Cut Throat

by Sharon Sala

  “Get out!” he yelled. “Get the hell out of the car now. I’m gonna whip your ass.”

  Houston slapped the can away and reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

  “You’ve been layin’ that claim your whole life, and you ain’t done it yet, so ’scuse me if I don’t get all panicked over the threat.”

  Jimmy wanted to fire off a sharp comeback, but he never could out-talk Houston, and that was a fact.

  “You still didn’t have no claim to do what you did,” Jimmy muttered, and then brushed at the wet spots on the front of his jeans.

  Houston took a long draw on his smoke, then narrowed his eyes as he blew three perfect smoke rings into the interior of the car.

  Jimmy cursed again, but quieter, and rolled the window down enough so that the smoke could escape, but not enough to freeze his butt any more than it already was. He glared at Houston, then channeled his anger to the man they were waiting for.

  “I don’t know where that damned McKay got off to, but when he comes back, he’s mine first.”

  Houston shrugged. “Fine with me. I just want to get this over with and get out of town.”

  Jimmy bent over and picked up the paper sack from the floor between his feet.

  “Hey! What happened to them last two Ding Dongs?”

  “I ate ’em,” Houston said.

  “Well, damn it all to hell, Houston. I’m hungry.”

  Houston reached down and started the engine.

  “What are you doin’?” Jimmy asked.

  “I’m takin’ you to get somethin’ to eat,” Houston said.

  “What if we leave and miss McKay comin’ back?”

  Houston sighed. “Do you want to eat, or do you want to whine?”

  Jimmy glared. “Well, hell, I suppose I wanna eat.”

  “Then shut up and ride.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was the vibration of the helicopter and the whine of the engine that dragged Cat from her drug-induced sleep. Other than the pain, which had become her anchor to knowing she was still alive, she had no idea where she was. The scent of fuel and stale coffee further confused her.

  She thought about trying to sit up but soon learned that moving was impossible. When she first looked up, she couldn’t figure out why her vision was so blurred. A quick check of her face gave her the answer. Her eyes were swollen, one of them completely shut. Still, she could see what appeared to be the backs of two seats and the silhouettes of two men sitting in them. Then she heard Wilson’s voice, and she remembered.

  He’d come.

  After she’d made that call to him, she hadn’t expected to be alive and, even though she was still breathing, she wasn’t sure she would ever be the same.

  She had a feeling that if she saw herself in the mirror right now, she wouldn’t recognize her own face. She had vague memories of hearing someone talking about stitching her back up. Were those just hallucinations, or had it really happened? If it did, was she was going to be some replica of Frankenstein’s monster?

  She’d spent most of her life looking for Solomon Tutuola just so she could watch him die. Now, having accomplished that feat, she wasn’t sure but what a piece of her had died with him. She’d lived with hate in her heart and revenge on her mind for so long that, now that they were gone, she didn’t know how to fill up that space. She no longer had a purpose. There was nothing left in her life that mattered. Except maybe…

  Before she could get past the thought, the chopper hit an air pocket and the mattress on which she was lying gave a slight bounce. She groaned aloud, and Wilson immediately turned around. She didn’t know how he’d heard her over the roar of the rotors, but he had. Her view of his face was blurred, but she saw enough of his expression to know he was aching for her.

  “Sorry about that, baby,” he said softly.

  Her nostrils flared. It was the only sign she gave that she understood.

  Wilson glanced at his watch, matching it against how long it had been since that doctor had given her the pain shot.

  “Honey…are you hurting? Do you need something for the pain?”

  She nodded, then lifted a hand and touched the swell of her lower lip.

  “Thirsty, too?”

  He took one of the packets of pain pills, popped two pills from the blister pack and then reached for the bottle of water. There wasn’t much room to maneuver, but he managed to lean over between the seats enough to help her.

  “Open,” he said, as he lifted her head to keep her from choking and then popped the two pills between her slightly parted lips. “You need a straw, honey, but I don’t have one, so if I pour some of this in your ear, you can bust my chops later.”

  He tilted the water bottle to her lips just enough to let a small stream flow through, then pulled back and waited for her to swallow.

  She tried to get the pills down, but choked.

  He lifted her head a little higher, then gave her another sip.

  That time the medicine went down.

  By the time he eased her back to the pillow, she’d broken out into a cold sweat. To make matters worse, the chopper bucked again.

  “Oh, God,” Cat mumbled, and started to cry.

  The tears were bitter and silent, seeping out from between her swollen eyelids. She didn’t know if she was crying for the pain or for what her life had become.

  Wilson cursed, then unbuckled himself, climbed over the seat and crawled down next to her. He stretched out on the floor beside the little air mattress, slid his arm beneath her neck and laid his other arm across her hips, careful not to touch the binding around her ribs, then held her. And the next time the chopper hit rough air, he was there, steadying the ride and reminding her that she was no longer alone.

  Mike didn’t look back, not even when Wilson abandoned him for the woman. He’d been flying for more years than he could count, but he’d never been as antsy as he was today. The woman they’d gone after was so hurt, and Wilson was unusually nervous. Maybe the nervousness was catching.

