by EC Sheedy
Phylly’s eyes went soft with tears. “In some ways, baby, I think you saved mine. Back then I was such a screw-up, if I hadn’t had you to look out for—make me act at least a little bit better than I might have without you—I don’t know what I’d have done. What I would have become.” She touched April’s face. “I love you, kiddo, and I swear if I’d have known . . .”
“Will you stop beating yourself up. You didn’t know, and it was a long time ago. Another time. Another place. So let’s not go there.” She rubbed the journal idly, her heart feeling thick and full—and scared. “Victor had someone go back for Gus, did Noah read you that part? But he was gone.” April didn’t know where he had gone, but at least it wasn’t to the hell Victor planned for her. She hoped he’d found a safe place, a good heart—as she had with Phylly. Her heart ached with the desire to see him again, had ever since Seattle. She’d felt so close to him there.
“Good for him.” Phylly dabbed at her eyes. “You always told me your brother was a smart one.”
“He was. Very smart. And handsome—at least to my nine-year-old eyes. He was my best friend.” Only friend. “He gave me a skipping rope . . .” Thinking—and hurting—at the memory of losing Gus those long years ago, she faltered. Everything was confusing and the pain of it heightened, mixed up as it was with new family, yet to be met. But later when everyone was safe . . .
Phylly’s eyes were cast down, as though ashamed. She was twiddling with her tissue.
Resting the journal on her lap, April looked at the only mother she’d ever known. Her crazy, kind, wild, loyal, and loving mother-like-no-other—and her dearest and most cherished friend. “I can’t believe I never caught on to you not being able to read.” She paused. “Rusty knew, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, Rusty knew.” Nodding, she closed her eyes against the grief that came with the name, then coughed as if to shake it off. “Plus we illiterates are pretty damn smart,” she said, shooting her a quick glance. “Not to mention sneaky. I got by with signs, a few simple words that I memorized, stuff like that, and staying close to home and friends helped. You helped, too.” She smiled a bit. “Not that you knew it—you just thought when I asked you to read things to me out loud, it was reading practice.”
“Definitely sneaky.” She smiled in return, remembering how adamant Phylly was about her going to school. Getting her smarts, she’d called it. She had to be near death and running a thermometer-breaking fever before Phylly would let her miss a day. She’d go on and on about her report card, do a dance when she brought home A’s and nag her with ferocity if a grade slipped. “But you cared—you always cared. And you let me know it.”
The smile dropped from Phylly’s face, and she grasped April’s hand, held it tight. “Cared? Yes, but I wasn’t smart. Too busy covering up, playing the dumb blond party girl to go to school, do something about my own ignorance. If I’d done that, I’d have read Victor’s journal, and I’d have told you about Gus . . . called your grandfather. You’d have had a real home instead of living with an airhead showgirl and having to earn your college tuition by doing the bare-assed Vegas thing. I mean that was okay for me—I didn’t mind it. But you . . . I know how hard it was.”
“It paid the bills, Phylly. And I loved that ‘airhead showgirl.’ She taught me”—she smiled a bit—“how to strut my stuff, not to be shy, or afraid.”
“Now that, I’ll take some credit for.”
They smiled at each other and Phylly sniffled.
April tapped the journal. “And now, thanks to your thieving ways, I know I have a grandfather.”
“He’s probably ten feet under by now, April. That journal is over twenty years old.”
She shook her head. “He’s alive. Noah checked. And when this other ugly business is over, I’ll go see him.” She again rested the book on her lap, took a breath. “Funny, I remember my grandmother. She always smelled like flowers, and I remember her hugs and how she’d kiss my hair, but I have no memory of a grandfather.”
“Your mother’s dad, from what Noah read me,” Phylly said, looking brighter now. “I guess the only reason that entry was in the book was because Victor found out he had money. That had him dithering about where he’d make the most profit, carrying out his original shipping plan or going for some kind of reward for getting you back to your grandfather. What’s his name again?”
“Peter Malloy.”
