Half Moon Bay

by Meryl Sawyer

  “Remember me telling you about my mother?”

  “She died when you were thirteen, right?”

  “Yes. My mother had a brain tumor. I had no idea Mom’s condition was”—Matt let out an audible breath—“hereditary.”

  She became utterly still. Only her eyes moved, searching his face in disbelief. “Oh, my God! Darling, you can’t mean …”

  He clenched his jaw hard to keep the lump in his throat where it belonged. “I’m going to die.”

  She threw her arms around him, currents of emotion deepening the blue of her eyes. “There must be a mistake. You seem so healthy.”

  “I am—now.” He decided not to mention the headaches that would soon intensify into debilitating migraines. “I wouldn’t even know I had a problem if I hadn’t had an MRI after I was in a fender-bender. This type of tumor grows very slowly. I have a year, maybe longer.”

  He didn’t add his mother had died a slow, agonizing death. Her speech slurred, then became too garbled to understand. Writing was impossible. She lost control of her muscles, and near the end she became blind.

  It had been long ago, in another lifetime. Still, his mother’s death remained one of the most vivid memories from his youth. He’d watched her suffer, unable to do a damn thing to relieve her pain. Before he became incapacitated, he planned to disappear and die alone. He couldn’t put those he loved—especially this woman—through that kind of heartbreak.

  “Have you had a second opinion?” she asked.

  “Three of them. Surgery will leave me a vegetable.”

  “Oh, Matt, this isn’t fair.”

  She hugged him tighter. He put his arms around her, loving her so much that his eyes blurred with tears as he tried to imagine leaving her behind. He thought of all the things he would miss. He’d always counted on tomorrow.

  He’d wanted a big family, probably because he’d raised himself. Yes, he wanted to experience fatherhood. He almost heard his children’s high-pitched laughter. And the lower, feminine laughter of this woman, their mother.

  Almost.

  Like it or not, he had to face reality. His tomorrows were numbered. All he had was the present. It had taken him so long to find love, and now that he had, he was going to enjoy it.

  Until it was time for him to say good-bye.

  “I have nothing left to lose except you,” he told her, gazing into the beautiful blue eyes he loved so much. “You’re in danger here. Go into the protection program again. I’ll come with you.”

  She shook her head and tousled hair brushed over her bare shoulders. “No. We need the freedom to go wherever you want and do the th–things”—biting her lip, she looked away, eyes brimming with tears.

  “Aw, honey, don’t cry.” He held her snugly against his chest. “It doesn’t help. Crying only makes me feel worse.”

  “I’m not crying.” A soft little sob escaped her lips as she blinked away the tears. “I’m not taking you into the program. We would have to live in some podunk town. You need to travel or do whatever you want.”

  “All I want is to be with you—anywhere. But I’m afraid for you. You’re in danger.”

  Chapter 28

  She dressed quickly after Matt left to shower and shave. Then she raced across the house to find Trevor. Matt had sworn her to secrecy about his illness. No way was she going to stand by and watch him die. There had to be something a doctor—somewhere—could do.

  In the kitchen she found Trevor feeding the cats. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “Sure. What’s up?” Trevor filled the last cat’s bowl, then turned to her.

  “It’s Matt. He’s, he’s … very, very ill. He—”

  “Call 911.” Trevor headed for the telephone on the counter.

  “Wait. He’s not ill right now, but he’s going to be.”

  Trevor took her arm and led her out onto the terrace. “You’re not making sense. Let’s sit down and talk about it.”

  She dropped into one of the chairs at the table where they usually had breakfast and blurted out, “Matt told me last night that he has a brain tumor.”

  The color leached from Trevor’s face. “Like his mother?”

  “It’s a rare condition that’s hereditary, it seems.”

  “What about his sister?”

  “Emily shows no signs of having it yet. They’re monitoring her.” She gazed into Trevor’s green eyes, his concern mirroring hers. “He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s dying.”

  Trevor covered his mouth with his hand, muffling a gasp. “Is he sure?”

