Pasting a concerned look on his face, he exited his beamer. As the patrol officers climbed out of their vehicle and approached, he managed to repress a sigh of ennui. This was going to be even less challenging than he’d imagined. One of the men was short and heavy with a frontal bone that overhung a pair of deep-set dullard’s eyes like the bill of a cap. A true Neanderthal. The other fellow reminded him of Gumby, not because of his blue uniform and lanky build, but because of the unchanging expression on his flat face. A flat-faced flatfoot.
Garth’s shoulders drooped in grave disappointment. He’d hoped for at least a modicum of fun, but outwitting these gentlemen was unlikely to prove anything but facile. “Is there a problem, officers? Some trouble in the neighborhood?”
“Are you Garth Novak?” It was Gumby.
“I’m Dr. Garth Novak, yes. I’d like to be of assistance, but as you can see, I’ve just arrived home. So if there’s been a crime, I’m afraid I didn’t see anything.”
“Pardon me, Dr. Novak, sir, but we’re here to offer you assistance.” Neanderthal Man remained silent, content to let Gumby do the talking.
“To me? What kind of assistance?”
“Protection.”
“Protection from whom?”
“You don’t know?”
This might be fun after all. A little game of Who’s on First. “Know what?”
“Why we’re here.”
“No. I don’t know. Do you know?”
“No. I mean, yes. We were dispatched to protect you from—”
“Whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what or don’t know whom?”
At last, Gumby’s expression altered into a determined if somewhat confused frown. “We’re here for the night. Surveillance duty. We’ve been told there’s a threat to your safety.”
“A threat from whom?”
“You don’t know?”
He’d love to tease these yahoos all night, but it was colder than a week-old corpse out here. The wind had upgraded the late-night snowstorm from relentless to blizzard in the short span of time he’d been “conversing” with the boys.
Stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets, he located a bit of loose change. Through his gloves he couldn’t feel if they were nickels, quarters or what—surely not pennies. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine. So you’re free to be on your way, gentlemen. Surely there must be criminals afoot in town, taking advantage of the weather. Empty streets, power outages—perfect night for looting—if one were so inclined.”
His words must’ve hit home, because the policemen swapped glances. But Gumby, clearly a by-the-book rookie, stood firm. “We’ve got our orders.”
“Officers, I appreciate your concern. But I wouldn’t feel right taking two craven men like you out of the fray without due cause.”
“Craven?”
“Brave.” Garth felt a mild sense of amusement and a tickle in his throat. “I assure you, no one has made any threats of any sort to my person. This is a gated community. I have an elaborate security system and a legal firearm. I’m a crack shot. So why don’t you get on the horn to your superior and tell him I’ve declined protection.”
“Definitively?” Neanderthal Man had a tongue after all…and quite the vocabulary for someone who likely had a framed GED hanging above his cubicle.
“Definitively and nefariously.” Garth contained a snort by pinching the tip of his nose.
Gumby nodded, slid into the squad car, and mouthed words into the radio. Under the disquieting stare of Neanderthal Man, Garth stomped snow from his Tony Lamas and waited until the rookie emerged from the car. Giving his buddy the thumbs up, Gumby tipped his cap at Garth. “Well, then, if you’re sure, we’ll be on our way.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Goodnight, officers, and thanks…” He paused and scratched his chin. He wouldn’t do anything stupid that might derail his plans, but why deny himself a small amusement. “Since you’re here, there is something. As I said, I’m not aware of any threats to my person, so I didn’t set my alarm. I’ll be sure to do so tonight, and I’m certain there’s no real danger. But—”
“Would you like us to clear the house before you go inside?” Pathetically eager to be of service, Gumby beat him to the punch.
“I feel silly asking, but yes, I’d appreciate it,” he said, handing Gumby his keys.
He remained behind while the officers entered his expansive home with drawn guns. Whistling through chattering teeth, he opened the passenger door to his beamer and removed a screwdriver and miniature hammer from the glove box. He strolled around to the back of the squad car and pounded the screwdriver into its right rear tire. When he withdrew the screwdriver, a hiss of air intertwined with the whip of the wind.
