by Sharon Sala
“There he is…inside that café. See? Ain’t that him there, with his back to the window?”
“Oh. Yeah. I see him. Damn shame I don’t have a piece with me. I’d pop a cap in his back, then we’d see who was in charge. Big son of a bitch…had you arrested and left me to rot in jail. And after I wasted my phone call on him an’ all.”
“Yeah. And that big bitch he’s got for a secretary. She’s got hers comin’, too.”
“Yeah,” Houston muttered.
Jimmy was fidgeting. He needed a drink, and he needed a fix. Spending all that time in jail had set him on a path to withdrawal that he didn’t intend to follow.
“Come on, Houston, let’s go. I need to score me some meth.”
Houston Franks hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, all right. We know we can find him anytime we want. I’m thinkin’ I could do with a beer or two myself.”
Houston started the car, and with one last look at the table where Wilson was sitting, they pulled out into traffic and drove away.
* * *
Wilson sat impatiently in the café, waiting for a man named John Tiger. They were meeting for lunch to discuss the possibility of John going to work for Wilson. After what had happened to LaQueen, Wilson was anxious to put safeguards into place so it wouldn’t happen again.
It was odd how he’d come to consider John Tiger as a possible employee. If he hadn’t been talking to his brother Charlie on the phone last night, he wouldn’t have known that John, a longtime friend of Charlie’s, now lived in Dallas. Wilson knew John slightly from back home, where Charlie said the man had worked as a deputy sheriff. Now he was a bouncer at a local nightclub. John would be perfect for the job, if he were interested. He had law-enforcement training, and he was big and strong, thus the job as a bouncer. Charlie had attested to his single-minded intent and honesty. If John and Wilson hit it off, Wilson was seriously considering offering him the position.
As Wilson sat there, he got his cell phone out and started checking his voice mail. When he saw there was a message from Art Ball, his eyes narrowed sharply. There was only one reason for Art to be calling him. He’d heard from Cat.
He punched the button to return the call without giving himself time to change his mind. He needed to know she was all right, then he could go about the business of hating her again. Right now, though, he was too damned worried for anger.
“Art’s Bail Bonds.”
“Art, it’s me, Wilson. Have you heard from Cat?”
“Yeah, and damn it, I wasn’t here. At least she left a message. Said she’d been delayed a bit, but here’s the kicker. That man she went looking for—you know, the one you all thought burned up? Well, according to Cat, he isn’t dead.”
Wilson’s stomach lurched.
“Jesus,” he muttered, and dropped his head, then closed his eyes. “She’s trailing him, I suppose?”
“Best I could tell. Like I said, it was just a message. I tried to call her back, but I think she’s too far away or she turned her phone off or something.”
“Perfect,” Wilson muttered.
“Well…look at it this way, Wilson. She’s still alive. It’s more than we knew yesterday, right?”
“I guess,” Wilson said, then added, “thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem,” Art said. “Someone’s gotta look after her, ’cause she damn well don’t look after herself. It might as well be us.”
“Yeah,” Wilson muttered.
They disconnected just as his waitress arrived with the coffee he’d ordered while waiting for John to arrive.
“Here you go, honey,” she said, and slid the cup in front of him. “Cream or sugar?”
“No, thanks,” Wilson said, then leaned back in his chair as he watched her walk away.
The aroma of fried meat and deep-fried potatoes from a nearby table filled his senses and promptly turned his stomach. He’d been hungry when he sat down. Now he just felt sick.
Solomon Tutuola was alive. This was a fucking nightmare. He’d spent just enough time trading gunshots with the man when they’d gone after Mark Presley to know he wouldn’t willingly want to face him alone and unarmed. The man was a monolith—a tattooed devil of a monolith.
He leaned forward, put his elbows on either side of his coffee cup, and then covered his face with his hands.
God help Catherine—because he couldn’t.
Suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. He stiffened, then looked up.
“Wilson…long time, no see.”
Wilson shifted focus quickly. He stood abruptly and found himself eye-to-eye with the dark-haired, brown-eyed man. The last time Wilson had seen John Tiger, he’d been playing tight end for the local high-school football team back home.
John Tiger had definitely grown up.
“John, thanks for coming,” Wilson said, and waved toward the other side of the table. “Have a seat and take a quick look at the menu. We’ll talk after you order.”
John took off his brown leather bomber jacket and tossed it on an extra chair, then sat. In keeping with his Comanche heritage, he wore his hair long and straight, tied at the back of his neck with a thin strip of leather. His shoulders were wide, his legs long and muscular. When he smiled, his almond-shaped eyes almost disappeared.
“What’s good here?” John asked.
“Anything fried,” Wilson countered.
John chuckled, and when the waitress arrived, they ordered. Once she was gone, Wilson leaned forward. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you,” he said.
“You’re going to offer me a job,” John said.
Wilson blinked. “What? Are you psychic?”
John grinned. “Naw…Charlie called.”
Wilson stifled a sigh. Leave it to his family to mind his own business for him. He smiled back. “So…let’s talk,” he said.
“I’m listening,” John said.
