Rebecca York (22 page)

"What happened?"

"A rent-a-cop scooped me up, took me to the manager's office, and called the law. They hauled my ass down to the police station and booked me. I got two hundred hours of community service—and the beating of my life from my father. Along with a tongue-lashing I'll never forget."

She winced. "Your father was into physical punishment."

"Yeah. Like I said before, I wasn't the son he wanted."

"You couldn't love him," she said in a small voice. "And he couldn't love you."

His hand tightened on hers again. "I guess that's the curse of... people like us. We go through life alone because we can't connect with ... anyone ... normal. So it means we don't have much practice with handling relationships."

"Yes."

"But with my old man, it was more than that."

He stroked his finger on the back of her hand, and this time his memories were open to her. Memories of a father who ridiculed him for thinking he was good enough to go to college. Sneered at his "top student" report cards. Demanded obedience at home. Made him go out and get a job if he wanted any spending money.

She couldn't hold back a gasp. "I'm sorry."

"I don't go home much. Even though my mom tries to keep in touch."

"I... understand why you stay away."

"Dad knew I was ... different. And he wanted a kid who was like all the other 'regular guys.'"

"At least my mother and stepfather weren't like that. They didn't understand me. But they tried their best to support me and do the right things for me because I was their child." She laughed. "So I had to endure big Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners with friends and relatives, family picnics, dance lessons, riding instruction, trips to Europe. Things that would have thrilled most people. But they just made me feel more like a fish out of water." She paused for a quick gulp of air. "Dad even used his connections to get me a job on the Hill. I've done well, and I'm sure they brag to their friends about it. I just thanked God that they stopped asking about who I was dating."

"You found a way to give them gratification. Good for you."

"I wasn't doing it for them as much as I was doing it for me."

"Right."

She turned her palm up and squeezed his hand. "Your parents should be proud of you. You've carved out a fantastic career for yourself. If they can't see it—that's their loss."

He detached his hand, but kept his gaze on her. "So what would you call us?" he asked.

"Telepaths whose talent blooms when ..." She stopped because she was embarrassed. "When they ...

find their mate."

His long look made her feel even more embarrassed. "I'm not trying to railroad you into anything ..."

The sentence trailed off because she knew she wasn't really telling the truth.

"Lindsay, this whole experience is as new to me as it is to you. I never dreamed I'd get so close to another human being. So I'm having trouble coping with it."

"I understand." She gave him the answer she thought he wanted, although it wasn't her answer. She wanted to tell him to relax and embrace this gift they'd been given. But she understood that was difficult for him. Maybe he didn't trust his feelings—or hers. Maybe he never would.

She regarded him from under lowered lashes, glad that they weren't touching. Glad that he couldn't read her thoughts. At least she hoped he couldn't. He'd wanted privacy when he remembered the trauma of getting arrested for shoplifting. She wanted it now, so he wouldn't see the needy part of her that she had always kept hidden.

Being telepathic didn't change the fundamental difference between men and women. Women wanted commitment. Men avoided it. And she was thankful he couldn't see the vulnerability shimmering in her mind.

She was glad when he interrupted her thoughts. "I want to see if you can do what I just did."

"Block you?"

"Yeah. It could turn out to be an important skill."

"With you?"

"With someone like Todd—who can shoot death rays into your head—unless you stopped him."

"If he were alive, would he hurt us?"

"I don't know. But I wouldn't want to be totally vulnerable to him—or anyone else who had the same talents."

"You think there are others?"

"I don't know. But I think it would be a good idea for you to practice shielding yourself."

He held out his hand, and she felt her heart give a small thump.

She had no idea how to do what he was asking.

Give me a clue. What should I do?

Use that window image.

She did as he suggested, imagining a clear window into her mind, then darkening the glass so that there was no way to see through. Only this time, she was on the inside, and he was outside—trying to push his way in.

She felt her muscles tremble as she tried to hold him off. Maybe she didn't have his strength, because she felt tentacle-like probes sliding in around the edges of the glass.

In her hand, she imagined scissors, snipping them off— and felt him wince. "Ouch. That hurts."

She couldn't suppress a grin of triumph. "Serves you right."

In response, he redoubled his efforts, and she felt like she was running from one place to the next, cutting off invaders. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her breath came in gasps, as if she'd been running a marathon. Raising her eyes to his, she saw that his face was flushed and he was also breathing hard.

Truce.

Had he said that? Or had she?

By mutual agreement, they both stopped, and she fell against him, exhausted.

He gathered her to him.

You did good.

It was hard.

It was worth the effort.

He shifted to speech. "But now I should make that license plate switch so we can get out of here. Before someone goes through the neighborhood looking for houses where the owner is away."

She felt a stab of alarm. "Would they do that?"

"I hope not. But it depends on how desperate they are to find us."

"Like they found Sid," she whispered. She'd been so focused on herself and Jordan that she'd blotted out everything else.

"Maybe we can deflect bullets."

"Oh, sure." She looked nervously down the drive. "Shouldn't we leave right now?"

"Give me a couple of minutes." Jordan turned back to the half-completed job. "If the guys who were after Mark have figured out we're together, they'll look for a Saturn with your license plates. Not these.

So once we leave, the most important thing is to stay inside the law and keep from getting stopped by a cop."

"Do you lie around at night thinking up elements for suspense plots?"

He laughed. "Sometimes. Maybe I've got a secret yen to switch from nonfiction to fiction."

He'd said it jokingly. But she caught a serious undercurrent in the admission.

After screwing on the stolen plates, he took a baseball cap off a hook on the wall.

"You're going to wear that—for a disguise?" she asked.

