by Hill, Brenda
Tracy knew if she had character, it came from her father’s family. She was devastated when they perished in a sudden marsh fever that wiped out entire families. But her grandmother’s words stayed with her, never letting her forget their fierce pride.
No, assistance was not for her. She might be broke, but at least she paid her own way. Such as it was.
“Bravery,” she finally said. “I wish.”
“Don’t worry, it’s there. The cards say so. It’ll show up when you need it. But you’re going to have to be careful. The cards are giving strong warning signs.”
“That’s enough.” Tracy grabbed her purse. “I’m not listening to any more.”
Thunder rumbled and Tracy felt the vibration in the old house. For a moment, Carrie looked like a phantom silently regarding her. Chills prickled the back of her neck. “Oh, this is ridiculous. I’m leaving.”
“Wait,” Carrie said. “You might not want to listen, but the cards are telling you to prepare and you’d better pay attention. Something’s going to happen that’ll change your entire life. You’ll need all your strength and bravery to see it through.
“And Tracy,” Carrie called to her friend’s retreating back, “it’s going to happen soon.”
Chapter Three
Tracy almost ran into the dining room, glad to get away from Carrie and those damn cards.
Desolation?
No, she didn’t believe it, wouldn’t even think about it. Otherwise, she would feel immobilized, too afraid to step out the door. She couldn’t allow that to happen; she had to provide for her son.
At least Mr. Madden, the museum’s manager, had approved her request for longer hours, and tomorrow she would start the evening shift from one to nine, leaving her mornings free for classes. She was moving forward and she wouldn’t allow a silly prediction to cloud her plans.
After all, it was just a deck of cards.
Instead of passing through the dining room to the back door, Tracy paused at one of the chrome urns next to the kitchen. A cup of tea might help the chill she felt from the reading and fortify her for the walk home. Yet she didn’t want to risk running into Carrie. One session was enough.
From the kitchen, the scent of baking bread drifted through the butterfly doors, accompanied by a sugary, cinnamon fragrance. Rita must be making her giant rolls. Tracy dug in her purse, hoping to come up with some change to take one home. She shouldn’t, but tonight she could use something warm and gooey to soothe her insides. And she would share with Ritchie. But her purse held nothing but three pennies and a lint-encrusted breath mint. Three days before payday was no time for extras like cinnamon rolls.
Rita pushed through the kitchen’s doors, a saucer holding a huge cinnamon roll in her hands.
“Hi, kid, I was about to come and get you.” She placed the roll on one of the five round oak tables then tucked a strand of brilliant red hair behind her ears. “Sit down. Got something I want to talk to you about.” She poured coffee from one of the large urns then sat down.
“Now?” Tracy asked, glancing through the archway, checking for Carrie. “I need to get home. Besides, I don’t want to run into Carrie again.”
“The boss gave her enough work to keep her busy for a couple of hours. Relax. I have something important to tell you.”
Tracy eyed the tea bags next to the water urn. She had used the last one at home two days ago and a cup would taste good. She made her tea and joined Rita. Maybe she would ask if she could take a roll home and pay for it payday. She had never asked before, and she knew Rita often took them home.
Then she remembered the doctor’s bill for Ritchie’s last checkup.
Rita took a bite of her roll. “Want one? They’re on special this week.” She captured some of the overflowing cream cheese frosting with her finger and licked it.
Tracy swallowed and looked away. “No thanks.”
Tall and lanky, Rita enjoyed her own creations and was able to eat anything she wanted without gaining a pound. It wasn’t fair. No matter how often Tracy dieted, she always wound up where she started, sometimes weighing even more.
“A man likes ‘em tall and willowy,” Jim, her stepfather, had said over and over, “with long, long legs to wrap around a man so he knows she’s got him.” He always managed to say those things when her mother was in another room.
At five-three, Tracy had never measured up to his standards. Her mother always said she was built voluptuously, like a Rubens painting.
