Secrets & Lies

by Lauren Landish

Katrina leaves, and I finish wrapping up Maverick, making sure he's covered from head to toe before using the rope from the barn to bind the whole bundle together. Dammit, he deserved better than this. I only got to know him a few weeks, and I know this dog deserves better than this.

  “I promise you boy, you'll be remembered,” I tell the lump in the shadowed grave, then let my tears flow for a little while longer. There's just been too much horror, too much blood, too much danger for the day, and I'm not ashamed to cry over it. When I can gather myself, I stand up, dusting off my hands, and go over to my shovel. There's still work to be done, and I get the first scoop of dirt up, covering Maverick's body. I go carefully at first, sprinkling the body, but once the canvas isn't visible anymore I work faster, more efficiently. The night is still young, and I still have work to do.

  “So you're Carson,” the smooth-skinned pretty woman in front of me says. She's got a spray of white paint on her cheek that looks like reverse freckles from the work she's been doing. “Darcy. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you,” I say, not offering my hand. “Apologies, but my hands are... not suitable for shaking right now.”

  We're in the kitchen, which looks like a team of mad Munchkins have been hard at work already. The smoke grenade is gone, the glass swept up, the kitchen and dining room areas cleared of everything with the table and chairs outside, wet and drying in the cool early autumn night air.

  “Well, if you want, you could run upstairs and take a shower,” Andrea says, trying to keep up the facade of just friendship that we know is fast crumbling. Katrina's already giving us knowing looks. She knows it's more than just a one-night stand between us. And after spending time burying Maverick, the idea of holding Andrea and drawing strength from her is intoxicating.

  Instead, I shake my head, looking down at my mud-stained, filthy clothes. “No... but maybe you can do me a favor?”

  “Whatcha need?” Andrea asks, and I smile at the forced casualness.

  “Can you run up to my room, grab me a towel, a pair of jeans, some clean undies and stuff, and a t-shirt? I don't care what, and I'll paint in my bare feet.”

  Katrina, who's currently refilling the power sprayer, shakes her head. “No go, Carson. Andi, make sure you grab tough guy here some shoes. I don't want to pull a sliver of glass out of his big toe because he wants to save his Reeboks for another day.”

  Andrea nods and disappears, her feet pounding on the stairs. “Thanks, I forgot about that,” I acknowledge to Katrina, who nods and goes back to work. I look at Darcy, who is giving me another knowing look. “I need to thank you for having your husband watch 'Lissa and Nathan.”

  “Don't sweat it. I'm thankful to Jackson for taking Henry for the evening.”

  “Who's Henry?”

  “My son, he's a handful,” Darcy says with a chuckle. “He's always hell to put to bed, but Jackson just herded them into the living room, telling him that they're going to camp out, and bam! All three of them are knocked out in ten minutes.”

  I go over to the edge of the living room and see Jackson sleeping peacefully on the carpet, BA nestled against his good side while a young boy is laid out on the couch, snoring softly. It looks good, and I wish I could join them. “The painter's not too much noise?”

  “Not for that group apparently, although you should leave the door closed,” Katrina says. I nod and close the swinging door, which we normally leave open. I head back out to the porch, and start stripping off my clothes, pulling off my filthy t-shirt first before pushing down my mud-caked pants.

  “Oooh, Kat, you didn't tell me I was getting a stripper as a thank you for doing this!” Darcy jokes from inside, causing me to blush. “Shake what your Momma gave ya!”

  Katrina laughing softly when I jump off the porch and run over to the garden hose, kicking off my boots and turning on the faucet. The spray handle works just fine, and while the water's cold, it helps, and I spend the next few minutes giving myself a thorough shower, until my fingernails are white half moons in the dim light that filters from inside.

  “Mind leaving me a bit of my dignity and turning around?” I call when I approach the porch again, staying in the shadows. “I left my undies on at least.”

  “Damn, I wanted to see what he looks like with no drawers on,” Darcy half-jokes, and I hear that Andrea's rejoined them as she half-growls. “Okay, okay. I'm turned around.”

