by Jo Barrett
They weren’t sad, per se.
No.
Butch Grant had done too much damage over the years. His death was simply an event. A loose end that needed tidying up.
It is what it was.
In his final will and testament written in awful red ink, Butch had requested for his ashes to be scattered over Dylan’s mother’s grave.
Not in a million years, Dylan thought, gunning the accelerator.
Not only would Clarissa Grant have rolled in her grave, she probably would’ve sat up and slapped Dylan in the face.
So Dylan thought of the next best thing. Sabine Lake. His father’s favorite fishing hole. Sabine Lake—the site of the childhood incident that had robbed Wyatt of a decent childhood and installed a permanent limp in his God-given, Adonis-like physique.
He and Wyatt hadn’t returned to the lake in more than twenty-five years. It had haunted their childhood dreams, and to this day, Dylan still had nightmares.
As the first signs of water appeared in the distance, Wyatt released an audible shudder.
“You ready for this, brother?” Dylan asked.
Wyatt glared at the urn that Dylan had propped behind them in the cramped backseat of the pickup.
“Dad was one mean sonofabitch, wasn’t he?” Wyatt said.
Dylan clenched his teeth. “The man couldn’t handle his alcohol, Wyatt. Some people can drink. Others can’t.”
He clicked the window wipers to clear the windshield from all the splattered bugs. When he glanced back at Wyatt, he saw that his brother had done the unthinkable. Wyatt had rolled up the leg of his jeans to the knee. He was wearing his Lucchese boots, but Dylan could make out the prosthetic flesh-looking silicone of his brother’s fake leg.
Wyatt glared at the urn and thumped his fist against his prosthetic leg. “Before we put you to rest, Butch, I want you to take a good long look at Captain Ahab.”
Captain Ahab. The name hung in the air like radiation. Dylan was stunned that Wyatt had uttered it.
Captain Ahab was the name Butch Grant used to taunt his youngest son. When Wyatt was relearning how to walk. Or when Wyatt made a mistake in school. When Wyatt did anything that young boys are prone to do, period. It was always, without fail, Captain Ahab.
“Stop it, Wyatt!” Dylan commanded. His tone sounded stern, and Dylan immediately regretted it. He didn’t want his brother to relive the memories. He just wanted this whole charade over with.
“Captain Ahab, my ass,” Wyatt muttered.
“We’re here,” Dylan said. He eased the truck up to the edge of the lake, and listened to the tires crunching the sandy gravel underneath.
In front of them was the wood plank dock where Wyatt had almost bled to death.
Dylan turned and stared at his younger brother.
“Keep it running,” Wyatt ordered.
“You got it.” Dylan slammed on the parking brake, but left the keys in the ignition, with the motor idling.
He and Wyatt climbed out.
“Let’s get this over with.” He wrestled the urn from the backseat. The two brothers walked slowly down the wooden planks, Dylan toting the urn in front of him.
Wyatt spat into the water. He turned toward his brother. “You think we should say a few words or what?”
Dylan noticed that his younger brother’s eyes looked clouded over. He stared listlessly at the water.
“I’ve got nothing to say, do you?” Dylan asked.
“Guess not.”
Dylan knelt down onto one knee and tipped his father’s remains upside down. The gray ash tumbled into the water, causing a milky cloud. Dylan paused and let the cold, hard fact sink in. His father was dead. And here was the proof. Squatting low on the dock, he stuck his hand into the lukewarm water and swished violently until the ash sank away. He wiped his hand against his jeans, and stood up.
“Guess that’s that,” he said.
Turning toward Wyatt, he saw that his younger brother had begun to cry.
Nineteen
Kathleen was about to pull an Ingrid Bergman. Her mother, bless her heart, had been a huge fan of Ingrid’s films. The top three movies being Anastasia, Murder on the Orient Express, and Casablanca, of course.
Although Kathleen had been technically raised by the Duchess, her own biological mother, in precious moments between ladies’ luncheons and society events, had taught her a thing or two.
