by Rhyll Biest
Kat slipped it in her pocket. She had things to do. Greyhounds around the world would thank her. And it might help Luka sleep better at night to know that she’d struck a blow against his friend’s murderer. Then all he’d have to deal with were the town’s hopeless addicts and their lives shaped by violence and poverty.
She needed to be careful how she went about taking care of Grinder. It had to be done in a way that protected Luka and the RSPCA. Nothing could blow back on them. She’d have to make it clear that she’d acted alone. Luka would hate her enough for what she’d done without him hating her for getting him involved in it.
In the kitchen her hand found its way around a dusty vodka bottle. She poured herself a shot, skulled it. Did another and one more for good luck.
Going to Luka’s was the wrong thing to do. It might bring trouble to him. But she needed Stumpy somewhere safe before she did what she had to do, and she couldn’t think of anyone who would take better care of him. Then there was also her pathetic need to see Luka one last time, to touch him.
By the time she’d packed a few things and buckled Stumpy into the car, the sun had slipped low to bleed across the sky. Almost six. The sight of a familiar testosterone-polished muscle car parked by Luka’s townhouse made her smile. She pulled up, led Stumpy past the kindergarten bright flowerbeds, her mood black.
She looked up and spotted a dark figure on the balcony looking down at her. One look at his brooding form made her wish for another drink. She wasn’t usually a drinker, but right now she wasn’t usual. Her pulse was everywhere and nowhere at once, in the soles of her feet, her wrists, her lips and man above.
A white wolf in a black t-shirt. A knight in black armour.
I can smell his prick from here, Galenka whispered.
Hush. Be a lady for once. She climbed the steps to his door.
However, as soon as he opened the door and took Stumpy from her, her resolve to be ladylike dissolved. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard and long, as if she weren’t the kind of girl who looked at couples holding hands and thought nothing lasts.
He pulled back, studied her face. ‘How many drinks have you had?’
‘I’m not over the limit if that’s what you’re worried about, officer.’ Don’t raise the fact that we fought or, rather, that Galenka said hello to you and you couldn’t get away fast enough.
‘It’s not.’ He shifted Stumpy to rest him in the crook of one arm, brushed a stray strand of hair from her eyes. ‘But if you’re tipsy I don’t want to take advantage.’
His tone, cautious but hopeful, was exactly what she’d hoped for. He deserved so much better than her. ‘Don’t be stupid. I want you to take advantage.’
Just for now, before she took care of Grinder and then maybe had to say goodbye for good.
Chapter 22
The happy ache in his cock woke him. He reached out with a hand, hoping to find a fistful of soft woman, frowned as he came up empty. ‘Kat?’
Silence echoed around his one-bedroom townhouse.
He rubbed his eyes, tried to shake off his fuzzy head. It was hard, the woman had fucked all the alertness out of him. A reminder of the exquisite pleasure in their last waking moments flitted by and stirred his blood. Although there’d also been an added sharpness to her scent, her taste, an urgency to her movements that he’d wondered at.
But they’d been far too busy for talk or questions.
He stood, strained his ears. She wasn’t in the shower or he’d hear the sound of it running, so perhaps she was in the lounge.
Naked, he staggered into the kitchen, found nothing.
A glance out the window confirmed her car was gone.
Shit.
Perhaps she’d just gone to collect coffee and pastries before they went another round or two.
He frowned. Unlike Sharon, she wasn’t one for buying coffee and pastries. No, his girl was more one for hunting down animal abusers with a pointy stick, or crawling under a house to rescue a dog rather than weighing the pros and cons of macaroons versus croissants. Just one of the things he loved about her.
Besides, the kitchen clock insisted that it was midnight and he couldn’t think of a whole lot of places in Walgarra that offered much in the way of coffee and pastries at midnight.
An ill instinct soured his stomach. She was up to something, the sort of something that could get her hurt, or get her insides spilled across thirsty dirt.
