by Karen Rose
Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 11:00 A.M.
Evie stopped in front of the mirror in the front hall. Examined her reflection. Her makeup was good. No sign of the damn scar. She wouldn’t be expected to smile. Funerals were good in that regard. Her lips thinned as she stared at her reflection.
She’d be damned if she didn’t go to Lillian’s funeral. If they’d done their jobs, Lillian would be alive today. She’d sit in the back. Slip in after the funeral started and slip out before it was over. No one would see her and Dana’s paranoia would be upheld.
She turned for the door when she heard a quiet “Ahem” behind her and she jumped.
“Jane.” Her pulse settling, Evie regarded the woman who’d been standing behind her. She’d been here since Friday, the tenth Jane Smith to arrive in the last year. Evie wished their clients would show more creativity when choosing an alias. “What can I do for you?”
Jane wrung her hands nervously. “It’s nothing. I’ll just wait until you get back.”
Evie lifted one corner of her mouth in the three-cornered smile she’d practiced in the mirror. “I’m going to be gone for a while. I have a funeral to go to. What do you need?”
“I just was wondering if I could get some Benadryl for Erik. He gets hives.”
Poor kid. Curled into a ball like that. Evie’s lips thinned. Somebody should pay for whatever had happened to that little boy. “You go to him. I’ll bring it to you.”
Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 11:15 A.M.
As setups went, this one was perfect. Sue was here, in a place James would never even think to look. She crept up to the little room she’d been given on her arrival Friday night, found the kid on the twin bed where she’d left him. He was waking up.
“Can’t have that,” she murmured. She retrieved one of the kid’s pills from her backpack and made him swallow it. There had been two bottles in the Vaughns’ bathroom. She’d tried to pry details from Rickman regarding the kid’s meds, but having never fully recovered from seeing her fiancé lose the top of his head, she’d been very little help.
A quick Internet search while she’d been connected at Morgantown had yielded better results. Keppra was the more powerful drug, but Phenobarbital could dope a kid up if given in too large a dose. She did want the kid to sleep. She did not want him going into seizures that would make them noticeable in a crowd. Or perhaps make him dead.
Sue needed the kid to keep breathing. At least for another week or so. So she gave him just enough of the Keppra and doubled up the Pheno. And he’d slept like a baby all the way to Chicago. But she was running low on both drugs.
Adopt, adapt and improve. Her mother had used garden variety over-the-counter Benadryl mixed with wine to shut Bryce up when they were kids, and if it was good enough for Mom, it would be good enough for her. She’d stretch the Pheno with Benadryl until she could get a refill. A refill was something the other mothers in the shelter had assured her would be easy to do. “Just ask Dana,” the mother in the room next door had said.
Dupinsky had been stingy with the Benadryl last night. Only gave her a single damn dose. But Scarface had given her the whole damn bottle.
So now Sue chased the pill with a big spoonful of the Benadryl. The kid struggled at first, weakly, but a single hard look had him complying. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, but something in his eyes, just the tiniest flicker of defiance, made her check to be sure. He fought, pulling his face away from her hands when she grabbed him, nearly choking when she forced his mouth open to find the red liquid still pooled in his cheek.
“Swallow it,” she muttered, before realizing it would do no good to threaten the child with words. With one hand clenching his scrawny jaw, she wrote him a note on the pad of paper someone had so thoughtfully left next to the bed. Showed it to him.
Watched his face blanch. Without another flicker of his eyes, he swallowed.
She tipped him a nod, shoved the note in her pocket, and shoved his head forcefully to the pillow. Dumb kid. Thinking he could get the better of her. He was twelve, for God’s sake. And how smart could he be? Considering his father, after all.
For a moment she stood looking down at the boy, contemplating. By the time the final curtain fell, he’d be dead. On some level, the notion should bother her. It did not.
She clenched her hand slowly. It was sticky from the Benadryl. She needed to wash her hands. And she desperately needed a smoke. With a final warning glare at the kid, she grabbed her cigarettes and lighter and headed for the bathroom.
