by Lisa Jackson
“Parole?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” She was determined. “His next victim, the one who filed charges, she did the right thing. Stood up for herself. I didn’t. So I’m going to make certain he does every second of his time.” He felt her guilt as if it were palpable. “If I’d had her guts, maybe she never would have had to go through what she did.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Sure I do.”
“You were a scared kid.”
“So was she!”
He held her close. “It’s all right.”
“Of course, it’s not all right! Never has been; never will be.” Of that she sounded certain. “And, and now it’s all there again. You show up here and this boy ... this boy that I saw only briefly, my son, has returned, in trouble with the law, only to disappear again.”
“Shh,” he whispered against her hair, wishing there was some way to ease her pain, to let her know that he cared, but he had to tread lightly. She’d already opened up to him far more than he ever would have expected. “We’ll find him.”
“Will we?” She levered up on one elbow and stared down at him, her face illuminated by a bit of light through the window, her black hair falling like a curtain to one side of her face.
“If it’s the last thing I do. Swear it,” he said, and she let out a bitter laugh.
“Now you’re placating me; making promises you can’t possibly guarantee.”
“Okay, you’re right.” He pulled her down again, close to him so that her head rested in the crook of his shoulder. “But I will tell you this much, I’m going to give it my best damned shot.”
“That,” she said, relaxing a bit, her breath ruffling the hair of his chest, “I believe.”
Johnna Phillips poured herself one last glass of alcohol-free punch from the bowl near the huge shimmering Christmas tree and told herself it was her last. She’d had it. The tree itself was a monstrosity, a fourteen-foot fir tree flocked white, then decorated with hanging red and blue logos of First Union, the bank she worked for.
Ug-ly. And probably had cost a fortune and was oh, so corporate, just like this lame party with its weak DJ, who seemed to favor anything from the eighties. Really? Wasn’t that, like, eons ago?
She sipped her punch and noticed it was going flat, not that it mattered. This was the first social event Johnna had attended alone since her breakup with Carl, which had now been all of thirty hours. She probably shouldn’t have come, considering her state of mind, but if she hadn’t shown, it would have been noticed by her boss, the overly friendly Monty. And besides, she wasn’t going to let the fact that she wasn’t hooked up with Carl anymore change her social life. Not one iota!
Damn Carl all to hell.
She set her glass on a tray that held other half-empty stemware. It was almost midnight and the party was winding down. Lots of people had already left and the music was scheduled to end at twelve, which was just fine. Johnna didn’t think she could stand another “hit” by Madonna or Michael Jackson or Duran Duran. Her head was pounding as it was, her feet ached from heels that were too high and her lower back was paining her. She was in a bad mood all around.
Just the beginning, she reminded herself and absently touched her flat abdomen. She was pregnant, though no one but she and Stephanie in New Accounts knew the happy news. She hadn’t even told Carl yet, and wondered when she would, and how he would react, as they were suddenly no longer living together. Talk about bad timing.
It had to happen, though. Carl “the loser” Anderson was handsome as hell, a sexy ex-jock who’d never quite grown up. He was really good in bed; however, his prowess in the sack didn’t translate to ability at a desk, or behind the wheel of a long-haul truck, or as a waiter at the café just outside of town. Nope, Carl had never, to her knowledge, held a job for more than six or eight months, or however long it was until he could collect unemployment.
Yeah, loser with a capital L.
She eyed the remaining canapés on a silver platter left on a table near the kitchen but passed on yet another bite of stuffed mushroom cap. Her stomach was a little queasy and she attributed it to the pregnancy, though it could have been attending the party and having to explain why Carl wasn’t at her side. She’d witnessed the raised eyebrows and saw a spark of interest in the eyes of that slut, Chessa, from Home Loans, the department next to hers, as she was in charge of personal loans.
Why do you even care?
Carl would rather play freakin’ video games than hold a job. At thirty-goddamned-five!
Really? Grand Theft Auto? Dead Rising? Stupid Mario Galaxy or whatever it was called? When he had a baby on the way? Well, of course, he didn’t know that little news flash. Yet. She’d already had to give up alcohol and cigarettes and most of her breakfasts lately, and the loser hadn’t even noticed because he was too wrapped up in himself. Yeah, he’d make a fine dad, she thought disgustedly.
The least he could do was put down the controllers for his Xbox or Wii or anything else that kept his hands from grabbing an actual paycheck! The few dollars a week from unemployment wasn’t cutting it as it was, and now, with a baby on the way ...
“Screw it,” she muttered and plucked another one of the canapés from the tray before plopping it into her mouth. No reason to worry about calories, right? In a few months she’d be big as a barn but not before she ballooned on all this party food or had to fend off any more advances from Monty, the groping, drunk operations officer. He was always trying to cop a feel at work and she had half a mind to sue his randy ass. It would serve him, and his ice queen of a wife, right. As it was, the wife had shot Johnna dirty looks all night, as if it were her fault that Monty was such a lech. Maybe she’d let the bitch think the baby was Monty’s, that would serve her right.
