by T. L. Hart
“I just want him to love me,” I whined to the empty room. “What kind of crap is that? These testosterone maniacs all need to be taught a lesson. They can’t keep doing this and leaving me to clean up their mess.” I kicked the ice pack that had fallen to the floor across the room. “I’m going to make an example out of you, Mr. Quentin Biggs. You get to pick up the check for all the bullying sonofabitches in this whole damned town. I am personally going to see that you pay.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Judging from the hotel-sized house Jo and I were ushered into, I obviously didn’t make Quentin Biggs pay enough to hurt his lifestyle any. The place was magnificent. As Jennifer, this was the kind of home I could afford to live in. As Cotton, I’d have been lucky to be invited for cocktails for a charity fundraiser.
Tricia Biggs led us to the study—a room so filled with books that I was tempted to see if I could use my library card to check a few out until next week. She was so gracious and poised she would have probably said yes just to be polite.
She bore little resemblance to the battered woman I had encountered at the Outreach in my last life. If not for the vibrant red hair and patrician face, I’d hardly have recognized her. She was the lady of the manor, gracious and dressed to impress. I wondered if there were any new bruises beneath her flawlessly tailored Escada slacks and jacket?
Of course she had no memory of me. She’d never met J.C. Winters before. She had no knowledge of the amateurish blackmail note I had cut out of magazines and pasted together while wearing rubber gloves so I didn’t leave fingerprints. My idea of smart was wetting the glue on the envelope with a sponge so as not to give up my DNA in spit. The real miracle was that the damned letter actually reached The Man himself. Who’d have believed Quentin Biggs would actually open his own mail, even if it was marked “personal and private”? The world was a funny place.
In Tricia Biggs’s world, I was a stranger to her and the dark secrets she and Cotton shared. She had no idea of the revenge I had exacted on her behalf. I don’t think she would have thanked me. At a bare minimum I’m sure her offer to get me something to drink while I waited wouldn’t have happened. While Tricia Biggs and Jo went over their paperwork, I discreetly cased the joint. The furnishings in this room alone were worth a small fortune. A cluster of Fabergé eggs nestled on a table lit by a small Tiffany lamp. I’d be willing to bet the farm that the pair of Chinese Fu dogs on either side of the fireplace weren’t replicas. The rug covering most of the floor had traveled across the world to end up beneath our feet. I’m not sure where or when I had gained my knowledge of fine objets d’art, but someone had ingrained a little culture in me along the way. Maybe someday I’d know who to thank.
In fact, the more I looked around the house full of treasures, the more I realized my big sting was more like a mosquito bite to old Quentin. Of course, the real danger from a mosquito wasn’t the bite, but the risk of being infected with something serious the pesky bug was carrying. Cotton had been carrying information that could have poisoned his political career. Simple solution: Swat. No more mosquito, no more problem.
The real question was, whom did he use as the swatter?
A man like Biggs didn’t take a chance on losing this kind of life to a pissant little blackmailer. What the hell was I thinking when I pulled my little “if you don’t want the world to know you beat your wife, put five hundred thousand dollars in a briefcase and leave it in the last bathroom stall at the lower level of the mall” trick? Yeah, Cotton was a real gifted grifter.
I didn’t really expect the money to be there, but it was and I congratulated myself on the con. But just because I thought I was clever dumping the bricks of money into a trash bag and stashing it in my backpack didn’t mean I had gotten away with it. Just because I hadn’t seen anyone following me didn’t mean they hadn’t been watching the whole time. Stashing the money in a self-storage unit hadn’t protected me from having my head bashed in.
I didn’t think I’d share the details of my returned memory with Aggie. It was bad enough that I’d possibly put her in danger without making her an accessory after the fact. Better that only I knew that backpack with half a million dollars was a result of my felonious ego. Let it gather dust from now until forever. Good riddance to bad garbage was a saying to live by. Literally.
