by Sharon Sala
For a fleeting second everything seemed to move in slow motion. The tattoos that had marked him as her father’s killer seemed to come to life, moving on his skin like geometric snakes. She saw the rage in his eyes, the healing burns on his face and neck and the blood flowing from the wounds on his massive body. His hands were doubled into fists, and one was swinging at her. She knew that if he hit her again, she wouldn’t be getting up.
So she fired.
Tutuola didn’t even flinch as he grabbed her hair with both hands.
Cat shoved the gun against his belly and fired again.
He shuddered. Then his fingers moved from her hair to her throat, cutting off the oxygen to her body and the blood to her brain.
The gun went off again, but Cat didn’t know it. She was on the floor, unconscious. She never saw Tutuola fall. She never saw him reach for his chest, as if trying to stop the blood coming out of the bullet holes.
* * *
Cat thought it was the sound of water gurgling in a slow-moving fountain that brought her back to consciousness, but when she opened her eyes, she realized the gurgle was coming out of Tutuola’s mouth. She rolled over, then propped herself up on one elbow. For a fraction of a second she thought she saw consciousness in Tutuola’s eyes.
“Finally…you die,” she whispered.
He complied.
Cat managed to sit up, but standing seemed impossible. Pain was in every muscle of her body, in every pore of her skin. The room looked like a war zone, and her blood was all over the place, mixed with his. But she wasn’t in the system, so with luck they wouldn’t be able to ID her through her blood. And the gun she’d used, which she managed to stuff back in her holster, wasn’t registered and couldn’t be traced back to her, which meant there was no way forensics could examine the rifling on the shells and connect her to what had gone on. Since she was wearing gloves, there was no chance she would be leaving fingerprints behind, either.
She hadn’t really expected to live through this, once she’d decided to give him fair warning that she was there, but since she had, there was enough of her brain functioning to realize she needed to get up and get out. She had no intention of spending the rest of her life in a Mexican jail over a piece of shit like Solomon Tutuola. She’d made sure that he’d fired first. In fact, he’d fired at her numerous times before she’d fired back, leaving her conscience clear. There was the fact that she’d broken in to his house, but he’d broken into theirs, so she considered them even on that score. She’d given him more warning and leeway than he’d ever given her and her dad.
She made it onto her hands and knees, but when she tried to take a deep breath before rising, she almost passed out again. There was no way to know how many ribs he’d broken. All she could do was pray that none of them had punctured a lung.
Stifling a scream, she crawled across the floor to the sofa, then used it to pull herself up. She moaned, then swiped the blood out of her good eye and looked around.
A pair of large fat candles sat on either end of the mantle over the fireplace. A box of matches was nearby.
Fire. That was what she needed. A fire. Fire burned. Fire destroyed. Fire cleansed.
But it took everything she had to move, and when she did, every step was like a knife in her gut. By the time she reached the fireplace, she was sobbing.
“God, please help me do this now and judge me later,” she mumbled, then spat the blood pooling in her mouth onto the floor as she reached for the candles and matches.
Her hands were trembling so badly she was afraid she would drop the candles and, if they fell, she knew she would never be able to bend over for them and get back up again. So she clutched them to herself as tightly as she could, then made her way back across the room, ignoring the devil she’d dehorned.
There was a wet bar in the corner of the room, and she needed a starter. The alcohol in the whiskey would work just fine. When she felt herself fading, she took a stiff drink from the decanter of bourbon, then poured the rest of it on the sofa, before emptying the other decanters over the rest of the furniture, saving the last for Tutuola himself.
When she stood over his body and poured the last of his own liquor onto him, years of guilt at surviving when her father had not began to lift from her soul.
She took the two candles, lit them, then scooted one beneath a sofa and the other beneath an upholstered chair. The furniture would soon catch fire, and when it did, the liquor would accelerate the fire, but not before she had time to get out.
She paused over Tutuola’s body and struck one last match. The tip flared as it caught. She held it for a moment until she began to feel the heat from the tiny flame, then took a couple of steps backward and tossed the match. It landed on Tutuola’s back. The fire caught and blazed on the whiskey pooled at the back of his waist. She tossed a couple of throw pillows next to him, then watched until they also caught fire.
Only after his body was immersed in flame did Cat turn away. She stumbled and staggered all the way to the door, paused, then turned out the lights.
The room was instantly aglow, both from the fire blazing on Tutuola and the two candles beneath the furniture. Already the fabric was beginning to smoke.
“Straight to hell,” she muttered, then closed the door behind her.
The night air was cold—a slap in the face that she needed. It was a good hundred yards down the hill to her car, and she didn’t have time to waste. There was no way to know how long it would be before someone noticed the blaze, but she was betting her life that it would be long enough to destroy whatever DNA she might have left behind.
She felt in her pocket for her flashlight. It was still there. She turned it on and began stumbling down the hill to her car as the house burst into flames behind her. She never knew when she reached her vehicle or how she found her way back to the hotel. It wasn’t until she had parked in the back lot and headed for the door that she realized where she was.
Moving on nothing but pure grit and nerves, she made it inside without being seen, then into her room. She stared down at the “Do Not Disturb” on the knob inside the room, then shakily hung it on the outside instead.
