calvin’d had to make four years ago. Things had gotten too close back then; the auditors had been asking questions, and someone had had to take the fall. He was genuinely sorry that it’d had to be Rusty, but who else would’ve been believable? The embezzling had to have been done by someone high in the bank. And besides, although he loved Rusty like a brother, no one could deny the man was getting on in years. He was ready to retire anyway.
He’d thought the whole thing had been over four years ago. And now Turner Hastings pops up, bent on some ridiculous revenge for Rusty, who’d been dead and buried all this time! If holding a grudge that long wasn’t a sign of mental instability, he didn’t know what was. That was probably why she’d stolen the dog, too. Turner Hastings clearly had a case of mental confusion at the very least. Too bad he couldn’t just explain that to the sheriff.
She had certainly picked her time, too. The September primary was less than two weeks away. Carter, the retiring state representative, had assured him that the seat was his. Calvin was this close to being a member of the state legislature, for God’s sake.
He felt like shoving that fact into the faces of all those people who had talked behind their hands about him when he wa
s growing up. Poor Calvin Hyman, have you heard his father just walked out? Poor Calvin Hyman, his mother was falling down drunk at the bar last night again. Poor Calvin Hyman, he’s worn the same pair of dungarees for the last two years; the seat’s just about worn out.
Well, poor Calvin Hyman was the Winosha town mayor now. He was the bank president, a member of the Lutheran church, and on the school board. Poor Calvin Hyman was the most powerful man in town and soon—so damn soon he could almost taste it—he’d be the most powerful man in the district. He’d be a state representative. A member of the state legislature. How do you like them apples, you small-town gossips?
Soon. If only Turner Hastings didn’t bring all his dreams crashing down at his feet.
The turn leading to the boat ramp loomed in his headlights. He checked the car clock. It was only 11:46, so he was still a little early. Calvin pulled the Caddy into a grassy area and turned off the engine. The car ticked as it slowly cooled. Outside, insects buzzed in the surrounding woods. He shifted in the car seat, his rear squeaking against the leather, wishing suddenly that he’d brought a magazine to read. Of course, he’d run down the car battery if he used the car light reading—
The passenger door opened without any warning and a large, bearded man got in, the overhead light illuminating him briefly. The light glinted off square black plastic-framed glasses. The man’s bulk was intimidating, taking up more space in the car than it should. And he smelled. Calvin wrinkled his nose in the dark. The stink was made up of stale body odor, some kind of bug repellent, and cigarette smoke. The combination was reminiscent of dead skunk.
“You got the money?” Hank asked without inflection. It figured he’d get right down to the part that was in his interest.
“Of course.” Calvin cleared his throat. “But I want to discuss terms first.”
He saw the shadow of the other man’s head turn in the dark interior of the car. “Terms? What terms you talking about? You want this girl killed, I want the money. What else is there to talk about?”
Calvin winced. God, Hank was crude. Of course, that was why he’d gone to him with this unsavory deal. A more civilized man wouldn’t be able to pull it off. “I need to have an alibi when you do it.”
“An alibi?” Hank snorted. “Like on TV?”
“Don’t be insulting.” Calvin half turned in the seat. “They might suspect me and—”
“Why?”
“Never you mind. Just make sure you plan it and let me know. I’ve got a dinner tomorrow—”
“No can do.” Hank’s voice was even and dull, almost bored. Like many chronic smokers, he had a pronounced rasp.
“Why not?”
“Look, you told me you don’t know where she is, even. I’m supposed to find her—”
“She’s got to be headed to my cabin.” Calvin frowned, feeling impatient. This couldn’t fall through now. It wasn’t like northern Wisconsin was crawling with potential hit men. Hank was his only choice.
“And you don’t even know when she’ll show,” Hank grunted. “This is gonna cost a lot.”
“We already agreed. Five thousand dollars. Half now, and—”
“Nope. I want it all now.”
“All?” Calvin heard his voice rise and lowered it, even though they were alone. He hissed, “Do you think I’m an idiot? I give you the whole thing now and you’ll just take off.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Look.” Calvin sighed. “I’ll give you three thousand before, and after you kill her I’ll give you the remaining two thousand.”
“Three thousand.”
Calvin felt relief flood his chest. “That’s what I said—”
“No.” Hank turned toward him, clothes rustling against the seat. His bulk blocked out the moonlight from the window. “Three thousand now, three thousand later.”
“That’s . . .” Calvin gasped, at a temporary loss for words. “That’s outrageous!”
“That’s where I stand.” Hank sat back. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and lit one without asking.
The smoke from the cigarette, combined with Hank’s personal stench, seemed to fill Calvin’s throat. He was going to suffocate if he couldn’t get the other man out of his car soon. “Three thousand now, twenty-five hundred later.”
Hank opened the car door. The overhead light switched on, revealing his straight greasy hair flattened to his scalp. His glasses were opaque in the glare, so it was near impossible to read his expression. He stood.
