Doggone

by Herkert, Gabriella

  ‘‘Were your parents murdered?’’

  John sucked in a breath. Probably no way to sneak up on that one. I thought about Connor and how close he was to his parents. Connor, my best friend, Russ. If someone had killed them in front of me, would I stay sane? I honestly didn’t know. I never wanted to find out.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ he whispered.

  ‘‘Were you there when it happened?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ Quieter, his eyes down, picking at the tablecloth.

  ‘‘Did you speak to the police about it?’’

  John didn’t answer. Blinking back tears, I looked at Connor. He mouthed, Move on. Swallowing, I turned back to John.

  ‘‘Did you open a bank account in San Diego?’’

  John wiped at his eyes and sat up a little straighter, swallowing hard. He gave me a whisper of a smile. His first smile. Past the worst.

  ‘‘Yes, I did.’’

  ‘‘Did you transfer money from Seattle?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘Did you’’—I glanced at Connor—‘‘I’m sorry. Did you say no?’’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Yes, you said no?’’

  His smile grew. ‘‘Yes, I said no.’’ ‘‘Did you meet with Henry DeVries?’’

  John bit his lip. The payoff.

  ‘‘Who’s he?’’

  ‘‘He was the radio host. You gave him an interview.’’ I shook my head. That question wasn’t going to do us any good. It wasn’t yes or no, and I’d as much as told him the answer. He could be blocking or lying or just following my lead. I was making a mess of this.

  ‘‘He’s dead now,’’ John said.

  I froze.

  ‘‘Go on, Sara,’’ Connor said.

  I took a deep breath. ‘‘Do you know Officer Esteban? ’’

  John looked confused. He was fading. Fatigue or drugs, I couldn’t be sure. I needed to wrap this up while he was still all there. John’s responses had to be sharp or the results would be harder to figure out. Connor made a hurry-up gesture, which caught John’s eye. He froze.

  ‘‘Are you under a doctor’s care?’’ I pulled his gaze back to mine.

  ‘‘She said.’’

  ‘‘Who said?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  Boom. The explosion rocked the building, rattling the glass. Connor dove into me, knocking me to the floor and tipping the table over. The camera and lie-detector equipment crashed, and John leaped back out of the way. Pavarotti was singing frenetically. Connor tucked me under him. He was heavy. I coughed. The room was filling with smoke. Oh, God. Fire. We were on fire. I struggled beneath Connor. He wouldn’t let go.

  ‘‘Stay,’’ Connor yelled. He turned his back and crawled on his belly toward the living room. I got on all fours and followed him. A huge plume of smoke billowed up past the open patio doors. It was close. Probably right in front of the building. Blue was on his belly in the bedroom doorway, a gun in each hand. He tossed one to Connor. Connor made a hand sign and the two men started moving toward the patio. I reached out and yanked on his leg.

  ‘‘Don’t go out there.’’

  He turned to look at me. Blue slid past him. He tried to push me back behind the table but I balked.

  ‘‘Stay behind there, out of range,’’ Connor yelled.

  ‘‘She okay?’’ Blue called.

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  There was a second explosion and I threw myself on top of Connor. I wrapped my arms around his head. He untangled me and shoved me into the kitchen. He put a finger against my lips. I froze.

  ‘‘I need you to stay here.’’

  I stared. I couldn’t. Not if he was out there.

  ‘‘Promise.’’

  Biting my lip hard enough to draw blood, I nodded. Connor turned and dropped back onto his stomach. He knew what he was doing. He was going to be fine. They both were. They were going to be fine. I fought against hysteria.

  I moved to the far opening of the kitchen so I could keep them both in sight. Connor slithered to the front door and put the key in the lock. He whistled. Blue moved onto the patio. Connor went into the bedroom. I chanced it. I crawled out of the kitchen and into the hallway in front of the door. Connor moved fast. He was already at the bedroom window, gun in hand, by the time I got into position. Blue was hunched behind a potted palm. His weapon was pointed at the street.

  I huddled against the door. The smoke burned my eyes. I dropped lower, wiping at them. The tears were making it hard to see. I crawled toward Connor. At the bedroom door I peeked at Blue. He was still down, his weapon moving up and back, up and back along the bottom edge of the railing. I went into the bedroom.

  ‘‘I’m clear,’’ Blue called.

  ‘‘I’m clear,’’ Connor yelled back.

  ‘‘Sara? Shit. Do you ever follow orders?’’

  ‘‘I assume that’s rhetorical.’’ I slid my hand into his. He squeezed my fingers. We looked out the window.

  ‘‘Oh,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘That’s too bad. That was a nice car.’’

  He sighed. ‘‘I liked it, too.’’

  ‘‘That one behind it . . . oh, no, that’s not . . .’’ I leaned against him, trying to get a better view.

  ‘‘I knew that parking place was too good to be true,’’ Blue commented, joining us. ‘‘Damn. It was practically new.’’

  ‘‘It’s not new now,’’ I said.

