by Sandra Brown
Possibly the only words of the whole monologue that the foreign gentleman understood were “Yellow Pages.” He slid a well-worn copy across the counter along with a soiled and sticky telephone.
After placing his call, Wick sat down to wait on a folding fishing stool and passed the time by perusing the wide selection of body-builder magazines. Only one other customer came in. He bought a pack of cigarettes and left without giving Wick a second glance.
When the taxi pulled into the parking lot, Wick said, “Much obliged,” and waved good-bye. He didn’t know who was more relieved to see the taxi, him or the nervous cashier. He left without a Butterfinger.
Luckily, the Wesleys’ house was dark. What Oren didn’t know was that he kept a spare key in a magnetized box on the underside of his pickup’s fender. He retrieved it, although getting up and down was an effort that caused him to gasp in pain. Several times he was forced to pause for fear of passing out.
He unlocked his truck and rummaged through the pockets of his packed clothing in search of money. Finally he scrounged up enough to cover his cab fare. The series of delays hadn’t set too well with the driver, who peeled away with an angry spate of obscenities and an even angrier squeal of tires.
Wick waited in the shadow of the house to see if the noise had awakened Oren. He gave it a full five minutes, but no one came out to investigate. Wick got into his truck and turned the ignition key. The engine growled to life. He got the hell out of there.
He drove to the empty parking lot of an elementary school, where he exchanged the pajamas for street clothes and the slippers for a pair of athletic shoes. He was constantly on the lookout for Oren’s car, or a police patrol unit, but apparently he had made good his escape.
From the elementary school he drove straight to Rennie’s house and parked at the curb. The front porch light was on, but the house was dark. “Too bad.” She was about to be awakened. He eased himself from the cab of his truck with all the agility of an octogenarian invalid.
At her door, he leaned heavily on the bell, and, when that got no response, he banged the brass knocker. He waited thirty seconds before pressing his ear to the door and listening through the wood. Nothing but silence. “Dammit!”
But if he were in Rennie’s situation, would he be answering the front door in the middle of the night?
He moved toward the garage and studied the horizontally sectioned door. Having followed Rennie home last Sunday, he knew she had an automatic opener. He tested the handle anyway. Without the programmed transmitter, the door was secure.
He slipped around the corner of the house—hoping that an insomniac neighbor didn’t mistake him for a thief—and moved along the side of the garage toward the rear of the house. His exploration was rewarded. There was a door into the garage from the backyard. Miracle of miracles, it had a window.
Cupping his hands around his eyes, he peered inside. It was dark, but he knew that had her car been inside he would’ve been able to see it. The garage was empty. She wasn’t at home.
Trembling with fatigue, he retraced his steps to his truck. The task of climbing inside seemed insurmountable, but he managed it—barely. His skin was clammy, and he feared he might toss his cookies. Literally. Stephanie and Laura’s homemade chocolate chips. The headrest was tempting. He hurt too bad to sleep, but if he could just close his eyes and rest for a few minutes…
No, he had to move and keep moving until he found Rennie.
Second on his list of places to look: Trinity Tower.
* * *
Lozada’s face was a mask of cold fury when he opened the door to his condo.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Lozada, but I have an urgent message for you.” The concierge extended to him a sealed envelope with the building’s discreet logo embossed in gold in the upper left corner.
Lozada had been having a delicious dream about Rennie. The first peal of his doorbell had jolted him awake. A handgun was weighting down the pocket of his robe. Shooting the messenger became a literal temptation.
He snatched the envelope from the man. “What kind of message? Who’s it from?”
“He didn’t give me his name, sir. I asked, but he said you would know him.”
Lozada ripped open the envelope, removed a stiff note card, and read the so-called message. There was no question who had written the succinct poem.
“He was here?”
“Only a few minutes ago, Mr. Lozada. He left after writing that and asking that I hand-deliver it to you immediately. The man didn’t look at all well. When he first came in, I thought he was intoxicated. He was certainly confused.”
“In what way?”
“Initially he said he had a message for your guest.”
“Guest?”
“That’s what I said, Mr. Lozada. I told him that to my knowledge you had come in alone this evening and that no visitors had been announced except for the food delivery. I checked the log book to be sure.”
Threadgill had played this moron like a fiddle.
“I offered to ring you, but he said no, then asked to borrow the stationery and a pen.”
“All right, you’ve delivered the message.” Lozada was about to close the door when the concierge raised his hand.
“One more thing, Mr. Lozada.” He coughed lightly behind his fist. “You’ll receive an official notice in writing, but I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“I’ve been appointed to advise you that the building’s homeowners’ association convened earlier today and voted unanimously that you… that they…”
“What?”
“They want you out of the building, sir. In light of recent allegations, they’re demanding that you vacate within thirty days.”
Lozada wasn’t about to demean himself by arguing with this nobody. “You can tell the other homeowners to go fuck themselves. I own this penthouse and will live here for as long as I fucking well please.”