Alec watched her go, then closed his eyes, pulling himself into a miserable little ball. He remembered the man who’d been with her at the beach house. The one who’d held a gun to Cheryl’s head while the white-eyed woman tied him up. Bryce was his name. Alec knew that now. Alec knew that Bryce had stayed behind, waiting for his parents. And Alec knew that Bryce now held that gun to his mother’s head. The note had said so.
Alec couldn’t take a chance that the white-eyed woman was lying.
His mother would die. Just like Cheryl died. And Paul. Unless he cooperated.
Alec swallowed again, this time feeling the burning of tears in the back of his eyes. He was crying like a stupid little baby when his mother needed his help. He’d let that bitch drug him, while his mother needed his help.
He had no idea of where he was, or who all the people were around him. The red-haired lady treated the white-eyed lady nice. So she must be bad, too. For the first time he desperately wished for his processor. He could slip it behind his ear and listen, like Cheryl had taught him. He would know if the red-haired lady was good or bad. But he didn’t have his processor. Cheryl was dead. And his mom needed his help.
But the meds made his arms feel like lead and the inside of his head like molasses. He struggled hard, but in the end he drifted.
Satisfied, Sue sat down on the edge of an ancient tub in the equally ancient bathroom. She fished a cigarette from her pocket, flicked her Bic to its tip, and took a nice long drag. With a flourish, she pulled the note from her pocket and touched the burning end of the cigarette to the paper, watching fascinated as it smoldered, then burned, the red edge of the flame racing to the paper’s edge. Just before the flame reached her fingers, she dropped it in the toilet and flushed the ashes. The note had done the trick, threatening to have Bryce kill his mother. That Bryce was rotting in some Maryland jail was something the kid didn’t know, and what the kid didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them.
Another drag filled her lungs, and she relaxed for the first time in days. Then her cell phone rang, nearly sending her off the edge of the tub. She dug the phone from her pocket, her pulse quickening. Bryce. Or worse, James. “Yeah.”
“Baby, it’s Fred.”
She blew out a lungful of smoke, now annoyed. “What do you want?” she hissed.
“Now is that any way to talk to your personal delivery service?” he mocked.
She’d been afraid of this. One damn favor, that’s all she’d asked. A favor she’d paid for in more ways than one just two days before. “What do you want?”
He chuckled. “Just checking in on you, baby. You find the place all right?”
“Yes.”
“And? Did they believe you? Was my work acceptable?”
Sue eyed her reflection in the mirror over the sink. The bruises he’d applied to her face with such relish were just now beginning to fade. But they’d been necessary, both to convince Dupinsky and Tammy.
She’d needed to know how to contact the shelter Tammy had told her about so many times during their five-year Hillsboro cohabitation, the shelter where Tammy herself had hidden for weeks before returning home to kill her husband. Tammy would never have believed her story without the bruises, never would have given her the phone number for Hanover House had she not been certain Sue was really in danger. That was the thing about people who murdered in the heat of passion, like Tammy. When they were in their right minds, they tended to have . . . scruples. Sue grimaced
, finding even the word distasteful. “Yeah, they believed me. I have to go.”
“Not so fast, baby. I was walkin’ my rounds today and Tammy asked about you. She wanted to be sure you were all right.” Laughter filled his voice and she knew what came next would not be good. “I told her I’d check on you myself.”
Fred had been the best way to get a message to Tammy. Sue hadn’t been about to return to Hillsboro during visiting hours, even if she’d been allowed through the front gates, which as a paroled felon, she was not. That’s where Fred had come in. He’d been a guard in her cell block, a dependable supplier of anything they’d wanted from the outside—for a price, of course. Fred wasn’t Hollywood material, but no troll like some of the other guards, so most of the girls hadn’t minded paying his price. Sue had. Every damn time.
The morning of Sue’s release, he’d taken her into the supply closet for one more little “heart-to-heart” as he liked to call them—just for old times’ sake. When he was done, he’d told her if she ever needed anything to just give him a call.
