Chapter 5
But he’d not dreamed about the code. He’d dreamed about sliding his hand up under a white lace dress and along sun-kissed legs. He’d dreamed of stroking her and watching her climax.
A knock on his door had him sitting straighter and raising his gaze to Ranger Brody Winchester. He’d known Winchester from their days working the border area. “So did you find Dr. Thompson?”
Lucas sat back in his chair. “I did. And she thinks she’s close to cracking the code.”
Winchester shook his head as if he’d just heard a tall tale. “Is that so?”
“Smart as a whip.”
“Jo said she was the best in her field.”
“She had some trouble at her home last night. A couple of odd texts, and someone tried to break into her house.”
Brody folded his arms over his chest, his good humor vanishing. “Think this has to do with the code?”
“I do. She doesn’t. Suggested it could be a guy she dated a couple of years ago.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“Trouble really started after I passed off the documents to her. That’s just too much of a coincidence for my taste. I’ve stepped up police patrols in her neighborhood, and she has promised to call today with her findings. She has a family party tonight and can’t put it aside.”
“Does she have theories about the meaning behind the coded messages?”
“Says she’ll know once she’s cracked the key.” He drew in a breath. “We’re close.”
“Damn.” Brody shook his head. “If we can read these messages we’ll be able to break this drug smuggling ring before it gets a foothold. We’ll put this new dealer out of business for good.”
Lucas drew in a breath, trying to break the stranglehold of tension banding his chest. “Lot riding on the good doctor.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Will do.”
After Brody left, Lucas traced the number that had sent the texts to Marisa.
Took less than a few minutes to discover the phone was a burner.
Untraceable. Whoever was trying to get to Marisa wasn’t a complete novice, though he doubted the person was aligned with the cartels.
If the cartels saw her as a threat, she’d be dead.
A car explosion. A stray bullet. They didn’t waste time with cryptic messages.
They acted. So why the need to rattle her cage?
He thought about the man she’d dated a couple of years ago. A background check was already in the works. One way or another, he’d get to the bottom of this mess.
The wrapped presents piled haphazardly in the backseat of Marisa’s car wouldn’t win any beauty contests.
She’d gone back to the office early and meant to stop work by midday to wrap the gifts.
But just as she’d pushed away from her desk, she’d had a major breakthrough.
Much like finding the key piece of a puzzle that joined large but separate sections, she’d found the component that had broken the text.
She hastily translated meaningless symbols into words and sentences.
Before long, she’d had two messages completely translated.
She’d been ready to dial Lucas’s number when she’d glanced at the clock and realized it was past five. As much as work called, the pull of family jerked at her. She’d quickly locked her papers in her desk drawer and scurried home.
After a quick shower, and hair still damp, she’d put on minimal makeup and shimmied into her go-to simple black dress.
The gifts for her father and stepmother had been easy enough to wrap—nice square boxes.
But the trucks, well, she’d been forced to wind wrapping paper around them and slap tape on each crease and corner.
The red and green Santa paper was at least festive.
Hair drying, Marisa gripped the steering wheel of her sedan as she took the exit off I-35 into the Texas Hill Country.
The closer she drove to her father’s country house, the tighter her stomach became.
Her mind tripped back to the night her father had argued with her mother and declared he could no longer live with a woman who only cared about her work.
Her mother had been a history professor and her father a professor of psychology.
They’d met at the University of California Berkeley, but it had been her mother’s career that had brought them to Texas.
Her father had eventually landed a job at the university, but he’d felt as if he wallowed in his wife’s shadow.
She was a rising star in Mayan archaeology.
By the time Marisa had turned seven, her father’s resentment and anger no longer simmered but boiled.
Too much wine on Christmas Eve had fueled the last and final argument.
He’d been annoyed because her mother had half-decorated the tree and had failed to make the tamales that had become a holiday tradition since their move to Texas.
She’d been working as always, lost in her dusty papers, when he’d confronted her.
She’d not understood his outburst and quickly had become annoyed because it had taken her away from her work.
He’d moved out and it would be almost a month before Marisa saw him again.
When he came to see her the first time, it had been a chilly January day.
He’d driven her to his new apartment, a barren and sterile place.
He’d made a room for her, and though he’d decorated it with pinks and yellows, it wasn’t her room.
