by Amy Shojai
He passed the sign to the Heartland city limits and dropped his speed accordingly. Teddy had no intention of being sidetracked by a speeding ticket. “That’s a pretty common name. You don’t mean to accuse a Chicago Alderman of involvement? What kind of evidence do you have?”
“Only suspicions. I don’t know what to think.” She immediately backed away, as he figured she would. “He owns a bunch of pharmacies. Maybe drugs?”
“You’re grasping at straws, Tee. That sounds like a bad television cop show.” He followed the directions he’d memorized. “Once I get the chance, we can look closer at the dates, and then see if your Alderman had something coincide on that same date. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m almost to the January house.”
Tee couldn’t hide her frustration. “Have you heard from September? You could be chasing the wind, Teddy.”
He smiled. “I forgot to tell you. After I filled Combs in on everything, he got in touch with September’s roommate. She’s here. That is, they’re both here, Lia and September. And if I know Combs, the Heartland police are on the way, too.” He squinted, and pressed the brake. “I’ve got to go, will be in touch later.”
Teddy disconnected, and pulled up behind Lia Corazon’s shabby truck. Before either of them could get out, the sound of barking and gunshots split the air.
Chapter 61
THE COLD JOLTED SEPTEMBER back to consciousness. It took several seconds to understand she hung upside-down. Her head pounded from blood rush. She couldn’t move. Her arms ached, taped close to her body. A stabbing pulse throbbed in her side.
She couldn’t see anything. Or catch her breath.
A door slammed. Barking, snarling. Shadow? Shadow! His cries grew fainter as someone carried her away.
Jostled, up and down, shifted roughly. Blinded? Big breath to scream—no air...!
Understanding flooded her mind. She inhaled, tasted plastic against her tongue, nose, her lips, stopping breath. Frantic, hungry for air, she kicked but it didn’t help. September bucked, to make him drop her, escape... A car door screed open. He dumped her like garbage onto the back seat. The pain in her side flamed hot, but paled compared to God help me breathe, NO AIR!
Vibration and thrumming as the car started. Nothing mattered. Only air, sweet, fresh, fill-her-lungs-up air. She didn’t care or worry what would happen when the car stopped again. She’d be dead by then.
Plastic starved her lungs...
She poked out her tongue to push the cloying material away, give space for breath. Strained her face side to side, her head up and down, swiveling her neck. Plastic clung, cloying, clutching, smothering, a deathly lover’s kiss.
Arms bound to her sides, September’s hands clenched and unclenched, straining to break the wrist tape free, to tear the constriction from her mouth. Bindings so tight to her torso meant only her elbows moved. She shrugged her shoulders, wriggled back and forth. She flapped elbows to loosen the bindings. A fish drowning in the back of a pine-scented rental car.
The garage door rolled up. The car moved forward.
The flailing of her right elbow drove the wreath-shaped lamp finial deeper into her side. September screamed, the pain a white-bright laser of momentary clarity. She had moments left before blacking out, and would never reawaken. She forced stillness, swallowed hard and held her breath. That hurt less than futile gasp-sucking of plastic. Gingerly, she pressed the inside of her elbow against the decorative brass piece, back and forth, until the metal still hung in the fabric of her coat loosened, and fell out.
She felt the scimitar shape, caught in the plastic just above her tape-bound hands. September clutched the brass piece, holding it tight through the plastic with the fingers of both hands—she couldn’t drop it, had only one chance—and punched it through the flimsy plastic. Flexing her elbows brought the finial just high enough. She bent double, blessing her yoga flexibility. She brought her face as close to her hands as possible, and opened her mouth wide. September jabbed the sharp end of the brass wreath at the taut plastic covering her open mouth...
...and sucked in a sweet breath of fresh air.
She shuddered, afraid to make a sound. Afraid Mr. Bleak would hear, and shoot her.
The car continued to move. She held the butt end of the metal in her mouth, and used the sharp finial to cut the tape binding her wrists. She split the mouth hole wider and peeled plastic from her face.
“Damn dog!” His voice broke the spell.
