Chapter Seven

It wasn't the brightest move he'd ever made and Paul felt it in every inch of his body. What in the world had they been they thinking last night when they'd cracked the bottle of Jack? Jesus, how many drinks had they downed? Might not be a great idea to look at the bottle to see what was left. Argh, his head felt like someone had tap danced on his skull all night. His mouth didn't fare much better. Someone had obviously snuck in and stuffed it full of cotton while he was asleep. If he was actually asleep—hard to tell the difference between passed out and sleeping.

God, he hated feeling like this. Precisely the reason he rarely drank. He wasn't the playboy type. Hanging out in bars, picking up women, and drinking like a fish weren't his style now or during the height of his glory. It looked good in the tabloids or in the entertainment blurbs of the popular online news reports. It wasn't so hot for an athlete who was serious about the game.

These days he was lucky if he drank a single beer in a week. His life was a haze of meetings, hockey practices, spunky young players, and, of course, financial reviews with his accountants, the bean counters and their spreadsheets. It took a lot of money to keep a farm team alive and there were many days when Paul wondered what kind of insanity had gotten into him the day he bought the team. At least until he was back out on the ice with the kids, who were so full of enthusiasm and joy for nothing more than the game itself. That's when he remembered why he'd bought the team and why he stayed even when it seemed like more than one man could handle.

Last night was a rarity for him. He couldn't remember the last time he sat alone with a woman and enjoyed good bourbon and conversation. Everyone always wanted something from him. When he'd played, the coaches wanted goals and the women wanted a star along with the spotlight that came with it. Now, the parents of his young players wanted him to make their sons stars. There was no such thing as a conversation without an underlying agenda.

Until last night. Sitting by the fire with Louie had been pleasant in spite of the tragedy that had brought them together. And there was no doubt, at least in his mind, his brother's rash actions fell into the category of tragedy.

The longer he sat beside her, the more he was intrigued by her rare beauty. She wasn't the model or the beauty queen type, she was something much better. Her skin was clear and fresh, her short hair dark and full of shine. He was fascinated by her eyes when she talked, mesmerized by the life that seemed to jump and roar in them. He'd wanted to kiss her from the beginning and when their lips finally did meet, man oh man it had sent a fire right into the old pants.

That she was a willing, almost eager, participant warmed him through. She was responding to him, not the NHL star, not the coach, but to the man. And it felt fantastic, at least until rational thought shoved its way into his brain and he'd opted to take the high road. It sucked, no doubt about it, but until he had Jamie by the scruff of the neck, he needed to focus on more important things than his libido. Jamie first, and then he'd have all the time in the world to see where things could take them.

Everything in its time and the time would be later when this unpleasant task was done. That seemed like a really good and lucid train of thought until he raised his head to see her standing in the doorway. In shorts and a plain cotton shirt, her long legs bare and golden, he just about swallowed his tongue. The high road was hard to take when a vision like that was a guy's wake-up call. One thing was certain, he wasn't about to stand up anytime soon. His eyes darted to the blanket and he raised one leg slightly. No need to broadcast what was going through his mind.

"Hey," she said with a small smile.

"Hey."

"I know you're not a coffee guy, so would you like some tea?"

"Yeah," he squeaked. Was that his voice? Great. So smooth. A little booze, a little kissy-face, and he turned into a guy with the nerves of a thirteen-year-old. Get it together, McDonald.

"Be with you in a sec." She turned away and disappeared back through the doorway into the kitchen.

Paul dropped his head down to the pillow and groaned. They'd better find Jamie and soon. If she kept looking like that, the high road be damned. He'd jump her bones like an over-eager frat boy.

* * * *

For a man who'd kissed her like a lover last night, he certainly was different in the light of day. Granted, he did look a little worse for wear, and she supposed the bourbon played a big hand in that. Wait, there was no supposing about it. Way too much liquor combined with cozy firelight had set the mood, and both of them had responded. She'd like to say she was sorry except she wasn't. It had been great. There were times when getting carried away with the moment was the right thing to do and last night was one such moment. She smiled all over again just thinking about the touch of his lips to hers. She'd like more of that, but maybe not right now.

