Always Look Twice

by Dawson, Geralyn

  He put on a burst of speed. One hundred fifty feet away. One forty. Pulled his gun. Could take a shot at fifty.

  Kurtz’s back was a big fat target, but Mark dared not risk it. He had hollow tips loaded into his .45. Couldn’t risk the round going all the way through the bastard into the baby.

  Shit. Shit. What to do? Get close enough and shout? Trust his partner to react? Yeah. That was a plan. This was Annabelle. Beautiful, brilliant Annabelle. His teammate. His soul mate. My wife.

  One hundred feet. Hell, she probably expected him to show, likely already had this figured out and was just waiting on him to make his move. Eighty feet. They’d almost reached the street.

  Mark took a breath to shout.

  And Annabelle screamed.

  Time slowed to a cold-molasses pace. He saw Catherine go flying, heard the gunshot. Saw his wife, niece, and Kurtz fall to the ground.

  Sixty feet.

  Samantha scrambled up, screaming. On wobbly legs she darted away from the struggling couple on the ground.

  Toward the street. Toward the traffic.

  ‘‘Samantha!’’ he cried. ‘‘Honey. This way!’’

  Another gunshot. Annabelle! ‘‘Oh, Jesus. Jesus Jesus Jesus. Please!’’

  Forty feet. Samantha dashing into . . . oncoming traffic. Screaming. Screaming. Into the path of a speeding car.

  Twenty-five goddamned feet too far.

  Something flew from a black car. Someone. Shoved the baby to safety. Squealing brakes.

  A third gunshot.

  A crash on the street. Mark saw his father go down. Traffic stopped.

  Closer, Annabelle and Ron Kurtz quit moving.

  ‘‘Oh, God.’’ Fifteen feet.

  He heard stereo screams as people rushed into the street. ‘‘Belle? Belle? Annabelle!’’

  Ten feet. Two still figures and a spreading pool of blood. Kurtz lay on top of her. Mark couldn’t see her. ‘‘Belle . . . Belle . . . please!’’

  There. He was there. Down on his knees. Yanking Kurtz off her. Shoving Kurtz’s gun beyond reach. The sight and smell of blood and of gunpowder made his stomach roll. ‘‘Belle?’’

  She opened her eyes. Blinked once, twice. ‘‘Girls?’’

  ‘‘They’re okay. Are you hit?’’

  She winced, moved, and grimaced. ‘‘No. Not my blood. Kurtz?’’

  For the first time, he looked at the killer. Kurtz’s eyes were open and aware. Blood pumped from a wound in his leg. A lot of blood. Femoral artery?

  Annabelle sat up. She looked toward the street and smiled, then turned her attention to her wounded adversary. ‘‘He’s bleeding out.’’

  ‘‘Let him,’’ Mark replied, even as he reached to put pressure on the wound.

  Kurtz grinned, his breathing labored. ‘‘Fuck you, Callahan.’’

  ‘‘I’m not the one who’s fucked here.’’

  Damned if Ron Kurtz didn’t laugh at that. ‘‘Sure, you are. I’m not the only one out to get you, but I’m taking that name to my grave. Believe me, Callahan. Monroe. You’re screwed.’’

  Mark and Annabelle stared at each other over Kurtz’s prone body. Then the medical people and frantic Luke, Maddie, and Matt spilled from the doorways. Within moments, Ron Kurtz was loaded onto a stretcher and headed for the ER. Luke rescued an unscathed, but stinky, Catherine from the Dumpster while Maddie ran sobbing toward Samantha, who sat safe on the side of the road.

  In her grandfather’s arms.

  ‘‘We’re okay,’’ the old man said. ‘‘We’re fine.’’ Maddie went down on her knees, bursting into tears, wrapping both Branch and Samantha in her arms and rocking them all back and forth. As Mark and Annabelle approached, Branch met his son’s gaze. A tear rolled down his cheek. ‘‘I did it. I made these damned knees move. I saved her.’’

  Mark cleared his throat. ‘‘Thank God.’’ He swallowed hard and added, ‘‘Thank you, Dad.’’

  Ron Kurtz died on the operating table.

  The knowledge of who else was after the Fixers died with him.

  In the aftermath of the shooting, doctors treated Annabelle and the girls for minor cuts and abrasions. Branch received similar care in addition to some tests ordered by his cardiologist and an orthopedic specialist. General consensus around the hospital credited adrenaline with his ability to move the way he had, and dumb luck that he’d fallen so violently without suffering any bone breaks. The Callahans considered it another miracle for which they were grateful.

