by Karen Rose
Except it did make sense. Yesterday I was shot at. Again today. Stevie desperately held on to her calm. They were trying to kill me and killed two others instead. Nobody’s safe around me.
‘Help will be here in a minute or two,’ she said to Emma, who now pressed cloth napkins to the woman’s chest while the man performed CPR.
Emma turned her head to meet Stevie’s eyes, her own filled with horror. ‘I think it’s too late,’ she said hollowly. ‘I think she’s dead.’
Chapter Three
Baltimore, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 2.18 P.M.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Henderson stowed the rifle in its case with quick, practiced movements. I cannot fucking believe this.
Shooting Mazzetti should have been like taking candy from a baby. Robinette would be displeased. He considered retreat to be a failure. But sometimes it was wiser to back away and try again from a different angle.
So back away. Get moving! Soon the entire area would be crawling with cops.
The shot through the window should have been perfect. Henderson’s finger had been on the trigger, ready . . . squeezing . . .
And then Mazzetti abruptly jumped up, ran into a waitress and they both went down. There had only been enough time to pump off a single second shot.
I think I nicked her. But I didn’t kill her. Dammit. Some might say the cop was charmed, but Henderson didn’t believe in such nonsense. Mazzetti was simply lucky. Extremely lucky.
That the scope might have wobbled a millimeter because of trembling hands was too minute a possibility to even consider. It wasn’t my fault.
Henderson slipped through the door that led to the street. No one was about. No witnesses I have to kill. So I guess I’m lucky, too.
It was time to move to plan B because the cop would be on double alert. Sneaking up on her wouldn’t be so easy. Sneaking up on the child? A whole lot easier.
Especially since I know where the child actually is right now. Versus where Robinette had promised she’d be. Knowing Cordelia Mazzetti was not at ballet had nothing to do with luck, though. That was just smart thinking and advance planning.
The thing about luck was that, eventually, it ran out. Smart thinking was a permanent skill.
Henderson made it to the white Camry, put it in gear, and took a sip from the plastic water bottle in the cup holder. The clear contents burned as they went down and everything calmed.
Thank God for vodka. The best thing the Russians ever did.
Hunt Valley, Maryland, Saturday, March 15, 2.20 P.M.
Clay found Cordelia Mazzetti in the second stall to the right, just as Izzy had told him, busily brushing a dark horse with a white star on its forehead. Clay stood at the stall door for a long moment, hesitant to speak, not wanting to spook the big animal.
Not with a child the size of Cordelia in there alone, unprotected. She shouldn’t be in there alone. Who was watching her? The barn was deserted. No adults anywhere to be seen and—
Oh. The stall opened into a fenced run. Sitting on a stool in the middle of the run, pretending to polish a saddle while her eyes never left the child, was Maggie VanDorn, the farm’s manager.
That Maggie was watching over little Cordelia came as no surprise. Cordelia Mazzetti had been through a lot in her almost eight years. Losing her dad before she’d even met him, being stalked by a mass murderer two years before. Last year, she’d been held at gunpoint by a man her mother had once trusted . . . Stevie’s former partner. Her mentor. Her friend. A dirty cop.
Clay’s gut burned with impotent fury. Part of him wished that Silas Dandridge hadn’t been killed that day because he wanted to kill him himself. Silas had been willing to kill Cordelia while her mother watched. That Silas battled for the life of his own child was immaterial.
You don’t trade one life for another. Especially the life of a child.
He winced, then looked down and realized he gripped the stall door with such force he’d driven a splinter into his thumb. Quietly he pulled it out and sucked on the wound, listening for Cordelia’s voice, small but strong. And sweet. Like music. It wasn’t until Clay focused that he realized the words she uttered in a sing-song tone were anything but cheerful.
‘I didn’t scream, at least,’ she was confiding to the horse, ‘so I didn’t wake up my mom. But I couldn’t go back to sleep. Then it was time to go to school and Aunt Izzy made me get up and I was so tired, so I fell asleep in reading class and the teacher yelled at me. She told Aunt Izzy I wasn’t paying attention and then I got in trouble.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘It wasn’t fair. But Mom says life isn’t, so we have to deal.’ A sniffle, then the clearing of a small throat. ‘Do you dream? If you do, I hope it’s about eating all the hay you want and running as fast as you can.’
