Cecelia rushed into the living room, ejected the videotape, and jammed it into her purse as she crossed the kitchen. She glanced frantically out the breakfast-room window. Robert’s Accord had blocked her in. She scurried back into the living room, snatched his keychain off the sofa, and raced for the back door.
Feenie dumped her mail onto the kitchen counter and sifted through it. For the first time in months, the sight of bills didn’t bring on a stress headache. She was catching up with the help of her new salary. Her house was safe from foreclosure, at least for now.
The promotion to full-time news reporter hadn’t given her the lift she’d expected. It was a boost to her self-esteem, sure. Her first real job, the first time she’d really stood on her own two feet. But something was missing. Feenie’s gaze wandered to the patio, devoid of trikes and roller skates, the swimming pool’s surface placid in the evening light.
She was alone.
She hadn’t minded before—at least, not really. Kicking Josh out had been such a relief, in many ways, she hadn’t spent much time focusing on how empty her house felt with all its unused rooms and un-played-in corners.
She should call her father. Their relationship had warmed since his visit to Mayfield. To Feenie’s surprise, her dad had begun e-mailing her several times a week. His messages were filled with commentary about her stories, mostly, but sometimes he’d intersperse other tidbits—what he’d been up to that weekend, how the fishing was going, the obligatory reminder to get her oil changed or check her tires. And Feenie always wrote back. She never would have imagined revitalizing their relationship over the Internet, but somehow it worked for them. It wasn’t as if they were having gut-wrenching heart-to-hearts, but for her father, it was progress. She decided to pay him a visit soon. July Fourth was coming up. It was always a tough holiday for them both, but it would be easier if they spent it together.
She shuffled through the stack of papers, separating the real mail from the junk. A postcard fluttered to the floor.
Feenie stooped to pick it up. Chihuahua. The picture showed a waterfall spilling over some craggy rocks. She flipped it over, but there was no message. Just her address—no name—written in neat block letters.
He was alive.
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. Thank you, Lord.
She studied the card more closely. At least, he had been alive eight days ago when the postcard was mailed. From Chihuahua. What was he doing in Mexico instead of El Paso, anyway? She probably didn’t want to know. But maybe he’d come home soon. And when that happened, maybe he’d want to pick up where they’d left off.
Sure. As if that was really possible. This obsession would either kill him or, if he was lucky, merely land him in prison. And then she’d spend the rest of her life pining away for a man who wore an orange jumpsuit. Her ex-husband? No, different jumpsuit. This was the other man she’d loved who had ended up in jail.
God, she really knew how to pick ‘em. Well, he’d picked her. He’d made her fall in love with him, and then he’d thrown away any future they could have had together by going to El Paso. Or Mexico. Or Wherever the heck his sick revenge quest had taken him now. If, of course, he was still alive.
She shoved the postcard into the pocket of her jeans and opened the refrigerator so she could stare blankly at its contents. What was she doing? She wasn’t even hungry. She shut the fridge and opened a cupboard. A box of Pop Tarts caught her eye. She fished a foil-wrapped pastry out of the box and decided she needed a beer with her dinner.
A pounding on the window made her spin around. She crossed the room and opened the back door. “Celie! What are you—”
Cecelia pushed her back into the kitchen and slammed the door. She flipped the bolt and yanked the curtains together.
“What the—”
“Call 9-1-1!” Cecelia ordered. “I think he might have followed me.”
“Call…what? Who followed you?” Feenie tossed the Pop Tart onto the counter.
“Robert!” Cecelia dragged her into the living room. “Stay here. No, maybe you should go upstairs. You have a gun, right? Where is it?”
Not waiting for an answer, Cecelia sprinted to the front door and threw the deadbolt.
“What—”
“Where’s your phone, Feenie? We need to call 9-1-1!”
Feenie stood, dumbstruck, as Cecelia raced back into the kitchen. “Shit, your phone’s still out, isn’t it? Fuck! Where’s your cell?”
