Don't Breathe a Word

by Christie Craig

  “Yes. She’s a good kid.”

  “I know.” Pride rang in her tone.

  “As soon as Jody sends the papers, I’ll bring them to you. And I’ll bring your phone. Do you need anything else?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t want your own pajamas or…underwear?”

  She was quiet for a second. “I hate to ask you to do that.”

  “Why? Don’t want me going through your panty drawer?” He laughed and then instantly worried he’d crossed a line.

  Her chuckle put him at ease.

  “I like hearing you laugh.” His voice deepened as he remembered the evening on the sofa.

  Silence filled the line. “My life’s a mess,” she said. “I’m sorry I dragged you into it.”

  “You didn’t drag me. And for the record, mine’s in chaos, too. Maybe we can help each other sort things out.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very good at sorting.”

  The fact that she had reservations actually made him feel a little better about his own. “Why don’t we just see what happens. Enjoy each other’s company.”

  “I’d like that,” she said, and somehow he could hear the smile in her voice.

  Getting off the phone, he moved to the dining room table and went through the Bates file again. He reread the poem on her sketch pad.

  Oh, my lie. Oh, my sin. Oh, my friend.

  I know my place. Where you stay. Beneath the birds, and where the angels sing.

  Was this about Abby?

  Staring at the sketches of statuary, he went for another slice of pizza and knocked the pizza box onto the floor.

  “Shit!”

  Bell cleared her throat in a scolding manner. Flinching, he glanced back at her. “Sorry.”

  “You owe me a dollar,” Bell said.

  “Huh?”

  “Anytime Mama says a bad word, she has to give me a dollar. One day I made five dollars.”

  He bit back a smile, feeling better about letting the word slip. “Deal.”

  His laptop dinged with an email from Jody. There was an attachment. He just hoped whatever was in that safety deposit box helped implicate Valado, proved he was alive, and took Juan a step closer to making Vicki and Bell safe.

  * * *

  “What kind of shit is this?” Antonio, Rex’s brother, pointed to the radio dial.

  Pablo gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s called classical.” It’s for smart people.

  “Sounds like elevator music.” Antonio changed stations. Antonio was dumber than the tarantulas who parked their asses in the middle of the road and became oily smears.

  Pablo frowned. Offing this idiot was going to feel good.

  The Sonoran Desert was the hottest fucking place in California. The sun beat down on the car. The glare and the temperature caused his head to throb. The car’s air conditioner ran full blast, but he was still sweating.

  Pablo loosened another shirt button. He felt antsy, almost claustrophobic. Killing Antonio and taking the money was sure to bring Rex after his ass. But all along he’d known he’d have to kill Rex—especially after he found his logbook with all of Rex’s contacts and attempted to start his own drug business.

  “Look, there’s another one.” Antonio pointed to the tarantula in the road. “I hate those suckers. Pull over. I want to shoot this one.”

  When Pablo didn’t stop, Antonio grabbed the wheel and swerved the car.

  “Fuck!” Pablo said. “Don’t you know shit like that will blow a tire in this heat?”

  “I said pull over!”

  “It’s a damn spider and it’s a hundred and ten degrees out there!” Just a few more miles and you can hang out with spiders and rats and roaches.

  A glint of anger darkened Antonio’s eyes. “Rex is tired of your shit. He told me to watch you. He heard how you hurt your own kid. That’s sick, man. So unless you want me to tell Rex to get rid of your ass, stop and let me shoot the damn tarantula!”

  Pablo’s chest burned with indignation. Maybe he didn’t need a few more miles. He swung the car around and brought it to a bone-jerking halt.

  Antonio grinned. “Now, wasn’t that easy?”

  “Go shoot it already.” Pablo took in short, tight breaths and rolled down the windows.

  Antonio got out of the car.

  Hot air like angry bees surrounded Pablo. The sun on the side of his face stung. As soon as Antonio turned his back, Pablo brought out his gun and shot the piece of shit. Antonio landed with a thud on the hot road, sounding like a dead squirrel falling from a tree. Pablo knew that sound. He used to shoot ’em when he was a kid. Shooting squirrels was how he’d blow off steam after one of his dad’s beatings. It always calmed him. Especially when he’d pretend it was his old man falling dead.

