Charade

by Sandra Brown

  The first swallow had tasted vile. The second went down more smoothly. Even smoother were the third and fourth. He didn’t remember those that followed. He recalled retching violently, although he couldn’t remember where.

  He’d awakened at dawn, having to pee so badly that it hurt. His breath would have brought a bull elephant to its knees. He was befuddled, remembering nothing of how he’d gotten to the parking lot of a Kmart. He considered it a blessing that he hadn’t killed himself or somebody else while driving.

  Luckily, no one had called the police to report a drunk sleeping it off inside his car, parked next to the shopping cart return chute. He hadn’t been mugged for his wallet or car.

  He drove home, peed a liter or two, showered and shaved, and ate aspirin until his head no longer felt like a two-ton ball bearing rolling around inside an oil drum.

  He reread the material given to him when he’d left the rehab clinic and recited his AA prayer. Just as he was about to pour the whiskey into the toilet, he decided to keep it as a reminder that he was still a recovering alcoholic, that one drink was potentially lethal, and that answers couldn’t be found at the bottom of a bottle. If they could, he’d have been able to slay his dragons long ago.

  He’d drunk an ocean of booze searching for reasons for all the shit that had happened. His prayers to the Higher Power were usually in the form of questions. “Why did You suddenly decide to pick on Alex Pierce? Was it something I did? Something I didn’t do?” He paid his taxes, contributed regularly to the Salvation Army, and was kind to old folks.

  If it was that Fourth of July incident…He’d said he was sorry at least a thousand times. He couldn’t possibly feel any worse about it than he did. He’d done what he’d had to do.

  But apparently the Higher Power hadn’t bought his rationalizations any more than his superiors in the department had. Feeling he’d been rejected by God himself, he began to crack under pressure. His moods had grown dark, his outlook on life even darker. Booze had become his one and only friend.

  Now Arnie was his one and only friend.

  Arnie. Right now, his hands would like two minutes with Arnie’s throat. His well-meaning agent had advised him to come clean with Cat. But look where that had gotten him: she’d almost brained him with a vase. No matter what women claimed, he thought, they didn’t really want honesty in a relationship.

  Wouldn’t it have been easier on both of them if he’d continued sleeping with her, taking the pleasure it rendered, and leaving the rest of it to Fate? But then, as Arnie had pointed out, he really would have been a shit.

  Swearing, he ground his forehead against the window jamb. Cat was interfering with his appetite, his sleep, his rigid self-discipline, and his work. He was afraid to examine why she had so much control over his mind. He now mistrusted his instincts. The more he tried to sort things out, the more complicated they became.

  There was only one certainty: Since his fight with Cat, he hadn’t produced one readable page of manuscript.

  If only sex with her hadn’t been so damn good.

  But it had been better than good. The best.

  That’s what he couldn’t live with. That’s what was tormenting him and turning his novel to crap.

  Determined to regain control of this situation before he was forced to return the publisher’s advance, he went back to his computer’s blank screen and blinking cursor.

  Since the scene wasn’t unfolding as he’d originally outlined it, he’d go with it this way and see where it led. What could it hurt? He wasn’t etching each word in stone. The pages could always be deep-sixed. Probably would be.

  “What the hell,” he muttered as he began pounding the keyboard with his rapid, two-finger system.

  After a fleeting hour of relentless typing, he had five pages.

  And they must be good, he thought dryly.

  His cock could have driven nails through a brick wall.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “You look rested.” Sherry Parks took a seat opposite Cat’s desk.

  “Doesn’t she?” Jeff sat down in the other chair. “The vacation was long overdue.”

  “I had a wonderful time,” Cat told them. “Ate three squares every day. Slept so late it was indecent. Took long walks along the beach. In short, I was a sloth.”

  “Not entirely,” Sherry said. “A walk along the beach can be a real workout.”

