Remember When

16.

Max angled his car across the gravel road, just out of sight of the last cabin on the left. If Crew tried to run, he'd have to go through the Porsche first.

It was quiet and near dusk. He'd seen little activity in the woods, or in the cabins he'd passed. Hikers would be back by this time of day, vacationers settling in for dinner or a drink.

He shut off the engine, then leaned across Jack to unlock the glove box.

"We can't just sit here."

"We're not going to just sit here." Max removed his gun, a second clip, then tossed a pair of binoculars in Jack's lap. "Keep an eye on the place."

"You go in there with that, somebody's going to get hurt. Guns are trouble," Jack added when Max merely looked at him.

"Right on both counts." He checked the clip, slapped it back into place, shoved the spare into his pocket. "Cops are on their way. It'll take them some time to secure the area, set up for a hostage situation. They know he's armed, they know he has Laine. They'll try to negotiate."

"How do you negotiate with a fucking lunatic? My girl's in there, Max. That's my baby girl in there."

"She's my girl, too. And I don't negotiate."

Jack swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "We're not waiting for the cops here either."

"We're not waiting." Since Jack had yet to use the field glasses, Max took them, focused in on the cabin. "Closed up tight. Curtains are pulled over the windows. From this angle, I see one door, four windows. Probably a rear door, couple more windows on the other side, couple in the back. He can't get out this way, but if he gets past me, he could swing around the other side, take one of the side roads and loop to the main. I don't think we're going to let that happen."

Once again, he reached into the glove box. This time he pulled out a sheathed knife. When he drew the leather off, the blade was a sheen of bright silver with a vicious jagged edge.

"Jesus Christ."

"You take care of the tires on that Mercedes with this?"

"Tires." Jack breathed deep, in, out. "Yeah. I can do that."

"All right. Here's the way we play it."

***

Inside, Laine pushed herself up. Her ears rang from the blow, and under the pounding, she cursed herself for not moving quickly enough, not anticipating his reaction so she'd taken a swipe rather than a direct hit.

She knew her eyes were bright with tears, but she wouldn't shed them. Instead she burned them away with a hot stare as she laid a hand on her throbbing cheekbone. "You bastard. You son of a bitch."

He gripped her by the shirt, hauled her an inch off the couch. She stretched out her free arm as she stared back at him, but she was still short of her goal. "Who were you going to call, Laine? Dear old Dad?"

"You idiot." Her response, and the furious shove surprised him enough to have him dropping her back onto the couch. "Did you tell me to empty my pockets? Did you ask if I had a phone? It's off, isn't it? I always carry it around with me in the shop. You've been with me the whole time, Einstein. Did I make any calls?"

He seemed to consider, then turned the phone over and studied it. "It appears to be off." He powered it up. After it searched for and found service, the phone gave a little trill. "It seems you have a message. Why don't we see who's been trying to reach you?"

"Kiss my ass." She gave an annoyed shrug, scooted closer to the table, reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass. Her hand remained perfectly steady when she heard Max's voice announce he was back.

"There, does that sound like I've contacted him by phone or the power of my mind? Jesus." He was a good four feet away now. Too far. Setting the bottle down, she cupped her injured cheek. "Get me some goddamn ice for this."

"I don't like orders."

"Yeah, well, I don't like getting clocked by some guy with an impulse-control problem. How the hell am I going to explain this bruise, and believe me, it'll be a beaut. You just complicated everything. And you know what else, hotshot? My previous offer is now off the table. I don't sleep with men who hit me. Not ever, not for anything." She eased forward a bit, as if comforting herself, and continued to rub her cheek.

"Straight business deal now. No side bennies."

"You seem to forget, this isn't a negotiation."

"Everything's negotiable. You've got half, I've got half. You want all. I, on the other hand, am more realistic, and a lot less greedy. Take these damn things off," she demanded, rattling the cuffs. "Where the hell am I going?"

She saw his hand move, very slightly, toward his left pants pocket. Then drop away again. "I don't think so. Now . . ." He started toward her. "The diamonds."

"You hit me again, you lay a hand on me, and I swear, I'll see the cops get them before you get one more stone."

