“My, my,” Tamara murmured, as Davy strode purposefully out into the parking lot. “Masterful, hmm? He’s really intense about you.”
“He’s intense, period,” Margot said.
“I thought Connor was the intense one. Sean is the clown, or at least he pretends to be,” Tamara said. “It’s the ultra-controlled ones that make you wonder. But he’s not cold now. He’s wired to blow. You’re going to have an interesting evening, once you get wherever it is that you’re going.”
The amused speculation in Tamara’s eyes made Margot blush. “Let’s not even start with that,” she mumbled.
“Oh, you’re no fun,” Tamara scoffed. “One last thing. I’ve got a little present for you.” She pulled a silver hair ornament out of her bun, shaking loose a gleaming mass of black hair over her shoulders and held it out. The thing was beautiful, a starkly elegant, angular design. “Pay attention,” she said. “Press on this knob, and look what happens.”
A spring snapped. A piece came loose. Tamara showed her a tiny retractable nozzle. “Point this into someone’s face and press on it. The spray will knock them out. It’s not lethal, but it’s a strong soporific. The effect lasts about ten minutes, depending on the strength of the dose.”
Margot shook her head, backing away. “I can’t.”
“Your outfit needs something extra,” Tamara said briskly. “Here. Let me.” She snapped the piece back into place and fastened the pin through Margot’s wispy French roll. “There,” she said, with satisfaction.
Margot reached up and fingered it. “But—”
“It’s not much,” Tamara said. “Just a silly little novelty item. Another card to play. You need some more cards to play, Margot.”
Margot’s protests faded away as she looked into Tamara’s somber face. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
Davy’s neck started prickling from the moment he stepped into the parking lot. He drew his gun out of the shoulder holster and held it ready in his hand. The slots for the vehicles were covered by wooden shelters to keep off the weather and the pitch that dripped down from the towering trees. He peered into the shadows of the shelter when he reached his truck. He saw no one, but he hadn’t lived to be thirty-eight years old by ignoring a prickling neck.
He’d almost decided to backtrack and ask Seth and Sean for reinforcements, but he pulled out the penlight attached to his keys first, shone it behind the truck, and below it. Nothing and no one, unless Snakey had glued himself to the tailgate.
He let out a long breath and headed into the shelter.
A cat-light shadow falling behind him brushed across his consciousness. He spun around just in time to face the attack. The sneaky bastard must have hidden himself in the pine boughs brushing the shelter roof, but the moment for self-reproach was gone; a whip-swift kick slammed Davy’s gun hand into the side of the truck.
His gun clattered to the asphalt while he jerked back, blocking the finger stab that would have gone right through his eyeball and into his brain. He grab-twisted the fingers, yanked the guy off his feet with his own weight, and flung himself backwards, hurling Snakey over his own supine body and into the back wall of the shelter.
A thud, a grunt, a rustle in the dark, and Davy rolled up onto his feet just in time to block the next attack. Jesus, the guy was fast.
A flurry of parried kicks and jabs followed. It had been a while since he’d fought for survival. Too long. He’d lost his edge. He almost fell for a feint to the gut, but last-minute instinct whipped his guard up to ward off a fatal jab to his neck. The guy wore a suit, but he had on a hood like an executioner’s mask. It gleamed, like silk or synthetic.
Davy stumbled back to duck a kick to his face, whipping to the right and left to evade jabbing blows. Couldn’t spare a split second to look for the gun. Formal menswear was not made for fighting, neither were these stiff, slippery shoes, but the anxious chatter in his mind was easing down into the coiled, silent stillness of combat zone.
He darted back, out into the open, parrying a snake-quick jab to his throat. He hooked the attacking arm down, swept his leg behind, swung his arm down to slam his elbow into the asshole’s collarbone. A sharp gasp was his reward, a split second respite as Snakey danced back. With any luck, he’d driven a broken bone into the guy’s lung.
No such luck. Snakey came back at him with a hiss of rage.
Davy danced back, assessing his opponent. Professional. Favored the snake style. Pressure points. Sting of death in his fingertips. Very high pain threshold. All bad news.
