Hatfield and McCoy (11 page)

But Petty had wanted her called in.

McCoy had left her house very early, just about with the crack of dawn. He'd gone home, showered, shaved and changed, and this morning, he looked just like a G-man.

He was wearing a three-piece suit.

And like black leather and casual knit shirts—and nothing at all—he wore it very well. The suit accentuated the tightly-muscled leanness of his physique and the breadth of his shoulders. His hair this morning was firmly brushed back from his forehead—the better to see the scowl, my dear, she thought—and he was all business.

Well, she wasn't particularly pleased about the turn of events herself. She had been so tired when he had left. Deliciously sleepy, worn and warm. She had barely roused herself when she'd heard him whisper that he was leaving and felt his kiss on her forehead. And when she had fallen asleep again, it had been a deep, comfortable sleep.

Then her doorbell had seemed to shrill with the force of a million banshees, and she had shot up, disoriented. The doorbell had continued that awful screeching as she promised herself that she was either going to get a new one or rip the entire thing out while she hopped around, quickly trying to drag on a pair of jeans so that she could answer the summons and make the noise stop.

Joe Silver and Patty had been on her porch. “Petty wants to see you, Julie. He said that we're not to let you escape. We're to sit right here until you're ready to go to the station.”

“You're kidding,” Julie told her.

“No. I'll make the coffee. Have you any of that mocha blend to grind? I love it. It tastes better at your house than any other place in the world.”

“Thanks, yes, grind away,” Julie called after her, looking at Joe Silver. He was a nice-looking man, mid-thirties, medium height and build, dark brown eyes, with a great smile. Julie had wondered for a long time if there wasn't something going on between him and Patty.

Patty always denied it.

“What does Petty want?” Julie asked Joe.

“He wants you to talk to a police artist from Charlestown, a man who's supposed to be one of West Virginia's finest.”

“A police artist?”

“Yes. To give him a description.”

“But a description of what? I didn't see anything!”

Joe shrugged. “Well, I told Petty that. He's just grasping at straws, but you know Petty when he gets something set in his mind.”

“Yes, I know Petty.”

“Coffee's on. Get ready, Julie,” Patty said. “We're not allowed to let you dawdle.”

“Does our G-man know I'm coming?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

“Yes, he knows,” Joe told her. He was watching her closely. So was Patty. Had they both guessed that there was something going on between her and McCoy?

“And?”

“And what?” Patty demanded.

“He can't be pleased.”

“Oh, he isn't,” Patty assured her cheerfully, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “But it is Petty's station. And even our real McCoy respects that. Um, wake up and smell the coffee. Isn't that a great aroma?” she asked Joe. “I'll get you some. Julie Hatfield, you go get ready!”

So she'd gotten dressed, choosing a light knit business suit with a soft white lace-trimmed blouse beneath, and stockings, fully aware that she'd need to be composed around her doubting McCoy.

She hadn't quite expected the look she was getting from him now. He hadn't addressed her since she'd come into the station.

Now he was half leaning and half sitting on Petty's broad desk, his arms crossed, one long leg firmly on the floor, the other dangling. The police artist was sitting next to Julie, and Petty was in front of her, straddling an office chair and resting his chin on the high arched back of it as he watched Julie. Joe and Patty had been dismissed after bringing her in. Timothy Riker, the chief's right-hand man, was there, too.

If McCoy wasn't speaking to Julie at the moment, then Julie made sure she didn't have anything to say to him. She addressed Petty and the artist. “I didn't really see the man, Petty. If I'd had any kind of a picture, I would have told you. You know that.”

“Yes, Miss Hatfield, but anything would be helpful at this point. Any impression at all. All I want you to do is close your eyes and think—and give me anything at all that comes into your mind.”

Julie leaned forward, closing her eyes. At first she couldn't think at all.

McCoy had been staring at her with daggers in his eyes, and that made concentration hard. Even when she wasn't looking at him, she could feel the heat of his gaze.

