Night Shadow

  “You’ve probably heard his story. He was a cop.”

  “A cop.” Deborah’s brows lifted in surprise. He looked much too comfortable, much too much a part of the rich and privileged surroundings, to be a cop.

  “A good one, apparently, right here in Urbana. A few years ago, he and his partner ran into trouble. Big trouble. The partner was killed, and Guthrie was left for dead.”

  Her memory jogged, then homed in. “I remember now. I followed his story. My God, he was in a coma for …”

  “Nine or ten months,” Jerry supplied. “He was on life support, and they’d just about given him up, when he opened his eyes and came back. He couldn’t hack the streets anymore, and turned down a desk job with UPD. He’d come into a plump inheritance while he was in the Twilight Zone, so I guess you could say he took the money and ran.”

  It couldn’t have been enough, she thought. No amount of money could have been enough. “It must have been horrible. He lost nearly a year of his life.”

  Jerry picked through the dwindling supply on his plate, looking for something interesting. “He’s made up for lost time. Apparently women find him irresistible. Of course that might be because he turned a three-million-dollar inheritance into thirty—and counting.” Nipping a spiced shrimp, Jerry watched as Gage smoothly disentangled himself from the group and started in their direction. “Well, well,” he said softly. “Looks like the interest is mutual.”

  Gage had been aware of her since the moment she’d stepped into the ballroom. He’d watched, patient, as she’d mingled and then separated herself. He’d kept up a social patter though he’d been wholly and uncomfortably aware of every move she’d made. He’d seen her smile at Jerry, observed the other man kiss her and brush a casually intimate hand over her shoulder.

  He’d find out just what the relationship was there.

  Though it wouldn’t matter. Couldn’t matter, he corrected. Gage had no time for sultry brunettes with intelligent eyes. But he moved steadily toward her.

  “Jerry.” Gage smiled. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Always a pleasure, Mr. Guthrie. You’re enjoying yourself?”

  “Of course.” His gaze flicked from Jerry to Deborah. “Hello.”

  For some ridiculous reason, her throat snapped shut.

  “Deborah, I’d like to introduce you to Gage Guthrie. Mr. Guthrie, Assistant District Attorney Deborah O’Roarke.”

  “An A.D.A.” Gage’s smile spread charmingly. “It’s comforting to know that justice is in such lovely hands.”

  “Competent,” she said. “I much prefer competent.”

  “Of course.” Though she hadn’t offered it, he took her hand and held it for a brief few seconds.

  Watch out! The warning flashed into Deborah’s mind the instant her palm met his.

  “Will you excuse me a minute?” Jerry laid a hand on Deborah’s shoulder again. “The mayor’s signaling.”

  “Sure.” She summoned up a smile for him, though she was ashamed to admit she’d forgotten he was beside her.

  “You haven’t been in Urbana long,” Gage commented.

  Despite her uneasiness, Deborah met his eyes straight on. “About a year and a half. Why?”

  “Because I’d have known.”

  “Really? Do you keep tabs on all the A.D.A.s?”

  “No.” He brushed a finger over the pearl drop at her ear. “Just the beautiful ones.” The instant suspicion in her eyes delighted him. “Would you like to dance?”

  “No.” She let out a long, quiet breath. “No, thanks. I really can’t stay any longer. I’ve got work to do.”

  He glanced at his watch. “It’s already past ten.”

  “The law doesn’t have a time clock, Mr. Guthrie.”

  “Gage. I’ll give you a lift.”

  “No.” A quick and unreasonable panic surged to her throat. “No, that’s not necessary.”

  “If it’s not necessary, then it must be a pleasure.”

  He was smooth, she thought, entirely too smooth for a man who had just shrugged off a blonde and a redhead. She didn’t care for the idea of being the brunette to round out the trio.

  “I wouldn’t want to take you away from the party.”

  “I never stay late at parties.”

  “Gage.” The redhead, her mouth pouty and moist, swayed up to drag on his arm. “Honey, you haven’t danced with me. Not once.”

  Deborah took the opportunity to make a beeline for the exit.

  It was stupid, she admitted, but her system had gone haywire at the thought of being alone in a car with him. Pure instinct, she supposed, for on the surface Gage Guthrie was a smooth, charming and appealing man. But she sensed something. Undercurrents. Dark, dangerous undercurrents. Deborah figured she had enough to deal with; she didn’t need to add Gage Guthrie to the list.