Snakey lunged. Davy blocked an uppercut strike to his armpit and snatched the guy’s wrist. Yank and pull with a dragon’s claw, and wham, he got in a rotating blow to the solar plexus. Snakey stumbled back again. This time his grunt had a note of angry surprise.
Anger was good, in one’s opponent. He couldn’t indulge in it himself. Snakey was panting now, his eyes glinting in the orange glow of the streetlight as if he really were a reptile. Davy blocked high, and whipped in a backhand knuckle blow to the guy’s temple.
Snakey stumbled away, and let fly with a spinning kick. Davy lurched back to evade the blow to his ribs, and his shoes slipped on the asphalt. He went down backwards and rolled up to his feet in time to see Snakey disappear into the thicket of pines below the parking lot.
He gave chase, heart thudding, but he didn’t get far before he realized that the dark was impenetrable, and so were the trees. He blundered through the dense darkness, branches scratching his face. He forced himself to stop and listen. Far ahead, to the right, he heard a rustling snapping noise. The sound faded to nothing as he listened.
No way to find the guy now, not without searchlights and helicopters, and by the time he got help, Snakey would be long gone. He wanted to kill that bastard so badly, it burned in him like acid.
He slogged up over slippery pine needles toward the parking lot, assessing the damage. Scratched face, his cheek wet with blood. Sore shoulder from that clumsy fall, hand starting to throb from being kicked into the truck. Could’ve been worse. He could’ve been killed. Easily.
So this was the asshole that was stalking Margot. Her problem was deeper even than he’d thought.
Margot lunged through the double glass doors towards him when he got out of the truck, her eyes horrified. “Good God. Are you—”
“Fine,” he said, flinching back as she reached for his face. “I made Snakey’s acquaintance in the parking lot, that’s all. Get in, Margot.”
“That’s all?” Her voice rose. “What do you mean, that’s all?”
“Meaning I lost the bastard.” His voice was a rasp of frustration. “Tam, tell the others. The guy was tall, well built, a little shorter than me. Wearing a hood, so I didn’t see his face. He wore a suit. If you meet him, watch for eye and neck jabs. He likes those. I pounded him some, but he could still do plenty of damage if he felt like it. He’s dangerous. I can’t stress that enough.”
“I’ll tell them.” A gun had appeared in Tamara’s hand. All mockery was gone from her beautiful face. “Take care.”
He pulled out of the resort parking lot and onto the winding mountain highway, conscious of Margot’s anxious eyes on his face.
“We should stop at the emergency room. Your face is bleeding.”
“I just got scratched by the trees. It’s no big deal.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“My brothers and I have a place up here in the mountains. The house where we grew up.”
His cell phone rang. He pulled the thing out of his tux jacket. The display showed an unknown number. Strange. Nobody unknown had this number. The list of people who had it was short enough to be numbered on one hand. He punched “talk.” “Who’s this?”
“It’s Gomez.” His friend’s voice was low and tense.
His own tension rose to meet it. “Hey, Gomez. What’s up?”
“I have to meet with you. Right now. It’s important.”
“It’ll have to wait till tomorrow,�
� Davy said. “I told you this morning, I’m up in Endicott Falls for Connor’s—”
“I’m up here now, in Endicott Falls. I just drove up from the city. I’m calling you from a pay phone.”
That silenced him for a moment. “Uh…OK. Where are you?”
“Convenience store at the junction of Moffat and Taylor Highway.”
“I’ll be there in ten,” Davy said. He hung up the phone and dropped it back into his jacket.
“So? Who was that?” Margot asked.
“My cop buddy, Gomez. He drove up from Seattle because he has to talk to me. In person. Right now.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “That doesn’t sound too good.”
“Sure doesn’t,” he agreed grimly.
Minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot. A handsome dark-haired man got out of a battered gray SUV and leaned on his car, waiting. Davy slid out of the truck and slammed the door.
Margot hesitated for a moment, and followed him.
Gomez’s sharp dark eyes took in every detail; the dirt on his tux, the blood on his face, his swollen hand. They flicked to Margot.
