Hot

by Julia Harper

  “Are not, dickhead.” Fish tried to run his hand through his hair, but it was stuck to his head. He found the tick on his face, picked it off, and flicked it into the bushes. Another tick emerged from behind his ear.

  “Are, too, moron,” Nald said.

  “Are not!”

  Fish stopped, turned, and threw up his hands. His face got really, really red. “We. Are. Walking. West!”

  Nald folded his arms. “Nope.”

  Fish stood, arms outstretched for a moment, and then his stumpy little body began to shake. “WEST!” he cried. He threw down the black garbage bag of money, which was kinda raggedy on the edges, and began jumping up and down on it. “West! West! West!”

  Nald wrinkled his nose. He’d tried to stay upwind from Fish most of the time, but the wind must’ve shifted, because a real powerful stink was burning his—

  “WEST!”

  “SKUNK!” Nald yelled.

  “Where?” Fish hollered, his body still hopping up and down.

  “There!” Nald pointed to the big gray animal emerging from the woods. “That’s the biggest badass skunk I’ve ever seen.”

  Fish stopped jumping and looked. “That’s not a skunk, you turd.”

  “Yeah? Then what is it?”

  “I dunno, but it’s not a skunk.”

  “It’s got a white stripe.”

  “It’s gray.”

  Nald watched the animal. It was staring back at them out of tiny black eyes in a little flat head. A corner of its lip was lifted like maybe it wasn’t too happy to see them. “Probably an old skunk.”

  “Don’t be a dickhead.” Fish looked like he was about to start jumping up and down again. “Skunks don’t get old. They get run over.”

  “It’s a skunk, dude.”

  The gray skunk lost interest in them and started digging in the dust near the road.

  “It’s not a skunk. It’s a raccoon.”

  “Not a raccoon. No mask.”

  “Well, it’s not a skunk, either. Does that thing look like Pepé Le Pew?”

  Now that Fish mentioned it, the animal didn’t look all that much like Pepé Le Pew. It looked more like—

  “It’s Bucky Badger!” Nald cried in triumph.

  “No way!” Fish did a double take.

  “Yeah! Bucky Badger. Isn’t he cute?” Bucky was turned around, his little furry ass wiggling as he dug furiously.

  Fish looked scornful. “How do you know it’s a he?”

  Nald stared. “Because Bucky’s a boy, dummy. Don’t you know anything?”

  “I meant this badger. How do you know it’s a boy?”

  “Does it look like a girl?” Nald pointed at Bucky in outrage. “Duh!”

  Bucky turned around and smiled, showing little yellow teeth. Definitely a boy.

  “Where’s his dick, then, boner?”

  “You’re a dick. Bucky’s dick is under all that—that”—Nald waved his hand wildly—“fur.”

  “Dick yourself.” Fish sneered. “I don’t see no dick. I think it’s a fairy badger.”

  “Bucky’s not a fairy!”

  “Is, too!”

  “Is not!”

  “Is, too,” Fish shouted. “He wears that little red sweater and struts around with his naked ass hanging out. Tinkerbell.”

  Nald felt ready to cry. How could Fish say that about Bucky Badger? “He wears the Wisconsin sweatshirt.”

  “So? Then why doesn’t he wear the Wisconsin sweatpants, huh?”

  “Maybe he’s hot.”

  “He’s hot, all right.” Fish pursed his lips horribly beneath his beet-red nose and made kissing noises. The tick sat on his cheek like a beauty mark. “He’s a fairy!”

  “Is not!”

  “Fairy! Fairy! Fairy!” Fish swished around the road. “Bucky’s an airy-fairy!”

  “Douchebag!”

  “Fartbrain!”

  Then Bucky attacked.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I t was almost ten that night by the time John found Calvin Hyman’s lake cabin near Rhinelander. Hyman had given him the directions, but it had taken John an hour, driving up and down back lanes, to even get in the right area. Then he’d had to peer at mailboxes, most badly marked, to try to read numbers in the gathering gloom. He’d driven past the place twice, finally backtracking and getting out of the Crown Victoria to verify the number on the fire-engine-shaped mailbox.

