Bullseye

by Virginia Smith

  The teen’s reaction almost mirrored Karina’s. He seemed to grow a couple of inches taller as his spine stiffened. “They got no proof of that.”

  Mason picked up a straw and peeled the paper off. “The television folks seem pretty convinced.”

  The kid’s expression became almost hostile. “I don’t care what the TV says, mister, I don’t believe it. I know Alex, too, a little, and there’s no way he’d shoot José.”

  A smile spread across Karina’s face, and her grateful eyes practically embraced the kid. Mason ignored her.

  “Oh?” He shoved the straw into his glass and wadded the paper into a tight wad. “Were you there that night? Did you see what happened?”

  His gaze fell away, and his weight shifted from one foot to the other. “No,” he admitted.

  “So if you didn’t see what happened, then how do you know José’s friend didn’t shoot him, just like the police say he did?”

  “I just know, that’s all.”

  Mason pushed. “But how do you know?”

  The kid didn’t answer. His jaw became hard, stubborn, and he returned Mason’s calm gaze with increasing hostility. For a moment Mason thought he might give them something, a piece of important information that would point them in the right direction. Then the teen’s expression became stonelike.

  “Your enchiladas won’t take long,” he ground out through set teeth. “I’ll bring them out as soon as they’re ready.”

  He left abruptly, and disappeared behind a swinging door in the far wall. Mason spared a hope that he hadn’t angered the kid enough that he’d do something disgusting, like spit on his enchiladas.

  Karina watched him go, then turned a satisfied grin toward Mason. “See? Nobody who knows Alex would ever think he could do something like that.”

  Mason stared after the kid. Unfortunately, he got the impression the boy was simply defending a friend, not speaking from specific knowledge. If there was something behind his denial besides loyalty, he was hiding it better than Mason thought he could.

  “Too bad,” he remarked to Karina.

  “What do you mean?”

  He picked up his water glass and sipped from the straw. “I don’t care how many of his buddies insist Alex wouldn’t hurt José, it’s going to take more than a few character witnesses to clear him of murder charges. We need someone who saw them that night.”

  She sagged against the chair back, shoulders slumped. Mason felt a stab of guilt. He hated to pop her bubble, but she needed to be realistic. With the evidence the police had against Alex, even though it was circumstantial, Mason would have to come up with something pretty substantial to convince the judge to release him.

  “Sorry.” He reached across the table and covered her hand. “But don’t lose hope. We’ve hardly begun. We’ll come up with something soon.”

  She rewarded him with a grateful smile, and didn’t move her hand. Mason sat there, his arm extended across the table, his fingers growing warm where they touched her skin, reluctant to pull back and break the moment. It was almost as if years had fallen away, and she was looking to him to solve her problems, to be the strong one and provide the support she needed. He liked the feeling.

  Finally she slid her hand out from beneath his and placed it in her lap. Her gaze didn’t quite meet his.

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  The truth was, he didn’t. But he had more than an idea. He had a suspicion. And he knew where to go to figure out if that suspicion would pan out.

  * * *

  “Yeah, the name’s Maddox.” Mason spoke into his cell phone while they crossed the parking lot toward the rental car. “M-A-D-D-O-X. Russell.”

  “You know, you could do a simple internet search yourself.”

  Brent, his friend and the third member of the Falsely Accused Support Team, sounded like he was standing right beside Mason, thanks to the ridiculously expensive and super fancy phone he’d insisted they all carry. Brent was the geek of the group, and owned every gadget on the market.

  “I could,” Mason agreed, “if I had access to a computer, but we’re getting in the car at the moment.”

  “Use your smartphone,” Brent said.

  Mason held the phone away and examined the screen for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t even figure out how to stop dialing the thing with my ear while I’m trying to talk on it.”

  Brent heaved a loud sigh, obviously for Mason’s benefit. “Okay, fine. What am I looking for?”

  They arrived at the car, but Mason waved Karina away from the door. “If I knew, I wouldn’t need you to look for me. Just find out whatever you can about the guy. And see if there’s a connection to a little dive called Casa del Sol Restaurante, or to—” He spoke to Karina. “What’s the name of the place Alex works?”

  “The Speedy Superette on Chacoma.”

  He spoke back into the phone. “Did you hear that?”

  “Yeah, I got it.” A pause. “Okay, give me a bit. Lauren and I are over at my sister’s, so I’ll call you back later.”

  “Thanks, buddy.” Mason disconnected the call and spoke to Karina while he pocketed the phone. “Do me a favor and stand over there.”

  “Why?” she asked as she moved to the place he’d pointed, twelve feet across the parking lot.

  “Just in case.”

  Concern creased her brow and she stood clutching the strap of her handbag, watching him closely. Mason approached the rental car with a cautious step. He stooped down and looked below, but could see nothing unusual about the undercarriage, nor was there anything hidden behind the wheels. They’d been in the restaurant for over half an hour, far longer than they’d been in the Garcias’ house. If whoever cut the gas line on Karina’s car had intended to blow them up, they might decide to go bigger with a second attempt.

