“Back to the farm?”
“No, that way.” He gestured with the barrel. “Into the woods.”
“I’ll go…”
“No, you’ll stay, and for once, listen.”
He should have saved his breath. Using her teeth to pull off her glove, she tore at the sleeve of his jacket.
“The wound’s not deep, but that won’t stop the poison from taking effect.” Grabbing his jaw, she stared into his eyes. “Is your vision clear or cloudy?”
“Clear.” More or less. “It’s curare, Romana. I know how it works. He shot a dart into the trunk of a Scotch pine…”
“I saw it. I pulled it out.” Concern mixed with exasperation to soften her tone. “I was behind you, Jacob. You just run faster than I do in the snow.”
Jacob spotted the blip of motion as she did. It came from the rear of a freestanding maple. Two guns whipped up. Romana edged sideways into the shadow of a more gnarly specimen.
Breathing had become a definite challenge. “Drop the weapon,” Jacob called. “Romana’s got you covered from the side.”
The movement stopped. The silhouette quivered, then slowly bent. A thunk on the snow told Jacob the weapon had been tossed as ordered.
“Come out and let us see you,” Romana instructed.
Jacob watched the shadows. He heard the snow again underfoot. Then suddenly a light flared and a burst of motion transformed the silhouette into a man. In one quick move, he scooped up his weapon and launched it in the direction of Jacob’s head.
HE PUFFED AND PANTED all the way back to his vehicle. Between being nicked by Jacob Knight’s bullet and almost blown off the planet by a crazy woman with a shotgun, it was all he could do to start the engine and swerve onto the road.
His blood boiled. Hot bile rose in his throat. Rage all but blinded him. And he knew why.
He’d failed. He’d failed when, without realizing it, he’d wanted to finish it tonight.
Patience had never been his strong suit. He’d learned it over the years, just as he’d learned how to calculate, but there were times when it simply dissolved. Right now, he needed to take back control, calm himself and think things through with clear, cold logic. For Belinda’s sake.
He’d done some part of it right. The dart gun on the passenger seat was proof of that. Why, then, was he still so furious that his hands were plastered to the steering wheel?
It wasn’t until he felt the wet trickle on his forearm that he understood. Knight had wounded him. He’d drawn blood. Wounded animals lashed out. Wounded humans with a score to settle did so even more.
He breathed in and out, in and out. Pain was going to mark their deaths. More pain than they could possibly imagine.
To hell with Christmas and all the peripherals. The next chance he got-pow!
“CALEBAS CURARE. BRITISH explorers called it gourd curare when they were in South America. The most toxic formulas were found in this particular family, and there’s enough of it in your system that Dr. McGee wants to call in a toxicologist to do a full workup on your blood.”
Romana did her best to slow Jacob down, but it was a losing battle.
Features set, he simply caught hold of her restraining hand and pulled her along with him through the double Emergency doors.
“Jacob,” she tried again. “My heart’s still in my throat from watching that ax fly across the snow at you.”
“It missed me by three yards, Romana.”
She had to trot to keep pace with his long stride. “It missed you by half a foot, and only because the man throwing it realized at the last second that you were one of the good guys.”
Although Romana still wasn’t entirely convinced that the tree farmer’s middle son-the one who, according to his mother, possessed a hair-trigger temper-had truly intended to miss his target.
“The farmer’s wife saw Critch run through the yard with his dart gun. She grabbed her rifle and went after him. She fired into the air three times, which is incredibly courageous considering she’s five years older than your downstairs neighbor.” Romana dug her heels into the snowy pavement. “Jacob, stop acting like a lone wolf and listen to me. You have little to no sensation in your left arm, and McGee said your lungs have to be constricted.”
“If I’m walking, I must be breathing. Do me a favor, Romana-go back inside and wait for O’Keefe.”
“While you do what? Tear off into the night and possibly straight into another dart?You can’t keep presenting yourself as a target. It won’t get Fitz back, and it won’t help us catch Critch.”
Jacob dragged the keys to his borrowed Pathfinder from the pocket of his jeans. “He got the curare from somewhere, Romana.”
“Yes, South America, where he lived for several years as a child.”
“And where he hasn’t been for more than six years.”
“You’re being heroic, Knight. I hate that quality in a man.”
“So you’d rather what? Sit back, do nothing and let him come to us? Again?”
“I didn’t say that.” She struggled for patience. “Fitz was right. We should go to the Christmas party tomorrow. Think of the people who’ll be there. Cops who were around when Critch was arrested, James Barret, who I still think might have Fitz, people who knew Belinda and several who also knew her husband. Dr. Gorman’s being honored, so key members of the forensics team will also be coming. We can talk…”
“You talk.” Turning, he gripped her arms. “Start with O’Keefe. If he doesn’t get my message, tell him I’m meeting an old friend whose name isn’t Critch.”
The objection on Romana’s tongue died. “What is his name?”
Cupping her face, he gave her a kiss that, under different circumstances, would have made her head spin.
“He’s someone I’ve known for years. A man with an expensive habit to support, and more than one secret he wants to keep.”
THE ALLEY STANK OF URINE, human and animal. Jacob’s eyes moved from side to side as he entered the narrow darkness, but nothing stirred except a tabby cat that wound itself around a trash can.
Lights shone from dirty, half-covered windows high above. The snow was coated with city grime, and the only nontraffic sound came from a tinny stereo in one of the upper apartments.
“An old woman on eight plays that same song all night long. Same song, same singer. Must be lost in a 1950s time warp.”
The rusty voice contrasted with Bing’s dulcet tone as he crooned about a white Christmas.
Too many cigarettes, too much whiskey and likely too jaded now to care, Gary Canter emerged from the dark, spit into the snow and showed a set of dingy teeth.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old nemesis, Detective Knight. I hear you wrapped up the Parker case all by your lonesome last night. How does it feel to be top of the heap in Captain Harris’s eyes? He’s a hard one to please, old Harris, yet he gives you free reign to investigate your cases while the demoted grinders like me spend the bulk of our time cozying up to street dealers and prostitutes.”
Jacob waited, hands in his pockets, watching his counter-part’s features curl into their usual disdainful mask. He noted the lines on a face that was too thin to be healthy and wondered about the condition of the body under it.
“Your clothes are hanging, Canter.” He held the other man’s gaze. “And the sole of your left boot is coming off.”
“Observant as always.” Canter pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pants, hesitated, then offered Jacob one. When Jacob shook him off, he chuckled. “No more vices, huh? You smoked like a chimney at the Academy.”
“That was eighteen years ago.”
“And six years ago, I covered your ass.”
“Did you? I got the impression you wanted me to fry. Funny thing, perception.”
Canter inhaled, savored and blew out a stream of smoke.
“If I’d wanted you charged and/or convicted, I’d have made it happen. Stubbs was a useless tit on that investigation.” He inhaled again. “What is it you want, Knight? You pitched the word, I caught it, I’m here. Let’s cut the crap and get to the meat.”
