Chapter Four

McCabe left. He had one last private chat with Johnny outside the men’s room, then he vanished into the twilight.

Melia was hardly surprised. He was as bad as Johnny in that way. They both had the annoying ability to come and go in a blink. Except that in this case, she wished McCabe had stayed and Johnny had disappeared.

She couldn’t be near him for any length of time. There were too many tangled emotions scrambling around in her head. Not to mention her heart.

She’d wanted to kiss him back in the bar, not punch him. Or maybe she’d wanted to do both. Maybe she should have done both. But kissing him would have taken her back to a time and place she wasn’t ready to remember. Even so, anger and resentment would only carry her so far. Eventually those feelings would fade, and she’d be vulnerable again.

She drove her Ford Explorer to the house she rented on the edge of town. The property bordered a sliver of waterfront that was Tortuga Lake on one side and a dense area of swampland in the back. It was a pretty white structure that had whispered Florida Keys to her the moment she’d laid eyes on it. The mostly white interior was dotted with large potted plants, rattan furniture, and plenty of colorful cushions and pictures. It was as homey as she could make anyplace these days.

Her housekeeper, Gert, was sitting on the porch when she arrived. Finished for the day, and enjoying a cherry-flavored cigarette with the mai tai she habitually prepared before she moseyed down the road.

“Gators are singing, darling.” She smiled like Bette Davis and gave a rusty laugh. “Maybe we should try and capture one—a young one. We could make it a watchdog. Two of the Brewer boys were throwing blueberries at the house this afternoon. I chased them off with a broom, but an hour later they were back and they had their older brothers in tow.”

“That’s because you chased the younger ones off with a broom. I give them apples and they all go home.”

“I gave them apples once. They threw them at me.”

Melia deposited her medical bag inside the front door and glanced at the road leading to the house. “Did you shout at them?” she asked.

Gert blew a stream of smoke at the yellow bug light. “Might have, darling. I can’t remember. Hooligans, all of them. I vote we tame an alligator.”

“Mmm.” It was a thought, Melia reflected as Johnny’s headlights came into view, though not for the reasons Gert believed. “We’ve got a guest for the night. His name’s Johnny Hunt.”

“Really?” Her curiosity instantly piqued, the housekeeper sat up in anticipation. “Is he a friend of yours like the sheriff?”

“No.”

“Ahh.” She raised the cigarette holder. “An old flame.”

“A long extinguished one.”

“Handsome?”

“Maybe.”

“Better than handsome.” Chuckling, Gert sipped her mai tai. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Melia didn’t know if she was talking to Bette or Gert, and frankly, she didn’t care. Johnny parked and climbed from the truck, pocketing his keys while he scoped out the front yard, with its trio of huge cypress trees and enough Spanish moss to wrap around the property five or six times.

“Oh my… yes …” Gert drawled. “He is a bit of something dreamy.”

Or nightmarish. Melia supposed it depended on a person’s point of view. Her own was so screwed up at this point she didn’t know what to think. Or feel. Or want.

Even from her conflicted perspective, she could understand why Gert might salivate. Females of all ages did that when Johnny came into full view. A bit Bohemian, a bit lean and lanky, he had a smooth gait, a hot body, and an aura of bad boy danger that made women want to grab him by the belt and yank him straight into the bedroom.

His dark brown hair with its sun-kissed tips had grown much longer than usual, his killer eyes were the color of melted chocolate, and his features were, well, absolutely incredible. Not pretty, but definitely on the plus side of gorgeous.

“Your trees are too big, Mel,” he said as he approached. Almost as an afterthought, he glanced in Gert’s direction. “Hi.”

At fifty-eight—she claimed forty-eight—and far from sexually dead, the housekeeper stood to extend a graceful hand. “Delighted.” Her brows went up. “Johnny, isn’t it? Dr. Rose’s old flame.”

Johnny’s dark eyes glinted. “That was quick.”

Melia leaned a shoulder on the doorjamb. “Gert’s my housekeeper. She lives in the guesthouse a few hundred yards from here. I told her you were visiting for the night.”

“And are welcome to sleep in the guesthouse with her if you prefer,” Gert said.

“Johnny’s going to sleep in the boathouse for the short time he’s here. Sorry, Gert.” Melia watched him through wary eyes. “I’m not sure if he’ll be alone or not. Pretty sure I heard Laidlaw’s name mentioned earlier tonight.”

