The Lawman Meets His Bride

When she hesitated, he simply shrugged. “Suit yourself, I’m not bashful.”

When she heard his belt buckle clinking and realized he was lowering his trousers, she did quickly turn away while he tied the cloth around his wound.

“All right,” he told her a few moments later. “Peep show’s over.”

“You’ve got to get to a doctor,” she told him. “That wound could infect.”

“Nix on that. By law doctors have to report every gunshot wound. I’ve already figured out what I need to do first. I’ve got one possible ace in the hole, but I’ll need to drive to Billings if I mean to play it.”

“That’s a 400-mile drive,” she reminded him. “You’ll never make it.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. “That’s why you’re going to take me. And we’ll have to use your vehicle. By now mine has to be the object of a state-wide search.”

“No,” she said. “I’m afraid. I…your story is quite convincing. But it’s only your word. Besides, even if I chose to believe you—this is obviously a very serious situation. I just…I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m just too afraid.”

“I don’t recall asking you,” he reminded her, and a sinister tone of menace had entered his voice—or so it seemed to her in her fright.

“I can’t,” she insisted.

“Yes, you can.”

“All right then, I won’t.”

“Actually, it’s best that you refuse. That way you don’t become an accessory or get charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive. It’s this that will force you, and that’s what you’ll tell the authorities later.”

His hand slipped inside his suit jacket and emerged with the gun. Again he didn’t aim it at her—but he held it in plain view as a reminder.

“You will drive me to Billings, Miss Adams.” His stare pierced her. “End of discussion.”

I’m in deep, thought Quinn, and going deeper.

Despite the long drink in the cabin, the inside of his mouth tasted as dry and stale as the last cracker at the bottom of the barrel. He hadn’t eaten all day, and his pinched stomach felt like it had been pumped.

Additionally, even the black plastic bag covering the smashed window didn’t entirely keep out the cold. Constance Adams’s Jeep did not ride nearly so smoothly as his Lexus. Each time it bounced over a hole or rut on Old Mill Road, pain exploded in his thigh. But even at its worst, the physical pain was nothing compared to his inner turmoil.

His criminal actions earlier today, in Kalispell, while certainly censurable could at least be partially defended. They had caught him completely flat-footed, unprepared, and he simply reacted in a panic. After all, his freedom was on the line. He had been fighting the threat of wrongful imprisonment as well as ensuring his ability to disprove the phony charges against him.

But now…now it was a whole new criminal ball game. He had taken a hostage under the implied threat of violence. Only sheer desperation could have driven him to such an action. “Beyond the pale” hardly described his conduct now.

The heater was blowing, and he wasn’t shivering now. He opened the passenger’s window to let the cold night air revive him a bit. A sliver of nascent moon hung over the serrated mountain peaks, golden against a blue-black evening sky.

Constance Adams had said nothing during the ride back down to the valley floor and the interstate highway. Now she finally spoke up.

“Mr. Loudon? If you really are innocent, as you say, you should easily be able to clear yourself, shouldn’t you? Won’t your actions now just make things needlessly worse for you?”

“Easily? Believe me, given the men I’m up against, it would be easier to write my name on water.”

There was so much more to it, he thought in a welter of despair and misery, that she just couldn’t understand from outside the situation. The money planted in his apartment back east, for example. He realized now that this scam involved more players than just Whitaker and Schrader. Others were involved, and there was some sort of sub-rosa accord between them.

Quinn wished he could make her understand the enormity and complexity of his situation. He hardly knew the woman, but something about her made him believe she could be a strong ally if he could somehow win her trust.

Something else suddenly occurred to him, and a prickle of alarm moved down his spine.

“Do you have a road map of Montana?” he demanded.

“In the glovebox, I think. But we won’t need it. I’ve driven to Billings plenty of times.”

“Yeah, on the interstate,” he replied as he opened the accordion folds of the map. “But do you know the back roads?”

“You mean all the way to Billings? No. Why take back roads? We aren’t in your car.”

He flicked on the dome light to study the map. “I just realized there’ll probably be an APB out on me. Checkpoints will be set up along the main routes. I can’t risk it.”

“You really think it’s that important to the police?”

“You kidding? I fired on federal agents. They’ll raise six sorts of hell.”

“You fired at them?”

“What, you think they shot me because they don’t like my face?”

“You didn’t tell me…I mean….”

She trailed off, too taken aback to speak. He could feel a new level of tension in the Jeep.

“If it makes any difference,” he told her, “I didn’t exactly fire at them. I fired deliberately high to miss them.”

While the overhead light was on, he felt her glance keep touching him, then quickly sliding away. Even mired in pain and worry, he couldn’t help appreciating her good looks. Understandably, this latest revelation had left her somewhat whey-faced. But she had stunning amber eyes and medium-length hair the color of burnt sienna. The only feature even slightly out of harmony with the serenity of her face were her somewhat witchy eyebrows. But he liked them. Liked them a lot. She was the kind of woman who looked liked she could play angel or devil depending on her mood. In truth, if they’d met under any other circumstances, he’d have let her known without a doubt he was attracted to her.

But he had other worries now. Big ones. He quickly worked out a route, along secondary roads, that would be safer but considerably longer. He turned the light out just before Old Mill Road—smooth blacktop now—leveled out on the floor of Mystery Valley.

“Just go on past the interstate,” he directed her. “Take County Line Road east.”

He sat back in the seat and allowed his ruminations to turn toward the situation at hand. Despite all that had happened to him, Quinn couldn’t really say he was surprised by what Schrader and Whitaker were up to. They were corrupt, and greed was a powerful motivator.

He wasn’t sure, however, about prosecutor Dolph Merriday. True, the man had real facility with a cliché—scratch a federal prosecutor and you’ll find an ambitious politician. But something bothered Quinn about the man. Above all, prosecutors were negotiators. But his unyielding stance…

Constance Adams abruptly interrupted his ruminations.

“Mr. Loudon?” She looked at him from the wheel, hesitating, thinking, her pretty lips curved down. “If—if your story is true, then I know you don’t want to become a real criminal by kidnapping me. There’s a state-trooper post ahead at Oxbow. You can turn yourself in there, and if you do, I promise you I’ll press no charges. We’ll call this a lift.”

He greeted her suggestion with a harsh bark of laughter. “And will you give me a lollipop, too, Miss Goody Two-Shoes?”

After that dig, he could almost whiff the anger coming off her.

“Why is it such a joke?” she demanded. “You could avoid kidnapping charges—”

“I can’t,” he cut her off tersely. “You’ve watched too many crime shows on TV where crusading lawyers always ensure that justice prevails. In real life innocent people are framed all the time.”