Authors: Stan Crowe
Hold on…
she wondered.
Lindsay flipped back to the page with the fire and squinted at the picture. Almost immediately her heart began to sink. She read the brief article three times. Late the previous afternoon, Seattle locals reported a fire in a trailer park. Fire crews had responded immediately, but not quickly enough: there had been a fatality. Forensics had concluded the fire had been accidental—probably related to the antiquated electric stove inside the RV. The victim had been burned beyond recognition. Lindsay combed over the grainy black and white photo intensely. The burning vehicle was a mobile home built probably in the 1950s or ’60s—she’d seen her share of RVs in the past two weeks. Peeking through the flames were ghosts of word fragments, the most complete of which read “ishhous.” Lindsay closed the paper with a trembling hand, and sat back in her chair, unaware that she’d let her coffee mug slip from her hands, even after her mind registered the sound of shattering on the floor.
So it ends
, she thought bitterly. A tear slid down her cheek. A tear for Fey, though she’d never known the woman. Then there was a second tear for her own loss. For a moment she hoped that Fey’s death would bring about the end of Clint’s curse by default, and free her from its grasp as well. The truth was clear even before she finished forming the thought. It was Clint or nothing, even through the hatred. Lindsay sighed. So much for freedom.
The next question was what to do about Clint. If she couldn’t be free of him, then it would be best to simply take him with her and have him for herself. She liked that idea, despite his little moment of insanity on the beach. She was curiously fine with a unilateral relationship.
The problem would be getting him away from that woman.
Lindsay thought of several approaches, but each time she came up with a solution, she found at least two ways that Molly might be able to foil the approach. Molly would have to be taken out of the equation. The Taser and cuffs would work, but Lindsay doubted the Fed would have those in an unsecured location. Eventually she settled on a plan so ironically cliché that it might just work: sleeping agents in coffee. She had observed that Molly took her Joe straight, black, and first thing in the morning.
Lindsay would have to rise early.
She dressed quickly for the day and then slipped into the Corolla (which the FBI had so kindly brought to the island), and made her way into town. A few pharmacy visits later, Lindsay was back at the house, grinding pills into powder.
Three more issues needed addressing: how much sleeping agent would be necessary? Would the flavor of the coffee mask the taste long enough to get Molly a sufficient dose? Last, how long would it take to work? Lindsay knew she should also ask herself how she’d convince Clint to take a long journey with her, but she was sure she’d come up with an answer to that as well. In fact, if she could drug Molly, why not Clint? She hurriedly crushed up more of the pills, and swilled some of the powder in a glass of warm water to see how well they dissolved. The pills vanished beautifully, and when Lindsay sipped at the water, she found she couldn’t detect any particular taste. Heartened, she added more of the powder, wanting to make certain that her prey would be sufficiently docile when she took him. Another sip. Still no taste. One more. Nothing. Lindsay’s face lit in a predatory grin. Two questions down. Now, to determine how long…
The moon was high when Lindsay came to. Panic flared briefly as she awoke in a dark and unfamiliar room, and her neck hurt from lying in an odd position. As her eyes adjusted to the lower light, she began to recognize her surroundings, and calmed herself. Perking an ear, she listened; only the standard symphony of the evening greeted her. Sensing that all was in order, she got up from the floor, and massaged her neck vigorously as she flipped on a light. Her lap was damp, and she looked down to see a glass tipped over on the floor next to where she had lain. Apparently, she had the answer to her third question. Now, all that remained was to wait for dawn.
So, how to share this wonderful evening with the man she desired above all else? Certainly Molly would be there, edging Lindsay out again, but Lindsay could find a way to focus Clint’s attention. She repaired to her closet to see what would best suit the occasion.
After intense scrutiny of her limited wardrobe, Lindsay selected the skimpy swimwear the clothier had tossed in the bag as a bonus gift. It wasn’t exactly professional, but it was certain to drag Clint’s eyes away from his little guardian. Lindsay showered, skinnied into the swimwear, and made herself beautiful. A spritz of perfume, a last look in the mirror, and she was out to conquer. Why wait, right?
