Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (44 page)

"What?"

"I know you know what I'm talking about." She took a step toward him and let the plug dangle but held the thick alligator clips in each hand. "How about I attach this to your ear and rectum and plug it in?"

He moved away. "They don't feel a thing. It's humane."

"You are so full of shit, Jeremy." She wanted to slap him. She'd dedicated her life to saving them and he had... what? Built a business? Bought a vacation home? Hell, she didn't know. Burns got paid, so she assumed he was, too. "Humane, my ass." She bore into him. She wanted answers. "For who? You? Why, for God's sake? You're a vet. You save lives, not end them."

She'd seen him work on horses. He had compassion. When he'd lost one, he felt it. Just like the one they'd put down in the cattle trailer. He'd agonized over shooting her.

He stepped forward. "Give it to me."

She moved away. "Not till you tell me what's going on."

He stopped and took a belabored breath. "All right. I'm owned."

"Owned? What does that mean?"

"Means I owe a lot of money. Money I can't make doctoring horses."

"For what? You mortgaged to the hilt? Gambling? What?"

His shoulders sagged.

She took a step back and looked him in the eye. "You're serious?"

He nodded. "I'm in for about half a mil."

"Good God!" Her hand flew to her mouth. He
was
serious. She could tell, and embarrassed, too. "Jo know?"

"Only about the gambling."

No wonder she'd been grumpy. She'd probably ripped him a new one. Plus, these were her finances, too. Poor Jo.

"You have to stop."

"I can't."

"Come again?"

"You heard me."

"Which we talking about?" Because if he wanted to fritter his life savings away, she couldn't help him. He needed serious therapy for that. But the horse thing was non-negotiable.

"Do you know what they do to those who can't pay up?"

"You should have thought about that before you did whatever you do when you gamble."

"God, you're so self-righteous. I can't. They won't just kill me. They'll kill Jo first, then me."

"You're an idiot, Jeremy." She fell back a step and dropped the wire on the tailgate and placed her hands on her hips. "We're going back to your house. You're telling Jo. Then you're telling Kevin." Bren grabbed his case and the wire and slammed the tailgate. "I can't even stand to look at you." She turned to get in the truck when he grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him hard.

"I'm not turning myself in, Bren. I'm not going to prison. I'm asking you to let me finish this thing. I only need a couple more, and I'll be paid up."

"You bastard." She yanked on her arm. "You're asking a hell of a lot from me. You killed that Thoroughbred at Charles Town." She shook her head. "You were just at Churchill Downs. You son of a bitch. You killed that one in Louisville, too. You're my friend—Tom's friend. How could you do this?"

His eyes pierced hers, and his grip tightened. "You're just like him. High and mighty. Never made a mistake. Never needing to ask for forgiveness. It's not always black and white. He didn't understand that, either. I asked him to look away. He couldn't or wouldn't."

"Tom knew about your electrocution scheme?"

"Someone told him. I've never figured out who. He wouldn't say. He was going to turn me in."

"What are you saying?" Her legs began to tremble.

"It was an accident, Bren, I swear. I agreed to meet him up in the barn. Said he had a proposition for me. Then he laid the guilt trip on me. Told me he knew about the insurance fraud. About the horses."

He tightened his grip. His eyes, now only inches from her face, were desperate. She didn't recognize him so angry and frightened.

"H-he never told me." He'd never had a chance.

His face softened, his fingers lightening up a fraction on her arm. "I didn't plan it, Bren. I swear. It just happened. He was wrapping up that damn rope as he laid down his demands. I was so pissed off. Who was he to tell me what to do? I told him to go to hell and walked away. But he grabbed me. I pushed him." He ran his fingers through his strawberry-blond hair roughly, as though he wanted to pull it out by its roots.
"God, Bren.
It happened so fast. He stumbled. His legs got twisted up in the rope, and he cussed up a storm. I tried to help, but he pushed me away and fell back into the hay door. I tried to grab him, but I couldn't."

What was he saying? It had been him up in the loft with Tom?

