by Linda Howard
Oh, God, their time together had been so short.
Cate shook herself back to the present and blinked the tears from her eyes. She let herself cry only at night, when there was no one to notice. Her mother and the boys could return from their picnic at any time, and she didn’t want them to catch her with her eyes red. Her mother would be worried, and the boys would cry if they thought Mommy had been crying.
She got the old, long key out of her dresser, slipped it into her jeans pocket, and retraced her steps down the hall to where she’d left the suitcase and Dopp Kit outside room 3. She turned on the hallway light, then picked up the suitcase and kit and took them all the way to the end of the hall, where the attic stairs were, plunking them down again.
The stairwell door opened outward, revealing three steps up to a landing; then the stairs made a right turn and ended at an awkward spot in the attic, so close to the slanted ceiling that she had to duck to take that last step. At least, the door was supposed to open outward. She inserted the key and turned it, and nothing happened. The lock was a little tricky, so she wasn’t surprised. She pulled the key out a little and tried again, with no success. Muttering to herself about old locks, she pulled the key all the way out, then reinserted it a little at a time, trying repeatedly to turn it. The key had to hit the pins just right…
She thought she felt a tiny click, and triumphantly turned the key with a brisk motion of her wrist. There was a snap, and half the key came away in her hand. Which meant, obviously, that the other half was stuck in the lock.
“Son of a bitch!” she swore, then hastily looked around to make certain the twins weren’t standing silently behind her. Not that there was much chance of them silently doing anything, but if they ever did, it would be when she was swearing. Seeing that she was safe, she added—for good measure—“Damn it!”
Okay, the door needed a new lock anyway. And locks weren’t hideously expensive, but still, there was always something that needed repairing or replacing. She also still needed to get that door open, so she could store this suitcase somewhere out of the way.
Swearing under her breath, she stomped downstairs and into the kitchen. She was just reaching for the phone to call the hardware store to locate Mr. Harris when she heard a car stop outside. Looking out the window, she saw—miracle of miracles—Mr. Harris himself, climbing out of his battered pickup.
She didn’t know what had brought him here, but his timing couldn’t have been better. She jerked open the kitchen door as he was coming up the steps, both relief and frustration evident in her voice as she said, “Am I glad to see you!”
He stopped in his tracks, his cheeks already firing with color as he glanced back at his truck. “Will I need my toolbox?”
“A key broke off in the attic door—and I need the door unlocked.”
He nodded and went back to the truck, reaching over the side of the bed and one-handing the heavy toolbox up and over. She had the fleeting thought that he must be stronger than he looked.
“I’m going into town tomorrow,” he said as he trudged up the steps. “Thought I’d stop by and let you know, in case you need anything.”
“I have some mail that needs to go out,” she said.
He nodded as she stepped aside to let him enter. “This way,” she said, preceding him into the hallway and up the stairs.
Even with the light on, the hallway was dim, because there were no windows at either end. The open bedroom doors let some daylight in, enough to see unless you had some specific task, such as manipulating a cantankerous old lock or retrieving a broken key from it. Mr. Harris opened his toolbox, took out a black flashlight, and handed it to her. “Shine the light on the lock,” he muttered as he moved the suitcase out of the way and went down on one knee in front of the lock.
Cate turned on the flashlight, amazed at the powerful beam that shot out. The flashlight was surprisingly lightweight, with a rubberized coating. She turned it in her hand, looking for a brand name, but she didn’t see one. She turned the beam on the door, directing it just below the knob.
Using needle-nose pliers, he retrieved the broken key, then took some kind of pick from the toolbox and inserted it into the lock.
“I didn’t know you knew how to pick locks,” she said with amusement.
His hand froze for a moment, and she could almost hear him wondering if he needed to actually reply to her comment; then he made a “hmm” noise in his throat and resumed manipulating the pick.
