by W. L. Dyson
“Your doctor has explained everything to me, and I'm sorry I can't be there for you.”
Annie looked confused. “You can't? The doctor told me you were here…I thought he meant that we were going to do the proced—”
Zeena shook her head. “All the drugs. I have hepatitis C, Annie. I can't give you bone marrow.”
Annie looked like she was about to collapse. Zeena gripped her hand. “Hey, wait. Before you go falling apart on me. There's another way. I have a son.”
“What? You do? How come I didn't know about him?”
“He's fifteen, Annie. Think back fifteen, sixteen years.”
Annie's expression slowly morphed from confused to understanding. “Oh. So that's why Dad told you to leave.”
“Yep.”
“And that's why we didn't see you for three years.”
“On the nose again.”
Annie squeezed Zeena's hand. “Why didn't you come talk to me? I would have helped you, Barbara.”
Barbara. How long had it been since she'd called herself that name. She'd been Zeena, the prostitute, the tweeker, the loser, for so long that it was hard to think of herself any other way.
“Ancient history.” Zeena stopped, a coughing fit cutting her off. After taking a moment to catch her breath, she continued. “I was hurt and angry and felt justified cutting all of you out of my life. But it's all in the past. What matters now is that we get you well. Marian talked to Josh, my son, and he's willing to be tested. With any luck, he'll be a match.”
“I can't wait…to meet…”
Then Annie went white, and beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. Zeena grabbed her to keep her from slumping to the floor. “Nurse! Help! Someone help me!”
Thursday, 11:45 a.m.
Richie Carver's condo, Baltimore
Cutter Thorne was starting to lose his patience.
Richie had dropped him off at an upscale condominium complex the night before. “My brother lives two floors above me, but my condo is in an alias, so you can relax. No one is going to come crashing through the doors with guns blazing.” Richie had given Cutter a two-minute tour of the place and then told him to make himself at home.
“I'll be back later,” Richie had said. “Relax. Eat. Sleep. I doubt there's anything in the refrigerator, but there are restaurant numbers on the speed dial. Just order and tell them it's for me. They'll bill me. I always keep a wad of singles in the silver bowl by the front door for tips. Just help yourself to whatever you find.”
Cutter had helped himself to plenty last night, but since drugs weren't on his list of vices, he passed on the cocaine in the kitchen drawer and went for the bourbon at a chrome bar off the living room. By eight, he had been starving, so he ordered a steak dinner from one of the restaurants and ate it in front of the television in the den.
By midnight, he had given up on Richie and gone to bed, taking one of the spare bedrooms Richie had shown him. He awoke just after eight this morning, showered, dressed, made a pot of coffee, and parked in front of the television again.
If Richie didn't return soon, he was going to have to change his plans. But before Cutter could decide on his next move, Richie came bouncing through the front door. “Hey! Come on. My brother wants to meet you.”
Thursday, 12:30 p.m.
Prodigal offices, Baltimore
Nick paid the window repairman who finally finished replacing the glass in the front window. He tried not to consider how bad that eight hundred just hurt his checkbook.
The man left, and Nick locked the front door. He felt so tired that he could have comfortably napped right there on the carpet, remaining glass shards and all.
He headed back to the bathroom and walked over to the mirror. Opening his shirt, he peeled back the bandage and studied the area around his wound. It was red and angry. He considered having a doctor look at it. It could have been infected. It felt hot, and the pain seemed to radiate across his entire shoulder.
But man, he hated going to doctors. They hemmed and hawed and then wrote prescriptions he couldn't read and charged him hundreds of dollars only to suggest repeating the whole routine in another two weeks.
Medical reform, in his mind, meant teaching doctors how to communicate honestly with their patients. Yes, this is bad, but I've seen worse. I'm going to make an appointment for you to come back in two weeks, but if it gets better before then, don't come back, just cancel the appointment. If it's not better, we'll try something stronger. But don't worry. This isn't going to kill you. It's just going to aggravate you for a while.
He snorted. Like that was ever going to happen. He resecured the bandage and washed his face. If this wasn't better in a week, well…he'd give it another week.
Shoulder throbbing, he exited the bathroom, only to find Krystal knocking at the front door, peering through the glass. He unlocked the door and let her in, and before he could greet her, she stumbled at the threshold and slammed into him, her head plowing right into his shoulder.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he waited until she stepped out of his way and then headed for his office. Time for more Excedrin. “Why aren't you in school?”
“Because Mom decided I should visit with you for a little while.” She plopped down on the sofa in the corner and pulled out her iPod. So much for visiting.
“She could have waited until school let out. Where is she?”
“She dropped me off. She had some errands to run.”
Good news—my daughter is here and safe. Bad news—my ex-wife thinks I'm a baby-sitter.
Easing down into his chair, he pulled out the Excedrin and shook three into his hand. Then he popped them into his mouth and chased them with some Mountain Dew. He turned on his computer while he considered the right way to handle the fake ID problem. “Could you turn the music off for a minute? We need to talk.”
He looked straight at her, and something in his face must have clued her in to his concern, because she hunched down as she pulled the earbuds out and let them dangle. “Krystal, I need to ask you a question and it's very important that you are totally honest with me, okay? You're not going to get into trouble. I promise. But I need you to be honest with me.”
