Walk-in

by T. L. Hart

  “We don’t need his blessing. What we need is time to regroup.” Aggie and Jo were stubborn as two mules, but I was persistent. “What harm will a little vacation do? I personally think a lot clearer if I have a belly full of fried bass and hush puppies.”

  “And who do you think is going to clean and fry those fish?” Jo shook her head. “I don’t do cooking, much less cozy little fish fries. And I’ve eaten your cooking, honey. Not that I love you any less because of it.”

  “That’s why I invited Aggie. She has her old Baptist granny’s cast-iron skillet and the secret hush puppy recipe.” I was practically begging. “C’mon, Ag. Save us from our own lousy cooking? I’ll let you drive the boat.”

  “You think I can be bribed to be your cook by making me be your chauffeur in the bass boat? If you can sell that deal, they need you at the United Nations, negotiating a settlement between the Israelis and the P.L.O.”

  “If I didn’t have so damn much money, I might apply for the job.”

  Aggie laughed.

  “Do I have to actually fish?” she asked. “I hate that more than playin’ those dopey board games.”

  “Okay, we’ll give you a pass on the fishing.” I grinned back at her. “But we have to have something to pass the time in the evenings. The TV reception sucks down there, so I had really looked forward to a smokin’ hot game of Monopoly.”

  “I’d rather fish.”

  “Okay then. Trivial Pursuit.”

  “When pigs fly, girl. Don’t push your luck.”

  “We’ll get the All Sports edition.” I laughed. “Seriously, Ag. You’ll go with us?”

  “I can’t go up with you in the morning, but I can meet you up there tomorrow night.” Aggie flipped her braids back. “Speakin’ of my old granny, her birthday celebration is happenin’ tomorrow. I have to go find a nice gift. Granny believes in getting birthday presents. It’s what Jesus would want. Comes right after the Beatitudes.” Perfect deadpan delivery.

  “I can’t argue with Jesus. Tomorrow night will be great.”

  I got ready to walk her down to her car, telling Jo I’d be back in a couple of minutes. She said goodnight to Aggie and picked up her day planner and iPhone.

  “Okay, but if we’re really going to do this lake thing, I’ve got to make a couple of calls. There’s a cocktail party next week that I have to check with the hotel on.” It was good to see her mind switch back to work and off the events of the past couple of days. “We’ll have to drop by on our way out of town and let me leave an itinerary at the campaign headquarters. Tricia Biggs is a nervous Nellie who has to have every little detail nailed down. I swear I don’t know how her husband hasn’t strangled her yet.”

  I nodded my agreement and turned my attention back to Aggie. When we stepped into the hall, reality smacked me across the face. No matter how much I wanted not to think about it, the sight of the graffiti there yanked me back into the moment. The rough block printing was startlingly blood-like in the bright lights of the late night.

  “Cotton, do you really think leaving town is going to solve anything?” Aggie asked. “You can’t stay gone forever. It doesn’t send a strong enough message to Max or whoever is responsible for this behavior.”

  “What kind of message does staying here and letting him terrorize us both send? He’s a pissant who hides and makes up for his little prick by scaring women. I’m not going to pander to his ego by crying or running to the police every time I think he’s lurking in an alleyway or parking garage. I’m not going to stay here and look over my shoulder every day either.”

  “So instead, we’re all running away?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  “Okay, I’m on your side, babe. I’ll pack my skillet and be there before midnight tomorrow.” She got in her old Jeep and I shut the door for her. “But you do know what they call people who run away from their troubles, don’t you?”

  “There’s two schools of thought on that subject, Ag. Some people call them cowards. I call them survivors.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  The morning was the kind of day that made poets write odes to nature. Skies so bright a blue it hurt your eyes; the horizon spreading out so far and wide, it could have been a backdrop for the set of Oklahoma. An optimist would say, “God’s in his heaven and all’s right with the world.” All I could think was our stalker probably wouldn’t have any trouble keeping us in his sights.

