“You sure you don’t want to come?” Will’s voice murmured warmly against his ear.
Taylor’s eyes popped open.
Will corrected hastily, huskily, “Fishing, I mean.”
Taylor expelled a heavy sigh. He shook his head, burying his face in his pillow once more. It was still dark. The flannel sheets were soft and warm and smelled pleasantly of soap and Will. It felt good, very good, to stretch out after a night of sharing a too small bed.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“I’ll leave you the keys to my Land Cruiser in case you want to drive into town.”
“’Kay.”
“We should be back by lunch.”
Taylor nodded, smothered a yawn in the pillow, and promptly fell back asleep.
The next time he woke, really woke, the sun was shining brightly and his cell phone, when he focused blearily on its screen, informed him it was nine thirty. That was sleeping in very late for him. He must have needed the rest. He smothered another huge yawn and spent a few moments listening to the birds outside and Riley barking somewhere in the distance.
Someone had made coffee. He could smell the encouraging aroma drifting from down the hall, and the thought of a hot cup and something to eat that wouldn’t give him heartburn got him out of bed. He paused by Will’s desk to check out Will’s high school yearbooks, smiling faintly at photos of Will with uncharacteristically long hair and a very square jaw the rest of his face hadn’t quite grown into. The same old grin though.
Yeah, Will would have been quite a heartbreaker in high school.
Taylor hoped this fishing trip was mending some of the frayed feelings between Will and the kid. That had gone about as well as Taylor had expected. But he felt a little sorry for Grant. Finding out his idolized big brother was a faggot had clearly rocked his world on its axis.
Taylor sighed, closed the yearbook, and headed for the bathroom.
A shower and a shave later, he wandered into the kitchen to find Cousin Dennis eating eggs and bacon.
“There’s plenty of food in the fridge,” Cousin Dennis told him.
Taylor nodded, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Bahrain was eleven hours ahead, which meant it was after eight at night there. He needed to call Richard before it got any later. He took his coffee and his phone out onto the long log deck behind the house.
The air was cool and smelled damp and pine-scented, with just a hint of the ocean on the breeze. Several yards from the house, he spotted a doe grazing in the meadow. That peaceful scene wouldn’t last long once the dogs spotted her.
He dialed 973 for Bahrain and negotiated his way through the usual obstacle course of telecommunications, then household and support staff, until he reached his mother — the very person he did not want to speak to right then.
“Taylor, sweetie. Is that you?” He could hear the instant alarm, the fear that he was the subject of the call and not the one making it. He mentally resolved to be better about phoning.
“Yep, it’s me. Hi, Mom.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just needed to speak to Richard.”
“Has something happened? You’re not injured again?”
“No. I’m fine. I’m great. Really.”
“I was afraid it was Will again.” Will being the usual bearer of bad news.
“Nope, it’s me. I was just hoping to talk to Richard, if he’s home this evening.”
“He’s at his club, sweetie. Is it something I can help you with?”
“Not really. What time does he usually get back? Do you think he could give me a call?”
“Of course, sweetie. He’d be happy to.”
He gave her the number and, like a fool, mentioned they were staying with Will’s dad.
“Then it’s official?” Her voice shot up with excitement. “You boys have set a date?” She hadn’t always been this thrilled with his sexuality. In fact, she had been very uncomfortable and unhappy when he’d tried to come out in college. But as society and her social circle had adjusted their attitudes, her feelings had changed. Now she seemed to believe having a gay son was a kind of cultural coup.
“Uh…not exactly. I mean, it’s official, yes. But we’re not…we haven’t really made any plans.”
She launched into a spate of unneeded advice and unwanted opinions, and he remembered why he didn’t call very often.
He finally managed to disconnect, her admonishing to please not get shot again ringing in his ears.
Damn. So nothing was solved and he’d have to wait for Richard’s call, assuming Richard didn’t arrive home too drunk and tired to phone.
He drank his coffee and ruminated. So okay. Next on the agenda, he wanted information on Mr. Black, the driver of the Porsche they had spotted in Stockton.
