Night Thunder Page 3

  Damn. She didn’t want to go in there. The entire situation was freaking her out. But if she went in, she could leave the package on a table or something and when Archie got here, it’d be safe.

  The cabdriver leaned out the window. “Lady, I’m not supposed to just sit. You want me to take you someplace or what?”

  “Yes, yes, I do. Wait one more minute.”

  She shoved the door open and stepped inside. There were lights on, and a window air conditioner whirred somewhere.

  “Archie?”

  No answer.

  The house was warm, though, and cluttered, with a tiny hall and a brown-carpeted living room filled with a mismatched jumble of older furniture that contrasted with the gleaming, twenty-first-century wide-screen TV dominating one wall. There was a wood coffee table in front of a cracked black leather sofa and she hurried toward it, planning to leave the package right there, next to three empty beer bottles and a pile of laundry. But then she heard a noise coming from a back room.

  Not just any noise—one that made the skin on the back of her neck prickle. It was a moan.

  For a moment, Josy froze, then she started toward the sound. She heard another moan—it seemed to be coming from the kitchen up ahead.

  She saw him as soon as she reached the doorway. He was lying facedown on the linoleum floor. There was blood everywhere—beneath him, on the counter, the refrigerator, the floor. The queasiness rushed to her head and she sucked in a deep breath to steady herself.

  “Oh, God.” Shock ripped through her. She ran to him and knelt down. He was young, tough-looking, twentyish. His face was turned toward her and she saw that his brown eyes were open. They looked glazed, sad . . . dim. She also saw the bullet hole that had torn through his thin shoulder blades and gouged out a hole in his faded green cotton shirt.

  “Archie?” she gasped. “Archie, hold on, I’ll get help.”

  She groped in her tote for her cell phone, but before she could find it, he wheezed, “No . . . get outta here. Take the package . . . get out . . .”

  She ignored him and punched in 911, still on her knees beside him.

  “A man’s been hurt. He’s bleeding. We need an ambulance.” Her voice was high-pitched, rapid. “The address?” She gave it in a rush. “Yes, he’s conscious, but there’s blood all over the—”

  Suddenly, the wounded man’s arm shot out and grabbed the phone. His finger jammed against the end button, and then, groaning, he threw the phone as far as he could. It slid to a rest only five feet away, against the base of an electric stove.

  “No . . . cops,” he told her, but his voice sounded even weaker than it had before. “Get out . . . take the package . . . go . . .”

  Her cell phone rang and she scrambled across the floor to grab it, half expecting the emergency operator to have traced the call and called back for more information.

  But Ricky’s voice yelled in her ear. “Josy, change in plans. Don’t go to the address I gave you—”

  “I’m already here. Ricky, a man’s been shot. I think it’s Archie! You’re Archie, aren’t you?” she asked the man on the floor, whose eyes were now closed, scaring her half to death.

  “Yeah. Lemme . . . talk to . . . Ricky . . . tell him . . . Hammer . . .”

  “Ricky, what the hell’s going on?” she shrieked.

  “How bad is he hurt?” Ricky ignored her question. “Did you call an ambulance?”

  “Yes, they’re on their way—”

  “Then get the hell out of there, Josy. Now!”

  “Oh, no. Ricky . . . Ricky, I think . . .”

  The man’s eyes were closed again. He wasn’t even moaning now. Please, she prayed silently, forgetting about Ricky, forgetting about everything except the man lying in his own blood on the floor.

  “Archie,” she cried. She set the phone down, reached for his wrist, felt for a pulse. She hadn’t done this since they’d learned it in health class in high school. She hadn’t been good at it. She couldn’t feel one now. Shouldn’t she be doing something else? Mouth to mouth? Putting pressure on the wound?

  She couldn’t feel a pulse. He looked so still, so . . .

  “Ricky, I think . . . he’s dead!”

  She heard the scream of an ambulance in the distance.

  “Josy, you still got the package? Take it with you right this damned minute and get the hell out of there!” Ricky roared into the phone.

