Running Scared

by Lisa Jackson

  “You’re standing on my porch,” he reminded her. “Without an invitation.”

  Color swept up her neck and her lips compressed in a silent fury he found fascinating. The night seemed to close in around them, dark and seductive. He noticed the sweep of her eyelashes against her cheek, the way her lips curved into a sexy pout, the angle of her chin as she glared up at him. Dangerous thoughts crept into his mind and he wondered how her lips would feel against his, how easily her body might press against the harder contours of his muscle and bone. You’re getting in way over your head, O’Rourke. Remember why you’re here, what’s supposed to be happening.

  But it was too late. Much too late. Already that age-old chemistry was stirring in his blood, and desire, so long dormant, was awakening, starting a fire deep in his loins, sending warm jets of want through his limbs. He wondered what it would be like to make love to her all night long, only stopping when dawn was peeking over the horizon and they were exhausted.

  “About that apology,” she said and she seemed to have trouble breathing. Her eyes moved to his lips again, and he was damned sure she was wondering what it would feel like to kiss him.

  Don’t do it. Be smart.

  “I was coming over to thank you for saving Jon’s skin today, for stepping in and helping out. Despite what I said earlier, I’m thankful you were there to break it up. I, um, I…Oh, God, this isn’t easy. I’ve told Jon to stay away from you, that he shouldn’t trespass or bother you.” She gathered in her breath. “But it wasn’t for all the right reasons.”

  “You’re afraid for him. Because he said I killed someone.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, her eyes searching his.

  It was all he could do to keep from reaching forward and dragging her close to him. His jaw worked. His heart began to pound. “Look, Kate, I’m not going to stand here and pretend that I’m a saint, because I’m not, but you have to believe me, I’m not a cold-blooded killer.”

  She looked up at him with soft whiskey-colored eyes. “I’d like to believe it.”

  Yearning and self-loathing throbbed through his veins because he was going to lie to her, and damn it, if she didn’t leave soon, he’d try to kiss her and things wouldn’t stop there. “Do, Kate.” He reached forward and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingertips brushing her skin, the fire in his blood nearly boiling. Despite the deception, despite the knowledge that he’d lied to her from the start, despite his own convictions that getting involved with her was unthinkable, he couldn’t back away. His words—so treacherous as they reached his own ears—echoed into the night. “Trust me,” he said, when he couldn’t even trust himself.

  Chapter 15

  Fifteen years.

  She folded her long legs, salon-tanned against her tennis whites, and sipped the bottle of Perrier, oblivious to the flurry of activity at the juice bar of Boston’s most elite racquet club. The dreadful news from VanHorn had thrown her for a loop, distracted her to the extent that she’d pounded through her lesson with the tennis pro. It had been a wasted session; Vito had worked his cute derriere off calling out instructions and bounding around energetically, but her mind had been stuck on images of Robert Sullivan signing his fortune over to some wide-eyed orphan boy. A regular Oliver Twist.

  For fifteen years there had been yet another bastard child running around out there with no one the wiser, and now, Robert Sullivan had hired this seedy investigator to track the boy down. Robert must have lost his mind, thinking he needed to look outside the family for an heir. It was utter insanity, and the most unfortunate part was that Robert, as patriarch, still pulled the strings. If he wanted to pass his fortune on to a clown from the circus, not a soul could stop him.

  She knew about these things. God knew, she was the only Sullivan with a head for numbers, though it wouldn’t take a financial genius to realize that Robert’s assets were the ones worth inheriting now that Frank Sullivan had run his share of the business into the ground.

  Damn Robert for searching out this bastard child…and damn Bibi for getting herself knocked up by someone who must have been a complete and utter loser. Bibi had always played the forlorn bleeding heart, adopting strays and sighing over kittens and puppies. Who knew she’d turn out to be such a slut, too, having a secret baby. Everyone had always wondered about Bibi the year she’d dropped out of sight. Off to some camp…or was it a student exchange program abroad? Whatever the lame story, it had reeked of cover-up, though at the time no one really cared enough about Bibi to pursue it.

