by Alicia Scott
"Have you ever thought of joining a survivors' group?" he asked quietly when she was done.
"I've never looked into it."
"I know there are grief groups, survivor clubs. My grandma looked into them for Brandon after his wife died. He was too stubborn to attend—not that you would ever be stubborn."
"I don't know. I'm not sure sitting in a room talking about the past really helps. What happened was tragic. Sad. No one will disagree with that. No one has anything to add. So how does talking about it help?"
"It's not just the talking, Tamara, it's learning how other people cope. It's people like me, who've found punching bags to be the most effective way of handling bad days, and it's people who may feel starting an agency in memory of the person they've lost is the best way. That sort of thing. You have a lot of stuff held tightly inside. Maybe by talking to others, you can find the best way to let some of it go. I'll go with you."
She pressed her cheek against his shoulder.
After a bit, she got out the list of hospitals and they continued their calls, to no avail. At eleven o'clock, C.J. took her hand and led her to bed. She was tired, she was sore all over from having attacked the punching bag. She felt genuinely exhausted.
C.J. stripped off her clothes slowly in the moonlight. He didn't touch, he didn't caress. He slipped an oversize T-shirt over her body and a pair of boxers onto his. He arranged her against him on the bed, her hips tight against his groin, her back against his bare torso. She could feel the length of him grow and swell against her bottom. She knew he wanted her and she knew he wouldn't try anything.
She lay in the darkness for a long time, feeling his body against hers, listening to the silence around them.
And then she rolled over and seized his lips. His answering kiss was immediate and fierce. She didn't wait, she didn't play passive. He'd given so much to her, and she'd done so little in return. Now she gave him the most she had to offer—she opened up, she demanded, she craved, she touched, she devoured.
She pushed him back on the mattress, ripping off his boxers. She rose above him and stripped off her T-shirt. Then, naked and vulnerable, she clamped her legs around his hips and lowered herself onto him slowly. Moist folds stretched and engulfed, tiny muscles contracted exquisitely, pulling him in. She watched him grit his teeth. His hands dug into her hips.
She didn't take her gaze from him. In the shadowed room, the moonlight like a fine, gossamer film around their entwined bodies, she took him deeper into her and told him with her eyes how much she loved it, how much she needed it. Her teeth dug into her lower lip. Her body found the tempo and his hands gripped tighter.
Suddenly her fingers fisted on his chest. She could feel the building pressure. Her body was stretching, stretching, stretching. He was large, thick. She felt him impaling her, consuming her, driving into her womb. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted to let her head fall back. She kept looking right at him, watching the sweat bead his face, seeing the intensity grit his teeth and cord his neck.
She couldn't think. She couldn't stop. She couldn't look away. The pressure exploded, the climax slapping her fiercely. She came while staring into his dark blue eyes and his gritted cry answered her. His hips ground into her. His back arched triumphantly. He spilled into her and she collapsed over him and his arms were already around her, clasping her against his sweat-streaked chest.
She fell asleep with her legs straddling his hips and his heartbeat in her ear.
* * *
Thursday morning, they put their plan into high gear. They each called four or five locals, including Gus. Suddenly, they swept out the door and drove to the closed Ancient Mariner where Gus's car was in the parking lot.
Sheila came down to help with last-minute plans. They wrote out Gus's statement and bundled her into a large trench coat while she mumbled about theatrics. Sheila wrote out a sign declaring the bar was closed until further notice and hung it on the door.
"Don't worry," C.J. said. "It'll be just for a night or two, and I'll still pay your wages."
Sheila shook her head. "You've helped me enough, C.J. I want to do this."
"Lock all the windows and doors. Don't take any chances."
"Maybe she should come with us," Tamara whispered. She worried about Sheila. She still remembered sitting with her on the edge of the bed.
But the young waitress gave her a small smile. "I'm fine here. There's no reason for anyone to think about me. Gus is the witness. Besides, I'm getting better at taking care of myself. You should see all the lamps I moved into my room." She winked slyly.
Tamara took her hand. "Thank you. For helping. For … believing, you know. You don't even know me that well."
