Running Scared Part 4

A rattletrap of an old truck pa.s.sed, windows down, heavy-metal music throbbing. A couple of teenage boys, three sheets to the wind from the looks of them, laughed over the pounding beat of hard rock. Kate watched them drive by and her lips clamped a little tighter.

"It's a deal," she said, glancing back to him.

"Good." He managed half a smile. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Maybe," she replied as if she didn't mean it, her intense eyes scrutinizing his for an instant. "Thanks again."

"Anytime."

She climbed behind the wheel of her station wagon, slid a pair of sungla.s.ses onto the bridge of her nose, and after one quick, intense glance in his direction, drove off in the same direction as the loud teenage boys. Daegan was left with a gnawing in his guts.

"d.a.m.n you, Bibi," he muttered under his breath. Knowing he was about to make a mistake that would follow him for the rest of his life, he climbed into his old Dodge pickup and headed toward the cheap cinder block motel on the edge of town.

"I heard you call out last night," Kate said at breakfast the next morning. Jon, distracted, was pus.h.i.+ng a burnt corner of his toast through the glop that had been the middle of a fried egg.

"Bad dream," he mumbled, heavy strands of dark hair tumbling over his forehead as he avoided her gaze.

"Another?" She tried to sound casual when inside she was dying. The scream she'd heard had caused her to sit bolt upright in the bed and fling off the coverlet. She'd been halfway to the door of her bedroom when she'd forced herself to stop and listen over the thudding of her heart and the rush of adrenalin that had pumped through her blood. She'd closed her eyes, counted to ten, and listened, ears straining.

Jon resented her intruding into his life. The last time she'd dashed into his bedroom, she'd been met with quiet hostility that had simmered for two days. Jon had accused her of babying him, of overreacting, of smothering him with her motherly attentions, so last night, she'd stood in the middle of her room, silently counting off the seconds. When he hadn't cried out again or come knocking on her door, she'd gone back to bed and lain awake until the alarm on her digital clock had gone off at six.

"What else would it be?" he charged as she took a sip of her tepid coffee.

"You tell me."

He looked past her to stare out the window, past the oak tree where the leaves were turning color, to the craggy mountains on the horizon. His eyes narrowed, as though he wasn't seeing the sun-bleached fields or stand of pines that separated this patch of land from the McIntyre place. "Okay, so it wasn't just a dream."

She leaned her hips against the counter and clutched her cup more tightly. "A premonition?"

"Yeah." He bit his lower lip as he always did when he tried to puzzle something out. "Maybe."

"Bad?"

"Have I ever had a good one?"

Kate's heart sank. Oh, Lord, now what? Oh, Lord, now what? "Tell me about it." "Tell me about it."

Lifting a shoulder, he said, "There's a man involved and there's gonna be trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" she asked, her voice steady, her heart beating a million times a minute.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if forcing the vision. "I-I don't know. I can't see anything else."

She reached for the coffeepot on the stove, burned her fingers, and sucked in her breath. Don't blow this, stay calm, Don't blow this, stay calm, she warned herself as she added warm coffee to her cup, though she hardly knew what she was doing. Jon was worried; she could see it in the strain on his face. "How long have you sensed this?" she warned herself as she added warm coffee to her cup, though she hardly knew what she was doing. Jon was worried; she could see it in the strain on his face. "How long have you sensed this?"

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Just a little while. A week, maybe two. But last night...last night it was more than a feeling."

He shoved his plate aside and stood. Houndog scrambled out from under the table as Jon picked up his backpack and slung it over one shoulder.

"You might be wrong. You've been wrong in the past. You know, as a little boy you thought you saw angels."

His head turned swiftly. He glared at her with such intensity, she nearly winced. "I never never saw angels, Mom, okay? saw angels, Mom, okay? Never. Never. Don't tell anyone about the angels or the ghosts or any of that s.h.i.+t-" She raised her eyebrows and he caught himself. "Any of that stuff." Don't tell anyone about the angels or the ghosts or any of that s.h.i.+t-" She raised her eyebrows and he caught himself. "Any of that stuff."

