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  “Arlo, shut up.” Kyle’s voice held just the right degree of irritation. “We don’t have time for this. Come Monday morning, the cops are going to access my bank records, looking for confirmation of their suspicions. That’s why I’m leaving tonight, before they freeze my assets. If you two are smart, you won’t hang around, either. They’ve already made the connection with Dairy-Best, Arlo. Once they discover you’re the Dairy-Best driver c”

  “I’m not going nowhere without my money,” Arlo said.

  “Why do you think I called you over here?”

  “Actually,” Dimitri said, “it occurred to me that you might have cut a deal with the cops. Say, traded us for an easier sentence?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Kyle said flatly. “I asked you over so we could split the money.”

  “What money?” Dimitri asked. “You see any money, Arlo?”

  “It’s upstairs in my bedroom. Let me go get it.”

  “I don’t think so. Pat him down, Arlo. See if he’s wearing a wire.”

  “Hey, what is this?” Fear put a sharp edge on Kyle’s voice. “You can put the gun away, Dimitri.”

  “I don’t think so. Check him, Arlo.”

  A pause, then she heard Arlo say, “He’s clean.”

  “Why are you two so paranoid?” Kyle demanded shrilly.

  Dimitri laughed. “I figured you might be lying about the double cross the way you lied about the car in the driveway. We saw you let the girl inside. It’s that friend of yours, isn’t it? The one who’s dating the cop. Where is she hiding?”

  “She’s not hiding anywhere. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Mallory heard the sickening sound of a blow. “Quit lying. Where is she?” More blows. A moan.

  “Stop. You’re right. She’s here. She threatened to turn me in, so I locked her in the powder room under the stairs. There’s no way out.”

  “Give me the key.”

  “Why? She’s no threat to us.”

  “Give me the key or I’ll have Arlo break the door down.”

  Mallory looked around in vain for a weapon, but all she found were an abalone shell filled with guest soaps and a double roll of toilet paper, neither of which exactly qualified as lethal.

  Fingers to the eyes. Knee to the groin. Then run like hell. The instructional mantra of her first self-defense teacher rang in her ears, good advice, though pretty tough talk coming from someone named Sister Mary Joseph. Mallory balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to strike.

  The key turned smoothly in the lock, the door opened, and she froze, shocked into immobility for a second. This was the first time she’d been up close and personal with Arlo, and until now she hadn’t realized quite how big he was. Forget fingers to the eyes. She couldn’t reach his eyes even if she stood on tiptoe.

  Okay, then. Knee to the groin it was. She connected with a satisfying jolt that felled Arlo like a giant sequoia.

  Then run like hell, she remembered. She hopped nimbly over his prostrate form only to come face-to-face with the business end of a .44 Magnum.

  “Don’t shoot her!” Kyle yelled. Mallory wondered if her own eyes were bugged out as far as his.

  Dimitri was yelling, too, calling her every name in the book. Luckily for her self-esteem, the book was in Russian and she didn’t understand a word.

  She kept waiting for her life to pass before her eyes, but all she could think of was Brody’s face when he’d said, Want to try it again? and how she didn’t want to die because she was a survivor, dammit, not a victim, and she really, really, really did want to try it again.

  Fury distorted Dimitri’s face; he sprayed little flecks of spittle with each unintelligible word.

  Kyle grabbed his arm. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  The Russian backhanded him with the pistol, and Mallory screamed.

  Kyle fell back against the wall, blood welling up from a ragged tear in the skin near his left cheekbone. He put his hand to the cut, but the blood seeped through his fingers and ran down the back of his hand to stain his cuff crimson.

  Dimitri leveled the gun at her once more. “Shut up, woman, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Shocked to realize she was still screaming in a shrill, eerie voice she didn’t recognize, Mallory clapped both hands over her mouth, reducing the noise to harsh, choking sobs.

  Behind her, Arlo stirred. “Don’t you kill her,” he said. “This bitch is mine.” He grabbed her in a bear hug that lifted her completely off her feet, shook her like a rag doll, then tossed her in the corner. Her teeth clattered together and she bit her tongue.