That got Feenie’s attention more than any of the previous blather. Cecelia rarely cursed. She reappeared with Feenie’s cell phone in hand and started towing her up the stairs.
“Don’t tell me this thing’s not working! Oh, God, you’re kidding, right? Your battery’s dead?”
At the top of the stairs, Feenie shook Cecelia’s hand off her arm. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me here.”
She looked up from the phone. Her hands were shaking. “I found a tape. In Robert’s closet. Of Josh’s law firm.”
“O-kay. And this matters why?”
“It’s a tape, Feen. A surveillance video. From the day you were shot at!”
“I’m still not following—”
“Josh’s alibi is fake! Robert has the real tape! And I found it, and I left the tape case out on the coffee table, so now he probably knows I found it! And I was coming here to tell you, and I think he might have followed me!”
The doorbell rang.
“God, that’s him! Feenie, go get your gun. Is it under your bed? I’m going to sneak out the back and see if I can find a phone. Is Mrs. Hanak home? She has a separate line, right?”
Feenie’s heart was thudding now, but she didn’t Want to panic. Two hysterical women would not be good, especially if one of them was armed.
“Hold on a second, okay? Are you sure about this? I mean, could there be some other reason—”
“Like what, huh? Robert just happens to have a surveillance tape of Josh’s office for the same block of time you happened to get shot at? And Josh just happened to use a tape like that for his alibi? Except his tape shows himself strolling into the office on Saturday afternoon just before the shooting? Think, Feenie!”
Okay, when she put it like that…“But you really think…Robert? Would try to—”
The doorbell rang again.
“Get your gun, Feenie. I’m going to find a phone.”
Rowe plopped a Mr. Goodbar onto the counter and took out his wallet.
“Espresso with that?” The young woman at the register gave him a warm smile.
This place was one of the many convenience stores trying to cash in on the Starbucks craze by serving three-dollar coffee. It wasn’t bad, either, and Rowe was pulling the night shift.
“Sure, why not? A double, please.”
She prepared a cup while he pulled out his money. After securing the lid, she pushed the cup toward him, along with two creamers and a packet of Equal. He’d started coming here only a few days ago, but already she’d noticed how he liked his coffee. For some crazy reason, that made him feel good. The woman had pretty brown eyes and a ready smile and always went out of her way to be nice to him. He was probably older than she was by at least a decade, but maybe she still found him attractive. Some women liked a little gray at the temples. Plus, he kept in shape, even when he was on the road.
A group of rowdy teenagers entered the store, and she cast a nervous look in their direction. Who was he kidding? She was nice to him because she was observant. She’d probably noticed his holster and knew he was in law enforcement.
“Here you go.” He slid his money across the counter. She rang up just the candy bar and gave him his change.
“Come back again, now,” she said.
He nodded and walked out, staring down the teens as he left. He got back into the Blazer and sipped his coffee for a few minutes as he waited for the kids to leave. They bought some soft drinks and drove away, and Rowe waved at the cashier as he started his car.
His
cell phone beeped, and he flipped it open. “Yeah?”
“We got activity at the girlfriend’s house,” Stevenski reported.
“Is it Juarez?”
“Nope. But something’s going down.”
Shit. “All right. I’m on my way.” He checked his watch. “ETA four minutes.”
Chapter
22
T he doorbell rang again. The chime was followed by pounding fists. Feenie crept down the stairs and searched for a place to hide the .22, which wasn’t easy, because she barely had any furniture. She leaned it against a corner in the empty dining room and walked toward the door.
“Feenie, open up.” It was Robert’s voice on the other side of the door. “I need to talk to Cecelia.”
She didn’t respond, and he started down the porch and across the yard, as if he was going around to the back. Cecelia was back there somewhere, probably in Mrs. Hanak’s apartment by now.
Feenie hurriedly undid the latch and yanked open the door. “Wait! Robert? What’s going on?” Maybe she could just play dumb, pretend Cecelia wasn’t here.