“What?”
“Have you been using a fake ID and visiting clubs?”
She shook her head, rubbing her palms along her thighs. “I don't do that.”
“Someone told me that you did. That you've been seen at the clubs. I need to know that you won't do that again. Ever. There's a danger out there that I don't want you to fall prey to. It's really, really important, Krystal. Can you promise me that you won't go to any bars?”
She nodded with a wild-eyed look that told him his information was dead-on. Which meant that Benedict's men weren't just toying with him.
“I understand the lure of sneaking into clubs. I do. I did the same thing a few times when I was your age. But right now there's something going on that makes bars especially dangerous places for you. Please promise me that until I say otherwise, you won't go to any clubs.”
Licking her lips, she nodded again. “Promise.” She jumped to her feet. “I need to use the bathroom.”
Thursday, 2:30 p.m.
The Stark Lily, Park Heights, Baltimore
Cutter slumped down in a leather booth at the Stark Lily, one hand wrapped around a cold bottle of beer, the other stretched across the back of the seat. His eyes were never still. He was taking in everything. He knew how many tables were in the room and how many booths. How many stools at the bar, how many feet it was to the hall that led to the bathrooms, and how many people were sitting around, drinks in hand, chatting away with someone. He knew who was drunk and who was sober, who was clean and who was hiding something. He could see it all.
Including the number of video cameras overhead.
Richie had left him at the booth with a drink, a smile, and a promise not to be long. That was nearly two hours ago. Cutter waited
, making sure that the cameras showed nothing more than a man casually waiting and enjoying his drink.
Jon Carver was trying to make him sweat. Make him nervous. Antsy. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction. The Carvers weren't dealing with a lightweight.
Finally, Cutter knew it was time to make his move. He glanced at his watch, frowned. He picked up his bottle and finished it off. Put the bottle down. Stood up and fished into his pockets for a couple of singles. Tossed them on the table. By the time he got to the front door, Richie was running up to him.
“Sorry. Business. You know how it is. Come on up.”
Cutter stared at him for a moment. Then he tipped his head in a signal for Richie to lead on. They wound back through the bar and down a long hall. When they reached a locked door marked Janitorial Supplies, Richie pulled his hand out of his pocket, held up the card key, and unlocked the door with a grin. “Keeps people from poking in where they don't belong.”
Once through the door, they climbed a steep staircase and then proceeded through another door, entering a whole different world. The hallway alone featured plush carpet, expensive wood trim, and pricey art on the walls. They went through three other doors before stepping into Jon Carver's office.
More expensive art, more lavish woodwork, and a wall-sized window—complete with highly tinted glass—that looked down over the bar. He chided himself for missing the hidden window from below.
Jon sat behind a massive oak desk as if he were the emperor of a kingdom. He was dressed in a navy blue pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt and pale blue tie. Leaning back in his chair, a cigar in hand, he looked amused. So he'd been enjoying watching Cutter wait. However the man gets his jollies.
“Mr. Cutter.”
“Thorne. Cutter Thorne.” Cutter didn't wait to be invited to sit down. He picked a chair that he assumed Richie probably used and dropped down into it with a heavy sigh and an attitude of someone vastly annoyed and put out. “Business must be good.” Cutter glanced over at his watch again. Then he looked over at Jon with a steely bored look.
Jon's amusement faded. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Had I known you had important business somewhere, I'd have worked you in a little sooner.”
“Let's cut to the chase. I'm here because your boy was in that transport van. He begged me to help him escape, so I did. In exchange, he offered me a safe hiding place and a job.” He spread his arms out with a touch of belligerence. “I'm always open to a lucrative proposition. Otherwise, I know where to find what I need.”
The amusement returned to Jon's eyes. “Well said, Mr. Thorne. Richie tells me that you have a reputation for getting things done. Your escape from prison was very well executed, so I believe him.”
Cutter shrugged. “I'm not a complicated man, Carver. I'm in my line of work because I like it. And I like the lifestyle it provides. So if I'm not working, I'm not happy. And prison prevented me from working. That had to change, so I changed it. Simple enough.”
“Things are not so simple around here right now.” Jon set his cigar in his ashtray and scooted forward, putting his elbows on his desk and steepling his hands under his chin. “Perhaps you can simplify them for me.”
Cutter shrugged nonchalantly as he looked around the office. “Looks like you have everything well in hand to me.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
Bull's-eye.
“So what do you need from me?” Cutter asked, keeping his expression steeled.
“I have a large shipment of sensitive material arriving late tonight. I'd like you to oversee the off-loading of the shipment. I have some warehouse space a few blocks from the harbor. I need you to see to it that the shipment arrives at that warehouse safe and sound. And that it stays that way.”
Cutter wasn't surprised at Jon's so-called offer. All he was doing was putting the disposable guy on the front lines. If the harbor police or ATF don't show up, the shipment goes to the warehouse. But if the shipment is busted, and Cutter gets arrested, Jon is free from any charges. Plausible deniability.
Thursday, 4:10 p.m.
