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The Planning Dance
Chapter Fourteen
“Now do you understand?” Christine sat on the sofa, wrapped in a pillowy patchwork quilt to stave off the late-night chill. Peter, next to her, rested one hand on her knee. It felt...good. Warm. Protective.
“I never denied that you were at risk,” he said. “I just think there are other ways of dealing with it, other than―than―” He paused, and after a moment, closed his mouth and shook his head.
“It’s the only way to stop him.” The steely edge in Christine’s voice surprised even her. “Until he’s gone, he’ll never stop coming after me.” She stared at him. “Never.”
He fidgeted in his seat. “The courts can order him to―”
“Do you know how many court orders he already ignores?” She sprang forward, placing her face inches from his, and gripped the hand on her knee, digging her nails in. He winced. Good. He needed to feel some of this pain. “The courts can’t do anything to stop him. What happened tonight proves it.”
“They could put him in jail.”
“And then what? I’ve been over this with the lawyers. They can only hold him for twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight. After that, he’d be back on the street―Portland streets, mind you. They don’t view him as a threat. Do you know what one prosecutor told me?”
Peter shook his head, as if numb.
“He said, ‘There’s no room in the jails for him anyway. They’re overwhelmed with pimps, prostitutes, and teenagers busted for drug possession. We don’t have room for trespassers.’ Trespassers! They called him a God damned trespasser!” She gripped his arm even harder. He winced, then pried her fingers loose and zippered his fingers into hers.
“Christine, I’m sorry. I want to help you. I will help you. But what you’re asking, I just―I can’t—”
“You can.” She leaned closer, her lips an inch from his. “You have. Like last November, with Alvin Dark.”
He shook his head. “That was different. He attacked me. I defended myself.”
“Self-defense? Hah! You followed him and crashed into his car, then beat him to death.”
“I know how it looks, but―”
“And how is this any different? You’re defending me. From a stalker. A violent, angry man. Don’t I deserve protection, the same as you?”
“If I saw him attacking you, then, yes, it could be considered a defensive act, but―”
“You did see him attack me. Tonight!” She wanted to add: And that’s the whole point. But she needed him to see that for himself.
“He broke in. That’s diff―”
“In order to kill me!”
Peter sat back, as if pushed, and took a deep breath. “We can’t prove that.”
Heat rose in Christine’s face. How could he be so thick-headed? “He’s threatened me. So. Many. Times. What do we have to do, catch him in the act? Stop him while the bullet’s in the air, or while his fists are flying?”
Peter’s shoulders drooped. “Unfortunately, the law is on his side. Until we witness an actual attack―”
“I have witnessed an actual attack. On me!”
“But it was your word against his. Look, I believe you. But until we can, yes, catch him in the act, the burden of proof is on us.”
“Until it’s too late, you mean.” She shifted her tone from angry to pouty. Maybe that would reach him.
He swallowed, nodded. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She smiled. That’s what she needed to hear. She wrapped both arms around his neck. The blanket fell away, and she leaned into him, her body pressing into his. “That’s all I want,” she whispered. She kissed his face, then nibbled on his ear. “Now, tell me. What do you want?”
***
PETER AWOKE IN A STRANGE bed, rested and comfortable, but alone.
He sat up, shook out the cobwebs, and took in the space. Girly, soft, and tasteful. Pillowy mattress and comforter, all pastels with modern Danish-style furniture. A make-up table with a large mirror. Bright white drapes, drawn shut, allowed morning light to seep through around the edges. An open door revealed a walk-in closet. A closed door, he guessed, led to a bathroom. He slid out of the bed and padded over to it, confirmed his theory, and closed the door again behind him. He relieved his bladder’s ache, washed his hands, frowned at his unshaven reflection in the mirror. Tried to remember what day it was. Tuesday? Wednesday? He’d lost track. A workday, though. Speaking of which, he needed to get there.
He exited the bathroom and searched for a clock. None. He wondered how she ever managed to arrive anywhere on time.
The door to the hallway opened, and Christine entered, holding two large mugs of steaming, aromatic bliss. “I hope you like Sulawesi Peaberry dark roast,” she said, handing him one. “Cream and sugar, if I remember correctly.”
“You always do.” He took a sip. Hints of caramel, toffee, and sweet citrus danced within the dark, chocolaty roast. Pure heaven. He kissed her. “You make a damn fine cuppa Joe, m’lady.”
She laughed at his horrible attempt at an Irish brogue. “I’m glad you like it. Making great coffee is one of my superpowers.” She glanced at the unmade bed and winked. “One of many.”
He tried, and failed, to ignore the stirring warmth rising in his loins, and surrendered a nervous laugh. “Unfortunately, I’ll have to forbear enjoying your other great superpower for a bit. I need to get to work.” He set the coffee on an end table, sat on the bed, and pulled on his pants. She sat next to him and stopped the pants’ progress mid-thigh.
“So early? Pity.” She ran her hand up his thigh to his boxers. “I was hoping you could, maybe, take the day off. Don’t you need a sick and tired day?”
She continued to caress him, and he moaned, both in pleasure and, when he stopped her, in pain. “I can’t. I’m buried at work. Until I get that loading supervisor on board—”
“Raul.” Her hand resumed its caresses. He blocked it again, removed it from his body.
“Whoever we choose. It’s not final.”
“It’s Raul. We both know it. You have no one else, remember?”
He turned to face her. She was all business now, no sensual allure remaining. He stood and pulled the jeans up the rest of the way. “Yeah. Well. There is that.”
“I think you’ll find him useful.” She smiled, a Cheshire cat grin.
“Useful? How about qualified, or experienced? That’s what I need.”
“He’s very qualified and experienced at what we need him for.” Her grin widened, in a twisted sort of way.
Peter’s chest tightened. “We?”
“You and me, darling. For our task ahead.”
“Our task.” He shrugged on his shirt and started buttoning.
“Yes. Solving the problem that brought you here last night. Or have you already forgotten?” She sipped her coffee and her eyes narrowed over the rim.
He froze. “Wait. You set all that up so that Stark’s could hire a—a—co-conspirator?”
She laughed. “Call it whatever you like, darling. Just keep in mind that he is comfortable getting his hands dirty, if need be. And after last night, I hope the need for dirty work is as obvious to you as it is to me.”
As much as he wanted to deny it, he could not.
***
PETER PARKED HIS PICKUP in Stark’s employee lot on the side of the building, much farther from the door than usual—one of the many penalties for being a half-hour late. He’d left Christine’s place only after watching her drive off in her Miata, top down, hair blowing in the wind in an illusion of carefree safety. With Kyle now physically present in the area, she was neither carefree nor safe. That worried him, almost as much as it did her.
Walking toward the front entrance of the store, he passed a familiar-looking truck, one that bore a striking resemblance to his own Ford Ranger, albeit older and a bit more beaten up. A silver early model Mazda B-series pickup with a dented hood and damaged grille. One he’d seen photos of during Alvin Dark’s murder trial.
Raul Vasquez’s vehicle.
He hustled inside and made a beeline for Jessica’s office. She sat at her desk, concentrating on some paperwork. Gregg stood beside her, bent over her shoulder, his trademark cigarette tucked into the gap between his ear and his tight graying curls. They looked up when he entered.
“I wondered if you were going to show up today,” Gregg said. “What happened? Car trouble?”
“Where is he?” Peter planted his feet shoulder width apart in her office, hands on his hips. “And more important, why is he here?”
“Who?” Gregg glanced at Jessica. She shook her head, confused.
“Don’t play dumb with me. Raul’s truck is parked outside. Why?”
Gregg shook his head. “You already know what kind of truck he drives? How?”
“Don’t change the subject. He hasn’t even been officially hired. Hell, I haven’t even made a decision yet, much less an offer, and he’s already putting down roots. What the hell is going on?”
“Petey, I’m sorry,” Jess said. “That’s my fault. When Gregg told me that all of the other job applicants dropped out, I asked Raul to come in and fill out the paperwork. I assumed—”
“You assumed wrong.”
“Well, he was the only candidate,” Gregg said. “And he’s qualified. And a diversity—”
“Aren’t we even going to pretend this is my choice to make? At least a little bit?” Peter stomped back to her doorway, then spun back to face them. “So, where the hell is he?”
“I figured you’d want to brief him,” Jess said, “so I put him in your office for now.” She looked to Gregg for support, who grimaced. Peter glared at them for a moment, then darted down the broad aisles toward his office.
Raul, as Jess predicted, was filling out paperwork when Peter burst into his office, head down, studious and focused. Which should have reduced Peter’s frustration and assuaged his suspicions. But one little detail blew all of that out of the water: where Raul had chosen to sit to fill out said paperwork.
At Peter’s desk. In. His. Chair.
“Get the hell out of my damned chair,” he said before the door had even swung all the way open.
Raul jumped, dropped his pen on the floor, then stood, panic written all over his face—proving, to Peter, that he was at least part human. “I am sorry,” he said, clutching the papers in front of his chest. “Miss Jessica told me to—”
“She didn’t tell you to take over my office. Go on, get out of there. Wait outside for me.” Peter set his keys on his desk and glared at the shorter man, scooting out of Peter’s way so he could get by.
“Now hold on.” Gregg’s large frame blocked Raul’s exit. “Peter, calm down. This isn’t his fault.”
Raul paused next to Gregg, glanced up at him, then turned back to face Peter. “My apologies for sitting at your desk. I–I needed a pen, and—”
“And you thought, what the hell, I’ll just move in, right?” Peter shoved some paperwork into a folder, confidential stuff that a non-employee shouldn’t see, and bent over to power up his computer. “This doesn’t bode well for your tenure here. You haven’t even started, and already you’ve pissed me off.”
“Again, I am sorry.”
“Peter, chill out,” Gregg said. “Now.”
Peter removed another folder from a drawer and slapped it onto his desk. “I’ll chill when I’m damn well good and ready. This stinks.” He swept an arm wide, across his body. “This whole situation stinks, big time. First I’m told who I can and can’t hire, then I—”
“Peter!” Gregg strode forward, glaring at him. “Raul,” he said in a calmer voice without turning to look at him, “would you mind finishing up in Jessica’s office? We’ll come get you in a few minutes.” Raul nodded and slipped out of the room. Gregg, still glaring, exhaled with a flourish. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Wrong with me? What the hell’s wrong with this place?” Peter collapsed into his chair and stared at the computer screen, still showing his machine’s boot-up sequence. “I thought it was my decision of whom to hire on my staff. Now I don’t even get to choose who to interview.”
“You can’t blame me for all those people not showing up.” Gregg sat in the guest chair facing Peter. “And you’re the one who wanted this to happen fast. So, we did that. And he’s a good man, Pete. Really. We got a good one.”
“I should think we’d at least want to check his other references.”
“Jess did that yesterday, like she always does. He checks out. She emailed you about that.”
Peter’s computer finished its boot sequence and he opened his email application. Sure enough, Jessica’s email sat on top of the list in his inbox, flagged “Urgent.” He clicked on it and scanned its contents. “So, he already quit his job at Lumber City? What happened to giving two weeks’ notice?”
“Apparently he’d already given notice before applying here. They were very sorry to see him go. They love him there, said he was the hardest-working employee in the store. Diligent, punctual, reliable—”
“Yeah, he’s a real boy scout. Did you call Florentino’s?”
Gregg sighed. “We did. Their manager refused to talk to us. Blamed it on their lawyers.”
“And that didn’t raise any red flags?”
“He told us about that in the interview, remember? Hell, you were on the jury when his boss testified. What more could we ask?”
Peter tapped a pencil on his desk for a few seconds. Maybe he was overreacting. Christine had somehow manipulated this outcome. She hadn’t explained how. As for why, her reason still rang in his ears. It made him uneasy, to say the least.
But if he hoped to see Christine, or share her bed, anytime soon, he needed to shorten his twelve-hour workdays. That meant hiring someone, soon.
And that meant hiring Raul.
Maybe he could turn this to his own advantage. Right now, Raul probably felt he owed Christine for this opportunity. If he owed Peter instead...
“Send him in.” Peter smiled. “Let’s get him trained on how to run Stark’s loading dock.”
Gregg stood, grinned, and extended a beefy handshake. “That’s my boy.”
Chapter Fifteen
Peter gave Raul a tour of Stark’s entire physical plant, focused on the parts with which he’d need the most familiarity: the loading and receiving dock, the warehouse, and the retail floor, where he’d spend time helping customers between shipments. Back in his office, he gave Raul a quick run-through of their inventory and timekeeping system. “But you’ll get formal classroom training on those,” he said, “as soon as Jessica can set that up for you.”
“Muchas gracias,” Raul said. “I mean, thank you.”
Peter grinned, the first time he’d relaxed all day. “You don’t have to translate that. I remember that much of my high school Spanish. And on the floor, we hope to exploit your bilingual skills. We’re getting a lot more Hispanic customers these days.”
Raul nodded and cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind me teaching you something, señor...?”
Peter shrugged. “Sure. What ya got?”
“The term ‘Hispanic’ refers to a person who speaks primarily Spanish,” Raul said. “While it is not technically incorrect, people from South and Central America prefer to be referred to as ‘Latino’ and ‘Latina’—although that is not a universal preference.”
“Good to know,” Peter said. “I appreciate you setting me straight on that.”
“It is my pleasure.”
Peter paused a moment. “There’s something else I want you to set me straight on, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Raul said. “Anything.”
Peter leaned in and set Raul with a level gaze. “What’s your relationship with Christine Nielsen?”
Raul blanched and froze in his seat. “We, uh...we are friends.”
“How did you become friends?”
Raul cleared his throat and lowered his gaze. “We happened to meet at Lumber City about six weeks ago, just after I started working there. She recognized me and asked me about a siding product we carry.” His vocal cadence seemed steady.
Too steady. As in, rehearsed.
“Which product was that?”
“A composite material from Carolina Lumber,” he said. “I don’t think you carry it here at Stark’s.”
“We.”
“We?”
“We don’t carry it at Stark’s. You work for us now.”
Raul smothered a sheepish grin. “Of course. I am sorry.”
Peter chuckled, hoping to convey more mirth than he felt. “No worries. You’re new. You’ll get used to it. So, how did it work out?”
Raul’s eyebrows curled in puzzlement. “How did what work out?”
“The siding. For Christine.”
“Oh.” His face blanked again. “She said she was not ready to buy. I do not think she ever followed up.” He sounded unsure.
“Interesting,” Peter said, “that she went to Lumber City when she knew I could get her a better deal.”
Raul set his lips in a firm line and glanced away.
“And I’ve been to her house. The siding appears to be several years old, but in perfect condition.” Peter waited for a reaction, and again got none, other than a general reddening of Raul’s face and neck. “Well, I suppose she must have changed her mind, then.”
“As I said, she never followed up about that.”
“But she did follow up with you. Socially, I mean. Did you two date?”
“No!” Raul swiveled in his seat, his body taking a more aggressive posture. “Mr. Robertson, I do not know why Ms. Nielsen took an interest in me. But I did appreciate her help in finding this opportunity. At least, I thought so before this conversation.”
Peter suppressed a smile. “If you’re having second thoughts...”
Raul’s eyes widened. Peter had the impression he was thinking about it. Then Raul shook his head. “No. I am excited to be here.” His pitch, though, rose a notch. Nerves, perhaps.
Peter studied him a moment. Opportunity lost. Gregg would blow a gasket if Peter pushed Raul away, but if he’d walked out on his own, Gregg could hardly blame Peter. On the other hand, he couldn’t say for sure that Christine had planted him here to spy on him. Maybe she really did just want to do both of them a favor.
“Okay. I’m satisfied with your explanation. I won’t bring it up again.” He grabbed a thick binder from his bookshelf and handed it across the desk to Raul. “Here’s our Employee Handbook. Give it a read-through, especially the guidelines for supervisors and the section on harassment. We’ve had some issues with that lately. Jess will set you up with a login to our computer system, and links to our standard operating procedures. Get up to speed on all that and be ready to unload some trucks at seven a.m. tomorrow.”
