The Kill Wire

by Nichole Christoff

  Marc snagged a low, rolling stool. He drew it alongside the bed. He gathered Mrs. Preble’s slim hand in both of his.

  “Helena?” he whispered. “It’s Marc. Rest easy. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  To my surprise, Mrs. Preble opened her eyes, deep and dilated with heavy pain medication. But then awareness swam into them. She recognized Marc’s voice, but she couldn’t turn her head to look at him directly. And with recognition, panic flashed across her face like a lightning strike.

  “Co…” she choked. “Co…dee…”

  “He’s safe,” Marc assured her. “Cody’s fine. Shh, everything’s okay now.”

  I’d never heard him speak so tenderly.

  Or seen him so worried.

  Marc kissed the wrinkled back of the lady’s hand. She sighed as calm caught up with her. And her eyes drifted closed.

  “Helena, I have to ask…” Marc swallowed hard. “Where’s Elena?”

  “ ’Lay…na…”

  “Where is she, Helena? How can I reach her? Can you tell me?”

  Mrs. Preble’s face folded in on itself as she fretted—and her eyes remained closed.

  “Dus…” she muttered, her cracked lips parting for only a second. “Dus…and to me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Marc replied. “I’ll bring her to you. But where is she, Helena?”

  “Dus…and to me. To me.”

  The blue electronic dot on the monitor at Marc’s elbow jumped across its graph—and then it went wild. The machine’s alarm bleated to beat the band. A nurse rushed into the cubicle, and beneath her thin sheet, Mrs. Preble’s body convulsed.

  “To me!” she cried.

  “All right.” Marc shot to his feet, squeezed her hand, and tried his damnedest to soothe her. “Helena, it’s all right.”

  “Sir, step back,” the nurse directed.

  She wasted no time leaning over Mrs. Preble to fiddle with the plastic valve that fed meds into the lady’s arm. Another nurse materialized with a syringe in her hand. She whipped the curtain closed between me and Marc at the patient’s bedside.

  Dr. Ekhardt blew past me. He disappeared behind the scrim, and my heart ached for the woman suffering there. She’d lost her husband. She’d nearly lost her life. And I wasn’t so sure she hadn’t already lost her daughter.

  The alarm fell silent. A minute ticked by. Then two and three. Marc emerged from the cubicle, as pale as Death himself. And my heart ached for him.

  I slipped my hand into his, tried to read his face.

  His expression was as blank as tomorrow’s newspaper.

  “She’s stable,” he said. “For now.”

  “That’s good.” Relief, like cool water, rushed over me. “That’s a good thing.”

  Marc nodded—and without a word, he crushed me to his chest in a fierce hug. For a long moment, I thought he’d never let me go. And for once, I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

  Chapter 8

  “How,” I asked Marc, “are you going to tell Cody about his grandparents?”

  “That’ll be easy,” Marc replied, glaring at the cityscape sliding by the passenger-side window of our SUV.

  I’d slipped from Marc’s arms when Dr. Ekhardt emerged from Helena’s curtained cubicle. The man had assured us that she was in good hands—and had urged Marc and me to head home. Of course, Marc’s home was halfway across the country and so was mine, but the doctor didn’t know that. He didn’t know about the little apartment in the extended-stay hotel, either. But before Marc and I returned there, we had a couple of pit stops to make. First on the itinerary? We had to pick up Cody from school.

  “I’m not going to tell Cody anything,” Marc declared. “At least, not yet.”

  Marc had been edgy since we’d left the hospital. Not that I could blame him. His relationship with Elena might’ve gone south, but he still cared about her parents. That much had been evident in the way he’d spoken about them. And in the way he’d spoken about their dedication to Cody.

  I hadn’t known it before—because Marc had never shown me—but Cody was the heart of Marc’s world.

  And anything that threatened to trouble that boy, Marc would wrestle to the ground.