* * *
Cat was less than an hour from Chihuahua. She’d stared at the stationary blip on her computer screen off and on for so long that she had the location memorized.
As she drove, she’d run through scenario after scenario as to how their meeting would go down. Unfortunately, no matter how many times and how many ways she played it, the outcome remained the same. If she didn’t go in with guns blazing, the one most likely to die would be her.
She knew he was big. She knew he was deadly. He should have died in the fire, but he had not. If she was ever going to have peace in her life, she had to bring him down. She didn’t want to die. But God help her, her daddy hadn’t wanted to die, either, and Tutuola had killed him and walked out without a backward glance. The way she looked at it, God had let her live for the sole reason of bringing Tutuola to justice. Trouble was, she’d spent her entire adult life looking for this man without putting enough thought into what would happen after she found him. That was her bad.
A semi-trailer topped a small rise in front of Cat and came barreling toward her, taking its half of the road out of the middle of the blacktop.
She swerved over to the shoulder as the truck sped past, and even though her SUV was heavy, the draft from the truck’s passing shook her car.
“Where’s a good highway patrolman when you need one?” she muttered, then reminded herself that she was in Mexico. Everything worked differently down here.
She tapped her brakes, then pulled back onto the highway. Road-weary and ready for a good night’s sleep, she was thankful she didn’t have far to go. Tomorrow would be time enough to face the devil. After that, whatever would be, would be.
During the past few hours, she’d come to an understanding with herself, a sort of fatalistic attitude and, one way or another, she was ready for it all to be over with.
After a while she realized the traffic had picked up quite a bit. At that point a spurt of anxiety kicked in, reminding her how close she was getting to Tutuola. But she set her jaw and kept on going. Coward wasn’t a name she wore.
By the time she fina
lly reached Chihuahua, she was close to tears, which confounded her. She’d spent most of her life waiting for this day, and now she decided to come unglued? What the hell was that all about? She didn’t think about how long it had been since she’d had a really good night’s sleep, or eaten a decent meal or had a hot, relaxing shower.
Disgusted with herself, she swiped the tears away and set her jaw. To hell with it all. She had tonight before she faced her nemesis. She would get a room in a good hotel, treat herself to a real meal, soak in a tub until she was a mass of wrinkles and check what was on TV and hope she could find something dubbed in English. She didn’t want to think of tonight as a condemned prisoner’s last meal, but she wasn’t going to leave anything to chance. It would piss her off to have Tutuola kill her tomorrow when she’d opted out of having cheesecake tonight.
Within the hour, she had reached the city. She stopped at a gas station, got directions to some area hotels and then drove away.
It was the off-season for tourists, which meant the price was right for a suite, rather than a single room, at the Hotel Uno. It was clean but inconspicuous, which was what she wanted.
She registered under a fake name, paid in cash and, once inside, dropped her bag on the bed. She sat down long enough to test the mattress for comfort, then visited the mini-bar and mixed a Coke and whiskey—light on the Coke, heavy on the whiskey. After a couple of sips, she began stripping, carrying her drink to the bathroom as she went.
Steam soon coated the mirrors, signaling the desired water temperature. Cat downed the last of her drink, then stepped into the shower. When she turned to pull the shower door shut, her head reeled. She staggered briefly, well aware that she shouldn’t have had the drink on an empty stomach, and then reached for the soap and stepped beneath the spray.
Fifteen minutes later she was out, wearing nothing but a heavy bathrobe she’d found hanging on a hook in the bathroom. She thought about fixing another drink, then picked up the menu and scanned the offers. She was too much of a Texan to consider having anything but beef for what might be her last meal, so when she picked up the phone, she ordered a steak, French fries and a piece of cheesecake. If by some miracle she survived tomorrow, she would make a point of choosing something exotic the next time around.
Once she’d ordered her food, she lay down on the bed, turned on the television and then hit Mute. There were times in her life when she knew that, if given a second chance, she would do certain things a different way. This was one of those times. It hurt her heart to think she might never hear Wilson’s voice again, let alone accept that he was so mad at her. She thought she’d read somewhere that it wasn’t a good thing to die with regrets, although she didn’t know as how that mattered when, so often, death was sudden and unexpected. She wondered how many people died with unresolved anger in their lives.
She glanced at the phone, considering the wisdom of calling Wilson. A part of her wanted to hear his voice so badly that she ached. That in itself was a new experience for her—needing to connect with a man for personal happiness. Twice she reached for the phone, only to stop before she touched it. Just as she’d convinced herself there was no shame in simply saying hello, there was a knock on her door.
Her food had arrived.
Momentarily saved from having to grovel, she tipped the waiter generously and dug into her food without a whisper of guilty conscience. When she had finished, she pushed the room service cart back into the hall and locked herself in.
Now what?
She glanced at her laptop, and out of habit, plugged it in and brought up the tracking program. The blip was still motionless. The tiny blinking light on the screen was a deceptively mild indication of the danger she was putting herself in.
Aware that she was psyching herself out by dwelling on what lay ahead, she turned to the sliding glass door that led to her balcony and walked outside. Mexico was warmer than Dallas, but it was still winter and the night air was chilly. Down below, residents of the city moved about, ignorant of the danger her presence represented.
