by EC Sheedy
“Look, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but—” Lame. Seriously lame.
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m seeing Grantman tonight, so I can get the ball rolling—in our mutual direction. All you have to do, lover boy, is not do anything stupid until I get home. And stay away from Gina.”
“You’ve got things all wrong, Gina and I—”
Suddenly still, she ignored him, and stared at her hands, grinding them against each other in her lap. “She shot me. Did you know that? She shot her own mother. And all because you and I got in the sack—all those years ago. She never forgot, and she never forgave.” She shrugged, loosened her hands, put them on the chair rails. “Not that I would have, either, I suppose. Trouble with Gina is she’s her mother’s daughter.” That seemed to amuse her, and she appeared to drift away a moment before snapping back. Her tone was low when she added, “She saw her moment that night, during that stupid argument I was having with Franco, and she took it. If I hadn’t turned—”
“She told me—”
She waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter what she told you. Gina’s a mess. That brain of hers is roaring in her head like a thousand-piece orchestra without a conductor. She’s losing it, has been since you screwed with her that last time in Seattle.”
He rallied. “The screwing was mutual. Very mutual.”
“With you, it always is, I suspect.” She lifted a hand. “But I don’t care. I don’t want to hear about it.”
Adam stood, loomed over her, forced her to look up at him. “What exactly do you want?” He had a sinking feeling in his gut that he already knew. He was already sorting through her idea, considering what was in it for him.
“First, I want Gina out of my house. It’s getting tiresome living with a woman who wants me dead.” She glared up at him, her face lined with purpose. “As for you, I’ll get you your money, take care of those people you owe, and in return, you’ll stay here and take care of me.”
“Take care of you how?” He watched her from under lowered eyelids, his innards coiling, waiting for the inevitable.
She smiled. “In all ways, Adam. In all possible ways.” She turned her chair and headed for the open bathroom door. When she was on the other side, she wheeled her chair around and faced him. “It’s either that or I’ll make sure you and Gina are put away for a very long time. And in your case”—her gaze crept over him, rested where it had lingered over his naked groin minutes before—“that would be a terrible waste of talent.”
Adam watched Delores push herself through the gloom of the Love Cavern, his gut stone-hard, his head a sump hole. Black and turgid.
God, Holly, why did you die? Why did you leave me?
He sealed his eyes closed and leveled his shallow breathing. Holly was dead. He couldn’t change that, and whining about her wouldn’t do him any good. He needed to survive, which meant a long run while he decided on the lesser of two evils.
The man, very pale, and walking as if every step might be his last, neared their meeting place, the St. James Cathedral Chapel. Father Frank Moore had no doubt it was the man who had called him this morning, a man who’d refused to give his name and had insisted they meet at “Father Moore’s earliest convenience. He’d thought the man wanted an unscheduled confession, but he was assured not.
“No. I want to talk to you about a gift to St. James—a gift with strings.”
In Frank Moore’s experience, most gifts had strings of some sort, so he was untroubled by the caveat. But he was troubled by the man himself. He studied him as he walked over the black-and-white marble floor toward the chapel. The dress was respectful: suit, tie, and shined shoes. The man carried a large brown bag and a thin folio. His steps were unhurried and his chin down, indicating he was either reluctant or burdened. Most probably both.
The church, other than for a half dozen prayerfully meditating souls scattered among the pews, sat in silent expectation—at least that’s how Father Moore always thought of such quiet times, times he relished. St. James was to him a place of patient waiting, a place for peace, and a place to find answers—or at least the right questions. It was, as he sadly knew, also a place of last resort. He glanced up, wondered, as he often did, at what whispers of sin and repentance this sanctuary had absorbed in its hundred years.
The well-dressed man stopped at the altar, hesitated, and lifted his head to look up at the domed skylight directly above it, then he quickly skirted the altar on the left, neither crossing himself nor genuflecting.
New to St. James, Father thought, and perhaps new to God. Possibly not even a Catholic.
No matter. Distressed souls were his vocation and heavy hearts his specialty; whatever this man’s reasons for walking through the doors of St. James today, they were borne by a troubled soul.
The priest rose to greet him and offered his hand. “Frank Moore,” he said. “Father Moore, if you’ve a bent toward it.”
“Thank you for seeing me.” A hand was offered but not a name. The man straightened his shoulders.
“Shall we?” Frank gestured to the chapel behind him and let his visitor walk ahead of him. They took seats just inside the chapel doors, and Frank watched as the other man scanned the room absently massaging his temple as he did so.
“You’re not a Catholic,” Frank said, when they were settled.
“Not anymore.” The tone was firm, without apology. Definitely not here for confession. “That implies a few drops of holy water and a first communion somewhere in your distant past.” He smiled.
“Very distant past—and I’m not here to revisit it.”
Frank knew not to push. “What are you here for, and how can I help?”
“I want to give you this.” His nameless companion set the bag on the floor and pulled a letter from the folio. He handed it to Frank. “It’s everything I have.”
Frank’s eyebrows shot up. Two hundred thousand dollars! “This is a lot of money,” he said, stating the obvious. “Who do you want sent to hell?” He smiled at his own joke; his visitor did not, so he added, “The bank is Swiss.”
