by B. J Daniels
She seemed surprised. Maybe a little disappointed. But also relieved? She straightened as if she had been leaning toward him as well. Now she looked away to brush invisible lint from the sleeve of her blouse as if embarrassed.
“I should show you to your room,” he said, his voice sounding hoarse even to him as he picked up her suitcase and turned on the ancient chandelier overhead, throwing a little light on the stairs.
She was still standing in the foyer, looking as if she were shaken by what had almost happened moments before. He knew the feeling. Kissing her had been the last thing he’d planned to do and yet for a moment, he’d felt something so strong between them….
He shook his head at his own foolishness as he started toward the steps.
“Cash?” she said behind him.
It was the first time she’d said his name. The sound pulled at him like a noose around his neck, dragging him back to the first time he’d seen her. He stopped, one foot on the bottom stair, his heart pounding.
Slowly, he turned, not sure what he expected. The way she’d said his name, the sound so familiar, he thought she might say she’d suddenly remembered everything including the last time she saw him seven years ago.
That was why he wouldn’t have been surprised to turn and see a weapon in her hand. He’d already seen murder in those green eyes.
But her hands were empty, her purse strap slung over one shoulder. She wasn’t even looking at him, but staring through the doorway into the dark living room.
He followed her gaze, his eyes taking a moment to adjust with the shades drawn, and froze. Someone was sitting in his living room.
Las Vegas, Nevada
I’M NOT GOING BACK to prison,” Angel said as he cornered hard again.
Vince grabbed the door handle and held on. The car came down hard as Angel straightened it out and hit the gas, driving him back into the seat.
Horns blared, brakes screeched. Behind them, sirens wailed. Overhead, the dark shape of a police helicopter blocked the desert sun for a moment before Angel cut between two buildings, sending a crowd of pedestrians scattering, their screams dying off under the roar of the engine. Vince could almost hear the sound of a prison-cell door closing behind him.
“Did you hear me?” Angel yelled over the noise.
“I heard you. You’d rather die than go back to prison.”
Angel jumped a curb, the car coming back down with another jarring slam. Vince closed his eyes. This was not the way he’d hoped his life would end. He thought of Max and how Max had made a run for it the day of the jewel heist. Foolish, very foolish. Going out in a blaze of glory. Only there was no glory; there was only blood and pain.
Not that Vince could convince Angel of that. He opened his eyes again as Angel cut through a casino parking lot, then another, then another until the sound of cop cars diminished just a little and there was no sign of the helicopter overhead.
Angel whipped into an underground parking garage and threw on the brakes. He was out of the car before it came to a complete stop. Vince got out too, his legs rubbery. He was getting too old for this.
He heard the shatter of glass, then the soft pop of a door opening. A moment later, an engine roared to life. Vince stumbled over to the vehicle, leaned against the side of it as Angel took off the license plates and switched them with another car in the lot.
Vince could hear the sirens growing closer. He thought about telling Angel to hurry, just for something to do, but Angel was good with his hands, quick, his movements efficient in ways his brain had never been.
The sirens grew louder and louder. He waited for Angel to get into the car and open the passenger side. All Vince wanted right now was to lie down in the back, close his eyes and trust that Angel would get them out of this—just as he had on numerous other occasions.
“You’re going to have to get into the trunk,” Angel said over the top of the car. He reached inside. Vince heard the soft click and whoosh as the trunk came open.
Angel was grinning, face flushed, eyes too bright. It was that feeling again of standing under a power line to be even this close to him. Angel loved this. And that frightened Vince more than the sound of the approaching sirens.
“The trunk?” Vince said dumbly as he watched Angel knock the rest of the glass out of the side window and reach in the back for a cap that had been lying on the rear seat.
Angel put the cap on his head, adjusted it in the side mirror. “I would suggest you hurry.”
All the other times Vince had just slid down in the front seat or hidden lying down on the back seat, but he could see that Angel was determined to have it his way this time—and there wasn’t time to try to reason with him.
Vince moved to the gaping open trunk. The sirens were so close he could almost feel the handcuffs on his wrists. He climbed into the trunk, scrunched up to fit his large body into the cramped space. He hated tight spaces. And darkness. It reminded him of when his stepfather used to lock him in the root cellar.
Angel slammed the trunk lid, the snap of the latch deafening in the pitch-black, musty darkness.
Chapter Seven
Antelope Flats, Montana
Molly heard again the soft rattle of ice in a glass, the same sound that had drawn her attention to the dark living room—and the man sitting there—in the first place.
She caught her breath as the faceless dark figure rose from the chair and moved toward her slowly, almost awkwardly.
Vince? He couldn’t have found her. Not this quickly. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Run, her mind was screaming, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor.
As the man reached the light from the hallway, Molly saw with relief that he wasn’t Vince. But the look on his face made her take a quick step back anyway. She heard Cash swear.
“Jasmine,” the man whispered. “My God. You’re alive.” His face was ghastly white, his fingers holding the drink glass in his hand trembling, the ice in his drink rattling softly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Cash demanded, stepping in front of Molly as if to protect her.
