Carl stared into space. Hello, Mr. Bender. Did you enjoy my wife? I’ll remember to ask you if she was worth it.
“May I help you, sir?”
With a jolt, Carl realized it was the second time the woman had spoken to him. Something in her eyes faltered when he looked at her, and Carl reined himself in. He didn’t want to make an impression in anyone’s memory. She wore a form-fitting, light-red dress with a rounded neck and she looked good. If he didn’t have his mind on other things he would’ve given her more attention. Instead he gave her what should pass for a puzzled smile, hoping that would explain his preoccupation.
“I’m looking for, uh, a Mr. Donovan?”
“Donovan?” Her brows drew together. “I don’t recognize that name, but I’ve only been here a couple of months.” Turning in her chair, she looked at her colleagues for help.
“Used to be a Donovan at Rancho Realty,” Willis Bender offered. He was still playing with the pencil. His voice was smooth, sounded cultured. How many times had it whispered sweet nothings in Jackie’s ear? “Alan or Adam, I think. Don’t know if he’s still there. Haven’t seen him in a while.”
Carl held his gaze. Bender’s eyes narrowed, and the pencil became still. Carl forced his features to ease; not time yet to tip his hand. “Sounds like my man. I’ll check over there. Thanks.”
Back outside, Carl fast-walked the sidewalk, looking neither right nor left and paying no attention to sounds either. He was focused on the phone booth and its book as if it were the light at the end of a tunnel. Finally he was there and he grabbed the book, fanned the pages to B, and his gaze raced down the columns until it fastened on one line. Slowly he blew a breath out. He relaxed for the first time since he’d been waiting in the café parking lot for that bitch, Millicent.
Tearing the page out, he stuffed it into his pants pocket, and then he got back into the coupe. At a gas station he pulled in and gassed up, bought a city map and then found and marked, with great care, the route to Willis Bender’s house.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Apple today? Carrot?” Lainie cooed at Glory while she ran the brush through the horse’s mane. “Maybe I could rustle up a sugar cube. Like that?”
Grooming the horse also relaxed her, as if she were on the receiving end of the attention. As she smiled at the thought, she heard Nelly’s voice, a distant murmur, and she looked up. She spied him standing alone at the entrance to the stables. Evidently he’d been thinking aloud, just talking to himself.
She turned back to Glory and finished up. Now that the horse was groomed, she needed to work on herself. She’d grown accustomed to wearing dirt and dust when riding—it was like a second skin she picked up out there—but she didn’t care to wear it longer than necessary.
As she put things away, her attention turned again to Nelly. He appeared to be intent on something outside, but as far as she could tell, there was nothing there that wasn’t always there.
“Hey,” she said, walking over. “What’s going on? You’re...” she paused, searching for the right words. “You’re spooking me.”
His bluish-gray eyes usually reflected a glint of the wit that kept him young, of the common-sense variety as well as humor. But sometimes they appeared faded, mirroring his age, as they did now. Shortly after he met her gaze, however, his eyes lit up.
“Spookin’?” he echoed, looking amused and indulgent at the same time.
“Yep, that’s the right word. Nelly, you are as steady as the dawn rising and the sun setting, but the last couple of days you’ve been downright moody. And, yeah, that spooks me.”
He put his fingertips to her cheek, as a father would to a child, then he dropped his hand and looked out at the yard. His movements were slow, as if muscles and joints weren’t cooperating. Lainie felt a sudden and fierce tug of affection for this elderly, simple man.
“Storm’s brewin’,” he said.
She glanced at the sky. No turbulence, no clouds, no wind. Sun not as bright and warm as last month, but nothing to be alarmed about. She looked back at Nelly, tilted her head.
“Can’t see it,” he said slowly. “Can’t hear it. Can’t smell it. But it’s there.”
She returned her attention to the horizon. “Maybe it’s not in the weather,” she murmured, surprising herself with the thought.
“Yes’m. That’s what I’m thinkin’.” He stared hard at her, as if trying to see into her soul. “You take care, little missy, you hear?”