  ‘‘Nope,’’ Connor agreed.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. Well, we were certainly getting our tax dollars’ worth. Hopefully the cops would invite a couple of fire trucks. With the way Connor’s and Blue’s cars were roasting, we’d need all the water we could get.

  ‘‘I’m really sorry about your SUV, Blue.’’ I rubbed his arm.

  ‘‘It’s insured.’’ Blue shrugged. ‘‘Suppose we ought to go down.’’

  ‘‘Probably,’’ I said. I led the men toward the open front door.

  ‘‘I’ve got just one question before we dive into paperwork hell,’’ Connor said.

  ‘‘What’s that?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘What happened to John Doe?’’

  I stared at the open door. Dropping Connor’s hand, I peered into the kitchen. The table was turned over. The floor was littered with equipment, and a glass of water had spilled. The only thing missing was John Doe. And the dog.

  ‘‘He’s in the wind,’’ Blue said. ‘‘Him and his little dog, too.’’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  We watched the cars burn. The fire department arrived fast, but it was too late. The cops asked a few questions. We played blonder than the Andrews Sisters. If the police suspected anything other than a fraternity prank gone bad, they didn’t say so. No one made a connection to the previous night. Sometimes it was better to be lucky than good.

  Connor and Blue had a whispered conversation at the door while I cleaned the kitchen. I was too strung out to eavesdrop. Let them have their little secrets. I’d grill Connor tomorrow, for tomorrow was another day. I’d already packed too much into this one. Luckily, none of the high-tech stuff was broken, just banged up. I wouldn’t want to think how much it would cost us to replace that stuff. The videotape was unharmed. We’d scanned through the beginning, to make sure, but hadn’t really watched it. Anything useful on that tape would require brain cells to analyze. I was packing the video case when I saw it. A single sheet of paper.

  Don’t let them steal me. Charles Martin Smiths.

  ‘‘Bed,’’ Connor said.

  I jumped. Folding the note, I slid it behind a canister. ‘‘Shower,’’ I corrected.

  He hugged me from behind. ‘‘Bed.’’

  ‘‘I smell like a chimney sweep.’’

  He breathed in my hair. ‘‘Nah.’’

  I looked at him over my shoulder.

  ‘‘Well, maybe a little.’’

  I stripped on my way to the bathroom. I adjusted the water. Six show
erheads. Money had its perks.

  ‘‘Looking for company?’’ he asked, already naked.

  ‘‘Well, I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.’’

  He grinned and joined me.

  After the shower, we lay tucked together, damp and drained.

  ‘‘I’ve got something for you,’’ Connor said, holding me closer.

  ‘‘You are insatiable.’’

  ‘‘The bedside table.’’

  I stared at the polished oak dresser. ‘‘And I didn’t get anything for you.’’

  ‘‘Open it.’’

  I reached across and opened the drawer, pulling a remote control from its depths.

  ‘‘That is sweet, honey.’’

  ‘‘Keep digging.’’

  LifeSavers. I held them up.

  ‘‘That’s not it, either.’’

  ‘‘They’re not for me?’’ I helped myself to a red one.

  ‘‘Try again,’’ he said into my ear.

  ‘‘Connor, you didn’t have to . . .’’ I said as I pulled a square gray box from the drawer in the bedside table. ‘‘Oh,’’ I said sheepishly, sitting up with the sheet tucked under my arms. The box was too big for a ring. That was stupid. I don’t know why I thought he’d . . . Well, it was ridiculous. I didn’t even want a ring.

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  ‘‘That wasn’t a nothing ‘oh.’ ’’

  ‘‘I just thought you meant something different. I mean, I didn’t know what you meant, but you don’t have to buy me presents. You got me a . . .’’ I opened the box.

  ‘‘Sara, wait.’’

  ‘‘Gun. You bought me a gun.’’ I stared at the shiny metal gun in the box. ‘‘You bought me a gun.’’

  ‘‘It’s not exactly a present.’’

  ‘‘No, really, Connor. It’s just what every girl wants. It’s what she dreams most about getting from the man she just made love with. Maybe I’m not doing it right.’’ I shifted around until I was looking at him, the box held like a tray in both hands.

  ‘‘My timing could have been better.’’

  ‘‘So it’s not a critique. That’s heartening, anyway.’’

  ‘‘Let me out of the doghouse, okay? This is important. Hell, no, it’s not a critique. God, you didn’t actually think—’’

  I laughed, shaking my head. ‘‘You are so easy. And I mean that in the teasing sense and not as a commentary on the frequency with which you abandon both clothes and decorum.’’

  He groaned. ‘‘Generous of you.’’

  ‘‘I’m that way.’’ I held the box out to him. ‘‘I can’t take this.’’

  ‘‘Those bullets were real. That car did not explode by accident. You need protection.’’

  ‘‘You’re protecting me.’’

  ‘‘Which would work great if you actually told me where you were going twenty-four-seven. You don’t. I doubt you ever will. I’m not risking your life by pretending otherwise.’’

  ‘‘I’m more likely to shoot you.’’

