by Terry Odell
Norma handed Elizabeth a small, spiral-bound booklet. “This should answer any questions you may have, plus give you the contact numbers. Start with the blue section.” She stood and offered her hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’m sure you’ll love living here.”
Elizabeth shook Norma’s hand. “I’m sure we will. Thank you again for stopping by.”
Norma’s eyes wandered around the room once more, stopping at the picture on the mantel. She walked over, tilting her head one way, then the other, like a curious bird. “This is quite good. That’s Chester, isn’t it? The Grinciewicz dog? Whoever drew this captured him perfectly. Was it your son?”
Elizabeth fought rising panic. Surely Will’s artistic style wasn’t distinctive enough for this woman to zero in on it, like recognizing a Rembrandt or a Picasso. Maybe Victor was more clever than she’d thought.
* * * * *
Grinch watched the F-250 in his rearview, then checked Dylan. Tempted as he was to play out a few evasive maneuvers to see if the pickup was actually following him, the flush on Dylan’s cheeks said otherwise.
His shoulders tightened. What was he thinking? He had no business doing anything that might put Dylan in danger. Having a kid to think about would take some getting used to.
He slowed at the dirt road that led to his place. There were only three other homes down here, so odds were against the pickup having a legitimate reason to follow him along this side road. As expected, when Grinch made the turn, the pickup continued driving.
On the flip side, since there were only three homes down here, the guy wouldn’t have much trouble finding him.
He steered his pickup along the twisting driveway, hitting the garage remote as soon as he was in range. “We’re home.”
Saying the words brought a strange tightness to his chest.
An hour later, Grinch sat at his laptop, one ear cocked toward Dylan’s room. The boy had eaten half a bowl of soup, then accepted Grinch’s suggestion that some quiet reading time in bed might make him feel better. This was the first time he’d seemed eager to have Grinch read to him. With the child and his teddy bear snuggled against him, they’d gone through Where the Wild Things Are twice. The second time, Dylan read it to Grinch and the bear, although Grinch wasn’t sure if Dylan had simply memorized what was obviously a favorite.
Finally, clutching his teddy, Dylan had fallen asleep. His temperature had been half a degree higher, but according to Harper, that wasn’t unusual later in the day. “Sleep’s the best thing for them,” his former teammate had said. Grinch had thanked him and begged off before Harper started grilling him about the recent upheavals Dylan had brought to his life.
“We’re doing fine,” Grinch had said. And they were—in an extremely broad definition of the term.
A combat nap of his own would probably be smart, but he wanted to do a little poking around first.
He keyed in his guesses on the F-250’s plate and sent them to Jinx, then went through his email, deleting the spam that had accumulated while he’d been away. Which effectively deleted ninety-five percent of his inbox. Impatiently awaiting a response from Jinx, Grinch went to the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of coffee. The rich aroma soon filled the room. While he waited for the coffee to finish brewing, he cleaned up the aftermath of lunch and poked through the freezer trying to figure out what might make a suitable dinner for Dylan. Pepperoni pizza was probably not the best choice. He remembered the way Will had devoured the mac and cheese last night. That might work. If he had a box. Which he didn’t. He frowned, then started a list for his next trip to the store.
The coffeemaker gave its final sputters. Grinch poured a mug and inhaled. Almost as good as that first sip. He headed to his computer, although what he was doing eluded him. He was a pilot. True, he had the requisite skills for field work, but they were geared toward extracting targets from potentially hostile situations, not extracting data from cyberspace.
He plugged Elizabeth’s name into Google wondering what would happen. Seconds later, he had the answer. Over 100,000 results, that’s what would happen. Besides, if this Elizabeth Parker had been in a Blackthorne safe house, it was damn certain her real name wasn’t Elizabeth Parker. And if one of those more than 100,000 results managed to fit the woman he’d met, it would be just as damn certain her identity had been fabricated to match.
He sipped his coffee. What he needed was Elizabeth’s real name. No, what he needed was for Jinx to get back to him. Jinx would have the genuine intel. Whatever Grinch might pull off the Internet would be speculative.
