by Judy Clemens
He laughed under his breath. “You said that the first day. I wish I could believe it.”
“What can I do to prove it to you?”
He stood and gathered his things, still not looking at her. “Nothing. Not anymore. Good-bye, Casey.” He strode quickly up the aisle and left, without looking back.
“Weird,” Casey said out loud, and followed him up the aisle. His taillights were already shining in the distance by the time she made it outside.
Eric, however, was still there. “Do not tell me to go away.”
“Okay.”
“I’m walking you home, and I don’t want any arguments about it.”
She held up her hands. “Okay.”
He cocked his head. “You’re not going to tell me to leave you alone?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well. Good. What did Thomas want?”
She let her hands fall. “He still thinks I’m a spy or a cop, or somebody, who’s come to reveal some hidden secret about his past.”
“Do you know one?”
“Not for sure. Certainly not from anything you’ve told me.”
He winced.
“But I guess I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a little gambling debt.”
Eric’s mouth dropped open.
Casey blinked. “I’m right? Really? I’m right.”
Eric gave a humorless laugh. “No. Not exactly.”
“It’s not gambling.”
“Oh, it’s gambling, all right. But not just a little.”
Casey stared in the direction Thomas’ car had gone, then looked back at Eric. “So how not just a little are we talking about?”
Eric took a deep breath. “He gambled on horse races. Not just the Derby. But all of them. Whenever he could get away from the theater, and sometimes even when he couldn’t. He lost so much money he had to take out loans.”
“I’m thinking they weren’t loans from banks.”
“Hardly.”
Casey took a step away, then back. “You’re telling me there’s organized crime in Louisville?”
“I know, it doesn’t seem right, does it? But there’s a lot of money at Churchill Downs.”
She shook her head. “But who does that make me? Someone from the mob? Do I look like a leg breaker to you?”
His mouth twitched. “From what Rosemary told me—”
She waved him off. “Does he think I’m from them, or from the cops?”
He shrugged. “Either one would be bad for him.”
“I guess so. Poor Thomas.”
“Poor Thomas? Are you kidding me?”
She gave a little smile. “Sometimes people get in over their heads…”
He stared at her. “I just can’t figure you out.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe that’s for the best. Shall we go?” She started off in the direction of The Nesting Place, not waiting for him to follow.
“Casey—” He trotted to catch up with her.
“So that’s what you have over Thomas? You know about his gambling?”
“Well, partly. That and the fact he’s been begging my dad for money. He’d be devastated if people found out about it.”
Casey winced. Having to ask Karl Willems for anything would be enough to send you into depression. Asking for huge amounts of money would be enough to incapacitate even the strongest person.
“Where’s Leila, anyway?” she said, noticing they were alone. “I’m assuming you didn’t leave her to walk back to her car by herself.”
“No. Todd drove her.”
“Bet she wasn’t too happy about that.”
Eric winced. “No. Not too happy.”
Casey stuck her script in her jacket pocket. “Did you have a chance to say anything to Jack?”
“About the dryers? Yeah. I told him, and Aaron, too, what Johnny said. It didn’t mean anything to either of them, but they promised they’d think about it.”
They walked in silence for a few more steps.
“Casey…”
“Yeah?”
He waited a few more moments, began to speak, then stopped. “Did one of HomeMaker’s dryers actually kill somebody?”
“I guess it’s possible. But you’d expect the culprit to be something electrical, not a door latch. Or something like a heating element that could burn a house down.”
“Yeah.”
Eric fell silent as they passed under a streetlight and turned a corner on the sidewalk. “I think I remember.”
“Remember what?“
“What I was talking to Karl about in that video. I can’t imagine it would have anything to do with… It was about Home Sweet Home. I wanted HomeMaker to chip in some money for it. A charitable donation, to help those who had lost jobs.”
“And what did Karl say?”
“What do you think? That the company was having enough financial troubles on its own, which was why they’re leaving town in the first place. HomeMaker couldn’t afford to be sponsoring anything else.”