  “But I can’t leave—”

  “Yes, you can. For me, Josy. I can’t let the cops get that package, you see? Get outta there. If he’s going to make it, the paramedics will save him. All you can do is get the hell out!”

  She was still frozen, still staring at Archie, who hadn’t moved a muscle, when she heard something else.

  The front door, squeaking open. Low voices.

  Pure instinct had her surging to her feet, trembling, edging out of sight of the front part of the house. She held her breath, clutching the cell phone, fear rushing at her.

  “Josy, do you hear—” She hit the end button to blot out Ricky’s shout and turned off the phone. Whoever was out there, it sure wasn’t the paramedics. Maybe whoever had shot Archie had come back to finish him off. Though from the looks of it, there was no need, she thought, her gaze shifting to him and then quickly away.

  She’d never seen a dead man before, but she was pretty sure she’d seen one now.

  She wanted to scream, but she clenched all her muscles tight, took a deep breath, and leaned forward ever so slightly so that she could peek around the doorway and down the hall. She just caught a glimpse of a man with dark blond hair dressed all in black—black blazer, black slacks, and a black gun in his hand. Now, there’s a fashion accessory I can do without, she thought, jerking back out of sight.

  Ricky was right. She had to get out of here.

  There was a side door off the kitchen. She edged toward it, praying the floor wouldn’t creak. She took one last look back at Archie, who hadn’t moved or spoken a word, and opened the door.

  It led outside into a small unfenced yard. Carefully, she stepped out and closed the door after her.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the hot darkness, but the moon riding high overhead helped and she saw a maze of backyards on either side of her.

  She ran toward the left and glanced at the street, praying the cab was still there, knowing it was her best chance.

  It was gone.

  Choking down panic, she veered away from the street, clutching her tote close, running faster than she’d ever thought she could in sandals with two-inch heels.

  She dashed through yards, past swing sets and fig trees and marigold gardens, running, running. She nearly ran over a couple of teenagers drinking beer on a beach towel spread across the grass and slowed down long enough to ask them where the nearest subway station was.

  They pointed her toward the Fort Hamilton stop, and she stumbled on. She had no idea how long she ran before she reached it. Every so often, she twisted her head around, trying to see if she was being followed. She wasn’t—yet. But even when she reached the F train and sank onto a seat in the back, she couldn’t believe she’d gotten away.

  “Faster,” she urged the train silently, as she slumped back, clutching her sides. Her head was pounding with the vision of a dead man on a linoleum floor, and another man with a gun, searching the house, looking for . . . what?

  The answer was obvious. For her. Or the package.

  Possibly both.

  I know I owe you, Ricky, she thought miserably, and I’ll always be grateful—but what the hell have you gotten me into? A shudder racked her shoulders, and serious nausea clogged her throat.

  She pulled the tote closer and peered inside at the dark shape of the package. She needed to know what was inside it. And more important, she thought, fear eating through the inner lining of her stomach, how the hell was she going to get rid of it?

  By the time she reached the door of her apartment and had to try three times to fit her ke
y in the lock because her hand was shaking so badly, she’d decided that things couldn’t get any worse.

  But then they did. She opened the door at last and gasped.

  Her lovely, tidy, chic, and comfortable apartment, the one place that felt more like home to her than any place she’d lived in except for her childhood bedroom before her parents had died, looked like a hurricane had blown through and left a wake of destruction.

  The sofa cushions had been slashed and dumped on the floor, lamps were knocked over, the coffee table kicked aside. Her lovely rose silk bedding was in a heap on the floor and the drawers of the antique Regency dresser she’d so painstakingly refinished had been overturned, her clothes strewn everywhere imaginable.

  Even her trash can in the kitchen had been upended. Garbage lay everywhere on the previously shining white-tile floor, alongside pots and pans, cracked dishes, and boxes of Cheerios and macaroni and cheese and broken chocolate chip cookies.

  Shock and anger raged through her, along with the slick rush of fear.

