by Sharon Sala
Tory shrugged. “It’s nothing. I was just fooling around.”
He could tell by the look on her face that the “nothing” was “something,” but she was obviously not talking, and he wasn’t in the mood to press issues tonight.
“Interesting face,” he said, pointing to the man she had circled.
She shrugged. “I guess.” And then she looked up. “To be honest, he sort of gives me the creeps.”
Brett looked back at the picture. It was a rather innocuous face. The man needed a haircut, but other than that, he couldn’t see anything remarkable about him at all. And then he looked closer. There was something on his cheek, below his right eye. He pointed to the small black spot on the photo with the tine of his fork.
“What’s that, a tattoo?”
Something whispered in the back of her mind, like an ugly bit of gossip someone was trying to spread. Tory picked up the picture, staring even more intently than she had before.
“I thought it was a speck on the film.”
Brett shrugged and took another bite. “You’re probably right.” And then he grinned. “You know me, ever the cop. You see dirt, I see tattoos and scars.”
But the idea had taken root in Tory’s mind, and while Brett continued to eat, she got up without speaking and headed for the darkroom.
“The lasagna is great,” he offered, and dished himself up a second helping, but she was already gone.
***
It cost Gus Huffman $255 to get the name of the man who’d caught them in the warehouse, and another two hundred to learn who he worked for. And finding out that the son of a bitch worked for the district attorney who was trying the case against Manny Riberosa, Leeds’ right-hand man, made him nervous. Gus kept telling himself that things could be worse, but right now, he couldn’t see how. It was all well and good that Romeo Leeds wanted his loose ends tied and clipped. But tying up these loose ends was going to take a little more finesse than normal. Brett Hooker was no ordinary citizen. He was a pro. Yes, Gus had his orders, but this had changed everything. He needed time to make a plan. They couldn’t afford to screw up again.
***
The thunderstorm passed around midnight, leaving behind a clean, just-washed scent in the air. Brett stood on the balcony of his second-floor apartment, gazing up at the sky and watching the traffic passing by on the streets below. When he glanced back into the bedroom to check on Tory as she lay sleeping, his heart gave a tug. When he thought of how much he loved her, it made him weak.
Her sleep was restless tonight. He blamed it on the storm that had passed, but when he heard her mumbling, he began to frown. She never talked in her sleep. At least, she never used to. She’d never been prone to hysterics or nightmares, either, and she’d had an episode of each since she’d come home.
He turned back to the street scene below, but his mind was still on Tory. A couple of hours ago, they’d made love with a passion that had left him stunned. Afterward, he’d held her until she fell asleep, but for Brett, sleep wouldn’t come. He could no longer ignore the fact that she seemed to be acting out of desperation. Every instinct he had kept telling him something was wrong. He just didn’t know if the trouble was within Tory herself, or if it was something lacking in their relationship that kept triggering these episodes.
Tonight he’d tried more than once to bring up the subject of her past, and each time she had channeled the conversation in another direction. Brett loved Victoria Lancaster more than his own life, but he was beginning to wonder if the Victoria he knew was only a figment of his imagination. Was it possible to live with someone for the better part of three years, only to learn you’d never known them at all?
Somewhere off to the south, a siren began to sound, and he was struck by an urgency to move toward the emergency. And then he remembered that he’d given up that part of his life, and willingly. Call it disillusionment, call it burnout, call it fed to hell up with the system, but he wasn’t sorry he was no longer on the force. The only thing he’d taken with him when he’d changed his life was Tory, and he wasn’t about to give her up. Not now. Not ever.
***
“Ring around the rosey, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, all fall down.”
The little girl laughed as her rag doll fell to the grass. The yellow yam pigtails and the blue gingham dress were a splash of color against the dark, sweet green. Blue button eyes faced the sky, and the embroidered mouth wore a permanent smile at the games that the little girl played.
The child put her hands on her hips and pretended to frown. “Sweet Baby, you get up from that grass this minute, do you hear me? You’re going to get stains all over your dress.”
Cradling the doll to her breast, she skipped to the swing hanging from a big crooked branch on the sweet gum tree and plopped down on the seat, absentmindedly humming a melody that had no words. A sweat bee buzzed around the skinned spot on her knee as a mockingbird scolded in the tree overhead. The scent of freshly baked cookies was in the air as the sound of laughter drifted out from the house.
And then the hinges on the screen door squeaked, and the little girl looked up. Someone was standing in the doorway, calling out to her, but she couldn’t hear what was being said. She stood up from the swing, and as she did, Sweet Baby fell from her lap and onto the ground.
“I’m here,” she cried, waving over and over, but to no avail. It was as if she’d become invisible.
She started to run toward the house when she remembered Sweet Baby and turned. But when she looked, the tree was gone, and so was the swing in which she’d been sitting. And when she looked down, her dolly was nowhere in sight. She spun back around and then froze. The house and the cookies and the source of the laughter had disappeared, as surely as if they’d never existed.