  Glossy red fingernails tapped the green bottle of mineral water as she considered this new development. The old patriarch who should leave well enough alone and his stupid daughter who should have crossed her legs. Morons.

  Not to mention the private detective who thought he was going to take her money and play her against Robert Sullivan. She felt sullied having had to spend thirty minutes with VanHorn. Washing down the bitter taste in her throat with the mineral water, she wished she could swipe out VanHorn with as much ease. Such an unpleasant man with beady little eyes and yellowed fingernails flicking nervously over that matchbook. He thought he was going to gain a small fortune and a modicum of control if he found the bastard boy, but he was wrong.

  He didn’t realize he was messing with a Sullivan, but he would soon learn. Oh, he’d learn.

  “Pull yourself together!” Kate stared into the foggy bathroom mirror, barely able to see her reflection through the condensation. Standing in a towel, her wet hair dripping to her shoulders, she silently reminded herself that Daegan O’Rourke was off-limits, the worst man in the world for her and yet…

  Trust me. Those two words had chased each other around her mind all night long. She’d barely slept a wink. A sense of foreboding, like the collection of storm clouds on the horizon, had been with her ever since she’d left Daegan standing on his porch, the light from one window throwing the hard-edged contours of his body in stark relief.

  Brushing her teeth, she reminded herself that Daegan O’Rourke was the kind of trouble she didn’t need.

  She heard the phone jangle in the kitchen. Quickly, she rinsed and wiped her mouth, then slipped her arms through the robe she’d hung near the door. On the third ring, she flew out of the room and was halfway to the kitchen when Jon, from his bedroom, yelled down at her.

  “Hey, Mom, it’s for you!”

  “I’ll catch it down here. Are you about ready?”

  “I’m not going.” She heard the squeak of his mattress as he rolled back into his bed. She didn’t blame him, but she had mixed feelings about it. True, Jon would be the laughingstock at school, the object of much speculation and gossip, and Todd Neider would probably rub it in, but he had to walk through the hallowed doors of Hopewell High sooner or later, and facing his classmates wasn’t going to get any easier as the days passed.

  “Wait a minute, Jon, don’t you think—”

  “Mom, I look like hell and I feel worse,” he yelled through the open door of his room.

  “Fine—we’ll talk later.” This was no morning for a fight; besides, the restless feeling that something was wrong, or missing, trailed after her as she hurried to the kitchen and cinched the tie of her robe tight around her waist.

  Snagging the receiver, she shoved aside the uneasiness that shadowed her mind. “Hello?”

  “Where were you—across town?”

  “Very funny, Laura,” she said, smiling at the thought of her sister. If only they didn’t live so far away. Right about now she could use some of Laura’s quirky bursts of sunshine.

  “Hey, I think I got some information for you,” Laura said brightly.

  Kate’s heart stilled. Her fingers clamped around the receiver in a death grip.

  “About Jon?”

  “No, about O’Rourke. I wanted to ease your mind. Doesn’t look like he has a prison record, at least not here in Boston.”

  Kate’s knees nearly gave way. She leaned against the ladder back of one of the kitchen chairs. �
��You’re certain?”

  “Yep. If he was ever charged or indicted, I can’t find it, and he certainly was never sentenced. I checked the records going back forty years.”

  Kate let out her breath.

  “So you can relax around the new neighbor.”

  Relax? Around Daegan O’Rourke? No way. Just because he didn’t have a prison record didn’t necessarily clear him of all bad intentions, but she felt her pulse jump a little and some of the barriers she’d built around her heart seemed to give way. “Did you find out anything about him? Did he come from Boston or ever live there? Was one of his cousins killed and—”

  “Hey, slow down,” Laura said, laughing, and Kate imagined her green eyes filled with mischief and amusement. “I’m still checking. I’ve weeded out a couple guys who couldn’t possibly be your cowboy—”

  “He’s not mine,” she said swiftly.

  “Ooh, touchy about that, aren’t we?”

  “Go on,” Kate replied, surprised how quickly she’d risen to Laura’s bait.

  “There are still two guys in the mix who fit the physical description and are about the right age. One guy was illegitimate, born to a Mary Ellen O’Rourke in South Boston and that’s all I know about him. He left town before he was twenty. The other guy is the sixth of ten, a working-class family who moved in the mid-seventies. I’m still looking into it.”

