by Lois Greiman
He laughed. “You do have a way of cutting to the chase, Ms. O’Tara.”
“I just needed a change of pace, I guess.”
“From where?”
“Ya askin’ where I’m from?”
“If it’s not too intrusive.”
“Ohio, originally,” I said, and felt not the least bit of guilt for the lie. “But Vegas more recently.”
“Vegas…there must have been a good deal of culture shock.”
“Well, there ain’t a whole lot of culture in neither place.”
He chuckled, halted, and turned toward the lake along which we’d been walking. “That’s a lovely sight.”
Moonlight glistened on the water, gilding every flowing peak and flirting with the latent intellect in me, but I was playing Scarlet O’Tara, hick girl, for all I was worth. “Probably would be if my dogs wasn’t yippin’ like malamutes,” I said.
“You must be exhausted.”
“I used to be the queen of all-nighters. Now I can barely handle all-dayers,” I admitted.
“Well, I’m not about to pile more on your plate,” he said, and turned back toward the trail. “Come along. I’ll see you home.”
“More what?” I asked, but he shook his head.
“You’ve got enough troubles of your own, Scarlet.”
And wasn’t that the truth?
“I mustn’t bother you with mine,” he said, but even in the moon-kissed dimness I could see the sadness in his eyes. And…surprise…turns out I wanted to be bothered. Maybe in the end, no matter how jaded or facetious or harried, we all need to be needed.
“How’s your daughter doing?” I asked.
“How did you—” He breathed a soft sigh of surprise. “I’ve always been a believer in women’s intuition, but you take it to new heights.”
I laughed, flattered. “Last week you were reading To Kill a Mockingbird, a favorite for English Lit teens. Now you’re reading a novel usually reserved for angsty girls with acne. It wasn’t all that much of a reach.”
“I’m just trying to…” He shrugged.
“Relate to her?”
“Yes. But I don’t know the first thing about seventeen-year-old girls.”
“Seventeen. It’s hard to believe you got a daughter that old.”
“I’m going to believe you’re surprised because I look too young.”
“You do look too young.”
“Well…misspent youth and all that,” he said, and glanced over the water again. “I was just hoping”—he sighed again—“Frankie’s wouldn’t be so…misspent.”
We walked along the water’s edge. He was silent. Moonlight danced on the waves. I missed the cushy chair in my office in Eagle Rock. In fact, I missed chairs entirely, but I got the ball rolling. “So her name’s Frankie?”
“Francine, yes. It wasn’t my idea,” he hurried to add. “My wife, ex-wife…Cheryl.” His tone of voice suggested that if he was over Cheryl I was the pope’s slippers. “Her favorite uncle was named Frank. Perhaps that’s where the whole problem began.”
I settled onto a good-sized rock that overlooked a little bay. “What problem is that?”
“She moved in with a lad. Lad…listen to me,” he said, and sank down beside me. “I sound like a right gaffer. He’s twenty-three. Frankie was five when I was his age. But he’s…” He drew a deep breath, glanced out at the water again. In profile, he looked thoughtful and indescribably sad. “I think he’s a stoner. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a prude. I attended university. Smoked my share of the spliff and…” He scanned the dark treetops as if gazing into the past. “It’s simply that…she’s always had self-esteem issues. She’s lovely. I’m not just saying that because she’s my daughter. She truly is, but she believes herself to be…”
“Fat,” I finished for him.
He jerked. “How did you know that?”
“She’s not exactly the first girl who thought she didn’t live up to the preset standards.”
“Surely you don’t believe such tripe,” he said.
The surprise and outrage in his tone was so soothing I felt no need to unburden. “Peers can be cruel. Not to mention Barbie.”
“Barbie?”
“Mile-long legs, perfect boobs, no visible waist.”
“The doll?”
“Spend enough time with that bitch, anybody’d feel inferior,” I said.