  So much for optimism—I think that whole glass is half full stuff is pretty much sleight of hand, a mental diversion to set the gullible up for the con. If someone convinces you that your glass is half full, pretty soon you lose track of the fact that half your water has been jacked. Ah well, the lake is full of water; I’ll get a refill.

  Jo packed pretty light for her, which meant I had room in the Beamer for an overnight bag and my own opinion, just barely. We were ready to head out of town as soon as she made nice-nice with the First-Lady-of-Texas-wannabe. I knew Cotton had been very politically active before I moved into Jennifer’s head, but that part of me had either stayed in the fog or I had yet to unearth whatever section of my psyche made it marginally intelligible, much less a subject for passion.

  Politics in Texas isn’t a race; it’s a demolition derby. Only in the Lone Star State could you have a white-haired grandmother and a Jewish country western singer/humorist/detective novelist running in a serious election against a polished incumbent with the blessing of his party and still have there be a question about the outcome. One past governor who later became president of the United States might never have considered the Oval Office if he could have been named baseball commissioner. For the life of me, I couldn’t manage to care these days.

  I put my apathy aside and drove Jo to a strip mall near the SMU campus where the Biggs for Governor campaign had its main Dallas headquarters. They had other storefront branches in Plano and Frisco and other outlying suburbs of the Metroplex, but this was a smart location for the core of the network. The college campus was a great place to find earnest young volunteer workers who often got a bonus in poli sci for a few hours of answering phones and eating doughnuts.

  The West Village area was a designated hip area, full of students with pockets full of Daddy’s money to spend in all the shops. My favorite sighting in the Virgin record store was a teenager wearing three hundred dollar jeans, a Tag Heuer watch and a T-shirt that proved being rich didn’t mean you couldn’t have a sense of humor. While people in the Texas capital celebrated their city’s reputation for being a bit bizarre by sporting shirts saying “Keep Austin Weird,” this kid of casual privilege was wearing the message “Keep Dallas Pretentious.”

  Besides its cool factor, the location made sense geographically. It was minutes from the downtown business area and convention centers, not too far from Love Field airport and ten minutes from the old money section of Dallas where Biggs lived among his fellow millionaires—protected behind rock fences and steel gates as if they were an endangered species.

  The big glass-fronted windows were so covered with campaign posters and stickers and Texas flags that they might as well have been brick for all the light that got in. Jo grabbed her papers and got out of the car, saying she’d be back in no more than fifteen minutes. I was content to sit and wait, intrigued by the huge smiling photographs of the poster boy, Quentin Biggs.

  If Hollywood had sent out a casting call for a rich, handsome, middle-aged man to play the part of governor, they would have hired Biggs on the spot. He was store-bought white bread, no crusts. A full head of silver hair, earnest blue eyes and a smile that had to have cost a small fortune in porcelain veneers.

  He was photogenic; I’ll give him that. From the artfully posed hand-on-the-back-of-a-chair blowups of him to the folksy shirtsleeves rolled up, shaking hands with the common man ones, the camera loved the man.

  Biggs exuded charisma with a capital C. He inspired confidence with his solidness. He promised fiscal knowledge with his air of wealth. He even loved
animals, as you could see as he walked down a country road with his loyal golden retriever. Why then did I get a knot in my stomach just looking at him?

  I’m not being dramatic. Something about Quentin Biggs made me really uncomfortable. My palms were sweating and I felt a touch of queasiness and fear and guilt. It didn’t make sense at all, but the longer I looked at the posters, the more I thought I might be sick. Luckily Jo came breezing out just then and smiled at me, taking my mind off the whole thing.

  “Ready to hit the highway?” I asked. “It’s going to feel great to get out of this town for a while.”

  “If it ever happens.” She was irritated. “Her Majesty isn’t here. We have to take this stuff and deliver it to her at home.” She told me the address. “It’s only a few minutes from here. We won’t be there long.”