  Slowly, they were getting closer to the truth. “I owe you.”

  “I know, I know. You always owe me. That’s why our relationship works so well. Hey, look, I’ve got to run. I’m on my break and have about forty-five seconds to get to a staff meeting. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Thanks.” Kate hung up and her heart buoyed a little, even though there was still something wrong—an emptiness this morning.

  Thoughtfully she poured a cup of coffee from the pot and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Jon?”

  No answer. Maybe it was just as well. Give him today and maybe tomorrow to heal, then wait until the weekend was over before he returned to school.

  Rotating the kinks from her neck, she walked to the front porch and felt vaguely uneasy. Even Laura’s good news or a fresh cup of coffee didn’t help shake the sensation. Opening the door, she felt a rush of winter-cold air. Outside the sky was as gray as the worry playing with her mind. Thick, black clouds brought the first drops of rain just as the bus slowed at the mailbox then picked up speed again.

  Again the uneasy sensation and suddenly she knew what it was. The dog. She hadn’t seen or heard Houndog all morning. She gave a short sharp whistle and listened for an answering bark. All she heard was the gentle pounding of the rain as it started to pour. “Houndog! Come on, boy!” Setting her cup on the table by the platter of cupcakes, she mounted the stairs. Jon was in his room alone. “Have you seen the dog?”

  Stretching, Jon yawned and his eyebrows slammed together. “He’s not here?”

  “Not in the house.”

  “But—oh, yeah, maybe I left him outside.”

  “When?”

  “He started scratching at the door and whining, like he does when he hears a possum or cat, so I let him out. He took off like a streak across the front yard, barking his head off.”

  “So you left him outside?”

  “He wouldn’t come back when I called, so I figured he’d be all right.”

  She bit her lip. Apprehension knotted her stomach. “When?”

  “I don’t know. Last night sometime.” He rubbed his face and his eyes locked with hers. “Geez, Mom, what? You think something happened to him?”

  “Probably not,” she lied.

  “So where is he? It’s not like he ever wanders off.” He threw off the covers, and dressed only in his boxer shorts, he searched in the pile of clothes near the foot of the bed for something to wear. Frowning, he came up with a pair of wrinkled jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “I think I’ll look outside.”

  “We’ll find him, Mom.”

  Was it her imagination or did she hear a little hint of anxiety in his voice? “Of course we will,” she lied as she hurried downstairs and into her room. In seconds she was dressed and outside, sidestepping the puddles that were already beginning to collect and calling Houndog’s name. Jon, wearing a Mariners’ hat, joined her and together they searched the wet acres, trudging through grass and mud, hoping against hope that they’d come across the puppy, alive and somehow trapped so that he couldn’t free himself. But why then wouldn’t he whine or bark?

  Silently praying that he hadn’t been hurt by a passing car or truck, she checked the road and stood in the thicket of trees that sheltered the house from the county highway. Where would the dog run off to? Would someone pick him up? Was he hurt somewhere…or was it worse? “Don’t borrow trouble,” she told herself as she felt the drip of rain soak the hood of her sweatshirt. Oh, Houndog, where are you?

  She searched the undergrowth and heard Jon’s voice, edged in worry, as he called for his dog and best friend in the world. Around the house and past the rosebushes with their dry leaves and blossoms gone to seed.

  Fear congealed in her heart when she walked around the woodshed and saw the pumpkins smashed against a pile of old flagstones. “Did you do this?” she asked but Jon just stared at the seeds and stringy orange pulp that dripped from the pumpkin shells.

  “Neider,” he whispered.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Who else?”

  “I…I can’t imagine.”

  “Damn it, Mom, of course, it’s Neider.” His jaw thrust forward, he blinked hard and fought a brave but losing battle with tears. His discolored face twisted into a determined grimace. “You think he…he killed him?”

  “Of course not. Why would he hurt an innocent animal?”

  “Neider doesn’t need a reason. He’s just mean.”

  “We don’t even know it was Todd. Come on, let’s go inside.” But as they turned, they both saw the walls of the pump house—the time-darkened wood covered with graffiti.