He’d pulled out a brightly wrapped gift and told her he was sorry her Christmas present was late.
Marisa could still remember peeling back the neatly wrapped paper and finding a carbon copy of the doll she kept at home. “You can keep her here,” he’d said.
She’d stared at the doll, marveling and hating its perfection at the same time. Her real doll had smudges on her arms and her doll’s dress was stained and dirtied from so much holding. That doll she loved. This doll was as strange and scary as the apartment.
She never spent Christmas Eve or Christmas Day with her dad, a point her mother had demanded at the custody hearing. It was always the week before or the week after.
She glanced at the clock on the dash. If she hustled she would cover forty-five minutes worth of road in thirty.
Twenty-three years had passed since that sad Christmas, and still she and her father never saw each other on Christmas Day.
After she turned eighteen, her mother always found a reason to travel with Marisa over Christmas.
She’d never put up another tree again, and though she gave Marisa a gift, she always claimed it had nothing to do with Christmas.
Though her mother had died seven years ago, Marisa had found her dislike of the holiday lingered.
Shifting in her seat, she tried to embrace the positive. She really tried. But the more she thought about the coming gathering and the explosion of reds and greens waiting for her, the more somber she grew.
Shoving out a breath, she shifted her thoughts from the holidays to Lucas’s puzzle, the one she’d cracked. She took pride in the accomplishment, remembering Lucas’s stunned face when she’d told him she’d nearly broken his secret messages.
She fished her cell phone out of her purse on the passenger seat.
Excitement stirred with an energy she’d not felt in a long time.
Reminding herself it had to do with the code and not Lucas, she punched in his number.
As she readied to hit SEND, she noticed the headlights in her rearview mirror.
She glanced at her speedometer and realized she was driving a little slow and assumed the driver behind her was impatient.
She sped up and focused on her driving. The headlights faded into the distance.
She hit SEND and after one ring his crisp, deep voice echoed in her ear. “Lucas Cooper.”
“It’s Marisa. Marisa Thompson.”
“I know who Marisa is,” he said, his voice heavy with an unnamed emotion.
She swallowed, pushing aside the feelings she’d had in Merida when they’d been together. Frightening, how alive one person could make another feel. She cleared her throat. “I cracked the code.”
“Really?” The surprised pleasure in his deep voice warmed her heart.
The headlights returned, bright and annoying. “I created the key barely an hour ago.”
“Marisa, that’s great.”
“I’ll be back in town early in the morning, and I’ll come by your office to review what I’ve discovered.”
“Excellent.”
The headlights grew closer, and she checked her speed. She was driving exactly five miles over the speed limit. She glared into the mirror as if willing the driver to back off. The other driver drew closer and closer.
“Marisa?”
Lucas’s deep voice cut through her worries. “Sorry. Look, I don’t want to sound paranoid, but there’s someone right behind me on my bumper. I’m on Route 290 headed to Fredericksburg.”
“How close is the car?” His voice had dropped and a low menace hummed under the words.
“Five or ten feet.”
“I’m calling the sheriff’s office and having them send a car in your direction.”
As much as she didn’t want to sound the alarm bells again, now was not the time to wonder if she’d made a mistake. The car edged closer and in a split second it bumped her back bumper. “He just hit me.”
“What?” She imagined him standing and reaching for his gun as he headed for the door.
“He bumped my bumper.”
“Speed up.”
“I’m tossing the phone in my lap.”
“Keep me on the line.”
She gripped the wheel with both hands, the instruments of her dash lit up by the glare of the other car’s headlights.
Despite her increased speed, the car caught up to her again.
This time it hit her harder. Her car swerved left before she made a hard correction to the right to keep the tires on the road.
If there had been another car approaching in the other lane . . .
Heart hammering, she refused to consider what might have happened. She pushed on the accelerator. Again, more inches separated her from the other car and, again, the gap closed as the stranger matched her speed.
This time the car cut left and quickly came up on her driver’s side.
She glanced over, but shadows obscured the other driver’s face.
Before she could think to speed up or slow down, the car jerked into her lane, and this time when she swerved, she couldn’t correct in time.
Her car ran off the road, banging over a ditch and plunging along a rocky ravine toward the dry bed of a creek. She screamed.