by Sharon Sala
As he sat, he heard rustling in the brush. Within a few minutes a possum came waddling out of the shadows with its nose to the ground. Ryal was downwind, so it kept moving, unaware it was no longer alone.
When Ryal broke off a piece of cookie and tossed it out into the grass, the possum heard the sound and scooted backward. But it didn’t take long for the scent of the cookie to change the little critter’s mind. It waddled forward, found the bit of sweet and began to nibble, while Ryal sat motionless, watching.
Because no one lived here anymore, the animals had lost their fear of human habitation. Grandpa Foster hadn’t been dead much more than a year, but already they were beginning to reclaim the woods as their own.
When the possum finished eating the cookie, he snuffled the ground a little more, then waddled away. Ryal ate the other cookie, washed it down with the Coke and went back into the house. He was just passing Beth’s bedroom when the door suddenly opened.
“Ryal, is everything okay?”
He jumped, then hastened to reassure her. “Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
“No. I woke up on my own, but the window was shut. I remembered it had been open when I lay down and—”
“I’m sorry that frightened you. I closed it earlier. There aren’t any screens on the windows, and we’re a long way up the mountain. I didn’t want a critter crawling into bed with you.”
She shivered. “I knew the screen was missing, but it was stuffy earlier. I didn’t mean to fall asleep with it open. Thank you for taking care of me.”
The tremor in her voice was evident.
“That’s why we’re here, remember? We’re all taking care of you, honey.”
Beth shivered. “I’m afraid my life will never be okay again.”
He thought a moment about what he was going to say, then decided it fit the situation.
“That’s how Quinn feels, too.”
“Quinn? Why?”
“He’s done two tours in Iraq. He’s only been home about eighteen months.”
Beth was horrified. “Oh, no! Is all this stuff about me affecting him? Does he suffer from PTSD? I’m so sorry. He shouldn’t involve himself in this. Why did you let him?”
Ryal wanted to hold her, but he knew if he touched her it wouldn’t be enough, so he shoved his hands in his pockets instead.
“Quinn does what Quinn wants. The only reason I even mentioned it was because he never thought he’d make it back alive, even though he kept going back, but he did. He’s getting better, and you will, too.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry I freaked out on you earlier.”
“You have the right,” Ryal said. “Sleep well, Bethie.”
She backed into the bedroom and closed the door without taking her gaze from his face.
He went into his room, shed his jeans and pulled back the covers. He didn’t know what that look on her face had meant, but he was too tired to figure it out. Within a few minutes he was belly down on the bed with his feet hanging off the end of the mattress. He slept without dreaming, and when he woke, it was morning.
Ten
The hooker was high-class. Adam Pappas wouldn’t have it any other way. He was naked—sprawled out on the hotel bed with a couple of pillows behind his head, watching her dance for him. She’d already pleasured herself a dozen times while he watched. It was something he didn’t talk about, but for Adam, being a voyeur was as good as being a participant. He already had a hard-on with a mind of its own, but his purpose with her was twofold. Yes, she was good at blow jobs, and since he hated condoms, that was his method of choice for getting off. But it was her other clients who interested Adam most, and he paid top dollar for the pillow talk she picked up.
“Talk to me, Maria.”
The lithe beauty reached up and removed the clip from her hair, then tossed her head, spilling platinum-blond waves across her shoulders and down her back. She cupped her own breasts and pinched the nipples, moaning beneath her breath as she sashayed toward him.
“You like this, too, baby? Do I make you hard?” She watched his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.
“What do you think?” he growled.
She crawled up on the bed and then straddled his legs as she grabbed his penis and gave it a quick stroke.
Adam frowned. “Not yet, damn it.”
She rocked back on her heels, smiling to herself as his gaze went straight to her pendulous breasts. They were all hers. No implants. It was only part of why she was in high demand.
“Let me do you first, Adam. Afterward, you’ll see why.”
“But I—”
“Trust me. Let me make you fly. Then we’ll talk.”
All the while she was talking, she was stroking his penis. But then she quit talking and took him into her mouth, and he forgot about everything but the rush of blood and the mind-blowing feeling of what she was doing with her tongue.
He rode the buildup with every ounce of control he could muster, wanting it to last as long as possible. But Maria was too damn good, and he was too damn horny.
Less than two minutes later, the orgasm swept through him hard and fast. He grunted. Grabbing the back of her head with both hands, he pushed her down onto his dick as far as she could take him and shot his juice all the way down her throat.
Maria knew her business. She’d learned to breathe and swallow without choking years ago—yet another skill that netted her the big bucks. When there was nothing left of Adam Pappas but a quivering mass of male flesh, she rose up and licked her lips, smiling at him as she did.
Adam grinned. “Damn, baby, you sure know how to fuck.”
“That was just a little blow job, Adam. Someday, if you want to really fuck me, I’ll show you a real good time.”
Adam shivered just thinking about it. “Clean me up, then we’ll talk,” he ordered.
