Authors: Alicia Scott
Her mouth was suddenly dry. Her shoulder was
pressed against his rib cage, her hand still firmly tucked in his, and shivers
abruptly raced up her spine.
Oh, God, Maggie, you have finally gone and lost
your ever-lovin' mind.
"ATM machine," Cain exclaimed briskly
as they arrived on the other side of the four-lane intersection. "This
way."
He pulled her to the left and she trotted along
blankly like a well-heeled puppy dog.
Do something, you ninny!
She looked at him again. His face was
determined and composed. His intelligent gaze had locked on target, and he led
them to the machine with rapid, precise steps, as if he had no care in the world
and he would escape from an entire state's police force through sheer force of
will.
That was the problem. She knew that look. She'd
seen it on Brandon's face more times than she could count. The oldest of them,
he'd had the opportunity to know Max the best, and he'd been the first to watch
their father simply walk out the door one day and never come back. He could
have hated her and C.J., particularly C.J., for while Maxmillian had married
Brandon's mother for her inheritance, he kept returning to C.J.'s mother in
L.A. out of love. But Brandon had been the first to realize that C.J.'s fierce
exterior hid a scared, angry little boy who'd lost the father he considered an
idol. And in those rough beginning weeks, Brandon was the one who would calmly
and firmly say, "It's all right, C.J. Everything is going to be all
right." Then he would look at both C.J. and Maggie with a gaze just like
Cain's, cool, composed and magnetic, as if through sheer force of will, he'd
keep them safe. After ten days, C.J. and Maggie would have followed him
anywhere, they trusted him that much.
At the time he was solid and reliable,
everything their father hadn't been. And now? Ever since his wife's death,
Brandon had been jetting around the globe, unreachable and unpredictable. Even
C.J. had edgily growled last week, "What the hell does he think he's
proving? That he can disappear like Max?"
Maggie couldn't answer. She just knew in some
deep part of her heart that Brandon would never return, just as Max never
returned, just as her mother had always threatened to never return.
"All right. Proceed, Maggie."
Cain came to an abrupt halt, turning briskly.
She stared at him blankly, her hand tucked into his, her shoulder against his
chest. She felt very small, all of a sudden. Lost in her thoughts and the
emptiness that sometimes consumed her from the inside out.
"Woolgathering?"
She could only nod. He looked big, she thought
abruptly. He looked big and strong and capable. Even on the run, he appeared
composed and in control, as if he didn't doubt one iota his ability to succeed.
She couldn't imagine being that sure. She couldn't imagine not lying in bed at
night, wondering if she would ever fall in love, wondering if anyone would ever
hold her close and love her enough to stay.
That had to be love: staying forever.
"Maggie?" Cain prodded.
"Dreaming of being rescued by a dashing young man?"
She shook her head, keeping her eyes down,
fixed on his sternum and the nubby fabric of his T-shirt. "Just take the
money," she told him. Her voice was faint, faint and meek. She hated that.
Abruptly she swallowed and the emptiness was gone, and instead she was just
angry, angry and frustrated and furious with herself because she sounded like
such a mouse, acted like such a mouse, and what had it ever gotten her?
"Take the money," she demanded more
harshly now. "Take it and kidnap me and get this show on the road. We have
to go to Idaho. You have to kill your brother. I suppose if you let me live I
can write up the events and option them for a Sunday night movie. Robert
Redford can be you. Do you think Sandra Bullock would mind playing me?"
Cain was silent, then he frowned. "You say
the damnedest things, Maggie."
"Yes," she agreed curtly and suddenly
she was the one pushing ahead to the ATM machine, already digging for her card.
"I'm the odd one, the quiet one, the timid one. I'm never any trouble,
just ask anyone. Good, sweet little Maggie." She yanked her cash card out
of her purse with more vehemence than necessary and jammed it into the machine.
"So," she stated aggressively, "how much money does an escaped
felon need these days?"
"Two hundred," he said quietly. His
eyes were still on her face. "You know, you're not that passive, Maggie.
You've already argued with me several times and I'm carrying a gun."
"Oh goody, so I am developing. I've gone
from passive-aggressive to suicidal. Give me a decade, I'm sure I can hit
manic-depressive."
She fairly snatched the money from the
machine's mouth.
"Self-pity, Maggie?"
"Yes, it's the next step of the hostage
trauma process. First denial, then self-pity." She jammed her ATM card
into the pocket of her skirt, then stuffed the wad of twenties into his hand.
"Here's your allowance. Don't spend it all in one place."
He still wasn't moving. "Maggie, I won't
hurt you," he said quietly. "Help me get to Idaho and you'll live to
see your three-legged cat. I promise."
"And I'm supposed to trust the word of a
convicted murderer?"
"I'd ask you to trust the word of the
pope, Maggie, but he's not currently available." Abruptly, he pulled her
against his body. His eyes were no longer so calm or expressionless. They
burned, the tension radiating from him like waves. He looked frustrated, too,
frustrated and angry and edgy. She could feel his thighs pressed against hers,
and was suddenly painfully aware of her small breasts pushing against his
chest. Her nipples were hard and sensitive. She wondered if he could feel that,
too, and then her cheeks flushed with pure mortification at the thought.
She blinked several times rapidly, then in a
small rush of anger she planted her hands against his concrete chest and pushed
away vehemently. His grip on her hand kept her from going too far, but she
could at least tilt back her head and stare at him mutinously.
"Stop it," she demanded. "If
you're going to kidnap me, you're going to kidnap me. You're bigger than I am,
stronger and armed, so I suppose I don't have much say in the matter. But don't
mess with my mind. Don't tell me what my problems are. You're a murderer, for
God's sake. You're trying to kill your brother. What do you know about happy,
healthy life-styles?"
