full reports done on me,” he replied, his dark eyes burning with a death wish kind of disregard. “If I bite the bullet, you can just tell the powers that be that I died fighting.”
Laura ventured a glance at his grandfather and saw the worry in the old man’s eyes. That same concern strengthened her spine and gave her the courage to reason with him. “But we don’t know who you’re fighting this time.”
“I’ve never known who I’ve been fighting.” Paco graced her with a long, hard stare before he pivoted and headed toward the back of the building. “Stay put and lock both doors. Don’t come out until you hear me calling.”
Paco crept through the flat desert, willing himself to blend in with the countryside. The black shirt wasn’t very good camouflage but it would have to do. If he could make it around the back way and surprise the gunman, he’d have a chance of figuring out who was out there and why.
So he did a slow belly-crawl through the shrubs and thickets, careful to watch for snakes and scorpions. Stopping to catch his breath underneath a fan palm, he held still and did a scan of the spot where his grandfather had indicated the shooter might be hiding. A cluster of prickly pear cacti stood spreading about four feet high and wide alongside a cropping of Joshua trees centered on the rise of the foothills leading toward a small mesa. But Paco didn’t see anything or anyone moving out there.
Thinking maybe the culprit was hiding much in the same way as he, Paco slid another couple of feet, careful to be as silent as possible. The sun had moved up in the sky and even though it was November, the desert’s temperature had moved right along with it. Sweat beaded on his forehead and poured down his face. His shirt was now damp and dusty. He could taste the sand, feel it in his eyes. For a minute, he was back on that mountainside, waiting, just waiting for the enemy to make a move.
But fifteen minutes later, Paco hadn’t seen any signs of human life in this desolate desert. So he threw a clump of rocks toward the thicket and waited for a hail of bullets to hit him.
Nothing.
Grunting, Paco lifted to a crouch, his gun aimed at the Joshua trees a few feet ahead. He was a trained sniper so he didn’t think the other guy would stand a chance. But then, he’d been wrong before.
Laura hated the silence of this place.
Walter Rainwater didn’t talk. Not at all. If she asked a question, he’d answer “Yes”, “No” or “We’ll wait for Paco.”
She was tired of waiting for Paco. So she got up to look out the window for the hundredth time. “He should have been back by now.”
A hand on her arm caused her to spin around. Tugging Laura toward a booth, Paco said, “We need to talk.”
Surprised and wondering more than a little bit how he’d snuck up on her, she pulled a notebook from the shoulder bag she’d managed to hang on to in all the chaos. Maybe the episode outside had triggered something in Paco.
But she was wrong. “Put that away,” he said, pushing at the notebook. “We’re not talking about me. I need to ask you a few questions. We have to figure out who’s trying to kill you.”
Laura took in his dirty shirt and the sweat beads on his skin. “Did you find someone?”
He shook his head, took the water his grandfather sat on the table. “No. Whoever was there is gone now. I found shell casings and tracks, footprints out toward the highway.” Then he handed her a dirty business card. “I did find this.”
Laura looked down at the piece of paper then gulped air. “That’s one of my cards.”
His smirk held a hint of accusation. “Yeah, saw your name right there on it. But nothing after that. I guess once we managed to get inside here, they left. But I don’t think they dropped this card by accident. They wanted you to know they were here.”
“But why?”
Instead of answering, he drank the water down, giving Laura plenty of time to take in his slinky, spiky bangs and slanted unreadable eyes while she wondered about why the shooter had left her business card.
He put the glass down and met her gaze head-on. “I think you know why. Ready to tell me the truth?”
“Me?” Shocked, Laura drew back, her head hitting the vinyl of the booth. “I told you as far as I know, no one’s after me.”
Paco leaned across the table, his expression as black as his eyes. “Yes, ma’am, someone is after you. Another inch and your rental car’s windshield would still be intact. But you’d probably be dead.” He sat back, his big hands centered against the aged oak of the table. “Now, think real hard and tell me if you’ve had any hard-case patients lately.”
“None, other than you,” she replied, the triumph she should have felt disappearing at the ferocious glare in his eyes.
“Look, lady, I didn’t ask you to come here. And up until about an hour ago, no one cared about me or what I’m doing. This place is about as remote as you can get. So I figure someone tailed you here and waited for the right opportunity to shoot at you. And that means you’ve probably got an unstable client out there with an ax to grind. So quit insulting me and think real hard about some of the people you’ve counseled lately.” He leaned over the table again, his tone soft and daring. “Besides me.”
Laura stared across at him, wondering how he could stay so calm when they were sitting here with a possible sniper still on the loose. “I don’t have a clue—”
“Think about it,” he said in that deep, low voice that sent ripples of awareness down her spine. “How many people have you talked to in say, the last three or four months?”
“Too many to tell,” she retorted. “I’d have to have access to my files.”
“You mean by computer?”
“Yes.” She tapped her big purse. “I didn’t bring my laptop with me. Besides, I can’t download every case history I have on file.”
Paco pulled a slick phone out of his pocket. “What if I get us some help?”
“But no one has access to my patient files. That’s confidential.”
“I know someone who can break into those files.”
She shook her head. “I can’t allow that. My clients trust me.”
“That won’t matter if you’re dead.”
The man certainly cut right to the chase.
“Who are you going to call?”
“Kissie Pierre. You’ve probably heard of her. She keeps computer records on all the CHAIM agents and she keeps files on anyone who has any dealings with those agents. And that includes counselors.”
“The Woman at the Well. But she can’t help us with this type of thing.”
“If you give her some names, she’ll be able to crack your files and compare notes.”
“Confidentially?”
“Yes, completely
