GARDEN COP

Diana Palmer




To Joan Johnston.
She and I really did sing with the marines
at a conference we both attended in Atlanta,
but she did it better!

One
The woman was brazen. She couldn't have picked a more public spot to grow those marijuana plants. They were right on the main street in the small north Georgia town, right on a leg of the state highway. It was as if she were daring the police to do something about them.
  Little did she know, of course, that Curtis Russell, FBI agent, was visiting his mother right across the street from this brazen woman and her illegal substance. Just because he was on vacation, that pert little blonde shouldn't expect him to look the other way when the law was being broken. He was just off a high-profile murder case in San Antonio, and newly a member of the FBI. He could hardly wait for his first real case.
  His dark eyes narrowed as he stared out his mother's picture window across the street, where Marijuana Mary was busily fertilizing her bumper crop. He had to admit, she did look good in those beige shorts and top. She had nicely browned skin, and prettily rounded arms. She lived alone in a small rental house, and drove one of those new VW Beetles, pea-green with a sunroof. He wondered what she did for a living. She'd just moved in three months ago,


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according to his mother. Just in time to plant marijuana and get it almost to harvest. It was planted in a neat row beside an equally neat row of tall red flowers.
  Curtis, no gardener, had no idea what any of it was, except the marijuana. He'd seen that in pictures.
   "Curt, I do believe you've got a crush on that lovely young woman across the street," his mother called amusedly as she mashed potatoes in the kitchen.
"Why do you think so?" he asked abruptly.
   "For one thing, you've spent the past three days staring out the window at her," came the teasing reply.
   "It isn't a crush," he said with pure disgust. He unwound his six-foot frame from the chair he'd been occupying and stretched lazily, taut muscles rippling down his broad chest, before he wandered into the kitchen where his mother was working at the counter. "Do you know her name?" he asked hopefully.
   "Mary Ryan," she replied. "I don't know anything else about her."
"Who owns that house?"
"Greg Henry," she told him. "Why?"
   "No reason," he murmured, and pulled out a kitchen chair to straddle. He was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his dark hair unruly, his brown eyes smiling at his mother. It had been just the two of them since he was six and his father had died of an untimely heart attack. His mother had held down two jobs just to keep food on the table, working full-time as a reporter for a daily newspaper and doing feature
   
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material for a regional magazine as a district staff writer.
   Curtis took a paper route when he was ten, and he'd done odd jobs to bring in a little extra money. When he was sixteen, he went to work after school to help take some of the financial burden off her. The only thing he hadn't liked about the Secret Service job he'd had before, or the FBI job he had now, was that he had to be so far away from Matilda Russell. But she had her church work and her circle of friends, and she wasn't a clinging parent. In fact, she still did the odd feature for her old newspaper, but no news. Although she did seem to know a lot of things that weren't in the paper. She had contacts everywhere, in the most surprising sort of places, on both sides of the law.
   "Are you still hanging out with that convicted gun runner?" he asked suddenly.
  His mother, an elfish silver-haired woman with wicked dark eyes, smiled vacantly. "He wasn't convicted," she said pleasantly, transferring potatoes to a bowl. "Besides, he went straight. He's a college professor now."
   "Imagine that?" he asked the table. "Teaching what?"
She pursed her lips. "Ethics."
He almost doubled up laughing.
   "Just kidding," she added as she put the last bit of her hot, cooked lunch on the table and went to get place settings for the two of them. "He teaches criminal justice."
"That's still ironic."

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   "Lots of young men get into trouble once," she pointed out and gave him a speaking look as she put plates, silverware and napkins at two places. She went back for coffee cups and the carafe that held the coffee, adding a cream pitcher and sugar bowl to the menagerie on the inexpensive lace tablecloth.
   "At least I had the decency to wreck my own house instead of a stranger's," he said with a rueful smile.
   "And the good sense to know friends using illegal drugs could lead to trouble," she added. She sighed, studying her only child. "I was never so scared in my life when you were involved in that bust and we went before the judge with your attorney," she added somberly. "I'd covered drug-related stories for ten years. It was terrifying to see it firsthand."
  He got up and hugged her warmly. "I never messed up again," he reminded her with a kiss. "I catch guys who do that, now," he added.
   "You go after much bigger game than teenagers experimenting with drugs," she replied, holding him by both arms. "I'm very proud of you. That was a first-rate job you did in San Antonio, helping to track down and return that hacker from South America to trial in Texas. Even the state attorney general praised you."
  He shrugged. "Shucks, it weren't nothin'," he drawled.
  She popped him one on the upper arm and went to sit down. "Just watch your back," she cautioned. "It was bad enough thinking you might have to throw yourself in front of a bullet for some visiting digni-
   
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tary," she said, referring to his earlier stint in the Secret Service. "It's worse having you working homicide cases."
"Why is it worse?" he teased.
  She leaned toward him. "Because I'm retired! Can you think of the scoops I'd have had if you'd done this when I was still an ace reporter?"
  He grinned. "You could always come out of retirement and write news instead of little feature articles on some guy's giant pumpkin."
   "I like sleeping all night," she mused, pouring coffee into both their cups. "I like not having to spend holidays looking at crime scenes or listening to politicians defend harebrained policies that don't work. Roses," she added, "are much less demanding than editors, and I don't have to pack a laptop and a camera everywhere I go."
"Good point."
   "Besides," she added, "I make a lot more money at what I do now."
He couldn't argue with that.
  They ate in a companionable silence for several minutes.
   "Really, why are you watching the girl across the street?" she asked suddenly. "Do you know something I don't?"
"Not yet," he confessed. "But give me time."
  The next day, he went to see Greg Henry at his local realty company. He asked the man about his new renter point-blank.
"Is she in trouble with the law?" Greg asked

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sharply, because everybody in town knew what Curt did for a living.
   "How would I know?" Curt asked, throwing up his hands. "That's why I'm asking you."
   "She's a native of Ashton, a little town south of Atlanta," he replied, thumbing through a file. "She has excellent credit, references from some, uh, odd people, but she checks out."
"What sort of odd people?'' came the abrupt reply.
   "One of her character witnesses is a former revolutionary from a third world country. Another is the minister of a very large Protestant church in Atlanta- he's on television every Sunday, by the way. And the third is a rather notorious television anchorman in New York City who used to be managing editor for a newspaper in Chicago."
  Curt was lost for words. The woman was even more mysterious now that he knew a little about her. Greg wouldn't tell him anything else, although he was grinning outlandishly when he ignored the probing questions about her profession. So Curt thanked him with barely contained sarcasm and wandered downtown to the local police station.
  The town's police chief, Jack Mallory, had been in his graduating class in high school. They shook hands and Jack chuckled when he found out what Curt was doing for a living.
   "FBI, huh?" the other man said, shaking his head. "I never figured you for a Bureau man. You're too unorthodox."
  "They like unorthodox," he returned with a grin. "Ask anybody."
   
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  Mallory pursed his lips. "Weren't you with the Secret Service?" he mused aloud. "And wasn't there some sort of scandal about you that got you sent to the Okefenokee Swamp to guard the vice president?"
   "I volunteered!" Curt said shortly. "I love swamps!"
Jack grinned. "Really?"
   "Never mind about that. Listen, there's a woman across the street from my mother growing illegal plants," he added. "Right on the road, for God's sake!"
  Jack was serious now. "What sort of illegal plants?"
"Third world agriculture," came the dry reply.
Jack picked up his hat. "Let's go see."
  Curt went along with the police chief in his unmarked squad car. They pulled up in Mary Ryan's driveway. She stood up from her kneeling position, with dirt-covered knees and smears of mud on her face from her weeding. She gave the police car a curious, but not worried, scrutiny.
   "You're too late," she called to Jack. "I confessed to speeding only last week and they let me off with a warning."
   "It's not about speeding," Jack said. He glanced at the flower bed and gave her a speaking look. "Do I really have to tell you to pull those up, and why?"
"But they're only...!" she began.
"They're illegal. And you know it."
  She sighed. "But they're so pretty," she sighed, her big brown eyes poignant. "And I raised them from seed."
   
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   "The law is the law. Don't make me send men out here to pull them up for you."
   "Okay," she said, saluting. "I'll do the dirty work. But I wouldn't know how to process them," she continued.
   "Neither would any of us," he confessed. "But they're still illegal. If you don't believe me, ask Jea-nette," he added, nodding toward a house two doors down. "We made her pull hers up, too."
   "I'll do it," she said heavily. She stared at Curtis Russell and scowled. "He made you come out here, didn't he? I've noticed him standing at his mother's picture window, glowering at me. Is he the garden police?"
  Jack had to bury his face in his hand. Curt wasn't amused.
   "You were breaking the law," he said shortly. "And doing it blatantly. I'm with the FBI," he added deliberately.
   "Yeah. The Flower Bureau of Investigation." She smiled haughtily.
  He wasn't blushing, he wasn't blushing, he wasn't...
  He got back into the police car and slammed the door. He refused to even look at her. That didn't faze her. She was still smiling when Jack, choking on laughter, backed out of her driveway.
  It didn't take long for the grapevine to serve the encounter up to his mother. She came into the den where he was watching television that night and sat down beside him on the sofa.
"Working for the DEA now, are you?" she asked.

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He shot her a glance. "Excuse me?"
"Making women pull up flowers. Honestly!"
   "They weren't flowers," he pointed out. "They were marijuana."
"You're sure about that?" she persisted.
"I've seen pictures of it," he shot right back.
    "Julie Smith has a little Japanese maple in her front yard. It's almost bald now because some idiot told a friend it was marijuana. Teenagers sneak into her yard at night to rip off leaves to smoke." She grinned. "I'd love to know what effect smoking maple leaves has on them."
  He laughed, too. "Okay, maybe mistakes get made. But she didn't deny it, and Jack recognized what it was, too. He told her it was illegal and that she had to pull up every stalk."
   She shook her head. "I don't know how I'll ever face Mary again," she said with a sigh.
  "You didn't go after her, I did," he reminded her. "Besides, everybody likes you."
   "That's because I have a sense of humor," she said, giving him a meaningful look.
"I have a sense of humor," he informed her.
   "Right." She got up and left him with his television program.
  He got up the next morning, had breakfast, and went barefoot in his jeans and T-shirt to the front door to get the newspaper.
  He looked across the street and his temper exploded. Those damned marijuana plants were still there!
   
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  He didn't even think. He just marched right across the street and jerked the first plant he came to out of the ground.
   "You stop that!" came a furious voice from inside the house.
  A minute later, a little blond tornado exploded out the side door in a white bathrobe, rushing straight toward him. She was barefoot, too, and the ground was rough, but she kept coming.
  He started to speak. She ran into him at top speed, grabbed for the plant in his hand, and managed to knock them both to the ground. They rolled around in the dirt, fighting for possession of the vegetation.
   "You give...me...that!" she exclaimed, and punched him in the stomach, hard.
  He jerked her arm behind her and pinned her to the ground, his breath coming as unevenly as hers. She had the most beautiful skin, he thought irrelevantly as he looked down at her. And her mouth was just perfect...
  She kicked him. He groaned and while he was helpless, she tore out of his grasp, jerked up her plant and moved back a couple of steps, fuming.
   "Don't you touch my plants! This is trespassing. This is vandalism. It's tomato assault! I'll have you up before a circuit judge before you can say 'criminal prosecution'!" she raged.
   "I'd like to see that," he said sarcastically as he got to his feet and faced her. His immaculate white T-shirt was now brown and white striped, and his jeans had patches of mud. It had rained the night before.
   
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   "Would you? Well, you certainly can!" She grabbed a cell phone from her pocket and dialed a number. "Hello, this is Mary Ryan at 123 Cherry Boulevard. I've got a vandal here. He's destroying my property! I've made a citizen's arrest. I want you to send a squad car to pick him up, right now!"
   "Send one for her, too, she's growing marijuana in her front yard!" he yelled at the phone.
  She closed it and gave him a shocked stare. "I am not!"
"You've got it in your hand!" he argued.
   "This?" She held up the mangled vegetation. "This is one of my prize tomato plants I grew from seed!" She gave him a hot glare. "And if you can't tell the difference between a tomato plant and a marijuana plant, you should leave drug detection to the experts!"
  He pulled himself up to his full height. "I belong to the FBI," he reiterated.
   "Oh, lucky them," she drawled. "Wait until they see tomorrow's headlines!"
   "The police officer told you to pull those plants up yesterday," he continued, hating to lose ground.
   "He did, and I have," she almost shouted. "I pulled up poppies. Poppies, Mr. hotshot FBI agent, not marijuana!"
  His lips compressed. She sounded as if she was certain that was the truth. He glanced at her garden. Flowers had been pulled up and piled at the end of a row. She said he'd pulled up a tomato plant. It couldn't be true.
"You just wait until I get you into court," she

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continued, cradling her broken plant. "My poor tomato plant. I'll have your badge for this!"
   "You and whose army? And just what do you do for a living, if one might ask?" he shot back.
   "I'm a deputy district attorney in the county next door," she said with pure pleasure.
His face went very still. "You're kidding."
   "You'll wish I were," she returned. "I came up here from Ashton where I was with legal aid, to take up my new job. I expected it to be a step up. Boy, was I wrong! I think I've moved to Stupidville."
"I am not stupid!"
"Tomato assassin!" she accused.
   "It doesn't look like a damned tomato plant!" he yelled back.
  They didn't notice that neighbors were pouring out their doors into their front yards. They didn't notice the police car pulling up in the driveway, either.
  It would have to be Jack, Curt's old friend, who answered the call.
   "Not again," Jack groaned as he joined the antagonists.
   "He pulled up one of my tomato plants!" Mary raged, pointing at him. "He thought it was a marijuana plant! How did he ever get a badge? He must have stolen it!"
   "It looks like a marijuana plant!" Curt defended himself.
   "I want him arrested, for trespassing and vandalism," Mary demanded.
  Jack moved closer and lowered his voice, mindful of the neighbors. "Can the two of you imagine how
   
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Judge Wills would react if this case went to his circuit court?" he asked them. "Miss Ryan, you don't want your first term of office to end in public disgrace, now, do you?"
She hesitated.
   "And Curt, you don't really want to have to explain to a judge why you were pulling up a neighbor's tomato plants? Frankly, Judge Wills would rather have a tomato sandwich than a steak. I can't imagine how he'd react to a tomato plant killer. He grows prize tomatoes himself."
Curt grimaced.
   "So, suppose we just mark the whole episode down as a learning experience," Jack suggested gently, "and go back to our respective houses and-" he cleared his throat "-have a nice, calming shower."
  They were both extremely dirty. Mary's white bathrobe was mostly brown. Curt's white T-shirt was filthy, not to mention splatters of mud on his jeans. His feet were covered in it. So were Mary's.
  Curt glared at her through narrowed eyes. She glared back at him.
   "We can settle the whole matter right here," the officer persisted. "I'm sure Special Agent Russell would be more than glad to replace the, uh, damaged plant. Right, Curt?" he added with a deliberate stare.
Curt cleared his throat. "Certainly."
"I raised them from seed," she said haughtily.
   "I'll grow you a replacement from seed and sit on it myself until it hatches," Curt volunteered.
The glare got worse.