He laughed, sounding like his troubles were falling away, and making my choice of careers, my whole life, maybe, seem meaningful. “I’ve never met anybody quite like you, Ms. O’Tara.”
“Lucky guy,” I said.
“I do feel blessed.” His gaze felt as warm as sunlight on my face, making me fidgety.
“Well, Frankie’s lucky to have you,” I said.
“You think so?”
“Pretty sure.”
“We’re not close.” His admission was as guilty as hell. As if there wasn’t a bottomless chasm between ninety percent of American fathers and their daughters. “Haven’t been since the divorce. Then, when she moved out of her mother’s house, we started hanging out again. It’s been brilliant. You know, like I got another chance. Not to be…her father, really. I missed that opportunity. But we’ve gone to a couple concerts together. Saw Taylor Swift in January.”
“You are liberated,” I said.
“I suppose that sounds rather lame,” he said, and tossed a pebble into the lake, “but I don’t want to destroy the fragile relationship we’ve built.”
“It’s not lame. But she’s just a kid.”
He was watching me like I had some answers. Like I wasn’t just a dumb-ass waitress in a parched little corner of hell.
“And a girl only gets one dad.”
“I bet you and your father were close. That’s why you’re so secure.”
The good thing about being a hick was I didn’t have to curtail my snorts. I let one rip.
His brows jerked up. “Am I wrong?”
“Mostly, Dad just ignored me.” I remembered my relationship with Glen McMullen with a quixotic blend of confusion and unease. But maybe a smidgen of nostalgia too. What the hell was that about? “When he did remember my presence, he had a habit of calling me names better suited for dinner entrées.” I thought about the pig in the not-so-distant stable and wondered if he was offended by the cognomen we shared. “But he did give me the princess speech.”
“Princess speech?”
I shrugged and tossed a stone toward the water. “Said princesses might be able to count on Prince Charming to save their asses. But I wasn’t no princess, so I’d better learn ta stab a pencil in a boy’s eye when the moment called for it.”
“And?”
“Tried it out on my brother that very afternoon. Worked like a charm.”
He laughed like he thought I was kidding, then sobered slowly and sighed. “What if she turns away from me?”
I shrugged. “What if she gets hooked on meth and looks like Rick Grimes’ worst nightmare before the age of twenty?”
“Rick…” he began, but I waved away his question. Obviously, he wasn’t a Walking Dead aficionado.
“Point is, sometimes, dumb-ass as it may sound, a girl needs a daddy.”
He thought about that for a moment. “You’re right. Of course you are, but really, what can I do?”
“She’s seventeen. Still considered a minor in the state of California,” I said. “Your options are practically infinite. You can insist on counseling, get her tested for drugs, put her in rehab. Hell, you can file rape charges against lover boy if he doesn’t agree to move on.”
He stared at me.
“Or…or so I’m told,” I said. “Not that a girl like me’d know nothin’ about it. Since I’m just a waitress.”
“I know better than that,” he said.
“What?” The question was uttered breathlessly, but he smiled.
“You’re a wise and wonderful woman.”
“Oh, well…yeah…I’m that, too.”
He smiled. Moonlight winked off his perfect incisors. “Not to mention beautiful,” he said, and set his palm against my cheek.
My heart fluttered like a dying chicken. “Holy fritters,” I said, employing my best hick speak. “If I didn’t know better I would think you was coming on to me.”
He chuckled. “Is that so difficult to believe?”
“Well, no, I mean…” I’m not sure why I was so rattled. “Men come on to me all the time, only…” He leaned in. His lips were warm and firm against mine. “They don’t usually have all their teeth.”
He laughed as he settled his hands on my waist. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the first time I saw you.”
“Really?” Despite my fatigue, my bruises, and my well-justified phobias, my hormones were beginning to fire off rather lewd suggestions in the general direction of my brain.
“Really,” he said, and slid his hands up my sides. His fingers bumped over my newly unearthed ribs. His thumbs brushed my nipples.