“Clint,” she called as she neared the kitchen. “Are you in there?” No one answered. She peeked around the corner to confirm the kitchen was empty. Next, she tried the basement, but with equally disappointing results. The driveway and garage were likewise deserted except for the Corolla, which was waiting patiently for use. Frustrated, she called out for him again, but heard nothing.
The backyard
, she thought.
Lindsay rounded the deck that protruded over the rear garden, and descended the stairs. There, under the flowering trees at the edge of the yard, was Clint. Silhouetted against the moonlit water, he sat staring out at the city, shifting almost as if uncomfortable. Surprisingly, Molly was nowhere in sight. Perhaps the sleeping pills would prove unnecessary.
Lindsay stopped to admire him for a few moments. His darkened form edged with a touch of silver was captivating. How could he say her feelings for him were not real? Calling to mind the feel of his lips, she took a deep breath, and moved in for the kill.
“Clint,” she said, as she approached him. “It’s a nice night—”
Without warning, a new shadow emerged from Clint’s. Long hair spilled and shimmered with a rich, earthen sheen, framing what was clearly a woman’s face. Lindsay froze, and sucked in a breath as one of the woman’s hands came up around Clint’s head. He leaned in, and covered her mouth with his. In the distance, a boat horn whistled low. Water lapped on the sands, the peaceful sound belying the chaos in Lindsay’s heart. The kiss went on as Lindsay felt her heart knot up. Her dragon shrieked orders to kill the interloper, but her insides were slowly turning to stone. How could he do this? How could he
lie
to her like that? Tell her he couldn’t have anything real, and then turn around and throw himself at Molly like that?
In that moment, Lindsay was sixteen again, lying on her bed, swooning over his description of just how lovely the girl of Clint’s dreams was, only to find out that the girl of his dreams was someone else. All at once she wanted to scream, and cry, and run to Clint and tear his head off while kicking Molly in the teeth. She wanted to slap him until he was one, giant bruise, and then make him suffer the way she had suffered—was still suffering. His kiss had been the ultimate deception, a poison administered to her in the subtlest way. He deserved whatever ill fate he’d been chained to by the untimely death of his gypsy friend.
Lindsay took a quick step toward him, and then pulled up short. No. She was done with this. Done being a slave to stupid passions. Done being any man’s plaything. Done living life on shattered dreams and stupid ambitions. All her hopes and carefully planned fantasies, the long nights gazing at the stars and pouring her heart into her journal were nothing more than the silly delusions of a little girl who had been too afraid to grow up. Biting back the pain, she forced herself to not cry by focusing on wondering whether Mr. Stearns would still accept her into his firm.
TWENTY-TWO
By rights, Clint should have been drowning in Molly that night. He wasn’t.
Ever since she’d played cavalry for him, things had looked on the up and up between them. Still, even as Molly seemed to warm to him, he couldn’t get it out of his mind that Sullivan—Lindsay—was who he really wanted to spend his time with. But how was he supposed to do that after shooting her down a second time, fully conscious of what he was doing? The solution was a weak and patchy one: avoid her as much as possible until this was all over and figure out some way to make it up to her after the fact. Fine dining and a vacation for two were no longer options, and he’d have a hard time beating those.
The morning after Jane’s arrest, Molly had gotten him up extra early on the premise of searching the city for Fey. Clint had pointed out that Lindsay had already done most of the same leg work, but Molly insisted that it was always better to get facts first hand where possible. So it was that he spent the day with her, buzzing past trees or tall buildings, checking the same RV parks, taking pictures, and talking to people. It did seem a bit more official than what Sully had done, but the end results were still the same.
The second day was a repeat of day one.
Day three led out the same way. During his brief shower, Clint formulated a plan. Jonathan had stopped by that morning, and for a few minutes, he occupied Molly’s attention outside. Clint took that chance to creep to Sullivan’s room. When his quiet knock went unanswered he cracked the door open carefully, hoping he wasn’t about to walk into humiliation. Gratefully, Lindsay’s form was still buried under her covers, but before Clint could open the door enough to see more than the bump that was her legs, Molly had called him back for departure.
