Cold Target Part 29

"I'm not sure Nicky is such a good watchdog. Remember Mrs. Starnes...."

She did. She remembered every second of the last few hours. She wondered whether the image of Mrs. Starnes on the floor would ever leave her.

"I'll keep my cell phone and revolver with me," she promised. "I know you have to get back to the scene."

He bent his head and his lips touched hers. Gently, yet with the spice of pa.s.sion underneath. She sensed his reluctance as he drew away. "We'll probably be working all night. I'll send someone over to check the house for any more bugs. His name is Daniel. He's a deputy sheriff as well as a wire expert. He'll show his credentials from outside. You're not to let anyone else in unless you know them. In fact..."

"I'll be careful," she said.

He took her hand and held it for a moment, his fingers tracing the palm in a way that caused erotic s.h.i.+vers to run up and down her spine.

"I'll call later."

She liked that idea. Far more than she should.

'BISBEE'.

The birth certificate came in the mail.

Holly looked at it for a long time. It was one of the necessary steps toward freedom. To a Social Security number. A driver's license. And a measure of safety.

Until this moment she'd feared that someone would discover that Elizabeth Baker had died years ago.

During her trips to the library, she'd found a book on how to disappear. She knew now that she had done everything wrong. She'd thought herself so smart.

The biggest mistake, it said, was settling in a small community. According to the book, she should have chosen a large city like San Francisco, or Chicago, where one could become an anonymous face in a crowd. It was far more difficult to hide in a small town where people knew one another and had a collective curiosity about newcomers.

Well, that certainly was true.

She'd thought about running again. That thought sent chills through her. She didn't think she could do that again.

Neither could she uproot her son again. She just couldn't do it. Harry liked it here. He loved Caesar and what he called the "funny" town. He liked the sheriff and the pony he'd ridden.

He was leading a normal life for the first time in his life.

But she did have to obtain a driver's license and Social Security number.

Neither, she'd discovered, would be easy to obtain. You needed a Social Security card for a driver's license. But there might be other kinds of identification she could produce.

She decided the Social Security card was the most important. With that, she could obtain a driver's license and open a bank account. The bank account would allow her to build credit. A history.

She had considered opening a bank account with someone else's Social Security number. But her Internet research told her that facade could last less than a year. Banks reported transactions to the government. If she had any idea of staying here that long, she could be discovered.

And she 'did' want to stay. It frightened her how much she wanted to stay. She had real friends now. Friends who liked her for herself.

In a very short time, she'd grown to love the desert and the odd little town with so much character. A town that refused to die. A town that valued the lesser of its residents. One that persisted but still refused to conform.

Staying posed a risk. Trying to get a Social Security card posed a risk. But she knew to stay here--or wherever she went--she would need identification. She was terrified every time she drove a car. If she was ever stopped, her house of cards could tumble.

She'd spent hours trying to devise a reason why she didn't have a Social Security number. Most people today had a Social Security card almost since birth. The best scenario, she decided, was that she was a daughter of missionaries and had lived outside the country most of her life, had married overseas and had never held any job but that of housewife. Under those circ.u.mstances it had been easy to overlook the need for a card....

She looked at the birth certificate again. A beginning. But there were so many traps out there. One mistake, and she could die. And then what would happen to her son?

"Mommy?" Harry sensed something. His eyes were riveted on her.

"Want to go for a walk?" she asked.

He leaped to his feet, dislodging Caesar, who had crawled up on the sofa with him, and fetched the dog's leash. Caesar jumped down from the sofa and followed him, obviously eager for his evening const.i.tutional.

Holly regarded what had become a ritual with a pleasure only slightly tinged with apprehension.

She'd established a routine. She worked all morning while Harry watched television or read, then at noon she would visit the library in her daily search for news from New Orleans. Then she and Harry would go somewhere for an inexpensive lunch. After lunch, it was home again to work the rest of the afternoon.

They would walk the dog after the worst of the heat faded, then she would fix a simple supper. She usually read to Harry unless there was something suitable on television.

Both Russ and Sheriff Menelo had asked her out. She'd told both she wasn't ready to date again.

She was feeling safer and safer as each day pa.s.sed.

That was scary in itself.

Caesar barked with excitement as they left the house.

As always, she looked around for any vehicle that shouldn't be there, for any person who looked out of place. But she saw only the usual, and she allowed herself to relax, to enjoy the evening breeze and the softness of the desert colors.