Waiting for the tea to steep, Louie risked a peek around the corner. Paul's head was on the pillow, an arm thrown over his eyes. Damn, he looked good. Thinking about how he'd reacted to her a few minutes ago gave her pause. For a second there it seemed like he would jump right out of his skin. Twitchy, definitely twitchy. Never realized she had that kind of power over a man. Some tough hockey player he seemed to be. If he was going to shadow her on this hunt, he really was going to have to toughen up.

Then again, the end to last night was unexpected. She bet he felt the same way. They didn't really know each other, she was tracking his criminal brother, and they'd discovered a dead body. None of those things were particularly conducive to the start of a romantic relationship. And yet that's the way it felt the moment his lips touched hers: pure romance, not at all like a couple of strangers reaching out in an alcohol-enhanced moment. No, it truly had felt natural and real. That he pulled back and hadn't seized the advantage impressed her more than a little.

It took a lot to impress Louie; she'd seen and heard it all. If not during her days on the police force, certainly since becoming a bail enforcement agent. Every excuse known to man had been offered during the last five years, and she'd grown hardened in response. Or maybe she was just cynical. In any event, impressing her was not something done easily or often.

Before she'd announced her presence and asked Paul if he wanted tea, she'd studied him for a few minutes. She didn't mean to spy. More than anything else, she was curious, or at least that's what she told herself. She was as intrigued with Paul McDonald as with any man. He kept surprising her, and she liked that about him.

With all the bourbon she poured down last night, she thought she'd drop like a rock once she hit the bed. Didn't happen. Instead, she kept seeing his green eyes and recalling the fabulous pressure of his lips against hers. She'd wanted more and was disappointed when he pulled away. Well, disappointed and awed. Most men she knew would have pressed the advantage and dealt with the fallout later. Not Paul McDonald, who took the gentleman's path.

This morning with his red hair tousled, and his long, muscular body stretched out on her sofa, she'd had the crazy urge to run in and jump on him. Considering the fact he was the brother of a man under federal indictment, that didn't make a whole lot of sense. Plenty of men expressed interest in Louie, and a couple who were even doggedly persistent. She'd dated one or two of them, and it had been fine. The difference between those men and the one on her sofa was simple: sparks. Not once did she experience the urge to jump on any of the others. Only one so far filled her with such want and a complete and utter disregard for consequences.

Once more the single word floated through her mind: crazy.

The tea she fixed now was little more than an excuse to get out of the same room. She'd really been afraid she'd do something to embarrass herself. A little time and a little space were in order. Give her that and she'd be rock steady Louie again.

By the time the tea had steeped, Paul was up and looking more like the man she met on the ice that first day. His green eyes were clear and though he was a bit on the pale side, he appeared to be making a full recovery.

They sat at the bar in the kitchen and drank the tea while chatting about his brother and what they'd do next. Neither one of them brought up the kiss or what it implied. It sort of hung between them, acknowledged though unspoken. As if either one of them mentioned it, the magic would be gone. So they drank tea, exchanged smiles and small talk as though nothing passed between them.

The tea polished off, Paul left and after Louie changed into jeans and a blouse, she headed over to her office. When she parked the Chevelle outside the brick building, she noticed that Paul's car wasn't in the lot.

She breathed easier. Thank God for small favors.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Louie turned and grinned but her smile faded as she got a good look at Meg. Her coffee-colored skin was gray and her eyes were hooded. Her whole body seemed smaller, almost folded in on itself. Louie ran to Meg's side and took one arm to help her up the stairs. Always thin, today Meg felt like little more than a shadow.

"Are you all right?" There had to be some reason her friend seemed to fade away before her eyes.

Meg patted Louie's arm. "Had better days, little one, but this too shall pass," she said.