Kat’s lesson plan ran strictly along the lines of how to “act Ingrid.” That is, how to get what you wanted from a man. These lessons were taught before puberty. And so, as the Duchess brushed Kat’s hair or gave her a bath, her mother would breeze into the room and drop one of her favorite Ingrid-isms.
Remember, dear. It is not whether you really cry. It is whether the audience thinks you are crying.
This was one of her mother’s favorite lines. And she would use it often. Right before she kissed Kat on the top of the head and whisked back to her ladies’ luncheons and society events.
Kat didn’t regret her mother’s lack of mothering. She felt as though she’d had the blessing of two mothers. And that was more than most people could ask for.
Kat pedaled her bike furiously down Allen Parkway, and then crossed over to the bayou that snaked into downtown Houston. She was heading for Bo Harlan’s office, on the penthouse floor of the now defunct (and considered haunted) Enron Building.
Harlan had snagged the prime commercial office space for a steal after other companies had passed up the opportunity. And now Kat planned to burst into the gleaming penthouse office which had graced the cover of Houston Modern Luxury magazine.
Kat pedaled quickly into downtown, past the throngs of people walking to work, and the Mexican taco vendors with their push-carts. The smell of fried tortillas was tantalizing, but Kat didn’t want to risk having taco breath.
When she reached Travis Street, she hopped off the bike and walked it the rest of the way. She didn’t want to break a sweat. Especially since she was wearing a flowing vintage Halston dress with four-inch heels.
People on the sidewalk were staring.
I probably look ridiculous, Kathleen thought, pushing the bike in a cocktail gown and heels. She’d spritzed herself with perfume, dabbed a sexy sheer lip gloss across her lips, and inserted small cups into her bra to make her cleavage stand out. If anything, her appearance could be described as va-va-voom.
She reached the front entrance of the former Enron Building, locked her bike to a nearby rack, and made sure not to get grease on her dress.
Stepping inside the cold lobby, Kat paused and gazed around. Titan Energy had erected a sign with its logo splashed across. It was a playing card. Bo Harlan’s signature card.
The oilman was renowned for winning oil wells in his midnight poker games, by using the wild card—often the joker.
And so the joker, the playing card, was his trademark.
Kat sashayed toward the elevators, waved airily at the security guard who tried to stop her, and made her way to the penthouse floor.
Bo Harlan’s face registered more than surprise when Kat pushed her way into his massive corner office. She’d marched right past his voluptuous secretary and breezed into his office, without so much as a phone call or appointment.
“My mother always told me that powerful men love to be surprised,” Kathleen announced to Bo Harlan’s shocked face.
She shot him a devastating smile and took a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Bo Harlan’s secretary rushed through the doorway, looking flustered and out of sorts.
“Mr. Harlan! I’m sorry, sir! She just barged right in!”
Bo Harlan eyed Kathleen the way a lion eyes a gazelle and shooed his secretary away with a flap of his hand. He was a stubby man. His face reminded Kat of a slobbering bulldog.
“Why, Kathleen Connor King! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Kat watched the oilman’s ruddy cheeks blush. When it came to women, Wild Bo wasn’t good at maintaining his
poker face.
“I bet you love it when a woman catches you off guard, Bo,” Kat said. She giggled, covered her mouth, fluttered her eyelashes. The whole nine yards. Then she leaned forward in her seat and watched as Bo took in the view of her small but perky cleavage.
He tugged at his collar and cleared his throat. “It doesn’t happen often, Kathleen, that a woman will catch me off guard.”
“But when it does, Bo, I bet you get hotter than an egg on asphalt.”
A smile streaked across the oilman’s lips and his face got flush.
I should do it right now, Kat figured. This is the perfect time to ask for the money.
“As you know, Bo, I run the King Family Foundation,” Kathleen started her pitch. “And we do this little dinner every year.”
“Little dinner!” Bo Harlan sputtered. “That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.” The oilman bounced around in his thick leather chair. He was about to get invited to the most prominent society event of the year. Kathleen’s dinner was strictly by-invitation-only. It was the hottest ticket in town. And possibly the whole state.
