Gilt

by JL Wilson

  I grabbed his arm. My pale hand was startling white against the darkness of his skin. My fingers barely covered the top of his thick, muscular forearm but I clung to him to add emphasis to my words. "What could they say that would make you betray the trust of everyone around you? What could they say that would make you ignore what they did to John--he was your best friend, Paul!" I took a steadying breath and forced my voice to calmness. "I don't understand."

  He didn't speak for a long minute, his gaze resting on my hand on his arm, his eyes thoughtful. When he spoke, he stared at the oak table as though he couldn't bear to meet my eyes. "They threatened my family. They told me if I didn't help them, they'd take Candace and make her one of their women. They're called turnouts. You have no idea. They brought a woman to our house and she told how she was used for sex, whenever and wherever they wanted her. Any man could take her and use her however he wanted. She was Candace's age. She was only sixteen years old and she was so hard, so used."

  Paul's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, his eyes as haunted as John's had been the other night. "My children and my wife had to listen to that. What could I do? They threatened to kill Billy. They said they could watch him while he was playing soccer and take him afterward." Paul grabbed my hand, pulling it off his arm and clasping it in his. "They talked about raping him and killing him or selling him to a pedophile. My family had nightmares after that. We're still looking over our shoulders. I swear to God, it quickened Roberta's death. She was terrified for our children, for me, for herself. What could I do against something like that? I kept doing deals for them, one here and there, for years." His hand tightened on mine as though pouring all those violent images through our tenuous link.

  "You couldn't go to the police?" I asked weakly. His words stunned me. Yes, I knew people like that existed in the world, but Good Lord, please, not here, not threatening people I knew! I thought about Dan. He dealt with people like that when he was a cop. How did someone face animals like that and come home and have a family? How did someone interact with creatures like that then go to a barbeque and to baseball games and live a normal life? Wouldn't it rub off on someone? Wouldn't they be tainted?

  Paul laughed bitterly. "I didn't go to the police. The police came to me. The FBI came." He saw my startled expression. "It wasn't the agent they have now. It was somebody else. I don't know how they knew, but they suspected I was involved. They asked me to inform on the gang."

  "Good heavens," I murmured. "When did this happen?"

  "Two years ago." He stared at me, his eyes bloodshot with unshed tears. "They said they had years of data but they needed a witness. I didn't know what to do. Roberta was gone. I had to protect my family."

  "Were you supposed to die in that fire?" I whispered.

  He closed his eyes and his throat worked convulsively, his Adams' apple bobbing as a tear rolled down his cheek. "They called me at the station house and told me to leave. They told me to watch what happened and learn what they did to informants."

  I wiggled my hand free of his, stunned. Of all the possible scenarios, this was one I had never imagined. Who could imagine such horror? "I don't understand."

  Paul drew in a long, shuddering breath. "The little girl in that fire was the daughter of an informant. They killed her, Gen. They kidnapped her, put her in that building, lured her there with that puppy. They set the building on fire to warn the girl's parents and to warn me. It was a clear message. Don't inform on us or your children will die, too." He sat back, wiping his face with his hand. "Her family left town after that. No one's seen or heard from them since. They may be dead for all I know."

  I rose and poured us each a glass of water, my legs weak. I set his glass in front of him before sipping from my glass, hoping to erase the taste of bile in my throat. "What about Michael?" I asked. "Where does he fit in?"

  Paul took a long swallow before answering. His hands shook when he set down the glass. "My contact in the gang wanted an introduction. They asked to meet him. They must have figured out who my friends were. You know how Michael is. He immediately tried to impress this guy about his connections and who he knows."

  I nodded. I could easily imagine Michael doing that.

  "What I didn't realize was why they wanted to meet him."

  I sipped my water as I thought. "Something to do with his law office?"

  Paul nodded. "That was part of it. The other part was your aunt."

  "Aunt Portia?" Was Dan right? Did Portia really have something to do with this? "How could she be involved?"

  "She owns some very valuable land. Michael made it sound like he could get his hands on it. My contact was very, very interested."