“Of course.” No charity for the people he was sending tumbling toward poverty. “Did he give Thomas money?”
Eric shrugged. “I don’t know. On the one hand I could see him doing it, since he’s an old family friend.” He spat the word. “But he could just as easily have told him to forget it, and take his lumps like a man.”
“It would’ve been a lot of money, right? Which Karl could probably afford.”
“I guess.”
“That still doesn’t answer why Todd was at his office that day. And why he was so angry. Todd said it was personal. There was no reason he would know anything about Thomas. Unless Karl told him.”
“On the other hand, maybe Karl gave Thomas some money and Todd was there to try to talk him out of it. He would know Karl’s money dealings better than anybody, although I’m not sure why it would’ve made him so mad. Unless Karl was using HomeMaker money.” He waved his script at her. “Either way, the visit to Karl’s office would have nothing to do with Ellen.”
“Except that she ate at Home Sweet Home.”
“What?”
“That’s what we were talking about. Your visit, and that Karl wouldn’t give you any money for your charity. And Ellen ate there.”
“Served there.”
“Okay.”
He sighed. “All right. She ate there, too. Along with her kids.”
Casey wanted to take his hand. To comfort him.
“Do it.”
She jerked away from him and glared at Death.
“Come on,” Death said. “Hold his hand. It would be so cute.”
Casey shoved her hands into her pockets.
“Aww,” Death said. “You are so boring. Oh!” Death glanced behind them and raised a fist. “Yes! Things are about to get a lot more interesting.” Death was gone.
Casey stopped, allowing Eric to get several steps ahead before he turned. “What is it?”
She held up a hand, watching under the streetlight they’d passed seconds before.
Two men came around the corner. Two men she’d seen before, talking to Thomas. Taffy and Bone.
They saw her. And they saw Eric.
Casey’s brain shifted gears. Her breathing deepened, and her muscles relaxed, even as her nerves tingled. She stepped in front of Eric. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
They stopped ten feet away. Taffy, as she’d noticed before, had a wrestler’s physique. Huge and thick under a loosely fitting jacket and black dress pants. He smiled. “I think you might just be able to, little lady.”
“And how would that be?”
He glanced at Bone, who hadn’t even a hint of a smile on his feral-looking face. “If you could just tell us who sent you to this tiny little town. The cops? Our…friends across town in Kentucky?”
“No one sent me. And I’ve never been to Kentucky.”
He continued smiling, nodding as if she’d said something clever. “That’s what Mr. Black told us you’d say.”
“Thomas?” Eric’s voice ha
d gone tight, and high.
Casey waved at him to shut up, not turning from the men. “It’s the truth.”
“I see. I guess your definition of truth is different from ours.”
“I guess so.”
He was talkative. Very large, and very talkative. Casey figured he was already deciding how quickly he would take her down if she didn’t comply. His overconfidence was obvious in his swagger, and in the look in his eye.
Casey breathed in through her nose. To her left sat a car. A Pontiac, blocking the way. To her right sat a row of homes, a few large trees, windows with lights shining, TVs flickering. Behind her, Eric, who didn’t have a clue what was about to happen.
The man on the left, Bone, the one who had almost discovered her behind the theater’s curtains, he was the scary one. About a hundred pounds shy of his partner, his body was lean and wiry, his face all cheekbone and jaw. His eyes, expressionless above a nose that had been broken and badly reset, watched Casey, while the rest of him remained still. His arms hung loose at his sides, hands open, his feet spread shoulder-width. He had no jacket, and no gun that Casey could see. That didn’t mean he didn’t have something else.
“I’d like to talk with you a little longer,” Taffy said. “Just so’s we can get straight exactly what the truth is.”
“That would be good,” Casey said. “To get at the truth.”
Taffy stepped forward, his hand out, as if to shake.
“Eric,” Casey said under her breath. “Run away.”
“What?”
