Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3)

Killjoy (Buchanan-Renard #3) Page 26

She shook her head. She must be tired. It took so long for her to figure it out. She closed her eyes for a moment and thought about the phone call again.

“The woman . . . she’s having fun.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I could hear it in her voice. She was excited, even when she was hissing at me and calling me stupid. She doesn’t want this to be over too soon. She wants to drag it out.” She thought it over for a long minute and then said, “She likes giving orders, and as long as we play her little game, or treasure hunt, as she called it, she might prolong it even more.”

He drove as fast as the dirt roads would allow while she gave him directions. Avery kept replaying the conversation in her mind, analyzing what little data she had. It was so frustrating.

John Paul interrupted her. “Okay, Avery. It’s later.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said it’s later, and we’re going to talk about it now. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were an FBI agent?”

“You made it very apparent you didn’t particularly like the Bureau.”

“Yeah? When did I do that?”

“When we were in the manager’s office at Utopia, you called your friend Noah. I heard you tell him to bring in the troops.”

“And?”

“And then you told me they’d mess up the investigation. When I pressed you on your attitude, you became quite hostile. Besides . . .” She could feel herself blushing. “I’m not really an agent, not yet anyway.”

He slowed the car. “Yeah? Then why are you telling people you are?” He shook his head and said, “Who in his right mind would want to impersonate an FBI agent?”

Avery hated being put on the defensive. God, he was such an obstinate, opinionated jerk. “I don’t usually tell people I’m an agent. I just told Chrystal, in hopes of gaining her cooperation. Unlike you,” she added, “I don’t use coercion and brute force to get what I want.”

John Paul ignored the criticism of his tactics. Why fix what wasn’t broken? Brute force had always worked. “I do what I’m good at doing. That’s my motto.”

“Watch out,” she warned as he turned the corner and nearly ran into a deer. John Paul hit the brakes and swerved off the road, narrowly avoiding the animal. The car rocked and bounced but held the ground.

It was too dangerous to try to maintain a high speed. He slowed the car and said, “Chrystal’s right. We aren’t going to make it before nightfall.”

“Think positive.”

“Why?” He sounded genuinely perplexed.

“Maybe we’ll get a decent road soon,” she said.

They drove around another sharp curve. Down below to the west was a road that looked well traveled. He decided to go for it.

“Hang on,” he said as they started down the hill. The slope was steep, and he had to be mindful of jagged rocks.

Avery flattened her hands against the seat as they bounced along.

“So,” he said, “were you lying about having a badge?”

“I have credentials in my backpack.”

“But you’re not an agent?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are you doing with credentials?”

“I do work for the Bureau. I’m just not a field agent.”

“That’s good.”

“Why? Because you hate the Bureau?”

“No, because you’re not any good at it.”

“How would you know what I’m good at?” she said. Lord, he was irritating. Every time he opened his mouth, he said something that rubbed her the wrong way. No man had ever been able to get under her skin the way John Paul did.

“You don’t have the instincts,” he said. “And before you get all hot and bothered and argue, answer a question for me, and be honest.”

She folded her arms and frowned at him. “What?”

“Did you anticipate that Kenny might have a loaded weapon under that counter? Did you even for a split second consider the possibility?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

“I haven’t been trained to be a field agent. I didn’t go through the academy.”

“That’s no excuse. You’ve either got it, or you don’t. You’ve got some good moves,” he added. “The way you kick-boxed that kid was impressive. But you’d still make a lousy field agent.”

She refused to comment on his assessment.

“What exactly do you do for the Bureau?” he asked.

John Paul could see the blush was coming back. She was either embarrassed or so mad at him her face was turning a fire red. She sure was pretty. Ah, hell, where had that come from? He had no business thinking about such things, especially now that he knew she represented everything he detested.

“I type,” she said. She heard how defensive she sounded and quickly added, “There isn’t anything wrong with being a typist.”

“I didn’t say there was.”

