Flash Burned (28 page)

Kyle had to climb over the stick shift and follow me out on the passenger's side, since the protective shell was so slim, the car barely fit. We dragged a few more branches with layers of pine needles over the back of the Mercedes for added camouflage.

Then he took my hand and helped me through the rugged terrain as we made our way to the grounds.

We stuck to the boundary of the woods while assessing the situation. The helicopter hovered over the parking lot to the north. Ahead of us were the outbuildings for arts and crafts, vendor tents, and the grandstand with a stage. Music from a Country and Western band blared from the sound system.

“Now or never,” Kyle said, because the helicopter started to move toward us, the guys inside obviously convinced we'd never made it to the parking lot.

We raced toward the picnic tables around the food court area. Kyle tossed the keys to the McLaren, with its flashy emblem on the ring, in a metal trash barrel. Then we disappeared under a vendor tent. He peered around one side of it before tugging my hand again and leading me to another tent, this one selling straw cowboy hats.

“Put your hair up,” he said as he selected a hat for me and placed it on my head. He chose one for himself, then added aviator glasses, though the sun was setting.

He whipped out his credit card from his jeans pocket and then we hit another tent and slipped on Western shirts over the clothes we wore.

“Your evil dudes in the Camaro might stake this place out,” he told me.

“
My
evil dudes?”

He slid his sunglasses down his nose and glared at me.

“Okay, right. My evil dudes.”

This was all a little too edge-of-the-seat for me. I still couldn't catch a solid breath.

“So now what?” I asked.

“I don't know.”

We left the vendors and walked cautiously to the grandstand. Couples two-stepped in front of the stage and kids danced in conglomerations. Others sat in the bleachers to watch and listen. Plenty of people milled about. We could get lost in this crowd, but how would we sneak out?

“Are we going to steal a car?” I asked. “Just so you know, I'm really not comfortable with that.”

“Maybe we can bum a ride.”

“Yeah, because we don't look shady at all, wearing sunglasses at night.”

He groaned. “I don't fucking know, Ari. I'm not the one who's part of a goddamn secret society. I don't associate with stalkers and kidnappers and assholes with helicopters.”

I winced at his under-the-breath outburst. “I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I got you into all of this.”

He pulled his hat down lower on his brow and shook his head. “You didn't. I sort of volunteered, didn't I?”

“And you can un-volunteer at any time.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “Leave you to fend for yourself?”

I smiled, despite the tense moment. “You just can't resist being a hero, can you?”

“Well, someone's gotta be.”

Since that fated day at Meg and Sean's wedding, when Dane had swooped in to save the day—for me and the groomsmen—Kyle had been trying to prove he was a good guy. And continually did a great job of it.

I squeezed his hand and said, “You're pretty awesome.”

“Regretting marrying the Terminator?”

“I think of him more as the Bruce Wayne/Batman type.”

“You would,” Kyle said wryly.

“Anyway, that's currently neither here nor there. We have to find an escape that doesn't put anyone in jeopardy, so I don't think asking for a ride is an alternative.”

“Then I guess we're stealing a car.”

I sighed. “There has to be another way.”

He glanced around our immediate surroundings. My gaze followed. He paused. I did as well.

“What?” I asked as we both stared at two officers clearly focused on crowd control.

Kyle put his hand at the small of my back and guided me away. “Just play along.”

“Okay.”

I had no clue what he was up to. We wound through the large groups gathered about, everyone laughing and drinking, having a great time. A part of me envied them, looking so carefree and … safe.

We strolled casually toward the food court, not drawing any real attention, thankfully. Then we passed through plastic white-picket gates and I halted abruptly.

“The beer garden?” I stared up at him, incredulous.

“Play along,” he reminded in a quiet tone.

I huffed a little but followed him to the booth. We stood in line for a few minutes while I apprehensively glanced about. Not that I would know whom to search for—I had no idea who'd been in the Camaro. I kept my eye out anyway.

