Hide and Seek (4 page)

“You keep some bad company,” he said, following her and Shawn into the kitchen.

“Security will question him, but just one call to Alan, and he’ll be cleared.”

Holt removed a Coke from the refrigerator and handed it to her. "You're pale.”

He was rewarded with a preoccupied smile as she popped the can’s top and poured a few ounces of soda into a cup. Her hand trembled when she handed the beverage to Shawn.

“You mentioned the camper,” she said. “Now, Alan has a fresh lead on us. We should keep moving.”

In moments, Holt negotiated Raleigh's rush hour traffic. He gripped the wheel as a new thought slammed him. Besides his pressing goal of getting to Richmond before curfew, he had, by some cursed turn-of-events, just inherited two new problems, a high-strung, shell-wielding female and her son.

****

Caprice sat next to Shawn at the table. She sipped the soda and relished the fizzling sweetness while she attempted to gather her composure. If she could just forget Lugo’s iron grip at the airport then she could decide what to do next.
Saints help her
! She was fresh out of brilliant ideas.

Shawn touched her arm. He jabbed the spread fingers of each hand toward one another.

"The bad man scared you, but he can't hurt us now." She struck the pinky side of her right hand down onto her left palm. "Holt stopped him."

Admiration lit his eyes as he pumped his fists in front of his chest.
Holt is strong
.

She owed Holt her deepest thanks, but what had prompted him to return? Meanwhile, she needed a new plan.
Think, Caprice. Think!

When Shawn grew drowsy, she signed for him to rest in the bunk. "Don’t worry. I will stay here."

Stay here. Stay here
. The words beat a rhythm. Shawn needed shelter, food, and security. As she set his antibiotics into the refrigerator door, a steely determination filled her. This refuge-on-wheels would do nicely until she could get to her sister’s house, but convincing the northbound Holt to take her to Georgia was an additional hurdle.

Within minutes, they exited the highway and drove to a gas station. Holt stood and rubbed his left shoulder. His deep-set eyes were unreadable. His beard masked his expression, putting her at a loss to comprehend his thoughts.

"We'll talk after I top off the tank,” he said.

Caprice stepped down the short hallway and inspected the camper. Except for a towel on the floor, the bathroom appeared clean. There was a shower and tub. More and more, she liked the camper’s self-containment and the concealment it offered.

Granted, Alan's man would report to him about a motorhome, but Americans were vacationing now. Recreational vehicles came in all models, colors, and sizes as they traveled the byways.

Soon they left the pumps, and Holt parked under several turkey oaks. He removed a Coke from the refrigerator then leaned against the counter to study her. When his brows rose in inquiry, Caprice flushed. Aware that she had been doing her share of staring too, she sat at the booth, putting distance and the table as a barrier between them. Right now Shawn needed a decent bed to sleep in, and she would see that he got it.

"Thanks for helping us back there," she said. "How did you know?"

"A near accident with your ex-husband's vehicles. Ever seen that guy before?"

"Yes. His name is Lugo. He was at
Casa de Fuego
earlier today." She rubbed damp palms onto her jeans. "When Alan and I were married, Lugo and the others stopped by the house at odd hours for closed-door meetings."

“You're from West Virginia." Before she could speak, he waved his hand. "Don't deny it. I saw the license plates on the Cadillacs. You say your ex is involved in politics. Local, state or federal? What's his last name?"

"That's too many questions!"

Holt regarded her from behind hooded eyes. "He must be one bad hombre.”

She raked her fingers through her hair as if the action would help center her thoughts. "We left Charleston four days ago. I've been driving in circles trying to lose Alan's men. Last night we were in Columbia, South Carolina, the night before we stayed in...” She shrugged. “It’s a blur. I don’t remember what city, but we couldn’t take a room. Alan has contacts, information brokers, who trace charge transactions. I can't use any of my cards."

"Where did you sleep then?"

"Once we stayed near a park, but there were vagrants."

Holt's beard veiled his expression, but Caprice sensed his curiosity. “You’re gonna ‘road bowl’ your ex into prison? Now, that was a strange choice of words.”

“Road bowling is a sport I happen to enjoy especially at Irish festivals,” she said, picturing the twenty-eight ounce, steel and iron ball in her closet.