"Watch the language."

He started to say something, then changed his mind. "Look, I shouldn't have said anything about the danger or-"

"You didn't say danger," she cut in quickly, fear touching her lungs with cold, damp fingers. "You said trouble."

"Same difference."

"I don't think so. Trouble is a bad report card, or losing your keys, or making a mistake in your checkbook. Danger is different. It usually means life-threatening or incredible pain or..."

"I meant trouble, okay?" He muttered, but he avoided her eyes and picked up a dishtowel on the counter. Wadding the towel into a ball, he tossed it into the sink.

"Jon, what's going on?"

"I don't know, I just get the feeling that...that somebody-a man without a face-is after us. I know that sounds crazy, but it's true.

"Do you know who he is?"

Jon shook his head, but his face drained of color and his pupils dilated despite the brightness of the day. s.n.a.t.c.hing a tennis ball that he'd left on the counter, he kneaded it nervously in his fingers. "But I keep hearing the word father. father. I told you." Her insides curled in on themselves and she gripped the back of a kitchen chair for support. I told you." Her insides curled in on themselves and she gripped the back of a kitchen chair for support.

The criminal.

If only Jon's dreams could be haunted by some other beast. She'd been dodging the truth, and now it was getting to be a problem. Jon didn't know he was adopted; she'd promised not to ever confide in him, but that seemed impossible in today's technology of blood typing and DNA testing. Fortunately Jon had never hurt himself badly enough to need blood or been ill so that he needed an organ or bone marrow or anything else that would require tissue typing and a match. Kate prayed that her luck would hold until he was an adult. Then, if the subject ever came up, she might confide in him. But not now. Not when he was still young and vulnerable.

There were other reasons as well. She was afraid that if Jon found out the truth that his natural parents hadn't wanted him, the knowledge would scar him, shake the underpinnings of his self-esteem, and...she had to face it, she was scared of the truth and that he'd want to leave, to search out his "real" parents, to find out why he was different from the other children, if there was a reason, a genetic trait that had been pa.s.sed from one generation to the next.

She'd thought that he might somehow divine the truth, that with his ability to see into the future, he'd know that she wasn't his blood relative, but over the years, when he'd said nothing, asked no questions, seemed to accept her completely as his mother, she didn't have the heart to tell him. Sooner or later, she would have to, but she wanted to wait until their relations.h.i.+p, so shaky recently, was strong again.

Coward. You're just afraid of losing him!

He was staring at her with confused blue eyes. "Your...your father's dead," she said, feeding the lie that had seemed so small and innocent nearly fifteen years ago.

"Is he?"

G.o.d, help me. "You know it, Jon. Your father was killed-" "You know it, Jon. Your father was killed-"

"I know the story that you you told me, but there's more, isn't there? Things I don't know. What is it, Mom? Was there another guy? Someone you were involved with after James died?" told me, but there's more, isn't there? Things I don't know. What is it, Mom? Was there another guy? Someone you were involved with after James died?"

"No!" she nearly shouted, her fingers curled over the top of the chair in a death grip as she lowered her voice. "There's never been another man."

Still holding the ball, Jon lifted his hands to the side of his head. "I know it sounds weird, but I get this...feeling that somehow...my father...he's alive. I know it's stupid." He shook his head, and Kate bit her lip.

This wasn't the time to tell him there was the other man, the man who had given Jon life because that man, the one who had been in prison, didn't know where Jon was, didn't care, probably didn't even know that he had a son. Or did he? Was he on his way? The trepidation that had followed her around like a deadly shadow for the past fifteen years crystallized into something real and tangible and terrifying.

"See, crazy, huh?" Jon threw the tennis ball down the hall and Houndog took off in a frantic, scrambling streak of black and white. "Maybe Todd Neider's right. Maybe I am a freak."

"Of course you aren't," she said, her mouth feeling dry as cotton. She walked over and tried to give him a hug, but he shrugged her off.

"Don't. Don't treat me like a little kid."

