Twice Burned

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Twice Burned Page 14

by Pamela Burford


  So much for flaccidity. He quickly dragged his jeans over his hips and gave himself a little adjustment before zipping up. If this filly twitched her tail just once, he’d bar the stable doors and to hell with Abernathy Books.

  He said, “If you want to come with me, you’d better get that tail moving.”

  Zara yawned hugely with a placating little wave that failed to inspire confidence. He grabbed the damp towel and twirled it into a menacing corkscrew, advancing on her.

  “I’m up!” She tossed off her covers and dashed into the bathroom, but failed to dodge his well-aimed fanny flick.

  ABERNATHY BOOKS WAS a cozy, old-fashioned bookstore on the main drag in Hobart. The young saleswoman didn’t recognize Logan, but the manager did. She asked how his mother had liked the Southwestern cookbook. He wasn’t surprised by how open and friendly she seemed—his brother could be quite the charmer. A few subtle questions revealed she’d only seen Mac the once and had no clue as to where he might be staying.

  He prayed the price sticker wasn’t a false lead. It was possible Mac had simply been passing through when he stopped in Hobart to purchase the book. If so, they were back to square one.

  They made their way through the sleepy town, moving from the hardware and video stores to the five-and-dime, supermarket, deli, fast-food places, service stations, restaurants and bank. No one recognized Logan’s distinctive face. If Mac was in residence, he was keeping a low profile.

  It took them the whole day to finally hit pay dirt. At Hobart Liquors the owner perked up when he spotted Logan and asked if he could get him his usual fifth of Absolut. They ascertained only that Mac had been a regular cash-and-carry customer for several weeks.

  The pharmacist, too, recognized Logan and asked if his busted ribs had healed. Gage would be pleased knowing he’d inflicted that much damage during their tussle. Like the liquor store, the pharmacy had never delivered anything to Mac’s home, so there was no record of where he was staying. But at least now they knew he was local. And where Mac was, Candy and Emma most likely were, too.

  In the early evening they found themselves at Mallory’s Ale House discussing their progress over thick bacon burgers and waffle-cut Cajun fries. The pub offered fifty-six varieties of draft beer; they both chose an India pale ale.

  Logan was relieved to see Zara’s shoulders shimmy in delight at her first bite of the messy burger, appetite being a reliable barometer of health in his book.

  He said, “Mac’s probably renting a place under an assumed name.”

  “Can we lay a trap at your parents’ house?”

  “We could do that, but chances are it’ll be days before he makes another appearance there. They said he visits only once a week—”

  “And he was there just yesterday,” she finished. “We can’t delay that long, not when we might be so close now to where he’s holding Mom and Emma…”

  Logan took a long pull of the cold, deliciously bitter ale and leaned back. His plate was empty. Zara was still methodically plowing through her meal. He said, “You gonna finish that?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to take my sweet time doing it, so hands off.”

  He hailed the waiter and ordered another pile of fries.

  Zara took a delicate bite of the well-done burger—Logan’s had been blood-rare—and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “So far, we’ve taken sort of a scattershot approach, canvassing the local businesses.”

  “You have a better idea?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s think about what in particular might lead us to your brother. What special needs does he have, no matter where he is?”

  Logan thought about it. He shrugged. “Anyone with a home and car could have need of repair people. But the local service stations haven’t done any work for him. And I can’t see visiting every plumber and electrician within a twenty-mile radius.”

  She leaned forward on her elbows, her beautiful face screwed in concentration. “What’s important to Mac? What can’t he live without?”

  Staring into Zara’s eyes, he knew the instant the idea struck her—the same instant it struck him. “Computer!”

  “You said he was really into computer games.”

  “He’s addicted,” he said. “I’ll bet he spends a lot of time surfing the Net, too. There’s no place to buy computers or software in Hobart, but we can check out the neighboring towns.”

  She picked up one of her Cajun fries and examined it contemplatively. “What if his machine went on the fritz?”