Had better days? That was an understatement. Louie knew some really good doctors and she was certain they could do something to help Meg. "Maybe we should take a run to the doctor's office?"

Meg shook her head. "No, no, no. All I need is a little rest and I'll be good as gold."

Louie wasn't buying it. She'd never seen Meg look this haggard before. On most days, she was a veritable ray of sunshine, a bundle of energy and good humor that Louie envied. Not today, and a feeling deep in the pit of her stomach told her this wasn't good. She couldn't just stand by and do nothing. There had to be something she could do. She helped Meg up the stairs and into the small apartment.

Louie got Meg settled into her favorite chair and made her a cup of steaming tea, the special Earl Grey ordered from England. She set it on the small table beside Meg and knelt in front of her.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call the doctor? I'll go with you."

Meg's smile held some of her usual brightness. She touched a frail hand to Louie's hair. "No, Louise, I don't want to visit the doctor."

"I think…"

Meg pressed a finger to Louie's lips, stopping her. "I'm an old woman and time, my dear sweet friend, takes its toll whether we want it to or not. The doctor cannot turn back the clock and make me young and vital again."

"He could help you feel better."

"Perhaps and perhaps not. This is what it is and I accept that. You'll have to do the same."

"I don't know."

Her smile was sad. "I've had my day, Louise, and it was good. Now, I watch time pass and wonder when I will join my dear sweet Henry. I don't believe it will be today, so please stop worrying. I'm going to be as fine as an old lady can be."

"I can't help but worry about you."

"And that's one of the reason I love you. I can't imagine how dull these last few years would have been without you around. You remind me of myself, little one. You are the kind of pistol I was in my day. You'll do something good for this world and I'll go to my maker glad you were my friend."

Louie smiled. She appreciated Meg's confidence in her even if it might be misplaced. She did know that having Meg as her friend made her a better person. "And right back at you."

Meg squeezed her hand. "Now get to work," she said. "You're wasting daylight, as my darling Henry would say."

"Yes ma'am." Louie saluted.

By the time Louie left the apartment, Meg was at rest in her chair, her eyes closed. Louie felt a little better, though not much. Despite Meg's protestations to the contrary, she looked ill and Louie didn't like it. She made a mental note to check on Meg more often and to ask Harry to keep an eye out as well. Friends like Meg were few and far between, and she didn't want anything to happen to Meg.

* * * *

Jamie knew it was stupid to even do this, but what choice did he have at this point? He had nowhere to run and no one to run to. They'd killed the one person who still believed in him. Now, she was cold and dead, and it was his fault. He was more alone than ever and he deserved to be.

Except for his brother. Paul would be furious, and even Jamie couldn't blame him at this point. Man, oh man, he'd screwed things up big time, even for a lifelong screw-up like him. Right now, he was desperate enough to risk Paul's fury.

The time Jamie'd spent underneath the city bridge was the last straw. While that nasty spot under the bridge had been an excellent place to hide, he couldn't and wouldn't spend one more second beneath the rattling concrete and asphalt. The thought of what he might find if he returned was something he couldn't deal with. No, what he needed were clothes, food, and a car, and he needed them pronto.

He would beg, he would cry…hell, he'd do whatever he needed to in order to get Paul to listen. If Jamie just stuck to the truth, even as crappy as it was, Paul would have to help him. There was a time, even if it was a long time ago, when they were close. Paul would remember. He'd have to. If he didn't, Jamie was afraid he'd be dead before the week was out. He could feel them breathing down the back of his neck already, and it had him jumping at his own shadow.

Paul might hate Jamie for a dozen different reasons, but he refused to believe Paul would turn his back and let his only brother die. He'd always been a stand-up kind of guy, the one who did the right thing every time. More important, they were blood and that had to count for something. Didn't it? Jesus, Jamie hoped so.

