The Hunted

“No?”

“No. We’re going to collect some clothes and things, and then we’re going to a hotel.”

“Why?”

He looked at her. It was dark now, and flashes of headlights from oncoming traffic chiseled his face even more. “You were attacked at home. Wanna try again?”

She decided he was okay, because he’d asked her instead of telling her. “Honestly? I’m not so sure.”

“Me, either. I don’t know what’s behind this, but my instincts are telling me they’re not done with you.”

“You have good instincts,” she remarked, then wished she hadn’t, because he was no idiot and caught the subtext as if it had been a headline.

“What don’t I know?”

She hesitated. “Plenty,” she said finally. “And I can’t talk about it. Reporter privilege.” That usually shut people up. Not him.

“We’re going to have to talk about it, Erin. Later. When you feel better.”

Not likely, she thought, but at least for now he was letting her off the hook. She would take what she could get until she was back in shape.

The stairs were easier this time, and the crime-scene unit was still picking over the bones of her life like carrion birds. As promised, she noted what was missing, which hadn’t expanded much from what she had already noticed. Whoever had broken in had been looking for information, of that she had no doubt. Her grandmother’s engagement ring, a nice piece of ice, had been totally ignored. Mutely she held it up to Jerrod, and he nodded understanding. Then she slipped it on the ring finger of her right hand to keep it safe.

He helped her pack a suitcase, and she didn’t object. Not even when he scooped underwear up off the floor. It wouldn’t make any sense to object, since even the thought of bending over left her dizzy and nauseous.

Besides, he seemed as interested in it as if it had been cardboard. He was very…clinical, professional. He avoided her few good dresses and instead packed slacks, jeans, Ts and sweatshirts. Her favorite stuff, to be sure, but it began to seem he had some kind of plan. It was more than she needed for overnight.

Abducted by an FBI agent, she thought. Could the world get any crazier?

When she asked him where they were going, he shook his head and indicated the next room with a movement of his eyes. He didn’t trust the local police? Erin began to wonder what he knew that she didn’t.

“Anything else you don’t want to leave here?” he asked finally, as he prepared to latch her suitcase.

“All I have that mattered is gone.” Except for the ring on her hand.

“Let’s move out, then.”

Huh, she thought. Military background, or too many movies?

They drove off again in his car, this time headed for Loop 410. “Where are we going?” she asked again. “Or do I need to jump out of a moving vehicle?”

“That would hurt considerably more than being hit on the head. I told you, I’m taking you to a hotel.”

“I’m not in the set that can afford hotels.”

“I am. And I’m not going to leave you hanging in the breeze. Not at your place. Not even in a hotel under your own name.”

She squirmed on her seat and managed to look at him. “You’re creeping me out.”

“Good. You should have been creeped out before.”

“I was, but not like this. What are you thinking?”

“You’ve pissed someone off enough to commit felony burglary and battery. That’s very pissed off. You know something, or they think you do. You’re still alive, which can’t make them happy. Two plus two equals four.”

Gingerly, she reached up and touched the staples on the back of her head. “You have a point. Why didn’t you want to say anything in the apartment?”

He glanced her way. “Cops talk. Sometimes idly, and sometimes not.”

He was right, she realized. “So I can’t trust the cops but I can trust you? There’s a disconnect there.”

He reached in his breast pocket and tossed her a flip-phone. She barely managed to catch it, considering the world was still trying to bob on invisible waves.

“Call information. Get the number for the Austin field office of the FBI. Ask about me. Check my creds. Get my description.”

She looked at the phone. Part of her said she didn’t need to do that if he was so willing to let her; part of her suspicious reporter’s mind suggested that he might be expecting that reaction.

So she flipped open his phone, got the number and made the call. A recording answered her.

“Cool,” she said. “A recording can’t identify you.”

“Keep listening. Toward the end we finally admit that you can reach an agent right now.”

“I should hope so. The country could collapse while you guys sleep.”

“We never sleep.”

“Yeah, right.” She pressed eight when the menu promised it would put her directly in touch with an agent. After a couple of rings, a silky woman’s voice answered.

“Agent Dickson. May I help you?”

“Uh, yes. I’m with a guy claiming to be Special Agent Jerrod Westlake. Is he for real?”

The woman chuckled. “We often wonder that ourselves. Yes, he’s a real agent. Do you want his description?”

“Please.”

“Tall, green-eyed, dark and handsome. Well, not really handsome. He looks more like somebody carved his face out of wood. Nice smile, though, when you can get it out of him.”

Erin almost laughed. “That sounds like him.”

“Put him on the phone for a sec, would you?”

“Sure.” Erin passed the phone back to Jerrod.

“Westlake,” he said. “Oh, hi, Georgie. Yeah, with what she’s been through today, I don’t blame her for being suspicious. We’re going to ground overnight. I’ll get in touch tomorrow. Yeah. You got it.”

He flipped the phone closed and tucked it back in the inside pocket of his suit.