Montana Fire (20 page)

She’d taken but one step toward the damaged area, when Max stopped her. “Jamie, get
in the car.”

His words turned her stomach into knots. “You don’t think this has anything to do
with the clinic break-in, do you?”

“Now.” With an arm around her waist, he half-guided, half-lifted her to the passenger
side. He pulled open the door, hurried her in, and then closed it.

He ran to his side, jammed the car in reverse, and high-tailed it out of there.

Her heart jammed in her throat. “Shouldn’t we see if there’s any more damage? Someone
could have robbed me.” The words gushed out without much thought behind them. The
ramifications scared the shit out of her.

Max fished out his phone and handed it to her. “Call 911. Tell them about the break-in.”

Oh, shit. “Do you think the intruders are still there?” That seemed to be the only
logical explanation. It didn’t matter there was no car in the drive. “Are you thinking
they’re the same men who’d killed Yolanda?”

“It’s possible.”

With maybe more fear than when those men were chasing her down the street, she punched
in the emergency number and relayed what they’d seen.

Max held out his hand. “Let me.”

She handed him the phone. He pulled off to the side then told the emergency operator
to contact Trent Lawson of the RHPD. He also gave her some code, which Jamie assumed
meant it was a robbery-in-progress. The cops might get there faster if they thought
the threat was still there.

He disconnected and punched in a new set of numbers. “I’m calling Dan Hartwick.”

“Why?”

“I’ll explain in a minute.” He tapped his foot while the phone rang. “Dan. It’s Max.
Someone just broke into Jamie’s house.” He glanced over at her. “No. We called 911.
Near her house, keeping out of trouble. Sure. Is that wise? If you think I should,
I will.” He clicked off his phone. “We need to talk.”

Chapter Sixteen

W
ith Jamie’s life now possibly in danger, the FBI finally agreed with Max that Jamie
needed to know about the terrorists.

“Tell me.” The poor woman was shaking.

Max faced her, dreading the idea of heaping more bad news on her. “I’m not sure where
to begin.”

Her lips firmed. “How about at the beginning?” The crack in her voice tore at his
gut.

“I thought you weren’t practical?” This probably wasn’t the time for levity, but seeing
the fear in her face was messing with his head.

Some of her tension seemed to disappear, but she didn’t crack a smile. “Max! Please.”

“Okay. After the warehouse fire, Detective Hartwick came to see me—about Jonathan.
He said there was something odd about the vagrant.”

As expected, her body stiffened. “Odd?”

He told her about the makeup, the wig, the retainer, and the fat suit. “That sent
up a red flag to the department.”

She clenched her fist and pumped it. “I knew it.”

“Jonathan Rambler’s real name is Vic Hart. The FBI confirmed he’s one of their agents.
Just as you suspected.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I couldn’t. I take my oath to uphold the law seriously.”

She shook her head as if she was trying to make sense of what was true and what she
believed to have been true. “Do you think Jonathan only befriended me to make his
homeless act look legit?”

The stress had to be screwing with her mind. “No. I think he was desperate for some
normalcy, and you provided it. That’s all.”

She tugged on her seatbelt, and shifted to face him. “Why would an FBI agent be in
Rock Hard? What was he trying to uncover?”

Max blew out a breath.
Here goes. Sorry, Jamie.
“That was my first question. Long story short, the Feds said Vic Hart was investigating
a case regarding domestic terrorism.”

She planted a hand on her chest. “Here?”

“Montana is a big state. It’s easy to hide out. There’s a lot of empty land, and people
will leave you alone if you wish.”

She slid her hand down to her lap and picked at the hem of her jacket. “I’m speechless.
Did Yolanda’s death have anything to do with these terrorists?”

“We can’t be sure.”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “This is so much to take in. If these terrorists targeted
the clinic, what were they looking for?”

Jamie glanced up at him. Except for the rays from the quarter moon, he couldn’t see
her expression very well and he didn’t dare turn on the overhead lamp. “I was hoping
you could tell me.”

She looked off to the side, then back at him. “Like I said before, I know nothing.”

“I’m sorry to keep asking, but I thought if you knew these murderers were terrorists,
something new might come to mind.”

She was silent for a moment. “No. Nothing. You know I’d tell you if I could.”

“I know you would, honey. Come here.” Max unbuckled his seatbelt and slid over next
to her. She crawled into his arms and hugged him tightly. Max kissed the top of her
head. “I’m so sorry that you had to get caught up in this, Jamie.”

“Me, too.”

Flashing lights came toward them. “Cops have arrived.”

She sat back up and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “Can we go back to
my house now?”

He wanted to return to his home, but the police would need to question Jamie about
the damage—assuming there was some. If these were the same men, and if they didn’t
find what they wanted at the clinic, Jamie’s house might look similar to the clinic
crime scene. God help her. She’d need him more than ever.

“In a bit. I want to give them a chance to clear the scene.” Two patrol cars whizzed
by.

Max hated to see anything else destroy the thread of control Jamie was clinging to.
If there was something he could do to help, he would do so in a heartbeat.

*     *     *

Jamie grunted. “What’s taking them so long?”

Max had parked in front of her house over half an hour ago, but he wouldn’t let her
leave the car and ask about the progress of the investigation. He said they had to
stay in the vehicle until one of the cops said it was okay to enter.

