“Those take about nine months last time I checked. You saw me two weeks ago so I think you would have noticed.”
“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t expect you to carry one.” Holt ignored the dig at her sexuality. “Why can’t you procure one like that Thomas Christopher boy?”
“Who?” Holt reached out and steadied Superman, now lolling happily and dizzily in her chair.
“The boy your friend adopted, the one from foster care.” These last words were said in a whisper as if saying them aloud meant you were somehow in support of such a radical idea as child services.
“Superman? It took her almost two years to adopt him. For now, you’re out of luck.”
“Huh, well, at least bring a date this time. I get tired of introducing you as my gay single daughter. It is bad enough you insist on seeing women, even worse that you don’t even bother to bring one as a date. It makes it seem like something is wrong with you. You know how that reflects on your father and me.”
Holt knocked her head back into the wall after she hung up the phone. Talking to her mother was the only time when self-inflicted bodily harm seemed like a reasonable stress relief.
“Uh oh, you’ve been talking to your mother. I know that look.” Jose was appraising her from the doorway. “What did her high holiness have to say for herself this time?”
Jose could be a pain, but Holt didn’t feel like punching the wall anymore. Jose had that effect on her, and he was one of the only people she knew that wasn’t afraid of her mother. He had been there when her true nature had shone through and had made it clear he had no use for her. Holt felt the same way, but was unfortunately bound by blood.
“The charity gala is upon us again. I don’t know why I ever agreed to this. She’s upset I don’t have children yet, and even worse, that I don’t have a date. It makes my parents look bad you know.” Holt knew her voice gave away her hurt and bitterness.
“Sweetheart, having you as a daughter is the only way that old troll will ever look good. Date or no date, she’s lucky you will pose for pictures with her. That said, are you going to take this opportunity to get the new office favorite out on a date? I know your weakness for blondes, and Isabelle is hot enough to make me consider batting for your team.”
Holt rolled her eyes. “You already bat for team gay. If you want to play my particular game, you’re gonna have to cut off your dick.” She laughed when Jose’s hands shifted to his groin protectively.
She would have shot down the suggestion if she hadn’t already decided she was going to do just that. Perhaps if Isabelle could see her in a different light, being a bounty hunter wouldn’t be the only thing that defined her. “I’ll ask Isabelle if you finally put us all out of our misery and ask Moose to go with you.”
Jose turned red and looked horrified. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t stand another year of you moping around because he doesn’t ask you, pouting when he goes with someone else, and then ignoring him for three months after. It confuses the hell out of him you know.”
“Do you need me to watch Superman this afternoon?” Jose quickly changed the subject, still quite red. “And you really should watch your language around him.”
When Holt had to work on her days to babysit, the rest of the crew, and a few guys from Jose’s shop, looked after Superman. Amy never minded when he came home happy and exhausted from a day of twenty babysitters.
“Crap.” Holt jumped to her feet. The bright red note that had come with Isabelle’s flowers was currently under assault from Superman’s green crayon.
She pulled the card from under the crayon and almost dropped it again when she saw what Superman had uncovered. Clearly outlined just below the layer of crayon was the beginning of an address. The indentation of the writing had formed through whatever page the address was written on.
“Keep coloring, buddy,” she said, giving the card back to Superman, who was none too happy to have had his masterpiece snatched away. “Max,” she hollered out the door, wondering as she did, how the office had run without her.
Max materialized quickly. “Yes, boss?”
“Stop with the boss,” Holt said distractedly, still watching Superman’s progress. “Find me everything you can about this address.”
*
As the day dragged on at her first day back at work since the office had been ransacked, Isabelle became more and more overwhelmed with the reality of her life. Despite being confident that kicking Holt out for the evening was the right decision, her choice meant spending the night without her superhero, protector, and rock of sanity. That was something she wasn’t looking forward to. It was much easier to pretend all was fine with the world tucked away safely under Holt’s vigilant guard. It was also far easier to fall asleep dreaming of Holt’s outrageous hotness sitting right down the hall. There was a definite advantage to that line of distraction, even if it meant wild, sweaty dreams that left her tired and frustrated.
Wanting to regain some illusion of control, Isabelle put work aside for the afternoon and began digging through her client list. She had no idea what she was looking for, but somewhere, maybe, there was a clue to the craziness that had overtaken her. Her first perusal was of the goofy file Decker Pence’s secretary had mistakenly sent. Despite his assurances, she couldn’t let that one go.
Three hours later, it was time to head home for the day, and Isabelle still didn’t understand the erroneous file, but after scouring her client profiles, she had a list of five potential threats, as she had begun to think of them. Two had connections to Representative Caldwell. One had a son who had been in and out of rehab, although that was based on rumor alone; one was a pharmacist, and the last one had a job description that just screamed fake. Isabelle had never known what a “product analyst and distributor” was, but now it seemed like just the sort of title that might hint at something shady. She printed the list to give to Holt in case any of the potential threats actually did have merit. She was fully aware as she shut down her computer and followed Lola out the door that paranoia was now once again a part of her daily life. It wasn’t a comfortable thought or feeling, and it was made worse by the wary glances and furtive whisperings of her coworkers as she walked past.