“I’m part of a very important team.”

“Ah, jeez.”

“What?”

“You bought it all, didn’t you? A team player. You’re probably a damn liberal too, aren’t you?”

“As a matter of fact I am,” she said. “And I’m certainly not ashamed of being a typist . . . it’s an honorable job, after all.”

“Okay.”

“Quit being so condescending. I wasn’t hired to be a typist, but that’s what I pretty much do anyway, all day, every day. I transfer information into the database. Now, can we let the matter drop?”

“Yeah, okay,” he said.

He seemed preoccupied now. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“This is a good road. Maybe we will get close to Coward’s Crossing before it gets dark. We’ll hike a couple of miles, find a secluded spot for you to hide, and then I can—”

That was as far as she’d let him get. “Not gonna happen,” she said. “I’ll tell you what. You drop me off, find another good road, and with any luck, you can make it back to Aspen before dark.”

“And why would I want to drive back to Aspen?”

“I’ve been thinking . . .”

“Uh-oh.”

She ignored the insult. “I think you should get out while you still can. You can tell the FBI where I’m going.”

He blinked. “You’re kidding. Right?”

She began to fold and unfold her hands. “No, I’m serious. What can they do if you leave? Nothing,” she said, answering her own question. “Frankly, you don’t need to be involved. You said it yourself. They want me, not you. Besides, you called Noah, and he’s FBI. I’m sure he’s alerted the local team, and they’re most certainly on their way. When you get to a phone, you can call him again, and tell him exactly where I’m headed.”

“I’ve got an opportunity to get Monk, and you think I’m gonna . . .” He was so angry he was sputtering. He shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You really believe I’ll drop you off in the middle of nowhere and take off?”

“Wasn’t that your plan?”

“Hell, no,” he argued. “I was going to find a safe place for you to hide until I got back, someplace Monk would never find you.”

“In other words, you’ll drop me off in the middle of nowhere and take off.” She didn’t give him time to think about it. “You’re not dropping me off anywhere, unless you plan to go back to Aspen.”

“You’re nuts, you know that? You’re just plain nuts.”

“I gather that’s a no?”

He didn’t respond to her sarcasm.

She brushed her hair away from her face with her fingers and laid her hands on top of her head. “I wish we could get out of this car. I need a quiet place to think.”

“You can’t think in a car?”

She knew he wouldn’t understand. When she was in her cubicle at work, she felt the same way she felt when she was doing yoga. She’d perfected the technique of clearing her mind and then slowly entering data one clue at a time while her hands worked the keyboard. No, he couldn’t possibly understand, and she couldn’t explain.

“So who looks like you?”

“I’m sorry. What did you ask?”

“Back at the store,” he said. “Chrystal said the woman looked like you. So I’ve gotta ask if you happen to have any crazy relatives trying to kill you.”

“No. There’s only my aunt Carrie and her husband, Tony. No other relatives.”

“Parents dead?”

She turned in her seat and stared at his profile when she answered. “I don’t know who my father was. I don’t think the woman who had me knew who he was either,” she said.

She watched him closely to see if she had shocked him. His expression didn’t change.

“She died in a car crash quite a few years ago. There isn’t anyone else.”

“Chrystal said—”

“I heard what she said, John Paul. Do you know how many women her description fits?”

He glanced at her and asked, “So is it real?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your hair. Is it real?”

She blinked. “Are you asking me if I wear a wig?”

“No, I’m asking about the color. Are you a real blonde, or did you get that from a bottle?”

“Why do you care about the color of my hair?”

“I don’t care,” he said, growing irritated now. “But the woman looked like you, so I gotta wonder if you—”

“No, I don’t color my hair.”

He was surprised and didn’t hide his reaction. “Yeah? What about your eyes?”

“What about them?”

“Colored contacts?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“No kidding.”

“Are you deliberately trying to be a jerk?”

“Look, I’m just trying to put it together, okay? Kenny said the woman was beautiful. A real knockout.”

