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But she was wrong. “Put that away,” he said, pushing at the notebook. “We’re not talking about me. I need to ask you a few questions. We have to figure out who’s trying to kill you.”
Laura took in his dirty shirt and the sweat beads on his skin. “Did you find someone?”
He shook his head, took the water his grandfather sat on the table. “No. Whoever was there is gone now. I found shell casings and tracks, footprints out toward the highway.” Then he handed her a dirty business card. “I did find this.”
Laura looked down at the piece of paper then gulped air. “That’s one of my cards.”
His smirk held a hint of accusation. “Yeah, saw your name right there on it. But nothing after that. I guess once we managed to get inside here, they left. But I don’t think they dropped this card by accident. They wanted you to know they were here.”
“But why?”
Instead of answering, he drank the water down, giving Laura plenty of time to take in his slinky, spiky bangs and slanted unreadable eyes while she wondered about why the shooter had left her business card.
He put the glass down and met her gaze head-on. “I think you know why. Ready to tell me the truth?”
“Me?” Shocked, Laura drew back, her head hitting the vinyl of the booth. “I told you as far as I know, no one’s after me.”
Paco leaned across the table, his expression as black as his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, someone is after you. Another inch and your rental car’s windshield would still be intact. But you’d probably be dead.” He sat back, his big hands centered against the aged oak of the table. “Now, think real hard and tell me if you’ve had any hard-case patients lately.”
“None, other than you,” she replied, the triumph she should have felt disappearing at the ferocious glare in his eyes.
“Look, lady, I didn’t ask you to come here. And up until about an hour ago, no one cared about me or what I’m doing. This place is about as remote as you can get. So I figure someone tailed you here and waited for the right opportunity to shoot at you. And that means you’ve probably got an unstable client out there with an ax to grind. So quit insulting me and think real hard about some of the people you’ve counseled lately.” He leaned over the table again, his tone soft and daring. “Besides me.”
Laura stared across at him, wondering how he could stay so calm when they were sitting here with a possible sniper still on the loose. “I don’t have a clue—”
“Think about it,” he said in that deep, low voice that sent ripples of awareness down her spine. “How many people have you talked to in say, the last three or four months?”
“Too many to tell,” she retorted. “I’d have to have access to my files.”
“You mean by computer?”
“Yes.” She tapped her big purse. “I didn’t bring my laptop with me. Besides, I can’t download every case history I have on file.”
Paco pulled a slick phone out of his pocket. “What if I get us some help?”
“But no one has access to my patient files. That’s confidential.”
“I know someone who can break into those files.”
She shook her head. “I can’t allow that. My clients trust me.”
“That won’t matter if you’re dead.”
The man certainly cut right to the chase.
“Who are you going to call?”
“Kissie Pierre. You’ve probably heard of her. She keeps computer records on all the CHAIM agents and she keeps files on anyone who has any dealings with those agents. And that includes counselors.”
“The Woman at the Well. But she can’t help us with this type of thing.”
“If you give her some names, she’ll be able to crack your files and compare notes.”
“Confidentially?”
“Yes, completely confidential, I promise.”
“Legal?”
“As legal as we can make it. This is an emergency. But if you think you can remember without us going to that extreme then talk to me.”
Laura preferred that method to hacking into private files. “Let me make a list of names. Maybe that will bring back some memories.”
“Good.” Paco grabbed her notebook. “Got a pen?”
She found a pen in her purse then handed it over to him. Walter passed by with phantom quietness, his rifle held at his chest. “Nobody coming to call. I think we’re in the clear.”
Paco looked at the door. “Keep an eye out, Grandfather. They might try to sneak up on us again.”
Walter nodded, his solid presence a comfort to Laura.
Paco and his grandfather were close. She could tell by the respect Paco offered the old man and by the way they teased each other, both serious and stoic but with a trace of mirth in their eyes.
“Are you thinking?” Paco asked, his gaze cutting to the windows and the door. “We don’t have much time. They might decide to come back for another visit. And bring friends along.”
Laura sank back, terrified of that prospect. “I’m a pastoral counselor. I mostly deal with church members with marriage problems, those who’ve lost a loved one, or teenagers who are going through angst. Things like that. And CHAIM agents and workers, of course.”
“Of course. Anyone who stands out in your mind?”
She put her head down, bringing her right arm up to settle on the table, then leaned her chin against her fist, a dark thought creeping into her mind. In that brief moment, Laura thought of only one possible suspect.
