by Julie Kenner
Trust.
David knew I hadn’t made a decision about Allie staying with him, and yet he’d deliberately raised the issue in front of her. Yes, I understood he desperately wanted to spend time with his daughter, but he’d blindsided me. And it wasn’t the first time.
Irritated, I crunched up a wad of foil and hurled it across the room, then screamed when I saw it whiz past Stuart’s face.
“Oh my God!” I pressed my hand over my thudding heart. “You scared me to death.” And not just because I’d almost nailed him in the face with a tinfoil projectile. What if he’d been here half an hour earlier? Seen David? Overheard any of our conversations? “What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you still be in the air?”
“Rough day?” he asked, coming closer and sliding his arms around my waist.
“You could say that,” I said, melting against him. “Yeah, I think that rough definitely sums it up.” I tilted my head back and squinted at him. “Seriously, why are you here? Your plane isn’t supposed to have even landed yet.”
“Would you believe me if I said I moved heaven and earth to get to you?”
I cocked my head, looking into his eyes as I considered the question. “Yeah,” I finally said. “I think I would.”
“Then that’s what I did,” he said, kissing the tip of my nose. He pulled back and glanced around the kitchen, still in a state of organized disarray. “So what do you need?”
I considered the question, suddenly feeling more grounded and in control than I had all day. “Not a thing,” I said. “Right now, the only thing I need is you.”
Since Stuart first got the public office itch, I’d gone to innumerable cocktail parties hosted at various homes and other venues around the county. And, yes, I’d hosted a few of my own. My first had been a disaster. In addition to having one too few wineglasses (thanks to a last-minute need to use the stem of one to take out an uninvited demon), I’d made a fool of myself by trying to drench with holy water a judge that Stuart was trying to impress. On top of that, I’d almost forgotten the cocktail napkins and I’d come this close to burning the pasta sauce.
Most important, I’d been an absolute space case in the kitchen.
To say that I’d improved dramatically would be what we in the mommy business like to call a fib, and what we grown-ups call an out-and-out lie. But I had improved a tiny bit, and as I efficiently pulled cocktail napkins and frilly toothpicks from their designated place in the sideboard, I couldn’t help but mentally applaud my social togetherness. I wasn’t Rachael Ray, but at least I was a step up from Lucy Ricardo. For me, that was saying a lot.
After a quick shower, I changed into one of the cocktail dresses that had been filling my closet ever since my husband turned politico. I did what I could with makeup and hair, considering I lacked the cosmetics gene, then hurried back downstairs.
As I ran around fluffing cushions and picking lint off the backs of chairs and trying to look like I’d actually cooked the meal rather than simply unpacked it, Stuart took Timmy upstairs and settled the little dude in for the night. Not that the kid was happy about a six forty-five bedtime, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the good of the family, and I’m sure Stuart was making a point to drive that lesson home to our little man.
I also took advantage of the fact that there was half a house between us to call David. I told myself I was being responsible and maternal rather than paranoid and freaked, but either way, my fingers were dialing. Unfortunately, no one was answering, a little fact that didn’t do my nerves one bit of good.
“Calling Laura for backup?” Stuart said, sneaking back into the kitchen.
“You’re rather light-footed today,” I said, frowning at him. I had enough critters creeping around the house; I didn’t need my husband added to the mix.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. He made a twirling motion with his finger, then eased up beside me and kissed the back of my neck. “Hold up your hair,” he murmured, then slipped a chain around my neck. “I know you wear your crucifix,” he said, “so I got a longer chain on this one. The lady at the store said it’s very fashionable to wear two necklaces at a time.”
“Did she?” I asked, my fingers caressing the two intertwined strips of gold, coming together to form an abstract heart. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s supposed to represent love. Togetherness. Life intertwined and all that mushy stuff.”
I hung my arms over his shoulder and raised my face to his. “I like that mushy stuff,” I said. “And I love you.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, then kissed me, soft and gentle and yet somehow demanding, too. As if the necklace were a commitment, and he’d just sealed a promise with his kiss.
The doorbell rang as we broke from the embrace, and I watched as Stuart’s face shifted from the man I loved to the man of the people. He turned and took my arm, and together we went to the foyer. “You’re going to win, you know,” I said. “How could anyone resist you?”
He turned to me, and I saw a shadow in his eyes. “You may be right,” he said. “At least all our pollsters are saying the same thing.”
A little tingle of alarm sang out, making me uncomfortable for reasons I didn’t understand. “You disagree?”
He lifted a shoulder even as his grin revealed a single dimple. “Let’s just say that I acknowledge the election is mine to lose.”
Now I’m a veritable connoisseur of cryptic comments, and as those things go, that one ranked way up there. But I didn’t have time to inquire because Stuart pulled open the door and I was thrust into über-hostess mode, greeting and serving and making the kind of inane chitchat that I’d actually become somewhat proficient at over the last few months. To be honest, I don’t even mind it that much, which was not a statement I’d ever thought I’d make when Stuart first told me he was running for office.
Then, my instinct had been to hide under the bed until after the election.