I looked over at Jo and Tricia, chatting away as if they’d known each other for ages. Exactly like they’d known each other for ages—at least for a long time before I met Jo. I hated fundraisers, but I was always begging for money to fund the Outreach. I had leapt at an invitation to mingle with this deep-pocketed crowd. My knees got rubbery and I sank down on one of the antique armchairs by the window.
What a coincidence that Max and Jo and I had been among a few dozen guests at the same party. Or…maybe someone knew about my taste in women and Jo’s attraction to the limelight before the invitations went out. How convenient for Biggs and what a coincidence that I started dating Max’s wife within a month of my little shakedown.
A jealous husband, a wife looking to trade up, and a womanizing lesbian. Someone was bound to end up dead—I was just beginning to think it was no accident that it turned out to be me.
How could Biggs have managed to set us all up? He would have to be a master magician, pulling levers behind the curtain like the great and powerful wizard of Oz. He couldn’t have been sure Jo and I would gravitate to each other, although now that I look back, the other women at the party had either been over sixty or pushing two hundred and sixty.
I am a seriously flawed and shallow person, so getting me involved with a hottie like Jo must have been easier than selling dollar beers at a Rangers’ game. Getting Jo to flirt with me wasn’t that hard to predict either, all modesty aside. What he couldn’t have known was that the two of us would really fall in love. I doubt he cared one way or the other.
As for getting Max Sealy to do the dirty work with the baseball bat, it wouldn’t have taken much to prime him with a few tidbits of gossip, a hint of being cuckolded, a blow to his ego. With his temper, it would have been all too easy to send him roaring into the foggy night intent on murder.
Of course, there was always the possibility that poor Max was only a perfect red herring for a smart silver shark. There are professionals who serve at the beck and call of the wealthy and powerful. Most of them are in less dangerous lines of work, but exterminators come in all kinds of guises. It must be rare to have a built-in patsy if one came to be necessary. Max had patsy written all over him. If he hadn’t been famous and I hadn’t been gay, he’d be sitting in a cell in Huntsville, sure as original sin.
Then again, maybe my whole paranoid fantasy about Quentin Biggs was a way of expiating my guilt for being a thief. I didn’t have a shred of proof he was involved. I didn’t even know if my death was connected in any way to my little stint as Robin Hood. Maybe I got away with it, clean and lucky. Maybe after my murder no one was still monitoring that camera or perhaps they plain forgot about it and had no way of connecting the dots between Cotton Claymore and J.C. Winters.
Jo and Tricia Biggs were exchanging kisses on each other’s cheeks, making the fluttery goodbye sounds only produced by Southern belles. I wasn’t part of the inner circle, so I managed to escape with only a handshake.
As we drove out of the main gate, I looked up and down the street, checking for signs we were being watched or followed. I hadn’t forgotten why we were going out of town for the weekend. I’m not a total idiot, no matter how much that seems to be the case sometimes. I also know that everybody loves Robin Hood except the guy whose money gets stolen.
Chapter Forty-Four
While it is true only God can make a tree, Cedar Creek Reservoir is a convincing argument that people can make a decent lake. All the major lakes in North Texas are man-made, but—apologies to God—while I know it’s not on the scale of the Great Lakes up north, this was a pretty place.
During the hour and a half drive south out of Dallas, Jo and I talked a
nd laughed and felt the worries of the last few days melt away. Maybe not melt, but shrink considerably in intensity. By the time we arrived we were tired of talking about all the crap that had virtually consumed our every waking thought all week.
Dr. Carey’s house was a jewel—three bedrooms, a den with a fireplace big enough to roast an ox, a grand kitchen and a screened-in porch that wrapped around three sides of the house and looked out over the lake. A private pier led out far enough into the water for you to sit and fish all day. A little exploring led us to the boathouse, where we found a big ski boat and a pair of Jet Skis. We decided to spend the week being hedonistic and wallowing in the country life.