“The door was open,” the man said vaguely as he peered around Cash to stare at her. He was soap-opera-star handsome dressed in chinos, a polo shirt and deck shoes. But next to Cash, he looked like a cardboard ad cut out from a fancy men’s magazine.
“So you just made yourself at home?” Cash demanded.
The man was obviously shaken, deathly pale with beads of sweat breaking out on his upper lip. Molly thought he might be either drunk or dazed. Or both.
She wondered how he knew her. That is, Jasmine.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Cash snapped.
Yes, Molly thought, who are you? And how did you know Jasmine? One thing was clear, Cash didn’t like him. Nor did the man like Cash.
The man seemed to drag his gaze from her to look at the sheriff. “I needed to talk to you,” he said, glancing down at the drink in his hand as if surprised to find it there. “I called the state investigator. He said I might find you here since you wouldn’t be at your office. The door was unlocked so I helped myself to your Scotch.”
Cash stood ramrod straight, his hands balled into fists at his side, anger in every line of his body. “We don’t lock our doors in Antelope Flats,” he said biting off each word. “Normally we don’t have to. What do you want, Kerrington?”
“Kerrington?” Molly repeated in surprise, recognizing the name from one of the articles she’d read about Jasmine’s disappearance.
“The first man you promised to marry,” he said, scowling at her. “As if you don’t remember.”
“She doesn’t remember,” Cash snapped. “She’s suffering from some kind of memory loss.”
Kerrington stared at her. “Right,” he said and let out an unpleasant laugh. As if playing along, he held out his hand. “Kerrington Landow.” His hand was damp and cold from the glass he’d been holding, his grip too firm, as if he thought he could feel the truth in her pulse. “Still
want to pretend you don’t know me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know you,” she said. “I’m sorry.” But she wasn’t. She didn’t like the man.
He glared at her. From his expression, she couldn’t tell if he was glad Jasmine might be alive or just the opposite.
Cash cleared his throat. “Now if you don’t mind…” He grabbed for Kerrington’s arm as if to show him out.
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell is going on here,” Kerrington said, drawing back out of his reach. “I thought the state investigators were still looking for her body out at that farm?”
“They are,” Cash said. “She might not be Jasmine.”
“So the state investigator doesn’t know she’s alive?” Kerrington said.
Molly decided the man was both drunk and dazed. And dangerous. She stepped in quickly. “Sheriff McCall, I don’t want Mr. Landow going away with the wrong impression.” She had to convince Kerrington that he couldn’t believe his eyes before he blabbed this all over town. She was counting on being long gone before it hit the newspapers.
“I know I resemble Jasmine,” she said reasonably.
Kerrington nodded and looked smug as if he were finally going to get the truth out of her.
“There is a lot about my past that I can’t remember,” she said. Or don’t want to remember. “So I came here looking for answers. The sheriff has been kind enough to send my fingerprints to the FBI to be compared to Jasmine’s. I’m staying here, out of sight, until we know for sure who I am.”
“You’re hiding her?” Kerrington said and shot a look at Cash, who groaned. “You think I don’t know about the fight you had with Jasmine? And now her car turns up just a few miles from town…. I think the state investigator needs to know what you’re up to.”
“I’m not up to anything,” Cash said between gritted teeth. “What are you doing in town, anyway? Jasmine isn’t your concern. Or is she? I never bought your alibi, Landow.”
Kerrington jerked his head back as if Cash had slugged him. “I didn’t kill her. I have an alibi. And anyway she’s alive, right?” He looked at Molly. “You’re just trying to confuse me, aren’t you. Make me say something you can use against me.”
“I think we’re all getting upset here for nothing,” Molly said quickly. “Let’s just wait for the fingerprint report to come back from the FBI. I don’t believe I’m Jasmine Wolfe. My name is Molly.”
“Molly,” Kerrington said, nodding, but she could tell by his expression that he didn’t believe her. “You look just like Jasmine. You sound just like her.”
She wished now that she hadn’t gotten Jasmine’s voice and mannerisms down quite so well. She’d been able to copy Jasmine’s faint southern accent flawlessly from the videotape. Jasmine’s inflection, mannerisms and tone had been easy for someone who’d learned to mimic from the time she was a child.
“It would be a mistake to assume I was Jasmine, though,” Molly said. “I don’t want anyone looking like a fool because of me. If you were to tell people…” She saw Kerrington reconsider, just as she knew he would. She’d learned to read people. His worst fear would be to look like a fool.
“When will you get the results on the fingerprints?”
“At least a week, probably two,” Cash said, sounding as if he hoped this didn’t mean that Kerrington would stick around that long.
Molly could see Kerrington considering his options. “This isn’t some kind of a trick?”
And to think Kerrington hadn’t looked that perceptive, she thought darkly. “Why would I lie to you?”
He suddenly looked drunker, as if the Scotch he’d poured for himself was one of many he’d already had today. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He looked at the drink in his hand again, must have thought better of finishing it and handed the half-full glass to Cash. “I should go.”
“I agree,” Cash said. “I hope you’re walking, otherwise I’m going to have to drive you.”