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     "The gardening center out on Highway 23 has bedding plants," Jack said quickly. "All sorts, from hybrids to those yummy Rutgers tomatoes that my wife and I always plant."
   "I won't be cheap about it, either," Curt assured her. "You can have two Rutgers tomato plants. In fact," he added, with a formal bow, "I will plant them for you myself."
   "Six feet deep and in somebody else's yard, no doubt," she said with dripping sarcasm.
   "You could sit in the dirt with it, since you're so attached to the things," Curt shot back.
"I'll tell you where you can sit...!" she exclaimed.
  Jack held out both hands. "Lady and gentleman," he said. "If this escalates any further, I will have no option but to arrest both of you for a domestic disturbance. That will require me to take you both into custody in your present conditions. A reporter comes by my office first thing every morning to check the arrest record," he added with almost visible glee. "What a photo opportunity he would have. Wouldn't he?"
  They looked at each other and then at themselves. Mary Ryan bit her lower lip hard.
   "Two Rutgers tomato plants. Today," she added firmly.
"Two," Curt replied reluctantly.
   "Then I'll settle for that and withdraw my request that you arrest him," she told Jack.
   "And I'll withdraw my request that you arrest her for assault with a deadly weapon."
   
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   "Assault?" she burst out. "With what deadly weapon?"
   "Biological agent," he returned, indicating the mangled tomato plant in her hands.
"It's a tomato plant!" she almost screamed.
  Curt drew himself up to his full height. "And how can I be assured of that?" he demanded. "God knows what sort of things are crawling around inside that thing. We all know that genetically altered plants are popping up everywhere today! There could be biological weapons concealed in its stem!"
  Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "Quit while you're ahead," he advised urgently.
Mary Ryan was fuming quietly.
Curt shrugged. "Okay."
  Mary didn't say another word. She carried her tomato plant into the house and slammed the door.
  Curt went back across the street, past his staring, shocked mother, and straight into his own house.
  Jack got back into his police car and closed the door quietly. And he'd expected a dull routine morning on the job. He had a feeling dull was not a word he would be using often while Curt Russell was on vacation.
   After delivering two tomato plants to Mary's yard, and planting them himself, Curt showered and dressed and came back out into the living room, in clean jeans, a clean shirt, a sports coat and nicely polished black shoes. But he didn't get past his mother.
  "All right, let's have it," Matilda said at once. "What happened?"
   
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  He groaned inwardly, but there was no way out except through her. He'd never make it.
"I pulled up a tomato plant and she attacked me."
   She eyed him warily. "Why did you pull up a tomato plant?"
"I thought it was marijuana."
"A tomato plant?" she asked.
   "Well, how should I be able to tell the difference without a photo to compare to it?" he defended himself uncomfortably. "Anyway, Jack was with me yesterday and he told her to pull up the illegal plants and she said she would. Neither of them mentioned that they were talking about opium poppies."
   She grinned, because he sounded absolutely disgusted. "Opium poppies? Imagine that! Well, they are very pretty," she added. "But they're illegal, just the same." She gave him a long look. "Tomato plants aren't."
"Oh, rub it in!" he groaned.
"Okay, I'll stop. What else happened?"
   "I had to go and buy her two Rutgers tomato plants," he muttered. "I just planted them. This way she drops the vandalism charge and I drop the assault charges."
"She assaulted you?" she exclaimed.
  He straightened indignantly. "She assaulted me with the tomato plant," he replied.
  She turned away, apparently about to choke. "I have a, uh, committee meeting later. Can you get lunch out?"
"Sure. You okay?"
"Yes. Just a cough." She made coughing noises.

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They didn't really sound convincing. "A bad cough!" She sounded as if she were choking instead of coughing.
   "Well, I'll be in later. I have to check in with the district FBI office anyway."
 "I'll see you for supper, then."
"Sure. Have a good day."
   "You, too, son." She spared him a glance and looked quickly away before he could see how amused she really was.
  He left, climbing into his sedate gray sedan with panache and without glancing across the street, just in case the garden commando opposite happened to be watching. He started the car and whizzed backward down the driveway, whipping out into the street.
  There was a screeching of tires and a loudly blown horn behind him. He looked in the rearview window. There she sat, Mary Ryan, in her pea-green little VW glaring at him for all she was worth, where he'd stopped about an inch shy of her front bumper.
  He waved at her in the rearview window and smiled brightly. She blew her horn again.
  He took off slowly, not burning rubber because he belonged to the justice department. He made sure he did the speed limit right out onto the main highway.
   She passed him like a shot when they reached the divided four-lane that led to the large city about twenty miles down the road. It was the seat of the three-county district court and apparently where Ms. Ryan worked. It was also headquarters for the district office of the FBI. Curt had a terrible feeling that both offices were going to be under the same roof.
   
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#    #    #
  And, sure enough, they were. He had to go through a metal detector, a nitrate scanner, and put the contents of his pockets in a tray before he got into the courthouse at all.
  He had to check his sidearm. This required him to display his FBI badge. As he was doing it, the Tomato Plant Empress in a trendy gray suit with a short skirt and high heels passed him by with a haughty smile. The security guard grinned at her and let her right through. Curt bristled from head to toe as he watched her sail right by.
  He finished with the search and seizure guy and wandered on down the hall to the local FBI office. The secretary had him sit down and wait because the special agent in charge was taking a long-distance phone call.
  He didn't have to wait long, though. Barely two minutes later, the woman smiled and told him he could go in.
  The special agent in charge gave him a grin that made him feel as if his feet were melting. He didn't even have to ask if news of the tomato raid had reached here.
   
Two
The special agent in charge, a pleasant-looking bald man with a little light blond hair named Hardy Vicks, offered him a seat. After his vacation, Curt would be reporting to Hardy. The agent in charge outlined a case they were working on in the county where Curt's mother lived.
   "It's a real pain," Hardy told him irritably. "This guy-" he tossed a photo across the desk to Curt "-Abe Hunt, is a government witness for a big media circus trial in Atlanta. They prosecuted the owner of a strip joint and he turned out to be a funnel for illegal drugs. Worse, he's got ties to organized crime bosses in Miami."
   "Why is that a problem?" Curt asked as he stared at the photo of a hefty man with curly black hair, dark eyes, and a broad face.
   "We can't find him," Vicks said drolly. "He's hiding out, because he doesn't believe we can protect him from retribution. He is afraid of a hit man named Daniels. The hit man is one of the best in operation. Anyway, Hunt knows everything about the operation, and we're willing to give him immunity and a new identity if he'll just finger the bosses. He was in protective custody in Doraville in a safe house. The


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agents with him were watching that hew game show on television, and while they were shouting out answers, the guy walked out the door and vanished."
Curt grimaced. "Poor guys."
   "Oh, they'll get over it," Vicks said. "We've got them on surveillance watching counterfeiters eat hamburgers at fast-food joints."
"Why is that a punishment?"
Vicks grinned. "They're both on diets."
"Ouch!"
   "Anyway, you're officially on vacation, but if you could keep an eye out for Abe Hunt, we'd appreciate it," Vicks told him. "We know he's got two cousins up in your neck of the woods. In fact, one of them lives just two doors down from your mother." He grinned again.
   "A deputy district attorney lives just across the street from her," he pointed out with a cold glare. "Why don't you ask her to watch for your escaped witness?"
   "We already have," came the laconic reply. "She said she'd be delighted and then she asked if you were armed."
His eyebrows lifted. "Excuse me?"
  Vicks was trying very hard not to laugh. "She wanted to know if we let you have more than one bullet."
  Curt's mouth made a thin line. "She's a real pain," he stated.
  Vicks's eyebrows lifted. "Gee, you're the only man in twenty miles who could say that. She likes the rest of us." He indicated a small baggie full of
   
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cookies on his desk. "She baked those and brought some in for us and the D.A. as well. She sure can cook!"
  Curt thought he was going to choke. "Is there anything else?" he asked.
  Vicks shrugged. "Not while you're off duty. Enjoy your vacation." The older man shot him a wicked glance as he headed for the door. "By the way, the DBA says if you ever lose this job, don't ask them to hire you." He was biting back laughter. "They don't want an agent who can't tell a tomato plant from a...hey, where are you going?"
  Curt was already down the hall, and he left the office door open on purpose, gripping the photo so tightly in his hand that he almost crushed it.
"Russell!"
  He stopped just past the metal detector and turned. A deputy sheriff was holding out his pistol in its holster. "You going to give this to me?" the deputy drawled. "That's real neighborly. I didn't get you anything."
  Curt took the holster and the pistol and snapped it on his belt next to his badge. He didn't answer the deputy, but his eyes did.
  He stalked out of the courthouse with invisible flames coming off his hair. This had been a real bust of a day.
  It didn't get better when he got back to his mother's house. There was a big, rawboned red-coated hound dog sitting in the middle of the drivewav. He blew


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the horn and kept blowing it, but the dog wouldn't budge.
  His mother came running out the door, with her finger to her lips. She motioned for Curt to let his window down.
   "Don't do that!" she groaned. "The man next door works nights. He's trying to sleep."
   "I can't park the car," Curt told her. "The dog's in the way!"
"I don't have a dog."
  Curt pointed to the big animal, which was now lying down in the driveway.
   "Now, where did he come from?" she asked dimly.
"Why don't you go and ask him?"
  She glared at him and went to coax the dog off the driveway. It still wouldn't budge. She gave Curt a "just a minute" sign with her fingers and ran inside. She came back out with a cube of meat. The dog sniffed and licked and then followed right along with her while Curt got the car under the carport and parked it, turning off the engine.
  The dog was now sitting on the porch, looking as if it belonged there.
   "You can't have a hound dog in the city," Curt told her with a glare at the dog.
   "Oh, he isn't a hound dog, dear, he's a bloodhound. Don't you see how long his ears are? Now how do you suppose he got here?"
"Hitchhiked, maybe?"
  She gave her son another hard look. "There's a government witness loose in this county somewhere,
   
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hiding out," she told Curt, keeping her voice down. "His cousin lives in the white house right down there."
   "How do you know that?" he exclaimed. "I've only just been told by the special agent in charge of the local FBI branch. The man I'll be reporting to."
  She put her hands on her hips and gave him a long-suffering look. "I worked for newspapers. I'm an experienced journalist. We know everything."
"You're retired."
   She shrugged. "I saw his wife in the grocery store this morning. She told me she can't stand the guy, but her husband thinks his cousin is the berries because he knows everybody in the rackets, and he's best friends with one or two sports stars." She studied her tall son. "I hate sports."
   "Me, too. She had no idea where Abe Hunt might be?"
  She shook her head. "But she said she'd tell me if she heard anything. They are leaving town for a vacation somewhere. She didn't give me any details."
  He looked at the dog. "Maybe we should call somebody. Have you got a dog pound?"
   "Sure, it's right out back...of course there's a dog pound! But it's being renovated right now, and there's no place for strays. Besides, he's got a collar." She reached down to look at it. The dog wagged its tail and hassled while she looked for an inscription. "Maybe he belongs to the prison. The correctional institute," she corrected herself. "I wonder how he got here? I'll just go phone and see if they know
   
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anything about him. Don't let him leave," she instructed her son as she went inside.
  Curt hitched up his trousers and sat down on the steps, pulling his jacket away from his belt. "See this?" he asked the dog, indicating his pistol. "You try to leave, I'll shoot you."
The dog licked Curt's cheek.
  Minutes later, his mother was back with a worried look. "They aren't missing a bloodhound," she said worriedly. "In fact, they don't know of anybody who is. I phoned the sheriffs office, but they don't have any reports of missing animals. Nobody seems to have any idea where it came from."
"It probably belongs to a neighbor," Curt told her.
"Do you think so?" she asked absently.
  Curt glanced across the street and scowled. "It's probably Marijuana Mary's," he said gruffly.
   "Mary? Oh, no, it's not hers. She doesn't have a dog, although she certainly has a place to keep one," she added, nodding toward the old barn on the lower end of her property.
  Curt stared at it thoughtfully. "Maybe our fugitive is hiding in there. Maybe it's his bloodhound. He had it come over to throw us off the track."
  She chuckled. "Great thinking. Well, I'll phone the radio station and ask them to put it on the local bulletin board. Whoever owns it can come get it."
"And meanwhile?" he asked uncomfortably.
   "It can live here, dear," she said easily. "Come on, boy!"
She opened the door to let the dog in.
"You can't have a dog in the house!" he ex-

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claimed. "Not a filthy, flea and tick infested bag of bones like that! What if it decides to get on the sofa?"
  She studied him curiously. "We never had pets when you were a boy because your father was allergic to fur," she recalled. "What a shame."
"I'm too old for a dog," he pointed out.
   "Oh, I don't know about that," she said, turning to follow the dog into the kitchen. "Every boy should have one."
   "Then I'll go to a pet shop and get a German shepherd!" he called after her.
"Too big, dear. He'd never fit in this small house."
"And you think that big red horse will?"
"He's not a horse."
  The kitchen door closed. He sighed and went to his room to change back into his leisure clothing. He took the photograph of the fugitive out of the inside pocket of his jacket and put it on the bureau.
  The dog, christened "Big Red," had been thoroughly washed and groomed by suppertime. His presence was announced on the radio, but nobody came rushing over to claim him.
  That evening, he parked himself on the sofa beside Curt, despite the man's heated objections, and lay down to watch the evening news as if he were really interested in hearing incessantly about the latest political scandal.
   "I'm going to leave the country," Curt announced disgustedly. "That way, maybe I won't have to hear this congressman's name five hundred times a dav."


