Risky Alliance

by N. C. Anderson

  “Thanks, Grandma.” Mike wanted to take his mind off his parents and the family split. He could forget their betrayal for an hour.

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  Chapter 4

  As Sue unlocked the front door of her apartment and stepped inside, the potent scents of cleaning fluids assailed her nose. While she'd been visiting with Karen in the hospital, her father had sent in the clean-up crew he always hired for his apartment buildings. Max and his gang were pros and could accomplish in a very few hours what other people would take weeks to do. She made her way to the kitchen where she stopped and stared at her new carpet, stove, refrigerator, and ceiling tile. Only the slightest odor of smoke reminded her that a few hours ago her mother said there'd been a fire in her kitchen. Her mother had said the police were fast, taking their pictures, going through her garbage, and whatever else they did to wind-up their investigation. Of course the place wasn't all that big and she didn't have much furniture. Three small bedrooms, two baths, a kitchen and living room just wouldn't take much time to look for prints, or what-have-you. She placed her purse on the breakfast bar, sighing, glad she hadn't looked at the damages. Especially after seeing what had happened to Karen.

  Just like she couldn't seem to make her mind accept what had happened to Robert, it didn't want to believe what happened to Karen. Even seeing her, the bandages, the bruises, the cast on her arm, her swollen, split lips, didn't make it seem any more real. Nevertheless it was all real, and Sue wanted to scream out her new feelings of rage. She wanted the guy caught.

  She walked around the bar and into the living room. A new contemporary couch sat in front of her coffee table. Luckily, she'd kept her favorite chair protected with a cover, and it was still there, minus its cover. She sank onto the familiar groves and textures of her recliner, flipped the footrest into place, and glanced at the freshly shampooed living room carpet that was giving the room a light, floral scent.

  It didn't matter what she looked at, the vision of Karen's battered face seemed superimposed on her eyes. Since Karen's ex-husband was a farmer with a hefty amount of black Angus cattle filling his pastures, the message of being married to a snoop hadn't, of course, been for her. No, Jacob was the snoop in question.

  A snoop who lived nearly two thousand miles away. How could Jacob's enemies find her here? Pointless question, she thought. Jacob didn't have any problems finding people, and most of the ones who hated him were far from stupid. The challenge for Jacob was in out-smarting and out-thinking the people he investigated.

  Holding open the armrest on her chair with one hand, she removed the TV remote and pushed the power button with the other. The first thing visible on the screen was obviously the end of the local news, and the front of her apartment building and Karen on the ambulance stretcher.

  “No one knows yet why Mrs. Orr was attacked,” the commentator's voice said. “The police stated that she was visiting at the Campbell apartment where the assault took place.” Then unexpectedly Sue saw herself on the screen, walking toward the policeman. She had thought she would be safe from the all-seeing camera eye, since she had watched the reporters return to their vans before approaching the officer.

  She couldn't help wondering just how much information the reporters had already given about her, and her frustration grew when they switched to commercials. Resting her head back, she glanced at the ceiling, then shivered, remembering each of the threats Karen had relayed to her. If the man who hit Karen should happen to be watching the news, he would realize his error, and he might come back. Jacob would explode if he found out that she had come back here before his arrival.

  She checked her watch. In a little less than three hours his plane would land. She should take the kids and meet him. But she didn't want to. If Sue could think of some way to escape seeing him at all, she would use it. For the past eighteen months he had called the children several times a week, and she had managed to avoid talking to him. In the past eighteen months he had come twice, and once was to take the children to California for a six-week stretch. She had to see him then. When he came, her haunting memories came with him—but they didn't leave with him. About the time they abated, and her heart and soul felt healed enough to give her some peace, he would show up again. Liar, she thought. Your real peace was having your family together, being in Jacob's arms, and you know it.