Johnny’s lips curved into a faint smile. He was still scanning the area. “You remember him, huh?”

“Big, heavy, daddy was a gorilla, mother had beautiful blue eyes that he inherited. I remember him very well.”

Gert regarded Johnny in open speculation. “Do you have brothers?” she asked him.

“Not that I know of.” Johnny surveyed the upper portion of the house. “But probably.”

It said a lot. Try as she might not to relent, the remark softened her heart. Melia knew his childhood had been more terrible than most, and going there brought a lump of sympathy to her throat.

“You can come in for a few minutes,” she told him. “Gert. I wanted to ask you about the new school teacher. You’re related to him, aren’t you?”

“He’s my cousin’s boy. Poor dear. He’s only been here two days and his mama’s already up and called him back home to Alabama because she’s got a bleeding ulcer, and she doesn’t want to be alone. He’s such a good son. Left yesterday afternoon to tend to her.”

Melia looked at Johnny. “That’s one off the list. Thank you, Gert and/or Bette. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You most certainly will.” It had to be Bette who ran a finger along Johnny’s arm and offered him a seductive parting smile.

“She reminds me of one of the Golden Girls.” After testing the strength of the wraparound porch rail, Johnny joined Melia at the top of the stairs. “The floozy.”

Melia grinned. “Blanche Devereaux. I suppose she does, a little. Personality wise, she’s quite a bit like Blanche when she’s entirely herself. Unfortunately, most days she’s herself coupled with Bette Davis. And no, she’s not crazy. She just suffers from a harmless delusion.”

“Does she do her job well?”

“Yes.”

“Then I like her. I dug the bullet out, Mel. Give me a place to do what I have to do with it and something might turn up.”

She pushed off from the jamb. “You need another bullet to compare it to, don’t you?”

“You’re talking about forensics. I can’t do that here. I’ll ship it off to McCabe and see what he can make of it. We might get lucky.”

“Only with the bullet.” She slapped his hand away when he reached for her. She simply wasn’t ready for any physical contact.

His gaze met hers. “I was just going to open the door wider, have a look inside.”

Well now she felt bitchy—but with good reason to be so, she reminded herself. “One night,” she said firmly. “Do what you have to do, see what McCabe can come up with, and go. I’m still wrapping my head around what you did. I don’t know how far past it I’ll be able to get, but right now I’m stuck on really pissed off. There’s such a word as trust, Johnny. I’d rather have known and lived with the pain than hate myself for three years.”

He caught her by the arm. “It damn near killed me to sign the papers, Mel.”

For a moment, her mind went blank. Then, like a knife through her heart, the pain of that memory sliced through her. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I wanted you to know how hard all of this was for me. I think your anger is blinding you to what I feel for you. To what I’ve always felt for you.”

She closed her eyes. “Johnny, don’t…”

“Hey, if you want to punch me again, go ahead. You’re entitled.”

No, she didn’t want to punch him. Well, yes, she did, but not for the same reason as before. Maybe the day would end and she’d wake up the next morning to find the whole thing had been a really horrible dream. “I wonder if Gert left any of her mai tai mix,” she said softly. “I need a drink.”

Johnny took another quick look around. “We shouldn’t be talking out here.”

“Seriously? First you get me all wound up, and now you’re thinking spies and eavesdroppers? Or are you trying to frighten me so I’ll let you sleep in my guest bedroom?”

A grin tugged on his lips. “There is that,” he agreed. “Why don’t you give me the tour while you digest? I promise not to touch you. I’ll get my gear and— ”

The rest of his sentence was cut off by a sudden barrage of popping noises. Gert screamed. A second later, Melia found herself inside the house on her butt. The door was closed and Johnny, as usual, had vanished.

…

He didn’t expect the closed door to stop her for long, but he figured shutting her in would give him the precious seconds needed to determine what the sounds were, where they’d come from, and whether or not Melia’s housekeeper was injured or simply reacting.

Gun drawn, Johnny rounded the corner of the house. He arrived in time to see Gert’s shadowy outline running toward the backyard. Instead of a cigarette holder, she held a slender branch with Spanish moss stuck to the end.

“You little hooligans,” she shrieked. “I told you to skedaddle. More mischief won’t win you any favors from Dr. Rose. And if it’s a look you’re trying to steal, she’s got company. He won’t take kindly to a bunch of juvenile peeping toms prowling about the place.”