Cate moved so she was directly behind him and leaned closer, trying to see what he was doing. The bright light illuminated his hands, etching every raised vein, every powerful sinew. He had good hands, she noticed. They were callused, stained with grease, and his left thumbnail sported a black mark that looked as if he’d banged it with a hammer, but his nails were short and clean and his hands were lean and strong and well-shaped. She had a soft spot for strong hands; Derek’s hands had been very strong, because of the rock climbing.
He grunted, withdrew the pick, and turned the doorknob, pulling the door open a few inches.
“Thank you so much,” she said with heartfelt gratitude. She indicated the suitcase he’d pushed to the side. “That guy who left without taking his things still hasn’t come back, so I have to store his suitcase for a while, in case he decides to come back for it.”
Mr. Harris glanced at the suitcase as he took the flashlight from her, turning it off and placing both it and the pick back in his toolbox. “That’s weird. What was he running from?”
“I think he wanted to avoid someone in the dining room.” Odd that the handyman had so swiftly picked up on something that hadn’t immediately occurred to her. Initially, she’d just thought Layton was nuts. Maybe men were more naturally suspicious than women.
He grunted again, an acknowledgment of her comment. He dipped his head at the suitcase. “Anything unusual in there?”
“No. He left it sitting open. I packed his clothes and shoes, and put his toiletries in the kit.”
He stood and nudged the toolbox to the side, opening the door wide, then bent and picked up the suitcase. “Show me where you want to put it.”
“I can do that,” she protested.
“I know, but I’m already here.”
As she led the way up the steep staircase, Cate reflected that she’d probably heard him say more in the past ten minutes than she had in months, and it was certainly one of the few times she’d heard him utter an unsolicited comment. Usually he’d give a brief answer to a direct question, and that was it. Maybe he’d joined Toastmasters, or taken a loquacious pill.
The attic was hot and dusty, with that moldy smell abandoned possessions all seemed to have even when there wasn’t any mold present. Light from three dormer windows made it a surprisingly sunny place, but the walls were unfinished and the floor was made of bare planks that creaked with every step.
“Over here,” she said, indicating a bare spot against the outer wall.
He put the suitcase and Dopp Kit down, then glanced around. He saw the climbing gear and paused. “Whose is that?” he asked, pointing.
“Mine and my husband’s.”
“You both climbed?”
“That’s how we met, at a climbing club. I stopped climbing when I got pregnant.” But she hadn’t gotten rid of their gear. It was all still there, neatly arranged and stowed: the climbing shoes, the harnesses and chalk bags, the belaying and rappelling devices, the helmets, the coils of rope. She’d made certain direct sunlight never reached the ropes, even though she knew she’d never go climbing again. It just wasn’t in her to mistreat the equipment.
He hesitated, and she could see his face turning red again. Then he said, “I’ve done a little climbing. More mountaineering type stuff, though.”
He’d actually volunteered information about himself! Maybe he had decided she was as nonthreatening as the boys, so she was safe to talk to. She should note this day on her calendar and circle it in red, because any day that shy Mr. Harris
began talking about himself had to be special.
“I just did rocks,” she said, trying to keep the conversation going. How long would he keep talking? “No mountaineering at all. Have you climbed any of the big ones?”
“It wasn’t that type of mountaineering,” he mumbled, edging toward the top of the stairs, and she knew his unusual talkativeness was over. Just then, two stories below, she heard the sound of childish voices raised in an argument, and she knew her mother and the boys were home.
“Uh-oh. Sounds like trouble,” she said, bolting for the stairs.
She knew something was wrong just from the looks on their faces when she reached the bottom floor. All three looked angry. Her mother was holding the picnic basket, her mouth compressed, and she had the boys separated, with one on each side of her. The twins were red-faced with anger, and their clothes were dirty, as if they’d been rolling in the dirt.
“They’ve been fighting,” Sheila reported.
“Tannuh called me a bad name!” Tucker charged, his expression mulish.
Tanner glared at his brother. “You pushed me. Down!” His outrage was evident. Tanner didn’t like losing in any situation.