“About a month ago, we had a teenager come to the clinic. He was upset about something his father had done.”
“Go on.”
Not wanting to divulge the particulars, she shook her head. “I can’t talk about it—except that the teen was traumatized by what had happened. I counseled him, told him how to get help from the authorities next time it happened. He didn’t want to report the incident, but I could tell he was afraid. He was a lot stronger and calmer after our first couple of sessions, though. Then he didn’t come back.”
“Did he seem angry at you?”
“No, he was angry at the world.” And his father. The man had been extremely demanding and controlling. How could she tell Paco this without getting upset or giving away personal information? Or her acute sense of failure. “The young man killed himself about two weeks after he’d talked to me.”
Paco scribbled some notes. “What was his name?”
“Is this necessary?”
“We have to assume, yes.”
“Kyle Henner. He was sixteen.”
She watched as Paco pulled up a number on his phone. “Kissie, it’s Paco. Yeah, I’m okay. I need you to run a name for me. See what you can find out about a kid from Phoenix named Kyle Henner.” He held the phone away. “Father’s name?”
Laura hesitated then said, “Lawrence Henner. He’s a big-time developer of some sort. He owns a lot of different companies. Lots of money and lots of power. He was devastated about what happened.”
She didn’t add that the man was also a walking time bomb who’d verbally abused not only his son but his wife, too. His wife left him after Kyle’s suicide. And now that she thought about it, Lawrence Henner was just the kind of man to blame someone else for his son’s death.
Someone like her, maybe?
Paco finished his conversation with Kissie then turned to Laura. “She’ll get back to us. And if you think about anything else you can tell me about this kid, let me know.”
“His father is ruthless,” she said, her nerves sparkling with apprehension. “But I don’t think he’d try to shoot me. He’d just find a way to ruin my life, probably.”
“Or if he’s that powerful, he could send someone else to shoot you.”
She swallowed back her worries. “Last I heard, Mr. Henner had left the country.”
“That could be a red flag.”
“Or maybe he needed to get away from everything in the same way you did?”
He gave her a hard stare. “Maybe. Only I’m not the one out there in the hills with a gun, now, am I?”
Laura shivered at his words. No, he wasn’t out there trying to shoot people. But if he didn’t unload some of his own grief soon, he could be the next one.
How in the world could she help Paco Martinez deal with post-traumatic stress if someone was trying to finish her off before she even got started? That thought caused her to gasp and grab at Paco’s hand.
“Did you remember something else?”
“No, but I just realized something.”
His dark eyes swirled with questions. “Spit it out.”
“What if that person out there was trying to stop me from talking to you?”
THREE
She had a point there. And she had already suggested he might be the target. But killing her for talking to him—or to keep her from talking to him—that was a different twist. Paco couldn’t deny he had people gunning for him on so many levels. But to try and take out a pretty, innocent woman just because she was trying to help him. Who would want to do that? Maybe the shooter had been after him to begin with. That made more sense.
But he’d gone on a long run early this morning. It would have been easy for someone to spot him and take him out there in the desert. And by the time anybody found him, the vultures and other predators would have finished him off, anyway. No, this shooting had been timed for her arrival, by Paco’s way of thinking.
“So maybe I should be asking you all these questions,” she said, her expression bordering on smug. “I’ve read your case file. You’ve had quite a career in both special ops and with CHAIM. Both classified, of course, but I know things went bad on your last mission in Afghanistan. That’s a lot of stress for any one man.”
Paco wanted to laugh out loud, except a burning rage kept him from cracking a smile. That and the way she’d changed from timid to tempest by turning the tables on him. “You have no idea, darlin’.”
Her expression turned sympathetic, which only made things worse. He could handle anything but pity. “I think I do. That’s why you called me that night.”
He got up, stomping around the small café, his gaze hitting on an old shelf full of several carved wooden figurines of warriors astride horses his grandfather had created to sell right along refrigerator magnets, greasy hamburgers and ice-cold soft drinks. Grandfather Rainwater was content with his life.
Paco, however, was still struggling with his.
And this perky little counselor lady wasn’t helping matters. Neither was being shot at so early in the day.
Remembering his midnight-hour shout-out, he said, “I shouldn’t have called the hotline that night. False alarm.”
“You called for a reason. Maybe someone else out there thinks you have a problem.”
Paco turned to lean over the table, glad when she slid into the corner of the booth. Glad and a little ashamed that he’d stoop to a frowning intimidation to make her go away. “You wanna know why I called that night? Really want to know?” He didn’t wait for her to nod. Pushing so close he could see the swirling violet-blue of her eyes, he said, “I wanted to take a drink. I wanted to get so drunk I could sleep for a week without nightmares or guilt or regret.”