  Now the lane leading down to the cottage was dim in the dusk. The bushes along the side hadn’t been trimmed in a while. Branches scraped the sides of the car as he drove by in second gear. The cabin itself was on a grassy slope that led down to the lake. John parked the Crown Vic and got out to look around, absently rotating his right shoulder. It ached from sitting in the car so long.

  A bird called sleepily from the woods as he tramped toward the cabin. It was nice, a newish two-story brown clapboard with a wraparound screen porch. A two-car garage stood kitty-corner to the cabin, with a gravel circle drive between the two. Down by the lake was some kind of shed, probably a boathouse. Behind the cabin was a mowed clearing with a sagging volleyball net.

  He mounted the wooden steps and noticed a spider’s web strung across the screen door. If Turner had been here, she hadn’t gotten in that way. He left the cobweb on the porch door and circled the cottage. The screen windows would be easy to cut, but he didn’t see any tampering. In back, the windows were dusty. He had to stretch to peer inside. Turner would need something to climb on to enter through the windows.

  Satisfied she hadn’t gotten this far, he returned to the Crown Vic and carefully maneuvered it into the grass behind the cabin. He backed around the volleyball net until the car bumped a tree on the edge of the woods, then killed the engine. He had a nice view of the back of the cabin and the gravel turnaround from here. The moon was out, but it was just a thin crescent. There wasn’t enough light to reveal the car. At least, that was what he hoped.

  John propped his arm on the door and watched the back of the cabin. Where was she tonight? Nearby, he was sure. He’d spent a fruitless couple of hours searching the teeming metropolis of Rice Lake for Turner after he’d lost her at the gas station. She must’ve left town headed this way, but he hadn’t seen her, and there hadn’t been any more reports of a light blue pickup in the area.

  He pushed the button on his watch to make the face light up. 10:23. It was only a little after eight in Washington state. He fished out his cell and dialed his ex-wife’s number. Across the miles, the phone rang. The answering machine picked up. John hesitated, then punched the End button without leaving a message. What could he say? If Amy or Dennis, her husband, got the message, they wouldn’t bother replying. And besides, he wasn’t sure Amy knew that Rachel had called him. He didn’t want to break his daughter’s trust when she’d only recently reached out to him. At least, that was what he was telling himself. Maybe he was just a flat-out coward, too afraid to talk to his little girl who wasn’t so little anymore.

  He snorted and leaned his head against the seat. It’d been a shitty day all around. God, why not? He gave in to temptation and punched the speed dial.

  Turner answered at once. “John.”

  He sighed, the muscles in the back of his neck already relaxing. “Yup.”

  “Where are you?” Her voice was low, almost whispering.

  His groin immediately tightened. “That’s a change of pace. You asking me where I am.”

  “Are you going to answer me?”

  “No.”

  She sighed, the sound lost and lonely in the dark. “I can’t tell you where I am, either.”

  He shifted in the car seat, wishing he could push it back into a more comfortable position. But he had to be ready to drive should she show up. “How’s Squeaky?”

  “He’s sleeping. He got anxious in Rice Lake.”

  He smiled. “Squeaky got anxious? How about you?”

  “I got anxious, too,” she admitted.

  “I’m sorry.” His lips compressed.
“Did you get something to eat for dinner?”

  “Saltines and Spanish olives.”

  He laughed.

  “You?” she asked.

  “DQ. I got a bacon cheeseburger basket and a vanilla shake.”

  “That’s not good for you. Nothing but fat and salt.”

  She sounded disapproving, and his heart ached. “Yeah, but it tasted good. And there was a thing of coleslaw in the basket.”

  “I don’t think that counts. They put it in a condiment cup.”

  “True.”

  They were silent a moment. John could hear her breathing, and he closed his eyes. God, he wanted to be beside her right now. Touch her, inhale her scent, brush his lips over her hair. The thought of her with him was oddly seductive. He opened his eyes again and rolled down his side window. The leftover air-conditioned cold had dissipated from inside the car, but the outside air had begun to cool and there was a breeze.

