Blank Slate (11 page)

Erik
headed for the motel lobby, wishing he had a bottle of bourbon nearby. He
needed something to ease the tension. His body was like a guitar string pulled
too tight; any moment he might snap.

His
conscience wouldn’t leave him alone. He was becoming more and more convinced
she was telling the truth about losing her memory. There was little reason for
her to lie at this point. They’d go easier on her if she testified than if she
tried to sell them some cockamamie story about having amnesia. Surely she knew
that. She was far from stupid.

It
was ridiculous for him to worry about her. He knew better than anyone what she
was capable of. It wasn’t as though she was innocent.

Erik
pushed open the door to the lobby. No one stood behind the desk. He hit the
bell that sat on the counter and waited. Still nothing.

That
sense of something not being right stirred in his gut.

“Hello?
Anyone here?” he called out, meandering behind the desk and nearly tripping
over the body on the floor.

Crouching
down, Erik saw the skater-dude desk clerk had been knocked out. Not dead. That
was good. A robbery?

A
shadow on the floor alerted him a split second before the bat came swinging his
way. Leaping to the side, Erik went for his gun but had no time to pull it
before the attacker swung again. Erik ducked; the bat smashed a hole in the
drywall. Scrambling to his feet, he backed away.

The
guy was big, his head shaved, and a tattoo curved from his neck and disappeared
under the tight black T-shirt he wore.

“Now
stand still, little Fed,” the man said with a smirk, a thick Irish accent
coloring his words. “Just wanna rough you up a bit.”

“I’d
rather you not,” Erik replied, eyeing the bat.

“I
have me orders.”

The
guy swung, and Erik ducked again, then tackled his midsection. They grappled,
and Erik swung his fist, connecting a hit to his jaw. Grabbing the bat, Erik
yanked it out of his grip, shoving it forward again to nail the guy in the
nuts. The man went down to his knees, groaning in pain. Erik landed another hit
to his jaw, and the attacker fell over, unconscious.

Erik
gasped for breath, his knuckles aching as he scrambled to make sense of what was
going on. This guy had been sent to rough him up, not kill him. Why?

Clarissa.

Erik
tossed the bat and pulled out his gun, flicking off the safety. Going to the
door, he peeked outside, aware there might be an ambush waiting for him on the
other side of the door. If he was unconscious or dead, he couldn’t help
Clarissa, and he had no doubt she was their target.

Seeing
no one, Erik stepped outside, his gaze scanning the near-empty parking lot.

It
was dark now. The fluorescent lights overhanging the walk to the motel’s rooms
glowed, though one or two had the telltale flicker of a bulb nearing the end of
its life. Only a few cars passed on the nearby two-lane highway. The buzzing
from the motel’s neon sign could easily be heard.

Erik
quickly eased by the rooms, his gaze steady on the room he’d rented for himself
and Clarissa, number sixteen. His blood pounded in his veins. He was an easy
target out here under the lights, but there was nothing he could do about it.

A
television played in number seven, the canned laughter of the audience loud in
the night as Erik passed by, a sense of foreboding creeping over him. He’d left
Clarissa cuffed to the bed, alone, with nothing to defend herself with and no
one to guard her.

Suddenly
the door to number sixteen opened and a man stepped out.

“Freeze!
FBI!” Langston yelled, aiming his weapon.

The
man turned and smiled. A chill went through Erik. The face was familiar.

A
car pulled up to the curb and the man got in. Erik fired a warning shot, then
had to duck behind a nearby car as they fired back. When he popped back up, the
car was speeding away and out of range.

Jumping
to his feet, Erik ran to the motel door and pushed it open, terrified at the
thought of what he was going to find.

The
bed where she’d been lying was empty, the handcuffs nowhere in sight. The
bedside lamp had been knocked to the floor, its light now casting strange
shadows around the room. But there was no sign of Clarissa. Had they taken her?

“Clarissa!”
he called, hurrying into the room. He glanced in the closet and shoved open the
bathroom door…and felt his breath leave his lungs in a rush.

She
was in the tub, facedown in the water, her arms cuffed behind her back. Her red
hair floated in the water like a crimson halo. She was very still.