“Your buddy, Lugo, said you have some plans,” he said, and she feigned an incredulous expression.

“Really? I can’t imagine what he meant.” To redirect his thoughts, she pointed. "The skin beneath your eye. It’s turning purple. You need ice."

"I'll live." With one hand, he crushed the can and set it in the sink. He pushed away from the counter and folded himself into the booth across from her.

A table separated them, but his physical size was overwhelming. Holt had crumpled the can like Alan crushed lives. At the same time, she needed Holt’s help. He didn’t trust her, but she had to try. “I need a ride to Commerce, Georgia. Please."

"Sorry. I told you. I'm going to Richmond. I plan to den up at my father’s house tonight. Besides, why go to Georgia? Wouldn't your ex count on you heading to your sister's?"

"I considered that, but Grace recently moved to Commerce from Atlanta. She hates Alan and would never tell him her new address.”

“Find an alternative. I’m trying to beat a ten o’clock curfew imposed by the National Guard.” Impatience flashed in his eyes as he consulted his wristwatch. “Don’t you have other family members? How about your parents?"

She shook her head. "My parents' car went over a bridge when Grace and I were children. Our grandparents raised us, but now they're gone too." Caprice wished she could see Holt's face behind the beard. Inhaling, she gathered her resolve. "I have an idea.”

"Why does your tone make my skin prickle?” he asked then gestured with his chin. “However, let’s hear it.”

"Take us with you.”

“Hell, no. Richmond’s a war zone.”

“But that’s just it. Alan wouldn't think of searching there. In two days I have to make a meeting in Commerce, so once we arrive in Richmond, I'll work on arranging transportation to Georgia. I promise."

“Lady, it ain’t gonna happen. I've watched the news. Esmeralda flooded miles up the James River, and her winds did considerable damage. I've seen the misery in your son's eyes. He shouldn't have to experience that kind of devastation too. I would never allow my sister’s girls to go there either.”

The wide yoke of Holt's shoulders suggested boundless strength. Even his long hair reminded her of Sampson. Yet, unlike Alan, Holt had expressed strong concern for his nieces and Shawn’s emotional well-being. Nevertheless, she had to convince Holt to take them.

"As we drive closer to Richmond, I’ll keep the curtains closed. Please…Shawn needs a bath and a clean bed, not a rental car's back seat."

Something in Holt’s eyes flickered, and this time she sensed her words had struck a chord. "You're as protective as one of my cows over a calf, but I agree. The boy needs security."

She released a sigh and was unable to keep the hopefulness from her voice. "Are you saying you’ll take us?"

"I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he muttered. “But okay.”

“That’s great!”

Holt’s lips twisted. “Lady, I gotta say, you have a killer smile.”

“Thank you.”

“But this is conditional.” His tone changed to a lazy, rumbling suggestiveness. "I'll want…demand something from you in exchange for my hospitality."

She stiffened. Frightened, she hated herself for trusting him for even a second. “Like hell,” she snapped. “If you think…”

"I’m gonna want...” he continued, his gaze lowering to her chest, “…your ex-husband’s full name."

His instant grin revealed a sense-of-humor. Confusion then shame made her skin burn. Holt had returned to the airport to help her and Shawn, yet her suspicious heart had misjudged him. So, why not tell him? What would the average Floridian know about West Virginia's politics anyway?

"Alan Ivan Montero." She searched his eyes for recognition. “That’s his name.”

“AIM-High was on his license plate,” he said.

“That was Alan.” A grim edginess invaded her along with a need to keep moving. "How far are we from Richmond?"

"Three hours on a good day, but several roads are still blocked with downed trees and debris.” He consulted his watch again then glared. “Because of you, I'll never make curfew now." Uncurling his length from the booth, he went to the freezer and removed a plastic-wrapped chunk of red meat.

“If that’s for the swelling on your eye, I have an anti-inflammatory in my duffle.”

“This is dinner.” She received a hard flinty look. "Remember, once we arrive in Richmond, you're on your own. Got that?"

Any remorse she had regarding his injury evaporated. "Are you always this magnanimous?" she snapped then regretted her sarcasm. She couldn't afford to rile him. Shawn needed the camper's shelter and comfort.

Holt shoved the meat into the microwave and punched the defrost button. "We'll drive for now then find a campground."

