KEEPING CHRISTMAS.
by B.J. DANIELS.
Prologue
The rain had stopped, but the parking garage seemed unusually cold and dark as Dixie Bonner started to step from the elevator.
One booted foot poised on the edge of the concrete, she hesitated, sensing something was wrong. She stood listening for whatever sound had alerted her, only now aware of how late it was. The library had closed for the night as had all the other businesses around it except the coffee shop back up the street where she"d been the past few hours.
She hadn"t realized the time or noticed how dark and empty the streets were. All the holiday shoppers had gone home for the night. She"d foolishly paid no attention because she"d had other things on her mind.
Now she felt vulnerable. Not that she wasn"t used to taking chances. It went with her job. But taking chances was one thing. Just being plain dumb was another.
She let one hand drop to her shoulder bag as she eased back, but kept her free hand holding the elevator doors open as she scanned the parking garage.
Her fingers found the purse"s zipper and began to slowly glide it open, speeding up as she heard the sc.r.a.pe of a shoe sole on the concrete floor of the garage.
She was in danger, but then she"d suspected that the moment the elevator doors had opened. She"d been on edge all night, at one point almost certain someone had been watching her beyond the rain-streaked window of the coffee shop.
There were two vehicles left in the unattended garage. A tan cargo van and her fire-engine-red Mustang. The van was parked right next to the Mustang.
Her hand closed over the can of pepper spray in her purse as she debated making a run for her car or returning to the upper level of the parking garage. Neither seemed prudent.
The decision was made for her as a man wearing a black stocking mask suddenly appeared in the open elevator doorway. A gun glinted in his right hand. She hit the door close b.u.t.ton at the same time she brought up the can of pepper spray and pointed it at the man"s face.
He let out a howl and stumbled back as the full force of the pepper spray hit him in the eyes and soaked into the mask.
She shoved past him through the closing elevator doors, her eyes tearing from being in close counters with the spray. Running, near blind, tears streaming down her face, she sprinted toward the red blur of her car.
Too late she sensed movement out of the corner of her eye. A second masked man tackled her and took her down hard, knocking the air from her lungs. She landed on her stomach, gasping for breath even before he jammed his knee into her back to hold her down.
She still had the pepper spray can in one hand, a tight grip on her purse in the other. But she had a bad feeling that these men weren"t after her purse.
She tried to yell for help, knowing it was senseless. There was no one around. No one would hear her cries even if she had enough breath to scream.
Strong fingers twisted the pepper spray from her hand. She heard the can land where the man threw it, the can rolling away into the silence of the vacuous parking garage.
With her face pushed into the gritty cold-damp concrete, she could see nothing but the tires of her car next to her. She"d almost made it to safety.
She heard the first man come running up.
"b.i.t.c.h." He cursed. "My face is friggin" on fire."
She heard the anger in his voice and knew things were about to get a whole lot worse. The kick caught her in the ribs. The pain was excruciating, her cry pitiful, as the air was knocked out of her again.
She gasped for breath, fighting the terror that now had a death grip on her. She didn"t stand a chance against two men. Not alone in this garage. With a sabbatical from work and her lousy relationship with her family, it could be weeks before anyone even realized she was missing.
"Stop!" the second man ordered. "For h.e.l.l"s sake don"t kill her yet. We have to find out where she put the d.a.m.ned journal and the disks before you-"
The second blow was to her head. Pain glittered behind her eyes just before the darkness.
DIXIE WOKE IN blackness, her head throbbing, her body cramped. She shifted position, b.u.mped an elbow and a knee, and started to panic, gasping for breath as she realized she was in a cramped dark s.p.a.ce.
She fought not to panic, not to let her mind tell her that her small prison was slowly closing in on her.
Breathe. You"re alive. Temporarily. Temporarily. Breathe. Breathe.
"Just bring the d.a.m.ned computer and all the disks you can find." It was the voice of the second man from the parking garage.
"I thought it was supposed to look like a robbery," the first demanded.
"You let me take care of that. What about her journal? Have you found it yet?"
"It"s not in here."
She heard the sound of footfalls heavy nearby as if someone was treading up stairs. She held her breath, trying to calm her breathing, her panic.
