by Carolina Mac
“This is Special Agent, Sam Wolinski. I wonder if we could drop by your hotel room this morning for a brief meeting.”
“You lost him, didn’t you?”
“We were unable to apprehend Mr. Traynor.”
“Is the money gone?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck.” I wanted to throw the phone across the room. I sucked in a breath.
“Can we drop by around nine o’clock?”
“Bring it.”
At nine the FBI Special Agents were at my door bringing me coffee. Not a big enough peace offering for losing Stan Traynor. Nothing was fucking big enough.
“How’s your husband?” asked Agent Connor.
“Not good. They sedated him. He has a severe concussion, broken ribs and assorted other injuries. They aren’t ready to release him. I’m going to the hospital at eleven.”
“We’ll go with you. We need to question him.”
“I have to veto that. He can’t talk and he needs to rest.”
“We have to see him for ourselves. It’s procedure.”
“What kind of procedure made you lose Stan Traynor?”
“The park was surrounded. There was no way he could have slipped through the stake-out,” said Wolinski.
I tossed my head back and laughed at them. “And yet he did?”
“And yet he did indeed,” said Conner.
“A very wily customer,” said Wolinski. “We’ll get him. We always do in the end.”
I’m calling bullshit on that one.
AT ELEVEN WE all went to the hospital. I sat in a chair in the corner of Jackson’s room while Wolinski interrogated Jackson. He couldn’t speak. He shook his head ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a few of the questions and they had to be content with that.
“We’re going back to Vegas,” said Connor. “Are you staying until your husband is released?”
“Yes. His doctor indicated that might be as early as tomorrow.”
“We’ll be in touch.”
Can’t wait, you incompetent yahoos.
I sat with Jackson throughout the day and watched him sleep. He opened his eyes a couple of times and looked right through me. Every time I took stock of his injuries, the rage bubbled up inside of me and I wanted Stan Traynor more with every breath I took. I needed to kill him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I CHECKED OUT of the hotel at ten and drove straight to the hospital to pick up Jackson. I had been to Wal-Mart to grab him a change of clothes the day before and I helped him dress. He said nothing. The nurse guided him into a wheelchair, pushed him to the exit door and he leaned on me as we walked to the truck. He eased himself into the shotgun seat and we were homeward bound in silence.
Fucking Feds. They should be bringing Jackson home. Not me. Useless assholes.
I thumped my fist on the steering wheel and Jackson cast me an inquiring glance. He slept as I drove north and covered the miles to Vegas. At ten to five, I pulled the truck into the driveway and breathed out a little sigh of relief noticing that the yellow tape had been removed. Our home was no longer a crime scene. The lab must have finished up while we were away.
I hope Angel’s okay.
Jackson had slept all the way home and I was grateful for that. Rest was what he needed to recover from his injuries and his ordeal. He leaned heavily on me for support as I half-dragged him into the house and settled him on the sofa with a blanket and a pillow. Angel ran into the back yard without delay and her urgency made me wonder how long she had been locked in the house.
On my way to the kitchen for a beer, I pulled up short and gagged as I almost stepped into the sticky pool of crimson coagulated on the ceramic tile. Yuck. The air in the kitchen reeked of blood and death. I flicked the fan on over the stove hoping for temporary relief. There was fingerprint powder all over the counters, the appliances, the stools, furniture was pulled out from the walls and Luminol spray was my new decorator accent. What a mess. Were the forensics people allowed to leave my kitchen like this? I needed to hurt someone.
I opened two Coors, poured them into glasses and stuck a straw in one. I laughed at Jackson’s lopsided smile and tousled his sticky hair. He needed a bath in a big way.
After he finished his beer I readied the tub—half filled with warm water and a healthy helping of vanilla bubble bath. I helped him into the bathroom, undressed him and eased his battered body into the tub. He winced at first but eventually relaxed into the hot water and the bubbles. I got down on my knees and gently washed him all over, then shampooed his hair and rinsed it. I kissed him on his swollen mouth.
“You stay in there for a while and relax, sugar. Then I’m putting you to bed.”
He nodded.
I rolled up his filthy clothes and stuffed them into a garbage bag in case the feds wanted them for evidence. In the garage, I rounded up a bucket, a mop, and rubber gloves and set out to clean up the mess in the kitchen. It took a long time for the cleanser to dissolve the coagulated blood, and a scrubber was the only thing that would loosen it. Bile rose in my throat while I scrubbed, but the job had to be finished. After the dirty work was completed in the kitchen, Jackson was next on my list. When I returned to help him out of the tub he smiled and held up his pruny fingers.
“I left you in too long?” I laughed.
He nodded. I dried him, towel dried his hair and tucked him under the sheets just as the doorbell rang.
“Stay in bed,” I said. “Don’t get up, sugar.”
He nodded as I left the room.
“Come in Agents,” I said as I opened the door. I showed them into the living room and motioned for them to take a seat. “Coffee?”
“No thanks,” said Wolinski.
“You brought your husband home from the hospital?” asked Agent Connor?
“Yes, I just got him into bed and I want him to rest.”
“We have to question him again when he can talk.”