  But anyone who had the nerve to garrote a man—to wrap a wire around his throat and pull it taut with all possible strength until it bit into flesh, bit into bone, bit until the man stopped struggling, stopped fighting, stopped breathing—or to beat a woman senseless had to have more than mere trouble in mind. People like that had darkness in their souls. Marc hadn’t said as much, and neither had I—but we were both thinking it. Mrs. Vesterny had said two men had paid Elena a visit, but how Elena had drawn the ire of such violent people, I couldn’t fathom. I only knew I couldn’t allow that darkness to cast a shadow on Cody. And I knew Marc couldn’t, either.

  Marc didn’t wait for Cody to exit the school in line with his fellow first graders. He went in to collect him. I stayed with the car and scanned the steady stream of school buses, minivans, and sporty crossovers that swerved to their respective curbs to pick up kids. I didn’t see the Crown Vic that had idled just up the street that morning. And I didn’t spot the Sunglass Twins no matter where I looked.

  With Cody onboard, Marc pointed the Santa Fe toward the airport. We made good time. We reached the Arrivals loading zone just as a new batch of travelers emerged from the terminal, hauling their luggage behind them.

  “There she is,” Marc said.

  He eased the car to the sidewalk.

  And that’s when I got my first glimpse of Marc’s mother.

  Marc had never discussed his family with me. He’d never mentioned his childhood, let alone his parents. And I’d never had so much as an inkling that he’d been raised in San Antonio, Texas. So, I figured I was in for a crash course in Marc Sandoval’s background. And that crash course started with meeting Mrs. Sandoval.

  A little on the short side and pleasantly plump, Mrs. Sandoval waved happily when she caught sight of Marc through the SUV’s windshield. She’d dressed attractively for traveling, in black slacks and a fuchsia blouse with a matching jacket. And I doubted her black hair would dare to come loose from the bun she’d fashioned on the top of her head. Her smile was sweet, and comely crinkles bracketed her black eyes. Both deepened when Marc sprung from the car to hug her and to load her suitcase into the back.

  Cody was clearly crazy about her. Without waiting for permission or even assistance, he unbuckled his car seat and slid from the vehicle for a greeting of his own. Good manners suggested I do the same, so I stepped from the car as well.

  “Abuela!” Cody cried and threw himself into Mrs. Sandoval’s open arms.

  After covering the boy’s face with a rain of smacking kisses, she straightened.

  She shot a pointed look at me.

  “Ma,” Marc said. “This is Jamie Sinclair. She’s a friend of mine from Washington.”

  The lady’s eyes narrowed at that news.

  “She’s a security specialist and an excellent private investigator, Ma. She’s here to help.”

  I wasn’t sure Mrs. Sandoval bought that assessment. But I hadn’t come to Colorado for her sake, so I didn’t worry about her opinion. Much.

  I kept my eyes and ears open—and my mouth closed—as we drove to the hotel. Cody chatted enthusiastically to Mrs. Sandoval in the back. Marc, I noticed, kept one eye on the road and the other on his rearview mirror and the interaction between his son and his mother. At a stoplight, he caught me looking at him. He smiled at me—or tried to—and reached across the console to squeeze my hand with his.

  Mrs. Sandoval didn’t like that. She didn’t say anything about it, but she sniffed disdainfully like an old-fashioned chaperone at a debutante cotillion. I could hear her disapprobation loud and clear—and I could feel her disapproving stare boring into the back of my head.

  Hearth’n’Home, however, met with Mrs. Sandoval’s approval, even if I didn’t. And I couldn’t help but notice, as our little party shambled to
ward the elevators, lugging the lady’s bag and a couple of sacks of groceries we’d bought along the way, that Mrs. Sandoval’s brow furrowed every time she looked at her son. She wanted to ask about the situation that had brought her here—and he needed to answer her questions. Which meant I should make myself scarce so they could talk without an outsider listening in. So, as Cody hit every call button available, I made a decision.

  “I’ll let you all get settled,” I announced. “I’ll join you in a bit.”

  Marc opened his mouth to comment—or maybe even to question me—but the elevator arrived. The doors opened and Cody darted inside. Mrs. Sandoval followed without a second glance at me.

  “I’ll be in the business center,” I told Marc.

  And without waiting for his reply, I took off.

