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John waited, stopped dead, the turn signal clicking, and swore steadily under his breath.
A break came in the traffic. The Crown Vic’s tires squealed as he accelerated into the gas station just as the Chevy reversed. Shit. She was going in the opposite direction. If he could drive in front of her, block the pickup from exiting the gas station—
At that moment, the maroon sedan pulled in front of him.
John hit the brakes hard. The Crown Vic shuddered as it stopped inches from the other car’s bumper. The maroon sedan’s driver flipped him off and began backing up. And Turner Hastings drove past, green eyes stark in a white face. As she passed him, John had one thought.
She’d cut her hair.
Chapter Twenty-two
O h, Lord. Turner’s heart felt like it was going to pound right through her chest. She swung the Chevy out of the Kwik Trip and onto the overpass road, tires squealing on asphalt. Squeaky grunted as his body was flung against the passenger door. His paws scrabbled to keep his seat.
Her breath was coming short and quick, and her hands shook on the steering wheel. Turner shifted through the gears as fast as she could and pressed down hard on the accelerator. Was John following her? She glanced at the rearview mirror, but the truck bounced over a bump in the road and she couldn’t see clearly. She flung the truck into a turn and then into another, speeding down a residential street.
It’d been John. She was sure even though she’d caught only a glimpse of him as she fled the gas station. He’d been driving a plain dark blue sedan, not the sheriff’s car she’d seen at Tommy’s. If she’d hesitated even one moment more, if she’d not been suspicious of the mullet-haired attendant staring at her and decided to leave the gas station, John would’ve caught her. As it was, she’d had to hang up on Victoria while the other woman was still talking. She’d call her later and apologize.
But she couldn’t think about that now. Now she had to get away from John.
And what was worse, a small part of her, a tiny bit hiding in a corner of her heart, had wanted to be caught. To at last have the opportunity to see John up close. To inhale his male scent and look into his eyes when he was talking to her. To watch the expression on his face. And to finally have this whole mess over with. No more running, no more fear, a chance to rest. If he caught her, she’d no longer be in control. It wouldn’t be her fault if she didn’t find the evidence against Calvin. It’d be an honorable failure.
But she wouldn’t give in to that seductive lure—the honorable failure. She would not fail. She must not. She must keep on, no matter how hard it got. Now was not the time to rest. Not yet. She still owed Rusty, still had to clear his name and put Calvin in jail.
Beside her, Squeaky whined. He had a hind leg braced on the floor, and his rear end was half off the seat. The poor animal didn’t look at all comfortable. Turner glanced in the rearview mirror again. Nothing. Had John set up a roadblock outside of town? Were there other agents after her?
She was on an odd little lane now, near the outskirts of town. Up ahead she could see a decrepit old house with several sheds and a collection of rusting cars huddled around it. She made a quick decision and swung in the drive, bumping over ruts and maneuvering behind the house. She put the truck in neutral and looked around. She couldn’t see the road from back here; the house and old cars hid it. And as far as she could tell, the Chevy wouldn’t be visible to someone searching from the road, either.
Turner killed the engine just as her cell began to ring. It’d slid to the floor under her feet during the wild drive. She picked up the palm-sized piece of plastic and stared at it. She knew he couldn’t pinpoint where she was just by talking to her. Even so, some superstitious part of her wanted to fling the phone as far away as possible.
Instead, she answered it. “What?”
“Slow down. I’m not chasing you.” His voice was angry and his breathing rough, as if he’d been running.
She laughed, the sound coming out like a bark. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m not going to cause an accident by chasing you through a small town, Turner. Just slow down, dammit. Don’t kill yourself running away from me. I’m not following you.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that after—”
“It’s my job, goddamnit!” He sounded like he was at the end of his rope.
Well, so was she. “I hate your stupid job!” Squeaky laid his ears back and looked worried at the tone of her voice.
“We’ve been over this before—”
“I didn’t rob the bank,” she burst out. “Can’t you leave me alone?”
“No.” She heard him take a breath. “No, I can’t.”
“Please.”
“Don’t.” His voice was low. “Don’t beg me to do something I can’t.”
Turner stared out the window at the dingy backyard. Nearby, the frame of some kind of car was rusted a uniform clay-brown. It sat in a bed of tall grass like the fossilized skeleton of a dinosaur. Tears blurred her vision.
John spoke again in her ear, his deep voice slow and intimate in the afternoon sunshine. “I can’t leave you alone, and I can’t let you get away. From me or the law. I can’t sit back and make the exception for you, no matter how I feel personally. I can’t change what I do or who I am.”
“Then stop calling me.” The tears trailed down her cheeks now, and she swallowed in order to talk clearly. “Stop following me. Stop talking to me about your daughter and Mexican food and the daily crossword puzzle. Stop whispering in my ear at night in the dark—”
“You’re under a lot of stress—”
“Stop making me feel!”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” she said shakily. “Get another agent assigned to my case.”
He sighed. “I can’t do that, either.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t, and I wouldn’t even if I could. You’re mine, honey.”