  He knew Wilson’s reputation as a bounty hunter. He knew that sometimes bounty hunters put themselves in dangerous situations to bring in bail jumpers. He also knew that bounty hunters were illegal in Mexico, so whatever had gone down with Wilson’s lady friend most likely went beyond getting beat all to hell. No wonder Wilson wanted her out of there.

  He glanced down, then checked their heading. Just a few more minutes and they would be in U.S. air space. It would be none too soon for him.

  * * *

  Pedro Andehal was the medical examiner who’d received the body from the murder scene. He was fifty-two years old and bordering on burned out himself. The older he got, the more he wanted to be around the living, not the dead. Maybe it was because he was growing nearer and nearer to the day when it might be his own body lying on an autopsy table and someone else about to slice him from stem to stern.

  He paused beside the table, eyeing the body before him. At this point, all he knew for certain was that it was male, and that the man had been large—very large. He also knew this wasn’t going to be an easy examination. The flesh was charred all the way to the bone, and there was very little of it left on his face. Samples had already been taken and sent to the lab, but they didn’t exactly have state-of-the-art equipment. They managed, but the facility could certainly have benefited from an upgrade.

  Pedro turned on the tape recorder so that he could record his findings as he worked, pulled the face mask up over his nose, rolled his head from one side to the other to loosen the muscles, then picked up a scalpel.

  Solomon Tutuola might be toast, but the world wasn’t done with him yet.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Pedro turned off the tape recorder, pulled a sheet back over the charred carcass, wheeled it over to the wall and slid it into a drawer. He turned off the light over the worktable and nodded to his assistant, who began removing surgical instruments and scrubbing the table down.

  Pedro tossed his surgical glove
s and the disposable footies he wore over his shoes into a disposal unit and the apron he wore over his scrubs into the laundry bin, washed himself thoroughly, then left. He had a report to finish and a date with his wife, and he didn’t want to be late.

  As he was walking through the hallway on his way to his office, his cell phone rang. He answered absently, concentrating only after he recognized the police chief’s voice. The conversation was brief.

  Yes, the autopsy was finished. Due to the quantity of gunshot wounds and the destruction of the lungs when the body had burned, it was hard to say whether Tutuola was still alive when the fire had begun. Most of the internal organs had been charred so thoroughly that it was hard to tell what was pre-fire damage and what was post.

  It was Pedro’s understanding that the roof had also fallen in on the body, which confused the issue as to what bones, if any, had been broken before the fire, or if all the breaks had come afterward. His official ruling was going to be death by gunshot, but the fire would have done him in if the bullets hadn’t. Notifying next of kin—if there were any—fell to the police. Pedro’s job was over.

  As for the police chief, thanks to the Realtor who’d sold Tutuola the mansion, they at least had a name for the victim. This morning he’d begun getting back info in response to the faxes he’d sent out last night. Once he’d read them, it became apparent why the victim might have met such an end.

  His full name was Solomon Ranu Tutuola, and his rap sheet in Mexico was staggering, beginning back in the eighties. After further checking, it turned out that Tutuola had a similar arrest record in the United State, and even a couple of arrests in Central America. Not once was there a next of kin listed, and his place of birth, listed as Brisbane, Australia, turned out to be a lie.

  He shoved the paperwork into a file folder and tossed it on the edge of his desk. It appeared that a professional hit man had come to their city and died a violent death in what was, most likely, a case of revenge. He would keep the file open and send a couple of officers to interview people in the surrounding area. The houses, because of their size and the occupants’ desire for privacy, were separated by as much as a half mile, sometimes more. It was unlikely that anyone would have heard the gunshots unless they’d been outside after midnight, which was when the fire was first spotted. The truth was, they had no witnesses and too many motives, which meant no starting point for an investigation. It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d started a case with nothing to go on, and it wouldn’t be the last, but he wasn’t inclined to put a rush on it. He would never admit it, but he had an inborn prejudice against career criminals and a personal belief that when they bought it, it was nothing more than fate coming back to give them a much-deserved send-off to hell.

  At that point, his telephone rang. He answered, frowning as his focus quickly shifted from the dead man to a child who had gone missing. There was no question of where his priorities would lie.

  * * *

  The flight to Dallas was nothing short of agony for Cat. Wilson did all he could, but other than keeping pain pills in her system and steadying her somewhat from buffeting winds, there was nothing more he could do.

  Hours later, they were finally within sight of the city. It wasn’t the first time Wilson had flown into Dallas after dark, but they weren’t landing back at Martin’s Airfield. Mike had already made plans to land at the heliport that served Dallas Memorial Hospital.

  Wilson breathed a weary sigh of relief when Mike got on the radio and began their descent to the landing pad. Once they were down, everything began happening quickly. The bay doors were yanked open, instantly filling the chopper with blinding lights and cold winter air. There was an emergency team from the hospital waiting with a gurney to take Cat inside, and Wilson wasn’t going to let her go alone. As he got out, he stopped long enough to give Mike the keys to his SUV.

  “When you get back to the airport, just put all our stuff in my car and lock it up. I have an extra set of keys at the apartment.”