“You didn’t say you weren’t alone,” he said.
“You didn’t ask,” Davy said.
Gomez folded his arms. “Wild party, huh?”
Davy shrugged. “Eventful.”
Gomez waited for more. The seconds ticked by, and his face hardened. “Get into the car with me. I need to talk to you. Privately.”
Davy glanced back to Margot’s bright, haunted eyes. Her arms were wrapped around her chest, the night air making goose bumps on her bare arms. “You can say anything you want in front of her.”
Gomez shook his head. “Shit,” he muttered. “OK, here goes my career. You know a guy named Joe Pantani?”
Davy shook his head, as they both heard Margot’s sharp intake of breath. They turned to her. “You know the name?” Nick asked sharply.
“I waitressed at his diner off and on for the past few weeks,” she faltered. “Until…until yesterday, around lunchtime, that is.”
Gomez’s face darkened. “Shit. Tell me you’re not Margot Vetter.”
“Uh…why shouldn’t I tell you that?”
“You’re the waitress who got fired yesterday?” He waited for her nod. “You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Joe Pantani.”
Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Joe? Somebody killed Joe?”
Gomez’s eyes turned back to Davy. “Yeah. Very thoroughly. Beat him to death. Every bone in his body pounded to splinters.”
“I don’t know why you’re giving me that look, Raul,” Davy said. “I don’t know the guy.”
“And you were never in his house? For any reason?”
Davy shook his head. Raul cursed viciously in Spanish. “You’ve got problems, then,” he said. “A whiskey bottle and two shot glasses in Pantani’s house. Good quality latent prints all over them. They ran them through the local and state AFIS and found nothing, so the latent print examiner forwarded them to a friend of hers in the Feds. He ran it through IAFIS—and hit on a potential match. Guess whose military ID number popped up on their screen, buddy?”
Davy felt a chilly, strange sensation, as if jaws of iron were creaking closed around him. “A bottle of my Scotch disappeared from my house yesterday,” he said. “I was looking for it last night.”
“Did it, now. Do you have a nasty new enemy these days?”
Davy touched the dried blood on his face with his swollen hand. “Actually, I do,” he said grimly. “Now that you mention it.”
“Three dead bodies in the space of twenty-four hours,” Gomez said. “And your name comes up in connection with every single one of them. It looks bad, man. I didn’t tell anyone else about your interest in Lila Simons. Not yet, anyway. Give me a good reason not to, Davy.”
“You know me, Raul,” Davy said. “I’m not a killer.”
Gomez looked haunted. “Yeah. At least I thought I did. Well, that’s it. That’s all I have to say to you. The report hasn’t been signed off yet. The FBI latent examiner still has to pull the hard copy of your prints from your military records and do the visual exam to make the ident, but he thought it was a match just from eyeballing it. You haven’t got much time before that happens. They’ll rush this one. Count on it.”
“Jesus,” Davy muttered.
“They’re going to want to test your DNA. The way my life is going, I bet they’ll find a match,” Gomez said. “If your mysterious new enemy stole your prints, he should be bright enough to steal your comb.”
“When was he killed?” Davy asked. “Last night?”
“Yeah, based on when he was last seen alive.” Gomez’s voice was hoarse with weariness. “He was found at four A.M., when his girlfriend came home from her bartending shift. Exact time of death is hard to determine. The killer folded him up and stuffed him into the freezer.”
Davy winced. “Ouch.”
Raul turned his gaze on Margot. “This is all about her, right?” he demanded. “You’re doing it again. Just like you did back in the Army. What was that dancer chick’s name? Fran? Fern?”
“Fleur. And this is nothing like what happened with her.”
“No. This is way worse. This time you might wind up in prison, instead of just getting the living shit kicked out of you.”
“Goddamnit, Gomez—”
“Hey. You’re the one who wanted to have this conversation in front of your girlfriend. And I’m sticking my neck out for you so far, it’s about to snap. So don’t give me any of your fucking attitude.”
Davy swallowed back his angry words. “Yeah. I know. Thanks.”
