“How?” How did you know about prison? The question couldn’t push past the brain sludge.
Teeth flashed. “I know a lot.” Baby grabbed his hand and with surprising strength pulled a staggering Max to his feet.
Out of the car the scents of the Cumberland River greeted. In the distance, the river lapped against the shore.
“That job I need for you to do is steps away.”
“Job?”
“That’s right, the job. Remember, you’ll earn your thousand dollars and that bottle of bourbon?”
One step. Two. Steps. Each foot moved as if it weighed a couple of hundred pounds. The bottle slipped from Max’s embrace and fell to the ground hitting a rock and shattering. He paused and stared at the glass shards glittering among rocks in the moonlight.
“My bottle.”
“I’ll get you another.” Strong hands pushed him forward three more stumbling steps.
With the next step his foot sloshed in water. “Where am I?”
“At the job site.”
He raised his gaze to the cool waters of the river that caught the moonlight in its watery reflection. “What the hell?”
The firm hand in the small of his back shoved him forward hard. He stumbled and fell face-first into the cold waters. Immediately, he fought to lift his face and breathe. But those same hands that had shoved him threaded through his hair and held his face in the water.
Panicking, he jerked his face out of the water, but a knee in his back forced it back. His arms flailed, but the weight pressing against him coupled with the heaviness of the booze was too much to fight. Soon his oxygen-starved body forced him to inhale. And when he did, water flooded his mouth, nose, and his lungs.
Above the water Max heard, “Say good-bye to the last link.”
He fought harder but strong hands held him down. Finally, his mind drifted, and drifted away from the panic and then in a blink went black.
“Yeah, I’m watching her right now,” Oscar McMillian said as he cradled the cup of coffee in his hand. He stared up at the dark window. “She is my type.”
“Be careful. Be subtle. You don’t want trouble from the cops.”
Annoyance flared. “I can control myself.”
A heavy silence crackled through the line. “I know you can.” The line went dead.
He closed his phone and sipped his coffee. He’d been sitting out here for a couple of hours watching Rachel Wainwright’s building. Though his back ached and he longed to stretch out, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. What if he took a break and missed something important? He didn’t know what important meant, but when he saw it he’d know it.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Rachel Wainwright. If he were smart he’d stay far, far away from her. That cop had spotted him at the honky-tonk and had chased him away. He could have really enjoyed himself because given time he’d have gotten Rachel to lighten up. But the cop had interfered.
But there was no cop in sight tonight. Just him, the night, and Rachel alone in her house.
She was like a drug to him. From the moment he’d first seen her, she’d infected his blood. And like an addict, he couldn’t give her up. He sat in his car staring up at her warehouse apartment. Learning every little detail he could about her.
The lights in her office remained on. She’d had Chinese food delivered at seven. She’d risen from her desk at nine to stretch and make more coffee. She worked long hours. Slept little.
He’d dozed in his car at one point and dreamed of peeling her clothes off as she moaned pleasure. Of her screaming his name as he drove into her.
Rachel had infected his blood as Ellen had all those months ago. He’d gotten carried away with Ellen. He’d acted too quickly. Foolish. Reckless. And now he was in a hell of a mess.
But he’d figure his way out of this mess, as he had gotten out of the trouble in Kansas City and years ago in Portland. Rachel would see him clear of his troubles. All he had to do was play the game. Be the man she needed him to be so she could believe in him.
And then when he was a free man, he’d find Rachel and turn some of those dreams of his into realities.
February 19
I dreamed about you last night. You were sleeping like a baby, like you did in my arms so many times. I leaned over to kiss you as you opened your eyes. A smile teased the edges of your lips. You raised up your head to kiss me. I smiled. And moments before our lips touched, I jabbed my carving knife between your ribs. Funny. Why would I dream that?
A.
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday, October 19, 11 AM
Rachel double-checked the address on the sticky note clutched in her hand and glanced again at the black mailbox. 2317. “Finally,” she muttered as she parked in front of the white rancher.
She’d been up last night watching Annie’s taped performance. The woman had been vibrant, alive, and not like the woman in the last letters to Sugar. She’d dug through her notes and reread her interviews. She’d spotted the name Kate Tilden, whose sister, Beth, had been Annie’s roommate. Joanne had said Beth had died ten years ago in a car accident but her sister Kate had been a frequent visitor to the house.
