Twisted Shadows Page 22

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been still like this, without the restlessness that charged him. He enjoyed watching her, even as he agonized over the conflict between job and crusade and the woman who filled a need he hadn’t known existed in him until now.

  She was a woman who valued truth and honesty. He had not been honest with her, not completely. She deserved to know the whole story. How could he expect her to be completely candid with him when he hadn’t been candid with her?

  If she knew her father’s family had killed his mother, would she lie in his arms so peacefully? If she knew the Merrittas had been his burning obsession since the day he’d watched his mother bleed to death on Boston streets, would she trust him to help her, or would she always wonder if he tarred her with the same brush as the Merrittas?

  Would she understand how he’d felt at the death of his wife?

  The phone rang, and she woke with a lazy sensuality that made him ache all over again. Then alarm widened her blue eyes, and she grabbed the phone. Her face didn’t change as she snagged a shirt and carried the phone into another room.

  He wanted to follow. To listen. If he were caught eavesdropping, he could well lose more than he gained. Instead he made a mental note to get the phone records.

  He went to the bathroom and rinsed his face and smoothed back his hair, then pulled on his slacks that had been dumped next to the bed. Coffee! He needed it after the past hours. He started toward the kitchen, then gave up any pretense at being honorable. He stepped quietly into the hallway, hoping to hear her in the living room. She wasn’t there.

  He wondered whether she was talking to her brother or her mother. He eyed a phone in the living room.

  Sometimes he hated the restraints on his work, both judicial and those set by his own conscience. The latter had lessened over the years. Results had often become more important than observing the niceties of his profession. He was a maverick, had been for a long time, but he knew how far he could stretch the rules.

  He had an instinct for that.

  He couldn’t force himself to pick up that phone.

  He sat in a chair and waited, wondering what she would tell him. How much she trusted him.

  How much he trusted himself.

  Sam shook as she gently replaced the phone in its cradle.

  It hadn’t been her mother.

  It had been a voice with a Boston accent, noting the fact that there was an FBI agent with her and warning her to get rid of him.

  Or what? The threat hovered unsaid over the line.

  Then the phone went dead.

  He hadn’t said he had her mother. Just that he knew where she was.

  Which was a great deal more than she knew.

  The idea that her mother disappeared voluntarily kept prickling.

  She thought she knew how to find out.

  The last gift her father had given her mother had been a silver brush and comb. She never went on a trip without it. If they sat on the dresser, Sam would know something was wrong. If they were gone, then her mother had probably left on her own, just as she said in the note.

  And the voice? He’d presented no proof he had her mother or knew where she was. Maybe the call was made to tempt her into leading him to her mother.

  She had to get to her mother’s house.

  She mentally went over the note again, still finding no clues that her mother had left under duress.

  Had she ever really known her mother? Or her father whom she now knew had no past?

  And now someone was watching her house. How else could he have known Nate was here?

  Once again, she felt both fear and real anger. Not just fear. Terror mixed with disbelief. It clung to her like the remnants of a bad nightmare. What was happening was light-years from her previous life, a nightmare from which she couldn’t awaken. Or a bad suspense novel. But those novels never really answered one question. How do you melt the ice that fear forms in your soul?

  For a short while, she’d been warmed. She’d allowed herself to get lost in Nathan McLean’s arms. She’d been consumed by their joint conflagration.

  But now the icy fingers of fear ran through her again.

  For a few moments, she wanted to run back to his arms. “Get rid of him.”

  She was too aware that McLean was probably waiting impatiently for her. What should she tell him? Was his interest more in striking at the Boston Merrittas than protecting her mother? Did it matter as long as the same result was achieved? She stared out of the window. She saw no out-of-place cars or trucks or other vehicles. Had someone trailed her from Boston, or had they already been here?

  Had someone taken her mother? Dear God, was she even still alive?

  She brushed her hair and dressed. Added a trace of lipstick. Her hand trembled slightly.

  She wanted to ask help from McLean but she couldn’t completely forget Nick’s warnings. Now there was the warning from whoever was on the phone. If she talked to McLean, would she be signing her mother’s death warrant?

  The longer she stayed up here, the more he would wonder.

  She needed to return to her mother’s house to see whether her mother’s silver brush was in its usual place on the dresser. She should have checked it last night, but she’d been so tired, so frantic. Instead she’d checked the obvious things. Suitcase? Gone. Favorite sweater? Gone. Travel cosmetic bag? Gone.

  But she hadn’t checked to see whether the brush, comb and mirror set remained.

  If not…

  Tell McLean about your mother.

  A week ago, she wouldn’t have considered withholding information from the FBI. She’d always been immensely critical of television shows and movies when the heroine did something really stupid, like trying to defeat the villain on her own instead of calling the police.

  Now she understood that sometimes there were circumstances…

  Someone’s watching. Someone will know. And that someone may well kill my mother.

  Nick. Patsy Carroll was his mother, too, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

  She would try him first.