Gumby and Neanderthal Man reappeared, looking somber and pleased with themselves, like two men who had faced down death and won. “All clear,” they said in unison.
“That’s a relief.” Garth waved cheerfully as the cruiser skidded out of his drive and crawled down the ice-covered road. Wondering how far they’d get, he pictured Neanderthal Man and Gumby changing a flat in the blizzard. He imagined other scenarios too. Maybe the tire wouldn’t go flat at all. Maybe instead, they’d have a blowout and crash into a family of four, tragically killing everyone involved…
If only he could be so lucky.
Selecting Tchaikovsky’s “Souvenir d’un Lieu Cher” from his playlist, Garth connected his iPod to his sound system, adjusted the volume, and stripped naked. The vaulted ceilings and open design of his home provided fine acoustics, causing the violin concerto to swell and vibrate exquisitely through his chest. He crossed the room to the wet bar and poured two fingers of Hennessy Private Reserve from a Lalique decanter into a tulip glass.
Against a midnight backdrop, snow torrented against the rear wall of his home, which was composed of glass and scalloped mahogany moldings. The flakes etched themselves onto the window wall, transforming it into faux crystal. He looked at the crystal glass in his grasp and found the symmetry to his liking. He approved of symmetry.
What he did not approve of was his sister’s behavior. His rising gorge signaled emotion, and emotion signaled loss of control; how very unpleasant. Shivering, he labeled the emotion. He was angry—at Sky.
Unlike most people, when he became angry his blood did not boil, it froze, and right now there were icicles nicking his veins. Raising the tulip of cognac to his nose, he sniffed the complex aroma of dried fruits and vanilla. He dipped his tongue into the liquid, tilted the glass until a swallow of nectar slid over the insides of his cheeks and down his esophagus, warming him, stirring him. The cognac’s reputation as an aphrodisiac was well deserved. How convenient that he’d thought to remove his clothing.
Fondling his genitals, he easily stroked himself erect.
White marble floors chilled the soles of his feet as he padded into the bathroom. Like walking on snow. Like walking through the storm he was about to create. More symmetry. His home was a soothing sanctuary. Yet Sky had not appreciated his offer to share it with her, nor the sacrifice he’d been prepared to make when he proposed staying with her in that rat-hole of a shack she called a home. Soon, however, he’d have her begging him to move in with her.
Resting the glass on the edge of the bath, he turned on the taps and jets and dialed up the heat. He tested the water with his toes and then submerged himself in the tub. The water rose, covering him like silk. As the music built, he stroked himself faster. He kept stroking until he ached for release. But he was nothing if not patient. He was all control.
Hadn’t he proved the soul of patience with Sky? The picture of an ideal brother? Did he press his point when she refused his Bella? No. Quite the contrary. He coddled her and made her cocoa and listened to her prattle on about Benson. He’d borne it gracefully when she’d chastised him for slipping a single valium into her chocolate, even though he’d done it for her own good. The woman hadn’t had a decent night’s rest since Edmon
d died.
Not that Edmond’s death was his fault. Even if Sky hadn’t betrayed him by choosing Edmond’s companionship over his own, he would’ve had to kill the man anyway—Edmond had threatened his legacy. Having him killed in front of Sky was just punishment for her betrayal. Simply symmetry. Fair warning. But she hadn’t heeded his warning. And now the whole matter was out of his hands.
She’d begged him to advise her, and he had done so. But did she heed his brotherly advice? No. Instead, she’d insisted on defending the clinic against the lawsuit, and worse, against his specific orders, she’d called Benson to her side.
Benson was with her now.
Hot bubbles licked his nipples and swirled around his erection like a harlot’s tongue. Sky had become a harlot, and he couldn’t bear that.