  "What did he mean he could get his hands on it? It's not valuable, it's only a bunch of farm..." My voice dried up as I remembered what Michael said earlier. How much was someone willing to pay for that land, to build a casino? Why did he think he could get access to it?

  Good Lord. Did he have something to do with Portia's illness?

  "Michael told me that they researched your aunt. He told me they knew that she was related to John and to you and to Amy." He frowned, his dark eyes confused. "They were interested in Amy. Michael didn't understand it."

  I leaned back. "I don't understand it, either. She lives in Baltimore. What does she have to do with anything?"

  "I don't know, but Michael said they asked him a lot of questions about Amy and her son and where she lives. He didn't know much, but he told them everything he knew." Paul hung his head as though exhaustion gripped him. "The gang has left me alone for the last year but I'm not in the clear. I know I'm not. I'll never be free of them. I didn't want to tell you, but you need to know what an investigation might uncover." He stared intently at me, his face so close I could see the fine lines around his eyes. "Michael told me you're dating that Steele guy. You have to promise me you won't tell him anything about this. My family is still in danger, Genny. I know John died in that fire, but I think his death was an accident. Can't you let it all go?"

  I leaned back. "You have to talk to the FBI about this, Paul. Wait a minute." Then his words soaked in. "You talked to Michael tonight about me and Dan?"

  Paul nodded. "He called me. He's worried about you dating Dan Steele. It surprised me when I first heard it, but the more I thought about it, the better it seemed."

  "We're not really dating," I said quickly. "It's just, you know, coffee now and again."

  "Whatever." He got to his feet, looming over me. I peered up at him. "Promise me you won't say anything to Steele. Promise me you'll back off."

  I hesitated. All of this was information that Dan could use. If he couldn't use it, maybe that FBI agent could. I got to my feet. "I can't do that, Paul." When he started to object, I said, "I promise I'll do everything I can to make sure you and your family stays safe. But I won't stand by and see other innocent people be hurt." I thought of John, who gave his life to rescue that child and my anger flared again.

  Then I thought of Dan's wife. "Why was Dan's wife murdered?"

  Paul turned away from me and walked toward the foyer but not before I caught a glimpse of a guilty widening of his eyes. "I'm not sure about her."

  "Paul, if you know something, tell me." I reached for him but he dodged me, heading for the door.

  "I'm not sure," he insisted. "I mean that. I'm not sure." He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. "I think she saw something or heard something she shouldn't have. But I don't know that for sure. Michael knows, though."

  "Michael? Why would he know?"

  "She worked for him."

  I stopped dead in my tracks. "She did? She worked in Edina. That's what Dan said."

  Paul frowned, his face a mask of puzzlement. "Michael's office is in Edina."

  "No, it isn't. He's in Richfield."

  Paul shook his head stubbornly. "Edina. I think she worked for him. That's what I was told. When they--" He invested the word they with all the disgust he could muster, "--when they told me about the
fire, they said they were killing two birds with one stone, and they laughed. I asked what that meant, and they said that they were getting rid of a nosy secretary and a nosy bookkeeper, all at once." He opened the door, his dark face glistening in the overhead light. "The little girl's father was an accountant. So that must mean Steele's wife was the secretary. Right?"

  "I don't know. I thought Michael's office was in Richfield." Of course, I didn't know that much about Michael. It was one more item for me to check. What had Dan said? He mentioned his wife worked for a temporary agency. Did he know about Michael?

  I closed my eyes briefly, struggling to remember who told what to who. It didn't help. I was still confused. "Paul, thank you for telling me this. You know I didn't mean to frighten Candace. I'm truly sorry for everything you've gone through."

  He stared at the floor, his massive shoulders slumped. "I screwed up," he said in a low voice. "I don't ask anybody for pity for that. I got greedy and wanted to make money for my family, and when it didn't work out, I screwed up again and took money from the wrong people. I knew I might get in trouble but I thought I could handle it." He shook his head, like a big animal trying to shake away flies that worried him. "I was so stupid. Nobody can handle people like that. They aren't human."