  “He’s had three opinions. They all agree. Removing it would leave him a vegetable.”

  Muffin, one of Trevor’s cats, jumped into his lap. He absentmindedly petted it, saying, “Now I understand why Matt quit his job.”

  “I have an idea,” she said, touching his shoulder. “Would you ask Clive to request Matt’s medical records from Sloan-Kettering?”

  “What good will that do?”

  “Clive can contact clinics around the country, around the world if necessary, and see if anyone can help Matt.” Panic like nothing she’d ever known tightened her throat until she could hardly speak. What if no one could help him? “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Trevor shook his head slowly. “Neither do I.”

  “Remember, act upbeat around him. Don’t let him know I told you.”

  “One of the first things they teach you in the Witness Protection Program is to use a public telephone, then you don’t have to be concerned about anyone listening to your conversation,” she told him.

  Matt was walking beside “Shelly,” as they approached Planet Hollywood. A public telephone was located near the thatched roof where they sold T-shirts. Even though it wasn’t yet ten o’clock, it looked as if they were having an after Christmas sale.

  He watched her dial the Miami number the agent had given her. She cocked the receiver so he could hear. He bent down and put his arm around her while the number rang. Scott Phillips answered.

  Matt listened while she explained that he knew what was going on. The agent sounded pissed, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “While Dexxter was at the party, Barry, another agent assigned to the case, bugged the home where Dexxter is staying. He also put a tracking device on the Boston Whaler that came with the house. We’re watching Dexxter’s every move.”

  “From Miami?” Matt asked.

  “You’re calling my cell phone, which has the Miami field office number. I’m right here at the Pier House with Barry. We’re monitoring the bugs at Foxx’s place.”

  Matt asked, “Do they buy her cover story?”

  “From their conversation, they do not suspect Amy Conroy is still alive. Irene was suspicious, but Dexx convinced her. Then Irene pitched a fit over all the attention Dexxter paid to Shelly. The fight ended up in a knock-down-drag-out round of sex that blistered our ears.”

  “Do you know why they’re here?” she asked.

  “They’re setting up a gambling operation on the Internet and use a bank in Grand Cayman. Key West is just a short hop from there.”

  “At least he isn’t putting people’s lives at risk this time,” she told the agent.

  His derisive snort shot out of the receiver. “He’s responsible for a federal marshal’s death as well as two men in Singapore. Then there’s the hundred and eighty-five people who died in the airliner crash. I’d say he—” A muffled brushing sound of a hand being clamped over the telephone. Then, “Barry’s picking up something.”

  It sounded as if the Feebies had things under control, but his sixth sense kicked in. Suddenly, he was sweating as if the sun were blistering down on him even though they were under the shady canopy of a gumbo limbo tree.

  “Dexx and Irene are coming into Key West,” the agent told them. “Barry will tail them.”

  “What if they split up?” Matt asked.

  “Barry will stay with Dexxter.”

  Matt didn’t like
it one damn bit. Irene had cunning eyes filled with ruthlessness. Call it reporter’s intuition, but he felt Irene was just as dangerous as the little double X jackass. Maybe more dangerous.

  Dexxter mulled over his new plan as he rode with Irene on the water shuttle from Sunset Key to Key West. The plan had come to him in the middle of the night. He’d awakened, tangled in sheets that reeked of sex and sweat, and found Irene sharing his pillow. He’d almost puked.

  Fucking her brains out was one thing because he could pretend she was another woman. Sleeping in the same bed was revolting. In his mind the stunning blonde that he’d once believed was Amy Conroy had morphed into Rochelle Ralston, the woman he wanted to share his pillow.

  Rochelle. What a classy name.

  Irene Hanson. That name sounded like a blue-haired old lady with dentures.

  Last night he’d decided on her “accident.” What he needed to do now was ditch her for an hour so he could buy what he needed. Trouble was, she stuck to him like a stink on shit.

  “Irene, why don’t you buy a new outfit? I’ll meet you at Karumba! for lunch at one.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I want to surprise you.”

