Tell Me No Lies (25 page)

"You might as well do what he wants," Trey said dryly. "He won't stop yakking at you 'til you do."

Hank raised his brows as if to say, See? Might as well give in.

Resistance crumbled. For once she would do what she wanted and not what she should. "At least let me go home and get some clothes. If I have to wear these things another minute, I'll scream."

"You got it." Hank grabbed his keys and gestured for her to precede him.

"Trey, you and Mandy help Nana with the dishes. Then homework. I'll be back to help with that if either of you need it."

A scowl crossed Trey's face, and he opened his mouth in what was sure to be a loud protest. But something passed between him and Hank, some kind of newfound understanding. He closed his mouth and nodded slowly. "Okay."

"I appreciate it," Hank said quietly. Then he grabbed her hand, his own large, hard, and warm. "Come on. Everything looks good here."

Outside, the night was just crowding into the day, twilight deepening into blackness.

"Thanks for the tip on Trey. I owe you one."

"Does that mean you worked it out?"

"Let's just say we made some real progress."

She got in the car, and he switched on the engine, turned around and headed down the drive toward the road in the distance. Behind her, the lights of the house grew smaller and smaller until they were tiny pinpricks of brightness in the dark.

"You're very lucky," she said.

"Lucky?" She heard irony in his voice and knew he was thinking about his sister. But no matter how much he'd lost, he still had so much left.

He cut a glance her way, "How about you? Didn't you have a fabulous Boston childhood?"

She didn't want to lie, and she couldn't tell the truth. So for now, simple answers were best. "No."

"You didn't spend much time in Boston, did you?" His tone was quiet, the answer already there in his voice. "I saw the pictures, Alex. You, Luka Kole. Some other man. And they definitely weren't taken in Boston,"

She licked her tips. "No."

"Russia?"

"Some of them."

"And the others?"

She was silent Her hands were suddanly clammy. "Different places."

"You're going to tell me, aren't you? I mean, sometime before the close of the century."

God, he was persistent. "I don't know. Maybe," She sighed. "Probably." When it was safe. An eon from then, when it was safe.

"Maybe you need a little of that Dutch courage back in your kitchen."

"Dutch courage?"

"Russian courage would be more accurate in your case. That bottle of Stoli you tried to drown yourself in the other night We could open it up and finish the job. And you could tell me your life story."

Or maybe this tune, he'd take her to bed and do more than hold her while she cried.

A flush of heat rippled through her, and she closed her eyes against the warmth. She was moving through mud, getting in deeper and deeper, and all she could see was the way down.

"I think we should probably leave the vodka alone."

He didn't respond, but the small smile at the corners of his mouth promised otherwise. Deep inside her, a pulse beat a rapid dance. Was he remembering her thin robe and the feel of his hands on her? If he touched her again, what would she do?

Fifteen minutes later, they approached the turnoff to her home, and all thought of touching seemed to disappear. He slowed to make the right, fingers gripping the wheel in a taut, white-knuckled grasp. His face tensed as they pulled into the drive.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? You look like you're expecting an army of goblins to jump out."

"I said it's nothing," he snarled.

She stilled, taken aback by his hostility. "All right. I didn't mean to pry." Which was a whole lot more than she could say for him.

He pulled up to the front, braked, and turned off the engine, then sat there a second staring out at the night, arms draped over the wheel. "I have this thing about places I can't see into. Leftovers from... from the toolshed."

"I see." And she did. He'd trusted her with something private, something deeply personal. If only she could do the same. But his secrets couldn't change the past, while hers could alter the future. And the transformation could be deadly, getting him hurt or worse.

If he saw the difference or the danger, he didn't say. "So now that I'm an open book, how about you? What nasty little secrets are you hiding?"

She opened the door and got out. "Too many to tell." She crossed the drive to the front door. The night had deepened into black and the thick forest surrounding the house only made it more so. If it spooked him, he did a good job of covering it up, though his gaze was watchful, his body alert.

She let him into the house, and he headed for the kitchen. As she crossed to the windowed hallway that led to the low steps at the back of the house and her bedroom, she heard him mutter, "Where's that Stoh when I need it?"

She smiled. If they were going to move beyond silence and secrets they'd need help. Would vodka be their matchmaker?

A wave of giddiness bit her, making her feel girlish and foolish at the same time. Maybe she'd
¹
change out of her clothes and into the blue robe. Maybe she'd lead him into her bedroom. Maybe she'd

A loud gasp stopped Hank at the kitchen doorway. Instinct had him pivoting, weapon drawn. "What is it?"

Alex stood frozen at the foot of a long, glass-lined hallway. He trotted over, gaze working the area, but didn't notice anything unusual until he was beside her.

Great masses of broken glass lay in heaps at her feet What once had been a wall of window was now shattered. Jagged holes let in the night and the floor glistened with splinters and ice floes.

A sudden awareness tightened his stomach. "Stay here." He edged closer, trying not to crunch on the glass, and examined the destruction. Someone had deliberately smashed the window; he could see the pattern of hits.

Had the creep struck and fled? Heartbeat revving upward, Hank peered into the opaque darkness down the hall. It was like peering into his past.

Mouth like cotton, he started down the corridor.

Alex grabbed his arm. "Don't."

He shrugged her off. "Quiet." His voice was barely a whisper. "I'm going to see if "

A shot blasted.

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Hank froze. Wall plaster pinged and chipped beside him in exquisite slow motion. From far away, Alex cried out.