Except that her Explorer was sitting in the driveway. Parked right behind Robert’s Accord. She’d come in Robert’s car?
“Where’s Celie?” Robert charged toward her, his eyes wild, his cheeks blotchy. She’d never seen him like this. The perpetually cool accountant had gone postal.
But his hands were empty. He wasn’t armed.
“She’s not here,” Feenie said, taking a step back.
Robert glanced at the driveway. “Oh, yeah? Where is she, then? Come on, Feenie, I have to talk to her. I know she’s in there. I just want to talk.”
Should she ask him inside to stall for time? Or just keep him talking there on the porch? Before she could decide, he shoved past her into the house.
“Cecelia! I need to talk to you.”
Feenie followed him, leaving the door open. “Robert, really. It’s not a good time. Could you just—”
He ignored her and went into the kitchen. He came back out almost instantly, holding Cecelia’s purse. He strode toward Feenie and tossed it at her feet.
“Where is she?”
“Um, I don’t—”
“I’m right here.” Cecelia stood in the kitchen doorway now. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ve called the police.”
“Goddamn you!” he roared. “What were you thinking?”
Feenie inched toward the .22. It was only a few feet away, but she didn’t want to get too close and draw attention to it.
“Let’s all just relax here, okay?” Feenie tried to sound calm, like the mediator on the playground. A little tiff among friends. “Let’s just sit down and talk.”
But there was no place to sit, and even if there had been, neither Robert nor Cecelia looked even remotely ready to make nice.
“It’s over, Robert,” Cecelia said. “I found the tape.”
He grabbed her arm. “It’s not what you think, Celie. Josh just asked me to hold on to it for him.”
She glared at him. “When did he ask you, huh? Did you visit him in jail? You know what I think? I think you were hiding that tape for him because you made him another one. That’s what you were doing holed up with all your video equipment, wasn’t it?”
“Celie—”
“And you know what else? I think you told Josh where to find Feenie that day. How could you do that, Robert?”
No way. Had he really told Josh where to find her? Feenie eyed the gun.
“Just listen,” he pleaded. “You have to—”
“I’m telling the police! You’re a liar—”
“Stop it!” He shook her arm. “Don’t you dare do this to me. Don’t you dare!”
Feenie stepped closer to the gun, hoping they’d be too distracted to notice.
But Robert dropped Cecelia’s arm and stepped away. He ran his hands over his face, which was sweating now, and took a deep breath. “Okay, just think about this, Cecelia. Just think. If you tell that to the police, they’re going to arrest me. They’re going to charge me with conspiracy to commit murder. I’ll go to jail. Is that what you want? What about the family we’re trying to have? You could be pregnant. What about that?”
Cecelia crossed her arms over her chest. “Nice try, but I won’t lie for you, Robert.”
His shoulders sagged, and he looked at the floor. Then he drew back his hand and smack! Cecelia was on the ground. He lunged for the purse at Feenie’s feet, snatched the videotape and the keys from it, and raced out the door.
Feenie scrambled to Cecelia’s side. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, clutching her jaw. “I called the police.” As she said this, sirens sounded in the distance.
Tires squealed outside, and Feenie didn’t know whether they were coming or going.
Gunshots sounded, and Feenie leaped to her feet. Who was shooting? She glanced out the front window. The Explorer was still in the drive, but Robert had taken the Accord, leaving trench marks across the neighbors’ lawn.
“You girls okay?” Mrs. Hanak stepped through the kitchen doorway, clutching her pearl-handled pistol.
The sirens were wailing at full volume now, right in front of the house. Feenie looked out the window again and saw two police cars, along with a tan Blazer. Special Agent Rowe barreled up the sidewalk.
“You should put your gun away,” she told Mrs. Hanak. “The police are here.”
“Hmph!” She stuffed the pistol into the pocket of her robe. “A day late and a dollar short, if you ask me. Your burglar already got away. I tried to shoot out his tires, but my aim’s not what it used to be.”