Bren grabbed her mouth in disbelief. Tom
had
gotten tangled up in the rope—but not all by himself. The back of her eyes burned with understanding. "You let him die, you bastard. You could have saved him." She clenched her hands to her side, her nails digging into her palms. "Why didn't you help him? You watched him die. You bastard!" She came at him, swinging.

He dodged her hands and managed to grab one arm and spun her around. He held her hard against him, pinning her arms down to her side. "I panicked." His voice was rough against her ear.

Panicked? That was his excuse?

"You murdered him!" It came out a wail, low in her gut. She went limp in his arms, and he allowed her to fall gently to the ground.

He came down on his haunches and smoothed back her hair. "Please forgive me." He began to cry. "I lost it, Bren. It wasn't me. I was sick and confused. Desperate." He pulled her up to him and hugged her. His chest rocked with his own sobs, shook her.

A freefall of emotion came over Bren. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she couldn't even blink them away, her eyes open but not seeing. He wasn't Jeremy. He was a murderer. How could he ask her to forgive him? Bren yanked away from him.
"You
have Tom's phone. Why did you take it?"

He wiped his face. "All the cops had to do was listen to his voicemails. They would have known I was the last one to see him alive."

"You sick son of a bitch. You were the one calling me. Why?"

"I don't know. I should have known trying to frighten you would have the opposite effect." He took a step forward. "I couldn't let you find out it was me."

Her throat went dry.

My God.
What would he do to her?

He pressed his hands to his face and wiped hard. Although his eyes glistened with emotion, there was a hardness of resignation and understanding.

Run, Bren, before he kills you.

She stepped away from him. Eyed the wired device and grabbed it.

He reached for her. She ducked and took off toward the barn. The Bartletts still had to be in the barn.

"Bren!" he yelled.

She glanced back. He wasn't going after her. He remained at the back of the truck. He'd opened the tailgate and was reaching into his bag while he kept a visual on her. What was he looking for? She made it to the barn. It looked dark. She called out and slid the heavy barn door open, the stubborn track screeching in protest.

Quiet, except for the gentle stirrings of the horses; there was no one inside. They must have gone up to the house. Too far for anyone to hear her if she screamed. Jeremy would hear her, though.

He yelled her name, his voice low and desperate. The distinct heel of his dress shoes connected with the gravel until she could no longer hear it. He was in the barn now. The dirt floor deadened his footfalls.

Bren hid next to one of the stalls. He was checking them, opening the doors, his breathing heavy and more irritated with each slamming stall door.

"Bren, let's talk about this."

They were done talking. She'd been talking to the enemy all this time—filled him in—told him her plans to catch Tom's killer.

He liked to listen.

"I helped you, didn't I? Gave you a job."

Damn right he'd offered her one. He felt guilty, the son of a bitch. She'd lost half her farm because of him. He'd ruined her life, and now that she had a new one, he was going to take that away from her, too.

"Bren. Come on. This is childish. Stop hiding. I wouldn't hurt you."

Liar.
He killed Tom to save his miserable ass. He'd kill her, too.

She ached with sadness and trembled in fear. Everything she'd believed Jeremy Breakstone to be—trusting friend, compassionate healer, loving husband—had melted together and hardened into something ugly and perverse.

Bren grabbed for her phone. The irritated snorts and whinnies of the horses in front of her put her on alert. She peered through the wooden slats of the stall she was leaning on. He was in the next aisle. Her hands tightened on the electrical cord, and she tried to flip through her contacts for Rafe's cell phone. She waited. The phone clicked, then went to dead air before it began to dial the number.

"Bren?" Rafe's voice sounded in her ear.

She dropped the wire. "Rafe. God—help me. I'm at the—"

"Got you." Jeremy yanked her arm up.

She dropped the phone and tried to grab it off the ground. But Jeremy kicked it from her. Bren glanced over her shoulder. Moonlight filtered through the barn. Jeremy loomed over her. His arm rose, and the glint of something came down toward her and pierced her skin.

"Ow!" She pulled her arm from him, and he let go. She stumbled and tried to run, but her legs were clumsy. She teetered. "Damn it!" She rubbed her arm and zeroed in on him. "What did you poke me with?"