A ball of uneasiness formed in her gut. “Nelly, what—”
“There you are,” said Reed’s voice, and both Lainie and Nelly jumped.
Reed stopped, grinned. “So what’d I do? Caught you two schemin’?”
Nelly gave him a mild look. “Mr. Reed, you really thinkin’ there might be somethin’ goin’ on around here you not know about already?”
Lainie’s unease fell away. Nelly sounded like himself again, losing that sense of uncanniness that had unnerved her.
“Well, now, there aren’t many people who can surprise me,” Reed told him. “But you’re one of ’em, and another one is standin’ right next to you. So you can see how that makes it kinda scary from my end.”
“Surprisin’ and scary?” Nelly chuckled. “I be complimented, Mr. Reed.”
“Uh-huh.” As Reed’s gaze lit on Lainie, he pulled keys out of his pocket. “Got a favor to ask. Nate at the garage called. Starter motor came in, but I can’t spare the time to drive the truck in and was hopin’ you’d do it.”
“Starter motor?” she echoed. Nelly looked as dubious as she felt. “How am I going to get it started without a starter motor?”
“It’s got one, but it’s tired. If it won’t start, wait a minute or two and try again.”
Nelly tilted his head. “Kinda like sweet-talkin’ a horse?”
“Maybe, but a lot less personal.”
With a good-natured snort, Nelly turned back to his stable. “In that case, Mr. Reed, I’m glad I got the horses and you got the truck.”
“Well?” Reed asked, gaze returning to Lainie. He jangled the keys.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Standing in the sun made her feel even grittier than when she’d been inside the stable. “No hurry, I hope. Number one on my agenda is a shower, then I’ll drive the truck in.”
Catching the look that came into his eyes—focused, intent, yet slightly glassy—she smiled, realizing that in his mind he was already in the shower with her. This wasn’t the first time she’d noted the impact she had on him, and she liked it.
She stepped forward, reaching for the keys but not taking them, just touching his hand. “Thinkin’ you need a shower, too, are you?”
Reading the tease, his lips quirked. “Oh, you’re cute, Lainie Sue. Really cute.”
“No time for the truck, no time for...anything?”
His fingers closed over hers just tight enough she felt the keys making an indentation in her palm. “Oh, yeah, really cute.” He released the keys. “Go get your shower,” he whispered. “And think about me while you’re in there.”
Lainie watched him walk away, noting the familiar stride, the lean body, the fluid grace. Slowly she blew her breath out. Oh, yeah, he had an impact on her, too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bender’s house was in a cozy-looking residential area. No grass, just a rock garden with little pockets of white daisies here and there. Carl Henry cruised by twice, couldn’t see that he’d attracted attention, so he parked a block away and walked back on the shady side of the street. He passed a postman on his route, a kid on a bike making circles in the street, and an old man walking a dog.
When he was near the Bender house he glanced over his shoulder, saw no one, so crossed the street. He opened the side gate and strode into the yard as if he belonged there. Since the yard was fenced he was quickly out of sight of neighboring houses.
He waited, listening, heard a car drive by, shouts from kids on another street. He inched his way to the garage’s side door and peek
ed through the glass pane in the upper half. No car. He worked his way around the house’s exterior, stopping at each window. Curtains were closed against the sun, so he listened carefully until he was sure no activity was going on in there, then moved on to the next one. The back door had an old rickety lock that took sixty seconds to open, and then Carl was inside the kitchen.
He closed the door behind him and strutted to the doorway leading to the rest of the house. He’d found the man he wanted, and less than an hour later was inside his digs. Not bad.
As he checked out the rooms, he looked for signs of Jackie. The dresser drawers and closet held only men’s clothing, and the small bathroom held nothing womanish either. Carl ran his fingers over the trousers, suit coats and shirts in the closet. Nice duds, smooth to the touch. Nothing coarse or cheap for Willis Bender.
So Jackie liked a clotheshorse, did she. Well, well.
