Page 68 of Dangerous Secrets

Harlan’s Motel, thirty miles from Parker’s Ridge

Finally,morning came. The dull gray sunlight seeping through the cracked blinds of the motel room didn’t flatter the room any. It highlighted the stains and worn patches in the carpet, the cracks in the plasterboard walls, the thin film of dust everywhere.

It was a miserable little motel room, the most anonymous, cheap one he could find. Though Nicholas Ames’ photo had been briefly on the news all day two days ago, the man who checked into Harlan’s Motel looked nothing like the sleek businessman on the TV screens with his barbered face, styled hair, $8,000 suits and cashmere overcoats.

Nick Ireland hadn’t shaved or showered or combed his hair for two days. So when a tall man in black jeans, black turtlenecksweater and cheap black parka, tousle-haired and with black stubble on his face checked into the motel, the pimply teenager manning the desk barely put down his skin magazine to look at him.

Nick registered as Barney Rubble.

That was a provocation, just as remaining within a 30-mile radius of Parker’ s Ridge was a provocation. He’d promised he’d drive back to DC yesterday. Today the head of the Unit was waiting to debrief him.

If his partners knew he was still here, they’d probably shoot him. If his boss back in Washington knew, he’d fire him.

Yesterday, he’d been ready to go back. Some stupid sentimental thing, some strange compulsion, had led him to stay on for the funeral and Di Stefano had chewed his ass out for it.

He’d seen the funeral, seen Charity one last time, had climbed down from the mountainside and gotten into his SUV. Well, the hit man’s SUV, slated for Forensics once Nick hit DC.

And Nick had had every intention of heading out.

It was 4 pm by the time the funeral was over. He shouldn’t have gone at all, because he had over a ten hour drive to get home. Or eight if he wanted to drive his frustration off.

Either way, he had a long night of driving in front of him.

And yet he got as far as the turnoff that would take him straight down into Burlington, about thirty miles from Parker’s Ridge. Then he pulled off the road and sat in the SUV, engine idling, for a quarter of an hour. The very few vehicles out on this gelid day, with its promise of more snow towards evening, hissed by. No one paid him any attention whatsoever, which was as it should be.

He was dead, after all.

He sat and sat, knowing that each minute spent here just made his long trip even longer. Knowing that he was forfeitingeven a short nap before having to haul his sorry ass down to headquarters to be debriefed.

And though his foot was on the accelerator and his hand on the gear shift and all it would take was about four pounds of pressure from his foot to shoot on to the road to Burlington, he couldn’t do it. He spent a fucking hour at that fucking intersection until finally, angry and frustrated, he turned the SUV around and drove to the most anonymous motel he could find, where he could be miserable for only $85 a night.

In his Delta days, Nick had lived rough. He’d once spent 70 days in the field sleeping on the ground and crapping in a pit he’d dug himself. This room was somehow worse.

He’d tried to ignore the pubes in the shower stall and the faint smell of sewer coming from the drain. He’d started drying himself with the thin towel then stopped when he saw brown streaks.

Still damp, he’d padded back into the room and sat down, naked and damp, on the side of the bed.

Jesus only knew how many traveling salesmen had jerked off on the bedspread. He needed something to sterilize the germs. Luckily he’d stopped off at a 7-11 to buy it. A bottle of whiskey, ten bucks, pure rotgut. Just what he needed tonight.

He uncapped the bottle and looked for a glass. The one he found was stained and chipped. With a shrug, he simply tipped the bottle up and took a big slug. It burned all the way down, so he took another.

Bad shit was coming down. Nick was the world’s greatest expert on bad shit. He had a sixth sense for it, and right now his Bad-Shit-O-Meter was way, way over into the red zone. And Charity was right in the middle of it, whatever was going to happen.

He took another swig, a long one this time.

Charity, in danger. The thought made his skin crawl, burned his throat, squeezed his chest until he thought he’d choke.

Nick tipped the bottle up, chugged. But there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to drown out the image of Charity hurt, wounded or—God!—dead.

Charity, with her pale, delicate skin. She’d once told him that her family had lived in Parker’s Ridge for over 200 years. Nick believed it, absolutely. It would take at least 200 years of breeding to get that perfect skin—smooth as porcelain, except no porcelain on earth had that pearly sheen. Every time he touched her, he was scared shitless he’d bruise her. After a while, after he touched her gingerly, she’d laugh and put his hand on her breast. Or pull it down between her legs.

Nick lay back on the filthy bedspread, naked, half-drunk from the bad whiskey and the good memories.

Charity was soft all over, but she was softest between her legs, with the sweetest little sex he’d ever fucked.

Nick groaned, looked down at himself through slitted eyes. He was hard as a pike, with nowhere to go with it.

This was new for him. He rarely jerked off. He didn’t have to. When he was on a mission, he was too busy trying to save his ass to think about sex. And when he wasn’t on a mission, well, half the world was female, after all, most with all the right plumbing. Lop off the under eighteens and over fifties, then lop off the dogs and you were still left with a world full of women to fuck.

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