She walked naked into the bathroom and came back moments later with a warm, wet washcloth. When she finished, she poured them each a glass of champagne. It was the ritual he wanted, and she always met her clients’ demands.
It wasn’t until Adam held up his glass for a refill that he pushed her for info.
“We did this your way tonight, but why all the secrets?”
Maria sat down at the foot of the bed facing him, then crossed her legs, well aware that he now had a bird’s-eye view of her bare-naked crotch as she took a small sip of champagne.
“Please know that what I’m going to tell you is not meant to spoil your evening, but I am certain it’s something you would want to know, okay?”
Adam frowned. “How could you spoil my evening?”
Maria shrugged apologetically. “It’s about your mother’s murder.”
Adam’s frown deepened as he leaned forward. “What about it?”
“There was a witness.”
Adam gasped. “How do you know that?”
“A certain federal agent is a regular of mine. During one of my visits, he got a call. Usually he lets the phone ring, but this time, when he saw the caller ID, he made me get up and leave the room. I overheard him talking, though.”
“Exactly what did you hear him say? Do you know the witness’s name?”
“All I heard was his side of the conversation, but that was enough to know that the witness they’d had in protective custody had gone missing.”
Adam set his champagne glass aside and scooted closer to her. “The Feds had a witness to my mother’s murder in protective custody? What the hell? Why didn’t they just arrest the killer instead of hiding the guy who saw it?”
“Hiding her. The witness was a woman. I know that much because I heard him say, ‘What the hell do you mean, she’s gone?’”
“This makes no sense,” Adam muttered.
“I heard something else that might mean something to you.”
“What was it?”
“He also said, and I’m quoting, ‘That’s just great. Our key snitch, the only one who could have helped us take him down, is
murdered, and now the woman who saw her die is missing.’ After that, I figured I’d better flush the toilet and make him think I was doing my business instead of listening in, you know?”
Adam felt sick. He couldn’t think—wouldn’t think—of what all that meant. Not now. He needed to be alone and in total control of his senses, not buck naked with a limp dick.
He rolled out of bed and strode to the dresser, opened the drawer and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out twenty one-hundred-dollar bills and tossed them in her lap.
“I’ll be in touch,” he said briefly. “Get dressed. We’re done here tonight.”
“Yeah, sure, honey,” Maria said, then dressed quickly and was soon out the door.
Adam was in shock. Key snitch. The one who could help take him down? That meant his mother had been a snitch, but who had she been helping the Feds to take down? The moment the question ran through his head, the answer hit him like a fist to the gut.
“My father. It has to be my father. Son of a bitch! Why would Mom do something so—”
One more time, reality dawned. The only thing that would enrage her enough to betray Ike Pappas was if she found out that Ike had taken Adam into the business. He’d grown up hearing them argue about it, and he knew for a fact that his father had promised his mother on the Holy Bible that he would keep their son away from organized crime. That would be reason enough.
But his thoughts were still spinning. So there was a witness to the murder. Great. But why would the witness have to be hidden?
“Oh, shit.” Adam grabbed his pants and started dressing.
You hide a witness when they’re in danger. And they’re in danger when the killer already knows he’s been made. Now he knew what the meeting between his father and Moe had been about. Moe Cavanaugh was the best investigator in the business. He had no qualms about what he did or who he did it for. It was all about the money for Moe.
Maria said the Feds had lost the witness, and that she was on the run. Ike said he’d hired Moe to find his mother’s killer. But what if Ike had lied to him? What if he already knew who’d killed Lorena? What if Ike wasn’t looking for a killer but for the witness who’d seen him do it?
“Holy God,” Adam murmured, then felt his stomach heave.
He staggered into the bathroom and threw up his guts until there was nothing left but dry heaves. Finally the spasms passed, and as he was washing his face, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
The horror of what he was thinking nearly overwhelmed him. He’d vowed to kill the murderer himself if he got the chance, but could he do it? He closed his eyes.
Her throat had been slit from ear to ear.
When he looked up, the answer was there on his face. Not only yes, but hell yes, he could do it and he would do it. Out with the old, in with the new—which meant he would step into his father’s shoes and deal with dissenters afterward. The only questions were when and how he could take care of things without giving himself away.
Ike was on the putting green of his country club with two business colleagues when his cell phone began to vibrate. When he took it out to look at the caller ID, one of the men chided him.
“Come on, Ike, let it go to voice mail.”
“Sorry, I need to take this,” he said. “Play through. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“We’ve heard that before,” the man said, then left Ike on his own.
Ike couldn’t remember ever receiving a direct phone call from this man before, but he knew better than to let it go to voice mail. If Giovanni Valenti called, it was never good news. He answered briefly as he moved out of earshot.
“Hello.”
“Pack a bag and bring your passport.”
“Uh, can—”
“Shut up and do what I say.”
“Yeah, sure, Gi—”
“Don’t say my name. Don’t fucking say my name, you asshole. Just do what I said, and make sure you’re here before midnight.”