Rita gulped her coffee and stood. “I have to get the last batch of rolls out of the oven.”
“Wait! What did you want to talk to me about?” Another round of thunder rolled through the house. “I better get home before it rains,” Tracy said, scooting back her chair.
“Stay just a few more minutes. You know how these spring storms are, gets all dark then it blows right over. Bet it doesn’t rain a drop.” Rita hurried to the kitchen.
While Tracy waited, she wondered what Rita thought was so important. As Mr. Madden’s assistant, Rita did the scheduling. Tracy hoped there wasn’t a problem with her new hours.
She finished her tea and had to admit she didn’t mind waiting. She loved the old Victorian, loved working surrounded by history.
Against the east wall, a burled walnut server held a silver tea set, the aged patina carefully preserved, and the daily tour schedule stood encased in an antique gold-scrolled frame. A large sepia portrait hung above it.
A raw-boned man, clean-shaven except for a drooping mustache covering his mouth, stared at the camera with a level gaze. Sitting next to him, a tightly corseted woman, rows of buttons fastening her dark dress securely at her neck, gazed at the camera with an equally somber stare. The only attempt at levity was her wide-brimmed hat, gaily decorated with flowers, netting and feathers. What stories they could tell, Tracy thought. What a spirit of adventure and determination they must have felt, building a life at the foot of the harsh Rocky Mountains.
The house itself was a piece of history. A patron from the Fine Arts Committee rescued it from a wrecking ball three years ago when she discovered the Victorian had been owned by one of Denver’s famous madams in the eighteen hundreds. It wasn’t known if the house had been used as a bordello like those located farther east near Larimer Street, but the place was a jewel, a tribute to Denver’s rousing gold-rush days. Tracy drew strength from working in an atmosphere of pride and accomplishment, something she needed for her own spirit when she felt overwhelmed.
Rita entered the dining room and sat back down. “So how did the reading go?”
“Just the usual doom and gloom they all scare you with,” Tracy replied. “Nonsense, really.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve heard stories...”
“Well, I don’t want to hear them. I’m glad Carrie’s going on vacation tomorrow. So what do you want to talk to me about?”
“You know what you need?” Rita said, ignoring Tracy’s question. “You need a man in your life.”
“I have one.”
“A baby isn’t what I had in mind. Poor thing, no wonder you’re frowning. Tell you what, the next good-looking tourist who comes in, you flirt a little. I’ll show you how.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Tracy said, pronouncing each word distinctly. “I-do-not-want-a-man. I don’t have time, especially now. Too many other things come first.”
“What things?”
“Making a living for one. School, for another.”
“Oh, school, schmool. You don’t need school, you need a man. When will you learn it’s love that makes the world go around?”
“I’ll just tell that to the grocer next time I need baby food.”
“Jeez. A body would think some of the things I’ve been saying would rub off, but you just throw them off like a dog shaking water. What am I going to do with you?”
“Try minding your own business for a change.”
“I don’t know why I worry about you,” Rita went right on, “you nev
er do anything I tell you. Good Lord, no one would guess you’ve been married, or have a baby, for goodness sake. You seem so...so virginal.” She made it sound like a disease no one wanted. “And,” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “a little standoffish. You scare ‘em off before they ever get started. That’s gonna haveta change if you’re ever gonna get that boy a daddy.”
“That’s enough,” Tracy said, rising from her chair. “If that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’m going home.”
“The new security guard started this afternoon.”
“What security guard?” Tracy donned her windbreaker hanging on the rack by the back door.
“Remember the vandalism last week? Well, Mr. Madden had a security outfit send someone over to keep an eye on things. He’s here, even has a gun and a nightstick. All kinds of gizmos on his belt. His name’s Karr and he wants to meet you.”
“Well, I don’t want to meet him.”
“Hmmm.” Rita studied the ceiling. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Tracy spun around. “You didn’t! I’m getting out of here.”