“Right.” Her lips sealed tight. “I guess the Asian deal won out because the customer had already made a down payment on you, and Victor was afraid of getting his skinny throat cut if he didn’t produce you on schedule.” Her expression shifted to triumphant. “He had to give back the money, you know—after I took you. He was so pissed.”
“But if he knew where you were—after taking me—why didn’t he come after us? Try to get me back.”
Lifting a shoulder, she said, “Too late. It was a year before I, uh, talked to him again. And it wasn’t as if I gave him our address, you know. And I went to him to get the money.” She rolled her eyes. “God I must have been crazier than I was broke. Anyway, he did find out where I lived eventually, but me having that journal held him off. Funny, huh? Me not even able to read it.” She shook her head. “Hell, he even asked me to come back to him. The sick bastard. I made a lot of mistakes in my time, but taking up with Victor Allan was the topper.”
“I won’t argue with that.” April hesitated to broach the subject of Joe, but someone had to. “Something else we need to talk about is Joe. Noah asked about him, and I told him everything I knew—which isn’t much, as you know. But it’s you who has to talk to Joe, Phylly. Only you. You owe him and you know it.”
“Oh, shit . . .”
“And when you’re done telling him—I want you to tell me. Everything.” Because I need to understand the man who I’m falling in love with. When that wily, inescapable truth infiltrated her normal good sense, April’s mouth went dry. If there was ever an inconvenient time to get dumb brained over a man, this had to be it. Crazy people after Phyllis—maybe herself, the black-eyed man, a chance to find a grandfather she didn’t know she had, it was too much. I have to be totally insane. I don’t have room for love . . . but damned if love cared about her emotional agenda.
When Phylly started to turn away, April tugged on her shoulder, persisted. “After your face-to-face with him on the deck and that movie-star swoon of yours, Joe took off.
He’s been gone for a couple of hours, but I just heard the dog bark, which means he’s probably back. So get your beautiful self together and go in there.”
“I can’t.”
“You can, and you will.”
“He thinks I’m the bitch from hell, and he’s right. I’m the mother who left him. He hates me, April. I can see it in his eyes.” The tears started again.
“Eyes exactly like yours.” April paused. “He has your eyes because he’s your son. Your blood, Phylly. You owe him an explanation. Either he accepts it or he doesn’t— that’ll be his choice—but it’s past time he got the chance to make it, knowing all the facts.”
“God, I’ve fucked up so many lives, April”—Phylly squeezed her eyelids shut, then opened them, her gaze blank, stark—“and I know I’ve got stuff to face. To own up to. But of all the things I’ve done—or not done—leaving Joey like that . . .” She lowered her head, looked away. “I just don’t know where to start.”
April squeezed her hand. “At the beginning, Phylly. It’s the only place to start.” April rose from the bed and looked down at the distraught woman. “And after you’ve talked to Joe, you have to talk to Noah. He’s a good man—and he deserves to know that he has a fabulous daughter.”
Walking out of the bedroom, she heard Phylly groan.
Noah opened the door for Joe and stepped aside for him to enter. Chance was at his side. The big mutt, obviously well trained, stopped barking immediately on Bristol’s command. Now, his tail was sweeping the air in a friendly greeting. Joe ruffled the dog’s head. “Where’s
April?” he asked.
“With Phylly. Talking.”
“I’ll bet.” Better her than me. He’d spent the last couple of hours pushing Phyllis Worth and that stricken look she’d laid on him as far out of his mind as he could, concentrating his efforts on his job, which meant deciding either to wait here in some kind of last stand—or get the hell out of here. No contest.
“You want a drink?” Noah asked.
“Sure. A beer if you’ve got one.” Joe’s casual tone hid his concern, as he intended it would. The one thing he’d learned in his years of protecting people was that it never paid to panic them. You did that, they stopped listening, started getting stupid—and started getting dead.