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   "It won't save you. They have our news everywhere now."
   "Humor me." He glanced down at the dog, who had his big paws crossed, his muzzle lying on them as he watched television. "This is interesting to you, huh? Don't have dog scandals, I guess?"
  The big dog raised its sad brown eyes to his. It wagged its tail and went back to watching television.
"He's very intelligent," his mother remarked.
   "How did you arrive at that conclusion?" Curt asked.
   "He's not bounding around the house trying to tear up stuff, and he isn't barking."
  About that time, the local newscaster came back on and there was an interview with the man in the photograph Curt had been given, Abe Hunt. The dog perked up its ears and barked, once, loudly.
   "Hush!" Curt muttered, leaning forward to hear better.
  The sound bite was brief and uninformative. The missing government witness had only said that he knew nothing and refused to testify. The newscaster added the information that the witness had since disappeared and foul play was suspected.
   "He's probably lying at the bottom of Lake La-nier," Curt muttered.
   "If he is, dear, he won't come up again," his mother offered nonchalantly, working on a piece of embroidery while she spoke. "The water's so cold that even spring heating won't send him to the surface."
"You always come up with these fascinating little

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tidbits about dead bodies," Curt remarked. "How do you know so much?"
"I used to date a coroner."
  He shook his head and went back to watching the news.
The dog suddenly lifted its muzzle and howled.
   "Stop that!" Curt muttered. "What's the matter with you?"
The dog looked up at him and wagged its tail.
   "He's probably hungry," Cult's mother said, putting down her handiwork. "I'll feed him some leftover macaroni. Come on, Big Red."
  The dog answered easily to his new name. He leaped down from the sofa with fumbling grace and trotted off after his new master.
  Curt gave him a long glare. This was getting to be one miserable vacation. First Marijuana Mary, now the Hound from Hell had moved in with his mother.
  After they went to bed, the bloodhound padded softly into the living room, sat in front of the picture window, and let out a howl that would have awakened people in the cemetery.
  The doorbell ringing insistently dragged Curt out of bed, in silk pajama bottoms and no T-shirt. His mother could be heard snoring peacefully right through the closed door as he passed her room.
  He shouted at the howling dog before he opened the wooden door. There was Marijuana Mary in an oversize navy-blue T-shirt. She was wearing bedroom slippers, pink fuzzy ones, and her blond hair was
   
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standing out all over her head. She looked half-asleep and furious.
   "Could you please put some tape around the mouth of the Hound of the Baskervilles so that those of us who have jobs could get some sleep?" she asked with venom.
"I have a job," he pointed out.
   "You're on vacation," she returned. She had her hands on her rounded hips, and the posture brought Curt's appreciative eyes to the firm thrust of her breasts against the fabric. She cleared her throat and unobtrusively crossed her arms over her bosom.
  He lifted an eyebrow and searched her eyes for longer than he meant to, his eyelids narrowing as he registered her sudden flush.
   "Why do you have a dog all of a sudden, anyway?" she asked jerkily.
  "My mother fed him and now he won't leave. Besides, he's interested in the evening news."
"So?"
   "It's Mom's favorite show. She's given him a name. She never gives up things she names," he added with a grin. "She's had me for thirty-four years."
"She should get a medal."
   "Look here, why are you prowling around the neighborhood in a nightgown at midnight?" he demanded.
"It isn't a nightgown!"
  She glared at him, but her eyes fell helplessly to his broad, hair-roughened chest, and she couldn't seem to stop staring at him.
   
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   "Don't leer at me," he said outrageously. "Sexual harassment of men is a misdemeanor. I could arrest you."
"You son of a...!"
   "Foul language is a misdemeanor," he continued, enjoying himself. "I could arrest you."
   "That dog-" she pointed to the picture window where the dog had begun to howl again "-is a public nuisance and he's creating a disturbance and disturbing my peace. I could arrest you. I am an officer of the court!"
  He put his hands on his own hips and stared down at her with renewed interest. She was very pretty. Not only that, she had a temper that was easily the equal of his own. It had been a long time since he'd been involved with a woman. He considered that he wouldn't mind getting involved with this one. She had potential.
   "Can't you make him stop?" she wailed, dropping her pose and appealing to his better nature.
   "I could, if I knew why he's howling in the first place," he agreed. "Why don't you come in and have a cup of coffee and we can discuss strategy?" He started to open the door.
  As if it were an invitation, the dog suddenly made a dash for the open screen door and shot through it like a bullet, barking hoarsely.
   "Come back here!" Curt yelled, worried at what his mother was going to say when she found out he'd let her new pet escape. "Oh, hell, I'll have to go chase him!"




308	Diana Palmer
  He started out the door barefoot, without thinking how he was dressed, and shot off after the dog.
  Mary hesitated, then threw up her hands and ran after him. She couldn't sleep. She might as well assist.
  Lights went on in the neighborhood as the scantily clad man and woman ran along the pavement calling after the baying dog. When he left the sidewalk and ran into the woods behind Mary's house, she kept going, but Curt hit a low-lying rose branch and yelled in pain.
   "Watch out for snakes!" he called after her furiously.
"Snakes?"
  It was comical to watch her stop suddenly in place with one foot raised. "Snakes?" she repeated, looking around in every direction.
  Curt was standing on one foot holding the other and trying to pick out thorns in the streetlit darkness. Not that it was easy. The damned streetlight was temperamental. It stayed on for all of a minute and then began to flicker and suddenly went out. Two minutes later it flickered again and tried to come on. The power company had been called and called, but they insisted it was natural, despite the fact that none of the other streetlights acted similarly. It was something the neighbors had learned to live with. Curt hadn't.
   "If I had my pistol, I'd blow you away!" he raged at the light.
  Doors had opened. The hound was baying wildly. Mary was jumping from one foot to the other trying to feel her way back out of the tall grass and talking
   
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to herself, loudly. Curt was groaning and threatening the light.
  A police car came careening down the street, screeched to a halt in front of Curt, and the doors of the car flew open. Two young officers appeared with leveled pistols.
"Hands up!" they yelled.
   "I've got thorns in my foot!" Curt yelled back, still holding one foot. "I'm FBI!"
  "And I'm Princess Don," came the drawled reply. "Get'em up!"
   "Go ahead and shoot!" Curt told them, exasperated. "But shoot that damned streetlight first, and I'll go happily!"
  Just at that moment, it went out, leaving the street in total darkness. There were quick commands, doors opened. A spotlight came on at once, but it not only caught Curt, it also caught Mary and the hound dog, both of whom were suddenly standing beside Curt.
"Is it Halloween?" one officer asked the other.
   "No," came the reply. "But I'm calling for backup!" He did, pushing the mike on his shoulder and requesting assistance.
   "What's going on out there?" came a furtive yell from the houses behind them.
  Curt looked at Mary and they both looked at the dog. It was going to be a long night.
  They were taken into custody and transported to the police station. The two of them were temporarily lodged in a cell while the watch commander phoned Curt's friend at home. It would be no use to phone
   
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his mother. He knew from long experience that nothing short of a bombing would wake her once she went to sleep. But he had asked them to phone his friend, the chief, Jack Mallory, and ask him to come down and identify them.
  They had, at least, given Mary a blanket to wrap over her long T-shirt. She sat glaring at Curt from accusing dark eyes as they occupied opposite ends of a long bunk.
   "It smells like people threw up in here," she remarked angrily.
"No doubt," he replied. "This is the drunk tank."
"I'm not drunk!"
   "Neither am I, but why else would we be running around the neighborhood in the dark in our pajamas?"
"Because of your dog!" she exclaimed.
"He isn't mine. He's my mother's dog."
"She can explain to the police," she began.
   "She sleeps like the dead. She won't wake up until nine, and then she'll wonder why I'm not in the house."
  "Maybe your dog," she emphasized gleefully, "will go and howl in her ear."
   "Not unless he can open doors," he said with a sigh. He looked down at himself. "This is not going to look good on my record."
  Her eyes were gleaming thoughtfully. "I'm going to tell them you were looking for a flying saucer," she said sweetly. "I'm going to tell them you saw an alien and were chasing it!"
"You wouldn't dare!" he exclaimed.

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   "Stand and watch me, Russell!" she shot back, pulling her blanket closer. "First you accuse me of raising marijuana and then you try to back into my car, and then you have your dog howl all night so I can't sleep the night before the most important case of my...career.... Oh, no!" She put a hand to her mouth and her eyes opened wider. "I have to be in court at nine, to prosecute a drug trafficker. The judge will level contempt charges if I don't show up! And here I sit. With you," she added with absolute disgust.
   "It's a minor misunderstanding," he pointed out. "As soon as Jack arrives, we'll get out of here and everything will be fine."
"What if he doesn't show up?" she groaned.
  "Just be patient," he admonished. "He'll be here soon."
  Jack did arrive shortly, smiling blissfully, and he had company. The local newspaper had an ace photographer with a maniacal sense of humor. He'd been working late in the darkroom at the newspaper office and Jack picked him up on the way, along with his camera. And before either of the perpetrators could open their mouths, they were photographed in their indecent state.
  "There," the photographer said with a grin. "Recorded for posterity. How will I caption this? Let's see, ace FBI agent and rising prosecutor frolic in suburban neighborhood at midnight with mysterious red dog!"
"You can say it must be some sort of Druid rit-

312	Diana Palmer
ual," the police chief said helpfully. "They could be part of a cult..."
"Get me the hell out of here!" Curt demanded.
  Mary stood up beside him, disheveled hair and flaming eyes. "That goes double for me! I've got a case in court in Lanier County at nine! An important case!"
  The chief studied her bare legs and fluffy slippers thoughtfully. "Gosh, what an impression you're going to make on Judge Wills."
   "I'll promise him a basket of tomatoes!" she said haughtily.
   "He'll throw them at you, if you turn up in his courtroom looking like that," he pointed out with a chuckle. "Okay, Harry," he told the photographer. "We've had our fun. You can show them your camera now."
  The photographer opened the back of the camera. It wasn't loaded. Curt and Mary gave him a vicious glare as the jailer opened the cell with a grin and let them out.
   "But no more midnight flits," the chief admonished. "I hate being hauled out of bed when I've only been asleep two hours."
   "I'm sorry," Curt muttered. "The dog was howling and then she came over-" he pointed an accusing finger at Mary "-and flaunted her body at me. While I was staring at her, the dog escaped, and we had to run him down..."
  The chief held up a hand. "I've heard it all before," he said with a bored expression. "Just don't
   
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do it again." He glanced at Mary. "Flaunting yourself at FBI agents again, huh, Mary?"
  She kicked him in the shin, turned, and stormed out into the main part of the station, where several officers were drinking coffee. They turned and stared.
"It's a T-shirt!" she raged.
They only shrugged.
   She was out the door when she realized that it was a long walk home and she didn't have transportation. In her present state, she wasn't going to get far without trouble.
  Curt, who was thinking the same thing, strode past the officers with a superior grin. He had a great physique, and he knew it. Some of the officers standing around were long married and had what was affectionately and colloquially called "dunlap's disease" (short for the rural Southern phrase, "his belly done lapped over his britches"). He marched out the front door just ahead of Jack, looking as if he'd won a contest.
"Going somewhere?" Curt asked Mary.
   "Home, when I can thumb a ride." She gave him a hard look. "At least they gave me a blanket," she added, pulling it closer.
  He chuckled. "I don't want one." He stood taller. "With a body like this, why hide my obvious assets?"
  She lifted her foot, and he moved quickly out of range. Thorns were painful enough, without an angry foot in his shin to add to his discomfort. But she was a delight to tease.
   
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   "You'll still have to hunt down your dog asset," she said wickedly.
   "With any luck," he told her, "he'll be back in his own home by the time I get to the house."
   "If you two want a ride, hurry up," Jack called to them from his car. "I'm sleepy!"
  They were somewhat discouraged to discover that the photographer was also hitching a ride, but he sat in the front seat and didn't say a word the whole way home.
   "Here you are," Jack told them, pulling up in the street between their respective houses. "From now on, stay off the streets at midnight. My men only followed regulations by arresting you." He gave them both a long look and shook his head. "This used to be such a peaceful little town," he lamented, and powered up his window before they could reply.
  They watched him drive off. It was light against the horizon. They'd spent hours at the police station.
   "I don't suppose there's much use in trying to go back to sleep," Mary said on a sigh. She glared at Curt. "Thanks to you, I'll probably fall asleep in the middle of my summation."
   "If you can wrap up that sort of prosecution in one day, I'll eat your blanket," Curt assured her.
  She grimaced. "It will take three or four," she agreed. She studied him for a minute and then smiled helplessly. "I guess we did look odd."
  He grinned. "Druidic rituals," he murmured. "I'll have to remember and tell the guys about that one."
   "No need. I'm sure Hardy Vicks will tell everybody the minute he hears about it." She frowned.
   
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"Why do you have a dog? Your mother says she's never had pets. Aren't you allergic?"
   "No, my father was. The dog parked itself in the driveway and refused to move. She adopted it."
"Yes, but where did it come from?" she asked.
  He shook his head. "I have no idea." He looked toward his house. The lights were on. He frowned.
  Just as he was wondering why the lights were on, the front door opened, and there stood his mother with the dog.
   "So there you are!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing in the middle of the street in your pajamas with Mary? Come to think of it, Mary, why are you in the middle of the street in a blanket?"
  Mary turned without another word and darted across the street and into her house, which she'd left unlocked. Curt sighed and went up the driveway to try to explain the night to his mother. The dog watched him the whole way, wagging its tail.
   