John McAllister swerved into a space behind one of the police cruisers and jumped out of his Jeep. In three strides, he was across Feenie’s lawn, elbowing his way through the crowd of cops and agents who were milling around talking and taking notes.
“Where is she?” he snapped.
Feenie stopped speaking to a young officer. She frowned at John, sighed, and gave a slight nod toward the house.
He spotted Cecelia on the porch. She was curled up in the swing, her legs tucked under her as she stared off into space.
He took the stairs slowly, not wanting to startle her. “Cecelia?”
The flicker of warmth in her eyes when she saw him made his breath catch.
“Hi.” Her voice was quiet, but she smiled slightly. “News travels fast, huh?”
“Night editor called me from the paper. He’d been listening to the police scanner.” He touched the chain holding up the swing. He wanted to sit down next to her, but maybe she needed some space.
After getting word of gunshots fired at Feenie’s address, John had sped across town, making calls the whole time and trying to get the lowdown on what had happened. Finally, he’d reached a cop on the scene, who was able to give him the nutshell version. Feenie Malone and Cecelia Strickland were involved, yes, but no one was hurt.
The fifteen-minute drive had taken about fifteen years off his life.
He looked at Cecelia now, sitting motionless on the swing. Fuck it. He sat down beside her.
She didn’t seem to mind his being there. Now that he was closer, he noticed the cut on her upper lip. He wanted to kick the living shit out of her husband.
“You okay?” he asked.
She sighed and looked out over the lawn. “I’ve had kind of a rough day.” She shifted her gaze to meet his. “How about you?”
He laughed dryly and looked down. He took out his pack of Camels and tapped out a cigarette. “Ah, I’m okay,” he said, lighting up. “Better than you, at least.”
She scoffed. “Hey, what’s the big deal, right? My husband’s a crook. My marriage sucks. But I’m a tough cookie, right? I can take it.”
She was trying to be light, but the look he gave her in response was deadly serious.
“I know you can,” he said.
He watched her face as understanding dawned. He knew the exact moment when she recognized him. Then her eyes welled up, an
d she looked away.
“I thought I’d seen you before,” she said. “It’s been bugging me for weeks. You covered my rape trial, didn’t you? Back when I was in college?”
He exhaled a stream of smoke. “Yes, I did.”
“I don’t remember your byline.”
He studied her expression. She seemed determined not to cry, and he remembered that same look from many years back. “I didn’t write about it,” he told her. “I was an intern that summer at the Austin paper. I took some notes, mostly, and the guy covering courts wrote everything up.”
She reached for his cigarette. While she took a drag, he got out another one for himself.
“Thanks,” she said. “I haven’t had one of these in a long time.”
He looked at the ground again, then back up at her face. She was, quite possibly, the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. Even prettier than she’d been a decade ago in that courtroom, giving testimony about her worst nightmare come true. As her story had unfolded on the witness stand, he’d understood for the first time what bravery was about. This petite young woman was made of stronger stuff than any man he’d ever known. She had his complete respect…and something else he couldn’t quite pinpoint.
She looked away from him. “So, what now, McAllister? I guess you need a few quotes for your story tomorrow?”
He felt a pinch in his chest. “That’s not why I’m here.”
Her eyes veered back to his face, and for once, he didn’t try to mask what he was feeling. He reached over and took her hand. “I just thought, I don’t know, maybe you needed a friend.”
She sniffled a little and looked down at their joined hands. The diamond on her finger winked back at him.
“Thanks,” she said. “I could use one right about now.”
The following evening, Feenie parked in front of a white stucco cottage with a red tile roof. All the houses on the block looked similar—front doors shaded by narrow porches, laundry hanging from clotheslines that crisscrossed the tiny backyards. Feenie got out of the Kia and made her way across the lawn, sidestepping the soggy patch of grass where an inflatable kiddie pool had been emptied and abandoned. She stood before the screen door and rang the bell.
One Last Breath Page 29