She rose to her knees in the seat behind Mr. Bleak, clutching the finial. He goosed the accelerator, aiming for Shadow.
“You just made it personal.” September stabbed him in the neck.
Chapter 62
HIS CAR SWERVED OFF the road, and smashed into a fire hydrant. A geyser of water spewed over the windshield.
Mr. Bleak roared, eyes wide and neck corded. He ignored the wound, felt no pain. His pulse pounded in his ears, and tunnel vision focused on September’s figure stumbling away.
Mr. Bleak grabbed his phone with one swollen hand, collected his go-bag, and staggered from the disabled car. A block away, he saw a familiar RV parked next to an old, beat-up truck. He paused in the shadow of a nearby house as a crowd gathered. Pulling up his coat collar to hide his bloody neck, he walked with confidence through the throng. In less than a minute, he reached the battered SUV, climbed inside, and found keys still in the ignition. And a gun in the glove box, just like the one he’d picked up at the cemetery. He’d always been lucky that way.
For the first time in his long career, he ran.
After working for the Wong family for two decades, he’d survived by following orders, leaving no trail, appearing immediately when summoned, and disappearing just as quickly. This time, Wong wouldn’t be happy. Instead of his usual clean job, he’d left a trail any wannabe CSI could follow. Nothing incriminated him, of course. But any extraneous link back to Wong wouldn’t be forgiven.
He drove just under the speed limit to the Heartland city limits, and made a call. He’d never risked so much before, but those at the other end of the line offered his only hope for damage control. Judge Southgate had made a similar call, and triggered Bleak’s activation. But Southgate had had no leverage, unlike himself. He literally knew where bodies were buried. Bleak only needed a buffer of a few hours delay to transfer his insurance—documentation only he controlled that protected him from contract termination—and the funds to put his retirement plan in place.
When the service answered, he recited his prepared spiel, waited for the voice to repeat the message, and disconnected. If successful, he’d know shortly.
Within minutes, he received a text with instructions. His relieved smile stretched painful burned skin, but he didn’t care. Relief was within his grasp. Rather than the expected instructions to return to the airport, he drove north as directed. In forty minutes, Bleak pulled into the designated spot to wait. A new, unmarked car with untraceable credentials in the glove box would be delivered shortly.
While he waited for the final text confirmation, Bleak wiped down the steering wheel with one of the gloves that no longer fit his swollen hands. He exited the old car—it stank of dog, an odor he now despised—and visited the lavatory. The shiny metal that served as a mirror offered only a shadowy look at the stab wound in the side of his neck. It had begun to throb, but no longer bled. He set his phone on the lip of the sink, and pulled wads of paper towels from the rack, soaked them in cold water, then dabbed his sore face. He stuck his hands under the cold water stream. The backs of his hands carried blackened tissue courtesy of Southgate’s final act. He’d since learned that Southgate’s daughter escaped the blaze. He didn’t know or care about the identity of the girl who died in her stead. Wrong place at the wrong time.
The door of the men’s room squeaked open. Bleak looked up just in time to recognize the blurry image standing behind him, holding an iridescent neon cane. He grabbed for his gun, but his sausage-size fingers fumbled and it dropped to the tile floor.
; Wrong place and very wrong time.
“HELLO UNCLE DANNY.”
Charlie’s voice shook as she swung the cane again and again. She kept swinging until his teeth littered the bathroom and he lay still. She retrieved his gun, and hand shaking, finished the assignment. It was the only way Mrs. Wong agreed to help her.
Charlie texted a brief message on the phone she’d stolen from Teddy’s RV, and the reply came immediately. It directed her to the promised car, complete with new identity and access to funds courtesy of Uncle Danny.
With Sherlock beside her, Charlie drove away, anxious to begin a new life.
Chapter 63
IT HAD BEEN A WHIRLWIND ten days. September had insisted Combs finish his vacation, while she flew back to South Bend with Shadow to make the arrangements for Angela’s burial. No funeral, but her memorial service would come later. She’d begun winding up the estate, and discovered Angela’s will never got changed after Peter died, making September the beneficiary of the estate. It felt so wrong. She hadn’t figured out what to do about that.
