On Midnight Wings

19 LIKE ASHES IN HER MOUTH DALLAS, TEXAS THE STRICKLAND DEPROGRAMMING INSTITUTE

HEATHER HAD JUST TUCKED her fork into the sleeve of her cornflower-blue sweater, the steel cool against her skin, when James Wallace walked back into the dining room—empty now except for her—and slumped into the chair opposite hers, the sharp scent of his Brut aftershave wafting across the table. The line of his clean-shaven jaw was nearly white with anger.

“You were right,” he said, light from the overheads reflected in his glasses. “The RN just confirmed it. You are being transferred in the morning.” He shoved aside the plate containing his half-eaten meal, scattering a few kernels of buttered corn across the tablecloth. “Goddammit. No one contacted me about this.”

“I warned you,” Heather said, lowering her hand to her lap and folding her fingers over the heel of her sleeve, securing the fork. “Back at the club. The Bureau isn’t going to let me just walk away. Not with all the secrets I know.”

“That shouldn’t matter. You’re one of the Bureau’s finest—”

“Was,” Heather corrected. “Was one of their finest. Now I’m a major liability.”

“Because of that damned bloodsucker.”

“No, dammit, because I learned the truth, and Dante happens to be a part of that truth, a truth the Bureau never wanted to come to light. They’ll do anything to make sure it stays buried. Anything. Including burying me.”

And Dante, but that was a thought she kept to herself.

“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” James said. “After all, they used me to get to you. Must’ve put a tail on me or a GPS tracker because I took extreme care in covering my tracks.” He raked a furious hand through his gray-flecked blond hair. “I took an official leave of absence to tend to family matters. This is none of their business.”

“The secrets I carry are.”

“Christ.” James pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Heather pushed her plate away, the food untouched, her appetite dead, despite the savory fragrance of pork chops baked in rosemary and spicy brown mustard. The strain of being in the presence of the man who’d shot Dante in cold blood and left him to burn, the man who’d drugged and kidnapped her, kept her stomach twisted into hard knots.

Just a little while longer. . . .

Scraping her chair back, Heather rose to her feet. “Dad”—the word tasted like ashes in her mouth—“If I stay here, they’ll take me. And if they take me, you’ll never see me again.”

“I’m not going to let that happen,” James slipped his glasses back on, then looked at her. A familiar stubborn light glinted in his hazel eyes. “I checked you in and I paid for your treatment. I can check you out, as well.”

Mingled exhilaration and relief flooded Heather’s veins, goosed her pulse. Her gamble, based on her father’s need for control, was paying off in spades. Clamping her fingers tighter over the heel of her sleeve, she said, “Where will we go?”

“Where they can’t find us.” James stood, then grabbed his tan trench coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. “I brought you here to be healed, restored. And if the powers that be in the Bureau are too ignorant to grasp that, well, then, that’s their loss. But they’re not getting their hands on you.” He swept a glance over Heather, tallying her sweater and jeans, the black Skechers on her feet. “Anything else you need in your room?”

“Nope. This is everything.” Everything she’d been wearing, that was, when the self-absorbed, lying bastard had broken into the club, then shot her full of tranks out of so-called fatherly concern. Hardly time to pack a suitcase.

“Good. Let’s get you checked out.”

ONCE THEY WERE OUTSIDE the building and heading for James’s rented Lexus in the parking lot, Heather’s relief was so intense, her knees nearly buckled.

It had gone so damned smoothly.

Sue Bieri, the RN in charge of the night shift, had protested of course.

She’d voiced concerns about Heather’s treatment and how interruption might affect her progress, had worried about how the FBI would react to her absence, but in the end, she’d had no choice but to print out discharge papers for James to sign.

“Don’t worry about the FBI,” James had said, offering Sue a grim smile. “I’ll call them myself. Thank them for the thought.”

Just like that, Heather was free—well, almost. And that almost-freedom smelled like green woods and cooling pavement, car exhaust and sage. She sucked in a deep breath, savored the uncanned air.

James unlocked the Lexus’s doors. “In the back seat, pumpkin, passenger side,” he murmured, yanking the door open. “Strap yourself in.”

Heather arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. The request didn’t surprise her. She got into the car, sliding into the backseat as requested, knowing that James had put her there to make it more difficult for her to interfere with him while driving.

She was his daughter, yes, but he was no fool.

Once James had slipped behind the steering wheel, he leaned across the seat, his trench coat rustling against the leather, and popped open the glove box. A holstered gun—a Colt .38 like her own—and a pair of tin snips remained inside. But Heather’s heart sank at what he removed—flex-cuffs.

“That’s not necessary,” Heather said, managing to keep her voice even. “I’m not going to cause any trouble. I want to get away from the FBI, remember?”

“Oh, I know you do,” James replied. “But you also want to go running back to”—the lines creasing his forehead and bracketing his mouth deepened as his expression corkscrewed into one of utter contempt—“him. You aren’t free of that bloodsucking bastard yet, so I need to watch out for you. Now, hands up on the back of the seat.”

Heather opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again when she saw the set look on his face. She could talk herself blue, she wouldn’t change his mind. She considered bolting from the car, but imagined he had more tranks and could put one into her before she made it to the woods.

“The sooner you cooperate, the sooner we’re out of here,” James said, waving the flex-cuffs.