But why had she chosen to go now? What couldn’t wait? Had her phone rung? He strained to remember.
The sleek, modern lines of his townhouse mocked the jumble of questions nagging him. Where was she?
A soft whine dragged his attention to the laundry. He opened the door and Stumpy tumbled out of his basket, tail wagging, ears flapping as he flopped about on the floor like a beached seal overwhelmed by the joy of company in the middle of the night.
An ache thick and twisted as a hernia stole through him. He crouched to rub the puppy’s head. ‘What’s your mistress up to, mate?’ She would never, ever, leave the pup behind unless she thought it safer for him. Which meant she was up to something dangerous.
His befuddlement gave way to alertness as he padded back to the bedroom and hurriedly dragged on clothes. Where would she go at this time of night? And after who?
What he really needed to know was her movements after she’d quit babysitting him. He picked up the phone and rang the one person he could think of who might know. ‘Nick, it’s Luka.’
He heard a rustle of bed clothes in the background.
‘Jesus, it’s the middle of the night and I have to be up at sparrow’s fart tomorrow, mate.’
‘I know. Sorry, but it’s important. I can’t find Kat. She left the puppy with me. Did she get called in to work? I can’t think why else she’d leave him here.’
The silence at Nick’s end of the phone suggested all sorts of bad reasons. Had Kat made a bad decision of some sort? Of course she had. Adrenaline jumped and chattered in Luka’s veins.
‘Do you think she’s in trouble?’ Nick asked at last
He may as well have stomped on Luka’s chest. Of course she was. ‘How could I let this happen?’ The words tore a raw hole through his chest.
***
A rational part of Kat knew that she was clenching her teeth, grinding her jaw as she hurtled down the highway like an enraged comet. She must look like a nut, but she was just SO angry.
Luka had fallen asleep after they’d ridden their favourite train but no, not her, no, she’d stewed and stewed over how Grinder’s thugs had put her dog in a wheelie bin, dammit, a wheelie bin, and how they’d sprayed CUNT on her lounge room wall. They probably had all sorts of diabolically awful things planned for her given what she’d done to their bikes and their nerves.
Screw them.
Breaking into her house was so very personal. And threatening a disabled pup, well, that was unforgiveable. She wanted blood.
Galenka did a cheerleader’s flip, waved her pom-poms and chanted suggestions: Gimme a G, gimme an A, gimme an R, R, O, T, T. Gaaa-rott!
But Kat had nothing so macabre or spectacular in mind for Grinder, a simple headshot would do just fine. No need to be a show-off.
Not even a little knee-capping? Galenka whined.
No, this is not fun, but something that has to be done.
Galenka pouted.
Kat parked a street away from Grinder’s. While spying on him she’d discovered all sorts of useful things, like where to park unnoticed, what hours he liked to keep, and when and where he liked to drink. The tavern and his daughter’s tattoo parlour were his regulars. Lucky them.
Grinder deserved the dish she planned to serve. The starless night, dark as her vengeful heart, confirmed it.
She took her mother’s gift from its velvet bag and hefted its cold, steel weight in her hand before stepping from the car. Outside Grinder’s she paused by a stinking, well-pissed-on traffic sign to scan the streets. No pedestrians, five heavy
chrome motorbikes lining the road.
Five.
That gave her pause. She couldn’t leave four witnesses walking around. But five, five at once? Did she have that in her?
Galenka remained oddly silent.
Instead what Kat heard was Luka’s voice. We ignore our fight or flight reflexes in order to help others.
Why had those words come to mind? She wasn’t contemplating help but murder. Such an ugly word for such a useful solution.
Murder was the kind of word Luka would use.
Hesitation seized her. She stood paralysed before the peeling layers of music gig posters and the ribbon of light escaping beneath the door.
It wasn’t too late to walk away. She could drive to Luka’s and hop back into his warm bed with him.
But then she’d still be a target. So would he.
The scent of something familiar and unexpected teased her nostrils. Gunpowder.