“Oh, Lord.” She rolled her head back on the seat, staring at the old ceiling of the truck, letting the tears run down her face and into the neckline of her T-shirt. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Why not?”
“This isn’t going to work.”
“You’ve been alone too long.” His voice was soothing. “You need to come in.”
A sob burst from her. “No. You’re hurting me. You—”
“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “It kills me.”
“I can’t stop.” She was still shaking from the adrenaline that had surged through her arteries when she’d fled him. It was too much. Finally, too much. It seemed she could no longer dam all the emotions she’d held back for four long years. Squeaky whined and put his mammoth head on her lap.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” John said.
“But you are.” She stroked Squeaky’s velvet ears and tried to think of a solution. There wasn’t one. There wasn’t any good outcome to this. “We can’t continue like this. I’m jumping at shadows as it is. I can’t live like this—”
“Then stop. Tell me where you are.”
She half laughed, half hiccupped.
“I’ll come get you,” he said.
She licked the salt tears from her lips and stared out at the dinosaur car. A red squirrel had climbed the top and was sitting there, tail swishing back and forth.
“Oh, John.”
He sighed in her ear. “Is it really worth it?”
She closed her eyes and thought about Rusty. How could she explain? She took a shuddering breath, trying to still the tears so she could somehow tell him. “My mom died when I was seventeen, did you know that?”
“Yes.”
Of course. He must have a file on her by now. He probably knew her bra size and her grades from high school biology. She thrust that thought from her mind.
“Mom had cancer. It took a while—about a year—for her to go. A long year. She was in and out of the hospital, getting the chemo.” She swallowed again, remembering. “Dad had left when I was
a toddler. I already told you that. So it was just us, Mom and me. And Uncle Rusty.”
John was silent.
“Anyway.” Her throat felt swollen from the crying. She cleared it. “It was pretty bad, her cancer. The whole hospital thing. Rusty had this big old Victorian house on the edge of town, and he let us move in with him because Mom . . .” She inhaled sharply. “Mom wasn’t able to do much, for me or her. She felt too sick most days. Rusty and I split the cooking and chores.” She laughed a little, her voice scratchy. “Uncle Rusty had been a bachelor all his life. Most of the time we had Swanson’s frozen dinners on his nights to cook. Swedish meatballs or lasagna. Or bratwurst sandwiches when he hadn’t planned ahead—they were his favorite. He did his best. He did the best he was able.”
“Turner—”
“And when Mom died . . .” Her voice trailed away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Squeaky nuzzled his jaw into her palm. She forced herself to continue while she stroked his long nose. “Most of our money was already spent by that time. Hospital bills. Uncle Rusty paid for the funeral and the plot and headstone.”
“Baby.” John sounded pained.
She shook her head and gulped even though he couldn’t see. “Brad was already gone. Away at school and then starting his first job, so it was just Uncle Rusty and me. He was in his late fifties, and yet he never made me feel unwelcome. He never said anything about having his life turned around, virtually adopting a teenager at his age. He was so . . . kind. I wish you could’ve met him, then you’d understand.”
“I wish I’d known him, too,” John said gently.
“He didn’t do it. He didn’t steal from the bank.” She steadied her voice, making it sure. “And he didn’t deserve what happened to him. Rusty worked all his life at that bank. He was only two years away from retirement. He was planning on getting a cabin at the lake, maybe a new boat. He was going to go fishing every day.”
“Turner—”
She closed her eyes. She had to get this out. “When Calvin accused Rusty and then fired him, he killed something in Uncle Rusty, long before he actually died. Rusty was humiliated that anyone would think he’d done the things he was accused of. He stopped smiling. Stopped laughing.”
“I’m sorry.” She could hear him blow out a breath. “I’m sorry. I understand your uncle meant a lot to you.”
“He did.”
“Have you thought what Rusty would say about what you’re doing?” John asked. “Would he want you to live your life this way?”
She half smiled. John was so good at this. So good at presenting the sane alternative, so good at listening without condemning. He must’ve brought in scores of fugitives with that slow, deep voice and sympathetic manner. And she was almost— almost—tempted by him. “No, of course not. Rusty wouldn’t have wanted this for me. He was a gentle, kind man and he loved me.”
“Then—”
“But that’s not the point,” Turner said softly. Firmly. “I’m the one who chooses my actions, and I choose to make sure his name is cleared. Because he was the way he was. Because he loved me.”
“Christ,” he muttered, like he was frustrated. And angry.
Her own anger welled, even though he was only doing his job. She wanted to cut through all the pretense, all of his motives and her motives to the core feelings beneath. To the man beneath the FBI agent. The man she’d been talking to in the last few days.
She inhaled slowly. “You tell me not to try to change you, and in the same breath you ask me to change who I am.”
“Turner—”
“No, John. Listen. I believe in righting wrongs. I believe in standing by the people I love. And I believe that evil people shouldn’t be allowed to get away with their crimes. That’s who I am.”
“I believe all those things, too,” he answered. “The difference is that I’m a professional. Leave Hyman to the FBI.”
“I did,” she said softly. “They had four years to bring Calvin to justice, and no one lifted a finger to investigate him.”