Jerking his hand faster, he let his head fall against the cool granite rim. Warm water seeped into his hairline. He didn’t want to have to punish Sky again. On the whole, she was a good sister. Generally speaking, obedient, loving and loyal. But despite his patient instruction, she hadn’t learned her lesson. She’d joined forces with Benson against him. Against her own brother. Even if he was adopted, he was still her brother. He was her only family.
But it was Benson who was with her now.
Benson was fucking her right now.
The tension in his erection built. He pumped himself again. Again. Harder. Faster. Sky had to be punished, no matter how much he hated to see her suffer. One last pump and his release came in creamy spurts. It floated on the top of the water and then disappeared into the surface froth.
Surging out of the bath, he rubbed his body with a towel made from Egyptian cotton. Reveling in the rich texture against his sensitive skin, his mind focused on the detective. No regrets there. In a way, Danny had done Garth a favor by ridding him of that would-be-blackmailer, Jack Spurlock, but on the downside, Garth now found himself deprived of the pleasure of choking the life out of Spurlock with his own hands.
Had Benson walked away from the case, like he was supposed to do—and stayed away from Sky—Garth might’ve let him live. But now the detective was poking his nose in where it didn’t belong, dredging up the past and, at this very moment, fucking his sister. He left Garth no choice.
Let the games begin.
Chapter Twelve
It was Saturday morning and something impossibly sweet beckoned Sky downstairs. While Danny had slept on her couch, she’d barely dozed. Swinging open her kitchen door, she wandered into the breakfast nook to find Danny clad in stonewashed denim jeans that fit snug and low over his narrow hips and a white T-shirt. Short sleeves strained over sculpted deltoids, offering testament to the remarkable resiliency and tensile strength of cotton, and Danny’s thick raven hair was twisted into gold-edged waves and curls. Fingers of clean morning light snuck through the kitchen window and poked her in the eyes. She blinked.
Just at that moment, Danny looked up. Apparently misinterpreting the flutter of her lashes, he winked at her, then returned to what he’d been doing: laying two place settings at Sky’s checkerboard butcher block.
The sight of Danny’s roughhewn hands arranging her mother’s everyday plates—the blue ones, encircled with garlands of miniature daisies—disrupted the regular rate and rhythm of her heart. No more fluid gliding beats, instead her pulse seemed to have kicked into some sort of line dance.
She distracted herself by dissecting the sugary aroma that’d led her into the kitchen into its respective layers. Warm maple. Melted Butter. Vanilla. And something else. Cinnamon, or was it nutmeg? “What are you doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“I thought you said you didn’t cook.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why does it smell like…”
“Waffles. They’re out of a box. You just stir in water, oil and eggs, then pour the batter on the griddle.”
She hadn’t slept well, her head ached from worry, and she wasn’t comfortable with Danny assuming the role of bodyguard. With her index fingers, she massaged slow circles into her temples. “I know how to make waffles. But mine never smell this good.”
“I likes to spice things up with secret ingredients.”
“That’s cooking.”
“Well, then…” He shot her a cocky look. “I guess I cook. Just waffles though.” Raising a finger to his lips, he added, “You’re sworn to secrecy.”
“Why?”
“If the guys at the precinct find out, I’m liable to find a Tupperware container filled with special sauce in my locker.”
Her imagination went wild conjuring what kind of “sauce” the boys at the station might use to fill Tupperware, and she felt an uncouth smile break loose and ruin her indifferent demeanor. “Yeah. I get that. But I meant why waffles? Why not steak, or meatloaf, something more practical?”
“I like waffles.”
“Me too. But if you can only cook one meal…”
“Long story.”
She had an extensive list of things to accomplish today, and neither listening to a cute story over breakfast, nor breakfast itself, was on her list. She wanted to tell Danny what she’d found taped underneath Edmond’s desk, find out what light if any he could shed on that key, and then get busy with her day. “I need to get going—I’m going to have to pass on the waffles.”
“I can see how my waffle story wouldn’t interest you,” he said with an irresistible, guileless smile.
Impossibly irresistible. “Okay, but just hit the highlights.”
“Remember Nine Eleven?”