The words were printed in three languages. That should be enough to guarantee that she would be left alone.
Only after the door was closed and locked behind her did she begin to shake. She was covered in blood and all but blind from the swelling and bruising. She couldn’t breathe without crying, and blood kept filling her mouth.
She was alive, but she didn’t know for how long. Fearing that this might be her last night on earth, there was something she needed to do.
She dragged herself across the room to the sofa and then picked up her cell phone, which she’d left on the table. Twice the room went in and out of focus before she could steady herself enough to see the numbers. There was only one person she needed to call. One person whose voice she needed to hear. One person. Just one.
Please, God, let him be there.
She punched in the numbers with trembling fingers. She wasn’t sure that she’d hit the right combination until she heard a phone begin to ring. At least she’d called someone. All she could do was pray it was the right someone.
* * *
Wilson was sound asleep when the phone began to ring. At first he thought it was the alarm clock, and he reached over in his sleep and slapped at the snooze button. But when the ringing continued, he quickly realized it was the phone. He grabbed it, accidentally knocking an empty glass off the end table as he did. The glass thumped as it hit the carpet but didn’t break. Wilson lifted the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” he mumbled, still half asleep.
It was the silence at the other end of the line that brought him the rest of the way to consciousness. He rolled over onto the side of the bed.
“Who is this? Hello? Hello?”
Someone sobbed. He heard it as clearly as he heard the catch in his own breath.
“Cat? Catherine…is this you?”
“Sorry…so sorry.”
The hair rose on the back of his neck. Something was wrong with her voice. He could barely hear her, let alone understand what she was saying.
“Cat! Is it you?”
He heard a slow intake of breath, followed by a low, agonized moan, then one word.
“Yes.”
His belly rolled. What in God’s name was wrong?
“Catherine, are you—”
“Wilson…”
He stopped. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Chihuahua…Hotel Uno,” she mumbled.
“You’re in Chihuahua, Mexico?”
She exhaled the answer, making it sound more like a hiss than a word.
“Yesss.”
“At a place called the Hotel Uno? Is that where you’re staying? Do you need me? Are you all right? Talk to me, damn it.”
“Your message…”
Wilson heard her cough, heard her labored breathing, and knew she was hurt. He’d never felt so helpless or so scared in his life.
“What about my message, honey? What are you trying to say?”
“…said you wouldn’t know where to find…body. At Hotel Uno.”
“Tutuola?”
“Dead…and so am I.”
The phone went dead in his ear.
“Catherine? Cat?”
She was gone.
Wilson remembered the angry message he’d left on her machine, ranting about being kept in the dark about what she was doing and that he wouldn’t even know where to find her body. So now he did, and it didn’t make him feel a damn bit better.
“Oh hell,” he said, and headed toward his office, turning on lights as he ran.
He grabbed the Rolodex from his desk and began shuffling through the cards, looking for one in particular. The moment he found it, he yanked it out of the file, then reached for the phone.
A few seconds later, the number he’d called began to ring. Only then did he glance at the clock. It was twenty minutes to five in the morning.
He could hear the phone ringing at the other end. It rang and rang until the machine kicked on.
“This is Mike Simms’ residence. Leave a message after the beep.”
“Mike! Mike! It’s me, Wilson McKay! Wake up and answer your goddamned phone.”
He kept yelling, demanding his call be answered, but still nothing. He was just about to hang up when he heard someone pick up the receiver.
Mike Simms was a professional gambler with a penchant for pretty machines, but it was his skill as a chopper pilot that Wilson needed.
“Fuck, Wilson…do you know what time it is?”
“I need your help,” Wilson said.
Two years ago, Wilson had helped bring down the man who’d broken into Mike’s home and stolen some valuable art. They’d become friends during the process and had kept in touch on a haphazard basis. Still, Mike wasn’t the kind of man who forgot the favors he owed.
“What’s up?” Mike asked, and Wilson could practically hear him rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“I need to get to Chihuahua, Mexico, ASAP. I’ve got a friend in trouble.”
“Shit, boy, you don’t ask for much.”
“I’ve never asked you for anything,” Wilson said. “But I’m asking now.”
Mike sighed.
“I keep the chopper out at Martin’s Airfield. Know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Meet you there in an hour.”
“Forty-five minutes,” Wilson said, and hung up.
Wilson was dressed in under five minutes. He stopped at his office on the way to the private airport, left LaQueen a brief message, then took what cash he had on hand from the wall safe.
He was waiting at the airport when Mike drove up. Obviously Mike had been on the phone himself, because his chopper was fueled and ready when he arrived. Within fifteen minutes, they were airborne.
* * *
The fire department was at the estate, but there was no city water service at this location. Once the tanker truck had been emptied, there was no more water left with which to fight. The firemen stood helpless, watching as the burning roof collapsed inward, sending a shower of sparks up into the night sky. It was too bad about the house, but it was, after all, empty. It had been for sale for months, and the Realtor’s sign was still stuck in the yard.