“That won’t be today. He hasn’t said one word. Any news on the Stan front?”
Wolinski exhaled. “Not yet.”
“We’ve updated the Ontario Provincial Police with a report containing what went down in Yuma, and we’ll give them a further update after we’re able to question Mr. Traynor.”
Agent Wolinski stood up and asked, “May we see your husband before we leave?”
“Only if you don’t wake him,” I said.
Agent Connor nodded and they followed me down the hall to the bedroom. I pushed the door open and she poked her head into the room. She gasped. “I can’t believe his own father did that to him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JACKSON ROLLED TOWARDS me in bed and a sick gagging sound gurgled from his throat. I opened my eyes and sat up. “What is it, sugar?” I rubbed his bare back.
He moaned as he tried to hold up his right wrist and I choked. From under the saturated bandage, green pus was oozing down the python tat on his arm giving it a repulsive glow. I headed for the bathroom and returned with the pain meds, water, and a damp cloth. After I cleaned him up temporarily, I helped him into the bathroom then went to start the coffee maker.
Jackson stumbled into the kitchen, sat on a stool and laid his head on the counter. I wanted to cry. I stroked his hair and said, “I’m taking you to emergency. You need more meds.”
He raised his head off the counter slightly and nodded. Overnight, some of the swelling had gone down around his mouth and nose. His eyes were still black and swollen, but I was hoping he might be able to eat something solid shortly.
My cell phone rang. “Agent Wolinski, what can I do for you?” I snapped.
“Just a courtesy call to let you know we haven’t found any trace of Stan Traynor. Looks like he made it into Mexico. I know this isn’t the news you wanted to hear.”
“No, it isn’t, but I appreciate the update.”
“How’s your husband?”
“Not so good this morning. One of his wrists is badly infected and we’ll have to go to an emergency room today. T
hanks for asking.”
“I need to question him as soon as he’s able to talk. If I hear anything else, I’ll be in touch.”
Jackson looked at me, waiting for the news. “Looks like Stan made it into Mexico. They haven’t found any trace of him,” I said softly.
“I hate him,” Jackson mumbled. The words came out garbled, but I had no doubt about the meaning. The first words he had uttered in two days.
I held him in my arms and tried to comfort him, knowing that he would have no peace until his father was dead and buried. Whenever I thought of Stan, anger, and hatred surged through my veins like I had opened the floodgates of hell. I wanted him dead and I needed to kill him myself. This was personal. Stan had made it personal.
WHEN WE RETURNED from the hospital, Jackson settled on the couch after taking the first dose of his new prescription. I put a movie in for him and after twenty minutes, I peeked at him and he was sound asleep. I covered him with a blanket as the tears rolled down my cheeks.
I was left on my own for the remainder of the day to work on a few surprises I had in mind for Jackson’s birthday. With a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove, I made my phone calls.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
JACKSON’S RECOVERY HAD been slow and painful the past few days. The swelling had gradually subsided around his mouth and nose. The black and purple circling around his eyes dissipated into shades of green and yellow. His wrists had begun to heal now that the infection had been curbed, but the python would be left with a nasty scar around its neck. Wolinski had been by the day before and taken his statement. Jackson’s smile was back and so was his appetite.
I eased out of bed at seven to start the coffee and left him sleeping. The big birthday weekend was fast approaching and I had a long list of things to do, places to go and people to see. After my shower, I dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved top before tip-toeing back to the kitchen to make breakfast.
The aroma of bacon frying always woke Jackson and lured him to the table and today was no exception. The toast popped up as he walked into the kitchen and hugged me. “You’ll never know how much I love you, Annie. It’s not possible for me to tell you.” He buried his face in my hair and held me close.
I kissed him and said, “I’ve missed you, sugar.”
He nodded. “I’ve been neglecting you, baby, and I want to make up for it. Do you want to go back to bed after breakfast?”
“I sure do,” I said. “Eat your breakfast. You’re going to need a lot of stamina.”
After breakfast, we went back to bed and it was wonderful to have Jackson back. I had missed him so much both emotionally and physically. He was my life.
While he was in the shower, I organized the day in my head and planned how I was going to pull off the things that needed to be done without Jackson finding out and spoiling my surprise.
I stuck my head in the bathroom and said, “I have a hair appointment, sugar. I’ll be back by lunch.” He nodded.
My appointment at High Voltage was ten a.m. and I made it in the nick of time with five minutes to spare. The tat artist that was going to ink my design had worked with me and knew exactly what I wanted. She was ready when I arrived and wasted no time. By twelve-thirty I was finished. I picked up burgers at a drive-through and zoomed home.
Jackson was playing poker on his iPad when I returned. “I brought you junk-food, baby,” I called from the kitchen. “Are you in a tournament?”
“Yeah, sorry, I’m in a hand. Can you bring the food in here?”
“I sure can. Do you know how happy it makes me seeing you feeling good enough to play poker? I’ll get a couple of drinks and we’ll have lunch while you play.”
I spread out the food on the coffee table and sat down next to him. “Hey, this is fun,” he said, taking a bite of his double cheeseburger.
“I’m just happy you can eat.”