"You have a delicate build, Laine. Delicate bones break easily. I think you have a strong mind; it might take a great deal to break that. I could start with your hand. Do you know how many bones there are in the human hand? I can't quite remember, but I believe there are quite a few."

His eyes came alive as he said it, and nothing in the whole of her life had ever frightened her more than that amused gleam. "Some will snap, some will shatter. It would be very painful. You'll tell me where the diamonds are, and you'll tell me the truth, because even a strong mind can tolerate only so much pain."

Her pulse was pounding in her temples, in her throat, in her fingertips, drums of terror, all but deafening. "And only a sick one gets juiced at the thought of causing it. You know, without that little flaw, I would've enjoyed spending some time with you."

She had to keep her eyes on his, steady on his. Survival depended on it. "I like stealing," she continued. "I like taking what belongs to someone else and making it mine. It's such a rush. But the rush isn't worth pain. It's never worth my life. That's a little something I picked up from my father. I think we've reached a point where you want the diamonds more than I do. You want to know where they are? That's easier than you think. But getting to them, well . . ."

Her heart was thumping like a jackhammer as she curved her lips, curled her finger. "Come here, and I'll give you a little hint."

"You'll do better than that."

"Oh, come on. At least let me have some fun with it." She toyed with the pendant around her neck, held it up. "What does this look like to you?" She let out a soft laugh. "Come on, Alex, take a closer look."

She knew she had him when he stepped to her, when his gaze fastened on the pendant. She let it drop again, to free her hand, then leaned forward again as if to pick up her wineglass. "It's all about misdirection, really. Another little thing I picked up from my father."

She tilted her face up so his attention would lock on it. There would only be one chance. He reached down for the necklace, bending, angling his head so he could get a closer look.

And she came off the couch, swinging the wine bottle in a furious roundhouse. There was the hideous crack of glass on bone, the splatter of red wine like a gush of blood. The momentum had him spilling over backward as she stood in her half crouch, panting, the bottle still clutched in her hand.

She dropped to her knees, fighting off a wave of nausea as she stretched out to try to reach him. She had to get the key out of his pocket, get the gun, get the phone. Get away.

"No! Goddamn it." Tears of frustration burned in her eyes as she strained her muscles and found he'd fallen just out of her reach. She scrambled up again, climbed over the couch, ramming it with her shoulder to nudge it across the floor. Just a little closer. Just a little.

The blood roared in her ears, and her own voice, high and desperate, sounded miles away as she ordered herself to Come on, come on, come on!

She dove back on the floor, snatching at his pant leg, tugging his body toward her. "The key, the key, oh God, please, let him have the key."

She glanced over. The gun was on the kitchen counter eight feet away. Until she'd unlocked the cuffs, it might as well have been eight hundred. Bearing down, she stretched out until the metal cut into her wrist, but her free hand reached his pocket and her trembling fingers dipped in.

Those stinging tears spilled over when her fingers met the small piece of metal. Breath wheezing, she fumbled it into the lock, cursed herself again and gritted her teeth. The tiny click was like a gunshot. She offered incoherent prayers of thanks as she shoved the cuff off her wrist.

"Think. Just think. Breathe and think." She sat on the floor, taking a few precious seconds to cut through the panic.

Maybe she'd killed him. Maybe she'd stunned him. She was damned if she was going to check. But if he wasn't dead, he'd come after her. She could run, but he'd come after her.

She scrambled up again and, grunting, panting, began to drag him toward the couch. Toward the cuffs. She'd lock him down, that's what she'd do. She'd lock him down. Get the phone, get the gun, call for help.

Relief flooded in when she snapped the cuff on his wrist. Blood trickled down his face, dripped on her hand as she pushed his jacket aside, reached into the inside pocket for her phone.

The sudden blare of a car alarm ripped a short scream out of her throat. She jolted, looked toward the door. Someone was out there. Someone could help.

"Help." The word came out in a whisper, and she pushed herself to her feet. As she sprang forward, a hand grabbed her ankle and sent her slamming facedown onto the floor.

She didn't scream. The sounds she made were feral growls as she kicked back, crawled forward. He yanked, hooking an arm around her legs so she was forced to swivel, shoving herself up from the waist to use her fists, her nails.

The horn continued to sound, like a two-tone scream, over and over while she tore at him, while he pulled her closer. Blood matted his hair, streaked his face, gushed out of fresh wounds where her nails ripped.

