by Debbie Burke
She crawled on the floor out of Emma’s room and hurried into the second bathroom off the hall, the one without a window. Silently closing the door, she answered the phone.
“Kit, I think the feds are outside,” she whispered. “They’ve been ringing the bell and banging on the door.”
There was a pause. “Do they know you’re there?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been hiding.”
“OK, take this down.” He started to rattle off a number.
“Wait, let me get something to write with.” She pawed through the drawers in the vanity and found an eyeliner pencil. “OK, I’m ready.”
He repeated the numbers, office and cell, which she scrawled on the tile counter. “His name is Tillman Rosenbaum. He’s in Billings, specializes in government seizures and forfeiture. I want you to call him as soon possible and make arrangements to surrender. It’ll be better if they don’t have to bust in on you.”
“Surrender?”
“That’s what I said. Take care, Tawny.” He clicked off.
She slid to the floor and stared at the phone. She couldn’t live like this, hunted, watched, waiting for someone to take her down. Maybe Kit was right. If she surrendered, she’d explain what had gone on, show them the videos, and let them find the imposter and figure out why the woman was pretending to be her.
Except when she tried to explain to her own bank, they hadn’t believed her. Why should the feds treat her any differently? Her ex-banker neighbors, the Slocums, whom she’d known for years, didn’t believe her.
Besides, she couldn’t out Lupe Garza, who’d risked her job and arrest to give Tawny the thumb drive.
She swiped the phone’s screen to life and tapped into online banking. A gong sounded. Access not available.
They’d locked her out of there too.
Next, she called the office number for the Billings lawyer. “This is Tawny Lindholm. Kit Albritton referred me to Tillman Rosenbaum. It’s urgent I talk to him.”
“Mr. Rosenbaum is in trial. May I take a message?”
Tawny’s insides twisted. She gave her number to the receptionist then tried his cell. Voicemail. Not surprising if he was in court. She left a message and disconnected. What good was an attorney if she couldn’t reach him?
If there had been anything left in her stomach, she would have thrown up again. Pressure inside her head made it feel like her eyeballs might burst from their sockets.
What a coward I am. Cowering on the bathroom floor like a cockroach. Dwight, I need you.
The doorbell and knocking had stopped. Had they given up? They might be in an unmarked car, maybe that dark blue Crown Vic she’d been seeing, waiting for her to emerge like a quivering rabbit from a hole.
Tawny tiptoed into the hall. Silence rested over the house. Hugging the wall, she peeked out Emma’s window again. No one was on the front porch now. She slipped into the kitchen and checked the backyard. Clear. But the garage blocked her view of the alley. They might be parked out there.
Next door, Starshine held a hose, soaking her marijuana plants. What if the feds talked to her? Heaven only knew what she’d tell them.
The sun dropped behind the trees and houses across the street. Soon darkness would cover the neighborhood. Did they want her badly enough for an all-night stakeout? She moved from room to room, closing drapes, lowering window blinds, leaving lights off.
Her muscles screamed for the release of exercise, writhing like irritated snakes beneath her skin. Trapped. In her own home. Her sanctuary had now become her prison.
A soft, but irritating buzz caught her attention, leading her to the office bedroom. A fat fly, newly awakened from winter hibernation, batted itself against the window overlooking the side yard. She picked up a sheaf of papers to swat it then stopped. Instead, she opened the window and set it free into the dusky night. How dumb, she thought, I’m reduced to feeling sorry for a fly.
Would anyone open a window for her?
Back in the living room, she sank into Dwight’s recliner, longing for its soft cushions to fold her into a hug as he would have done. How many times when she passed by his chair had he dragged her down on his lap? How often had she pulled away and scrambled to her feet, claiming a more urgent task? What could have been more urgent? So what if the clothes wrinkled in the dryer? So what if the steaks cooked to well-done, or even burned to ashes? She damned herself for placing more importance on petty nuisances than a moment never to be recaptured, now lost forever. A sob caught in her throat.