Raul accepted the notebook and stood. “I will do that. Thank you for your time this morning, and for the opportunity to work at Stark’s. I won’t let you down.”
Peter shook his hand. “I know you won’t. And you’re welcome.”
When Raul had gone, Peter checked his messages. He’d missed a text from Angela Wegman, checking to make sure he had her number. He replied: “Thanks. Will call soon.” Saved her number, deleted the message. He had a girlfriend...or at least, a woman interested in him. A committed monogamist, he’d never dated more than one woman at a time. And at that moment, he needed to call that one woman. For so many reasons.
He dialed her number, got voice mail, left a quick “call me back” and fired up his email. Ten minutes later, “Black Magic Woman” played from his cell.
“You’ve been a bad boy,” Christine said, her voice playful.
“I’ve been bad?” He stared at the phone, incredulous. “Remind me, which one of us interfered with—no, make that completely manipulated—the other’s hiring process? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sent Raul here to spy on me.”
Christine laughed. “Do you know better?”
Peter’s voice caught in his throat. “Wait,” he choked out, “are you saying he is here to spy on me?”
“Spy is such a nasty word,” she said, still playful. “But isn’t it convenient, having him in a position where he owes us both? A man who, shall we say, has some relevant experience?”
“Relevant? To what?”
She laughed again. “I think he could be very helpful in our plan to take care of Kyle. Don’t you?”
“What plan? We don’t have a plan.”
Peter’s office door opened, and Jessica appeared in the doorway. Raul Vasquez stood behind her, a faint smile on his face. His eyes bore straight into Peter. Jessica waved a fistful of papers in the air. “Petey, hon, we need your signature—”
He held up a hand to shush her, then pointed to his desk. Jessica slapped the forms down and leaned back against the door frame, arms crossed. In his ear, Christine continued, “You’re right. We need to put a plan together, you and I, and soon. How about this evening? Your place? I’d rather not go home right now. I’m sure you understand.”
“Sure, I understand.” Peter scanned the forms in front of him, but none of the words on the page registered. He held up an open palm and gave Jessica a questioning look. “That would be fine. What time?”
Jessica pressed a bright purple fingernail next to a “sign here” sticky tab on the top form and held out a pen, clacking her gum in a rapid rhythm. Peter grabbed the pen and once again tried, but failed, to comprehend the meaning of what she had asked him to sign.
“Seven. I’ll bring wine, you cook,” Christine said. “Oh, and think about how you’ll want to use Raul.”
“Raul?” Too late, the name escaped his lips. Raul reacted by stepping into the open doorway, a foot behind Jessica.
“Yes?” Raul said. “You have some questions for me?”
“Is he there?” Christine asked. “Right now?”
“Uh, huh,” Peter said. He still needed a cover for his verbal slip, so he held up the form in the air, print-side facing Raul. “Is this all correct?”
Raul squinted at the form and shrugged. Jessica blew a hurricane-force burst of air between her lips. “How the heck would Raul know if his network login authorization form is filled out right? Jeez Louise, Peter, you’re such a dodo sometimes.” She smacked the page back onto his desk and pointed at the “Sign here” tab. “Just sign it, all right? It’s all perfect. Sign ’em all.”
“Who’s that?” Christine asked.
“Hold on.” Peter scanned the top form, signed it, and handed the stack to Jessica. She glared at the ceiling, then set all but the top form back onto his desk.
“Sign all of them, birdbrain. Here—his tracking authorization.” Another painted fingernail indicated the signature block. He scribbled something indecipherable on the empty black line. “His uniform and supplies requisition.” Another scribble. “Phone and office info.” Again. “Pay and benefits.” Scratch, scratch. “And his authorization to access confidential crap we got here. Raul, you’re about to learn all of our deepest, darkest secrets.” She laughed and pointed another fingernail.
Christine laughed. “Not all of our secrets. Right, Peter?”
Peter, about to sign, found he could no longer move his hand.
––––––––
Chapter Sixteen
“SO,” FRANKIE SAID, setting fresh pints in front of Peter and his own empty chair in the back of a dusty neighborhood pub, “How’d you break it to her?”
Peter slid the beer closer and lifted it to his lips, careful not to slosh any on his last clean pair of trousers. Nearly a dozen others lay in a pile in his laundry room next to a mountain of underwear, socks, and beer-logo-imprinted T-shirts. He took a deep swallow of the bitter, amber brew, Lucky Dog Altbier, his summer favorite. He averted his gaze from Frankie, who remained standing across the table from him. No answer—no truthful answer—would satisfy his friend. Nor himself, for that matter. Maybe if he took another sip or two or three, Frankie might forget what he’d asked.
No such luck. “Well? What’d you tell her?” Frankie leaned against the wobbly table, splashing IPA out of his own mug.
“I’ll get a napkin.” Peter rose from his chair.
Frankie laid his beefy paws on his friend’s shoulders and forced him back into his chair. “Never mind the napkin. What did you tell her?”
Peter sloshed the spilled beer to the floor and pretended to be preoccupied with the inch-thick layer of peanut shells absorbing the pale froth.
“Dude.” Frankie twisted his body back to full height and ran the fingers of both hands through his blond, curly mop. “Tell me you told her no to killing—”
“Shh!” Peter tamped at the air with both hands, palms down, and waited for Frankie to sit. Once his friend had eased his bulky frame into his chair and taken a sip of beer, Peter leaned forward. “I haven’t, yet. It’s not a good time.”
“Not a good time?” Frankie’s voice carried over the hubbub of the half-filled, cavernous pub. Several heads turned to stare and a few conversations quieted. Frankie lowered his voice, but tension still streaked through every word. “Dude, you’ve got to tell her before you get, you know, addicted to her. You get what I mean?”
Peter averted his eyes again and shrugged. Frankie pinched the edges of the table and pressed his face close to Peter’s. “It’s already too late for that, isn’t it? You’re hooked. Aren’t you?”
Peter said nothing and stared at the soggy mess on the floor.
“Oh, jeez.” Frankie grabbed his beer, sucked half of it down in one quick gulp, and wiped foam off of his upper lip. “Peter, you’re in trouble, man. Don’t you see? You’ve got to get out.”
“Out of what?”
“Out. Just out, man. Out of here, out of her clutches, out of this situation. You’re getting in too deep, man. Why don’t you—hell, why don’t we get out of town for a while? Let’s take a road trip!”
“You’re suggesting that I run?” Peter shook his head and twirled his half-full beer glass around on its base. “I don’t think that’d work.”
“It’s the only thing that’d work. Unless you want me talking to your brother.”
“Of course not!”
“Then come on. You’re long overdue for a vacation anyway.” Frankie stood and threw some bills on the table. “Come on, let’s go pack.”
Peter waved him off. “Not gonna happen. It’s midsummer, the busiest time of the year. Gregg would never give me time off now. Plus, I’ve got Raul to train.”
“You’re not going to ask Gregg.” Frankie pulled on his arm.
“What do you suggest I do? Call him from the road?”
“Not a bad idea. Come on.” Frankie lifted Peter up from his chair by the shoulders. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”
Peter resisted at first, then laughed. “Okay, okay, I’ll go. But not like this, out of the blue, with no warning to anyone.”
“Awesome! Okay. This weekend, then.”
Peter shook his head. “Not this weekend. Maybe next. Give me one week to train Raul and get my life in order.”
Frankie eyed him with suspicion. “You’re not going to tell her, are you?”
“What could I tell her? I don’t even know where we’re going. And,” he held up a hand to stifle Frankie’s protest, “I don’t want you to tell me. Deal?”
“You promise not to tell her anything?”
“Just that I won’t be available for a couple of days.”
“Weeks.”
Peter crossed his arms, cocked his head. “Frankie, come on. I can’t take more than a week right now.”
“Okay. Two weekends. But you take all of next Friday off.”
Peter grinned. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“This is gonna be great!” Frankie pumped the air with his fist, then grabbed his cane and led Peter toward the exit. He pushed open the door—
And stumbled down the steps, landing hard on the gravel of the parking lot. Peter rushed to him and helped him up. “Frankie! You all right, man? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Just a scratch. Where’s my walking stick?” He found it, pushed himself off the ground, and dusted himself off. His hand came away bloody, courtesy of scraped knees poking through freshly-ripped jeans. “Crap. These were my favorite Levi’s.” He stumbled backwards and landed on his backside on the steps. “Ow! Damn.”
“Frankie, let me drive you.”
“No, dude, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” He pushed himself back to his feet.
“Frankie. You’re barely out of rehab from the last time you drove drunk.”
“Technically, I’m still in rehab. Physical therapy, too. Ouch! Damn. That knee hurts.”
“Come on. My truck. No arguments.”
“I’m fine, I tell you.”
“Look, man, if you expect me to drop everything and take a road trip with you at a moment’s notice, the least you can do is let me keep you alive long enough to take the trip with me.”
Frankie laughed. “All right. It’ll let us start planning the trip, right?”
“That’s my man.” Peter helped him into the truck, and moments later, they were on the road home.
***
“HE’S IN HIS CAR,” THE shaggy-haired man said. “His friend is with him.”
“Male or female?” his employer asked.
“Male. The big Polish guy.”
“Okay. Follow them and listen in. But stay invisible.”
“Of course. I know what I’m doing.” For good measure, he stuck his middle finger out at the phone, resting in his cup holder on the center console.
“That’s what you said before. I’m not impressed.”
The shaggy-haired man snarled and ended the call. Damned micro-managers.
***
“I’M THINKING SANTA Fe,” Frankie said. “Camping. Completely off-grid.”
“I hate the desert.” Peter slowed for a yellow light changing to red a half-block ahead. “If we’re going to camp, let’s do it close-by. Mt. Hood, maybe, or the Snoqualmie Pass. Someplace with water I can trust.”
“Too close,” Frankie said. “Dude, you could have made that light.”
“If we’re going to take a road trip, rule number one is, no bitching about my driving.”
“No. Rule number one is, I drive.”
“No way. Deal’s off.”
“Come on!”
“There’s a reason you walk with a limp, and it ain’t football.” The light changed and Peter eased his way through the intersection. “Your private little NASCAR imitation turned into a demolition derby.”
“Rule number two,” Frankie said. “No cheap shots.”
Peter cringed. “Okay. Sorry. I deserved that.”
“Rule number three. No cell phones.”
“No way. I’m on call twenty-four-seven with Sunset Hospice. Which is why I need to be closer than New Mexico.”
Frankie sighed. “Okay. But no outbound calls, and no inbound from anyone who isn’t family.”
“Agreed.” Peter high-fived him. “Man, this is gonna be fun.”
“Yeah it is! Say, I know where we should go. A buddy of mine has a cabin in Madras. He said I could use it anytime.”
“Is he there?”
“Not this time of year. He works summers at the coast, cleaning houses.”
“At the coast is where we ought to be instead of the high desert in August. Besides, what’s there to do in Madras?” Peter stopped for another red light.
“Nothing. That’s the point.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “You and I have very different ideas as to what constitutes a good road trip. At least at the coast we could surf and swim and gorge on seafood.”
Frankie considered this. “The coast is too expensive this time of year. But I like the idea of being near water. How about near a lake instead? The company my buddy works for has places near C’oeur D’Alene.”
“I love it! It’s a plan!” Peter blasted the horn, causing Frankie to jump out of his seat. But then he laughed, and Peter joined him.
“Okay, dude,” Frankie said. “You’re on.”
“Call me when it’s all set up. I’ll give Gregg the bad news.”
“Cool. And, Peter?”
“Yeah?”
Frankie wagged a long finger at him and narrowed his eyes. “Remember: no telling Christine.”
After a long moment, Peter nodded.
Chapter Seventeen
Peter studied the figures on his computer screen, a complex array of totals, percentages, and averages, summed up in an equally complex set of graphics to one side. A difficult decision loomed before him: switch lumber suppliers, or continue the current contract? A close call, based on the numbers. At this point it came down to a gut feeling. Prices from the current supplier, Cal-Tex Lumber, had crept up above the competition, but they’d never missed an on-time delivery. Instinct told him to remain loyal and renew. But a few of his crew members had complained about mistreatment and harassment from their drivers lately. The company had promised to clean up their act, but―
He sensed, rather than saw or heard, movement beyond his desk. When he looked up, Raul occupied his visitor’s chair.
“I would like to discuss our lumber supplier,” Raul said.
Peter jumped in his seat, knocking his computer mouse to the floor. He retrieved it and wiped his brow with his sleeve. “Where the hell did you come from?” he asked. “And when?”
Raul wiped a burgeoning smile off his face and replaced it with a look of apology and concern. “I am sorry,” he said. “You were concentrating so hard. I did not want to disturb you.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Peter said, “but please, next time, knock.”
Raul nodded. “Of course. Now, about this lumber supplier. How committed are you to keeping them?”
“I was just working on that, as a matter of fact, and I’m undecided. Why?”
“We have had more complaints about their drivers,” Raul said. “Disparaging, sexist, and even racist remarks. Some rather crude, and...” Raul paused, grimacing. “Now, one directed at me.”
“What did he say?”
Raul swallowed hard, his face darkening. “I was helping to guide the driver into the loading dock, signaling while he backed in, and he yelled to me, ‘I know what I’m doing. Get out of my way, wetback!’ It was very humiliating.”
Peter sighed. “Which driver? The regular guy, or a new one?”
Raul shrugged, a prolonged hunch of his shoulders. “I hadn’t seen him before, but I am new, so I cannot be sure.” He slid a folded sheet of canary-colored paper across Peter’s desk. “Here is the delivery slip. It contains all of his information―his name, truck number, time of delivery, bill of lading. I wrote down a description of him on the back, in case you want to follow up.”
“Of course. Right away.” He opened the page and scanned it. The driver had been the source of several complaints in the past. The company had promised to deal with him, but clearly they had not.
A new shadow darkened his doorway. A sandy-haired man in his late twenties appeared, grinning―another supervisor in Peter’s crew.
“Hey, Skip. What’s up?”
“Hey, Pete,” Skip said. “It’s almost five. Join us for Friday happy hour at the pub? You too, Raul. New guy buys, right, Pete?” His grin widened.
“That’s the tradition,” Peter said, suppressing a smirk. “What did it run you when it was your turn? Couple of hundred?” He stole a quick glance at Raul, expecting a panicked look. Instead, Raul appeared unruffled.
“At least,” Skip said. “It took months to pay off my credit card.”
Still no reaction from Raul.
“And then,” Skip said in mock seriousness, “the strip club crawl nearly killed me. Especially the male vegan strip club.”
“We’d better get going, then,” Raul said, standing. “Before the pub gets too crowded.”
Standing behind Raul, Skip’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “I’ll, er, gather up the team,” he said. He mouthed to Peter, “Can you believe this guy?”
Peter shrugged and shooed them both out. “I need to deal with these supplier complaints,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”
“What supplier complaints?” Skip asked, re-entering. “What happened now?”
“I will tell him on the way to the pub,” Raul said, pulling Skip out by the arm. “We will see you there.”
Peter puzzled over this, his hand resting on his desk phone. Skip, the floor manager, should have known about the complaints before Peter. Clearly Raul hadn’t followed protocol. He’d have to speak to him about that.
Ten minutes later, his cell phone startled him with a few bars of “Black Magic Woman.” “Hi, Christine,” he said into the phone. “Miss me?”
“Terribly,” she said. “When can I see you?”
“Not tonight,” he said. “How’s tomorrow?”
“Peter! It’s Friday night. Date night. Has it really been that long since you’ve had a girlfriend?”
“Eight years,” he said. “I just got divorced in May, remember?”
“What’s so important on your social schedule that you can’t see me tonight?” Her voice dripped disappointment.
“Initiating the new guy over drinks,” he said. “Or what we call ‘informal training.’ It’s likely to go late.”
“Ah, yes. What we called ‘hazing’ before we knew better. What’s on the agenda? Beers, strip clubs, making the new guy pay?”
Peter pulled the phone away and stared at it for a few seconds. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Come now, Peter. You don’t think you’re the first ones to come up with that plan, do you? People have been foisting vice on the new guy since the first time there was a new guy. Well, have fun. Don’t let those lap dancers get too friendly with you. I want you to save it up for tomorrow night, with me.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be lucky if I make it in time for the last round. I have to deal with more harassment complaints before I go.”