"You wouldn't shoot Spider. You just wouldn't. Women know about these things better than men. Okay, are you guys all set?"
"I feel like a dressed-up turkey," Gus grumbled, "the day before Thanksgiving." She scowled, but her eyes held a gleam Tamara hadn't seen before. Gus was having the time of her life.
"We're outta here," C.J. declared. "Step two of Operation Cry Wolf is underway."
He cracked open the door, motioned with his arm, and Tamara and Gus made a great show of scampering out to the car. C.J. gave Sheila one last wink, then a mock salute. He strode out with his fiercest "I am a Marine!" expression. Somber and grim, he checked his Mustang for bombs, looked over his shoulder half a dozen times, then climbed behind the wheel.
"We're being followed," Gus declared three miles later. "Perfect."
* * *
That night, with Gus sitting in the living room sharpening her bowie knife, C.J. made the calls to the local press. He talked about the accident ten years ago. About the driver that was never caught. About the new witness, saying the driver was Senator George Brennan.
They went on full alert. The blinds were closed, lights turned out so forms would not be backlit by lamps and turned into targets. Every hour, C.J. sneaked out the back and patrolled the perimeter. Gus remained in the living room, balancing the tip of her bowie knife on the end of her finger. Tamara watched the clock as hour ticked into hour without anything happening.
Surely the senator had been contacted by now and asked for a quote. A public relations executive, she imagined he had his lawyers and spin doctors on the job, devising a reply, formulating damage control. Would he take a more forceful step, as well?
More C-4 taped into shocks? Sniper fire? Setting the house on fire and picking them off one by one as they ran from the front door? Her imagination produced pictures too easily. She squeezed her fingers against her forehead and tried to keep a grip.
Hour turned into hour.
Gus began to pace. She took a piece of wood from the kindling pile and soundlessly whittled. C.J. drifted along the perimeter like a ghost, clad completely in black.
At 2:00 a.m., Tamara brewed more coffee. Then it was three. She put on another pot at four, she grew tired of going to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. She splashed cold water on her face.
By six, the sun began to rise in Sedona and another night was done. C.J. waited till seven, then called his friend at the Sedona Sun.
He hung up after only a few words.
"We have our reply," he said shortly.
Gus and Tamara looked at him expectantly.
"The senator's office has issued a statement that he was being honored by the American Legion that night and has a roomful of witnesses. Any paper irresponsible enough to print the story based on one unreliable source will be hit with an immediate libel suit. The papers won't run it. It's dead."
"He has nothing to fear," Tamara whispered. "He's that powerful."
"The man can play hardball."
"What do we do now?"
"I have no idea."
Gus napped on the couch, then woke up at noon and announced she was going home. No amount of reasoning would change her mind. She could take care of herself. She wanted her own bed. "Gotta open tonight."
"The bar can handle being closed
for another night," C.J. said impatiently. "Get some rest."
"You get enough rest when you're dead. I want to open the bar. Sheila needs the tips."
She'd run the bar alone enough times for that to hardly be an issue, and she was right about Sheila needing the tips. "I don't want to read your obituary," C.J. grumbled. "Old bat."
Gus grinned, clearly taking that as a term of endearment. "It's Friday night. Good money on Fridays."
That seemed to be as good a closing line as any for her, and she huffed her comfortable bulk out the door, still fingering her bowie knife. C.J. kept shaking his head.
"Stubborn women. That's what that double-X chromosome thing is also about—double dose of stubbornness."
"What do we do?" Tamara asked. She'd really hoped their plan would work. She didn't know how to look beyond it.
"Calls," C.J. said shortly. "Let's finish out the list. Maybe we'll get lucky."
They didn't get lucky.
* * *
At 10:00 p.m., C.J. rose from the living room. He disappeared into the bedroom, and Tamara figured he was getting ready for bed. She pored over the map; most major cities were now covered with blue flags. It was hopeless. After ten years, the trail was too cold. Most shops they called didn't even have anyone working there who was around ten years ago. The driving services didn't keep records that old and refused to divulge information about their clients, anyway. The hospitals claimed to have records, but most inactive files had been archived and were about as easy to access as the peak of Mount Everest.
