Cattitude (2 page)

***

Even though the car’s heater blew full blast,
cold crept into the pores of Sorcha Ander’s skin. “Blackmailing
Deavers? Are you nuts?”

Fletcher turned the eight-year-old Taurus
with the dented right front fender onto a street lined with narrow
duplexes and yellow-green lawns. The northwest Milwaukee
neighborhood looked as dreary as Sorcha felt inside. The early
morning sun hit Fletcher’s thin face, showing his white teeth in a
crooked grin and his dark brown hair tumbling onto his
forehead.

He looked like a poet. Sensitive, troubled
and doomed.

“The whole fucking world believes Deavers is
the genius of the hotel industry.” His short laugh grated on her
ears. “If they only knew the truth. Just think of the half mill as
our share of Deavers’ big stock bonus. It’s not like he’ll miss it.
I bet his wife spends more on shoes every year.”

They pulled into the narrow driveway, slowing
for cracks the size of a Sumo wrestler’s arm. Their landlord’s car
blocked the garage. Biting her lip, Sorcha glanced at Fletcher. He
swore, then shrugged, emotion flashing on his face, hot and
cold.

Sorcha touched his arm. He was a fool, but he
was her fool. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You
can’t con me, baby. You never get premonitions about yourself. The
only thing that’s going to happen is we’ll get a few bucks in our
pockets. Deavers is lucky I went to him instead of the tabloids.
He’d be laughed out of town if we told them he buys hotels on the
advice of a psychic."

“It’s not wise to put the squeeze on
Deavers,” she insisted.

“He’s just a man.” Fletcher’s voice thinned
with irritation. “If it weren’t for his daddy and granddaddy, he
wouldn’t be any higher up the money chain than you or me.”

He got out of the car, slammed the door, and
stomped toward the back of the house.

Sorcha rubbed her arms, her jacket sleeves
riding up. Now he was pissed at her. With a sigh, she slid out of
the car and grabbed the paper bag filled with groceries from the
back seat. Hugging the bag to her chest, she started down the
driveway. A shiver ran through her, even though the weather was
warming. About time.

She frowned at a brown patch of grass. It was
April, and she wanted spring. Spring always chipped away a little
at her depression. The SAD disease, the doctors called it. The most
appropriate medical term she’d ever heard.

A popping sound, as if a balloon burst, came
from the back of the house. Her forehead scrunched. Had Fletcher
fallen? He never watched where he was going, and the landlord’s
kids never picked up anything. A lawsuit waiting to happen,
Fletcher liked to say with a laugh. But getting hurt didn’t amuse
Sorcha.

“Fletch, are you okay?” she called. The bag
was slipping, and she hefted it up. It was heavy, potatoes and cans
on the bottom, eggs, bananas and bread on the top.

Fletcher didn’t answer. If he were hurt, he’d
be swearing by now. Sorcha hadn’t heard the door slam, so he must
be waiting for her, his anger already evaporated. She hurried
around the back of the house—and tripped over something lying
across the sidewalk.

Her hands parted as she fell forward, the
grocery bag dropping and she heard the plops and thuds of the food
items she’d carefully chosen. Dammit, the eggs were going to
break.

Her knees connected with softness instead of
concrete. Her palms hit the sidewalk and slid, the cold cement
stinging her skin.

“Don’t scream.”

Instead of glancing up at the muffled voice,
Sorcha looked beneath her jean-covered knees. Oh God, she was
kneeling on Fletcher. His soulful brown eyes open, he stared past
her without blinking. And what was that leaking from his head? Oh
God oh God oh God.

She scrambled backward.

“Don’t move.”

She peered up at the man in front of her. He
wore black slacks, black sweater and a black ski mask.

“Mr. Deavers,” she whispered, recognizing his
medium height and build and the pouch over his belt buckle.

“I didn’t plan on killing you.” He nodded at
Fletcher’s body. “He said you were getting your hair done
today.”

“My hairdresser’s sick.” She felt as if she
were in a dream. No, a nightmare. How else could she explain
kneeling on the cold sidewalk, a three-pound bag of potatoes at her
side and Fletcher sprawled in front of her, blood pooling beneath
his head?