She heard a crash, and one of her flailing arms landed on broken glass. The new jolt of pain had her rolling over, digging in with elbows to gain a few precious inches. Once again her hand closed over the wine bottle.

This time when her body jerked around she had it gripped in both hands like a batter at the plate. And she swung hard for the fences.

There was a pounding—in her head? In the room? Outside? Somewhere a pounding. But his grip on her released, his eyes rolled back and his body went still.

Whimpering, she scuttled back like a crab.

That's how Max saw her when he rushed into the room. Crouched on the floor, blood on her hands, her pants and shirt torn and splotched with red.

"Laine. Jesus God almighty." He lunged to her, the cold control he'd snapped on to get inside, to get to her, shattered like glass. He was on his knees beside her, running his hands over her face, her hair, her body. "How bad are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Are you shot?"

"What? Shot?" Her vision skipped, like a scratched film. "No. I'm . . . it's wine." A giddy bubble exploded in her throat and came out as a crazed laugh. "Red wine, and, oh, some of this is blood. His. Mostly his. Is he dead?" She said it almost conversationally. "Did I kill him?"

He brushed the hair back from her face, skimmed his thumb gently over her bruised cheekbone. "Can you hold on?"

"Sure. No problem. I just want to sit here."

Max walked over, crouched by Crew. "Alive," he said after he checked for a pulse. Then he studied the torn, battered and bloodied face. "Did a number on him, didn't you?"

"I hit him with the wine bottle." The room was moving, she realized, ever so slightly. And there seemed to be little waves in the air, like water. "Twice. You came. You got my message."

"Yeah. I got your message." He patted Crew down for weapons, then went back to Laine. "You sure you're not hurt?"

"I just feel numb right now."

"Okay then." He set his gun on the floor beside them and wrapped his arms around her. All the fear, the fury, the desperation he'd fought off for the last hour rolled into him, rolled out again. "I gotta hold on," he murmured against her throat. "I don't want to hurt you, but I've gotta hold on."

"Me too." She burrowed into him. "Me too. I knew you'd come. I knew you'd be here. Doesn't mean I can't take care of myself." She eased back a little. "I told you I can take care of myself."

"Hard to argue with that. Let's see if we can stand up."

When they gained their feet, she leaned into him, looked down at Crew. "I really laid him out. I feel . . . empowered and satisfied and . . ." She swallowed, pressed a hand to her stomach. "And a little bit sick."

"Let's get you outside, get you some air. I'll take care of things in here. Cops are on their way."

"Okay. Am I shaking or is that you?"

"Little of both. You've got a little shock going on, Laine. We'll get you out, and I want you to just sit down on the ground, lie down if it makes you feel better. We'll call for an ambulance."

"I don't need an ambulance."

"That's debatable, but he sure as hell does. Here we go."

He led her out. Jack sprang from the corner of the house, the knife in one hand, a rock in the other. Laine's first muddled thought was how silly he looked.

Then he lowered both arms, and the knife and rock fell from his limp fingers to the ground. He stumbled forward, swept her in.

"Lainie. Lainie." Pressing his face to her shoulder, he burst into tears.

"It's all right. I'm all right. Shh." She cupped his face, drawing back to kiss his cheeks. "We're all right, Dad."

"I couldn't've lived. I couldn't—"

"You came. You came when I needed you. Aren't I lucky to love two men who are there when I need them?"

"I didn't know if I was coming back," he began.

On a wave of tenderness, she brushed tears from his cheeks. "But you did, didn't you? Now you've got to go."

"Lainie."

"The police will be here any minute. I haven't gone through all this to see you arrested. Go. Before they come."

"There are things I need to say to you."

"Later. You can say them later. You know where I live. Please, Daddy, go."

Max stepped back out with the phone to his ear. "Crew's secured. Laine's banged up but she's okay. Crew's going to need some medical attention. Laine and I'll wait here. What's your ETA? Good. We'll wait." He clicked off. "Vince and the rest of them will be rolling in. You've got about five minutes," he said to Jack. "Better get moving."

"Thanks." Jack offered his hand. "Maybe you are—almost—good enough for her. I'll be seeing you. Soon," he added as he turned to Laine. "Soon, baby girl."