  She steeled herself, tried a smile, then went down the hall, down the stairs. Damn, she’d never been good at being led, or being subtle.

  Nate McLean stood at the window. She glanced toward the phone, but knew she would have heard a click if he’d picked up the receiver.

  He’d dressed and combed his hair. Even then, a shock fell over his forehead. She’d always thought FBI agents were supposed to be well groomed, but he had a casualness about him that was almost western. His tie was always untied, his sleeves usually rolled up, his hair falling over his forehead. But it was the steady green eyes that affected her in ways she knew she shouldn’t, couldn’t, feel.

  “No need to worry,” she said. “My mother is safe.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She didn’t tell me. She just said she was safe.”

  He didn’t say anything but she saw the questions in his eyes. Was she really that poor a liar?

  “If you want to know where she is, I can get the phone records.”

  “No.”

  “Samantha…” Concern reflected in his eyes.

  "Get rid of him,” she’d been warned by the voice on the telephone. An “or else” dangled after the warning like an ax, ready to strike.

  She was suddenly aware that her fingernails were biting into her palms. She had to concentrate to relax her fists, to stand at ease, as if all were right with the world.

  She wanted to hold her hand out to him and tell him she didn’t know where her mother was, only that she was in terrible danger. She wanted to ask his help.

  She didn’t want to be alone.

  But she was alone, and had to be alone, or risk her mother’s life.

  He didn’t leave. Instead his green eyes darkened, drawing her into his spell, offering a respite from the evil that had invaded into her life.

  Tell him, an inner voice prompted.

  His hand rose
and touched a lock of hair, his fingers brushing her cheek. It was exactly what she wanted. And feared. Everything in her reacted to him in a way she’d never before experienced. Her legs felt rubbery, her nerves tingled. The touch was all tenderness. A longing that matched hers.

  How much was real? She trusted him, yet she wondered if she could trust his feelings. She didn’t even know what they were.

  She stepped back. “Part of FBI procedure?” she asked, desperate now to keep a distance between them.

  The intensity in his eyes faded. The side of his mouth crooked in a small smile. “No, I think the Bureau would disapprove.”

  The wry look on his face disarmed her. As much as she could be disarmed at the moment. She didn’t want to get rid of Nate McLean, but she knew she must.

  “I have to get to the gallery,” she said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  That was the last thing she needed. “No thanks.”

  “It’s not negotiable.”

  She stared at him. The gentleness was gone.

  “You’re still in danger,” he said. “As is your mother.”

  She shivered. He hadn’t believed her. He suspected— or knew—her mother was in trouble. She swallowed hard, steered the conversation away from what she dared not discuss. “This morning was a mistake.”

  “Was it?”

  “I don’t want you here!”

  “I want to help.”

  “You want to send Merritt as to prison.”

  “Some, yes, and I want to protect another Merritta,” he admitted, disarming her again. She hadn’t expected that.

  “Please.” Her voice started to break.

  “You can’t stay here alone. Not after the attempts on your life.”

  “I won’t be alone. I’ll be at the gallery, then stay with a friend. She has a bunch of big brothers.”

  He didn’t move. “I won’t leave you alone,” he said. “You’re too important to me and not because you are a Merritta, dammit.”

  The admission disconcerted her. It sounded protective and loving. She needed that, needed it now more than she needed air to breathe. But she had to go, and she had to go alone. “Can you make coffee?” she said. “I have a few calls to make.”

  He nodded stiffly.

  She watched as he turned toward the kitchen. She went to the desk drawer where she kept the keys to her mother’s house, then grabbed her rental car keys. She glanced around for his, but couldn’t find them.

  She wanted to look in the kitchen, but she knew he would sense her presence. Just as she had sensed his so many times. He’d evidently believed she would do as he said. He was probably used to being obeyed.

  She took a sharp letter opener from her desk. “Get rid of him.” The words kept echoing in her mind.

  The moment he heard the engine, he would be out the door. She had to slow him down, so he couldn’t follow.

  She stepped outside and around to the other side of his car and kneeled. After several jabs, she knew the tire had been punctured.

  She went to her rental car, unlocked it and got in. She started it and backed out of the driveway, looking back to see him running out the door. She put her foot on the gas pedal and speeded up.

  Three blocks later, she lost him.

  Her mother’s home was exactly the way she’d left it earlier. She studied every car on the street, every person, even every bush as she drove up. She wondered whether she would always do that now.

  Suddenly she hated Paul Merritta for what he had done to her life, to her mother’s life. He’d plunged them both into terror.

  For what? To prove that he could?

  She didn’t see anyone, but she hadn’t seen anyone at her house the night of the burglary, either.

  Invisible eyes again.

  Or had her house been bugged? Had her mother’s? The idea of her privacy being so invaded enraged her more than the actual attempts on her life. Her stomach churning, she paused at the doorstep before inserting the key.