  She stepped out into the steamy summer night.

  “Hail you a cab, miss?” the doorman asked her.

  “No.” Gage cupped a firm hand under her elbow. “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Guthrie,” she began.

  “Gage. My car is just here, Miss O’Roarke.” He gestured to a long sleek limo in gleaming black.

  “It’s lovely,” she said between her teeth, “but a cab will suit my needs perfectly.”

  “But not mine.” He nodded at the tall, bulky man who slipped out of the driver’s seat to open the rear door. “The streets are dangerous at night. I’d simply like to know you’ve gotten where you want to go, safely.”

  She stepped back and took a long careful study, as she might of a mug shot of a suspect. He didn’t seem as dangerous now, with that half smile hovering at his mouth. In fact, she thought, he looked just a little sad. Just a little lonely.

  She turned toward the limo. Not wanting to soften too much, she shot a look over her shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you you’re pushy, Mr. Guthrie?”

  “Often, Miss O’Roarke.”

  He settled beside her and offered a single long-stemmed red rose.

  “You come prepared,” she murmured. Had the blossom been waiting for the blonde, she wondered, or the redhead?

  “I try. Where would you like to go?”

  “The Justice Building. It’s on 6th and—”

  “I know where it is.” Gage pressed a button, and the glass that separated them from the driver slid open noiselessly. “The Justice Building, Frank.”

  “Yes, sir.” The glass closed again, cocooning them.

  “We used to work on the same side,” Deborah commented.

  “Which side is that?”

  “Law.”

  He turned to her, his eyes dark, almost hypnotic. It made her wonder what he had seen when he had drifted all those months in that strange world of half life. Or half death.

  “You’re a defender of the law?”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Yet you wouldn’t be averse to making deals and kicking back charges.”

  “The system’s overburdened,” she said defensively.

  “Oh, yes, the system.” With a faint movement of his shoulders, he seemed to dismiss it all. “Where are you from?”

  “Denver.”

  “No, you didn’t get cypress trees and magnolia blossoms in your voice from Denver.”

  “I was born in Georgia, but my sister and I moved around quite a bit. Denver was where I lived before I came east to Urbana.”

  Her sister, he noted. Not her parents, not her family, just her sister. He didn’t press. Not yet. “Why did you come here?”

  “Because it was a challenge. I wanted to put all those years I studied to good use. I like to think I can make a difference.” She thought of the Mendez case and the four gang members who had been arrested and were even now awaiting trial. “I have made a difference.”

  “You’re an idealist.”

  “Maybe. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Idealists are often tragically disappointed.” He was silent a moment, studying her. The streetlamps and he
adlights of oncoming traffic sliced into the car, then faded. Sliced, then faded. She was beautiful in both light and shadow. More than beauty, there was a kind of power in her eyes. The kind that came from the merging of intelligence and determination.

  “I’d like to see you in court,” he said.

  She smiled and added yet one more element to the power and the beauty. Ambition. It was a formidable combination.

  “I’m a killer.”

  “I bet you are.”

  He wanted to touch her, just the skim of a fingertip on those lovely white shoulders. He wondered if it would be enough, just a touch. Because he was afraid it wouldn’t be, he resisted. It was with both relief and frustration that he felt the limo glide to the curb and stop.

  Deborah turned to look blankly out of the window at the old, towering Justice Building. “That was quick,” she murmured, baffled by her own disappointment. “Thanks for the lift.” When the driver opened her door, she swung her legs out.

  “I’ll see you again.”

  For the second time, she looked at him over her shoulder. “Maybe. Good night.”

  He sat for a moment against the yielding seat, haunted by the scent she had left behind.

  “Home?” the driver asked.

  “No.” Gage took a long, steadying breath. “Stay here, take her home when she’s finished. I need to walk.”

  Chapter 2

  Like a boxer dazed from too many blows, Gage fought his way out of the nightmare. He surfaced, breathless and dripping sweat. As the grinding nausea faded, he lay back and stared at the high ornate ceiling of his bedroom.

  There were 523 rosettes carved into the plaster. He had counted them day after day during his slow and tedious recuperation. Almost like an incantation, he began to count them again, waiting for his pulse rate to level.

