T
hank God for air conditioning. Whoever invented the stuff should be nominated for sainthood. John cranked up the Crown Vic’s
AC until it practically blew ice crystals in his face. Tuesday’s late morning sun shone into the car and turned it into a
solar oven. He didn’t know how Turner was standing it in a ’68 Chevy pickup. There was no way a vehicle that old had air conditioning.
He was on 53, driving south toward Rice Lake and State 8. He hoped he wasn’t on a wild goose chase, but there wasn’t much
else he could do. He had to drive to where he thought Turner would go next. She was after Hyman—she’d admitted as much. She’d
already searched his safe deposit box and his house. That left Hyman’s lake cabin near Rhinelander. Ergo, he’d find her at
the cabin.
Unless, of course, she’d given up her quest for revenge and had lit out for Las Vegas to start a new career as a showgirl.
John smiled at the thought. Turner in a tall feathered headdress and not much else, a secret little smile on her lips. Then
he frowned as another thought interrupted his fantasy. Or she could be heading in the opposite direction of Rhinelander for
an entirely different motive. Because, when you got right down to it, he still didn’t have a handle on what Turner Hastings
was thinking.
John sighed and popped a Johnny Cash tape in the player. For now he’d just concentrate on what he did—
His cell rang. He fumbled it out of his pocket and pressed the answer button without looking. “MacKinnon.”
“You’ve got my brother all worried now.” Turner’s tone was peeved.
John smiled at the sound of her voice. Talking to her was becoming strangely addictive.
“He called you, huh?” He wasn’t surprised. In fact, he’d purposely pointed the man in that direction when he mentioned Turner
had her cell phone with her.
“He was nearly hysterical. Brad was talking about getting me a lawyer.”
John’s eyebrows shot up. At least the man cared about his sister, even if he hadn’t bothered staying in touch. “Well, now,
that’s not such a bad idea—”
“What did you say to him?” she demanded.
“Not much. I just informed him that his baby sister the librarian had robbed the local bank.”
“I did not. I robbed Calvin, not the bank.”
His lips twitched. “’Fraid most law-enforcement types won’t see it that way—”
“Humph.”
He raised his voice to finish his sentence. “And that includes me.”
He heard her tense breathing from the other end and wished she could’ve started the conversation with something else.
He sighed. “Where are you?”
He didn’t know why he asked her the same question every time they talked. He knew she wouldn’t tell him. But something inside
him insisted he had the right to know. He deserved fundamental information about what space she occupied in the universe.
And wasn’t that the most ridiculous way to think about a suspect?
“It’s none of your business,” she answered wearily, as if she were as tired as he of the question.
He shrugged his right shoulder. It was aching again today, and Turner was pushing all his most basic buttons. “Actually, it
is,” he growled back. “My business, that is.”
For a moment he thought she’d hang up, and he had a sense of impending loss. A sudden eerie howling came through the phone.
“My God, what’s that?”
“Squeaky,” she yelled over the sound, just as it ended on what was indeed a squeak. “I left him in the truck. Shut up, you
goof.” He hoped that last was for the dog.
“His name fits him.”
“He’s a big baby.” She sighed softly. “What’s your favorite food, John? When you eat out, I mean? Where do you like to go?
What do you like to eat?”
He wished she’d say his name more often. “It kind of depends on who I’m dining with.”
“Just answer the question, Special Agent MacKinnon,” she snapped impatiently.
“I’m pretty partial to steak.”
She snorted. “Oh, that’s a real surprise.”
“Now, now. I also like little Mexican restaurants with cozy booths. The kind of place where they make the tortilla chips and
the salsa themselves so it’s fresh. Where they don’t skimp on the peppers, either.” He braked as the Crown Victoria came up
behind a slow-moving semi.
“Ew, peppers.” She sounded disgusted and reluctantly fascinated at the same time. “I bet you like the salsa really hot, too.”
“The hotter the better.”
“Places where they have sombreros and black velvet paintings hanging on the walls? And that liquor with worms in it?”
“Tequila.” He glanced over his shoulder to change lanes. “I take it you don’t like Mexican.”
“Well, margaritas.” Her voice was doubtful. “And if they have good shrimp dishes.”
“Of course,” he said solemnly. Who ate shrimp at Mexican restaurants? “So, what’s your favorite food to eat out?”
“Sushi.”
He winced. Figures it would be sushi with Turner. Raw fish—now, that was disgusting. “Where do you get sushi in Winosha?”
