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“Won’t.”

  John blew out a breath. God, this conversation was frustrating. “Where are you?”

  She sighed. “You don’t really think I’m going to tell you that, either, do you?”

  John stared at the fly-specked ceiling. This was getting him nothing except blue balls. What did he think he was doing, anyway? He was acting like a high school geek with a crush on the pretty, smart girl who sat in the back of chemistry. “Are you targeting Hyman because you still blame him for turning your uncle in?”

  He heard her suck in her breath. “You’ve been talking to people.”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of my job. So. Are you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think yes.”

  “Smart man.”

  “And I think you loved your uncle very much.”

  She sighed, the sound carrying clearly through the ether. “Yes, I did.”

  “So much so that you planned a bank robbery to get back at his accuser.”

  She surprised him. She laughed out loud. The sound was husky and low and tugged at his loins. “Is that what you believe?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  She made a noncommittal sound.

  “I saw you grab the key from Hyman’s desk and skip right into that bank vault like it was planned.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” she whispered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Silence.

  He sighed. “Of course, you left the entire contents of the safe deposit box on Hyman’s bed tonight, which would lead some to believe it wasn’t the money you were after.”

  More silence.

  “Did you see today’s crossword puzzle?” he asked softly.

  “What?”

  “The Wisconsin State Journal crossword.” He shifted and reached for the newspaper from the bedside table where he’d left it this morning, nearly eighteen hours ago.

  “Now, when would I have had the time to do that?” She sounded grumpy.

  He smiled. “I got stuck a couple of times. Fifteen down, four letters, messenger goddess.”

  “Iris.”

  “Really?” He pulled out the bedside-table drawer and found a pen. “How about Indian royal, five letters.”

  “Ranee. You must not do too many crosswords. They’re always using ranee.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. And the crosswords in the local papers are real easy. You should try the New York Times or the Chicago Tribune.”

  “Really. Didn’t know that.” He tossed the pen and newspaper aside. “You’ll have to teach me proper crossword etiquette.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said.

  “Maybe not, but it’d be fun.”

  “Good night, Special Agent MacKinnon.”

  “John.”

  “What?”

  “Call me John.”

  A pause. “Good night, John.”

  The line clicked because she’d hung up, but he said it anyway. “Good night, Turner.”

  Then he punched off and put the phone on his bedside table. God, he was tired. It had been a long, long day, and he was at the point where it was hard to think. He needed to think. Something about Turner and the bank president . . .

  John snorted. Hyman wanted round-the-clock security for himself and his house now. He claimed that Turner was on a vendetta against him. The sheriff had politely pointed out that Turner probably weighed a hundred pounds less than the bank president, but that had only made Hyman madder. Sheriff Clemmons had finally had to confess that even if he wanted to put a twenty-four-hour watch on Hyman, he just didn’t have the manpower for the job. Hyman had shut up about security fast when he’d been told he could hire private bodyguards. But he hadn’t looked happy. That man surely didn’t like being made a fool of.

  Was that what Turner’s goal was? To humiliate the bank president? Because it wasn’t too bright of her to stick around after knocking over a bank. She had to have some kind of reason to stay in the neighborhood besides robbing Hyman. Of course, the woman wasn’t stupid. Maybe she’d taken off after the Hyman house robbery. Heck, she could be on the way to Mexico at this very minute. But he didn’t think she was all that far away. Whatever Turner was doing included the bank president, and John was pretty certain she wasn’t done. He remembered the expression of rage—and maybe fear—on Hyman’s face when he’d seen the contents of his safe deposit box in the middle of his bed. John was almost certain that the other man knew what Turner’s reason was for leaving her present. He sighed and turned off the bedside light.

  He only hoped she hadn’t underestimated her adversary.

  Chapter Eleven

  D ude.” Nald stepped into something deep and squishy and had to wave his arms a moment before regaining his balance. “This is gross. This is alien-spurting, brain-sucking, rotting-zombie—”

  “Eyeball-exploding,” Fish panted, expanding on the thought. “Scottish toilet-spewing—” There was a loud plop! as Fish hit a particularly wet spot and toppled over, his garbage bag of bank money landing in the water.