“That’s too bad. I was hoping to keep you as
my consultant after he was gone. He said you didn’t have anything
to do with the extortion plan. In fact, he seemed quite proud of
himself. Was that the truth?”

She nodded, her head light, as if it might
fly off her neck. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.
It must be a nightmare.

He stepped closer. “I don’t suppose I can
trust you not to tell the police?”

Her gaze dropped from his masked face to
Fletcher’s still features. She touched his cheek. Her heart raced.
His face was warm! Was he alive?

Then she looked into his unseeing eyes and
knew her hopes were false.

“No answer? Doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t
believe you anyway. As much as I value your special talents, I’m
afraid I’ll have to manage without them. If I’m in jail, they won’t
do me much good, will they?”

Her hand curved over Fletcher’s cheek.
Fletch, how will I live without you?

In her peripheral, the black shoes moved
another step closer.

“I’m not a bad man.” Deavers gestured toward
Fletcher. “He’s scum. He deserved to be eliminated.”

Anger roared through her mind. Fletcher was
the only person who’d ever loved her, and this animal had taken him
from her. And she was next. Looking up, she took her hand from
Fletcher’s cheek and reached sideways for the bag of potatoes.

He aimed the gun at her head. “You’re too
pretty to die this way. I’m sorry, but I have to do this for the
sake of my children. I can’t let them be humiliated. Why don’t you
close your eyes? I’ll feel better if—”

She slammed the potatoes in an arc, knocking
the gun from his hand and hitting his left knee. He staggered and
grabbed his knee, muffling a moan. Still holding the bag of
potatoes, she stood in one fluid movement and smashed the bag onto
the side of his head. Then she turned and ran.

“What took you? I could’ve been killed.” Rose
scurried out of her Lincoln Town Car onto the sparse grass verge,
looking fearfully at the cars speeding along the expressway, her
nose wrinkling as if the smell of exhaust offended her
sensibilities.

Max tightened his mouth and reached inside
the car for the switch to release the hood. His mother was always
afraid of something. To her, every cloud had a black lining.

“We came as soon as you called,” Ted said,
behind Max.

“Can you believe it?” Her voice squeaked with
indignation. “A
man
stopped. He knocked on the window,
trying to get me to open it, saying he wanted to help.”

“You should’ve cracked the window open.” Ted
lifted the hood. “He could’ve been the man of your dreams.”

“He could have been a rapist,” she shot back.
“You’re being foolish. There is no such thing as a dream man.”

Ted bent to examine the engine. “Not even
Dad?” he asked, his voice muffled.

Max stuffed his hands into his jean pockets,
forcing himself to watch Ted handle this instead of shoving him
aside and taking over. A semi raced along the slow lane behind him,
its draft tickling his neck.

“Your dad left,” Rose said.

Max shifted his gaze from Ted to her. “Dad
died,” he snapped.

She shot him an accusing look, as though it
were his fault.

The old heaviness settled in his chest.
Rose’s lips curved down, her face unsatisfied, her eyes squinting
against the sun. Her navy pants and lighter blue jacket covered
those fifteen extra pounds she was always talking about losing. Her
hair looked neat, her only wrinkles showing around her eyes and
mouth.

He supposed a man her own age might find her
attractive. Yet she’d never dated since the day that started with
sunshine until late afternoon when the storms swooped in and—

“He was killed.” Bitterness edged the flat
words. “It’s the same result. He’s not here, is he? This is a silly
conversation. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“Found it!” Ted said. “A loose spark plug
wire.”

“Are you sure?” Rose tapped her fingers on
her upper lip. “Maybe you should let Max look at it.”

About to bend under the hood for a look, Max
pulled back. “I’ll get the pliers.”

Ted glanced up, his eyebrows lifted. Max read
the question in his eyes. He nodded, giving Ted the message that he
was letting him take care of this. That he trusted him.

He turned away. In a couple weeks, Ted would
be handling everything. He just didn’t know it yet.

As Max reached in the back of the Jeep, a tug
on his sleeve stopped him.

“I don’t want to hurt Ted’s feelings,” Rose
whispered, clutching his sleeve. “But I’d feel safer if you took a
look.”

“Ted will do just fine.”

“If
you
say so.” She sighed and let go
of his shirt. “At least you’ll be there to supervise. I don’t know
what I’d do without you.”