Cate held up her hand like a traffic cop, stopping both of them in the middle of continued explanation. Behind her, Mr. Harris came down the stairs, carrying his toolbox, and the boys began shifting in agitation; their hero was here, and they couldn’t swarm him as they usually did.
“Mimi will tell me what happened,” Cate said.
“Tanner got the last piece of orange, and Tucker wanted it. Tanner wouldn’t give it to him, so Tucker pushed him down. Tanner called Tucker a ‘damn idgit.’ Then they started rolling around and punching each other.” Sheila looked down at both of them, frowning. “They knocked my lemonade over and it soaked my clothes.”
Now that she looked, Cate could see the dark, wet patches on Sheila’s jeans. She crossed her arms and looked as stern as possible as she did her own frowning. “Tucker—” she began.
“It wasn’t my fault!” he burst out, clearly furious at being singled out first.
“You pushed Tanner first, didn’t you?”
If anything, he now looked even more mutinous. His little face turned red, and he was all but jumping up and down. “It was—it was Mimi’s fault!”
“Mimi!” Cate echoed, thunderstruck. Her mother looked just as stunned by this turn of events.
“She shoulda watched me better!”
“Tucker Nightingale!” Cate roared, galvanized by his blame-shifting. “You get upstairs and sit in the naughty chair right now! How dare you try to blame this on Mimi! I’m ashamed of the way you’re acting. A good man never, never blames someone else for something he did himself!”
He shot a pleading look for understanding and backup at Mr. Harris. Cate wheeled and gave the handyman a gimlet stare, just in case he was thinking of saying anything in the least sympathetic. Mr. Harris blinked, then looked at Tucker and slowly shook his head. “She’s right,” he mumbled.
Tucker’s little shoulders slumped and he began dragging himself up the stairs, each step as ponderous as a four-year-old could possibly make it. He began crying on the way up. At the top he paused and sobbed, “How long?”
“Long.” Cate said. She wouldn’t leave him up there any longer than half an hour, but that would seem like forever to someone with Tucker’s energy. Besides, Tanner would have to spend some time in the naughty chair, too, for calling his brother a “damn idgit.” Okay, this meant they both knew the word damn, and how to use it. Her children were swearing already.
She tucked her chin and scowled at Tanner. He sighed and sat down on the bottom stair, waiting his turn in the naughty chair. Nothing more had to be said.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat. “I’ll pick up a new lock tomorrow while I’m in town,” he said, and beat a path to the door.
Cate drew a deep breath and turned to her mother, who now seemed to be sucking really hard on her cheeks.
“Are you sure you want to take them for a visit?” Cate asked wearily.
Sheila, too, took a deep breath. “I’ll get back to you on that,” she said.
7
BECAUSE OF THE TIME CHANGE, GOSS AND TOXTEL ARRIVED in Boise early in the evening. Goss figured the plane tickets had cost a fortune, purchased at the last minute as they were, but that wasn’t his problem. Rather than make the rest of the trip that night, which would have meant they’d have been driving the last leg on unfamiliar mountain roads when they were both tired, they booked into a hotel close to the airport.
In the morning they would procure weapons, then take a prop plane to an airstrip about fifty miles from their destination. The plane was a private hire, so they’d have no problems taking the weapons aboard. Faulkner had arranged for some model of four-wheel-drive vehicle to be waiting for them at the airstrip. They’d drive the rest of the way to Trail Stop, where he’d booked them a reservation at Nightingale’s Bed and Breakfast. Staying in the place they’d be searching was only logical, because that gave them a reason to be there.
After they ate dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, Toxtel went up to his room, while Goss decided to see something of Boise—specifically, something female. He caught a cab and hit a crowded singles bar, fending off a few women who didn’t appeal to him before settling on a pretty, wholesome-looking brunette named Kami. He hated cutesy names like that, but time was short and it wasn’t as if she were going to be in his life for any longer than it took for him to scratch his itch, then put on his clothes and leave.