  “You don’t want to mess with her, Arlo,” Kyle warned. He’d managed to stanch the bleeding with his handkerchief. “She’s Detective Hunter’s girlfriend. Believe me, you hurt her and you’re going to have to answer to him.”

  “Hunter’s woman, huh?” Arlo’s slack-jawed grin scared her more than Dimitri’s wild-eyed frenzy had. “I ain’t scared of no cop, ’specially not that one. Maybe when I finish with her, I’ll toss her in a Dumpster for him to find.” His high-pitched giggle made her blood run cold.

  “This is getting completely out of hand, guys.” Kyle edged toward the stairs. “Let me get the money. You two can have it all. Split my share between you. Just take it and leave.”

  “Stay where you are!” Dimitri ordered. “Arlo will get the cash. Tell him where it is.”

  Kyle eyed his partners in crime, as if gauging how far he could push them. Not far, to judge by Arlo’s mulish expression and Dimitri’s itchy trigger finger. A muscle twitched near Kyle’s eye. He looked like a little kid trying to wink. Or a bigger kid trying not to cry. “Pull the bed away from the wall,” he said. “The money’s stashed in a little drawer hidden behind a fake wall socket.”

  With a grunt of satisfaction, the big man lumbered up the steps. Kyle shot her a defeated look.

  Dammit, she thought, he couldn’t give up. She caught his eye and mouthed the words, “It ain’t over till it’s over.” But all he did was shake his head and stare glumly at the toes of his wing tips.

  She glared at the Russian, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her, either. Which should have offered a perfect opportunity to launch a counteroffensive. Unfortunately, Arlo’s “hug” seemed to have temporarily severed communications between her brain and her body. The brain screamed “Get up!” but the body remained curled in the fetal position.

  Dimitri glanced down at his Rolex, then up the stairs for the tenth time in two minutes. “What’s taking him so long?”

  “Probably decided he’d rather not share,” she wheezed. It was hard to breathe, harder yet to talk. Arlo’s imitation of a python had apparently bruised a couple ribs. “Bet he climbed out a window and down the trellis.”

  “Or slipped down the back stairs and out through the kitchen,” Kyle suggested.

  Now, that was more like it. She grinned at him.

  “Shut up, both of you!” Dimitri shouted.

  A sudden pounding on the front door riveted their attention. “Police, Mr. Brewster! Open up!”

  Dimitri swore.

  “Open up, Brewster, or we’re taking the door down!”

  Kyle took a step toward the door, but Dimitri waved him back with the gun.

  “Open up! This is your last warning!”

  “I’ve got a hostage!” Dimitri screamed. “Anyone steps through that door, I shoot her!”

  Mallory didn’t know whether they didn’t believe him or just didn’t hear him over the noise of the downpour, but in the next few seconds all hell broke loose.

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl as half a dozen officers burst through the door in what looked like slow motion.

  Screaming invectives—in English this time—Dimitri leveled the gun at her. At this distance he could hardly miss.

  I’m dead, she thought. In the confusion, she focused on Brody’s face, trying desperately to put all that she felt for him into her eyes.

  “No!�
� Brody’s scream echoed in her ears.

  Kyle grabbed for Dimitri’s gun arm. Dimitri jerked away, and the gun went off with an ear-shattering explosion. Kyle dropped to the floor as two burly cops wrestled the gun away from Dimitri.

  Kyle’s face was only inches from hers, but all she could see was the bright red stain spreading across the front of his white dress shirt like a big Georgia O’Keeffe poppy. “Hey, kiddo,” he whispered. “It ain’t over till it’s over. Right?”

  “Right,” she said, but he didn’t hear her.

  “I don’t want to go home.” Mallory had chosen a spot in the kitchen, deliberately distancing herself from the hubbub of the crime-scene investigation. She huddled in the blanket one of the paramedics had wrapped around her and frowned up at Brody. “Not alone. I’ll wait for you.”

  He squatted down on his haunches so they were eye to eye. His were bloodshot, she noticed. And he needed a shave. But he was solid and real and alive, and she didn’t want to go home without him. He took her hands in his. “Honey, I know what a shock all this has been. You need to go home, get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower.”

