Nora Roberts - High Noon

The child was a dog with a bone, Phoebe thought. Before she could speak, Duncan said, "Busted," and eased the door open. "Hey, Carly."

"Hi. Mama's door was locked so I couldn't come in."

"We got home very late," Phoebe repeated.

"How come you slept in Mama's room?" Carly asked Duncan. "And aren't you full of questions this morning, before I've even had my coffee."

"You said you have to ask questions," Carly reminded her mother. "Did you have a bad dream, Duncan? I sleep in Mama's bed sometimes when I do."

"Actually." He gave Phoebe a poke in the arm to shift her aside. "Let me ask you a question. How do you feel about your mama and me getting married?"

Carly's eyes narrowed on Duncan's face, then tracked to her mother's and back. "Because you're in love and want to sleep in bed together?"

"That's right."

"You'd be my stepdaddy?"

"I would."

"Can I have a new dress for when you get married?"

"That would be a priority."

She smiled, and Phoebe recognized the slyness. "My friend Dee got a stepdaddy, then she got a new baby brother named William. Can I have one of those, too?"

"Could be a sister, but we can name her William."

With a giggle, Carly shook her head. "Girls aren't William. We could get a puppy first, and name him William, then-"

"You're pushing your luck, kid," Phoebe warned.

"We're having a conversation here," Duncan said to Phoebe, then hunkered down so his face was level with Carly's. "I'll see what I can do about that. If I pull it off, what're you going to give me?"

Carly's face went pink, then she touched her lips, very primly, to Duncan's cheek.

"Little peck like that, for a baby and a dog? You MacNamara women are tough."

She giggled again, and the pink deepened as she hooked her arms around Duncan for a hug, and gave his cheek a noisy, smacking kiss.

Not once, Phoebe thought as she stared down at them, not once had she seen Carly and Roy hold each other. Not once had she ever seen her little girl grinning in her father's arms.

"Now that's more like it. I'm going to grab a shirt, so I don't make the women in the house swoon when I come downstairs." He set Carly back on her feet. "We'll be right along."

"Okay." She dashed off, shooting him a dazzling smile as she ran for the stairs.

"Guess she approves. Now we'll see what Essie has… What?" Panic streaked across his face as he turned and saw the tears sliding down Phoebe's. "What'd I do wrong?"

Her throat was so thick she could only shake her head as she wrapped herself around him, held tight. Tighter. "We got along without you, you know," she managed. "We got right along. But, God, oh

God, things are so much better with you."

"Happy crying." He let out a little breath of relief. "I get that."

"Very happy."

"That's good. So… how about that puppy?"

The timing was perfect, and the location-that had come about largely due to luck. Or maybe, he thought, it was fate. It was Angie looking down, guiding hands.

It would be today.

A pity, a goddamn pity, pieces of McVee hadn't flown all over Barnard Street. His slut of a neighbor had intervened there. Bastard had flown some though, he thought with some satisfaction. Oh yeah, the bastard had done a little fucked-up Superman.

It had taken all the willpower he'd had not to yank out his nine from under the windbreaker and put bullets in the son of a bitch and the neighborhood slut where they lay bleeding on the side of the road. But as satisfying as that would've been, as right as it would've been, it could have cost the rest. And the endgame was in sight.

Better if McVee died, and there was always the chance of that. Better yet if there was time and opportunity to take out the boyfriend, just for good measure. And it was a damn shame he had to abort the plans to stake out the pansy-assed brother in front of the house where they grew up-with a vestload of explosives.

Cowards, a couple of dickless cowards is what they were, hiding out in that house, behind the women's skirts. Not worth his time, Walken told himself, not worth his trouble.

He continued to load his gear with careful hands.

They'd be looking for him now. Let them look. In a couple of hours, they'd know just where to find him. And he'd be where he wanted to be, doing what he'd planned to do.

Before he was done, everyone would know Phoebe MacNamara had killed an angel, just as sure as the bullet. And when it was over, it would be fucking over.

"He turned in his papers and moved out of his apartment. He had two months left on his lease, left a check to cover it." At Dave's bedside, Phoebe went through the checklist. "He had two credit cards at that time. Neither have shown any activity in these three years. He's contacted no one, not his best friend, nor his former commanding officer.

He had a checking account, and a savings account totaling six thousand and change, and a safety deposit box. He cleaned everything out on the same day he quit the department. There was an oh-one Chevy pickup registered to him. He sold it, for eight thousand cash, to a Derrick Means, in the same apartment building. We're checking that out, but don't expect it to go anywhere. Also registered to him were a ninemillimeter Smith and Wesson and a thirty-two Remington semi. His friend knew him to own a hunting rifle, with scope, a thirty-thirty, and a twenty-two pistol which had been his father's."

"Likes guns."

"Yes, he does. He's a trained sniper, and had training in explosives during his time in the army. He also worked with our own bomb squad before he requested and received the transfer to SWAT. He's somewhere in or around Savannah, but as far as we know, you're the only one who's seen him."

She lifted her hands. "I don't know what to do. I negotiate, I don't investigate."

"A puzzle's a puzzle, Phoebe. It's all pieces."

"I have some of them. He blames me for Angela Brentine's death, maybe because there isn't anyone else to blame. He was on the team that day, Dave. He was on the incident where she died. His scope trained on the bank, waiting for the go. We didn't know the names of the hostages, or the injured. He didn't know she was in there, dead or dying, while he waited outside, while all those hours passed."

"Ineffective. Impotent." Dave nodded, then closed his eyes as the slight movement stirred pain in the base of his skull. "Lancelot didn't rescue Guinevere."

"That's what he can't live with. That he was there, waiting while she bled out. While I had them wait, while I talked her killers down so they walked out with their hands in the air. They lived, she died, because of decisions I made. That's what he believes. That's what he has to believe. But it doesn't help us find him."

"Why'd he go after Roy?"

Think it through, Phoebe reminded herself. Empathize. "The connection to me-we had a child together, we were married. Husband a symbol. Harder, much harder, to get to Brentine than to Roy. And Roy was mine. He wants to destroy what's mine, as I destroyed what was his."

"Not just the woman." Dave reached for the water glass, then settled back to sip through the straw as Phoebe picked it up, held it to his lips. "Thanks. Not just the woman," he repeated. "His self-image was destroyed. Didn't save the day. Followed orders, hung back with the rest instead of walking solo out into the street for the showdown."

"But this time, he is, he will. Moving up the line," she mused. "Roy, then you. Everyone knows we're close. And that I'm a negotiator because of you. Therefore, I was at the bank because of you.

"Do you want me to call the nurse?" she said when he shifted, when she saw pain tighten his face. "You should rest, you should-"

"No. Keep going. It keeps my mind busy. You call the nurse, she's going to come in here with a needle and take more blood. I swear, being in a hospital's like being in a den of vampires. They never get enough of your blood. Keep going."