A houseplant, some kind of fern, was in the bedroom. Mounted above the bed’s headboard was a picture of a herd of horses in a meadow. In the living room, another fern sat in front of the window. A painting of a lone stallion, standing against a background of cloud-shadowed mountains, hung above the brown tweed sofa. A bunch of bronze horses, each standing about a hand high, stood on the mantle. A real horse lover was Bender.
Something bothered Carl as he roamed the house, but he couldn’t nail it. Then once back in the living room he realized what it was. Nothing was out of place—in the bedroom, kitchen, anywhere. No clutter, no dust; the inside of the house was just as together and snazzy as the outside.
Jackie had a similar neat streak. So she’d found one of her own.
His temper snapped like a twig. He kicked an ottoman, bouncing it off an end table. A sweep of his arm across the mantle sent the bronze horses hurtling to the floor. One piece flew to the window and struck it with a heavy clunk.
The sound served as a wake-up call. Carl froze, rooted where he was, listening hard. Had he blown it? Bender had been accommodating, putting fancy see-through curtains at the window that allowed you to see out, but not allowing anybody to see in.
Slowly, Carl rose from the crouch he just realized he’d hunched into.
Until that moment, it hadn’t been all that personal; he was simply reclaiming property. But the realization that Jackie Lyn had shared something with another man, a part of herself she’d not shared with Carl Henry, was like a hot blade slicing through his gut.
Carl had married Jackie, had sex the way he wanted it, which was his right. She was scared of him then, and he’d liked that and yet he hadn’t. She was different, not just someone to hump and then forget about. He’d married her, hadn’t he? But where was that one-ness he’d heard about? His parents didn’t have it, but that was because his ma had driven her man to drink and then to hit her. She didn’t have what it took to make a marriage work. Jackie wasn’t like that. Jackie talked, laughed, shared secrets—like the kind of room she wanted for her wedding night. Then she didn’t laugh anymore, didn’t even talk much, never tried to understand her husband or make a go of it. She’d stopped sharing.
Except for Bender. She’d laughed with him. Leroy had heard them. She’d handed over keys to the green sedan that belonged to Carl now, whether his name was on the pink slip or not. Bender was smooth, wore good clothes, talked nice. Carl knew that he himself had never touched Jackie down deep, where it counted. But Bender had. Jackie hadn’t just wandered over the line. She’d actually shared with another man what Carl Henry could never have. Herself.
The thought turned him into cold, rigid stone.
In the kitchen was a standing knife rack, nice handy little weapons. In the garage was a tool chest containing sturdier, heavier ones. And Carl had his hands and feet, his rage, his power, and a whopping need for payback. He’d pound Bender into pulp.
But he’d take his time with Jackie. She needed lessons taught and learned. They needed to go on a long trip, just the two of them.
As Carl returned to the living room, the chime clock atop the television gave out four long dongs to signal the hour and drew his attention. He chose an armchair—upholstered in a pretty gold fabric he could too easily imagine Jackie sitting in—and settled down to wait. Carl stared at the window, muscles tense, mind racing. He’d known hate before, relished revenge. But the blood lust he now felt left room for nothing else. Not in his mind, his body, his deepest self.
Except for loss. He was aware of loss, but whenever it reared its head, he fought it down and gripped the crowbar he’d returned to the garage for. For all he knew, Bender might’ve done some boxing, maybe even had a karate belt. Carl Henry was taking no chances. He’d meet the man at the door with his own crowbar.
The clock had the loudest ticking he’d ever heard, as if its job was to remind people of time passing as well as to keep time. But just as Carl knew violence, he knew patience. He’d spent a lot of time behind bars. When the first dong of another series started, sounding out the next hour, he jerked his head toward the clock. He wondered how long the real estate office was open. What if Bender had plans tonight? Carl stared at the clock as it completed its noisy run. He glanced at the portable phone at his elbow, then picked it up. He asked information for the number and to be connected, not thinking about caller ID until the line was ringing.
“Quality Realty. Teresa Stone at your service. How may I help you?”
Carl let his breath out, unaware till then he’d been holding it. If her telephone had registered the number, she hadn’t recognized it or was ignoring it.