Joe followed the older man into the kitchen, his nerves hosting a high-wire act. He didn’t need a beer, he needed to get everyone out of here. Now. Before it got even darker. Joe’s walk had covered the close perimeters of the property. It was too large to get beyond that in the time he had, but he’d seen enough to confirm the location was vulnerable. Their only choice was to get out of Dodge—as quickly as possible. Before that fog growing out there made things even worse.
He considered going in that bedroom and dragging the two women out, but he’d rather face a fuckin’ firing squad. He’d do it when he had to, but not a minute before. And get Bristol on board before he made a move.
Seconds after Noah produced a couple of chilled Coronas, the two men were sitting on a long sofa.
“That must have been tough.” Noah took a swig of beer. “Meeting your mother after all this time.”
“Went pretty much the way I expected it to,” Joe said, seeing no reason not to be upfront about it. Whatever residue of strangeness he’d had upon meeting Phyllis Worth, hours of walking in the woods had erased. Nothing had changed. She was still a stranger to him. There’d been no surprises, no tugs at long-buried heartstrings, no instant mother/son bonding. Nothing. He’d felt nothing. Exactly what he’d felt when he’d finally accepted she’d dumped him for good. They’d met. It was done.
Somewhere along the way, when the time was right, he’d have his say, get a few questions answered, and that would be it. Case closed.
“Do you know why she left you like she did?” Noah said.
Joe swigged his beer. Time for a change of subject. “No, and right now it’s the least of my concerns.” He waved his beer to encompass the airy glass room. “No offense, Bristol, but this is the perfect place to do a little human target practice. It’ll be like shooting fish in an aquarium.” He set his unfinished beer on the table. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d go in there”—he jerked his head toward the bedroom— “and get them out. We should leave before the fog cuts us off.”
Noah looked at him, his expression skeptical, the look of a quiet man leading a quiet life, who can’t grasp an evil that would interfere with it. “You’re sure that’s necessary?”
“I’m sure.”
Noah studied his face a second or two longer, slowly nodded his head. “Then I’d better—” He broke off, glanced at his dog.
Chance, who, when the two men sat down with their beers, had curled up in front of the dark fireplace and settled into a luxurious sleep suddenly got up and padded toward the southern wall, his gait unhurried, but his head high. Alert.
Joe tried to follow the dog’s line of vision to outside the glass, but with the lamp on inside, it was impossible.
Chance growled low in his throat.
“Douse the lamp,” he said to Noah. “And hit the floor.” Joe slid from the couch to the carpet and Noah did the same, snapping the light off as he went down. There was still enough daylight that the room wasn’t totally dark, but grayness had enveloped the house like a shroud, making it impossible to see anything beyond the deck.
Chance, still at the window, went crazy—barking, growling, hurling himself at the glass.
April opened the bedroom door, the light behind her. “What’s happ—”
Joe, staying low, propelled himself across the room and took her to the floor, covering her with his body. He saw his mother through the open doorway, starting to get off the bed. “Get down,” he shouted at her. “And stay down.” She obeyed instantly. Thank God.
Outside, a shot was fired. Chance freaked, running back and forth along the glass, teeth bared, mouth gaping and frothing.
“Chance,” Noah yelled. “No! Come. Chance. Come!”
The dog stopped barking and moved toward Noah, but he whined like a mad thing, and Noah had a bitch of a time settling him down. While calming the dog, Noah pulled himself along the floor to where Phylly lay curled in a ball beside the bed. He turned off the single bedside light, plunging the house into deep shadow.
Beneath Joe, April squirmed and shoved at his chest. He gave her some wiggle room by shifting his weight to her side, then he edged them both toward the base of the sofa. Propped against it, he pulled out his gun and released the safety.
“What’s happening?” April said, her voice raspy as though she were struggling to get her breath. Shit, he’d probably damn near smothered her.
A second shot answered her question. Glass shattered somewhere above them.
Chance, who Joe could see through the bedroom door lying beside Noah and Phyllis, whined and fell quiet, waiting.
April pressed herself to his side, shuddered.