  Too tired to think, Sue brushed the thought away. After a long, crazy day, and with less Adrenaline running through her veins, sitting so still made her incredibly sleepy. She closed her eyes, thinking to enjoy only a moment of the quiet atmosphere around her, instead, numbness set in and she dozed off. However, the calm didn't reach beneath her eyelids. She could hear chimes, then thumping, and she could see her father rolling down an endless, floating flight of stairs, pushed by a shadowy butterfly; Martha bleeding, shot by the same butterfly—a cross, a scarred ear, and Jacob with a gun held to his head by the stick-like legs of a butterfly.

  Sue blinked open her eyes, sat up and brushed her hair from her forehead with an unsteady hand. Jacob hadn't even shown his face yet and the memories were becoming nightmares.

  Maybe, to be absolutely fair, it wasn't just Jacob making her feel as if she were about to fall off a cliff, but the events of the day. The sight of violence, anywhere, always stirred images of her father's wheelchair and why he would never be without it—stirred the now faded images of a man's scarred face and the colors purple, red and yellow. Then, there was the boy—the shape of his ear and the cross tattooed under it—the way he'd laughed at her father's unconscious figure, stared at her. And his image wasn't the least bit faded. She shuddered.

  At the time, her father had described to the police that the scarred one and his buddy, were both teenagers, that the third man was an adult. They were never caught. They just seemed to vanish off the earth. For a long time Sue searched male faces, looking for that ugly scar. The third man she couldn't remember at all—and he had shot Martha. For a long time when she saw anything violent on television, she had to leave the room.

  Then she went and fell in love with a man who carried a gun and made grim enemies almost daily. Twice she'd explained to him what happened to her long before they married. Jacob had talked and looked sympathetic and seemed to understand the pain her memories gave her; she felt certain of it. Sue had also felt certain she was over the fear of those memories. But when Jacob lay bleeding in their living room, shot by the man from her past with the purple, red, yellow butterfly on his arm, Sue couldn't take living on the edge any longer. Her nerves felt shattered, and she could think of nothing but escape—escape seemed the only path guaranteed to maintain her sanity—escape because, for a reason she couldn't for the world explain, let alone understand, she knew her past wasn't finished with. Maybe, she had decided, if she stayed miles away from Jacob, she could make the fear and uncertainties disappear. Maybe the boy with the disfigured ear and cross tattoo would not come back into her life. Sue prayed for his image to fade.

  She loved J.T. There wasn't a chance she could ever stop loving him, loving the sight of him, the heat he roused in her, the smell of him. But until she was absolutely certain that she had overcome her weakness, and she worked on it daily, she couldn't live with him, couldn't take the chance of seeing him hurt—or, most of all, of failing him again, like she'd failed her parents, Martha.

  Making a decision, Sue pushed down the footrest, rose from her chair, and headed for the bedrooms. First she would gather Karen's things, then she would pack a little for herself and enough clothes for the kids to last a week. It wouldn't be safe for them here. She just wished she knew if the danger would pass or if she would have to find another apartment.

  After stowing Karen's belongings in the trunk of her car, and hauling her three suitcases into the living room, Sue sank down on her chair again. She needed to prepare herself for seeing Jacob. Sue closed her eyes. Nothing ever prepared her for seeing Jacob.

  * * * *

  It was six twenty-five whe
n Clinton switched on the TV in his room. He didn't care what was on; he wanted to hear voices. Maybe even forget some of his frustrations.

  Trying to blend-in he had had to fly second class rather than first, and, because of the cheaper fare, they'd bumped him from his four o'clock flight back to California, messing up all his plans. Since the weekend turned out to be a busy one, the only reservation they would give him was seven a.m. Monday. If they hadn't stupidly overbooked, he could have been home in his spacious condo before midnight; instead, he was hanging around a cheap motel that offered little space and no comfort. The bed was rock hard. And even though there was a table and two chairs wedged between wall and bed, he didn't have room to merely sit in the chair, so he propped his feet on the bed.

