Hard Evidence. Susan Peterson
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to the nurses, he hadn’t moved in three days. Not for the day it took the hospital staff and police to identify him and not the following two days it took them to contact the only people alive who truly loved him, a ragtag pack of former foster kids Charlie and his wife Claire had raised over the years.
I was the last of the kids to get word, mainly because they had to send someone into the backwoods of the Adirondack Mountains to reach me. As a deputy sheriff from Essex County, N.Y., I’d been out traipsing through the wilds of the Adirondacks, trying to locate some NYC hump who had escaped from Ray Brook Minimum Security Prison.
Most of us had figured the idiot had counted on heading back to the city and his woman, but somewhere along the line, he’d taken a wrong turn. A dangerous wrong turn. He’d ended up stumbling deeper and deeper into the remotest mountainous areas of the Upper Adirondacks.
Winter had hit the north country early and I had figured we’d find the poor SOB frozen to some tree, solid as a Good Humor Popsicle. He probably wouldn’t be worrying about how much time he had to serve back at the Ray Brook Country Club.
Shortly after the park ranger found me and informed me of my foster dad’s condition, I stumbled out of the woods, jumped into my tiny electric-blue Neon and headed for Syracuse, fighting a healthy dose of fear and guilt deep in the pit of my belly.
Guilt because I’d told Charlie I’d never return to the city, that I had written it out of my heart the day he’d been sentenced to eight years at Ray Brook Federal Prison in Ray Brook, New York, for selling information and taking bribes.
To my way of thinking, the city and the Syracuse Police Department had ruined his life, broken his heart and killed his beloved Claire. But Charlie, the only dad I’d ever really known, had always told me, Never say never because that word will come back to bite you on the ass. As usual, Charlie was right.
I laced my fingers through his and pressed my palm to his. I could feel the coolness of his skin beneath my own. I desperately wanted him to open his eyes, smile up at me and ask, “Where the hell ya been, Chili?”
But Charlie didn’t move, and the heart monitor and other assorted machinery littering the Intensive Care cubicle continued to beep and click with maddening, mind-numbing regularity.
I moved closer to the bed and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Come on, Pop, don’t play possum. Wake up.”
The respirator chugged on and the heart monitor beat out a steady pattern of life, but his eyelids didn’t flicker.
“Could you tell me if there’s been any change in Mr. Orzinski’s condition?” a voice asked out at the nurse’s desk.
I stiffened. It was a familiar voice. So familiar that it shot a charge of something sharp and unpleasant up the center of my spine, spreading out along the length of my shoulders and heating the back of my neck with black pepper anger.
I knew that voice almost better than Charlie’s. But the difference was, this was one voice I had no desire to hear. Not now, not ever!
Still hanging on to Charlie’s hand, I turned and peeked around the curtain. Jack O’Brien stood in front of the nurse’s station, his upper body leaning casually on the counter top as he schmoozed the ward clerk sitting behind the desk.
One elbow was propped under his chin, and his powerful shoulders were hunched beneath a battered leather jacket, a jacket I’d bought him the first Christmas we’d dated.
I knew without seeing his face that his dark blue eyes, shaded by the longest, thickest eyelashes a man had the audacity to own, would be sending interesting chills down the pretty clerk’s arms.
Sure enough, a flush of pink infused her cheeks and she smiled up at him with more wattage than was usually seen in a depressing place like the I.C.U. The Jack O’Brien I remembered liked using his charm to make women flutter. Obviously, he hadn’t changed much in the nine years since I’d last seen him. And for more than one reason, that fact irritated the hell out of me.
To say that I harbored a deep-seated desire to return to the city and find Jack fat, or at least with a substantial beer gut, was an understatement. Unfortunately, he had developed neither.
His black hair, thick and longish with a familiar poetic curl to the ends, hugged the back of his neck and caressed the collar of his battered leather jacket, eliciting unwanted memories of my fingers shifting through those vibrant strands. Impatient, I pushed the thought aside.
Jack had always sported a dark, brooding look when it met his needs. It was his trademark. But even he knew his real charm was his charisma. It drew women and men to him like bees to honey—women to his dark beauty and men to his easy nature and laid-back attitude.
When he had been younger and gotten into mischief, which, according to Claire, had been way too often, she’d tell him that he had the looks and temperament of one of God’s dark angels—the ones who had fallen from grace. But no matter what he did, Jackie knew how to charm his way out of any kind of trouble. Even trouble with Claire.
She had been a pretty religious woman, but according to Charlie, Jack would just laugh and buzz Claire’s cheek with those magnificent lips of his, pick her up and swing her around, and before he’d set her down, she would be all flustered and red. She’d swat at him and forgive him within seconds. Like everyone else in his life, she’d been unable to stay mad at him.
No one could stay mad at Jack. No one except me, that is.
As far as I could tell, the only clue that he was closing in on thirty-five were a few gray hairs mixed in with the dark strands along the sides of his head. The fact that they only made him look sexier set my teeth on edge. If there was one thing O’Brien didn’t need, it was something that made him look sexier.
He leaned forward, his muscular legs, long and lean, spread slightly apart, showcasing a tight ass in worn jeans. Angry, I pulled my gaze up above his waist. No way did I want him turning around and finding my eyes glued to his ass. The Jack I knew would take too much delight in that particular scenario.
We had a history together, Jack and me. A very intimate history. But the last thing I wanted was for him to think I regretted walking out on him nine years ago when he testified against Charlie. It was his testimony that had put the final nail in Charlie’s career coffin, information that guaranteed that he was stripped of his badge, gun and thirty years of retirement benefits with the police department.
The clerk behind the desk said something and nodded her head in my direction. I could see Jack shift his powerful body, and I ducked behind the curtain, breathing deep in an attempt to keep from passing out. Please let him have the decency to leave when he realizes I’m in the room.
I held my breath and waited.
A few moments passed and then, “Hello, Chili.”
The voice was deep and gravel-rough around the edges. It was a sound so familiar that my traitorous nerve endings flared with a deep buried swoon of delight. I squashed the feeling with a viciousness that would have surprised even Attila the Hun.
“The name’s Killian. Use it.”
Chili Pepper had been my street name. We won’t get into why; it’s too embarrassing. But the nickname had stuck even after I went to live with Charlie and Claire.
Charlie had used the nickname affectionately, a clever, nurturing man’s attempt to make the scrappy, defiant teen who had invaded his household with swagger, a vulgar mouth and piping hot anger, relax and realize her identity wasn’t about to suddenly disappear simply because she’d ended up in the foster-care system. No one but Charlie had the right to call me by that name…. Okay, maybe Jack used to have that right, but not anymore.
My fingers tightened on Charlie’s hand. Wake up, Pop. Please wake up and rescue me before I make a fool of myself. But Charlie slept on, oblivious to the fact that I needed him more than ever.
I lifted my head and met Jack’s steady gaze. Air cramped in the back of my throat, squeezing it shut, hurting bad. I had to remind myself