They had walked two blocks when Harry looked up at her. "When is Father coming?"

Not Daddy. He was four years old, and the only word he knew for Randolph was "Father." Still, there was a yearning in his face.

"I don't know," she said.

"Does he love us?"

"Of course he does," she said, wincing inwardly again. She looked down. His small, beloved face was pinched with concern. She knew suddenly that he had been worrying for days, though he'd said nothing. Something he'd learned from her?

Her heart cracked. She'd chosen unwisely, yet if she had not married Randolph, then there would not have been solemn, bright little Harry.

"You know how busy your father is," she said.

He nodded. He'd been told enough times.

"He wanted us to have this adventure."

"But I want to tell him about it. I rode a horse. All by myself." He was puffed up with pride, obviously eager to announce his accomplishment to the one person whose attention he craved.

She ached for him. For his need for a father who had never cared about him beyond his value during a photo opportunity.

How much should she lie? Promise? When was it going to backlash? When would he not be quieted by her a.s.surances? When would she be forced to tell him the truth ... or make up an elaborate lie?

She tried to divert his attention, even while knowing that it was a problem she couldn't wish away.

"Do you want to go riding again?"

"With Sher'f Doug?"

"Yes."

His face brightened.

"Let's stop here," she said as they came to a park with swings.

That would take his mind away from his father.

But for how long?

'NEW ORLEANS'.

Charles Rawson called his daughter.

She should be on his speed dial. But she wasn't. He didn't call her that much.

A pang of regret ran through him. They had never been close.

He loved her. Just as he loved his wife. But his love had never been enough for Marguerite. And he had feared rejection from his daughter as well. h.e.l.l, he hadn't known how to talk to either one of them.

He had never been good at relations.h.i.+ps. He'd always taken what he wanted, and now he looked at his life and saw what a failure it had been. Even his law career was crumbling. And that was the only thing he had left.

No one answered the phone.

His hand shook.

A friend in the police superintendent's office had called him to tell him of a murder. His daughter was a witness.

He recognized the name of the victim.

Meredith apparently had not taken his advice or paid any attention to his plea that she leave the past alone.

He knew how dangerous her crusade was.

He knew because there was blood on his hands.

He hurriedly left the office. Although it was late, some a.s.sociates were still working, as was his secretary.

"Go home, Virginia," he said.

"But I have a few more letters...."

"Go home," he said, more gently than he had ever spoken to her before, and he saw the surprise in his eyes. For some reason, that reaction hurt.

His car was suffocating inside. In seconds, the air-conditioning sent a blast of cool air through the interior. It did nothing to cool the anxiety that clutched at him as he drove to Meredith's home.

Nothing looked disturbed at the house that once was his mother's home. As always, it was as peaceful as its garden shaded by magnolia trees and colored by flowers.

He parked in the front and opened the gate, surprised to hear barking from within.

He rang the bell. Nothing. Rang again.

Then he saw Meredith peer outside before opening. Good.

Except being careful wouldn't help against a determined enemy. And there was no question she was making enemies. She had made herself a target.

The door opened, and she stood there, surprise in her eyes. The same kind of surprise that had been in his secretary's eyes.

Then he realized this was the first time he had visited her at this house. He'd always summoned her to his own.

"Father?" she said.

"Meredith. I heard about what happened earlier. I tried to call."

"I was at Mrs. Starnes's house, talking to detectives," she said. "I just got home a while ago. I haven't had a chance to check messages."

"Are you alone?"

"Except for Nicky," she said, looking down at the dog next to her.

"I didn't know--"

"He's not mine," she interrupted. "He belongs--belonged--to the woman who was killed."

He soaked in that information. "May I come in?"

She stepped aside. "Of course. I was just... surprised to see you."

He realized how sad that was. It was, it seemed, a day for realizations.

He followed her inside.

"Can I get you some coffee? Or a drink?"

"A drink," he said gratefully.

He accompanied her into the kitchen. The house was much more comfortable than he remembered. Victorian furniture had been replaced by sofas with plush cus.h.i.+ons. Fresh flowers filled vases but they weren't as carefully arranged as those at his home. Instead there was a profusion of clas.h.i.+ng colors that was somehow more appealing than the sedate pale blooms at his house.

He hesitated at the door of the kitchen as she opened a cabinet door. "Scotch?" she asked.

He nodded. "Straight."

She poured some in a gla.s.s.