“I was so fuckin’ hungry, but I couldn’t chew anything. Your chicken soup kept me alive all week,” he said, then leaned over and kissed me.
“Mmm…I loved that one,” I said, running my hand down his thigh. Thank God, he didn’t notice that nothing was done to my hair. I didn’t have time to sneak that in. “I’m going to get groceries after lunch. I want to make a special dinner for your birthday on Sunday.” I was hoping to cover the fact that I had to buy tons of food to feed our surprise guests.
“Okay, baby. If I make it to the end of this tournament, it’ll be a couple of hours.”
“I’ll be back by then, sugar. I bet next week, you’ll want to go back to the poker room.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, and my plan is to try a different one each day and pick out the best ones.”
“Excellent plan. You can teach me tournament play as well. I might give that a shot one of these days.” I messed up his hair.
I cleared away the bags and wrappers from lunch and headed out to the market. My cart was loaded with steaks, ribs, salads, chips, and all the makings for a man weekend at my house. My only desire was for Jackson to have a great birthday with his friends. He had been through so much. My last stop was the liquor store on the corner and the shopping was done.
When I arrived home, I quickly stashed all of the food, so Jackson wouldn’t notice how much there really was. After I cleaned the house, I made up the beds in the other two bedrooms and started dinner. I called to Jackson, “Want a beer before dinner?”
“Sure, baby. Will you come in here and drink with me?”
“How are you doing in the tourney? You’ve been at it for hours,” I said, bringing the beer into the living room.
“I made the final table,” he said.
“Hope you win. I’m kissing you for luck.” I kissed him and took a long drink from my glass. It had been a tiring day, but the weekend would be worth the effort.
I chugged the rest of my beer and headed back into the kitchen to finish dinner. I was mashing potatoes when Jackson came into the room. “I came second.” He grinned at me.
“How much did you win, sugar?”
“Two thousand in my internet account.”
“Wow, you’re the man.” I hugged him. “Have I told you lately, how proud I am of you? I love you so much.” Jackson’s self-esteem was dragging on the ground since his degrading encounter with his father. The emotional wounds might heal in time or they might not heal at all. My money was on never.
After dinner, we took our coffee into the living room and relaxed watching TV. Shortly after nine o’clock, I said, “Hey, sugar, do you feel like going for a little drive with me? I have to go out for an hour.”
“Okay. I don’t like you going out by yourself in this town, and especially not at night. I’ve been negligent and I have a bad case of the guilts.”
“You weren’t negligent, Jackson, you were too injured to go anywhere,” I said. I brushed my hair, put on fresh makeup and came back into the living room, “Ready to go?”
“You look good.” Jackson raised his eyebrows. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” I said.
“Oh, oh, now I’m worried.”
When I took the cut-off for McCarran International, Jackson said, “What the fuck?”
“Got to pick somebody up,” I said with a straight face.
“Who?”
“Can’t tell you. I’d have to kill you.”
“You’re making me crazy, Annie. I know you’re up to something.”
I parked the Hummer and we headed for arrivals. Jackson peppered me with questions that I cleverly avoided answering as we sat in the waiting area. Twenty minutes later he looked up at the sea of passengers coming through the gate and his mouth dropped open. “Holy fuck,” he said as Billy and Rusty came through the arrival doors with their carry-on bags.
“Jackson, you bastard, good to see you,” Billy hollered as he hugged him.
“Fuck, Jackson. You look like shit,” said Rusty, pounding him on the back.
Jackson winced. “Take it easy, boys,
I just got out of the fuckin hospital.”
“Right, sorry asshole,” said Billy, “forgot about your broken ribs.”
“Hi Portia,” said Rusty. “You look as gorgeous as ever.” He gave me a hug.
“Come on boys, let’s party.” I winked.
When we were all seated in the Hummer with the luggage stowed in the back, Jackson said, “I can’t believe that you fuckers are here in Vegas.” He shook his head and chuckled.
“We’re your birthday present, ain’t we Portia?”
“You sure are, Billy.”
“We’ve never been to Vegas,” said Rusty, “Never been out of Ontario.”
I laughed. “How was your flight?”
“Thought we’d never get here,” said Billy. “I’ve never been on a fuckin’ plane. I think I’m, you know, that thing where you want out in a bad way.”
“Claustrophobic?” I ventured with a chuckle.
“Yeah, that one—I wanted to punch out one of those little shit windows.”
“All that airport security shit, Homeland and what not, I thought I’d piss myself,” said Rusty.
Jackson was laughing. “You guys are assholes,” he snorted.
Ten minutes later we arrived at the rental house and I pulled the Hummer into the third bay of the garage.
“Holy hell, this garage is bigger than my Mom’s fuckin’ house,” yelled Billy.
“It’s just a rental,” Billy, “I want to live in Vegas for a time before I decide if I want to buy a house.”
I opened the door into the kitchen, and Angel bolted into the garage. She jumped up on the boys and gave them a proper Vegas welcome.
“Hey, Angel, that’s more kissing than I’ve had in a month,” hooted Billy.
“Jackson, if you want to get drinks for everybody, I’ll show the boys where to put their bags.” I motioned for them to follow me down the hall and showed them each a bedroom.
