beat when they nearly swerved into the ditch.
“Answer it,” he ordered tersely as the phone continued to burr. “And no tricks.”
She fished the cell phone out of her purse. Loudon leaned his head close to hers, listening in.
“Hello?”
“God, ’bout time you answered, pokey,” Beth Ann’s voice complained. “What took you so long?”
When Constance hesitated, Loudon again jerked the wheel. The Jeep’s tires spewed gravel when they brushed the narrow shoulder. She felt her throat tighten with fear.
“I was passing two logging trucks,” she ad-libbed. “I had to wait until I got around them.”
“Oh. How’d it go? Did the guy buy the old Hupenbecker place?”
“He’s still debating, I guess.”
“Sure took you long enough. Is he cute?”
The Jeep hit a slight dip, and Loudon’s cheek brushed hers. She felt the rough masculine feel of his beard shadow. She forced herself to keep her tone light.
“Boys are cute, little sis. Men are handsome.”
“Well, is he handsome?”
“Can’t say,” Constance replied reluctantly but truthfully.
“Woo-woo! Are you still there with him?”
Constance took a sideways glance at Loudon. He shook his head and mouthed the word, no.
“No,” Connie whispered.
“Can’t hear you! We must have a bad connection.” Fuzz backed up Beth Ann’s assessment. “Well, at least the guy wasn’t an ax murderer. I gotta go now. I’m baby-sitting for the Campbells. Later, skater.”
Constance felt her heart sink as she put the phone away. If anything did happen to her, it was Friday and no one would be likely to seriously worry about her absence until Monday when her business associate, Ginny Lavoy, would miss her.
Another hazard, she thought bitterly, of having no love life. There was no one to miss you right away.
“‘Can’t say,’” Loudon repeated, a trace of whimsy mixed with his exhausted tone. “That’s a left-handed compliment if I ever heard one.”
“I didn’t mean to give you even a left-handed one,” she said, dead hope in her voice.
Loudon smirked and checked his watch. “Bad news travels fast,” he told her, turning on the radio to catch the top-of-the-hour news broadcast out of Helena.
The national news came first, the usual litany of political squabbling and natural-disaster news caused by abnormally warm ocean currents. Then the announcer turned to state news.
“The sound of gunfire erupted today at the Federal Court Building in Kalispell. Quinn Loudon, Assistant U.S. Attorney, literally blasted his way to freedom when U.S. Marshals attempted to place him under arrest. Loudon had appeared for pretrial proceedings stemming from charges of bribery and racketeering.
“According to witnesses, during the exchange of fire Loudon was wounded in one leg. He successfully eluded officials and escaped from Kalispell. A massive manhunt is presently underway, according to federal prosecutor Dolph Merriday.
“‘Quinn Loudon has lived a life of deceit,’” Merriday told reporters during a press conference only hours ago, ‘so today’s actions are no real surprise.’ According to Merriday, even Loudon’s superiors at the Justice Department did not realize Loudon’s parents were both career criminals who served long prison sentences.
“‘We caught him in the act, so he blasted up a courthouse to get free,’ Merriday added. ‘But his kind always foul their nests sooner or later.’”
The story was over in thirty seconds and the announcer moved on to other news. Constance felt a sudden numbness at the mention of Loudon’s criminal parents. While nothing in the news story actually contradicted anything he had told her, it lent an official—and damning—authority to the notion that he was a very dangerous felon.
Loudon turned the radio off, cursing softly.
“Well that flat does it,” he declared bitterly. “The bastards broke the knife off in me this time.”
Flat does what, she wondered, frightened by the desperation in his tone.
Loudon lapsed into a brooding silence.
Lance Pollard was right, he told himself. The case against him was indeed all smoke and mirrors.
Unfortunately, a cynical proverb he’d learned in law school was also true: No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people. Smoke and mirrors were enough to convict a man. Well, no doubt Schrader and Whitaker were dancing on his grave already. But damn them, anyway. He wasn’t in it just yet.
Constance had said nothing. Now, as he fell quiet, the awkward silence became unbearable.
“Now, at least, I understand your steamroller methods,” she told him. “This is obviously a very big deal if it led the state news.”
“I know what you’re thinking. There were two unpleasant details I left out of my story to you. Two details called my mother and father.”
The bitterness and hurt in his voice made her think of the pain Doug Huntington had caused her. What if she had been branded a criminal because she slept with one?
“Since when did children get automatic criminal status from their parents?” she asked coolly.
“They don’t. It was a cheap shot by Merriday.”
“Yes. And besides, you deserve credit for having done a lot in the criminal world all by yourself.”
He flinched. Then he almost laughed. “You are one difficult woman. And your damned sense of fair play only makes what I’m doing right now that much more reprehensible. Truly I’m sorry, Miss Adams, I really am. I just…I had no choice but to drag you into this. They didn’t mention on the radio that Sheriff Cody Anders is missing either. I don’t want to go missing like he did, so it’s got to be this way.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered bitterly, not looking at him.
“You still don’t believe me, right?” he pushed.
“No,” she admitted.
After a long silence, he replied inexplicably, “Good girl. You didn’t even know me until a little while ago.” His voice almost seemed to be fading like a weak radio signal.
They passed through the bright glow of a yard light, and she noticed the haggard pockets under his eyes.
He’s exhausted, she thought, and he’s probably lost a lot of blood.
Even as she felt pity welling inside her, a more practical side of her warned against it. Ask every convict in a prison, and he’ll swear he’s innocent, she reminded herself. This was not a field trip they were on; she was his unwilling hostage.
He lapsed into silence, either dozing or close to it. She watched the blacktop streak past under the headlight beams, trying not to dwell on Dolph Merriday’s troubling words: Quinn Loudon has lived a life of deceit.
Constance wasn’t sure how long her passenger had dozed. She suddenly started when his voice abruptly ended the quiet inside the Jeep.
“Where are we?”
“About ten miles west of Bighorn Falls.”
“Is that all?” he complained.
“I’m driving the nighttime speed limit. Would you like me to go faster?”
“No,” he said irritably. Montana state troopers were notoriously vigilant after dark.
“You insisted