The hard shape of the revolver bit into her thigh. She removed the gun from her pocket, opened it to recheck the cartridges, then rolled the cylinder around and around. If the feds busted in, what would she do?
Shoot? A guaranteed bad ending, like Ruby Ridge or Waco.
Drop the gun and raise her hands?
Turn the gun on herself? Join Dwight?
Chapter 8 – Hiding Out
The doorbell rang.
Tawny startled from sleep, fighting for breath, grasping for familiar surroundings in the blackness. Her hands found the padded arms of the recliner. A weight pressed on her lap. The revolver. The clock on the mantel glowed 12:03. Just after midnight.
The feds again? Trying to catch her by surprise?
Or the burglar returning? Maybe this time to attack her.
Gripping the gun in both hands, she crept to the living room window. The porch light glowed through closed drapes. She didn’t dare look out. If they saw the drapes move, they’d know she was inside.
Lucifer jangled like a manic alarm clock. She jumped at the sound, fumbling the phone from her pocket.
Kahlil!
She whispered, “Hello?”
His mellow voice comforted her. “Tawny, I do not mean to frighten you. I am at your door.”
On tiptoe, she peeked out the high window. Kahlil stood in the pool of the porch light. Alone.
Thank God. A friend in need.
She set the phone on the end table beside the door. Still holding the revolver, she unfastened the deadbolt and opened the door, crouching behind it.
Kahlil stepped inside. She quickly closed and locked the door behind him. He blinked in the darkness of the living room, holding out a hand toward her as if blind. She grasped it. Then his arms folded around her, warm, close, safe.
“You’re shaking, my treasure.” His lips moved in her hair. “I am sorry I frightened you. It was not thoughtful to come to your door in the middle of the night.”
She clung tight to him, feeling foolish to be gripping the gun, but unable to let go of him long enough to put it down.
“When I called this afternoon,” he murmured, “your voice sounded strained. I knew something had gone terribly wrong. I left the conference early and caught the first plane back here.” He moved toward the couch, reaching to turn on a lamp.
She caught his hand. “No!”
They sat on the couch, his arm around her shoulders. He didn’t press her with questions. Gratitude welled in her for his patience. She tried to pull her thoughts together, still struggling out of sleep, disoriented, not knowing where to begin.
Kahlil stiffened. Tawny realized he’d noticed the gun in her lap, illuminated by the dim light through the high window. She set the revolver on the coffee table, pointing the barrel away from them.
Were there bugs, hidden cameras watching them? Did she dare talk? Who might be listening?
She put her lips to his ear, touched the small hearing aid. “Will you take me out of here?”
He nodded.
She stood, slid the gun in her jeans, grabbed a jacket and her bag. He followed her through the dining area, to the kitchen. From the glass-enclosed mud room, she looked out into the backyard. The security light that Starshine always complained about lit the breezeway connecting to the garage. A flagstone path led to the rear gate that opened on the alley. Beyond the fence, shadows deepened. She flicked the switch off and blackness shrouded the backyard.
They went out t
he rear door, which she locked behind them. For all the good that did, she thought. Deadbolts hadn’t stopped the intruder before. They crept silently along the pathway, opened the gate, and reached the alley behind the house. She turned in the direction of the Roths’, now Kahlil’s. Hand in hand, they moved quietly through the dark, emerging on the cross street. A dog barked. They walked faster. Another block and a half and they reached his place.
Thankfully, no porch light lit the entrance. He unlocked the door and they went inside. Apparently picking up on her paranoia, he closed the mini-blinds before turning on a light in the kitchen.
They blinked, staring at each other, while their eyes adjusted, a mystified expression on his face. She didn’t want to imagine how she must appear to him, tear-streaked cheeks, puffy eyes, a gun bulging in her jeans.
He turned a kettle on to boil and took tea from the cupboard. The sweet aroma of peppermint filled her nostrils. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a trash can. He pushed her down in a chair at the kitchen table and made little gestures to put her at ease, massaging her tense shoulders, rinsing mugs, unwrapping teabags. So often she’d sat at this same table, comfortable, relaxed, laughing with the Roths.
