4

Phoebe reacted instinctively to Earl’s hand on her shoulder. She grabbed it and in one smooth movement twisted around to face him. This turned his hand under and forced him away from her. His muffled exclamation turned to a yelp when she pushed his hand up between his shoulder blades and shoved him into the wall, using her knee to hold him there.

“You got two seconds to explain what you’re doing in my house,” she growled into his ear.

He cussed, the words muffled by his proximity to the wall.

“That’s not an explanation.”

This violation of her space had adrenaline singing through her bloodstream in an out-of-control flood. She twisted her fingers in his hair and shoved his face into the wallboard, then went to jerk his head back for round two. Instead of his head jerking back, the hair came off in her hand.

“What the—”

“It’s me! Dewey!”

“Dewey?” Her heart was pumping fight-or-flight so loud, she almost couldn’t hear him. She stared at the wispy wig in her hand, then the tufted full head of hair on the back of his head. “Dewey Damn Hyatt?”

She threw down the wig and stepped back, her body shuddering with a reaction that now had nowhere to go.

“In the slightly bruised flesh.” He eased his arm down, flexing the fingers once before turning around. Using the wall for support, he dabbed at the red trickling out the corner of his mouth, then rubbed it between his fingers. “I guess I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you.”

“You forget I don’t do victim anymore?” She pushed her hair off her face with hands that shook from the surge of violence she hadn’t known was in her. She didn’t waste time asking how he got in. Hadn’t made a lock that Dewey couldn’t pop. “Let’s get some ice on that.”

His face and body might be Earl, but his grin was vintage Dewey, though crooked now as one side of his mouth began to puff out.

Her kitchen was a pleasantly impersonal room with carabiner wind chimes hanging above the tidy sink. Even at night, the white walls and yellow countertops appeared sunny and cheerful. Phoebe rummaged through a first-aid kit until she found a disposable ice pack and twisted it to break the seal between its chemicals.

While she waited for it to chill, Dewey began to shed his “Earl-ness,” removing the prosthetic weight from around his belly, the mouth device that changed his jaw line and teeth and pulled off the bulbous nose. Flecks of the adhesive he’d used to keep it in place stayed on his skin, and he looked like a deflated clown with Earl’s clothes hanging off his rangy frame.

She tipped his chin toward the light and dabbed away the blood. She started to apply the pack, but Dewey took it from her, holding it against his rapidly swelling lip.

“Next time I come at you from behind, I’ll wear a bell.”

“Next time don’t come as Earl.” She straddled a chair as her knees went from fight to flop. “You been Earl all along or you just look like him for tonight?”

“If you don’t know, I ain’t gonna tell you.” His grin widened toward unrepentant but quickly shrank into a wince.

“You just did.” She was gonna have to find a way to exact justice from his sorry hide. “What’s so important you had to scare ten years off my life to tell me?”

His suddenly sober expression told her it was bad.

“Ollie’s dead.”

Beyond bad. She was glad she was already sitting down. “What?”

Despite her turbulent past, Phoebe and all of Phagan’s young thieves were careful to avoid violence. Dewey had been known to joke that a gun added a nickel or more to your basic B&E time, but their caution had more to do with their refusal to embrace the methods of those who had afflicted them in the past. Each job, each game, was meant to disarm their target covertly, electronically if possible. First they went after the money, then after their freedom by tipping off Phagan’s Fibbie—who they all knew by name and reputation, but not by sight.

Their success rate was remarkable, despite the Fibbie’s unrelenting pursuit, and had been, until now, casualty free. Until Phoebe’s turn to avenge the past, until her game. She tried to pull up Ollie’s picture in her head, but how could she? In their shadowy chameleon world, reality was whatever they each decided it was. Her lips numb, Phoebe said, “Harding?”

“His pit bull, Stern, probably.”

They’d done their homework on Barrett Stern before starting the game, but apparently they hadn’t done it well enough.

Phoebe shook her head, rejecting the reality of his death, not Dewey’s guess on who might have killed him. “This wasn’t Ollie’s game.”

“He wanted in.”

“He didn’t want to die.” Phoebe looked at Dewey, feeling the pain of loss from the present and the past combine inside her like the chemicals in the ice pack interacting. Phagan’s first rule was never to let the past intrude on the present, but it was hard to manage when she was facing that past head on.

“He knew the risks.”