Lola steamrolled out the door and cleared a path of all oncoming pedestrians as they made their way to Holt’s truck. Holt had insisted Lola drive, taking Isabelle to and from work and anywhere else she wanted to go. Isabelle didn’t mind. The truck smelled like Holt, and she found the feel of it reassuring, as if the truck belonging to Holt would keep her safe.
“Where to, ma’am?” Lola hadn’t spoken much more than three sentences all day. But that wasn’t unusual. Lola was always quiet when Isabelle was working, and while it should have been reassuring, there were times when it felt too much like being babysat.
“Lola, you have to stop calling me ma’am. Are all of Holt’s employees this polite?” Isabelle was exhausted after an emotional day.
“I don’t know, ma’am…sorry…Isabelle. I’ll try to remember. Where would you like to go?”
Isabelle sighed. She should go home, unload the dishwasher, do laundry, and finish the two tasks she hadn’t managed to finish during her workday, but she wanted to see Holt. Where she really wanted to go was Holt’s loft, but she asked Lola to drive them to the bounty hunter offices instead. Being scared witless most of the time made it easier to see the sides of Holt that were often masked by the bounty hunter bravado. In the middle of the night, when Isabelle woke up, thinking she heard a noise in the house, Holt was incredibly tender, gentle, and kind. It was getting harder for Isabelle to see the monstrous vigilante she had originally made Holt out to be so she could keep her own heart safe.
Jose’s repair shop was quiet when Lola eased the truck to a stop. Isabelle and Lola walked around back and pushed through the doors to Holt’s hidden kingdom. That too was quiet, but there was an air of tension that was difficult to ignore.
Max sat hunched over a co
mputer screen, intently focused on the monitor, absently clicking the mouse from time to time and glancing nervously at the phone every few minutes. She didn’t seem to notice Isabelle and Lola.
“Max?”
Isabelle wanted to hug her when Max almost jumped out of her chair in surprise. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked like hell. Her hair was tousled from running her fingers through it too many times. She was the picture of exhaustion.
“Max, you were wearing those clothes yesterday,” Lola said, sounding concerned.
“She’s not here right now,” Max said, ignoring Lola. She looked pained as she unfolded herself from her hunched position and stretched.
“Walk with me,” Isabelle said, taking Max’s hand and leading her away from the computer. “Can you tell me where she is?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“She said to tell you she’s working on keeping you safe and for you not to worry.”
“’Cause that’s not a pile of poo big enough to try and block something really scary. Are you going to tell me where she really is?” Isabelle opened doors and poked her head into offices trying to find a good place for Max to lie down and sleep.
“She found an address indented on the back of the note that came with your flowers. She wants more information. She said it wouldn’t take long, and I think she wanted to be back before you got off work.”
Isabelle nodded, having already suspected Holt was out trying to save her world. Her worry for Holt was momentarily blunted by her worry for Max. There was something Max wasn’t telling Holt, but it wasn’t her place to get in the middle. She was shocked when she opened a door—to a broom closet no less—and found a sleeping bag and camping mat crammed in a corner. The look on Max’s face was all the confirmation Isabelle needed that they belonged to Max.
With minimal protest from Max, Isabelle removed the secret sleeping quarters and dragged the sleeping bag, mat, and Max to Holt’s office. She laid them neatly on the floor next to the crib Superman was currently sleeping in and pointed Max into them.
“Sleep for a while,” Isabelle said. “I’ll get you if anything happens,” she added, countering the protest she could see building.
“You aren’t going to tell the boss about this are you?” Max asked, sounding like a small child hoping desperately her secret misdeed wouldn’t make it back to her father. She crawled into the sleeping bag and her eyes were closed before Isabelle turned to leave.
“No, but you have to.” She flipped out the lights and shut the door to Holt’s office.
Isabelle sent Holt a text, sat down with Lola and the one other woman still working, and waited.
*
Holt approached the three-foot high chain link fence. She wasn’t rushing, but she also didn’t want to appear cautious. Pacing was everything when walking up to a house, business, or person without wanting to attract attention. You had to look like you knew what you were doing and belonged. People only noticed others when they were moving too quickly or too slowly, or looked rushed or lost.
She was dressed as she normally was, blue jeans hung low and baggy, this time accompanied by a long sleeve T-shirt. She blended in, and that made life a lot easier when sneaking around other people’s houses.
The house she was targeting was nondescript, a little shabby with a scraggly lawn, surrounded by a low chain link fence and matching gate, but no different than any other on the block. The white paint was peeling in places, but the windows looked new. The blinds were drawn tight. No one had come in or out in the two hours she and Moose had watched.
Although Moose had complained, Holt moved down the street alone. She didn’t have her bat with her, and a woman walking down the street with a baseball bat wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, nor would a woman walking down the street with a brick house of a man at her side. Except on rare occasions, she didn’t believe in carrying a gun, so for this jaunt, she was unarmed. Guns, she found, gave you an overly comfortable view of your safety.