When the kettle whistled, Kahlil poured hot water and set a mug before her, sitting across the table. Worried green eyes took stock. He reached to hold her hand, gently, not demanding, but reassuring. Somehow, he knew what she needed to calm down.
Away from surveillance, temporarily safe from arrest, she sighed, blowing steam up from her tea, inhaling the fresh scent, eager to wash the sour taste of fear from her mouth. She closed her eyes for a long moment. “Thank you,” she murmured.
An answering squeeze reassured her.
Taking a deep breath, she started her story. “This is going to sound crazy but someone is setting me up, making it look like I’m involved in criminal acts. I’m probably going to be arrested.” She paused, gauging his reaction, expecting him to recoil.
His lips parted. “What?” He leaned forward, dark brows drawn together. “Who would do such a horrible thing to you?”
She’d feared she might see doubt in his eyes but didn’t. Instead of pulling away, he moved closer. Her tense muscles loosened a tiny fraction. He wasn’t going desert to her. Thank goodness. She shook her head. “I don’t know but they’ve gone to a lot of trouble. A woman who’s a dead ringer for me has been making suspicious transactions at my bank, over in Helena. She’s forging my signature, using my account. She even drives the same type of Jeep. I’ve seen a video of her. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was me. When I first saw it, I thought I was losing my mind. Wondering if I’d blacked out and done things I didn’t remember.”
He didn’t appear shocked or disbelieving but ready for more of her strange tale.
She sipped tea. It burned her tongue but the pain reassured her—a normal sensation in the unreal events swirling around.
“These suspicious transactions caused the Department of Homeland Security to monitor my account. Now they’ve frozen it, seized all my money, and shut off my credit card. Then someone broke into my house while I was gone and searched my computer.”
Kahlil’s brow furrowed. “Did you call the police?”
Tawny shook her head. “No sign of forced entry. They must have used a key or picked the lock. Nothing missing. But I knew someone had been inside. Then my neighbor verified my suspicion. She saw a woman she thought was me but it was the imposter.”
“No wonder you’re terrified.” He gestured to the gun in her pocket. “You felt you needed protection.”
She sipped tea, again burning her tongue. “That’s not even the worst. A little later, two men who looked like federal agents showed up, pounding on my door. I…” She lowered her head, ashamed to admit her cowardly behavior. “I hid. Wouldn’t answer the door. Eventually they went away but they may be watching the house. That’s why I had to get out of there.”
He rose and came to her, pressing her head into his taut abdomen, stroking her hair, rubbing her knotted neck, rocking her gently. “You’re safe here.”
She put her arms around his waist and clung tightly.
After a few minutes, he pulled her to stand and led her to the bathroom. He turned on the shower to warm up, while he carefully undressed her, pulling the tee-shirt over her head, unhooking the bra, unzipping jeans. His eyes asked about the gun. She took it from her pocket and set it on the counter. Then he peeled off the rest of her clothes, wrapped a towel into a turban around her hair, and guided her into the shower.
A moment later, he had stripped and joined her. She felt too weak and exhausted to lift her arms or hold her head up any longer. He soaped her body, turned her around to massage her back, hot water sluicing down, bubbles frothing over her shoulders. She closed her eyes and let him bathe her like a baby, swaying under the gentle pressure of his palms.
After rinsing off, he wrapped her in a towel and rubbed her dry, removing the turban that covered her hair. He took a moment to dry himself then put his arm around her waist and led her into the bedroom. They slipped under the blankets and she curled her back into the curve of his body, legs intertwined, his arms cradling her as she drifted off.
* * *
Kahlil stared at the ceiling, one hand under his head, while Tawny slept in the crook of his other arm, her breathing finally even and peaceful. An hour earlier, she’d thrashed, moaned, and called out her son’s name. He expected her to have nightmares under the strain, even wanted her to. He had soothed her, whispering reassurance, pulling her closer, and she settled down. Good. She felt safe with him. That was the whole point. She had to trust him, feel bound to him, for the plan to work.