“And?” she pressed.

He shrugged. “Have you looked at yourself lately? You’ve got to know . . .”

“Know what?” she pressed when he didn’t continue.

He frowned at her. “Hell, woman. You’re pretty, damn it.”

It was the most hostile, backhanded compliment she’d ever received, and the odd thing was, it didn’t upset her. For the first time ever, she didn’t feel the need to launch into her favorite lecture about how appearances weren’t the least bit important.

She forced herself to consider the problem at hand. “The data isn’t sufficient to form a conclusion.”

“Jeez, you sound like a computer. A lot of things aren’t adding up.”

She agreed with a nod. Her stomach was hurting. She felt as though she had a hot coal lodged in her esophagus. She picked up her backpack, found her antacid, a bottle of water, and two energy bars. She opened the bottle, popped the pills, and swallowed. Then she handed the bottle to John Paul and opened one of the energy bars for him.

“Thanks,” he said after he took a long swallow of the water. He took a bite of the bar and washed it down with another gulp. “It tastes like cardboard.”

“You’re welcome.”

His smile lasted for half a second, but she still saw it and reacted. She surprised herself. She couldn’t stand the man an hour ago, but now she didn’t think he was so awful. He had a beautiful profile . . . and was sexy as hell. No reason for her to pretend she didn’t notice, even though she wasn’t going to do anything about it.

He was also protective. The way he tried to boss her around in the store when she went running to the back office. He acted . . . worried. Worried about her safety. Nice, she thought. He wasn’t such a cold duck after all.

“It’s gonna rain,” he remarked.

“Rain will slow us down.”

“It’s still coming. The sun’s going to be setting soon,” he said. “I’m going to plant the watch about a mile or two from here. Then we’ll go on for as long as we can.”

He parked the car and picked up the watch. “What’d you do with that gun we took?”

“It’s in the sack on the floor.”

“Get it out and keep it on your lap. Have you done any target practice?”

“No.”

He gave her a disgruntled sigh. “Keep the safety on.” He got the gun for her. “I won’t be long.”

He disappeared before she could tell him to be careful. A fine drizzle began to fall, covering the windshield. It seemed an hour had passed before he came sprinting down the hill toward the car. When he opened the door, a blast of cold air filled the interior.

The second he turned the motor on, she flipped on the heater. “Where did you leave the watch?”

“I hooked it to a tree branch by a crossroad to the west. If he’s tracking us now, I’m hoping he’ll think we took the other road.”

He drove on, thanking God he had a four-wheel drive. He zigzagged up the side of the mountain, slowly weaving in and out of the trees. When the terrain became too dense to go any farther, he maneuvered the car into a cluster of thick pines, turned it around, and then backed in until he was assured the car couldn’t be seen from the road below.

Night rushed in on them, closing them in together. The drizzle had turned into rain. A booming clap of thunder sounded. She flinched.

“You’ve got a weapon just in case, food and water.”

“What do you mean I’ve got food and water? You think you’re going to leave me here?”

He reached for the door.

Chapter 16

BY THE TIME CARRIE PLOPPED DOWN ON THE LIVING ROOM sofa, she felt doomed. Jilly and Monk had thought of every possible way out. Oh, yes, they’d wired every window . . . except, perhaps, one. She looked up at the skylight that loomed over the spiral staircase. The bubbled rectangle was over thirty feet above them. She shook her head. Even if they stacked table upon table upon wardrobes, they still wouldn’t be able to hack their way through.

Anne had prepared a dinner from the contents of the pantry, and the three women ate in dejected silence. The sun had gone down and the house was dimly lit by the candles Anne had found. None of them wanted to turn on the lights, fearing Jilly and Monk were watching, and there weren’t any drapes to cover the massive windows. Sara had brought up the possibility that Monk had hooked up a video camera to observe them. That so freaked out Carrie, she once again scoured the house, this time looking for a camera.