Her weighty transportation dilemma had been temporarily solved. Shawn would sleep in a bed. They would eat good food, not dinner from a paper bag.

She pointed to the microwave. "What was that?"

"A roast but I'm not much for cooking."

"I’ll fix it," she offered and saw the glimmer of a smile.

"A change from my cooking will be welcome. See what you can find in the refrigerator. There are canned foods in the lower cupboards too." He pointed to the sink. "As a rule, I don’t drink the tap water, but it’s safe for washing dishes. Save the bottled water for cooking and drinking."

After they hooked up at a campground a mile from the highway, Caprice served the roast with what Holt had available: instant rice, canned green beans, and she sliced fresh peaches. Shawn kept Mr. Punch in his lap and eyed Holt who sat across the table from them.

Holt shifted. His knee rubbed her thigh, sending shock waves at the unexpected contact. She met his penetrating gaze. Holt couldn't help it, but she wished there was more room.

“When you’re not casting spells or spitting incantations on innocent men, such as myself, what do you do for a living?”

She hesitated unsure if she had just been complimented or insulted. “I paint murals.”

His brows lifted. “With oils?”

“No, but I originally started out painting portraits…oils on canvas.” She grimaced. “Now I can’t tolerate the smell of turpentine.”

Her thoughts skewed. Even after six years, the vivid images of the olive-skinned Sandra Lovelace and her beautiful mother punished her. Guilt and self-loathing stormed her stomach. They were the last clients she’d painted. Her inflated ego and demands for the mother and daughter to attend sitting after sitting was the reason they were dead now, and why she would never attempt oils again.

She shuddered then pushed her dark thoughts aside, and hoped Holt hadn’t noticed. “Now I paint children’s murals.”

“Disney characters?”

“Yes and anything else.” She appreciated his interest as she cut a juicy piece of the roast. “Last summer before the school year started, I designed and painted a Davy Crocket theme on the lunchroom walls in a Charleston elementary school.”

“So, what do you prefer, painting murals or portraits?”

“Murals,” she said, finding a modicum of enthusiasm for her growing mural business. At the same time, she experienced a certain sinking. She had hit him with Shawn’s conch, and now Holt’s eye could hardly open. “Where in Florida do you live?”

"Elixir. Okaloosa County. I raise Limousin cattle for the feed lot." He pointed to her plate. "I finished this steer on a special grain-mix that I've developed and plan to market next year."

“You butchered him?"

"Sure. Tasty, isn't he?"

She studied her plate and found she couldn’t chew or swallow. Instead, Holt's steer sat in a distasteful wad on her tongue. The creature had once vibrated with life, emotions, and expressive eyes.

Oblivious to her repulsion, Holt stood from the table. As he retrieved another soda from the refrigerator, Caprice swiftly lifted her napkin and expelled the half-chewed meat into the paper. Surely the day's tension and fatigue were responsible for her sudden loathing to eat meat.

Pushing her plate aside, she tapped Shawn’s arm. "Holt raises cattle in Florida." With her fists pressed together, knuckles brushing, she shot her right fist away from the other and repeated the sign. "That's far, far away."

Shawn eyes brightened as he wagged his pointer and middle fingers beside his head.

"Shawn loves horses," she said.

"I keep a few," he said as she interpreted for Shawn. "They eat too much hay and grain, but my sister and her two girls live nearby and enjoy them.”

Caprice translated, speaking for Shawn’s rapid signing. "I want to ride."

Deep creases, like the spokes on a wheel, fanned away from Holt's good eye. "How old is Shawn?”

"Five. He started…”

Holt winced. His lips compressed, and he retreated, shuttered behind his beard. “…kindergarten this year,” she continued but found she was staring, attempting to discern him. What had just happened? Had her words, however unwitting, evoked some painful emotion? Caprice was tempted to ask, but they were strangers. On the other hand, Holt had treated Shawn with gentle consideration, so did he have children? He hadn't mentioned a wife, or a girlfriend.

After dinner, he snapped a privacy curtain over the cab windows. Caprice straightened the canned foods and pans in the lower cupboards. Right now, her life was chaotic, but she could organize her current environment. Determined to earn her keep, she scrubbed coffee stains from the counter.