“Well, you’re right, Bo. It’s a big dinner in terms of financial commitment. But I prefer to think of it as a little dinner because so few people are invited. I keep the guest list private and exclusive.”
Wild Bo stared intently at Kathleen, knotting his bushy eyebrows and working his lips feverishly. She sensed that he was nearly on the edge of his seat. To be invited to this dinner would be a huge step up socially for the wildcatter.
She pressed on. “The dinner benefits the Pediatric Cancer Hospital, Bo, which I can’t tell you”—Kathleen paused and placed her hand daintily against her chest—“how near and dear to my heart this place is.”
Bo Harlan stared at her petite little body, and for a second, Kat saw him stop breathing. He broke into a confident grin.
“Well, Kathleen. I would love to help out. In any way, shape, or form.”
“I knew you would, Bo. That’s why I’m here,” Kat smiled, graciously. “I’m instituting a new program this year called the ‘VIP Donors’ Table,’” she said. She was now making things up on the spot.
“This will be the main table at the dinner, with only a few select, handpicked people. Now, I’m warning you, Bo. The price is a bit steep, and I don’t want you to go into cardiac arrest.” Kat giggled.
“Name it.” Bo Harlan was already pulling out his checkbook and flipping it open on his desk.
“Five hundred thousand.”
“For the table?”
“For a single ticket.”
Bo Harlan licked his lips.
“Who else is doing this?”
“I’m sorry?” Kathleen shot Bo a puzzled look.
“Who are your other VIP donors?”
Kathleen smiled. She couldn’t blame the oilman for being shrewd. Of course he wanted to know who he’d be sitting with.
You want to see how far you can stretch that money, don’t you?
“Most of my VIP donors prefer to remain anonymous, Bo.”
“C’mon, Kathleen. Throw a dog a bone.”
Kathleen winked and lowered her voice to a whisper as if she was about to let the oilman in on a luscious secret. This was Ingrid Bergman Acting Class 101.
“I will tell you this, Bo…my dear friend, Shelby Lynn Pierce, will be sitting at the main table,” Kathleen whispered.
Bo Harlan’s poker face disintegrated upon hearing Shelby Lynn Pierce’s name mentioned aloud. He looked like he was about to bust a gut at the thought of sitting next to a female Pierce. I mean, after all. The Pierce family was simply…beyond.
“I…we…” he stuttered. “We haven’t been formally introduced.”
Of course you haven’t, Kathleen thought.
Bo Harlan stared down at his checkbook.
“Done,” he said finally.
He made a big show of scrawling out the half-million-dollar check and handing it over to her with a flourish.
“Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing,” Kathleen cooed in her baby-doll voice.
“Hell, Kathleen. I don’t make all this money for nothing.”
That was easy, Kathleen thought.
She smiled and lifted herself delicately out of the chair. Kathleen swirled up to Bo Harlan’s desk, leaned over, and kissed the surprised oilman on his sweaty forehead. Then, without a word, she swooshed out the door.
Bo Harlan’s secretary with the fake tan and the fake breasts was staring at her, so Kathleen waved pleasantly. Which elicited a “Have a nice day” from the poor girl.
She stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby. Her plan was simple. She’d deposit the check in the escrow account, just as she’d always done. That way, Bo Harlan could show a charitable tax deduction. But then Kathleen would start drawing a salary. Nothing major. Just enough to cover the rent, and her and Dylan’s living expenses.
Everyone assumed Kathleen was a bleeding heart, but that didn’t mean she was stupid. Her mama had always told her that a woman was supposed to have a little nest egg on the side that was no one else’s business but her own.
She wasn’t about to tell Dylan about her meeting with Bo Harlan, or the fact that she’d gotten Wild Bo himself to write a half-million-dollar check in a matter of seconds, because Dylan would blow through the roof, Kathleen was sure of it.
As Kathleen breezed past the massive “Titan Energy” sign gracing the lobby, she glanced at Bo Harlan’s signature playing card logo etched in gold filigree.
Queen beats joker, she thought, with a sneaky smile.
Twenty
Dylan wasn’t the paranoid type, but the black sedan that had been tailing him and Wyatt since they’d left Sabine Lake was all wrong.