  Andrea comes to the broken window holding a towel out for me, and I take it from her gratefully. I see that Katrina and Darcy are both turned around, and I lean in, smiling, to whisper in Andrea's ear. “Thank you, my dove.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers back, looking me over. Despite the horror of the day her look sends warm tingles down my body, and I push my wet underwear off, giving her a little tease that causes her breath to catch. “Thank you very much.”

  “When we've recovered,” I promise, wrapping the towel around my waist. Darcy takes my other clothes and sets them on the windowsill, my shoes last. “I promise.”

  Andrea nods and goes over to Katrina and Darcy, picking up a brush to get some edges on the cabinets while I quickly dry and get changed, going inside to find that during my shower, someone's put on a pot of coffee as well. The smell is heavenly, and I know I'm going to need a cup before all is said and done. “Okay, where can I help out?”

  “Well, first you can take five minutes and rest,” Darcy says, not taking her eyes off her work. “Have some coffee, it's French Roast from Cafe Du Monde.”

  “We're getting the good stuff,” I chuckle, pouring a cup. It's surreal, the seeming normalcy of painting a room at nearly eleven at night to cover up the effects of an armed assault just that morning. Maybe this is how soldiers in war are able to deal with it, just by flowing with the surrealness. “So Katrina said you might have good news?”

  “Uh-huh. I assume that little bang-bang at the RV was your doing?”

  “Watched too many reruns of MacGyver as a kid, along with the Bourne movies,” I acknowledge, taking a sip of the coffee. It's good, strong and dark, but not too rich. “Why?”

  “You gave Peter DeLaCoeur one hell of a spanking with it,” Darcy says, chuckling. “He survived, but he's going to need skin grafts and a few other surgeries. More importantly though were the after-effects.”

  “Which are?”

  Darcy points to Katrina, who shuts off the power sprayer to turn before she speaks. “My parents, or at least my father, has reached out to the federal prosecutors to turn state's evidence against Peter. I don't know how that'll affect them, but it's causing headaches for Peter DeLaCoeur.”

  “Also,” Darcy says, “Jeff's buddies in the detective unit are quite interested in how a known Russian hitman, who is on the terrorist watchlist by the way, was able to fly into the country and end up in the exact same spot as the Don of the Delta when an RV, sold in said hitman's name, blows the hell up with the hitman inside.”

  “Damn shame the fire destroyed all the fingerprints and evidence of who rigged the RV,” Katrina says, giving me a reassuring smile. “What do you think, Andrea?”

  “Damn shame,” she says, giving me a look. “Tell you what though, since Peter's in the hospital, I was thinking. Maybe in a day or two after we finish this work and get some rest... how about I go pay him a visit. Carson, would you like to be my escort to the hospital?”

  I finish my coffee and set the cup in the sink, nodding. “Nothing would be better.”

  Chapter 23

  Andrea

  All my tough talk from two days ago doesn't really help much as I stand outside the hospital now, looking up at the five-story glass and steel building. Actually, I'm frightened out of my mind, and I want to take a step back before running away. Instead, Carson takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  “You can do this, Andrea,” he says, looking into my eyes. He's dressed up today, with tweed trousers, a gray turtleneck, and a houndstooth check sport coat with, of all things, corduroy patches on the elbows. Meanwh
ile I'm dressed in my typical power suit, bought just yesterday off the rack after sleeping from sunrise to noon, and after visiting Melissa and Nathan in the clinic. It's not a great suit, but it works, and I feel at least slightly more comfortable in it than I would in jeans and a t-shirt.

  “I don't know, Carson,” I mumble, trying to look away. Carson doesn't let me though, his eyes powerful and unflinching. I take a deep breath, and nod. “I'll try.”

  “I know you will,” he says. “I'll be right next to you the whole time.”

  “Wish you could be carrying your pistol,” I grumble, steeling my nerves. “That'd help too.”

  “Gun-free zone, and he's under arrest. Next time, my dove,” Carson says softly, a thrill rolling through my body. I'd been able to wash my face gently this morning, so I know I'm healing, and the idea of being able to be together with Carson again leaves me weak in the knees.