He slammed the door in the man’s face. Striding angrily to the built-in slate bar, he poured himself a straight shot of tequila. He didn’t know which had made him madder and insulted him more, being asked to move out of the prestigious address or Wick Threadgill’s juvenile dare:
The roses were red;
My blood, too.
Come get me, asshole.
I’m waiting for you.
Chapter 22
When Rennie arrived at her ranch, the first thing she did was saddle Beade and go for a long, galloping ride. Following that, she spent two hours in the barn grooming the horses. They didn’t need grooming, but it was therapeutic for her.
Earlier in the day, Oren Wesley had made a courtesy call informing her of Lozada’s imminent release from jail. “You’re releasing him?”
“I have no choice.” He explained the district attorney’s decision. “I warned you that the charge might not stick. Wick claims it was Lozada, but without hard evidence—”
“What about his breaking into my house?”
“There was no sign of forced entry, Dr. Newton.”
“But he broke in,” she insisted.
“If you wish, you could come down and file a complaint.”
“What good would it do?”
What had become clear to her was that she couldn’t rely on the judicial system to take care of Lozada for her. The problem was hers and she must solve it. But how?
Then there was the matter of Wick. She was still angry with Wick the cop, who deserved her scorn. But Wick the man was her patient who deserved the best medical care she could provide. How was she to reconcile the two?
Out of respect for Dr. Howell, the board had set a date two weeks hence for her formal assumption of the chief of surgery position. She wanted to move into that job with a clear slate, with her life in perfect order, free of problems. She needed time away to think things through and plot a course of action.
Her last-minute decision to take a few days off had required some deft m
aneuvering by her able office staff, but they juggled the schedule so that her patients were only moderately inconvenienced. Dr. Sugarman returned the favor she had done him a few months ago by agreeing to oversee the care of her post-op patients who were still in the hospital, Wick among them.
She had packed in a hurry and made good time driving. The horseback ride had provided a temporary reprieve from her troubling thoughts. Toby Robbins arrived shortly after she returned to the house. “You didn’t have to come right away, Toby,” she told him as soon as she answered the door. Earlier she had called him to report a loose board on the corral gate.
“I feel bad about overlooking it.”
“It’s no big deal. It’ll keep.”
“I’d just as soon get it fixed now. Unless this is a bad time for you.”
“Now is fine.”
He looked beyond her at the pieces of luggage still standing on her living room floor. “Staying for a while this time?”
“A few days. Let me show you that loose board.” They went down the front steps together. On the way to the corral he retrieved a metal toolbox from the bed of his pickup truck. “How’s Corrine?”
“Fine. She’s giving the devotional at the church ladies’ luncheon next Thursday. She’s got butterflies.”
“I’m sure she’ll do fine.”
He nodded, glanced at Rennie, then said, “We read about you in the paper this week.”
“Don’t believe everything you read, Toby.”
“It was all good this time.”
This time. She didn’t know if the qualifier had been intentional. The old rancher remembered newspaper stories about her that hadn’t been so flattering, the ones about the fatal shooting of Raymond Collier.
Before inheriting his ranch from his parents, Toby had lived in Dalton and occasionally had done odd jobs for T. Dan. When he took over the ranch, it had a modest herd of beef cattle, but, with careful management, he had increased it and prospered when other ranchers had succumbed to drought or economic recessions of one origin or another.
Through the years, he had stayed in touch with Rennie. He knew she was interested in having a weekend getaway, a place where she could keep horses, so he had notified her when the ranch neighboring his went on the market. She saw it only once before signing a contract for the asking price.
Toby no longer needed the additional income that came from doing odd jobs for her. She supposed he worked for her because he was a good neighbor, a nice man, or simply because he liked her.
Or maybe he was kind to her because he had known T. Dan so well.
“Here. See?” She showed him the gate, wiggling the loose slat, then stepping aside so he could get to it. He inspected it, then hunkered down and took a hammer from his toolbox. He used the forked end to pry the rusty nails out of the loose holes.
“That guy, the one whose life you saved…”
“Wick Threadgill.”
“Wasn’t he the fella I met out here?”
“That’s right.”
“What do you think of him?”
“I don’t.”
She had answered too quickly and defensively. Toby squinted up at her from beneath the brim of his hat.
“Uh, listen, Toby, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go back inside and start putting things away. Come say good-bye before you leave.”
“Will do.”
She was busy in the kitchen an hour later when he approached the back door and knocked. “Come on in.”
He stepped inside and removed his hat. “Some of the other boards had loose nails, too. I replaced them all. Solid as a rock now.”
“Thank you. How about something cold to drink?”
“No, thanks. I best get going so Corrine won’t have to hold supper for me. Next week sometime I could come over and give that gate a coat of fresh paint.”
“That would be nice. Want me to buy the paint?”