Three
The next afternoon, Curt waited for Mary to come home and get comfortable before he left his mother- and the dog-and went over to talk to her.
  She answered the front door when he rang, but she looked disturbed.
  "Something wrong? Besides the obvious?" he added.
   "Come on in." She led him to the kitchen and poured him a cup of coffee. "Your mother says you like it black," she added when she put it down and sat down to her own cup lightened with cream. "Listen, when I got home last night, somebody had gone through my kitchen and carried off a loaf of bread and some luncheon meat."
"Didn't you lock your door?"
She glared at him.
He held up a hand and smiled sheepishly.
   "Anyway," she continued, "I was too tired to call the police again, so I checked the house and locked up and went back to sleep for a couple of hours. I was going to go out back and look for sign when you came up just now."
  "I'll go with you," he offered. He sipped coffee. "When I was in the Secret Service, I worked a federal
   
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case in cooperation with other government agencies. One had an agent who was Lakota. He taught me to read sign and speak sign language. It was interesting."
"Lakota?" she asked curiously.
"Sioux."
   "Oh." She studied his lean face. "Don't you have Cherokee blood?" she asked abruptly.
  He nodded. "My grandfather is on the Dawes Roll-one of the numbered records of all the Cherokee people on the reservation in North Carolina."
"So you're one-quarter Cherokee?" she persisted.
"Thereabouts." He lifted an eyebrow. "You?"
  She smiled and shook her head. "Danish and Scotch," she said.
"That explains the blond hair."
   "You should see my dad," she told him. "He's six foot four and blond and blue-eyed!" She studied him covertly. "How long ago did your father die?" she asked suddenly.
   "I was six. My mother woke up and found him dead in the bed beside her," he said matter-of-factly. "I don't remember him very well."
   "That must have been hard on her, raising you alone," Mary commented.
  He toyed with his coffee cup. "It was, but she did a good job. She was a newspaperwoman. I always knew who the bad guys were, where they lived, what they did. She was a fountain of information. She seemed to know everybody, and there were always law enforcement people around. I guess that's why I majored in criminal justice in college."


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"She's quite a lady."
"Yes. She is."
  She finished her coffee. "Well, let's see how well you track."
  He gave her an amused glance, because she didn't seem to believe he could. He was disposed to prove it.
  They went to the back of the lot and he became another person. He stood very still, just observing the lay of the land, the possible paths from the kitchen, the dryness of the soil from lack of rain. He interposed memories of where the police chief had walked, where he'd walked, where Mary had walked when she'd pulled up the poppies.
   "I, uh, noticed the new tomato plants," she said, disturbing his concentration. "Thanks."
"No problem. Stay here."
  He moved forward at a slow pace, his eyes narrowed as he stopped now and again to stoop or squat and study the ground and the plants. He moved steadily toward the outbuilding at the back of the lot, but he stopped and made a sudden turn toward the street a minute later.
  "Someone went through there!" he called to her. "Back toward the street!"
  She went to join him and they moved onto the pavement and went back up the road toward her house with Curt obviously studying the grass on both sides of the sidewalk.
  He motioned to her to stoop down beside him while he pointed at the ground.
   
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   "That's an ant," she pointed out. "Is he speaking to you?"
   "Keep your voice down. Nod, as if you're agreeing with me. I think we're being watched."
She nodded.
   "There's someone who has been staying in your outbuilding," he said under his breath, "and he's been there for several days. There are paths so obvious that even that haywire photographer could follow them."
  "That explains the raid on my kitchen," she said, equally low-voiced. "We should call the police!"
  He gave her a hard glare. "I am the police. Federal police."
"Yes, but it's not your jurisdiction," she argued.
   "I'm now assigned to this district," he retorted. "Why do you think I was reporting to the district office in Lanier County in the first place? I'm starting there after my vacation."
  She whistled softly. "What a comedown from Austin, Texas," she taunted. "Whose feet did you step on?"
   "Never mind," he muttered. "I've got to go see Jack. You can come, too." He had an idea of who was hiding in the barn. It was the government witness. They were in no danger, but it was better to get Mary out of the thick of things, anyway.
  "I've got notes to prepare. I'm in the middle of a trial," she began.
  "I'm not leaving you here by yourself with some fugitive hanging around!" he told her firmly, with flashing dark eyes. "If you don't like that, tough!"
   
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  She was torn between protesting that she could take care of herself and agreeing that she wasn't equipped to handle a lawbreaker-she didn't even have a firearm.
   "If I were in your position, Mary," he said, using her given name for the first time, "I wouldn't argue. Attorneys represent the law, they don't enforce it."
  She gave in gracefully. "Okay. You win. But I'll need my briefcase and my laptop."
   "We'll go in and get them." He stood up and walked back the way they'd come.
   "Hadn't we'd better search the barn for clues first?" Mary asked
   "No," he said after a minute. "I'm in no position to apprehend him, if he is in there now. And I don't want to disturb anything or mess up clues. I tracked him to the street, I'm sure he's gone. Come on. You can ride into town with me. I'll come back with the police later to search for clues."
  They went to Mary's house, where she packed up her gear and changed into neat gray slacks and a white sleeveless turtleneck knit shirt before she joined Curt in the living room.
   "He'll get away, and we'll be blamed," she pointed out.
  He shook his head. "I think he was watching us. He'll assume we're brainless and clear up his trail until the police search the barn. Then he'll come back, feeling safe."
"You'd better hope you're right," she muttered.

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   "You don't know how I'm hoping," he replied with a smile.
  The smile startled her. It made her feel giddy inside. She smiled back, feeling stupid.
"How old are you?" he asked.
  "Twenty-seven." She looked at him curiously. "Ever been married?"
He shook his head. "Too busy. You?"
   "Yes," she said surprisingly. "When I was eighteen. My folks couldn't talk any sense into me, so they gave in. He was eighteen, too, very mature for his age. I was spoiled and stubborn and I never gave an inch. I drove him nuts. We hadn't been married six months when he filed for divorce. We're still friends," she added quickly. "He's married and has a nice little family."
   "What does he do?" he asked, unaccountably jealous.
  She looked sheepish. "He's a football coach at his local high school."
"I hate football," he remarked.
  She laughed. "So do I. That was part of the problem. It was his whole life."
  He shook his head. "How about winter sports?" he asked as they went out the front door.
   "Ice skating and downhill racing," she volunteered.
"Great! I love winter sports!"
She grinned at him. It was like a beginning.
  They told Jack what they'd found out at Mary's house.
   
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"Any idea who the fugitive is?" he asked Curt.
   "Gee, let me think," Curt said facetiously. "There's a federal witness hiding out up here, his cousin lives two doors down from Mary, and somebody's living in Mary's barn. Who could it be?"
Jack gave him a look of disgust.
   "He's with the FBI," Mary reminded Jack. "You have to make allowances."
   "The problem is, I didn't rush him," Curt continued. "I don't know that he's armed, but his connections usually are, and he comes from a shady background. Mary was with me."
  That was enough to give Jack the impression that Curt wasn't putting the woman at risk.
   "We don't risk civilians, Miss Ryan," Jack told her, just to make the point.
"I'm not exactly a civilian," she pointed out.
   "You are as far as I'm concerned," Curt interjected. "Why don't you go and work on your case?" He turned to Jack. ' 'Have you got a place where she can plug in her laptop while we talk?"
"Sure. Hey, Ben!"
  One of the policemen stuck his head in the door. "Yes, Chief?"
   "Take Miss Ryan to Don's office and let her use his desk. He won't be in today."
"Yes, sir. Come with me, Miss Ryan."
  Curt wanted to ask if Ryan was her married name, but he didn't have the opportunity. She went with the policeman and they were talking about computers all the way out the door.
   
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  Curt waited until Ben closed the door behind them before he leaned forward.
   "The guy's name is Abe Hunt," Curt told the police chief. "He's got a rap sheet as long as my arm. Mary's got guts, but she's no match for a guy the size of Hunt should he pull some stunt. He's built like a professional wrestler. In fact, he did some wrestling in his past. We've got to get this guy out of her barn."
   "The trick is, if we chase him out of there, where will he go? Not to his cousin's. He's not that stupid, is he?"
  Curt shook his head. "His cousin took a powder out of town. But, even though the house is empty now, no, he's not stupid. But he is desperate. He doesn't want the mob to find him any more than he wants us to. It's going to be a cat and mouse game all the way."
   "I can get the Georgia Bureau of Investigation to assist us with the stakeout," Jack said.
  Curt nodded. "That would be a help. I can get some assistance as well, but FBI agents would stick out like sore thumbs around here. I've got a reason, I'm visiting my mother, so I won't arouse suspicion if I hang out in her yard or even if I spend time at Mary's house."
   "We'll get right over there and search the barn," Jack added. "That will give Hunt the feeling that, if we don't find anything, he's in a safe place."
"Good point. That's what I thought."
  Jack got up. "I'll go over and do a thorough search. You and Mary can hang out in Don's office until I get back."


324	Diana Palmer
"Thanks, Jack."
  He shrugged. "It's my job. Have you thought ahead to what you'll do when we catch this guy? He can't be forced to testify."
   "He can if he's facing a life sentence for being an accessory to murder," Curt told him. "Didn't I mention that another potential witness in this case was found floating in the Chattahoochee River with a bullet to the back of his head?" he added.
   "I'll bet he'd rather rat on a friend than go down for murder," Jack said.
   "The friend is one of the big bosses, and he's going to the chair if Hunt tells what he knows. So our witness isn't doing himself any favors by hiding out in Mary's barn," Curt said quietly. "At least we won't shoot him on sight. The mob will."
"You could almost feel sorry for the guy."
"Almost," Curt chuckled.
   "I'll be back as soon as I can. There's coffee in the coffeemaker. Just put a quarter in the box and help yourself."
   "No, thanks. Mary already filled me full of coffee before we came here," Curt recalled with a grin.
  Jack pursed his lips. "Well, well, fraternizing with the enemy are you?"
Curt shrugged. "She's a pretty enemy."
"No argument there. See you later."
  Curt sat down in the chair across from the desk where Mary was working. She peered over her laptop screen at him.
"You're very quiet," she remarked.

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   "I didn't want to disturb you while you were working," he replied.
   "I'm just rechecking my notes, so that I'll have them in order for court."
   "What did this guy do, that you're prosecuting?" he asked.
   "He smuggled a bale of marijuana into the county on a truck in between bales of real hay," she said. "He was distributing it to a dozen high school kids for resale when we tipped the DEA boys and they took him down."
  "High school kids," he muttered. "Selling drugs, shooting classmates...we live in a crazy world."
   "Everybody can tell you why," she said simply. "Too much time unsupervised, too unconnected from their parents, too little natural sunlight, too much time spent at a computer keyboard, video game violence, and the list goes on and on. But nobody has a solution."
  He leaned back in the chair and studied her. "Make your kids tell you where they are every minute," he suggested. "Be home when they get home from school. Know who their friends are."
   "How many kids do you have?" she asked sarcastically.
  "That was my mother's recipe," he said with a smile.
"Obviously, it worked," she had to admit.
   "Not really. I found ways to get around her and do what I liked. She was a sound sleeper. I could go out the window after she went to bed, and she never knew. Until I got arrested. I was in the wrong place,
   


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at the wrong time-with a group of kids using drugs, that is." He grimaced. "You know what was worse than being arrested? It was having her come to bail me out, and the disappointment in her eyes when she looked at me. I'd let her down. It really hurt her. I never quite got over it." He smiled. "Needless to say, I kept my nose clean forever afterward."
   "I guess so. Your mother's a really nice person," she added slowly.
"And you think a bad kid has bad parents, right?"
   "Oh, no," she said at once. "That's a naive opinion. Some of the worst lawbreakers have the nicest, most decent parents alive. If a child is inclined to break the law, there really isn't any way to stop him or her. And once they see the consequences, a lot of times they are scared to death and become model citizens."
   "I am living proof that it works," he told her with a chuckle.
  She grinned. "I got pulled over for speeding once," she volunteered.
"You bad girl."
   "It was the only time I broke the law. My dad grounded me for two months. I missed the junior prom and a date that I wanted more than food. I really learned my lesson."
"You don't talk about your mother," he noted.
Her face grew taut. "She and I don't speak."
"Why?"
  She stared at her computer screen. "She left my dad and ran away with her aerobics instructor."
"Tough."

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   "He was one of those health nuts who don't eat real food and spend every spare second exercising. I guess he drove her crazy, because she left him two months later and tried to come back to Dad." Her face hardened. "He wouldn't let her in the door. Neither would I. She moved to California. Last we heard, she was living with a martial arts teacher."
"I'm sorry."
   "She wasn't ever much of a mother," she replied coolly. "It was Dad who took me to parties and school dances and track meets. She was never around. She was playing bridge with her friends or working out or traveling somewhere."
"She didn't work?"
   "She didn't have to, her parents left her a small fortune," she said coldly. "Dad was never interested in money, although he works hard," she added with obvious pride.
"Do you look like him?"
  "Well, I'm not tall, but we have similar coloring," she confessed.
"Is he college-educated?''
  She grinned. "Yes, he is. He got his degree about seven years ago. I was so proud of him!"
"I expect you were," he said with a smile.
   "She didn't even graduate from high school," she added coldly.
  "Maybe education wasn't important to her. It isn't, to some people."
She cocked her head. "It was to you."
  He nodded. "My mother worked hard just to get me through school and make sure I had clothes to
   
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wear and a house that I wouldn't be ashamed to ask my friends into. When I started college, she helped as much as she could, but I earned most of my tuition by myself. I never failed a course," he added proudly. "Money was hard to come by."
   "I felt the same," she said. "Dad helped, of course, but I put myself through college on scholarships and working as an assistant manager at a fast-food place at night."
"Hard work."
   "Yes," she said, sharing memories with him. "But I graduated in the top ten percent of my graduating class. Dad was very proud. She didn't even come."
"Did you invite her?" he asked.
  She averted her eyes. "Well, no. Because I knew she wouldn't come," she added belligerently.
"How about your ex?" he added.
   She chuckled. "We're not that friendly," she replied. "I don't think his wife would like it. She's very nice, though."
"Lucky him."
   "I'm nice, too," she said. "I can cook. I can even sew a little."
His eyebrows lifted. "Are you auditioning?"
  Her eyes slid down to his chest. "You look very good without a shirt," she said outrageously. "And you aren't as stuffy and by-the-book as I thought to begin with. You might have potential."
"As what?" he asked, stonewalled.
   "I'll have to think about that," she assured him, and with a secretive little smile, she went back to her laptop.
   
