What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(17)

Kellen smiled with chilling precision. “Maybe. But mostly, he knows I can take care of myself.”

“There it is!” Horst dived for the small black bag with the fluorescent green yarn fuzzy.

Kellen stood back and observed, ready to spring after him if he ran with the bag.

He didn’t. He pulled the handle out full-length, walked it over to her and handed it over. “You take it. That yarn poof makes me feel like an idiot.”

Leaning down, she unwound the yarn ball and tossed it in the garbage. “Let’s go.” She headed for the exit.

“Wait a minute.” He started toward the men’s room. “I need to take a leak.”

She kept walking. “You should have thought of that before.”

“I wasn’t allowed to leave you alone to pick up the bag by yourself!”

“You’re not supposed to leave me alone with the bag at all.”

“I’m going to pee.” He took more steps toward the men’s room, as if that would make her halt.

“Meet you at the van,” she said.

He stopped and said, “I’ve got the keys!”

She stopped and viewed the spoiled, frustrated man. “Do you really imagine I can’t break into that van and start it?” She turned and headed out of the terminal.

He joined her on the sidewalk, puffing like a steam engine. “What am I supposed to do? Hold it all the way into the mountains?”

“When we get to a rest stop, you can visit the little boys’ room. In the meantime, we’re a sitting target at the airport.” The parking garage was dark and cool, and she observed every person who passed, listened to every footstep behind them.

“Let’s go back to the airport so I can pee. Who’s going to grab the bag with all these people around?”

“Someone who has the proper ID to match the bag. Which we don’t.” She reached the back of the van.

He unlocked the doors.

She flung the bag into the back. It was heavy, forty or fifty pounds.

Mummy’s head, indeed. No mummy’s head would weigh so much.

“Here!” Horst tossed something at her.

She snapped to attention and caught it. The keys.

“You drive,” he said.

Hmm. Unusual behavior for a macho man, allowing the female to control speed, route, stops. Really unusual behavior for a man who claimed he had a pressing bladder situation. That, combined with his determination to stop in the airport and leave her alone with the bag, gave her reasonable grounds for doubt. Horst Teagarten was now officially on her List of Suspicious Characters.

“Sure.” She stuck the keys in her pocket and pulled off her jacket. Her T-shirt fit snugly, showing off her toned arms and clearly proving she had no pistol or holster hidden around her narrow waist.

His eyes widened and she would swear she saw his brain empty.

Yep. Distraction of the female form plus reaffirmation of her vulnerability. Maybe he was going to try to steal the mummy’s head, maybe he wasn’t, but she had nailed him right in the stupidity.

She slammed the back doors closed. “Where am I driving?”

“The map’s inside.”

She walked around to the driver’s side, and as she slid into the seat, she smoothly pulled the loop at her waistband, bringing the nylon holster up and putting the pistol grip high on her left hip, where she could reach it...just in case. “Let’s see the map,” she said.



8


The route took them north on I-5 out of Portland, across the state line into Washington, then cut west on Highway 12 toward the Olympic Peninsula. Yearning Sands Resort was on the Peninsula; during her time there, Kellen had studied the terrain, learned the flora and fauna, read the maps. For her, who had fought in a war zone, knowing your environment made good tactical sense.

What she had learned filled her with awe; the isolated peninsula was like no place else on earth. The Pacific Ocean battered the wild coast with storms. The earth moved with the roiling fiery hell beneath; earthquakes were always a threat, and for as long as the ocean had existed, cold blue tsunamis had swept the beaches clean and white. The mountains grew with every earthquake; every violent storm fought to bring them down with torrents of rain and wind and snow.

Wildlife—bunnies, bears, wolves, birds—thrived. Tourists passed through to gape and wonder. And of course, a few hearty, marvelous, eccentric souls lived there through warm summer days and long dark winter nights.

Kellen stopped along a lonely stretch of coastal road and let Horst out to take his leak. He’d been complaining ever since she took the “wrong” turn onto a highway small enough to barely be a mere scratch on the map. But she knew where she was going, and her sense of wrongness increased every time Horst picked up his phone to text. He cursed furiously when he discovered this region was so isolated cell service was sporadic and cheered when they drove through a tiny town and he was able to send his barrage of texts.

Now she watched him in the rearview mirror, and yes, he did take a leak, but as soon as he was done, he had his cell in his hand again, and when he glanced guiltily at her, she used her finger and pretended to be applying lipstick. When he glanced away, she adjusted the pistol on her left hip so she could grab it with her right hand, aim and shoot. Maybe she wouldn’t have to. But that sensation of odd continued building, and she had learned to trust her instincts or die.