She’d also met with Detective Steele to answer his questions—and apologize for doubting him—and collected her car. The uneventful drive to Texas allowed September to move back into her house two days before Combs was due to return. She hadn’t felt festive, but in her absence, Lia had enthusiastically decorated her renovated Victorian for Christmas as a surprise.
Now September held the champagne glass in one hand, while the other intertwined fingers with Combs. Shadow pressed his head against her foot, an anchor that made the moment real. The Christmas tree, a week past its use-by date, competed with tacky New Year’s Eve decorations that Melinda and Willie plastered throughout the house. In thirty minutes, they’d ring in the new year.
She looked around the room, saddened at the tornado’s lasting damage. She treasured the surviving pieces that much more: Harmony on the cello stand; her brother’s stained glass lamp on a table; the Peaceable Kingdom engraving on the nearby wall; the stained glass table moved from the kitchen to serve as dining table; and her beat-up but still playable piano in the next room. What the tornado hadn’t destroyed, rain and the elements had scarred. She’d replaced most of the furniture, and chosen to rebuild the old structure.
The renovated house still had a few screws to tighten and scrapes to patch, maybe like September herself. But she believed the chipped bricks and plaster scars added character—the face of a survivor. Many of the garden roses uprooted by the storm had sent up optimistic October sprouts—despite all the tradesmen tramping around—that, she dared hope, would survive the winter and bloom again come spring. She could do no less.
This night of nights, the old house rang with happy conversation, kid laughter, barks and meows, the sounds of absolute bedlam. September basked in the cacophony. Friends accomplished what deadbolts and fancy security systems failed to do. Her battle-scarred house on Rabbit Run Road no longer hid from the world. It shined with promise, and felt like home.
The feeling of déjà vu hearkened back to another New Year’s Eve party when so much of her life took a detour for the better. Life continued to change, but she liked the view of the new road ahead. She squeezed Combs’s hand, and he smiled, and moved to put an arm around her shoulders. Despite the latest revelations that once again disrupted September’s entire family, Combs never wavered. He had her back. And her heart. Life would never be the same.
The front door opened, and Teddy bustled back into the house. “Combs, might want to check on your kids. Their dog’s going nuts in the back garden. They say he found a squirrel.”
Shadow raised his head with interest, and looked up at September, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. She smiled but shook her head, and he resettled his head with a sigh. “That explains why your new friend acted so hissy.”
He nodded. “I’m new to cats. But Meriwether’s all situated and seems happy in his new digs.” He walked carefully into the room, hardly favoring his healing leg.
“When you asked about adopting, I asked Detective Steele if he could make it happen.” September grinned, delighted the furry match-making worked, and would help relieve Teddy’s loneliness. “I thought you two explorers were a good fit.” The big orange and white Maine Coon would be a good traveler in Teddy’s RV. And according to Tee, also guard the premises with tooth and claw.
More barks erupted from the back of the house, followed by kid squeals. Combs groaned and started to stand up. Lia stopped him. “You stay, I’ll check on them.” She handed a refilled champagne glass to Teddy, and hurried to join Melinda and Willie. Lia had promised them a sleep-over at Corazon Kennels, and a chance to play with Magic and Gizmo. They’d camp out in what used to be September’s room, while September and Combs had the night alone in her refurbished house.
Teddy perched on the sofa, sipping his drink. “Combs, I thought your partner would be here.”
“Gonzales and Mercedes had sick kids. It happens.” He hugged September. “I’m just grateful he got to you in time, when I couldn’t.”
In time to save one life. But to lose another.
September blinked back tears. The note Rose left behind explained nothing, and only spoke of her regret. Had she really decided to kill herself, or been helped by the mysterious Mr. Bleak? Did that even matter now?
Rose had taken several of April’s pills, but not a lethal dose. The temperature of the hot tub, though, had been ramped up to dangerous levels that caused heatstroke. She would have drowned had September not pulled her from the water, but she’d been beyond help. When the hospital pronounced her brain dead, they did the only thing they could. In life, Rose feared questions about her children’s parentage. But in death, Rose’s kidneys—both of them, because of possible damage from the heatstroke—proved her to be a perfect match for her daughter, April.