When we reached the front of the line, Kyle ordered two beers and paid for them. We stepped away and I said, “I can't drink this. I'm pregnant.”

“You don't have to drink it. Spill some on your jeans. Your shoes.”

I didn't know, but the plan did as requested.

“Slosh a little over the rim of the cup,” he added, “onto your hand.”

He did the same. Then he snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me close to him. I tensed, uncomfortable with the intimate contact.

“Relax,” he whispered. “Act drunk.”

I laughed emphatically. Gave a half snort, as though he'd muttered something hysterical.

“Good,” he said. Then he started talking loudly about the music, the band, the dancing. Gesturing obnoxiously with the cup in his hand.

We made our way back to the grandstand and he literally plowed into a skyscraping broad-shouldered guy from behind, Kyle's beer splattering against the stranger's flannel shirt.

“Hey!” The mountain of a man whirled around and glared at us. I gulped.

“S'rry, dude,” Kyle said. “Didn't see ya there. Which is, like, so weird, right? Because you're …
Damn
. Seriously tall.” He craned his neck. “They call you Treetop or something?”

My gaze widened.

“What kind of prick are you?” the lumberjack demanded.

“One who works out every day.” Kyle relinquished his hold on me and lifted his arm, flexing his biceps. “You, however, look like you could use some extra weight on your dumbbells.”

Oh, fuck.

Dark eyes narrowed on Kyle. “You are one serious asshole, man.”

Kyle staggered a bit—and spilled more beer on the guy. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “It's just that … you take up a lot of space.”

“And you need to shut the hell up.”

“Wanna make me?” Kyle challenged as he swayed a bit.

“You need to learn some manners, buddy.” The big lug took a swing and it connected. Kyle hit the ground. I screamed and dropped my beer.

“Son of a bitch!” I yelled, then sank to my knees to check on Kyle, who bled from a split lip. Crimson dotted the front of his new shirt.

“Maybe I should have picked a smaller dude,” he mumbled.

His eyes rolled in the sockets. He likely saw stars. And birds.

“Jesus, Kyle.” My stomach clenched.

“Hey, what's going on over here?” A new voice.

I glanced up to find the two officers closing in on us.

Time to play
my
part.

One of them reached for the assailant, but I clumsily got to my feet, stumbled as though tipsy, and declared, “Isnot 'is fault.” I waved a finger toward Kyle. “'Is drunk. I mean …
heeee's
drunk.” I cleared my throat. “He's drunk.” I forced the enunciation as though it were challenging.

“Great,” the second cop mumbled. “So are you.”

“Is not.” I shook my head. “Am not,” I corrected.

“Come on,” cop number one said as he helped Kyle up.

“Whoa,” I called out, pressing a palm to the officer's chest.

Cop number two warned, “Don't touch him.”

I kept my hand where it was. “He has to drive me home. I have someplace to be.”

“
He's
not driving anywhere,” I was informed.

Turning to Kyle, I said, “Then gimme the keys.”

“Yeah, right. Let you behind the wheel of my pickup? Shit, not a chance.”

Cop number two took my arm and said, “Let's go.”

They led us to the emergency/security building and cleaned Kyle up while attempting to administer a field sobriety test on me. I knew now the trick was to get them to haul us off to jail. That would involve them putting us in the back of the police car and escorting us out without the Camaro driver or the helicopter backup knowing we'd even left the grounds.

I'd already failed the walk-in-a-straight-line test. Told the officer I'd fall over if I closed my eyes and tried to touch my nose—on account of having a problem with equilibrium. Which I pronounced incorrectly.

Finally, he instructed, “Say the alphabet for me. Backwards.”

I laughed and wagged another finger at him. “I always wondered about that one. Most
sober
people can't even recite the alphabet backwards.”

He groaned. “There's always the Breathalyzer.”

“Which I can refuse.” I defiantly crossed my arms over my chest. I might land in jail for some time, but it was safer than what awaited us if we tried to leave here on our own.