She'd been foolish to return to Sedona, Tamara thought. And she would pay for that foolishness.
C.J. reappeared in the living room. He was dressed in black jeans, black combat boots and a black T-shirt. He'd streaked charcoal over his face until only his blue eyes remained. He unlocked a cabinet and pulled out a gun, followed by clips of ammunition.
"What are you doing?"
"Going on a field trip."
"Over my dead body!"
"Tamara, hear me out."
"You're going to get into trouble. No one dresses like that unless they're headed into trouble!"
"No one will see me. That's the whole point."
Tamara was off the couch. "What the hell are you doing?"
"The senator's not due into town until tomorrow, right?" C.J. fastened a utility belt around his waist as he spoke. "So for tonight, his home outside of Sedona is empty. Maybe I can find something in his personal records, private correspondence, I don't know. I need to do something. This situation is killing me."
"Fine, I'll go with you." She strode for the bedroom. He caught her wrist.
"No."
"Yes."
"Tamara." He twisted her body until she faced him. "'I'm trained in this kind of thing. Reconnaissance, infiltration, evac and evade—that's me. Most likely the senator's private residence has a security system. No problem. I go alone, I'll slide in, slide out, smooth as butter. I'll be back in a matter of hours and no one will be the wiser. Honestly, this is the best way to handle it."
She scowled. She hated the fact that he was right.
"I'm scared," she said abruptly. "I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I know." He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "I won't take any unnecessary chances, I won't try anything stupid. Trust me, Tamara. I'm not your family. I'm not going to die on you now. Just give me a few hours. In the meantime, start thinking up plan C, because I have no idea if this will actually work."
He slipped on a black windbreaker, grabbed a flashlight and pulled a dark gray wool hat over his gleaming blond hair. He was ready.
"Be careful." She tugged a bit at his jacket, then smoothed the wrinkles away.
"I will. See you soon."
He whispered his lips over hers. She clung to him for one more minute, then she let him go.
He opened the back door and disappeared into the night.
It's okay, it's okay. Everything is going to be all right.
She missed him already, dammit. And for no good reason, she was afraid. She sat down at the kitchen table and forced her mind to think of plan C while the night grew thicker and the goose bumps prickled her arms.
Chapter 13
« ^ »
At eleven, Tamara started pacing. She closed the blinds on the windows. She turned off all the lamps, lighting just a single candle on the fireplace mantel. Even then, she felt exposed and vulnerable with the ceiling yawning above her and the sound of the wind whining behind the walls. The candle cast long shadows across the hardwood floors.
She was nervous and fearful and trying hard not to be.
Focus, focus, focus. How to prove the senator's involvement? How to prove her own innocence? She had no alibis and no witnesses. Her own gun was tied to the scene. But what woman would've shot Spider? A professional? Someone else?
Was there a paper trail to hire a hit woman? She had no idea.
Was C.J. all right?
The phone rang. The piercing shrill made her jump, then curse her own nerves. There was nothing sinister about a telephone ring, Tamara. Nothing at all. She eyed the black receiver for another two rings before warily picking it up.
"Hello?" she said cautiously.
There was a small pause. "Tamara?" a man's voice asked.
"Ye-yes…" She dragged out the word. Her hand was fisted at the hollow of her throat.
"Peter Foster. Patty's father."
"Oh," she said stupidly. She hadn't heard Mr. Foster's voice in more than ten years.
"Tamara, I know it's late. I've debated making this call ever since I saw the article on your arrest and learned you were back in town. The article mentioned C.J. MacNamara had posted your bail. I hope you don't mind me calling."
"No. No, that's all right. It's been a long time. How are you?" She grappled with the polite phrases, suddenly feeling like a silly eighteen-year-old just caught staying out late with Patty. The power of voices from the past…
"I'm fine. And yourself?" His voice cut off, then he laughed ruefully. "I'm sorry. Stupid question after reading the article. I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit awkward."
Tamara finally relaxed. "Me, too. It has been a long time, and in all honesty, I'm not sure why you are calling. Is it about Spider Wallace? Mr. Foster, I didn't kill him."