  I bought a packet of Excedrin at the hotel’s mini-mart, gulped down a dose of the stuff, and hoped it would knock my headache down a notch. If it worked on the muscles in my neck, too, that would be dandy, because they felt as if they’d tied themselves into sailor’s knots. While I waited for the meds to kick in, I checked in with my office back in Georgetown. I made a few phone calls, too, to smooth the ruffled feathers of the advertising executives who weren’t happy I’d bailed on our meeting in New York. If I lost their business, that would be too bad. But there were bigger stakes in the world than keeping their sketches for selling cellular phone service and breakfast sandwiches confidential.

  When I ran out of things to do, I debated calling Barrett.

  Of course, I didn’t know what I’d say to him if I managed to get him on the phone.

  In the end, I opted to text him a goofy photo of a grinning Labrador Retriever emerging from a mud bath, and wished him well after his required hike. The dog reminded me of Barrett’s own mutt. She’d perceived Barrett’s patience, perseverance, and generosity of spirit long before I had.

  Three weeks ago, I’d taxed those qualities in Barrett when I’d turned to Marc to help me bend the law—and even break it. My actions had seemed necessary at the time. But in retrospect, I wasn’t too proud of myself—or what my willingness to do such things said about me.

  I waited a full five minutes for Barrett to reply to my message. Like any soldier, however, his time was not his own. So, when my phone didn’t chime, I took the ache still pulsing behind my eyes and headed upstairs to join Marc and his family.

  Halfway down the hall, I picked up the mouthwatering scent of rosemary and roasting chicken. My stomach growled as I let myself into the little apartment with my own key. I didn’t see Marc and I didn’t hear Cody, but in the kitchenette, Mrs. Sandoval banged around like a Cordon Bleu chef. I joined her there. She had every pot and pan that had come with the place bubbling away on the narrow cooktop, and the steam rising from the cookware smelled of butter, sautéed onions, and hot peppers.

  “How can I help you?” I asked, shedding my jacket and shoving the sleeves of my turtleneck to my elbows to lather my hands in the sink.

  “You can’t,” she replied. “Thank you.”

  Taking her not-so-subtle hint, I left her to her own devices, gathered some plates and some flatware, and retreated to the multipurpose space between the living room and breakfast bar to set the table. When I’d nearly finished, Cody burst into the apartment with Marc on his heels. The boy’s cheeks were ruby red with the chill of the coming evening, and his khaki trousers sported grubby knees.

  To my amazement, he twined his slender arms around my middle and squeezed me in a full-on hug. I froze, because after two days in Cody’s company, I still wasn’t sure about little-kid protocol or how to respond to him. The child was so earnest and so honest with his affection—and so accepting of other people.

  Had I ever been that way?

  I couldn’t remember. But if I had, I wasn’t now. And that, I felt for certain, was a shame.

  This realization—and some powerful emotion—had me dropping the cutlery onto the tabletop with a clang. I wrapped Cody in my arms and held on tight. He wriggled and giggled and I glanced up to find Marc, with a shoulder parked against the bedroom’s doorjamb, watching us. Cody rushed to tell me about the swings and the monkey bars on the playground behind the hotel. All the while, Marc’s eyes never left mine. And the heat in them warmed me from the inside out.

  Swallowing hard, I released Cody with a pat on the head and sent him to wash his hands before supper, but the damage was done. That kid was well on his way to making me care more than I should. And I wasn’t so sure his father wasn’t doing the same.

  After that, dinner proved to be an awkward affair. Marc said little and his mother said less, and anytime he directed a comment at me, she glared at him. The food was fantastic, however, and I told Mrs. Sandoval so. But not even a sincere appreciation of her cooking skills could move the needle and get me into her good graces—not that that was necessarily a goal.

  It would’ve been nice, however.

  When Mrs. Sandoval finally turned to me and opened her mouth to speak, Cody bumped his milk glass and dumped the stuff straight down his front. I bolted from my seat to snag a towel from the kitchenette, but I wasn’t as quick as Mrs. Sandoval. She beat me to the punch and mopped up the soaking mess with a practiced hand.