  “Actually I get a workout just dressing for it. Most people remove clothes before going to the beach. I have to cover every inch of skin.” Because of the medication she took, she was particularly susceptible to sunburn.

  Getting down to business, she flipped open the file folder Jeff had placed on her desk. The photo inside took her aback. “My! What a beautiful child,” she exclaimed.

  “Isn’t he?” Sherry agreed. “That’s Michael. Age three. This week Child Services placed him in a foster home.”

  “Under what circumstances?” Cat asked.

  “His father is a real charmer,” Sherry said sarcastically. “George Murphy. He’s a so-called construction worker who can’t keep a job because of his explosive temper and suspected drug use. He’s constantly being fired. They live on his unemployment checks and what little Michael’s mother can contribute.”

  “Is Murphy abusive?”

  “According to their neighbors, he is. They’ve called the police numerous times to report domestic violence. He’s been arrested, but she never presses charges. Apparently she’s terrified of him,” Sherry explained.

  “Last month, the caseworker took Michael away for several days, but returned him to his mother when Mr. Murphy was arrested for possession of drugs. Unfortunately, he was released for lack of evidence.”

  “A lucky break for him,” Cat remarked.

  “You’d think so. But he didn’t learn his lesson. His temper tantrums have gotten worse and more frequent. And, all of a sudden, they’ve been directed more toward the child than his mother.

  “Michael suffered a ‘fall’ last week. He was X-rayed in the emergency room but released because no bones had been broken. The day before yesterday, his mother brought him to the hospital again. Mr. Murphy had pushed him into a wall. Michael was too addled even to cry. His mother was afraid he’d been permanently brain damaged.”

  “Was he?”

  “No, it was just a slight concussion. Doctors kept him in the hospital overnight for observation. He was released to Child Protection Services yesterday and placed in a foster home.”

  “How is he now?”

  “He cries for his mother but otherwise behaves well. In fact, almost too well. He has practically no communication skills. He indicated to his foster mother that he’d like a banana with his breakfast cereal, but he didn’t know what it was called.”

  “Good God,” Jeff whispered.

  “This child has been so intimidated by his father that he’s afraid even to speak,” Sherry said sadly.

  Cat continued to stare at the photograph. The boy had dark, curly hair, large, blue, expressive eyes, and long eyelashes. His lips were bowed, with little depressions in each corner. He was so pretty, he could have been mistaken for a girl if dressed differently.

  She was indiscriminately drawn to all the children regardless of race, age, or sex. She empathized with all of them and tolerated even the most badly behaved. Behavior was usually an accurate barometer of the level of abuse they’d suffered. Their stories touched her, angered her, and sometimes made her ashamed to be a member of the human race, which could inflict such misery on its young.

  But she was attracted to this child in a special, inexplicable way. She couldn’t take her eyes off the photograph.

  “I wanted you to see his case file,” Sherry was saying, “because I think we’ll eventually get him for Cat’s Kids. His mother seems to love him, but she’s terrified of Murphy. I’m afraid she won’t cross him even to protect Michael. God only knows the abuse she suffers. I’ve seen this character, and, believe me, he looks capable of
physical and emotional battering.

  “Anyway, this time they’re being jointly charged for abuse to a minor. Their overworked, underpaid, pro bono attorney is already talking plea bargain to keep from taking the case to trial.”

  “From what you’ve told us,” Jeff said, “my guess is that they’ll plead guilty to a lesser charge in exchange for losing custody of Michael.”

  This happened frequently. Some parents would actually give up their children in order to reduce their jail sentences. As shocking as the practice was, it was sometimes best for children to be permanently removed from parents who cared no more than that.

  “You’re probably right, Jeff,” Sherry said. “Murphy will jump at the chance to get rid of the boy. Considering how overcrowded the jails are, he’ll probably serve only a fraction of his sentence. He might even be sentenced only for time already served. It’d be a good deal for him.”

  “But tragic for Michael’s mother,” Cat said reflectively.