So she did. She’d called him from Columbus, asked him to meet her at the station in Indy, but he hadn’t shown, the bastard, and she’d missed the next bus to Chicago, waiting for him. She’d ended up taking the Friday morning bus to Chicago, where she and the kid transferred to the bus the regular visitors called the “Prison Express.” A cab ride later she was on Fred’s doorstep. She told Fred she needed some convincing bruises on her face, a Polaroid to show them off, and a letter containing the photo delivered personally to Tammy. After locking the kid in the bathroom, she paid Fred’s price, gritted her teeth as he obliged her need for bruises, and waited until he made a trip up to the pen.
A few hours later he was back. Tammy had bought the story and Sue had the telephone number she needed. She and the kid had gotten back on the bus to Chicago and a few hours later met Dana Dupinsky at the bus station. All in all, a smooth operation. Except for Fred. He was a loose end. Loose ends were normally a bad thing. She should have dropped him in his apartment Friday afternoon, except he’d been armed, too.
“Tell Tammy I’m fine. I have to go.”
“Not so fast.” His voice hardened. “Now that you’re there, you’ll do a favor for me.”
“Evie!”
Sue started at the yell, which had come from right outside the door. “Somebody’s coming,” she whispered. “I have to go.”
“Just remember, I have the phone number, too, sugar. One phone call from me will expose you and the kid, whoever he is. Call me later.” Damn. She’d have to take care of him and soon. She dropped the butt in the toilet and flushed it.
“Evie! Where are you?” There was a light knock. “Evie?”
Shrugging back into character, Sue opened the bathroom door and came face-to-face with a very pregnant woman she hadn’t met yet. Her blond hair was too shiny, her eyes too calm, her face too serenely content to be a “client,” which was what Dupinsky called the women she took in. Blondie must be one of the wardens. The woman’s brows went up in surprise. “I guess Evie’s someplace else,” the woman said with a soft drawl and a kind smile. “You must be Jane. Dana said you arrived just yesterday. I’m Caroline.”
Sue dropped her eyes, glanced up through her lashes. Managed a trembling nod. “I did,” she murmured. “Me and my son.”
“Erik, right?” Caroline, still with the soft smile. “Dana says he’s ten.”
“That’s right.” That’s what she’d told Dupinsky. The kid was so scrawny that Sue was afraid they’d insist on a doctor if she said he was twelve. “You work here?”
Caroline smiled. “Sometimes. I’m looking for Evie. Have you met her yet?”
Evie was Scarface, the one who’d run from the kitchen the night before. Sue had been eavesdropping outside the door, heard the little blond cop break the news of the woman’s murder. If the argument between Dupinsky and Evie had provided an earful, the brief peek into the kitchen after Evie’s stormy departure was an eyeful—Dupinsky in the arms of a delicious specimen of man. Even now the thought of him made Sue want to drool.
“She . . . um . . . she left an hour or so ago.” To go to the funeral Sue had heard Dupinsky and the lady cop expressly forbid. “She said she was going to a funeral.” And from the corner of her eye she watched Caroline’s face go dark for just a moment, then the wrath was smoothed away, serenity restored.
“Thank you, Jane. Is there anything else you or Erik need?”
A computer connection for my laptop, Sue thought. It was past time to send another communication to the Vaughns. Two uninterrupted hours with the Adonis that had been in the kitchen with Dupinsky last night . . . She ducked her head. “No. We’re fine.”
Caroline lightly touched her shoulder and Sue had to fight the urge to knock her hand away. She really hated social workers. Always trying to get into your head.
“Everything’s going to be okay now, Jane,” Caroline said. “You’re safe here.”
Sue made her eyes tear, her lips quiver. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“We’re doing some work on the roof later today. Will the banging bother Erik?”
An atomic bomb wouldn’t bother Erik. Even if he weren’t drugged, the kid was deafer than a rock. Sue had tried many times to catch him faking his deafness, but he wasn’t. “No, Erik will be fine.” Her brows furrowed. “Who will be working on the roof?”
Caroline’s smile was a tad too bright and Sue could see anger simmering beneath her calm exterior. She was still pissed at Evie. Most excellent. Diversions among the wardens would keep the spotlight off Sue.