A group of four boys, ranging in age from pre-adolescent to mid-teens, merely turned and peppered her with a bunch of small projectiles. Possibly pebbles, but Johnny thought more likely berries by the sound they made when they struck the trees.

“Caleb, Jake, Danny, Sam, you boys stop throwing things at Gert.” Melia strode toward them from what Johnny presumed was the back door. She pointed into the swamp. “Home. Now. All of you. You can come back and wash my house tomorrow.”

The tallest of the four boys stood in the trees with his feet apart and his head bent low. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll come back and clean up. But you should know, Ms. Frye whacked Sam in the behind with her broom this afternoon. Then she whacked the back of his head.”

“Gert!” Melia turned to her housekeeper. “I’ve told you not to do that. Hitting the boys anywhere is wrong, but especially don’t hit them in the head.”

“Hooligans deserve what they get.” Gert brought her branch down on the ground. “And I didn’t mean to hit the boy’s head. He fell when I was taking a second swing at his backside.”

“Go,” Melia said to the uncertain boys. “We’ll sort this out tomorrow.”

Johnny tucked his gun away. He hadn’t decided yet if he was more annoyed or amused by the incident. Bizarre worked as a description of it, but that was largely because of Gert, who was using the branch to probe the weeds at her feet.

Melia started over to where Johnny stood. “Did you lose a shoe or just your cigarette holder ?” she asked her housekeeper.

“Both,” Gert replied. “Cigarette holder cost me a pretty penny.”

“I’ll buy you another one.” Melia didn’t stop or give Johnny any clue as to her intentions. She simply brushed past his arm, grabbed the gun from his waistband, and fired into a clump of cattails. “Snake,” she announced. She returned the gun to his waistband. “Find your shoe and Johnny will walk you home.” She shrugged when he stared at her. “You learn stuff when you live in the Everglades. My father taught me how to shoot when I was five. He said I was a natural. I don’t do it very often, but black snakes are deadly. Gert was poking around really close to it.”

“Right.” Johnny nodded and continued to stare. “I’ll walk Gert home, then do…whatever.” Because for the life of him, at that moment, he couldn’t remember anything other than what he’d just seen about the woman he’d married five years ago. He’d known she could shoot, but he’d never actually witnessed her do it. His mind didn’t so much go blank as spin back to another time.

Melia had intrigued and fascinated him on every level from the moment he met her. She’d been night shifting in an ER in L.A. He’d already been working for McCabe. On the trail of a mercenary gunman who’d killed as many as seventeen people on the West Coast, he and two other guys had wound up shot in various body parts. He’d gotten it in the right side, below his ribs, Laidlaw had taken two bullets in the shoulder, and Dixon had been struck in the head. None of them had known how badly the others had been injured until they’d reached the hospital and were being treated.

Being the new kid on the block, Melia had helped dig the bullets out of Laidlaw, then been sent to deal with Johnny.

“Are you a nurse’s aide?” They’d been the first words out of his mouth when he’d caught sight of her. Because she hadn’t looked old enough to be anything else.

“Thought about it,” she’d replied. “But I like cutting on people better. You’re my first solo. Dr. Martin’s letting me tend to you as a birthday present.”

He’d spotted red-brown hair under the surgical cap she wore. It was coupled with the most amazing gold eyes in creation. He hadn’t had a clue what to say to her. Except…

“How’s Dixon?”

“The one with the head wound?” Her gold eyes had filled with compassion. “He’s still in the OR. Dr. Brady’s performing the surgery. He’s the best.”

“Will he make it?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I could say yes, absolutely, but it’s a tricky surgery. Your other coworker’s fine. We only gave him a local.”

“Can I have a local?”

“Nope.” Her eyes had smiled at him. “You get the full treatment. We should have dealt with you first, but your friend with the shoulder wound was swearing a lot louder than you, and the compression on your side has slowed the bleeding considerably.”

Suspicion had snuck back in. “So you really are a doctor? This isn’t the Hotel California?”

“I am, and not as far as I’m aware. Of course, if this were the Hotel California, I might not be aware of it yet. If it eases your mind at all, I’m quite good at this. Cutting’s my specialty, but I enjoy all areas of medicine.”

“Except nursing.”