  “Yes sir,” I whisper playfully, and take his hand. We go into the hospital, where the nurse at the front desk checks our IDs before we head up. I was surprised I still had it actually, but my driver's license was tucked inside my wallet behind my student ID for school, so up I go.

  The cops check our IDs again when we get to Peter's room, and give us a metal detector sweep, the only beep coming from Carson's belt buckle. The cop nods, and gives us the rules. “He's in custody, so no passing him anything,” the cop says, “but his lawyers have already been in here, so there's no recording in there either. At least from us.”

  “Thanks. And if we need help?”

  The cop gives me an incredulous look, then shrugs. “Just holler. He ain't getting out of bed anyway. Not with his injuries.”

  I nod and the cop opens the door. I'm surprised when I see that Margaret DeLaCoeur is in the room, too. She looks up, her face twisting into a mask of hate, or at least the closest thing her overly worked on face can produce. Nearly a year in prison hasn't been kind to her, her age fighting with her plastic surgery and the lack of upkeep that prison does to the body, leaving her looking both ancient and eternally plasticky youthful at the same time. “What are you doing here, you bitch?”

  “Nice to see you too, Margaret,” I reply, not letting her rattle me. The cop closes the door behind us, but it's unlocked. “I see you're wearing your contacts again.”

  Margaret, whose eyes are normally a muddy hazel-brown, blinks, pissed. For years she's worn vanity contacts to try and copy the unique natural blue of the DeLaCoeurs, eyes that I'm proud to have simply because of the way Carson looks at them. I'm proud to share them with Jackson and now with my namesake niece, even though the man lying in the hospital bed in front of me is the source. “No thanks to you.”

  “We're not here to have a fight with you, Mrs. DeLaCoeur,” Carson says, folding his hands together in front of him. “We came to speak to your husband.”

  “And who the fuck are you?” Peter rasps from his bed, turning his gauze-covered face toward us. His voice is partially slurred, I'm sure he's on enough pain drugs to leave him somewhat in la-la land, but he's still mostly here. With that much pain, you'd probably have to be mainlining heroin to be able to dull the pain fully.

  “Carson Sands, Mr. DeLaCoeur. You might know my sister, Melissa?”

  Margaret winces, then chuckles. “That's a name I haven't heard in a while. Sands. So I guess you want to get your pound of flesh, too?”

  Carson shakes his head, dismissing it. “Not at all. I think I got mine the other day, although I'm not sure if the weight's exactly correct. How much skin did you get burned off the other day anyway?”

  He tries to sit up, pissed off, but he's handcuffed to the bed, and can't do much even if the drugs weren't coursing through his system. “You...”

  “Don't quote me boy, cuz I ain't said shit,” Carson replies, chuckling. “But I'm just here to make sure Andrea stays safe. It's... it's what I do.”

  “So what the hell do you want?” Margaret hisses, trying not to jump out of her chair. I'm pretty sure that if she didn't think she'd be arrested, she'd be trying to claw my eyes out right now. “To gloat?”

  I shake my head, and approach the end of the bed, looking Peter in the eye. “You were a stupid man the other day, Peter. Not that I expect any different from you, you've been stupid ever since you did what you did to my mother. But then to hire a man like Vadim Orloff... sloppy, very sloppy.”

  “You were lucky,” Peter rasps, and I wonder if his voice sounds like this because of the explosion. “Damn lucky.”

  “Or it's just karma coming back around,” I reply, shrugging. “I don't really know. I just wanted you to know, we're not going to be so complacent next time.”

  “We?”

  “Jackson, Katrina and Baby Andrea send their greetings,” I ad-lib. “They're very much enjoying married life, by the way.”

  “Bitch... this isn't over,” Peter rasps, his voice quaking with rage. “I swear to you, this isn't over.”

  “When are you going to just let it go?” I ask, curious. “You try to go after Katrina, you lose your home, your son and daughter, a lot of your fortune, and spend a year in jail. By the way, I did enjoy those jewels while I had them. You try again, and look at you now. What do you think it going to happen if you try a third time?”

