Christmas Getaway (2 page)

“It's his mother's.”

“Oh, honey, you're marrying the wrong man.”

Her initial panic was fading, replaced by real annoyance. “I'll have you know this is a very expensive, very pretty dress,” she said, fluffing out the billowy skirts. “And I…” She stopped. The dress was stained, large splotches of red against the side and the skirt. The side he'd held her. “Have you been stabbed?” she demanded, the rest of her fear vanishing.

“What's it to you?”

“Answer me. Have you been hurt?”

“Shot,” he said. “Just a graze. It's been bleeding like a son of a bitch, but I'll live.”

“You need to have it looked at.”

“Gunshots get reported, bride. I can't afford that.”

“Then let me look at it. I'm a doctor.”

His look was derisive. “Oh, yeah? How many gunshot wounds have you taken care of?”

“Enough. I did a rotation in the E.R. How bad is it?”

“I'll survive,” he said.

“Will I?”

If she could see him clearly she would have guessed he was
rolling his eyes. “If you shut up and stop asking me stupid questions, yes.”

Ellie leaned back in the seat, belatedly fastening her seat belt. From what little she could see of his face, his color was good and his voice was strong and annoyed. She could see the darker patch of blood staining the cheap red velvet of the Santa suit; it wasn't bad and it wasn't spreading. Of course he could be bleeding internally, as well, but for now he sounded relatively strong and in charge.

They were already out in the suburbs, heading north. “Did you steal that outfit?” she asked, keeping her hands folded in her lap.

“No, my elves made it for me,” he said, annoyed. “What do you think?”

“Did you kill the man who was wearing it?”

“The man who was wearing it is now enjoying a hundred dollars. Any other questions?”

“Did you really kill a policeman?”

He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Honey, you don't want to know.”

She fingered the bloodstain on her fluffy white dress. “No,” she said. “Maybe I don't. I'm Eloise Pollard, by the way. My friends call me Ellie.”

“And I'm not one of them. Just be quiet and let me think, Dr. Pollard. There's too much noise in my head.”

Great. She'd been kidnapped by a schizophrenic. Next he'd be telling her that his dog ordered him to shoot a cop.

She glanced at her door. If he slowed down enough, maybe for a Stop sign, she could make a run for it. Push open the door and leap. They'd have to stop sooner or later, and even in the stupid wedding dress she could run like hell.

In the meantime he was on 495 and there wasn't a damned
thing she could do about it. Except wonder what the hell Richard was going to do when she didn't show up for the wedding.

And why she didn't really care.

S
O THIS HAD TO BE
the dumbest thing he'd ever done in his life, Fitz thought as he headed north, the bride beside him. Hostages were always a bad idea—they usually ended up dead, and it pissed the cops off even more.

He should know. He'd been a cop for the last twelve years, and he came from generations of Boston cops. He wondered if any of his cousins were in on the manhunt. Or if they knew Jimmy Fitzpatrick would never have shot and killed his partner if he could have helped it.

The ice that had packed his wound had melted long ago, which surprised him, considering how frigging cold he was. He was trying hard not to shake—he didn't want the bride to realize how vulnerable he was. He just had to find out what she knew and then get far enough out of Boston to let her off at a Wal-Mart or something. Except then she'd tell the cops exactly what he was driving, and that he'd been shot, and he couldn't afford to let that happen. Not until he found Spinelli.

Max Spinelli had been his first partner, a crusty old cop who took crap from no one, and he'd scared the pants off Fitz when he'd been a young recruit fresh out of the police academy. But Spinelli had been solid, no-nonsense, as trustworthy as the Pope, and he'd told Fitz to come to him if he ever had any trouble with his boss. Spinelli had known enough
about Connor O'Bannion to stop him if he needed to be stopped, and the old man would have the proof to back it up. Spinelli had always believed in insurance.

He glanced over at the bride. At least she wasn't screaming or crying. She sat beside him in the tiny car, her stupid white skirts billowing out so wide that they were covering his right leg. He was tempted to push the stuff away, but it wouldn't have done any good. There was too damned much of it.

She must have felt his eyes on her. “Why are they after you?” she said.

She had an accent—Australian, he was guessing. Just like the murdered Erica Devlin. He'd seen Dr. Eloise Pollard from a distance at the funeral, and she'd been the only one he'd been unable to place. She was his last hope of finding out what kind of dirty mess he'd stumbled into, and it was fading fast.

“Are you part of the mob?” she asked.

“Which mob?”

“I don't know. Is there more than one?”

His laugh was without humor. “There's the Irish mob, the street gangs, the Mafia, the Triad, the Yakuza…”

“You have Yakuza in Boston?”

