U.S. Marshals: Chased (U.S. Marshals Book 2) Page 2

  “Thanks.” Caleb brushed past him toward the group of guys still out in the hall, who were feeling up a snack machine.

  “Damned thing stole my quarter,” his younger brother, Adam, complained.

  “Stow it,” Caleb said. “Everyone ready to rock?”

  “Not without my quarter.” Adam gave the machine another thump, then switched tactics by sticking his hand up the lady’s metal skirt. “What bug crawled up your behind?”

  What bug? Caleb snorted.

  The one that came with finding out the woman he’d thought he loved was a lying, conniving wench who’s still as freakin’ gorgeous as ever and had bore him a damned good-looking son she didn’t even have the decency to tell him existed!

  “Thanks for the grub,” Adam said.

  “You’re welcome.” Allie stood at her black granite kitchen counter, wiping grease splatters from the burgers she’d fried for dinner.

  Burgers, boxed macaroni and cheese, and frozen peas.

  Her mother would report her to some government agency for cooking such a lackluster meal. But then her mother had been a stay-at-home mom. She also had never received death threats. She had, however, had a policeman husband killed in the line of duty. Meaning that though she wished Allie had told Caleb about his son, she’d always been sympathetic to her daughter’s rationale for keeping Cal’s paternity a closely guarded secret.

  Allie’s dad had been shot when she was just twelve. For years, she’d bitterly wished she’d never even known him, rather than to have loved him so fiercely only to lose him in such a useless, tragic way. Wanting to protect her son from suffering the same kind of loss, she’d done Cal a favor by never letting him get attached to his adrenaline-junkie father.

  Adam asked, “Got any idea what Caleb’s so PO’d about?”

  “None at all.” Allie scrubbed harder, thankful for the fact that while she’d always liked Adam, he’d never been that big on personal observations.

  “Got any ice cream?”

  “Cookie dough and cotton candy.”

  He winced. “Guess those’ll do.”

  She shot him a look. “You always this professional?”

  “Give me a break. It’s not like I don’t know you. And anyway, Caleb’s loaded for bear. Trust me, ain’t no one gettin’ through him.”

  “So he’s out there, then?” she asked, grabbing a bowl and the ice-cream spade on her way to the freezer.

  “Yup. Right outside. Along with four other marshals.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Nice?” He laughed. “Between them, they’ve got the firepower of a small country. Ain’t nothin’ nice about ’em.”

  “Sorry,” she said, licking a sweet smudge of ice cream from her pinkie. “Didn’t mean to insult your arms supply.”

  “S’okay.”

  She handed him the bowl and a spoon. “So, is um, Caleb going to be inside at all?”

  “Outlook doubtful—mmm, this is better than I’d expected. Thanks.”

  “Sure. So, is there any time I might talk with him?”

  “I guess.”

  Was Adam really this dense? Couldn’t he see how much she needed to speak with his brother? While she didn’t for a minute believe she’d done the wrong thing in shielding her son from the certain disaster that was part of Caleb’s job description, she’d always felt wretched about her decision.

  If only she could explain. To Caleb. To herself.

  “Okay,” she said, hands on her hips, taking a deep breath. Time for a more direct approach. “Might it be possible for you to ask Caleb to come inside right now?”

  “I’m eating my ice cream.”

  Apparently, yes, Adam was that dense.

  “My brother said you wanted to see me.” Caleb found Allie curled in an overstuffed lounge chair, reading court documents by the light of an artsy-fartsy lamp. In a swanky marble, brass and glass fireplace, a gas flame scorched politically correct concrete logs. Call him environmentally challenged, but he’d always been partial to wood. But then wood was a good, honest material. The woman seated before him could be called lots of things. Honest wasn’t one of them.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice as flat as her eyes. “Hi.”

  Not in the mood for forced pleasantries, he asked, “Our son in bed?”

  She swallowed hard, then nodded. “Please, have a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “You off duty?” she politely asked.