Today, though the timing was inconvenient, the party really wasn’t much trouble at all. I circulated, paying special attention to Stuart’s boss and mentor, Clark Curtis. Then I said hello to everyone who actually worked on Stuart’s campaign, then did the schmoozing thing with the newbies—everyone Stuart was trying to win over.
I’ve never taken an exit poll, but as far as I can tell, nobody has met me at one of these parties and then run away screaming, swearing never to vote for Stuart. In the land of politics, my understanding is that makes the party a raging success.
For the first thirty minutes or so, the cocktails flowed freely, the guests mingled, and I checked occasionally on dinner. I’d made the mistake of buying a meal that had to be reheated—a decision that wasn’t a mistake until I hid a zombie in the oven. But I swear I checked the oven completely for stray fingers and toes and found nothing.
Besides, it’s like what I tell Timmy if he finds a gnat in his yogurt. Extra protein.
Not that I was seriously concerned. The body was off with David—wherever he might be—and I needed the oven for party central.
I’d met Martina Brentwood at a party a few weeks earlier, and she popped into the kitchen to give me a hand as I was tossing the salad. Because I was happy for the help, I let her circulate, wrangling everyone to the table with the announcement that the meal was ready.
The first course passed without incident, which is good considering salad really shouldn’t cause all that much trouble.
The main dish, though . . .
I divided the dish onto two platters, and Martina carried one in as I carried the other, assuring Stuart that he should attend to his guests at the table and not worry about the food.
We were in our rarely used dining room, and I squeezed behind five chairs to get to the end of the table nearest the window. I put my platter down in front of Stuart right as Martina set hers down at the opposite end. As she did, she let out a howl that could have shattered glass.
“Oh my Lord,” she cried, even as I grabbe
d for the nearest knife. “What the devil is that?”
I followed her finger, then gasped along with everyone else at the table as a hand scurried across the doorway and into the living area, dragging a wrist and part of an arm behind it. Apparently, I’d missed a part.
Oops.
“Good God,” Stuart said. “What the—”
“Halloween,” I said, hurrying back from the far end of the table.
“In March?” Clark said.
I shot him my best hostess smile. “I, um, have a friend who makes prototype toys. He sent me this for Timmy. To, you know, play with.” I cringed, certain everyone at the table would see through my big fat lie.
“In Italy?” Stuart asked. “Kate lived overseas for years.”
“Right,” I said, because having an Italian toy-making friend seemed much more lie-compatible than a California toy-making friend.
Raymond Jones, a newbie from whom Stuart was gunning for contributions, pushed back from the table. “We always do Halloween up big, and that looks like the perfect thing to have creeping down the hallway toward the trick-or-treaters. Can I take a closer look?”
“Oh,” I said. “Uh.” I looked at Stuart, who looked back, clearly baffled as to why I wouldn’t immediately offer to let our guest examine the disgusting body part. “Yeah,” I said, wondering if this was the night my secret identity ended up being not so secret after all. “Um, sure thing.”
I pushed my chair back about as slowly as humanly possible, then headed into the living room, our guests trailing after me like little goslings.
“There it is,” I said, pointing under the couch. “It, um, has a really good motor.”
Stuart started to bend down to get it, but I beat him to it, certain I was raising a few eyebrows by lying flat on the floor in a dress. What choice did I have, though? If he let those fingers close around his wrist, Stuart would be wearing permanent zombie. At least until I got out the pruning shears again.
I clutched it around the wrist and tugged it out, cringing as the fingernails dug into the finish on our wooden floor. Great.
“So, um, here it is,” I said, holding it out for inspection. “I’d rather you didn’t touch it,” I said. “My friend, uh, he’s paranoid about his patent. And there are some bugs. The fingers,” I said, snatching it away from Martina, who was reaching in that direction. “The, um, spring is too strong. You can get quite a nasty bruise if the hand closes on you.”
They all leaned in, peering close to the Halloween toy.
“It’s so lifelike,” Martina said.
“Amazing detail,” Clark added.
“It really is remarkable,” I agreed, holding the thing far enough away that the wiggling fingers couldn’t grab on to anything. “To be honest,” I said, aiming a bright hostess smile at the crowd, “it’s about as realistic as you can get.”
Despite roaming body parts, the party was a huge success, and the fact that Stuart helped clean up afterward added that extra little bit of sparkle to the evening. That was about all the sparkle I got, though, as my husband was completely exhausted from traveling and playing politico.
So while I swept the kitchen and living room floors, he went upstairs to crash. Not a particularly romantic way to celebrate a successful party, but I confess I didn’t mind. It’s hard to be romantic with one husband when your mind is focused on the other—where he was, why he wasn’t answering his phone, and whether he was watching out for your daughter.
I knew, of course that he was. But the first two questions were driving me nuts. Where were they? And why wasn’t David answering his cell phone? Isn’t that the point of mobile phones? To be, you know, mobile? The only time I ever turned my phone off was when I was patrolling, and—
Oh, shit.
No. I shook my head, holding the Swiffer handle firmly and resisting the urge to flail out with it and break something, just to satisfy that one initial burst of anger.