  Now in a large, family-style maternity suite, Branch rested in an overstuffed recliner in the sitting room area and waited along with Matt, Mark, and Annabelle for Luke and Maddie to join them after putting the girls down for a nap in the bedroom. Though Torie remained in ICU for now, hope remained high that she would be moved into the suite soon.

  Annabelle could tell that despite his breakthrough out on the street, Mark wasn’t exactly comfortable sprawled on a love seat, making small talk with his father. The topic was dogs—Branch’s little Pomeranian named Paco and the darling little mutt discovered in Kurtz’s van who was currently the subject of an adoption tug-of-war between a policewoman and a nurse.

  Mark and Branch needed to shut themselves away somewhere to clear the air, she thought, watching father and son grope for things to say. That would have to wait until later, however. First she needed to share with the Callahans what she’d learned from the day planner recovered from Kurtz’s van.

  Luke and Maddie tiptoed out of the bedroom and silently shut the door behind them. Maddie dropped like a rag doll onto the sofa next to Annabelle and closed her eyes. ‘‘Just so that everyone knows, I’m calling for a moratorium on emergencies at least until tomorrow. I can’t take any more without a stiff drink and a good night’s sleep. I don’t suppose anyone has a bottle of brandy in his pocket?’’

  Luke sat beside his wife and draped his arm around her shoulders as Branch snorted. ‘‘Brandy, hell. Will scotch do?’’

  Luke turned a hopeful look his way. Branch jerked a thumb toward a box on the round dining table. ‘‘While I was waiting to get my hip X-ray taken, I borrowed the technician’s phone and ordered up some supplies. Matthew, will you do the honors?’’

  ‘‘None for Branch, Matt,’’ Maddie scolded, leveling a frown on her father-in-law. ‘‘He’s on pain meds.’’

  The scowl Branch shot back at her brimmed with affection. As Matt rose from his recliner that matched Branch’s, Annabelle held up the day planner. ‘‘Okay, people. Are you ready to hear about Kurtz?’’

  Maddie groaned and dropped her head onto her husband’s shoulder. ‘‘Will we have to shift back into emergency mode if we do?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Annabelle’s lips flicked a grin; then she met Mark’s gaze. ‘‘Actually, I believe the information here removes any further threat toward your family.’’

  ‘‘Let’s hear it,’’ he replied. He sat up, leaned forward, and, with his elbows propped on his knees, watched her intently.

  Annabelle set the appointment book on the coffee table in front of her. ‘‘It’s lucky for us that somewhere along the line, Kurtz got accustomed to keeping a calendar. I’ll want to give this a more thorough study, but here’s what I’ve pieced together so far. I think his killing spree must have been triggered by a visit from Dennis Nelson. I see nothing prior to the notation of that meeting that indicates our team even crossed his mind. That changed in the days after he met with Nelson. He started doodling in the margins. Things like ‘Make the Fixers pay.’ ’’

  ‘‘Pay for what?’’ Luke asked, mouthing thanks when Matt handed Maddie and him their drinks.

  ‘‘For mistreating him during his time on the team. In the memo section he made a list of all the wrongs we did him. It goes on for pages.’’ To Mark she added, ‘‘He held you most responsible because you were the one who dismissed him.’’

  ‘‘The guy was effing crazy,’’ Mark muttered.

  Matt frowned as he handed drinks to Annabelle and Mark. ‘‘Wh
y did Nelson pay him a visit?’’

  ‘‘That we don’t know. Nothing in here suggests a reason. Judging by his travel schedule, I’m pretty certain he killed Terry Hart. After that . . .’’ She glanced up, met Mark’s gaze. ‘‘I’m afraid he went to Boston and killed Jordan Sundine and his brother.’’

  ‘‘Damn.’’ Mark set his glass down on the coffee table hard. His mouth flattened into a grim line. ‘‘I had hoped Sundine would turn up alive.’’

  Annabelle shook her head. ‘‘Kurtz’s notes and receipts lead me to believe he took the bodies out to sea and dumped them. It’s during his time in Boston that he doodled the word ‘family’ in all caps, followed by two exclamation points and underlined three times.’’

  Luke propped his long legs on the coffee table. ‘‘He enjoyed torturing your teammate with the fact that he’d killed someone your friend loved.’’