  HAPPY HALLOWEEN FAG

  CRY BABY

  COCK SUCKER

  FUCK YOU, SUMMERS

  Ugly, filthy epithets all aimed at Jon and written in neon orange and stark black.

  “Oh, Lord,” Kate whispered, reading the slurs and hate. “This has got to stop. Come back in the house,” she ordered, marching up the steps not really knowing what she would do, but convinced that the police had to be involved. Jon could scream bloody murder for all she cared, but she was going to dial Sheriff Swanson and explain to the authorities everything that had happened. She’d just reached for the phone when she heard the sound of a truck pulling into the lane.

  Nerves strung tight as new barbed wire, she ran to the front of the house and thought about grabbing the old rifle she had locked in the closet. Look what I’ve come to, she thought, her heart hammering wildly as she recognized Daegan’s truck through the blinds. “Thank God.” Flinging open the front door, she ran across the porch and would have willingly thrown herself into his arms if they weren’t already full with a wiggling mass whom she assumed was Houndog. “No!” she cried just as Jon rounded the corner.

  “Bastards!” He was across the yard in an instant and taking Houndog from Daegan’s hands. Tears mingled with the rain as they drizzled down his face.

  “At least he’s not dead,” Daegan said, a dangerous fire burning in his eyes. “I found him on the back porch tied and drugged, I guess.”

  The dog had been shorn, scratches evident in his naked, mottled skin, only his face and tail showing more than clumps of fur. On his shaved body, the same filthy words had been sprayed.

  “I’m gonna wash him.”

  “No,” Kate said, “not yet. Take him into the car and we’ll go visit the sheriff.” Outrage searing through her blood, she turned to Daegan. “Would you be willing to sign a statement about Todd Neider assaulting Jon and then discovering the dog this morning?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “No!�
�� Jon protested then looked down at the shivering, drowsy dog in his arms. “Fine. Let’s go. Just let me wrap him in a blanket.”

  “I’ll drive,” Daegan said as Jon ran into the house. A muscle worked overtime in his jaw. “I guess it’s time I met the sheriff anyway.”

  “…a shame about the pup, there…we’ll investigate, of course, but since you have no proof it was the Neider boy, there’s not a lot I can do,” Sheriff Swanson said. Fit, trim, with a clipped silver moustache and thick glasses, the sheriff leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together. Daegan had grown up not trusting the law and he stared at this military-looking man through suspicious eyes. Swanson was trying hard to placate Kate and she was having none of it.

  “It’s more than a shame and it’s more than criminal,” she said through tight lips. “It’s downright cruel and immoral and it’s got to stop!”

  “Hey, I’m not disagreeing with you, Kate. I’ll send a deputy out to take pictures of the vandalism, and we’ve already got shots of the dog.” He stared at the little pup shivering in Jon’s arms. Between the shaved, painted mutt and Jon’s bruised and swollen face, they made a pitiful picture. Just looking at his son caused fury to burn through Daegan’s blood, and whether the sheriff did anything or not, Daegan sure as hell planned to visit Neider’s old man. “As for the charges of assault,” Swanson said, eyeing the signed complaint on the desk, “I believe you. Todd’s an ornery character, but the two other boys, Morrisey and Flanders, they’re usually not into much trouble. Why, Morrisey’s father’s a minister down at the First Christian—”

  “Just because his old man spouts the word of God doesn’t mean he can’t get into trouble,” Kate said swiftly.

  “I know, but—”

  “Those two—Morrisey and Flanders—weren’t throwing any punches,” Daegan said, unable to keep his mouth shut a second longer. Content to drink the sheriff department’s sludgelike coffee, he’d rested his hips against the window sill and nodded in confirmation whenever the sheriff had glanced his way. He’d let Kate and Jon tell their side of the story, but when it became obvious that the law would rather just sweep this “little incident” under the carpet, Daegan had decided to stand up and be counted. “But they were egging him on. And if they say different, they’re liars just trying to save their own miserable hides. Cowards, they took off running when I showed up. But the Neider kid, he’s the ring leader, the one who needs to be horsewhipped himself.”