  What the hell is so damned important about this package? she thought furiously, and reached into her tote to pull it out. She glared at it a moment, then started to rip the brown paper off, but she stopped dead when her apartment phone rang.

  “Josy! Josy, are you there? Damn it, Josy, why’d you turn off your cell? Answer me!” Rough fear throbbed through Ricky’s voice. Somehow, she found her own.

  “They were here, Ricky. In my apartment. They’ve ruined . . . everything.”

  “They tossed your apartment? Jesus. Josy, I’m sorry.” She heard him suck in his breath. “You don’t know how sorry I am. Things weren’t supposed to go down this way. I never thought . . . listen, you need to get out of town. Now.”

  “Out of town? No, Ricky, that’s crazy. I need to call the police!” She sank down on her stripped-down bed, still holding the parcel.

  “Josy, listen to me. That’s the worst thing you can do. They want what’s inside the package and they’ll kill you to get it.”

  “That’s why I have to get rid of it—fast.” She heard her voice rising, on the brink of hysteria. “The police can take it off my hands and—”

  “Josy, I’m not sure who we can trust at the police department. I was set up . . . and until I know for sure how many were involved, I can’t go to them and neither can you. Pack a bag and—”

  “Are you crazy? I have a job. My boss is expecting me to turn in sketches for the fall collection in two weeks. Running away is not an option—”

  “Neither is dying,” Ricky yelled at the other end of the phone.

  That stunned her into silence. Ricky continued more quietly, but with that same urgency she’d heard the first time he called about the package.

  “I never should have gotten you mixed up in this. I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought . . . never mind. You have to get out, Josy, tonight, right now. I’m nowhere near the city, or I’d get you out myself, but I can’t come back. I can’t be found, not yet . . . and you can’t be found either. So pack a bag, take the package, and go somewhere no one would expect. Not to any friend, anyone they could find out about or locate. Go someplace where you can get lost for a while, until I can get to you and take the package back.”

  “Ricky . . .” She could barely speak. Her voice was a hoarse, sick rasp. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

  “Yeah. I’m asking you to save your life. And mine. You know I wouldn’t unless this was really important, Josy. These guys don’t fool around. They can’t get that package, and they can’t catch up to you. They’re not the type to ask questions and leave quietly, you know what I mean?”

  Her heart was pounding like the roar of the subway. She felt as if she were in a movie, the loud, violent, gritty kind of movie she didn’t especially care for . . . only it wasn’t a movie, it was her life.

  “How are you going to find me? Shouldn’t I tell you where I’m going?”

  “Not now—not on this line. Just go . . . and I mean now. Grab the package and get out—don’t use your cell phone once you disappear, buy a disposable, one with no contract, nothing to trace back to you, and don’t use it until I tell you. Open a new e-mail account on Hotmail and send me an e-mail when you’re settled and safe. Then I’ll get you instructions. Don’t use my regular screen name. Middle name, Josy. You know the one. Middle name. Add my age. I’ll contact you when I can and take the package off your hands. Oh, hell, I gotta go—”

  And then there was nothing. Ricky had vanished.

  Just like she had to do.

  She fought down a sob, dragged her suitcase from the closet, and grabbed an armload of clothes.

  Two hours later she was at LaGuardia, boarding a plane for Salt Lake City. She had her tote, her suitcase, and her sketch pad, and she made it on the plane in one piece.

  That was something, Josy thought, as the jet taxied down the runway before takeoff.

  There was only one place she’d thought to go. A place far from New York, where she could lose herself, lay low, have time to think, to work, and maybe put some pieces of her life together while she was trying to save that same life.

  A town where a woman named Ada Scott lived. A town as different from New York as cowhide was from crystal. A town where she could try to recharge what was left of her creative batteries and meet the one living relative she had left in this world.

  A town called Thunder Creek.