Early morning traffic was light as he walked on the shoulder of the narrow road toward Paul's house. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. He kept to the shadows along the ridge of the prairie they call Five Mile. Once, long ago, instead of the high-end urban developments now dotting the landscape, Five Mile had been covered with massive wheat fields and family farms. In the middle of the hundreds of acres of prairie sat an old red brick schoolhouse and the requisite clapboard-sided country grange painted bright white.

Just down the road from the schoolhouse, Paul's place was one of the few original farmhouses still on the prairie, distinctive amidst the rush of modern architecture of the surrounding homes. From the outside, it looked much like it did in days gone by. Inside was different story, with every modern convenience installed with great care and thought. The house still had an original feel to it without sacrificing its past. Jamie hadn't been invited here often, but when he did, he was in awe of the home Paul had made.

Jamie had thought it wise to come under the cover of the pre-dawn darkness, particularly considering it had been days since he'd showered or shaved. A hundred years ago, he could have moved through the area without attracting attention. Today, his clothes were dirty and he smelled. He'd stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. People would pay attention and he didn't need a nosy neighbor calling the police.

After he waited a good two hours under the fire bushes planted along one of the small out-buildings, Jamie felt confident enough to sneak up to the back door. He hadn't noticed a single sign of life during the entire time he waited. Quiet as a cemetery, there was a feeling of emptiness. He was pretty sure Paul wasn't at home.

At the back door, he tried the knob. Of course it was locked. No big surprise, since Paul was a careful guy. Jamie reached up to feel around the gutter and the planters. Hopefully, big brother tucked away an emergency key. No such luck. He eyed the door, solid wood with six panels of glass. It was attractive and designed to allow plenty of light into the kitchen. He studied it for a long moment before making his decision.

The choice was between his safety and Paul's property. Right at the moment, Jamie didn't much care about a mess or damage to the tidy house. He looked around and spied a nice big rock just on the other side of the driveway. Once he held the rock in his hand, Jamie put it through the glass of the back door panel closest to the lock. He carefully reached through the jagged pieces to turn the deadbolt. The door whispered open. He slipped inside and held his breath. So far, so good.

No alarm screeched to announce his unauthorized entry, and he let out that withheld breath, relieved. Just in case, he zipped to the front of the house to look for an alarm panel and found it inside the front hall. He also found it was armed and the clock was ticking. Jamie started to panic, and then, just as quickly stopped and smiled. He punched in a four-digit number and voila, the lighted digital panel informed him the alarm was disengaged. All it took to shut it down was a head for trivia and the ability to recall the year of his brother's Stanley Cup winning goal. Good old dependable and, more importantly, predictable Paul.

With the alarm disengaged, Jamie stood very still and listened. Earlier, he'd had the sense the house was empty and he'd been right. Odd, though. Paul was very much a creature of habit. With the start of the new season, Paul would never consider leaving town during the season. Not without his team anyway.

Of course, Jamie hadn't talked to Paul in a long time and things change. For all he knew, Paul could have a couple of beauties on the string and might be spending a little quality time with one, or both. Didn't sound like such a bad idea to Jamie.

He remembered all too well the throngs of women that hung on his brother when he was a player. They were at every door in every city and they never seemed to have eyes for anyone but Paul McDonald. Why should it be any different now? Big brother was still tall, handsome, and successful, the holy trinity for a babe magnet.

But Jamie had no time to worry about why Paul wasn't home. Too much to do. First things first: he raced up the carpeted oak stairs, stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower in Paul's master bath. The shower itself was an absolute thing of beauty with glass walls and three massaging shower heads. After a couple of nights of torture, the warm water assaulting his body from the different directions was nothing short of heaven. He scrubbed until his skin glowed and he felt clean for the first time in days. He sure smelled a lot better.

He dug around in the bathroom drawers and was rewarded by the discovery of a brand new toothbrush, still in the package. Who'd have guessed the simple act of brushing his teeth would be this incredible? He rinsed his mouth and ran his tongue over his clean teeth. He was beginning to feel human again.