Another semi roared by. Rose squeaked and
jumped back onto the grass. His mouth tight, Max grabbed a pair of
pliers from the toolbox he kept in the back of the Jeep.

“I suppose Caroline was at the house.” Her
voice grew louder and more petulant. “She’s after you. And don’t
roll your eyes at me. Ted, you tell him.”

“It’s true,” Ted said. “You’re single,
heterosexual, and you got a few bucks in the bank. You might as
well paste a target on your chest that says ‘Come and get me.’
They’ve been coming for years.”

“Jealous.” Max strode toward the hood.

“Not over Caroline. She’s too old for me.
More your type, anyway. Beautiful, smart and needy.” Ted snickered.
“A damsel in distress.”

“I wouldn’t call her beautiful,” Rose said.
“She uses too much make-up.”

“Needy?” Max handed him the pliers. “Is that
what you think I go for?”

“C’mon, look at yourself.” Ted gestured with
the pliers. “You’re always there for Mom. You’re supporting Tory.
You bankrolled Caroline’s design business. Even gave her an office
in the house.”

“Only until she gets her business going and
can afford her own place,” Max said.

Rose and Ted both snorted, sounding
freakishly alike. “Yeah, right,” Ted said. “Like that’s gonna
happen. And, hell, you even rescued Belle when she was a
kitten.”

Max frowned. Ted made him sound as if he had
some kind of save-the-world complex, when the opposite was true. It
was duty. Someone had to make sure everyone was taken care of. And
he was the oldest. In a wolf pack, he’d be alpha.

If something needed to be done, he did it. He
had the money, so why not? Better that than buying flashy cars or
an oversized house with rooms he’d never use.

Besides, he had other plans for his money.
Plans to saw off the yoke around his neck.

Let Ted take a shot at being the alpha. It
would be good for his backbone.

“Anyone would’ve done the same thing.”

“Yeah, if the person was Sir Lancelot.” There
was an edge to Ted’s voice as he stuck his head under the hood. “Or
King Arthur. That’s even better. The king waiting for the perfect
queen.”

“You’re wrong.” Max smiled grimly. Arthur had
earned his kingship. Max had his thrust upon him. Now it was time
to abdicate.

He’d fulfilled his promise to his dad.

He’d made his plans.

Two weeks, he told himself again. In two
weeks he’d be breathing in the smells of the ocean and island
flowers instead of the stink of diesel exhaust. In two weeks, the
yoke of his family would be off his shoulders.

***

Speeding along the freeway heading out of
Milwaukee, Sorcha glanced in her rear view mirror and spotted
Deavers’ silver sedan three cars back. Following her. Closing in on
her. Preparing to kill her.

She tried to care, but inside her blackness
spread, despair slithering into every cranny, chomping on every
cell, threatening to overwhelm her. Fletcher, she thought, what am
I going to do without you?

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She saw the
future for everyone else. Why hadn’t she seen it for Fletcher, the
only person who ever loved her?

A thought started as a whisper and ended as a
scream. She should have died with him.

The SUV in front of her slowed. So did the
car in the right lane and the one in the left. She lifted one hand
from the steering wheel to wipe tears from her face. A patrol car
was parked on the shoulder of the road behind a white station
wagon, lights blinking.

She flicked on her signal lights and turned
into the right lane. In her rear view mirror, she saw the silver
car change lanes. A shudder shook her, cold pierced her bones.

“Damn you,” she whispered. Deavers wasn’t a
professional killer, he was something more deadly—a desperate man.
He’d always seemed so nice, smiling when they met for their
sessions as if she were the most important person in the world, but
underneath she’d sensed the roiling darkness. If she stopped the
car, she feared what he would do.

In the back window of the station wagon,
children’s heads bobbed. A vision flashed in her mind. Two small
girls lying on the floor, their mouths and eyes open in death,
crimson blood flowing into their blond hair.

A cry wrenched out of her throat, and the
vision dissolved. Her foot pressed down on the gas pedal.

The two parked vehicles were a blur as she
sped past them. Her fuel gauge showed a quarter tank of gas, which
should get her into the next county. And then...she would die. She
knew this the way she knew evil lived in the world and so did
good.