Instead, I let the handle fall to the ground, clattering against the hardwood floor as I sprinted toward the stairs and Allie’s room, fear growing in the pit of my stomach.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but when I saw the newspaper half-buried under a pile of books on Allie’s bed, my stomach did a little tumble, and I tried to think back to whether I’d read the morning paper.
I hadn’t.
But neither had I seen it sitting on the kitchen table where Stuart usually left it.
I frowned, realizing that Stuart had left that morning before the paper arrived. Allie must have gone outside and gotten it, taking it straight up to her room. But why?
There was only one answer I could think of, and it didn’t involve a social studies project.
I shoved the books off and pulled out the paper, noticing immediately that the local metro section had been opened, read, and hastily shoved back together. I followed suit, my eyes skimming the text until I saw a small article tucked above an ad for a new art gallery—a nasty car wreck on one of the local canyon roads had resulted in two dead. The third passenger in the car—Colby Shelton—walked away with only minor scrapes and bruises.
A lump filled my throat. Surely she and David hadn’t—
But, somehow, I knew that they had.
Damn, damn, damn.
I left a note for Stuart that I was heading for Laura’s to discuss a recent date gone bad, and then I called Laura from my car and left a message telling her not to call my house because I was supposedly at hers. A very high school approach to handling my life, but under the circumstances, melodrama, sneaking around, and covert operations seemed completely apropos.
My main problem, of course, was that I didn’t have a clue where to go. Demons often head back to the place of their making, but in this case, I was dubious. Tyle Canyon Road was a narrow, two-lane stretch with no shoulder and a nonexistent pedestrian population. What would be the point?
More likely, the demon had already been recruited into the Abaddon fold and was off on a mission (in which case I might do well to simply wait at home for him to find me, as I seemed to be at the apex of all recent demonic plans). Either that, or the demon was trying to assimilate himself into his body’s former life. In which case he might merely go home.
I tried David’s first—on the faint hope that I was wrong and the more practical hope that if I was right, David would have done some research on where to find Colby Shelton . . . and would have left his findings lying conveniently on his kitchen table.
Unfortunately, a quick review of David’s apartment suggested he wasn’t as organized as all that. A rather nasty turn of events from my perspective, leaving me with absolutely no idea where to find my daughter—or the husband I intended to kill the moment I laid eyes on him.
I’d pretty much decided that Tyle Canyon Road was my only option after all, weak though it might be, and I was heading back out the door to go there when my cell phone rang.
I snatched it up, sagging with relief when I saw that the call came from Allie.
“Where are you?” I demanded without preamble.
“At the carnival,” she whispered, terror in her voice. “Oh, God, Mom,” she said. “Please, hurry!”
And then my daughter screamed.
Nineteen
David’s apartment was on the beach, and reasonably close to the boardwalk. Even so, I’m pretty sure I broke the sound barrier, arriving there in what had to be record time.
I’ve recently started keeping a hunting vest in the car, supplied with knives, holy water, crucifixes, and other handy demon-hunting tools. I pulled it out from under my seat as I drove, then managed get both arms through the sleeve holes without injuring any pedestrians or property in the process.
I drove the van up on the sidewalk, barreling through the narrow walkways until I slammed on the brakes half a block from the gypsy’s tent. I piled out of the van, then raced toward the tent, hoping to arrive unseen and unheard.
I managed, but I wasn’t sure what good my anonymity would do me. Not
in light of the scenario played out in front of me.
Colby Shelton (at least, I assume it was him) lay dead on the floor alongside the gypsy woman. Dukkar held a gun to David’s head, a rather effective method of keeping him still.
And my precious Allie cowered in a corner, her eyes wide and terrified.
Not the kind of scene I liked walking into, and I couldn’t help but wonder how they’d gotten themselves into that kind of mess in the first place.
Not something I worried about for long, though.
“Vile beast,” Dukkar said, pulling back the hammer.
“No,” Allie shouted, her scream enough to distract and buy me time.
I wasn’t crazy about fighting with a gun in the equation, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. I leaped forward, then managed a spinning crescent kick that caught Dukkar in the jaw.
David—thank God—saw me coming and pulled his body down hard even as Dukkar’s head snapped back.
I kicked again, this time sending the gun clattering across the floor. Allie scrambled forward and grabbed it, holding it tight in two unsteady hands.
“I’ll take that,” I said, reaching for the gun as David twisted Dukkar around, pinning his arms behind his back.
“I should kill you,” David said, his voice low and dangerous. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”
“David,” I said, a warning in my voice
“I am not like you. My heart, it is pure.”
David shoved him away, disgusted by either Dukkar or his words. “What is it?” he shouted. He pointed at the demon carcass. “Didn’t I kill that thing before it could kill you? Didn’t I?”
Dukkar stared into the face of David’s rage, stubbornly silent.
“What the hell is it that you think you know about me?”
But Dukkar wasn’t telling. Instead he looked from me to David and then back to me again. Then he turned on his heel and raced from the tent. David moved to follow, but I grabbed him back.
“No,” I said. “Let him go.” Right then, I truly didn’t trust David not to kill him.