I’m not going to lie. It was as stimulating as hell, but despite the slut my body longed to be, my mind was still Catholic, and paranoid, and jumpy as hell. “Thank you,” I said, and eased back a little. “I’m flattered, but it’s late and I should—”
“You’re not going to be standoffish now, are you?”
“If not now, when?” I asked, and tried to rise, but he grabbed my arm.
“Maybe after I’ve fucked you,” he said, and pushed me down. My shirt tore. Buttons sprayed off, but I managed to break away, to gain my feet, to twist toward the path.
He snagged my hair and yanked me up against his chest, and suddenly there was a knife, sharp as death, shoved against my throat.
I froze, afraid to breathe.
“After all the time you’ve spent coming on to me? I don’t think so.”
“I haven’t been coming on to you.” I could barely manage the denial, but he chuckled.
“If you can do those two retards, you can do me.”
“I’m not doing anybody. Swear to God.”
“You’re a liar…just like her,” he snarled.
“Who? Frankie? Cheryl?” My mind was spinning, shooting out possibilities. “I know you still have feelings—”
He laughed, low and ugly. “Jesus, you’re even dumber than I thought. One little sob story about a daughter and you’re ready to spread your legs like a drunken whore.”
“It was a lie?” He had lost his accent…and his appeal. “You—” I began, but a twig snapped in the woods. I yanked my gaze in that direction. “Help! Help me!” I begged, but he pressed the blade deeper.
“Shut your mouth or I’ll carve you into bite-sized pieces.”
I froze. He wrenched at my pants, pulling them down my hips. I could feel his erection against my bare flesh.
“No, please.” I was pleading and crying. He laughed and shoved me against a rock, bending me at the waist. His erection felt hard and cruel between my thighs.
“Keep begging, baby,” he snarled. “You’re going to love this.”
I was falling, giving in. And then I saw it…a shadow amid the shadows…watching me in silence. Danshov!
Rage flared through me, torching my instincts, firing my defenses. Knife forgotten, I jabbed my heels into the earth, tossing my weight backward like a battering ram.
We went down together. But I was up first, up and lunging forward. That’s when Holsten caught my ankle.
I didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. I fell on him, elbows like spears.
He howled and contorted. I snatched the blade from his fingers, twisting hard. He writhed in agony. Blood covered his face. He curled his broken fingers against his chest, eyes pleading, but I gripped the knife in both hands, ready to kill.
“You son of a bitch!” My voice was no more than a feral snarl.
“Don’t hurt me. Don’t.” The words were garbled, spoken through bloodied teeth. “Please.”
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
“No. I—”
“You’re the Carver.”
“No!” he said, but I bent low, pushing the tip of the blade beneath his jaw.
“Aren’t you?”
“No!”
I twisted the knife. Blood trickled down the blade. He sucked in his breath. “Okay. Yes. It’s me. But I’m sorry.” He was sobbing now, body heaving. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need help. I know it.”
I stared at him, disgusted, but sympathy was crowding in, obscuring my better judgment. I tightened my grip on the knife, trying to mete out the punishment he surely deserved, but my rage had diminished.
“Say you’ll never touch another woman again,” I gritted out.
“I won’t. Never.”
“And you’ll turn yourself in to the cops.”
“I will. I swear it.”
“Immediately. You’ll go to the authorities and tell them everything.”
He drew a shuddering breath and turned toward me, eyes haunted. “I’ll tell them,” he said.
I straightened, drawing back. “I’ll find you if you don’t,” I said. “I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.”
He nodded spasmodically. I stepped away. My hands were shaking in earnest now. I lurched onto the trail and vomited into the underbrush.
Chapter 28
I’m not saying I hate you, but if you were on fire I’d toast me some s’mores.
—Chrissy, mean but practical
I banged my fist against Danshov’s cabin door. It was two o’clock in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep. Anger was racing through my veins like hot tequila.