The line went dead in Ike’s ear. There weren’t many people who could put the fear of God in Ike Pappas, but the boss of the New York crime syndicate was one of them. The only thing he could think of was that they’d gotten wind of the Feds breathing down his neck. But what the hell? The Feds were always breathing down their necks. How was this any different?
Still, there was no denying the man. Ike’s golfing partners were already on their way to the next hole. He sighed, dropped his club into his golf bag, got into the cart and headed for the clubhouse. On the way, he called his driver, the pilot of his company jet and his housekeeper, Beatrice. By the time he got home and changed, his bags would be packed and his driver waiting to take him to the airport. But the uneasiness in his gut continued to grow. It was the tone of Valenti’s voice and the order to bring his passport that made him think his days were numbered. However, this was his life. He would hear Valenti out, then make his own decisions.
He thought about telling Adam, then realized he couldn’t. Adam would ask questions for which Ike had no answers. Better to just leave a message with Beatrice to tell Adam he had to make a quick trip to New York City and leave it at that.
Less than two hours later, Ike was in the air and, except for the pilot and copilot, alone in the plane. Plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to worry.
Adam drove home in a rage. The closer he got to the Pappas estate, the angrier he became. He’d asked his father once if he knew anything about Lorena’s murder, but he’d never come out and asked him if he’d done it. Now he wanted to put his hands around his father’s neck and ask. He would know by the look in his eyes if he’d done it.
He took the turn onto the estate on two wheels, slammed the brakes long enough to open the gates by remote control, then peeled out again on his way to the house without acknowledging the startled guard. When he braked again in front of the mansion, the car slid sideways. A gardener on the other side of the lawn looked up, then quickly looked away. The staff knew enough to be invisible when the need arose, and this appeared to be one of those times.
Adam jumped out of the car and stormed into the house. The door flew back against the wall with a bang, bringing Beatrice running. She saw him striding angrily through the foyer and stopped.
“Oh. It’s you, Mr. Adam. I didn’t know—”
“Where’s my father?”
“I packed a bag for him earlier today. He said to tell you he had a meeting in New York City.”
“Did he say when he was coming back?”
“No, sir.”
When Adam hit his fist against the side of his leg, Beatrice flinched. “Will you be home for dinner tonight?” she asked.
“No. In fact, I won’t be living here anymore,” he said, and ran upstairs into his father’s room.
He knew Ike was too smart to leave anything lying around that could incriminate him, but he intended to piss off his father. He also knew the confrontation they would have afterward, when the truth came out. He stopped in the middle of the room and then started looking around. The three pieces of art that hung on the walls of his father’s bedroom had cost nearly three-quarters of a million dollars. The rug beneath his feet was the finest Turkish carpet money could buy, woven in rich colors of crimson, royal blue and deep yellow. The bedroom furniture was handmade; the bed, which was once and a half the size of a king-size and three feet longer, had handmade white satin sheets and a white silk comforter. The chandelier was a stunning construction of cut-crystal diadems.
He kept picturing his mother with her throat cut and the blood spilling out of her body, and in that moment, he knew what he was going to do.
He opened his pocketknife and pushed up his shirt sleeve. Without hesitation, he jammed the blade into the fleshy part of his arm, then swung his arm over the bed from top to bottom and all around the edges while his blood flowed, until the bed looked like something out of a horror film. Red blood on white satin.
He walked into the bathroom, dripping blood onto the Turkish carpet and the
white tile flooring, grabbed a hand towel and wrapped it around his arm, and then strode out of the room without looking back.
He threw several days’ worth of clothing into a bag, along with his toiletry items, then stormed back out of the house and drove himself to the emergency room to be stitched up. After that, he bought a bottle of Scotch and headed out of town for the family lodge up in the hills. It remained to be seen how the future would play out, but he’d spent the last day of his life under a roof with his father.
Ryal could smell coffee and bacon. Either Beth was already up or Quinn had let himself in. He rolled out of bed, put on his jeans and made a trip to the bathroom before he followed his nose to the kitchen.
Quinn was standing at the stove taking crispy strips of bacon from a cast-iron skillet. He turned around as Ryal walked in.
“Mornin’, brother.”
“Mornin’. How did it go last night?”
“Had visitors. A raccoon, two young bucks and a porcupine. They left me alone, and I returned the favor.”
Ryal grinned. “Who’s there now?”
“Vance. He’ll stay until I get back this evening.”
Vance Walker was another member of the clan and a young enough man not to have a family to tend to.
“Did he take off work from the mine to do this? ’Cause if he did, the boss man will frown on that.”
Quinn shook his head. “No. It’s his day off.”
“Okay, then. Hey, Quinn, I’d be happy to spell you tonight. You could sleep here, and I’ll take the watch.”
“No, thanks. I like the solitude, and I’m pretty sure you and Beth still have things to discuss.”
Ryal quickly turned away, unwilling for Quinn to see what he was feeling. “I don’t know that Beth and I have anything to talk about beyond keeping her alive.”
Quinn snorted lightly as he removed the last of the bacon.
“It’s your story. Spin it however you want.”
“Are we having eggs with that, or are you planning on bacon sandwiches?”