“We have everything in Boston. And no, I'm not part of a mob. I'm just a guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I'd say that was more my situation. If I hadn't come out of the store…”

“Not really. I was waiting for you.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

“What do you know about Erica Devlin?”

“Erica? What does this have to do with Erica?” She looked truly bewildered.

“Everything. What's your connection to her?”

“I don't really have a connection to her. She and her husband died in a car crash six weeks ago,” she said. “What makes you think…?”

“What were you doing at her funeral?”

“Not that it's any of your business,” she snapped. “Her brother and I were friends back in Australia. We sort of grew up together, and when she came to live here, he asked me to check in on her. So I did. We talked on the phone a couple of times.”

“And that was it?”

She frowned. “A few weeks before the crash her brother rang and said he thought she might be in some sort of trouble. She'd rung him sounding really edgy. I went to see her but Erica didn't have any interest in talking, so I gave up.”

“You went to her funeral. You cried.”

“Her brother's a friend. Her death left three kids orphaned. Babies. Of course I cried.”

“And I'm supposed to believe that?” Fitz said.

“It's the truth. What do you think I am—some kind of crazy Australian terrorist?”

“How about a diamond thief?”

Her expression said it all. “Why would a family doctor be involved in a diamond robbery? You can do a background check on me. My only connection with Erica was through her brother—I was in foster care with him for a few weeks after my parents were killed. And, no, they weren't murdered. They died in a plane crash.”

“I already did the background check,” he grumbled. Another freaking dead end.

“And what about you? Besides kidnapping me, what else did you do? Did you really kill that cop?”

He was feeling light-headed. He couldn't remember when
he'd last had something to eat, and his side was hurting like a son of a bitch. He worried that the bullet was still lodged inside him, but he'd seen the exit hole in his leather jacket. No, he was just bleeding again, which to a certain extent was a good thing. It would wash the wound clean.

“Did you hear me?” the bride said again, a little annoyed.

“I heard you. I just didn't feel like answering.”

“Will you at least tell me where we're going?”

“If I tell you that, I'll have to kill you,” he said, ironically, then realized how it sounded. He'd kidnapped her at gunpoint—she probably didn't have any doubts that he'd shoot her at the slightest provocation.

Which was a good thing. It would keep her on her best behavior. She wouldn't go running off into the night the first chance she got for fear he'd put a bullet in her back.

He blinked. It was snowing, and the oncoming headlights were giving him one hell of a headache. The traffic was heavy—Christmas shoppers on their way home, laden with overpriced crap. It wasn't looking like he was going to make it home for Christmas. Suddenly the big old house in Woburn seemed as if it was on another planet.

“You know, you really should let me take a look at your wound,” she said. “You might have internal bleeding.”

“Then I'll pass out and you can get away. Don't sweat it.”

“If you pass out on the highway while you're driving so fast you'll kill us both and probably whoever we hit.”

“Cool your jets, bride. I'm fine.” It was a lie. The traffic was thinning out a bit, and he slowed down just a fraction. Wouldn't do to get popped for speeding. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he had to face another cop with a gun.

“Look,” he said, “we're driving south. I'll drop you in Connecticut….”

“We're driving north,” she corrected him. “I happen to live here.”

“Okay, we're driving north,” he said, irritated. “Don't you know how to act like a hostage? You shut up and pretend you don't know anything. You don't act like a smart-ass. If you know where I'm going, I can't dump you.”

“Dump me? Or my body?”

He began to curse, beneath his breath, low and profane and heartfelt.

“That's quite a bunch of words you've got,” she said. “And I'm Australian, remember? We know how to curse down there.”

“Would you just shut the hell up?” he said. Her calm voice was rattling around his head, making it even harder to pay attention to the road. “I'm trying to concentrate.”

“Just answer me one thing.”

“What?” he snarled.

“Are you one of the bad guys or one of the good ones?”

His answering laugh was without humor. “Don't be naïve. Everyone thinks they're one of the good guys. Even the worst criminal thinks he's got reasons for what he pulls.”

She said nothing, and he could only thank God and Mary and all the saints that she'd decided to be quiet so he could figure out what the hell to do.

And then the words came out of his mouth when he wasn't expecting them. “I've been framed.”

She turned to look at him. “Isn't that what they all say?”

“Lady, it's really pretty simple,” he said, forcing out the words. “I'm a police detective with a dirty partner. Barber was involved in covering up a multimillion-dollar jewel robbery, and your pal Erica and her husband were part of it. Barber and his buddies had every intention of making me the fall guy. When he pulled a gun on me, I shot back, and I killed him in self-
defense. Unfortunately I think my boss is in on it, along with God knows how many others, maybe even you, and if I don't find proof of their guilt and my innocence, I'm going to be shot on sight.” Why was he telling her this? He had to be nuts.

