Tara Quinn - In Plain Sight

Jan was coming out of the shower several hours later when she heard the front bell ring. Wringing out her hair, she wrapped it in the only towel that would hold it all, an extra-large bath sheet she’d bought for just that purpose, pulled on her violet robe and went to peek out the front window.

A motorcycle was parked in the gravel beneath the low-hanging branches of the aspen tree. She didn’t recognize it. Hesitated, as she stared at it. But really, anyone who meant her harm wouldn’t park out front—especially in the broad light of day.

Reminding herself of the fine line between caution and paranoia, she went to the door and opened it a crack, intending to ask her visitor to wait while she got dressed, then she threw it wide instead.

“Johnny!” She reached up to give her younger brother a hug. “I didn’t know you were back.”

A sales rep for a major publisher of nonfiction and self-help books, Johnny was on the road a lot. And too busy to see her, most of the time, when he was in town.

He shrugged, his off-white shirt opening at the collar, revealing what looked like the edge of a tattoo just beneath his collarbone. “I just got in last night,” he said.

He had a tattoo. Everyone was getting them these days—she knew that. But Johnny? Jan wanted to ask him about it, wanted him to tell her that the mark was only henna.

She invited him in instead. Offered to make some coffee.

“I can’t stay.” Johnny held his shiny black-and-white helmet between his hands as he stepped through the door. “I’m back on the road on Monday and I have a load of things to do before then. I just wanted to talk to you for a second.” He glanced down, almost sheepishly, his longish dark hair falling over his forehead. Jan’s heart melted, as it always did when her brother needed something.

“What’s up?” Johnny’s visits and his requests were few. She’d do anything she could for him.

“I was kind of wired when I got in last night,” he said, and she wondered if he was still in the apartment by the university, where he’d lived the previous summer. Last she’d heard from their mother, he’d been planning to move to a new place out by the Woodlands. “I looked through the week’s papers, catching up, and noticed the article about you and that Hall dude.”

Jan warmed beneath his concerned stare and nodded.

“He sounds dangerous, sis.” Sis. He hardly called her that anymore.

“Which is why he’s safely in custody.”

“I don’t know.” He bowed his head again and then glanced back at her, his dark eyes serious. “I don’t like the idea of you out there digging up stuff on him. He might be locked up, but what if he does have people—and money—on the outside?”

Fear shot through her chest. Jan took a deep breath, quelled the emotion—left over from her bad night, she told herself—and smiled. “I’ve been at this job a long time, little brother,” she reminded him. “And I’m still here.”

“So why chance it? Drop the case, sis. Give it to someone else.”

“I can’t,” she told him, torn between exasperation that the one time he came to see her it was to ask her to do something she couldn’t possibly do and happiness that he still cared. “I’ve been following this guy for years. The history’s convoluted, complicated, and I’m the only one who knows it all. If I don’t argue this, he’s going to get off again, and we’re not safe with him out there.”

Johnny frowned, dropping his arm, his helmet resting against the side of his black jeans. “It says he’s in for identity theft. That’s not a matter of life and death for the citizens of Flagstaff.”

No, but the longtime white supremacist was guilty of more than fraud. She was sure of it. She decided now was not the time, however, to let her worried little brother in on that fact.

“It’s my job, Johnny,” she said instead. “The police arrest them, and we prosecute them. Someone has to, or the entire judicial system goes down the tubes and chaos reigns.”

“Just this once, sis. Can’t you let go of the responsibility just this once? Lighten up. Take a vacation. I’ll spring for it. Hell,” he said, grinning, rubbing his knuckles against the side of her cheek, “I’ll even go with you, if that’ll get you out of town.”

Tears welled at the back of her eyes. They’d been so close when they were younger. He’d been her best friend, in spite of the four-year difference in their ages. How many nights had he come to her room when he’d heard her cry out from a nightmare? How many nights had he sat there with her, telling her stupid jokes, making her smile, until he’d fallen asleep at the end of her bed and she’d covered him with her comforter and fallen back to sleep herself?

“Now, that’s tempting, Johnny,” she said softly, even knowing that she couldn’t run out on her job—not on this case. There was too much at stake. “Where would we go?”

It didn’t hurt to fantasize for a moment.

“Anywhere you want,” he surprised her by saying. “You name the time, the place, and I’ll be there.”

“What about your job?”

“I have vacation coming.”

“Johnny…” She hated to disappoint him.

“Name the time and place, sis,” he repeated, his voice intent as he bent to give her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be waiting to hear.”

“Johnny!” she called after him, as he spun out the door and headed down the walk without letting her tell him she couldn’t go. He climbed on his motorcycle, slid the helmet down over his ears, and without looking her way, sped off.

Flagstaff, Arizona, was a unique place. A little too big, too spread out, to maintain the small-town feel—and too small and secluded to attract big-city folks. Simon drove along old Route 66 toward the town’s one indoor shopping mall, agreeing with FBI Special Agent Scott Olsen’s assertion that this city, with Northern Arizona University’s rambling campus in the middle and a train station not far from the center of town, was a perfect terrorist training depot.

Entering the mall, he located the directory and the store he sought. A potential terrorist could find anything he needed here—and once outside the city limits, on any side, he’d disappear in the miles and miles of undeveloped land, woods, mountains, desert, Indian reservation. Places to get lost—forever if need be.

“Hi, Bettina, show me the best mediocre snow gear you’ve got on sale.” Simon read her name tag and then met the salesgirl’s eyes.

“What do you need it for?” She asked. “Skiing? Snowboarding? Snowmobiling? Or just building a snowman?”

Building a snowman. The last Christmas Sam had been alive, Simon had dragged him away from the half-finished economics textbook his twin had written by hand and was in the process of entering on his computer, and while consuming a six-pack of beer, the two of them had built a snow monstrosity worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records.

“Skiing,” he said belatedly, realizing too much time had passed. He focused on the smiling young face in front of him, his vision clearing, until he was once again seeing a stranger named Bettina in the Flagstaff Mall.

She was nodding. “Too early for the good sales,” she said, walking him over to a group of shelves along the side wall. “Snowbowl’s season doesn’t start until the holidays.” She pointed up. “These are your best bet for now.”

Simon grabbed a set of thermal underwear, then plopped waterproof insulated pants and a matching jacket on top.

“Where you going? Utah? Montana?” Bettina hung around watching.

Hopefully nowhere. “Where would you suggest?” he asked, adding thick socks and toe-warmers, a fleece hat with earflaps and down-lined leather gloves to the stack in his arms. He had to be prepared. Snow-bowl might not have snow yet, but the resort just miles from Flagstaff was open year round and was currently drawing FBI suspicion.