And, as he headed out of the huge house, Ethan reminded himself that Faye Carhill never said anything without her husband’s approval.
When he was on the open road, Ethan turned a country-western music station up loud and drove fast, fighting an assault of memories. Ham Carhill as a little kid, tagging along with the Brooker brothers on a quail hunt, trying to rope a steer, asking a million questions in that annoying, rat-a-tat way he’d had. The skinny genius. Ham could tell them how many feathers were on a quail and the geological origins of a canyon. He could think things, smell things, see things that Luke and Ethan never could. But Ham could never get the quail—his brain was too busy. He couldn’t focus in time.
And, as much as he pretended otherwise, Ham couldn’t pull the trigger to actually shoot the bird.
How he’d gotten mixed up with Mia O’Farrell didn’t make sense on one level—Ham didn’t seem the spy type. On another level, it made perfect sense. He’d go along for the ride, for the approval and the mental stimulation, and never see the dangers. He wasn’t so much naive as oblivious.
Char had met Ham once, but she didn’t romanticize the Carhills. “They think they live in the real world. One day they’ll find out they don’t. It won’t be pretty.”
She hadn’t liked Texas. Ethan would try to impress upon her that it was a very large state with a diverse population—didn’t matter. Their house in the country wasn’t going to be in Texas.
The thought of their plans—their dreams—of a quiet, normal life in the country, with babies and dogs, tugged at his preoccupation with his unanswered questions about Mia O’Farrell’s little rescue mission.
On a day like today, Ethan thought, Char would have bitched about the bright Texas sun and the constant wind.
He smiled, surprising himself because there was no bite of guilt this time—no pain.
He was almost back home when his cell phone rang.
“Where are you?”
Juliet. Ethan eased up on the gas. “I’m in my brother’s truck, enjoying a fine Texas morning. You, Marshal?”
“You’re in Texas?”
“I got in last night.”
“The hostage you rescued is a Texan,” she said. “Black cowboy hat, thin, smart-looking.”
Gritting his teeth, Ethan pulled over to the side of the road. Perhaps he’d underestimated Deputy Longstreet. “You’ve been busy. I should remember that you marshals are good at finding people.”
“Is he the reason you’re in Texas?”
She was hammering him. There wasn’t even a glimmer of the woman he’d made love to Friday night, gentle, eager, as in need of a few hours of forgetting as he was. He decided he could be as hard-edged. “I’m not doing this over the phone.”
She didn’t let up. “Your Texan in the black hat was in New York in late August. He showed up at my place. Tatro was out of prison, stalking me. Still no ID on the doorman, but he was hired about that time.”
Ethan gazed out at the broken clouds in an endless autumn sky.
He hadn’t known Ham Carhill went to New York in late August.
“I want a name, Brooker,” Juliet said. “I’ll get the big guns involved if I have to.”
“He isn’t here. I don’t know where is he. His mother says she doesn’t, either.”
“You’ve talked to her?”
“Just left,” Ethan said. “Juliet—damn. He could have realized I was in New York in late August.”
“Hunting your assassin, getting knocked on the head.” Juliet paused a moment, then said, only half out loud, “So he wasn’t at my building to see me. He was looking for you.”
Why? Ethan couldn’t begin to guess. Ham Carhill had never needed him or anyone else. “Within a week, he ended up in Tatro’s hands.”
“Who is this guy, an army buddy, a drinking partner? Someone you used to rope steer with? Do you owe him money?”
Ethan didn’t answer her. “Where are you right now?”
She bit off a sigh. “On my way to Vermont.”
She didn’t explain why, but Ethan didn’t need to be in law enforcement to have a fair guess. On Friday, everyone thought the doorman had been killed while heroically trying to stop Bobby Tatro from getting into the building. Now that the picture had become more complicated, Juliet would want to know exactly what Juan and Wendy had talked about before Tatro slit his throat.
“Your niece—”
“Picking apples and trying to put Bobby Tatro out of her head. Brooker—”
“I’ve got to go. Sun’s in my eyes.”
He disconnected her, then dialed the number he had for Mia O’Farrell.
She answered on the first ring but didn’t say anything, just breathed into the phone.
“Dr. O’Farrell?”
“Brooker,” she said, sounding relieved. “I wasn’t sure it was you. What can I do for you? Is everything all right?”
“Depends on your point of view. Do you have our skinny friend stuck in some cubbyhole?”
She obviously knew he meant Ham Carhill. “No. Why?”
“He took off.”
“When?”
“Sometime yesterday.”