Finally, Trent traipsed down the porch steps toward her and knocked on the car window.
Jamie pushed open the door and stepped out, her legs stiff.

His mouth was pinched. “You can come in, but be prepared. It’s bad in there.”

Jamie planted a hand behind her to steady herself on the car door. Her knees actually
buckled, but she caught herself before falling. Her body was numb, as if part of her
realized it couldn’t absorb any more blows. “Did they take a lot?” She’d just purchased
a television. It didn’t matter it was used.

Trent shook his head. “Hard to tell. From the looks of it, they were searching for
something.”

Just like in the clinic
.

Max came around the back of his SUV and placed his palm on her back for support then
stepped next to her. “Trent knows about Vic Hart, so you can speak freely.”

It took a second before the name registered. Jonathan was Vic Hart. How could she
have been fooled by such a nice man? He’d seemed so sincere. “Tell him what? That
I was nice to a man who betrayed me?”

Sympathy swamped his eyes. “Remember, Vic was undercover. It wouldn’t have been safe
to tell you he was an agent looking for terrorists.”

“You’re right.” She turned and faced Trent again. “I swear Jonathan, or rather this
Vic guy, never told me any secrets. Whoever did this didn’t find what they were looking
for because it wasn’t there.”

Trent dragged a hand down his chin. “Could Vic have handed you a paper cup or a bag
to toss on your way back to the clinic that had information written on it?”

She ran their encounters through her mind, recreating her daily routine. “If he gave
me some trash, I threw it out. I’m sorry, but I just don’t remember that kind of exchange.
I’d bring him food then leave. He didn’t have time to eat it before I had to be at
work.”

Trent nodded as if he knew when he’d reached a dead end. “If you think of anything,
tell Max. He’ll let me know.”

As Trent turned to go back inside, Max led her up the steps, and she leaned against
him for support. When they reached the door, Max held it open for her. The moment
she stepped inside, her heart stopped beating, and she grasped the doorjamb to keep
upright.

“Oh, my God.” Every pillow had been sliced open, and any item she’d placed on top
of a surface had been tossed on the floor. Between all the food and junk strewn about
the kitchen counters and floor, she didn’t dare try to go in there. From where she
stood, the cupboards and drawers were mostly empty.

A whisper of air finally entered her body and blood pounded in her ears.

Max leaned over. “Anything missing?”

She faced him, her emotions in total turmoil. Was he talking about a large ticket
item? “Missing? It’s too soon to tell. They didn’t take my television, and I don’t
own anything of value, except for my computer.” At the destruction, bile raced up
her throat.

“How about jewelry? Or maybe some antiques? Thieves can sell just about anything at
a flea market.”

She stood on her tiptoes and tugged on his shoulder. He bent down. “I thought you
said these were terrorists.” She wasn’t sure if she was allowed to mention that in
front of the crime scene techs.

“Alleged terrorists. I’m hoping it’s a random robbery, but I doubt it.”

She understood that the cops were trying to be thorough. “I have a few rings that
belonged to my mom, but I think they were costume jewelry. All the trinkets I’ve accumulated
over the years seem to be on the floor.” She spotted a picture of her grandmother.
“Oh, no.” Of all her relatives, her Gram was her favorite. Jamie rushed over to see
if the photo itself had been damaged. The glass was broken, so she stepped around
the debris.

As Jamie bent to examine the picture, Max clasped her shoulders before she could retrieve
it. “We can’t touch anything,” he said.

Her heart broke as he helped her rise. Jamie turned and faced him. “Did they have
to break this?”

“I wish I knew the answer.” Max gathered her in his arms, and she placed her head
against his chest, the action giving her strength. As much as she’d like to stay there,
she needed to see the rest of the damage. She stepped out of his embrace and studied
the rest of the living room from where she stood.

“Why trash the kitchen and rip the artwork off the walls? It’s stupid.” Her pots and
pans came from a discount store, and her patients had painted most of the pieces that
had been hanging on the walls.

“Perhaps they were looking for something specific. Something hidden.”

“What? Like a wall safe?” Her eleven-hundred square foot home with its broken shutter
and loose front porch step didn’t scream wealth. Jamie threaded her fingers through
her hair. Her lip trembled, damn it. “I just want to yell. Scream. Stomp. Anything
to make this go away.”

Slowly, as if he feared she’d crumble, Max once more enveloped her in his arms. This
time she didn’t pull away. Instead, Jamie cried—for Yolanda, for Vic Hart, for her
ruined belongings. She hiccupped and Max held her even tighter. The security he was
offering made the tears flow hard and fast.

“Shh. It’s okay.” He patted her back like a child.

She didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her—especially Max. He’d been through a lot
himself. Zoey claimed anger was good and Jamie had plenty of it. It was time to use
it. She stepped back and swiped a hand across her face. “I need to look at the rest
of the house.”

Max nodded as if he recognized that her take-charge attitude was healthy. “Let’s do
it.”

The first room she checked was her small second bedroom that she used as an office.
When she spotted her laptop, she heaved a sigh of relief, until she realized something
wasn’t quite right.

Max placed a hand on her back. “Something wrong?”

“I always close it.” The top was up.

He withdrew a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and wrapped it around his index
finger. Max tapped the spacebar, and the screen shot to life, looking just the way
she’d left it.