“My brother-in-law David. He’s the most trustworthy man I know. Well, after my husband, of course. He’ll be done quickly, so you’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight.”
The Adonis was her brother-in-law? If her husband was half as good-looking as his brother, it was just one more reason to hate Caroline. Sue lowered her eyes to the worn carpet that covered the floor. “Thanks. I need to get back to Erik now.”
“Of course. Oh, Jane?”
Sue turned to find Caroline’s smile still firmly in place. “Yes?”
“I couldn’t help but notice the smell of smoke in the bathroom. We don’t allow smoking here at Hanover House. It bothers the children and it’s a fire hazard. It’s an old house. One spark . . .” She let the thought trail with a friendly grimace. “Okay?”
Sue drew a breath. Shoved the anger back down from where it boiled up. Little bitch, trying to tell me what to do. Sue nodded at the carpet. “I’m sorry.” She gritted the apology through her teeth, trying like hell to re-affect the put-upon Jane.
“It’s not a problem. I just needed you to know. I’ll see you later.”
Sue jerked a nod. “Later.” Quickly she escaped back into her room, glancing in the mirror on the wall. Caroline was still standing in the hall, staring after her with a troubled frown on her face. Sue shut the door. Carefully.
She would regain control of herself. You will calm down. She came to an abrupt halt, realizing she’d been pacing the floor with quick, savage steps. She drew a deep breath.
I only need a week, she thought, looking at the kid peacefully sleeping. But first, there were still things to do. She dug the digital camera she’d stolen from Rickman from her backpack and snapped a picture of the sleeping kid. Nothing dramatic, just a little reminder to the Vaughns that she still held all the cards. She pulled the laptop from her backpack, flipped its power button. She’d give them her terms now. Five million wired to an offshore account. She’d learned all about offshore accounts in the prison library.
She frowned. The laptop screen was still blank. Shit. The battery was dead.
The computer had plenty of juice when she’d sent the first e-mail from Morgantown. I must not have turned it off when I was finished, she thought crossly and pawed through her backpack, but found no electrical adapter. Fuck. That idiot Bryce had put it in his backpack, which now resided somewhere with the Maryland police. Her heart went
still. Had she touched it? No, she was certain she had not, so her person was still in the clear. She just had to find another way to reach out and touch the Vaughns.
Chicago, Sunday, August 1, 2:00 P.M.
Dana closed her office door, wincing when Evie’s bedroom door slammed upstairs, hard enough to shake the whole house. Caroline had shaken her awake, told her that Evie had gone to Lillian’s funeral. Dana tried to intercept her, but had been too late. Instead, she’d waited until Evie came out of the church, her heavy pancake makeup streaked with tears. The ride back had not been pleasant. They’d argued bitterly and Evie’s tears flowed again—until a glance in the visor mirror had Evie’s accusations shuddering to an abrupt halt.
Without the makeup, Evie was scarred. With it, Dana thought she looked fake. But when it was melting off her face . . . Dana had to admit Evie looked scary. Like the Phantom of the Opera. Understanding her dismay, Dana had stopped at her apartment to allow Evie to fix her makeup so that no one else could see her that way. And after that, Evie hadn’t said a word.
Dana sat down at her desk and closed her eyes. Her head still hurt from this morning. And she was hungry. French fries at Betty’s with Ethan Buchanan had been a long time ago. Ethan Buchanan. He wanted her to meet him tomorrow. She’d thought about it, sitting out in front of Lillian’s funeral, waiting for Evie. She knew nothing about the man except his name and that he could make her heart calm with a look and her nerves zing with a touch. But she could learn more. The resources of the Internet were a click away.
She eyed her dormant computer screen. She could do a search on him, but that seemed rude. An invasion of privacy. She nudged her mouse with one finger.
And sighed when her screen woke up to the Google search result screen. One of their residents, Beverly, would be going west this week and Dana had been searching low-cost housing in California the night before. It seemed to be a sign. If her screen had woken up to solitaire, she could have laughed it off and gone on with her business. But the Google screen beckoned. Tentatively she typed in his name. And hit SEARCH.