Her fingers moved slowly, cautiously, along the inside of the s.p.a.ce around her. She frowned, feeling cool metal, rough carpet. She could hear the sound of things breaking, larger things being knocked over. She sniffed and caught a familiar scent. Laundry detergent. She"d bought a box at the market earlier and put it- She was in the trunk of her car!
The realization sent a shot of hope racing through her. Hurriedly, she oriented herself, scrunching her body to get her feet against the rear seat, the one with the broken latch. She could hear voices. The two men arguing.
Bracing her body against the opposite side of the trunk, her feet against the rear seat, she pushed with all her strength.
At the sound of a loud crash, she kicked the seat hard. The latch gave, the seat flopped down.
Through the hole came light. She wiggled around until she could peer out. The car was parked in her garage. The two men were inside her house, the adjoining door open.
She listened, afraid they would come back now. No sound. Had they heard her?
She moved fast, half afraid they would be standing outside her car amused at the futility of what she thought was her great escape. But she had no no chance cramped in the trunk. She didn"t have much chance in the back seat. But even a little edge was better than nothing. chance cramped in the trunk. She didn"t have much chance in the back seat. But even a little edge was better than nothing.
Slithering through the s.p.a.ce with the seat down, she ducked behind the front seats and looked out. No sign of the men in the garage. The door to the house was still open, but she couldn"t see anything but light coming from the kitchen. Where were the men?
She heard the sounds of more objects breaking, things being knocked over and destroyed. She grabbed the back door handle and, as quietly as possible, popped it open.
Inside the house she heard another crash, then voices. She slipped out of the car, making the decision just as quickly. The keys were in the ignition. She opened the driver"s side door, slid behind the wheel and locked all four doors as she reached for the garage door opener and said a silent prayer.
The garage door began to lift slowly and noisily as she fired up the car"s engine, her eyes on the door leading into the house.
The overhead garage door was too slow. Hurry! She had the car in Reverse, engine revved, ready, her gaze flicking nervously from the slowly rising garage door to the open door to the house. The garage door was a third of the way up. Just a little higher.
The two men came flying out of the house, stumbling down the steps that dropped into the garage. One of them slammed into the side of her car and groped for the door handle.
The garage door was almost up enough. The second man shoved past him, a gun in his hand. The man with the gun started to raise the weapon as she tromped down on the gas. The car shot backward under the rising garage door, the antenna snapping off.
She thought she heard a shot as she swung the car around in the driveway, slammed it into first and took off, tearing across the lawn, jumping the curb, tires squealing as they met pavement, engine screaming.
She hadn"t realized she"d been holding her breath until it came out on a sob. She was shaking so hard, she could hardly hold on to the steering wheel. But she kept going. They would be coming after her. She"d seen the van parked just down the street from her house.
Worse, she"d seen their faces.
She"d known in the parking garage that they"d planned to kill her. But now they had no choice.
She"d recognized one of them-and he knew it.
Chapter One
All Chance Walker wanted was to get to the cabin before the snowstorm and the holiday traffic got any worse.
He"d only stopped in for a minute, but now he couldn"t wait to get home. He glanced around his office, ignoring the dust that had acc.u.mulated while he"d been gone. The light was flashing on his antiquated answering machine. For a moment he thought about checking his calls.
But it was only days until Christmas and he told himself he wasn"t in the mood for anything to do with work. Anyone he wanted to talk to knew he hadn"t been in his office for weeks and wouldn"t be for a while longer. The only reason he"d stopped by this evening was to gather up any bills from the floor where the mailman had dropped them through the old-fashioned door slot.
Chance nudged his dog awake with the toe of his boot. From in front of the old radiator, Beauregard lifted his head and blinked at him, the dog not looking any more anxious to go out in the cold than Chance was.
"Come on, boy. Once we get to the cabin I"ll build us a fire and make us both big fat steaks. It"s the holidays. I think we deserve a treat."
The dog keyed on the word "treat" and jumped to his feet, padding to the door, tail wagging.
Chance glanced around the office one last time to make sure he hadn"t missed anything, not sure when he"d be back. The private investigator business was slow this time of year in Montana and he knew he hadn"t completely recuperated from the bullet Doc had taken out of his shoulder.
While the physical wound had healed, Chance"s heart wasn"t into work yet. He wasn"t sure when he would be again. Certainly not until the holidays were long gone. This time of year was always the toughest for him.