The same couldn’t be said of September, or her other siblings. The truth had finally come out, none were the biological children of either Rose or Lysle; Lysle admitted to having adopted them all twenty-five years ago, but even he did not know that Rose was not their biological mother. September’s oldest sisters had only fuzzy recollections of early life and no wish to dig deeper. Most of the family history had been re-imagined by Rose herself. They might never learn the truth, or know anything about the murder allegation. September kept that little tidbit to herself, since Aunt Cornelia had her own reasons for keeping such things quiet. Some secrets deserved to say buried. Chosen family didn’t need blood to forge unbreakable bonds.
“What’s the latest, Combs?” Teddy sipped his champagne. “Any progress?”
“Slow going.” Combs shrugged. “It’ll take time to unravel. Tee’s team in Chicago, Detective Steele in South Bend, and Gonzales and I are part of a task force, with the FBI consulting.” He shook his head with disgust. “Before Tee went into the hospital, she helped arrest Alderman Jacobs. We think he funded Mr. Bleak’s killing spree, and probably pulled strings to eliminate Victor Grant in jail.”
Teddy raised his glass in a silent toast. “Glad to know Redford’s recovering.”
Combs raised his glass, too, and the rest followed suit. “To Detective Redford. And to Oreo, a very brave dog.” He drained his glass. He turned to September. “Tee said he’d just adopted the dog, when the Alderman stopped by his house intending to kill Redford. He’d asked too many questions. Then Mr. Bleak showed up, intent on eliminating the Alderman. There was some kind of a three-way struggle, and Oreo got in between the men...”
“Splitting behavior.” September nodded. “To dogs, a hug or something like wrestling looks like a fight. A peacekeeper pooch splits the adversaries apart. You’ll see dogs do that to people who dance, or hug, or sit too close, or...” She glanced at Combs from under her eyelashes, and then at Shadow.
“Splitting behavior, huh? That explains a lot.” He grinned. “Tee said Oreo’s a sweet, friendly dog, especially laidback for a Border Collie. So his splitting behavior skewed the gun’s aim.”
September nodd
ed. “Border Collies are super smart and intuitive.” Oreo would get a canine hero commendation. She stroked Shadow’s neck. He didn’t need a commendation for her to consider him a hero, every single day. “So Detective Redford got shot, and Mr. Bleak tried to stage it as another suicide, but got interrupted by Redford’s son. Thank God the ambulance arrived in time.”
Combs glanced over at Shadow. “Dogs know, right boy?” Shadow yawned and looked away. “September heard Mr. Bleak mention a job in Chicago. Somebody wanted Jacobs silenced.”
Teddy shivered elaborately. “Somebody, indeed. Who is this Bleak character? He killed whole families.”
Combs shrugged. “Somebody else pulled his strings.”
“Tee says Redford needs rehab but will recover well enough to enjoy his retirement.” September remembered Tee’s complaints of migraines, body aches, and numb feelings. “I’m glad Tee’s getting medical attention, too. I made arrangements for Karma to board at a kennel while she was hospitalized.” Dakota had come from that kennel. Tee had only agreed to a week-long treatment, and swore she’d recovered from the tick-borne disease. The stubborn woman wouldn’t admit she needed help. September guessed they had that in common.
Combs continued his recap. “Jacobs isn’t talking. We don’t believe he’s the head of the snake. We’ve got him in protective custody, as well as his wife and son.”
“Adopted son, right?” Teddy adjusted his glasses. “Jacobs comes from old money. I guess his old man’s a piece of old-school work, too. Grandpa insisted on a male heir to carry on the family name. So Kelly Radcliff Jacobs III and his wife arranged to have a baby boy. Just ordered poor little Kelly Radcliff Jacobs IV up from the internet, and had to keep it a secret from Grandpa or get written out of the will. After that, the baby broker pulled the alderman’s strings for the rest of his life.”