Turn around, Kat, walk away.
Her advice to herself was good and yet she couldn’t take it. One, her mission was not yet accomplished and two, what if Ruth was in trouble? Had been shot because Kat had called Luka to help her rescue the kittens?
She turned the door handle, careful not to rattle it. Half open, it hit something soft but immovable.
Take a guess what that is, Kat. She took a deep breath and squeezed through the narrow space. A glance at the floor revealed that the heavy doorstop was the biker who’d dropped his pants to show Kat his tattoo. The gunshot wounds made it clear he’d died of acute lead poisoning.
While his death hardly filled her with sadness, it added to the jolting current tumbling through her nerves. She took short, balanced steps past the human doorstop. There was nowhere to hide under the exposed lights of the former garage and yet the others didn’t notice her—three because they were dead as the doorstop biker and sprawled facedown on the floor, one because he was tied to a chair and had his back to her, and one more because he was tying his daughter’s shoelaces.
The little blonde girl with the broken arm, the one Kat had seen at the RSPCA shelter, stared at her.
Kat put her finger to her lips. The little girl barely blinked, seemed even more spaced out than when Kat had seen her at the shelter. And if this was that girl, that made the man tying her shoelaces … the deadbeat dad.
What the shit?
Kat struggled to get her head around it. Was his other daughter around too? Kat scanned the area and spotted the second daughter watching television in the former reception office.
Out of the way. Good.
To help his daughter with her shoelaces, the deadbeat dad had rested his rifle on the ground, the rifle he’d already used to shoot four bikers. Unless she wanted to be shot too, Kat should probably pull her finger out.
Since she only had a handgun rather than a rifle, she silently closed the distance between them. The gun was a nice one because her mother had learned to love handguns, possibly a little too much, but Kat hadn’t used it before and didn’t want to risk a poor shot.
Closer to the deadbeat dad, Kat noticed several things. The ginger mullet tied to the chair was probably Grinder. Good. Not so good was the fact that much as she wanted to drill the deadbeat dad a new navel for messing with her party plans, it was difficult to ignore the care and tenderness with which he tied his daughter’s laces. Worst of all was the way his daughter rested a tiny hand on his shoulder for support.
Kat couldn’t stand it, she just couldn’t. It reminded her too much of her own father, who’d thought he’d been such a good father and husband. You protected what you loved and valued, and you did it by any means because protection and control were what sutured the wound of love and made it bearable. Heavy memories rolled in.
Mouth dry, Kat pushed them away to assume a stance slightly sideways to the deadbeat dad, just as Luka had shown her.
She cleared her throat.
The deadbeat dad’s head whipped up, his eyes wild but she discouraged him from picking up his rifle by putting her foot on the barrel and raising her handgun. ‘Just came to get inked. How about you?’
Grinder wrenched his chair and body around, strained to see her. A hopeful look flitted across his face before his eyes narrowed. ‘You. You were with the cop. You’re that RSPCA bitch.’
‘Shut up, no one’s talking to you.’ She glanced at the little girl who had started chewing on the ends of her hair. ‘Sweetie, why don’t you go watch TV with your sister?’
The girl looked to her father, who nodded. The patter of sneakers echoed through the garage.
Kat scanned the biker bodies. ‘You’ve made quite the mess here, I’m not sure why you wanted your girls to see that.’ Who blew away four bikers in front of their kids and then fussed with their shoelaces? And people called her irrational.
She braced herself for an angry, obscenity-laced retort along the lines that she should mind her own business, but instead he just gazed at her with red-rimmed eyes, his gaze far clearer than she’d expected. ‘I couldn’t leave ‘em at home. My wife died. The ice …’ His voice trailed away.
Kat’s blood cooled. He didn’t deserve pity but she felt something close to it.
Worse, he was numb with shock, just like any normal husband. It left her confused. How ordinary and mundane the supposed monster she’d confronted at the shelter was. The ogre who’d hit her with a rolled up Penthouse was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t trust that. The monster had to be hidden inside somewhere, right?