“Bender. I need to talk to Willis Bender.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You just missed him.”
He sat back. Then he had twenty minutes to wait. Tops. That was how long it’d taken him to drive here, and he wasn’t used to the route. “On his way home already? I’ll call him there.”
“To the airport, actually. He’ll be away for almost a week. But he left his listings in my care, so I’m sure I can help. If you’ll just tell me your name?”
Carl exploded out of the chair. He threw the phone and it bounced off the corner of the TV. He followed it and swung the crowbar. The screen shattered in a burst of sound and the next blow knocked the clock into the fireplace. With one swing of the heavy tool he knocked the painting of the stallion askew, and another had it crashing onto the sofa’s end table. Carl gave it more whacks, then let his fury loose in the kitchen, utterly destroying the cabinets. Next was the bedroom, then the bathroom. Last was the spare room set up as an office. He crashed the computer right through the window and into the backyard.
Then he found himself outside on the sidewalk but didn’t remember getting there.
He blinked, registering the startled eyes of a man and woman just getting out of a car in the driveway next door. Across the street a child disappeared inside a house. Window blinds next door to that place fluttered. Someone was going to make a phone call if they hadn’t already. He walked faster, and was sprinting by the time he reached the coupe. He ducked into the driver’s seat, worked the wires with shaky fingers, then burned rubber on his way out of there.
He had no idea where he was going, but suddenly there was the freeway. Then the speedometer read ninety and there were no more buildings, little traffic. He let up on the gas. No sense taking chances. He tried to remember leaving the town, how long ago, but it wouldn’t come to him. Then he passed a road sign telling him how far it was to the next place, and he frowned and slowed. Must’ve read it wrong. But the next sign confirmed his suspicions. He was going the wrong way.
“Shit!” Should be more signs! And standing out better so a man could find his way around!
The median was wide and had a dip in the middle that made it too risky to get on it. He’d have to wait for the next town to make his turnaround, but at least he’d managed to calm himself down some. He was thinking again, using his head. He’d hung on to the coupe long enough. Someone back there might’ve written down the license number.
In a parking lot at a ma
ll he traded in the sporty model for an ancient, rusty station wagon no one should look at twice. Keys dangled from the ignition, inviting him to help himself. It had a full tank of gas and an air-conditioning system that iced up the car in minutes. The radio was tuned to old-fashioned country. He searched for rap or rock, found nothing else but static, so resigned himself to hillbilly.
His belly groaned. He was also tired and thirsty, but after the fiasco at the Bender house it’d be smarter to stay out of places where people might take a close look at him. He found a supermarket where he loaded up on beer and bottled water, chips and cookies, cheese and bread. Having just cashed his paycheck, he had more than enough to take care of his needs. But he still thought about that ten-dollar bill he’d handed over to Millicent and never got back. It gnawed at him.
As he left the store, a girl somewhere between fourteen and eighteen ran into him. She looked like a little doll in ragged cutoffs and a tank top, and she had sandy-brown hair pulled back into a cute little ponytail. She backed up, but not before he smelled sweet soap and shampoo. She must’ve just gotten out of a shower.
“Excuse me.” Her voice was light and airy and pulled at his groin as much as the sight and smell of her did. If his hands weren’t full of grocery bags he would’ve pulled her to him and not let go. But they were in full view of the world.
So he’d wait, follow her when she left the store.
He still blocked the doorway. Her eyes—light-brown, maybe hazel, and pretty, oh, so pretty—glanced from him to the glass doors. Then she turned and her gaze shot to a late-model sedan, ice blue, and the woman in the driver’s seat. He looked that way and found the woman’s attention on him.
“Jodie, you c’mon back here.” She spoke to the girl but her stare never left Carl. Her hair was short and dark-colored. The lines in her face put her in her fifties or sixties. Just two women, a grandma and her baby chick, but he wasn’t inclined to tangle with that woman’s hard look. Without breaking eye contact, she reached beneath the seat. Did she have a tire iron under there? Can of mace?
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