He gazed at his reflection in the mirror and gave thought to passing up a shave. The stubble he now sported sort of made him look dangerous and not much like himself. Then it occurred to him a beard wouldn't be much of a disguise. Letting his beard grow out would be a different look and that's about it. Nothing could be done about the damn red hair. Neither he nor Paul had ever been able to blend into a crowd thanks to their fine Scottish heritage. Too bad he hadn't thought about hair dye. He sighed, grabbed the razor and went to work on his face. A few minutes later, he looked up. He still didn't recognize the pale, trembling reflection that stared back him from the mirror, but at least it was clean.

Now for clothes. Paul was taller than Jamie and more muscled, thanks to plenty of time on the ice and in weight rooms. The star-turned-coach didn't expect anything of his players he wasn't willing to do himself. More than once, Jamie watched Paul in the gym side by side with his young players working just as hard as they were.

Jamie hadn't skated or worked out in years, and as much as he hated to admit the truth, it showed. Once he'd figured out he could never become the player Paul turned out to be, he'd stopped trying. What was the point? That was pretty much the way it was between them. Paul excelled and Jamie fell a thousand miles short.

But, enough with the poor me crap. What he really needed to do was find some clean clothes. Fortunately, the size difference between them wasn't enough to be a problem. Jamie rifled through the closet, found clean jeans and a shirt. Over the shirt he slipped on an old Vancouver Canucks sweatshirt.

And now for shoes, because his sneakers were filthy. Jamie studied the row of black, brown, and tan shoes lined up with military precision on the closet floor. Where was Paul's sense of adventure? Not a decent pair of sneakers in the bunch. Jamie cocked an eyebrow and leaned down. He shouldn't do it. No, he really shouldn't. He knelt down in the closet and moved the shoes around until all the colors were mixed together. Some shoes faced forward, some backward. A couple he turned upside down. When he stood up, he was smiling. So much better.

It didn't bother him a bit to wear Paul's clothes. What Jamie couldn't deal with were the old guy shoes. He was going to have to be content with his dirty sneakers. His handiwork inside the closet completed, he went to the bed. He sat down and slipped on his own old sneakers over the nice clean socks. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head. Showered and dressed, Jamie felt like a new man and with it came a rush of hope. Maybe things would work out after all.

His stomach growled loudly in the quiet of the bedroom. He didn't realize until now how hungry he was. Downstairs, he found food and tea, exactly what he needed after the craziness of his life during the last interminable hours. While he ate breakfast and drank three cups of strong tea, he made his plans. If he played his cards right, he could make it to the border crossing north of Metaline Falls in a couple of hours.

Once he got back to Canada, what could they do to him? If he laid low long enough, they were bound to forget about him eventually. There was, after all, a statute of limitations. All he had to do was ride it out and then he'd be in fat city. It seemed to him that in spite of his arrest and Kendall's murder, patience could very well have its rewards.

The thought of Kendall made his heart ache. He didn't think that particular ache would ever leave him. He'd have to learn to live with it and without Kendall.

Cleaned up and with food in his stomach, Jamie's optimism grew as did the sunlight out the window. He left the kitchen, dishes still on the table, and walked outside. In the bright sunlight, he got another great idea. He backtracked into the kitchen and through the door connecting the kitchen to a short breezeway attached to the three-car garage. At the garage, he reached out to flip on the overhead fluorescent light. He shook his head as he looked around the garage. In typical Paul style, it was finished top to bottom and painted a bright white. Only his brother would have a garage as nice as the house. As much as he admired Paul, the guy did have some weird quirks. Wound a little tight in Jamie's opinion.

Just as he hoped, the sleek blue Harley Davidson Fat Boy sat in the corner as though it waited just for him. Yes.