  He started to yawn and think about going to sleep when the news announcer's words had him closing his mouth, jerking himself wide awake. Watching the scene in front of Mrs. Campbell's apartment, he heard the name of the victim and swore maliciously. But when a bystander in the crowd near the sidewalk caught his attention his mouth went dry, his jaw ached. He ripped open his wallet and yanked out the photo of Amanda Campbell. How the hell could he have made such a mistake?

  But he could see why.

  The two women could pass for twin sisters. He threw the wallet on the table. When Keats and Kimba heard about this screw up, they wouldn't buy any excuses, and his life wouldn't be worth shit for months. Life pretty much went to hell whenever Kimba lost her damned temper. Keats seemed more human. But he wasn't interested in Keats, and he knew Kimba would punish him by making him wait for her to come to his bed.

  Clinton slung his feet to the floor, rose from the chair, and paced the small space between the bed and bathroom door. He would have to go back to the apartment and get the bitch.

  But what if she wasn't there? What if the cops were watching the place? He shook his head. The cops would have finished their investigation—that's what the news commentator said, that they'd investigated and had nothing yet to report.

  He stared at the phone near the bed. If he called Kimba, he would piss her off. Yet, if he didn't call her, he might never hear the end of it. Against his will he lifted the receiver and waited for the desk to pick up so he could make a long distance call.

  “Kimba,” he started after the housekeeper brought her to the phone.

  “What are you doing calling me?” her whispered voice interrupted him. “I really hope you were smart enough to use a pay phone."

  “Oh, sure, yeah,” he lied. Then he explained to her what had happened.

  “You go back and see if you can catch her alone,” Kimba ordered. “Campbell's already on his way to Iowa. His plane was due to arrive in Des Moines at seven tonight, but there've been delays. You know damned good and well that he won't stay there long if he doesn't have a reason. We didn't find what we need yet, and the cops were crawling all over his place this morning."

  “Why are you whispering?"

  “We have a house-full of guests. If you can't change what's happened, idiot, you'd better let us know before Monday.” There was silence for a moment. “Damn it, Clint, Keats was sure you could handle this. I think you'd best try really hard to give Campbell a reason to stay for a while. And you'd better remember that J.T. Campbell is sharper than most at what he does, and you'll still be in the same town with him."

  Clinton wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his fingers. “I'll let you know exactly what happens, Kimba.” He hung up the phone before she could reply.

  Clinton stared for a moment at the curly, dark-brown wig he'd tossed on his suitcase, then picked it up and adjusted it over his hair. Kimba's warning about Campbell buzzed in his ears as he grabbed the keys to the room from the dresser and headed for the door. He'd walked over to the airport this morning and rented a cheap car. This morning the sun dominated the sky and he hadn't had a problem finding his way around, this evening they foretold storms and tornadoes and it was blacker than hell outside. He could hardly wait to see the last of this place.

  As he reached for the doorknob, Clinton looked at his shaking hands with disgust, hating the way he allowed Kimba to unnerve him.

  He envisioned her slender neck between his hands as he squeezed the breath out of her. But he banished the vision as her breath turned into dragon fire.

  He hated her; he loved her.

  He would do what she told him to do.

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  Chapter 5

  After waiting ten minutes near the entry gate and no one appeared to meet him, Jacob's already pushed-to-the-limits patience gave out. Damn it, he thought as he made his way through the long tunnel. Where the hell was everyone?

  He stopped at the first car rental agency he found at the front of the terminal where no one was standing in line. Quality didn't matter at the moment, because speed was his main concern. Three minutes later he scooped car keys from the counter top. If someone showed up now, he'd either follow them or take off on his own. Shoving the keys into his pocket, he felt a little better, having the car gave him the freedom he needed to keep his nerves in check, his thoughts controlled. For the first time in his life he was feeling real fear. Fear that he may never hear Sue's voice again, feel her near him, touch her. Fear about his children in the same manner. Fear that he would not hold it together if anything happened that took any of them away from him.