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  Curtis Russell, FBI agent, folded his arms across his chest and felt vaguely threatened. In a nice way, of course.
  An hour later, Jack was back. He walked into the office, looking disturbed.
   "There wasn't a sign of entry or occupation in your barn at all," he said. "Are you sure you saw evidence of a vagrant?" he asked Curt.
Curt didn't protest the question. He just nodded.
   "I had the guys go over the place with magnifying glasses. There wasn't a thing. Considering the lack of evidence, how do I justify a stakeout?"
   "Good question," Curt had to admit. He stood up with a sigh. "I guess that leaves me. I'll get my black ops outfit out of storage and sit in the woods with the chiggers all night."
"You could have been mistaken," Jack persisted.
   "I could. But I'm not," Curt said simply, on the defensive because most of his statements were questioned these days, by the world at large. You make one dumb mistake in your life, he thought silently, and it follows you to the grave!
  Jack was watching him. He grimaced. "Okay, Russell, I'll do whatever you want me to do, if you're that sure."
   "I'll carry my cell phone out with me. If I call, come running," he added. "That's all I'll ask. Oh, one more thing," he said with a rueful glance. "Tell your boys not to drag me away in handcuffs in case any of the neighbors see me outside and get twitchy. Will you?"



330	Diana Palmer
Jack hid a grin. "Okay."
"What about me?" Mary asked.
   "You go to bed and dream of brilliant summations," Curt told her. "While the FBI protects you."
"Gosh, lucky me," she drawled.
   "Don't start that again, or I'll dribble honey into your bedroom and pour it over your feet. Remember the ants...?"
  "You can't threaten women," she pointed out "It's against the law."
   "Who's threatening women? I'm only planning to feed ants."
  She glowered at him, but he was already out the door with Jack while she was fumbling with her laptop's power switch.
  It wasn't rainy, but the woods were damp at night. Curt was uncomfortable in his bed of leaves, with his cell phone in his pocket and his listening device in one ear. All he heard were crickets. There wasn't even an occasional loud howl from Big Red in his mother's living room. Since last night, the dog had been oddly silent.
  When he'd returned home, after being arrested, he'd begged her to phone the pound and have the hairy menace taken away, but she was already attached to the big dog. In fact, she went out later in the day and bought the animal the premium dog chow in defiance.
  Curt, taking matters into his own hands, had phoned veterinarians' offices asking about the big dog, but nobody had reported one missing. Probably,
   
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he summed up, the previous owner was enjoying his sleep and didn't want the nuisance back again.
  After spending the evening fighting for enough space to sit on the sofa, and with a long-suffering sigh, Curt got up to prepare for his evening's work. When he left, Big Red was headed into his mother's room with her. He moved quietly to the dark back door, and went out to play spy.
  He was watching the barn covertly, but it was empty and it remained empty. He knew he'd seen sign, positive sign, that the culprit had been skulking around the outbuilding. But he had no proof. And because he'd tipped off the man by alluding to a visit by the police, all the clues had been skillfully lifted.
  That caused him to wonder if he had the right man. The potential federal witness, Abe Hunt, was a city boy, born and raised in Miami. He had no background that included outdoor activities, including scouting or other boyhood faculties. So how could a guy like that obliterate signs of his occupation?
  There was another curious thing. The man's cousin, who lived down the street, had packed up his wife and kids and left town. Curt had gone by the house tonight, sneaking around its perimeters to make sure the family hadn't vacated it so the cousin could hide out there. But there was no sign whatsoever that anything had been disturbed since the family's abrupt departure.
  The barn was empty and it remained empty. Oddly enough, the big dog wasn't howling at the window tonight. Everything was sublimely peaceful. Curt leaned back against a tree with a quiet sigh and watched the night go by.

Four
Curt dragged himself through his mother's back door at daylight, to be met by a wagging tail and a bark from the huge red dog.
   "Isn't he sweet?" Matilda asked from the stove, where she was flipping pancakes on a griddle. "Come in and have breakfast, dear. You must be tired."
   "Tired and all for nothing," he said, removing the black cap and jerking a paper towel from the roll to wipe off his camouflage paint. "There wasn't a peep out of anybody."
"I noticed. Big Red didn't bark."
He scowled. "Think that's why?"
   "Well, he was howling and barking like crazy the night you and Mary got arrested, and you said somebody took food out of her kitchen. He even woke me up, just as they were driving away with you."
"He was outside," he pointed out.
   "He was under my bedroom window, dear, where the basement door is," she corrected. "He's very loud."
   "Yes, he is. Odd, isn't it, that he was barking there," he said almost to himself.
"Wash your hands, Curt."
He did, absently, at the kitchen sink. "You don't

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suppose that our fugitive tried to hide out in our basement while we were tracking him down, do you?" he asked, to himself.
"We don't lock the door," she replied.
   "Today, I'm going to get a padlock and put it on," he said as he sat down to the table. "If he did, he won't do it again."
   "Isn't it curious that a fugitive would try to hide out near an FBI agent," she mused as she served breakfast.
   "I was thinking the same thing. And all the while his cousin lives down the street-when he isn't fleeing the scene-but there are plenty of safer places."
"Just what I thought."
  After breakfast, and an errand that took him to the hardware store, Curt drove down to the district FBI office in Lanier County to see Hardy Vicks. He arrived just before lunch.
"I've had a wild thought," he told his superior.
"Yes?"
  Curt leaned back in his chair. "I'm not going to put it into words until I'm sure. But can you spare me two men for an around-the-clock stakeout?"
  The reply was so loud that the secretary stuck her head in the door to see why her boss was laughing his head off.
   "Never mind," Curt muttered. "I'll ask the local police or the GBI or the sheriffs department. And if we catch who I think we might catch, the newspapers can give them the credit!"
"Russell, you're always sure you know what's go-

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ing on," his superior reminded him, "and most of the time you haven't got a clue. You were still chasing down the blonde in San Antonio in that high-profile Texas murder case, when the lieutenant governor's wife was being booked for murder."
   "She was a material witness and I caught her," he reminded the other man. "I even managed to have her extradited from South America to stand trial."
  His superior's eyebrows rose. "Yes, I suppose you did." He thought for a minute. "Okay, I'll see what I can do about a surveillance unit, since this is a federal case. Where can we put them?"
"In my basement," Curt replied.
   "Up to their necks in dirt with the snakes and spiders," the other man exclaimed.
  Curt glared at him. "It's a walk-in basement. There's even a billiard table, if they're so inclined."
  The other man grinned. "In that case, I might take the assignment myself. I'm partial to billiards."
  Curt almost forgot himself and suggested that might be because the older man's head bore a striking resemblance to a cue ball.
   "I'll get back in touch. It might take a couple of days, though."
   "Okay," Curt said. "Let's hope the fugitive doesn't get spooked and run for it meanwhile."
   "That's why we pay you, isn't it, Russell?" he was reminded blithely.
  On his way out of the courthouse, Mary Ryan caught up with him. She was wearing a gray pantsuit and looked very professional.
   
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"Any news?" she asked.
   "Yes. My boss likes to play billiards," he said irritably.
She chuckled. "So does mine."
   "It may take a couple of days to line up a surveillance team," he said impatiently. "But I think our fugitive's likely to take a powder long before then. When the police carried us off, the dog was howling under mother's bedroom window-right where the basement door is."
  She whistled. "You think he might have been under your house?"
  He nodded. "I went in this morning after breakfast to check it out," he said. "There were no obvious signs, but a couple of books were misplaced and the balls were set up on the billiard table. I always leave them in the pockets."
  Her eyes narrowed. "He's blatant, for a fugitive, isn't he?"
  He nodded slowly, with his hands in his pockets. "I was thinking that very thing. He acts less like prey than a predator."
  "They won't want Abe Hunt to talk," she continued. "He could send his mob bosses to prison with what he knows."
   "He could send one of them to his death. And Hunt might not be hiding from us at all," he added for her. "There might be a hit man after him, and that's why he's running scared. He's afraid of someone named Daniels."
She whistled. "Oh, that's just great. I'll sleep so

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nicely, knowing there might be a hit man parked in my barn or your basement!"
   "It doesn't make me any more comfortable," he told her. "And my mother's in the line of fire, too."
"At least you have the dog," she remarked.
  He pursed his lips. "Another odd piece of the puzzle," he agreed. "Where did he come from? Where's his owner? Why is he living with my mother?"
"Because she likes dogs?" she ventured.
"He turned up at a strange time."
   She glanced up and down the street. "I'm going to have a nice salad. Care to join me?"
  He looked at his watch. "I might as well. By the time I get home, that soup mother promised to save for me will be in the dog."
  She laughed delightedly. "Your mother's a character."
   "You have no idea. When I was a kid, I never knew where she'd call from to say she was going to be late. Once she was behind a bank of police cars waiting for a sniper to be taken down. Another, she was racing to the scene of a drug-related bombing."
"It sounds like an exciting life."
  His dark eyes sparkled as they walked into a nearby cafe. "It was. She had law-enforcement types around her half the time, men and women. It didn't take much guesswork to understand why she got so many scoops right from under the noses of the other reporters."
"But she retired."
   "When I got in my middle teens, I started giving her fits," he confessed. "She gave up a higher-paying
   
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job to do feature work so that she'd be around when I needed her. I guess it was a good thing. I was headed straight to hell for a while. No matter how good a mother is, there's no real substitute for a father when boys are involved. That's not a politically correct statement," he added with a long glance. "But it's my opinion."
  She smiled sadly. "I can't imagine life without my father."
"I'd like to meet him."
"Would you?" Her eyes brightened.
  She was pretty when she was animated. He smiled down at her, and watched her cheeks color just slightly before she moved along in the line with her tray. When she lifted a glass to fill it with ice, there was the nicest little tremor in her long fingers. He felt pleasantly flattered.
  Seated at their table, sharing a side order of vegetable chips, they talked about the mob case in Atlanta.
   "If there really is a hit man camped out in our neighborhood," she said, "our fugitive must know it. So why is he there?"
   "That's a question I wish I could answer. I didn't dare tell my boss what I suspected." He grimaced. "I got into some trouble in my last case. They've been giving me grief ever since I joined."
   "From what they say at the courthouse, you had some help joining," she fished.
   "Yes, from Marc Brannon. He was with them for two years. He's a Texas Ranger. I, uh, sort of worked with him on the Texas murder case. Actually, he's


338	Diana Palmer
related to the vice president and the state attorney general, too."
"You pulled strings," she guessed.
   "It was the only way to get into the Bureau and stay out of prison," he chuckled. "They had to agree that I did a decent job of investigation, just the same. But they think they're punishing me by sticking me up here in north Georgia, away from the action."
   "Seems to me you're right in the middle of the action, if what we're guessing is true," she commented.
   "Just what I thought. So we have to handle this just right."
   "We?" she queried, with her tea glass held suspended at her lips.
   "I've had assigned partners who were less supportive," he pointed out, pursing his lips. "Besides, you have connections. The police actually like you."
  She grinned. "I never told you what my dad did for a living, did I?"
He shook his head, entranced.
"He's a cop."
He chuckled. "Now, why didn't I guess?"
   "He's in administration since he got his degree, but he was a beat cop for years," she added. "I learned a lot just by watching and listening."
"That's how we all learn."
"What are you going to do next?"
"I'm going to bug my basement."
  She grinned. "How exciting! Care to bug my barn, too?"
"I suppose I'll have to, if we expect to catch any-

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body. None of the higher-ups have much confidence in my suspicions."
   She reached across the table and slid a long-fingered hand over his and smiled. "You'll show them."
  His heart lifted. She made him feel capable of doing anything. His eyes brightened. "Thanks."
   She shrugged. "Sometimes, all it takes is having somebody believe in you," she said simply, and let go of his hand. "I'll help any way I can," she added.
"I'll give that some thought," he promised.
  Curt went back home, irritated with his lack of progress on the job.
  His mother was sprawled on the sofa with her laptop while the big dog was lolling on its back on the carpet, sound asleep. It barely opened one drooping eyelid long enough to glance at him before it closed it again.
   "Some watchdog," he muttered, sitting down across from her in a chair.
"Where have you been?"
   "Trying to convince people to believe I'm not an idiot," he sighed.
"You're not an idiot, dear."
"Thanks."
"Can I help?"
  He gave her a long scrutiny. "Yes. You've had plenty of experience covering murder cases and racketeering. Who do you think is hiding out in Mary Ryan's barn?"
"Abe Hunt, your federal witness who won't tes-

340	Diana Palmer
tify," she replied with a smile. "Is that what your boss won't believe?"
He nodded miserably.
  She shrugged and went back to her keyboard. "His misfortune. You catch your witness, dear, and let the others try to excuse their mistakes."
"You sound very confident."
   "I raised you to be the best at what you do. And you are." She glanced at him with a whimsical smile. "So why are you sitting here doing nothing?"
  He chuckled as he got to his feet. "I'm off to the basement to convert wire and batteries and lights into covert ops material," he remarked, stretching. "Good thing I know electronics."
   "And you didn't even want to go to a technical school," she scoffed.
   "I only did two semesters," he reminded her. "Just long enough to know that I wasn't cut out for television repair. But I learned how to make listening devices," he added wickedly.
She glared at him. "So I recall."
   "I never told anyone except you what I found out," he protested.
   "It was still illegal. Imagine, bugging the police chiefs office!"
He grinned.
She waved him off without another word.
  He didn't tell her that he'd learned most of the craft from an older student who was heavily into covert work, even back then. But he'd paid attention and
   