Outside, Chester barked. Not a “hey, where’s my dinner?” bark. Grinch set down the coffee and listened. No cars. Probably another deer. Or a rabbit. Chester had a thing for the local wildlife. And ever since Dylan’s arrival, Chester had become hyper protective.
But in his line of work, an ounce of prevention … . He hugged the walls to see what the trouble might be. Chester’s barking had morphed into a low growl. Grinch passed through the kitchen, to the mudroom, to the door leading onto the porch. He stopped. Pressed his ear to the wood. Rustling trees. Magpie chatter. Normal sounds. He eased the door open. Chester sat at the base of the porch steps. His growls decreased in volume.
“What is it, boy?”
Chester barked twice, then bolted for the trees.
Grinch tensed. The hair at the nape of his neck prickled.
Grinch thought about retrieving his service weapon, but he’d locked it up once Dylan had come into his life. He’d switched to the rural civilian lifestyle, and while weapons were common enough here, most were the sort used for hunting game, not protection against home invaders.
And why was he thinking home invader? Elizabeth’s skittishness was rubbing off on him. It was more likely a couple of kids taking a shortcut to the trout stream. Grinch stepped onto the porch and whistled.
The dog darted through the trees, nose to the ground. Grinch almost called Chester back with a duty command, but the dog deserved a little time doing what dogs do. Grinch scanned the trees bordering the clear space surrounding the house, smiling at the way the dog seemed to take such pleasure patrolling his domain. He waited a few minutes, then trotted down the porch steps.
“Chester. Home.”
The dog gave two rapid barks, then loped to Grinch’s feet. He sat, head cocked, tail thumping, a dog-smile on his face. Grinch scratched the dog behind his ears. “Another deer? Or a rabbit? Better not have been a bear. You’d be lunch.”
Chester whined, then bolted up the stairs. Grinch spun around to see Dylan in the doorway, clearly fighting tears. Chester positioned himself in front of the boy, nudging against him.
Grinch rushed inside. “Hey, sport. Did Chester wake you?”
“I … I couldn’t find you.” He rubbed his eyes.
“I’m right here.” Grinch picked him up, pressing the boy’s cheek to his face. He felt warm, but more like a just-woke-up kind of warm, not feverish. “You should have called. I’d have heard you.”
The doubt in Dylan’s eyes twisted Grinch’s gut. He searched his memory, trying in vain to recall a single instance when Dylan had used a name—any name—for him. Biology made no difference to a five-year-old. The kid had lost the man he knew as his father. And that man wouldn’t come when Dylan called—ever again. He brought the boy to the couch and gathered him on his lap. “Is it because you don’t know what to call me?”
The tiniest of nods.
“Dylan, I know you miss your mom and dad. We’ve talked about that, remember? I’m your dad now. My name is Mark. Or would you rather call me Grinch like everyone else does?” Or you could call me Pop, or Papa, or—”
“Grinch?” Dylan’s voice was no bigger than his nod. Damn, the kid treaded on eggshells around him.
“Grinch it is.” He kissed Dylan’s cheek. “But you know I’m a good Grinch, right?”
A slightly less tiny nod. “I’m thirsty.”
“Sure thing. Gatorade or water?”
&nb
sp; “Gatorade?”
“You got it.” Carrying the child, Grinch went to the kitchen, filled a glass and handed it to Dylan. The boy gripped it in both hands, drinking like he’d spent three days alone in the desert. Grinch checked his forehead again. Maybe it was fever-warm, not nap-warm. He’d have to check his temp.
From the other room, Grinch heard the sound of an incoming email. Jinx? At last. He stopped himself before dashing off, and found a smile for Dylan.
“Tell you what, sport. I have to do some computer work. You want to watch TV while I do? You can pick a movie, and when I’m finished, we’ll do something together.” He had no clue what, but the offer seemed to satisfy Dylan.