  She wished she had a gun. Dammit, she just hadn’t had time to purchase one. She would remedy that today. She wasn’t going to feel vulnerable any longer.

  She turned the key in the lock and stepped cautiously inside. She had been there very early this morning, but she hadn’t felt the air of abandonment she did now. No Sarsy rubbing her legs to take off the edge of aloneness.

  She listened for a moment, heard complete stillness, then climbed the stairs to her mother’s bedroom. She went to the dresser.

  The silver comb and brush were gone.

  She heard the sound of running water. She entered the bathroom.

  A steady stream of water was coming from the sink faucet.

  It hadn’t been this morning.

  twenty-two

  Someone had been in the house since she’d left it early this morning.

  Sam wanted to run out the door and never stop. She wished she hadn’t punctured McLean’s tine.

  She forced herself to look through each room before leaving. No other trace of a presence.

  She thought about looking through her mother’s desk, but she wouldn’t know if anything was missing. Like an address book. Like her own address book that had gone missing a week ago.

  Was someone looking for family friends?

  Sam left the house and drove away, watching carefully through her rearview mirror.

  Her next stop was the local gun store. She braced herself. The owner, Ed Greene, was an old friend of her father’s. He’d been a Green Beret, and retired warriors always seemed to recognize each other.

  He gave her a bear hug. “Going to start target shooting again?” he asked. “You were good. Your dad was always proud of you.”

  “You know the way my mother felt about guns,” she said. “I never got a new one when my pistol was stolen.”

  “I figured that. Got interested again, huh? Good thing. Woman alone needs protection these days. Both my girls carry guns.”

  “I do a lot of driving at night,” she agreed.

  He gave her a searching look. She was wearing a long sleeve shirt and slacks, so he couldn’t see all her wounds, but she had scratches on the back of one hand and a cut from windshield glass along her neck, “You okay?”

  “An accident,” she said.

  He apparently accepted that. “Haven’t seen much of Patsy,” he said.

  Ed was a widower and had indicated an interest in Patsy a year after her husband’s death, but her mother hadn’t been interested.

  “She’s been busy,” Sam said, then changed the subject. “What weapon would you suggest?”

  “Protection or target practice?”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Both.”

  He took out a .38 Police Special and handed it to her. The revolver fit well in her hands.

  She bought the gun and several packages of ammunition after he made the mandatory background check via phone.

  “Thanks, Ed.”

  “Any time. I miss your father.”

  “Me, too,” she said. She wondered whether he would approve of what she was doing. She was trying to protect her mother, as he apparently had done, but she had no idea whether she was doing the right thing. He obviously hadn’t gone to the authorities. Instead he’d changed names, changed histories. He hadn’t trusted the legal system.

  “You need anything, you just call me,” Ed said.

  “There is something. Can I use your phone? I lost my cell phone in the accident. That’s next on my list.”

  “Say, I have one you can borrow,” he said. “Never use the damn thing anyway. Why don’t you use it until you get a new one charged? Woman alone shouldn’t be without one. Number is taped on the top. Never can remember the damn thing myself.”

  “Woman alone” seemed to be a mantra with him.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You send any bill to me.”

  “I look forward to you being a steady customer now,” he said. He fumbled with the cell phone on his belt and gave it
to her. “My girls are the only ones who have the number,” he said. “But they also have the number at the shop and home. If they want me, they can get me. But a woman alone…”

  She took the phone and put it in her purse, then paid him for the revolver.

  “You might want to try the gun range,” he reminded her.

  “I’ll do that,” she said, anxious now to get to her next errand.

  Warn Terri.

  She got to her car, looking around for McLean’s vehicle. The gun shop was three blocks away from Western Wonders, which was, she thought, where McLean would go first.

  She closed her eyes as she remembered the way he had looked when she woke. Impossibly attractive. Impossibly safe.

  Should she have told him about the call?

  “Get rid of him.” The words from a disembodied voice echoed in her ears.

  She dialed Western Wonders.

  Terri answered. “When did you get back?” she asked as soon as she heard Sam’s voice.

  “Early this morning. I tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer.”

  “Probably running,” Terri said. “I’ve been here most of the day.” There was a question in her voice. “Someone is looking for you.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “I didn’t say it was a he,” Terri said. “But it was a he, a very attractive he, and I think he went to your mother’s house.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “I don’t think he was happy. He’s one intense man.” McLean. It was a good description of him. “He said he was FBI,” Terri added. “He showed credentials.”

  “He is,” Sam replied, “except he’s here unofficially.”

  “He didn’t say that.”

  Sam wasn’t surprised. She wasn’t surprised about anything any longer. McLean wanted information. She knew him well enough by now to know he wouldn’t pay attention to technicalities. “Did you tell him anything?”

  “Nothing to tell.”

  “What about my mother? Did he ask about her?”

  “Yep. I said I heard from her yesterday afternoon.”

  “When?”

  “About three in the afternoon.”