Where There's Smoke

Bowie Cato.

His name sprang into her mind and caused her heart to flutter. She’d thought about him a lot, more than just in passing, more than was decent, more than she liked to admit. Frequently she’d found herself daydreaming about his bowlegged gait and recalling the way his brown eyes viewed the world with a sad cynicism.

Dare she call him and ask if he was still interested in a job?

He’d probably left town.

Besides, what kind of fool would hire an ex-con after firing an employee for stealing?

Jody would have a tizzy. Her blood pressure would soar, and it would be Janellen’s fault if she became seriously ill.

She enumerated a dozen solid objections but reached for the phone book and looked up the number of The Palm. Her call was answered on the first ring.

“Is… Yes, I’m calling for… Who is this please?” Her brave gene had returned to hibernation.

“Who did you want?”

“Well, this is Janellen Tackett. I’m looking for—”

“He ain’t here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your brother’s not here. He came in last night after that town meeting. Stayed ’bout half an hour. Knocked back three doubles in record time. Then he left. Said he was going flying.” The man chuckled. “I sure as hell wouldn’t have got into an airplane with him. Not with all that scotch sloshing behind his belt and considering the mood he was in.”

“Oh dear,” Janellen murmured. The pimp-mobile hadn’t been in its usual place this morning. She had hoped it signified that Key was up and out early, not that he hadn’t come home at all.

“This is Hap Hollister, Miss Janellen. I own The Palm. If Key comes in, can I give him a message for you? Want him to call home?”

“Yes, please. I’d like to know that he’s all right.”

“Aw hell, you know Key. He can take care of himself.”

“Yes, but please have him call anyway.”

“Will do. Bye-bye.”

“Actually, Mr. Hollister,” she cut in hastily, “I was calling for another reason.”

“Well?” he said when she hesitated.

Janellen dried her sweating palm on her skirt. “Do you still have a young man working for you named Bowie Cato?”

Lara was weeding her petunia bed when a blue station wagon careened around the nearest corner, hopped the curb, sped up her driveway, and screeched to a halt in the loose gravel. The driver’s door burst open and a young man dressed in swimming trunks clambered out, his eyes wild with fright.

“Doctor! My little girl… she… her arm… Jesus, Go

d, help us!”

Lara dropped her trowel and came out of the flower bed like a sprinter off the starting blocks. She stripped off her gardening gloves as she ran to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. The woman inside was even more hysterical than the man. She was holding a child of about three in her lap. There was a lot of blood.

“What happened?” Lara leaned into the car and gently prized the woman’s arms away from the girl. The blood was bright red—arterial bleeding.

“We were on our way to the lake,” the man sobbed. “Letty was in the backseat, riding with her arm out the window. I didn’t think I was that close to the corner when I turned. The telephone pole… oh, God, oh, Jesus.”

The child’s arm had been almost severed. The shoulder ball joint was grotesquely exposed. Blood was spurting from the severed artery. Her skin was virtually blue, her breathing shallow and rapid. She was unresponsive.

“Hand me a towel.”