  Nald zigzagged around the fallen form of Fish. He was following Fish because Fish said he’d once come to this swamp to hunt ducks with his uncle Earl and therefore he knew it best. It was Nald’s opinion that only a duck who was brain-dead and a retard would bother landing here, because, as he’d already said, it was gross. Also, it was pitch-black—whatever pitch was—and you couldn’t even see your own arm in front of your face. Hell, you couldn’t even see your own dick. They’d been wandering around this bog for, like, hours now.

  Nald wrinkled his nose. “And dude, it smells—”

  “Yeah.” Fish struggled upright. “Refrigerator-gone-bad smells—”

  “You smell, dude,” Nald pointed out, because it was true. Bank robbing seemed to have a bad effect on Fish’s armpits. “You smell like a road-killed skunk.”

  “Gross. We wouldn’t be in this swamp in the first place if you hadn’t wrecked the Camaro.” Fish kept talking about the damn car.

  “Not my fault.”

  “Who was driving the car?”

  “Me,” Nald admitted. “But—”

  “Then it is, too, your fault! The stupid car didn’t drive itself into that tree.”

  “I was looking for cops,” Nald said with dignity. “Coulda happened to anyone.”

  “Not unless they were missing most of their brain.” Fish made an odd gagging sound. “Gross! I think a bug flew in my mouth.”

  “Yeah?” Nald asked, interested. “Did you swallow it?”

  “No way, booger-brain!”

  “Do you think we can use the money with ink all over it?” Nald had been worrying about this point off and on for the last two days.

  “’Course,” Fish said. “Who’s gonna care?”

  That’s what Fish had said every other time he’d asked, but somehow Nald couldn’t find the same confidence. “Yeah, but—”

  “Look, a twenty’s a twenty, even if it’s purple.”

  “Whatever,” Nald said, losing interest.

  “People would use a twenty if it had puke on it,” Fish insisted. “There’s no limit, man.”

  “Dude, this, this is the limit.” Nald pulled his foot up. It lifted with a loud sucking sound. “I haven’t seen anything this gross since that chainsaw movie where the guy lays that girl’s head open and she’s all ahh! ahh! ahh! running around with her brains falling out.”

  “Would you shut up?”

  “And the mosquitoes.” Nald waved an arm in front of his face and nearly took off his own nose with the garbage bag of money he held. “Ow! Damn! I think they’re draining me dry. They’re gonna find my shriveled body, looking like the mummy in that film with Tarzan in it.”

  “Tarzan didn’t fight the mummy, you dickhead.”

  Nald was offended. He knew his mummy movies. “Dickhead, yourself. He did, too—”

  “Oh, yeah, like he’s in the pyramids with Cheetah—”

  “Che
etah wasn’t there—”

  “Ee-ee-ee! There’s a mummy, Tarzan!”

  “I’m telling you, Cheetah wasn’t in The Mummy.”

  “You said Tarzan—”

  “Didn’t you see The Mummy?” Nald asked, amazed. “Remember those bugs that crawled right under your skin and ran around until they hit your brain and then you start screaming and clutching your head and going uhg! uhg! uhg! until you can’t stand it anymore and ran yourself into a wall headfirst?”

  Fish seemed to remember that part. “Gross.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember when the mummy ate one of those bugs and you could see it because his cheek was all rotted away?”

  “Gross!” Nald yelled gleefully.

  “Think you could actually eat a bug?” Fish could get deep thoughts like that sometimes.

  “Naw.” Nald shook his head in the dark. “Well, maybe if I was starving.”

  “Like a slug. Could you eat a slug?”

  “Gross!”

  “Or what about a cockroach? Would you eat a cockroach?”

  “It’d be crunchy. Gross!”

  “Yeah, it’d be, like, crunch, crunch—”

  “Crunch, crunch!” Nald joined in the cockroach-eating sounds.

  Then they were silent a moment, and Nald could hear Fish running into a tree.