“Yes. And the transfer will be done this afternoon, if you agree to my terms.”
“I gather one of which is complete anonymity.”
“Yes, but don’t worry, the money is ready, willing, and legal. That much you can check with the bank. There’s a telephone number there. On the bottom. They’ll take care of any concerns you might have.”
“I see.” Frank didn’t see, didn’t see at all. He rested the document on his lap, looked hard at the man sitting in the chair next to his. “And in return for this?”
“I want you”—he dipped into the brown bag he’d carried in—“to plant this in the courtyard.”
It was a plant, maybe a foot high. “Holly? You want me to plant a holly tree?” He frowned. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Do you accept? Will you plant the tree?”
“If everything is as you say it is, yes. We have some outreach programs in need of funding. This money will go a long way.”
“Good.” He put the tree back in the bag at his feet and shoved it toward the priest.
“There’s something else I’d like to do before you go,” Frank said.
The man tilted his head; his eyes took on a wary look. “I’d like to hear your confession.” He paused. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it? Atonement? Perhaps forgiveness?” He lifted the document outlining the details of the wire transfer. “This won’t do that, you know.” Frank knew he’d taken a shot in the dark, but years in the priesthood had fine-tuned his guilt detector—and guilt lay over this man like a shroud.
For a time silence rested between them, broken finally by a cough coming from somewhere in the heart of the church. Frank’s seatmate got to his feet. “I thought about that, but I’d rather not add hypocrisy to my list of sins.” He turned to go, turned back. “You’ll plant the tree? See that it’s tended?”
Frank nodded and rose from his seat. “And I’l
l pray over it.”
“Good.”
“Are you sure about that confession?”
“Yes. I’m sure.” The man hesitated. “But if I was going to pray on something, it would be that I’ve been right about at least one damn thing in my life.”
“Which is?”
He looked away, appeared to lose his train of thought, then he said, “That what you don’t know, can’t hurt you.”
He walked out of the chapel and didn’t look back.
Between rows of empty pews and under the melancholy gaze of its lost saints, the body walked stolidly toward the cathedral’s front doors, even as the soul wept and demanded to linger. Weakening with every step, the body carried its spirit across the sanctuary, over the black-and-white marble. Opening the heavy door, feeling the chill and bluster of the air, the body paused, then spoke: There’s no going back, no redemption. In the end there was only death and the silence of the grave.
Outside the church, Trent took a couple of pain-killers, and with not enough strength left to walk, he hailed a passing cab.
“Canston Arms,” he said. His fleabag hotel was maybe ten minutes away. And the end of the line.
As waiting rooms went, the Canston Arms would do. “A matter of months,” the doctor had said, “with the proper treatments. A matter of weeks if not.”
He’d refused treatment.
Now it was a matter of days.
Maybe, before he took his final sleep, he’d understand why he did it.
Why he’d killed Holly Lambert . . .
He closed his eyes against the image of that day, that autumn path, her dead sightless eyes. Eyes he hadn’t courage enough to close.
Was it hatred for Grantman, an act of revenge for everything he’d taken from him, or was it an act of love for Camryn, the daughter he’d ignored while he’d chased his failed dreams? The daughter he’d sought out when his time was running out. The daughter he never really knew—and the daughter he’d never see again. Never hurt again.
Was killing Holly a way to take away from Grantman something he loved, or to give to Camryn what she wanted so badly and could never have? A child.
He opened his eyes, stared out the window and rubbed at his temples. The pain in his tumorous head as searing as the two thousand volts flowing to an electric chair.
Revenge or atonement? Hate or love? What was left of his healthy brain couldn’t distinguish between them.
Not that it mattered. He’d find his answer soon enough.
The devil would surely know . . .
Chapter 25
When Camryn and Dan arrived home after lunch, they found a note on the kitchen table. Camryn picked it up.
Cammie, I waited until the new window was put in, then headed for Seattle. Got some business there, not sure when I’ll be back. I’ll call. Dad
She frowned as she read it.
“Something wrong?” Dan walked to the newly installed window, ran a hand along the sill, and looked back at her when she didn’t answer right away.
“No. Not really. He’s disappeared like this quite a bit since he came here. All very secretive.” But, then, Trent Derne was a secret. She’d never really known him, as a man or as a father. Still, in the time he’d been with her, her father had been more relaxed, less driven, less . . . egocentric than she’d ever seen him. Certainly, when she was a child the opposite was true. Age had mellowed him, she suspected, maybe brought introspection and acceptance enough that he could let go of some of his bitterness, accept his losses. For years he’d attributed those losses to Paul Grantman, endlessly talking about revenge. In her view, a terrible waste of mental energy.
Maybe it was the mellowing that came with the passing of time that had him show up in her life in the first place— after so many years away from it.
“Are there some calls you can make? I can make?” Dan asked.
“No, he said he’d call. I’m sure he will.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” She set the note back on the table and walked to the island in the center of the kitchen. The house felt strangely quiet. No father, so no television; no Kylie, so no banging toys and little-girl screeching. The place had a lull about it. Soft time, she thought, before the sharp and unpredictable hours ahead of them at the Solari house.