  “I don’t like surprises.”

  “This one, you will.”

  She was suspicious, but ducked into Fast Buck Freddie’s to shop. He rounded the corner and walked several blocks. Bahama Village. It sounded quaint in the guides, but you’d have to be dumber than dirt not to realize this was the wrong side of the tracks. He’d bet anything could be had—for a price—in Bahama Village.

  Houses jammed together. Chickens scratching in the dirt front yards where grass should have been. Cuban grocery stores and African fabric shops. Caribbean voodoo shops. The place was culturally challenged.

  He found the gun shop he was looking for up an alley near the Blue Heaven restaurant. The guidebook had touted the café as “authentic, fabulous.” He wouldn’t eat there on a bet. Friggin’ roosters were running all over the place.

  He bought the Tazer and listened carefully while a three-hundred-pound black man gave him instructions on how to use the stun gun.

  “Doncha know, mon, the power of de Tazer is in its battery. Ya gotta keep her charged.”

  Dexxter could hardly understand the thick Bahamian accent, but he needed to verify the intriguing information he’d picked up on the National Rifle Association Web site.

  “If I use this on full power, it’ll leave a bruise, right?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Dat’s right. Could break de bone.”

  “If I let the battery drain to half power, then there wouldn’t be any bruising. The person is still helpless, unable to move or breathe for about a minute, true?”

  The man rocked back on his heels, hands on the counter, and studied Dexx with eyes that were now just slits in folds of fat. Way to go, meathead. Dexx had aroused the man’s suspicions.

  “I’m just checking. My girlfriend goes in for kinky sex, but I wouldn’t want to hurt her.”

  A blazing flash of big white teeth in a very dark face. The knowing smile told Dexx that he’d erased those suspicions. Was he good, or what?

  “Mon, ya need some poppers. S’true?” He reached under the counter and came up with a handful of capsules.

  Dexxter hadn’t a clue what you did with a popper, but he bought a dozen anyway to show the man Dexxter Foxx was cool. He paid for everything, then found the nearest T-shirt shop. He couldn’t very well carry the small leather pouch under his arm and have Irene ask questions. He quickly bought several things he didn’t need just to get the shopping bag where he could hide the Tazer.

  He was running late, but his next stop was a must. Tourists were six deep at the counter of the Crown Jewels. Shit! He elbowed his way to the front, got the cheapest price, and was out of there in under five minutes.

  Irene was waiting for him at Café Karumba! She looked slightly annoyed. He bit back a smile as he wended his way to the table. Her accident was going to be such fun.

  Then he could turn his attention to Shelly.

  “What took so long?” she asked as he sat down.

  He treated her to one of his sexy smiles, then pulled the small jewelry box out of the shopping bag. “It took me forever to find just the right one.”

  “Oooh,” she crooned as he opened the small box and showed her the diamond engagement ring. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

  Say good-bye to this world.

  “The last house Trevor restored has a gold star plaque, the highest honor the Old Island Restoration Association gives. It means the house has been flawlessly restored. It’s like taking a step back in time to when the house was originally built.”

  She nodded, her mind on Matt’s health, not on the old buildings that he was telling her about. After they’d spoken to the special agent, they’d gone to Mangia Mangia, where they were making fresh pasta in the sidewalk café’s window. They’d both decided on penne with fresh pesto sauce.

  When they finished, she asked Matt to take her to the house Trevor was restoring. By now, Trevor must have contacted Clive and have some news. She tried to be happy and upbeat, knowing the FBI had Dexxter under control, but at the back of her mind worry lurked.

  There had to be some way to help Matt.

  Hammers pounding, saws buzzing inside the house, they climbed the stairs to the front door of the house he was restoring.

  “Trevor,” Matt called.

  “Back here.”

  They found Clive and Trevor in the pantry, examining a door hinge. “What we need to do is count the number of hinges like this,” Trevor was telling Clive. “Then I’ll have them made exactly like the originals.”