  “But why do we have to go through a swamp?” Nald asked, because this was another question that had been bothering him. “Couldn’t we take the road? I mean, it’s right over there.” He waved an arm in the general direction of the highway but then almost lost his balance again.

  “I already told you. We got to lose the dogs.”

  “What dogs? There ain’t no dogs around for—”

  “There’re always dogs in movies,” Fish interrupted. “To track the prisoners.”

  “Shit.” Nald walked into something wet and sticky and spent a few minutes getting it off his face. Then he stopped and stared into space. “Prison? I ain’t going to no prison.”

  “That’s the plan, doofus. Not going to prison.”

  “But—”

  “If the dogs find us we’re toast, right?”

  “Uh—”

  “So can’t let the dogs find us.”

  Nald knew that there was a problem with this argument, but since he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, he gave up. Besides, no matter what he said, Fish would do what he wanted. When Fish got an idea in his head, there was no stopping him. Which, come to think of it, was part of the reason they were in a swamp in the middle of the night.

  “Why do you ’spose he wanted us to rob the bank?” Nald asked, following that train of thought.

  “What?” Fish seemed to be stuck in the muck. His shadow had sunk about a foot.

  Nald grabbed an arm and pulled. “Why did he want us to rob the bank?”

  “For the money, duh.”

  “But he didn’t get the money,” Nald pointed out.

  “Not our fault.”

  “Yeah. We were at the pickup spot,” Nald agreed righteously.

  “’Sides, maybe he forgot.” Fish gasped as the bog let him go with a pop!

  “But would you forget to pick up money?”

  “No. But see, we’re smart. We’ve got priorities. We don’t forget money.”

  “I guess.” Nald had a funny thought. “How do we know he’s a guy?”

  “What?”

  “I mean. . . .” Nald had to stop and concentrate. “The voice on the phone was all Tron-like.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe it was a chick, like, in disguise.”

  “Ooo! A hot chick?” Fish sounded psyched.

  “Yeah.” Nald brightened. “Like Buffy?”

  “Or Trinity. She could’ve been using a voice-altering spy thing.”

  “No, dude,” Nald objected. “That’d be the Tomb babe.”

  “Nuh-uh, douchebag. The Matrix chick is way cooler than any Tomb Raider—”

  “She’s got no tits!”

  “Oh, tits-man.” Fish was scornful. “Like, you’re looking at Pamela Anderson. As if!”

  “Boner!”

  “Douchebag!”

  Then they fell in the lake.

  Chapter Twelve

  T he birds were just beginning to sing the next morning when Turner’s cell rang. She stretched and yawned and pushed a dog head off her hip. The dog yawned, as well. She winced. The Great Dane’s breath was awful, but that couldn’t account for all of the smell in the truck.

  She stank.

  Somehow she hadn’t considered how she was going to keep herself clean when she’d taken off on Saturday. Sunday had been hot and muggy, and no doubt today would be just as icky. In the summer on days like these, she often took two or more showers, and now she couldn’t take any. Her scalp was beginning to itch at just the thought.

  The cell, which had been ringing continuously, finally stopped, and she felt a brief twinge of regret that the FBI agent had given up. Then she shook that thought aside and got out of the truck with the dog so that they could both do their business in the bushes. While she was squatting, the cell started again. This shouldn’t have lightened her mood, but it did. She hastily returned to the Chevy.

  “Hello?”

  “What’re you having for breakfast?” His voice was low and scratchy, as if he hadn’t been awake that long.

  She smiled involuntarily. “I’m planning on pickled herring.”

  “For breakfast?” He sounded appalled.

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I’m close to a diner.”

  “I am. I had two eggs over easy, hash browns, bacon, and buttered rye toast this morning.”

  “That can’t be good for your heart.”

  “Don’t I know it. And coffee.”

  “The coffee would be nice,” she admitted.

  “See? You could come in and I’d get you a big cup. With refills on me.”

  “That is a tempting offer, but I’ve got things to do today.” The Great Dane reappeared from the bushes and trotted up to the truck. She let him in.

  “And cream.” His voice lowered. “Lots of real cream.”