“Not those lumber suppliers again, is it? You really should fire them. That’s unacceptable.”
“Easier said than done. It’s midsummer, our busiest season. I can’t afford to have empty shelves while I search for a new firm. Anyone I bring on now would charge twice what I currently pay. And―” Just in time, he stopped himself from blurting out his vacation plans he’d promised Frankie to keep secret from her. “It’s just not a good time,” he said instead.
“So, Cal-Tex gets away with harassing and abusing your employees with impunity? Peter, I expect greater courage from you.”
Silence hung on the line for several seconds. Finally, Peter exhaled a long, slow breath. “Not with impunity. When you and I hang up, I’m calling their office. Which I’d better do soon, in fact, if I’m going to catch them before they close up for the weekend.”
“Okay,” she said, annoyed. “I know when I’m getting dismissed. Well, don’t let me get in the way of business as usual. Have a good weekend.”
“Christine! Don’t hang up.”
“Why not? You’re not listening to me anyway.”
“I am. It’s just...more complicated than it seems.”
“No, it’s simpler than it seems. Just more difficult. It always is, when you’re acting on principle.” Another pause. “You are a man of principle, aren’t you, Peter?”
He gritted his teeth. “You know the answer to that.”
“Do I? Maybe you can show me tomorrow.”
“What do you mean?” Alarms rang in the back of Peter’s mind.
“I have it on good information that Kyle will be back in Portland this weekend. It’s a perfect opportunity.”
Peter’s blood ran cold. He’d hoped to put off any confrontation with Kyle until he could figure out another plan, if not indefinitely. He hadn’t counted on Kyle coming back to town so soon. “This weekend?”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful to put an end to all of this right now? Oh, Peter. You don’t know what this could mean to me. To be free of his threats, his stalking. To be able to focus on life again, and give myself fully to the man I love. Don’t you want that for me, Peter? For us?”
“Yes, of course. But—”
“Oh, you’re so lovely! Listen, why don’t you come by in the morning. I’ll make you breakfast, we can take a late morning nap...”
Peter’s face warmed. He knew what she meant by “nap,” and he had to admit, it sounded better than hanging out with the folks from work all night.
“Then,” she said, “we can make our plans.”
The warm feelings disappeared, and the ice returned. His throat tightened. “I may have to come in to work in the morning.”
“To fire Cal-Tex?”
“Perhaps.”
“Okay. Well, you call me in the morning and let me know when you’re free. Have fun tonight.” She cut the connection.
And only then did Peter realize that he’d never told Christine about his problems with Cal-Tex.
Yet somehow, she knew all about it.
––––––––
Chapter Eighteen
PETER ARRIVED AT THE pub seething. The phone conversation he’d just had with Cal-Tex lumber had made him look and feel like a fool, and he knew exactly whom to blame.
He spotted Raul in the middle of a long picnic-style table in the back corner of the pub, surrounded by loud, laughing co-workers, mostly from the loading crew. They quieted as Peter strode toward them with his brow furrowed and mouth set in an angry line. Raul, sitting with his back to Peter, turned and stood when Peter reached the table.
“Is something wrong?” Raul asked, his voice calm.
Peter thrust a folded sheet of canary-hued paper into Raul’s face, the one containing the report of the Cal-Tex driver’s harassment. “Explain this.”
Eyes widened around the table. Raul glanced at the page and refolded it. “I’ve never seen this before. What is it?”
“What is it? It’s your first official firing offense, that’s what it is. Lying about our supply partners, accusing their employee of—”
“I didn’t write this,” Raul said. “As I said, I’ve never seen it before.”
“Bullshit!” Peter said.
Gregg, seated at the far end of the table next to Jessica, stood and ambled around behind Raul. “Peter, take a chill pill,” he said. “Grab yourself a beer, relax.”
“Gregg, you dodo,” Jessica said, snapping her gum. How she could do that while drinking beer, Peter could never fathom. “When has telling someone to ‘take a chill pill’ ever actually calmed him down?”
“Especially Peter,” Skip said with a nervous smile. “It takes a lot for him to get mad, but when he does—hoo boy.”
“All right, all right,” Gregg said. “So, what’s the problem, Pete? And whatever it is, why couldn’t it wait until Monday morning? It’s Friday night, for God’s sake.”
“Show him the paper,” Peter said to Raul.
“Is that one of our forms?” Jessica said, reaching to grab it from Raul. He snatched it away, just in time.
“Guys,” Gregg said, “this isn’t the place for company business. Nor the time. Come on, Pete. Have a beer.”
“Don’t you even want to know what your all-star new employee is saying about one of our oldest and most trusted partners?” Peter said.
“Is this about the CalTex thing?” Gregg asked Raul. He turned to Peter. “Raul told me we’ve gotten more complaints.”
“And I followed up on them while you were all here drinking and having a good time,” Peter said. “And guess what? It’s all bullshit!”
Raul stood, his face turning beet red. He tore the page in half and crumpled the pieces into his fists. “It is bullshit, all right,” he said, shaking the pages at Peter. “Invented by you!”
Peter’s mouth dropped open. “You are making a huge mistake here, buddy,” he said. “Don’t make it worse than it already is.”
“Give me the papers,” Gregg said, placing a hand on Raul’s shoulder.
Raul shook the hand off. “This is a frame job. Another frame job—by him!” Again he waved the pages at Peter.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Greg spun Raul around to face him. “What frame job? And what do you mean, ‘again’?”
Raul stepped away from the table and turned sideways, as if seeking an escape, but Gregg and Peter blocked his path on either side. “Peter has been against me from the start,” Raul said. “He made this up so he could fire me and hire his friend. I have been set up, I tell you! Framed, just like at my trial!” He lunged into a tiny gap between Peter and the neighboring table, whose occupants—four young guys sharing a second pitcher of pale lager—scrambled out of the way. Peter grabbed Raul by the belt as he passed and pushed him, hard. Raul sprawled face-first onto the floor, dropping the torn shreds of paper. He scrambled to his feet and backed away, hands up, then dashed out of the bar.
“What the hell?” Gregg said.
Peter picked up the scraps of paper and waved Gregg outside. “Let’s talk.”
Outside the pub, Peter stood close to Gregg and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t know what’s up with this guy, but we made a mistake in hiring him.”
“What did he do, exactly?” Gregg’s voice echoed off the brick and glass walls. Stark Lumber employees stared out the pub’s plate-glass window at them, and passersby turned their heads in the direction of the two men. “He told me on the way over that a driver called him a name, a slur. He didn’t want to repeat it to me. Pretty offensive, he said.”
“He lied,” Peter said
“How do you know?” Gregg asked. “You got proof?”
“I called Cal-Tex,” Peter said, his voice dry. “I read them the riot act for ten minutes—then they asked me the driver’s name. It turns out they fired the guy Raul named on the report two days ago. I felt like an idiot.”
“Why the hell would he do this?” Gregg asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“The guy’s got some weird agenda. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t care,” Peter said. Which was mostly true. Christine had known about the complaint before he told her. It seemed connected to her somehow. But he had no idea of how to explain all of that to Gregg. “Whatever Raul’s reason, it doesn’t matter. He’s made a mess of this situation, and I just want him gone.”
“You haven’t exactly made a secret of that.” Gregg smirked at him. “And I think you’re overreacting. But even if you’re right, aren’t you curious to know what he’s up to?”
Peter wiped sweat off his brow, flowing like a faucet had opened up. None of Raul’s possible motives appealed to him. But perhaps it was better to know than to fly blind. He took a deep breath, calming himself a little. “All right, Gregg. What do you suggest?”
“Let’s bring him in and talk to him first thing Monday morning. Maybe it was just a mistake—wrong name, or something. Wait—let me finish. If his story doesn’t line up with what we know, I’ll back you up in firing him on the spot.”
“I don’t get why it’s not automatic,” Peter said, his hands spread wide. “You’ve fired people for a lot less.”
Gregg frowned and sighed. “The people upstairs really want him to work out. Pete, look at it from their perspective. He’s new, he’s eager...maybe overeager. Maybe he overheard some old complaints, mistakenly thought they were fresh, and jumped on the chance to stick up for his staff. We don’t know.”
“He falsified a legal document! How is that a mistake?” Peter threw his hands up in the air, still clutching the torn-up report. “Why am I the only one that can see this?”
“Great question,” Gregg said. “Why are you the only one that has a bug up your butt for this guy? Anyone else, you’d be making excuse after excuse for them. Need I remind you of how you reacted to Frankie’s situation? And he was caught red-handed!”
“That’s not fair, Gregg.”
“You’re not being fair. To Raul.”
Peter sighed. When Gregg got like this, there was no arguing with him. “Okay. Fine. We talk to him Monday. But if he doesn’t have a good explanation—”
“I’ll kick his butt to the curb myself.” Gregg put a hand on his arm. “Now, come inside, have a beer, and calm down. Okay?”
Peter nodded. A beer did sound good. Especially with Raul gone.
***
NOISES IN THE KITCHEN startled Peter awake. At first he suspected that someone had broken in, and he reached for his phone to call 9-1-1. Instead of a phone on his bedside stand, however, his hand discovered a white silk blouse. On the floor he found a black skirt and nylons. Near the door, a pair of black pumps with two-inch spike heels.
He was fairly certain they weren’t his.
He guessed they belonged to whoever was making a mess of his kitchen at the moment. He fought to remember the evening before, but a pounding headache got in the way. He remembered drinking at the pub with the folks from work. Breaking in the new guy, Raul. But Raul had left in a huff...why? Something about a complaint about a supplier. Something connected to Raul...damn this headache. He closed his eyes.
A moment later the door burst open and Christine entered, carrying a TV tray loaded with eggs, bacon, buttered toast, and, most important, coffee.
“Good morning, Sleepyhead!” She flashed her most charming grin and set the tray on the dresser. Bending over to pour coffee into the mugs revealed that she wore only Peter’s loose-fitting Trail Blazers jersey with nothing underneath. He doubted that the exposure was anything but intentional, but his body reacted in predictable fashion. He covered his own naked body to the waist with a sheet.
“What a fabulous surprise,” he said, still trying, without success, to piece together the events of the night before. He had no memory of how and when she’d gotten there, but he had a pretty good idea of how little sleep he’d gotten.
“Making you breakfast is the least I could do for my white knight who rescued me on a busy highway at night.” She handed him a cup of coffee and brought another one with her to the foot of the bed. “Although with the way you were driving, I had my doubts about our survival at first. How many beers did you have at the pub, anyway?”
“I...I don’t know.” He sipped the coffee. Perfect. “You say I drove you here?”
“From the side of the road on I-5,” she said, “even called Triple-A for me and drove me to the repair shop. I owe you big time.” She leaned in for a soft, lingering kiss. Hot coffee splashed onto Peter’s bare chest. The kiss continued. Her hand fumbled beneath the sheet, and a low groan emerged from inside him.
Abruptly, the kiss ended. She reached across to the dresser, stretching her fingers to a plate loaded with bacon, again showing off her naked body below the waist, this time from the front. She straightened and pushed a long crispy strip of warm maple bacon into his open mouth. “Stop drooling,” she said. “It’s only breakfast.”
“No, it’s not,” he said around a mouthful of salty deliciousness. He washed the bacon down with coffee, draining the mug. The caffeine helped. His headache subsided a little, and he remembered what he’d wanted to ask her. “Christine,” he said, “do you remember when we talked around five o’clock yesterday, about the Cal-Tex thing?”
“Yes. Open wide,” she said, feeding him a forkful of eggs. She took a bite herself. “Mmm. For a change, I didn’t burn everything I touched in the kitchen.”
“How did you know—” He paused to accept another delicious piece of bacon. “Wow, that’s so good.”
She giggled. “I haven’t cooked breakfast in three years. This is fun.” She held a piece of bacon between her teeth and straddled him. He leaned forward and nibbled on the end closest to him. She nibbled on the other end, her eyes boring into his.
“How did you know about all that?” he asked, or tried to. His mouth worked a lot harder on chewing the meat and edging closer to her bright red lips.
“I know everything,” she said. A well-manicured fingernail traced the muscles in his chest, and slid downward across his stomach, dancing, pausing, tickling.
He wanted to ask more, but his mind would no longer focus. Besides, she’d answered, kind of, and it all made sense, in its own weird way. And her fingers felt so good, her lips edged ever closer—
He pulled her on top of him. Coffee spilled everywhere, but he no longer cared. His desire took over, overwhelming his hunger for food, for knowledge, for anything except what she was willing to offer, right then, in such abundance.
***
“I THINK TUESDAY WOULD be a good day,” Christine said, feeding Peter another cold piece of bacon. They sat up in his bed, propped up by pillows and blankets, their naked bodies touching and sweating in the early morning heat.
“A good day for what?” Peter chewed the salty meat, savoring its sweet maple flavoring and supple greasiness.
“Taking care of the Kyle problem.” She offered up another piece of bacon.
“Christine, you can’t be—”
She smothered his mouth with her lips and tongue, and somehow managed to climb on top of him again. She broke off the kiss, straddled him, and ground her groin into his, eliciting a very predictable response.
“Think about it,” she said. “After Tuesday, you’ll have me all to yourself. No more unwelcome distractions.” She ground harder into him, kissed him again. “Isn’t that what you want? Me, all to yourself, all the time?”
He nodded. Pushed his own body against her. Damn, she felt good. Something nagged at him, in the back of his mind. Something he meant to ask her—
She leaned closer. “Tuesday,” she said in a whisper. “On Tuesday, we take care of everything.”
His body went cold and sagged backwards onto the bed. She sat up straight and gazed down at him. Her eyes narrowed to slits. She slid to the side of the bed and sat with her legs hanging off the side, looking away from him. “I sense some reluctance on your part, all of a sudden.”
He closed his eyes and inched his head from side to side. “Not sudden. Always. I’ve never liked this idea.”
She sighed. “I don’t like it, either. But I don’t like being scared all of the time, knowing he could be nearby, watching me, waiting for his chance. Would you like that, Peter? Would you like him to get to me first?”
He opened his eyes, saw the fear on her face, the hurt, the impatience. The growing anger. “Of course not. I just—I think you’ve misjudged me. I don’t think I’m your man.”
Her eyes widened, her lips drawing into a snarl. She leapt off the bed and pulled on clothes in angry jerks. “I see. Well. Thanks for letting me know.” Her blouse covered her back. On came the skirt. She snatched her underwear and shoes off the floor and took a step toward the bedroom door.
“Christine, I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I’m your man. I mean I’m just not—”
“Sure. You’re my man when it comes to getting your rocks off. Just not when it comes to meeting my needs—at least not the ones that come up outside of the bedroom.” She zipped up the back of her skirt and slipped on her shoes.
He rolled off the bed and met her at the door as her hand hit the knob. He pressed one hand against the door, holding it shut. “What I mean is, I want to be with you. And I want to help you. I just—I don’t know if I’m the guy who can do this for you. Do the actual deed. You know what I mean?”
She met his pleading gaze with a cool stare, then glanced at the bed. “I guess it all depends on which deed, huh?”
His eyes fell to the floor. “What I mean is, it’s not all about sex. I care about you, and I want Kyle gone from your life as much as you do.”
“Do you?” She crossed her arms. “Show me. How will you help me get him out of my life—permanently? What other solution do you have up your sleeve?” She tapped her toes on the rug, waiting.
“I don’t have a Plan B. Hell, for that matter, we don’t really even have a Plan A. No real plan, I mean.” He reached out to her, took her hands in his.
Her gaze softened. “That’s a fair point. We do need to plan.” She thought a moment and smiled. “Why don’t we use Tuesday as a planning opportunity, then? We can watch him from a distance, get you familiar with his habits, how he operates. Maybe it’ll inspire you with a new idea.”
He nodded. “Perfect. Where will he be?”
She drew closer and whispered in his ear. “He’ll be wherever I am, darling. You just need to be there first.”