  “Cut the chitchat, Al. You not only lied about losing my son, you didn’t even have the decency to lie to my face. You took the coward’s way out by doing it in a Dear John.”

  “Caleb, if you’d just let me explain.”

  “Explain?” He laughed. “Oh, I’ve spent the past eight years of my life mourning the loss of your—our—child and you’re going to explain?” He thumped the red fireplace wall in anger.

  “I’m sorry,” Allie’s eyes stung with tears. “You were so focused. All you ever talked about was getting your silver star. It was an obsession. As if, along with your fascination for those awful spaghetti westerns, you were going to become part of some modern-day posse. I knew if I told you I wanted to keep the baby, you’d do the honorable thing and marry me. You’d probably even have given up your dreams. Taken some boring desk job. You’d have been miserable.”

  “Don’t give me that. Seriously, Allie, you’re a highly intelligent woman. Surely you can come up with a better excuse for keeping a father from his son. A son from his father. You think every marshal spends every day shootin’ up the hills? You think my own father ordered me and my two brothers and sister from the back of the Sears catalog?”

  “I—I said I was sorry.” Allie rose, went to him, tried to give him a hug, but he backed away. Just out of reach.

  “Yeah,” he said, jaw hard, eyes harder. “I’ll just bet.”

  Allie winced from the obvious disgust behind his words, winced harder at the slam of the door as he left the room.

  Sure, he’d had a right to know about his son, but she had rights, too. Intrinsic rights to security and well-being and happiness and love. How convenient Caleb had managed to block out how many of her hopes and dreams he’d squashed. Did he even remember what’d really happened eight years ago on the night she’d told him she was pregnant?

  She did. Remembered it like it was yesterday…

  It had been rainy, yet hot, making the air heavy.

  “Damn, this is quite a spread,” he’d said.

  “Thanks.” She’d been warmed by Caleb having noticed she’d gone to extra trouble. Wildflowers picked in the empty lot behind her rented house graced an antique Ball canning jar he’d bought for her at a flea market. He was always doing that. Finding her little odds and ends to fill her home—their home. They’d met their junior year in college. And now, their second year of law school, she’d supposed it was time for what she was about to tell him.

  True, there could have been a better time for this to happen—say, after graduation when they’d both found great jobs. But you couldn’t always plan a pregnancy, and there wasn’t much they could do about it, other than fast forward the marriage plans they’d each hinted at.

  “What’s the occasion?” he’d asked, stepping up behind her at the stove, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing the sensitive spot on the nape of her neck.

  “Patience, counselor.”

  He’d laughed. “Right. Trial lawyer I will never be. You know why I’m going after the fancy degree.”

  Her heart had plummeted. So much for her wish for a lovely surprise from him. Something like a spontaneous proposal, then a heartfelt vow to not go into the marshals’ service.

  “You just watch.” With his chest puffed out the way it always was when he talked about his career plans, he’d said, “Once I get this law degree behind me, then combine it with a stellar field service record, no mere Deputy Marshal status for me, darlin’. I’ll be the youngest presidentially appointed U.S. Marshal ever in the state
. You can be the youngest U.S. District Court Judge.”

  “Great.”

  “Doesn’t sound good to you?” He’d swept aside her long hair, kissing a partial ring around her throat.

  “Caleb, hon, I was going to wait until after dinner to tell you, but—”

  Hands still around her waist, he’d turned her to face him. “Wait a minute. I know this pouty look. You bomb Valerio’s midterm?”

  “No,” she’d said, suddenly overcome with emotion. Tears had started and wouldn’t stop.

  “Damn, sweetie. What’s wrong?” He’d held her close, protecting her from the world. Trouble was, the thing hurting her worst was him.

  “I—I’m pregnant,” she’d blurted. Hoping, praying, he’d propose on the spot.

  Instead, he’d gripped her tighter, like she’d fallen overboard and he was dragging her back to an already sinking ship. “This shouldn’t be scary,” he’d said. “But it is. I mean, I want to be a dad. A lot. But right now?” He’d shaken his head. “We’ve both got full plates.”

