Gone Too Deep (35 page)

“Whoa. It's broken?” Lou leaned even farther over the counter toward Ellie to get a better view. The bells on the door jangled, announcing the arrival of a customer. Before that, they'd been the only two in the coffee shop. Ellie flushed, releasing the pulled-down collar of her shirt so the circular, multicolored bruise was hidden again.

“Sternal fracture,” Ellie said, turning to see who'd just entered. It was Rory, and Ellie gave her a slightly nervous smile. The woman still intimidated her. “It hurts like a mother, but they gave me good drugs. Plus, it's better than a bullet through the heart.”

“That's for sure. Hey, Rory.”

Rory gave them both a somber nod and settled onto one of the stools at the counter. “Have they found Anderson yet?”

Shaking her head, Lou started to wipe down the counter. “Not that I've heard, and I have a guy on the inside. Okay, I kind of have a guy on the inside. He tells me things occasionally. Very occasionally. I do know that the manhunt is huge. Rob is pissed and taking this personally. Besides everything Anderson did to you”—she gestured toward Ellie's chest—“he's the main suspect in both Joseph's and Willard Gray's murders. And despite his…sketchy behavior, Joseph was part of search and rescue for years. He was one of ours.”

Ellie shook her head. “I don't think Anderson did it—not Willard's murder. At the cabin, Dad was talking about someone else being the killer, and A-Anderson”—she closed her eyes for a second, hating that she'd stuttered over his name, hating even more that he had the power to make her wake up screaming—“wasn't even sure who Gray was at first.”

“You're just determined to stop me from tying up the case in a tidy little bow, aren't you?” Lou gave her a mock scowl before her expression became serious and her voice lowered. “Do you think Joseph was the killer, then? It's so strange to think that someone in search and rescue could be capable of that.”

“I'm not sure.” Ellie shivered. “He was a little off, but a killer? Joseph lied about seeing George head home that night, but I figured he was just being his gross and pervy self. He did talk to Anderson like they knew each other, though, right before…”

“Anderson shot him?” Lou finished with a wince.

Pushing back the nightmarish image of Joseph crumpling to the ground, Ellie gave a frustrated huff. “I'm pretty sure Dad could tell us who killed Gray, but who knows where he is.”

“Still no word?” Rory asked, and Ellie shook her head. Her heart hurt every time she thought of him.

“As soon as this is better”—Ellie gestured toward her chest—“I'm going to start searching for him again. I will find my dad.”

“I know you will.” Spinning the tip jar in distracted circles, Lou said, “So, Baxter Price knows who killed Gray—and the murderer knows it—so the murderer tells Anderson King that Baxter witnessed a drug deal. That way, King would take out Baxter, and the killer isn't involved.”

“Smart,” Rory said. When the other women stared at her, she lifted her hands defensively. “I'm not saying it was
right.
Just…smart.”

Lou snorted, looking amused. Her expression quickly faded to thoughtfulness. “And your dad didn't tell you anything? No hints about who it might be? There's tons of blank space on my whiteboard that's dying to be filled.”

“I thought it was Callum's whiteboard,” Rory said dryly.

Lou shrugged. “It was a gift. Some women want jewelry, but I just wanted a dry-erase board and a Glock.”

Rory grinned at that, the same startling, quick smile that Ellie had seen her give Ian at Levi's.

“He said a lot,” Ellie belatedly answered Lou's question, “but it's so hard figuring out what's real and what's not with him.”

Making a face of exaggerated frustration, Lou replaced the tip jar to its original position with a thump. “Since we're getting exactly nowhere with this conversation, let's move on.” A sly grin warned Ellie exactly where they were about to move on to. “How is it staying with George? Where is your extra-large shadow, by the way?”

“He's on a SAR call. And things are…” There was no way to stop the sappy smile from creeping over her face.

“That good, huh?” Lou laughed. “I'm not surprised. He gets the same look whenever he sees you.”

“Are you staying?” Rory asked abruptly. “After you're healed, I mean.”

“I'd like to, and George hasn't mentioned kicking me out anytime soon.” She shrugged, trying to hide how very, very much she wanted to stay. “I talked to Chelsea—my boss and roommate back home—and she said she knew she'd lose me to George since she didn't have enough facial hair to compete with him. I think she's enjoying having the condo to herself, too. She said she'd be interested in buying it from me if I end up staying in Simpson.”