The little girl began to run, circling the yard and looking for something, but she couldn’t remember what. She ran and she ran, in an ever decreasing circle, until her legs were aching and her bare feet were bleeding and there was nowhere left to go but the spot on which she was standing. She went hot and then cold, struck by a horror that had no name. Wringing her hands and sobbing now, she looked toward the horizon and the setting sun. Suddenly it was dark and she was all alone. With a wail of pure terror, she threw back her head and screamed.
Tory woke up screaming, then rolled out of bed before Brett could stop her.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
Her hands were shaking, and her face was wet with tears she didn’t know that she’d shed. Her heart hurt in the way that it does when one has suffered great sadness, but all she could remember was an overwhelming fear and a sense of loss.
Brett was behind her within seconds and caught her to him, holding her trembling body close while his own heart hammered against his chest.
“Tory, sweetheart, you were just having another bad dream, okay?”
She clung to him like a child, unable to speak.
“Can you remember what you were dreaming?”
She shook her head.
“Are you sure? Whatever it is, you know you can tell me. Sometimes it helps to get rid of the feelings if you can just talk about them.”
She continued to shake. “I don’t remember…. I don’t remember.”
Her fear was palpable, and he would have done anything in this world to take it away, but he didn’t know how, and she wouldn’t help him.
“Maybe it was anxiety left over from the storm,” he suggested, and then picked her up as if she were a child.
“Where are you taking me?” Tory asked.
“Trust me.”
Tory flinched. Trust? Did such a thing really exist?
The living room was in shadow cast by the faint glow of the security lights coming through the curtained windows. Brett carried her to the recliner and then sat, cradling her against him. When her head was beneath his chin and her backside was warm in his lap, he started to rock.
“What are you doing?” Tory asked.
“Relax, Tory.
We’re just going to sit here for a little while and let it all go away.”
The rhythm of the chair was soothing. And Brett’s heart was beating strongly against her ear. The familiar scent of his body, the feel of his strength, as well as the way he cradled her against the night, gave her peace. An emptiness deep inside her began to fill. She closed her eyes, relaxing as the tears dried on her face.
Brett rocked into morning while Tory slept a dreamless sleep in his arms. But he hadn’t been able to lose his fear as easily as she had. He couldn’t turn loose of the notion that their lives were coming undone.
***
It was ninety degrees in the shade, but the digital thermometer on the bank across the street registered 102. In spite of the air-conditioned car in which Gus Huffman was sitting, he was sweating like a stuck pig. And, to make matters worse, he needed to pee. But to relieve himself, he would have to leave, and that meant he might lose track of Hooker.
The man was like a damned ant. It had been so easy to lure the woman to the warehouse. Why, he wondered, couldn’t Hooker cooperate as easily as she had? One minute he was here, the next minute somewhere else. After what Gus had seen today, the plan he’d come up with last night was obviously never going to work. Hooker didn’t stay still long enough for anyone to get a good look at his face, let alone take a clean shot. And Gus knew that when he took another shot, he’d better not miss. If he did, he might as well turn the gun on himself. Romeo Leeds did not give second chances.
And so he continued to wait, growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. Thirty minutes passed, and a strange odor began drifting into the car. Frowning, he glanced down at the dash, and when he focused on the temperature gauge, he began to curse. It was all the way into the red. Before he could move, smoke began seeping into the interior.
“Son of a bitch! My car’s on fire!”
He reached down and popped the hood before jumping out. The hood was hot to the touch, but nothing compared to the flare of flames when he lifted it up. A couple passing by paused to gawk.
“Call the fire department! My car is on fire,” he shouted.
The woman ran into a nearby building, while the man stood by, watching Gus’s misfortune as it continued to unfold.
“Man, look at it blaze,” he said.
Gus glared. “You shut the hell up.”
His behavior was so menacing that the man turned and ran after his wife, leaving Gus to watch the demise of his car on his own. To add insult to injury, at that moment Brett Hooker emerged from the building. Gus stood helplessly, watching as Hooker got into his own car and drove away.
By the time the fire department arrived, Gus’s car was engulfed. Firemen piled off the truck in a rush and began hooking up to a hydrant. But when they turned the hose toward the fire, little more than a stream came out of the nozzle. Gus’s first thought was, Hell, I could have peed on it harder than that.
***
Brett gave the burning car little more than a cursory glance. He was too busy trying to figure out how the call he’d just gotten figured into the Riberosa case Lacey was taking to trial. They’d identified the woman’s body from the warehouse murder. It was Linda Tribbey, the ex-wife of Harold Tribbey, who was Lacey’s missing witness. He was certain it was no coincidence that this woman had turned up where Harold Tribbey was supposed to be, but it made no sense to him. Getting rid of a material witness was one thing, but killing the wife of a material witness was another altogether. What purpose could it possibly serve except to drive Tribbey further underground?
He got in his car and had started to drive away when it dawned on him that, in a way, he’d just answered his own question. Brett couldn’t be the only one looking for Tribbey. And it stood to reason that if Brett couldn’t find him, then someone else might be having the same problem. Linda Tribbey’s murder could have been nothing more than a warning for Harold to stay hidden.
But the identification of her body intensified Brett’s need to succeed. If he didn’t find Harold, then Leeds would be getting away with murder, not once, but twice.