In the DSS this kind of information had been right at his fingertips, but now days…not so easy. California had strict laws about allowing civilians access to DMV records. Once upon a time anyone could run a license plate, but now release of personal information was restricted by the Information Practices Act of 1977 and the federal Driver’s Privacy Protection Act of 1994. Any request for information meant the subject was notified of the request. These laws provided excellent protection for citizens but they were a PIA if you were a global security consultant who needed info fast and didn’t want to spook his subject.
Granted, there were private firms who could provide that info given time and money, but if someone was gunning for them, Taylor didn’t want to waste time on figuring that out. They still had contacts at the California DMV. He and Will tried not to tap their old associates because — unlike on TV — getting someone to circumvent the system too many times resulted in reprimands and loss of employment. Not the way to treat a friend.
He was probably paranoid, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that running into Mr. Black hadn’t been coincidence. Mr. Black hadn’t been surprised to run into him, no, he’d been uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because he hadn’t wanted to be spotted by Taylor. Because he was following them? That’s how it looked from Taylor’s perspective.
He dialed the California Department of Motor Vehicles in Ventura and asked for Ms. Euphonia Jones. He was still on hold when Cousin Dennis ran out onto the deck.
“Someone’s coming!” Cousin Dennis looked pale and wild-eyed.
Taylor disconnected. “Okay. Well —”
“A white pickup is coming down the road!”
The dogs barking from the front of the house seemed to confirm this intelligence.
Taylor swore inwardly, and led the way back inside. How the hell was Cousin Dennis suddenly his problem? “Is this the first vehicle that’s shown up since you arrived?”
“No. You showed up.”
Taylor drew a long breath and mentally counted to…three. “Who is it you think is coming after you?”
Cousin Dennis stared at him, silent and stricken.
“Hell.” Taylor went to the window and gazed out. A white pickup was indeed traveling at a fair clip down the dirt road, bouncing over potholes and rivulets.
No way would Bill Brandt have left Cousin Dennis here on his own if he’d thought there was a chance in hell of anyone coming after him.
On the other hand, Cousin Dennis was in WITSEC for a reason.
“Is there a cellar or a basement in this house?”
“A cellar. Yeah. They use it as a safe room.”
“Get down there and lock yourself in.” Taylor brushed past Cousin Dennis on his way to Will’s bedroom. He dug his SIG Sauer out of his bag and returned to the front room where Cousin Dennis was still standing paralyzed.
Taylor jostled his arm. “Hey. Snap out of it.”
Cousin Dennis blinked at him.
“I don’t know what your story is, but I can tell you that nobody is sending a hit squad after you in the form of a couple of yahoos in a beat-up pickup truck. All the same, get your ass in that cellar and don’t come out until I give you the all clear.”
Cousin Dennis seemed to have to work to unstick first one foot then the other, but at last he pulled free of his inertia and disappeared down the hall. Taylor jammed his pistol in the back band of his jeans and strolled out onto the front deck watching as the white pickup jounced to a stop on the hillside below. Riley and Roxie trotted up the steps to stand beside him. They had stopped barking and were watching the pickup truck with evident anticipation.
Three guys, who looked like extras from Duck Dynasty, were crammed in the cab of the rumbling truck, apparently getting the lay of the land. Blake Shelton’s “Mine Would Be You” blasted off the surrounding mountains, and several empty beer bottles, rolling around in the bed of the truck, clinked cheerfully.
“Wow,” muttered Taylor, and Riley wagged his tail as though in agreement.
Taylor lifted a hand in greeting.
One of the yahoos, dressed in woodland camo — complete with matching bandana — crawled out of the truck window and jumped to the ground.
“Is Brandt here?” he yelled. He was a big man. Some of it was muscle, some of it was flab, a lot of it was hair. Long black hair and long black beard. Altogether, it amounted to a sizeable and sturdy form.
Taylor relaxed. Not that he had really thought this was some country cousin branch of the mob come hunting Cousin Dennis, but life could be weird.