"You are-"

"I'm fifteen! I can get a driver's license in less than a year!" He took a step away from her. "Too old to be kissed and hugged by my mom."

She wanted to protest. A part of her cried out inside, but she didn't say a word and tried not to look hurt. He was right. He was growing up, growing away from her. He probably did need a father. But not the man in Boston. Never him.

Houndog, tennis ball firmly in his mouth, rounded the corner, jumped up on Jon's legs wildly, his bark m.u.f.fled before he dropped the ball on the floor. The pup's tail wagged furiously as he stared up at the boy, almost daring Jon to toss it again. Jon didn't notice, just s.h.i.+fted his backpack to his other shoulder.

Kate tried one more time. "Look, Jon, I didn't mean to bug you about your dreams, but-"

"Just stop, okay?" His jaw worked in anger and he plowed a hand through his hair.

"Everything's going to be all right," she said, as much to convince herself as him. Inside she was falling apart. Was it possible? After all these years? Could Jon's father have found out about him? The safe little sh.e.l.l she'd built around them was cracking.

Finally Jon saw the dog whining at his feet. In one swift motion, he shot the ball down the hall again. "I don't think so, Mom. Everything's not gonna be okay. I don't want to scare you, but I think we're in for some heavy sh-stuff around here."

"You do?" Her heart knocked crazily.

He nodded. "It's starting. Today."

"What?" She swallowed back her fear.

His eyes narrowed as he stared through the open window again, to the distant mountains and the black clouds that rolled across the sky. The smells of dry gra.s.s, dust, and faded wild flowers filtered into the room, and far away a tractor engine rumbled, but Jon, looking into a distance only he could see, seemed unaware of the noises and odors. Absently he rubbed a hand over the muscles of his other forearm.

Kate felt cold as death.

"The danger," Jon said slowly in a voice that was an eerie whisper. "It's coming."

"Oh, G.o.d, no." This time he hadn't tried to soften the blow by calling it trouble. This time he had admitted the peril, the unnamed danger that was stalking him.

He swallowed hard, then looked at her, his gaze bright and focused again, as if he were back in the moment. But his grim expression didn't change. "It's coming, Mom," he repeated hoa.r.s.ely, "and there's no way to stop it."

Chapter 3.

Daegan jammed on the brakes and his truck slid to a stop near the dusty front porch of the cabin. "Fixer upper," as the real estate ad had boasted, was more than a little optimistic. "Rustic" was a lie. The place was shot to h.e.l.l. From the looks of it, old man McIntyre hadn't lifted a hammer, paintbrush, screwdriver, or pair of pliers in years. The cabin was small, with a sagging roof, broken steps, boarded-over windows, and a view of some of the driest acres Daegan had ever seen. The barn hadn't fared much better. Never having been painted, the old structure had suffered from the elements-sun, wind, and rain contributing to the silvering of the siding and the missing s.h.i.+ngles.

"Perfect," he grumbled to himself as he surveyed the rest of the ranch.

A pump house, machine shed, chicken coop, and old windmill with missing blades completed the landscape that was nearly devoid of vegetation. No shrubbery or flowers, just a solitary pine tree giving some shade to the house and breaking up the expanse of sagebrush, berry vines, and dirt. Broken-down cars were scattered between the buildings, and tires had been propped against the side of the house or tossed into a nearby corral.

No wonder it had been cheap.

He didn't really give a d.a.m.n about the grounds, the house, or anything else. He'd lived in worse. He had to remind himself that he was here for a purpose and this ranch was the closest rental available to Kate Summers, the reason he'd come to this G.o.dforsaken place. He didn't want to think too long or hard about his mission. h.e.l.l, he could be on some wild-goose chase, but he was going to see it through. No matter how painful.

With one final glance at the broken rails of a fence that visibly listed, he unloaded his truck, dropped his meager belongings on the rickety porch, and reached into the cooler for a beer. Opening the bottle with the flat of his hand and the rail, he took a long drink, then rammed a tarnished key into the lock of the front door and walked into his new home, temporary though it might be. The electricity had been turned off and the rooms smelled musty. He lifted every grimy shade and threw open each window, letting in a sharp, dry breeze that cut through this valley.