“I’ll bring it with me. Same white okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Are you going to be okay here, Rennie?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason.”
He had his reasons, all right. She could tell by the way he nervously threaded the brim of his hat through his fingers and stared at the toes of his scuffed work boots.
“What’s on your mind, Toby?”
Raising his head, he gave her a direct look. “You’ve been mixed up lately with some pretty raunchy characters. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I don’t mind. I agree. I think raunchy would be a mild adjective for Lozada.”
“Wasn’t talking about just him. That Threadgill was kicked off the police force, you know.”
“He took a leave of absence.”
Toby’s shrug said Same thing. “Well, anyhow, me and Corinne have been worried about you.”
“Needlessly, Toby, I assure you. I haven’t been mixing with these people voluntarily. My path crossed with Lozada’s by happenstance. My association with Mr. Threadgill is purely professional. His profession as well as mine. That’s all.”
His expression was skeptical.
“I’ve been protecting myself for a long time, Toby,” she added softly. “Since I was sixteen.”
He nodded, looking embarrassed for having resurrected bad memories. “It’s just sort of a habit, you know, for me and Corinne to look out for you.”
“And I can’t tell you how much your concern means to me. Has always meant to me.”
“Well,” he said, replacing his hat, “I’m off. If you need anything give us a holler.”
“I will. Thanks again for repairing the gate.”
“Take care, Rennie.”
She sipped a glass of wine as she cooked herself a meal of pasta and marinara. As she ate, she watched the sun sink into the western horizon. Afterward she carried her bags upstairs to unpack. Here in the country she wasn’t persnickety. She tossed undies into drawers without folding them. She hung clothes in the closet willy-nilly, in no particular order. Out here she yielded to a rebellious streak—against her structured self.
These tasks completed, she went from room to room looking for something to do. Now that she had the desired free time, she didn’t know how to fill it. TV had nothing interesting to offer. She wasn’t inspired to watch a movie from her library of DVDs. She tried to read a new biography, but found the subject dull and the writing pretentious. She wandered into the kitchen, looking more for something to occupy her than for something to eat. Nothing looked appetizing, but because she was there she opened a box of cookies and nibbled on one.
A benefit of being in the country, far removed from city lights, was the panoply of stars. She ventured outside to gaze at the nighttime sky. She located the familiar constellations, then spotted a satellite and tracked its arc until she could no longer see it.
She crossed her yard and entered the corral through the gate Toby had repaired. Although she knew his intentions had been good, and that his concern was sincere, his caution had left her feeling restless and even a little jittery as she went into the dark barn.
Usually the familiar smells of hay and horseflesh comforted her. T. Dan had put her astride a pony about the time she had learned to walk. Ever since, horses had played an important role in her life. She had never experienced any fear of them and loved being in their environment.
Tonight, however, the cavernous barn seemed ominous. The shadows were abnormally dark and impenetrable. As she moved from stall to stall, the horses nickered and stamped skittishly. They had been groomed and fed. They were dry. There was no approaching storm. She spoke to them in a low and soothing voice, but it sounded counterfeit to her own ears and must have conveyed to them her own disquiet. Like her, they were unsettled for no apparent reason.
Rather than being comforted by the animals, they increased her uneasiness because they seemed to share it. Upon returning to the house, she did something she had never done before. She locked all the doors and windows, then double-ch
ecked to make certain she hadn’t overlooked any. Upstairs, she showered, but she realized she was rushing through it.
She, who had waded through snake- and croc-infested African rivers, was now afraid to shower in her own tub? Annoyed with herself for buying into the spookiness, she turned out the light with a decisive click and got into bed.
She slept lightly, as though expecting the noises that eventually awakened her.
* * *
“What the…?”
Wick gripped the steering wheel of his pickup. He acknowledged that his mind was sluggish from exhaustion. There were probably a few grains of pain medication still swimming around in his bloodstream, gumming up his thought processes. He was a little slow on the uptake, but it sure seemed to him that the steering wheel had frozen up in his hands.
For several seconds he was stumped. Then he looked at the gas gauge.
“Son of a bitch!”
He was out of gas. In the middle of frigging nowhere. In the freaking wee hours of the morning. He was out of gas.
It had never occurred to him to check the gauge before leaving Fort Worth. Once he’d left Trinity Tower reasonably certain that Rennie wasn’t shacked up in the penthouse with Lozada, once he’d left the concierge with the envelope and a ten-dollar bill guaranteeing its speedy delivery, he’d wanted only to get clear of the city before Oren saw that his driveway was minus one pickup truck or a nurse discovered that the hospital bed was shy one patient.
During the drive he’d had a hell of a time keeping his eyes open. Usually he was an aggressive driver who cursed slowpokes. He thought radar traps were a violation of the Constitution. But tonight he had stayed in the outside lane, yielding the faster lanes to long-haul truckers and motorists who hadn’t experienced a life-threatening assault barely a week ago.