Chapter Nineteen
“She’s planning something.” The shaggy-haired man checked his surroundings again for eavesdroppers. The park bench on which he sat backed up to a paved walkway that sliced through one side of Laurelhurst Park, a well-manicured, tree-lined greenspace occupying a fifteen-square-block strip amidst some of the most expensive housing in Portland. Nearby, a few twenty-somethings wearing T-shirts bearing logos of various local colleges chased Frisbees within an area marked off by orange cones. An elderly couple strolled around the edge of a duck pond clotted with algae and lily pads. Other than that, the park appeared empty.
“What, exactly, is she planning?” asked the man on the phone.
The voice belonged to the shaggy-haired man’s client, who for whatever reason preferred to think of himself as his Boss, with a capital B. Some sort of status thing. Whatever. Kyle Campbell paid his bills right now. He could have whatever title he wanted.
“I’m not sure. It involves what she calls a ‘permanent solution.’ I can’t imagine that’s good news for you.”
Kyle laughed. “I can handle her.”
The shaggy-haired, heavy-set man wiped sweat from his neck. Not even ten o’clock and the temperature had already climbed into the 80s. He wished he’d picked a spot in the shade. “She’s getting help from Lumpy.”
“What kind of help?”
“I think he’s the trigger man.”
A pause, marked only by some grunts and heavy breathing. The shaggy-haired man cursed to himself. Here they were, discussing threats to the guy’s life, and the damned fool wouldn’t even take a break from his precious morning workout.
“Is he a credible threat?” Kyle asked.
The shaggy-haired man shook his head before remembering that Kyle couldn’t see him. “I doubt he would be much trouble for you in a fair fight. But she keeps referring to something he did in the past—something bad. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.”
“So what you’re saying is, he’s a wimp unless he has a gun in his hands.” More heavy breathing and grunting.
“I guess so.”
“You guess so? I don’t pay you to guess. I pay you to know.”
Damn him. He took a long, deep breath before responding. “When you pay me, you mean. I haven’t seen a deposit into my account this week.”
A loud grunt this time, almost a roar, followed by a louder clank in the background, like barbells hitting a gym mat. “I haven’t gotten results this week!” More heavy breathing, steady, the sound of anger rather than exertion.
The heavy-set man kept his voice calm, despite the pounding in his chest. “I’m giving you results right now. You always get them as soon as I know something.” Sweat poured anew from his body.
“And you get paid when I know something!”
Another deep breath. “And now you do.”
This time it was Kyle’s turn to pause, accompanied by a clackety-clacking sound of keys on a keyboard. “Okay. Now you’ve been paid. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” The shaggy-haired man stood and walked toward the shade. “Now, what is my next move, Boss?”
***
AFTER A LONG, BUSY Saturday at Stark’s, Peter treated himself to a leisurely dinner at a local brewpub, known for its slow service, comfort food, creative beer selections, and wait staff who didn’t mind if patrons camped out for long stretches in corner booths, even on weekends. He finished a Michael Connelly thriller over a burger, Cajun tots and two pints of stout, and looked forward to falling asleep in front of the TV with a full belly. Such a fun Saturday night.
He had almost reached his turnoff into his Ladd’s Addition neighborhood in inner southeast Portland when his cell phone chimed the chorus of “Taking Care of Business.” He considered sending it straight to voice-mail, but relented. Gregg never called on weekends, and never this late, except in an emergency. He answered and put the phone on speaker.
“Pete! I need you at the store, stat. We’ve got a problem.” Gregg’s voice sounded strained, a rarity for him.
“What kind of problem?”
“We had another break-in,” Gregg said. “Lots of damage this time, and lots of stuff is missing. Expensive stuff. God, what a mess!”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Peter swerved out of the turn lane and gunned the engine to zip through the intersection before the signal turned red. His stomach growled, complaining about his greasy dinner. He needed to eat better, get some sleep, and get back to the gym―none of which would happen this night.
He made it to Stark’s with time to spare on his estimate and parked in the street, since the police had roped off the parking lot with crime scene tape. Gregg waved to him and said something to a uniformed cop guarding the only opening in the tape. The cop nodded and waved Peter through.
Approaching Gregg, Peter glanced at the front of the store and surveyed the damage. The eight-foot-high windows lining the front wall had become a sea of glass shards in the parking lot and inside the store, reflecting the red and blue flashing lights from police car roofs in kaleidoscopic fashion. Where rows of rider mowers, small tractors, and power tools once filled the store, now only empty shelves, cut security cables and crooked “On Sale” signs advertising early autumn season discounts greeted would-be customers. A few shelves leaned at awkward angles against each other, empty of contents once worth thousands of dollars.
Peter had expected to tease Gregg for hyperbole, but if anything he had understated the situation. A total mess would have been an improvement.
“Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing,” Gregg said, handing Peter a paper cup full of black coffee. “They didn’t even touch the cash registers, so they knew they’d be empty, or figured it out real quick. But all the expensive stuff is gone. And I mean all of it.”
Peter tasted the coffee and winced. Gregg should never be allowed near the coffee pot, or even a drive-through espresso stand. “Looks like they didn’t bother with locks, either. Do you have any idea who?”
Gregg shook his head and pointed to an empty brace dangling from the corner of the building near the eaves. “They took out our cameras first and even disabled the alarms. Like I said, these guys are experts.”
“Or they knew us really well. Could it be one of our suppliers? I noticed a new guy for Cal-Tex today.” Peter grimaced. “Thanks to Raul’s bogus complaint yesterday, they assigned us a new driver already.”
Gregg shook his head. “Doesn’t make sense. They’d have to have known the ins and outs of our security setup. That eliminates a supplier, at least one working alone. Especially a new guy.”
Peter hesitated, took a deep breath, expressed thoughts he’d have rather kept to himself. “An employee, perhaps?”
Gregg glared at him. “You can’t wait to pin this on Raul, can you?”
Peter held up his hands, as if fending off a blow. “I didn’t say that! But after yesterday—”
“It’s moot,” Gregg said. “He called this morning from a motel in Bend. Visiting some family or something. I already called back to verify—he’s still there. He’s not our guy. And he apologized for the Cal-Tex thing. Says he was sticking up for one of his crew, didn’t realize it was an old complaint.” He took a sip from his cup and winced. Even he hated his coffee.
“Okay,” Peter said, still unconvinced. Something about that didn’t add up. “But maybe a different employee—or former employee.”
“Only supervisors knew our security setup well enough to do this. And I can only think of two of those.” He looked squarely at Peter. “Both of them worked for you.”
“José, and...”
Gregg’s eyes narrowed. “Who else has been hanging around here when he’s not supposed to?”
“Frankie? No way. Neither of them―”
“I agree with you about José—he has too much to lose with his new job and all. But Frankie left under a cloud and was just turned away when he tried to apply for José’s job. He’s also broke, giving him a financial motive.”
“He’s also crippled, honest as the day is long, and―”
“Crippled I’ll give you. But honest? He didn’t show it during the harassment investigation.” Gregg took a long hit on his coffee.
“I disagree. But regardless, he has an alibi. He was with me all evening.”
Gregg gave Peter a long look and shrugged. He finished his coffee, crumpled the cup, and tossed it into the pile of rubble at their feet.
“Hey, this is a crime scene!” yelled a man in a suit. Peter guessed him to be a detective. He finished his own coffee, picked up Gregg’s trash, and stuffed it inside his cup.
“Besides,” Peter continued, “Frankie wouldn’t do anything against Stark’s―at least, not as long as I work here.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. In the meantime, we’re going to have to close for a few weeks to rebuild. And when we do, we’ll be upgrading our security system. You can bet on that.”
“How can I help?”
Gregg pointed to the suits. “The cops still want to interview you. They’ll want Frankie’s contact information.”
“I’m sure he has nothing to hide.”
“Good. Then I’ll need you here to help me rebuild and restock. We’ll have to lay some sales staff off for a bit.”
“Yuck. And during our busiest time of year.”
The detective waved to Gregg, who turned to Peter. “That’s our cue. Let’s go tell them everything we know.”
Peter shuddered. Telling cops what he knew about crimes remained among his least favorite pastimes.
But at least this time, nobody had died.
Chapter Twenty
Kyle shaded his eyes against the bright sun, hanging in the cloudless sky just above the trees on the western horizon. Even his Ray-Bans couldn’t protect his eyes against the intense glare, and he needed to be able to detect the couple the moment they arrived—without, of course, being spotted himself.
Or at least, not identified. The shades could only hide so much. The dark dye in his hair, the idiotic seventies mustache, the dangly clip-on nose ring, and the fake paunch would hide him to a much greater extent. Especially, he hoped, the paunch around the gut.
But the true disguise lay not in his physical appearance, but in his behavior. Like, for example, holding these stupid rent-a-dogs on retractable leashes. Two disgustingly cute, puffy little mutts, designer dogs of some sort. Dee-John Freezays, or some such nonsense. He’d forgotten their names, too, but they responded to treats, which he dispensed with near reckless abandon any time he spoke or they came near. Whatever. Disgusting creatures. They could eat until they puked and then some, for all he cared. They weren’t his dogs. God forbid.
He shuddered at the thought of having dogs around on a permanent basis. Smelly, hairy creatures, and so damned needy. Worse, they reminded him of his equally needy, idiotic brother, who cried for days when their foster parents put down their stinky old mutt after she’d attacked the postal worker. Kyle neither understood, nor much cared for, his brother Earl. He had no doubt that his brother felt the same way. How two people could share so many common experiences, and so much DNA, and look so much alike, yet turn out so different—
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He clicked on his wireless ear bud to answer.
“They’re here,” the voice said. His man. “They’re parking.”
“Good. Get ready.”
“I was born ready.”
Kyle clicked on the ear bud again to hang up, gritting his teeth. God, how he hated clichés.
He scanned the parking lot. The small loop of pavement held less than a dozen cars, despite the popularity of the trail head, one of the many feeding the beautiful expanse of the 5,000-acre Forest Park in northwest Portland. The lot was full, but a slow parade of hikers approached in clumps of twos and threes from Northwest Upshur Street, many carrying backpacks, water bottles, and walking sticks. He chuckled at the sight. The gentle slopes of the park’s trails wouldn’t challenge even the most casual gym rat, but these Portland wimps dressed and equipped themselves like they were about to climb Mount Fuji.
The woman he sought, of course, would do no such thing. Fit as a drum from her daily five-mile runs and obsessed with appearances, she would never burden herself with such crap. Not when she could show off her amazing body with tight shorts, a tank top, and a stylish set of tennis shoes.
As if summoned, she appeared, dressed exactly as predicted, with her nerdy-looking boyfriend in tow. He, of course, dressed like the other idiots all around them, and already huffed and puffed like he’d just run five miles instead of walking a block or two from his car. He looked ordinary, a slice of white bread compared to the croissants and panini that typified Christine’s finer tastes. He reminded Kyle of the goofy kid on that old black-and-white TV series he used to watch as a kid. Lumpy. Perfect named for this oaf.
They walked a foot or two apart, her maybe a half-stride ahead, chatting about something―probably the weather or something equally mundane. Whatever drones like him found interesting.
He called the dogs and tugged on the leash, rewarding them with yet another crappy little treat when they bounded near. He rubbed their backs like the cute gal at the pet shop had showed him, and the dogs responded with their stupid, excited yips, so he stuffed their mouths with treats again. To the casual observer, he appeared to love his adorable little pups.
Yuck.
He tugged the leashes again, leading the dogs toward the sidewalk at an angle that he hoped would give the impression of heading to the parking lot. From the corner of his eye he tracked their progress into the forested section of the trail. They did not look toward him, nor, even, seem to look around the park. No awareness at all of their surroundings, potential threats, escape routes. Oblivious.
That didn’t square with Kyle’s knowledge of Christine. If nothing else, she was a hyper-alert person. Which meant one of two things: either she really loved this Lumpy guy―the odds of which he put at roughly zero―or she was up to something.
He unlocked the black rental SUV, put the dogs inside, sat on the open tailgate, and made a phone call. “Get into position.”
“I already am.”
He hung up.
Show time.
***
“YOU REALLY THINK HE’LL follow us here?” Peter huffed and quickened his pace on the narrow path to keep up with Christine, who always seemed a step ahead of him. In so many ways.
“I’m certain of it.” She slowed her pace a bit, allowing Peter to close the gap behind her.
“Have you spotted him yet? I don’t see anyone matching―”
“Did you see the big guy with the two little dogs?”
Peter nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. That’s him? I thought he had blond hair.”
“You’ve heard of hair dye? The ugly mustache was a dead giveaway.” She chuckled and shook her head.
“I didn’t take him to be a dog person.”
“He’s not. They’re not his. Did you see how awkward he was with them?”
“I confess, no, I didn’t pay much attention to him.” The path widened and he caught up to walk next to her. “What’s his next move?”
“Typical bully, he won’t want to confront me if you’re with me. He’ll look for a chance to find me alone.” She stopped at an overlook with a view of the stream below and the path behind them.
“So, we stay together, right?” He checked their surroundings again. A young couple with toddlers ambled up the hill at a two-year-old’s walking pace. A shaggy-haired, heavy-set guy with a walking stick passed them, smiling at the toddler, and strode past Peter and Christine without a glance. No sign of a tall dark-haired guy with a moustache or dogs.
She glanced sideways at him. “You’re forgetting our objective. How would you observe him in action if we stay together? No, we need to separate before he separates us.”
His head jerked back involuntarily, and he blinked, twice. “Doesn’t that leave you exposed? What if he tries something?”
She turned toward the stream again, her eyes focused on something far in the distance. “He won’t. Even though this place seems isolated, there are too many people around for him to take any chances.” As she spoke, the young family passed behind them on the path. “And I don’t want you to go far. Stay within sight of me, and keep your smart phone ready. Be sure to get a picture of his face.”
He searched the forest in front of them. This plan of hers seemed too risky, but he had no better ideas. “Are you sure about this?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure of anything. But he’s not going to show his face unless I leave myself vulnerable―in appearance if not in fact.” She touched his arm and faced him again. “Stay close, okay?”
He nodded. “I will.”
“And, Peter?” She held his arm in a tight grip. “Watch him carefully. Study him. How he approaches me, his body language, the distance he keeps, the sudden moves. He tries hard to be unpredictable, but he’s not, really. Just...different.”
Peter studied her dark eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Be careful.” He kissed her forehead, stepped back, and watched for a few seconds more before heading up the trail without her.
***
THE SHAGGY-HAIRED, heavy-set man lowered his binoculars and speed-dialed his phone. “She’s alone.”
“Good. Where’s Lumpy?”
“Who?” Frigging Kyle, always coming up with derogatory nicknames for people. He wondered what Kyle called him behind his back.
Laughter. “The guy. The meathead boyfriend.”
“He went on ahead without her. She’s overlooking the stream, about a hundred yards past the bridge.” He peered through his binoculars again until he spotted Peter walking on the trail. “He’s probably fifty yards from her and still walking.”
Rustling noises came over the line. Probably Kyle fussing with his stupid earbud again. “Okay. Find a way to lure him further away. I’m coming in.”
“Got it.” The shaggy-haired man hung up and put away his phone. He had an idea.
Chapter Twenty-One
Peter rounded the corner of the trail’s gentle switchback and snuck a peek toward Christine. Tree branches thick with leaves temporarily blocked his view of where he’d left her, but he assumed she’d remained there. At least, that’s how he understood the plan. He’d have to continue to climb another forty or fifty yards to regain a clear view of her. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and opened the camera app. He wanted to be ready, just in case.
“Help!” A man’s voice yelled out from the wooded slope above him. “Someone help me! I’m stuck!”
He searched the woods uphill of the trail. Thirty or so yards uphill and fifty feet to his left, someone―a man, by the sound of his voice―thrashed in the thicket of trees, ferns, and shrubs crowding the landscape.
“Where are you?” Peter shouted. “Are you hurt?”
“My ankle’s twisted. I–I can’t walk. I’m stuck. Help!”
Peter glanced around, saw no one else around. Even the young family had disappeared from view ahead. More than likely, no one else could hear the man. “I’ll come up,” Peter said. “Try not to move.” He stepped off the trail into a narrow gap in the underbrush and poked his way in the direction of the man’s voice. He should call Christine. He paused and opened his Contact list on his phone.