“Okay, what if I promise to investigate the embezzling at the bank?”
It was so tempting to give in. But . . . “You’ll still need evidence. You would’ve needed just cause and a warrant to search Calvin’s safe deposit box, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” He said it tightly.
She smiled. John didn’t lie, even when it meant losing the argument. “And you wouldn’t have got the warrant just on my suspicions, would you?”
He swore under his breath.
“I’m going to find that evidence.” She didn’t have to add that she wouldn’t be waiting around for a warrant. “And I’m going to make sure Calvin Hyman goes to jail for what he did to Rusty.”
“What about when you go to jail?” he asked softly, his deep voice rumbling. “I’m not going to stop, you know. Not until I arrest you.”
She glanced out the window of the Chevy half expecting him to be standing there, her own personal nemesis. “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t.” He sounded tender. And frustrated. “You’re running away again. For such a fearless woman, you sure can be chickenshit sometimes.”
A surprised laugh burst from her. “I am n—”
“But that’s okay for now,” he continued over her, his voice sure. “Because sooner or later I’ll catch up.”
Oh, Lord. “Good-bye, John.”
“Good-bye. Like the hair.” And he hung up.
She sat staring at the cell in her hand for a moment. Hair? Then she remembered that she’d cut her hair. Hacked it, really. John had seen her for maybe a half-second, and in that miniscule moment of time, he’d noticed she’d changed her hair.
Turner shivered. She didn’t know whether to feel flattered or frightened.
Chapter Twenty-three
D ude, I think this is the wrong way to Minnesota,” Nald panted.
“Oh, like you’re Mr. Direction Guy,” Fish said without bothering to turn around. “What? Have you got one of them GPS things up your ass?”
It was hot. It was bitchin’ hot. It was so hot that the asphalt was melting on the road and sticking to his shoes in black globs. It was so hot that ants would fry on the road, if any ants came out of their little bitty holes. Which they didn’t. It was so hot that Nald could feel his balls itching with sweat.
Hot.
“Well, I know that Minnesota’s to the west,” Nald said. “Like, if you look at a map, it’s left of Wisconsin, and that’s west—”
“What’s your point, douchebag?”
“I don’t think we’re heading west, dude.”
Fish stopped dead in the middle of the road and turned around to face Nald. A tick was crawling up the side of his face. He looked truly disgusting. His hair was all flat and greasy and gross from the swamp water, and there were little white lines on his face where the sweat had cleaned the dirt. Gross. Also, his nose was red and peeling from a massive sunburn. Of course, that might be partly because of the poison ivy Fish had run into yesterday. Fish was real allergic to poison ivy. His arms were dripping yellow gunk like he was a nuclear-waste zombie.
Gross.
“We’re heading west,” Fish said, squinting into the afternoon sun.
Nald stopped, as well, and took out the piece of teriyaki beef jerky he still had left from the store they’d knocked over this morning. “East. Jerky?” He held out the jerky which only had a small amount of pocket lint on it.
“West.”
Nald took a bite and chewed. “East. Do you think that counter lady recognized us?”
“How could she, booger-brain? We switched masks.”
Sometimes Fish was a real criminal mastermind. Cunning. Like this morning. He’d pointed out that the cops would be looking for them. Would have, like, those bulletins they sent out. Be on the lookout for two scary bank-robbing dudes. Armed and way dangerous. So he said they’d confuse their pursuers by switching masks. Fish would be Yoda and he, Nald, would be Sp
ongeBob. Which was fine with Nald, because even though Yoda was a cooler character, the Yoda mask had lost an ear, which sorta cut down on its coolness factor.
“Yeah, but she looked at us kinda funny,” Nald said through the jerky. It was old jerky and took a lot of chewing.
“That’s because she was so terrified of us, man,” Fish said.
Nald was doubtful. “You think?”
“She started shaking, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, but she was making funny noises like she was having a fit or something.”
“So we scared her into a fit. What else do you want?”
“I dunno.” Nald finished the jerky. “Too bad all she had was this jerky and a couple of cans of Yoo-hoo.”
“What do you expect?” Fish made a spitting noise, but nothing came out. The tick fell to his chin. “Small town and all. ’Sides, you’re forgetting the cheese curls.”
“Yeah.” Nald perked up. “Those were good.”
“And they’re a dairy group,” Fish pointed out righteously. “Nutritious.”
“Yeah. And jerky’s protein.” Nald squinted, trying to remember the nutrition charts from first grade. It was hard, because he’d spent most of first grade discovering boogers. “That just leaves vegetable.”
“Cheese curls.” Fish scratched a poison ivy welt on his arm. Yellow gunk oozed out.
“You just said they were dairy,” Nald objected.
“And vegetable.”
“How can cheese curls be dairy and vegetable?”
“Because,” Fish said slowly, like Nald was a retard or something. “They make them out of corn. It says so right on the bag.”
“Huh.” Nald felt a little uneasy. He’d had no idea he was eating health food all these years.
“So let’s get going.” Fish turned around. He had a tick crawling up his back, too.
Nald trotted after him. “Yeah, but we’re going east.”