The area around the lake was populated by hicks and rednecks. And hicks and rednecks didn’t drive black sedans with dark tinted windows. First of all, it was too damned hot for that type of car in Texas. And second, that type of car was not a truck.
Therefore, Dylan figured they were being followed.
He turned and glanced at Wyatt. His brother was no longer crying, thank God, but his face had assumed a woeful expression.
Dylan checked the rearview. “Don’t look now, but I think we’ve got company.”
“You’ve been watching too many movies, bro,” Wyatt said.
“I’m serious. Check it out. Black car. About a quarter-mile back. Been following us for twenty minutes.”
“Oh shit! It’s Felix!” Wyatt shouted.
“How do you know!”
“Nevada license plate!”
Dylan pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “Jesus, Wyatt! I thought you said they would leave you alone?”
This was not what he needed. Not today. Not some gambling goons from some shithole casino in Vegas hot on their tail.
“Gun it!” Wyatt shouted.
Dylan ignored Wyatt and kept his foot pressed smoothly on the accelerator.
“C’mon! Speed up!” Wyatt yelled.
“Calm down, brother,” Dylan ordered. “Now, let’s think this through before we do anything rash.”
He glanced out the windows. He and Wyatt were driving around the most remote area of the lake. They’d already passed all of the pretty houses fronting the water, and were now motoring down a dirt road “shortcut” that led out to the freeway. This was not the place to encounter a bunch of meatheads.
But Wyatt was never big on brainstorming. Before Dylan could stop him, the younger Grant rolled down his window, raised up his right fist, and flashed the black sedan the bird.
“It’s go time!” Wyatt said, and his voice was all amped up. Like he was ready to fight.
“Why the hell’d you do that?” Dylan shouted. He watched in the rearview as the sedan sped up and clipped his back bumper.
Dylan gunned the accelerator, but it felt as though the Toyota were weighed down by a thousand elephants. With the increased speed, the truck fishtailed back and forth over the dirt
road. The black sedan gained speed and raced up alongside them. Dylan glanced to his left and saw one of the sedan’s tinted windows rolling down. That’s when Dylan spotted the gun.
“Those fuckers have a gun!” Wyatt shouted.
Dylan stomped his foot on the accelerator but the truck was a piece of junk. It was easy for the sedan to keep the same speed alongside them. Dylan could see a man wearing metallic sunglasses. Metallic Sunglasses was waving the gun, motioning for them to pull over. The freeway was still far off in the distance.
We are so fucked.
Metallic Sunglasses had lost patience and was now pointing the gun, the barrel poking out the window toward Dylan’s face.
Dylan felt angry now. Angry as a tornado. He jammed on the brakes, wrenched the steering wheel to the right, and pulled over onto the gravel side of the road.
Dylan swung open his driver’s side door and jumped out of the truck. The sedan pulled over about fifty feet ahead. He bucked out his chest and snorted. He’d be damned if anyone was going to point a gun in his face on the very day he’d buried his father.
Out of his peripheral vision, Dylan saw that Wyatt had climbed out of the truck and was doing his best to catch up to him.
Four men wearing dark suits exited the black sedan at once, which wasn’t a good sign in Dylan’s opinion. They weren’t big men, but Dylan could tell from their hardened expressions that they’d been in a lot of fights. He knew these types of guys. The type that would throw a dirty punch or pull out a knife. Four men to two. Not quite the Alamo. But still. Formidable.
Metallic Sunglasses was carrying a gun. The other three were carrying baseball bats.
This isn’t going to be pretty.
One of the men looked like the boss of the others. He was shorter than the other men, dark-skinned, and had the smartest eyes of the bunch.
Felix, Dylan thought. He pivoted around to Wyatt and pointed at his younger brother’s chest. “Don’t say a word! Let me handle this,” he hissed.
“Felix! You sonofabitch!” Wyatt barked. “I told you I’d get you your money! Now, back the hell off!”
So this was the tactic the younger Grant had chosen, Dylan thought. The dumbest tactic possible. To incite more anger.