  Pablo rose up off the seat to make sure Antonio wasn’t moving. He wasn’t. Blood and white matter pooled around his head.

  The man’s last words echoed in Pablo’s mind. Now, wasn’t that easy?

  “Yeah, that was a piece of cake.” Pablo rolled up the windows, changed the radio back to classical music, and with a hundred thousand dollars in the trunk, he turned the car around and headed back to L.A.

  The money wasn’t anywhere near enough, but it would keep him until he found Vicki Trever—found his cash and his book. He smiled. Killing Antonio felt good. But killing Vicki would be more fun.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Juan and Bell walked into Vicki’s hospital room. Vicki, sitting in a chair, looked up. The small room smelled like soap, as if Vicki had just showered.

  She smiled. “Hi.”

  Bell ran over, flapping her dollar bill. “Look. He said the S-word.”

  Vicki cut her eyes at him. “Uh, that’s our deal, sweetheart. Juan doesn’t have to pay.”

  “It’s fine,” Juan said. “Personally, I think it’s brilliant. But I hear you lost five dollars in one day.”

  She half smiled. “Bad day.”

  Grinning, he placed a plastic bag with a nightshirt and underwear on the bed, then sat on the edge. When he looked down, he saw her toenails still bearing Bell’s artwork.

  “I hope you like my selection.” There was only a hint of suggestion in his tone. He’d picked the nightshirt she’d worn when she’d kicked his butt, the one that read ANGEL AT REST.

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” Her cheeks reddened. Even wearing a hospital gown and no makeup, she was beautiful.

  She moistened her lips. The shine left by the quick swipe of her tongue had him recalling their time on her sofa. His mouth on hers.

  “Thank you.” She shifted in her chair.

  “You don’t need to say thank you.”

  “Oh, yes I do. You’re my knight in shining armor.”

  “Like Lancelot?” Bell asked.

  “Yeah,” Vicki said.

  Bell jumped up in the chair beside her mom. “You know, he kissed the queen in that movie. I saw it on TV.”

  “Uh, yes, I think he did.” Vicki’s eyes, carrying a slight smile, met his and held.

  This, the feeling, whatever you called it, was more than a sexual pull. It was…the need to see her smile more often. To protect her. To win her trust. It was respect and attraction, all wrapped up in one. And it still scared and exhilarated him at the same time.

  He recalled questioning his attraction to Vicki earlier and thinking how different she was from Angie. Now he realized how alike they actually were. Not physically. But where it mattered—on the inside.

  Why did it still scare him?

  He stood up. “I brought the paperwork Jody sent about the deposit box. As soon as I get back to my place, I’ll send it to her. But I want to check on my witness during visiting hours. You guys good for a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah. I won’t be long.”

  He hoped Cindy Bates would be able to give him answers soon, so he could find out more on how the Noel case was linked to Valado.


  * * *

  Vicki watched Juan leave, feeling as if she couldn’t get enough air. He really was her knight in shining armor.

  Vicki brushed Bell’s hair from her eyes. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. Don’t tell Juan, because it might hurt his feelings, but he can’t color very well.”

  Vicki chuckled, then her chest was gripped with emotion. “He colored with you?”

  Bell made a funny face and pointed to the page. “He started coloring the dog blue. I fixed it for him. Boys don’t color as good as girls.”

  “Some do,” Vicki said.

  “Not him,” she said. “He can’t even stay in the lines.”

  “Well, you make sure to be good. When I get home we’ll bake him some cookies or make him dinner. A lot of dinners. We owe him big-time.”

  “He likes pizza,” Bell said. “But he’s like me. He doesn’t like vegetables.”

  A laugh escaped Vicki’s lips. “Sounds like you two are getting along great.”

  “We are. I like him.” She swapped colors and started coloring a tree.

  “Me too.” Vicki’s heart took a nosedive.