“Run!”
She would’ve run, too, and with the element of surprise could’ve outdistanced the two thugs in seconds, but she couldn’t leave Eric. Not with these two.
Casey slid her hand into Taffy’s, but instead of shaking it she torqued his thumb, jamming the pressure point, bringing him to his knees. As he dropped she jerked up her knee, crushing his nose. He fell forward, unconscious, and Casey grabbed the back of his shirt, and his chin, spinning him down and forward, between her and Bone.
Now Bone was smiling.
“You—” Eric said.
Casey turned and shoved him away. “Run!”
This time he listened.
Casey heard Bone coming, but didn’t have time to turn before his fist slammed into her kidney. She fell to the ground, gasping, clutching her side, and rolled to the left as his foot came down where her back had been.
She flipped to her feet, her brain fuzzy, vision blurred, back pulsing with pain.
A dog barked and Bone glanced to the side, waiting, but the dog went quiet. Bone turned back, and as Casey brought her hands up, he stepped in to hit her with a roundhouse punch. She jerked away so that he missed her jaw, but his fist caught her lip, smashing it against her teeth. She tasted blood.
He smiled again.
Casey sat back on her right leg and kicked his inner thigh. He stumbled to the left, and she turned to run. With a yell he lunged, grabbing her hair and jerking her backward. She reached up, trapping his hand with both of hers, and spun inside, double-twisting until his arm was behind him in a lock and his head was lowered. She rocked him forward, smashing his head against the Pontiac.
Spitting blood and faint from the kidney pain, Casey knew she couldn’t run away. At least not very far. She glanced into the Pontiac.
There were keys on the seat.
Dropping the man to the sidewalk, she stumbled around the back of the car and wrenched open the driver’s door, flinging herself inside. She grabbed the keys and poked one into the ignition. Not the right one. She pulled at the ring, but it was stuck.
The passenger door opened, and Bone lunged across the seat. She brought up her foot and kicked him in the face, his nose spraying blood as he shot backward.
“Come on, come on,” she pleaded, jiggling the keys.
Abandoning the keys, Casey scrambled to get out of the car, but Bone was up again, shaking his head, rounding the hood. He kicked the door, catching her right forearm and sending it back with a snap. She clutched the arm to her stomach as the door repelled against Bone. He kicked the door again, but she hopped backward, out of the way.
Bone wavered there, his face splotched with red. Casey felt her injured arm with her other hand. She didn’t think it was broken. She hoped not.
Bone’s eyes focused on her. Noting the curb several feet behind him, Casey aimed a kick at his stomach with her right foot. He stepped back, and she threw a sidekick with her left. He took another step away, and she went after him with a right kick, and then a left backward one. One more front kick, and he stumbled over the curb, falling onto his back.
Casey leapt forward to stomp on his stomach and he caught her foot, twisting it inside. She went with the twist and spun away, circling to face him. He stood up, his face a mask of rage now, his eyes horrible amidst the blood. Casey brought up her arms, the right one throbbing.
Bone grabbed at his ankle and came back up with a blade. He slashed at her and she spun away, but the knife sliced her left shoulder, through her jacket. He came at her again, thrusting at her stomach. She danced sideways, circling away. He was smiling again, his teeth smeared with red.
Casey shook her head, trying to focus. Her right arm throbbed, her left shoulder was staining her jacket red, and blood filled her mouth. She spat again.
Taffy groaned from his spot on the sidewalk, but neither Casey nor Bone broke eye contact. She could only hope she had hit Taffy hard enough he wouldn’t actually be getting up, or reaching for his gun.
Bone feinted to her right, and she spun away, circling. Her strength was fading. If Taffy got up, she was done. She couldn’t outrun Bone. She was losing blood. Her back ached.
She realized Bone had stopped coming at her. He was waiting. Waiting for her to make a mistake.
