Broken Honor (22 page)

“Sir?”

“Cancel my meetings tomorrow and the next day. I have a family emergency.”

Her face didn't betray anything. He had kept Judy with him for precisely that reason. She seemed to be almost a robot. She was supremely efficient and extraordinarily professional. Never asked questions. She didn't disappoint him now. “Yes, sir.”

“I'll phone you tomorrow.”

“Is there a number where I can reach you?”

He knew she knew the number. It was her subtle way of asking whether she
should
call. “My cell phone,” he said, “but only if there's an emergency.”

“I hope everything is all right.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I do, too, Judy.”

He retreated into his office. He called the deputy secretary of state to tell him that he would be gone for several days and that he was sending up some briefing papers.

No objection, but then, he'd never asked for any time before.

He finished his recommendation, gave it to Judy, then left the building. In a few hours, he would see Sally.

M
YRTLE
B
EACH
, S
OUTH
C
AROLINA

Irish felt the chill. He had ever since Amy had awakened in the morning. She was purposely cool. Distant. He didn't try to bridge that distance. That was something she would have to do herself.

He didn't blame her. God, if he had been thrown into the maelstrom of the past few days, then he, too, would question everything and everyone.

Taking Bo with him, he went to the motel office, where he purchased the local paper and picked up a free advertising publication. He also asked directions to Richmond, a precaution in the event anyone inquired.

Another man, dressed in a pair of slacks and sport coat, was in the office. Irish hovered near a coffeepot and poured himself a cup. He was wary of strangers now. And these clothes didn't fit this particular motel on a hot, sunny morning.

But eavesdropping did have its advantages. The man apparently was a salesman for a magazine listing local motels and cottage rentals.

Irish followed him out and caught him at his car. “My … wife and I really like this area,” he said. “Thought we would stay a bit longer, but we would like something on the beach. Something private.”

“There's a realtor who handles rental homes on the beach. Some real nice ones.”

“I was hoping you might know of one where we don't have to go through a realtor,” Irish said. He winked at the man. “I don't, I mean we don't … want anyone to find us.”

A leer appeared on the man's face. “You
did
say your wife?”

Irish shrugged off the question. “Look, I'll pay top price if you know of something.”

“How long?”

“A week.”

“I might know of something.” The man's greedy gaze assessed him. “I'll have to do some phoning.” He looked down at the dog. “No one much wants dogs.”

“As you can tell, he's well-behaved.”

“Cost you extra.”

Irish nodded. “I'll meet you back here in what … an hour?”

The man nodded. “What room?”

“I'll meet you out here.”

The salesman thrust his hand out. “I'm Jim Woods.”

Irish took it. The hand was damp and the shake was weak, but that was good. He wanted someone who thought Irish had someone else's wife and didn't want any kind of record of it. He would probably be adding a handsome commission of his own, and wouldn't want whoever owned the property to know it. A devil's bargain.

Irish went back into the motel office and poured another cup of coffee for Amy, then returned to the room, a very watchful Bo never moving more than two feet from him.

Holding the two cups of coffee in one hand, he knocked lightly with the other. The door opened quickly.

Amy was dressed. Her hair was damp and curling around her face. A touch of lipstick had brought color into her face. Shadows were still under her eyes, though, and she looked drawn and tense.

She took the coffee, and her gaze met his. “I saw you talking to someone in the parking lot.”

“A salesman for several publications, including real estate and motels,” he said. “I heard him talking to the manager. I thought he could help us find something for a few days. Without leaving records.”

“And can he?”

“He thinks so. He'll be getting back to me. He thinks I'm trying to cover up an illicit relationship. Hiding from a husband.”

She looked at him dubiously. “With a dog?”

“That kind of complicates things,” he said with a half smile. “Still, he thinks there's extra money in it for him.” He hesitated. “I'm getting short on cash. I plan to send for some, but it will take a few days.”

“I have enough for what we should need,” she said. “And I don't want to be paid back. You don't owe me anything. You've already done more than … necessary. Far more.”

He shook his head. “I'm as much involved in this now as you. I shot a man.”

Her eyes darkened. “And you feel responsible. I know. But you shouldn't. I had planned to look into the commission report myself after the tenure hearing. We don't even know if … that's what is behind this.” She stood a little straighter, and he could feel the determination radiating from her.

She was trying to let him off the hook. The problem was, he didn't want to be let off the hook. And that thought astonished him. He'd made it a lifetime goal not to get involved with others, particularly those of the female persuasion. He hadn't wanted the noose around his neck, the interference in a lifestyle he'd chosen. Loneliness was not unknown, and sometimes he'd see a sunset in the mountains and wish he could share it. Or he would see a couple, their heads close together and smiles on their lips, and wonder what he had missed. Or see a father and son fishing on a pier. But then he would remember the pain that went with relationships. The recriminations and tears and screaming. The bitterness and often hatred.

And the envy would fade, the emptiness would lessen. If you didn't offer a part of your soul, it couldn't be rejected. Mishandled. Destroyed.

The way his stepfather had been destroyed.

“Flaherty?”

She was calling him that again. Her own mental mechanism for keeping him at arm's length.

She was far wiser than he.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about the next several days.” It was a bald-faced lie, but she seemed to accept it.

“Maybe I should just return to Memphis and ask for police help.”

“You tried that.”

“But now there's been a third attempt. Surely someone.…”

“There's probably enough now to bring in the FBI, but there's no guarantee of witness protection,” he said.

“My tenure hearing.…”

“Under the circumstances, I would think you could get it postponed.”

“The committee is scattering after the hearing. And there's my.…” She stopped suddenly, and he realized she was going to say “house.”

For a moment her face seemed to crumple, but then, like a piece of Play-Doh, it firmed again. He watched her blink back a suspicious moisture in her eyes.