  With a breath captured in his chest, he pushed the remote to unlock the door. An audible click sounded, and the headlights flared to life. With his arm extended at full length and his head turned away—the right side toward the car, since a second blast would at least give him a matching set of singed ears—he opened the door. Encouraged, he stooped down and pulled the hood release lever.

  Stomach muscles taut, he moved to the front of the car and lifted the hood. At least they’d parked beside a light pole that shed a little light, though much of the engine’s interior lay in shadows. Was there an explosive device hiding down in there? He pulled the phone out of his pocket. If they’d really wanted to make this thing handy, they would have built a flashlight into it. As it was, he slid a finger around the screen until it lit up, and then used the light to inspect the engine. He found the gas line and checked it by feel. No cuts.

  “I think it’s all right,” he called to Karina.

  She approached, her expression grateful, and paused before she slid into the passenger seat. “Thank you, Mason.”

  He looked at her across the hood. “For what?”

  A tiny smile curved her lips. “For keeping me safe.”

  A quippy reply danced on the tip of his tongue, something about self-preservation and not wanting to get the other side of his face blown off, but it died at the sight of that sweet smile. Keeping her safe felt natural, and satisfying in a way that was faintly disturbing. So he made no answer at all.

  They seated themselves in the car, and clicked their seatbelts. When the engine started smoothly, they both exhaled relieved sighs they’d been holding, then exchanged a grin at their shared paranoia. The dashboard display announced the time as almost nine o’clock. He’d really like to find out if the investigating officers had discovered any witnesses when they’d questioned the neighbors around the Garcia residence. But Grierson had probably warned them off talking to him, and Parker’s date was no doubt in full swing at the moment. Talking to him would have to wait until the m
orning.

  He needed to find a hotel for the night, though he wasn’t too keen on sitting alone all evening the first night back in Albuquerque. Those ghosts Caleb mentioned were bound to haunt this night. The longer he could put that off, the better.

  He glanced sideways where Karina was smoothing her thick hair back into its band. “You mentioned something about being able to fix my hair so I don’t look like a bombing victim. Want to give it a try?”

  “Sure. My apartment’s not far.” She pointed at the street bordering the parking lot. “Turn right here, and then take the third left.”

  Her apartment. And with Alex in juvy, they’d be alone.

  Warning Klaxons sounded in his head as he shifted into Drive and headed in the direction she’d indicated.

  TEN

  The feel of Mason’s hair was so familiar it almost hurt Karina to touch him. How many times had she cut his hair over the years? She knew the way it grew, the slightly uneven hairline above his forehead, the almost-cowlick behind his right ear. Steeling her jaw against a tremble, she forced herself to maintain an impassive expression and tested the length between her fingers.

  “Been a while since you had it cut?” Thank goodness her voice came out evenly despite the tide of emotions that swelled inside her.

  “Yeah, I guess I’m about due.”

  He sat in the chair she’d set in the center of her small kitchen, a black stylist’s apron secured around his neck. She ran a comb experimentally across his head, carefully avoiding the burned area above his left ear where the hair had singed down to the scalp.

  I’ll pretend it’s a random haircut from a walk-in customer. Joe Blow, who strolled in for a trim.

  She slid her clippers from their black case and plugged them into the wall outlet above the counter. “Who’s been doing your hair?” Not that she really wanted to know, but if she kept him talking about impersonal things, maybe she could forget whose head she was caressing.

  “Nobody in particular. There’s a place not far from my house I go to. Seems like I get a different stylist every time I go in there.”

  She reached for a guard, and then hesitated, her fingers hovering over them. “You know it’s going to have to be pretty short, right?”

  Mason waved a hand beneath the apron. “Shave it if you have to.”

  “I don’t think we need to be quite that drastic.”

  She picked up a number three, attached it and flipped the switch. The clippers hummed to life. With her teeth set together, she tilted his head and started running the clippers across his scalp against the direction of growth. Hair fell to the floor with each swipe.

  “So do you still go to Trinity?” He raised a hand to point at the framed watercolor hanging on the wall above the entryway.

  The picture was of a plain wooden cross suspended above a filled baptismal. She’d painted it during high school art class, working from a snapshot Mason had taken of their church’s sanctuary.

  “Not anymore.” She bent down to position the clippers at a good angle at the nape of his neck. “Alex and I go to Cornerstone Christian now.”

  Trinity Community Church. When Mason moved away, she’d considered returning to the church where they’d met at youth group during their sophomore year in high school. But the memories were too vivid, too painful. Every time she walked into the sanctuary she couldn’t focus on the Lord, because Mason’s presence was everywhere.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Where do you go to church these days?”

  “I don’t.” His answer was brief, clipped.

  Surprised, she paused and held the clippers a few inches from his head. “You don’t attend church at all?”

  Mason had been an enthusiastic Christian during high school and college. Seeing his commitment had deepened her relationship to the Lord, and to the church. They’d even gone on a mission trip to Mexico with their youth group the summer after their senior year.

