Stephen Frey (8 page)

He chuckled. Tiffany was young, and forty-three would sound ancient to her. “I don't feel old enough either.”

“What did you do before you retired?”

“I was a farmer.”

“A farmer?” she repeated, surprised.

“I grew money,” he explained, laughing.

“So you're good with numbers.”

“Yes.”

“Real good?”

“Try me.”

“What's seventy-two times thirty-nine?” she blurted out.

“Two thousand eight hundred and eight,” he answered immediately.

Tiffany closed her eyes and did the calculation slowly. “Hey, that's right,” she said. “At least I think it is. How did you do that so quickly?”

“I've had the ability ever since I was young.”

“Can you do that every time?” she asked, sounding impressed.

“Every time. You see, numbers are one of the best things in life,
Tiffany.” He checked the rearview mirror. Blackburn was still back there pacing the Jeep. “They can tell you almost anything you want to know and they're completely dependable. They never lie, unlike people.”

“Why did you stop working?”

“I needed time off.”

“Will you go back?”

He hesitated. “Why do you want to know?”

She slid her hand along his leg and squeezed. “Because I like you. I don't want you to go back East—I'd never see you again.” She moved her hand higher on his leg so that her fingers disappeared beneath his baggy khaki shorts. “You're thinking about going back, aren't you?”

“Maybe.”

“What did you say?” she asked. “I couldn't hear you over the engine.”

“I'm thinking about it,” he said in a louder voice. “Montana is nice, but I love the financial world. New York City is where I belong.”

“What's keeping you here?”

“It's a long story.”

“I've got time.”

Bo peered out into the darkness.

“Tell me about your family,” she said, removing her hand from his leg and tugging at the hem of her miniskirt.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I was just making conversation,” she said softly. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“I'm sorry.” He shook his head, embarrassed. He'd been thinking about how difficult it was going to be to defy Jimmy Lee.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Two brothers and two sisters.”

Tiffany brightened. “So do I. What are their names?”

“My brothers are Teddy and Paul and my sisters are Catherine and Ashley.”

“Are you close to them?”

“Catherine and I have always gotten along pretty well,” he answered, “and I was very close to Ashley when she and I were young, but after college she went to Europe and never came back. That was almost twenty years ago.”

Tiffany's eyes widened. “You haven't seen your sister in twenty years?”

“I've seen her a few times,” he said. “When I was traveling over there. Not for very long when I did though.”

“Why did she leave?”

Bo jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid the carcass of a rabbit killed by a passing car. “I think it was because she couldn't stand my father, but we've never really talked about it.”

Tiffany nodded as if the explanation had struck a nerve. “Why were you close to her and not the others?”

Bo hesitated. “I guess because we were the two youngest.”

“Do you miss Ashley?”

“What?” He'd been a thousand miles away, thinking about why he and Ashley had been that close growing up. It wasn't simply because they were the youngest. They'd shared a deep bond that he'd never been able to explain. “What did you say?”

“Do you miss her?”

“Yes,” he admitted quietly.

“Maybe you could help me invest my money.” Tiffany sensed that she had struck a nerve and that it might be best to change the subject. “I've built up a nest egg to—”

“Uh-oh,” Bo interrupted. In the rearview mirror he saw the patrol car's emergency lights go on. He shoved the vodka bottle beneath the seat as Blackburn raced toward them. “Here comes trouble.”

“What's wrong?”

“The sheriff must have decided to run me in after all.” The boys at Little Lolo's were going to be disappointed. Blackburn would undoubtedly force Tiffany to go to town as well and miss her performance.

But the patrol car tore past them, siren blaring, and disappeared around a curve.

“What was that all about?”

Bo shook his head. “No telling.”

A few miles down the narrow, twisting road they came upon several emergency vehicles, red lights flashing. Bo slowed down and guided the Jeep cautiously past burning flares, Blackburn's patrol car parked at an angle to the side of the road and an ambulance parked the same way. At the center of the cluster was a late-model sedan, upside down, roof flattened into the passenger area. Extending from the driver's side of the car was a limp, bloody arm. The entire scene was brightly lighted by the high-beams of the emergency vehicles.