Risks Phagan wouldn’t let her take. The gallantry factor. No feminists in Phagan’s world. That was about to change. Pain, rage, and frustration combined to form a new emotion: resolve.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Phagan sent me a new kid. He’s pretty good. Lots of potential. He could do what Ollie was going to—”

“We’re out of time. My egg is hatching as we speak. We can’t push back the timetable now.” She looked at him. “There’s only one person who can do it. Me.”

It was Dewey’s turn to shake his head.

“Yes. I planned it. I’ve played it more than anyone.”

“In virtual reality,” Dewey objected. “It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s my game. Harding’s my target. My risk.” She stood up and crossed to the refrigerator, anxious to avoid his eyes for a few minutes. They were far too penetrating and might see the profound, poisonous terror welling up from deep inside her.

“Phagan—”

She cut him off. “—will know I’m right.”

“You think so?”

She turned in time to catch a slight, crooked grin turning up the side of his mouth that wasn’t puffy. “I know so.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She lifted her chin. “I’m going all the way with this one.” She popped the top on the soft drink she’d taken out and drank deeply.

He stood up, too. “Okay. We move on Harding’s RABBIT Sunday night.” He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more.

“What?”

“Phagan gave me the green light to up the ante—and the heat on Harding if you’re up for it.”

Phoebe tensed, powerless to stop herself. “When?”

“Harding’s got his engagement party tomorrow. Rumor has it he’ll be announcing his run for governor tomorrow, too.” He waited several seconds before adding, “I’m going to try to get you an invite. If you can you face him?”

Face him. Face Peter Harding in person. Could she do it? She was stronger than that girl who had run from him. Run from what he’d done to her sister. She could feel the roots she’d put down in Phoebe’s life anchoring her on one side, while the sucking mire of the past pulled at her from the other. It was like being a schizophrenic Pandora facing that closed box, debating whether to open it.

Phagan thought she was strong enough for the game. And Phagan was always right. No reason not to believe him now. It was time she stepped onto this path and faced her demons. A sort of peace pushed back her fear.

“I’ve been waiting seven years to face him.” Dewey didn’t look convinced, so she added, “I’ll do what I have to.”

He flicked her cheek gently. “You always do, darling.”

He hefted the spent ice pack, then tossed it into the trash and took a handful of pistachios out of his pocket. He shelled them, tossing the hulls in after the ice pack.

“You staying the night?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Kevin, the new kid, isn’t ready to be left alone all night.” He finished his pistachios and brushed his hands down his pants, then gathered up his Earl accoutrements. He hesitated, then said, “I’ll beep you if—”

“I know.”

When she’d let him out, she padded down the hall to her room, not expecting to sleep, but her body was wiser than her mind. It ejected thought and surrendered to the sleep it needed, sending her deep and sound until close to eight, when the sun found a space in her blinds and put a beam of light across her face.

For a moment she lay there listening to a robin’s cheery sounds outside her window while last night’s events crept back to the forefront of her mind. With a quick movement she tossed back thought and blankets, stripped off the tee shirt she’d slept in, replacing it with bike shorts and a brief top. When her hair was secured in a rubber band, she left, passing through the kitchen like a comet. She needed to clear her mind for what was ahead. Forward motion always helped her more than twisting in the wind of thought.

On the street, her feet pounded the pavement. She ran hard until halfway up the first hill, then settled into a steady rhythm. This was a dangerous time for her. That the past was stalking her future gave fuel to her run.

She had to control the game or lose it all.

Jake pulled his truck to a stop on the other side of the street from Phoebe’s house. He set the brake and studied the tidy structure in the daylight, forcing himself to wait to get out and cross the street, fighting back an unprofessional and unwelcome eagerness to see her again.

Her property was almost picture perfect, with neat flowerbeds outlining the house and front walk. A row of pine trees divided the approach to the garage from the tiny back yard enclosed in a picket fence. In the center of the backyard was a swing set, minus the swings, with a small trampoline underneath.

Before he could puzzle out the why of that, a tingling on the back of his neck had him twisting to look down the street.

It was well worth the lost sleep, this first view of Phoebe jogging down the hill toward him with an effortless grace and a minimum of clothing. She’d pulled her dark hair back with something and it swung from side to side with each concussion of feet to ground. Her tanned body was sleek, glistening with exertion.