Whispers Bar, Baltimore
It was just after four when Marti slid onto a barstool and gazed around the room. It was midafternoon, and the place was nearly deserted. A man and woman occupied a corner booth, having a late lunch, and a couple of men sat at the bar drinking beer and watching the sports channel.
“Whatcha have?” the bartender asked Marti as he wiped down the spot in front of her.
“Stoli, straight up.”
He nodded and moved off, returning a few moments later with her drink. As he set it down, she smiled up at him. “You know most of the working girls around the hood, right?”
He shrugged. “Some,” he replied warily.
“Just looking for an old friend of mine. She and I used to work together. Had each other's back, ya know?”
“Name?”
“Zeena.” She picked up her drink and smiled at him again over the edge of the glass. “She probably hits the streets after you go home. But thought I'd check.”
“They don't hang here the way they do down at the Stark Lily.” He gave her the once-over. “If you know her and you know these streets, then you know Charlie. That's all I need to say.”
Flashing him another smile, she tossed back the drink and set the empty glass on the bar. Reaching for the bills in her pocket, she stood up. “Thanks. I appreciate the help. If you see her before I do, just let her know Candy was asking for her.”
She strolled out. Throwing out the name Candy would be a dead end. There was always someone on the street named Candy, so it would sound legit to the bartender and wouldn't raise any suspicions in Zeena.
“Well?” Steven asked when she got in the car.
“The Stark Lily and someone named Charlie. That's all I got so far.”
“The Stark Lily we know—Zeena works out of there, and the Carvers own it—but I don't even want to think how many Charlies there are in this town.”
“Well, take me to another place these girls frequent. Let me see what else I can find out.”
Steven glanced at his watch. “The Stark Lily doesn't really start moving until about six. Why don't we go get an early dinner first?”
“Sounds good to me. And I want Italian.”
“Mama Rosa's.”
Marti smiled. “They're still in business?”
“They are. And as good as ever.”
Thursday, 4:45 p.m.
Sinai Hospital, Baltimore
Jenna held the car door open while Rafe climbed in. “I still think you should have stayed in the hospital so they could keep an eye on you.”
“It's just a concussion, Jenna. I'm not dying.” Grumbling under his breath, he said more, but she couldn't make out what it was. So she slammed his door with a little more force than she intended and thanked the nurse who had insisted on wheeling Rafe out to the curb. “He's a man. Need I say more?”
The nurse laughed. “I'm used to it.”
“So am I, unfortunately. I have four more of them back at the office.”
“Are they all as cute as he is?”
Jenna shrugged. “Each in his own way.”
“Well, it's obvious he's crazy about you, so toss the others and keep this one.”
Jenna was about to correct the nurse, but she had already turned and was heading back through the doors. Oh, well.
After she climbed in the car and hooked her seat belt, Rafe said, “It's about time. Did you two exchange phone numbers?”
Jenna shifted to look at him. “Listen. I know you're hurting. I know you don't like doctors, and I know you don't like feeling weak in front of women, but you listen to me, Rafael Constanza. I'm sorry you got hurt, but I am not going to let you take it out on me. I've spent the entire day sitting around just so I could make sure that you're fine. So I won't put up with your childish tantrums. Just get your attitude adjusted real quick or you can walk home.”
Rafe stared at her as if he couldn't b
elieve she was yelling at him. Then ever so slowly, a smile crept up. “You are so incredible when you're mad.”
Just how was she to stay mad when he talked like that? Twisting her keys with a little bit of attitude, she started the car and then pulled away from the curb.
“I figured it out, ya know,” Rafe said.
She didn't even look at him as she slowed down for an upcoming red light. “What's that?”
“You're in love with me.”
She snorted. “In your dreams.”
“You are. You didn't go to the hospital last year when Conner had that accident. Or three years ago when Steven was rushed to the hospital with his appendix.”
“Conner's wife was with him, and Nick took Steven to the hospital. You didn't have anyone. I just felt sorry for you, that's all.”
Rafe doubled over. “Oh, no… Man… Ow…”
His pain was so obvious that Jenna swung to the curb and shifted the car into park. Unhooking her seat belt, she half climbed over the console to reach him. “Rafe? What's wrong? What hurts?”
Rafe swung back, grabbed her face, and pulled her in. He stared into her eyes and held her face for a long moment. “My heart. It hurts.” And then, before she could pull away, he kissed her.
She started to pull back, but her mind scrambled. Her only coherent thought was Heavens to Betsy.
Thursday, 5:00 p.m.
Mama Rosa's Restaurant, Timonium, Maryland
Marti watched as the waitress moved away, and leaned back in her chair. “I can't believe this place looks exactly the same. I figured there'd be a McDonald's here by now, or maybe a Domino's.”
Steven folded his hands on the table and looked around at the murals of Italian scenes on the wall, the jars of oils and wines on a shelf along the ceiling, and the vines crawling down booth dividers. “Mom and Dad used to bring us here once a month. How many birthdays did we spend here?”
“I lost count. I think my seventh and tenth were here. I remember that if it was our birthday, we could order anything we wanted. I always wanted shrimp fettuccine.”