  If this child were hers, she’d kill anyone who tried to take him away from her. But she didn’t judge the other woman. Fear was a powerful motivator. So was love.

  She said, “If she loves her child as much as you say, she might give him up to protect him from Murphy.”

  “In the long run, that would be the best thing for Michael,” Sherry said. “Cat’s Kids will find him a loving home. In the meantime, he needs to be integrated with other children. So I didn’t think you’d mind if I brought him to the picnic.”

  Cat’s head came up. “Picnic?”

  Jeff cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. “I was waiting until you got back to break the news.”

  Cat waited for an explanation.

  “Nancy Webster got a bee in her bonnet,” he said apologetically. “She called me at least a dozen times while you were away. Didn’t Mr. Webster tell you that once she was placed in charge of something she became a steamroller?”

  “Words to that effect.”

  “Well, he knows his wife well. She explained to me that organizing an elaborate fund-raiser takes months. So, in the interim, she’s invited some potential contributors to a mini-fund-raiser. This weekend.”

  “This weekend!”

  “I asked why the rush,” Jeff said. “Mrs. Webster said there’s nothing on the social calendar this weekend. But for the next several months, just about every weekend is spoken for. So it’s now or never.”

  Cat took a deep breath. “Welcome back to the salt mine, Ms. Delaney.”

  “Actually there’s very little for you to do except show up on Saturday,” Jeff told her. “I’ve already notified all the media. Sherry answered my S.O.S. She’s done most of the legwork involved in rounding up the kids.”

  “Including those who’ve already been adopted?” Cat asked. “I think we should have our success stories there. Especially in light of the negative publicity Truitt gave us following Chantal’s death.”

  “Jeff and I already thought of that,” Sherry said. “We’ve included foster families, applicants to adopt, everyone we could think of who might be interested. Mrs. Webster said there was no limit to the number of people we could invite as long as we let her know an approximate head count by Thursday so she can inform the caterer.”

  “A caterer for a picnic?”

  “Barbecue with all the trimmings,” Jeff told her. “But there’ll be hotdogs for the younger kids because ribs might be too hard for them to handle.”

  “Nancy’s given this some thought,” Cat said, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Including the decorations and the band.”

  “Band?”

  “A country and western dance band from Austin,” Jeff explained. Then breezily he added, “And Willie might drive down from Luckenbach, but he couldn’t promise.”

  “Willie Nelson? You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “And she’s pulling all this together by this weekend?”

  “I’m telling you, if Norman Schwarzkopf had consulted her, he could have wound up Desert Storm in half the time.”

  Sherry stood to leave. “Personally, I can’t wait. Everybody I’ve talked to is very excited. And I’ve always had a lech for Willie Nelson—braids, beads, and all.”

  After she left, Jeff gave Cat the rest of the details. “See, there really is nothing for you to do.”

  “What if I had extended my vacation for a few more days? I would have missed it.”

  “Nancy had a contingency. She planned to send a private jet for you, then return you to California to finish your vacation after the picnic.”

  “Money not only talks, it shouts.”

  “It certainly does.” Jeff tucked his various files beneath his arm and stood. “You do look better, boss. I wasn’t just flattering you.”

  “Thanks. I did a lot of thinking, but mostly I just vegged out.” She hesitated to tell him about the third clipping she’d received, but decided that since she’d already confided in him, he should know about the latest development.

  He expressed his outrage. “Who the hell is this creep?”

  “I don’t know. Dean didn’t have any ideas either.”

  “Have you told Mr. Webster yet?”

  “No, but I think I will. If some fruitcake barges in here and starts shooting up the place, Bill should be forewarned. This could involve the station’s security.”

  “I doubt it’ll come to that.”

  “So do I. I think this individual would be much more subtle.” She then told him about the corresponding dates of the accidental deaths. “It was like a puzzle he wanted me to figure out.”