Pity they didn't need a description of McCoy. She could have told them inch by inch exactly what he looked like, his face, his legs, his chest, his …

Shoulders …

No, she couldn't see the kidnapper's face. But she could see his shoulder.

Fear ripped through her, suddenly, vividly.

Then the visions rushed in upon her. She was with Tracy again. Tracy as she stood in the road, Tracy as the man jumped from the car to sweep her up.

Tracy, struggling …

She couldn't see the man's face. Couldn't see it at all because a stocking was pulled over it, distorting his features. But as Tracy fought with him, she pulled at his shirt. A long-sleeved tailored shirt. But he wasn't wearing a tie, and several buttons were undone.

Tracy ripped another one off. And the shirt slid off his shoulder. And there it was.

A scar. About three inches, jagged. Maybe it had come from a fall or a knife wound. At one time, the tear had been deep. And it had left behind that scar …

The same scar that Julie had seen in her dream. That dream she had nearly forgotten this morning, that dream in which her lover came to her …

She was trembling, yet she was achingly aware that she had been afraid the scar had belonged to her dream lover. And now she knew.

No, they were not one and the same.

And then the realization struck her. They were coming closer and closer to the time when the terror would not come to her through another.

The terror would be for her …

“Julie! Julie! Are you all right?”

Her eyes flew open. Petty was on his knees before her, grasping her hands. They were cold and clammy. Timothy was standing right behind the chief, his eyes wide with alarm.

Even McCoy had jumped off his doubting perch on the desk. Julie stared at him and felt the remnants of her fear send chills dancing down her spine. I can't see you again, ever, she thought wildly.

But could that help her? Had what she had seen in that dream already been set into motion?

And were the feelings she had for McCoy stronger than fear …

Stronger than destiny.

“Julie?” Petty said anxiously.

“I—I'm all right. I'm sorry,” she said. She looked at the artist. She shook her head. “Honestly, I can't help you. Tracy didn't see his face. All I can tell you is that he was wearing a stocking over his face, that he's probably about five feet ten inches, dark-haired—and that he has a scar, like a jagged knife scar, on his left shoulder.”

She heard a soft explosion of sound.

McCoy. The sound was one that ridiculed her. Angrily.

He suddenly strode across the room, leaving the office. The door snapped sharply behind him.

“You're sure of this?” Petty asked her.

Julie nodded. “Petty, I've never been more sure.”

Petty nodded and shrugged to the police artist. “That's about all we're going to get. Medium height, medium build, darkish hair.”

“And that scar,” Timothy said.

“Yeah, the scar,” Petty said. “Too bad it isn't on our fellow's face. It might be kind of hard walking around trying to get the populace to bare their shoulders.”

Julie grimaced. “I'm sorry.”

“You've given us plenty, Julie. Thanks,” Petty told her.

She nodded and started out. “Tracy is doing fine, right?” she asked Petty.

“Tracy is doing wonderfully,” Petty told her. “No problems at all. It's great to be young, huh?”

“Probably. I don't remember.”

“Ah, you're just a babe yourself, Julie Hatfield. Wait till you reach my age, then you'll know!”

She smiled and turned to leave.

McCoy was sitting on the corner of Patty's desk in the outer office. He was glaring at her, a deep frown imbedded in his forehead. Patty had moved to Timothy Riker's desk and had her nose stuck in her typing. Joe Silver was trying to look every bit as busy, going through the files.

Everyone was aware that there was a storm brewing here, and everyone seemed determined to avoid it.

Well, there wasn't even going to be a raindrop, Julie decided. She smiled pleasantly, gave an easy wave to Patty and Joe and walked out of the building.

That was when she remembered she had been driven in by Patty and Joe.

Well, hell! She had made it out so smoothly. She didn't feel like ruining her fine exit by going back.

She gritted her teeth as she stood there. Then the door opened behind her and she knew it was him. “Come on,” he said curtly. “I'll get you home.”

It would be rather futile to argue. It was a long walk.