She pushed through the gate and walked confidently to the backyard. She climbed the three cement steps, pulled open the squeaky screen door, and held it ajar with her hip. She made a small show of fumbling with what would look to the casual observer like her keys, and had the door open in less than fifteen seconds. She tucked her lock pick tools back into her pocket and closed and locked the door behind her. She was in.
The back door opened into a small, dirty kitchen with peeling, well-worn linoleum and puke green Formica countertops scarred by burn holes. A small table was shoved into a corner and covered in newspaper. Lined up in neat rows were small empty bottles, only slightly larger than the ones doctors usually drew from when giving shots. The screw tops were laid neatly beside the bottles. She snapped a quick picture with her phone.
Holt moved forward cautiously, not wanting to be surprised. She was relatively sure no one was home, but she also wasn’t in the mood to get stabbed or shot. Beyond the kitchen was a small, untidy living room with the saggiest, dirtiest couch she had ever seen. It was brown and one of the cushions was missing. The coffee table held a piece of thick elastic tubing and a spoon, nothing else.
The rest of the house was down a short hallway off the living room. A quick glance revealed two doors off the hall, one presumably the bathroom, the other a bedroom. Holt moved slowly, listening for sounds of life from either room.
The bathroom was the first door she came too, and luckily, the shower curtain was pushed to one side, showing it to be empty. The bathroom looked like it should be contained in a biohazard tent, and Holt was happy to not have to check behind the curtain for bad guys. A razor sat on the edge of the sink next to a brown toothbrush. A single bar of grime-smeared soap sat in the soap dish in the tub.
When she got to the bedroom, she was saved more unpleasantness, as there was no bed to look under. A full size mattress, sheetless and stained, was tossed in one corner of the room. Cinderblocks spaced about two feet apart held a piece of plywood next to the bed. On the makeshift bedside table was another spoon, four cotton balls, and a small bottle of water, filled halfway. A box full of clothes sat in the opposite corner. At the foot of the bed was a pile of copper bits and pieces, and close to twenty cans of baby formula.
Feeling she had stayed about as long as she dared, and pretty sure she had seen all this dwelling had to offer, Holt made her way carefully back to the kitchen. The sound of a car horn blaring loudly from down the street set her on high alert. The sound of a key in the front door made her glance back into the living room where she noticed a cashbox, the kind that children often carry, that locked in the front and had a slot for change in the top, under the coffee table. Cursing her carelessness at missing it the first time through, she hurried as quietly as possible to the back door, pulled it open, shoved her way through the screen door, and groaned as it squeaked loudly in protest.
She didn’t wait for the shout from the house to get moving. She was off, running through the small yard, hurdling the fence, and tearing off down the block by the time the alarm was raised. She cut through a driveway, ran half a block up a perpendicular street, then cut back and ran back down a street parallel to the one the shabby house was on. She moved quickly and soon turned onto Thayer Street, a popular, well-populated, and bustling main drag a few blocks from the Brown University campus. She slowed to a walk and joined the crowds flitting in and out of the many restaurants and shops. She called Moose and told him to sit tight. He was pissed but did as he was told. She didn’t blame him for being mad. His loyalty had saved her life more than once over the years.
She pushed into a small market, hoping they would already have a few back to school items. She purchased a cheap backpack and a Red Sox baseball hat. Farther down the street, she found a pair of baggy shorts, complete with cargo pockets, and a baggy hooded sweatshirt. Although she could call anyone from her crew and they would come get her, she wanted to have a look at the house and what firestorm, if any, her B & E had set off. The change of clothes was a precaution.
She had no way of knowing if whoever had been opening the door got a look at her, although she doubted it since they didn’t seem to see her until she was almost out of sight.
She changed into the new clothes, shoved her jeans into the backpack and the ball cap on her head. She tucked her hair up as best she could knowing that with the backpack, hat, and baggy sweatshirt, she would look very much like a young boy on his way home from summer school or the library. She had been called “son” enough in her life to know how she was perceived. It was that kind of quick assessment she was counting on. Rhode Islanders kept their heads down and didn’t make eye contact, the perfect situation to advance a cover.
To test her new persona, she purposefully bumped a passerby, mumbled something that sounded like “sorry” and was rewarded with a “s’okay, son, just watch where you’re going.” Most people just didn’t look that carefully.
She walked quickly back toward the house she had fled, her shoulders hunched, her face set in a defiant scowl. Her baggy shorts hung well below her knees, and she walked with a bit of an exaggerated swagger. She looked like half a dozen other teen or preteen boys in the neighborhood. They all worked hard to set themselves apart, but beneath clothing color, skin color, or hairstyle, their actions and mannerisms were the same.
When she turned the corner and approached the house once again, she slowed her pace imperceptibly and fiddled endlessly with her cell phone. Although it appeared as though she wasn’t paying attention to anything but the tech toy in her hand, Holt was hyper aware of her surroundings.
Sequestered behind the chain link fence, hunkered down on the saggy front porch, a young man was talking animatedly into his cell phone. The front door was ajar, and a quick glance didn’t reveal anyone else inside, although she couldn’t see much of the room. A large dog stared at her from the porch next to the man on the phone.
The Chase Page 11