  “So when was your—”

  “The fourth anniversary of my transplant is only a few weeks away.”

  “Jesus, Cat. This has ceased to be mystifying. These clippings could be outright threats. Don’t you think it’s time you went to the police?”

  “Dean urged me to. But until an actual stalking crime is committed, what can they do? We don’t know who my stalker is.”

  “But surely there’s something to be done.”

  “I gave it a lot of thought on the flight home. Can I enlist your help?”

  “You have to ask?”

  “Thanks. Place calls to the morgues of these newspapers and ask for copies of any related articles. If follow-up stories were written about these accident victims, I want to see them.”

  “Are you looking for anything specific?”

  “No. I’d like to know if there were criminal investigations or inquests as a result of the deaths. Or if there were any human-interest profiles written about the victims. That kind of thing.”

  He was more beautiful than she remembered. When she saw him, he took her breath. His curly hair was dark and endearingly unruly. He wore blue jeans and a western shirt. His cowboy boots looked new.

  Cat knelt in front of him. His right index finger was hooked in the corner of his mouth. “Hello, Michael. My name’s Cat. I’m so glad you could come today.”

  Sherry was holding the boy by the hand. “He’s happy to be here. His foster mother told me so.”

  Above him, Sherry was sadly shaking her head, conveying to Cat that Michael wasn’t mixing well with the other children. He seemed overwhelmed by the noisy crowd.

  “This is the lady who sent you the new clothes, Michael,” Sherry said to him. “Tell her thank you.”

  He stared at the ground.

  “Never mind,” Cat said. “You can thank me later. I haven’t had a hotdog yet, have you?”

  He raised his head and stared back at her through vacant blue eyes, giving no indication that he understood.

  “Let’s go get one together. Okay?” She extended her hand. Michael considered it for a long time before withdrawing his pruny index finger from his mouth and placing his hand in Cat’s.

  She smiled at Sherry and held up two crossed fingers. “We’ll catch up with you later.”

  Cat matched her stride to Michael’s slow shuffle. “I really like those boots,” she remarked. “
They’re red like mine. See?”

  She stopped and pointed down at her cowboy boots. She’d bought them at a boutique on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, but Michael wouldn’t know the difference.

  He studied the likeness of their boots, then raised his head and squinted at her. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was a measurable response. Taking that as an encouraging sign, she squeezed his hand. “We’re going to be good friends. I can tell.”

  The barbecue picnic was being held on the Webster estate. The band had set up in the Victorian gazebo on the banks of the pond where docile ducks gorged on bread crumbs thrown by the children. The air was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of mesquite-smoked meat. Picnic tables with red and white bandanna-print tablecloths had been set up beneath the trees.

  Jugglers, mimes, and clowns strolled among the crowd, dispensing balloons and candy. Three of the Dallas Cowboys were autographing toy footballs. Two members of the San Antonio Spurs basketball team stood head and shoulders above everyone else.

  After getting their plates of food, Cat and Michael selected one of the tables. While they ate their hotdogs, she jabbered, hunting for anything to which he would respond. But he didn’t speak a word, not even when she introduced him to Jeff, who was a big hit with the children. Several clung to him as they made their way to the pond.

  Michael was invited to come along and feed the ducks, but he shied away. Cat didn’t press him. She did, however, notice that something else had attracted his attention.

  She followed the direction of his absorbed stare. “Ah, you’re a horse lover. Want to ride?”

  He stared at her solemnly, but his eyes showed a spark of curiosity that hadn’t been there before.

  “Let’s go take a closer look.”

  She wiped his face and hands with a napkin, then took his hand, which he was no longer reluctant to give her, and walked with him to the temporary paddock where four ponies were walking around an exercise wheel.

  Once they reached the area, Cat sensed Michael’s reserve, so she gave him time to mull it over. They stood and watched as the ponies went through their paces. After the third group of four children had been lifted off the ponies, Michael looked up at her inquisitively.