“Jesus
Christ,” Erik blurted, reaching into the ice-cold water and pulling her out. He
gently laid her flat on the bathroom floor on top of the torn shower curtain. Water
was everywhere. It looked like she’d put up a fight, what little she could with
her hands cuffed.

She
wasn’t breathing.

Bending
over her, Erik began CPR. He prayed to whatever god would listen as he worked. Erik
had done this. He had left her alone when he should have known better, had
known there were people looking to kill her.

“C’mon,”
he muttered. “You’re tougher than this.”

Her
lips were frigid against his as he breathed air into her lungs in a sick parody
of a kiss. Suddenly she began to cough, water pouring from her mouth and nose. Erik
turned her on her side, digging for the key to the handcuffs and yanking them
off her. He tossed them aside as she continued to cough and retch. Then she
began to shiver in earnest.

The
wet clothes had to go. As quickly as he could, Erik stripped off her sodden shirt,
grabbed a handful of towels, and wrapped them around her. She’d curled into a
ball now on the wet floor, and she was breathing, thank God. He pulled the wet,
shivering mass onto his lap, cradling her in his arms as he leaned back against
the wall.

“Shh,
it’s all right. You’re safe now,” he said, as soothingly as possible. Erik
combed his fingers through her hair, her head tucked against his chest.

“He
said it was a message,” she rasped.

“What
kind of message?”

“Solomon
wants what I took, and if I say anything to the cops, he’ll kill me.”

She
lifted her head, and Erik saw a livid red mark around her neck where she’d been
choked into unconsciousness. Her lip was split and swollen, her cheek bruised. They’d
hit her, and she hadn’t even had her hands free to defend herself.

Erik’s
fists clenched with rage, and he struggled to keep it under control. All he
wanted to do was to go after the bastard and kill him with his bare hands.

“Why
did you let them do this to you?” he asked, as evenly as he could. “Why didn’t
you just give it to him?”

When
Clarissa looked at him, the despair and hopelessness in her eyes was like a
punch in the gut. God, how could he have been such an idiot? If she was faking
the amnesia, no way in hell would she have let that guy do this to her. She
would’ve given up what she’d taken. Clarissa was a survivor. You didn’t get to
where she was without a strong instinct for survival.

“I
believe you,” he said. Her eyes were limpid pools, sucking him in. Erik’s hand
brushed her cheek, the chilled skin soft to the touch. “I’m sorry I didn’t
before, and I’m damn sorry I left you alone.”

Relief
filled her gaze, and she ducked her head, resting against him again.

“It’s
about time,” she mumbled.

Erik
smiled humorlessly. That sounded more like her, and she was right. It was about
damn time he believed her amnesia. Now, what was he going to do about it?

They
didn’t stay in that motel. As soon as Clarissa had stopped shaking, he gave her
a shirt of his to wear with her jeans. Once she was dressed, they hit the road.
Although he went back to the lobby for the thug he’d knocked out, Erik wasn’t
surprised to find him gone.

It
was late when they finally arrived on the outskirts of Denver. Erik found
another hotel, one that was quite a bit nicer than the previous one, and
checked them in. After settling Clarissa into bed, where she promptly fell into
an exhausted sleep, he stepped outside and called Clarke, who answered on the
third ring. Erik quickly explained what had happened.

“Did
you get a good look at the guy?” Clarke asked.

“Yes,
sir. I know I’ve seen him before. I just need to look through the Interpol
database.”

“You
can do that tomorrow once you’re back. Make that your first priority.”

“Sir,”
Erik said hesitantly, “I don’t know if handing her over to the marshals for
transport is the best idea. She has amnesia, has nearly been killed twice, and
is obviously a high-value witness.”

“They’re
trained to handle just that, Agent,” Clarke replied. “She won’t escape. And I’m
sure she’ll have a miraculous recovery once she talks to her lawyer. They’ll be
waiting for you at Centennial Airport at oh nine hundred. Don’t be late.”

“Sir,”
Erik tried again, “O’Connell is a flight risk. She knows no one except myself—”

“You
have your orders,” Clarke interrupted. “I expect to see you tomorrow afternoon in
my office.”

“Yes,
sir.” Clarke hung up before Erik even got the words out.

Now
what?

Erik
didn’t see that he had any choice. He was going to have to turn her over to the
marshals.