‘Were you going to kill him?’ She jerked her chin in Grinder’s direction.
‘Yeah. In a bit.’ His voice was soft with weariness.
No prizes for guessing why he hadn’t already done it.
‘You can’t torture him in front of your kids.’ Listen to her become Miss Fair-and-reasonable.
Grinder chose that moment to speak up. ‘She’s banging a cop, so you’ll have to do her too or she’ll tell him everything.’
He was trying to wind the deadbeat dad up, and it was kind of working, so she should probably cap both him and the deadbeat dad. But once more, instead of Galenka’s scaly voice she heard Luka’s. Try to focus on looking at the person so that they know they already have your attention and don’t need to do anything more to get it.
‘What’re you going to do now?’ she asked the father.
He blinked, his frame sagging. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t really plan any of this.’
Her gaze flicked to the bodies he’d dropped. He’d done a pretty good job for a man without a plan. ‘You know, seeing as just now I was on my way to kill a man, and yesterday I hurt another man, one who really, really cares about me, I’m going to cut you some slack and assume you’re just another person unlucky enough to be as fucked up as I am.’
He gave a frown of incomprehension.
Unlikely that his brain was working too well, what with the effects of ice and stress. She tried again. ‘What I’m saying is that I’d like to help you. By getting your girls out of here and leaving you to do whatever you need to do. Does that sound fair? I’ll look after them for twenty-four hours but if I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll assume you’re not coming back for them. And before you suggest it, I think it’s pretty clear that I’m not mother material.’ She waggled the handgun. ‘Or do you have family I can take the kids to? Somewhere safe?’
He nodded. ‘My sister. Jen Beaumont. She’s in the phone book.’
‘Okay then. Before I go, what’s your name?’
‘Dave. David Beaumont.’ His gaze shifted to Grinder. ‘You know, he doesn’t deserve to live. He killed that guy, Mark something. I didn’t want to help but he made me.’
Grinder spat. ‘You’re full of shit, Beaumont.’
Cold trickled down Kat’s spine. She would have to tell Luka.
She took her foot off the rifle and backed away. ‘Put a hole in him for me, and one for Mark.’ She glanced at the television in the distance. ‘After we’re gone.’
She made to collect the girls b
ut Beaumont stopped her. ‘Wait. How will I find you if I need to?’
Grinder was leaking badly, sweat ringing the neck of his filthy t-shirt. She met his muddy, desperate eyes. ‘Just ask him. You know where I live, don’t you, Grinder?’
***
She still wasn’t back.
Luka had set the puppy up as comfortably as he could but heard a whimper as he shut his front door.
The sound clawed at his guts, just like the knowledge he still hadn’t found Kat. Of course, it was possible that she just didn’t want to be found, but that rarely turned out to be a good thing either.
She was trouble and she was dangerous, but he liked being around her. And he definitely didn’t like it when he couldn’t find her.
Driving to the shelter in the hope she’d be there, Luka glanced at the cap still resting on the floor on the passenger seat side of his car. One of Mark’s caps.
Seeing it didn’t leave the usual layer of dread coating his gut. The passage of time healing his wounds? Or something—no, someone else? A someone with long red hair, the heart of a Viking and a passion for animal welfare.
Someone he’d bend the edges of the law for because she’d helped him heal in more ways than one, and fought every day for hope and healing even though she was so very far away from those things herself. Plus, she’d taught him that he couldn’t protect someone who didn’t want to be protected, and that included Mark.
It was time to let himself off the hook for his friend’s death.
He parked the car, picked the cap up and brushed a piece of grass off the stitching. Giving it to the shelter was not a bad idea. They could erect some kind of memorial to Mark, give it to Stacey, or do whatever else they wanted with it.
Mark had been a great inspector, a good friend, and a lousy husband. And it was time to bury him.
He left the cap in the shelter letterbox with a note and said goodbye for good.