“Hurry!” the man shouted. “This hurts like hell. I think I might have broken it. I might...pass...out...” His breathing grew loud and ragged.
“Hold on!” Peter put the phone away and hastened his pace, no longer bothering to try to protect the fragile, native plants that filled the forest floor. If caught off trail, he could be penalized with steep fines, but an injured man in distress, he reasoned, ought to exempt him. “I’m coming!” Peter yelled again. “I’m getting clo―”
Pain seared the back of his skull. His knees buckled, and he sank to the spongy forest floor. Tall, thick ferns filled his view. The green fronds swayed, going in and out of focus.
Then, everything went black.
***
CHRISTINE PERKED UP when shouts echoed through the trees uphill to her right. Two men shouted, their voices muffled by the soft, irregular shapes and background noise of the wooded trail. One of the voices sounded familiar. She listened a bit more.
It sounded like Peter. Dammit!
She had no choice but to surrender her strategic vantage point overlooking the stream and head up the trail toward the shouting men. No sense shouting back, with the terrible outdoor acoustics deadening all sound. She hustled to the sharp turn of the switchback and stopped, facing up the trail.
Empty. And the shouting had stopped. When?
She took careful steps forward, listening, making as little noise as possible, assessing, observing. Peter shouldn’t have gone any further ahead than this. Just far enough to give the appearance that they’d gone their own separate ways, but close enough to observe, and to race down to rejoin her in case of emergency. She looked for broken branches, gaps in the underbrush, trampled ground cover, any sign that he’d left the trail. She peered closer at what appeared to be a footprint in the moss to her right.
A strong hand clamped onto her shoulder from behind. “Peter?” She said before turning. “I was just―”
“Oh, so that’s his name? I was just getting used to calling him Lumpy.”
She completed her turn, and nearly fainted. Blocking her view stood the smirking, unwelcome sight of the man she most feared and reviled in the world.
“Kyle?” Even though she’d spotted him earlier, seeing him up close, she almost couldn’t believe it. He’d chopped off the long blond locks that once flowed to his shoulders, and now sported a short, military-style haircut, with stiff brown hair clipped close to his scalp. The ridiculous moustache, a dark caterpillar, covered his upper lip. His nose appeared twice the size of normal. His eyebrows, usually invisible, now nearly connected over his nose, darkened by mascara or dye.
But the sardonic, lazy, smart-ass grin remained, exposing two gold caps glistening in the sunlight. His trademark Ray-Bans hid his eyes, and his musky scent filled the air. He grinned at her and held her left forearm in his muscular grip. “Long time no see, beautiful,” he said. “Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?”
“What have you done with Peter?” She wiggled to free her arm, but he redoubled his grip. She winced in pain.
“I haven’t done anything to your lumpy little lover boy.” Kyle tossed his head in the downhill direction. “Come, let’s stroll while we catch up on old times, and perhaps we’ll spot him. I bet he just took a little nature break.” He tugged her down the trail. Resisting, she stumbled into him, and he caught her full in his arms. He squeezed hard, knocking the wind out of her. “A hug? Now, that’s more like it. I missed you, too.”
“Let–me–go!” Christine managed to push free of his grip, gasping for air, bent at the waist. She took a few steps away from him, but he caught her, wrapping an arm around her waist. He pressed his body against hers and dry-humped her from behind.
“Nice of you to offer such a tempting target, but is this really the time and place?” He laughed. “You always did like it outdoors.”
“Get away from me!” She slapped at him, kicked his shins, and pried his fingers off of her. He released his hold and pushed her down into the weeds along the side of the trail. She scrambled to her feet, then realized she was heading downhill, just as Kyle had suggested.
He stepped toward her, still blocking the trail. “Keep going. We have a good half-mile walk to my car.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!”
He stepped closer and pushed her again. She fell, landing hard on her butt and elbows. He grabbed her shorts by the waist and lifted her to her feet one-handed, spun her around so she faced downhill, and pushed her again. “Come on, get going, I’m tired of screwing around with you.”
She took a long, awkward step down the trail, keeping an eye on him. He followed, his eyes fixed on her. She took another step, then noticed movement behind him: the image of a thick, leafless tree branch, swaying in the wind.
Except that it swayed downward.
Fast.
And there was no wind.
Crack! The branch landed square on the top of Kyle’s head, snapping in two. The end of the branch skittered into the brush. Kyle collapsed in a heap on the trail. Behind him stood a husky, sandy-haired man, breathing heavily, the balance of the branch gripped in his large hands like a baseball bat.
Christine stared at him, then at the fallen body at her feet. Still breathing, but out cold. “Who the hell are you?” she asked the man holding the tree branch.
“Most people might start with ‘Thank you’,” the man said. “But since you asked, my name’s Frankie. I’m a friend of Peter’s.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Christine said. “You used to work for Peter, right?”
“I’ve known Peter since we were twelve. Yes, I used to work at Stark’s...Christine.”
She held out her hand. He shook it. She held on a moment. “Thank you. Where’s Peter?”
“Up the trail a bit, recovering from a conk on the head. Now, as for this guy...” He threw the stick to the ground and checked Kyle’s pulse. “He’ll be all right.”
“Pity.”
Frankie grinned. “Only if he doesn’t get up. This must be Kyle.”
“You know a lot.”
“Like I said. Friend of Peter’s. Come on.” He walked up the hillside without checking to see if she followed. She did, losing sight of him momentarily around the sharp turn in the underbrush.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to go off the trail,” she said, her voice faltering under Frankie’s withering glare.
“You want to help me here, or what?” Frankie approached a thick clump of ferns and hoisted Peter to his feet. Peter stumbled and rubbed the back of his head. “You all right?” Frankie said, still holding Peter up. Christine waited on the trail below where Frankie had left her.
“Other than a massive headache. What happened?” Peter stumbled down the hillside toward Christine with Frankie’s assistance. When they reached the trail, Christine allowed Peter to lay one arm across her shoulders, with Frankie supporting him on the other side.
“Some dude hit you and ran,” Frankie said. “I was too far away to do anything. I thought about going after him, but I thought I should check on you first. Then Kyle caught up with Christine, and―”
“Kyle found you?” Peter leaned harder on Christine. Damn, he was heavy.
“Yes, briefly. Frankie knocked him out. He should be right―”
They turned the corner to where Kyle’s body had been moments before. But the trail was empty.
Christine halted in her tracks, forcing the others to stop as well. “What the hell?”
“Told you he was all right,” Frankie said.
“Someone please explain what the hell is going on,” Peter said.
“Hear, hear,” Christine said. “Let’s rest a minute and talk, shall we?”
They sat Peter on the ground along the side of the trail. Frankie squatted next to him, an arm resting on his friend’s shoulder. Christine stood on the trail, arms crossed.
Frankie checked Peter’s eyes. “You gonna be okay? Maybe we should get you checked for a concussion.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Frankie’s right,” Christine said. “Good Sam is close by. You should go to the E.R.”
“I’ll be fine!”
“Peter.” Frankie shook him by the shoulders. “You either go to the E.R., or I knock you out again and take you there unconscious.” Christine smirked.
“You would, too.” Peter shook his head, an embarrassed grin easing onto his face. “Okay. But where’s Kyle?”
“That coward?” Christine shook her head. “The moment he knew he’d be fighting someone his own size, he ran. But he’ll be back.”
“We’ll be ready for him,” Frankie said. “But for now, let’s take care of Peter. Get up, man. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Dammit, Shaggy, I told you to take care of him!” Kyle peeled the fake mustache off of his lip, wincing as the spirit gum tore at his skin. Glancing into the mirror, he winced again at the dark hair covering his scalp. That ugly brown had to go, pronto. He yanked off the prosthetic that had enlarged his nose, resulting in more spirit gum-induced pain and redness. None of it, however, could match the pounding that split his skull where Christine’s bodyguard had slugged him. His own fault, that: he should have known she wouldn’t leave herself that vulnerable.
“I did. I knocked him out cold.” The shaggy-haired, heavy-set man sat on the bed, his fretting image taking up a corner of the bathroom mirror serving Kyle’s de-costuming purposes. An open sliding door separated the two rooms. Kyle peered at Shaggy in disgust. His ripped, shirtless body put Shaggy’s shapeless form to shame. That, more than the man’s formless hairdo, prompted the nickname, recalled from the character on that silly Saturday morning TV cartoon. That and the fact that the doofus better fit the role of the slightly stupid sidekick, rather than a thinker or doer in any group situation. Even a group of two, like now.
“Apparently he didn’t stay knocked out for long.” Kyle scrubbed the sticky glue off of his nose and lip with a wash cloth loaded with cheap hotel soap. Not good for his skin, but effective, and skin lotion would take care of the damaged pores later.
“I tell you, there’s no way he got up on his own power and hit you. Not that fast.” Shaggy picked up the TV remote and pointed it at the TV. Blaring voices filled the cramped space.
“Turn that stupid thing off. I need you to focus. Now!”
Shaggy cowered and, after a moment’s hesitation, clicked off the set. “Okay. I’m focusing.” He tossed the remote onto the bed.
“Obviously, then, she’s got more help. We need to neutralize them, however many there are.” Kyle splashed water on his face and rubbed lotion onto his sore skin. “We need to know how many and who they are.”
“I’m betting it’s the big Polish guy. Lumpy’s friend.”
“The cripple?”
“He doesn’t seem crippled to me. He only uses the cane when he’s asking for something. To gain sympathy, if you ask me.”
Kyle paused over the sink. Clever. He admitted, to himself only, that he’d been fooled by the act. “Okay. So, we need to take him out. Both of them.”
“They’re going on a road trip next week. We could do it then.”
Kyle, patting his face with a towel, exited the bathroom. “How do you know that?”
A shrug. “Surveillance. That’s what you pay me for.”
“Does she know?”
“Doesn’t appear to.”
“Perfect.” Kyle smiled, and remembered the lesson from his online Leadership for Dummies class: compliment the crew. “Good work, Shag. And good idea. Can you take care of it?”
Shaggy frowned. “Not alone. I’ll need help. And money.”
Kyle waved a hand at him. “Do it. Use the expense account I set up for you. I don’t want either of them coming back here, at least until I’m done with her.”
Shaggy smiled, displaying uneven, brown teeth. “They won’t come back at all.”
***
“HOW THE HELL DID FRANKIE know where we were?” Christine asked Peter once he’d checked in at the emergency room admissions desk. They sat side by side in the crowded waiting room amidst various injured softball players, industrial workers and do-it-yourself gardeners while Frankie parked Peter’s pickup in the garage.
“I thought we might need backup. And as it turns out, I was right.” Peter held an ice pack rolled into a towel against the back of his head, which felt like someone had drilled into it with a dull masonry bit for an hour.
“You didn’t feel that was important enough to tell me first? Do you realize how dangerous a move that was?” She spoke in a low voice, too soft for anyone but Peter to hear, in a tone—just in case—that sounded reassuring and caring rather than angry. “If Kyle had spotted him first, he could be lying in a ditch right now. And so could we.”
“But he didn’t.”
“That’s not the point!” Her voice rose to a squeaky pitch and near-conversational volume. She calmed herself and leaned closer. “We need to work together on this. Full disclosure, always. Okay?”
His head pounded. He really didn’t want to argue, but dammit, something wasn’t right here. “That goes both ways. You haven’t told me everything, either.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course I have.”
Frankie appeared in the doorway and made his way over to them. He squatted in front of Peter and placed a giant paw on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“He’s in pain,” Christine said before Peter could answer. “Don’t make him talk—it only makes it worse.”
Peter glared at her, which only made his head ache more. Suddenly she cared about how talking pained him? “I’m fine,” he said. “This is a waste of time.” The invisible low-speed drill pushed the mortar bit deeper into his skull. He lowered his head to take the pressure off, stared at the floor.
“You’re probably right,” Frankie said. “Once they look at your noggin and discover you don’t even have a brain to concuss, you’ll be back on the street in no time.”
Peter grinned in spite of the pain. “Thanks, pal.”
“Anytime.”
“Here comes the nurse,” Christine said.
“Hot damn,” Frankie said. “She’s a looker.”
A short, buxom, brown-haired woman in a white lab coat approached. She glanced at a clipboard in her hands, then screwed her face into a puzzled frown. “Peter Robertson?”
Peter raised his hand, recognition dawning on his face. “Angela?”
“Peter, what the heck happened to you?” Nurse Angela Wegman sat next to Peter on the side opposite Christine and examined the bump on his head. “Tsk, tsk. We’re going to need to scan this and run a few tests. Who did this to you?”
“Wait, you two know each other?” Frankie spread his hands and exchanged a surprised glance with Christine.
“Peter and I go way back.” Angela tapped Peter by the elbow. “Come on, let’s get you taken care of. Your friends can come back with you, if you like.” She indicated Christine, then Frankie, with an uncertain nod.
Peter stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “That’s okay. I’d rather go by myself. These two would have me on life support for a hangnail.” He allowed Angela to help him up. Nausea swam in his stomach, and he swooned a bit. Angela steadied him with a hand on his back.
Christine’s face darkened, glaring at Peter. “Fine. I’ll get to know Frankie a little better.” She turned to Angela. “Take good care of him.”
“I will.” Angela guided Peter toward a set of swinging double doors.
Christine patted Peter’s now-vacant seat and raised her voice to be heard across the room. “Come, Frankie. Tell me all about your lifelong best friend.”
***
NURSE WEGMAN GUIDED Peter to a small examination room and set him on the hospital bed. “We’re going to need you to get out of those clothes and into a gown,” she said, popping a thermometer into his mouth. “Will you need assistance? I can send in a male nurse.”
“No, I’ll be fine,” he said around the thermometer. “Are you moonlighting here, too? Seems like I run into you everywhere.”
She laughed. “Yes, I’m still trying to save money for that trip to Europe. Normally they wouldn’t allow it, but there’s a serious nursing shortage, and I’ve been able to bring a few OHSU nursing students over for training shifts, too.” The thermometer beeped, and she checked it. “Normal. Let’s take your pulse.” She pressed her finger onto the inside of his wrist for fifteen seconds, timing it with her watch. “Seventy-six. A little fast.”
“I’ve been under some stress lately.”
“Yes, but your body could also be reacting to a concussion. Let’s get your blood pressure.” She wrapped the wide black strap around his arm, pumped air, and listened to his arteries with a stethoscope, frowning. “One forty over one hundred. Elevated. Another bad sign.”
“I’m okay, really.”
“I’m sure you are.” She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. When she smiled, Peter realized, she could be quite pretty. “Go ahead and get into the gown. The doctor will be here shortly.” She headed to the door.
Peter nodded. “Thanks. And, Angela?”
She turned. “Yes, Peter?”
“I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
Her smile turned bittersweet. “It’s okay. You’ve obviously met someone. I understand.” She exited, closing the door behind her.
Peter sat still on the bed for several seconds, his mind a blur. Yes, he’d met someone. But was it the right someone?
Chapter Twenty-Three
After a series of tests and interviews, the hospital released Peter into his friends’ care with the diagnosis of a mild concussion and a prescription for painkillers aimed at helping him sleep. “If you experience continued pain, any dizziness, memory loss, or balance issues, or find that you can’t focus, come right back in here for further analysis,” Angela advised him in the examination room. “And, Peter.” She locked eyes with him and squeezed his hand. “Call me—as a friend. Tell me what’s up with your mom once in a while. Okay?”
He nodded. “I will.”
With the painkillers starting to kick in, Peter dozed as Christine drove him home in his truck. She helped him upstairs, tucked him in, and sat on the bed next to him. “How do you feel?”
He groaned. “Like I’ve been hit by a train.”
“I’m sorry. I should have realized that Kyle wouldn’t come alone.” She rested her hand on Peter’s chest, caressing him. It felt...nice.
“Well, we achieved one goal: we learned more about his tactics.” Peter covered her hand in his, eyes closed. Unbidden images of Angela Wegman filled his imagination. He blinked his eyes open and focused on Christine.