While he filled a pair of jelly-jar glasses with apple juice, she considered pulling up Wikipedia and reading aloud the definitions of “hitting the highlights” versus “circumambulation”, but that would only delay the tale further. She gave him the eye-roll instead.
“Yeah, I know. Of course you do. But do you remember baseball and Nine Eleven?”
Apparently, Danny was the strong, garrulous type—a combination she found both exasperating and endearing at once. He forked waffles onto two plates and drizzled hot syrup over hers until she held up her hand and said, “When.” Watching the amber liquid seep into the squares on the cakes, she said, “You were talking about waffles.”
“Right. But first I have to tell you about baseball.”
“For Pete’s sake.”
“September eleventh, 2001. Our country, like much of the world, was devastated. But then October rolled around and that meant—”
“The World Series.” The memory raised goose flesh on her arms. She wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with waffles, but she had a glimmer of understanding, almost a premonition, of where Danny was heading.
He nodded. “D’Backs versus the Yankees. The series had to be postponed, but when the president threw out the first pitch in Yankee Stadium, just seven weeks after the attacks on the World Trade Center, we were all mesmerized.”
“Because it gave us hope.” Her throat tightened so much, she barely got the words out.
“That’s right, and the promise of a return to normalcy—the conviction that even though we could never forget those we’d lost, though we could never again turn a blind eye to the evil in this world, we knew life would somehow go on.”
She hadn’t been to a baseball game since her father died, but like every Arizonian she’d followed that World Series closely on television. Danny was right, the familiarity of the October ritual had provided comfort for many people, including her. There was something she still didn’t get though. “What’s all this got to do with waffles?”
Levering his elbows on the table, Danny leaned forward; his brows knit earnestly together. “After one of the games, the announcer interviewed a little girl, one of the players’ kids. I think she must’ve been about six or seven. And the guy asked her, ‘Are you proud of your dad?’”
“Oh, I think I remember.” Sky had been touched by the child’s innocent answer. To that little girl her father’s fame meant nothing. He wasn’t a supe
rstar, World Series’ hero at all. He was just her hero. He was just Dad.
“You remember what she said?”
Sky shook her head. “Not her exact words, no.”
“Well, I do. I’ll never forget them. She said, ‘Yes, I’m proud of my daddy because he makes the best waffles.’ Grace—my wife—was already gone by then. It was just Katie and me. I wanted to be a good father. I wanted Katie to know how much I loved her. I wanted to make Katie proud. Waffles seemed like as good a place to start as any.” Suddenly embarrassed by the extent of his revelation, he scrubbed his face with his hand and quickly added, “I love baseball.”
“Me too,” she whispered. Remembering the black lipstick scene she’d witnessed between Danny and Katie, all the defiant posturing against her father’s rules, she touched the back of his hand. “Katie’s proud of you, Danny. I know she is.”
He shrugged. “Hope you’re right about that.” His fingers tapped the table. “Can I ask you a professional question…about Katie?”
“I guess, but…”
“Must drive you nuts when people ask you medical advice outside the office.”
He’d misunderstood her hesitancy. She wasn’t annoyed by the question; it was only that Katie wasn’t under her care. She didn’t know anything about the girl’s medical history. “I don’t mind, honest. I was only thinking that Katie must have her own doctor. Maybe that’s who you should ask.”
“It’s about Bella. I figure you’d know more about that than Katie’s pediatrician.”
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
“How does the Bella vaccine work, exactly?”
Distilling things down as best she could, Sky took a stab at explaining her brother’s vaccine to Danny. “Well, the concept is straightforward, simple even. But the devil is in taking that simple concept and turning it into a working vaccine. Garth’s the only one who’s succeeded so far. But there are other scientists out there who are close, very close, to developing similar vaccines. Bella won’t be the only option available to women for long.”
“Stick to the highlights, will ya?” He grinned, and in her mind, she heard the little boy in him whisper: Pick a card, any card. Is it the Ace of Spades?
First Do No Evil: Blood Secrets, Book 1 Page 11