“Wait, what’s your hurry? Don’t leave, give the guy a chance, you might like—”
Just as Tracy’s hand closed on the doorknob, a male voice spoke behind her.
“You must be Tracy.”
Tracy froze. Why hadn’t she left when she had the chance? Now she’d have to be polite to someone she had no interest in meeting, all because Rita wanted to play matchmaker.
Slowly, she turned around.
At six feet he towered over her and his stocky build looked solid. But the curious thing was his eyes, which had a distinct Asian tilt. Dark in color, almost black, they leveled on her as something, almost hidden flashed briefly, leaving her mouth dry.
“Karr, meet Tracy.” Rita beamed.
Tracy wanted to slap her.
Karr offered his hand. “Glad to meet you. I’m Karlton Wolfe. Call me Karr.”
Now he looked perfectly normal. Must have been her imagination. Her eyes were drawn to his utility belt and the huge gun resting on his hip.
“It’s a Colt forty-five automatic,” he told her. “A damn good persuader. Here, want to see?” Unsnapping the holster, he presented it to her. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
Tracy stared at the gun. It looked like a cannon, and it looked deadly. She glanced at the door. “I have to go.”
“Don’t leave yet.” Karr grabbed her hand. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you.”
She tried to free her hand, but he wouldn’t release her. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks.
“I have to, my son...” She pulled her hand free.
The phone rang and Rita ran to get it.
Karr leaned close to Tracy and whispered, “Hows about you and me going for a couple of drinks some night? We could lock up and slip across the street for a fast brew. No one would have to know.” He winked and rocked back on his heels, resting his hands on his belt.
Tracy suddenly wanted to shower. “I’m sorry, I don’t go out with anyone right now. Thank you anyway.” Thank you anyway? God.
“Yes, I’ll tell her,” Rita spoke on the phone. “It’s your babysitter,” she said to Tracy. “Says you got a package from some school.”
“Tell her I’ll be right there. Sorry,” Tracy mumbled to Karr.
“Wait!” He stepped forward. “I been looking forward to talking to you. Can’t you spare me five minutes?”
Although he smiled, Tracy got the feeling that something, an underlying anger or resentment, perhaps, simmered just beneath the friendly expression. He continued to stare with an unblinking gaze and Tracy felt caught, lost momentarily in the old feelings of helplessness and panic. Her stomach tightened and her mouth went dry.
“Sorry,” she said, wanting only to escape. “I have to go.”
On the way home, she realized she had been abrupt, even rude, and she felt ashamed. She usually treated people with courtesy. She would be nicer the next time she saw Karr.
But something about him made her uncomfortable. And defensive. What was it? He was nice looking, and he really hadn’t done anything wrong, just tried to hold her hand. What was the harm of that? Had she shut herself off so completely that handholding made her nervous?
Or was it his uniform? Growing up with Jim as a parent, she had never been allowed to speak to figures of authority, a deference, deserved or not, she had not managed to overcome.
Since leaving home, she had worked hard on her feelings of self-worth, and she had hoped she could hold her own with anyone.
Karr proved her wrong.
Chapter Four
Denver County General Hospital sprawled over three city blocks. Day and night, seven days a week people came and went—on foot, in cars, by ambulance, and by the emergency helicopter, Flight for Life.
Sergeant Reese Sanders, Denver PD, circled the lot in front of the emergency entrance. Not a spot to be had at six in the evening, prime time. A motorcycle stood in the loading zone he’d snagged last time.
“Thoughtless bastard, oughta give him a ticket.” Reese checked his impulse to ram the cycle out of the way and circled again. The only other spot was a narrow space reserved as a pedestrian walkway.
“Shit,” he muttered, easing his dented gray Wagoneer into the yellow striped area. Digging his police I.D. out of the glove compartment, he stuck it on the dash and squeezed his bulk of six feet and two-hundred-thirty pounds through the small space between two cars.