“We may need more help, too,” she said.
“We have Frankie.”
“I mean professionals.”
He propped himself up on one elbow, nearly fell over, steadied himself. “You mean, hit men?”
“I mean, security professionals. People trained in surveillance and personal protection.”
“Isn’t that kind of risky, given what you want to, er, accomplish?”
She shrugged. “I need witnesses who will confirm what I’ve been saying. That he’s stalking and threatening me—and now, physically attacking me, and those I love.” She planted a dry kiss on his forehead. “I don’t want anything more to happen to you. And Frankie—I can’t protect him, Peter.”
“Frankie can take care of himself.” His voice slurred. He licked his dry lips. Angela Wegman had said something about water. Drink more. Or less. He couldn’t remember.
“Really?” Christine patted his knee. “You’re okay with risking Frankie’s life over this, too?”
He sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes. “I probably couldn’t stop him if I tried.”
“He’s a loose cannon. He makes me nervous.”
Peter chuckled. “You think he’s bad now? Watch him drive sometime.” His mind drifted off, the effects of the painkillers really taking hold. Her fingernails drew small circles on his chest, a wonderful, tickly feeling. He owed her, big time. She’d probably saved his life out there. Then she’d treated him so well at the hospital. So caring. So professional. And all of her help when Mom got sick months ago, and—
Wait. That was Angela. This, here, now, was...that other brunette. The pretty one on the jury. Smart, too. With the red lipstick and the delicate perfume. And the freckles. That she’d worn since they met at college...no, wait. That was Marcia, his ex-wife. Who was this, then? He fought to remember her name. Nellie...no. Nielsen. Mrs. Nielsen, his favorite teacher. No. No. What was her name?
“Goodnight, Peter,” a familiar female voice whispered. And then, all the world disappeared into darkness.
***
THE DOCTOR CONFIRMED the diagnosis of concussion the next day, and Peter, much to Gregg’s chagrin, followed their orders to take some time off of work. Frankie, however, couldn’t conceal his excitement.
“Rooooad trip!” He loaded two coolers filled with ice, food, and beer into the bed of Peter’s pickup, then stowed sleeping bags, fishing gear and two small suitcases around them. He tied them all down with bungee cords and slammed the tailgate shut with relish. “This works out perfect. Three extra days!”
Peter held his head in his hands. Frankie’s shouts reverberated inside of his skull, still sore from getting clocked by Kyle’s muscle in the woods. “Not so loud, okay? And there are no extra days—just different days. I need to be back by next Wednesday.”
“Come on. A few extra days won’t kill you.”
“No, but Gregg would, and my mom would kill you if I missed a visit. Speaking of which, I need to stop by Sunset on our way out.”
“It’s completely in the opposite direction!” Frankie, who had started to climb in the passenger side, jumped back out and slammed the door shut with extra energy.
Peter winced. “Easy,” he said. The sharp slamming pierced his brain, and he wished he could take more painkillers, but he needed to be alert for his visit with Thelma.
“Sorry, I forgot. Give me the keys and get in. I’ll drive.”
“It’s my truck,” Peter said in protest, but Frankie climbed in on the driver’s side before Peter could stop him. Ah, well. Driving would only made his headache worse anyway. He handed over the keys and climbed in the passenger’s side.
With Frankie’s NASCAR-style driving, they made it to Sunset in time to have lunch with Thelma, who babbled on about her upcoming doctor’s appointments and about how Ruby Tuttle had cheated to win at Bingo the night before. She seemed not to notice Peter’s grogginess and barely acknowledged Frankie’s presence. Frankie, for the most part, kept quiet and ate his grilled cheese sandwich on white bread with a great show of fake enthusiasm.
Once back on the freeway, Frankie’s good mood no longer had to be faked. “On to Coeur D’Alene!” he shouted out the window and hooted like a cowboy.
“What is there to do in Idaho, anyway?” Peter asked. He swallowed two of the pills and washed it down with a sip of Frankie’s Coke. It smelled, and tasted, of bourbon.
“Nothing,” Frankie said. “That’s the point. We’ll be drunk by nightfall and fishing by morning.”
“I hate fishing.”
“That’s because you do it wrong.” Frankie zoomed around a driver stupid enough to drive only five miles per hour over the speed limit.
“You’re crazy. The few times we’ve gone, I’ve always caught more fish than you. How could I be fishing wrong?”
“Not enough beer and women!” Frankie laughed and hooted again.
Peter shook his head, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Some things, and some people, never changed.
***
“WHERE IS HE?”
“On his way to Idaho. Should I follow?”
Kyle smiled into his phone. “For a bit. Let them get a few hours out of town. Then...I have an idea.”
***
PETER’S CELL PHONE chimed the chorus to “Black Magic Woman,” waking him from a comfortable slumber in the passenger’s seat. He reached for it in his pocket, but Frankie slapped his hand away.
“Don’t answer it.”
“She’ll just keep calling back.”
“Turn it off, then.” He cranked up the volume on the stereo and started singing off-key to an old Van Halen tune. He shoved cheese puffs from a half-empty bag into his mouth, then drained the rest of a Coke and tossed the can onto the floor of the truck, already littered with empty snack bags.
“You know I can’t do that,” Peter shouted above the noise, then turned the volume down halfway to normal. “I’m my mom’s emergency contact.”
The song played again. Frankie grimaced. “Send it to voice mail, then. If it’s anyone but your mom. And I know whose ring that is, so don’t go answering it.”
Peter pulled the phone out and tapped the “Ignore” button. The tinny chiming ceased, and he had to admit, he felt better immediately. “Where are we?”
Frankie yawned. “We’re almost to the Tri-Cities. We can stop for dinner in Spokane in about two, maybe three hours, if that works for you.”
Peter picked up a few empty cellophane bags that once held barbecue-flavored potato chips, pretzels, and other fried junk. “I can’t believe you can even think about dinner after all this,” he said. He pulled a plastic trash bag from the glove box and cleaned up the cab as best he could.
The phone chimed again, this time playing an excerpt from “Mr. Postman,” an old 1960s tune. He hunched his shoulders, a question for the driver. Frankie frowned, then shrugged. “At least it ain’t her.”
Peter smiled and tapped the “Voicemail” button, then “Speaker.”
“Darling?” Christine’s voice whined between them. Frankie cursed and pounded the wheel. Peter batted his hand away from the radio’s volume control. “Can we do dinner tonight? My treat. Call and let me know how you’re doing. I’m worried about you.”
Frankie cheered. “You really didn’t tell her we were leaving, then?”
Peter shook his head, stopped after two wags. His head still hurt like hell. “As we agreed. But I’m beginning to think it was a mistake.”
“No, it wasn’t. It’s for the best. You need a few days away from her to get your head on straight.”
“But Kyle’s in town. He could be stalking her right now.”
“And I’m telling you that’s not your—”
The Santana tune played again. After a moment’s hesitation, and amidst much cursing from the driver’s seat, he clicked it through to voicemail.
Frankie grinned in surprise. “Good boy!”
“I’m not so sure. But one thing I am sure of—I need a rest stop. Take the next exit. We can get gas, too.”
“I will if you promise to leave the phone in the car.”
Peter sighed. “Fine.” But when Frankie looked away, he slipped it back into his pocket.
***
CHRISTINE HUNG UP WITHOUT leaving a second message. His not answering struck her as worrisome, particularly since she knew he’d stayed home from work. He could be unconscious, or awake but out of it—the side effects of concussions were scary and unpredictable. Frankie had promised to stay with him, but she didn’t quite trust him.
She checked the time: five o’clock. She’d done all the advertising and PR work she could for the day. She grabbed her purse, left her office, and dashed to the parking lot. She reached her Miata and beeped it open—
But it was already open. With the top down, in fact. In the driver’s seat sat an athletic, blond-haired man with a laconic grin.
“Baby,” Kyle said. “I wondered if you’d ever leave work today.”
“What are you doing here? Get out of my car. I’m calling the police!”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Kyle said.
He tapped his cell phone, and her own voice played from its speaker. “Darling? Can we do dinner tonight? My treat. Call and let me know how you’re doing. I’m worried about you.”
Kyle sneered. “Even the police would have to agree, that sounds an awful lot like an invitation.”
“How did you—”
“It was so sweet of you to call. Now, how about you get in and we can catch up a bit before dinner? We have so much to talk about.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, but you do. There’s so much new going on in your life. New boyfriend, for example.”
“That’s right, I do have a new boyfriend. He’s not going to be happy knowing you’re here. And he has a nasty temper. All I have to do is call him and—”
“And what? He turns his car around and drives three hours back to rescue you from—what? Dinner with an old friend?”
“You are not my friend!”
He tapped his phone again. “Darling? Can we do dinner tonight? My treat.” He cocked his head. “Sounds like we’re really good friends...darling.”
She backed away from the car. “Get away from me!”
He narrowed his eyes and got out of the car. She took another step back. He followed her. She turned and broke into a run. His footsteps pounded the pavement, got closer. A hand grabbed her shoulder. She twisted away from his grasp, scanned the area while she ran. How could the lot be so empty at this hour? Her colleagues all remained inside their air-conditioned offices, working far too late as usual. She headed to the front door of the building, readying her electronic ID that would open the door. She reached the doorway and pushed the ID close to the small rectangular scanner on the wall, but a hand grabbed her again, this time by the arm holding the ID, and she couldn’t reach it. He spun her around, pushing her against the wall, and pointed the silver barrel of a 9mm Beretta between her eyes.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” He lowered the pistol to her abdomen and pressed it into her, hard. With his other hand, he held his phone in the air. Once again she heard her own voice: “Darling? Can we do dinner tonight? My treat.”
“How about it, then?” He smiled, an expression of utter cruelty. He leaned close. “Or do I have to use my little persuader here, darling?”
Trembling, she slid down to the ground, her back to the wall, tears pouring down her face.
Where the hell was Peter?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Parking the truck alongside the gas pumps, Frankie grimaced at the garbage bag full of fast-food wrappers at Peter’s feet and patted his belly. “You fill the tank. I gotta take a serious dump,” he said. “Find a place to get comfortable. This could take a while, and it’s gonna get ugly.” He limped off to the men’s room.
Peter shook his head in amazement. He disposed of the garbage, filled the tank, and whisked in and out of the men’s room while Frankie squirmed, still waiting for a stall. Poor bastard. He left Frankie there, found a booth in a coffee shop, and listened to Christine’s voice-mail message. Feeling guilty, he took advantage of Frankie’s absence and called back.
The ringing stopped after a few seconds, replaced by scratchy scuffling noises and muffled voices. A male voice for sure in the mix. Maybe only the one male voice. His blood pressure rose. He hadn’t been gone more than three hours, and already she’d found someone else?
“Hello? Christine?” He listened a few moments longer to the muffled noise. Then the connection dropped. He called back, and his call went straight to voice mail. “Hey, it’s Peter. Sorry I haven’t called you sooner―”
A sequence of chimes interrupted, indicating receipt of a text message. He read the text on the screen: “SOS.” Then, moments later, “911.”
Both from Christine.
His heart racing, he redialed, and again the call went straight to voice-mail. He texted, fumbling with the tiny keypad on the screen: “Where R U?” Sixty seconds went by. Ninety. More. No reply.
“What’s wrong?” he texted. Heart beating faster. Harder.
Again, no reply.
He left his untouched coffee on the table and ran to the men’s room. A short line of men of various ages, sizes and dress stood waiting for an open toilet, but no tall, sandy-haired men with canes. “Frankie?”
“Sorry, dude.” Frankie’s voice echoed off the tile walls. “I’m kinda having some issues here.”
“We have to go back to Portland,” Peter said. “Christine’s in trouble.” The men in line studied him in curious silence.
“What? No, man. Come on. Don’t do this to me.” A toilet flushed, and a man emerged from one of the stalls. Not Frankie.
“She just texted me an SOS. And a 911. I’ve got to go help her!”
“Dude, she’s manipulating you again. Ahhh.” Something splashed. Peter tried not to think about it. Frankie groaned. “Finally. Look, man. Just call her, okay? And leave me alone. I need a few more minutes of peace here.” He grunted again.
“I’m telling you, she’s in trouble. We have to go, now. Or as soon as you’re done.” He cringed and forced a sheepish smile at the men listening in on their conversation. One, a short African-American man sporting a crown of short gray curls, made eye contact and smiled as if he sympathized.
“Dude, it’s a three hour drive from here. Even if we left right now, whatever trouble she’s in―if any―will be over before we can get there.”
“We’ve got to try!”
Frankie groaned and sighed in response to another splash. “Dude, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t help her. Call the cops if you’re so worried. And leave me the hell alone!”
“Give me the keys, then.”
“No freaking way.”
“It’s my truck!”
“Tough shit.” He laughed. “Literally.”
The men ahead of Peter in line shuffled forward, filling in empty stalls as other men finished their business. Peter fretted and fumed but remained in line, realizing that he needed to empty his bladder again. In a few minutes he’d relieved himself and washed his hands, and considered one last appeal to Frankie, still ensconced in a closed-door stall somewhere, but decided not to risk angering him any further. He returned to the coffee shop and checked his phone. Another cryptic text from Christine: “Pls. Qkly.”
“Where exactly do you need to go?”
Peter turned to find the source of the voice. The gray-haired African-American man from the restroom stood beside his table.
“Portland,” Peter said. “And fast. But I probably can’t get there fast enough.”
“Not by car,” the man said. “But there are other options.” He handed Peter a business card. “Cleo T. Randolph, Private Pilot.”
“How long―”
“A little over an hour in the air. Not to PDX, but there are plenty of private airfields. How soon would you want to go?”
Peter hesitated. Frankie would kill him, and even an hour-long flight might get him there too late. But he had to try.
“What will it cost me?”
Cleo smiled. “Your friend is in danger?”
Peter nodded.
“True, physical, fear-for-her-life danger?”
Peter showed him the text messages. Cleo nodded, a grave expression on his face. “To be honest, I was headed there myself today with an empty cabin, so...just the cost of my fuel, then.”
Peter extended his hand for a shake. “Cleo, you’ve got yourself a passenger.”
***
FRANKIE EMERGED FROM the men’s room about fifteen minutes later and scanned the lobby for his friend. He checked the lines at the coffee shop and fast-food joints. Stepped outside, into the heat. Ambled over to Peter’s truck. Scanned the lot.
No sign of him.
He checked his cell phone. One text message waited, unread. He tapped the icon, saw that Peter had left a terse note. “Sorry. Gotta go back. Have fun fishing. See you next week.”
Frankie closed the app, clenched the phone in his fist, and shouted at the sky. “You son of a bitch!” He kicked the side of Peter’s pickup with all the force he could muster. Pain shot up his leg from his foot, and flared with intensity where the fractures had only recently healed from his crippling car accident two months before. He cried out in pain and fell against the truck, unable to stand under his own power.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” He banged on the truck with his fists, then pivoted away and kicked the truck again. Agony engulfed his entire leg, and, gasping, he collapsed to the scorching hot pavement.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cleo had Peter in the air less than thirty minutes after leaving the rest area. “Lucky for you,” he shouted over the roar of the Cessna’s twin engines, “I had already confirmed my flight plan. I’m picking up a client in Clackamas for a flight to the coast.”
“That explains the big discount,” Peter said with a wry smile. He waited for Cleo’s thumbs-up, then gazed out over the parched brown flatlands of eastern Washington, a stark contrast to the lush green hills and valleys of the western part of the state. Like Oregon, Washington’s eastern half consisted mostly of high desert dotted by small towns and cities, oases amidst the harsh brown landscape.
“I hope we make it in time to help your friend,” Cleo said. “Sounds like her ex is a real piece of work.”
“Let’s put it this way.” Peter turned back so that he could see Cleo’s face and raised his voice to shout over the churn of the engines. “If this were a military plane, I’d want to go in with guns firing.”
“I’ve got a chute,” Cleo said, grinning, “in case you want to save a few minutes by jumping.”
“Out of a perfectly good airplane? No, thanks!”
Cleo snorted. “Who says it’s a perfectly good plane? This is a rental, man!”