But still, even as she crawled into the Lincoln and he sat down beside her, she felt as if she were next to dynamite about to explode.

“All right, McCoy, just what is your problem?” she demanded.

“Nothing. Nothing! I have no problems, Miss Hatfield. It's just that we have a psychic here, but funny, she can't give us a description of a man—”

“He was wearing a stocking!”

“He's of medium height and medium build and probably dark haired. Well, let's see. That probably describes half the men in the immediate area. Hell, it describes half of the men in our law-enforcement agencies!”

“It lets out Petty,” Julie remarked coolly.

“That's right, it does. And thank God, my hair is fairly light, so maybe it lets me out, too. Except maybe not. After all, you did ask me if I had a scar on my shoulder.”

Julie stiffened, remembering the occasion. Yes, she had asked him! Because she had seen the scar. She had seen it in the dream, and he had been in the dream. And she had been left to wonder …

But she knew now that he was the man in her dream. The lover in her dream.

But he was not the man who brought the awful, shattering sense of danger …

“You did ask me about a scar, Julie!”

“Yes.”

“Yet it seemed in the office just now as if you were seeing that scar on the kidnapper for the first time.”

Damn, he was still so angry! Well, maybe it did look as if she was a charlatan.

“I just saw the scar through Tracy's eyes in the office,” she said. He was never going to understand. He didn't believe in her to begin with.

“Where did you see it before?”

“In a—dream.”

“A nightmare, huh? And I was in it, right? Before or after we met?”

There was a tight note of sarcasm edging his voice.

Julie sat back, gritting her teeth. “If you recall, McCoy, you didn't answer me about whether you did or didn't have a scar.”

“That's right, I didn't, did I? Is that why we made love? Were you checking out my shoulder?”

“Oh, McCoy, you are really something, do you know that? A true prize!” Julie exclaimed furiously. “Stop the car. I'd rather walk.”

He wouldn't stop the car. She knew that.

But he did stop it. He pulled abruptly off the road onto the narrow shoulder and turned to her with a sudden, startling passion. “Did you check out my shoulder? Did you check it out really well? Did you think long and hard about what you were doing?”

Had she thought long and hard? No, she hadn't thought for a single second.

But she knew his shoulders bore no scars. She knew simply because she had been so fascinated by his body, by every minute stretch of bronze flesh.

“McCoy, obviously, neither one of us gave it long, hard thought, or else last night would have never happened! And it's probably best if we pretend that it never did happen. And if you don't mind—”

She started to reach for the door. If he really meant to let her out on the side of the road, then she'd just get out on the side of the road.

“What do you think you're doing?” he demanded.

“I'm getting out.”

“Here?”

“Well, you stopped.”

He exploded with an oath. The Lincoln suddenly roared to life.

He didn't speak again until they were in front of her house. Then he leaned over and opened the passenger door for her. “Julie, you go ahead and get as mad at me as you want to, but don't you suppose that you'd better start thinking?”

“What are you talking about now?”

“You don't ever just get out on the side of the mountain and start walking. And you don't leave your doors open, and you take care when you're alone.”

Her heart suddenly slammed against her chest. “Why?”

Was he worried? Did he think that just maybe his nephew had been right? That the kidnapper knew about her, that he had worn the stocking over his face because he knew that Julie might be called in on the case?

“Because every woman in this area is at risk right now, Julie. You can't behave foolishly.”

She remembered the force of her dream. Yes, she had been in danger. But the danger had involved him.

She just needed not to see him again. That was all. And she would be all right. Since he was so angry, so disgusted, that should be easy.

“I'll be careful,” she told him, slipping out of his car.

The Lincoln remained parked in front of her house until she let herself in and locked the door.

“He's angry. He won't come back,” she whispered.

But he would come back.

She could refuse to see him.

But already, an ache was growing in her heart. She didn't want him out of her life. She wanted him back, now. She wanted to sleep beside him again through the night. She wanted to go on discovering more about him. She wanted to go on …