Crossfire (32 page)

As Quinn drove over ridge after ridge of steep mountains, the country music twanging from the rental car radio accompanied by the threatening rumble of thunder coming out of the fast-moving clouds racing through the mountains, he felt as if he’d landed on another planet. At the very least, the scattered settlements of weather-beaten cabins and split-rail fences, with cattle and sheep roaming at will along the narrow, winding roadside, gave the impression that he’d stepped back in time.

Camp Cupcake, as the federal prison for women located two hundred and seventy miles southwest of Washington, D.C., was nicknamed, didn’t exactly look like his idea of a prison. The facility, his research had informed him, had housed blues diva Billie Holiday, along with Lynette ‘‘Squeaky’’ Fromme and Sara Jane Moore—both of whom had tried to assassinate President Gerald Ford—and most recently Martha Stewart, had no guard towers, no tall stone walls with razor wire topping them.

In fact, the landscaping was nearly as lush as that of many of the homes he’d seen in Somersett. And how many private homes had he ever visited that had their own tennis courts?

Yet, a prison it was. One from which, his mother’s lawyer had told him in the call yesterday morning, Julia Van Pelt was about to be paroled.

He did not go inside. Instead, he waited out by the road, where the attorney had told his client he’d be waiting to pick her up. The attorney, who’d kept Quinn informed all these years, had taken it upon himself not to inform his client that he’d made other arrangements.

Quinn stayed in the BMW, watching as the woman, accompanied by what was obviously a prison guard, walked out of the brick building.

They exchanged words. And smiles. The guard held out her hand and the former inmate took it in both of hers.

Then squared her shoulders and began walking toward the car.

Quinn had remembered his mother being reed slim. She still was. Her hair, which had once been a dark chestnut, was now gray and curled lightly around a face that, while more lined than the last time he’d seen her, was still lovely.

Her step was slower. And when she stopped once, and glanced back at the prison, he had the oddest feeling she was fighting the urge to go running back.

But she shook it off and continued toward the car.

She was about twenty feet away when he climbed out of the driver’s seat. Came around the front of the car and stood there.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Ridiculously, all the things he’d thought of to say, the practiced words of greeting he’d memorized on the long and winding drive up into the mountains, fled his mind.

So, like the eight-year-old boy he’d once been, he said the only thing he could think of: ‘‘Hi, Mom.’’

Her first expression was shock. He waited for the anger born of betrayal, but instead she burst into tears.

And began running. Not back to the only life she’d known for more than two decades. But toward her son.

She launched herself into his arms, feeling as light as a feather as he spun her around.

She was laughing and crying at the same time.

And damn, she wasn’t the only one.

‘‘You shouldn’t have come,’’ she scolded as they drove away from the prison.

‘‘You couldn’t have stopped me,’’ he said. ‘‘Not this time. Not anymore.’’

She looked at him, drinking him in as if she’d been crawling across the Sahara and had suddenly stumbled across a sparkling, palm-tree-lined oasis.

‘‘My baby boy’s definitely grown up,’’ she said. ‘‘We have so much to catch up on.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘And I know it’s all my fault, but—’’

‘‘I know.’’ He reached across the space between them and took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. It was the first time he’d kissed his mother in twenty-five years. ‘‘But I understand. And we’ve all the time in the world to catch up.’’

He flashed her his best grin, pleased when she managed a wobbly smile back.

‘‘I’ve found you a house,’’ he said.

After moving to California with her new husband, Joe Gannon’s sister, Tess, had kept her bungalow as a rental, which fortunately had been available when Quinn had called her yesterday.

‘‘I think you’ll like it. It’s in Somersett, a real pretty town in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. Then, after you get settled in, there’s someone important I want you to meet.’’

This time her smile was brighter. ‘‘A woman?’’

‘‘The woman,’’ he corrected.

‘‘I’ve come to a decision,’’ Valentine announced.

Amazingly, after the sweetest lovemaking she’d ever experienced, she’d spent her first night in a very long while completely free of nightmares. But the images of the shooter’s victims had returned as she was getting dressed. Although Brendan had tried to talk her into taking the day off, she knew she couldn’t really rest until the man who had already taken so many lives was captured.

‘‘And what would that be?’’ Brendan asked as he put a steaming mug of coffee down on the breakfast bar for her.

‘‘It’s obvious that as good as Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh is, even with all those varied members of the task force working on the case, they’re continuing to play defense. The son of a bitch has been setting the agenda from the start.’’

‘‘I’d not be arguing that.’’

‘‘So the thing to do is to set a trap for him.’’

He caught her chin between his fingers, lifted her face, and brushed a kiss against her lips. ‘‘And now you’d be a detective?’’

‘‘No. Now I’d be the bait.’’

She watched as comprehension dawned. His eyes hardened, and storm clouds moved across his handsome Irish face. ‘‘Impossible.’’

‘‘Why?’’ She pulled back and eyed him over the rim of the mug. The more she’d thought about it while he was in the kitchen, intent on fixing her breakfast, the more the idea had made sense. ‘‘It’s me he wants. He’s obviously doing all this to get my attention. So the logical thing is to let him believe he’s going to get what he wants.’’

‘‘There’s nothing logical about it. Nor will I allow it.’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

‘‘You heard me. Even if the authorities would permit a civilian to take such a risk, which I’m daring to bet they would not, there is no way on God’s green earth that I’d be allowing the woman I love to put herself in harm’s way. Especially not after—’’

He shut his mouth so fast and so hard Valentine could have sworn she’d heard his strong white teeth slam together.

‘‘After what?’’

He tilted his head back. Stared up at the ceiling as if seeking help from some divine source. Then said, ‘‘It’s what I was going to tell you last night. About another who died because she became involved with me. I will not risk it happening again.’’