“I don’t. I have to go to this little place in Madison. I found it when I went to college there. It has only two counter stools,
and you can watch the chef make the sushi fresh. They have the most divine salmon, sliced so thin it’s translucent pink.”
To his mind, she wasn’t describing a very appetizing place. But her husky voice was dreamy and slow, and John found he was
getting hard just listening to her. “I’d like to try that place.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You like sushi?”
“We-ell . . .”
“That’s what I thought.” Her voice was brisk again. “How about Thai?”
“Now, that’s more like it.” He’d let the conversation stay casual if that’s what she wanted.
“There’s a really good Thai place in Madison, too. They make the best Pad Thai I’ve ever tasted, with tiny dried fish in it.”
Gross. John bit the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling. What was it with Turner and fish? “Ever had those little bitty
Thai peppers? Hot enough to singe the hair on your—”
“Is that all you think of? Heat?”
“When I’m with you, it is.” He said it before he had time to think, but it was true.
There was an awkward pause before she whispered, “You’ve never been with me. Not really.”
His cock jumped at the smoky timbre of her voice. John flipped on his turn signal and pulled to the side of the highway before
he drove head-on into a semi. “But I will be soon.”
“You scare me.” Her voice was so low he almost didn’t catch the words.
“Why?”
She gave a little husky laugh. “Well, you are chasing me to arrest me.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s what scares you.” He squinted through the windshield at the heat waves coming off the highway.
“I think it’s something else.”
“What, then?”
He shrugged, even though she couldn’t see. “Maybe you’re scared because I won’t quit.”
He heard her catch her breath. “What do you mean?”
“Haven’t they all quit? The men in your life?”
“I don’t—”
He raised his voice to talk over her. “Your father left, your brother moved away just when you needed him most, Rusty died—”
“Now, listen—!”
“And your fiancé didn’t even bother arguing when you said it was over.”
On the other end, Turner breathed. John braced himself for her to hang up on him.
But she didn’t. “You’re very sure of yourself.” Her voice was cool. “And of me.”
He smiled tightly.
Oh, honey, you have no idea.
“You’re anxious because I’m not going to quit until I have you in my hands.”
“How do you know I’ll let you get that close at all?”
“You’ll have to.”
“You want to arrest me.” Was there a question in her voice?
“I
want
to get to know you,” he said very gently. “I
have
to arrest you. It’s my job.”
“You can’t do both things. You’ll have to pick.”
She was right. He knew that. But . . . “Maybe.”
Maybe he’d gone insane.
“Maybe I can have both.”
She caught her breath. “I have to go.”
“Turner—”
But she’d hung up.
Shit.
John punched the
End
button and shoved the cell back in the holster on his belt. Then he noticed his hands were shaking. He stared for a moment
at his own palms before barking a laugh. The more he talked to the woman, the more intrigued he became with her. A vigilante,
for God’s sake. But maybe that was it—the reason he’d been so turned on by her initially. She’d done the forbidden. She’d
taken the law into her own hands. How often had he listened to other agents grumbling about the judicial hoops they had to
jump through to see justice done? How often had he seen the longing in those other agents’ eyes? The longing to just take
a shortcut and bring a criminal down without the law. John had never been one of the guys who’d pined for vigilante justice,
but he sure was fascinated by Turner’s form of law enforcement, wasn’t he? In a way, she was living every law officer’s dream.
She was going after the truth and damn the system. And he was going after her with more than professional interest.
He sighed and looked around. A red tanker passed, making the Crown Victoria rock in its wake. If he didn’t move soon, he’d
attract the attention of the highway patrol. John put the Crown Vic in gear and pulled out onto the road. Was she on this
stretch of pavement, in front of him or behind, heading in the same direction? There was no way to tell. He had to simply
keep going and trust it was the right way. But he hoped she was nearby, because he had to find her.
Soon.
T
he problem with feeding a really big dog while on the run from the law was finding suitable food of a sufficient quantity.
Turner stood in the aisle of the Rice Lake Kwik Trip and contemplated her choices. She could buy Squeaky half a dozen stale
donuts, which no doubt he would enjoy, or a box of saltine crackers. There was a bag of peanuts, but that might not be a good
choice, dog-digestive-system-wise. She could go for the entire rack of beef jerky, but that would probably use a good chunk
of her money and make her memorable, as well. She glanced at her watch. She’d already been in the Kwik Trip four minutes.