"They're coming." She heard the sirens. "Hurry."

"Take more than some hick cops to catch Big Jack O'Hara." He winked at her. "Keep a light burning for me." He jogged toward the woods, turned for a quick salute, then disappeared into them.

"Well." Laine let out a long breath. "There he goes. Thanks."

"For what?" Max asked as she kissed him.

"For letting my father go."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I've never met your father."

On a muffled laugh, she rubbed her eyes. "I think I'm going to do that sitting-on-the-ground thing now."

***

It wasn't difficult to win a debate about a visit to the ER with a man who was so relieved you were alive and whole he'd have given you anything you asked for. Laine took advantage of it, and of Vince's friendship, to go straight home.

She'd be required to give a more complete statement to the chief of police the next morning. But he'd accepted her abbreviated account of events.

She'd given it while she sat on the ground outside the cabin, with a blanket around her shoulders. Though she'd come through her ordeal with Crew with nothing more serious than cuts and bruises, she didn't object when Max cut off the police questioning, scooped her off the ground and carried her to his car.

It gave her a lot of satisfaction to watch Crew hauled out on a stretcher.

A lot of satisfaction.

Jack O'Hara's daughter still had the moves.

Grateful, was all Laine could think as she spent a full twenty minutes under the hot pulsing spray of the shower. She was so grateful to Max, to Vince, to fate. Hell, she was grateful for digital communication. So much so she was going to retire her cell phone, have it mounted and hung in a place of honor.

And she would never drink cabernet again as long as she lived.

She stepped out of the shower, dried herself gingerly. The numbness was long gone, and every bump, scrape and bruise ached like fury. She swallowed four aspirin, then gathered her courage and took a look at herself in the full-length mirror.

"Oh. Ouch." She hissed out a breath as she turned for the rear view. She was a colorful mess of bruises. Hips, shins, knees, arms. And the beaut she'd predicted on her right cheek.

But they'd fade, she thought. They'd fade and be forgotten as she went back to living her life. And Alex Crew would spend the rest of his behind bars. She hoped he cursed her name every day of that life. And she hoped he spent every night dreaming of diamonds.

As a concession to the bruises, she dressed in loose sweats, tied her damp hair back loosely. As a concession to vanity, she spent some time with makeup to downplay the mark of violence on her face.

Then she turned, spread her arms and addressed Henry, who'd shadowed her—even in the bathroom—since she'd retrieved him from Jenny's. "Not too bad, right?"

She found Max in the kitchen, heating the contents of a can of soup on the stove. "Thought you might be hungry."

"You thought right."

He stepped to her, played his fingers over the bruise. "I'm sorry I wasn't faster."

"If you're sorry, you're diminishing my own courage and cleverness and I've been congratulating myself on them."

"Wouldn't want to do that, but I've got to say, I feel cheated. You robbed me of a chance to beat that son of a bitch into pulp."

"Next time we deal with a homicidal sociopath, you can take him down."

"Next time." He turned back to stir the soup. Laine linked her hands.

"We've rushed into all this, Max."

"Sure.have."

"People . . . I imagine people who come together in intense or dangerous situations often rush into things. All those emotions spiking. When things level off, they probably regret following those impulses."

"Logical."

"We could regret it if we move ahead the way we talked about before. We could regret rushing into a relationship, much less marriage."

"We could." He tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot, then set it down and turned to her. "Do you care?"

She pressed her lips together before they could tremble. There he was, at her stove, all tall and rangy, with those dangerous eyes and that easy stance. "No. No, I don't care. Not even a little." She flew into him, rising up on her toes when his arms clamped around her. "Oh God, I don't care. I love you so much."

"Whew. That's good." His mouth crushed to hers, then softened, then lingered. "I don't care either. Besides, I just picked this up for you in New York. It'd be wasted if you wanted to start getting sensible on me now."

He tugged the box out of his pocket. "Pretty sure I remember what you said you liked."

"You took time to buy me a ring in all of this?"

He blinked. "Oh. You wanted a ring?"

"Smart-ass." She opened the box, and her heart turned slowly, beautifully, over in her breast as she stared at the square-cut diamond in the simple platinum setting. "It's perfect. You know it's perfect."