  “He’d waste no time getting it fixed. Mac loves his computer games, but he’s no expert on how the thing runs. He’s always relied on outside people, not just for repairs but for technical advice, designing systems, you name it.”

  A silent communication arced between them, an implicit agreement on their next plan of action. The young waiter arrived with the fries.

  Logan said, “Do you guys have a computer here?”

  “Sure. But the boss is happy with it, you know? I don’t think he wants to upgrade if that’s what you’re—”

  “No, I’m not in the business. I’m looking for a computer whiz—a consultant or repair guy. The hard drive in my laptop crashed.”

  The waiter’s brow furrowed. “Lemme ask Joe. He knows about this stuff.” He, circled the brick half wall separating the dining portion of the pub from the bar, where several tall, decorative beer taps stood sentry. After a brief confab with the bartender, he returned with a name and phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin.

  “Joe says this guy’s the best propeller head in the area. Everyone around here uses him.”

  “Barry Geffier,” Logan read. “Can I use your phone?”

  “I guess so. It’s behind the bar.”

  Logan dialed the number on the napkin and listened to the phone on the other end ring and ring. He pictured the nerdy “propeller head” hunched over a state-of-the-art computer in some cluttered little room, tweaking and customizing hardware and software for his clients.

  Geffler finally picked up on the twelfth ring. Logan explained he had a problem with his laptop and needed immediate help.

  “I can give you, like, Friday morning.”

  “And I can give you two hundred bucks cash if you’re at Mallory’s within fifteen minutes.”

  “Order me a Watney’s stout.”

  Click.

  Twelve and a half minutes later a tall young man sauntered through the door and scanned the sparsely populated pub. He was in his early twenties, with thick sun-streaked hair, electric blue eyes and a day’s growth of whiskers on the kind of jaw usually associated with the word chiseled His athletic build was displayed to advantage in a brown leather jacket and snug black jeans. A motorcycle helmet was tucked under one arm.

  “Think that’s him?” Zara whispered, eyeing the guy up and down.

  Her voice had a mildly breathless quality that Logan found irksome. He started to say, “You’ve got to be kidding,” when the newcomer spotted him and waved. He strode toward their booth.

  “Hey! How ya been, man?”

  Logan automatically shook the proffered hand.

  The young man offered Zara a brilliant smile, which she returned. “Barry Geffler. I did some computer work for Logan here a while back.”

  Logan? Was that Mac’s idea of a joke, using his detested brother’s name, or was it just one more symptom of his long-standing jealousy?

  Zara appeared momentarily nonplussed as she introduced herself and offered her hand.

  Barry turned to Logan. “Any more problems with your sound card?”

  “Nope.”

  “Cool. Listen.” Barry checked his intricate digital watch. “I don’t wanna be rude or anything, but I’ve gotta meet a guy here within the next two minutes and nineteen sec—”

  “Sit down.” Logan shoved Barry’s glass of beer across the scarred wooden table and slapped four fifties next to it. “I called you.”

  “Whoa. Why didn’t you say it was you on the phone, man?” He
slid onto the hard wooden bench and exchanged another dazzling smile with Zara, who scooted over to make room for him,

  This was the local computer geek?

  Logan said, “Barry, I’m going to ask you some questions that will seem very strange. Answer them anyway.”

  He shrugged and lifted his beer. “Fire away.”

  “What’s my full name?”

  Barry stared at him over the rim of the glass. He glanced at Zara before answering, “Logan Smith. Least, that’s what you told me.”

  “I assume you came to my home to do this work…?”

  A wary “Yeah…”

  “When?”

  “Uh…about three weeks ago, wasn’t it?”

  That was before Mac kidnapped Candy.

  “Where do I live?” Logan was close, so close. He could taste it.

  A slow grin spread across Barry’s handsome face. “Come on, man. What’s this about?”

  Zara smiled sweetly. “I’d really like you to answer his question, Barry.” She gave his leather-clad arm a gentle squeeze.