“And I'm supposed to believe that? It's pretty lame, if you ask me.”

“I didn't ask you,” he said. “You wanted to know what I did, and I'm telling you. Now shut up if you want to live.” He could feel his eyes drooping. He hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, not since he first figured out what O'Bannion and his pals were doing. The blood was soaking into his clothes, and he couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. And the bride was giving him nothing but a headache. He was going to have to pull off the road and find something, anything, before he passed out entirely.

He took the next exit, heading toward the strip mall. It was after eleven—most of the stores would be closed, but there was an all-night Wal-Mart up ahead. He could find what he needed there.

He pulled into the parking lot, way over to the side. This close to Christmas the stores were still crowded at such a late hour, but back away from the lights they could disappear. He came to a stop and turned off the car, leaving them in darkness.

“What now?” the bride asked.

“Just give me a minute. You got any rope in the trunk?”

“Why would I have rope? And if I did, why would I give it to you?”

He still had his knife tucked in his pants beneath the baggy Santa costume. He pulled it out, wincing as he realized it was covered in his own blood, and opened it, turning to her.

She just looked at him with unnatural calm, waiting.

He picked up the edge of her stupid skirt and slit it with
the knife, then ripped, yanking at the frothy stuff so that it came off in one large ring of fabric. He closed the knife and set it on the seat, blinking away the fogginess that was threatening him. “Hold out your hands.”

He was half expecting her to refuse. But she did as she was told, and he began wrapping the torn fabric around her wrists, tight enough to hold her, not tight enough to cut off circulation. “I've gotta rest for an hour, and I don't…want you going…anywhere.” Damn, he was sounding punchy. He finished tying the knot, then fell back against the seat. “Just stay still and quiet and you'll stay…alive…” he mumbled, trying to sound like the badass he was. For some reason it wasn't coming out right. He blinked, shook his head, then blinked again.

He was cold, exhausted. He could close his eyes for just a few minutes, just long enough to get his strength back. Just a few minutes…

The darkness overtook him, and he finally passed out, falling forward over the steering wheel in the midnight-dark parking lot of Wal-Mart.

 

E
LLIE REACHED FORWARD
and gently pulled Santa back from the steering wheel, so that he was leaning against the seat. His color was awful. He'd left the pocket knife on the seat before he'd passed out, and she picked it up, fumbling with it. It required a fair amount of dexterity to open it and saw through the tulle and lace that bound her wrists together, but she'd always been good with her hands. She flexed them when she finally cut through, then turned to look at Santa.

She kept the knife open, just in case, and pushed the white wig aside to feel his forehead. Not hot, which was a good thing. Cool and slightly damp, which wasn't great, either.
She pulled off the cap and wig, then unhooked the beard and tossed them all into the backseat as she put her hand against his neck to check his pulse.

And then she froze. He was out, solidly unconscious, and he wasn't going to come to anytime soon.

He was also a lot younger than she'd thought. Maybe only a few years older than she was, in his midthirties. He had a rough growth of stubble on his face, beneath his hollowed cheeks, and ridiculously long black eyelashes that matched his black, curling hair. Black Irish, she thought dazedly. He'd have either blue or green eyes, and his stubborn mouth was the one thing that was no surprise. Except for the fact that it looked ridiculously sensual.

She sat back in her seat, astonished. So Santa was a hottie. He was still a gangster of some sort, no matter what he said, and he'd kidnapped her and threatened to kill her. She needed to get the hell away from him before he decided to go through with it.

Except that he didn't look like a killer. Maybe even Al Capone looked innocent when he slept. Santa looked positively angelic, except for that stubborn mouth.

She rose on her knees on the tiny seat and began unfastening the costume, pushing it back. It was hard to see in the darkness, but she kept a flashlight in her glove compartment, and she turned it on to examine his chest.

A black T-shirt, soaked in blood. She lifted the cotton and winced. The bullet had gone straight through him, which was a blessing, and the bleeding had slowed. The wound was in a relatively good place, away from any major organs, but she had to make sure it didn't get infected….

Hell, it was none of her business if it got infected. If she had half a brain, she'd take off before he came to, call the police and have an ambulance come and get him.

His body was slack, and she felt for a wallet. Nothing. He'd been carrying a sack with him, and she reached in the backseat for it. There was a trashed leather jacket in it, and in the chest pocket she found his badge.

James Fitzpatrick, detective of the Boston Police Department. The photo on his ID looked a lot more menacing than he did as he lay sprawled on the front seat of her stolen car. And his eyes were blue.

She folded the wallet and tucked it in her purse, sitting back on her trashed finery and looking at him. What if he were telling the truth? She could turn him in, hope that justice prevailed and he'd be cleared. Assuming he was innocent.