He called back, “Nope. Anything I can do for you?”
“Who are you?”
“Who wants to know?”
The guy said impatiently, “I want to know.”
I’m Larry; this is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl. Taylor bit back an inappropriate smile. First rule of visiting the in-laws: No laughing at the local wild life.
“And you are —?”
“Going to kick your ass if you don’t tell me what I want to know!” The big man drew himself up as though readying for battle.
Really? Taylor sighed. The weary sound carried in the sharp, crystalline air and Larry looked a little discomfited.
He recovered though, cheered on by the other two in the cab who were calling instructions to him, though unintelligible over the music and the truck engine. He bristled. “You a cop?”
“Something like that.” Actually, that was no longer true, and Taylor was startled to realize it.
But it was certainly true in spirit, and Larry bought it. He deflated a little, glancing back at the truck and his snarling kinfolk. Whatever messages of hope and comfort they were delivering seemed to inspire him. He yelled, “You tell Brandt that the Dooleys are looking for him.”
Taylor put a hand to his ear. “Sorry. I missed that. Who?”
“The Dooleys.”
“The…?”
“DOOLEYS,” roared Larry.
“Right. Got it.” Taylor leaned comfortably on the railing, smiling down at Larry who looked more and more baffled. “I’ll let ‘em know.”
Larry stared at him a moment longer and then climbed awkwardly, heavily back through the truck window. He was not built for climbing in and out of truck windows, and the endeavor revealed more glimpses of fish-white anatomy than Taylor wanted to see before breakfast.
When Larry was once more packed inside the sardine can, the truck pulled away in a wide arc, sending stones and beer bottles flying.
Blake Shelton’s voice faded mournfully into the distance.
“I need a lot more coffee if this is the way the day is going,” Taylor told the dogs. He went back into the house.
It took him about half a minute to find the cellar and less than a second to ascertain that Cousin Dennis was not in it.
“Dennis?” Taylor called.
No reply.
“Yo, Dennis. The coast is clear.”
Nothing. The dogs looked at him with interest. Riley cocking his head, Roxie flicking her ears and looking around helpfully.
“What the hell?” His voice sounded loud in the silence.
Dogs on his heels, Taylor conducted a swift but thorough search, striding from room to room, checking showers, bathtubs, closets, looking under beds. Cousin Dennis was nowhere in the house.
“No. Fucking. Way.”
But yes. Way. Cousin Dennis was gone.
Movement outside the small square window to his left had Taylor crossing the loft and staring out at the green meadow and a tiny figure in jeans and a plaid shirt making for the treeline of the forest of pines carpeting the mountains.
“Why? Why would you do that, you dumbass?”
It was a rhetorical question seeing that Cousin Dennis was too far away to hear — and getting farther by the minute.
Taylor pushed away from the window and tore downstairs, managing to avoid falling over the dogs who thought this was the start of a terrific new game.
Near the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed the railing and vaulted, landing lightly and running for the back of the house. He banged out through the door and jumped down from the deck to the soft, damp earth below.
Dennis was now a speck in the distance. Where did he think he was going? Did he have a plan or was he just running blind? Taylor whistled, the high, sharp sound cutting through the cool November air, but if Dennis heard, he gave no sign. The dogs began to circle Taylor, thrilled at whatever this was.
“You’ve gotta be kidding.”
If it was a joke, the joke was on him. Taylor took off after Dennis, the dogs loping alongside. His feet pounded the soft earth, the air was sweet and clear. Also thinner than he was used to and he had to work a little harder to get up to full speed. Dennis had a good head start, but Taylor wasn’t worried. He figured he was in a hell of a lot better shape. He set his pace and quickly closed the distance between them, but not in time to keep Dennis from reaching the trees and vanishing in the green and blue shadows.
Oh no you don’t, you bastard. Taylor slowed, stopped and reached for Riley, grabbing his collar and looking into Riley’s golden-brown eyes. “Find him, Riley. Go get him. Go get him, Riley!”