  Logan sent her a quelling look, the one where he tilted his head down a fraction and glared menacingly from under his brows. Subtle but usually spectacularly effective. She just turned that sweet smile on him.

  Barry eyed them warily. “I don’t know…This is too weird.”

  Logan snapped two more fifties out of his wallet and held them up.

  “River Road.” Barry’s pupils dilated as he stared at the money. “You’re renting the old MacAllen place.”

  Zara said, “Which is where exactly?”

  “On the north side of the road. It’s the only house between Harrison and McKinley. It’s, like, isolated.”

  Logan asked, “Is there a street address?”

  Barry shrugged. “Beats me. It’s just the old MacAllen place, you know? Well, you know.”

  Logan tossed the fifties at him and surged to his feet.

  “Hey!” Barry scooped up the cash. “Don’t you want to know anything else? Ask me what kind of car you drive. How much RAM your laptop has.”

  The only question left was one none of them could answer.

  Is it too late for Candy and Emma?

  Chapter Twelve

  Zara sat on the edge of the motel bed, watching Logan check his weapon and spare magazines. Suddenly this thing was too real, too now, her family’s fate too precarious. What if Mac panicked and killed them? Didn’t Logan say he could panic—

  “Did you hear what I said?” Logan was watching her.

  She licked her dry lips. “Sorry.”

  He laid the gun on the dresser and sat opposite her on the other bed, his knees bracketing hers. He took her icy hands in his big, warm ones and stared down at them, rubbing them with his thumbs. He looked at her, searched her eyes.

  ‘Trust me, Zara.”

  She nodded automatically, her throat too tight for speech.

  He squeezed her hands. “I mean really trust me. I intend to end this thing. Tonight.”

  He had to feel the fine tremors coursing through her, into her fingertips. “I guess I thought. I thought I was stronger than this. I fooled myself.” She tried to smile. “One of my many talents.”

  He leaned forward slowly. Placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “You’re so hard on yourself. Why are you so hard on yourself?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “Logan…will you just hold me? Please?”

  He pulled her onto his bed and stretched out next to her, one long arm circling her back. She tugged off her sling-back heels and tossed them over the side. Reaching over her to the night table, he switched off the light, swaddling them in a comforting gloom that seemed to amplify the distant sounds of traffic. She curled into him, slid her arm over his waist. He felt big and solid and indestructible.

  The thought came to her again. If anyone could bring her mother and sister home, it was this man.

  The warm masculine scent of him had long since burned itself into her subconscious, acting as a tranquilizer, a balm to her frazzled psyche. She breathed deeply and let her eyes drift shut.

  She felt her body begin to relax, her heart rate to slow. She’d allow herself this, these few precious moments of serenity. She’d let herself pretend that everything was all right. Just for a few moments.

  She mumbled, “I’m gonna fall asleep.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll try not to wake you when I leave.”

  Her eyes snapped open. Her eyelashes brushed his shirt as she blinked. “I’m going with you, Logan.”

  He laughed. “Go to sleep.”

  She tried to lever herself up and look at him, but it was dark and she could barely make out the amber glint of his eyes. Before she could state her case, he said, “You’re staying here, Zara. This is not negotiable.”

  Restraining her objections, she settled back into his arms, knowing she had no choice but to back down. For the moment.

  His hand stroked her back in a slow, soothing rhythm. Unconsciously she burrowed closer to him, pressed her cheek to his steady heartbeat and let her legs twine with his.

  She took comfort in the intimacy of their embrace, even as she acknowledged her body’s first glimmerings of arousal. Along with the novelty of the sensation came grim resignation. This wasn’t for her. Not anymore.

  His fingertips skimmed her face, observing her as a blind man might, his touch light but thorough. His deep voice rumbled through her. “You’re sad. Tell me why.”

  This man was more attuned to her feelings after six days than her ex-husband had been after six years.

  She said, “I want what I can’t have.”