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He flinched as if
she might have actually hurt him, but she wasn't so big of a fool that she
believed that.
His eyes remained hooded, dark. His face
appeared carved from a mountain. The silence stretched out, grew taut. Behind
them, she could hear the random sounds of chattering pedestrians and roaring
cars. The simple, everyday sounds of a busy mall. Bright, pinging noises that
still couldn't break the tension between them.
Abruptly, Cain nodded. His shoulders came down,
his face grew smooth and expressionless, impenetrable. "You're
right," he said. "You're absolutely right."
Then without another word, he turned and
started pulling her toward the parking lot. "Come on, Maggie. We have
another car to steal."
They walked across the huge parking lot of Fred Meyers twice, peering in
windows to see which doors were unlocked and how much gas prospective vehicles
had. Cain preferred trucks for their powerful engines and off-road capability.
Besides, he'd driven trucks all his life and felt less conspicuous in one than
in a sedan. He finally narrowed down the selection to two trucks located at the
back of the lot, both big and relatively new.
"They're both probably insured," he
declared dryly.
Maggie lifted her chin. "Good."
"Is there a color you prefer?"
"Oh no, I'm not going to have anything to
do with this. If you're going to steal another truck, then you steal another
truck. For the record, I think we should take the bus."
He glanced at her. "Oh yes, the special
program Trimet started just for escaped murderers. I'd forgotten about
that."
"I hear it's very good." She played
right along with him.
"Let's take the blue truck, Maggie. I've
always liked blue."
"Buses might be blue."
He granted her a small smile. "You really
do try, Maggie. You really do try."
"It's never too late to change."
He didn't say anything, but as a silent
rebuttal, opened the truck door for her, one hand already reaching out to assist
her.
She batted it away with more force than
necessary, holding herself perfectly rigid. "I can get in all by myself,
thank you."
"Yes, but this way is faster." And
while she was still opening her mouth for another rebuke, he clasped his hands
around her supple waist and tossed her up into the king-size cab. With a
startled cry, she grabbed the dash to keep from sliding on the floor, then with
another gasp, hastily rearranged her skirt to cover her thighs. She gave him a
look of pure indignation, but he simply smiled.
"I think we're getting the hang of
this," he murmured and swung himself into the cab. Quick glance in the
rearview mirror revealed no one else around. He got to work.
Maggie was glancing at her watch as the truck
roared to life. "Forty-two seconds," she muttered. "I don't know
how you do that."
"Lots of practice."
"As a computer programmer?" She
raised a skeptical brow.
"As a minuteman who would someday have to
rise up and protect the last frontier from the ever-encroaching, ever-devious ZOG."
That widened her eyes and shut her up in a
hurry. He enjoyed the effect so much he continued talking casually as he swung
the vehicle out of the parking lot. "Didn't you know that ZOG is out to
stupefy the American people?"
She shook her head.
"Public water supplies are contaminated,
secret troops are being trained. The World Bank and the United Nations are
actually ZOG puppets ready to take over the world once the government crushes
the last of the U.S. resistance. It will be like the apocalypse, that's what my
father always said. 'We are in a state of war, son. A state of
war!'"
His voice trailed off. Maggie's face was pale
now; he could hear the wheels turning in her mind. The patient appears to be
suffering from paranoid delusions, perhaps even acute schizophrenia.
"Can you open up our loyal map?" he
said lightly, his gaze on the road. "We need a course for Salem."
She muttered something under her breath but
complied. The woman was obviously scared of him, but the meek act was certainly
dropping away in a hurry. In its place she was … he didn't know who she was.
But she could certainly flash those blue eyes like nobody's business. And her
stubborn streak might be even wider than he'd previously estimated.
Interesting, in a woman who seemed so humbled
at first glance. Who had taught her to look like that, to think so little of
herself? She cared so much about others, why hadn't someone thought to give a
little more care to her? He had the impression sometimes, from a fleeting,
wistful, look in her eyes, that she was a woman who was very lonely. And when
he saw that look…
He shut off the thought with a curt shake of
his head. It was none of his business, dammit. She had been absolutely on
target back there. It was bad enough he was taking her hostage; he certainly
had no right to mess with her mind.
For his purposes, all that mattered was that
she seemed to have a remarkably level head, she held up under pressure, and she
could navigate. Yes, she was a serious candidate for the hostage-of-the-year award.
"Okay," she said after a moment.
"I've found us on the map."
"All right, Sulu, lay in a course for
Salem, sticking to back roads."
"Sulu?"
"'Star Trek.'"
"Oh." She glanced over at him
narrowly, then shook her head. "Geek."
He simply smiled.
Mile turned into miles. They left Portland's suburbs and whizzed through the
lush, green fields of places like Molalla and Wilhoit. Mount Hood rose up
behind them, old and wise with its snowcapped head. The mountains ringed them
in, green and distant as they circled the valley like ancient forefathers
keeping a benevolent watch. They passed farmers out working their fields, dogs
leaping and racing along the side of the road as if on this bright spring day
they could outrun even a metal animal. Red grain silos rose, silver domes
winking in the sunlight. Two fields of tulips spread out, offering a dazzling
feast of color, then slowly faded away to be replaced by young, earnest ears of
corn struggling to break ground and push triumphantly to the sky.
After a bit, Maggie glanced over at Cain, then
decided on her own she was willing to risk the act of rolling down her window.
The scent of fresh-mowed grass filled the cab. The wind caught her hair,
lifting the red strands to the sun and streaming them back away from her face.
They drove in silence and the sky remained blue
and vast and beautiful.