  “No,” she said, but before she could reinforce her refusal with logic, Regan Armstrong stuck her head in the door.

  “Detective Hunter? Do you have a minute?”

  Releasing Mallory’s hands, Brody stood up. “What is it?”

  “I’m the leak,” she blurted. “A reporter from the Gazette made a snide remark about incompetent cops and I lost it, spilled my guts about Dairy-Best without considering the consequences. I’m sorry. I could have jeopardized the case.” She looked sick.

  “Noted,” Brody said.

  Another officer shoved past her, and she left without another word.

  “What do you want, Hawkins?” Brody asked impatiently.

  “You know that APB we put out? Paiute County deputy just reported sighting a Ford van, possibly our suspect, heading west on US 20.”

  Arlo, she thought. He’d slipped out the back in all the confusion.

  “Also, the guy from the funeral home wants to know who to contact as next of kin.”

  Dolph? she wondered. Or maybe not. He’d been the anonymous informant.

  “I’ll talk to him in a minute,” Brody said. The officer left and Brody turned back to her with an expression that brooked no argument. “You’ve had enough. I’ll get someone to drive you home.”

  “But—”

  “God knows how long it’s going to take to finish up here, but as soon as I’m done, I’ll stop by. I promise.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said, which reminded her of all the times she’d waited for him in the last two weeks—with Kyle keeping her company on more than one occasion—and she started to cry in big, racking sobs.

  “Don’t,” said Brody. He gathered her into his arms, wet clothes, blanket, tears, and all, holding her close, patting her back, whispering comforting nonsense. And she wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe he even cried a little himself.

  “Why did he do it?” she asked when she could talk again.

  “Because he loved you.” Brody kissed her forehead. “Because he knew I loved you too.”

  Cesar Rios drove her back to her house, a second officer following in a patrol car. He parked in her usual spot, then walked her to the door like a polite date. “Brody said to make sure you lock the door.”

  She summoned up a wisp of a smile. “Thanks. I will. And tell Brody something for me, okay? Tell him I’ll be waiting.”

  Cesar gave her two thumbs up, then jogged out to the patrol car parked at the curb. She waved them off, then went inside and locked the door.

  The warmth of the shower felt so good, she lingered under the spray for three-quarters of an hour and would have stayed even longer if the hot water hadn’t given out. Wrapping herself in a towel, she wandered back to her bedroom. She stopped dead in the doorway, shock immobilizing her.

  A huge man, dressed in fatigues, army boots, and a camouflage tank top that bared his hairy back, was pawing through her lingerie drawer. He spun around to face her, and she saw it was Arlo. Her red satin chemise dangled from the tip of his hunting knife by one narrow strap. “Real neighborly of you to leave the key under the flowerpot, girlie.” He tossed her the chemise. “Put it on.”

  It landed at her feet like a pool of blood.

  “When I saw the bag of lingerie in your truck,” she said, “I thought you were a cross-dresser, but all those frilly pieces of underwear were trophies, weren’t they?”

  “I spread ’em on my pillow at night so’s I can smell the fear and remember.” A slack-jawed grin split his face. “Put it on,” he said again.

  Rage shuddered through her. “If you’re going to rape me, then do it, but don’t expect me to play along with your sick fantasies.”

  His eyes widened, showing white all around the irises, and he charged with a roar. She threw the towel in his face, whirled, and bolted for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door after her, though she knew it offered only an illusion of safety. Not even solid oak could stop that human battering ram.

  “Open the damn door, bitch!”

  Hoping to trick him, she slid the window open, then slipped behind the bi-fold doors that hid her washer and dryer.

  “I’m gonna slice you up for this. I’m gonna make you pay.”

  As he started telling her exactly how he was going to make her pay, Mallory shut her ears to his obscenities, concentrating fiercely on the task at hand. Standing on the washing machine, she lifted the trapdoor that gave access to the attic, then hoisted herself through just as the bathroom door gave in a splintering crash. Ignoring his howl of thwarted rage, she quietly lowered the trapdoor and groped her way along the rafters toward the second access door in the garage. And escape.