  “You know what?” Bell asked.

  “What?”

  “When I look at him, I don’t see his scar. I mean, it’s there. I can see it, but I don’t think about it. I wonder if that’s what people would think if they saw my scars.”

  “I’m sure,” Vicki said.

  “Oh!” Bell laughed. “Sweetie pooped in the kitchen.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah, but Juan didn’t get mad. He loves Sweetie a lot.”

  “Yeah. He’s a nice guy.”

  “I know. Too bad he can’t be your boyfriend.” Bell kicked her feet back and forth.

  “You don’t think he can be my boyfriend?” Vicki asked.

  “No. ’Cause he still loves his wife.”

  Vicki’s breath caught on her tonsils. “He told you that?”

  “Yeah. He said it was different than how you can love two mamas.”

  “Oh.” She wished that didn’t sting.

  “She was pretty, too.”

  Vicki swallowed. “You saw a picture of her?”

  “No. A video. She had a baby in her tummy. And she kissed Juan. A big kiss like in the movies. I was changing channels and I used the wrong remote. It came on the TV. He got sad and turned it off. But he didn’t get mad.”

  “Good,” Vicki said. But it didn’t feel good. It hurt knowing Juan had lost so much, and maybe would never be ready to love again.

  * * *

  Juan pushed the double doors of the ICU open. The cold, and maybe hopelessness, in this part of the hospital reminded Juan of the morgue. He spotted room eight and walked in. Cindy Bates lay there. A machine marked her heartbeats. And the tube disappearing into her mouth still forced oxygen into her otherwise lifeless body.

  He stood by her bed, recalling how the nurse had talked to Bates earlier. “Hey. It’s Detective Acosta. Just wanted to stop in and say I’m working the case. Trying to find out who did this.” He hesitated. “By the way, I…saw your paintings. You’re good.”

  “Hello,” a voice came from behind him.

  Flinching, he turned. The woman in her mid-forties wore a white coat. “I, uh, the nurse spoke to her earlier when I was here. I was…”

  She smiled. “You should talk to her. It helps a lot of my patients. I’m Dr. Swain. And you?”

  Juan motioned for her to walk outside.

  “I’m Detective Acosta.”

  “Oh. Is she…?”

  “Just a witness,” he answered. “We’re trying to find out who did this.”

  The doctor nodded. “She’s lucky. Her vitals are looking better. The bullet to the head barely penetrated the skull. The one in the chest did considerable damage, but the surgery repaired everything.”

  “So why is she still unconscious? The nurse said they were doing another MRI.”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, we don’t know why she hasn’t woken up.” She frowned. “She has cuts and bruises on her face from what appears to be from an older injury. Do you know who did that?”

  “He’s in jail.”

  “Good.” Empathy filled her gaze. “She has older needle marks in her arm.”

  “I heard she got clean,” Juan said.

  “Yes. Her blood didn’t show signs of drug use.” She frowned. “My brother was a drug addict. He’s been clean ten years and is doing great, but the only way he did it was with the support of our family.”

  “I’ve seen people deal with it. It’s tough,” Juan said.

  “Since we haven’t seen any other friends or family come by, I’m guessing Cindy probably got clean by herself. That’s admirable. Takes gumption. But I guess sometimes a person needs something to live for. I’m not so sure the girl in that bed has a reason.”

  * * *

  “That’s sad,” Juan told Bell, finishing off chapter twenty-one in Charlotte’s Web. When they’d gone to her house to get her pajamas, she’d grabbed the book and asked if he’d read it to her.

  “The next chapter is better,” Bell said. “Wilbur meets Charlotte’s babies.”

  “Then why didn’t you want to hear that chapter?” he asked.

  She pulled the cover up to her neck. Her eyes looked heavy. “I like this chapter better. ’Cause I like how it makes me feel.”

  He frowned. “You like feeling sad?”

  “No.” She pursed her lips as if thinking. “I like knowing that other people feel sad, too. That I’m not the only one.”