‘Hi, Cordelia,’ Clay said softly.
She peeked around the horse’s powerful chest and her dark eyes widened, her cheeks pinking up prettily. ‘Mr Maynard! I didn’t know you were here.’
‘That makes two of us. I didn’t know you were here, either. Who’s your friend?’
She pressed her cheek into the horse’s neck. ‘This is Gracie.’
Clay smiled. ‘That’s a nice name.’
‘Daphne names all her horses after famous actresses. Gracie is named after Grace Kelly. She was famous a long time ago. Back when movies had writing,’ she added firmly.
Clay’s smile widened. ‘Who said so? The part about writing?’
‘My grandma. She says movies today are useless tripe. What’s tripe, anyway?’
‘Cow’s stomach, I think.’
‘Gross.’ She hesitated, then sighed. ‘You heard me talking to Gracie, didn’t you?’
‘Only if you wanted me to. Otherwise, I didn’t hear a thing.’
Cordelia’s mouth curved sadly, and Clay’s heart broke a little. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she murmured. ‘Little kids have bad dreams. They don’t mean anything. I just have to learn to deal.’
Clay leaned forward, resting his forearms on the stall door. ‘And who said that?’
‘My mom.’
‘Well, your mom’s right about learning to deal with it.’ He hesitated, loath to correct Stevie’s parenting. ‘I’m not so sure she’s right about them not meaning anything, though. Or maybe she doesn’t have the same kind of dreams I do. Because I dream, Cordelia. Often.’
She looked up, her gaze sharp. ‘You do? About what?’
‘Sometimes stupid stuff, like zombies stealing my cream cheese when I’ve just bought bagels or that I’m back in school and I didn’t study for the final exam. Sometimes they’re not really dreams, though. They’re more like . . . memories that won’t go away.’ Her eyes narrowed and he knew he’d hit the right nerve. ‘Like somebody videotaped my scariest moments and is playing them back, over and over. That’s not “nothing”. That’s a big something.’
‘What do you dream? When it’s the videos?’ she clarified. ‘Not the zombies. Although zombies are scary, too.’ She said it kindly, like she didn’t want him to feel stupid. Another piece of his heart crumbled.
‘Stuff that happened in the war,’ he said honestly.
‘You were in a war?’
He nodded. ‘Somalia, which is in Africa. It was bad and I saw a lot of scary stuff. Then I was a cop and saw more scary stuff. I dream about that, too.’
‘Now you’re a PI.’ Her forehead wrinkled as she thought hard. ‘That means “private investigator”. Your partner was killed. Not Miss Paige, but the other one.’
Which one? was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. He’d lost two partners, both friends, both murdered. Three months ago he’d found Tuzak discarded like garbage in an alley, nearly decapitated. Two years ago he’d found Nicki gutted and left to rot. He still woke up screaming when his mind replayed the scenes. But another clip played an endless loop in his mind, sleeping and waking. He suspected a similar dream tormented Cordelia.
‘What do you dream, Cordelia?’
A breath shuddered out of her.
‘I see my mom getting hurt, almost every night. Even when I’m not asleep,’ she added in a tortured whisper. ‘I saw it happen on TV. On the news.’
My God. He hadn’t realized that she’d actually seen the TV coverage of her mother being shot. ‘You saw your mother get shot?’
She nodded. ‘Now Aunt Izzy won’t let me watch anything but DVDs. But I still see her . . . I see her getting shot, over and over.’
‘And?’ he prompted gently.
‘And she doesn’t get up.’ A tear rolled down her face. ‘In my dream, she doesn’t get up.’
‘I know,’ he murmured. ‘That’s the same dream I have, honey.’
She looked up at him, her eyes swimming. ‘But you saved her. You’re a hero.’
Her admiration had his chest swelling. ‘Not so much a hero. I’m just a man who gets scared, too. I won’t lie to you about that. I felt so helpless that day. I think that’s what got stuck in my dreams. When I wake up, sometimes I’m shaking, it’s so real.’
‘Me, too,’ she whispered.
‘I would give a whole lot to have kept you from seeing your mom get hurt like that. But you did, and we can’t unring that bell.’