  “No way,” I said with a groan. “Since when do you have to be a delivery service? Can’t someone here take it over?”

  “This isn’t an everyday situation, honey. I’m wearing a lot of hats on this job, but it’s a huge project. If it will make Tricia Biggs happy for me to bring this by, it’ll be well worth the detour.”

  “Is it that important to make her happy?”

  “If she’s happy, Quentin is in a generous mood, which is a very good thing for everyone concerned.”

  “Quentin? You’re on a first name basis with the candidate?” I grinned at her as she fastened her seat belt. “Very cozy.”

  “I’ve known Quentin and Tricia for years. Max used to do some parties for Quentin’s business.”

  “‘Do some parties’? What does that mean?”

  “Oh, you know,” she shrugged, “celebrity stuff. Wining and dining with big clients. Taking pictures for the magazines and papers.”

  “And he got paid for it?” She nodded. “So Max was pimped out for Quentin Biggs and you were just along for the ride, so to speak?”

  “That’s a nasty way to look at it.” She wasn’t amused. “You used to hang at parties to raise cash for the Outreach. Doesn’t that put you in the same boat?”

  “Yeah, I guess it does. So much for throwing stones.”

  I turned into the driveway of a house on Beverly Drive, stopping at the gated outer wall. I started to press the intercom button, but Jo gave me a code to punch in. The huge wrought-iron barrier slid silently open and we entered the fortress.

  The Biggs’s house was big indeed. I know Jennifer had money, but she didn’t live large. These were the people who put their money where it would be seen, at least if you had the code to get in the gate. The grounds surrounding the mansion were manicured and vast, leading up to a white-pillared structure that made Tara seem a poor relative. If it was built to impress people, the architect had overachieved his goals.

  “Pull right up to the main door,” Jo said, casually enough for me to know this was far from her first visit here. “We can leave the car for the few minutes we’ll be here.”

  “I’ll wait for you here.”

  “No,” she said. “I can use you as a hostage. Tricia won’t be able to insist on keeping me talking if you stand there and look upset.”

  She half-dragged, half-escorted me to the massive front doors and rang the bell. I don’t know if I expected to be let in by a liveried footman or what, but when the door opened, Tricia Biggs was standing there to let us in.

  I took one look at her and remembered the last time I saw her. The ground beneath my feet quivered and I felt the forces of doom mustering their troops. This woman was no stranger to me. It was due to her that I had blackmailed the man who was likely to become the next governor of Texas.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I think that remembering I was a crook was more of a shock than remembering I had come back from the dead. While there had been the occasional hint that Cotton Claymore might not have revered convention and had cut a corner or two when rules and regulations got in the way, it had never occurred to me to consider that I might have actual go-directly-to-jail criminal tendencies. Seeing Tricia Biggs was a wake-up call that I didn’t have everything figured out yet.

  The first time I laid eyes on her I didn’t know her name. Didn’t have a clue as to who she was. I was used to women who hid from violent lovers and husbands and who were humiliated enough by their situation that they didn’t want to give out their real names.

  This woman was far from a typical case. She was wearing an outfit that cost enough to feed a family of four for a week. The rocks on her ring finger were at least four carats of high quality ice. Not the usual banged-up housewife with no place safe to sleep. But she was banged up. Banged up by someone who was careful to put the bruises where they weren’t readily visible.

  “Mary Smith” was the name she gave the evening she showed up at the Outreach. She had rung the after-hours emergency bell. I was on call that night so I did the intake interview. She was almost doubled over in pain, holding her midsection and biting her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

  She wouldn’t let me call a doctor, but did allow the on-staff nurse to examine her. Despite being told she needed X-rays to rule out internal bleeding, she refused to go to the hospital. There were records there, she said. He could find her. The ice pack we gave her to hold against her ribs was a poor substitute for a doctor’s exam and a sizeable shot of painkiller.