  “Sure.” Nodding against his chest, she’d felt his frantic heartbeat.

  “We’ll make it right though, okay?” He’d tucked his fingers under her chin, raising it so that her gaze met his. “We’ll make it right.”

  Make it right?

  What did that even mean?

  That hadn’t been the way her fairy tale was supposed to have gone. Caleb was supposed to have proposed. Tell her he loved her and their baby more than life. And he could have told her that minute, because he loved her, he’d give up his dangerous career in favor of something nice and safe. Maybe tax law. He, better than anyone, from their many late-night talks, knew what had happened to her father. And how fearful she was of tragedy striking another man she loved. Because Caleb knew, he should understand her actions, but didn’t. In the end, the only thing he’d given up was her—them.

  So she’d formed a plan.

  One that had allowed her to keep her precious child, and Caleb to keep his apparently equally precious unfettered bachelor life and crazy-dangerous career.

  “Hey, it’s cool that we have kinda the same name. Can I see your badge?” Caleb’s son asked bright and early Monday morning.

  “Sure.” Caleb slipped it off his utility belt for the little boy to inspect. He was a good-looking kid. Seemed smart. Inquisitive. Interesting that he was an early riser. So was his dad.

  Outside, behind closed kitchen shades, rain drummed on the patio and deck.

  “Thanks,” the boy said, returning Caleb’s silver star. “Want cereal? We got Cheerios and Life. I love Lucky Charms, but Mom says it has too much bad stuff.”

  “Hate to admit it, but she’s probably right.”

  “Yeah.” The boy hung his head. “Did you want some of the boring cereal?”

  “That’s okay, buddy. I’m on the job. But I appreciate the offer.” After a few seconds of watching his son noisily get a bowl and spoon, he asked, “Ever eat oatmeal?”

  “Yeah. I like it, but Mom doesn’t make it that often.”

  “When I was your age,” Caleb said, “my mom made it for me nearly every day—especially when it was cold. It was my favorite. Ask your mom to make it for you. She knows my recipe.”

  “Okay.” Cal fetched a bright yellow cereal box from the pantry.

  Was it presumptuous to think Allie avoided Caleb’s favorite breakfast food—one that she’d always enjoyed, too—because eating it conjured memories of happy mornings with him?

  “Mom cried last night,” the boy said matter-of-factly while taking milk from the fridge.

  “Oh?” Though a part of Caleb was perversely glad she’d cried, most of him just felt sad. Not only for the years he’d missed with his son, but also with each other. They’d had a good thing going until she’d thrown it away.

  “I went and asked her what’s wrong, but she said nothin’. I think she’s scared about the bad guys. Anyway, she let me sleep with her. I like her bed. It’s bigger than mine and real squishy.”

  “Squishy?”

  “Yeah, you know.” Dowsing his cereal, Cal managed to spill a good cup of milk on the counter. When it dribbled over the edge, Caleb jumped in to help, grabbing a dish towel from the sink. “Squishy. Like bunches of pillows and stuff. Thanks for helpin’ clean. Mom likes a clean house.”

  “I know,” Caleb said.

  “How?”

  “Um—” Geez, where did he start?

  “Caleb’s an old friend.” Allie stood in the kitchen’s shadowy doorway, long blond hair a mess, eyes red and swollen. She wore a utilitarian white terry cloth robe. A yellow duck was the only decoration. He sat over her right breast. Directly over the tender patch of skin Caleb used to—no. He wasn’t going there. So he dropped his gaze to her bare feet and red-tipped toes. How many times had he painted them for her?

  “Where’d you meet him?” his son asked.

  “School,” Allie said.

  “Elementary?” Cal asked.

  “College.”

  “Oh.” Cal’s interest returned to cereal. Mouth full, he asked, “Hey, can we go toy shopping today? Oh—and then let’s go see that new movie, Power Force. Max says it’s awesome!”

  “Sorry, but—” Caleb and Allie both spoke at the same time.