“Is it bad?” Tiffany leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the wreckage.

“No.” Bo pushed her back into her seat, then took one more look as they passed within several feet of the wreckage.

“I hope the people were all right,” Tiffany said softly. “My little brother was killed in a car accident.”

“I'm sorry.” Anyone inside the wreckage was dead. Blackburn wouldn't be coming to Little Lolo's. He'd be filing fatality reports.

They rode in silence for several minutes, then Bo turned off the state road onto a gravel lane cutting through a thick patch of tall cedar trees. It was pitch-black in here and he flicked on the Jeep's high-beams.

“Pull over,” Tiffany directed suddenly.

“What?”

“Here.” She grabbed the steering wheel and aimed the Jeep at the trees lining the lane.

“Hey!” Bo slammed on the brakes and the vehicle skidded to a halt, the front bumper inches from a thick trunk. “What are you doing?”

“I want some time alone with you before we go in.”

“Huh?” Bo glanced at Little Lolo's a hundred yards ahead of them. Music was blaring from inside and there were already a few cars parked out front.

Tiffany leaned toward him until their lips were close. “I like you, and I need to get warmed up before I go in there.”

Bo felt her fingers sliding inside his shorts again. “What do you mean, ‘warmed up'?”

“Before I go onstage, I need to be ready.” She kissed his jutting chin. “You know what I mean.”

Bo smelled her perfume. It was cheap, but somehow that seemed appropriate and his excitement intensified. “I can't do this,” he mumbled, thinking of Meg. “I—I can't.”

Tiffany pulled back, laughing confidently as she undid her halter top. “You can and you will.” She pulled the top away and her breasts spilled out.

Bo gazed at them in the dashboard light. They were large and firm. As he stared, she cupped them in her hands and brought one nipple to her mouth, running her tongue around it. He felt himself losing control. “Please don't.”

She reached over, undid his shorts, then leaned down and carefully pulled him out.

Instantly he could feel her hot breath on him and excitement surged through his body. A moment longer and it would be too late. “Tiffany, stop!” He grabbed a fistful of her blond hair and pulled her head up violently.

At the same moment the Jeep's door flew open and a camouflage-clad man burst into the vehicle, clamped a damp rag over Bo's face, forcing it against his nostrils and deep into his mouth, and pinned him to the seat.

Blind, Bo reached beneath the seat, desperately grasping for the gun as he struggled against his attacker. He could feel himself weakening as he inhaled the awful odor of the substance soaking the rag. His fingers closed around the 9 mm pistol lying beside the near-empty vodka bottle, but it was too late. His eyes flickered shut and the last thought that went through his mind as his fingers went slack around the gun was that he hadn't heard Tiffany scream.

U
p to this point it had been an easy assignment, his easiest yet in his four years as a Hazeltine employee. Move to the tiny town of Libby, Montana; keep a casual eye on Bo Hancock for the people back East; report in once a week. Nothing tricky, just don't screw up and let Bo figure out who you are or what you're doing. Those had been the orders. With all of his expenses paid for, ample free time, and no superior on-site to answer to, things couldn't have been much better for him—until tonight.

Hands and feet tightly bound behind his back, he was powerless to defend himself as the three men forced his head beneath the river's icy surface and into the muddy bottom of the shallows. He screamed into the black water out of instinct, not because he believed they would take pity on him. He knew better.

When they were certain he was dead, they pulled his limp body out of the water, onto the bank, and up into the cover of the thick forest. Here they were hidden from any prying eyes, though the precaution was hardly necessary. They were three miles from the nearest farmhouse, and at this late hour there were no fishing boats on the Kootenai.

“What do we do with him?”

The leader nodded into the darkness. “Carry him halfway up the side of this mountain and bury him. No one will ever find him out here.”

CHAPTER 5

“
H
ow do you feel?”

