Dead Wrong (38 page)

“What did you see, buddy?” Aidan asked.

Spike continued to look up at the house, wagging his tail.

“I don’t see anything.” Aidan turned back to Mara.

“He could have seen a raccoon or an opossum down on the ground.” Mara leaned on one elbow. “Or a leaf could have blown across the deck. Any distraction is pretty much the same to Spike.”

“I guess.” He sat on the edge of the sofa, rubbing his throbbing thigh, reaching for the wine and wondering if it would help.

“Are you all right?” Mara asked.

“Sure.” He tossed back the wine.

“You look like you’re in pain.”

“It will pass.”

She reached up for him and he lay alongside her.

“You know, I’m not really prepared for this,” he said softly. “I mean for us.”

“Neither am I.” She leaned back and looked into his eyes.

“But I’m wondering if Dylan . . . if he left something here. In the bathroom . . .”

“Or maybe in their room. In Annie’s room,” she corrected herself. “Maybe in the bedside table.”

“Now would be a good time to look.” He kissed her on the tip of the nose.

“Second door on the right,” Mara told him as he got up.

She sat back against the sofa and closed her eyes. The last thing she’d expected when Aidan showed up at her door was for him to be more than a companion, a bodyguard. The past week with him had reawakened yearnings she’d forgotten she could feel, and her feelings toward him had grown into something that went way beyond friendship. Still, they’d known each other for only a few weeks. . . .

“Look what I found,” Aidan said as he emerged from the hallway.

“Something wrapped in foil?”

“Yes,” he laughed, “but look here.” He held up a handgun with a fancy handle. “Dylan told me there was a collection of old guns here.”

She nodded. “In my dad’s study, downstairs.”

“He said Annie’d let him go through them, and he’d cleaned them up and even had a few refitted to hold modern ammo.” He sat down beside her, admiring the handgun.

“Is it loaded?”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “But there’s a box of small-caliber bullets in there, so I’m guessing he shot this one a time or two.”

“Maybe tomorrow you can shoot it.” She took the gun from his hands and placed it on the table. “Right now, I think I’m more interested in picking up where we left off.”

“Well, then, how about I put another log on the fire”—he placed a split piece of oak on the fading embers—“and maybe a little more music . . .” He hit replay, then, following her to the floor, whispered, “I think we were right about here. . . .”

Channing cursed under his breath almost continuously until he reached the cabin steps. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d tripped on his way up here. Everything from loose stones to small branches to God knew what else lay in his path. It was really hard, he thought wryly, to sneak up on the cabin when every other step he took was punctuated with a grunt or some other automatic reaction to tripping.

“Shit,” he muttered softly as he missed the bottom step.

From the top of the deck, there was a low rumbling. Channing looked up, and in the dim light he could make out the outline of a small dog.

“Hey, pup,” he whispered.

Spike growled again.

“Hey, you’re a Jack Russell,” Channing exclaimed. “I used to have a doggie just like you. Jake, his name was.”

He climbed the rest of the steps, his caution now secondary to wanting to see the dog a little closer.

“Yep, you look just like my Jake.” He nodded. “He was the best little dog in the world. My best friend. The best friend I ever had.”

Spike took several steps back from the gate as Channing slipped the latch and sat on the top step, holding out his hand for Spike to sniff.

“There, see? I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you,” Channing crooned. “I like dogs.”

He sat still as a stone while Spike investigated him. Slowly, Channing began to stroke the back of the little dog’s head.

“You’re a real sweet dog, aren’t you?” Channing smiled, captivated, his mission, for the moment, put aside. “My dog was a sweet dog, too. I missed him for a long time.”

Soothed by the gentle tone, Spike sat next to Channing, who continued to pet him. Channing almost forgot what he was there for.

Almost. But not quite.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a granola bar.

“You want a little snack?” he whispered. “This is all I have, but I’ll share. Let’s see if you like strawberry.”