"No, you are." He handed over the cap. "Put it on and tuck your hair inside."

When she'd done as he asked, he studied the effect. "Let's do a little more. Put on my sunglasses—and one of my shirts."

Quickly he opened his overnight bag, pulled out a long-sleeved shirt, and passed it over. She pulled on the shirt over her knit top, then rolled up the long sleeves.

Jordan gave her a long look. "Well, we've managed to erase your polished image."

"Is that good?"

"Of course. Nobody would believe you're a respected aide to Senator Daniel Bridgewater. Just remember to drive slowly and carefully. But not too slowly."

Totally thrown off stride, she asked, "I'm going to drive?"

"Yeah. They won't be expecting you behind the wheel—if they know we're together. And if they have your picture, they sure as hell won't recognize you."

I hope. Lindsay answered, then watched Jordan climb into the backseat, lie down, and try to make himself comfortable in the cramped space.

* * *

But not in the past few days. Of course, he knew it was only a matter of time until his men captured one or all of the fugitives. But it was difficult to contain his impatience.

When the phone rang, he snatched up the receiver.

Jim Swift was on the line. "What about Walker?"

"Nothing at the moment."

"You don't think he's disappeared into the woods, do you? Like that guy who bombed abortion clinics?"

"Not with his urban background."

"Then he should leave a credit trail."

"Unless he's too smart for that." Swift cleared his throat. "I've come up with something interesting."

"What?" Kurt snapped, then silently cursed because he knew he'd given away his state of mind.

"I've been digging into Walker's recent activities. He was at a party last week given by Sam Conroy. A woman named Lindsay Fleming was also on the guest list."

Kurt searched his memory. "I imagine a lot of other people were on the guest list. What do you have on Fleming?"

"She works for Daniel Bridgewater, the chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee."

"Bridgewater knows when to stay out of trouble. He's mostly left us alone. And if Fleming is on his staff, I'd expect her to know Conroy."

"That's not the main point. I took some pictures of selected partygoers to the desk staff at Walker's apartment. One of them recognized her. She came there a couple of days after the party. And one other interesting fact. I went back to Sid Becker's phone records. He called her—before he went to that meeting with Mark."

"Jesus!"

"She's probably the woman with Walker at Cunningham Falls. They got away in a car. It could be hers.

I've got the make, model, and the license plate. I've got cops in a five-state area looking for her."

"Good."

"I have researchers tracing his movements back over the past few months."

"Excellent."

"Any other approach you want me to take?" Jim asked.

'Yes,'' Kurt answered. He wasn't willing to share everything he knew yet. But he had a theory he wanted to pursue. "I want to find out how Hamilton fits into this. I'm assuming that he picked Walker to investigate his son's death. But why Walker? Why not somebody else? I want you to have a chat with Hamilton. I want you to make sure that nobody else in the house knows you've been there." He paused. "He's an old, sick man. After you get everything you can out of him, get rid of him. Make it look like natural causes. Or an accident."

"I can get in there tonight."

"They probably won't even do an autopsy, if he's under a doctor's care."

"Yeah."

Kurt thought for a minute. "Let me give you a list of questions to ask him."

"Sure."

After he'd dictated the queries and Jim had read them back, they hung up.

His spirits revived, Kurt punched his fist into the air. For the first time in days it looked like things were going his way.

The question was—would he be in time?

He went back to the computer—back to the information he had on Todd Hamilton and Glenn Barrow.

They had apparently met a year and a half before the attack on Maple Creek.

A year and a half before they'd been able to do... what?

He still wasn't sure. What he was thinking was so outrageous that if someone else had come to him with the theory, he would have told them they were crazy.

But he had always been flexible. In this case, thinking outside the box might be the only way to go.

He was sitting at the computer when Mary Ann came in. Impatiently he looked up.

She read the expression on his face and hesitated before saying. "I can come back later."

"No. If you've got something important, I want to hear it."

"I was doing what you said, going through the names on that list you gave me." She paused before going on. 'Two of the children were twins—named Anderson, Billy and Patty Anderson."

"Yes."

"Their parents were killed in an automobile accident when they were five, and they went into the foster-care system."

Kurt waited for the punch line.

"They changed their name to Trinity. Saxon and Willow Trinity."

He stared at her. "Should I recognize those names?"

"They have an offbeat 'ministry' in Florida."

"How did you make the name connection?"

"They mentioned it once—in a very early interview. Then they dropped the subject."

"Okay. What kind of ministry?"

"Well, their followers swear they're able to work miracles."

"Jesus! Get me everything you can on them."

* * *

Her foot bounced on the gas pedal.

"What's wrong?" Jordan asked from where he lay curled on the backseat.

"A cop is on my tail."

"Just keep driving like you belong here."

"Would the bad guys have gotten the local police looking for us?" she asked, hearing the strangled sound of her own voice.

"They might. But they would probably have lied about what they wanted us for."

She wondered what he meant—exactly. It was hard to drive normally with the patrol car in back of her.

She kept fighting the impulse to speed up. But she knew that was precisely the wrong thing to do.

When she realized she was in danger of cruising right through a stop sign, she pressed down too hard on the brake and came to a jerky stop.

"Sorry."

Jordan reached between the seats, his hand slipping under the loose shirt and knit top to press against her ribs.

Steady. You're doing fine.

He's looking at me. I'll bet he's checking the plate number. She knew she sounded panicked, but she couldn't help herself.

If he is, he'll find you live around here.

And if he stops me, he'll find out I don't. The silent words were like a shiver quivering at the edge of her thoughts.

Then we'll do an alien mind lock on him.

What's an alien mind lock?

I don't know. I made it up. Maybe that's what Todd and Glenn did.