He wanted to reach out and pull her to him, but something in her eyes warned him against doing that. Just as it had earlier.

She turned away. The television was on, and she looked at it, effectively shutting him out. It was obvious she didn't want his sympathy.

“I'm meeting him outside in an hour,” he said.

“Can you trust him?”

“I don't think we can trust anyone, but there's no reason he should think anything than what we want him to think.”

“How much money do we need?”

“He mentioned fifteen hundred, but I think he was just trying to see how much I was willing to pay.”

Amy didn't say anything, but went to her suitcase and reached inside. She pulled out an envelope and gave it to him. “There's two thousand dollars in there.”

“Did you rob a bank?”

“Only my savings. I thought it the better part of wisdom to use it to
have
a future.”

He privately vowed to pay her back, whether she wanted it or not. It would, he knew, set back plans for his ranch, but that was of little importance at the moment. Nothing was more important than getting Amy Mallory out of this in one piece. But after looking at the set of her chin and her cool eyes, he knew he would lose any argument now.

Instead, he decided to give her some space. “There's a mini-market up the street. I'll get us something to eat.”

“Orange juice,” she said hopefully.

“And donuts. Unless I can find something better.”

As he left, he saw her pick Bo up. The dog snuggled in her lap. She was looking at the television, but he knew she wasn't seeing anything.

The house was more than two blocks from the beach. It was small, little more than a cottage, but it had two bedrooms and a kitchen.

At least, there would be some privacy, Amy thought. Someplace where she could retreat. She could finish what work she needed to do while Flaherty prowled her grandfather's files.

She hung onto Flaherty's arm, pretending to be his paramour. Not so much pretend, she feared.

She knew the cost was inflated, that their benefactor with the ruddy face and shiny pants saw an opportunity. The house was not prime beach property; it had a “For Rent” sign in front and a shabby look. But at the moment it was a refuge.

Amy watched as Flaherty counted out a number of hundred dollar bills. “You have to be out by next Sunday,” the man warned.

Flaherty nodded. They hadn't even signed any paper. She wondered if the real owner would ever know the place had even been rented. She doubted it.

The salesman left. Flaherty looked at the place wryly. The furniture was used rental, but no worse than the motel.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Don't be,” Amy replied. She felt safe. Temporarily.

Flaherty inspected the kitchen. A usable stove, an old but clean refrigerator. Basic pots and pans. “I saw a store down the street. I'll get a couple of steaks and salad makings.” He hesitated, then added, “Keep the pistol near you.”

Amy felt her body stiffen.

“Amy?”

“I will,” she said reluctantly.

“Good.” Then he was out the door, and the cottage seemed an extraordinarily empty place. She watched while he returned to the car. Then she looked around the cottage again. A washer and dryer would be nice, but no such luck. Everything was simply functional, with faded carpets designed to soak up water and sand. She took Bo out into the tiny backyard and he obliged by doing what was required while she stood outside sniffing the ocean air, aching to walk down to the beach.

The boxes were inside, but if she locked the house, she wouldn't be able to get back inside. Flaherty had the only key. At the moment she didn't care if someone stole the damned things. They were soaked in blood. Figuratively, if not literally.

She hesitated, then decided to go down to the beach. She left a note on the wobbly kitchen table. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up the pistol and put it in her purse. Although the pistol was light, she felt as if her purse had taken on the weight of an anvil.

She called Bo and went out the front door, locking it behind them. She crossed the street, walked a block, then found a path crossing the dunes down to the ocean. A hot wind finished drying her hair, and she leaned down and took off her shoes, burying her toes in the sand. She'd done that days earlier at Jekyll Island.

She heard a sudden loud noise, and she froze. Those damned images returned.
Men rushing her. Shots. Blood
. Her heart pounded rapidly. Her mouth felt dry. She tried to tamp the panic, telling herself she wasn't going to let it control her life.

She forced herself to glance around. Another loud sound. Then she recognized the sound. A boom box had been turned on.

Slowly, she tried to relax. She recalled how she'd experienced a jolt of fear when she'd seen Flaherty talking to a stranger. She wondered whether she could ever relax in a crowd or entirely trust anyone again.

She'd trusted Jon. Explicitly. But something had been niggling at her lately. Why had he wanted those papers? Who had known he had them? She'd accepted his explanation of simple curiosity at the time. Yet she had mentioned them years ago, and he'd asked to see them only months ago. Had he known about the commission before its findings had been publicized?

Or did she just question everyone now?

Laughter jolted her from her dark mood. Glancing toward the water, she saw children bobbing up and down on floats in the ocean. Others were building a giant sand castle. No worries except for a particularly aggressive wave that threatened the fragile structure.

The seeming tranquillity clashed with all the recent violence. It was difficult to think that until two weeks ago, her only concern had been the tenure hearing.

Bo inched closer to her. He had been more clinging than usual since the invasion of her hotel room. A small girl ran up to them. “Can I pet your dog?”

No ulterior motive here. “I think he would like that,” she said. And he did, as long as she was right there with him. Bo whimpered with pleasure as the child rubbed his ears. The mother called, and the child ran back to her, and a man and another child.

For a moment, she wished she were that woman. Wrapped in the safety and comfort and security of a family unit. She'd wished that before, but she'd never been willing to compromise and her Prince Charming had never appeared on the horizon. Perhaps she'd wanted too much, expected too much.

Or perhaps she was just suspicious of all relationships and unwilling to depend on another person.

She heard the crunch of shoes on sand, saw a shadow darken the sand beside her. A tall, elongated shadow.

She looked up. Flaherty was too damned handsome. Even when she was half-blinded by the sun, the planes of his face were ruggedly attractive. “Thought I might find you here,” he said.