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absorbed all he could, because he figured to do federal law enforcement for a career.
  It took most of the afternoon to string the wire- he didn't have the sophisticated bugs that were powered by tiny batteries. But what he had was workable, including a grid-pattern of weight-sensitive devices concocted of cardboard, wire and tape, which would reveal the presence of anybody weighing more than forty pounds. That left out most of the neighborhood dogs. He hooked his device to a central board with small lights and had his mother walk across to Mary's garden, ostensibly to pick a radish, but actually to let him test out his equipment.
  Of course, if a hit man was really out there, and watching, he'd know what Curt was up to. But Curt was willing to bet that he was asleep somewhere, so that he'd be sharp and awake that night to continue his surveillance-assuming that Hunt was also going to move around at night
  None of which explained what Hunt was doing in this neighborhood in the first place.
If that was why the hit man was here.
If there was really a hit man.
  For the first time, Curt was beginning to doubt his own assumptions. He'd made a lot of stupid mistakes, like not being quick enough to stop the Russian premier from being gored by a Brahma bull at the president's summer home in Texas. A week in the Oke-fenokee Swamp had cured him of carelessness, but he'd made other mistakes. What if he'd only made assumptions here that weren't true? If he didn't turn up the federal witness he was going to have egg on


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his face. He was going to be the laughingstock of the whole law enforcement community. He blanched at the thought.
  Then he remembered Mary Ryan's words, and the look in her soft eyes when she'd told him she had confidence in him. And then he had his mother walk across Mary's garden, ostensibly to pick a pepper, and his homemade board lit up like a Christmas tree with every step she took. By gosh, he was good, and he was right, and he was going to prove it to those stuffed shirts at headquarters!
  Late that afternoon, when Mary got home, he went across in his jeans and T-shirt to talk to her.
  They went into her kitchen, but before she said a word, he held up his hand and took an electronic device from his pocket. This was an older one, but it worked just as well as it had when he bought it five years ago. He swept the room for bugs and found none.
   "Just to be safe," he assured her, as he put it back in his pocket with a smile. "Be careful when you go out back. I've wired the yard."
She stared at him. "You've what?"
   "Wired the yard. I've planted pressure-sensitive devices all the way to the barn and the street..."
"In my tomato plants?" she exclaimed, horrified.
  He glowered at her. "Not in your plants. In the weeds. Those yellow things..."
   "My marigolds," she wailed. "They're organic pest control!"
"Will you listen?" he asked with pure disgust.

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"This is no time to get wild about a few flowers. This device might save your life!"
  She took a deep breath. He couldn't be blamed for all her plants. The police department had walked over several while they were searching for footprints out there. "Okay," she said, gritting her teeth.
   "When this is all over, we'll go to the garden supply store and I'll buy you ten flats of flowers," he promised.
"I grew these from seed..."
''Don't start that again!''
  She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You have no idea what a garden represents, do you?" she burst out, furious.
  He moved forward, caught her by the waist, swung her against his tall, powerful body, and kissed her fiercely.
  She struggled for a few seconds, went still, and then slowly began to lean into him. Her hands rested at his belted waist then slid, caressing, into the small of his back. Her mouth opened under his, and his arms contracted, hard.
  It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed kissing a woman so much. He hadn't realized how long it had been until she began protesting his bruising hold.
  He lifted his head, dazed, to stare down into her misty eyes.
   "You do that very nicely," she commented breathlessly.
"Thanks. So do you."
  She searched his dark eyes. He looked back at her with barely contained passion.


344	Diana Palmer
   "A garden represents the children you don't have," he murmured, watching her swollen lips instead of her shocked eyes. "You have to have something to nurture, so it's vegetables and flowers instead of kids." He kissed her again, hungrily. "You could try nurturing me," he suggested against her mouth. "My mother's tired of dirty socks on the bedroom floor and wet towels under the sink."
  She laughed huskily. "You think I'd like wet towels under mine?"
   "Why not?" he murmured, kissing her again. "We have similar professions and we're both nice people. We could raise lettuce and hell."
  She nibbled on his full lower lip. "I'll think about it."
   "You do that. In the meanwhile," he added wryly, moving her gently away from him, "we might get to the matter at hand. Which is, I've bugged your barn and my mother's basement and wired both yards. A dog can't walk around here without setting off alarms."
   "How about a cat...or a mouse?" she asked with a pert grin.
  He tapped her nose with his forefinger. "Don't make fun of my elaborate preparations. I'm going to catch somebody tonight, even if it's only a Peeping Tom. My reputation's at stake."
"I wouldn't say that," she said with a demure smile.
He grinned from ear to ear.
  But although Curt sat in his basement until the wee hours, his board didn't light up. Nothing happened in
   
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the neighborhood. The dog slept like the dead beside Matilda Russell's bed.
  Curt fell into bed at dawn, so tired and worn-out that he couldn't manage to keep his eyes open. It was early afternoon before he woke up.
  He opened his eyes to a wet spot on his bare arm. He rolled over and there he was, the dog, sitting calmly beside the bed, hassling right over Curt's prone body.
  "Oh, yuck," Curt muttered, wiping his arm on the sheet. "What's with you?" he demanded.
  The dog kept panting. It really looked like he was trying to grin. He was beating time with his large tail at the same time. The thump-thump-thump was oddly calming.
  With a sigh, Curt reached out a lean hand and rubbed Big Red's head gently. "You're not so bad, I guess...hey, what's this?"
  He felt a lump on the clasp of the collar that had gone unnoticed. He sat up, wide-awake now, and unfastened the collar. There was something taped there. He removed the black tape to reveal a thin tube. It twisted open.
   "This is a hell of a thing," he muttered to himself. He pulled out a thin roll of paper with writing on it.
   "Curt, I've got lunch, dear!" his mother called from the kitchen. "Are you awake?"
"I'm awake!"
  He opened the paper and looked at it with mounting curiosity. There were letters and numbers on it, but in no sort of order. It was like a code.
   
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   He got out of bed, securing the tube back on the dog's tossing neck as he protested the motions of Curt's hands.
   "Found something," Curt told his mother as he strolled into the kitchen. He'd already swept it for bugs the night before, and he was certain they weren't being overheard. "Look at this."
  He handed her the paper. She studied it with narrowed, intelligent eyes and handed it back. "Code?" she asked aloud.
  He studied the numbers again. "Yes," he said. "It makes some sort of sense, but I can't untangle it."
"Where did you find it?" she asked.
   "In a little tube taped under your new pet's collar," he told her. "And it looks as if it's been there for a while." He was worried. "What if the federal witness was trying to get in touch with me, and the dog was his messenger? I've blown days, because I didn't understand why the dog was here!" he exploded.
   "None of us would have thought of looking for a message on a dog, dear," Matilda told him with an amused smile. "Sit down and have lunch. We'll look this over some more. Hear anything last night?" she added.
  He shook his head. "It was as quiet as a church on Monday," he murmured, accepting a cup of hot coffee from his mother. "No lights, no sound, no nothing. It's the damnedest thing. I know somebody was hiding out in Mary's barn. I'm almost positive we had somebody in our basement. But everybody vanished.
   
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Including Hunt's cousin, who left fire trails getting out of the neighborhood."
"The cousins are back."
"What?"
   "They drove by while I was having breakfast this morning," she said easily. "I watched them get out of the car. It was just him and her and their two kids, the boy and the girl."
"Nobody else?" he asked suspiciously.
  She shook her head. "I kept a fairly decent watch on the station wagon, just to make sure nobody crawled out of it," she added. "But I didn't see a soul."
   "Maybe they helped Hunt to go somewhere and then left him," he was thinking out loud. "That would explain the lack of activity."
   "It would," she had to confess. "But what is that message all about?" she added, indicating the slip of paper in his hand.
  He grimaced. "I don't know. The letters and numbers are jumbled, but even so, they make sense. It isn't a combination," he added absently, studying them. "Or a locker number, of any sort I recognize."
"Coordinates?" she suggested.
He shook his head. "Not possible."
"Read them to me."
   "LPST23LBSDB129," he murmured. He shook his head. "See? No sense."
   "Was there anything else in the tube?" she pondered.
   "A piece of brown paper, apparently put there to hide this little slip of white paper...wait a
   
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  He got up and ran down the dog, who was wolfing down water. "Sorry, guy," he murmured as he untwisted the tube again. He opened it and had to use a car key to extricate the stiff little tube of brown paper that was concealed. He replaced the tube, stood up, and unfolded the stiff tube.
"Eureka!" he exploded.

Five
Curt barely took time to explain his find to his mother and put on his clothes before he rushed out to the car and drove himself, at unlucky speeds, to the courthouse in Lanier County.
  Fortunately, Mary's court case had concluded early with a quick verdict. She was shuffling papers in the courtroom when Curt burst in.
   "I need you," he said, barely giving her time to gather her briefcase before he took her hand and tugged her out of the courtroom and right out of the building.
"But I have to see the court clerk," she protested.
   "You can phone and get your assistant to do it. We've got a break!" He put her into his car, got in, started it, and handed her the folded slip of brown paper.
"It's a pawn ticket!" she exclaimed.
   "Yes! I've got something else, too." He fumbled in his pocket and handed her the jumble of letters. "Can you make out the code from what you've got in your hand?" he challenged, having already made the connections himself.
   "Yes. Let's see... It's the Lanier Pawn Shop, this is the ticket, then there's another set of letters and
   
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numbers..." Her head came up. "If I'm right, this is a pawn ticket for a safe-deposit box key, which is located at the Lanier City Bank!"
He grinned. "Sharp girl."
"What do you think it is?" she exclaimed.
   "I have no idea. But with any luck, it's something concrete that will prove Hunt's mob boss committed murder to stop an investigation."
   She was as excited as he was now. They rushed into the pawn shop with the ticket. As they expected, they received a safe-deposit box key from the clerk at the shop. They then sped to the bank. They produced credentials and still had to get the bank president to preside over the opening of the safe-deposit box.
  But when they inserted their key, there was a surprise waiting. The key didn't work.
   "How can that be?" Curt exploded. "This is the right number. It's the right key!"
  The bank president was scratching his head when the young woman who had been standing uncomfortably behind them spoke up tremulously.
   "It wasn't my fault, sir," she moaned. "They had credentials, too. They said they were from the Justice Department. They had the box drilled and the contents removed, and then we had to have the lock changed..."
  The bank president was livid. "You didn't say anything about this, Miss Davis!"
   "Sir, I told my supervisor. You've been out of town," she added defensively. "It was three days ago!"
   
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  Curt cursed under his breath. There went his evidence.
   "We can have the box drilled again," the bank president said, disturbed.
   "Don't bother," Curt replied quietly. "By now, every piece of evidence in it is gone. We've been beaten to the punch, royally. But thanks for your help."
   "Damn the luck!" he exploded when they were driving back to the courthouse. "If I'd just examined the dog three days ago!"
   "Who would have expected a stray dog to carry evidence of a crime?" she comforted him. "You're not superhuman, you know."
  He grimaced. "I could kick myself. The evidence is gone, the witness is gone, and I'm in the doghouse again."
   "I didn't see any other federal agents doing much better," she pointed out. "At least you've been trying!"
   "For all the good it did me. I've been up all night staking out the neighborhood, and I have nothing to show for it. Except a few dead marigolds," he added with a rueful smile.
   "I've got plenty left," she assured him. "Don't beat yourself to death over it. I could make supper for you tonight," she added. "Then we could go and play billiards in your basement. I love billiards."
"You do?"
  She grinned. "My girlfriend and I used to be the terrors of the tables when we were in college."
   
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  He sighed. "That would make a nice end to the day. Something to actually look forward to," he added with a slow smile. "Thanks."
  She shrugged. "What are friends for?" she asked, and she smiled back.
  In the end, Mrs. Russell cooked for all of them. Over ham and potato salad with Matilda Russell's homemade bread, they had a lively discussion about the criminal justice system and the excesses of the twenty-four-hour news stations.
  Afterward, leaving the dog with his mother, Curt led the way down to the basement and racked the balls on the billiard table.
   "I never asked," he murmured. "Did you win your case?"
   "Not my most recent one," she replied with a tiny smile. "I fought hard, but the jury didn't believe the poor man would do something so dishonest as to get his neighbor drunk and steal his land. However, I did win the one over the drug traffickers." She shrugged. "You win some, you lose some. That's life."
  He let her go first. He was sorry when she cleared the table with expertise. He chuckled as he racked the balls again and cleared it himself.
  Neck and neck, they shot for points until it grew late.
   "I'm having a very good time," she said finally, "but I have a meeting at nine tomorrow morning. I'm going to have to...Curt?"
  "Hmm?" he murmured, nudging balls into pockets to clear the table.
   