It wasn’t until the Realtor arrived and got out of his car on the run, screaming a name, that they began to realize they had more to worry about than a burning house, but by then, it was far too late.
It was mid-morning the next day before the ruins could be searched. As the Realtor had claimed, they found a badly burned body in what had been the living room, buried beneath charred rafters and rubble. Their initial search located empty liquor bottles scattered all over the floor near the body. The arson investigator was sick with an intestinal flu and had to keep running outside to throw up. He gave the place a quick once-over, saw the bottles and the candle holders lying near what was left of the furniture and deemed it an accident related to drinking. It was a fireman who found an empty gun. A few minutes later, they found a handful of empty shells that had clearly come from two different weapons. At that point, the fire scene became a crime scene.
Meanwhile, the Realtor had furnished a name for the victim.
Solomon Tutuola was still going to spend his retirement in Chihuahua but with a slight change of address and six feet under.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sun came up at their backs, but Wilson was blind to the beauty of the land below them.
Mike had figured out in the first ten minutes that Wilson wasn’t about to talk about anything—not the friend who was supposedly in trouble, or the reason he was going after her instead of calling the authorities in Chihuahua to have them look after her themselves. It seemed obvious that this was one of those times when the less he knew, the better off he would be. He’d filed his flight plan and dealt with refueling stops, pretending not to notice that the closer they got to Chihuahua, the tenser Wilson became. Hour after hour, they flew in a southwesterly direction. When they were less than ten minutes out, Wilson suddenly decided to start talking.
“I don’t have any right to ask this of you, but I’m not asking for myself.”
“Ask away,” Mike said.
Wilson nodded. “Okay then, this is it. When we get to Chihuahua, will you hang around until you hear from me? I don’t know what shape Cat is going to be in, but from the little I know, I don’t think it will be good.”
Mike arched an eyebrow. “Cat?”
“As in Catherine, okay?”
“Just asking,” Mike said.
“Anyway…if you would refuel and file a flight plan…you know…be ready at a moment’s notice…”
Mike frowned. “Absolutely. And if you’re in trouble, I’m—”
“I’m not the one in trouble…yet.”
“Come on, Wilson. I’m not afraid of anything. I keep my mouth shut, and you know it.”
Wilson’s eyes narrowed as he glanced out. He could see the city below them. His gut was in a knot, and his thoughts were racing. Cat was down there—somewhere.
He couldn’t get the sound of her voice out of his head, and he didn’t want to think about what he might find. An involuntary shudder ripped through him as he took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
“Look, Mike…it isn’t about being afraid. It’s about being smart. You just play it by the book, and if anyone asks you what you’re doing here, just tell them you’re waiting for a fare.”
Mike started to argue, then saw the look on Wilson’s face.
“So…you’re just a fare?”
“Right.”
He grinned. “Then if you’re just a fare and I’m just picking you up, you better know I’m expecting a damned big tip for the ride.”
The humor was unexpected. It made Wilson grin; then he gave Mike an easy punch on the arm.
“I owe you a hell of a lot more than a tip fo
r this,” he said.
Mike shrugged it off, then pointed. “There it is.”
Wilson shifted his gaze. “It” was a small landing strip, obviously not international-level accommodations.
“The airport?”
“One and the same,” Mike said, then flipped a switch on his headset to contact the tower for landing instructions.
Within minutes they were down. Mike watched Wilson undo his seat belt, then reach for his jacket.
“You sure you don’t need someone at your back?” Mike asked.
Wilson nodded. “I’m sure. Here…this is for refueling, and get yourself something to eat. I’ll be in touch soon.” He tossed a handful of hundred-dollar bills in Mike’s lap.
Mike shuffled the bills into a neat stack and then stuck them in his pocket.
“I’ll be waiting for your call,” he said, watching as Wilson crossed the tarmac and disappeared into the airport.
In a cab on his way to the Hotel Uno, Wilson didn’t want to think about how many hours had passed since Cat had called him, or what she’d gone through to be able to tell him that Tutuola was dead.
Along with the ride, the taxi driver seemed bent on giving him a tourist-guide spiel that was nothing short of comic. Still, Wilson couldn’t fault him, because the man spoke better English than he did Spanish.
At any other time he would have enjoyed the ride and the scenery—even the oddball driver. The day had turned out to be clear and sunny, although the air was cool, but joy was not on his mind. He was scared—damned scared.
He couldn’t help but think about how cold it had been back in Dallas when he left, and how far away from home they were. Even after he found Cat—and if she was still alive—it wasn’t as if he could take her directly to a hospital and get treatment for her. He knew from the way she’d sounded over the phone that she was in bad shape, which meant wherever he took her, questions would be asked. He needed to get her as far away from here as he could before Tutuola’s body was found. Even now, it might be too late—for everything.
The thought hurt his heart in a way he would never have believed possible. Just knowing that Catherine Dupree might have gone off and left him behind in this world made him physically sick. For the first time since he’d known her, he was beginning to understand what had driven her to waste so many years of her life seeking revenge. If he walked into her room at the Hotel Uno and found her dead, he would be deeply inclined to send the person responsible straight to hell—in pieces. However, in this instance, she had already beaten him to it.
