In Safe Hands

by Victoria Sue

  Mav sat heavily.

  Deacon’s voice came over the line. “You don’t have to collect me at all.” But before Mav had the chance to ask what was wrong or what had happened, Deacon started talking again. “I’m sorry. Of course I can go to a motel. It was only that they were asking if I had protection.” He sounded shaken.

  “What happened?” Mav asked, glad his voice sounded reasonable, and really, that was what the cop should have started with.

  “My apartment.” Deacon swallowed audibly. “It’s been trashed. Although the plus is you are my alibi, so there is that.” His voice sounded so brittle.

  “Trashed?”

  “Graffiti spray-painted. Furniture broken.” Deacon laughed bitterly. “You get the idea.”

  “I’ll come for you,” Mav immediately said, wondering how fast he could get a cab.

  “No, it’s completely not necessary. I’m sorry, but I told them you were my protection, or Jamie is.” His voice rose as if it was a question.

  “Yes, confirm it with the cops. Tell them you will be staying here while we find out what is going on,” Mav said, immediately wishing he felt as calm as he sounded. He heard another voice in the background, and then Deacon spoke again. “Officer Fitzpatrick says he can drop me off, and the other officer knows where the house is.”

  Good, thought Mav, it’s probably an old colleague of Jamie’s. He knew she’d kept in touch, especially with Keith, her old partner, and his wife, Felicia.

  Deacon hung up after saying he would be there soon, and Mav sank down onto his couch, feeling every protest in his useless fucking leg… and reached for the bottle of Jack.

  His hand hovered for a second. In his mind, he was unscrewing the cap, splashing a little of the deep amber whiskey into his tumbler, and licking his lips after the burning liquid seemed oddly to slide so smoothly down his throat and calm the fire in his gut. He needed it. He needed to take the edge off his shakes and look far more competent than he felt.

  He needed it.

  And for no other reason than that guilty admission—one more among so fucking many—he fisted his empty hand and pressed it down on the shell of what used to be his right knee.

  Mav winced as he stood. He’d already walked farther on his leg today than he had all month. The most he had done since he arrived at his sister’s was go to the bathroom and the kitchen. He’d even slept on the couch because he said he couldn’t manage the stairs. Which was a lie but meant he got left alone. At least this way, there was a room for Deacon.

  Mav determinedly picked up the bottle and shoved it on a high shelf above the TV. Out of sight, out of mind? He would be so lucky.

  His response to the cops and to Deacon started ringing in his ears like a damn bell. He had said he was Deacon’s protection, which was laughable. Jamie was originally going to take on the role, but she couldn’t now, obviously, and if tonight was anything to go by, it looked like someone might be taking this to another level. Deacon might need protection for real, and it seriously complicated things.

  Of course, Deacon could still be making all this up, but he doubted it. From what he could tell, Deacon seemed genuine. He must have been pretty freaked-out to agree to come here. The offer of a motel seemed halfhearted at best, but didn’t these show-business types have loads of money? The car he’d driven was a top-of-the-line BMW, and it wouldn’t have come cheap.

  “Uncle Mav?” Melanie appeared, David hovering behind her.

  He plastered on a smile. “You all set?”

  She nodded. “Mom said to tell you the fridge is full and so is the freezer.”

  “I won’t starve.” He chuckled, touched she was worried. “Go on. Your mom will be expecting her things.” He would talk to Jamie tomorrow when she wasn’t in pain and ask her advice about Deacon.

  He ought to admit she had a new houseguest as well.

  Mel smiled, obviously relieved, and left quickly.

  Now what should he do? He glanced at his phone. Nearly ten. He walked into the large kitchen and opened the fridge. It was as packed as Melanie had assured him it would be.

  At the last second, he went to the cupboard above the fridge where the pills were. He really needed the ones the hospital had given him, but he would cope with some ibuprofen.

  He quickly swallowed three and took another look around the room—no idea why, but it gave him something to do. Then, for the same reason, he made a plate of sandwiches. He was relieved when the doorbell rang sometime later. Schooling his face to try to walk without it looking like he was stepping on nails, he managed to make it to the front door.