  He tilted his face to see the night sky. “Are you outside?”

  “Um. Yes.” She sounded sleepy, her husky voice blurred.

  His cock began to throb. “Can you see the stars?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where the North Star is?”

  “Polaris,” she murmured. “I can see it. And Ursa Minor prowling around it.”

  “That’s the Little Dipper to me.”

  She laughed. “Do you see Cassiopeia?”

  “The one shaped like a big W, right?”

  “Yes. And next to her is her daughter, Andromeda.”

  His mouth twisted. “Whoops. You’ve found me out. I don’t know where that one is.”

  “Do you see the two biggest stars in Cassiopeia?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Follow them down,” she instructed slowly. “The next biggest star is Andromeda’s right foot. She’s kind of in the shape of a long, narrow triangle. There are three stars leading right from her foot, do you see them?”

  He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t tell her that. “Yes.”

  “And on the opposite side of Cassiopeia is Cygnus, the Swan. It’s in a shape of a cross. Sometimes it’s called the Northern Cross. Do you see it?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “And Vega is there, too. It’s a very bright star, closer to the horizon. Vega’s in the Lyra constellation. Do you know that one?”

  He wasn’t bothering to look. He leaned his head back and listened to her husky voice murmuring in his ear. She could be reading the phone book for all he cared. “Yes.”

  She chuckled, a low, sexy sound.

  “What?”

  “You don’t see it, do you?”

  He smiled. “No. How did you know?”

  “Because no one has ever heard of Lyra.” She sounded triumphant to have tricked him.

  “You made it up?”

  “No. It’s an obscure constellation. I only know it because of the myth.”

  “Tell me,” he commanded softly.

  “Lyra is Orpheus’s lyre. One of those little harps they had in ancient Greece.”

  “Uh-huh.” He could fall asleep just listening to her hypnotic murmur.

  “Orpheus was a wonderful musician, the greatest of all time. When he played, the birds stopped singing to listen and the wild animals followed him as if they were enchanted.”

  “Pretty good.”

  She laughed again. “Yes, pretty good. He fell in love with a woman named Eurydice, and she with him, and they were married. But then Eurydice was bitten by a snake and died. Naturally, she went to Hades, and Orpheus was inconsolable with grief.”

  “That’s a sad story.”

  “Yes, but I’m not done. You see, Orpheus was so in love with Eurydice that he braved the underworld to get her back. He journeyed to Hades and after many travails stood before the god of the underworld himself. Orpheus played for Pluto, and the god was so moved by the beauty of his music that he did what had never been done, before or since. He let Eurydice leave death.” She paused.

  He made a listening sound.

  “But there was one catch,” she whispered in his ear.

  “There always is.”

  “Yes, there always is.” She sounded sad now, and John stirred uneasily. “Orpheus could lead his wife to the upper world, but he must not look back at her while he did this, not even once.”

  John grimaced and waited for the inevitable.

  “So Orpheus led Eurydice through the caverns of Hades, but she wasn’t allowed to talk until she reached the surface. And although Orpheus knew she must be following him, he didn’t hear anything. He grew more and more uncertain, until he couldn’t bear it anymore. He turned around.”

  “She disappeared.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “That was the worst part. She was there, standing right behind him, and Orpheus saw her for just an instant before Pluto took her back.”

  “Poor son of a bitch.” John rubbed a hand over his eyes. “But I can understand what made him turn around to check.”

  “Really?” Her tone was curious. “I would’ve thought you’d have no sympathy for Orpheus losing control.”

  “Yeah, but see, he couldn’t hear her.”

  “So?”

  “So, a woman’s voice is the most distinctive thing about her to a man. He hears it day and night, after all.”

  “I detect some male chauvinism in that remark.” She sounded amused.

  “You shouldn’t. I’m serious.” And to his surprise, he was. “Women talk more than men, generally speaking. A guy gets used to his woman telling him what to do, chatting about her day, just gabbing.”