Heather noticed that the cuffs weren’t a single tie, but double cuffs, which would actually allow her much more mobility than a single tie. Hope surged through her. Maybe she could still put her fork to work like she’d planned, after all. With a sigh of false resignation, she placed her elbows on the seat back and offered her wrists. She felt the fork slide toward her elbow.

“That’s my girl,” James murmured, looping the cuffs around her wrists, then pulling them tight. A happy, all’s-under-control smile curled across his lips. “Allrighty, then. Sit back. Fasten your seat belt and let’s get this show on the road.”

Heather heard a thunk as James engaged the car’s childproof door locks.

Christ. You’d think he was transporting Hannibal Lector. Guess I’m lucky he didn’t strap a muzzle over my mouth.

Sitting back as requested, Heather strapped her seat belt on and waited, muscles coiled and ready. She glanced out the window into a night scudded with pale streamers of clouds as James started up the Lexus and drove through the parking lot to the guard station at the gate.

Once again, she felt a strong tug to the east, the irresistible siren call that would lead her to Dante. Soon, she promised him. I’ll be there soon.

Heather kept her cuffed wrists discreetly out of sight while the guard on duty at the gate briefly examined the discharge papers, before handing them back to James and waving them on.

“Y’all have a good night,” the guard said.

“Thanks,” James replied. “You too.”

Heather pretended to doze while James steered the Lexus along a night-ribboned highway, headed for the soft glow of lights at the horizon that was Dallas. Keeping her breathing even and her movements as small as possible, she gradually worked the fork down to the heel of her sleeve again, its tines poking and scraping along her skin. Sweat beaded her forehead as she slid the fork into the palm of her right hand. She curled her fingers around the smooth handle.

Risking a quick glance through her lashes, Heather saw James shift his gaze from the windshield to the rearview mirror.

“Are you actually sleeping?” he asked, voice amused. “Or just avoiding conversation?”

“Dozing.” Heather opened her eyes and met James’s shadowed regard for a moment before he flicked his attention back to the road. “Must be all the drugs that’ve been pumped into my system since my arrival.”

“You gave us no choice, pumpkin. You were pretty hostile.”

“Really? Gee. I wonder why.”

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done with your best interests in mind.”

“You actually believe that, don’t you?” Heather said, voice flat.

Now that she was finally free and clear of the institute, she was done pretending, done with the bitter burn of acid at the back of her throat while she played the role of daughter-struggling-to-understand-and-forgive. Done.

“Absolutely.”

“What about Annie’s best interests? Or Kevin’s? You have theirs in mind too?”

James’s eyes flitted to the rearview, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Of course,” he replied, returning his gaze to the road. “Always. But I know it may not look that way. I’ve had to use tough love on your sister and brother from time to time.”

Heather’s pulse pounded at her temple. Tough love. Fine words for coldhearted manipulation and emotional abuse. For shoving aside his bipolar daughter, then dangling the carrot of his love and acceptance in front of her just so he could use her; for shutting out his son and belittling him for refusing to follow in James’s FBI footsteps.

“Tough love, my ass,” Heather said, throat tight. She pressed her fingers against the seat belt latch. She muffled the quiet snick with her sleeve, then held the seat belt in place with her arm. “It was never about love, just control.”

James shook his head. “You don’t have the proper perspective. Being a single parent hasn’t been easy. Not by a long shot. But I’ve always done what was necessary, even if it was hard.”

Heather tightened her grip on the fork handle. “What about Mom? Was her murder one of those necessary but hard things too?”

James Wallace went still. He watched her from the rearview, his shadowed eyes unreadable. But mild disappointment underscored his words. “You say that as though I had something to do with it. Good God, Heather, your mother’s death—”

“Murder.”

“All right—murder—was tragic and difficult for us all. But so was the way she lived.” The Lexus’s interior filled with blue-white light from an approaching car, drawing James’s attention back to the highway. The vehicle passed, and darkness returned. “I don’t know how many times I came home from work to find you kids alone and hungry because your mother was off drinking or . . . whatever.”

“She was bipolar and an addict,” Heather said, slowly leaning forward toward the front seats. “She needed help. Just like Annie.”

“Your mother didn’t want help. Flat-out refused it.”

“Again. She was bipolar and an addict.” Heather shrugged free of the seat belt. “You should’ve insisted. Kept her best interests in mind.”

Provided you weren’t busy blackmailing your partner into murdering her and setting up a local serial killer suspect to take the fall.

Something, even now, Heather desperately didn’t want to believe. She hoped with all she had that he would prove her wrong. She shifted her grip on the fork, steadied it. Pressed against the back of his seat.

“I tried, pumpkin, you have no idea,” James said softly, his tone low and haunted and utterly false. “As horrible as your mother’s murder was, in many ways—and I truly hate to say this—it was a blessing. With her gone, you kids finally had stability and a shot at a normal life.”

Heather glanced away, a muscle ticking in her jaw. The worst part of that statement? The lying bastard actually believed it. Drawing in a steadying breath, she looked at him again. “I know what you did,” she said quietly. “At the club.”

“Risk life and limb to rescue you? You’re welcome.”

“This isn’t a thank you, you smug son of a bitch. I know you tried to murder Dante, I know you left him and my friends to burn. I know what you did to Annie too.”

“Do you? How is that poss—” A quick glance into the rearview. His jaw tightened. “So Annie was right, you are linked mind-to-mind to that bloodsucking bastard. He must still be alive, then.”

“No thanks to you,” Heather growled, lunging forward and jabbing the fork tines into his neck just above his carotid. “Pull over. Now.”