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"What are those lights?"
  He turned, only half concentrating on what she was saying. Then he noticed where her eyes were, and his heart stopped and started again. It was his board, the one he'd made and forgotten in the disappointment over the safe-deposit box. The grid pattern in Mary's garden was lighting up like a holiday ship making port.
"Somebody's in your barn again!" he exclaimed.
"How do you know?"
  He explained, briefly, the grid pattern and how it worked. "See? He's just gone into the barn. We've got him!"
  She gaped at him. "You're going in there all by yourself, huh?"
  He went to the coat stand where he'd hung his shoulder holster without a word. He whipped it around his chest and checked his .45 automatic. His dark, serious eyes met hers. "This is where you go upstairs and phone Jack. Have him get in touch with Hardy Vicks. I don't care if he has to be dragged out of bed. I need backup."
  She swallowed. "My dad taught me how to shoot."
  He smiled gently, taking her by the arms and bending to kiss her with fierce delight. "I wouldn't risk you for all the tea in China, sweetheart," he whispered, and kissed her again when she smiled up at him.
"Don't get shot," she admonished firmly.
His eyebrows lifted. "I wouldn't dare. Go on."
She went up the inside staircase and he turned off

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the lights. A minute later, he eased out the door, and the genial man of minutes before was eclipsed by a trained federal officer with nerves of steel and years of experience in risky situations.
  There was, fortunately, enough cover to keep him hidden. He moved from his mother's backyard, past the carport, past the house next door, behind its carport, and into the small thicket of hedge bushes that led to the street. The view from Mary's barn was hidden by a growth of dogwood trees and boxwood shrubs, so he was able to duck and slide across the paved street. But then it was a matter of waiting for noise to camouflage his footsteps.
  He waited until the sudden loud roar of a truck going along the highway a few hundred yards away disguised his movements. He rushed to the side of the barn, drew his weapon, took off the safety, and waited for another noise.
  It wasn't long in coming. He heard a soft, whispery movement from inside the barn, as if someone was leaning against a wall.
  His heart was rushing in his chest. It sounded loud enough that it could be heard a block away, although he knew it couldn't. He closed his eyes to concentrate on what he could hear.
  The whispery sound came again. There was a flicker of movement, barely audible at all.
  Curt had been shot once, early in his career. It had been a shoulder wound in a Shootout with racketeers in New York City. It was the worst possible time to remember how much it had hurt. He couldn't think
   
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about pain. He had to think about his mother and even Mary.
  He took two quick breaths when he heard the approaching echo of another big truck. It's now or never, Russell, he told himself firmly. He set his lips, took another breath, and rushed into the barn.
  A big, heavyset man with wavy black hair gasped and threw up his hands in the bare gleam of light from the streetlight-the one that worked-nearby.
"Don't shoot!" the man squeaked.
  Curt's blood was pumping madly. He had the pistol leveled at the man's gut. "Federal agent," he clipped. "Identify yourself!"
"Abe...Abe Hunt!"
Curt frowned. "Hunt?"
   "Ye...yeah! Could you, uh, put that thing down?" he stammered, indicating the pistol with a nod.
  Curt lowered it with a curse. "You idiot! I could have shot you! What the hell are you doing in here?"
   "Trying to outrun Daniels," Hunt groaned, looking around wildly as he went toward Curt. "Man, you are slow as Methuselah! Didn't you get the message? I sent the dog...!"
  Curt wasn't touching that. "Where have you been for the past few days?" he demanded. "You weren't here! The damned dog hasn't made a peep. Well, until now," he added, as the dog suddenly began to bay and howl so loudly that he could be heard even through the walls of Matilda Russell's living room.
   "Oh, my God!" Hunt exclaimed. "It's him! It's Daniels! Redbone smells him...!"
Curt wasn't going to ask how the dog could smell

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a man through a house. He'd seen bloodhounds track people in cars. Sloughed off skin was detectable even from the open window of a moving car, although most people wouldn't have believed it.
   "Get down!" Curt yelled, pushing Hunt ahead of him to the floor of the barn. It was dusty and dirty and, above all, safe. For the moment at least.
  Hunt started to speak, but Curt snapped a faint blow against his arm, silencing him.
  His eyes were growing used to the dark. His heartbeat was deafening him, but he knew his capabilities. If he could get a glimpse of their stalker, he could drop him. He was an expert marksman. Of course, there were other dangers-for instance, the man, Daniels, could just set fire to the barn and end the standoff. Old, dry, full of combustible material, it would go up in seconds with both men trapped inside.
  Curt lay listening. If the man struck a match, in the silence unbroken except by the howling dog, he could hear it. He'd try shooting right through the walls if he had to. But he didn't hear a match.
  He did hear a faint footfall, barely an echo of a leaf crunching. He closed his eyes, aware of Hunt's strained, loud breathing next to him. He jabbed the man again and made a motion with his finger to his lips. Hunt's breathing quieted.
  Curt listened, cursing now the sound of another heavy truck passing within earshot, because it masked closer sounds.
  Hunt was still alive. The hit man might have regained any evidence that Hunt could have used to convict the mob boss, but Hunt himself was the nail
   
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in the man's coffin. The hit man would go to any lengths to silence that voice, and Curt knew it.
He had to protect Hunt, no matter what the cost.
  He waited in the semidarkness, his body tensed for action, his ears peeled, his every reflex honed to its finest edge.
  But when the attack came, it was from a totally unexpected source. Only a faint creak heralded it.
  It was enough. Curt rolled onto his back and fired over his head, at the hayloft where nothing was visible.
   "You idiot, what are you shooting...look out!" Hunt yelled, and rolled quickly out of the way.
  As he spoke, a dark form came hurtling down with the sound of automatic weapon fire bursting on the silence only for precious seconds.
  Curt felt a stab in his arm as he fired again and again. There was a loud grunt and then the dark form crumpled. The weapon fire ceased.
Almost simultaneously, sirens burst on the silence.
   "You okay?" Curt asked Hunt, who was dragging himself to his feet with his hands at his throat.
"Yeah," the man managed to say. "You?"
  Curt wasn't sure about that. He didn't take time to check. He moved to the downed man, pushed him over quickly with the pistol leveled at his chest. An automatic weapon was held in a still hand. There was a dark stain on the man's suit front. He wasn't moving.
  Curt bent, amazed at how painful the movement was, and dragged the automatic weapon from the
   
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man's clenched fingers, before he tossed it out of reach, just in case.
   "Thanks, man, you saved my skin!" Hunt exclaimed. "Hey, you're bleeding...!"
  Curt fell to his knees. It should be hurting, he thought dimly. His arm felt heavy. It felt wet, too. He had another pain, lower down, in his side.
   "Russell! Russell, you in there?" came a familiar loud voice.
   "Jack," he whispered. He couldn't talk louder. Funny.
   "He's hurt! Come on in!" Hunt yelled, bending over Curt to keep him from toppling headfirst.
  There were running footsteps, the sound of bolts being thrown on weapons, the clank of equipment.
"Curt!" Mary Ryan exclaimed.
   "Miss Ryan, you shouldn't...!" the police chief protested.
  It did no good. She was right beside Curt, checking him with trembling hands, touching him.
  "He's been shot. Twice I think," she said quickly. "Where are the paramedics?"
   "Right behind us," one of the SWAT team members volunteered. "Hurry it up, guys!" he called to two men with a stretcher.
   "That's Erskine Daniels," Hunt was telling the policemen, pointing to the downed man, who was in bad shape, but still alive. "I'm a federal witness, Abe Hunt. I know plenty about the trial that's going on in Atlanta. I saw the head boss pop another potential witness and dump him in the Chattahoochee. You get me to a safe place, and I'll sing like a bird! But fix
   
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that guy first, will you?" he added, nodding toward Curt. "He saved my life!"
   "We'll fix him," one of the paramedics promised, working in the spreading light held by a police officer. "He's been hit twice, once in the shoulder and once in the side, but I think he's going to be fine."
"Oh, thank God," Mary Ryan moaned.
  There was a howl and another howl, and Matilda Russell walked into the barn.
  The police chief threw up his hands. "This is my crime scene!" he yelled.
  Matilda just smiled at him and walked right to her son, kneeling. "My poor boy," she said, touching his cold face. "You'll be fine, son. Just fine! Can we get you anything?" she added, ignoring the paramedics and the cursing police chief.
  But Curt was drifting away into merciful unconsciousness in a wave of nausea.
Beside him, the big red dog was licking his face.
   "Redbone, you big dope," Abe Hunt exclaimed on a chuckle. "I send you out with a message that might save me, and what do you do? You move in with strangers and forget me!"
"Is he yours?" Matilda Russell asked quickly.
  Hunt nodded. "He was," he added ruefully. "I guess I can't take him with me where I'll be going. Right, guys?" he asked a newcomer to the scene, Hardy Vicks from the FBI.
   "That's right," the older man agreed. "Damn, that's Russell!" he exclaimed when he saw Curt on the floor. "Is he dead?" he asked quickly.
"Of course he's not dead!" his mother huffed.
360	Diana Palmer
"He's my son. He's a Russell. You'd have to put a stake through his heart first. These are just itty-bitty flesh wounds."
   "You'd know, I guess," Vicks muttered sarcastically.
   "I was a reporter. I was actually shot covering a riot in Atlanta," Mrs. Russell told him haughtily. "Took two bullets, right through the upper leg. Missed the bone by half a centimeter."
  He was impressed. He moved closer. "You his mother, you said?" he asked.
"I am."
  He studied her closely. "He's not bad," he murmured, sparing Curt a glance as Mary Ryan walked beside the stretcher the paramedics were rolling him out on. "I have to admit I'm impressed. He took down a hit man and saved a government witness all by himself, from what the policemen told me."
   "He did," Matilda agreed. She studied the taller man. He was about her age. Bald, but that wasn't a bad thing. She found bald men rather sexy. She smiled. "I don't suppose you'd give an old lady a ride to the hospital? Mary will go with him in the ambulance. There won't be room."
   "It would be my pleasure!" he replied. "But I don't see any old ladies," he added gallantly. "I'm divorced. You got a husband somewhere?"
She shook her head. "I was widowed years ago."
He smiled. "I was shot once, too."
  She smiled, glancing worriedly at her son as they moved him. "I need to get to the hospital. But I have
   
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to do something about the dog," she murmured vaguely, glancing at Abe Hunt.
  "You can keep him," Abe Hunt said with a grin. "I'd like knowing he had a good home."
"Thank you, Mr....?"
   "Hunt," he volunteered. "Abe Hunt. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you just let that guy know," he indicated Special Agent in Charge, Vicks. "He can get word to me. I know people all over."
  Matilda had visions of a strange man appearing at her door with a baseball bat offering to break legs of potential abusers. She cleared her throat. "Thanks, Mr. Hunt. I'll take good care of your dog."
   "He's sorta stupid, but he's got a good heart." He bent to pet the dog before he was led away by two men who had accompanied the SAC.
   "Come on, Big Red," Matilda told the big dog, tugging at his lead.
   "Here, let me do that. He's a handful for a dainty little woman like you," Vicks offered, taking the leash. "I hear you have a billiard table!"
  Curt woke up hours later in pain. He opened his eyes. His mother and Mary Ryan were sitting beside the bed talking animatedly.
   "He has cousins in Cordele," Matilda remarked, "where my uncle lives. Imagine that! And he loves billiards. I invited him over for supper Friday night. Curt will be out of the hospital by then. You can come, too, dear, and I'll make some more rolls."
"I'd enjoy that," Mary replied.

362	Diana Palmer
   "Who has...cousins in Cordele?" Curt managed in a hoarse whisper.
   "Why, your boss, dear, Special Agent in Charge, Hardy Vicks. I was very impressed with him," she added. "He said you did a great job."
   "He has an ulterior motive. He likes billiards," Curt murmured with all the humor he could muster, then he groaned. "Hurts."
   "That thing injects painkillers automatically," his mother said, indicating the IV that was pumping fluids into him through complicated electronic machinery. "It should start working pretty soon."
  He sighed heavily. His arm felt strange. His belly hurt.
   "Don't pull at that IV," Mary said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "Just be still and ride it out. You'll be home before you know it."
  He opened his eyes and looked up at her with a faint smile. "I got shot."
  She shrugged. "Nobody's perfect. You saved Mr. Hunt. The hit man was wanted for at least two murders." Her dark eyes narrowed. "He would have killed you and Mr. Hunt if you hadn't had good hearing. He was waiting in the loft. Just waiting. He knew Hunt would be back. The only loved ones Hunt has in the world are his cousin and that big red dog. Hunt told us he couldn't leave them. Turns out Hunt was hiding out in the barn not only trying to protect himself from the hit man but trying to protect his cousin as well. And that's what Daniels was betting on." She closed her eyes for a moment. "He would have killed you," she repeated.
   
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  Curt caught her soft hand in his and held it tight. "It wasn't my time," he said huskily.
"I'm glad," she replied, her heart in her eyes.
   "Mary's coming to supper Friday," Matilda remarked, delighted at their apparent closeness. "So is Agent Vicks," she reminded them.
"We can play billiards," Mary offered.
  He glared up at her. "You can play billiards while I watch," he corrected. "I'll give you some pointers. I want you to beat the pants off Vicks. He thinks I'm an idiot."
   "He does not," Matilda said smugly. "In fact, he's given you a glowing report and recommended you for promotion."
  Mary looked worried. "Yes, he said something about them giving you a much better position in a big city."
  He was barely lucid, but he heard the disappointment in her tone. "Honey, there are plenty of jobs for assistant prosecutors in cities all over the country," he said comfortingly.
"Yes, but I work in Lanier County," she moaned.
  He linked his fingers with hers and closed his eyes. "We'll talk about it when I get out of here. I'm so sleepy..."
  He drifted off again, still holding Mary's hand tight.
  Matilda gave her a curious, but approving, glance. "I think he's making plans."
Mary smiled slowly. "I wouldn't mind."
  "He's a good son. He'll make a wonderful husband."
   
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   "He might not have that in mind," Mary reminded her.
Matilda only smiled.
  Several days later, Curt was bandaged and stitched and lounging around his mother's living room with the big dog at his feet.
   "Imagine sending evidence through a dog," he remarked to the people sharing the room with him.
   "It was a good idea," Vicks said lazily, drinking coffee on the sofa after a big meal. "But nobody would expect a dog to be carrying secrets. It's like those message tubes they tied to homing pigeons during World War I."
   "They actually awarded a medal to a pigeon in France," Matilda volunteered. "He carried a message that kept American troops from firing on a position until the French could pull back their men."
"She's full of little facts like that," Curt teased her.
   "You should write a book," Agent Vicks told her. "All that trivia and no place for it in nonfiction articles."
"A book," she mused.
   "Sure!" Vicks put down his coffee cup. "I know this guy who used to work for Interpol," he added. "He told me about a slave racket on the coast of West Africa where a blond white woman would sell for half a million dollars back in the twenties."
   "Oh, that would sell fiction," Curt said sarcastically.
   "Remember The Sheik back in the twenties, and Rudolph Valentino?" his mother replied.
   