  “Gabbing?”

  He grimaced. He knew he wasn’t explaining this well. “Yeah, gabbing. Women do it all the time. Constantly. Even you. It gets to be soothing. Normal. He knows everything’s all right with the world by the sound of her voice.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard this particular theory before.” Now she was laughing at him.

  He continued anyway. “Ol’ Orpheus must’ve been pretty disconcerted to know his wife was right in back of him but wasn’t saying anything.”

  “I’m still not sure that’s a compliment to my sex.”

  He closed his eyes. “Oh, it is. A man can get hard just listening to the right woman’s voice.” God knew he was.

  A laugh burst from her. He could tell he’d startled her. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I can’t believe you’re telling me this.”

  “Believe it. A low, raspy woman’s voice is a turn-on every time. Makes a guy think of the bedroom and what that voice might say there.”

  “Jeez. Do you guys think about sex all the time?”

  “Pretty much.” John grinned. She sounded so prim. “But I know that women think about it, too.”

  “You’re awfully confident.”

  “Yeah, maybe I am. Come on, admit it. You’ve thought about what it would be like to kiss me.” John was conscious that he’d just crossed one of his own boundaries. Had he crossed one of hers, as well? How far would she let him go?

  “I’m not going to answer that.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

  “That’s as good as an admission.” He grinned in triumph. “I think about it. How your mouth would feel under mine.”

  “I-I can’t do this, John.”

  “We’re just talking,” he coaxed. “Talking on the phone. Nothing scary about that.”

  She either laughed or sobbed, it was impossible to tell which. “Everything about you scares me. Even talking on the phone.”

  He closed his eyes. He was so hard, so frustrated. It wouldn’t take much, the state he was in, but he wasn’t going to give in to that need right now, no matter the urgency.

  “We should work on that fear,” he said instead.

  “I-I need to go.”

  It was an excuse, he could tell. Dammit, he’d lost her. He beat down the frustration, the impatient need to hold on to her voice. But there was no point tonight. He was a h
unter who knew well the importance of timing. Better to let her go and hunt again on the morrow.

  “Good night,” he said tenderly.

  “G-good night, John.”

  He punched the End button and grimaced into the dark. It was going to be a long, long time before he slept.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  T he ringing of her cell jolted Turner awake early the next morning. She flung her arm out in reflex and hit her hand on the dash painfully. “Ow!”

  Next to her, Squeaky lifted his head and yawned, revealing a cavernous mouth and long yellow teeth. The phone rang again.

  Turner sat upright and looked around. She’d spent the night in a pull-off between Woodruff and Rhinelander. She hadn’t dared approach the cabin so soon after seeing John in Rice Lake. After that near-miss at the gas station, there could be no doubt that he was following her. That fact was going to be a stumbling block to her plans. By now they—the FBI, police, whatever law-enforcement agencies were working on her case—must be aware that Calvin’s cabin was her destination. They’d have it staked out, probably. How was she going to—

  The phone sent up another annoying digital ring.

  Turner grabbed it and answered. “Hello?”

  “I hope I haven’t woken you,” Victoria said, sounding very wide awake herself.

  Turner sat up straight and ran a hand through her short hair. It felt matted.

  “Oh, no,” she lied. “I’m glad you called. We need to set a time to meet.” She looked at her watch. Good grief, it was only seven a.m. Who called people at this time?

  Evidently, Victoria. “Good. That’s what I thought, as well. Does 12:30 tomorrow work for you?”

  Tomorrow was Thursday, and Victoria had said in their last phone call that she couldn’t meet Friday. Tomorrow would have to do.

  “Yes, that’s fine,” Turner replied. She’d have to get into Calvin’s cabin today somehow and find the evidence. “Where?”

  “You could come to my office.”

  Turner felt unease creep up her spine. Victoria seemed helpful, but she didn’t really know her that well. And the other woman had asked about Turner’s whereabouts in the last phone call. On the other hand, she didn’t have any other contacts in the Federal Prosecutor’s Office. She was taking a calculated risk.