Without a break in stride, she vaulted the picket fence, jogged to the trampoline and used it to launch herself up until her hands closed around the crossbar of the swing set. She hung for a moment, then, with the full drag of her body on her arms, she pulled herself up in a series of chin-ups.

It looked as if Jesse wasn’t the only Mentel with a good grip. Jake resisted the urge to flex his arms as he got out and crossed the street. She was lifting a leg to hook it over the bar.

While he was still wondering how to make his presence known, Phoebe spotted him from her upside down position. He saw her hands open and swore, bounding over the fence. As he ran toward her, she tucked, pulling her legs in, trying to bring her body around. If the clearance had been an inch less, she wouldn’t have made it. An inch more, her feet wouldn’t have hit the tramp at an angle that sent her rebounding forward to slam into his chest.

He had a couple of seconds to brace himself before she hit him dead center, knocking the wind out of his lungs and his feet out from under him. As he went backwards he wrapped his arms around her and tried to relax into the collision with mother earth. It helped, but not enough.

When he could speak, he said, “Nice tackle.”

She laughed breathlessly. “I’m sorry—are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah—” The words came out a bit more emphatic than he’d planned and he quickly asked, “Are you all right?”

“Hey, I been slammed into rock. This was much nicer.”

“Yeah.” Sandwiched between hard earth and her body, Jake only had to lower his gaze slightly to get an eye full. With an effort, he looked up at the clear blue sky and tried to count away temptation. He was well past ten when she rolled off him.

“That better?”

He grinned. “Yes and no.”

“Diplomatic.”

“My mom requires it of all her sons. Sometimes quite forcefully.”

The thought of anyone requiring anything of Jake made Phoebe smile. As if he heard her thought, humor lit his eyes. Her gaze was hooked by his and she sobered as pleasure bloomed in her midsection. He’d looked good in the night. He looked even better in the light.

Live it all the way or don’t do it at all, Phagan was wont to say, without ever defining what living was, but it was now quite clear she hadn’t been.

She sat up, wrapping her hands around her knees. “You ever heard that country song about the difference between lonely—and lonely for too long?”

“Yeah, I have.”

“I think—” she looked at him, her gaze sliding the length of his body before returning to his face— “I been lonely for too long.”

Before he could react, she jumped to her feet.

“Do you want a cup of coffee or something? I need to shower before we talk.”

Talk about what? He scrambled upright and followed her inside, led by the sway of her hips in tight shorts and by curiosity about the questions she didn’t ask him. In the kitchen, she pointed out the coffee paraphernalia. “Just help yourself. I won’t be long.”

He took her at her word and rummaged through her cupboards, assembling the necessary items for a bad cup of coffee, since she didn’t have the makings for a decent one. He spooned stale crystals into his cup and went to the sink to run some hot water. Stirring the nasty-looking brew with a spoon, he studied his surroundings. The kitchen was clean enough for the small piece of debris on the floor to stand out like a sore thumb. He knelt, felt a kick of shock when realized it was a pistachio shell.

Inside the trash were more shells, as well as a spent ice pack. He sighed, hearing the water start in the back of the house. After a pause, the flow changed from tap to shower. To get rid of his mind’s inclination to ponder Phoebe in the shower, watering sliding off her body, he headed down her hallway. There wasn’t anything to see but an unused guestroom without invading her bedroom, so he turned back. He took one sip before deciding he didn’t need coffee that bad.

The other door out of her kitchen led to a living room, rustic but comfortable, the furniture light and blocky. Two crossed ice picks hung above the fireplace. Only scenery shots on the walls. No books. No magazines. No newspapers. The boots she’d worn last night were tossed in a corner, her purse on a table just inside the front entry. He walked into the room, then wheeled in a circle with his senses stretched out. The room was almost impersonal, but still managed to exude a comfortable sense of permanence and serenity that he tried to fit into the Phagan and Dewey Hyatt setup—and couldn’t.

He heard the shower shut off and turned back to the kitchen, his thoughts spinning in a kaleidoscope that wouldn’t make a pattern. He almost didn’t see the mark on the white wall, a few inches below eye level.

He leaned close and studied the brown flecks without touching them.

Blood.

Odd place to find it. Did explain the ice pack. Sort of. If you had a good imagination, which he did.

He headed for the kitchen, frown between his brows and regret in his heart. Even without the lust factor, he liked her. Obvious that life had kicked her around more than a little bit, without making her bitter or mean.

Sometimes he hated his job.