Yeah, right.
No frickin’ way.
And she couldn’t risk losing her job.
Not with a little one on the way.
Mad at the world, Johnna walked out of the main ballroom and into the lobby of the hotel, where she picked up her coat and slipped into it. She left the coat-check girl a buck as a tip and cringed a little. Suddenly each dollar was so much more important.
What the hell was she going to do? Already she worked a full-time job at the bank during the week and picked up shifts waitressing on the weekends and even some nights. On top of that, she took a couple of online classes, as she really wanted to get an associate’s degree in accounting. But now ... how would she be able to do all that, and care for a newborn?
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She had planned on being married, owning a fabulous home, having a great part-time job before she got pregnant. And then she’d met Carl and the rest was history, including the part about throwing him out of the apartment last night when, once again, he hadn’t even stepped outside and at least pretended to be looking for a job!
She swore under her breath and walked through the door of the old Mason’s lodge that had been converted into a hotel. Planted along the shore of the river, overlooking the falls for which the town had been named, the brick and mortar building was one of the oldest and tallest in this, the lower section, of town. Crouched in the shadow of Boxer Bluff, Old Town was an eclectic collection of shops and connected to the newer part of town by a series of steep roads. For pedestrians, there was not only a series of stairs that climbed the cliffs, but also an elevator with a car that had, as it ascended, an incredible view of the river and falls.
From the front of the hotel, looking along the street, she saw the courthouse, its huge outdoor tree already glowing with lights for the holidays. The damned snow was still falling and a wind as bitter as her own feelings about Carl blew down the street, causing the tiny, icy flakes to swirl and spin over a few cars still parked at the curb. Everything was covered in snow and ice—the shrubbery around the hotel, the parked cars, the sidewalk and parking meters, all flocked with white.
“Merry Christmas,” she said under her breath,
then smiled at the thought that next year there would be a baby to share the holidays.
Her car was parked three blocks over, on the other side of the Black Horse Saloon, a pub where locals hung out and a couple of guys bundled in thick jackets and stocking caps were smoking beneath the awning of the tavern. They barely looked up as she passed.
Picking her way carefully, she nearly slipped twice and cursed the damned high heels, harsh wind and slick sidewalks.
For a split second she thought of returning to Albuquerque, sucking it up and telling her parents what was up. Unfortunately, they had more than enough on their plates already. Nana, already suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, had recently broken her hip and was recuperating at their two-bedroom condo. No, they didn’t need their adult daughter showing up with a brand-new set of problems, not when their other daughter was talking about a divorce from that jerk-wad De Lane Pettygrove. Talk about a prick! He made Carl look good, and right now, that was pretty damned tough.
She turned the corner and saw that her car was the only one parked on this street that ran parallel to the railroad tracks, a few blocks from the river and within two hundred yards of the lower level of the city’s elevator. Covered in four inches of powder, it was nearly impossible to recognize her dented, fifteen-year-old Honda.
She’d have to scrape the windows and turn on the car, letting it idle to clear the windshield. Great.
After brushing aside some of the snow, she managed to unlock the car and settle inside. God, it was cold. Shivering, she jabbed the key into the ignition and turned.
Nothing.
“Oh, no, not now.” She tried again.
Still not so much as a click.
“Come on, come on!” she said, and kept trying but the car was dead. “Great!” What else could go wrong? She reached for her phone, but she didn’t have AAA or any other car service. The last time this had happened and her car had left her stranded, she’d called Carl and he’d shown up with jumper cables and his jacked-up Dodge pickup within ten minutes. Her car had been running like a top ever since.
Until tonight.
Well, she couldn’t very well call her ex for help tonight.
Angry at the world, she climbed out of the car, slammed the door, locked the damned thing and, for good measure, gave it a kick. Why now? Calm down. Just get home and pour yourself a glass of ... apple juice. Crap! Freezing, she decided she’d hike back to the party, where maybe one of the stragglers would give her a ride and she could deal with the dead Honda tomorrow in daylight. Wearing boots, she reminded herself, and tights and a ski jacket and a scarf and warm gloves!
Her bad mood worsening, she hoped that Allen, who worked as a teller, was still around. He was a little nerdy, but at least she wouldn’t have to depend on that creep Monty and his uptight wife. Though, as desperate as she was, she’d even put up with them to get home. She passed the tavern again and noted the two guys who’d been smoking outside the door had vanished, then started for the bank.
“Johnna?”
Hearing her name, she turned, nearly toppling over on the damned heels as a dark figure emerged from the area of the tavern.
“What’re you doing out here? God, it’s freezing!”
Relaxing a little, recognizing him, she said, “Bank party. You know, the annual Christmas bash.” Rolling her eyes, she offered him a smile. He was a customer, after all, a good customer, even if his credit score lacked what the bank had required for the personal loan he’d wanted the year before, the loan his wife refused to cosign.
“What about you?”
“Just had a couple of drinks down at the Black Horse.” He hooked a gloved thumb behind him, in the direction of the pub. That made sense.
