Colder Than Ice (6 page)

“Fine. Fine, he can run with me.” She looked at Josh as he rushed into the house and added, “If he can keep up!”

 

Beth was running faster than her normal pace in honor of his presence; Josh was sure of it. He broke a sweat ten minutes in, but he wasn't complaining. It felt good to run. It had been too long. He watched the lengthening and flexing of her calf muscles and her thighs with every stride, and he thought it was too damn cold to wear shorts, and yet he was irrationally glad she had. She was probably as strong as she claimed she was. She certainly ran like she meant it. Not that it would matter much if some maniac came after her.

She wasn't happy about Maude's insistence that he come along. Her jaw was tight, her eyes serious. She hadn't spoken a word or cracked a smile since they left. God, it was difficult for him to believe this was the same pale, weak, comatose girl he'd visited in the hospital so long ago. She wasn't pale. Her skin was sun-kissed, and her cheeks pink right now with exertion. Steady,
powerful breaths rushed in and out of her lungs, not the steady mechanical rasp of a respirator. Heat rose from her body in spite of the autumn chill.

When she slowed to a walk for the final quarter mile and he caught his breath again, he wanted to talk to her, ask her what her life had been like since coming out of that coma eighteen years ago. He wanted to hear every detail, in her own words, rather than the dry accounts in the typed pages Arthur had sent him. He'd been up most of the night reading those. They'd given him nightmares.

But he couldn't very well ask about her past, and even if he did, she wouldn't tell him. So he made conversation about the one topic he thought would interest her in talking to him: Bryan.

“I think Bryan must like you already,” he said.

“He doesn't even know me. But yeah, the way he reacted to seeing a strange car—I suppose after losing his mom, it makes sense he might feel a little protective of me. I'm probably around her age. Maybe I remind him of her in some way.”

It made perfect sense, except that she was nothing like his ex-wife, Josh thought. Kathy had been confident, demanding, had known exactly what she wanted and would settle for nothing less. Beth was…nervous. Skittish. Strong, but he got the feeling she was never quite sure which path she would choose at the crossroads of Fight and Flight. “He likes you better than he seems to like me, at the moment,” he said. “That's worth something.”

“He thinks you don't care about his mother's death.”

“He acts as if I caused it.”

“Did you?”

He looked at her sharply.

“I mean, in his mind? Is there any way he might blame you?”

“I don't see how. It was a weekend getaway with her second husband. The plane went down in the mountains.” He shook his head. “Bryan would have been with them, but he got sick at the last minute. Some stomach bug.”

“Oh. Well, no wonder.”

He lifted his brows.

“He feels guilty,” she explained. “Wishes he had been with them, wonders why they had to die when he was spared. Survivor's guilt. Surely you've heard of it.”

“You don't know the half.” She looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “I've heard of it.”

“So that's part of it, then. I mean, it might be.” She shrugged. “Maybe I can get him talking.”

He looked up as a car passed. A brown sedan. The windows were tinted, so he couldn't see inside. Only one person, though, he thought. The driver. The license plates were too coated in dirt to read.

“I suppose you've tried that already, though.”

He glanced her way again. “Tried what?”

“To get him to talk to you. About his feelings.”

“I've asked him to talk to me. It hasn't worked.”

She licked her lips, then pressed them tight.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, you were going to say something just now.”

“I'm butting in, and that's not my way. It's none of my business.”

“If I'm asking, you aren't butting in.” He waited. Then, “Please, Beth. I need all the help I can get here.”

She sighed. “I don't know Bryan very well, so this could be way off base. But what I've found in other kids his age is that
the best way to get them to open up to you is to open up to them first. Maybe he needs to see your feelings before he'll feel safe showing you his own. It's hard to admit to weakness and confusion to a man you see as always strong, in control, perfect.”

“You were right in the first place. You don't know Bryan very well. He doesn't think I'm anything close to perfect.”

“You're his dad. You might be surprised. Even my…”

He studied her face. “Even your what?”

She shrugged and stopped walking. “This is my place.”

Her place was a little square cottage with siding designed to make it look like a log cabin, though it wasn't. “Thanks for seeing me home, even though it was far from necessary.”

He looked beyond her, seeing no sign of the car that had driven past them. Not at the moment, anyway. But her house was in the middle of a stretch of empty road. A thorny hedgerow marked the boundaries of the open field behind it. A stream meandered through. The water caught the morning sun and changed it into diamonds. Across the street there was a woodlot bordered by scrub brush. Cover. Not another house in sight in either direction.

“I don't suppose I could hit you up for a glass of water before I head back? I'm not as used to running as you are. Out of shape.”

“Liar.” She led the way to her front door.

He followed her inside, even though she hadn't really invited him, and took everything in. The front door led into a small living room, where a settee and overstuffed chair sat on a brown area rug in front of a television set. A large punching bag dangled from a hook in the ceiling, near one corner.

“I'll get your water.” She walked through, into what he presumed was the kitchen. He heard ice rattling into a glass, took a
few steps farther inside and peeked into the only other room he saw—her bedroom. There were a twin bed with rumpled covers and a weight bench with a bar balanced in its holder. He thought it had fifty pounds on each end.

“Snoop much?”

He spun around fast, almost bumping into her. “Sorry.”

“So what are you looking for?” She shoved the icy, dewy glass into his hand.