Rachel had called Kate this morning but had gotten her voice mail. She’d left a message and then, taking a chance, had driven to her house.
Now she wondered how well she’d be welcomed. Stirring up the past had earned her a good bit of resentment and anger and she braced for Kate’s reaction.
Out of her car, she hurried up the front sidewalk neatly lined with winter pansies in a well-mulched bed. She rang the bell and waited.
Seconds later footsteps sounded behind the door and it opened in a quick rush. Standing on the other side of the screened door stood a tall woman with dark hair and striking brown eyes. Her face was wide, her jaw lantern. “Can I help you?”
“Brenda?”
She grinned. “Rachel Wainwright. What brings you here?” “I left a message earlier today for Kate Robertson Tilden.” Brenda nodded. “My mom mentioned a call. Did she get back to you?”
“No.”
“Sorry. Our pastor visited Momma this morning and she was real tired after he left.”
Rachel resisted asking the impatient questions firing in her head and took time to build rapport. “KC is officially retired then?”
“He is. He’s driving east to see his son. He should be back soon.”
“Thanks again for your help at the hospital and for seeing me now.”
“How’s the shoulder?”
Rachel tightened her grip on her purse strap. “Sore but better.” The unexpected connection was a nice bonus. “Do you think your mother would be open to talking to me about Annie Rivers Dawson? I’m trying to talk to everyone who knew her.”
“Momma is in the sunroom now. And she’s rested up. I don’t see why it would hurt to visit. She doesn’t get many visitors.” Brenda pushed open the screened door. As Rachel stepped inside, Brenda glanced past her and frowned. “Did you notice that car parked a half block behind yours?”
Rachel followed her gaze to a dark sedan parked across the street. She recognized the driver instantly. Oscar McMillian.
“You know that man?” Brenda asked.
“I do. He’s a client. But he shouldn’t be here.” Tension rippled through her body.
“Should I call the police?”
The police translated into Deke. His words of warning about Oscar rambled in her head and she pictured him staring at her as if she were a child. Oscar was more of a problem than she’d realized, but to admit that to Deke . . . well, she’d rather eat dirt. “No. Thanks. I’ll deal with him later.”
Brenda stared past Rachel to Oscar. “I don’t like the looks of him. He can’t be up to any good.”
“If he bothers me I’ll call the cops.”
Brenda glared at the man. “Trouble.”
Tension slipped up her spine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to be about me.”
Brenda’s s
mile warmed. Clearly conflict didn’t rattle her. “I’ve worked in the prison ministry for years. I’ve seen my fair share of scary men and I can handle myself. Don’t worry. Come on in then and you can have a talk with Momma.”
Rachel followed Brenda through the house, walls cluttered with dozens of pictures of children, old folks, and wedding couples. Rachel imagined the entire family history had been mapped out on this wall. She thought about her own home and her lone family picture. It had been taken at her high school graduation. She’d been dressed in her white cap and gown. To her left stood her mother and to her right her brother. Her father had passed by then but it had been one of the happiest days she could remember. For mere moments there’d been no conflict, no arguments and life had been good and filled with promises of art school.
Even then she’d realized happiness could be fragile, but then she’d still believed that destiny was in her control. If only she’d realized happy endings weren’t really possible.
Brenda showed her into a brightly lit sunroom filled with green plants. Soft music played in the background. Sitting in the corner was a woman nestled in a wingback chair. Her body had been ravaged by disease and though she couldn’t have been more than sixty, she looked eighty.
Eyes closed, the woman tilted her face back, savoring the heat of the sun on her face. When her mother had been ill, it had been the simplest pleasures she’d enjoyed most toward the end. The sun’s heat. A child’s laugh. A trip to the market. A kind word.
Brenda moved toward the woman and with a loving hand touched her cheek. “Momma, you’ve a visitor.”
The woman opened her eyes and looked at her daughter and then at Rachel. Blue eyes possessed a keen, alert edge that defied the illness decimating her body.
“I saw you on television the other night.”
Unable to begrudge this woman a laugh at her expense, Rachel smiled. “I made a real impression.”
A grin softened the woman’s hollow lines. “You can take a hit, that’s for sure. Didn’t cry or bellyache. Got up and stood your ground. That’s good for something.”