  Chapter 3

  AT TEN MINUTES PAST SIX IN THE EVENING, TY Barclay locked up his sheriff’s department office and headed out the door without a backward glance. Dead tired, he shifted his black Crown Victoria into drive and headed for home. He’d been awake since 4 A.M. when he’d started the day with a five-mile run to town and back in the predawn darkness, then he’d worked nonstop at his desk ever since. All he wanted to do now was go home, crash, and not wake up, not talk to anyone, not see anyone until tomorrow.

  Then, thankfully, this day—and this night—would be over.

  The Pine Hills apartments were on the outskirts of Thunder Creek, five miles south of Main Street, and he passed only one car on his way—the white Ford Ranger driven by his cousin Roy Hewett.

  Roy honked at him and gave a wave. Ty managed a brief, automatic nod back, but truth be told, his brain scarcely registered Roy. It was still wrapped up in his work, in the cattle rustling investigation that had been ongoing for several months now without a break in the case, in the bar fight the previous night at the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill, and in the rescue of a couple of tourists lost this morning on Cougar Mountain—not to mention the mass of paperwork that had piled up on his desk when he wasn’t looking.

  He had to keep thinking about work in order not to think about Meg. About what today was. And tonight.

  He’d only slept five hours the night before, so sleep would come. It better come. He was counting on that. And when he woke up tomorrow morning, his wedding anniversary would be behind him once again.

  He swore when his cell phone rang.

  “You okay, Ty?” Roy asked.

  “Yeah.” He suppressed the impulse to hang up after that single word. He liked Roy just fine—they were good friends as well as cousins, in fact, but he didn’t like being checked up on. And they both knew that was what was going on here.

  “Want to come over to my place for some supper? Corinne’s cooking—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, all the fixings. We’ve got plenty—”

  “No, thanks. I’m beat, Roy.”

  “Yeah, but you gotta eat—”

  “Another time.”

  There was a silence. “Look, Ty, I know what day this is. I know it’s hard on you. Why be alone? I saw your face when I passed you and you looked grim as death yourself. I mean . . .” Roy broke off and Ty heard the frustration in his voice. He was trying to say the right things. But there were no right things. Not when it came to Meg’s death. And there never would be.

  “I’m all right, Roy. No sweat. I’m going to zap myself a
frozen pizza and hit the sack. No big deal. Say hi to Corinne for me.”

  And he disconnected.

  There were times—too many times, he reflected, frowning—when having a big family was a pain in the butt. Like on days like this, the anniversary of his and Meg’s wedding, when everyone thought he needed coddling. Ty doubted very much that he’d get through the day without calls from his brother, Adam, his sister, Faith, and his mother. That’s why he turned off his phone as he pulled into a parking spot at the Pine Hills as the sun began to set over the mountains.

  He sat for a minute, his hands on the steering wheel, gazing out from beneath the brim of his Stetson, but he wasn’t seeing the glorious rose and gold and lavender colors of the sky, or the majesty of the Laramies bathed in shimmering light, or even the shadows of nightfall creeping nearer.

  He saw only Meg, as she’d looked at the morgue the last time he’d seen her. With all the life and the passion drained from her, with only the cold marble facsimile of beauty making a mockery of the joyously vibrant, red-headed woman who’d been the love of his life for as far back as he could remember. Meg, with her cascading red curls and Irish cream complexion, her rich ringing laugh and eyes the color of a wild sea.

  He was thirty years old and he’d loved Meg Campbell since she was seven and he was eight.

  And he’d grieve for her until the day he died. Nothing was going to change that. Nothing was going to make him stop, or ease the pain, or make him embrace a life without her.

  That was just the way it was.

  Ty encountered no one as he climbed the steps to his second-floor furnished apartment. He’d gotten rid of everything after she died—all of their furniture and the stuff they’d received as wedding gifts. What he hadn’t sold or given away, his parents had stored in a basement closet. He knew his mother, the eternal optimist, thought he might want some of it again if he found someone new. Married again.

  There wasn’t a chance in hell he ever would.

  His answering machine was flickering. Two messages.