Bo brought his hands slowly to his face.

“You don't look so good,” the voice continued.

Bo tried to sit up but fell back on the couch with a loud groan. “Where am I?” he mumbled, trying desperately to clear his head. “What's going on?”

“That's what I want to know.”

Bo took a deep breath and made another painful attempt to lift up, managing this time to pull himself to a sitting position. It was all coming back to him. A wild struggle in the Jeep, viselike hands smothering his face with a foul-smelling rag, then darkness.

“Are you all right?”

Vaguely aware that his hands and feet weren't bound, Bo tried to stand, hoping that whoever had brought him here wouldn't expect him to run so quickly. Once more his body failed him and he tumbled back on the couch, head spinning.

“I wouldn't advise moving so fast just yet. Give yourself some more time. Apparently you've been through a very difficult experience.”

Through the dense fog dulling his senses, Bo recognized Michael Mendoza's distinctive voice. It was deep and melodic, still faintly tinged with an accent acquired during early childhood in Castro's Cuba. Bo relaxed and let out a relieved breath. Somehow he had been rescued. Mendoza was an old friend.

“Should I request medical assistance?” Mendoza asked, his baritone laugh filling the room. He was well aware of Bo's fondness for scotch. He was also aware of how unhappy Bo had been during his exile in Montana and how the drinking had spun out of control in the last few months. Jimmy Lee had communicated with Bo only twice since sending him far away from the spotlight a year ago, but he'd kept close tabs on his son with constant reports from a Hazeltine employee who had quietly taken up residence in Libby to watch over Bo from the shadows. Mendoza had spoken to Jimmy Lee on several occasions over the past month and received detailed updates on Bo's activities in Montana.

Bo managed to pry his eyes open slightly, but the world was lost inside a kaleidoscope. “Where am I, Michael?”

“In a hotel room.”

“I mean, where—”

“Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I'm in town for an international trade summit.”

“How did I get to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, from Libby, Montana?”

“A couple of my aides brought you down here to me,” Mendoza explained. “I found out at the last minute that I was going to be the summit's keynote speaker because the senator who was supposed to speak fell ill suddenly. Anyway, I knew you were out here, so I tried to call as I was leaving Washington yesterday. Since we haven't seen each other since you left for Montana, I thought it would be nice to get together. I've missed you. Your cell phone went straight to voice mail every time I tried to make contact, so I sent a couple of my people ahead looking for you. I was worried.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Looks like the bottle got the better of you last night, Bo. I'm surprised. Usually you're tougher,” he teased.

“I'll be all right,” Bo said, rubbing his eyes. “Where did you find me?”

“In a dump of a motel on the edge of town,” Mendoza replied, his voice turning judgmental. “When my aides couldn't find you at the ranch, they started looking around Libby and located your Jeep in the motel parking lot. What were you doing there?”

“How in the hell did your aides know what my Jeep looked like?” Bo demanded suspiciously, searching his brain for a memory of anything after the attack and ignoring Mendoza's pointed inquiry.

“Your father gave me details. Color, make, everything. Right down to the license plate number.”

Bo tried to swallow. His mouth felt full and prickly, as if it were stuffed with cotton balls. “When did you talk to Jimmy Lee?” he asked, trying to generate saliva.

“Yesterday. He called me on the plane while I was waiting to take off from Reagan National in Washington. I talk to your father every few days or so. Right now, I'm advising him on Paul's campaign.”

“How did my father know what my Jeep looked like? I've never told him about it. Jesus, I've only talked to him twice since he banished me to this place and neither call lasted more than a minute.”

Mendoza smiled and shook his head. “Bo, you and I have both known your father for more than forty years. He keeps close track of anything he holds dear.”

“Don't give me that crap, Michael. My father doesn't hold me dear, he just keeps track of me.”

“You're wrong.”

“All I've ever been is a hardworking, loyal son and he sent me out here like he sent me to boarding school when I was twelve. To get rid of me because I'd become a nuisance and he didn't want to have to deal with me anymore. It's Teddy and Paul he cares about,” Bo said bitterly, “mostly Paul.”

