Behind The Mask. Metsy Hingle

      “No thanks. I know what you guys earn, and it’s not enough.”

      Hennessey made a dismissive sound. “You expect me to believe that money is all that motivates you?”

      “You should, because it’s the truth.”

      “That’s a load of crap. You were a cop. A man doesn’t become a cop or an agent for the money. You do it for times like tonight—because you want to be able to help people. You can’t make me believe that saving that woman tonight wasn’t a lot more gratifying than tracking down some deadbeat,” Hennessey pointed out.

      “I don’t give a damn what you believe. As for gratification, I got a hell of a lot of gratification when the last jerk I tracked down was thrown in jail for fraud after he bilked an old lady out of her life savings. And I got paid a fat fee for doing it.”

      “You can cut the act, Sullivan. You and I both know that if you really liked hiring yourself out as a P.I. you wouldn’t have offered your services to the Bureau pro bono when they were hunting that serial killer a few months ago. And from what I heard, it wasn’t the first time you’ve done that.”

      Michael shrugged. “Just trying to be civic-minded,” he said, not wanting to admit that while the money was good and some of his cases left him with a feeling of accomplishment, many of them didn’t. He did it for the money. Money for Janie and Pete’s boys.

      As for the work he occasionally did for the feds, in a roundabout way, he did it for his brother Travis. After all, Travis was a federal agent. Besides, it was also a way for him to keep his skills sharp and his contacts strong. And if that sounded a bit too pat, he could live with it. What he didn’t want to do—refused to do despite his brother’s prodding—was examine his motivations too closely. He couldn’t afford to—not with Janie and Pete’s boys depending on him.

      “That’s a line of bull, and you know it,” Hennessey told him.

      “Listen, believe whatever you want,” Michael said. “But if we’re through here, I’d like to wrap this up so I get on my way.”

      “Hot date?”

      “No, a hot client. One who’s offering me a big fat fee to find his runaway wife.” Or at least Michael hoped Webster would still be offering him that fat fee—if he hadn’t already hired someone else.

      “All right. But you’ll need to come into headquarters and make a statement about what happened here tonight, and you’ll need to be available to testify at Dozier’s trial.”

      “All right.”

      “Make sure you give my people a number where they can reach you.”

      “Will do,” Michael said, and started toward the state troopers in order to finish with them before heading to police headquarters.

      “Sullivan?”

      Michael stopped, turned and looked over at Hennessey. “Yeah?”

      “When you get tired of playing bloodhound for the rich and overprivileged, give me a call.”

      “I keep telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Hennessey. I like being my own boss—and I like making a lot of money.”

      “Money isn’t what made you tackle that gorilla in that store tonight and risk getting your brains beaten out. You did it because at your core, you’re still a cop. You believe in protecting the weak and fighting for justice.”

      Michael scowled at him. “I hate to rain on this parade of yours, but I did what anyone would have done if they’d walked in on that monster and seen what he was doing to that girl.”

      “Most people would have called for help—not taken on a guy who was armed and outweighed them by at least a hundred pounds.”

      “That’s because most people have more sense than I do.” Not at all happy with the tenor of the conversation, Michael added, “I’m no hero, Hennessey. Don’t make me out to be one. I acted on instinct. Taking down Dozier was part stupidity, part dumb luck. If I’d failed, he might have killed that girl.”

      “And if you hadn’t stepped in, he would have killed her for sure.”

      Michael let out an exasperated breath. “Is there a point here?”

      “Yeah. The point is that when you stop running from whatever demons are chasing you, let me know.” He stuffed a card in the pocket of Michael’s chambray shirt. “You could make a difference.”

      Michael removed the card from his shirt pocket, crumpled it in his fist, and walked away. Regardless of what Hennessey thought, saving that girl tonight had been dumb luck, just as he’d claimed. He’d gotten out of the hero business when he’d turned in his badge. From now on, he was in it for the bucks.

      Two

      “No,” Lily murmured as she tossed and turned in her sleep. “No,” she repeated, her heart beating faster and faster, her head moving from side to side in denial. “Adam, no!”

      Suddenly she jerked upright in the bed. Breath heaving, she scrambled back up against the headboard and pulled her knees up to her chest. Still shaken by the nightmare, she buried her face against her knees and waited for the trembling to stop. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

      It was a dream. Just a dream.

      She repeated the words like a litany in her head until the worst of the terror had passed. Despite the coolness of the room, sweat beaded her forehead. Fumbling for the lamp on the bedside table, she switched it on. A whimper slipped past her lips when light spilled across the room, chasing away the shadows and darkness to reveal her surroundings.

      She wasn’t in the massive king-size bed with the ornate mahogany scrolls. She was in the small, plain bed with a simple pewter headboard. There was no damask duvet stretched across the foot of her bed, only a colorful comforter with a bright rose pattern. Following the familiar ritual that enabled her to shake off the paralyzing fear that always followed the nightmare, she curled her fingers into the sheets. White, bargain-priced cotton sheets, she assured herself. No colored satin, no rare eight-hundred-count Egyptian blend that was softer than a sigh against the skin, but had cost more than it would take to feed a family of four for a month.

      Clutching one of those plain sheets in her fist, Lily closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She and Timmy were safe. They were in New Orleans—not Miami. They were in the rented shotgun house they’d lived in for more than two months now—not in the palatial prison that had been their home. And she was no longer Elisabeth Webster, wife of wealthy Florida nightclub owner/businessman and philanthropist Adam Webster. She was now Lily Tremont, a widow with an almost-three-year-old son who worked as a waitress at the River Bend Diner. They were safe, she reminded herself. She and Timmy were safe. Adam didn’t know where they were.

      Finally, when her heartbeat and breathing were almost normal again, Lily opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. She sighed. Dawn was more than four hours away, but she knew from experience that she wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore tonight. Not when the memories remained so close to the surface.

      And just as she always did whenever the nightmares came, she slipped out of bed and went to check on Timmy. Easing open the door to his bedroom, she tiptoed over to his bed and looked down at the sandy-haired little boy who was her life. Clad in his favorite Spider-Man pajamas, Timmy lay curled on his side, clutching his ever-present teddy bear in his arms. Satisfied that he was safe, Lily adjusted the covers he’d kicked off with hands that were still unsteady. Annoyed with herself for the weakness, she pressed a kiss to the top of Timmy’s head and exited the room.

      Now that she knew Timmy was safe, the worst of the panic was over. But not the memories that always came flooding back whenever she had the dream. Retreating to the bathroom, she closed the door and turned on the shower. When the water was as hot as she could stand it, Lily stripped