Country life in the exclusive community of homes carved out here was hardly a trip to Green Acres. Referring to the residences in the enclave as “lake houses” was like calling homes in the Hamptons “cottages.” The houses were virtual mini-estates with all the comforts of the city without the traffic and more stars at night. I knew Dr. Carey charged a very pretty penny for her services, but this was a very cushy second home.
There were a couple of hours left before dinnertime, so we got back in the car and drove around the lake, looking at the scenery and getting the lay of the land. We stopped at a little store in Gun Barrel City, one of the half dozen small towns that surround the lake. Jo picked up so much junk food that if we never caught a single fish, the three of us could spend the week well fed, if not well-nourished.
“I think Ding Dongs should be a food group of its own,” Jo said, licking the creamy center out of the second chocolate yummy she had eaten in the mile since we left the store. “They’ve proven chocolate is good for you—all those antioxidants, you know. And I think this center might be dairy-ish. This may turn out to be nature’s perfect food.”
“Seems like I read that very thing the other day in the Journal of Modern Medicine. The article had a very interesting sidebar called “How to Eat Ho Hos, Be a Big Fat Girl and Still Look Fabulous.”
“Mmmm.” She patted her flat stomach. “I think I would be even better-looking fifty pounds heavier. More of me to love.”
“You keep shoveling those in and we’ll be able to test your theory by next week.” I laughed and glanced in my rearview mirror. “What does that idiot think he’s doing?”
Jo turned in her seat to check what I was squinting at. The roads were narrower than the main highways, mostly one lane each direction, and carved a curving route through the trees. The guy behind us kept speeding up, then dropping back to a safer distance.
The car was a monster SUV, black and menacing and larger than life on the narrow roads. With the dark-tinted windows, I didn’t know how he was able to see well enough to drive. It was getting past twilight and the numbskull didn’t even have his headlights on.
“Maybe he wants to pass us,” Jo said. “Kind of pull over a little so he can get by.”
“I’m over as far as I can go without ending up in the ditch,” I said, not wanting to accommodate such a rude driver. “Besides, I haven’t seen three cars in the last five miles. He can get by any time he wants to.”
“He’s getting too close,” Jo said. “He’s nearly on our bumper.”
“I’m going to slow way down.” I tapped the brakes. “He can pass us or we can all drive twenty miles an hour like my Aunt Mildred used to and take forever to get home. We’re not in any hurry.”
“He’s dropping back. Oh, wait, he pulled over to the side and stopped.” She turned back around in the seat. “You don’t suppose this is how the neighbors say hello around here, do you?”
“If it is, I’d rather they sent a fruit basket,” I said. We drove for a minute more in comfortable silence.
All of a sudden, a pair of high beams glared in my rearview, moving up behind us at a high rate of speed. Way too fast for these twisty roads at twilight.
“What the hell?” I had read stories of road rage, but never had I been prepared to feel so much anger over so little provocation. “Someone ought to kick his ass. I’ll show him.” I slowed down to a crawl. He slowed even more and dropped way back. “Hah! That’s right. Back off, big boy.”
“J.C., stop messing with this guy.” Jo punched me on my shoulder, a little too hard to be called playful. “Let’s be big about this and just get home safely.”
“Damn it, he’s coming up again.” I saw him in the mirror. “I think you’re right. He’s nuts.”
The car was nearly up my tailpipe before I had the sense to realize he had no intention of slowing down. He was trying to run us off the road. I jammed the accelerator to the floor, but not fast enough. He tapped the back bumper of the car, not hard, but at this rate of speed it gave us a pretty good jolt.
“Hang on, Jo. I’m going to get us out of here before we get killed by this lunatic.”
“It’s too late,” she yelped. “He’s pulling up beside us.”
The driver yanked his steering wheel hard to the right. The big box of a car veered in front of us so hard I stood up on the brake pedal, praying we weren’t going to plow right into him.
“Hang on, Jo!”
We were skidding off into the ditch before I could say or do anything but try to keep from slamming into the crazy fool’s car, which had stopped a few dozen feet in front of us.