The lead he’d gotten earlier from an insurance salesman who volunteered at a downtown mission on weekends could be the break he’d been waiting for. The salesman had identified Harold Tribbey’s picture as a man who called himself Ratchet. There was another fact Brett had learned about Harold that might be the key to locating him. It was Saturday night, and there was a free country-and-western concert at the Zoo Amphitheater. Harold Tribbey was a big country-music fan.
Brett turned off the freeway and started for home. The concert didn’t start until nine o’clock tonight. At least he could have dinner with Tory and spend some time with her before he had to leave.
***
It had taken some ingenuity, but Tory had accomplished what she’d set out to do. With the help of a friend and some high-tech computer imaging, they had picked the face from the crowd and then enlarged it repeatedly until the clarity was picture perfect. The black spot on his cheek had evolved clearly. She’d taken one look at the small black tattoo underneath his right eye and then shuddered before shoving the prints into a manila envelope. Profusely thanking her friend, she made a quick exit. She drove without caution, sailing through yellow lights, weaving in and out of traffic. There was a feeling of panic within her that made no sense. All she could think was to get back to the apartment. There she would be safe.
The panic disappeared when she walked in the door, and she sighed, reveling in the cool, quiet atmosphere. It was a scorcher outside, a typical Oklahoma day after a storm. Last night’s rain had turned the air into a sauna. Her clothes were limp, and the escaping wisps of hair from the ponytail high on her head were wet and sticking to her neck.
She kicked off her shoes and grabbed a cold drink from the refrigerator before going into the living room. The envelope burned a hole in her hands as she tossed it onto the coffee table. And while she wanted to look at the pictures again in the very worst way, there was a knot in her stomach that she couldn’t ignore.
Why? Why is this happening to me?
She took another swallow of her drink and then set it aside. Wiping the moisture from her hands on the legs of her slacks, she took a deep breath and reached for the envelope.
One after the other, she let the photos spill out and onto the table. There were six of them in all, and with each progressive enlargement, the black spot on the man’s face had become clearer and clearer, until there was no way to misinterpret the black tattoo. She touched it with the tip of her finger and was immediately staggered by an overwhelming sensation of déjà vu. The blood drained from her face, and in spite of the heat of the day, she broke out in a cold sweat. The room began to spin around her and she closed her eyes and leaned forward, letting her head drop between her knees until the wave of nausea could pass.
And that was how Brett found her.
“Hey, Tory, I’m—”
He broke off in midsentence and was at her side within moments of entering the apartment.
“Sweetheart! What’s wrong?”
She looked up, and had to make herself focus to remember his name.
“Brett?”
“Yes, baby, it’s me. What happened? Are you sick?”
She swiped a shaky hand across her forehead and tried to smile.
“I don’t know. I think maybe I got too hot. I was just sitting here, and suddenly I got dizzy. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
Brett reached to help her up. “Come here, honey. I think maybe you need to lie down for a while. I’ll fix us something to eat, and then you can have an early night, okay?”
Everything settled back into place as Brett led her toward the bedroom. For the moment, the photos were forgotten. He helped her undress and then turned back the bed. When she was tucked in and comfortable, he leaned down and kissed the side of her cheek.
“Call me if you need anything, okay?”
She nodded, then rolled over on her side and closed her eyes. The
sheets were cool against her skin, and the knowledge that she was no longer alone gave her the peace of mind to relax. Within minutes she was dozing.
Brett stripped off his own clothes and took a quick shower. A few minutes later, he came out of their bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of old gym shorts and a worried frown. As he paused in the living room to check messages, he noticed the prints scattered on the table. Curious, he picked one up, then another and another, noting with some surprise that he’d been right, after all. That black spot on the man’s cheek was a tattoo.
He tossed the photos aside and then headed for the kitchen, wondering as he went what would possess a man to want a scorpion on his face for the rest of his life. Halfway into the preparations he was making for dinner, he began to wonder why Tory had gone to all that trouble. And then he reminded himself. Maybe it was for the same reason he couldn’t let go of a lead, even when it seemed to be going nowhere. Whether it was professional pride or professional curiosity, it was still something he understood.
***
“You outdid yourself,” Tory said.
Brett grinned. “Hamburgers, Tory. I made hamburgers, not prime rib.”
But she persisted, intent on letting him know how much she appreciated his thoughtfulness and concern.
“But they were wonderful hamburgers, done just the way I like them.”
His grin widened. “Yeah, black on the outside—”
“—and black on the inside,” she added, and they both laughed. Brett didn’t eat anything raw, including vegetables.
“You look better,” he said, eyeing her cheeks and the pretty flush she was wearing.
“I feel fine,” she said. “It’s like I said before, I think I just got too hot.”
He kept staring at her, trying to convince himself that she was going to be fine.
“I wish I didn’t have to go back out.”
“Hey, it isn’t every day you get to listen to toe-tapping music while you’re on the job.”
He grinned. “That’s for sure.” And then his grin faded. “If I wasn’t working, I’d ask you to go. But there’s no telling what could happen on this case.”