“I love nursing. My brother’s an RN. He also played two games in the NHL, for the L.A. Kings. That was back before he mangled his knee and had to switch careers. Are you getting sleepy yet?”

Was she kidding? “Not at all. Tell me more.”

Her eyes had smiled again. “Sorry, can’t. It’s your turn in the OR. I’ll try to leave a small scar. And I’ll play the Eagles while I work.”

“‘Hotel California?’”

“Probably not. My anesthetist has a thing about jinxes. I prefer the Beatles myself.”

“Johnny?” He felt a poke in almost the exact spot where she’d removed the bullet. “Are you zoning out on me?”

“What? No. Yes. No, I was thinking.”

“You were zoning.” She gave him another poke. “Will you please walk Gert home? It won’t take more than five minutes. I have a gun in the house if anyone untoward comes to call. I’ll be fine.”

“I can see that.”

Melia raised her voice. “Gert, forget your cigarette holder. You found your shoe, the Brewer boys are halfway to their farm by now, and Johnny’s going to walk you to the guesthouse.”

He should have said no. Melia was his focus—his sole reason for being in the Everglades. “Lock the doors,” he said. He shook his head when she tried to return his gun. “Keep it. I have backups.”

“There’s a surprise.” But she kept the weapon. Cocking her head at him, she asked, “Why does Ben Satyr hate you so much? You never did explain that to me.”

Johnny gave a grim laugh and raised his gaze to the fluttering treetops. “Among other things, he blames me for the death of someone he loved. Her name was Julie. When you get right down to it, I’m guessing he blames me for a lot of things, both physical and emotional. We’ve known each other for a long time, but most of it circles back to our time in Iraq.”

“Iraq was almost seven years ago, though. Why did it take him so long to decide he wanted revenge?”

“Killing me was never going to be enough. Once he recovered from his physical wounds, I’m guessing he began to plot and plan. Hooking up with Mockerie gave him the money he needed to bring his plans to fruition. By then, you and I were married. I had no idea he’d come after you to get back at me. McCabe figured it out. Don’t ask me how.”

“And the rest appears to be history.” Her voice rose again. “Snake’s gone, Gert. You’ll be fine.” Then she looked straight at Johnny. “So will I.”

Resting his Glock on her shoulder like a rifle, she held his gaze for several seconds before turning and walking back to her house.

…

She could survive a few hours in his company. She had the strength of mind for that, and the willpower. Stay angry, stay focused, keep the conversation impersonal. And for God’s sake, don’t look into his eyes. Those were the rules, and she was determined to stick to them.

“McCabe…” She sighed his name out. “You and Johnny have way too much to answer for.”

Too much to go over in her head right then.

She put her iTunes on as soon as she got inside, and every light she could think of. The White Album worked for her that night. So did a glass of red wine and a batch of medical files. Johnny could do his thing for McCabe, and she’d attempt to cure some of the town’s ills.

Because her AC only worked on low, the house was warm and muggy. A breeze off the lake helped, but did little more than move the heat around. She changed to white shorts and a dove-gray tank top. Then she went outside to the second-floor porch that wrapped around the entire house, pulled up a chair, and propped her bare feet on the rail.

She wouldn’t think about him. Wouldn’t let herself remember how it had been.

Resting her head on the chairback, she fanned her face with a file and gave in to memories of Los Angeles.

Surgery had been her passion. Not open heart or neurosurgery, but pretty much anything else, particularly emergency procedures.

“You’re good, kid, really good.” Her mentor, Arthur Brady, had called her into his office after a challenging six-hour stint in the OR. “Another ten minutes unattended, and that stabbing victim would have been in the morgue. Excellent repair work.” He’d paused, grinned. “I’m sending you to the medical convention in Atlantic City.”

“Me?” She’d been shocked. “I thought you were going.”

“I was. Now you are. Torches must be passed, Melia. You’ve earned this. Plus, it’s my granddaughter’s sixteenth birthday that weekend. Family first, I’m afraid. Or so my wife insists. Take your husband. Make a mini vacation of it. Johnny likes to cut loose once in a while, doesn’t he?”

“When he’s not busy doing his secret cop thing.”

“I thought he was a federal marshal.”

“Depends on the day.” And his mood, she’d reflected. And, of course, McCabe.

“Who’s his boss?” Dr. Brady had asked.

She’d smiled. “A man of even deeper mystery than Johnny. And that’s not an easy place to get to.”