“Jimmy Lee wants to see Paul become president,” Mendoza argued gently. “You can't blame him for that. My God, it's an incredible opportunity. It's natural for a father to take every action and every precaution necessary to see his son achieve that goal. President, for Christ's sake. Think about it, Bo. Don't blame Jimmy Lee for doing everything in his power to keep Paul's campaign headed in the right direction. A campaign that is going very well, I might add. Your father is a very savvy man.”

“You too?” Bo asked accusingly. “We've known each for so long, and now you're turning on me as well.”

“You drink too much,” Mendoza said matter-of-factly.

“I have fun.”

“And look what that fun does to you.” Mendoza gestured at Bo, who was still sloppily clad in the untucked denim shirt, dirty khaki shorts, and sandals he'd been wearing in the Jeep. “You haven't shaved in days, your hair is down to your shoulders, and you stink of liquor. Your father is worried about you, and from what I can see, he has every right to be.”

“I'm fine,” Bo retorted. “I'm a survivor.”

“I'll give you that. If you survived last night, you can survive anything.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“There was an empty vodka bottle
and
an empty scotch bottle on the motel floor, as well as some other incriminating evidence spread around the place,” Mendoza answered in a low voice. “You drank enough to kill two men last night but you're sitting here in front of me a few hours later and you're reasonably alert.”

Bo hesitated. “I was attacked, Michael. My condition has nothing to do with alcohol.”

Mendoza leaned forward in his chair. “What?”

“I was on my way to see some friends and I had pulled the Jeep over to the side of the road to check directions.” Bo didn't want to tell Mendoza about Tiffany. They had been close friends since Bo's childhood, but Mendoza would still be suspicious if he knew there was a woman in the vehicle and it wasn't Meg. Bo didn't need the fact that he'd been alone in the Jeep with another woman getting back to Jimmy Lee—or Meg. “All of a sudden I've got this rag that smells like a hospital jammed up my nostrils. The next thing I know I'm here on this couch.”

Mendoza's eyes narrowed. “Come on, Bo, do you really expect me to believe that?”

“I don't care what you believe,” Bo retorted, spying a wet bar in a far corner of the suite's living room. He stood up and almost fell over from a sudden knife-in-the-eye pain searing through his head. The residual effects of the drug that had rendered him unconscious caused the world to blur once more, but he staggered to the bar. “I'm telling you the truth.”

Mendoza rose from his chair and followed. “You're telling me you don't remember anything about being at a motel?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“That's hard to believe.”

Bo held up the shot glass of scotch he'd poured himself, then consumed it in one gulp. “Hair of the dog, Michael,” he gasped.

Mendoza chuckled. “You're incredible.”

Bo poured himself another shot. “Have you ever known me to lie, Michael?”

Mendoza shook his head solemnly. Bo Hancock would stretch the truth on trivial issues every once in a while, but when it came down to things that really mattered, Bo was the most honest man Mendoza had ever known. “No. There's always a new rumor about you doing something crazy, but you've never lied to me about anything important. As far as I know anyway,” he added quietly.

“Then believe me now.” Bo sucked down the second shot. “Somebody attacked me last night while I was in my Jeep, knocked me out cold with a drug, and must have taken me to the motel where your people found me.”

“Was anyone with you in the Jeep when you were attacked?”

Bo grimaced. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Who?”

“A woman.”

Mendoza raised one eyebrow. “Not Meg?”

“Meg is back East visiting her family on Long Island. I'm sure you already knew that.” If he knew about the Jeep, he probably knew about Meg, Bo figured.

“Jesus, Bo.” Mendoza slammed the bar with his fist. “You're out of control.”

“It was nothing, Michael, I swear.”

“Who the hell was the woman?”

Bo took a deep breath. He knew how this was going to sound. “A stripper.”