  He blinked in stunned recognition at the cop.

  “Mav?” Hunter “Charlie” Chaplin stood as speechless as Mav. “I didn’t….” He trailed off, glancing at Mav’s leg.

  Mav shook his head. “A cop?”

  Charlie nodded vigorously. “Long story. We’ll have to get a beer.”

  Shit he hadn’t known. He’d been so wrapped up in his own pity party he’d never actually checked whether Charlie had married or even knew he’d moved from Toledo. Charlie had always intended to reenlist, but his girlfriend had been sick or something, so when his term ended a year ago, he’d had no choice but to go home. At least it had kept him alive. If he’d been there when they’d gone to evacuate the aid workers and the bomb had detonated, Mav would have lost another friend. Charlie had texted Mav a few times after Cass died, but not being able to cope with the reminder of how tight the three of them had once been, Mav had ignored him. Which was shit. He was a shit.

  “No.” He couldn’t just let Charlie go.

  Charlie put out a hand to Mav’s arm. “I can’t believe Cass….” Mav shared the loss, the regret in Charlie’s eyes for a second before Charlie’s radio crackled and he stepped back to answer it.

  “We’ll be in touch tomorrow, sir,” the other officer said and nodded pleasantly at Deacon.

  “Let’s get that beer sometime soon,” Charlie said to Mav before he and his partner hurried off.

  “How’s Jamie?” Deacon asked immediately.

  “Going to stay at her friend’s tomorrow and be pampered,” Mav replied. “Tell me what happened.” Deacon glanced at him, and Mav saw the dark shadows under his eyes. “Never mind. Let’s go in the kitchen. I have food, coffee, or something stronger?”

  The tiny stab of disappointment when Deacon asked for coffee burned inside Mav. It would have been an excuse for him to have something stronger if Deacon had asked for it. The coffee was brewed, so he simply poured two mugs and dumped the little basket Jamie had full of creamers and stuff onto the table next to a spoon. He got the sandwiches from the fridge and put them on the table, quite pleased when he remembered plates and napkins. He would have probably torn off a piece of kitchen towel and just used that if it had been only him.

  No, if it had been only him, he doubted the sandwiches would have ever happened. He only ate when Jamie put food in front of him.

  Deacon helped himself to a couple of vanilla-flavored creamers and seemed to take his time stirring them in. Mav knew he was probably still processing, and he looked considerably paler than earlier, if that was even possible. It couldn’t be makeup anyway.

  Deacon’s phone rang, and he lifted it out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, frowned, and then answered it. Mav could hear a voice and saw Deacon half close his eyes, almost in defeat. He ended the call without saying a word.

  “Another crank call?” Mav clipped, straightening from where he was leaning against the counter.

  “No. I almost wish it was. I recognized her.”

  “Her?”

  “Sara Jeffries. Reporter. She did a fabricated exposé about me holding wild parties and taking drugs. It was supposedly how Mikey got hooked.” The wry tilt of his lips told Mav more than any denial. “Then she was like a dog with a bone. Covered the stalker story, the accident, and the investigation.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Wanted to know if I was upset about the bre
ak-in.”

  “Already? That’s fast. How did she know?”

  Deacon shrugged. “Maybe I should have taken the money she offered for an exclusive.”

  “Why would the press assume you got Mikey hooked on drugs?” It seemed a stretch to Mav.

  “Because I was an idiot when I first went to college. There was an incident with weed and a couple of guys that were in the band with me. Someone dragged that up, and because Mikey was ex-military, it’s easier to assume a bad-boy band singer is partying too hard than a hero might need narcotics to get him through the day because Uncle Sam turned his back.”

  Maverick inclined his head in agreement. He knew the horrific stats. Knew guys himself who had ended up on the streets because the transition to home life had been impossible for them and there wasn’t the help they deserved. Then something else occurred to him. “What car does Sara Jeffries drive?” It would be interesting if it was a Charger.

  “I have no idea. Do you think it’s her that’s following me?” Deacon had obviously caught on.

  “But why?” Maverick mused. “I can’t see her getting any mileage out of a possible break-in.”

  “Possible?”