With a deep breath she stumbled left and clutched her bloody arm, exposing her neck. Bone came at her with an overhand strike. She reached up and passed his arm down, jamming the knife into his left thigh. He screamed. She pulled the knife from his leg, grabbed it with both hands, and stepped back, knife blade up.
Bone clutched his leg as blood spurted out, soaking his pant leg. Bright red blood covered his hands as he pressed against his thigh, and he yanked off his shirt, winding it around his leg. The shirt didn’t staunch the flow, but quickly turned red itself, the blood saturating the material within seconds.
He looked up at Casey, his eyes wild. Casey stayed where she was, brandishing the knife, watching with disbelief as Bone’s lifeblood flowed through the tourniquet and down his leg.
He blinked once, with disbelief, and Casey stared into his eyes, her teeth clenched, her breath caught in her chest. He lurched forward, his arms outstretched. She backed up. Her knife wavered.
“Please,” Bone said.
He stumbled toward her again, grabbing her shoulder with a bloody hand. She held the knife up, toward his throat. She was ready. But Bone’s eyes were glazing over, and his breath rasped in his throat. Slowly he leaned forward, his weight tipping toward her, his fingers clutching her shoulder.
“Please.”
Bone dropped to his knees, and Casey stepped away as he fell, his face twisting to the right as it met the ground. He jerked once. Twice. His legs spasmed, and he coughed, blood spurting from his mouth.
And then he was still.
“Oh, God,” Casey said. “OhGodohGodohGod.”
She fell backward against the Pontiac, the knife clattering to the ground. Nausea hit her, and she leaned sideways over the hood, vomiting onto the car and street. She wiped her face with her sleeve and tried to breathe.
Oh, no. Oh, God, no.
“Casey?”
Casey jerked her head up. Eric stood twenty feet away, his eyes wide. “What—”
The sound of a siren split the air, and Casey sucked in a breath. Of course. Of course, Eric would get the police.
“Eric,” she said. “I’m so…so sorry.”
She pushed herself off of the car, and ran a
way.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Lillian cut Casey off outside the back door of The Nesting Place, a finger on her lips. She gasped at the sight of Casey’s face. “What—”
“I’m all right.” She was. She would be. “What are you doing?”
“They’re inside.”
Casey’s heart fell. They were here already? But where was the cruiser?
“I’m sorry,” Casey said. “I never meant to—”
“Shh.” Lillian pulled Casey’s arm, and Casey yanked it back, her hand grabbing her shoulder, her right forearm protesting the movement. Lillian let go, but gestured her further from the house, into the shadows. “You need a doctor.”
“No. No. What’s happening?”
Lillian raised her hands toward Casey’s mouth, but she reared away. Lillian dropped her arms to her sides. “Rosemary’s keeping them busy. I said I needed to go to bed, because I wasn’t feeling well.”
With her glinting eyes and upright posture, Casey could see that was far from the truth.
Lillian jerked a thumb toward the house. “They’re insisting on seeing your room.”
“My room? Why? It’s not like I’ve had time to—”
“I’m not even sure how they knew you were staying here, because I’m sure you didn’t tell them, but here they are.”
“Of course they know where I’m staying. Chief Reardon knew it the first time I talked to him.”
“Denny?” Lillian blinked. “But he’s not in our sitting room.”
Of course. Other cops. Detectives. Could be the FBI or ATF if Casey’s suspicions about the men who attacked her were correct.
“I don’t know who they are, exactly,” Lillian said. “But they seem to know a lot about you. Said they’re business associates of yours. Rosemary didn’t like them from the get-go, because the woman’s dye job is simply horrendous.”
Casey went cold. “Dye job?”
“Yes. Like she did it at home in a dark bathroom with a generic brand.”
Casey swallowed. “And she’s with a man whose face looks like—”
“—it was cut in half and smooshed back together by a extremely untalented sculptor.”
Casey sank to the ground. They’d found her. And she didn’t have to wonder how. That damn phone. Dammit, Ricky.
“I can’t…” Casey said. “I have to go.”