‘I know,’ she said morosely, making him smile, but sadly.
‘This is where your mom is right, though, sweetheart. You have to learn to deal with the memories. Eventually they’ll fade, but you have to learn to deal. You’re a growing girl who needs her sleep. You have to learn how to wrestle the dreams to the ground, so you can go back to sleep without worrying you’ll have the dream again. Do you know how to do that?’
She wagged her head. ‘No, sir.’
‘Well, you make up a new ending. You have the power to do that. When you see your mom hurt in your dream and then you lie awake, afraid? You picture her standing up and brushing herself off. Maybe she even does a little happy dance. Can you do that?’
She seemed to think about it a minute. Then she said, ‘I can try.’
‘That’s good. What else do you dream?’
‘That I’m with Uncle . . .’ She grimaced. ‘Mr Silas and he has a gun. It’s . . .’ She looked away, her chin quivering.
It’s shoved in to her side. It took an effort, but Clay kept his voice calm. ‘It’s okay, Cordelia. You don’t have to say any more.’
‘And Mom doesn’t get to me in time and he shoots me,’ she blurted, as if he hadn’t spoken.
For the millionth time, Clay wanted to murder Silas Dandridge. ‘I think most people who’ve had a gun pointed at them have dreams like that.’
‘Mama doesn’t. She’s brave.’ She winced. ‘Not that you’re not brave. Because you are.’
He smiled down at her. ‘I think you are, too.’
‘No, I’m not. I just sat there. I didn’t do anything.’
Oh, honey. Clay’s eyes stung. She was just a baby. And to be thinking all those thoughts . . . He had to swallow before he spoke. ‘Well. You know Miss Paige, right? My partner?’
She nodded solemnly. ‘Of course. I go to her karate school, every week.’ Her chin tipped up proudly. ‘I have a yellow belt. Sensei Holden says I have an awesome kick.’
‘Excellent,’ he said approvingly. ‘So, do you think Sensei Holden is brave?’
Cordelia’s eyes widened. ‘Of course!’
Her appalled response made him grin. Then he sobered, needing her to believe what he was about to say. ‘Sensei Holden had a gun held on her once, before she moved to Baltimore.’
She searched his face, as if wondering if he told the truth. ‘What happened?’
‘She couldn’t get away, and she got hurt. She’s fine now, but I need you to think about this. She’s a black belt and she couldn’t do anything, either. So when that voice in your head says that you’re not brave because you didn’t fight Mr Silas? You tell that voice to shut up.’
Her eyes had gone round as saucers. ‘I’m not allowed to say “shut up”.’
He bit back a smile, keeping his expression serious. ‘Then just tell it to go away. Tell yourself that you’re brave. Say it out loud. Say it, right now.’
Again her chin came up. ‘I’m brave.’ Her voice rang out and he gave her a proud nod.
‘Very good. Now, about the dreams with the gun. I’ve had them too, and they scared me.’
‘How old were you then? When you were scared?’
He briefly considered a fib, but changed his mind. This child deserved his honesty. ‘Forty-one,’ he said and she blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.
‘How old are you now?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Forty-one,’ he said dryly, and her lips twitched. ‘The thing that works for me? Play the scene again in your head, except make the gun shoot flowers instead of bullets. Or have it shoot out rainbows or Skittles or cute puppies or something that you really like. Turn it into something that’s not scary. Something that makes you laugh, even.’
She frowned up at him. Then she nodded slowly. ‘I could do that. I could try, anyway.’
‘That’s all anyone can do, Cordelia. Just try.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s what my psychologist says.’
‘Have you told your psychologist about the dreams?’
‘A little. But . . .’ She shrugged. ‘My mom is there, too.’
‘In the room with you?’ Clay asked, surprised.
‘No, but after I talk to the psychologist, she talks to my mom.’
‘She doesn’t tell anyone what you tell her. It’s like, a psychologist law.’
She shrugged again, clearly unconvinced. ‘Do you ever talk to a psychologist?’
Clay was about to force himself to tell her the truth, but was saved by Izzy’s frantic voice.
‘Cordelia? Cordy?’
Clay waved to Izzy, who had just run into the barn. ‘She’s here, Izzy. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ Izzy skidded to a stop next to Gracie’s stall door. ‘We just have to go home.’