  I drew in a long, shuddering breath. I remembered the icy look in Jack Tinsley's eyes. "If anyone can stop them, Tinsley can," I murmured. "He has motivation."

  Paul regarded me with a resigned, hopeless expression. "No one can stop them."

  I nodded. "Tinsley will. Or he'll die trying." I knew it, as sure as I knew I would be telling Tinsley everything Paul had told me as soon as I could.

  Paul suddenly smiled. It was like sun shining through clouds, lighting his face with hope and eagerness. "I hope you're right. I'll do what I can, Gen. I won't put my family in danger, but if I can help, I will."

  "Thank you." I stood on my tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his cheek. "I'll do everything I can to make sure your family stays safe."

  "I will, too. I'll make sure they stay safe." He left, pulling the door closed quietly behind him. I shivered. His words sounded almost prophetic.

  I hoped they wouldn't be.

  Chapter 10

  I raced to my home office as soon as Paul left and jotted notes, my handwriting big and scrawling on the page as I tried to recreate, word for word, what he said. I dug out Jack Tinsley's business card and stared at it.

  Call him? I picked up the phone and put it back down. What if someone was watching Paul? What if they followed him to my house? What if they knew what he told me? Could Jack Tinsley protect me? I thought about the small child.

  Murdered.

  Dan's wife.

  Murdered.

  I thought about what Paul said, about girls used as prostitutes and young boys used, too. A gang like that was capable of anything.

  I jumped to my feet and double-checked my doors, making sure everything was locked. Stupid, of course. If someone wanted to break in, they probably could. My hardware store door locks wouldn't be any match for gang members. I turned off the kitchen light, crept to the basement and verified that the walk-out door was latched. Grumble almost gave me heart failure when he appeared at my feet, but I shooed him ahead of me up the stairs and closed the door securely behind me, keeping any potential boogie men in the basement, or so I hoped.

  I went back to the office and stared at Tinsley's business card. If I told him what Paul told me, he would confront Paul. Did I dare do that? Would that get Paul into trouble? Would that get me into trouble? I wasn't sure. Since I wasn't sure what to do, I dithered. I checked my suitcase, prepped Grumble's food dishes and set out his supplies for my neighbor, then I got ready for bed, crawling under the covers with Jack Tinsley's business card in hand. I set it next to the phone and tried to reason what to do.

  Nothing made sense. Facts, fears, reasons, all bounced around in my brain. Call Tinsley? Call Dan? Call who? Who could help me, who could erase the memory of Paul's words? I shuddered, imagining the terror he and his family had endured all these years. I closed my eyes but as soon as I did, I was sure I heard a suspicious noise outside. I finally got my putter from my golf bag and crawled into bed, the club lying next to me.

  I spent a restless night, tossing and turning and snatching sleep away from nightmares, waking every hour to debate whether or not to call Tinsley. I finally gave up at dawn and showered after reading the newspaper. The forecast was for more of the same: hot, sticky, and stormy, so I dressed appropriately in denim capris, a pale green Lerner Software polo shirt, and slip-on sneakers. By the time Dan parked in front of my house, my car was in my drive, my bag was in the car and I was standing at the door, waiting to meet him.

  "I take it you're ready," he said as he extracted a soft-sided nylon bag from his truck. Today he wore dark blue jeans, a powder blue shirt, and a dark T-shirt underneath. Despite the morning heat, he appeared crisp and pressed. I wondered fleetingly if he ironed his own clothing or if he sent them out. Few men knew their way around an ironing board.

  Suddenly poor Paul's face seemed to fill my mind and domestic thoughts vanished in a blink. "I'm ready." I peered nervously from one end of the street to the other, expecting to see gang members leap from behind the lilac bushes. "Toss your stuff in and let's go."

  "What's the rush? Last night you weren't in any hurry."

  "I'm not in a hurry. I just want to go." I closed the garage door and slipped behind the wheel of my car. I waited impatiently until he settled in the seat then we were off, my seat alarm chiming annoyingly as he fumbled for the seat belt.