  The bruising was a sick purple and darkening blue against the whiteness of her stomach and ribs. She was a redhead with the kind of alabaster skin that only natural redheads have. There was a clear shoeprint on her lower back. What kind of man could kick and beat a woman and still have the cold presence of mind not to leave a mark on her arms or face? As much as I abhorred animal rage, this was worse. Rage didn’t have the cruelty or the patience it took to do this kind of calculated damage.

  “Mary, is there anyone you want me to call?”

  “No please don’t.” Panic edged her words. “This place is supposed to be confidential. I can’t go where he can trace me. I don’t have any money and I can’t use my credit cards. He’d find me and send one of his men after me. I’ll be dead.”

  “We’re not going to let that happen,” I assured her. “We’ll keep you safe here. There are laws to protect you. If he’s that dangerous, you need to press charges, get a restraining order in place.”

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” There was a curious note of pride in her voice, even with the pain and fear. “My husband is a very powerful man. He’s not afraid of the police.”

  “Then we’ll find something he is afraid of,” I said, more to have something to say than having any real intent to do anything. “Has this happened before?”

  “Only once.” She looked down at her hands and twisted the wedding band back and forth absently. “It was a long time ago and he felt so badly about it. He’s treated me like a queen since then. Until today.”

  “Wife beaters always do it again,” I said, matter of fact in my long experience with the breed. “The only way you can be safe is not to put yourself back in harm’s way.”

  “My husband isn’t a ‘wife beater.’” She was horrified at the term. “I know he did this and once before, but he’s under a lot of pressure right now and I made it worse. I—”

  “Please stop defending him,” I said as kindly as I could manage. “You let him use you as a kickball and you still make excuses for him. Why?”

  This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the same old story, and it wasn’t the first time I’d asked the question. I didn’t understand these women. If some guy had done this to me, I’d find a way to make him pay.

  “You don’t know him.” She gave a nervous grunt of what might have been mistaken for laughter. “Well, you don’t know that you know him. But the good he’s doing in this state far outweighs the outbursts. Sometimes he has to do things other people wouldn’t approve of, for the greater good.”

  “Yeah, that’s a new excuse for beating on people—the greater good.” I wanted to scream. “Sounds like a politician.” />
  “Oh my God. You know it’s Quentin.” She leaped to her feet, yelped in pain and sank back into the chair with tears flowing down her cheeks, leaving little rivulets in her still perfect makeup. “Oh God, he’s going to kill me.”

  “No one’s going to kill anyone. It’s all right.”

  Quentin? Politics? My brain was spinning like a dust devil. Could it be true? The multicolored bruised proof was sitting terrified and not two feet from me. Lieutenant Governor Quentin Biggs, the Gray Eminence of Texas, protector of the oppressed—Quentin Biggs was an abusive husband. It boggled the mind.

  “Please, I’ve got to go. You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.” She was getting to her feet, wincing, but not giving in to her injuries. “I’m going now.”

  “Mrs. Biggs, you can’t leave. Not in your condition.”

  “Mary Smith.” The words were through gritted teeth. “My name is Mary Smith. If you let anyone know otherwise, I’ll sue you. My husband will see that this place is razed to the ground if you bring us in to it.”

  “I’m not going to bring you into anything, Mary,” I soothed. “I want you to go upstairs and sleep where you’re safe tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll figure out what to do.”

  “There’s nothing to figure. I’m going home.” She was more terrified now than when she arrived. “He’s a good man, no matter how this looks.”

  “He’s not a good man,” I said, shaking my head at her blind loyalty. I’d seen men from ditchdiggers to—well, to lieutenant governors, I guess—protected by women with broken noses and bloodied faces. “He’s like a hundred other men who hurt women. You need to make him pay for what he’s done to you. I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t want your help.” She had made it to the front door, obviously a hard trek; every step had to hurt like hell. “He’s my husband. I don’t want revenge. I just want him to love me.” She slipped out the door and into the night.