  Before entering the baggage area where he could see a crowd in front of the conveyor belts, Jacob opened his briefcase, dug out his cell phone, and punched in the Borgson's number. If he got a recording this time, he didn't think he would be responsible for his actions. His grip tightened on the phone until his fingers ached.

  He had expected to see Kathleen, or at least Martha, but if either one was here somewhere, she was invisible. He leaned his shoulder against the marble-tiled wall and kept looking for a familiar face. There weren't many people left around the entrance or ticket area. His was probably the last flight of the day.

  “Borgson's residence, may I help you?"

  His irritated emotions eased just slightly with the sound of a live person. “Martha, this is Jacob, and I'm at the airport,” he announced smoothly, holding a tenacious grip on his frantic worry, his wobbly nerve. And trying with all his ability to sound polite when he wanted to shout. “Please, let me talk to Kathleen."

  “Jacob?” Kathleen questioned, sounding confused, which hit him immediately as strange.

  “I'm at the airport, Kathleen,” he said, attempting even harder to remain calm, but his heart was pounding, and it seemed that every hair on his body stood on end. “How's Sue and what hospital is she in? Where are the kids?” And what the hell is going on, he finished to himself as he puffed out a breath. It wasn't like the Borgson's not to have someone waiting for him, especially since the situation was so grave. Being beside Sue and making certain that someone was protecting his kids were the main objectives dominating his thoughts. Where had the kids been when some bastard broke into the apartment? Questions were driving him nuts.

  He could hear what sounded like a relieved gasp. “Oh, my, Jacob, I'm so glad to hear your voice. Sue is all right. She wasn't the one hurt, Jacob. It was her friend Karen. The minute the police told me about the mix-up, I tried calling you. But you'd already taken off.”

  He could have sworn that his heart stopped. Stunned to silence for a moment he took in a slow deep breath, and with a suddenly shaky grip on the phone, Jacob finally asked, “What happened? A robbery? What?” At that moment he understood what it meant when someone said they felt dizzy with relief—his Amanda Sue was okay—not in pain, not bleeding, not dying. But he felt twenty years older.

  “As far as we could tell nothing was missing. So nothing about this whole thing makes any sense, Jacob. A fire in the kitchen alerted Sue's neighbor and he found poor Karen unconscious and bleeding in the living room. He thought it was Sue. They look so much alike, you know.” She sighed. “I wish I could take back the anguish I know you've suffere
d today, Jacob. But—” she sputtered, her voice rising several octaves, “Sue's supposed to be there explaining everything!"

  Relief short-lived, he was standing well away from the wall now; his muscles so tense they hurt, his throat not wanting to work. “Where is she, Kathleen? Where are the kids?” he demanded, patience oozing away from his very soul.

  “You're making me worry again, Jacob. She should be there at the airport. Sue said she wanted to come and meet you alone. That's why the children are still here."

  He walked toward the black, well-worn conveyor belt where his was the only bag left circling through one hole in the wall and back out another. More questions about the kids would have to wait. At least he knew that the Borgson's was a safe place. For the first time, he was completely thankful that it had never been Sue's habit to leave the kids at the apartment when she wasn't there. They were either with her, with grandparents, or with their friends who lived across from their school until she picked them up. He would never again think that perhaps she took her protective nature too far.

  The kids were also tough. The last time he practiced karate with them, they'd cheated and had him flat on his back before he'd had a chance to get his feet set.

  “Take it easy, Kathleen,” he said, swiping the bag from the belt and setting it on the floor. Relentlessly he buried his fear, calling forth the strength he'd relied on his entire life and continued with words he said mostly for controlling himself, “Let's not panic yet. Just tell me where she was when you last talked to her.” The idea of Sue meeting him alone was a first. Did he dare hope that it was a good sign? The notion was risky, but he took risks all the time.