Clint decided there was no point in stressing himself over something he couldn’t immediately resolve, and so instead decided to just enjoy Molly. She’d changed so much since high school—changed in ways he could definitely get used to. Then again, Lindsay had been utterly transformed from what Clint remembered of those humiliating days when she pestered him, with that nasally laugh, and those overwrought compliments about his amateur art. He could scarcely believe the P.I. he’d hired was the same person.
It was absolutely time to get to know her better.
When they returned from another day on the town, Sullivan was still nowhere to be seen. After a quiet dinner for two in the kitchen, Clint had opted for an evening stroll on the boardwalk. Molly got her jacket without hesitation, and Clint didn’t have the heart to tell her he wanted to go it alone tonight.
Sunset over the bay was great in San Francisco, but it was
breathtaking
here. Mount Rainier stood as a silent bulwark over its sister waters and the puny inhabitants of the surrounding lands. Where Frisco’s nightlife was energetic to the point of overstimulation at times, Bainbridge nights slowed one’s pulse, relaxed you to the core, and were perfect for drifting away in thoughts and conversation. The chatter with Molly was enjoyable, but somehow hollow—a stage play where the actors said what they did because it was in the script, but not in their hearts.
Molly was gorgeous, intelligent, and obviously capable. She was also hard. Not solely as an FBI agent (he was still digesting that little revelation), but guarded, as though she was constantly expecting to need to defend herself. Sully, by contrast, was much easier to tease, and to enjoy riling. Where Molly was intellectually (and physically) stimulating, Sully was just plain fun. Someone he could see himself enjoying long past the end of this crazy episode. Someone who could
need
him and be okay being taken care of for a long, long time.
And then Molly had derailed his train of thought with a surprise kiss.
Immediately before the incident, Clint was certain he’d heard someone call his name from across the garden. Before he could turn to look, however, Molly was pulling him toward her with a tender determination in her eyes the likes of which he’d never seen. But when the kiss commenced, it was Lindsay’s face he saw in his mind.
The following sunrise brought new worries. Molly was up even earlier than normal, talking in quiet, clipped tones in the kitchen. She held up a hand when she saw Clint, and then tossed him a newspaper. He caught it with one hand, and set it on the table. He grabbed a bowl of cereal and banana, and poured himself some orange juice. Munching on the cereal, he flipped idly through the paper. Old news. More old news. Recycled articles. What was with these people in Seattle? He turned to the front page and noticed the date; it was yesterday’s paper. He rolled his eyes and pushed it aside. Nursing a migraine, he thought about the fact that Sully hadn’t been first in the kitchen as always. It was one more little way Molly’s arrival had shifted the dynamic between him and Lindsay. It was starting to rankle.
“Where’s Sully?” Clint asked as soon as Molly hung up.
Molly looked at her watch. “Gone. Presumably as far as Portland. Would you like some waffles?”
Clint jumped to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
“Would you like the dictionary definition or the short version?”
Clint shook his head. “I know what the word means. When did she leave? And why?”
Molly shrugged, and pulled a waffle iron and a mixing bowl from a cupboard. “Would you like blueberries in your waffles?”
“You knew about this?”
“I’ve known you since you were nine. You’ve always liked blueberries in your—”
“Look,” he said testily, “stop with the waffle thing. Did you, or did you not know that Sullivan was leaving?”
“She’s left the last couple days. Still trying to find your gypsy before we could.” Molly looked pointedly at Clint. “What was in your orange juice this morning?”
“You said she was halfway to Portland. That doesn’t sound like looking for Fey. What did you do to her?”
“I garroted her and set her car on autopilot. Stop glaring. I did nothing.”
He seized Molly’s shoulders. “Then how do you know she’s left the state?”
Molly only blinked. “I read her note.”
He stopped. “Note?”
“It was on the counter when I walked in this morning. Have a look.” She nodded toward a cream-colored piece of stationery resting on the granite bar top. Clint released Molly and snatched up the note.
“Dear Mister Christopherson,” he read aloud. “Thank you for your business. It has come to my attention that my services are no longer required, so I’m leaving you in the care of your friend. I’ll take care of the Corolla. Consider your debt canceled. You should have no further need to contact me.