“Are you okay?” I reached over to Jo, wanting to touch her, to make sure she wasn’t hurt. “I’m going to see exactly what this guy—”
“Oh, my God. Lock your door. Hurry!” Jo screamed at me and pointed, her fingers shaking. “Hurry. He’s got something in his hand. And he’s wearing a mask.”
“What are you talking about?” Her words made no sense until I looked where she was pointing and saw a big man in a red ski mask walking deliberately toward our car. “Open the glove box, Jo! My gun’s in there.”
She was fumbling with the latch on the glove box when the man reached our car. He raised his hands over his head and swung, smashing his baseball bat into the windshield.
Chapter Forty-Five
The crash of breaking glass was almost loud enough to drown the sound of Jo’s terrified scream. My heart was pounding in my ears, the pulse of blood so deafening I could feel it vibrate through my body.
Time was out of whack—moving so slowly the ragged pieces of safety glass came showering in like raindrops, yet moving so fast I barely had time to shield my eyes from them.
The second blow hit the window on my side, buckling the glass, making it sag and crackle, but not completely breaking it into pieces. The man’s shadow blocked the light from my side. The next blow was coming; I could feel the back swing, could imagine the wind hissing around the blunt wood as he readied the next hit.
“The gun,” I screamed. “Give it to me.”
“Here. Here.” Jo was shaking. I could feel her hands trembling so hard I could barely grab hold of the pistol. “God, help us. Hurry.”
I don’t know how I managed to pull the slide and find the safety release, but all the practice at the gun range must have kicked in. The shadow moved away from my window and was crossing in front of the car to Jo’s side. His body blocked the headlights as he passed them, giving me an idea of how fast he was moving.
“Get down, Jo,” I shrieked. “On the floor. Now!”
She ducked out of my way as the man passed in front of the window. It happened so fast that I wasn’t sure if he broke the window with the bat or if I broke it with the bullet as I fired. It sure as hell exploded.
Jo screamed but stayed down. I knew she was all right. No one could be making that much noise and be in too bad of a shape. The man ran past our car and toward his SUV. Like an idiot I swung my door open and pointed my gun at him, firing twice, but missing. My arms were braced on the top of the doo frame and my legs were shoulder-width apart—perfect form, but with all the adrenaline pumping through my system, I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.
I could see the man open his door and pull himself up in the SUV. I thought for a second about trying to look at hi
s license plate, but I wanted to see if I could tell anything about him to identify him. Big. Jeans. Dark sweatshirt. Red ski mask. That alone would probably make him stand out in any crowd at the lake.
Just then a big truck, not a semi, but big, came in from the opposite direction. I could hear its brakes squealing as it ground to a halt on the other side of the road.
“Hey,” a gruff masculine voice yelled. He must have gotten out of the rig because I heard the door slam. “What’s happening? Is anybody hurt?”
By that time the truck driver had walked halfway across the road. He came to a frozen stop when he saw me braced against my car door, firing another round as our attacker leaped into his car and burned rubber down the road.
My Good Samaritan didn’t look like he was ready to come any closer.
All at once my nerves unraveled like rope that reached the end of its strength capacity. My hands started trembling so badly, the Kimber fell to the ground, making a soft thump as it hit the packed dirt.
“Shit, lady. Are you okay?” He edged nearer, his eyes on the ground, making sure the gun was down. “What the hell happened here?”
“Cotton?” Jo was wailing my name, forgetting J.C., forgetting anything but her terror. “Cotton, are you okay?” She scrambled over the console and crawled across the driver’s seat to get to me and threw herself into my arms.
“Did you shoot him?” She was trembling. “I hope you shot him.”
“I don’t know.” I was trembling too.
“I don’t see no blood,” our hill country hero said. He was looking at the ground by the light of our headlights. “It’s getting pretty dark though. I can’t really see that well.”
“Can you call the police for us?” I asked. “Will you wait with us until they get here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you think he’ll come back?”
He didn’t sound too brave all of a sudden. I looked closer at him and realized he probably wasn’t more than twenty years old.