“Keep your goddamn thanks. If you’re innocent, why aren’t we working together on this?”
Davy hesitated. “This thing just exploded in my face, Raul. Stopping to fill out all the forms would slow us down just long enough to get her killed.” He jerked his chin in Margot’s direction.
“Oh. Thanks for your faith in me,” Gomez said bitterly.
“It’s not you,” Davy said. “Don’t take it personally. I know what it means for you to have told me this.”
“Yeah, it means I should turn in my badge right now and save everyone the trouble. My life will be worth shit until you get your problems under control, so get on it. And if I find out that you’re lying to me…God help you, Davy. I swear. I will destroy you.”
“I’m not,” Davy said. “And I wouldn’t. You have my word. You know me well enough so I shouldn’t have to even say it.”
Gomez just shook his head. “Where were you last night?”
Davy gestured towards Margot. “With her. At home.”
“Oh.” Gomez laughed scornfully. “That’s just great. Real helpful. Two worthless, piece of shit alibis for the price of one.” He wrenched open the door of his SUV and got in. The engine started up with a roar.
The car jerked to a stop, and the window rolled down. “Don’t get killed.” He spat the words out with vicious force. “Dumb-ass.”
The window went back up. Gravel spat behind the wheels as the SUV accelerated out into the night.
Chapter
19
They stared after the red eyes of Gomez’s retreating taillights. Margot’s eyes swam and burned. The wind gusted her skirt, making it flutter around her thighs. She shivered as if it were January. She’d been so angry at poor Joe. Her anger seemed so silly and shallow now.
Guilt twisted painfully inside her at the bleak, cold look on Davy’s face. She’d infected him with the Margot curse somehow, like she did to everyone who came in contact with her. The Goth girl, the pawnbroker, Cindy, Davy. Joe. Poor pigheaded, cheapskate Joe. He hadn’t deserved to die like that. And now Davy had been set up for murder.
“He must have been in the diner yesterday,” she whispered.
“Who?” Davy jerked, as if waking from an unpleasant dream.
“Snakey,” she said. “He must’ve been in the diner when Joe fired me. God. That’s so creepy. I prob
ably served the guy lunch.”
“Don’t think about it. Get in the truck.” Davy’s voice had the whipcrack of command, but she was glad of an outside impulse to break the paralysis of her body. She tried to stop shaking as she climbed into the truck, but the shudders were deep, unrelated to cold.
The truck roared to life, and Davy pulled out onto the highway.
She knew this feeling. She was slipping into the vortex. She didn’t want to go where it was taking her. She had to distract herself.
“Davy,” she began timidly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t even start.”
She didn’t blame him for being short with her. She felt so helpless and stupid. What could she say? Gee, I’m sorry that hanging out with me has put your life and liberty at risk and endangered your whole family. What a bummer. Don’t you just hate it when that happens?
Yeah. Right. She took a deep breath and tried again. “That guy, Gomez. He’s an old friend of yours?”
“We served in the Army together. First Gulf war.”
No further details were forthcoming. She tried to think of another angle to start from. “Davy, what are you going to do about the—”
“I don’t know, Margot. I have to think.”
That terse answer, too, dissolved into empty silence. The light of the headlights swerved around the dark curves of the unknown road.
This was unbearable. She preferred to piss him off, even goad him into a fight rather than endure this deathly false calm.
She gathered up her nerve and went for it. “So who’s Fleur?”
The truck speeded up. He glanced over at her and shook his head.
A manic recklessness was coming over her. Her shivers had begun to feel like tremors of hysterical laughter. “Oh, come on. If you don’t tell me, the stories I’ll make up for myself will be a million times more lurid and compromising than the dull truth.”
“Don’t jerk me around, Margot. It’s not a good time.”
True, but what did she have to lose? “You asked for it,” she told him. “Let’s see…Fleur was a beautiful foreign spy, right? A pistol strapped to her perfect gartered thigh. She seduced you and betrayed you, abandoning you to certain death after painting your naked body with honey and staking you out over an anthill—”
Out of Control Page 25