He lifted up and sank back down, the shock in her vivid eyes undoing him. “But I promised that old man in the kitchen back there that I was done with drunken brawls and feeling sorry for myself. I respect him and I didn’t want to let him down. You see, he lost his son—in-law—my father—to the Vietnam War. And you probably know about my brother—he’s in a wheelchair, compliments of Desert Storm. But…it’s hard sometimes, in the middle of the night. So I wanted a drink, okay. But I didn’t take that drink. Instead I prayed really hard and in a moment of sheer desperation, I dialed the number on the card Warwick gave me and blurted out all of my frustrations to you.”
Hitting a finger hard on the table, he said, “I hope you’re satisfied now. All clear?”
“Do you still want to drink?” she asked in a silky-strong whisper, her wide-eyed expression daring him to deny it.
Paco looked down at her, saw the strength pushing away the fear in her eyes, the solid concern out-maneuvering the shock on her face. He had to admire her spunk. His grandfather was the only person in the world who never backed down when it came to Paco and his moods.
Maybe he’s finally met someone else worthy of that kind of status. Someone else he could learn to respect. And someone else who was willing to go the distance with him.
“Yes, I still want a drink,” he said, surprised at this whole conversation. “But I won’t take another one. I go to my AA meetings on a regular basis. I’m better now, I told you. So let’s focus on the problem we have here, right now.”
The doubtful stare she gave him implied she didn’t believe him but she nodded her head in understanding. And right now, Paco couldn’t worry about what she thought.
“Are you driving back to Phoenix today?” he asked, pulling her up out of the booth.
The confusion in her eyes slammed head-on into his own conflicting feelings. “No. I have a hotel room at the foot of the Grand Canyon.” Looking sheepish, she said, “I thought if I couldn’t find you I’d do a little hiking.”
He drew in air, thinking it a blessing she’d found him. Just the thought of her alone near the Canyon with a lunatic tracking her sent fingers of dread racing across his spine. “Does anyone know where you are?”
“My parents and my supervisor at the clinic.”
“Would they tell anyone else?”
“They might mention I’m at the Canyon. I didn’t exactly post what I was doing. Just told them I’d be gone for a few days on a trip to locate a client.”
A knock at the restaurant door caused Paco to spin around. His grandfather came out of the kitchen. “It’s a delivery man bringing fresh produce,” Walter said, waving Paco away. “Sorry. They usually pull around to the back.”
Paco watched as Walter headed to open the door, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. His gaze hit Laura’s, both of them realizing too late—
“Grandfather!”
Paco went into motion, rushing toward the door. But Walter already had it open, a smile on his face. “Joseph, why didn’t you—”
A fist in Walter’s face knocked the old man back onto the floor. Walter hit his head on the corner of a bench as he went down. Then he didn’t move.
Paco heard Laura’s scream even while he rushed the man at the door, taking the intruder by surprise, one hand pressing down on the man’s weapon hand and the other one on his throat. With a grunt and heavy pressure on the wrist, Paco forced the man to drop the handgun he was carrying. But his opponent didn’t let that stop him. He reached around with his other hand and tried to bring Paco down. Paco countered with an uppercut to the man’s chin. Then they went down with fists popping against skin. The man was big and solid but Paco didn’t let up until he had him rolled over faceup. Struggling to hold the man down, Paco memorized his face—scarred and brutal—just before he slammed his fist back into it.
Laura ran to Walter. “Mr. Rainwater? Are you all right?” Paco’s grandfather didn’t respond. Blood poured out of his nose and his breathing was shallow. Deciding the best thing she could do right now was to help Paco, she searched for a weapon and saw Walter’s rifle leaning against the kitchen door. Without thinking, Laura grabbed it, trying to focus on the man who’d managed to get in and knock out Paco’s grandfather. When Paco rolled the man over and begin hitting him in the face, she waited, her pulse flat-lining then spurting into overdrive. But the stranger reached up and managed to get his hands around Paco’s neck. Paco grunted, working to flip the man over. When that didn’t work, he tried hitting at the man again but he couldn’t break away. Pushing at the man’s thick arms, Paco finally managed to get his own fingers around the other man’s throat.
Then it became a battle of wills as both held tight, each trying to squeeze the life out of the other. She had to do something. If she didn’t stop this, Paco might not make it.