‘‘I see.’’

She didn’t. Not at all. But she’d been a reporter long enough to know how to conduct an interview. Even one with a subject as unwilling as Brendan O’Neill looked to be.

He sat down on the stool at the counter next to her. Swiveled the seat so their knees touched. ‘‘I told you I was a barrister. Back in Ireland.’’

‘‘That’s right. In family law.’’ She smiled a bit at the memory. ‘‘Because you didn’t want to wear those frightful wigs.’’

He didn’t smile back, as she’d normally expect him to. ‘‘Aye. That was one reason. But there was also some satisfaction in helping young mothers, who were, as a rule, the majority of my clients.

‘‘There was one who came to me needing a job. She’d come down from the north after her husband was killed.’’

‘‘Killed as in murdered?’’

‘‘Aye.’’ His lips were set in a thin, tight line. ‘‘She was Protestant, you see. Her husband was Catholic. They met while they’d both been volunteering on a peace project during the Troubles.’’

‘‘Which side killed him?’’

‘‘No one initially knew. Well, obviously there were those who did, but they weren’t telling. There were rumors it was the IRA, who wasn’t that fond of the idea of their men having children with the enemy. Others claimed it had been the Provos, because they could be just as vicious with those of their own who made the mistake of crossing to the other side.

‘‘She was a widow, four months pregnant, when I gave her a job doing secretarial work. She was eight months pregnant when shot down like a dog while walking to the bus stop after work by an IRA operative who’d slipped across the border into Dublin.’’

‘‘Oh, my God. I’m sorry. But it couldn’t have been your fault.’’

‘‘Perhaps not in reality. Just as it wasn’t actually your doing that those soldiers were killed by that IED. Given that they undoubtedly went back and forth between their base and the airport, along that same road, several times each week.

‘‘But along with our tenacity and patience, one of the things we Irish do best is guilt. And we’re also ones for tending our grudges.’’

Despite the seriousness of the subject, she smiled at that. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind.’’

‘‘You’ll never have any reason to be concerned. There is nothing you could ever do that would make me find you less than perfect.’’

‘‘Hah. Wait until you find my drying underwear hanging over your shower rod every morning.’’

‘‘And isn’t there a simple way to get rid of that problem?’’

‘‘I should give up wearing underwear?’’ she guessed.

It was his turn to manage a faint smile. ‘‘Ah, and didn’t I know you were an intelligent woman.’’

Then he sighed and looked out over the harbor, which this morning was draped in a silvery morning fog.

‘‘So, that’s when you gave up your practice and went back to the west to run your father’s pub?’’

‘‘No. That’s when I used all the sources I’d acquired during my years in law, including a member of the Guarda, to track down Siobhán’s murderer. So I could make the man pay. Slowly. Painfully.’’

Valentine stared at him, unable to believe the man who’d treated her so tenderly could have ever been a cold-blooded killer.

‘‘I don’t believe that.’’

‘‘The assassin certainly did when I showed up at his door. I suspect he became more of a believer after I’d beaten him to a bloody pulp.’’

‘‘But you didn’t kill him.’’

‘‘Only because a neighbor called the Guarda. They broke down the door and finally pulled me off of him. But not before I’d broken one of their noses.’’

He absently rubbed the fingers of his right hand over the knuckles of his left, looking down at them in a way that made Valentine wonder if he was still seeing the killer’s blood on them.

‘‘I can understand you wanting to kill such an evil man. But that’s an emotion, Brendan. If you’d truly intended to kill him, there wouldn’t have been enough police in all of Ireland who could’ve stopped you. And he would’ve died that day.’’

She’d never spoken words she believed more.

‘‘Well, we’ll never know, will we?’’ He dragged a hand through his hair. ‘‘After the bastard got out of hospital, he was imprisoned. By then I’d lost my taste for all things legal, so, since my father fell ill about the same time, I returned to the west and took over his pub, where I was living quite happily. Until the assassin was released in a prisoner exchange.’’

‘‘But he was a murderer.’’

‘‘Although he’d admitted to killing Siobhán, boasted about it, in fact, to me, the evidence against him was circumstantial. Also, those were dangerous times during the Troubles, and he had some powerful support on his side of the political wars. Since I’ve family still in Castlelough whom I didn’t want to put at risk, I thought it was time I emigrate. I traveled around a bit, decided I liked the Lowcountry, had an opportunity to buy this building, and, well, that’s my story.’’

‘‘And no one here knows?’’

‘‘Only you.’’

Valentine was overwhelmed that he’d trusted her enough to share it with her. It also told her how truly he did love her, to be willing to open himself up and share his tragic tale to try to talk her out of putting herself at risk.

‘‘I can understand why you don’t want me to do this,’’ she allowed. ‘‘But it’s also obvious that you know a lot more about killers than the usual pub owner does. And you’ve got to realize that this one is going to keep killing until the cops get lucky and catch him on a traffic stop, or jaywalking, or some such thing. Or if he’s trapped.’’

He shook his head. ‘‘You are the most hardheaded woman I’ve ever met. Are you sure you’re not Irish?’’

‘‘Actually, although I almost hate to bring this up after that story, my ancestry is English and French, with some Dutch and Swedish thrown in.’’

‘‘My favorite blend of nationalities,’’ he said. ‘‘What if I suggest a compromise?’’

‘‘What type of compromise?’’

‘‘We’ll call Cait. Perhaps she’ll have an idea of how we can use the killer’s obsession with you and still keep you safe.’’ He drew her into his arms and kissed her until her head spun. ‘‘Because, Valentine Snow, I have several long-range plans for you.’’

‘‘Promises, promises.’’

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Valentine kissed him back. And marveled at the twisted paths each of them had taken that had brought them here, to this place, at this time.