Even though he hadn’t exercised in over a year, he sprinted the fifty feet to the hospital entrance. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the break he’d been looking for. Maybe this time he would get what he needed to hunt the bastard down and haul his ass to jail.
If the sonofabitch lived that long.
The glass doors slid open. Puffing, Reese nodded to the ER clerk and turned left into Trauma One. The double-doors slid apart with a whoosh and he stepped over the electronic threshold. The nurse’s station stood in the center of the room, surrounded by twenty-one curtained cubicles. Alicia Ramirez, her flowered pink smock crisp and spotless, looked up from a chart, saw him and raised an eyebrow.
“Why hello, stranger. Heard you were back.”
Reese started to reply when the acrid odor of alcohol, antiseptic, and something else, a sour, bloody smell hit him. His guts constricted to a hard knot and he broke out in a cold sweat. Christ, not again. Afraid he’d puke in front of everyone, he made a dash for the men’s room.
Inside, he threw the bolt, dropped to his knees in front of the bowl and lost his last two meals. When nothing but dry heaves came up, he tore off some paper and wiped his mouth. He rose and stepped over to the porcelain sink, hanging on with both hands until he was sure his trembling legs would support him.
He thought he had it conquered. He thought he could return to work, do his job, even come back to this hospital.
But he had forgotten the smell.
Images he’d tried to drown flared in his brain. He saw again the small, pale figure lying on the gurney, saw all that blood that coated her arms and matted her dark hair. It soaked the bandages wrapped around both wrists. How could anyone live with all that spilled blood?
But her eyes were worse, staring at him, silently accusing, even when he gripped her hand, trying to force her to live. In the end, all he could do was watch helplessly as she died.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror, hating his weakness, hating himself for the way he had allowed that tragedy to happen.
Someone tapped on the door.
“Be right out.” Reese unbuttoned his rumpled white shirt and splashed cold water on his face and thick neck. He had work to do, even though every nerve in his body screamed for a shot of bourbon.
At the nurse’s station an aide bustled past, her blue tunic stained with God knew what. Her shoes made a light squeak against the polished tile floor. When she threw a glance at him, Reese locked his knees and straightened. In the background, electro
nic beeps kept an ongoing cadence.
Nurse Ramirez closed a chart and dropped it in a slot along with several others in a tray attached to the wall. About forty and just starting to gray, she eyed Reese.
“You okay?”
“Where is she?”
“Where’s who?”
“Harris, the assault vic.” He ignored the sweat on his forehead and pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. “Cynthia Harris. Is she breathing?”
“She’s in Three and the team’s with her. Don’t try to go in there, though. Dr. Prescott’s been on eighteen hours and is in no mood to argue. They’re stabilizing her, getting some blood work, x-rays, the usual. They’ll do the rape kit after the CT scan.”
“How bad is she?”
“You have to wait, I have orders.”
A slim, dark-haired young woman passed through the door and walked toward them. Officer Sondra Cooper, Sexual Assaults Unit.
Ramirez acknowledged her with a nod. “I know why you’re here, but him? A homicide cop? No one has knocked off anyone else all day.”
“Be happy to rustle up some business for you,” Reese offered. “Start a fight or something.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Ramirez called to a young aide walking by and, chart in hand, hurried over to her.
Reese turned to Officer Cooper. “Tell me about Harris.”
“How the hell did you get here first?” Cooper asked. “Smoke signals?”
Reese shrugged. He’d never mention the phone alert; instead, he encouraged the notion that his American Indian heritage, obvious only by his high cheekbones, gave him mysterious power.
“I can’t get anything from Ramirez,” he said. “What’ve you got?”
“According to First Officer Wadell, a neighbor found her,” she told him. “Kept hearing what he thought was an abandoned kitten next door. The house was vacant, up for sale. He finally investigated, found her and called nine-one-one.” Her gaze raked the cop. “You’re a mess. Better lay off the cigarettes. Some exercise wouldn’t hurt, either.”