“Open up!” I snarled, and tightened my fist around the knife I had appropriated just hours before.
There was no noise from inside. I pounded again. “Open up, you sorry son of a bitch. You fucking—”
“Ms. McMullen.”
I spun around, knife raised.
Hiro stood not five feet away. He skimmed his bored gaze from my face to the knife and back again.
“You bastard!”
He stared at me, expressionless. “Would you like to come in?” he asked, and opening the door, motioned me inside.
“You son of a bitch!” I snarled the words like a junkyard dog.
“You already used that particular expletive,” he said, and proceeded inside. I stumbled after him.
“You were there,” I said, snapping my head in no particular direction.
He raised a brow, as if questioning my sanity.
“In the woods.”
He waited, saying nothing.
“When I was attacked by that…by that…” My hand trembled. I tightened my fist around the knife. “Animal.”
“Ah, the estimable Professor Holsten. Yes, I was,” he said, and turned toward his kitchen. “Tea?”
“You would have let him kill me!”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, and lit the burner beneath a copper kettle. “But he was not planning to kill you. Only to rape you…and to carve out his usual pound of flesh.”
“Only!” My voice shook in concert with my hands now, but I managed to raise the knife, to stalk toward him, attention riveted on the back of his head. But he spoke before I could decide where to stab.
“We discussed this, Christina.” His tone was a little piqued, a long-suffering tutor correcting his disappointing student one more time. “Your checking hand should always remain in front.”
I raised my left arm, shielding. He sighed, checked the water level in the kettle. “And you must keep your chin tucked.”
I lowered my jaw, corrected my stance, and eyed the back of his neck.
“I would suggest the soft spot at the base of my skull.”
“I don’t need help stabbing you.”
He glanced over his shoulder at me, curious, perhaps, but not the least bit concerned. “Did I approach you?” he asked.
I tightened my grip, working up my courage. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You
came to me.” He turned, settled his loosely garbed hips against the stove with all the casualness of a Sunday brunch. “Asked for my help. Begged me for instruction in the art of self-defense,” he said, resting the heels of his hands against the oven door behind him. “If you simply wished for me to teach you to beg for help, you should have stated that at the time. It would have taken far less effort on my part.”
“You”—I gritted my teeth at him, incensed—“are a wart. Worse than a wart. You’re a mole on a wart.”
He shrugged his shoulders. Or maybe just one. My killing rage was not, it seemed, motivating enough to call both into service. “If you wanted a touchy-feely instructor you should have looked elsewhere. One of the twins, perhaps. Or your cop. I am not the sensitive type.”
“Sensitive! You’re not even human.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But I remain curious. Why did he not teach you?”
“What?”
“Your lieutenant,” he said. “Doesn’t he care about you either?”
“He wouldn’t have stood by while I was attacked.”
“Then where was he?” Gliding to the cupboard, he removed two cups…a panther, preparing tea. “If he cares so deeply, why is he not here with you? Protecting you? That is his job, is it not? To serve and protect, I believe you said.”
“He does protect me.”
“He must love being the hero. Will he be angry that you are no longer helpless, do you think?”
“I was never helpless.”
He studied me. “Just dangerous enough to stir his interest, perhaps. Not dangerous enough to frighten him.”
“I don’t want to frighten him,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes a little. “How about him? Does he frighten you?”
“Of course not.”
“Nothing but kindly thoughts regarding the good lieutenant, then,” he said, and poured tea. It flowed in a fragrant arc into the delicate cups.
I sharpened my glare, though the anger was beginning to simmer down to a soft boil. “My relationship with Rivera has nothing to do with you.”
“Rivera.” He nodded. “A cool appellation for such a gallant, is it not?”
“It’s his name.”
“His father calls him Gerald,” he argued, and offered me a cup. I stared at it. My right hand was busy with the knife, but my left was free, and it seemed rude not to take it. “His mother, Geraldo.”