  ‘‘Exactly.’’ Annabelle sipped her drink, then continued. ‘‘After Boston, he made a stop in Kansas, where he set up my family. Then he headed to Colorado, where he killed Rocky and his girlfriend.’’

  Matt straddled one of the dining table chairs. ‘‘And after Colorado, Florida?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Did he go after someone else between Florida and here?’’ Luke asked.

  ‘‘No,’’ Annabelle replied. ‘‘He drove from Florida to Texas and took his time doing so.’’

  Mark dragged his hands across his face, rubbing his eyes, massaging his temples. Then he asked the million-dollar question. ‘‘What about the Gallery Gal? Tell me there is something . . . anything . . . about her.’’

  ‘‘Nope. Nothing. He didn’t write about her, didn’t doodle anything. . . .’’ Annabelle shrugged. ‘‘There’s nothing to indicate whether she was a partner he turned on or another player. Although nothing in his planner suggests he had a partner.’’

  ‘‘Is that why you say the family is no longer at risk?’’ Maddie asked, sitting up straight.

  ‘‘In a way, yes. We know that Kurtz killed three Fixers—Hart, Stanhope, and Sundine. He targeted Mark, Noah, and me. That makes six.’’

  ‘‘And it leaves six,’’ Mark said. ‘‘Nelson, Russo, and Anderson are dead. Parsons is missing. Holloway is in Pakistan. Did that planner mention Harrington at all?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Annabelle tapped the book with her finger. ‘‘We don’t know if Kurtz had his eye on Tag or not. What we do know is that of the second six, nobody’s family has been bothered. Since we know that Kurtz targeted families, it’s logical to assume that the threat to our families is dead.’’

  ‘‘Thank God for that,’’ Branch breathed.

  Maddie spoke up. ‘‘And if the woman from the gallery was Kurtz’s partner, then it’s completely over. Right?’’

  Annabelle’s and Mark’s gazes met. They knew it wasn’t over. Kurtz’s dying statement made that all too clear. Mark smiled wearily at his sister-in-law. ‘‘I wish it were that simple, Mads. I’m pretty sure that someone in addition to Kurtz has been out to get my team.’’

  ‘‘I was afraid you were going to say that,’’ she grumbled.

  Mark continued. ‘‘I think it started with Nelson. I think he found out something that threatened someonewho decided the best way to contain the threat was to get rid of the team. I think the gallery woman was hired.’’

  ‘‘An assassin?’’ Matt asked.

  Annabelle laid it out. ‘‘It fits that she killed Nelson, Russo, and Anderson. Remember, they weren’t tagged as murders. Then, she went to kill Rocky Stanhope and discovered he was already dead. Who knows? Maybe she was late getting to Sundine, too. She got spooked. She wanted to find out what Mark knew, since he was the team leader, so she set up the Q and A at the gallery, then tried to kill us on the mountain.’’

  Mark’s matter-of-fact gaze met Annabelle’s. ‘‘Kurtz used a forty-five today.’’

  ‘‘You had it figured that day on the mountain, Mark,’’ Annabelle told him.

  Silence fell as the Callahans considered the scenario Annabelle had suggested. Eventually, Matt said, ‘‘Makes sense to me.’’

  Luke agreed. ‘‘The theory certainly fits the facts. But who did the gallery woman work for? Herself or someone else?’’

  ‘‘Until we identify her, I don’t think we’ll find the answer to that one,’’ Mark replied. Having finished his scotch, he tossed a handful of peppermints on the coffee table and chose one for himself.

  ‘‘I don’t like it,’’ Maddie said, reaching for a piece of candy.

  ‘‘Me, either,’’ Branch offered. ‘‘I’m glad to think the rest of us are probably safe, but where does that leave Mark and Annabelle?’’

  Mark gave a grim laugh as he unwrapped the cellophane from around his mint. ‘‘Just where Ron Kurtz told us before he died. Screwed.’’

  Later that evening, Mark and Annabelle drove his father home from the hospital. Branch invited them to stay at his house overnight, but Mark refused. A man could be expected to take only so many steps in one day.

  His first look at Callahan House in years put a knot the size of a basketball in his gut. Under other circumstances, he might indulge in a few of the good memories he had of the place, but tonight he just wanted to get away fast. He pulled into the driveway and shifted into park, but left the vehicle running. As he opened the door to get his father’s walker from the back, Branch asked, ‘‘Would you come in and have a drink? Meet my Paco?’’

