Hall, Jessica by Into the Fire Page A

body.
    J. D. could call the station and explain how the only witness to
Marc LeClare's death had just stolen a car, and wait for backup. Or he could
catch her.
    He didn't even have to think about it.
    A minute later J. D. caught up with Sable on the highway, but kept
back three car lengths so she wouldn't spot him. He knew where she was
headed—the Atchafalaya, just as she had the night of the dance.
    Only this time, she'd made a serious mistake.
    Sable probably thought he was still some lovesick boy who couldn't
see straight around her. She didn't realize he'd spent the last ten years
dealing with death and destruction. Tracking down killers had changed him, had
removed every ounce of pity from him, and had tempered him into what he was: an
efficient, coldblooded hunter.
    She could run all she
wanted, but there was no place on this earth where she could hide from him now.
     
    Terri took the predicted chewing out from Pellerin alone and in
silence, only speaking up when required to answer. Like the press conference,
it had not gone well, mainly because no one could get in touch with J. D., and
the hospital still hadn't called back with any prognosis on Sable.
    "I don't care if her brains are leaking out of her
ears," the captain said toward the end of his rant. "You get on over
to Mercy, have them slap on whatever Band-Aids she needs, and bring her back
here for questioning. She stays in protective custody until we get the autopsy
on LeClare, and no one—including her—talks to the press unless they clear it
through me. I want a full progress report typed on my desk in two hours. Are
you straight on this, Sergeant?"
    Terri would have to get J. D. to do the reports, if she could pry
his hands off their witness long enough for him to type them. He owed her for
this. "Yes, sir."
    Pellerin's phone rang for the fifth time since Terri had entered
his office, and he gave it a disgusted look. "Go on, get outta here."
    Terri escaped the station house and headed for her car, lighting a
cigarette on the way. She'd been meaning to try to quit again since the
beginning of the year, but nicotine withdrawal turned her into a total bitch,
and she figured she was doing the world a favor by waiting until she went on
vacation.
    Only now she wouldn't get any downtime until they cleared the
LeClare case—which wouldn't be soon, unless Isabel started remembering
something. And then there was the very strong possibility that Terri might have
to break in a new partner.
    Good-bye, vacation. She took a deep drag and
then released the acrid smoke from her lungs on a sigh. She really did need to
quit, and soon. I sure hope she's worth it, J.D.
    "Terri."
    She swung around, expecting to see her partner. "Where the
fu—" She cut herself off as soon as she met green eyes instead of blue.
Every emotional wall inside her went into full lockdown. "That was
quick." As a couple of uniforms stopped to chat outside the main station
entrance a few feet away, she took another drag from her cigarette, making the
tip flare. "You appropriate a plane for yourself, Marshal?"
    Chief Fire Marshal Cortland Gamble looked the way he usually
did—pressed, polished, and pissed-off. He was a few inches taller than J. D.
and a little broader in the chest, and his hair was brown instead of black.
Otherwise he could have been his brother's twin.
    All except the expression on his face, and his mouth. The
expression said he ate smart-ass female detectives for breakfast. The mouth said
he'd start at the toes and work his way up.
    Quit thinking about his mouth.
    "Come here." He took her arm and hauled her around the
side of the building, out of hearing range. "What's going on? Where the
hell is my brother?"
    "Easy on the jacket. It's dry-clean only." She eased
herself from his grip. "J. D.'s over at the hospital, getting our
witness patched up." She glanced at her watch. "I've been taking
messages for him all day, though. Why don't I have him call you when he gets
back?"
    "Why