  I had spent most of the night trying to decide how to tell him that I was sure his wife was murdered by the mob without telling him that Paul told me. Unfortunately, a night of tossing and turning didn't help me figure out how to do it, so I decided to try random conversation in hopes I could work the topic into our talk.

  We chatted about inconsequential things: the weather (already blazing hot and sticky humid at mid-morning), my car (and that annoying rattle which Dan managed to fix with one good slam of his fist on the dash), and our upcoming visit (I warned him not to expect anything fancy from Tangle Butte, Minnesota and he promised solemnly not to be disappointed).

  After a half-hour of driving, I set my iPod to shuffle through my massive music collection and launched into my diversionary ploy. "So you can take time off from baseball like this?" I asked. "I thought you coached. Where do you guys play? Is this like the minor league or something?"

  He smiled. "We're not the minors."

  "So what is it, the pre-minors?"

  "Do you know anything about baseball?"

  I nodded knowledgeably. "Of course I do. There are nine innings, and a top and bottom in each one." I didn't let on that I had read that information on the previous evening and I wasn't exactly sure what it meant. I think it had something to do with when different teams got a chance to bat. "There's base stealing, and sliding home, and pop flies and outs and all that." I waved a hand. "It's America's pastime. Of course I know baseball. I don't know much about leagues and things, though. Is there an AFC and an NFC like in football?" As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I frowned. What corner of my brain held that little nugget of trivia? I shook my head. John probably talked about it. He always cheered for one football team in each league when there was a big playoff thing in January that involved a lot of drinking and parties. Baseball probably had similar leagues since there was always that tedious World Series thing in the fall.

  Dan laughed. "There hasn't been an AFC and NFC for a long time. I'm with the Men's Senior Baseball League. It's for guys thirty and over who want to stay competitive. There are nine teams and the season runs May through August, with playoffs in September. One of the breweries downtown is the sponsor of our team. And yes, I can take time off. It's not a paying position, it's voluntary."

  "Wow, I didn't know it was so organized." Nine teams? Each team probably had ten guys. Who knew there were almost a hundr
ed guys in town who cared about playing baseball? "I'll have to come to a game." I frowned. Game? Match? Didn't tennis have matches? Golf had matches. "Or match, or whatever it's called."

  "Game."

  "I know more about golf," I said as farming country whizzed past our windows. "Mom and I golf sometimes when I visit. I used to have a fifteen handicap, but now it's probably more like thirty. I always say my biggest handicap is my putting. John and I used to golf a lot."

  "I suppose you miss that." Dan's hand tapped to the rhythm of the Traveling Wilburys who were telling me to Handle With Care. "I miss doing stuff with Diane. We used to take walks on Sunday mornings. Even at the end, when we argued, we did our walks." He sounded wistful. I darted a quick glance his way and saw his eyes narrowed in memory and concentration. "It's funny how even though you may not still be in love with someone, you can miss them." He suddenly swung to look at me. "Why did you want a divorce?"

  I considered how to phrase what I wanted to say as I stared at the gray ribbon of road in front of me. I finally decided on the blunt truth. "I don't want to think about all of that again. It's long ago, in the past. I can't recreate those feelings now even if I wanted to."

  "Do you think those feelings or that memory is stopping you from moving on?"

  I hazarded a glance at him. "I've moved on."

  "Why aren't you dating?"

  I snorted. "You make it sound easy. There aren't a lot of eligible men my age. Guys can date younger women, but it's still hard for an older woman to find guys to date."

  "You could be one of those cougar women."

  "Please. I'm not cougar babe material."

  He chuckled but didn't deny it, which was a relief. We drove in silence for several minutes then I cleared my throat. "So, listen, about that kiss," I said, as casually as I could. "I'm not sure if it's a good idea for us to be romantic. It's okay to pretend, but I don't think I'm ready to, um, well, think about things like that. Yet. Not ready to think about that stuff yet."