  In response to a report of a green minivan blocking an alley half a block away, three police cars and Brody’s Jeep pulled to the curb in front of Mallory’s. Brody heard the bellowing before he was halfway to the front door and knew with a sick certainty that they’d found their missing suspect. He motioned the others to surround the house while he banged on the front door. “Mallory? Can you hear me? Are you in there?”

  “Detective, this way!” Officer Armstrong beckoned from the corner of the house with a wave of her flashlight. “We got him.”

  Brody followed her around back, moving as quickly as he could. The rain had slacked off to a drizzle, but the ground underfoot was spongy and slick.

  As he came around the corner he saw Arlo Davis, Jr., a.k.a., GI Joe, hanging out of Mallory’s narrow bathroom window, his hips and belly wedged fast, his arms thrashing wildly like the antennae of some giant prehistoric insect.

  “Cuff him,” he said. “Club him if you have to.”

  While officers were immobilizing Davis’s wrists Brody grabbed a tuft of his hair and jerked his head up. “Where’s Mallory?”

  “How the hell should I know? When I get ahold of that bitch, though, she’s gonna—”

  Brody ignored the rest of the tirade. He’d heard enough to know that she’d eluded her would-be rapist. Mallory was safe. That was what mattered.

  “Detective?” Hawkins tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Did you find her?”

  “In the garage.” The two set off at a trot.

  “Is she all right?”

  “We think so, sir. Can’t tell for sure. She won’t come down.”

  “Down? I thought you said she was in the garage.”

  “She is, sir. In the attic, but she says she won’t come down for anyone but you.”

  My God, he thought as he followed Hawkins into the garage, she must be scared to death. “Mallory? Honey, it’s Brody. Come on down. You’re safe. We caught the scumbag.”

  “Brody, make everyone else leave, okay? Then I want you to close the garage door.”

  “But why?”

  “Don’t argue, please. Just do it.” Her voice held a note of desperation.

  He shoo
ed the others out and rolled the big door down. “Okay,” he said. “I did as you asked. Mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “Stand under the trapdoor. There isn’t a ladder. You’re going to have to catch me.”

  She lowered herself from the hole in the ceiling, then dropped neatly into his arms, naked and shivering.

  Her eyes were wide and glassy as marbles, her skin as pale and cold as marble. “I didn’t let him make me a victim,” she said.

  “No, you were very brave, very resourceful.” He set her down as carefully as if she were made of glass, stripped off his jacket, and wrapped it around her.

  “She’ll be all right. Just keep her warm,” Mallory had heard the doctor tell Brody. So he’d added a couple of blankets to her bed and tucked a hot-water bottle down by her feet when all she really wanted was his big, warm body wrapped around hers.

  Then her mother’d shown up and darned near chicken-souped her to death; she’d finally dozed off in self-defense. She woke up a little after ten, feeling pretty good until she realized it was Monday and she was supposed to be in math class introducing her fifth graders to the mysteries of the multiplicative inverse.

  “Don’t fret,” April said. “I called your principal. She’s hired a sub to cover for the next few days.” Her mother pulled the quilt straight and tucked it under Mallory’s chin. “I have a few errands to run, but Brody’s asleep in the next room. Just yell if you need anything.”

  Mallory waited until she heard her mother drive away, then slipped out of bed and into Brody’s room. He looked ten years younger with his face relaxed, the thick, dark lashes fanned out against his cheeks. “Brody?” she whispered.

  His eyelashes fluttered open. When he saw who it was, he struggled to a sitting position, stifling a yawn. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said, and climbed in next to him, cuddling up to his side.

  “What are you doing, Mallory?”

  “Don’t worry. My mother gave me permission.” She pressed herself closer, trailing her fingertips across the ridged muscle of his exposed chest.

  He gave an involuntary shudder. “For this?”

  Mallory nibbled at his earlobe. “She said to see you if I needed anything. And Brody”—she walked her fingers down the center of his abdomen—“what I need is you. I love you desperately. And I don’t care if you’re the commitment type or not. You’re my type, and that’s all that matters.”