They all waited. Listened.
A long silence grew in the glass house, an eye of utter calm.
“Bristol,” Joe said. “Is there a phone in there?”
“Yes.”
“Get to it. Call nine-one-one. You on that grid this far out?”
“Yes, but it’s quicker to call the locals.”
“Do it.” Joe’s eyes adjusted to the bad light. He watched Bristol pull himself around the bed, saw his hand reach up to the night table, grope for the phone. Tightening his grip on April, he waited.
“The phone’s dead,” Noah called from the bedroom. “No dial tone.”
“Shit.” Joe rifled in his pocket and got his cell. He cursed again.
“What?” April asked, lifting her head, which he immediately pushed down.
“No service. Chances are we’ve been jammed.” Whoever was out there had come prepared.
“Which means?” April whispered from beside him.
We’re fucked. “Which means we get creative.”
Or we die . . .
Chapter 29
Quinlan reentered the living room from his bedroom, just as Mercy’s cell phone rang. He’d heard her come back, but hadn’t stirred himself, having no desire to spend any more time with her than was necessary. He carried his rifle, still in its sleeve.
Mercy listened for a time, then smiled. “Cool. Good job, Char. We’ll see you ASAP.” She clicked off, stuffed the phone in one of the pockets in her hunting vest, one much like his own.
When she looked at Q, the smile left her face. “We’re good to go. They’re all there, and Charity has them pinned down.” She pulled an automatic handgun from inside her jacket, another from the back of her waist. Both were Glocks and both were equipped with silencers. She handed him one. “She says the situation couldn’t be better. We should be in and out in fifteen minutes.”
Q slipped the revolver into an inside pocket. A fine weapon the Glock—especially equipped with a silencer. He said nothing, and he asked no questions, because he had none. He knew exactly how things would play out. “Fine.” Glancing at the rifle in his hand, she gave him an odd, somewhat wary glance, before going to the window. Lifting the blind, she peered outside, where darkness and fog had fallen like a curtain.
A perfect night for murder.
Mercy dropped the blind. “As we expected, there are four people in the house, two women, two men. Charity has cut off the phones and immobilized their cars. She also fired a couple of shots to make sure they stay put. She says they’ve doused the lights and are now sitting there in the dark—probably shitting their pants—all ready for us.” Again her ugly smile,
her eyes bright with anticipated violence. “She’ll keep them there until our arrival. There’s one problem. She waited to call us until she was certain they’d tried their cells and because the jammer’s battery is weak—so if they keep trying their phones, they might get lucky.”
“Then we should go. Now.”
She grabbed the car keys and Q followed her out of the cabin.
Five minutes later they were through what passed for a town, and fifteen minutes after that, they were maybe three-quarters of the way up Bristol’s narrow pockmarked road. When they came to a wider section, Mercy turned the car until it faced the direction they came in on and turned it off. “We’ll walk in from here,” she said. “Charity’s up ahead, on the west side of the road, not far from the house. She says we won’t see her, but she’ll see us. She didn’t want to say more because she didn’t want to risk leaving the jammer off to continue her call.”
They stepped out of the car into the cold moisture-laden air coming off the Pacific. The day’s final weakening light fought the massive shadows of the trees, the clouded sky, and lost. Their world was nothing but shifting shadows. Quinlan had never known such darkness, but he liked it, he decided. Liked the possibilities of it, the sins it would hide.
Mercy pulled her jacket’s hood over her head. “Jesus, doesn’t this stupid place know what the fuck time of year it is?”
Q winced at her foul language. “It’s the northern Pacific—not Malibu. It doesn’t come with summer guarantees. You have flashlights, I presume?” Quinlan asked, slipping his rifle from its case.
She reached back into the front seat of the Explorer. “Here.” She handed him one, kept one for herself.
Q shoved the flashlight in a chest pocket of his vest. He’d use it only if he had to, preferring to let his eyes adjust to the dark. He patted his right pocket, confirmed the hard weight of the Glock resting there.