She stared out beyond the rooftops to a main road a couple of blocks away. There couldn’t be any harm in taking a walk down to the bar she saw on the corner. She needed to walk off all the food she’d eaten or she would never get a wink of sleep.
With a quick glance toward the sun sinking in the west, she reached for her bag and pulled out a clean change of clothes. She dressed without care for fashion, leaving her still-damp hair loose, and reached for her room key and wallet.
She thought about taking her handgun, then changed her mind. She was only going to a bar. Surely she could get there and back without any trouble.
She left her room and headed for the elevator, already looking forward to the freedom of a simple walk, and wouldn’t let herself consider how much better the walk would have been had she not been taking it alone.
Once outside, her stride was long as she aimed for the lights of the bar. A couple of street vendors tried to catch her eye, one selling serapes, another with a booth of handmade jewelry, most of which was fashioned from Mexican silver and fire opals. She started to walk past when a display of earrings caught her eye. She stopped, backtracked, then began examining the merchandise.
The vendor eyed her clothes, her unusual height and the hard set of her jaw, marking her as an American, before speaking.
“You buy?” he asked.
She shrugged without answering, then spotted a display of smaller earrings and turned her attention toward them. She kept thinking of that single gold loop in Wilson McKay’s ear and picturing one of these silver ones instead.
Then she remembered the message he’d left on her machine. He didn’t want anything more from her, as he’d made painfully clear. She fingered the earrings one last time, giving them a slight push that sent them swinging, then stuffed her hands in her pockets and kept on walking.
Once she got to the bar, the tension she’d been feeling began to dissipate. There was a stiff breeze, which had finished drying her hair as she walked. As she stood facing the wind, it lifted her hair from the back of her neck, tugging it until it was in tangles, but she didn’t care. The feeling of being unburdened was too precious for her to care about how she looked.
She turned and strode into the bar with her chin up and her shoulders back. She ordered a tequila, neat, and downed it in one smooth gulp, drawing an approving look from the bartender who’d served her.
“Another, señorita?”
She shook her head, then turned around to watch the people on the crowded dance floor. A man approached her, offering to buy her a drink. She shook her head without even meeting his gaze. Another came up, slipped a hand around her waist, and moments later found himself on his knees with his fingers bent back to his wrist and a pain running up to his armpit that he wouldn’t soon forget.
He was begging her pardon as she turned him loose and walked out. She wasn’t in the mood to mess with this. It had been a mistake to come here.
She started back toward her hotel, noticing the rusty red color of the Spanish tiles on the rooftops, as well as the scents and sounds coming at her from all directions.
Somewhere behind the walls of one of the buildings she was passing, a small child cried, and she thought of baby Maria Elena. At least she was back where she belonged.
She thought of Marsha and her baby, dutifully resting in the finest mahogany casket that money could buy and buried beneath six feet of Texas dirt.
She thought of Mark Presley, wishing every day was pure torture for him during his time in prison before the state of Texas, with its penchant for capital punishment, did what it had promised to do and sent his sorry soul to hell.
Then, as if she hadn’t punished herself enough, her thoughts swung back to Wilson. Maybe if they’d met earlier, when their entire relationship hadn’t been mixed up in her need for revenge…Then she sighed. It was too late for what-ifs.
She stood on a street corner until the sun had set before heading back to
the hotel. The cantinas she passed were in full swing, with music and singing. As she passed by an open doorway, she saw more couples dancing. The intimacy of their embraces in the shadowy room made her look quickly away, as if she’d inadvertently intruded in a place where she didn’t belong.
By the time she got back to her room, she was both mentally and physically exhausted. She shed her clothes and crawled into bed without another thought of calling anyone.
Oddly enough, she slept the night through in blissful peace.
* * *
Solomon Tutuola was in the most peaceful place he’d ever been in his life. He’d found a doctor who’d given him an ointment to keep the new skin supple on the places where he’d been burned and a two-month supply of pain pills to keep him going. He’d hired a local couple as cook/housekeeper and gardener/chauffeur. Most of the landscaping at this place consisted of artfully placed white crushed rock and cactus gardens, although the back patio was completely shaded by multi-colored bougainvillea vines. There was a twelve-foot-high rock wall around the back of the property, and he was thinking of adding the same to the front, so that he would be completely enclosed. He wanted only one way in and out, and he would make sure it was accessible only via a pair of iron gates controlled by remote.
The pool in the back of the house had been in disuse long enough that the water had turned green. He intended to have it drained and checked for leaks.
He’d spent two whole days now as a homeowner and, as soon as he’d healed a bit more, he was thinking of finding himself a woman. He didn’t want to marry, but it would be handy to have a woman to bed whenever he wanted, without having to deal with chasing down a piece of tail. His looks had always been an issue with women, but wave enough money in their faces and they willingly went blind and gave him what he wanted. The burn scars had turned the Maori tattoos on one side of his face into what looked like a melted maze. When he grinned, the same corner of his face tilted downward instead of up, revealing only half a smile of those hand-filed lion-sharp teeth.