That shut down Peter’s short-lived light mood, and he rode in nervous silence until they reached the steep, green cliffs of the Oregon Cascades, towering over the broad blue waters of the Columbia River. “I’ve never seen the gorge from above,” he said. “It’s even more beautiful from up here.”
“You should see it in winter, when those hills are snowcapped.” Cleo pointed west, toward a cone-shaped white peak rising above the forested hills. “They all look like miniature versions of Mount Adams there.”
Peter shielded his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun, sinking low over the horizon. “Will we make it by sunset?”
Cleo nodded. “Easy. And I arranged a cab to bring you wherever you need to go, so―assuming you know where to find her―you’ll be right on your way.”
“Thanks. You’re amazing.”
“Not at all. You find that creep, and hit him once for me, too. And once for my little girl.”
Peter snapped to attention. “Why’s that?”
Cleo’s lips curled into an angry sneer. “My daughter lived for four years with a prick who thought hitting women made him a big man.” He shook his head, and a tear slid down from behind his sunglasses. “One day I found her in a pool of blood, bones broken, barely breathing. He’d hit her with an axe handle because she bought the wrong brand of milk. If I ever get my hands on that son of a bitch, I will arm this plane. With machine guns, so I don’t miss.”
***
CHRISTINE SHIVERED in the brisk air blowing onto her from the window AC unit perched in the old house’s wooden double-hung window a few feet to her right. Kyle sat across the kitchen table from her, pointing a Beretta at her torso. The house sat on a large untamed lot outside of Oregon City, some fifteen miles south of Portland, on a gravel road just wide enough for two cars to squeeze past. Or one tractor, the more likely vehicle to traverse the pothole-flecked surface. The nearest neighbor sat across an empty lot behind her, over a hundred feet away.
“Are you cold?” Kyle asked.
“A little.” She rubbed her bare arms. “Could you turn down the air a bit?”
Kyle pondered her request. “Afraid I can’t. I’m not used to the heat here. Weird, isn’t it, that Portland would be hotter than northern California?” She didn’t answer. An evil smile curled onto his lips. “But if you want me to warm you up a little...”
She made a face, wishing she could spit out the vile taste in her mouth. “I’d rather freeze to death.”
His smile faded. “That can be arranged.”
She shivered again. “What do you want from me?”
Kyle slammed the handle of the gun onto the table. The loud thud echoed off the kitchen’s bare walls, and a white divot appeared where the metal struck the dark wood of the table top. “I want my life back!”
She edged her chair away from the table. She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. “You have your life. It just doesn’t include me anymore.”
“You call what I have a life?” He stood and leaned over her, glaring. “I have people following me and tracking my every move. I have to report in any time I want to leave the crappy little town I live in. I have to document my every waking moment to some control freak magistrate once a month. No woman will come near me once they discover the bullshit charges you’ve leveled against me―which takes about five seconds on Google. I lose business left and right to people who can’t see past the legal restrictions I live under. I’m under constant surveillance. I have no privacy, no freedom of movement. You call that a life?” He slammed the table again, the loud crack even more painful to her ears than before.
“Your argument is with the court, not with me.”
“The court did what you told them!” He towered over her, his face inches from hers. Spittle dotted her face when he spoke. “You created this problem for me. You ruined my life. You! You! YOU!” He pushed her by the shoulders. Her chair tipped backwards onto the floor. Her head landed on the stone tile, hard. Pain shot through her skull. The kitchen, Kyle, and the table all blurred together, spun around her, and faded into blackness.
***
KYLE’S PHONE BUZZED. His man in the field, according to caller ID. He glanced at the bitch in the chair, who pretended to sleep. He strolled into the living room, reclined in an easy chair, then answered. Wind whipped in the background on the caller’s side. “What’s up?” he asked. “You sound like you’re standing in a wind tunnel.”
“I’m at the airport outside the Tri-Cities area. Our boy’s in the air, headed your way.”
Kyle bolted upright in the chair. “What? How? Are you sure?”
“Three hundred bucks cash to the flight controller on his smoke break, it better be good information. By the way, I’ll be expensing that.”
Kyle cursed, in reaction to both the information and the expense. “Where’s he headed, exactly? Which airport?”
More wind, then: “A private airstrip in Clackamas County. He should be touching down in about a half hour.”
“Crap. Of all the geeks she could have hooked up with, she had to find Clark Kent. Well, we need to get rid of him.”
“Already taken care of. I used that credit card you gave me and sent an Uber driver over to wait for him and take him to the House.” Shaggy chuckled. Proud bastard.
And an idiot.
“You moron. I’m at the House.”
“What? You said―”
“Never mind what I said! Change the destination. Tell the driver to take him home, or to Timbuktu, for all I care. Just not here.”
“But I thought―”
“Do I pay you to think? Huh?” Kyle gritted his teeth and squeezed the phone with crushing force. “Get. Rid. Of. Him. Now!”
The whipping wind noise disappeared, and the line went dead.
***
“SCREW YOU, KYLE!” SHAGGY jammed his phone into his pocket and stormed over to his vehicle. He’d had enough of Kyle’s abusive crap. Job or no job, he didn’t have to take that from anyone.
And he wouldn’t. Not anymore.
Kyle owed him money―plenty of money―for the past few weeks’ work, but more important, he owed him respect. He’d worked hard. Done everything asked of him, and then some. Gone above and beyond. Took initiative. Made good things happen.
But money be damned. Kyle had to learn to treat people better. And that treating people like dirt had consequences. And those consequences needed to be felt.
In the present situation, that meant that he wouldn’t be calling the stupid Uber driver back to change their destination. No, sir. He’d keep everything as is. Lumpy would go on over to the House. Maybe confront him. Maybe even kick the crap out of him.
Whatever. Let the chips fall where they may. He was done with Kyle and his abuse.
And he’d find a way to get paid. He knew of a few people with money who might even enjoy seeing Kyle suffer a little bit, too. One person in particular.
And as luck would have it, he knew right where Kyle was keeping her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cleo set the Cessna on the ground at the North Clackamas air strip with the sun still hanging well above the western horizon―and blazing right in their faces. “How can you even see well enough to land this thing?” Peter shouted above the engine noise.
Cleo grinned and tapped the dark sunglasses that hid much of his face. “There’s a reason they call these aviators, my friend.” He taxied to a stop as close to the terminal building as he could get and shooed Peter out of the plane. “You’ve got bad guys to catch,” he said. “Don’t waste time here on formalities.”
Peter didn’t wait to be told twice. He raced through the gate into the parking lot out front and scanned the taxis idling in the waiting area. Sure enough, as Cleo had promised, a driver held up a sign with his name on it. He raced over and jumped into the back seat.
“No luggage?” asked the driver, a short, fleshy man with stringy, shoulder-length brown hair and matching facial hair. He wore a jeans jacket over a flannel shirt that hung over beige khakis.
Peter shook his head. “Say, is this really a taxi? There are no markings anywhere.”
The driver laughed and buckled up. “I get that a lot. I’m with Uber. See the sticker on the back window?”
Peter glanced around, spotted the sticker. “I’ve never used you guys before. How does this work?”
“The drivers are all contractors, and we use our own cars,” the driver said, combing the fingers of one hand through his beard. “I guess your friend who arranged this ride for you didn’t mention that?”
Peter shook his head. “I guess I get to pay extra for this privilege.”
The driver started the car and gave him a puzzled glance in the rearview mirror. “You really don’t know how this works, do you? It’s prepaid, by your buddy who arranged the ride.”
“How does that work if you don’t even know where I’m going?”
Another puzzled look. The driver pulled the vehicle into the airport exit lane. His GPS speaker intoned in an Australian accent, “Turn right in three hundred feet, then continue four point seven miles.”
“Of course I know where you’re going,” the driver said. “He told me that, too.”
Peter leaned forward, his forearm on the top of the seat in front of him. “Then why don’t I know where I’m going?”
The driver stopped at the exit and gave him a long over-the-shoulder stare. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. This is freaking weird. Where did Cleo tell you to go?”
“He said―wait. Did you say ‘Cleo’?”
“Yes. My pilot. He arranged the ride for me.”
The driver shook his head and eased into traffic. “Some taxi driver’s gonna be hating on Cleo tonight, because his fare’s not going to show. My friend, the name of the person paying for this ride isn’t Cleo.”
“Then what is it?”
“Close to Cleo, I guess. The name on the credit card is Kyle.”
***
THE DRIVER LET PETER out at the corner of a two-lane collector street and a narrow cul-de-sac in a quiet suburban neighborhood with quarter- to half-acre lots, only about half of which sported houses. The modest, ranch-style homes all dated from the 1960s and 1970s, and all of them needed work. The address Peter sought sat a long block down the eastern side of the street. He had no plan, no strategy, not even an idea of what he intended to do. But he knew he needed to go there.
After asking the driver to wait on the corner, he made his approach with as much stealth as he could, crouching close to the homes and scampering between them after brief pauses to make sure he hadn’t raised any suspicions. The house in question sat on an extra-large lot, devoid of trees, with a weedy, unkempt yard, packed with white-topped dandelions and tall brown grass. Wood shake siding long ago needed a fresh coat of white paint, and moss-caked shingles peeled up from the roof. A panoramic set of double-hung windows wrapped around the back corner of the house, opening to a small wooden porch rimmed by a waist-high plank rail. That, he decided, would be his way in.
He crept around the side of the neighbor’s house, which appeared vacant, judging by the bright green notice tacked to the front door. The entire place smelled of urine. He slid along the side toward the back yard and peered across to the house where Kyle had sent him. An athletic, blond-haired man at least six feet tall stood in what appeared to be the kitchen, his back to the window, holding a cell phone to his ear with one hand, gesturing now and then with the other. He wore a tight-fitting tank top and workout pants that showed off his impressive physique.
If he turned around, he’d see Peter, without a doubt. Which meant Peter had to move, sooner rather than later.
Peter remained crouched but took long, quick strides on a diagonal trajectory toward the front edge of the kitchen’s wraparound windows, hoping the tall weeds would camouflage his approach. He kept one eye on the man, whom he guessed to be Kyle, and one on his path forward. He still had no plan, except to improvise. One step at a time.
He’d gotten about halfway across the lot when the blond man turned to his left. Peter dropped into the grass, watching. The man gestured again, turning further to his left, his face now visible through the glass. The sun setting behind Peter would create a glare in the man’s eyes if he looked in his direction.
Sure enough, the man shaded his brow and turned away again. Peter stayed low in the grass, sucking in deep, steadying breaths. The blond man stepped deeper into the kitchen, his back still turned. Peter rose to his hands and knees, then crab-walked to the side of the house, his eye on the kitchen window the entire time. The man did not turn before Peter reached the spot below the windows. Peter flattened himself against the siding, catching his breath.
The man’s voice became audible―through an open window, Peter guessed. “Well, where the hell is he, then?...Don’t give me that ‘how should I know’ crap. You should know because it’s your damned job to know!...I’ll pay you at the end of the month, like we agreed...I know you have expenses. So do I. A deal’s a deal...Don’t you hang up on me again! Damn you!”
A door slammed. Footsteps pounded on the tiny back porch. Kyle must have stepped outside. Peter rose up from his crouch so he could peek inside the kitchen. No sign of Kyle there, but a dark-haired woman sat with her back to him in a ladderback chair in the middle of the room, several feet away from the kitchen table, her hands tied behind her back.
Christine.
She turned, as if looking out the window, right above Peter’s head. He rose up a few inches more to make his entire face visible to her. Her mouth gaped open, her eyes wide. “How did you find me?” she mouthed. Peter shook his head. Not a good time to chat, Christine. She nodded and glanced out back. “Kyle,” she mouthed.
“I know,” he mouthed back. He pointed to the back: “Is he still out there?”
She nodded. “Help me.”
He gave her a thumbs-up and started to mouth out a new question, but something moved at the back of the house. Footsteps! He plunged flat to the ground. Moments later, Kyle leaned on the rail of the porch, staring into his cell phone, punching in numbers, or perhaps a text message. He finished, looked away from the phone to his right, away from Peter.
Then, left. Right at Peter.
Confusion, surprise, then recognition washed over Kyle’s face. “What the hell?” he said.
Peter didn’t wait. Didn’t think. He stood, ran, and reached the back porch in three long strides. Kyle leaned further over the rail, shouting. Peter raised his right fist and swung in stride, connecting a vicious roundhouse blow to the blond man’s temple. A cry of pain, and Kyle went down in a heap.
Peter climbed over the rail, landing with both feet on Kyle’s back. Something cracked―he guessed one of Kyle’s ribs―and air gushed out of the man’s mouth. But he didn’t move.
Peter opened the kitchen door and rushed to Christine. “Let’s get out of here, before he wakes up,” he said, tugging at the rope tied around her hands.
“How did you―where’s―I don’t―”
“Shh.” He kissed her, a quick peck on the lips, the kiss of a man in a hurry. He fussed with the rope, but couldn’t budge the knot. He opened a drawer, found a sharp knife, and moments later she was free.
She wrapped him in a tight embrace, crushing his own ribs. He patted her back, then pushed her back a step. “We’ve got to go.”
“Where?”
“To the corner. I have a car waiting.” Out on the back porch, Kyle stirred, raising himself up onto his hands, wincing in obvious pain.
“I don’t have shoes. He took them from me.”
“Then I guess you’re going barefoot.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the house. She grabbed her purse off the floor in the living room and followed him out the front door. Still no shoes. He took her hand, tugged her toward the sidewalk.
Footsteps thudded around the outside of the house. Peter pulled her back to the front of the house, up against the wall, and signaled Christine with a silent finger. Wait. He edged to the corner of the house and crouched into a three-point stance like a defensive lineman. He listened, waited...then pounced.
His timing was perfect. His arcing fist collided full force with Kyle’s nose. Kyle spun and tumbled onto his back, legs splayed wide. Peter stepped forward and kicked him in the crotch, hard. Kyle screamed and curled into a fetal position. Peter lifted his heel and crushed it into Kyle’s skull.
Peter waited. Kyle didn’t move.
“Is...is he dead?” Christine crept up behind Peter and rested a hand on the small of his back.
Peter watched Kyle for a moment. “No. He’s still breathing. Let’s go.” Pain leaked up from his hand. His knuckles bled and felt like he’d hit them with a hammer.
“Go?” Christine grabbed Peter’s arm and spun him around. “What do you mean, go? Aren’t you going to finish him off?”
Peter shook her off his arm. “What are you talking about? I didn’t come here to kill him. I came to rescue you.”
“But if we let him live, you’ll be rescuing me every week for as long as we live. Come on, Peter. Now’s our chance!”
Peter stared at her in disbelief. “I won’t kill a man in cold blood!”
She wrapped her arms around him, held tight, drew her lips close to his. An embrace of control, not one of romance. “Of course you will. Wasn’t that the plan?”
Peter shook his head, pushed her away. “It’s your plan. It was never mine.”
“But you said―”
“Forget what I said!” He pointed to the end of the sparse cul-de-sac. “A car is waiting. If you want to get out of Kyle’s clutches, come with me.”
“What about Kyle? Are you just going to leave him here?” Her voice softened, disbelieving.
“I’ll call 9-1-1 if you want. But my work here is done.” He turned and walked toward the car.
Moments later, footsteps padded up behind him. She caught up to him and hooked his arm with her own, limping in silence next to him toward the Uber vehicle. “I can’t believe this. Our perfect opportunity, and you’re walking away.”
“That’s right. Do you understand now? I’m not your hit man.” He quickened his pace, dragging her along the sidewalk.
She hopped along barefoot for several more steps, but about fifty feet from the end of the street, she stopped. Tugged at him, making him stop. “I have to go back.”
“To the house? Are you crazy?”
“I can’t leave my shoes here. What if he dies? The police will find them and accuse me of killing him!” She limped back down the street toward the house.
“We’ll call the cops and tell them what happened,” he said. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”
“I want to call them now. I want him arrested, at the very least. He kidnapped me, for God’s sake!” She kept walking.
“Fine, call the cops. But not here. In the car.”