“Okay, okay.” Calvin gripped the steering wheel. He wanted to let the other man get out of the car and then maybe run him over a few times, but that wouldn’t be productive. He needed Hank. “Okay. Three thousand before, three thousand after. Sit down.”
Hank slowly sank back down and shut the door. “Fine.”
The light winked out again.
Calvin took a thick envelope out of his trousers pocket and handed it over. “I only brought twenty-five hundred because that’s what we’d agreed on before. I can get you the other five hundred in the morning.”
Without comment, the other man cracked the car door to make the light come on again. He slowly counted the money out, holding his cigarette between his first and second fingers. Calvin fumed. Christ, didn’t Hank trust him to count the money correctly?
Finally, Hank stuck the wad of money into the front pocket of his jeans and gave the envelope back. He took a pull on the cigarette and blew more smoke in the car’s interior. “Okay. But remember, I don’t do anything without that five hundred.”
“Fine.”
Hank started to get out of the car.
“Wait! You need her photo.” Calvin fumbled in his pocket.
“Oh, yeah.”
Calvin found the snapshot and held it out. He’d had to really search to locate it. He’d finally discovered it in a stack of pictures that had been taken at a bank picnic a couple of years ago. Turner’s face wasn’t very big in the photo, but it showed her round glasses and her hair pulled back. That should be enough to identify her.
Hank took the photo without looking at it and put it in the same place as the money. He heaved himself from the car.
“Don’t forget to let me know in advance,” Calvin yelled after him. “You have my phone number—be sure to call me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Soon as I get the five hundred.” The big man waved a hand over his shoulder. He didn’t turn around. The dark swallowed him, the glow of his cigarette end the last thing to disappear.
Calvin started the car and reversed to make a Y-turn in the road. This had better work. His future depended on it.
Chapter Eighteen
T urner had just passed the first Spooner exit on Highway 53 when her cell rang Tuesday morning. She glanced at her handbag on the seat beside her. No one had called her since the bank robbery Saturday, except for a certain FBI agent. She felt her heart jolt foolishly. On the radio, the Dixie Chicks were gleefully plotting Earl’s murder. She’d been singing along—the Chicks and she seemed to have a common life philosophy these days—but now she stopped. Squeaky, lying on the seat beside her, opened one eye. The phone rang again. She really shouldn’t answer it. Talking to John got her nowhere. And it couldn’t be mentally healthy. He was trying to find her and arrest her, for goodness’ sake.
Up ahead was a green sign for the second Spooner exit. Turner bit her lip and took it. She’d decided this morning to chance taking 53 south just so she could move faster. Now, of course, she was regretting the decision. She pulled to the top of the ramp, put the truck in first, and turned off the engine, silencing the Chicks in midyodel. She picked up her phone, still ringing, only to find that the number wasn’t John’s. In fact, the area code looked like—
“Brad?”
There was an exasperated sigh on the other end. “Took you long enough to answer, Turn.”
She frowned. “Why are you calling?”
She was very visible at the top of the off-ramp. Sooner or later, John w
as bound to send out police alerts about her. Probably he already had. In any case, her instinct was to keep moving.
“Oh, that’s nice,” her brother said from the other end of the line. “I haven’t talked to you since, what? Christmas? And the first thing you want to know is why I’m calling.”
“Brad, why’d you call?”
Squeaky sat up and put one massive paw on the passenger-side windowsill. The poor animal probably needed a pit stop.
“Look,” Brad said. “Some FBI agent with an attitude problem called my office six times yesterday.”
“Six?” Turner blinked, then smiled, imagining John trying to get through Brad’s firewall of employees. Her brother was a corporate bigwig in Silicon Valley, where nothing mattered but the product deadline and how the company stocks were doing.
“I finally took his call when he threatened to send a local FBI agent to bring me in for questioning. Although,” Brad mused, “now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure he couldn’t have done that. Not under California law, anyway.”
“What—”
“He told me this ridiculous story about you robbing a bank.” Brian chuckled. “I mean, he has seen you, right? Your biggest thrill is doing the Sunday crossword puzzle.”
Turner watched the highway. With the Chevy stopped, there was no wind, and the heat was intense. A semi with a huge photo of a potato chip bag on the side rumbled by. Beside her, Squeaky whined.
“Turn?” Brad had stopped chuckling.
“What?” She got out of the Chevy, slamming the door behind her. The dry heat blew into her face, wicking away any moisture.
“You didn’t rob the bank.”
“You know what happened to Rusty, Brad.” She reached the other side of the Chevy and let out Squeaky. The dog bounded into the brown grass beside the road and immediately lifted a leg against a brittle shrub. If the plant wasn’t already dead, it was a goner now.
Brad exhaled on an incredulous laugh. “You’re not talking about . . . Come on, Turn. That happened, what? Five years ago? You can’t still be angry at him, that’s—”
She hung up on him and crossed her arms. Squeaky ran in wide circles.