“Yay! We get to keep Ellie!” Lou did a funny little dance in place, making Ellie laugh. She immediately regretted it. Usually, her chest didn't hurt when she talked, but laughing, coughing, or sneezing still sent sharp splinters of agony through her.

“Oh, ow.” She breathed shallowly for a moment, allowing the pain to fade. Vaguely, she heard the bells on the door jangle again.

“You okay?” Lou asked. Both women were looking at her with concern.

“Yeah,” Ellie said when the worst had passed. “Just quit being funny.”

“Impossible,” Lou said, deadpan, making Ellie laugh again.

“Ow.”

Two muscled arms bracketed her, the hands catching the edge of the counter. He bent over her, surrounding her in a sort of George-tent, making her insides warm.

“Okay?” he said quietly, and she smiled at him reassuringly.

“Lou's just making me laugh.”

“Hey!” Lou crossed her arms over her chest. “Don't give me that nasty look, Mr. Holloway. I can't help it if I'm hilarious.”

He snorted before leaning close to Ellie's ear again. “Ready to go?”

“Sure.” She eased off her stool as George lightly gripped her arms, trying to help her without hurting her. It would've been easier for her to do it alone, but she didn't say that. She liked his efforts to be kind and thoughtful, and she didn't want to discourage him. As she made her slow way across the shop, she called her good-byes to the other women.

“Did you find the special-needs boy who wandered away from his group?” she asked as he held the door for her. At his nod, she smiled. “He okay?”

“Yeah. Scared and cold but not hurt.”

“Good.”

When she stepped onto the ice-glazed parking lot, her foot slipped. It was just a small slide, but her body jerked in an effort to keep her balance. A small, pained sound escaped her before she clamped her lips together, but it was apparently enough for George. With a displeased grunt, he wrapped his hands around her waist and picked her up. She grabbed his shoulders for balance as he carried her to the passenger door of the truck and set her carefully on her feet again.

Although she tried to give him a stern frown, his concerned expression made it hard to hold it. “I am not a doll for you to always be carrying around.”

He didn't look too bothered. “You look like one.” His thumb brushed over her bottom lip.

“No, I don't.” The touch had distracted her, and the words came out absently.

“You do.” He brushed her lip again, then bent to kiss her lightly. With a happy sigh, she tried to deepen it, but he pulled away much too soon. This time, her sigh was disappointed. The additional two weeks it was going to take her sternum to heal stretched endlessly in front of her.

Ellie waved at the deputy leaving the parking lot. When George had gotten the call that morning, she'd let Rob know and asked if her temporary bodyguard could be someone other than Chris. Although he had seemed truly torn up about what had happened with Anderson, Ellie couldn't get past the fact that Chris had left her alone that day at the cabin. As much as she wanted to, she just couldn't trust him.

George unlocked her door and helped her into the cab. Just that movement alone hurt enough to make black dots dance across her vision. Once the pain had faded, Ellie reached for the radio, messing with the knob until she found the only slightly staticky sound of one of her favorite songs. “Wow, we can get Denver radio here?”

“A few stations.” His glance flicked from the radio back to her. “Apparently.”

“Smart-ass.” She bit the inside of her cheek so she didn't laugh and send pain radiating through her chest again. She sang along for a few words. “I love this song. Will you play it tonight?”

“Okay.”

With a grin, she settled deeper in her seat. “It's so awesome you can do that.”

His eyes stayed focused on the road, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

He turned onto the highway, heading toward his house—
their
house, at least for now. She reached for the hand that was resting on the gearshift, threading their fingers together. “Guess what?”

Lifting his eyebrows, he gave her a quick, questioning look before refocusing on the road.

“Barbara at the Screaming Moose offered me a job as the store manager. She wants to move to Florida, where things are apparently more civilized than Simpson.”

His fingers tightened around hers. “Did you…” He visibly swallowed. “Did you take it?”

“I said I'd need to talk to you.” Nerves made her gaze bounce around the truck, landing on everything except George's profile. “I know we haven't talked about what the plan is after I've healed, and…too tight! Still too tight. Little looser. Okay, better.” She exhaled as his grip on her hand eased slightly. When she stole a look at his face, Ellie wasn't sure how to interpret the way his jaw was working. He remained silent, so she rushed to fill the quiet. “I didn't want to just assume that you wanted me to stay. I mean, you're used to your privacy and routine, and I'm kind of messy. Like this morning, when I'd washed my underwear and had it hanging over the shower rod and forgot about it until…”

He freed his hand from hers and jerked the wheel, abruptly turning into a gravel pull-off. The truck stopped with a lurch forward that pressed her chest into the seatbelt, making her gasp.