  “Not anymore.” His mouth snapped shut, the brittle line of his lips announcing that he wouldn’t discuss the subject any further.

  Karina continued combing through his hair with the clippers. What had happened to him? In the next moment she realized she knew the answer. Margie. His wife’s death must have created some sort of crisis of faith for him.

  But, Mason, surely you don’t blame Jesus for what happened to Margie.

  The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them. Some topics were too far beyond her ability to discuss calmly, and Mason’s wife was one of them.

  After all, hadn’t she suffered her own crisis of faith when he broke up with her to marry Margie? Karina and Mason had been together for years, since early high school. They’d loved each other. Even now she did not doubt that. But they’d been young, and their relationship had grown predictable, too comfortable. They both knew it, but neither had admitted it to the other. When he’d proposed to her, she’d been overjoyed with the tiny promise ring he’d given her and had hoped it would renew the depth of the passion that had begun to cool. But then he’d met Margie. Bigger than life, vibrant, beautiful Margie.

  She finished the cut in silence. As she worked, Mason’s face clouded over with painful memories, his thick brows sunk low over his eyes. Was he thinking of her, his dead wife? Karina clamped her teeth together. She should have kept her mouth shut. The last thing she wanted was for Mason to brood over his wife while sitting in her kitchen.

  When she’d finished the clip, she removed the guard and trimmed a clean line at the back of his neck and around his right ear. The burned left ear she left alone. Then she

  unsnapped the apron and removed it from his neck, careful to trap the hair fragments in its flimsy folds.

  “There. All finished.” She pointed toward the bathroom a few feet away, down a short hallway. “Go take a look and see what you think.”

  When he left the room, the atmosphere became noticeably lighter. Karina retrieved her broom from its storage place in the pantry and began cleaning the floor.

  Mason returned within a minute and stood in the doorway. “It’s terrific. Thank you.”

  She looked up at him, and her breath caught in her chest. The shorter hair transformed him. Stubble across his jaw gave him a rugged look. And the short hair did something to make his eyes stand out. They were so bright blue it almost hurt to look at them, like looking into the sun. Those were the eyes she’d gazed into countless times, had lost herself in. Had planned to look into for the rest of her life.

  Until he broke her heart into a million pieces.

  She tore her gaze away and turned to retrieve the dustpan. “You should wear your hair short all the time. That style looks good on you.”

  “Feels good, too.” He ran a hand across his head. “Here, let me get that.”

  He took the dustpan from her and knelt at her feet, holding it in front of the pile of dark hair. In a flash, Karina remembered another time Mason knelt before her. That time he’d held a ring in his fingers. Pain squeezed her throat shut.

  With an iron effort she swept the hair into the dustpan, then nodded toward the cabinet beneath the sink, where the trash can stayed. She turned her back on him to put the broom away and spoke over her shoulder. “So where are you staying tonight? Did you make reservations somewhere?”

  There was no answer, but the weight of his stare burned into the back of her head. With purposefully smooth movements, she put the broom away and shut the door before turning to look at him.

  Something smoldered in those blue eyes. Something intimate and familiar.

  “I was thinking maybe I should crash on your couch.” He moved his head in the direction of the living room and the sofa, but didn’t break the eye contact that held her captive. “You know. Some extra protection for you.”

  What was he saying? Her pulse kicked up spee
d. Was he offering more than simply a protective presence for the night? The Mason she had known years ago would never suggest such a thing. He was too dedicated to the Lord, too determined to save himself for marriage. But that Mason was gone, and this man—this very attractive man—was someone she didn’t know. She couldn’t decide if she liked him or not. At times today she’d hated him for his casual, sarcastic tongue. At other times she appreciated his rough but thorough concern for her. And this evening she found herself strangely drawn to him. Which made him dangerous.

  And yet, she was afraid to be alone. The day’s events had terrified her. What if the big man in the black car came back? What if whoever was responsible for burning her car decided to pay a visit to her apartment?

  At the thought of Mason sleeping on her sofa all night long, just a few feet beyond her bedroom door, a desert invaded her throat.

  Lord, I need You! Please help me.

  The prayer, an unspoken connection to Heaven, gave her a tendril of strength. Drawing on reserves of calmness she didn’t possess on her own, she replied in an even tone.

  “You can’t stay here, Mason.”

  Something flashed in those piercing blue eyes. Regret, perhaps? In a moment it was gone, and the smug grin returned.

  “I figured you’d say that. It was worth a try, though.”

  What was that supposed to be, an insulting comment? The insinuation that she might have relented, that a night on her couch might have led to something else, created an instant fury inside her. She drew herself upright, ready to pounce back with a verbal volley, something about him being the last man on earth she’d want sleeping on her couch no matter how much danger she was in, but the words went unspoken. Because at that moment his cell phone rang.

  Straightening, he slid it out of his hip pocket and glanced at the screen.

  “My friend in Atlanta.” He clipped the words short while he stabbed at the screen, then lifted the phone to his ear. “What have you got for me, Brent?”