“A stripper,” Mendoza repeated incredulously. “A stripper in your Jeep and you say it was nothing.”

“I was bringing her up to Libby from Missoula. She was the boys' entertainment for the evening.”

“The boys?”

“Some locals I've become friends with up in Libby.”

“What are you doing hanging around with locals?”

“Who am I supposed to hang around with out here?” Bo asked angrily. “You know me, Michael. I like people. I don't like to be alone. They're salt-of-the-earth guys who've provided me with companionship over the last twelve months when I've needed it.”

“They've let you pay for their drinks.”

Bo nodded. He knew there was some truth to that. “And let me bring them entertainment, but so what?”

Mendoza held up his hands. “All right, all right.” He could see how difficult the last year had been on Bo. “I guess I can't relate to what you've been through.”

“No, you can't.”

“I believe you,” he said softly after a few moments. “About the attack and the fact that the woman wasn't anyone you were involved with. I know how much you love Meg.” He smiled. “What the hell? I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you anyway. I owe you my life.”

Bo poured himself another shot. “Don't start with that again. It was nothing.”

“Nothing my ass,” Mendoza protested loudly. Years ago they had been climbing together in the Swiss Alps when Mendoza's safety rope had snapped. “You were still in high school at the time. It was over your Christmas vacation from Deerfield, right?”

“Something like that.”

“I was literally hanging by my fingernails and you free-climbed across a sheer rock face to save me. Another few seconds and I would have fallen. I had nothing left when you got to me.” Mendoza shook his head, remembering the mortal fear, which had remained vivid in his mind all these years. He'd been dangling a thousand feet above certain death. When Bo had reached him and secured him firmly to his rope so that he knew he was safe again, Mendoza had hugged Bo and cried uncontrollably. “Our guides said they'd never seen anything like it,” Mendoza whispered, the intense terror of the incident rushing back to him. “You could have been killed so easily, Bo. One misstep and you would have gone down. I'll never be able to repay you.”

“I had to save you, Michael,” Bo said. “I needed you. You were always there for me when I was growing up. When Jimmy Lee would yell at me for something Teddy or Paul had done, you'd be there. It was a purely selfish act on my part.” Michael Mendoza had been more of an older brother to Bo than Teddy or Paul ever had. He'd been someone Bo could confide in about personal matters during his youth when the others didn't care. “Tell me why you sent people all the way up to Libby to find me.”

“I already explained. I wanted to see you, and I was worried when I couldn't get in touch with you.”

Bo took a slow sip of scotch. The first two shots had produced the desired effect and now there was no need to rush. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think there's more to it than that. You're as close a friend as I have in the world, and I know you too well. There's another agenda here. Tell me,” Bo prodded. “Come on, Senator.”

Mendoza brought his hands together in front of his face and bowed his head, as if he were about to pray. Now fifty-five, Mendoza was tall, trim, and honey-skinned, with perfect silver hair, a prominent nose, and a calm, confident demeanor. He was in his twentieth year as a United States senator from Connecticut and he owed everything to Jimmy Lee and Ida Hancock. As one of their many philanthropic projects, they had rescued Mendoza from a juvenile home in Brooklyn when he was twelve, placed him in private school, and funded his upbringing. Now he walked the halls of the Senate as an influential member of several powerful committees. He had attended Harvard and Georgetown along the way—all paid for by the Hancocks—and become an extremely influential man. An unlikely outcome for the child of a woman who had washed up on a Florida beach after a harrowing trip from Cuba in a leaky wooden boat, penniless and unable to speak a word of English already carrying the unborn baby in her womb. Mendoza had spent the summers of his high school and college years at the estate with the Hancocks. Despite their age difference, he and Bo had developed a strong bond. Jimmy Lee had guided Mendoza's first campaign and his rise to prominence within the Senate. For a time Mendoza's name had been bandied about as a possible presidential candidate, but that dream had never become reality and now his time had passed.

“Michael.”

“Okay.” Mendoza smiled sheepishly. “You always have been able to read me like an open book.”