‘Why?’ Cordelia cried, distressed. ‘We haven’t been here that long. I didn’t get to ride.’
‘I know and I’m sorry, but I have to get home now and change. I just got a call about a wedding. The photographer they hired has food poisoning, and she gave them my name as a backup.’ She looked at Cordelia plaintively. ‘I need the money, Cordy. I’m sorry.’
‘I can take her home,’ Clay said. ‘It’s no problem.’
Cordelia and Izzy locked gazes. ‘I’ll get my things,’ the little girl whispered dejectedly.
Frowning, Clay turned to Izzy. ‘What’s wrong with me taking her home?’
Izzy shifted uncomfortably. ‘It’s not you. Well . . . Not like you’re thinking anyway.’
‘Then tell me how I should be thinking,’ he demanded.
Izzy hesitated, then stepped to the other side of the aisle, motioning Clay to follow. ‘Cordelia’s not supposed to be here, okay? Stevie . . . Shit. Stevie thinks she’s at ballet class.’
Clay’s frown deepened. ‘Why?’
‘Because Stevie doesn’t want her here, at the farm.’ Izzy lifted her chin defiantly. ‘Even though being with the horses is excellent therapy that I think Cordelia needs.’
Clay was losing his patience. ‘Why doesn’t Stevie want her here? Does she hate horses?’
‘No.’ She blew out a breath. ‘It’s . . . Well, it is you, Clay,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Stevie doesn’t want Cordelia to hang out where she might be around you.’
Clay flinched, first stunned, then horrified. Then pissed off. ‘Why? I’d never hurt her. She really thinks I’d hurt her?’
‘No. Stevie knows you’d never hurt Cordelia. She really does.’
‘Goddammit, then why?’ he thundered.
‘Sshh. Because Cordelia worships you. Calls you a guardian angel. Stevie doesn’t want her to get attached to you.’
Guardian angel. Clay immediately thought of the refrigerator in his kitchen. Fixed with magnets, front and center, was the picture Cordelia had drawn with crayons when h
er mother was in the hospital, fighting for her life. She’d drawn Stevie in the bed, blood dripping from her leg. Clay stood next to her, a halo above his head. He planned to keep the picture forever.
He rubbed his forehead, exhaling heavily. ‘Dammit, Izzy. You can’t keep this from Stevie. It’s not right to put Cordelia in the middle like that. When do you bring her here?’
‘Every Saturday afternoon. She’s been coming for a few months. Ever since . . .’
‘Since Stevie was shot. She told me she saw it on TV.’
‘Stevie doesn’t know that. It would kill her to know Cordy saw her get shot. I brought her with me when I started taking the photos for Daphne’s brochures. Maggie took Cordy under her wing and I’ve seen her improve. She only screams in her sleep a few nights a week now instead of all seven,’ she said bitterly. ‘The nightmares are becoming less frequent.’
No, Clay thought, remembering what Cordelia had been murmuring to the horse. She’s just learning how to suppress her screams so she doesn’t wake you up. ‘Does Stevie know they’re becoming less frequent?’
‘Yes. She’s been taking her to a counselor for the past year and thinks it’s finally working. But this equine therapy is the first thing that’s really made a difference. She needs to be here.’
‘I know she needs to be here.’ Because he suspected she hadn’t told the psychologist any of what she’d shared with Gracie the horse. She needed somewhere to share her thoughts that was truly private. ‘Let me handle this. I’ll take Cordelia home. And I’ll make sure Stevie knows that in the future I’ll stay away on Saturday afternoons. I’ll clear the way.’
Izzy bit her lip. ‘Stevie will know I deceived her. It was worth it, for Cordelia, but Stevie’s going to be really mad at me.’
‘You know the drill, Izzy. You do the crime, you do the time.’ Clay patted her shoulder. ‘She would have figured it out sooner or later, anyway. Your sister’s not stupid.’
‘Not too sure about that one. She let you go.’ Izzy met his eyes, hers sad. ‘She’s just scared, Clay. Give her some time.’
‘No. Not going there, Izzy.’ His jaw clenched. ‘She said no and that means no. I’m not the kind of man who forces a woman’s hand. So let it go. Please.’