They went to her condo, a cramped two-bedroom. He was always amazed when women he’d just met invited him to their homes. What were they thinking? He might be a rapist, a murderer. Okay, so he was a murderer, but only if he was paid. The ordinary citizen was perfectly safe with him. But Kami didn’t know that, and neither had any of those other women.
When they were lying exhausted and sweaty, side by side but no longer connected by even the pretense of emotion, he said, “You should be more careful. You lucked out with me, but what if I’d been some nutcase who collected eyeballs, or something like that?”
She stretched, arching her back and pushing her breasts toward the ceiling. “What if I’m the nutcase who collects eyeballs?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Something in her tone made his eyes narrow. They stared at each other in the lamplight, her dark gaze going flat, and he let his own gaze show his cold emptiness. “Then I guess we both lucked out,” he finally said.
“Yeah? How do you figure?”
“I warned you—and you warned me.” Meaning that she couldn’t get the jump on him now, and if she valued her life she wouldn’t try. So what if he was naked; so was she. She might have a knife stuck under the mattress—shades of Basic Instinct—but he was prepared to break her neck if he saw either of her hands start to inch under the pillow or toward the side of the bed.
Slowly, deliberately, she spread her hands wide…and smiled, her head cocked and her eyes flirting with him. “Had you going there for a minute, didn’t I?”
“Just keep your hands where they are,” he said coolly, sliding out of bed and reaching for his clothes. He didn’t turn his back on her for even a second.
“Oh, please. I’m no more a killer than you are.”
Wasn’t that reassuring? If she only knew. But the prickling on the back of his neck told him not to let down his guard, no matter what she said or how convincing she was. “Maybe you’ve hit on the perfect way to kick a man out of your bed after you’ve finished fucking him,” he said as he pulled on his shorts and pants. “In which case, congratulations—unless the next guy you pull it on thinks you’re about to pop his eyeballs out of his skull and freaks on you. That’s a good way to get the shit kicked out of yourself.”
She rolled her eyes. “It was just a joke.”
“Yeah, hah hah. I’m laughing my ass off.” He put on his socks and shoes, shoved his arms into the sle
eves of his shirt, and showed her his teeth in what could have been a smile. “Let’s just say that if I hear of any eyeballs being cut out, I might have to give the cops your description.” A thought occurred to him; he quickly glanced around, saw the small shoulder bag she’d dropped on the floor, and quick as a cat snatched it up.
“Give me that,” she snarled, lunging for it, but he caught her and tossed her facedown onto the bed, planting one hand in the middle of her back and leaning his weight on it to keep her in place while with the other hand he emptied the bag onto the bed. She wheezed, trying to suck in air as she bucked and twisted, but he didn’t let up. Cursing, she slung her arm back, trying to hit him in the crotch; he twisted sideways, deflecting the blow with his hip.
“Watch it,” he warned. “You don’t want to make me mad.”
“Fuck you!”
“Been there, done that, don’t want the T-shirt.”
With his finger he poked through the things he’d dumped out of the bag. She didn’t have a wallet—at least, she didn’t have one in the bag, just a money clip. That struck him as odd, because how many women carried money clips? There was also a little leather thing with credit card slots on both sides. One of those slots held her driver’s license. He thumbed the card out of its slot and looked at the photo to make certain the license was really hers, then checked out the name.
“Well, well…Deidre Paige Almond. So you really are some kind of nut.” She must not have thought his little joke was funny, because she cursed again. Goss grinned, enjoying himself more than he had in a while. What was even funnier was that he’d given her a false name, as well. Twisted minds evidently thought alike. “Let me guess—‘Kami’ is a nickname, right?” He tossed the license on the bed beside her.
She bucked under his hand, her tousled dark hair falling across her face as she turned her head to glare at him. “You son of a bitch, let’s see if you think this is so funny when I press charges against you!”
“On what grounds?” he asked, sounding bored. “Rape? Too bad I got in the habit of carrying a voice-activated tape recorder with me whenever I’m with a woman—just in case.”