With Dylan absorbed in Willie Wonka, Grinch opened the email from Jinx. “No way. No earthly way,” he muttered.
Chapter 6
Victor crept out of bed, careful not to disturb the sleeping Marie. She’d made him pay for his previous cancellation—in more ways than one. He moved the wisps of black lace from the floor to the chair. La Perla, she’d said with a self-satisfied grin when he’d stripped her down to them. He’d feel that one in his credit card statement.
Dinner and wine had set him back a good three hundred, and then she’d ordered champagne and caviar delivered to the room.
Naked, he strolled through the suite to the sitting room where the upended bottle of champagne rested in the silver bucket. A throbbing headache in the morning would be yet another fee for what she’d perceived as neglect.
He lowered himself onto the sofa, resting his head in his hands. God, he’d had too much to drink. He contemplated calling room service for something to counteract the alcohol, but he wasn’t supposed to be here.
As always, Marie had reserved the suite in her name. The damn hotel “show me some ID, please” policy made a using fake name impossible. But at least his wasn’t on the books. And, as always, they arrived separately, but with damn hotel computers able to trace when someone entered the room, she never got a second key. After they’d eaten in the hotel restaurant, she went ahead to the room while he lingered over coffee. As usual, he picked up the tab, left the hotel, walked around the block and came in by the side entrance. She’d thrown the security latch so the door wouldn’t close all the way, and had been waiting in the darkened room.
He heard restless stirring from the bedroom, and held his breath, willing her to stay asleep. If she woke now, she’d expect another round. Given the stress he’d been under, it was a miracle he’d performed at all. Waiting to hear from Stone, the PI recommended by the guy at the tennis club, had his stomach in knots.
He squinted toward the bar, at the glowing numerals on the microwave clock. Barely eleven. Once Julie Ann was out of the picture, midnight was the earliest they parted. And so far, they’d always parted. She’d accepted it when their affair was officially extramarital, and he was officially cheating on his wife. Then Julie Ann had disappeared, and she’d accepted that he shouldn’t be seen fooling around, because that would feed the gossip mongers that Julie Ann had left him because he was fooling around. And nobody left him, damn it.
Then, he’d gotten the call that his wife and son were dead. It wouldn’t be good for the grieving widower to be seen having dinner and breakfast with his buxom secretary so soon after, even in a hotel where the inflated prices included discretion. And she’d accepted that as well, although she was probably the only one who knew his grief was feigned.
But lately, she’d started sending off strong signals that it was time things moved forward. He almost felt the claws digging in. Trouble was, he didn’t think their definitions of “forward” were the same.
The temptation to sneak out while she slept grew stronger. But he knew there would be more hell to pay if he didn’t say goodbye, a ritual she insisted on. No matter what, she saw him to the door. He could write a note. Saying what?
Then again, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to sow the seeds that things were changing.
But what good would it to do leave now? He knew he wouldn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept in more than fits and dozes since he’d discovered someone had been in his safe. It had to have been the bitch.
He paced to the doorway and watched her sleep. A dim glow filtered through the curtains, highlighting her red curls splayed over the pillow. He stared, transfixed, at the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. His gaze wandered to the pile of bed pillows heaped on the floor. How easy to creep in, pick one up, cover her face until her breathing stopped. His shoulders bunched, and he rubbed his neck.
Maybe a shower would clear his head, help him relax. He half-closed the bedroom door, then went into the small second bath off the sitting room. He shut the door before turning on the light, wondering when he’d started being so careful not to wake her. Time was, neither had slept at all. Well, as the saying went, “That was then, this is now.”
He adjusted the water as hot as he could stand it. Standing under the needle-sharp spray, he felt some of the alcohol-induced fog lift. He closed his eyes and leaned against the tiles.
If his investigator didn’t come up with something fast, Victor was as good as dead. That bitch. Damn her. He couldn’t put Louie off much longer.
He wasn’t aware Marie had come into the bathroom until the glass shower door opened. She stood behind him and wrapped her arms around his middle. Then moved them lower. He grabbed her wrists.