Dr. Brady hadn’t pushed, and Melia hadn’t elaborated. How could she, when she didn’t have a clue what McCabe’s status was within the government. Something covert, with the occasional detour to the dark side of cop-hood. Or so her inventive mind imagined.

As for Johnny… No, she told herself firmly. She would not go there.

On the other hand, there was something to be said for probing a sore tooth. Maybe she needed to feel the pain again in order to get past it.

As Dr. Brady had suggested, she’d talked Johnny into going to Atlantic City with her. It hadn’t been easy. He’d been withdrawn for some reason—troubled by a problem he’d refused to share.

“Stuff at work,” was all he’d said. Then he’d kissed her and smiled. “Maybe I should go. I might relax while I’m having a beer at the roulette wheel.”

He’d hit the jackpot twice. He’d used her age—twenty-six—and her hair color—red. Same number, same color, two times in two days.

They’d made love more times than she could count. He’d brought her flowers. She’d bought candles, lit them. There’d been wine and lovely scents and the lights of Atlantic City in the background. She could still feel his fingers gliding over her skin, still taste him. Still feel the ripple of muscles beneath her searching hands. When he’d been inside her, she’d felt full and loved and complete. The outside world had faded away. It always did that when she was with Johnny. There were only the two of them—or so she’d thought until the third night, when he’d gone off with McCabe who’d flown in from wherever, as he so often did, to see him.

The warmth and the lights and the romance dimmed in her mind. She’d felt the change even if she hadn’t understood it. But then, McCabe’s presence often had that effect on Johnny. So really, nothing unusual in that. Alone and free of seminars, Melia had opted to try her hand at blackjack.

She didn’t know if she’d won or lost the game. Everything had faded to dark while she’d been in the casino. She and Johnny had been drinking wine up in their room. Anger shimmered inside her at the thought of it. Had he done it deliberately, to start her along the path that he and McCabe had created? Another glass of wine downstairs with one of McCabe’s men, a small amount of drug in the drink, and presto, she’d been open to suggestion. Dizzy and disoriented, she’d absorbed the memory of things happening around her, of visual effects, of Matthew in her room. Sleep would have come easily, and, of course, the morning after residue would have left her open to whatever story Matthew told.

He’d told it very well. So well, in fact, that she’d believed it.

But had it ever felt completely right? The answer was no. Yet how could she have been expected to refute what had seemed so real in her mind? It hadn’t helped that Johnny had been standing next to her shouting. A lamp had shattered. And when she’d looked over, Matthew had been lying in bed beside her.

Finding herself in Johnny’s favored Hotel California would have been a vast improvement.

She’d remained trapped in that Atlantic City hotel room for the next three years. It still haunted her, followed her everywhere she went. There’d been no escape from any of it. She’d learned to beat it down for periods of time, but she hadn’t discovered a way to prevent the grim memory from creeping back in.

“False memory,” she said aloud. “I’m so angry!” She suspected the war inside had only just begun. Yes, Johnny and McCabe were scum for doing what they’d done. But on the other hand, what they’d done had very likely saved her life. If what McCabe said was true, if Johnny had simply found Satyr and killed him, Mockerie would have come down on him—on them—with a vengeance. And God knew what vengeance might entail in Mockerie’s eyes.

With a sound of frustration, she pressed her fists to her temples and told herself to breathe.

Ten minutes passed before the phone rang. Maybe Bette had Johnny in a sexual hammerlock. Now that she’d enjoy.

She answered with her usual, “Dr. Rose speaking.”

“Oh my, aren’t we the professional,” a man’s gravelly voice drawled. “Look at the clock, doc. The one downstairs in your dining room. All those time zones on the face. How do you keep track of where you are? Mixed me up real good while I was pondering it.”

Her insides went cold. “Who is this?”

“Not that I pondered it for long, mind. I kept right on walking and looking. That’s a right pretty house you got there.”

Melia’s mind scrambled. Jesus. Whoever he was, he’d been in her home. Was he still there?

“I like the red Mixmaster in the kitchen,” the man continued. “And the soft white sheets on your bed. They smell like tropical flowers. I coulda hung around and sniffed all night, but I had to skedaddle before you showed up. Left a nice box for you, doc. Maybe you want to find it and look at the great, big bow on top…” The man’s voice hardened. “Before it and you ain’t in that pretty house of yours anymore.”