Time to go. Saltines it was. She grabbed four bottles of water, the pack of crackers, and a hot dog off the little rotating
self-serve heater thingy and took her bounty to the cash register.
“That it?” The mullet-haired teenager behind the counter looked at her purchases and then up at her.
“Yes,” Turner replied. “Oh, and the gas.” She gestured out the window at the Chevy pulled up to a pump.
Mullet swiveled his head to look. “Whoa. That your ride?”
“Um, yes.”
“Cool pickup.” He waved the saltines over the counter scanner. It beeped.
“Thanks.”
“That a ’66 or a ’67?” He swiped a bottle of water and nothing happened.
“A ’68, actually.” Turner clasped her hands together to keep from grabbing the bottle of water from him and doing it herself.
The boy was carefully smoothing the label now and trying to reswipe it. That never seemed to work, in her experience.
“Yeah? My grampa had a pickup like that.” The bottle still wouldn’t scan. He held it in his hand and gestured with it. “Only
it was a Ford, and it was a ’75 and it was black. But you know, other than that, it was real close to yours.” He looked at
her for a comment.
Turner smiled encouragingly. “Really? I wonder if you should manually enter the price?”
“What?”
She nodded to his hands. “On the bottle of water?”
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Mullet knit his brow and typed numbers into the cash register with one finger. He glanced at the total
and laughed. “That’s gotta be off. It says fifty-nine oh nine!”
Turner half smiled. Her life was slowly wasting away in this gas station.
“I mean, fifty dollars for a bottle of water?” Mullet laughed again, revealing a mouthful of fillings. “Can you believe it?
I better void this out.”
Oh, no. Voiding always took forever. Turner squeezed her eyes shut.
“Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes to see the boy staring at her with concern. He still had the bottle of water in his hand. She smiled.
“Fine.”
Her smile must’ve not been as friendly as she thought. He blinked and jerked his head back, then began working on the cash
register.
Ten minutes later, Turner walked into the blinding bright sunshine. Squeaky was sitting in the truck with his head resting
on the passenger-side windowsill. He lifted his head and grinned when he saw her, long pink tongue hanging from his mouth.
“Hi, baby,” Turner crooned as she got in the truck.
She pushed his muzzle away from the paper sack Mullet had given her and put the pickup in gear, slowly rolling it to the parking
spaces at the side of the gas station.
She opened the bag and reached in for the hot dog. “Look what I got you.”
Squeaky took the hot dog delicately between his jaws and gulped twice. The hot dog disappeared, bun and all. He looked at
her and wagged his tail.
“It’s a good thing I got the crackers, too,” Turner muttered.
She poured water into Squeaky’s red bowl and got out her last jar of pickled herring. She’d already consumed the apples and
the can of Vienna Sausages she’d packed Saturday night. She opened the jar and thought about the phone conversation she’d
had with John this morning. How he’d talked about Mexican food. Fond as she was of pickled herring, after three days of it
and not much else, she’d welcome Mexican with open arms. Even refried beans, possibly her least favorite food in the world,
would be a change of pace at least. The next time she talked to John, she’d tell him—
Turner brought herself up short. What was she thinking? She couldn’t talk to John again—he was trying to arrest her. Despite
the knowing words he’d murmured to her over the cell in his sexy, deep voice, the man wanted to put her in prison. The mere
thought of him should send chills of fear down her back. Instead, the thought of John gave her chills of another sort altogether.
She’d never actually touched the man, and yet the sound of his voice was beginning to provoke a Pavlovian response in her.
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was his persistence that she found so seductive. She knew, somewhere deep inside herself, that
once John had decided on a course he didn’t waver from it, no matter the barriers. If John decided on her, he’d not walk away.
Such determination, such strength was dangerously attractive. It had been a long, long time since she’d leaned on anyone,
let alone a man. It was disconcerting to find that she had a weak spot—that
John
was her weak spot.
Turner wrinkled her nose at her herring. She was too old for this adolescent stuff, anyway. She’d hit thirty over a year ago,
for goodness’ sake. Her love life had always been white-bread boring—not that she’d had much of one in the last four years.
She dated safe, nice guys. The shy ones with bald spots and a love of books. She’d never played games like this one. And she’d
never been attracted to dangerous men. Men who were out to get her—literally. Maybe this was some kind of kinky S and M thing
in her psyche making a belated, post-thirty appearance. It figured it would be now, and with the FBI agent who wanted to arrest
her, of all people.
She shook her head at herself and realized that Squeaky was staring at her herring. His eyes were intent, following her fork
from the jar to her mouth. A thread of drool had started at the corner of his jowl.