He saw Beauregard"s ears perk up as they both heard the outside door open. Chance didn"t give it a thought since he shared the building with a beauty salon, an insurance firm, investment office and a knitting shop.
With Christmas just days away, he knew the beauty shop and knitting store had been busy. That would explain the small, slowly melting snowdrift that had formed just inside his door. With the main entrance door opening and closing all the time, gusts of snow blew up the hallway and under his office door. He"d turned down the heat in his absence, planning to hide out until after the holidays and things slowed down again in his building.
He picked up his old black Stetson from his desk and snugged it down on his head, then moved to open the door, turning out his office lights as he and Beauregard stepped into the long hallway.
At the other end, a bundled-up figure had just come in. Snowflakes, light as feathers, skittered along the wood floor as the man shut the front door behind him, closing out the snowy December evening and the sound of a bell jingler nearby.
Chance slammed his office door, checking to make sure it was locked, and started down the hallway.
The man hadn"t moved. Probably waiting for his wife in the beauty salon or the knitting shop.
But as Chance drew closer, he felt a familiar p.r.i.c.kle of unease. The man was good-size, huddled in a sheepskin coat, fine boots and slacks, his face in shadow under a pale gray Stetson. A wealthy Montana rancher or- Chance felt a start and swore under his breath.
Or a rich Texas oilman.
"Chance Walker," the man drawled in a familiar, gravely voice.
Next to Chance the dog let out a low growl as the hair stood up on the back of the canine"s neck.
"Easy, Beauregard," Chance said as he reached down to pet the mutt, surprised his dog had the same reaction Chance did to the man.
"You named your dog Beauregard?"
"Couldn"t think of a better name for a stray, mean-spirited mongrel."
Beauregard Bonner let out of howl of laughter and thrust out his hand, grabbing Chance"s and pulling him into a quick back-slapping hug. "d.a.m.n, boy, I"ve missed you." Beauregard, the dog, growled louder in warning. "Call off your dog and tell me where we can get a stiff drink in this town. You and I need to talk."
Chance couldn"t imagine what he and Beauregard Bonner might have to talk about. The last time Chance had seen Bonner it had been in the man"s Texas mansion outside of Houston. Bonner had been gripping a shotgun and threatening to blast a hole the size of Texas in him.
"d.a.m.n, this is a cold country," Bonner said, rubbing his gloved hands together and grinning good-naturedly, but there was a nervous edge to the man that Chance didn"t miss. "I don"t know about you, but I really could use that drink."
Chance had a feeling he would need one himself. He pointed to the Stockman Bar across the street, his curiosity getting the better of him. What would bring a man like Bonner all the way to Montana in the middle of winter?
Nothing good, of that Chance was certain as they crossed the street in the near blizzard, the dog trotting along beside them.
"They let dogs in bars up here?" Bonner asked in surprise as the dog followed them through the door and down the long bar to sprawl on the floor under Chance"s stool.
"Actually, they prefer dogs over Texans," Chance said.
Bonner looked over at him with a Don"t Mess With Texas scowl. "I don"t care how long you"ve lived here, you"re still a Texan, born and raised."
Chance said nothing as Bonner ordered them both a drink. Bonner still drank expensive Scotch neat. Chance had a beer, nursing it since he had the drive ahead of him to the cabin-and he knew to keep his wits about him as he studied the man sitting on the stool next to him with growing dread.
Beauregard Bonner had aged since Chance had last seen him. His blond hair had grayed and the lines around his eyes had deepened. But the booming drawl was that of the filthy rich oilman Chance remembered only too well.
"Guess you"re wondering what I"m doing here," Bonner said after downing half of his drink.
Chance stared down into his beer, waiting. A Christmas song was playing on the jukebox and the back bar glittered with multicolored lights. There was a Christmas tree decorated with beer cans at the other end of the bar and a large Santa doll with a beer bottle tucked in his sack.
"It"s my daughter," Bonner said.
Chance"s head shot up. "Rebecca?" Last he"d heard, Rebecca had married some hotshot lawyer from back east who"d gone to work for her father. They lived in a big house near Houston and had three kids.
"Not Rebecca." Bonner made a face. "Dixie."