“I walked,” Kerrington said straightening. “I’m staying at the motel. The only one in this damned town.” He seemed about to say something but changed his mind as he looked at Molly for a long moment, then left without another word.
“He’d better be walking,” Cash said, going to the door to look after him. Kerrington was. Otherwise Cash would have seen his car parked out front. Molly figured Cash probably knew what everyone in town drove.
He closed the door, locked it and turned to look at her. His jaw was clenched, his body still rigid with anger. “I can’t believe that jackass.”
She wanted to ask him why he disliked Kerrington as much as he obviously did. Was it just jealousy? Kerrington had been engaged to Jasmine first. But Cash didn’t seem like the jealous type.
“He’s going to tell, you know,” Cash said.
“Do you think he’ll go to the press?”
Cash shook his head. “He’ll tell your brother though. Jasmine’s adopted brother Bernard,” he amended. “That means Bernard will have to see for himself whether or not you’re Jasmine.”
“Is that bad?” she had to ask.
Cash swore under his breath. “It’s not good.”
She smiled and saw some of the tension uncoil from his body. “You don’t like Kerrington.”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. There is no way I could have been engaged to that man.”
Cash’s smile was tight. “Apparently he never got over you.”
“Over Jasmine,” she said, wondering more and more about the woman who had two men she’d promised to marry and both hadn’t let go even after seven years. She must have been some woman.
“He’s married to Sandra Perkins.” He seemed to hesitate, waiting for a reaction from her. “She was your—Jasmine’s roommate. They got married just a few months after you disappeared. I’d heard she was pregnant. Must not have been. They have no children that I know of. Doesn’t act like a married man, does he?”
Molly felt for Kerrington’s wife. “You think she’s here in town with him?”
Cash shook his head. “I doubt she even knows he’s here. And what the hell is he doing here, anyway?”
Kerrington would tell Jasmine’s stepbrother Bernard Wolfe. But would either of them chance going to the press before the fingerprint results came back?
She had no way of knowing. She still believed she could pull this off. Not that she had much choice. But she’d learned from Max long ago that a magician stayed with the trick—even when he realized the rabbit was no longer in the hat.
Las Vegas, Nevada
VINCE TRIED TO SLOW his breathing, afraid he would run out of air in the car trunk before Angel stopped and let him out.
The car moved at a snail’s pace. He could hear other traffic. He was cramped and couldn’t move, the darkness seeming to close in on him. He tried not to think about it or how much air he had left.
He thought instead about Molly and what he would do once they found her. He could understand her fear—especially if she’d heard what had happened to Lanny.
He could even understand her running. It was calling the cops that had him mystified. She obviously didn’t understand the concept of honor among thieves and that disappointed him more than he wanted to admit.
He felt the car speed up and tried to relax. It wouldn’t be long now before Angel pulled over and let him out. He took a breath of the hot musty air, feeling light-headed. He guessed they were on the interstate now, gauging the speed and the smoothness of the road. It was getting hotter in the trunk, closer, tighter.
He was sweating profusely now, the smell of fear filling the tight space. His muscles were starting to cramp, he was having trouble catching his breath and just the thought of being trapped in the trunk brought on a panic attack.
What if Angel had made him get in the trunk for another reason besides hiding him? What if he planned to take him out in the desert and kill him?
Unlike him, Angel had never
held much store in the fact that they had some of the same blood coursing through their veins. Angel wasn’t the sentimental type. Angel would have killed his own grandmother if there were something in it for him.
Vince stiffened as he felt the car decelerate. The tires left the smooth pavement for a bumpy road that jarred every bone in his body. Why didn’t Angel stop and let him out? Where the hell was he taking him?
After an interminable amount of time, Angel finally stopped.
Vince held his breath and listened. He could hear the tick-tick-tick of the motor as it cooled. A car door opened and closed, no sense of urgency in the movements. The door opened again. Vince heard the scrape of the key in the trunk lock. That was strange. Why hadn’t Angel just pulled the trunk lever before he got out of the car?
The trunk lid rose slowly.
Antelope Flats, Montana
CASH LED THE WAY up the stairs to the bedroom where Molly would be staying, cursing to himself.
Kerrington. He should have known the moment he caught that fragrance. The memory of Kerrington’s cologne was now all tied up in his memories of Jasmine.
Cash knew he should call State Investigator Mathews and inform him about this latest possible development before Kerrington did. Still, he hesitated. He would know about the fingerprints by tomorrow at the latest. The call could wait until then.
And maybe he would get lucky and find out what she wanted, whomever this woman was whom he’d invited to stay in his house.
Her reaction to Kerrington had certainly surprised him—and Kerrington as well. Not just a complete lack of recognition on her part, but she didn’t seem to like him. It could have been an act, he supposed. It could all be an act. But at least Cash wanted to believe her dislike for Kerrington was real.
He couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him about her. Part of him acknowledged that she was different from the Jasmine he remembered—the memory loss aside. He told himself that seven years and not knowing who she was would make her different. Not to mention whatever had happened to her before her car ended up in that barn.