Tami Hoag - Cry Wolf

Laurel tried to reconcile the traditional three-piece-suit corporate image with the man who sat across from her, a baseball cap jammed down backward on his head, his Hawaiian shirt hanging open to reveal the hard, tanned body of a light heavyweight boxer. "What happened?"

What happened? A simple question as loaded as a shotgun that had been primed and pumped. What happened? He had succeeded. He had set out to prove to his old man that he could do something, be something, make big money. It hadn't mattered that Blackie was long dead and gone to hell. The old man's ghost had driven him. He had succeeded, and in the end he had lost everything.

"I turned on 'em," he said, skipping the heart of the story. The pain he endured still on Evie's behalf was his own private hell. He didn't share it with anyone. "Rogue Lawyer. I think they're gonna make it into a TV movie one of these days."

"What do you mean, you turned on them?"

"I mean, I unraveled the knots I'd tied for them in the paper trail that divorced them from the highly illegal activities of shipping and dumping hazardous waste," he explained, not entirely sure why he was telling her. Most of the time when people asked, he just blew it off, made a joke and changed the subject. "The Feds took a dim view of the company. The company gave me the ax, and the Bar Association kicked my ass out."

"You were disbarred for revealing illegal, potentially dangerous activities to the federal government?" Laurel said, incredulous. "But that's-"

"The way it is, sweetheart," he growled, slowing the 'Vette as the one and only stoplight in Bayou Breaux turned red. He rested his hand on the stick shift and gave Laurel a hard look. "Don' make me out to be a hero, sugar. I'm nobody's saint. I lost it," he said bitterly. "I crashed and burned. I went down in a ball of flame, and I took the company with me. I had my reasons, and none of them had anything to do with such noble causes as the protection of the environment."

"But-"

"'But,' you're thinking now, 'mebbe this Jack, he isn't such a bad guy after all,' yes?" His look turned sly, speculative. He chuckled as she frowned. She didn't want to think he could read her so easily. If they'd been playing poker, he would have cleaned her pockets for her.

"Well, you're wrong, angel," he murmured darkly, his mouth twisting with bitter amusement as her blue eyes widened. "I'm as bad as they come." Then he flashed his famous grin, dimples biting into his cheeks. "But I'm a helluva good time."

The light had not yet turned green, but he floored the accelerator, sending the Corvette lunging forward like a thoroughbred bolting from the starting gate. A pickup coming down Jackson had to skid sideways to avoid hitting them. Its driver stuck his head out the window and shouted obscenities after them. Laurel grabbed the armrest and gaped at Jack. He laughed as he shifted the car, feeling wicked, feeling reckless. Miz Laurel Chandler needed some shaking up, and he was just the guy to do it.

They barreled down Dumas, the business district a blur. Laurel cut a glance toward the courthouse, fully expecting to see beacons flash on one of the parish cruisers in the parking lot, but they shot past without incident and headed toward the edge of town. Past the brick town houses, past the shrines to Mary, past the cutoff to L'Amour, past Belle Rivière, and into the country, where planters warred with the Atchafalaya for control of the land.

Apprehension clutched Laurel 's stomach. She had taken a calculated risk getting in the car with Jack Boudreaux, but she thought her logic had been sound. Now other possibilities flashed in her mind. Maybe the killer hadn't been smart, just lucky. Maybe Jack was just plain crazy. Nothing he'd said or done so far in their short acquaintance could have convinced her otherwise.

God, wouldn't that be just the way? She would have survived every rotten thing that had happened in her life to date, fought her way through a breakdown, only to be done in by a disbarred lunatic.

She pushed the fear aside and let anger take hold.

"What the hell are you doing?" she yelled, twisting toward him on her seat. The needle on the speedometer had gone out of her range of vision.

"Taking you for a ride, angel!"

He pushed a cassette into the tape player, then settled back in his seat, right hand resting lightly on the steering wheel, left arm propped on the door frame. Harry Connick, Jr., blared out of the speakers-"Just Kiss Me. " The road stretched out before them like a ribbon, flat and snaking around canebrakes and copses of trees, skipping over fingers of Bayou Breaux. Driveways to plantations blinked past, and the countryside grew wilder with every second.

Laurel looked behind her, toward rapidly retreating civilization, and kicked herself mentally for taking such a ridiculous chance.

"I don't want to go for a ride! I want to go home!" she shouted, smacking Jack hard on the shoulder with a fist. "Turn this car around right now!"

"Can't!" he called back to her.

"The hell you can't!"

Jack started to shoot her another grin, but swallowed it as she reached into her purse and pulled out a gun.

"Jesus!"

"Stop the damn car!"

She looked mad enough to shoot him. Her dark brows were drawn together in a furious scowl, her mouth pressed into a thin white line. Her glasses were slipping down her nose, and the wind was tearing at her hair and making her blink, but none of that negated the fact that she had a stainless steel Lady Smith clutched between her dainty little hands.

He jerked his attention back to the road. They were coming up too fast on a sharp lefthand curve. He let off the gas and touched the brake, shifting down into fourth. The engine roared in protest, but the 'Vette came under control, rocking only slightly as it bent around the curve. They might have made it if it hadn't been for the alligator taking up half the road.

"Shit!"

"Aaaahhh!"

He swerved to miss the gator, but they missed the end of the curve, as well, right-side wheels hitting the shoulder and yanking the 'Vette off the road. Jack fought with the steering wheel to keep the car upright, swearing a blue streak through clenched teeth. Their momentum sent them crashing through the dense undergrowth, the 'Vette bucking and rocking like a spooked horse, brush and grass and cattails whipping at the windshield. They finally came to rest at the base of a sweetgum tree, just inches from smashing into the trunk. Just beyond the tree the land became water.

"Oh, my God. Oh, my God," Laurel muttered over and over. She was shaking like a palsy victim. The gun lay at her feet, and she stared at it, grateful she hadn't taken the safety off.

Jack leaned over and caught her chin in his hand, turning her face toward him. "Are you okay? Are you all right?" he demanded, his voice harsh and low. He was breathing as hard as if he'd carried the car out here on his back.

Laurel looked at him, stunned, shaken. "You're bleeding."

"What?"

"You're bleeding."

Lifting a hand, she brushed at a line of red above his left eye, smearing it with her thumb. He caught her by the wrist and drew back to see the blood on her hand, then looked in the cockeyed rearview mirror to check out the wound himself.

"Must'a hit the windshield."

"You should have worn your seat belt," Laurel mumbled, still too shaken to be coherent. "You might have been killed."

"No one would'a missed me, sugar," he said darkly as he fought to get his door open. Swearing in French, he gave up and climbed over it to survey the damage to the car.

An ominous hiss sounded beneath the long, sleek hood; steam billowed out from under it. The paint job was shot, scratched all to hell by the bushes and saplings they had crashed through. The wheels would be out of alignment, and it would be a pure damn miracle if the undercarriage wasn't twisted.