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“The Major has.”
“He was oblivious to it until I made him aware. Then he accused me of being addled by envy. He pooh-poohed the notion, leaving me the one who’s had to live with the dread of somebody capping him, and, believe me, living in constant fear of impending peril sucks. It makes you drink too much, work too little, trash friendships, fuck anything, and crack cynical jokes, all in order to get through just one more day. You don’t want to become like me, do you?”
She bent her head down and rubbed her temple.
He put his hand on her knee. “Sorry about the wild ride. Are you dizzy?”
“No.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“Only when I think this hard.”
“Then stop thinking. Tell me to carry on.”
She raised her head and looked at him. “Carry on? Carry on with this escapade in a stolen SUV? People call Clyde the psychopath, but in my opinion, it was Bonnie who was crazy.”
“Do you want the story behind the bombing or not?”
“Of course I want the story. But this…” She raised her hands helplessly. “This…is insane.”
It wasn’t that she doubted his conviction or the feasibility of his theory. But she had lived a structured, planned life. Each step had been charted. The single timetable not devised by her had been that of her father’s death. Only that had been left to fate—her father’s, not hers.
Kerra Bailey set goals and stuck to the program to achieve them. She didn’t go chasing off into the night with a man of dubious reputation, who acted on impulse, whom she knew to be a trickster and liar, whom she’d met barely a week ago when he’d been too hung over to stand upright.
So just what the hell was she doing here? “I could get the story without becoming a fugitive in the process.”
“You could. Possibly. With or without me, you’ll be
come more famous than you already are.”
“Does that gall you? That I’ll get credit for research you’ve done?”
“No,” he said, peeved. “I was just thinking that it’s too bad your mother isn’t alive to bask in your success.”
She recoiled. “That was a heartless thing to say.”
“Damn straight, it was, Kerra,” he said with anger. “Even more heartless is the bastard behind her murder. Don’t you want to see him held accountable? The three you know as the Pegasus bombers were errand boys. They were sent to do the dirty work of a man who conspired to kill your mother and one hundred ninety-six others. And I’m certain he sent those two to kill The Major on Sunday night.”
“They could have been burglars who overreacted when he went to the door.”
“They were puppets. Dispensable, and, since they failed, probably already dispensed with.”
“You’re guessing, Trapper. You don’t know. Maybe they were vagrants. Two…two…addicts looking for drug money. Or…”
She searched but couldn’t think of a plausible alternative to his explanation, and, in her heart, knew the men on the other side of that door hadn’t been wanderers or crackheads. Trapper was watching her as though following her thoughts. “You truly believe I was a pop-up that the individual behind the Pegasus bombing didn’t expect.”
“Yes, Kerra. If you were any ol’ reporter who’d finally coaxed an interview out of The Major, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation. But you were inside the Pegasus Hotel when it was bombed.”
“I was a child.”
“Not anymore. You’re a smart, savvy woman who has a great big spotlight shining on her. As long as you’re alive, you represent a threat.”
“Who is the puppeteer?”
“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Is he aware of your suspicion?”