"No, that's not why I called. I don't know what to make of all that, to be honest, Tamara. A part of me says I should just butt out. On the other hand … I've wanted to contact you for ten years now. I owe you an apology, Tammy. There hasn't been a year when I haven't thought I should pick up the phone and hunt you down. Then I saw that you were here. And though I know the circumstances aren't the best, that it's been a long time, I felt … it's better now than never."
Tamara waited quietly. She could hear him composing his thoughts in the silence. She didn't know Mr. Foster very well. He was always the reticent academic, Patty's tall, quiet father with thick glasses and taupe wool sweaters. He never said much to either one of them. Patty's mother did the talking. Then after Patty's mother's death, Mr. Foster would disappear into the library. Sometimes Tamara came over to their house and never saw him emerge at all. Mostly, Patty came to Tamara's house.
"Your parents were very kind," Mr. Foster said abruptly. "I wanted you to know that, Tamara. What they did for Patty, taking her in, helping her during a time I couldn't be there for her—that was very generous. I'm not sure how we would've gotten through everything without them. And I wanted … I wanted to thank them. It's one of those things you know you should do, but at the time I just couldn't get the words out. Then it was too late.
"When I heard you were still alive, that you'd been flown out by Medivac, I knew Patty and I should be there for you the way your family had been there for us. But you were in critical condition for so long, I didn't know if we should come. Patty took the news of the accident very hard. For the first week, she was virtually catatonic. I couldn't get her to eat. She had horrible nightmares. For a while … for a while I
had her under a suicide watch."
"I … I didn't know."
"Then there was the funeral for your parents. You were in the New York hospital then. The church told us you probably wouldn't be out of the hospital for at least six months, so it was decided to go ahead with the services. Your parents were well loved, Tamara. Most of Sedona showed up to lay them to rest. I took pictures to mail to you. I thought it might help to see how much everyone cared for your family."
"I would like to see the photos."
"I should've mailed them. But I kept thinking Patty and I would come to visit you. But…" His voice grew heavy, then quiet. "I am sorry, Tamara. It was a difficult time for us, too. Patty had already lost her mother, and she considered you as her second family. She was devastated, just devastated, and every time I mentioned visiting you, she became more upset. Your condition, your surgeries, frightened her. I think she was afraid if she saw you, something bad would happen."
Tamara was still in the middle of the living room. The candlelight flickered over her face. She had been angry at Mr. Foster, but she hadn't realized it until he'd started talking. Yes, she'd needed him to come to the hospital. Yes, she'd been hurt by the fact that he'd never so much as written. Now she heard his voice, the true emotion, the genuine regret, and she discovered her anger wasn't that strong. He'd done the best he could. Patty had done the best she could. Tamara had done the best she could. It was all anyone could ask for in life.
"It's okay," she said quietly. "I understand. It was a big-enough shock for me to wake up in the hospital. I can't imagine what it must have been like for Patty to go to bed at night, then wake up the next morning in her same bed in her same room and hear you say that the people she cared about—her second family—were dead."
Mr. Foster sighed. "It wasn't even that simple. She wasn't in her bed. You know how Patty was back then—angry, rebelling, trying to get me to notice her. Well, to make a long story short, she didn't come home until the night after your accident, Tamara. Then she dragged herself through the doorway with her head bowed, waiting to see what I would do. I was frantic, of course. I'd spent eighteen hours trying to find her, with visions of Armageddon in my head. I … I didn't handle it very well. I yelled at her. I told her angrily that you were in serious condition and your whole family was dead. She went pale as a sheet, Tammy. Then she looked at me with the most horrible expression of guilt. She'd been playing hooky, and look at the punishment she got—your family was dead. She collapsed. Fainted away. I've often … I've often thought the death of your family hurt her more than her mother's. She at least rebelled against her mother's death. After hearing about your family, something in her just gave up. She never broke curfew again. She threw away all her short skirts. She stopped wearing makeup. She became this quiet, serious, fearful girl. Sometimes at night, I'd actually hope she'd ask to go to a concert again and stay out all night. Funny, huh? Life keeps you guessing."