It was a thing of beauty and he'd been impressed with it since the day Paul brought it home. Jamie remembered the day well. It was one of the last times they spoke to each other. The very next day Paul made it very clear Jamie was never to call him again. That, like his beautiful Kendall, was something he didn't want to think about. He really wasn't stupid, and knew refusing to think about it was little more than sticking his head in the sand. He didn't care if it was stupid. He had a bigger problem: just staying alive.

He turned his attention back to the motorcycle. The paint was a deep blue that by itself was impressive. What Jamie liked most were the flames that were so realistic he could almost feel the heat of the fire coming off of them. Even with his own artistic background, he could never figure out how someone was able to create the realism of the waves of flickering fire. Paul must have spent a fortune on the paint alone. Jamie ran his fingertips across the flames. Paul was bound to be furious when he discovered the bike missing. Jamie sighed and pulled his hand away. He didn't have a choice. Or rather he didn't have a better choice. It had to be the bike.

As if to further reinforce his sense of absolute destiny, it didn't take him long to find the keys. Paul hadn't changed much over the years and was a creature of habit, at least to someone who grew up with him. Jamie remembered how Paul would line up his hockey sticks in a perfect row, and stack the pucks in piles five high. Never six, never four—always five.

Back in the garage, Jamie put the key in the ignition, pulled out the choke, and turned the throttle. The bike roared to life and with the rumble of the big engine bouncing off the garage walls, Jamie's hope rose even higher. Things were falling into place like magic. It was all going to work out.

Jamie sat on the Fat Boy and with the toe of his shoe, popped it into neutral. With his feet on the concrete, he pushed it backward out of the garage and into the driveway. It took a few minutes to maneuver it around until he and the bike faced the street. In less than ten minutes he had the house and the garage locked back up, or at least locked up as well as he could, considering he'd knocked out one of the window panes in the back door. He didn't feel great about leaving Paul's house with a broken window. Still, some things couldn't be helped and if things went as he hoped, someday he'd be able to make it up to his brother.

As soon as everything was done, Jamie once more straddled the bike and this time, put it into first gear. It lurched when he slowly released the clutch and his heart jumped with it. He pulled the clutch back in and took a breath. He could do this. After all, he and Paul spent their childhoods riding dirt bikes behind their cabin up in the mountains. If he could ride those dirt bikes, he could master the Harley. He tried again, letting the clutch out slow and easy. This time, the bike purred without jerking forward. His confidence steadied. In the bright morning sun, he glided away, his sights set on the border crossing ninety miles to the north.

The cool morning breeze kissed his face as Jamie wove in and out of traffic. Once he reached the open stretch of highway, he kicked the Harley into fifth gear and roared north.

* * * *

Paul was less than wild about the idea of leaving Louie. At the same, he couldn't fight her logic. Though she was giving him the bum's rush, she was right. He'd have to go home at some point and yes, he did have a hockey franchise to run as well. Fall was starting to roll in, pre-season games were on the agenda, and league games would start soon enough. His team was good and he was confident they'd have a stellar season. Still, if he neglected the team, it'd show and his hopes for a title would fade in a flash. It wouldn't be fair to the young men who counted on him. For his older players, it could mean the difference between going to the NHL and going home.

So he gave Louie a quick kiss and left her on the front steps. He didn't look back, afraid if he did, he'd change his mind and pull her back into the house. It was hard work being a gentleman.

The early morning traffic was pretty light. Francis Street had a nasty habit of clogging up at peak rush hour times and he didn't want to find himself staring at a row of red lights right now. Somebody was looking out for him, because he made it across Francis and up Maple in record time.

He didn't bother with the garage and instead parked in the driveway closer to the front of the house. He wouldn't be home long enough to put the car away. A change of clothes, a quick of check of emails and messages, then on to the arena for a couple hours. If everything went well, and he had no reason to believe it wouldn't, he'd make it back to Louie's office by lunch.

Jogging up the front steps, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Paul paused the moment his feet hit the tiled entry. His eyes narrowed and his gaze swept the entry. He missed it at first. He took a breath and looked again. Then he saw that the light on the alarm box glowed pale green. It was blinking bright red when he left the house yesterday.