Spike’s tail wagged eagerly as Channing broke off a small piece and offered it to his canine companion, who sniffed it once before accepting the tidbit. Over the next few minutes, Channing fed most of the remaining bar to Spike.

Believing that the dog would not bark to announce the presence of the stranger, now that they had made friends, Channing stood and crept up to the window. Inside he could see that both the lights and the fire were low and he could hear soft music playing. The table at the end of the sofa held two glasses, each partly filled with wine, and a gun. A step closer to the window, and he could see the shadowy bodies, entwined on the floor. He couldn’t see what they were doing, but he could guess.

Looks like they weren’t expecting company.
He chuckled to himself, thinking that now might be the best time to take out the FBI guy, while his full attention was elsewhere. Then again, if his reflexes were good, he’d be on that gun in a flash.

He started toward the door, thinking he might take his chances, but the dog began to bark. A quick glance inside the house indicated that the man had heard and was getting up to investigate. Channing flattened himself into the shadows alongside the bay window, hoping that the man wouldn’t look to the end of the deck.

He didn’t. He opened the door, and stepped out onto the deck, but the dog held his attention, as it had held Channing’s.

“What are you barking at, Spike? Oh, your baseball is caught in the doggie door, is that it?” The man bent over and released the large, fuzzy, stuffed blue-and-white ball and rolled it across the deck.

The dog pounced on it and dragged it back to the door.

“We’ll play later.” The man stooped to pat the dog on the head. “Go lie down, Spike.”

The dog wagged his tail slowly, watching the man disappear back into the house. He’d been much bigger—taller and better built—than Channing had originally thought. Might be a tough takedown.

“Hey, Spike,” Channing whispered. “Bring it here. I’ll play with you.”

Spike’s tail began to wag a little faster. He jumped at the ball, pushing it across the deck. Channing stopped it with one foot, then gave it a gentle kick, sending the ball to the opposite side of the deck. Spike returned the ball eagerly, happy to play. Grinning now and pleased with the game, Channing gave it another kick, a little harder this time. It rolled to the edge of the deck and rolled off.

“Oh, damn,” Channing sighed.

In the game now, Spike ran to his new playmate, his little tail wagging merrily.

“I suppose you want me to go get that, don’t you?”

Spike wagged a little faster.

“Tell you what I’m going to do, little buddy.” He knelt down and scooped up the dog, who swiped a pink tongue to lick at Channing’s chin. “I’m going to take you for a walk. Yeah, you and me.”

He reached for the leash that hung over the side of the deck and snapped it onto Spike’s collar. He took one last furtive look inside the cabin and decided that the couple in there were likely to be there for a while. While the element of surprise was his, the gun and the physical advantage went to Mara’s lover.

Besides, right now, he realized, he wanted the dog. It took him back to the only good time in his life, when there had been people who had cared about him. It had been too late to have made a difference in the long run, but for a time there’d been no pain and nothing to fear. For a time, he had the kind of life he’d dreamed about. A mother like the ones on the television, the kind who made you breakfast and sat with you while you did your homework. A father who taught you things, who took you fishing, and who put a basketball net on the side of the garage and taught you how to shoot the ball so that you wouldn’t be embarrassed again in gym class when everyone knew how but you. Parents who bought you presents for your birthday and for Christmas and gave you little gifts just because they cared. Parents who never hurt you—not one time—and who had asked nothing of you but that you love them.

And he had. God knows, he had loved the Channings as much as it was in him to feel love for anyone. They’d been the only good thing in his miserable life. They’d bought him the dog for Christmas the second year he was with them. It was the best gift he’d ever had.

The only real grief he’d ever truly felt in his entire life had been on the day Jake died. The death of his dog had opened a hole inside that he’d never been able to fill.

And now here was this little dog, wagging his tail, licking his chin, wanting to play.

The girl could wait. But right now, more than anything, he wanted that little dog.

He unlatched the gate, then locked it behind him. He hoisted Spike under his arm and, taking the steps slowly, one by one in the dark, descended to the ground. He paused long enough to pick up the fallen dog toy before slipping away into the night.