  His chest swelled with the need to fix the brokenness inside of her. But how? “You aren’t the only one. But I don’t think your mama would want you to be sad.”

  She bit down on her lip. “But if I’m happy, won’t I forget about her?”

  Subconsciously, it was what he’d thought, too, after Angie died. “It feels that way, doesn’t it? But I don’t want to think we have to be sad. Tell me something good about your mama.”

  She smiled. “She loved potato chips mixed with ice cream. And she could touch her tongue to her nose.” Bell’s tongue came out, but it didn’t reach her nose.

  He laughed. “See. You remember happy things, too.”

  She yawned. “Tell me something good about your wife. Late wife.”

  He exhaled. “Your mom reminds me of her.”

  “My aunt mama?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then she was nice,” Bell said.

  “Yeah.”

  She petted Sweetie, who was curled up beside her on the sofa, then snuggled deeper into the blankets. She’d begged him to let her sleep here and for him to sleep in the chair, because she didn’t want to sleep in a strange room alone. He’d relented.

  “I’m sleepy,” she said.

  “Go to sleep.” He stood.

  “Juan?” Her sweet little-girl voice barely reached his ears.

  He turned. The shoulder of her nightgown hung down and he saw her scars. If he got the chance, Juan would make sure Valado paid for what he’d done to his daughter. He had to swallow to push out the word. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t like my mama in the hospital, but I like staying here with you and Sweetie.”

  “I like it, too.”

  She rolled over.

  And so did his heart.

  Was this what he would’ve felt for his daughter?

  Juan’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He’d turned the ringer down so as not to wake up Bell. He pulled it out. Jody. Hurrying back into his office, he answered, “Yeah.”

  “We got into the safety deposit box,” Jody said.

  “And?” he asked.

  * * *

  Vicki looked at the clock. It was almost nine. Bell had called an hour ago to say goodnight, and Juan had told her he’d call her when he heard from his law enforcement friend in L.A. She wondered if his not calling meant they’d struck out with the safety deposit box.

  Impatient, she dialed. It rang four times before
he answered. Each ring had her pulse racing faster. If the safety deposit box yielded nothing, would Juan lose faith in her? Reconsider helping her?

  “Hey,” he said. “Sorry, I was still on the line with Jody.”

  “Did she get anything?”

  “We hit the jackpot. The notebook has names, dates, and they’ve already matched several of them to drug buys. It might lead us to finally figuring out who Rex is.”

  “Rex?”

  “The man Valado worked for in California. We believe he’s a big drug supplier.”

  She rolled the edge of the hospital sheet. “Does any of this prove Pablo is alive?”

  “No. Not yet. But it’s a start.”

  When she didn’t say anything, he added, “This is good news, Vicki.”

  Hearing him use her real name was a shock. “I know, it’s just…I want this over with. I’m tired of running. Tired of being afraid he’s going to hurt Bell.” Tears stung her eyes.

  “I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “I know, and I’m indebted to you.” But Bell’s little bombshell about Juan claiming he couldn’t love again had affected her more than she wanted to believe.

  “You’re not indebted to me.”

  “I am. Seriously, I don’t know what I would do right now without you.”

  “I don’t want you to think…”

  “Think what?” she asked.

  “Whatever happens between us should be because it feels right, not out of debt.”

  “It’s pretty clear this thing between us isn’t about obligation.” She bit down on her lip. “I practically threw myself at you.” She closed her eyes and wished she’d kept silent.

  “Oh. I forgot about that.” His laugh flowed through the phone. “I’m joking. It’s all I’ve thought about. Are you wearing your nightshirt?”

  Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. “Yeah.”

  “You took my breath away when I first saw you in it.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “You mean when I kicked you?” She laughed.

  “Then, too. How long did you train for the Ironman triathlon?”

  “Only nine months. But I was in shape because of my work.”

  “That’s admirable. What made you do it?”

  “I was working as a trainer. I thought it’d be great PR. Before I realized it, it felt like a challenge. But like I said before, being able to protect myself has always been important. I started taking karate when I was sixteen. I had plans to try again for the triathlon, but…”