Riley was no police dog, but this was a game Will and Taylor played with him, and he gave Taylor a happy, hopeful look and darted ahead after Dennis.
Roxie followed, tongue lolling, as though she was laughing at them both.
Of course Riley was probably looking for Will, but maybe he would stumble over Dennis while he was at it.
Taylor, bringing up the rear, ducked under the pine branches, and stopped. He braced his hands on his thighs, catching his breath and listening. He straightened, wiped his damp face on his flannel sleeve and listened harder. The trees seemed to swallow all sound.
No. Not all sound. A couple of yards ahead, he could hear the dogs crashing through the undergrowth — and beyond that, something that sounded like a moose charging through the brush. Of course, maybe it was a moose. Did they have moose in Oregon?
Hopefully not. He’d seen moose in museums and those suckers were huge. He really did not want to run into a moose.
Or a bear.
Taylor began to move again, this time angling to the east of where he estimated Dennis was headed.
“Dennis, it’s MacAllister,” he called. “Stop running. It’s all clear.”
The thrashing sounds stopped.
“Dennis? You hear me? It’s okay. You can come back to the house.”
Taylor kept working his way forward, clambering over a fallen tree, avoiding a patch of something that looked suspiciously like poison ivy. Somewhere to his distant right he could hear the dogs. Whatever they were chasing now it wasn’t Dennis.
It wasn’t Dennis because Dennis was close by. Taylor could sense him, even if he couldn’t see him yet. He stopped walking, scanning the gloom.
“Dennis?”
What the hell was this guy so afraid of?
A bird suddenly burst out of the brush, wings flapping, twittering its distress call. Taylor jumped. There was movement to his left. He half turned and something swung out of the darkness and slammed into his head.
Gusts of dog breath and a rough, warm tongue frantically licking his face…
Taylor opened his eyes and pushed away Riley, who ducked under his arm and resumed efforts at resuscitation.
Taylor swore thickly. “Okay, Riley. I’m okay…”
Mostly. His face hurt like hell. His nose felt like it had exploded and there was warm, coppery, salty sludge slipping down the back of his throat. He gagged at the taste of his own blood, rolling onto his side and spitting it out into the pine needles. “God damn it.”
He cautiously felt his nose. Was it broken? His lip was definitely split. He looked at his hand, focusing blearily on the red smearing his fingers. “Jesus. That’s just great.”
How long had he been out? Not more than a minute or two, surely? Plenty of time for Cousin Dennis to make himself scarce. And what the hell was the guy’s problem? Even if he hadn’t recognized Taylor before he swung at him, he had to know after he knocked him down.
Taylor spread his palms and pushed up onto his knees. He reached for the nearest tree trunk and hauled himself to his feet. Roxie sat a few feet away, watching him curiously. Riley was much more agitated about recent events and kept dancing in front of Taylor like he was trying to encourage him to take action.
The only action Taylor was taking was going back to the house to call Will to let him know his father’s asshole charge had flipped out and made a run for the hills.
Not. His. Problem.
He wiped his sleeve against his still trickling nose, studied the gory results grimly, and started walking back to the house.
The sun felt good. He was cold from lying on the damp ground, cold from the shock of getting knocked out. Not that he was unused to physical punishment. Taylor knew he wasn’t badly hurt — although he was going to be seriously pissed off if his nose was broken — but his head thumped unpleasantly, his face throbbed, his heart was racketing around in his chest in a sick mix of shock and pain and adrenaline. It was not a good start to his day off.
And, as he crossed the meadow and drew close to the Brandt house, his day got abruptly worse.
Will’s SUV was gone.
He broke into a slow and painful jog, although he wasn’t sure why he was running. The Land Cruiser was not there. It wasn’t a trick of the light or a problem with his eyes. The Toyota was missing.
He came to a stop where it had been parked, breathing hard, staring stupidly at the tracks in the drying soil.
“I don’t believe it.”