  Mav lifted his hand. “I don’t mean it didn’t happen, before you bite my head off. I meant I wasn’t sure what they class the crime as. Was anything stolen?”

  “Hard to tell, but no, I don’t think so.” Deacon’s phone dinged with an alert.

  Mav watched the expression of disbelief as Deacon read the text, then held it up so Mav could. Mav frowned while he read the message.

  A little sympathy wouldn’t hurt your cause, unless this is another made-up instance. I can run the story just as easily without you.

  Mav searched Deacon’s face as he reread the message. Deacon pressed his lips together tightly, as if to stop words from slipping out. It could be anger, frustration even—totally understandable—but there seemed an underlying sadness to the droop of his shoulders. Maybe he missed his niece? “How did she get the number?”

  “It’s not listed, so I don’t know.”

  Mav didn’t think it was that hard to get unlisted numbers, but he would have to ask Jamie. “Who has it?”

  “Shirley. Mrs. Sanchez. Her daughter, Augusta. The clinic. The cops.” He hesitated. “My mother. But none of them would give it out.”

  “Is there any reason anyone apart from a disappointed fan would have it in for you?”

  Deacon thought about it for a second, and then his lips tilted in an approximation of a smile. “If you had asked me that last year, I would have said the line is infinite, but it’s been months, so I have no idea why it should start up again.” His mouth flattened. “Shirley thinks it might be because I just lost Molly.”

  Mav took a breath, wishing he had something else to give him a shot of courage. He gazed at Deacon to try and decide if he was upset. Either he was a cold bastard and Molly would be better off with the grandparents, or he was good at hiding his feelings.

  “I told the cops I was your bodyguard, but we both know that’s not going to work.” Mav bent down and hitched his pants up in case Deacon still didn’t get it and showed him the edge of the metal ankle joint.

  Deacon didn’t seem surprised. “Up to today, I was going to employ you for a couple of weeks and see if things settled down now I’m out of the media. Shirley said people get bored easily and to give it a few days.”

  Up to today? Before he saw me. Mav tried not to let the disappointment show.

  “No,” Deacon said as understanding flashed across his face. “This has nothing to do with your ability to do the job. To be honest, I would think all you have to do is look at people and they would run screaming—” Deacon snapped his mouth closed midsentence, and the dawning horror on his face told Mav he hadn’t meant it how it sounded. “Oh my God,” he moaned behind the hands he was trying to hide behind. “I swear I didn’t mean that. Or I did, but not in any way—”

  And suddenly, humor bubbled up in Mav. Deacon stopped when he heard the low chuckle and lowered his hands cautiously. “You’re very direct,” Mav remarked, realizing he wasn’t offended in the least.

  “I meant,” Deacon stressed, “that you look like one of those Ranger-type SWAT Special Forces guys that can kill me with your little finger.”

  Mav’s smile widened. “I was a helicopter pilot.”

  “Exactly,” Deacon said as if that proved his point and nodded determinedly. “The real reason is a little more embarrassing than saying all that, though.” He took a breath. “I’m broke. I had a chance at another job yesterday, but they’ve given it to an established voice actor.”

  Mav stared at Deacon. “Broke as in you can’t afford to engage us for two weeks or not at all?”

  Deacon pressed his lips together. Mav imagined the truth was hard to spit out. He should know.

  “Look, how about this? You can’t afford personal protection, and other than looking like the guy from A Nightmare on Elm Street, I can’t do shit—” Mav stopped suddenly when Deacon’s hand clasped his arm.

  “I said I didn’t mean that how it sounded.” His eyes glittered with sudden moisture. “Please believe me.”

  Mav nodded. “It’s okay.” And it was. Unless the guy was as talented an actor as he was a singer, Mav was pretty sure he meant every word. Mav’s gaze dropped to the slim fingers wrapped around his arm. Deacon was pale, but he looked like he was a few pints of the red stuff short when his hand was wrapped around Mav’s own much darker arm. Deacon followed his gaze and then yanked his fingers back when he saw what he was doing.

  Not that Maverick especially minded—but he clamped down on that idea real fast. This was work.