  “Hey, Matt, Shelly.”

  Clive’s voice was a shade too bright. She knew he and Trevor must have been discussing Matt’s problem when they had unexpectedly appeared.

  “We came to check the progress,” Matt told them. “Looks like you’ve done a lot since I was last here.”

  “We’re making progress,” Trevor agreed with unmistakable pride.

  “Shelly, instead of coming out to the clinic tomorrow for your checkup, why don’t I examine you now?” Clive asked, then he looked at Matt. “It’ll take only a minute. I need to see her in the light.”

  She didn’t have an appointment. Clive had something to tell her, she thought, following him into the sun room.

  “Trevor told me what’s happening.” His dark brows drew together in a concerned frown. “It’s, it’s … unbelievable. I’ve already talked to Sloan-Kettering. I had to forge Matt’s name on the consent form, but I did it, then faxed it to them. I should have his records this evening.”

  “Do you think there’s any hope?”

  “Even when I look at the records, I won’t know. Reconstructive surgery is my specialty, but”—he held up one finger—“there is something online called MedLink. As soon as I get his file, I’ll put the facts into cyberspace. We might have some information as early as midnight.”

  “That fast?”

  “The information revolution has changed the world even more profoundly than did the Industrial Revolution. If there’s info out there, we’ll get it within minutes. Then I’ll have to filter through it and decide what applies to this case.”

  She expelled a long sigh. “Great. I knew we could—”

  “Look, I’m not going to give you false hope. Matt’s had three opinions, including Sloan-Kettering, one of the leading medical centers. If there’s someone who can help, it’ll be an experimental procedure. Their work is usually on the Web.”

  “Hello there. Anybody home?”

  She peered around the corner to the front door, the man’s voice causing a sour feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  Dexxter and Irene were standing there, holding shopping bags. A diamond sparkled on Irene’s left hand while a smug smile tilted her thin lips upward.

  This was his lucky day, thought Dexxter. He’d hoped to find Shelly at the house Tr
evor had told him all about last night, and here she was. For a moment she didn’t appear to be too thrilled to see him.

  Then she smiled at him.

  Irene was smiling as well, a gloating grin. Amazing what the cheapest ring in the store could do. The stupid bitch actually believed he loved her and wanted to marry her.

  What he really wanted was the knockout blonde standing next to the fag doctor. He jiggled his shopping bag, and the weight of the Tazer reassured him. He was going to get exactly what he wanted.

  He always did, right? Oh, yeah.

  Chapter 29

  “I think that’s Dexxter and Irene,” Trevor said to Matt. “Last night I invited them to see my latest project.”

  Matt’s first instinct was to get Amy—no, Shelly—out of there. He must remember to keep thinking of her as Shelly. Using her real name would only put her in danger.

  No doubt, the FBI agent was tailing Dexxter, but he couldn’t just waltz into the house. He could protect her, Matt decided. He seriously doubted Dexxter would try anything with so many people around. If Dexx was actually planning to try anything at all.

  They walked down the hall into the sun room where Clive and Shelly were talking to Dexxter. Irene had her hand extended, showing off her engagement ring. She was so proud of it that she kept her hand under Shelly’s nose way too long.

  “Congratulations,” Matt said with all the enthusiasm of an undertaker.

  Everyone else chimed in as he moved to Shelly’s side and took her injured hand. Her fingers couldn’t quite grip his yet, but she moved her thumb across his palm.

  “It looks a lot like the Tiffany ring I wanted to give you,” Matt said to Shelly. “Remember?”

  “Yes, of course. It was stunning.”

  She smiled up at him, and he knew she’d gotten the message. He was doing his part to convince Dexxter that they’d had a long term relationship. But comparing this quarter-carat trinket to anything at Tiffany’s was a joke.

  Questions flickered in Trevor’s eyes. No doubt, his friend was wondering why Matt would say this when his relationship with Shelly in New York was light years away from shopping for engagement rings. But he didn’t contradict Matt.