Erik
returned to the hotel room, being careful not to wake Clarissa. Sitting on the
edge of the other bed, he braced his elbows on his knees. He watched her sleep while
he thought, trying to come up with a solution.

She
looked different now than when he’d first laid eyes on her. Erik knew she
hadn’t changed; his perception of her had. Before, he’d only seen a criminal,
wanted by the FBI for her ties to a ruthless mobster.

Now,
he saw a woman who was scared and alone, the only thing standing between her
and death being whatever she had taken from Solomon. Obviously, she’d known he
was going to kill her and had taken measures to give herself leverage to
exchange for her life. The only twist now being…she couldn’t remember it.

Clarissa
woke to the smell of cinnamon and coffee. Cracking open her eyes, she saw a
steaming Styrofoam cup inches from her nose on the bedside table. Next to it
was a paper plate topped with a huge cinnamon roll dripping icing.

“Thought
you might be hungry,” Langston said, sitting down on the bed across from her
and taking a sip from his own cup.

“I
am, thanks,” Clarissa said, then wished she hadn’t. Her voice sounded two packs
a day and her throat felt like sandpaper.

She
sat up and reached for the coffee, surprised to see he’d remembered how she
took it. The hot liquid felt good on her throat.

“What
time is it?” she asked, taking a bite of the cinnamon roll. It was gooey and
practically melted in her mouth. Her stomach growled appreciatively.

“A
little after seven,” Langston replied. “We need to leave soon. We’re meeting
the marshal at nine to fly you to DC. He texted me earlier with the hangar
number.”

Clarissa
suddenly lost her appetite. Langston was going to hand her over to the Feds. If
she was in their custody, she had no hope of doing anything that might bring
her memory back.

“If
I’m in custody, I can’t get what he wants,” she said. “If I can’t get what he
wants, he’s going to kill me.”

Langston’s
face was grim. “You’ll be safe, Clarissa. They’ll put you in protective
custody.”

“For
how long?” she asked. “Once they realize I don’t know anything, which they’ll
chalk up to obstruction or label me an accessory, they’ll charge me.” Her gaze
was unflinching as she looked at Langston. “You know he’ll get me.”

Langston
cursed harshly, standing and walking away. He tossed his cup in the trash, his
back still to her, his hands resting on his hips.

“Help
me, Langston,” Clarissa said. “If I can just have some time, I’m sure my memory
will come back. I swear, once it does, I’ll testify against Solomon.” When he
didn’t respond, she added, “Please. I have no one else—”

“I
can’t, Clarissa!” he said, his voice loud in the room. Langston turned back to
her and met her gaze. “I just can’t. Don’t ask me to. If I were to help you,
I’d lose everything I’ve worked for.”

Clarissa
swallowed and was the first to look away. She couldn’t blame him; not really. It
was against everything he believed in to help a criminal like her. She had
asked for the impossible. Like it or not, scared or not, she was on her own.

She
gave a jerky nod. “Fine. Just give me a few minutes, and we can leave.”

An
hour later, they were pulling into Centennial Airport. The drive there had been
nearly silent, both of them lost in their thoughts. Erik navigated to the
specified hangar and parked.

Clarissa
got out, and he took her elbow. They were met by a man with a US Marshals badge
who stood about Erik’s height, wore a cowboy hat, and sported a moustache. He
shook hands with Erik.

“Randy
Stiver,” he introduced himself. He glanced at Clarissa. “This the prisoner, I’m
guessing?”

“Clarissa
O’Connell,” Erik clarified. “She’s to be delivered to the Hoover Building in
DC. They’ll remand her into custody from there.”

“There’s
been a slight change in plan,” Stiver said. “The private jet we had booked had
some mechanical difficulties, so we’re going commercial.”

“That’s
not a problem,” Erik said, more relieved than he wanted to examine. “I’m flying
to DC. I’ll just take her with me.”

“No
can do, Agent,” Stiver said, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his back
pocket. “You know the law. She’ll be waiting for you in Washington.” Stiver
turned Clarissa around, handcuffing her wrists behind her back.

Clarissa’s
gaze stayed locked on Erik’s while she was cuffed, until he was forced to look
away. The accusation in her eyes made guilt roil inside his belly.