  Turner sucked in a breath. How did he know? “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  “Yes, you do. But if you want to get straight to business, fine with me. Where are you?”

  “Far, far away from you,” she lied.

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound like he’d bought the lie. “But see, this is the thing. I have this funny feeling that you’re still hanging around Winosha.”

  “A funny feeling, huh?” She dug a jar of herring out from her suitcase. The dog instantly came to attention at the prospect of food.

  “Yeah. Kind of at the base of my neck. Sort of a tingling.”

  “Maybe you need to see a chiropractor.”

  “Go ahead, laugh at me. I like a mean woman.”

  She gasped. “I’m not mean!”

  “Sure you are, honey.”

  “What—”

  “I went to see your old fiancé yesterday, Todd Frazer.”

  Her eyes narrowed. What could Todd have told him? “So?”

  “So you dropped that boy like a ton of bricks.”

  “The breakup was mutual.”

  “He didn’t even know why, did he?”

  She breathed hard for a moment. How dare he?

  “Just as well,” he drawled obnoxiously. “He wasn’t right for you.”

  “Now, look—”

  “Couldn’t stand . . . to you, could he?” The signal was beginning to disintegrate. Her batteries were low. But she heard his last words clearly. “I can.”

  Then the phone died.

  It was just like John to get in the last word, but Turner found herself grinning anyway. It was kind of fun to trade insults with the man. She hadn’t talked so freely to anyone in ages. There was no disguise to maintain with him, no deception she worried about revealing. He already knew her secrets. It was oddly liberating. On that
thought, she sobered. The FBI agent must know exactly how seductive his casual conversations were for her. He was trying to capture her. She couldn’t lose sight of that fact.

  Turner tossed the cell on the seat beside the dog. She’d have to charge it later at a wayside or rest stop, but right now she just wanted to get away. She started the truck and drove until the lane came to a T and then took a right onto a bumpy dirt road. Back here, the dry green forest was deserted. There were no marked trails, and the roads to the boat docks were on the other side of the lake. She came to an access lane—really only two tire tracks through brown grass—and pulled over. From the road, the Chevy was hidden. Taking her jar of herring, a bottle of water, and the crackers, she got out of the truck with the Great Dane. She made her way down a slope through the woods to the water’s edge. The dog went to investigate the weeds at the waterline.

  Turner stood still a moment and looked out at the lake—Redfin Lake, with its deep, quiet blue water. So blue it was like seeing the sky inverted. So blue it made your eyes hurt to look at it sometimes. So blue it instantly calmed her soul. Every single time. A lone great blue heron near the opposite bank noticed her arrival and took off, flying slowly, long legs trailing. The wind stirred the cattails and sent a little ripple scooting across the water.

  Redfin Lake wasn’t big—more of a glorified pond. And because of that, not many came to fish here. But Rusty had liked it. He’d brought his battered old boat here nearly every Saturday and puttered into the shallows just outside the cattail bed. He could spend the entire day catching perch and bluegill and the occasional northern, although he hadn’t much liked the latter; too bony, he’d said. He’d bring an old red-topped cooler full of braunschweiger and mayo sandwiches, a few ripe tomatoes, and a couple of cans of beer.

  Turner sat on a dry rock near the bank and opened her pickled-herring jar again. They really tasted better on saltines. Somehow the vinegar, fish, onions, and dry, salty cracker combined to make a sublime mush in her mouth. She ate three before twisting the cap off the bottle of water.

  The last time she’d been here, it’d been with Rusty. A perfect day in June, four years ago. It would’ve been before the trouble at the bank, before he’d lost his job and everything else. He was still happy, still carefree, like a little boy, even though he was sixty-three. She’d been impatient; she’d wanted to do something else that day, probably work, though she couldn’t remember now. But Rusty had kept at her until she’d agreed to come along to the lake. She remembered that they’d packed turnips from the garden. Big ones, because it was late in the season. She’d wrinkled her nose when Rusty had eaten one. He’d waved the lavender monster in front of her face, laughing. Come on, Turner, try one. Lets you know you’re alive when you taste the bite of a big old turnip.