There was furniture-stained and filthy, the floor no better. The real estate agent hadn't lied. The place needed paint and Lysol, varnish and Windex, elbow grease and lots of TLC. Well, he had a little time. Not that it mattered. He didn't own these h.e.l.lish acres, he just had to act like he needed to use them for a while. His own place was waiting for him near the Bitterroot Mountains with Cal Hanson tending the livestock. If he ever wanted to return. He really didn't know-not anymore. Not since his meeting with Bibi less than two weeks ago.

Rolling up a yellowed shade, he stared through cracked gla.s.s and thought about Bibi, a woman he'd tried to forget for what seemed like a million years. He'd gotten the call and agreed to meet her. Two weeks ago...

Heads-you win. Tails-I lose.

Daegan O'Rourke tossed his silver dollar into the cold night air, watched it spin under the streetlamps, caught it deftly, and flipped it onto the back of his wrist. The eagle. Tails. I lose. I lose. Of course. This was, after all, a no-win situation. An invitation to disaster. But one he couldn't ignore. Of course. This was, after all, a no-win situation. An invitation to disaster. But one he couldn't ignore.

Collar turned against the wind, he watched a jet, lights winking, take off into the frigid night. A few drifting snowflakes fell from the sky, promising that winter in Montana, harsh and unforgiving, was close at hand. Pocketing his coin, he shouldered his way into the lobby of the hotel. He didn't pause at the desk, just made his way to the bar and slid into a booth near the door to wait.

For Beatrice. Bibi. His sultry cousin. A woman he'd tried to forget, but every time her image filtered into his mind, he felt a jab of disgust and guilt that cut him straight to the bone.

What was it that brought her from the comfort of her town house on Beacon Hill to this harsh stretch of land? He'd tried for years to divorce himself from the family that had never wanted him, had pretended he didn't exist, had looked down their aristocratic noses at him, had accused him of murder. And yet Bibi was flying in. A bad feeling settled in his gut.

He ordered a beer from a waitress with an eager smile, then half listened to a country-western ballad he'd heard crackling over the speakers of his old Dodge truck on more than one occasion, not that he noticed much. Life on his ranch in the Bitterroots was pretty much the way he liked it: simple hard work, no game playing, no manipulations, no questions without answers, just survival. He picked at a dish of salted peanuts and wished he could just get this ordeal over with.

The waitress brought him a chilled long-neck and he tipped her heavily as he stared at the door. Waiting. For disaster to strike. He'd barely taken two swallows when he saw her.

Beatrice, lynx coat billowing behind her, expensive perfume in her wake, swept into the bar, glanced quickly around, and then, without so much as a smile, zeroed in on him. She'd aged in the past fifteen years-was a little thicker around the middle, her dark hair tinged red, her makeup a little more severe than it had been in her youth. She was still pretty enough, he supposed, if you liked sn.o.bby bluebloods. He didn't. Not anymore. But there had been a time...

She slid into the seat across from him and pulled the collar of her coat closer to her throat. s.h.i.+vering, she motioned to the waitress. "Jesus, this is a gawd-awful place."

He grinned. Bibi never had been one to mince words.

"I thought you might not show up," she said with a brittle smile, then gave him a quick once-over with interested eyes. "G.o.d, Daegan, it's indecent how good you look." The waitress came over, and without glancing away from him, Bibi said, "Vodka collins. With a twist."

"Slumming, Bibi?" he asked, once the waitress had disappeared.

"On my way to San Francisco." She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a gold case. Her hands were shaking as she slid out a cigarette and reached for her lighter. Little lines of strain etched the corners of her mouth.

"Montana-any part of it-isn't generally a layover between the coasts."

"I needed to see you, all right?" She lit up, clicked her lighter shut, and with a sigh, let a cloud of smoke filter out of her mouth and nose.

"Better?" he asked.