  He sighed into her hair. His arms tightened fractionally. “We all want something we can’t have, Zara. That doesn’t keep us from trying. It’s what makes us human.”

  “What do you want that you can’t have?”

  He stroked her hair. Pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’d have to say. I want a part of me back that I’ve lost.”

  Her eyes brimmed with sudden tears. That was exactly how she felt. She didn’t care that her voice betrayed her emotion. “What have you lost, Logan?”

  “The piece of me that…” He seemed to be searching for the words. “That shouldn’t belong to me at all, but to someone else. The part of me I should be able to give away. I’m not saying this very well.”

  “You’re saying it just fine.”

  He was telling her he couldn’t love. She felt his sense of loss. It mirrored her own. Whatever he’d been through that had made him feel this way, she wished he’d share it. But she knew she couldn’t ask him to trust her with his pain; it would have to come from him.

  He said, “Tell me what you want. What you think you can’t have.”

  She murmured, “I think you know.”

  After a few moments he said, “You don’t feel…whole. Because someone hurt you.”

  Whole. She’d never thought about it in just that way, but now that he’d said it, she knew it was true. She hadn’t felt whole in a long time.

  Last night he’d said if she wanted to talk about it, he wanted to listen. He wouldn’t ask her again. Who hurt you? God knew she didn’t want to talk about it, had never talked about it, but suddenly she did want him to understand.

  She whispered, “It was Tony.”

  She felt his heart thud faster. He waited. Waited for her to say it. Suddenly she wished desperately that he would say it for her. He had to know.

  She choked on the words. “He raped me.”

  His arms crushed her. A wrenching sob tore up through her, rising on a swell of anger and shame. “He raped me, Logan.”

  She couldn’t breathe for the tears choking her. She was shocked by the overwhelming magnitude of her anguish, chagrined that Logan was witness to it. But through it all he held her, so tight she melted into him. He stroked her hair, murmured in her ear, urging her to let it out.

  At length her grief wound down. She gulped great, shuddering breaths, her face still pressed to his
shirt, soaked with her tears.

  He reached across her again to grab a handful of tissues. She wiped her face and blew her nose and tossed the wadded tissues in the general direction of the wastebasket. Her face felt hot, her eyes puffy. Inside, she felt lighter, as if the tears she’d released had been in there all along, weighing her down.

  At last Logan said, “When did this happen?”

  “At the end, when he was served with divorce papers. I don’t think he ever expected me to take the initiative and leave him. He was outraged. He wanted to hurt me. Debase me. So he did.”

  “And you never told anyone?”

  “No. I was too ashamed. I pulled myself together, covered the bruises with makeup. No one knew.”

  “Zara.” He cupped her face, as if trying to read her expression in the dark. “I know you’re too smart to blame yourself for what he did to you.”

  “It’s not that I blame myself. It’s not that. It’s just…I knew I’d failed him. As a wife. What kind of wife makes a man want to do something like that?”

  She sensed Logan’s frustration. He paused as if struggling to find the right words. “You said it yourself, Zara. He attacked you because he wanted to hurt you. Don’t you see? It wasn’t about you. It was about him, and his twisted ego. No failure on your part, no matter how much you think you may have let him down, made him do what he did. Nothing justifies it.”

  “I—I know that, it’s just.”

  “The guy spent six years belittling you, convincing you you’re worthless.” He shook his head, his voice tinged with disgust. “He and your old man, what a pair. It’s like I said before. They were a couple of control freaks, threatened by your independence, your competence. Deep down, I’m sure they knew you didn’t need them. Would’ve been better off without them.”

  “Logan, you’ve only known me a few days,” she observed sadly, “and you’ve only heard my side of things. Dad and Tony lived with me for years. You don’t think maybe they knew me a little better than you do…?”

  He leaned up on an elbow; she felt his tension. “You tell me, Zara. Did Tony know you? Did he know when you needed an encouraging word, someone to listen to your frustrations and your fears? Did he know when you needed him to praise your accomplishments, support your decisions?”

 

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