Somehow, instinct took over, and his arm moved, his body followed, and without conscious thought he shoved her against the wall, blocking the shooter's line of sight

And then, as though he'd been sucked through a vortex and spit out the other side, the world spun back to real time. To the sour stench of sweat beneath his shirt and the solid weight of steel in his hand. To Alex's body quivering at his back and the sick realization of what her cry might have meant.

Swallowing dryness, he shot a fast glance behind him. Her face was tight with fear. "Are you hurt?"

"I..."

"Are you hurt, dammit!" To his ears the hoarse whisper rang out like a shout.

"No." But she sounded dazed. Christ, had she been hit? Had his sluggishness gotten her hurt? He hadn't seen any blood, but with the dim light and her dark clothes, he could have missed something. He buzzed with terror, with the lightning-quick vision of another woman dead in his arms. "Are you sure?" He turned back to her, fighting the need to run hands over her.

She nodded, face pale but calm. Thank God for her fabled composure.

Another round spit into the wall by his ear. Whatever relief he might have felt was quickly obliterated. They were sitting ducks.

"We have to move. Go " He nodded toward the front door. "Now!" He shoved her backward, forcing her to scuttle against the wall.

Another shot zinged near his head.

Jesus Christ.

Behind him, she gasped, part scream, part intake of breath. One hand squeezed hers, pushing her forward, the other returned fire.

"Police officer! Drop your weapon!"

A fourth blast answered, close enough to feel its heat.

They were almost at the foyer. Sweat slicked his back. He didn't want to think about the open space between the hallway and the door. About the randomness of chance and fate, the time bomb ticking the minutes of her life away.

"Don't stop," he told her. "Get out the door and into the backseat of the car. I'm right behind you."

"All right." He heard the tremor in her voice and the effort to control it, and he couldn't help a flash of admiration.

At the corner, he held her back one split second. Then he aimed into the darkness behind them and let go of her hand, her fingers slipping away like a last chance.
Count yourself lucky.
The doctor's words echoed inside his head.

He started firing. "Go! Move!"

She raced across the open space of the foyer and he followed, easing backward and providing cover. The continuous roar and blast in the enclosed space was deafening. He lost count of the rounds left in his clip, prayed he'd have enough to get Alex out.

The front door slammed against the wall: Alex flinging it open. He focused on the invisible shooter, hoped to God she'd made it through.

Backing up, he shouldered through the entrance, pulling the door closed behind him so the shooter wouldn't have a clean window.

No bodies, no blood; she must be in the car.

He backpedaled, gaze riveted on the house. Was that movement behind a window? The car was only a few feet away, but felt like a mile. The scar underneath his shirt seemed to glow like a lit target.

Then his hand was on the car door, key in the ignition, engine turned.

In seconds, they were careening down the drive.

Black silence between them. The roar of the engine filled it. The bounce of tires on roadway, the whoosh of trees speeding past. Blood pumping, heart pounding. Hands glued to the wheel.

He grabbed the radio, spit out his location and the situation. "I took rounds. Shooter still inside the house. Got a civilian with me. I'm getting her out."

Gaze everywhere. The thick ebony of forest; the pitchy blind ahead lit by headlights; the coal black hollow behind lit by nothing. Murky. Dense. Who did it hide?

Then the highway. Tires slipping easy on smooth blacktop. Heartbeat ratcheting down from frenzied to frantic, fear like an aftertaste in his mouth.

How had they escaped?

His soul was on fire, needing frantically to know.

Bad aim or near misses? Accident or intentional?

Count yourself lucky.

Lucky. When would his luck run out?

Then Alex's voice was in his ear. "Is anyone following?"

"Get down!"

"Where are we going?"

"Get the hell down and stay down!"

"We can't go back to Apple House." Alex's voice was urgent. "I can't bring this to your family."

She was right. "We're not going to Apple House. I have a place downtown where you'll be safe."

"No."

"No? Fine, I'll take you to the station. Protective custody. Think a jail cell will be safe enough?"

She climbed over the back, wriggling into the front seat.

"What the hell do you think you're "

"I know a better place. Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull over. I'll drive."

"I'm not pulling over, and I'm not letting you drive."

She was silent, which was good. He needed every ounce of concentration to push away the shakmess.

But the silence didn't last. "No one followed us, did they?"

"No. They seemed more interested in getting rid of us than finding out where we were going once they did."

'Then turn left up ahead."

He spared her a glance. When was she going to stop giving orders? "What for?"

"The entry to the Taconic is a quarter mile away."

"The Taconic?"

"North."

She didn't have to say it; instantly he knew where she wanted to go. Lakeview.

The name spun in his head, scrutinized from all angles. The place was farther away than his house or the station, an isolated dot on the map. All around, it seemed as good an idea as any. Maybe better.

But dammit, it pissed him off. Royally. He felt like a blind man heading down an unfamiliar street, no dog, no cane, nothing to get him through but chance and instinct.

And those were odds he didn't like.

"You want to go north? You tell me what the hell is going on."

She stiffened. "When we get there."

Rage filled his veins, hot and furious. He braked and the car squealed to a stop, "No." He rounded on her, grabbed her by the chin, and swung her face toward him. "Now."

Her eyes challenged him, cool to his heat despite the grip he had on her. "When. We. Get. There." Voice quiet and reaching for firm but not making it. Oh, she was determined, that was clear, but she was also trembling. Quaking right beside him. Scared to death, and he knew how that felt. Knew, too, he was making it worse. Shame pricked him, and he released her.

"You know you're goddamn fucking lucky you're not dead."

Alex watched out the window as he started the car, men slowed to make the turn onto the parkway. Oh, she knew how lucky she was. Knew, too, that if Petrov had wanted her dead, she'd be dead.