Raising the Stakes

“Mama, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Go on, Tommy. Do as I said. Find Mrs. Wilton and tell her—”

“Hello, Thomas.”

“Hello,” her son said, with all the innocence of his seven years. “Are you a friend of my mama’s?”

Harman squatted down. His teeth flashed in a smile that made Dawn’s belly knot. “You could say that, boy. Why don’t you come shake hands?”

“Tommy.” Dawn pushed her son toward the door without taking her eyes from her husband. “Get into the house. Now.”

“But, Mama…”

“Do what I tell you, Tommy. Go inside. Tell Mrs. Wilton to call the police.”

“It’s going to be hard to do that,” Harman said lazily, rising to his full height, “considerin’ that the phones ain’t working.” He reached for his belt and withdrew a hunting knife that reflected the sharp glare of the late-afternoon sun. “Funny, how a modern thing like a phone line just can’t stand up to a little wear and tear.”

“Harman.” Dawn’s teeth chattered. She had to tear her eyes from the blade. She knew how sharp it was; she’d spent endless evenings, watching her husband hone the steel to a fine, deadly edge. “Harman? I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Damn right you will.”

“Just—just let Tommy go.”

“My truck’s right back there.” Harman jerked his head toward one of the outbuildings. “You and the boy get movin’.”

“I’ll go. Not Tommy. There’s no need for you to take him.”

“No need?” Harman’s face darkened. “What does a whore know of a man’s needs, save for the only one she’s fit to service?” He took a step forward. “Move!”

“Mama…” Tommy buried his face against Dawn and began to cry. “I don’t like this man.”

“`Mama,’“ Harman mimicked, “`I don’t like this man.’ Damn you,” he roared, “you see what you’ve done here? You took a man-child and turned him into a sissy. Stop that bawlin’, boy.” Tommy’s sobs only grew louder. “Goddamn you, stop that snivelin’ or I’ll start the lessons you need to learn afore we get—”

Tires squealed. Dust flew. Harman whirled around as a pair of SUVs roared across the hard-packed dirt and stopped. Dan Coyle and two of his men jumped out of one; Keir and Gray jumped from the other.

“Well, well, ain’t this nice?” Harman said softly. “We got ourselves all kinds of company.” He smiled, locked his eyes on Keir and Gray and tossed his knife from hand to hand. “Welcome, gentlemen. I should have expected the both of you’d turn up, considerin’ how cozy I’m sure you’ve been with my wife.”

Gray looked at Harman. Their eyes met, and he realized that he’d never understood the full meaning of hatred until now.

“Kitteridge,” he said softly.

Dawn gave a choked sob. Gray risked a quick look at her. I love you, he thought fiercely, as if she could see into his head, his heart, his very soul. He felt the power of that hope sweep through him as he turned his gaze on Harman.

“Let them go, Kitteridge,” he said.

“You’re some piece of work, Baron, you know that?” Harman spat a glob of saliva at the ground. “All that crap about wantin’ to give the harlot a music box and here you ended up givin’ her what’s hangin’ between your legs.”

Gray’s eyes were flat. Harman laughed, reached out to Dawn and wrapped a hand around her arm.

“It wasn’t no music box brought you to my mountain. Did you think I’d really believe that? She come into money. I want to know how much.”

“A lot.” Gray flashed a quick look at Dawn. Harman’s fingers had to be hurting her but she was staring at Gray, eyes wide, as the fabric of deceit he’d woven began to unravel. I love you, he thought again. “A lot,” he repeated, steadying his gaze on Harman. “And it can be yours, if you play your cards right.”

“Damn right. She’s my wife.”

“Yeah, but you don’t know where the money is or how to get it. I do.”

“Meaning?”