  Mike nodded. “Will do, buddy.”

  “I’ll come by tomorrow with a check for the ride,” Wilson said.

  “Yeah…and don’t forget my tip,” Mike teased.

  Wilson smiled, then shook his head. “I will never be able to repay you for what you did.”

  Mike pointed to the woman who was swiftly being wheeled away.

  “I’d like to meet her one day when she’s got both eyes open and a smile on her face.”

  “Count on it,” Wilson said, then hurried to catch up.

  * * *

  Cat knew she was no longer in the chopper, because the smell of stale coffee was gone. What she did smell was cold air. She heard strangers talking, then felt the motion of the gurney on the concrete as every joint and muscle in her body screamed for relief. Then the gurney rolled over a crack in the concrete, and she passed out.

  The next thing she heard was a man calling her name.

  “Miss Dupree…can you hear me?”

  She inhaled slowly, then exhaled a soft yes.

  He laid a hand on her shoulder in a reassuring manner. “You’re in the emergency room of Dallas Memorial. We’re bringing in a portable X-ray for you. After we’re done there, you’ll be going down to the lab for an MRI.”

  Cat managed a nod.

  “Do you remember anything about what happened to you?”

  Wilson had been standing against the wall out of the way, but when he heard the question, he stiffened. If Cat was too out of her head, she might let something slip that could get her in trouble.

  As it happened, Cat took care of the situation.

  “Ask Wilson,” she mumbled.

  The doctor looked up, then around. “Is someone here named Wilson?”

  “That would be me,” Wilson said, stepping closer to the gurney.

  “What can you tell me about Miss Dupree’s injuries? She’s obviously been treated already.”

  “Not a lot. I don’t know what happened to her. I just responded to a phone call. When I got to her, she was unconscious. It appeared to me that she’d been beaten…maybe she was mugged. I don’t know for sure. But she’s a bounty hunter. She could have gotten in the way of some bad guy she was after.”

  “So where did this happen?”

  “We were in a rural area. The local doctor who bound her broken ribs and stitched her up said to get her to a hospital for X-rays as soon as possible, which is what we did.”

  Satisfied with the answer, the doctor dropped the inquisition, which suited Wilson.

  “Well, then, let’s see what we can see,” the doctor said, and waved to the orderlies who were bringing the portable X-ray into the E.R.

  “Wilson…Wilson…” Cat mumbled.

  Wilson moved past the doctor and then gently cupped Cat’s face.

  “I’m here, honey. Just let them do their thing. I won’t be far away.”

  “Don’t leave,” she begged.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Wilson said.

  Cat couldn’t put into words what it meant to her to be back in Texas. She still didn’t know how Wilson had made this happen, but she knew one thing for sure. Wilson McKay had saved her life, and in doing so, pulled off a small miracle.

  She owed the man.

  She owed him big time.

  As soon as the doctors put her back together again, there were going to be changes made. She just hoped it wasn’t too late to make amends.

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, the tests had been done and Cat had been admitted to the hospital. For the first time in days, Wilson felt his world returning to an even keel. He watched them taking her toward an elevator while listening to the doctor’s decisions.

  “I want to keep her in the hospital for a couple of days, just to make sure there aren’t any surprises.”

  Wilson frowned. “Besides the obvious, is something wrong that you’re not telling me? Are there internal injuries that—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” the doctor sa
id. “At least, nothing showed up that would lead us to believe she’s in danger. She has a slight concussion but seems to be on the upswing from that. Whoever set her ribs did a good job. Nothing needed to be redone on that front. She may have some slight scarring from the stitches, but a good plastic surgeon can smooth all that out at a later date. As for the swelling on her face, that, too, will subside. Does she have any next of kin…someone we need to notify?”

  “Just me,” Wilson said. “I’ll let her boss know.” Then he pointed down the hall. “Where are they taking her?”

  “Check with the desk. They’ll tell you where her room is going to be.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Wilson said, and headed for the front desk. A few minutes later he was in an elevator on his way to the third floor.

  * * *

  Tutuola was on top of her, pounding his fist into her belly and ribs over and over until she could no longer breathe. She wanted to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come.

  The gun. She had to get hold of the gun again.

  * * *

  Wilson woke up only seconds after Cat moaned, then screamed. He was instantly out of the chair and at her side. She was dreaming. He could tell by the way her muscles were jerking. He cupped Cat’s face with his hands and spoke softly but urgently.

  “Cat, you’re dreaming. Wake up, honey, wake up.”

  Cat inhaled swiftly, as if surfacing from a drowning pool, and clutched Wilson by the wrist.

  “God…Wilson…oh, God.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  Cat shuddered. Pain? She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been in pain of one kind or another. Physical pain, emotional pain—to her, they were one and the same.

  “Tutuola,” she muttered.

  “Shh, baby…don’t say the name. Don’t even think it. So far, no one knows anything about the history that was between you. As far as they know, he was just a man Mark Presley hired to get him out of Texas. Last time you saw him, he was inside a burning house outside Nuevo Laredo, and let’s keep it that way.”

  Before she could answer, the nurse came hurrying into the room.