“God, Marie, not now. I’m not up for it. Not again.”
He lessened his hold, but his head filled with images of moving his hands up to her neck. Squeezing. Watching her eyes bulge.
She ground herself against him. “Oh, honey, I think you are.”
He spun around and took her right there, against the tiles, fast and hard, without a thought to her pleasure. When he finished, he rinsed off, and stepped out of the shower, leaving her. He wrapped a towel around his hips, then went to the heap of clothing beside the sofa where their lovemaking had begun. Not caring that he was damp, he dressed.
Marie appeared from the bathroom wearing one of the thick hotel robes. She padded into the bedroom, then returned with his cell phone. “While you were in the shower, someone named Stone said he’d set up a meet.”
Damn. Now he decides to call? Victor snatched the phone from her hand. Not a voice call. A text. Thank goodness for that much. “It’s a personal matter. And don’t you ever touch my cell phone again. This isn’t the office. Here, you’re not my secretary.” He slapped her across the face. “Go to bed. I’m leaving. And consider this our last … outing.”
Unlike Julie Ann, Marie didn’t cower and apologize. She fisted her hands. “Are you going to fire me while you’re at it?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
Her eyes went flat. Cold. “While you’re thinking about that, think about who really runs your office. I’m thinking a raise is in order.”
“Shut up, Marie.” He dressed, went downstairs, walked two blocks and hailed a cab.
Victor ignored the cigarette smoke that permeated the vehicle. He clenched the cell phone, mentally urging the driver to hit the gas. Traffic was light enough this time of night, but they seemed to be moving through molasses. He punched in Stone’s number.
Chapter 7
Elizabeth paced the confines of the living area, trying to settle. Her head knew there was no reason for anyone to know she was here, but the queasy feeling in her belly wouldn’t go away. Had she picked up Dylan’s bug?
And how was the little guy doing? His father had seemed much more responsible this afternoon.
She pondered that one. In her new role as a member of this community, it would make sense to pay a visit to make sure a sick child was all right. But not too overtly, because that would imply she didn’t think the father was capable of caring for his own son.
Even if it was the truth, it shouldn’t appear that way.
She realized her pacing had picked up in tempo, and slowed down. Because she didn’t approve of the father didn’t mean the son had to suffer.
In her other life, she’d bring over a batch of chicken soup—not the canned stuff, either. Something she couldn’t do now anyway, for the simple reason that she didn’t have a chicken. Or an onion, or half the other necessary ingredients. She was going to have to add “Make more lists” to her “To Do” list. Otherwise, she’d be driving down the mountain three times a day.
Earlier, when Will had asked to hand-deliver the picture he’d drawn of Reggie to Dylan, she’d played the “We’ll see” card. Will had gone to bed happy. And why not? Nine times out of ten, her “We’ll see” ended up being “Yes.” Maybe she should use the picture as an excuse to visit. It would probably mean more to a kid than homemade chicken soup.
She’d deal with Grinch. She realized she was thinking of him by his nickname, something she’d said she wasn’t going to do. And why was she the least bit concerned? Oh, bother. It was simply because calling him Grinch sounded too familiar—and he wasn’t the kind of man she wanted to be familiar with. Was she? No. Or so she told herself. She was worried about his son. And that, she knew, was the honest truth.
She went down the hall and eased open the door to Will’s room. He lay curled on his side, eyes closed, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. She stood in the doorway for several moments, listening to him breathe, a habit she hadn’t been able to break since his heart surgery almost three years ago.
She closed the door, running her hand along the cool wood. “I love you so much,” she whispered.
With a new determination to get over her fear, she strode to the living room. Headlights illuminated the curtains. Heart pounding, she held her breath. The car continued along the road. Well, that determination hadn’t lasted long.
Just because the homes up here aren’t cheek-by-jowl like in the city doesn’t mean there aren’t other homes. A good number of other homes. Where people live. And drive cars. And come and go during the normal course of the day.