“You're right,” the officer said. “We can do this the old-fashioned way. I can arrest you, take you to the station, book you for drunk and disorderly conduct, and get your alcohol level from a blood test.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

And that's precisely what happened.

“Watch your heads,” cop number one directed as Kyle and I were helped into the back of the cruiser, our hands cuffed behind us.

As the officers climbed into the front, I shot my friend a look. He grinned, then grimaced. His lip and one side of his jaw were swollen, for which I felt horrible. But we'd gotten what we wanted. Safe passage into Flagstaff, where we could figure out what the hell to do from there.…

 

chapter 15

Yeah. Jail.

So
not the place for me.

I was in with a couple of other rowdies from the music festival, a prostitute and a woman who claimed to be a meth addict and kept screaming that if she didn't get some crystal in her soon she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. Needless to say, I didn't dare close my eyes.

In the morning, cop number one came for me and put me in a room with Kyle. We sat opposite the officer, who pushed a file across the table and demanded, “Care to explain this?”

I stared down at a legal-looking document with “Negative” stamped across the top portion. “Neither of you were drunk last night. Not a trace of alcohol in your systems.”

Kyle and I exchanged hopeless looks. We really hadn't thought this through.
Now what
?

Time to make it up as we went along. “See … it's just that we're, um, you know … Uh.” I wracked my brain. Then blurted, “We're twelve-steppers!”

He gave me a blank stare. “You're
what
?”

“You know, like AA,” Kyle joined in.

“Right,” I said enthusiastically, so glad we always ended up on the same mental track. “We were with our friends last night, and they just can't handle that we don't drink with them anymore and it makes it kind of awkward, you know? We pretended we were drunk so they wouldn't think we were … well … lame.”

Oh, but we were. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes—at myself.

“Uh-huh,” the cop slowly said. “Twelve-steppers.”

“I deserved to be arrested for picking a fight,” Kyle confessed.

“But you didn't take the first swing,” the officer pointed out. “Are you planning to press charges? Because we have the other guy's name and info as well.”

Kyle pretended to debate this, then shook his head. “Nah. Bygones and all that.” I could tell it hurt to speak, but he bucked up. “Will you let us go now?”

“Yes. Go back to Sedona”—obviously the officer knew where we lived based on our IDs—“and don't come back for a while, all right? Try to stay out of trouble. I don't want to see you two again.”

We were given our cell phones back. I stared at mine, knowing it needed to be destroyed. Kyle turned his on, but I wouldn't let him make a call.

I asked a desk clerk, “Would it be okay for me to use your phone? My battery's dead and his doesn't have much of a signal up here.”

She eyed me skeptically. We weren't exactly in a box canyon or in the boonies, so of course he had a signal. Still, she pushed the phone my way. “Dial nine to get an outside line.”

I called the only person I could rely on at this point and very cryptically said, “Can you please pick me up at the police station in Flag?”

*   *   *

Mr. Conaway arrived an hour and a half later. Kyle and I settled into his Cadillac CTS, me in the front seat.

“This ought to be interesting,” my lawyer said by way of casual conversation. I didn't miss the disapproval in his tone. Or the crinkling of his nose.

“Sorry for the stale-beer smell. We actually weren't drinking,” I told him. “We were followed. Set up at first, then followed,” I amended.

He shot a look my way. “Tell me everything.”

I did, from start to finish. I wrapped up the eventful story right around the time we reached the scenic pull-off on the rim of the canyon. Mr. Conaway parked the car and we all got out.

“Give me your phone, please,” he said to me. I handed it over.

He checked it. My guess was he was curious about the text message and did the same thing I'd done—compare that number to the few others that had come through from Amano.

“You've been hacked,” he informed me, disgruntled.

“I didn't think that was possible with a disposable phone.”

“Anything's possible, my dear.” He handed the cell to Kyle. “Send it to the bottom of the canyon.”