  “You’ve got perfect timing,” Marc said to Cody as he lifted the boy from his chair and set him on his own two feet. “Bath, bed, book, little man. Say good night and let’s go.”

  “I’ll say good night, too,” I interjected.

  Marc’s hot eyes narrowed on me.

  “I thought it might be best if I gave you all a little space, so I booked a room two floors down.”

  “Hmph,” Mrs. Sandoval said as she sopped up the last of Cody’s spilt milk.

  It sounded an awful lot like an editorial comment.

  Cody wasn’t quite so critical of me.

  “You’re going away?” he shrilled, and his chest rose and fell with a shuddery hitch as if he might cry.

  I knew Marc and Mrs. Sandoval hadn’t told Cody much about the disappearance of his mama. He himself hadn’t said much to me about it—but clearly he felt her absence. And it troubled me that here I was, another woman leaving him. I dropped to one knee, looked Cody in the eye

  “I won’t be far away,” I told him. “My room’s just downstairs. When you go to sleep, I’ll be sleeping, too.”

  He looked at me askance, reached for his father’s hand.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I promised him. “I’ll ride along when your daddy and grandmother take you to school.”

  Cody nodded, buried his sad face against Marc’s hip.

  And I felt like I’d just lost my last friend.

  Marc smoothed a hand over his son’s soft hair, said, “Come find me before you go, babe. I’ll walk you down. We need to talk about what happened today, and what to do tomorrow.”

  “Hmph,” Mrs. Sandoval repeated.

  She departed for the kitchenette side of the breakfast bar with a rattling stack of dishes and the soaking towel in her hands.

  Marc leveled a long-suffering look at his mother’s retreating back, winked at me as big as you please, and herded a protesting Cody into the bedroom. That left me all alone to gather up the cutlery and the glassware. And to face Mrs. Sandoval on my own.

  Chapter 9

  Marc’s determined mother cut off all possibility of conversation by running hot water into the sink at full blast. The roar of it squelched anything I might’ve said, so I hopped to storing the leftovers in the refrigerator. But then Mrs. Sandoval shut off the faucet. She deposited her fat gold wedding ring in a saucer beside the soap and plunged her hands into the dishwater. And that’s when she decided we should have a little chat.

  “I suppose,” Mrs. Sandoval said, “I’ll walk you down means you and my son are having intimate relations with each other. And that the two of you will be having intimate relations, in your room, for the rest of the evening while I babysit Cody.”

  “No, ma’am.” I plucked a dish towel fr
om the hook beside the sink, claimed a rinsed glass from the basin, and wiped it slowly. “I’ll walk you down isn’t code for anything. Not even knockin’ boots, gettin’ busy, bumpin’ uglies, or tripping the light fantastic.”

  I turned my back on Mrs. Sandoval to place the clean, dry glass in the cabinet beside the fridge.

  “So, you’re not involved with my son.”

  “Not romantically, no, ma’am, I’m not.”

  She lathered a plate, rinsed it well under running water, and handed it to me. “Do you want to be?”

  “No.”

  But I heard uncertainty in my voice.

  And I knew she heard it, too.

  “Marc likes you,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “He liked Elena at one time.”

  I glanced toward the back of the little apartment and the closed bathroom door that couldn’t contain the happy sounds of laughter, singing, and way too much splashing. “I’d say he did more than like her.”

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Sandoval pulled another plate from the dishwater. “I never want to see him hurt like that again.”

  “That,” I said, looking her in the eye, “makes two of us.”

  We worked side-by-side in silence, washing the salad bowls and scrubbing the flatware.

  As Mrs. Sandoval sunk a big, aluminum stockpot into the sudsy water, she said, “Last autumn, Marc told me about you.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “You’re the first woman he’s told me about in years.”

  On the inside, I began to tremble.

  “You’re a private investigator?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you’re a good one?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “I believe you. I believe you’ll find Elena for Marc’s sake.”

  “I’ll find her for Cody,” I replied.

  “Why?”

  Because that kid loves to watch Curious George in the morning. Because he sings happy songs in the bath. And because he gives away hugs for free.