He was close. His face, level with hers, looked distorted, a reflection of a man she once trusted. Her vision blurred, but she could still make out his face. He was frowning at her. His arm shot out and helped her to the ground.

"It's a sedative. You need to calm down, Bren."

A low, garbled voice came from the right—her phone.
Where did he kick it?
It was Rafe. He was talking to her. Drowsy, unable to move, she recognized his demanding yet anxious voice drifting off with her as she slipped deeper into nothingness.

Rafe swung on Jo. "She drew it out on a piece of paper."

He'd picked up the crumpled paper under her bed after he'd tucked her in and gone downstairs with the laptop. While he waited for Bendix, he went on the Internet and checked it out for himself, which was easy. She'd saved it to her favorites.

Of course he'd showed it to Kevin, who had dismissed it, saying the FBI knew all about what happened in the past.

Only thing was, it was also happening in the present.

"If it's in his bag, she'll recognize it." He couldn't believe this shit. The vet. He'd never have guessed it.

Guess ol' Tom and he had something in common after all. Only Rafe wouldn't have found himself at the end of a—

Rafe's phone rang next to him on the seat. He grabbed it. Bren's name glowed on the blue screen and he flipped it open. "Bren?"

"Rafe. God—help me. I'm at the—"

"Bren!" Rafe kept his ear glued to his cell phone. The voices were distant now. His body tensed, and cold panic surged up his chest.

"Bren, honey, talk to me. Where are you?" The voices gave him hope. Then someone fumbled the phone, and the only connection he had to Bren was severed. It was the sound of silence that brought true fear.

Jo tugged on his arm. "What's happening?"

He shut his phone and tossed it to the seat. "She knows. Damn it." Rafe cut across all four lanes of traffic and slammed the car into Park. "Where would he take her?"

Jo shook and brought her hands to her face. "I-I don't know. They could be anywhere."

It had been several hours since Jeremy's flight had landed. They were obviously on their way home. They'd have to be somewhere close by.

Rafe pulled onto the interstate. "We're going back." He nodded to his phone on the seat. "Call Paddy. Tell him to go to Bren's and wait there for us. Then get a hold of Bendix and tell him what's going on. He can alert the FBI and put a lookout for Bren's truck. Someone might spot it."

"Where are we going?"

It was all that was left. "The clinic." Rafe caught the ramp at Frederick and flipped around to go west. They were about an hour away. He could get there in forty if he hauled ass. He'd find her. And when he did, he'd protect her with his life because, the simple truth was, without her he had none.

B
ren awoke slowly to deep sobs. Above her, a glaring fluorescent light made it difficult to open her eyes fully. But the movement to the right of her, the shutting of drawers and the echo of clinking metal, brought her around.

Jeremy's back was toward her, in a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His pale but capable hand reached into a jar with fluffy white clouds—cotton balls. His other hand held something crinkling between his fingers while she seemed to float on her back several feet away.

Oh God, am I dead?

Terror washed over her, and she jerked up. She couldn't. Glancing down, gray, thick straps restrained her chest, hips, and legs. She tried to move her arms, but they were pinned, too. The room with its yellow walls closed in, and she knew she was in one of the examining rooms at the clinic.

How had she gotten there? Last she remembered, they were in the Bartletts' barn, and Jeremy had poked her hard in the arm. It had been a needle. He'd told her it was a sedative. So she'd been out for a while.

"Jeremy." The word tore from her throat. It startled her—the roughness. It was edged in concern, and her brain couldn't understand why she should fear him. She tried to remember, but her mind stumbled on the periphery of a dark truth that lay bare if only her memory could grasp it.

He turned to her. "Bren?" He was startled, too. Startled she was awake.

"You look like hell." She'd meant to say it to herself. But he did. Deep lines bracketed his usual smiling mouth. His blond hair stuck up in places. His eyes were rough and red. He'd been crying—sobbing when she awoke. Bren pulled at the straps with her wrists. "I want to get up."

He rolled a stool next to her and sat down. "How do you feel?" He patted her arm, and his cold, clammy palm made her shiver.

"Like I've been kicked in the head by a horse." The hum of the overhead light and its brightness made her head ache. His intense gaze made her uneasy. "What's wrong with you?"