"Not yet." He took it out, slipped it on her finger. "Now it is." He kissed her scraped knuckles just beneath it. "I'm going to spend my life with you, Laine. We'll start tonight with you sitting down there and me making you soup. Nothing intense about that."

"Sounds nice. Nice and normal."

"We can even bicker if you want."

"That doesn't sound so bad either. Maybe before we do, we should get the rest of it out of the way. Can I see them?"

He turned the soup down, opened the briefcase he'd set on the table. The sight of him taking out the piggy bank made her laugh and lower to a chair.

"It's horrible really, to think I might've been killed over what's in the belly of a piggy bank. But somehow it's not. It's just so Jack."

"A rep of the insurance company will be picking them up tomorrow." He spread a newspaper, picked up the little hammer he'd found in the mudroom. "Want the honors?"

"No. Be my guest."

It took a couple of good whacks before he could slide the padding out, then the pouch. He poured the sparkling waterfall in it into Laine's hand.

"They don't get less dazzling, do they?"

"I like the one on your finger better."

She smiled. "So do I."

While he dumped the shards and newspaper, she sprinkled the diamonds onto velvet. "They'll have half of them back now. And since Crew's been identified and captured, they might find the rest of them where he lived, or in a safe-deposit box under his name."

"Maybe. Might have a portion of them stashed that way. But he didn't go to Columbus, he didn't take something to that kid out of the goodness of his heart or a parental obligation. The ex and the son have something, or know something."

"Max, don't go after them." She reached out for his hand. "Let it go. They're only trying to get away from him. Everything you told me says she's just trying to protect her child, give him a normal life. If you go after them, she'll feel hunted, she'll run again. I know what that's like. I know what it was like for my mother until she found some peace, until she found Rob. And my father, well, he's a thief and a con, and a liar, but he's not crazy, he's not a killer."

She nudged the diamonds toward him. "No amount of these is worth making that innocent boy live with the fact that his father's a killer. They're just stones. They're just things."

"Let me think about it."

"Okay." She got up, kissed the top of his head. "Okay. Tell you what. I'll put a couple of sandwiches together to go with this soup. You can cross-check the diamonds with your list. Then we'll put them away and eat like boring, normal people."

She got up to get the bread. "So when do you suppose I can get my car back from New Jersey?"

"I know a guy who'll transport it down. Couple of days." He set to work. "I'll run you around meanwhile, or you can use my car."

"See, boring and normal. Mustard or mayo on the ham?"

"Mustard," he said absently, then fell into silence with the dog snoring at his feet.

"Son of a bitch."

She glanced back. "Hmm?"

He shook his head. "Let me do this again."

Laine cut the sandwiches she'd built in two. "Doesn't add up, does it?" She set the plates on the table as Max tapped his fingers and studied her. "I was afraid of that. Or not afraid, really, just resigned. A little short of the quarter share?"

"About twenty-five carats short."

"Uh-huh. Well, your client would accept, I'm sure, that the shares might not have been evenly divided. That the portions that are left might be just a little heavy."

"But that wouldn't be the case, would it?"

"No. No, I doubt very much that was the case."

"He pocketed them. Your father."

"He'd have taken his share out, selected a few of the stones, just as a kind of insurance, then he'd have put them into another container—the pig—and kept the insurance on him. In a money belt or a bag around his neck, even in his pocket. 'Put all your eggs in one basket, Lainie, the handle's going to break. Then all you've got is scrambled eggs.' You want coffee with this?"

"I want a damn beer. I let him walk."

"You'd have let him walk anyway." She got the beer, popped the top for him, then slid into his lap. "You'd have taken the diamonds back if you'd known he had them, but you'd have let him walk. Really, nothing's changed. It's just a measly twenty-five carats." She kissed his cheek, then the other, then his mouth. "We're okay, right?"

When she settled her head on his shoulder, he stroked her hair. "Yeah, we're okay. I might put a boot in your father's ass if I ever see him again, but we're okay."

"Good."

He sat, stroking her hair. There were ham sandwiches on the table, soup on the stove. A dog snoozed on the floor. A few million—give or take—in diamonds sparkled in the kitchen light.

They were okay, Max thought. In fact, they were terrific.

But they were never going to be boring and normal.