“I want to stay close by, so when the cops come―”
“What is wrong with you?” Peter shouted. He strode toward her, closing the distance between them. “He could come to at any moment, and things might not go my way in a fight next time. Let’s go!”
She looked over her shoulder at him, held up one hand. “Just wait here. Okay?” Kept walking. He stopped, stared after her. She made it back to the house, keeping a wide berth around Kyle’s fallen body, still unmoving on the grass. She bounded into the house, then out again moments later, shoes on her feet. Sensible flats, for a change. She skipped past Kyle and ran toward Peter, surprisingly fast.
“You’re crazy, you know that?” he said as she approached. “What if he had come to?”
She stopped about six feet away and stared at the ground for a long time. “I’m s-sorry, Peter,” she said. “With everything that’s happened, I’m not thinking clearly.” She held her arms out toward him, tears streaming down her face. “Hold me, Peter? Please?”
He drew in a deep breath, let it out in a slow, controlled sigh. She stepped closer, and he opened his own arms wide, inviting her to collapse into him.
Instead, she reached into her blouse and pulled out a dark object. Moments later, he was staring into the barrel of a cannon.
“We’re not leaving until we finish this,” she said.
He kept his arms wide. “Where the hell did you get that?”
She gripped the gun with trembling hands but kept it pointed at his head. “Kyle dropped it when you knocked him out on the back porch. Now we can use it on him, and be done with him forever.”
“This is ridiculous.” He licked his lips, heart beating double-time. He looked for the safety, but with his limited knowledge of guns, couldn’t make it out. Keep calm, boy. Think. “For one thing, you’re not going to shoot me. At least not with all of the neighbors looking on.” He gestured to his right, toward the houses on the west side of the street.
Her eyes flickered to the side for the briefest moment, then returned to focus on him. “You’re bluffing. Nobody’s looking, because nobody cares.”
“You say so.” He lowered his hands, not quite to his sides. His pulse slowed a little. Keep her talking. “But you’re also not going to shoot him in the middle of the street. And even if you did, what makes you think you’d ever get away with it? If nothing else, the Uber driver is a witness, and he knows my damned name. And yours.”
She squinted at him, as if concentrating―or, knowing her, calculating something. Some odds, some angle. “You amaze me,” she said. “Kyle meant to use this gun on you. Oh, yes. You didn’t really think he would fight you armed only with his fists? No, my friend. He wanted to kill you.”
Peter swallowed. He hadn’t considered that possibility. The pain in his hand doubled and shot up his arm.
“But,” she said. “You’re right. I’m not going to shoot you.” She lowered the gun.
“In that case,” Peter said, his heart rate slowing, “we should get out of here. You can call the cops from the car.” With his good arm, he gestured toward the Uber car. They walked together in silence for a few seconds.
She put her arm around his waist, pulled him close, smiled at him. Smiled, of all things! “I have to give you credit,” she said. “You didn’t even flinch when I pointed the gun at you.”
Finally Peter’s steady demeanor had paid off with her in some way. Still, he played it cool. “Remember what you told me on the night Kyle broke into your house?”
She pondered a moment. “I said a lot of things. What in particular helped you tonight?”
He shrugged. “You’ve never shot at a person, and even at paper targets, you’re a terrible shot.”
She grinned. “Me and my big mouth. Well, I had to try. Now, how about we head back to your place? I owe you big time, and I think I know just what to do.” Her smile turned mischievous. Her hand rested on the curve of his back, then slid inside the waistline of his jeans, giving him a pretty good idea of what kind of thanks she had in mind.
Unbelievable.
“Of course, I might not be able to focus on that,” she said, “if I was constantly thinking Kyle might be on his way over.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He pushed away from her, saw the gun still in her hand. Christ, she’d had the gun in his pants. He grabbed it from her. She let him, a slow smile creasing her face. “What are you doing?” she said in a sly voice.
He walked back down the street toward the house, gun in hand.
“Peter,” she said. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing? I love it! You naughty, naughty man!” She laughed. A jittery, uncertain laugh, despite her brave words.
He kept walking. When he reached the house next to Kyle’s, he stopped. Stared at Kyle, lying on the ground. Stared at the Beretta for a moment. Found a latch, released the magazine from the handle. Turned it upside down. Emptied the bullets into the tall grass of the neighbor’s yard. Tossed the magazine into the bushes.
“What are you doing?” she called out to him, her voice shrill now, angry. Footsteps pounded on the pavement.
He reared back, gun in his right hand, and tossed it onto the roof of the neighbor’s house.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After a long night of tossing and turning in bed next to a silent, angry Christine, the next day went by in a sleep-deprived blur. He left her sleeping in her bed and took another Uber to work, arriving an hour later than his usual 7 a.m. start time. Gregg, busy with managing the remodel of the store, hardly noticed, and greeted him without commenting on his early return from vacation. To make matters worse, his cell phone had gone missing.
Crews with tool belts appeared at every turn, and everyone worked at top speed. Power saws whined, compressors chugged, and nail guns blasted fasteners into fresh shelves, counters and half-walls dividing the redesigned showroom into small sections. The pounding of hammers and crowbars echoed inside Peter’s aching head, doubling the intensity of his sleep-deprivation headache. Coffee, even Gregg’s industrial strength mud, offered little relief.
“What’s the big hurry?” he asked Gregg around mid-morning when they crossed paths between meetings with separate groups of contractors. “Did the insurance company give you a deadline or something?”
“One of the great advantages of being a lumber supplier,” Gregg said with a grin, “is that we know all of the best contractors in town, particularly the ones who owed us favors. I just reminded them of the many times we rushed their orders, alerted them to upcoming shortages, and extended discounts during lean times. So, let’s just say, they’re motivated.”
“But why the frenzied pace?” Peter said, pressing thumbs into his temples. “It’s like a war zone in here. The pace they’re working, they put the Army Corps of Engineers to shame.”
“We want you back in business ASAP,” said one of the contractors who’d ambled close and overheard their conversation. “I’d just as soon never step foot in Lumber City ever again. No offense, Raul.”
“None taken,” Raul said, appearing out of nowhere. He shot Peter a dirty look, then plastered a fake grin on his face. “I am a Stark’s man now.” He trudged off, carrying a half-dozen two-by-fours over his shoulder and barking orders in Spanish to one of the crews.
Peter’s main responsibilities—rearranging stock to temporary locations to enable construction, and furnishing and tracking supplies to the contractors—didn’t tax his time the way his regular job did, and as the day wore on, Gregg often snagged him to help supervise other odd tasks. “So glad you changed your vacation plans,” Gregg finally said late in the afternoon. “I’d never keep up with this project without you.”
One new task Peter wished he could have avoided was overseeing the security system upgrade. He hated the idea of having cameras recording every corner of the store every second of the day, and he tried to convince Gregg to cut back. But his pleas fell on deaf ears.
“We’ve been robbed and vandalized a dozen times in the last two years—four times in the last two months,” Gregg said after Peter pitched a reduction in alarm sensors for cost-cutting reasons. “I consider every penny of this system money well spent.” Ditto for the contract with the new security agency, which would provide undercover “secret shoppers,” as well as 24/7 monitoring and backups of the sound- and motion-activated cameras and microphones mounted all over the building. Gregg approved installing devices not only in the retail section, but in the offices as well—even his own. “They’ve been inside jobs,” Gregg said. “I want to catch the son of a bitch responsible and pin his or her ass to the wall with the evidence. No more of this crap on my watch!”
“It just feels like overkill,” Peter said. “I mean, I’m bummed about the break-ins too, but is any of this even legal?”
“According to the legal-beagles, yes,” Gregg said. “Oregon’s a one-party-consent state, so the lawyers are drafting agreements that all employees will need to sign—or they can drag their asses out the door and find jobs somewhere else. I’m out of patience!”
Peter sighed. Gregg never had any patience to begin with.
Worst of all, the security crew worked late. Peter kicked them out at 6:30 over their protests, but too bad. He needed food and sleep—alone. And soon.
He exited the side door of the building—and spotted his truck, parked in the back of the employee lot. He stumbled toward it. An angry, familiar voice stopped him.
“Aren’t you the least bit surprised to find your truck here, waiting for you? Or do your vehicles always magically transport themselves two hundred miles overnight?”
Peter froze. Frankie stepped around him from behind and blocked Peter’s path to his truck. Keys dangled from Frankie’s hand, but nothing else about him appeared casual. Dread and shame flooded through Peter’s body.
“I’m so sorry,” Peter said. “I can explain.” Which was a stretch, at best. In his exhaustion, he’d clean forgotten about leaving his truck and his best friend in eastern Washington, a three-hour drive from Portland.
“Let me guess,” Frankie said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Your manipulative little brunette gave you a booty call, and suddenly the planned vacation getaway with your lifelong pal is long forgotten. Well, was it worth it? Did you get any?”
“It’s not like that. She was in trouble, Frankie. Serious—”
“She wasn’t in trouble. She is trouble. For you. Don’t you see that?” Frankie stepped closer, pointing a finger into Peter’s chest. “She’s making a total mess of you, and ruining your life. Hell, she’s ruining you. What’s happening to you, man? A month ago, you’d never have pulled something like this.” Frankie rolled the key ring around one finger, the keys jangling. Peter grabbed for them, but Frankie yanked them away. “Oh, no. You want these, you gotta earn them.”
“Frankie, listen to me. Kyle kidnapped her. He had her locked up in a house—”
“Oh, really?” Frankie spread his feet wide, hands on hips. “Funny thing. I didn’t see a story on the news about any kidnapping. Wasn’t on the radio or in the papers, either. Curious, such a major crime being kept so quiet, isn’t it?”
Peter’s shoulders sagged. “He didn’t hold her long. I got her out of there, but—”
“What? You? How?”
Peter smiled and leaned sideways against the truck door. “Believe it or not, I slugged him. Twice. Knocked him out cold.” He held up his knuckles. No visible cuts or bruises, although they still felt plenty sore.
But Frankie would have none of it. He doubled over with loud, sarcastic laughter. “You? Hit a guy? With what, your tire iron again?”
“Shush!” Peter reached for Frankie’s mouth, but Frankie squirmed free. Peter grabbed for the keys again, missed. “Dammit, Frankie. What the hell are you doing?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing!” Frankie’s voice thundered over the parking lot, echoing off the nearby buildings. He stepped toward Peter and leaned into his face. “I’m stopping this lunacy, right now. My next call is to your brother, and the one after that is to the cops. I’m ratting you out for what you did last November. It’s the only way I know to get you away from this bitch and her crazy schemes!” He held his cell phone up over his head with his free hand, breathing heavily and glaring at Peter.
“There’s no need, Frankie. It’s over. The whole thing is over and done with.”
Frankie froze, staring open-mouthed at his friend. “What are you saying? Wait, did you—? I thought you said you just popped him in the kisser once or twice. You didn’t—”
“No, I didn’t...do what you’re thinking. I knocked him out, yes. But I left him there alive. And I told Christine that I wasn’t going to go after him anymore. I left him unconscious, on the ground, but breathing, and very much alive.”
“Jeez.” He rubbed his chin, keeping his eyes on Peter. “What did she do?”
Peter shrugged. “Freaked out, for a minute. Even pulled a gun on me.”
Frankie stared for several seconds. “No shit?”
Peter smiled. “No shit.”
Frankie looked him over. “She must not be a very good shot.”
Peter laughed. “I didn’t say she pulled the trigger. But no, apparently she’s not. Anyway, I got the gun away from her and we got the hell out of there. She even came on to me a little bit. That gal, man—the weirdest things make her horny.”
Frankie’s face brightened, and his mouth split wide with a toothy grin. “You dog, you! How in the hell—? That’s amazing!” He clapped Peter on the back, then bear-hugged him. “That’s so awesome!”
“I know, right? I wish I’d just done that to begin with.” Her horniness hadn’t lasted long, unfortunately. But no sense correcting Frankie’s false impression and spoiling his fun. He held out his hands. “Now, may I have my keys back, sir?”
Frankie sighed and handed them over. “I’ll need a ride home, if you don’t mind.”
Peter clicked open the truck and climbed in. He waited for Frankie to limp around to the passenger’s side and haul his large frame up into the seat. When he started the truck, a soft “ping” sounded from the console between the seats. He glanced down. The end of a white charging cord lay buried beneath a half-empty bag of cheese puffs. He moved the bag and saw the object being charged.
His phone!
“So that’s where it is!” He checked the charging icon: 45%. He’d missed several calls and text messages since the previous evening.
“Yup. And yet again, you owe me big time.” Frankie grinned. “You’re lucky I found it. If I hadn’t tried to call you last night, it’d still be in the weeds in the middle of nowhere.”
Peter gave him a quizzical look. “What do you mean, in the weeds? Didn’t I leave it here, in the truck?” He backed out of the space and headed for the exit.
“Nope. Found it on the ground.”
“On the ground where? Eastern Washington, at the truck stop?” He signaled a right turn and pulled into traffic.
“Hell no. I’d have never found it there.”
“My house?”
“Uh-uh.” Frankie took far too much delight in this game.
Peter didn’t. “For God’s sake, Frankie. Are you going to tell me where, or make me guess all night?”
Frankie laughed. “I think it’d be fun to make you guess.”
Peter glared at him. “You have a bizarre idea of what ‘fun’ is.”
“Come on. Guess.”
Silence. Peter drove, stopped at a red light, continued through on the green.
“I’ll give you a hint. It was on a cul-de-sac.”
“Thanks. That narrows it down to almost every suburban neighborhood on the planet.”
“Really? How many cul-de-sacs have you been on in the last twenty-four hours?”
Peter shrugged. “Technically, one. But I can’t imagine you went to North Clackamas any time recently.”
“Then you’d imagine wrong!” Frankie laughed and pounded on the dashboard. “See? Wasn’t that fun?”
Peter froze and nearly forgot to brake in time to avoid colliding with the car in front of him. “You went to Kyle’s hideout? Why?”
“Looking for you.”
“How?”
“Long story. Can we change the subject? Let’s put on some tunes.” Before Peter could protest, Frankie clicked on the radio. A female singer belted out a song of freedom and empowerment. Frankie swore and punched another preset.
A male reporter’s somber voice intoned over the speakers. “...On site here in east Portland. Police found the body of a California man in this Mount Tabor neighborhood—”
“Forget that crap,” Frankie said, reaching for the presets.
Peter batted his hand away. “Wait! I want to hear this.”
“—identified the man as thirty-five year old Kyle Campbell,” the reporter said.
“What?” Peter shrieked.
“You know him?” Frankie asked. Peter shushed him.
“The man’s body was badly beaten,” the reporter said, “and police say he may have been left there for as long as twelve to twenty-four hours.”
“Holy shit!” Peter slowed the truck and pulled over to the side of the road.
“Dude. This Kyle Campbell—is that ‘your’ Kyle?”
“Sh!” Peter leaned in to listen. Peter recognized the next voice as belonging to Officer Tennyson Howard, the same cop who had responded to the break-in at Christine’s. “It appears that the victim was beaten to death by a blunt object, possibly after a roadside scuffle,” Howard said. “We see evidence of a possible collision, or of a vehicle swerving off the road adjacent to the victim’s car, which we found abandoned nearby.”
“Anyone with information,” the newsman said, “is asked to call the Portland Police. In other news...”
“Wow.” Peter clicked off the radio and sat in stunned silence. Frankie stayed quiet also, even seemed a little tense. Peter cleared his throat. “If you’re wondering whether I had anything to do with this—”
“I’m not,” Frankie said in a quiet voice. A puzzled expression occupied his face. “I know you. You wouldn’t.”
Peter met his gaze, lips pressed together, and nodded. He extended his hand. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
Frankie accepted the handshake, held his hand in a firm grip. Started to say something, stopped. Then smiled. “How about you get me home? Maybe you want some alone time. Get your story straight before the cops call.”
“I don’t need a story. I didn’t kill him!”
“I know, I know. I mean...well. They’re going to call. You know that.”
“Yeah.”
“So. Home, then? I can imagine you’ve got a lot to think about.”
Peter nodded. “My friend,” he said, “that may be the understatement of the year.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