“You parked around here?” He eyed the near-empty street. She hesitated, then thought, Why not see if he can help? “I, uh, I’m going back to the party, hoping to catch a ride. It’s my car.” She motioned vaguely toward the area where she’d parked.
“Something wrong with it?” He seemed concerned.
“Other than it’s got over two hundred thousand miles and a dead battery, it’s fine,” she said, her breath clouding. “It picked a great night to decide not to start.”
“You’re sure it’s the battery and it’s dead?”
“No.”
“Has it happened before?”
“Once, maybe.” It was waaay too cold to be outside discussing this.
“You know, sometimes that’s an easy fix. Maybe I should look at it.”
“It’s pretty dead.” She glanced at the hotel, where the lights of the lobby splashed through the glass doors. It was warm inside and she was starting to have the urge to pee. “Like, really dead.”
“Doesn’t hurt to have a look.” Again, the smile. “I know engines. Have to. Equipment for the farm.”
“Well ...” She imagined dealing with Monty and his slobbering advances and the daggered stare from his wife again, then shuddered inside. “Uh ... okay. Sure.”
“Where is it?”
“Parked near the railroad tracks, not far from the elevator.”
“Okay, let’s have a look, shall we?” He was already heading toward the street where she’d left the damned Civic, so she thought, Why the hell not? She hurried and caught up with him, and as they rounded the corner of the street near the railroad tracks, he saw her car, the only one.
“Honda?” he asked, though how he could tell with all the snow was surprising. Must be a gearhead.
“Yeah.”
“Usually reliable.” He reached the car, shoved all of the snow off the hood, then, with his gloved hand, brushed the windshield and driver’s side down to the glass. “Why don’t you get in?” he said. “Then open the hood latch and, when I tell you to, try to start the engine.”
“Okay.” She knew already it was a waste of time, but Johnna did as she was bid and climbed into the frigid interior. She clicked open the latch and saw, beneath the crack separating the raised hood from the windshield that he had a small flashlight and was shining it over the engine. Obviously he came prepared. A little weird, but okay, guys always had way more stuff in their pockets than one would ever expect. Giving the key a turn, she heard nothing. “I told you,” she muttered under her breath.
He fiddled around. She heard him messing with something—wires maybe—attached to the engine, which, she knew, was a major waste of time. He said something to her and she had to roll down the window. “What?”
“Try it again,” he called and she did, and this time, wonder of wonders, the little engine sparked to life. She pressed on the accelerator and heard the familiar and comforting sound of the engine racing, pistons doing their thing.
“Wow!” she said through the open window as he slammed the hood down, locking it in place. “Thank you!”
A confident, self-satisfied grin in place, he walked to her side of the car. “No problem.” Then he leaned down as if to say something more. The smug smile on his face fixed. A little off. In that millisecond, she felt a premonition of fear, that something wasn’t right. As if a ghost had breathed against the back of her neck. She reached for the gearshift and looked up to see him staring at her. His expression had turned blank, but his eyes ... oh, God, his eyes looked like pure evil. Ridiculous, right?
“I’d better get going,” she said, and before she could ram the car into reverse, he’d pulled his hand from his pocket. In a heartbeat, he jammed the cold electrodes of a stun gun against her neck.
What? No!
Suddenly desperate, she tried to jerk away, to hit the gas hard and back the hell over him, to get out of there fast!
Too late!
He pulled the trigger.
Chapter 22
Alvarez was awake most of the night.
She lay in her bed with O’Keefe at her side, Jane curled on the pillow at her head. While O’Keefe slept as if nearly dead, his soft snores and warm body the only indication he was alive, she had been too wired to sleep. She would have thought she
er exhaustion would have overcome her, but it didn’t. Though her body was tired, her mind was spinning. With her son. With Junior Green’s attack. With the fact that she’d broken through the intimacy barriers that had surrounded her for half her life. She lay on the bed, nestled next to a man she’d once loved, and wondered where it would all lead. She knew that it was a major breakthrough to be able to make love, and for that she was grateful, but to complicate her life by being sexually involved with O’Keefe: That might not be so smart.
Turning her head, she stared out the window. Sometime in the early morning hours, the snow had stopped falling and the moon had cast a silvery glimmer that reflected on the snow and shone through the window.
Was this what it was supposed to feel like? A warm male body, one arm thrust protectively across her breasts, the world serene, the house noiseless aside from the gentle sound of his breathing and the quiet hum of the furnace. Did couples wake up feeling totally isolated from the rest of the world, the union between them strong enough to fight whatever external forces were outside the walls and ready to try to rend them apart?
Could she rouse slowly, maybe kiss him on the forehead, then roll out of bed and throw on her robe before padding barefoot downstairs to start the coffee, read the newspaper or turn on her laptop with one ear cocked as she listened for him to awaken?
It was strange and new.
And the man beside her, now her lover, how would he feel this morning? How would he react?
How do you feel?
How are you reacting?
She couldn’t dissect this, was going to just let things happen and unfold naturally as she had the night before.