  “Go ahead,” Allie said.

  “You’re his mother.” Caleb loaded his voice with messages only she’d hear. I’m just his father. Don’t mind me.

  “Sorry, baby.” She planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. “But until this trial’s over, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay inside, and out of public places.”

  “But can I at least go to school? It’s boring doing all my stuff at home.”

  “No,” Caleb said.

  Having expected him to argue with her, Allie had been on the verge of aiming a “stop interfering” stare at Caleb. Knowing they were on the same team—at least as far as keeping Cal safe—cocooned her in a surprising calm.

  “Aw, man,” Cal whined.

  “I’ll make you a promise, though,” Caleb said to the boy, putting Allie back on full alert.

  “What?” her son asked, expression once again bright.

  “As soon as this trial is over, and we know that you and your mom are safe, not only can you go back to school, but me and a team of other marshals will go with you for a while, just in case.”

  “Really?!” Cal asked. “And will they have guns and everything?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Awesome!” The boy leapt from his tall counter stool. “I can’t wait to tell Max!” He raced up the back staircase, presumably to his room.

  “Thank you,” Allie said.

  “For what?” Caleb asked.

  “Getting his mind off the depressing present and onto better times to come.”

  “Will times be better, Allie? Now that your secret’s out, you can’t expect me to just fade into the background.”

  After popping a K-cup into the Keurig, she shot him a look. “You know what I mean. Cal returning to school. To his normal way of life. It’ll be better. I wasn’t referring to us—you.” Allie fit a mug into the machine, then stared at the streaming coffee, trying to let the rich aroma and happy gurgle calm her jangled nerves. Trying, but failing. “Obviously, I don’t have a clue what’s going to happen between us, Caleb. Do you?”

  For the longest time, her gaze locked with his.

  Neither speaking nor even breathing.

  And then, just when she’d thought he might be on the verge of saying something—anything—he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

  That afternoon, the tension in Allie’s courtroom was unbearable.

  As was the heat.

  The accused, Francis William Ashford, sat grinning at her, as if he’d never been charged with blowing up a post office and killing the three clerks and five customers inside—one an infant. In her two years on the bench, Allie had presided over many cases, but this one topped them all.

  The gallery
was filled with what had begun to feel like every reporter in the state, along with every citizen. Many used folded take-out menus from the Chinese restaurant down the street for a fan.

  Caleb, along with the rest of his six-man crew, stood vigilant watch over the crowded courtroom, occasionally speaking into microphones hidden in their suit coat sleeves.

  Her current task was hard enough. And Caleb’s surprise appearance had made her time off the bench insanely complicated. Still, what she was going through was nothing compared to the pain of the grieving victims’ families here in the courtroom.

  The prosecution asked the latest witness, a wiry, elderly black man who’d lived across the street from the post office for the past forty-two years, “Sir, could you please tell the court what you observed the morning of the bombing.”

  The witness cleared his throat. “I was watching my shows. Price is Right and the like, when I went to the front window to draw the curtain. That time of morning, sun shines right through. Produces a glare.”

  “Yes, sir, and did you see something suspicious?” asked the chief prosecuting attorney.

  “Objection!” the defense attorney shouted. “Leading the witness.”

  “Overruled.” To the clearly shaken witness, Allie said, “Please, Mr. Foster, continue.”

  “All right, well, Drew Carey had just started the second Showcase Showdown. I was pulling the curtain closed when I saw this primer-gray truck pull up to the post office. Ford. Powerful dirty. Mud splatters all over. Had those big, oversized tires. A confederate flag hanging in the back window.”

  “Did the flag shock you?”

  “Objection! Leading.”

  Allie, in no mood for attorney jockeying, shot Taylor Bennett, lead attorney for the defense, her most stern look. “One more outburst, Mr. Bennett, and you will be fined. Mr. Foster, please, go on.”

  “All right, well, that boy—”

  “Excuse me,” the prosecution said, “but which boy? Is he here? In the courtroom today?”