Goal accomplished.
* * *
Dawn light woke Tawny. Kahlil lay on his back, snoring softly. His morning erection tented the blanket, which made her smile. She stroked the black hair on his chest, wondering at the unexpected feeling of hope in her heart.
Yesterday had been one of the worst of her life, second only to the day Dwight died. Somehow Kahlil had known she was in crisis. Not that she was all that hard to read—the Roths used to jokingly warn her against playing poker for money because, as Solly used to say, a blind man could guess what kind of hand she held.
How trapped and alone she’d felt, unable to reach Virgie or the Billings lawyer. Yet Kahlil had raced back from Houston to help her. He didn’t think she was crazy. And, most of all, he hadn’t run the other way when she explained the jeopardy she was in. She hoped her problems wouldn’t bring him down, too.
She slid out of bed quietly. He shifted, tossing an arm above his head, but didn’t wake. She padded barefoot into the bathroom. Her revolver still sat on a shelf. She picked up her jeans from the floor, feeling in the pocket for the thumb drive, reassured it was there. She needed to play the video of the imposter for him. Her evil twin, she thought grimly.
Where was Lucifer?
Not in her pockets. She tiptoed to the living room where she’d left her jacket and bag. Not there. Then she remembered setting the phone down when she’d opened the door for Kahlil. She needed to go home to retrieve it in case the lawyer, Virgie, or Sergeant Stuart from the Rear Detachment called.
Home. Did she dare go back? At some point, she had to, for the cash in the safe, a toothbrush, fresh clothes.
Yet the prospect of being arrested didn’t seem as terrifying today with Kahlil by her side.
She returned to the bedroom. He still slept and the tent still stood straight up. Be a shame to waste it, she thought, as she slipped under the covers to wake him.
* * *
They ate breakfast at the Roths’ table, drinking coffee and trading contented smiles in the afterglow. But Tawny needed to return to reality. “I have to go home, but I don’t want to put you at risk if cops are there to arrest me.”
Kahlil suggested, “I will go first. My car is parked on the street in front of your house. I’ll walk around the block and see if anyone is watching. If any
one approaches me, I will tell a story. If it is clear, I will drive back and pick you up. If not, we can disguise you or you can give me your key and I’ll get what you need.”
She thought for a moment. Seemed sensible, safe. “OK. Look for a dark blue Ford sedan. But be careful. I don’t want you in danger because of me.”
He cocked his head to the side and gave her an odd, crooked smile. “Do not worry about me.” He kissed her. “I will walk there now. Back very quickly.”
In less than ten minutes, an Audi convertible pulled into the Roths’ driveway and Kahlil beckoned. Tawny hurried out to meet him. “Different car?”
He grimaced. “Took the rain-soaked one back to the rental company. I must learn never to leave a top down in Montana.” He backed onto the street. “I saw no one. I believe all is well.”
At home, Tawny threw necessities into an overnight bag, including a box of ammo and the phone charger. While Kahlil carried the bag to his car, she opened the safe and grabbed the money, transferring it from the paper sack to a zippered tote. She touched the diamond pendant, wondering if she should take it, but decided it was probably more secure locked up, even though she didn’t know if she might ever see it again.
As she spun the dial to lock the safe, Kahlil’s voice came from the hall. “Are you ready?” She quickly closed the closet door and faced him. A lifetime of caution about valuables prickled her. The fewer people who knew about a safe containing money, guns, or jewelry, the better.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
On the way out the front door, she picked up the phone and slipped it in her jacket pocket. The revolver already made her jeans bulge. She felt weighted down.
Kahlil glanced at the weapon in her pocket. “Do you know how to use that?”
She tossed her braid over her shoulder. “If you meet a woman in Montana who doesn’t know how to handle a gun, she’s probably from California.”
He looked puzzled.
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
They drove out of the neighborhood toward Main Street. Kahlil asked, “What comes next?”
“I should find somewhere to stay, away from this area.”