Restive, she asked, “Would you like something to drink?”
“You know what I like. And you know what I want.” His gaze raked her, and her tummy did a quick clench.
“Unless that’s an oblique reference to a roast beef sandwich, I assume you mean me.”
“I definitely mean you.”
“Not one for mincing words, huh?”
He shook a negative.
Because she didn’t know what to say, what she did was cross her arms and study the man who had no problems making his desires known while she struggled with hers—and her conscience.
There was a narrow bench seat under the lakeside kitchen window, and Dan, after his inspection of the window, had sat on it, stretching his legs out in front of him, looking for all the world as if he belonged in her kitchen and had no intention of leaving it.
It seemed the only man intent on leaving her had been her husband. She was still unnerved by how easily she’d let him go. Still wrestled with what that said about her. She’d hurt him; she should hurt, too. But she didn’t. What she was doing was aching for the man sitting under her kitchen window.
Camryn had a solid idea of how she felt about Dan Lambert, at least in the physical and hormonal sense; her body made it perfectly clear, as did her heart, which pounded a jungle beat every time he walked into a room. Like it was doing now. It was the mental gymnastics, her moralistic mind, she was having trouble with. Whatever was happening between them had her strangely agitated. Not only was her divorce so recent it had barely scabbed over, Dan was the husband of her best friend—her late best friend. The man who’d admitted he’d come on to her solely to keep his daughter. No matter how she looked at it, there seemed to be a serious lack of . . . old-fashioned good taste in this whole scenario. And still she couldn’t stop herself.
She walked toward him, stood in front of him, and looked over his head out the shiny new window. “I’ve been thinking—”
He gripped her by the waist, pulled her to him, and looked up at her. “How about we table the thinking thing. Go to bed.”
She put her hands on his hair, then combed it with her fingers. “Are you always so direct?” She liked it—his honest approach, his unconcealed impatience to make love to her.
“Yes.” He smiled. “I figure the shortest distance to a good thing is a straightforward question.”
“That wasn’t exactly a question. More like a proposition.” His hair was thick, slightly curled and dusted with sunlight. When she brushed it back from his forehead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“I like your hands on me. Did I tell you that?”
She touched his ear, traced its shape with her index finger. “And did I tell you I think this relationship of ours should get a speeding ticket?”
He took her hands in his, kissed each palm. “You’re right about that, but when a guy gets into a Ferrari for the first time . . .”
“I’m not too sure how I feel being compared to a car. Although, if you must, a Ferrari is a fine choice.” She smiled.
He stood, ran his hands along her arms, up to her shoulders. Everything he touched warmed, glowed. “And you’re a very fine woman.” He paused. “And—after last night—a lot more than I bargained for.”
“Dan, don’t—” There it was, that sense of speeding again, this time through a downhill tunnel. “That could have been a mistake. I was scared . . . Maybe it was nothing but fear and adrenaline.”
“Three times?” He cocked his head, and for a moment it looked as if he would smile. “Nobody’s that scared.” He took her face in his big hands and brushed his lips over hers, until the pounding in her heart, the lusting heave between her thighs shut ou
t everything else. “We’ve got a few hours before we head over to the house of horribles,” he whispered in her ear. “It would be a sin to waste them.” He kissed her hard and deep, and she folded into him, heard him add, “And if I’m going to sin, I want to make damn sure it’s worth my while.” He ran his hands down her back, gripped her buttocks, and pressed her to him.
With the hard length of him flush against her, her own heat turning liquid, she thought of only one thing to say: “And mine, Dan Lambert. Don’t forget about me.”
“Impossible.” He took her hand, and together they headed for the stairs to her room. At their base he stopped and turned to her, his expression stern, uncompromising. “Let’s leave everything down here, okay? All the second-guessing, the exes, recriminations, the shoulds and should-nots.” He jerked his head toward the top of the stairs. “Up there, in that bed, there’s only you and me. Us. You good with that?”
She nodded, her heart in her throat—or was it tears? For God’s sake! Tears. “Just us,” she agreed after a deep swallow.
Dan was tearing off his clothes before they hit the door. Seconds later hers joined his in a lumpy pile on the floor, and she was stretched out on the bed.
With only the darkening late afternoon lending its light, her room was dim and chilly. Camryn felt the cool against her exposed breasts, a draft of even colder air prickling along her upper arms.
Then his hands came, rubbing her arms, gentle friction pitting heat against the frost. He kissed her hair, her face, her mouth, the column of her throat, before his lips took in the icy peaks of her breasts—first one, then the other—his tongue a flame licking at her hardened nipples.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, and didn’t want to do either. She closed her eyes.
He raised his head, his eyes forest-dark and intent on her. Only her. Watching her, he pressed a thumb against the nipple his mouth had just deserted. “You have magnificent breasts,” he whispered. “And these”—using the pads of his thumbs, he circled her nipples—“taste like candy.”
She gasped, her stomach knotting and curling; his words and the sensuous movement of his thumbs connected mystically to every sinew in her body, pulling and releasing, pulling and releasing. . . .