  Mark opened his mouth to refuse, but Annabelle reached across the seat and slapped the side of his arm. Great. He really didn’t want to do this, but after today’s events, he could no more refuse her than he could fly. ‘‘Sure, we can do that. But just for a few minutes.’’

  He brought the walker around to Branch and helped him from the car. ‘‘Might be better to go around back,’’ Branch said. ‘‘I can avoid steps that way. I’m afraid I’m feeling too stiff for steps right now.’’

  ‘‘Me, too,’’ Annabelle said. ‘‘Personally, I’m looking forward to a good long soak in a hot bathtub tonight.’’

  Mark pictured Matt’s hot tub down beside the lake and instantly his mood brightened. He and Annabelle had the lake house to themselves tonight. A little romance would do them both good.

  The back door opened as they approached and the Garza sisters and a yippy little dog came streaming out. ‘‘Mr. Mark. Mr. Mark! You’ve come home. What a glorious day for the Callahans.’’

  ‘‘Paco, settle down,’’ Branch said, his voice firm but tender.

  ‘‘He’s so cute,’’ Annabelle said. ‘‘Hello, Paco.’’

  She squatted down to pet the Pomeranian and Branch warned, ‘‘Be careful. He might lick you to death.’’

  Annabelle laughed and picked the dog up and cuddled him while Mark returned the Garza sisters’ greetings. They peppered him with questions about the events of the day as they all filed into the kitchen, where another surprise awaited. ‘‘Sophia? Is that you?’’

  ‘‘Hi, Mark. Ms. Monroe.’’

  The fresh-scrubbed, demurely dressed young woman taking cookies from the oven looked nothing like the porn queen he and his brothers had rescued from Lanai the previous year. Well, except for the pink. She still wore pink. Seeing her made him smile. ‘‘How are you doing, Sophia?’’

  ‘‘Good. Really good. I’m starting college in the fall.’’

  ‘‘That’s great. That’s really great.’’ They spent a few minutes catching up; then after pouring three glasses of milk and presenting Branch with a plate of warm Snickerdoodles, the Garzas took their leave.

  Because he had no willpower when it came to the Garzas’ Snickerdoodles, Mark picked up his milk and followed his father and the cookies to his old man’s study.

  It was a short walk long on memories. Once upon a time, love and laughter filled this hallway, these rooms. Mark could all but hear his brothers’ footsteps pounding down the stairs and out the front door, when they were late as usual for the school
bus. He heard his mother singing the Dean Martin tunes she loved so much. His father laughing out loud at Archie Bunker on TV.

  Mark tossed back a gulp of milk as if it were a shot of tequila.

  In the office, Branch set the plate of cookies on his desk, then sank into his chair with a weary groan. Paco scrambled out of Annabelle’s arms and pattered around to his master’s feet. Branch scooped the dog up and spent a moment clucking and scratching and enduring licks on his face with obvious delight.

  Damned if he doesn’t truly love that dog, Mark thought. He hadn’t seen that sort of emotion on his father’s face since his mother died.

  ‘‘Y’all want a real drink instead of the white stuff?’’ Branch asked. ‘‘I can get you—’’

  ‘‘This is perfect,’’ Annabelle said. ‘‘Personally, I’ll take cookies and milk over alcohol any day.’’

  Branch beamed at her. ‘‘Me, too. I won’t tell Maddie because she enjoys scolding me so much. It’s a change for me, but now that I’m an old man, I have a sweet tooth big enough to make a vampire jealous.’’

  ‘‘Vampire?’’ Mark repeated. ‘‘You been reading horror novels again, Branch?’’

  ‘‘Nope. Romance novels. They are all about happy endings and that appeals to me.’’

  Mark opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly. He simply didn’t know how to respond to that.

  What had happened to the old Branch Callahan whom he knew and despised? Who was this fragile man who melted over a handful of dog, preferred sweets to whiskey, and read books with happy endings? He reached for another cookie.

  Branch twisted his chair and took two file boxes out of the cabinet behind him. He set them on the desk in front of Mark and cleared his throat. ‘‘Son, I was on my way to get these when Mitten darted into the street. I’ve written lots of letters over the years. I have more boxes for you, but these are the pertinent ones for now. I’m not asking any more than that you take them with you and keep them, just in case the time comes when you have questions.’’