  The Irish linen sheets were tangled and damp around him, but he remained perfectly still, counting. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. There was a light, spicy scent of carnations in the room. One of the maids had placed them on the rolltop desk beneath the window. As he continued to count, he tried to guess what vase had been used. Waterford, Dresden, Wedgwood. He concentrated on that and the monotonous counting until he felt his system begin to level.

  He never knew when the dream would reoccur. He supposed he should have been grateful that it no longer came nightly, but there was something more horrible about its capricious visits.

  Calmer, he pressed the button beside the bed. The drapes on the wide arching window slid open and let in the light. Carefully he flexed his muscles one by one, assuring himself he still had control.

  Like a man pursuing his own demons, he reviewed the dream. As always, it sprang crystal clear in his mind, involving all his senses.

  They worked undercover. Gage and his partner, Jack McDowell. After five years, they were more than partners. They were brothers. Each had risked his life to save the other’s. And each would do so again without hesitation. They worked together, drank together, went to ball games, argued politics.

  For more than a year, they had been going by the names of Demerez and Gates, posing as two high-rolling dealers of cocaine and its even more lethal offspring, crack. With patience and guile, they had infiltrated one of the biggest drug cartels on the East Coast. Urbana was its center.

  They could have made a dozen arrests, but they, and the department, agreed that the goal was the top man.

  His name and face remained a frustrating mystery.

  But tonight they would meet him. A deal had been set painstakingly. Demerez and Gates carried five million in cash in their steel-reinforced briefcase. They would exchange it for top-grade coke. And they would only deal with the man in charge.

  They drove toward the harbor in the customized Maserati Jack was so proud of. With two dozen men for backup, and their own cover solid, their spirits were high.

  Jack was a quick-thinking, tough-talking veteran cop, devoted to his family. He had a pretty, quiet wife and a young pistol of a toddler. With his brown hair slicked back, his hands studded with rings and the silk suit fitting creaselessly over his shoulders, he looked the part of the rich, conscienceless dealer.

  There were plenty of contrasts between the two partners. Jack came from a long line of cops and had been raised in a third-floor walk-up in the East End by his divorced mother. There had been occasional visits from his father, a man who had reached for the bottle as often as his weapon. Jack had gone straight into the force after high school.

  Gage had come from a business family filled with successful men who vacationed in Palm Beach and golfed at the country club. His parents had been closer to working class by the family standard, preferring to invest their money, their time and their dreams in a small, elegant French restaurant on the Upper East Side. That dream had ultimately killed them.

  After closing the restaurant late one brisk autumn night, they had been robbed and brutally murdered not ten feet from the doorway.

  Orphaned before his second birthday, Gage had been raised in style and comfort by a doting aunt and uncle. He’d played tennis instead of streetball, and had been encouraged to step into the shoes of his late father’s brother, as president of the Guthrie empire.

  But he had never forgotten the cruelty and the injustice of his parents’ murder. Instead, he had joined the police force straight out of college.

  Despite the contrasts in their backgrounds, the men had one vital thing in common—they both believed in the law.

  “We’ll hang his ass tonight,” Jack said, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

  “It’s been a long time coming,” Gage murmured.

  “Six months prep work, eighteen months deep cover. Two years isn’t much to give to nail this bastard.” He turned to Gage with a wink. “’Course, we could always take the five mil and run like hell. What do you say, kid?”

  Though Jack was only five years older than Gage, he had always called him “kid.” “I’ve always wanted to go to Rio.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Jack flicked the smoldering cigarette out of the car window, where it bounced on asphalt and sputtered. “We could buy ourselves a villa and live the high life. Lots of women, lots of rum, lots of sun. How about it?”

  “Jenny might get annoyed.”

  Jack chuckled at the mention of his wife. “Yeah, that would probably tick her off. She’d make me sleep in the den for a month. Guess we’d just better kick this guy’s butt.” He picked up a tiny transmitter. “This is Snow White, you copy?”

  “Affirmative, Snow White. This is Dopey.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Jack muttered. “We’re pulling in, Pier 17. Keep a bead on us. That goes for Happy and Sneezy and the rest of you dwarfs out there.”

  Gage pulled up in the shadows of the dock and cut the engine. He could smell the water and the overripe odor of fish and garbage. Following the instructions they’d been given, he blinked his headlights twice, paused, then blinked them twice again.

  “Just like James Bond,” Jack said, then grinned at him. “You ready, kid?”

  “Damn right.”

