She had no control, not even over her own body. Her breathing was hectic. She knew her face was flushed. His flint-colored eyes moved from her blushing cheeks to her breasts and in an attempt to explain their noticeable physical reaction, she said, “I’m angry. That’s all.”

“Yeah? Remind me to keep you angry.”

Smarting, she said, “Look, I’m sick of your manhandling and your lewd innuendos. This isn’t some kind of…”

When she failed to come up with an appropriate word, he arched an eyebrow. “Some kind of…what?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Kinnard. And make no mistake. If I get a chance to kill you, I will.”

He watched her for a moment. “Noted.”

He made to go around her, but then stopped suddenly and cupped her chin in his palm, forcing her head back. He ran his thumb across her lower lip. “Make no mistake. If I decide to turn this into something of that kind, Jordie, I won’t use innuendos. I’ll tell you straight out that I’m gonna fuck you.”

Josh stared into the flickering television, which was the only light he allowed himself this evening.

Two images of him flashed onto the screen. Even he was shocked by the difference in his appearance from what it had been six months ago.

Jordie had gotten all the advantageous genes, even the good looks. His had never been anything to brag about, but he really looked pathetic in the drawing they were showing on TV. It was only a sketch done by a police artist, but…still.

No wonder the security on him had become lax. Who would’ve predicted that a scrawny dork who looked like him could pull a big one like this over on some of Uncle Sam’s best?

He had. He should be taking a bow, toasting himself for the outstanding achievement.

Instead, as with the night before in the drab room of the motor court, after seeing the two faces of Joshua Bennett side by side on the evening news, his self-congratulatory state and self-confidence took a nosedive.

He directed his thoughts away from the artist’s rendering and focused on what was being said about him. The anchorman rehashed the story Josh had seen in the convenience store during the noon hour about what had taken place last night in a bar outside his hometown of Tobias.

That story was followed by a recap of the Panella-Bennett fraud case and the events of six months ago. But that was only to remind people of who he was and why his being at large was newsworthy.

Presently, he was described as the “development” in “this ongoing and bizarre case,” which had ultimately resulted in the murder of suspected killer-for-hire Mickey Bolden, and the “likely but as yet unconfirmed kidnapping” of local businesswoman Jordan Bennett.

When the news went to a commercial, Josh muted the audio and stared vacantly at the screen while assessing how Jordie’s kidnapping might impact his carefully laid plans, because he certainly hadn’t counted on that happening.

What was particularly galling? The FBI, in their determination to recapture him, had exploited it. Joe Wiley, with Hickam standing square-jawed in the background, had read a statement from behind a miked podium in the lobby of the FBI field office. The agent hadn’t come right out and pointed a finger at him, but his implication had been that Josh must shoulder blame for his sister’s misfortune. That was playing dirty pool.

“It’s obvious that Mr. Bennett didn’t think through the potential consequences of his flight.” With all the gaiety of a foghorn, Wiley went on to say how snitches who reneged oftentimes didn’t live very long. “I don’t believe Mr. Bennett realizes the peril he’s placed his sister in. Nor does he recognize the jeopardy to himself. I urge him to surrender. He’s safe only while in our custody.”

He was warning of reprisal from Panella, of course. “Subtle as a sledgehammer,” Josh said to the silent TV, scoffing the FBI agent’s transparent scare tactics. Josh had already outfoxed that fox, hadn’t he? “So up yours, Agent Wiley.”

But his bravado was halfhearted at best. He couldn’t wholly dismiss Wiley’s warning. The bald truth? He had created a hazardous situation for himself. In fact, thinking about it made him a little queasy.

His gaze was drawn to the cell phone lying on the table. He was tempted to pick it up and call Jordie’s number just to see what he’d get, if anything. But, as before, he nixed the idea. In the unlikely event that this guy Kinnard—who the hell was he, anyway?—had left her phone behind when he took her, the risk of calling it was great. He envisioned Wiley and Hickam and God knew who else huddled around it just waiting for it to ring so they could trace the call straight to his current location.

Geographically he was a little too close for comfort to chance that.

Otherwise, he felt reasonably secure about his hiding place, which had been waiting for him against the day when he would make good his escape plan. He’d prepared well. Before being hauled away to Tennessee, he paid the utility bills for a year in advance. He’d made certain the pantry and freezer were stocked. The food was six months old, but he’d never paid much attention to expiration dates and had probably eaten older.

Sooner or later, one of the people with whom he’d crossed paths since Tuesday would connect the hitchhiking burnout to Josh Bennett, accused felon, turned informant, turned fugitive.

If the cashier or the blowhard in the convenience store IDed him, the authorities would know he was back in the state. But from that Hicksville store, he’d covered his tracks well.

Beneath the huge oak tree in the woods, he’d made slight alterations in his appearance. From there, it was a three-mile walk to a public storage facility where he’d left a car six months ago. He’d waited until no one was around, then had opened his storage unit and reconnected the car’s battery cables, and with minor encouragement, the engine had kicked on.

Sure, there were security cameras all over the place, but he’d taken measures to prevent them from being a problem. If by some miracle, he was identified entering the place on foot and leaving in a vehicle, he had switched license plates twice on the way here, so he was confident they would never find him.

There wasn’t a person alive who would think to look for him here, not even Jordie. The nearest occupied property was over two miles away. As long as he kept to the ground floor, and used only a minimum of light each night, he should be okay here indefinitely.

Jordie’s kidnapping was an unexpected snag, but he couldn’t let it unravel him. He wouldn’t let it unravel him. He only had to hang in there until he could implement the last step of his plan. Then he would be clear and worry free forever.

However, the context of Joe Wiley’s sound bite was spoiling his optimism. What did the FBI know that he didn’t?

Something about Panella that would trigger another avenue of investigation?

Something about Jordie’s abduction that they weren’t sharing with the media?

The TV had a DVR. He had recorded the newscast. He watched it again now.

And then again, and once more, becoming a little more paranoid and panicked each time Joe Wiley said, “the potential consequences of his flight…”

Chapter 16

After what Shaw had said, Jordie had difficulty looking him in the eye. In her peripheral vision, she saw him pull the familiar knife from his pocket. Then he stood there, waiting.