“Ow.”

“Sorry.”

There was an endless moment of silence, during which George stared through the windshield.

“Stay.” The word came out harsh and thick, as if he'd dragged it out of his throat by force. “I want you to stay.”

“Really?” His intent look was all the answer she needed. Ellie smiled. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

His fingers clutched the steering wheel so hard that the skin over his knuckles glowed white. With an audible exhale, he loosened his grip, and his hands turned a normal color again. “Good.”

As he eased the truck back onto the highway, Ellie looked out her window and smiled.

Anderson King punched the numbers into the burner phone. As it rang, he resisted the urge to pace. The shadows of the lawn shed hid him, but movement could catch someone's attention. It rang twice more, and King was starting to think he'd be sent to voice mail when someone finally answered.

“It's me,” King said quietly.

There was a pause. “A lot of people are looking for you.”

“That's why I need to get out of here.”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Because”—he eyed the light seeping out around the edges of the closed blinds in the upstairs window—“to leave, I need money.”

“Again, why are you calling me?”

“I found Price. We had an interesting talk.”

The silence on the other end continued too long, forcing King to speak again.

“He told me some things about you.”

“What do you want?”

“Just to have a chat.” King grinned. The conversation was going exactly as he'd imagined. “Meet me tomorrow at that empty white house on Alpine Lane with the for-sale sign out front. Two a.m. I'll make sure the back door is open for you.”

He ended the call, still smiling. With a final glance at the window, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.

* * *

The killer was late.

Anderson King prided himself on his patience, but his stomach had begun to curdle at the thought of his plan going to hell. It was one thing to leave the country with money, and a whole other thing to go on the run broke. No brother, no cash, cops on a county-wide manhunt, sleeping on the floor of a vacant house, his body bruised and aching from George Holloway's fists… How had everything gone so wrong?

Nervous energy forced him to pace the living room until Anderson realized his boots were clomping against the hardwood floor. Appalled, he stopped abruptly. A final echo of the sound reverberated through the empty space. How had he gotten so sloppy? Was he losing his stealth and nerve along with everything else?

“Anderson.”

He whirled toward the voice. Anderson had been so preoccupied that he hadn't heard anyone else enter the house. The moonlight filtering through the windows wasn't very bright, but Anderson had no problem making out the handgun and its attached silencer. He reached for his own pistol holstered at the small of his back.

“Don't.” The single word wasn't loud, but there was an authoritative crack to it. That and the gun pointed at him made Anderson reconsider drawing his weapon.

“About time you got here,” he blustered, having a hard time looking away from the gun barrel. “I was beginning to think you didn't care if I handed all this evidence over to the state investigators.”

“What evidence?”

As the other voice calmed, growing quieter and more conversational, Anderson found himself getting more and more agitated.
Relax
, he told himself.
You're holding all the cards here.
“Photographs Willard Gray took.”

“Of what?”

Anderson leaned a shoulder against the fireplace mantel. “Pretty, pretty fires.”

“That proves nothing.”

“There are letters, too.”

The silence stretched an uncomfortably long time, and Anderson forced himself not to fidget. During poker games, he'd always been good at bluffing. Now was not the time to develop a tell.

“Letters?”

And there's the tug on the baited line.
Biting back a triumphant grin, Anderson confirmed, “Yep. Gray sent them to that crazy buddy of his, Baxter Price. There's all sorts of interesting information in those letters. It's funny. He may be dead, but Gray still can give his eyewitness testimony.”

“Where are they?”

That was the flaw in his plan. With Baxter Price missing, there were no letters or pictures—at least not in Anderson's possession. No one had to know that, though. “In a safe place.”

That disconcerting silence fell again.

“You don't have any letters.” He sounded certain.

“Sure, I d—”

Time slowed for Anderson as he saw the gun flash and felt the punch of the bullet entering his chest, cutting off the lie midword. This was it, then. The gun fired once more, and he began to topple face-first toward the floor. At least he'd get to see his brother again soon.

* * *

With a sigh, Rob lowered his gun. He was tired, and it was late. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with yet another body. There wasn't any alternative, though. He'd made the mess, so he'd clean it up. That's what responsible people did.

Quietly, methodically, he got to work.

Order Katie Ruggle's next book
in the Search & Rescue series

In Safe Hands

On sale October 2016