He took a long pull, mostly to give himself time to come up with a convincing answer. Then he lowered the glass, licked his lips. “Just looking. You spend a lot of time with my grandmother, after all.”

“Oh. And you think I might be some sort of a con-artist, out to fleece her? Maybe offer to reshingle her roof and then vanish with her money, something like that?”

“I didn't say that. I'm just…curious about a woman who lives in a small town like this for a whole year and only makes one friend. One elderly, vulnerable friend.”

“Maude Bickham is far from vulnerable. And who said she was my only friend?”

“She did.”

She lowered her head. “You done with that water or what?”

“No.” He took another drink, a slow one. He could see it was pissing her off. She wanted him out of there—now. When he swallowed, he nodded toward the punching bag. “So you box?”

“You want a demonstration?”

He blinked in surprise.

“Look, I know what you're doing. I saw that brown car go by. It was nothing, okay? I'm fine. Perfectly safe all by myself. Have been for over a year now. No bogeymen have come calling. And if you knew your grandmother at all you'd know
what she was up to with all this make-believe worry about me walking the streets alone.”

“She's up to something?”

“Of course she's up to something. You're single, I'm single. She's probably hoping you won't even come back home tonight.”

“Oh,” he said. Then he lifted his brows. “
Oh.
Well, there's no danger of that happening.”

She blinked, clearly not sure whether she'd just been insulted.

He let it hang there for a moment, then added, “Your bed is way too small for both of us.”

She snatched the water glass from his hand, turned and marched to the front door. “Very funny. Tell your son I'll see him at noon.”

“I will,” he said following her. “And, Beth?”

She stood there, holding the door open, his glass in one hand. He was glad he'd drained it, or he thought he might be wearing it.

“What?”

“Thanks. For offering to tutor Bryan, and for the advice. I mean it.”

Her bristles softened almost visibly. “Like I said, Josh, I'm no expert.”

“That's ten times the expert I am.”

Smiling just slightly, she nodded, and he thought he was forgiven for intruding and even for snooping. She didn't like people looking out for her. He'd been warned about that, he thought, studying her eyes, how green they were, and the stubborn set of her jaw. Arthur had sent federal agents to protect her, but she always spotted them and sent them packing. That was why, he'd said, he wanted someone else, a civilian, and Josh had been the logical choice. Josh and his former partner
had a very successful private security firm; they'd gone into business together after leaving the ATF. After the raid. After he'd shot Beth.

A wave of nausea rose and receded with the thought as he stared at her, the curve of her neck, the little pulse he could see beating there after their run. Alive. God, it was a miracle.

In truth, he thought, Arthur Stanton must have had a whole other set of reasons for sending Josh, of all people, on this mission—reasons Josh still wasn't certain he understood.

“Do I pass inspection?”

He shook free of his thoughts and realized he'd been staring at her. Her cheeks were a little pinker than they had been just from the run. Embarrassed? Flattered, maybe?

“Sorry. You're…you're a beautiful woman, Beth. I got distracted there for a minute.” And he still was. Did she look this good to him because she really was as beautiful as she seemed? Or did she only look that way to him because he was so God damn glad to see her alive?

“Thanks,” she said. “I think. Goodbye, Josh.”

It was his cue to leave. Sighing, he stepped outside, and Beth closed the door.

He didn't leave right away, though. He walked down the road a short distance, then stopped and looked back. He wasn't used to cases where the client didn't want to be protected, much less those where she wasn't even supposed to be aware of her bodyguard's presence.

Much less those where you don't particularly want to leave the client's side,
his inner voice scolded.

He ignored it. He liked being able to have someone watching his clients 24/7. And though it was doubtful, there was al
ways a chance that brown car might come back. Its driver could just be waiting for him to leave.

So he would spend a few minutes doing surveillance, just in case.

The brown car didn't return. But Beth did step out onto the porch. She looked around carefully, up and down the road. And he thought maybe she was looking for the brown car, too, but he couldn't be sure.

He could be sure, though, of the item she held in her hands. He figured any man who'd worked in law enforcement could spot a gun from three hundred yards away, just by the way a person held it, the shape of the thing, its weight. Identifying firearms in the hands of suspects was something he'd had drilled into him during his training. You didn't want your agents shooting people for pulling out wallets or cell phones, after all.

He hadn't lost the skill.

Beth had a gun in her hands. A large caliber semiautomatic handgun. Black, not silver. From here it looked like a .45; a damn big gun, and the scope on the top made it look even bigger. You didn't see scopes on handguns very often. Avid hunters seldom had them, because avid hunters had much better luck with shotguns. Militarily trained snipers rarely used them, because rifles were so much more accurate. Professional killers used them, because, though huge, they were easier to conceal than a shotgun or rifle would be.

Beth Slocum meant business. She could probably take down a small elephant with that thing.

She held the gun two-fisted, in front of her body, muzzle to the ground, arms extended. She handled the weapon as if she knew how to use it.

She was nervous, he thought. But she was ready, too. Or thought she was.

Whether that readiness would make her safer or put her at greater risk remained to be seen.

 

Beth looked up and down the street, waiting, watching, listening. She didn't see anyone. Probably, she told herself, the brown car had been nothing more than a sightseer or nature lover. Probably her blood pressure was going through the roof over nothing.