Did he forget to the set the alarm? No way. Not once had he forgotten since his house was burglarized and his skates from his last championship were stolen. He still watched the sports memorabilia sites waiting for those skates to make an appearance. Had the thieves come back for his stick?

Except it didn't feel like as simple as a theft. The hair at the back of his neck prickled, and after what he witnessed at that poor girl's house, a knot hit like granite in the pit of his stomach. Like he didn't have enough on his plate already. He should turn around, head back outside and wait for the police to show up. He didn't have the time to be a careful man and frankly, he didn't have the patience. Instead, he stood still and listened. Nothing except the tick, tick, tick of the grandfather clock in the living room.

Relatively certain he was alone, he walked through the entire house, upstairs and down. His initial sense of disturbance was spot on. The first thing he found was a broken window in the kitchen door. Shards of glass were scattered across the cocoa-colored quarry tile like tiny glittering crystals. At least he knew how they got in.

He quickly figured out who the intruder had been and it wasn't a they or a stranger. The wet towels in his bathroom, the filthy clothes left on the floor, and the kitchen that looked as though a gang of teenagers assaulted the refrigerator were all achingly familiar. The handiwork possessed a signature he knew well. Jamie.

Back downstairs in the kitchen, Paul picked up the phone, and after a moment of hesitation, put it back down. Instead of a call, he left the kitchen and headed to the garage. Relief washed over him when the lights came on to reveal his treasured Mustang still parked safe and sound in its customary spot.

He was just about to leave the garage to go back in and call Louie when he stopped and did a slow turn. Son-of-a-bitch. Despite his initial observation, everything in the garage was not as he'd left it.

The little bastard had taken his Harley.

When he left the garage, his blood was boiling. This was not good, not good at all. The worst part wasn't the fact Jamie took a very expensive custom bike with trick paint and tons of chrome. The worst part was Jamie was an inexperienced rider. All it would take to destroy both Jamie and the beautiful bike would be a tiny slip on gravel. Did Jamie's stupidity have no end? He hurried to the phone while digging out Louie's card from his pocket. She picked up on the first ring.

"We have a problem," he told her. "A big problem."

When he finished explaining what he'd found, she asked. "Where do you think he's headed?"

The answer didn't require much in the way of thought. "He's going home."

"As in Canada?"

"One and the same. He'll be heading to British Columbia. I'd bank on it."

"We have to grab him before he gets into B.C."

"That shouldn't be too hard. I mean, how's he going to get across the border? Aren't the feds looking for him too?"

Louie was quiet for a moment and then asked. "Have you seen your passport lately?"

"Damn it," he muttered as he ran up the stairs and through the door of his office. Now he walked into the room and studied his desk. Every drawer was open at least a crack. He closed his eyes and let out a big sigh. He didn't need to open a single drawer to know what he'd find. He did anyway, his hand going to the top drawer on the left hand side. He stared at the empty spot where yesterday his passport had been.

"Jamie looks a lot like you." Louie's voice was soft. He'd forgotten he was still holding the phone to his ear.

Paul gripped the handset with one hand and rubbed his throbbing temple with the other. Yeah, he knew they looked alike. Even though Paul was older, they both had fair complexions, green eyes and the distinctive red hair. Paul was taller, though he doubted anyone would notice unless they stood side by side. Jamie's odds were better than average of breezing right through at the border and no one would be the wiser.

"We need to haul ass," he said.

"Well put."

"I'll be at your office in twenty minutes."

He was still cursing under his breath as he put the handheld's receiver back into the cradle on the kitchen counter. He had ten minutes to shower and put on clean clothes. As for his team, well, what were assistant coaches good for if not to cover for him when he couldn't be there? He called his first assistant, Michael Curry, on his cell while he sped through traffic. Michael tried to pump Paul for details. He didn't get far because Paul ended the call mid-sentence. Michael would just have to wait for all the nitty gritty.