  Chapter Four

  DEACON DANIELS would die. Painfully, and he would make sure of it. He never knew hate had a taste before he was forced to swallow it down every day like a bitter, stagnant ache that churned in his gut.

  The man glanced across to where Jones lay lifeless and felt a little cheated, almost. He’d expected him to last longer. Not that it wasn’t a good thing. Getting into Jones’s computer had been so easy it had almost been insulting, and he had laid enough crumbs to make messing with time of death interesting.

  Then the reporter, but he couldn’t hurry that one. She was essential to making Daniels suffer. He wanted him panicked. He wanted him to feel the net closing even if he didn’t know who tightened the strings. It would be delicious to throw suspicion Daniels’s way for this one, and they could never prove otherwise. He really needed another victim, but Daniels didn’t seem to have anyone close. There was always the possibility of the child, though… but that reminded him too much of other things. Maybe someone close to the child? That was worth considering.

  He knew enough to be careful and to keep the scene clean, or clean from him anyway. He knew how much blood a human body could hold—of course he did—but he had never seen it on so many surfaces. Some of the cuts he had made had spurted before he had closed them. Leaving them would have ended it far too quickly. Although the pathetic specimen had given up after the last few and never attempted to struggle. Just cried and pissed his pants. He hadn’t even begged in the end and seemed confused as to where he was.

  Not that Jones didn’t deserve to suffer every second for what they had taken from him, but he had intended to keep him alive when the fire started.

  He had a second of regret as he squirted the gasoline he had brought. The reporter—she would be next—would be awake to see this part. He would make sure of it. He might not even cut her first. He peeled the Tyvek suit from his body along with the nitrile gloves and mask. They would burn along with any evidence. At the last second, he took out the hoodie he had brought to cover himself with on the off chance he was seen, and then took a quick scan around the room to check he had left nothing. He couldn’t help the satisfied smile as he closed the door behind him.

  HE ISN’T joking, Maverick thought as they pulled into Deacon’s neighborhood the next morning. Or not about hi
s lack of cash anyway.

  I’m broke. Deacon’s car had been repossessed as soon as he had gone home last night, which was why Charlie and the other cop had to drop him off, and no one had been more surprised than Mav when his old truck, which had been sitting in the garage for weeks because Melanie didn’t really like driving it, started right away. They seemed to have reached a tentative if temporary agreement. Basically, Deacon wouldn’t pay him for protection he couldn’t provide.

  He supposed there had to be a joke in there somewhere.

  But for now, Maverick would hang around with him unofficially and try to look menacing. Not difficult for me. He’d managed a quick call to Jamie this morning as soon as he had woken up. She felt a ton better and told him in no uncertain terms that she expected him to visit before the end of the week. She hadn’t mentioned Deacon—she didn’t know Mav had seen him since they last spoke—but what surprised Maverick was he didn’t mention Deacon to her.

  It wasn’t like it was some secret.

  Mav eyed the small, empty playground and the church advertising “Jesus Saves” before Deacon drove past a strip mall with a 7-Eleven, a barber, three boarded-up stores, and a psychic offering discount tarot readings, which was fitting because after another space there was a funeral parlor. Every option covered.

  Deacon pulled around the corner, and Mav looked with interest. The first few houses were single dwellings, all lived in and well looked after. Then the larger blocks started. Four apartments in one square building.

  “How far away is your apartment?”

  “Just over there.” Mav followed Deacon’s nod to the end of the street, where a two-story apartment row sat, looking like a motel. “Mine’s the penthouse on the end.”

  Mav shared Deacon’s smile. “You rock stars are all for show.”

  “Yep,” Deacon agreed. “This is really to throw the reporters off. My other place is in Kingswood.”

  Mav chuckled, thinking of the million-dollar-plus houses in that neighborhood, and glanced down at Deacon’s fingers resting on the steering wheel. Mav missed driving. He’d been ready to retire his old truck after Melanie was done with it, promising himself when he was home on leave he would get a new one, but he’d never given it much thought since he got home. Liar. Jamie had shoved some flyers at him about adaptations so he could drive easily, and he had dumped them in the trash because he had been sulking. Or drunk. Or both.