But he did. As much as he’d have liked to tell himself he was dreaming, the drops of blood landing on the ground next to his boots seemed to indicate otherwise. He wiped his nose again, turned away and continued up the hill, up the stairs, and let himself into the house.
Inside, it was hushed and quiet. Empty.
Taylor walked back to Will’s bedroom. Will’s keys were no longer lying on top of the bureau.
He was finishing his phone call to the Sheriff’s Department when the Brandts returned, noisily trooping in, flushed with sun and wind, smelling of fish and river water, talking at the top of their voices and sending the jagged pain behind his eyes spiking.
“Hey, you’re here,” Will greeted him in evident surprise. “I thought you’d gone into t —” He stopped, took a closer look. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Your Cousin Dennis.”
“What are you talking about? What happened?” Will dropped his knapsack and went to Taylor. He put his hands on either side of Taylor’s face, tilting his head back. “He punched you?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly?”
Bill Brandt said in a hard voice, “Where is Dennis?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?” He got it from all three of them at the same time. They could have started their own barber shop quartet. Well, trio.
Taylor focused his ire on Grant, who was looking at him like he’d crawled out from under a bush. Technically, he had, but that expression didn’t exactly warm him to Will’s kid brother. Under the heat of his return glare, Grant reddened.
Taylor said, “Yes. Gone. Long story short. He’s on the run.”
Of course, no way were the Brandts going to accept the Reader’s Digest version, and Taylor had to go back and give the whole embarrassing play by play.
“Jeb and Tobe Dooley were here?” Bill’s face was thunderous.
Jeb and Tobe. Will had grown up in Deliverance, USA.
“There were three of them. I didn’t catch their first names,” Taylor said.
“You didn’t think you should keep an eye on Cousin Dennis?” Grant said. “You just left him to walk out?”
“Hey,” Will growled, turning to face his brother.
“You two knock it off,” Bill said. “I’ve gotta call Clary Bennett at the Marshal’s Service.”
“Bill, I reported Will’s car stolen to the Sheriff’s Department,” Taylor said.
“Oh great! Why would you do that?” Grant demanded.
“Because my car’s been stolen!” Will said.
“It didn’t occur to him that Cousin Dennis has to fly under the radar?”
“Since when are you an expert on witness protection? It looks to me like Cousin Dennis has decided to take his chances in the no-fly zone.”
“You done with that phone, son?” Bill asked Taylor, ignoring the debate in the background.
Taylor nodded and handed over the phone. He picked up the chunk of towel-wrapped ice and placed it gingerly against the bridge of his nose.
“You okay?” Will asked.
Taylor nodded.
Grant made a sound of repugnance and walked out of the kitchen.
Will turned, as though to go after him. “Forget about it,” Taylor said.
“I don’t think I want to forget about it.”
“Can you boys give me a minute?” Bill asked, with a clear effort at patience.
Taylor jumped off the counter where he had been sitting, and led the way to the living room. Will followed.
“Are you okay?” Will asked, as Taylor lowered himself to the long leather couch.
“I think the asshole broke my nose.”
Will leaned in, frowning. Taylor fended him off. “Careful.”
“Hold still…”
“Don’t touch it. It’s still bleeding.”
“I see that. You have to put pressure on the bleeding point.” Will delicately used his thumb and forefinger to pinch the tip of Taylor’s nose. “Like that. I don’t think it’s broken.”
Taylor brushed his hand away. “It didn’t use to wiggle so much.”
“I’ve seen a lot of broken noses, MacAllister. Your nose is still in one piece.”
Taylor huffed his irritation.
Will soothed, “It’s still a very handsome nose.”
Pinching his nostrils shut, Taylor said indistinctly, “Go to hell, Brandt.”
“I’m serious.” But he was smiling.
Taylor shook his head. His pride hurt worse than his nose.
Will moved closer, nuzzled his ear and murmured, “Yeah it is. And you’re going to have a beautiful pair of black eyes to go with it.”
Taylor closed his eyes and sighed.