“Want some?” She held out a piece of fish.
Stupid question. The dog snapped it up and appeared to enjoy it, even with the vinegar. Of course, that might have been because
he hadn’t taken the time to chew the herring. She fed the rest of the jar of pickled herring to Squeaky and then wiped her
hands. Time to get back to business and stop mooning over Special Agent MacKinnon. She’d already spent too much time at this
gas station. Better get this over with before a state trooper saw her. She got out her cell and hit the speed dial for a number
she’d programmed in a while back but hadn’t used before. Squeaky licked up cracker crumbs from the seat while she listened
to the ring tone.
The other end picked up. “Office of the Federal Prosecutor. How may I direct your call?”
Turner cleared her throat. “Victoria Weidner, please.”
“Just a moment.” The line clicked several times, and then another ring tone started.
Turner glanced at her watch. It was a little before one o’clock. Darn. She hadn’t thought to check the time before she called.
Maybe Victoria was at lunch—
“Victoria Weidner.” Her voice was the same as it had been fifteen years ago.
“Hi,” Turner began and then didn’t know quite what to say. Where to start?
“Yes?” Victoria asked impatiently.
She took a deep breath. “My name is Turner Hastings. I live in Winosha. I don’t know if you remember me. We were in the same
class at Lincoln High School in Winosha nearly—”
“Turner.” Victoria’s tone was suddenly sharper, clearer. “Yes. I remember you. We were in sophomore chemistry together with
Mrs. Knutson. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like you to help me look into embezzling at the First Wisconsin Bank of Winosha.”
There was a hesitation at the other end. When Victoria’s voice came again it was carefully neutral. “Wasn’t that what Russell
Turner was accused of?”
“Yes. He was accused, but he never went to trial.” Turner kept her own voice steady with an effort. “Had he gone to trial,
I don’t believe he would’ve been convicted.”
“I was sorry to hear of your uncle’s death,” Victoria said coolly. “But even if he were innocent, there’s nothing I can do
for you now. Since the case never went to court, the Office of the Federal Prosecutor—”
“I don’t need your help with Uncle Rusty’s case,” Turner raised her voice to interrupt. “I want you to investigate a current
case of embezzlement.”
“What do you mean?”
“Uncle Rusty thought that Calvin Hyman was the one embezzling from the First Wisconsin Bank four years ago. I think he still
is.”
There was a short silence. Then, “Do you have any evidence of embezzlement?”
“No.” Turner inhaled. “Not yet. But I hope to have some soon.”
“What kind of evidence, exactly?”
“Uncle Rusty thought that Calvin must keep a separate set of books somewhere. I hope to find them.”
“
Hope
to? You didn’t find them in his safe deposit box?”
Turner caught her breath. Silly. She should’ve expected that Victoria would know about the robbery. “No.”
“Then I don’t want to know how you plan on getting them.” Victoria laughed huskily on the other end. “Look, Turner, why don’t
you go to the sheriff with this—”
“No. I don’t trust anyone local.” She closed her eyes and marshalled her arguments. “Sheriff Clemmons was the one who took
Calvin’s word four years ago. Calvin Hyman is Winosha’s mayor. Why would anyone local believe me over him?”
“Fine.” The other woman sighed over the phone. “Then what do you want me to do?”
“I want to meet with you in the next few days. To discuss this and to show you the evidence.”
“Okay.” Victoria sounded like she was humoring her, but Turner didn’t care as long as the other woman listened to her. “How
about tomorrow?”
“That’s too soon. I may not have the evidence by then.” Turner frowned. “Can I see you Friday?”
“Nope. Sorry. I’m going out of town for a conference this weekend.” There was the sound of flipping pages on the other end.
“Wednesday or Thursday are the only days I have open this week.”
“Can I get back to you?” She hadn’t expected to set up an actual time to meet during this call. Now she felt flustered and
off balance.
“Fair enough. Do you want to tell me where you are now?”
Turner glanced out the window. Mullet was outside the Kwik Trip now, smoking a cigarette. He studied the Chevy as he blew
a stream of smoke from his lips. She frowned uneasily. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Just a thought,” Victoria said smoothly.
But Turner’s attention was on the convenience-store attendant. As she watched him, Mullet tossed his cigarette aside rather
cavalierly, considering he was standing at a gas station. He looked up and his eyes met hers, and then he quickly glanced
away.
Her pulse accelerated.