  He lit another cigarette, blew smoke between his teeth. “Then let’s do it.”

  They moved cautiously, Jack holding the briefcase with its marked bills and microtransmitter. Both men wore shoulder holsters with police issue .38s. Gage had a backup .25 strapped to his calf.

  The lap of water on wood, the skitter of rodents on concrete. The dim half-light of a cloudy moon. The sting of tobacco on the air from Jack’s cigarette. The small, slow-moving bead of sweat between his own shoulder blades.

  “Doesn’t feel right,” Gage said softly.

  “Don’t go spooky on me, kid. We’re going to hit the bell tonight.”

  With a nod, Gage fought off the ripple of unease. But he reached for his weapon when a small man stepped out of the shadows. With a grin, the man held up his hands, palms out.

  “I’m alone,” he said. “Just as agreed. I am Montega, your escort.”

  He
had dark shaggy hair, a flowing mustache. When he smiled, Gage caught the glint of gold teeth. Like them, he was wearing an expensive suit, the kind that could be tailored to disguise the bulk of an automatic weapon. Montega lowered one hand carefully and took out a long, slim cigar. “It’s a nice night for a little boat ride, sí?”

  “Sí.” Jack nodded. “You don’t mind if we pat you down? We’d feel better holding all the hardware until we get where we’re going.”

  “Understandable.” Montega lit the cigar with a slender gold lighter. Still grinning, he clamped the cigar between his teeth. Gage saw his hand slip the lighter casually back into his pocket. Then there was an explosion, the sound, the all too familiar sound of a bullet ripping out of a gun. There was a burning hole in the pocket of the fifteen-hundred-dollar suit. Jack fell backward.

  Even now, four years later, Gage saw all the rest in hideous slow motion. The dazed, already dead look in Jack’s eyes as he was thrown backward by the force of the bullet. The long, slow roll of the briefcase as it wheeled end over end. The shouts of the backup teams as they started to rush in. His own impossibly slow motion as he reached for his weapon.

  The grin, the widening grin, flashing with gold as Montega had turned to him.

  “Stinking cops,” he said, and fired.

  Even now, Gage could feel the hot tearing punch that exploded in his chest. The heat, unbearable, unspeakable. He could see himself flying backward. Flying endlessly. Endlessly into the dark.

  And he’d been dead.

  He’d known he was dead. He could see himself. He’d looked down and had seen his body sprawled on the bloody dock. Cops were working on him, packing his wound, swearing and scrambling around like ants. He had watched it all passionlessly, painlessly.

  Then the paramedics had come, somehow pulling him back into the pain. He had lacked the strength to fight them and go where he wanted to go.

  The operating room. Pale blue walls, harsh lights, the glint of steel instruments. The beep, beep, beep of monitors. The labored hiss and release of the respirator. Twice he had slipped easily out of his body—like breath, quiet and invisible—to watch the surgical team fight for his life. He’d wanted to tell them to stop, that he didn’t want to come back where he could hurt again. Feel again.

  But they had been skillful and determined and had dragged him back into that poor damaged body. And for a while, he’d returned to the blackness.

  That had changed. He remembered floating in some gray liquid world that had brought back primordial memories of the womb. Safe there. Quiet there. Occasionally he could hear someone speak. Someone would say his name loudly, insistently. But he chose to ignore them. A woman weeping—his aunt. The shaken, pleading sound of his uncle’s voice.

  There would be light, an intrusion really, and though he couldn’t feel, he sensed that someone was lifting his eyelids and shining a bead into his pupils.

  It was a fascinating world. He could hear his own heartbeat. A gentle, insistent thud and swish. He could smell flowers. Only once in a while, then they would be overpowered by the slick, antiseptic smell of hospital. And he would hear music, soft, quiet music. Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin.

  Later he learned that one of the nurses had been moved enough to bring a small tape player into his room. She often brought in discarded flower arrangements and sat and talked with him in a quiet, motherly voice.

  Sometimes he mistook her for his own mother and felt unbearably sad.

  When the mists in that gray world began to part, he struggled against it. He wanted to stay. But no matter how deep he dived, he kept floating closer to the surface.

  Until at last, he opened his eyes to the light.

  That was the worst part of the nightmare, Gage thought now. When he’d opened his eyes and realized he was alive.

  Wearily Gage climbed out of bed. He had gotten past the death wish that had