  Peter's hands tremble in anger, and Margaret looks like her head's about to explode she's so angry, but I continue. “Let it go, Peter. Take whatever deal the feds offer you, and let it go. You'll probably die in prison, but at least you leave something behind. Hell, they might even let Margaret go with just time served if you do. You stayed with her for nearly thirty years, there had to have been a reason for that. You keep this up, though... you're just going to destroy whatever is left of your life, and you will fail. I guarantee you that.”

  “How? I already know Nathan's dead, and the Grammercy bitch isn't that good. Next time, I won't send one, I'll send a whole Colombian death-squad,” Peter hisses, his eyes blazing in fury. “You and your little stunt... you realize even if the grafts take, what I'm going to look like?”

  “You'll be as hideous on the outside as you are on the inside,” I tell him, grinning. “You won't even have half a decent face like Harvey Dent in the Batman comics. You'll be more like a living, breathing picture of Dorian Gray at the end of the story.”

  I don't think Margaret or Peter even gets the reference, but Carson's nod of appreciation causes me to give a half-smile, and I fix my eyes on Peter's. “You really think I could live in your house for eighteen years and not pick up at least a little bit of your ruthlessness? Let it go. Let. It. Go.”

  I turn and start to walk away, when Peter's rasp reaches me just as I get to the door. “You're a walking corpse, Andrea. You hear me? A walking corpse. All of you, except the baby. Her... her I'm going to raise better than you ever were. She's going to be the perfect daughter, and she's never going to know a thing about any of you.”

  I pause, then look back, taking my hand off the door handle and hold my hand out, curling my fingers over and over. “I'll be waiting. Sayonara.”

  I open the door, ignoring as Peter rasps and rages behind me. Carson follows me into the hallway, and we're at the elevator when Margaret slams her palm into the wall next me. “What the fuck did you want to do by coming here, Andrea? You and I have never been close...”

  “Never been close? Margaret, I've been dragged in front of you for over twenty years as the living, breathing proof that your husband has fucked around on you,” I reply, refusing to lose my cool. Not with Carson here, and certainly not with these people. “Did you find it as painful and perverse as I did when Peter's girlfriends and affairs started getting younger than me? And as for your little crack against the Sands, Melissa Sands is a better, more beautiful woman than you ever have been or will ever be. So enjoy whatever plastic surgeries you can get, whatever treatments you can talk the doctors into. For a long time I pitied you, thinking you were just bitter and hurt by what Peter's done to you. But while I still pity you, in that one comment
, you showed me something else. You're evil, too. You two... you deserve each other. Enjoy it while it lasts. But trust me, do not come after us again.”

  The elevator arrives, and I step in with Carson, who's stayed silent this whole time. I turn around and watch the doors close on Margaret's look, cutting her off and starting us toward the ground floor. As soon as we're in motion I turn to Carson, asking silently with my eyes. He reads my expression perfectly, pulling me into a hug that is full of tenderness and compassion before tilting my head up to look into his eyes.

  “You were strong, you were amazing, you were everything I knew you could be,” he whispers, his eyes warm and inviting. “I think I love you.”

  “I know I love you,” I reply smiling. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. We stay that way, not passionate but gentle and loving, until the elevator dings, and we're at the ground floor. We walk out through the cool autumn sunshine, hand in hand, toward Carson's truck. Sitting in the passenger seat, I watch as he starts the engine and puts it into reverse to pull out of the parking space. “Can I ask a favor?”

  Carson stops the truck, shifting into park again. “Of course. What is it?”

  “When we get back, would you mind dropping me at the house alone with my brother and Katrina for a while? I need to have a talk with them... about us.”

  Carson nods, then chuckles. “I was thinking that Melissa and I need to have that same conversation. I guess now is as good a time as any. Before that though, maybe we should be clear with each other first. I know what I think, and I know what I think you think, but this is big enough, we need to say it clearly. I want this to be more than just a sexual thing between us.”

  “Me too,” I reassure him, taking his hand. “Carson, I've never connected with someone the way I have with you. You are the first, and only man who I've ever shown my submissive side to. Nobody else has ever been special enough, for me to trust them with this side of me. And I want that to continue, on more than just the sexual level.”