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"Before my time," he drawled.
   "Before mine, too, thank you very much, but it made exciting reading," Matilda mused. "I'd like to hear some more about that."
   "I'm at your service. Uh, about that billiard table," he added, rising.
  Matilda chuckled. "Come along. I wield a mean cue stick, though," she warned.
   "Oh, I like a woman who can use a stick," Vicks replied with a chuckle.
  They excused themselves and went down to the basement.
  Curt was watching Mary quietly, and without smiling. She sat stiffly in a big armchair, trying not to look as uncomfortable as she felt.
   "Well, it's all over now except the trial," she said. "I guess I won't have a part in that, because it will be a federal case. But I'd really like to be in the audience..."
"Mary," he said softly.
She stopped in midspate and lifted both eyebrows.
"Come here."

Six
Mary just sat and stared at him. She was a modern woman. She didn't answer to commands. She didn't do what she was told.
  He smiled slowly, his dark eyes twinkling. "Come on."
  She got up without understanding why, and went to him.
  He drew her down gently against him, wincing as he moved to position her cheek against the shoulder that didn't have a bullet wound.
   "It will take a little work," he murmured as he bent, "but we'll get the hang of it..."
  His mouth covered hers. She touched his cheek while he kissed her. She smiled under the warm, hard crush of his lips. It was like coming home. She'd been worried about him during his hospital stay, although she'd tried not to let it show. Now that she knew he would recover, the relief made her reckless.
  He eased her down on the sofa, overcome by her response and his hunger. It had been a long, long time since he'd wanted a woman so much.
  But the pain of the wounds was inhibiting. He groaned and his mouth found its way to her soft breast
   
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through the fabric covering them. He rested there with a husky laugh.
   "I can't," he whispered. "I want to, you don't know how much! But it hurts too much."
  She sighed and stretched and relaxed under the warm, hard press of his body. "I'm not in a hurry. Are you?" she teased.
  He looked down at her with real emotion. He touched her soft mouth and studied her intently. "I don't do affairs. My mother raised me very strictly."
   "My father raised me very strictly, too," she replied with a smile. "I guess that means we can't have sex on your mother's sofa."
He nodded.
"I have a sofa."
  He grinned. "As you said, we're not in a hurry." He bent again and kissed her gently. "And I'm now officially on sick leave."
"Are you saying something?"
"Yes. We can get to know each other."
"That might be fun."
   "Indeed it might." He bent again. He kissed her hungrily, only barely noticing the pressure against his side until it got wet.
   "Am I bleeding?" he murmured against her mouth.
  He lifted up and she looked over. There he sat. The dog. Drooling on Curt's hip.
   "We have got to do something about that dog," Curt muttered as the dog grinned at him.
  "I have an idea," Mary replied, but she wouldn't say what it was. Not then, at least.
   
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*    *    *
  Three months later, during a hiatus from Curt's new duties working out of the Atlanta FBI office at the Richard Russell Federal Building, he and Mary Ryan were married at a small but simple ceremony in Lulaville. The police and the SWAT team turned out, along with the Lanier County courthouse staff and the local FBI office. In fact, Hardy Vicks sat with the family, very close to Matilda Russell, who looked younger and happier than her son had seen her in years.
  The dog, decked out in flowers, sat in front of the church with one of the ushers and was hustled into Agent Vicks's sports utility vehicle, along with Matilda Russell, after the service.
   "They wanted us to go to a reception," Curt told Mary with a husky chuckle. "But I told them we had to rush to catch a plane."
   "Do we?" she asked, close beside him in the front seat of his dark sedan.
   "In a manner of speaking," he replied, driving faster.
  Barely forty-five minutes later, Curt checked them into one of the fanciest hotels in the northeastern metro of Atlanta. Uniformed porters met them at the door to take their luggage while a valet parked the car.
   "We have reservations," he told the clerk with a sly grin at Mary, who gave him a wide-eyed stare. "Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Russell," he added.
"Yes, sir," the clerk replied with a pleasant smile

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and a meaningful glance. "Uh, congratulations, by the way."
   "Thanks," Curt replied, glancing at his beaming bride.
  Once they were registered, the bellhop followed right along with their luggage on a tall cart. As they went down the hall to the bank of elevators, the sound of loud singing came from the balcony above.
   "The marines landed last night," the bellhop told them. "They, uh, like to sing the song. Anybody who gets in the elevator with them gets to sing it, too."
Mary burst out laughing. "You're kidding!"
  The elevator door opened and two marines, one male and one female, both sergeants, turned to look over the new arrivals.
  Curt held Mary's hand reassuringly as the doors closed.
"We like to sing," the male marine said.
   "Very much," the female sergeant agreed, moving closer. She was easily six feet tall.
   "Now, isn't that a coincidence?" Mary asked, nodding. "I like to sing, too!" And she immediately launched into "Over hill, over dale, over trusty mountain trail..!"
   "No," the male marine said at once, shaking his head. "No, no, no, that's the army song. You have to sing our song."
  She stared up at him. "I just got married. Can we sing the 'Wedding March' instead?"
  Before the words were out, the elevator paused on the next floor, the door opened, and four more marines crowded onto it, making barely enough
   
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to breathe for all the occupants and the luggage carrier and the bellboy.
   "She just got married," the female sergeant said loudly. "She says she wants to sing the 'Wedding Song'!"
  The new arrivals blinked. They were both holding thick short glasses with barely an inch of liquid left. They grinned.
   "Okay!" one of them agreed. "Let's go, marines! Da da da DUM, DA da da DUM..." He stopped and blinked at the others. "What are the words?"
   "Never mind," Curt said, shaking his head. "It's better your way. Come on, sweetheart, let's sing the marine song." He raised his voice. "From the halls of MontezuuuuuUHma...!"
  Hands went over ears. Buttons were pressed. The elevator stopped and disgorged almost an entire company of marines.
   "Please," the female sergeant pleaded. "Don't ever sing our song again...!"
The elevator doors closed on the plea.
  Curt burst out laughing. After a minute, so did Mary and the bellhop.
  The bellhop opened the curtains, pointed out the wet bar, whirlpool bath and the closets and left with a nice tip.
  Curt locked the door behind him, turned around, and pursed his lips as he studied his pretty new wife in her nice oyster-white suit.
   "Reservations in the nicest hotel in the metro area," she murmured with a beaming smile. "You sweetheart, you!"
   
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   "Nothing's too good for my best girl," he said gently, walking toward her. "You were the prettiest bride in Georgia, and I love you to distraction."
   "I love you, too," she admitted, linking her arms around his neck. She sighed. "Thank God you didn't go out in a hail of bullets. I'm so glad you've recovered with no residual damage. It was a wonderful wedding ceremony. And now, here we are, all alone together with no pending court cases and no fugitives to pursue." She sighed again, although her expression was mischievous. "What shall we do with the rest of the day...?"
  His hard lips cut her off. He kissed her hungrily. Their courtship had been, largely, an old-fashioned one. It had been, as the saying went, a long, dry spell.
  Her lips parted eagerly. She reached up to hold him, feeling his body tauten with desire as she answered his long, slow kisses.
  The teasing stopped suddenly as he lifted her and carried her to the big, king-size bed. In between warm, lingering kisses, he got rid of the obstacles, including the ankle gun he was never without.
  "You wore a gun on our honeymoon?" she exclaimed, sitting up.
  He pushed her back down again. "It's a precaution."
"Against what, for God's sake?"
   "Intruders singing the marine hymn...come back here!"
  He turned her, and his mouth found all the warm, soft, secret places, making her body sing with delight. He liked the husky little sounds she made when his
   
372	Diana Palmer
mouth covered her breasts and suckled them. He liked the way her long, elegant legs wrapped around the back of his, the way her body lifted to tempt him into intimacy.
  He wanted to take forever, but he was too hungry. His hands moved into more delicate persuasion, and she moved quickly to accommodate him. His mouth ground into hers as he possessed her, feeling her body ripple, feeling the faint hesitation as she accepted him.
"It's been...a long time," she groaned.
"You were married," he whispered gruffly.
"I was married when I was eighteen."
"Right."
"I was also divorced when I was eighteen."
"So?"
   "Are you really that thick?" she exclaimed, lifting in a sudden high arch when his mouth touched her in an unexpected place.
  The thought suddenly got through to him. He lifted his head fractionally to meet her shy eyes. "You mean, you haven't, since you were eighteen?!"
"I'm old-fashioned," she replied.
  He let out a ragged breath. "I love old-fashioned women," he murmured, his eyes alive with feeling as they searched hers. His hips moved abruptly, and he smiled at her expression. "How old was he?"
She swallowed. "Eighteen."
His body poised. "Eighteen."
"And I was his first girl."
He looked as if he'd swallowed the pillow. "Oh."

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  She moved experimentally. "Neither of us knew much, and I didn't like it much, so I didn't really miss it when we separated." She moved again, gasping. "But I like it...with you. I love it with you!" Her nails scored gently down his back. "Could you do that again, what you did when I gasped?"
   "You haven't stopped gasping," he pointed out. "Not that I'm complaining!" No kidding. It would take a mortician half a day to get the smile off his face if he died right now. He moved away a little. "Okay. Is this what you want me to do...?"
  She really gasped then, and her hands became frenzied, holding on to him wherever she could reach while he taught her new ways to experience sensation. Somewhere in the middle of the lesson, it became fierce and urgent. She reached up toward him and felt her body explode into little tiny bits of flame. She sobbed endlessly, clinging, until she slowly became aware of the man straining against her in rough shudders, his breath jerking out breathlessly at her ear.
  Minutes later, the ceiling came slowly into focus above her. She felt drained, sensuously exhausted, and very proud of herself. Apparently, she was damned good at this, a natural, because he'd certainly enjoyed it. She could tell, even if she didn't have a lot of experience.
   "I may give up law and do this from now on," she murmured with her eyes closed. "I have definite potential!"
He chuckled. "You can pin a rose on that!"

374	Diana Palmer
  She rubbed one leg slowly against his. "You have definite potential, too," she said sensually. "Maybe we can stretch our honeymoon out by another four or five months?"
  He laughed out loud. "Now, that's what I call incentive!"
  She rolled onto his chest and kissed him softly. "I want to keep the dog."
  It was the last thing he expected to hear. His eyes almost popped. "You what?"
   "I want to keep Big Red. Your mom doesn't really have room for him, but we could live in my house and fence in the yard and the garden, and he could have lots of space to run."
"Oh, no. Not the dog. Not that dog...!"
   "Please?" she murmured, kissing his chest. "Pretty please?" She kissed a hard nipple and started sucking on it gently. He was lifting up, and breathing hard, and even gasping by now. "Pretty please with sugar on it...?"
   "Okay, you can have the dog. That, and anything else you want," he choked as he moved over her with intent. "Anything!"
   "The dog," she agreed, reaching up to kiss him as he moved into possession. "And one...more...thing."
"What?" he panted.
"Don't ever... sing... the marine song again.''
"Don't...?"
  But she kissed him passionately and he stopped thinking or talking, in that order.
   
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  Three hours later, they lay sprawled together, totally exhausted and almost asleep. "You said we were rushing to catch a plane," she reminded him with a grin. "What a fast plane it was!"
   "Very high-flying, too," he murmured with a weary chuckle. He pulled her close and kissed her with his last ounce of strength. "Next time, we try for the sound barrier."
"Next time," she agreed, closing her eyes.
He was almost asleep when the phone rang.
  He picked it up, murmuring into the receiver. "Ummmhmmm," he said. "Ummhmmm. Ummh... what?" He sat straight up in bed. "You're kidding!"
  Mary opened her eyes and watched him react to what was obviously shocking news. He spoke in monosyllables, finally laughing and wishing the other person luck and promising to speak to them later.
  He hung up the phone and lay back down, looking astonished.
   "What's wrong?" Mary asked gently, leaning over him to trace patterns in the hair on his chest.
   "They didn't want to waste the minister and the decorations in the church," he said, dazed. "There was an audience, too. So they went ahead."
"They who?"
  "My mother and Agent Vicks," he said on a sigh. "They got married!"
"They did!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed.
  "I guess there are worse things than having two FBI agents in the same family," he said, glancing up at her.
   
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She looked uneasy.
 "Yes?" he prompted.
   "You know Dad couldn't come for the wedding, even though he sent us that nice tape of congratulations," she offered.
"Yes."
She cleared her throat. "He's in Virginia."
"In Virginia."
She nodded.
He frowned. "Where in Virginia?"
"I think they call it Quantico?"
"No. Oh, no. No!"
   She grimaced. "He's been in law enforcement his whole life. Now he has a son-in-law in the FBI. He just wants to keep it in the family."
"He's joined the FBI!" he exclaimed.
   She bent closer. "Well, yes. So now it's really an agency family, isn't it?" She wiggled her toes and smiled as she put her mouth gently over hers. "And just yesterday, I got an application form...!"
  He rolled her over and moved closer with intent. "I don't want to hear it," he told her. "Not another word."
   "But, Curt," she teased, big brown eyes twinkling with humor.
   "We'll catch 'em, you prosecute 'em. Deal?" he teased back.
   She chuckled. "I was only kidding," she confessed. "But you have to admit, it would be the story of the century."
"We'll have a bigger one, you wait and see."

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  And they did. Twenty-five years later, their two sons and their daughter were all three inducted into the FBI as special agents on the same day, with their proud parents, and grandparents, for witnesses.
Coming soon from MIRA Books, watch for DESPERADO
by international bestselling author Diana Palmer
Cord Romero's sizzling adventure unfolds
in a searing, explosive story where one man
and one woman confront their splintered pasts
and walk a precarious tightrope between life
and death.
This long-awaited tale will be available
in a special hardcover edition in July 2002
wherever MIRA Books are sold!