  ‘‘I’ll teach you. No one should own a gun if they don’t know how to use it.’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t actually thinking about an accidental shooting.’’

  His eyes widened. ‘‘You’re planning on killing me?’’ ‘‘I wasn’t, but that was before I knew you were a trust-fund baby. Now I’m weighing my options.’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘Be serious.’’

  ‘‘I am seriously weighing my options.’’

  ‘‘Sara.’’

  ‘‘Con-nor.’’

  I set the box on the bedside table and got out of bed. I picked up his T-shirt, pulling it over my head. I was going to have to tell him. He had that mutinous look that told me he was going to dig his heels in, but I couldn’t take a gun. I couldn’t have one around me. Ever. He sat back against the headboard and folded his arms across his chest. Planning on having his way. Oh, God.

  ‘‘No,’’ I said quietly, sitting on the end of the bed, keeping my face turned away from him.

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘I have my reasons.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you do. Whatever they are, they’re not good enough. Not with your life at stake.’’

  ‘‘The risks are higher than you know.’’

  My hands were shaking. This was so hard. I thought I was over it. The past was the past. It was years ago. Lifetimes. Then, in a moment, here it was again. Still clouding my horizons. Would I never be free? I pulled at the sheet, twisting it into knots.

  ‘‘You have a nice family,’’ I said, trying to give him context.

  ‘‘Don’t change the subject.’’

  ‘‘I’m not.’’ I shrugged. ‘‘I’m just trying to figure out how to sneak up on it.’’

  ‘‘Straight ahead always works for me.’’

  ‘‘That’s because you grew up with Ozzie and Harriet.’’

  ‘‘We had our problems.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you did. I guess everyone’s got a story to tell. I’m no different.’’

  ‘‘Tell me. I’d like to help.’’

  I turned my back to him. I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the tension. My head was pounding. I closed the gun box and set it on the bedside table. This was going to be bad.

  ‘‘My father had a gun.’’

  ‘‘Lots of parents do.’’

  ‘‘He liked beer. He liked it every day. He liked it a lot.’’

  ‘‘Go on.’’ Connor’s hands began kneading the tight muscles of my shoulders. His touch was gentle, soothing.

  ‘‘It made him stupid. And mean.’’

  His hands hesitated, then stopped. It wasn’t a new story. He’d probably heard it before. He was a soldier. He’d known enemies. Threats. He’d used force. He’d had to to survive. He’d understand. He kissed my hair.

  ‘‘What did he do?’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.’’

  ‘‘Where was your mom?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. I never met her. Or at least, I don’t remember her. My father never talked about it other than to say she’d died.’’

  ‘‘So it was just you and him.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘He hit you.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  His arms came around me. He pulled me back into him, and I felt his warmth along my back. His face rested against my hair. If he was disappointed in me I couldn’t tell. I leaned back into him.

  ‘‘And the gun?’’

  ‘‘He bought it when I was in high school. Or maybe he stole it. One day he brought it home. Then he had a beer. And another. One thing led to another, and he was passed out while I was bleeding. Magically, there was the gun.’’

  He stiffened. I felt tears on my face.

  ‘‘I thought how easy it would be.’’ I could still see his face. Flushed and bloated with drink. Snoring. Sleeping like the dead. The dead. ‘‘Then I started to think that maybe I could get away with it.’’

  ‘‘It was self-defense, Sara. There was no ‘getting away’ about it.’’ His arms tightened around me.

  ‘‘I thought maybe the police would believe me. Maybe they would just look the other way.’’

  ‘‘What happened?’’

  ‘‘I had it in my hands. I pointed it at his head.’’

  I was shaking now, small tremors running through me. I wanted him to tell me it was okay to stop. I wanted him to say it didn’t matter.

  ‘‘It wasn’t your fault,’’ Connor whispered.

  ‘‘Then I ran away.’’

  He moved back on the bed and took my shoulders, turning me. I couldn’t look at him, but he lifted my chin. His eyes, his beautiful green eyes, were full of compassion. I didn’t see any condemnation, any judgment. I took a breath that caught on a sob. He stroked my cheek, brushing my tears away.

  ‘‘You ran away?’’

  ‘‘I wasn’t going to let him take anything else from me. I
knew that if I used that gun, if I shot another person, I’d never be okay again. And I wanted to be okay.’’

  ‘‘You are more than okay.’’

  ‘‘I can’t take the gun, Connor.’’

  He reached over without looking away from me, putting the gun box back in the drawer. ‘‘You stick to me like glue, okay?’’

  I got to my knees and wrapped my arms around him. ‘‘You won’t be able to tell where you stop and I start.’’

  ‘‘You promise?’’

  ‘‘I promise.’’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I tossed and turned. I kept dozing, only to wake up and look at the clock ten minutes after the last time. Connor slept like the dead. He tried to hold me, but I’d twisted away. He rolled over and went back to sleep. Men. I got out of bed and went into the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of orange juice and going into the living room. I took the videotape of John’s polygraph and slid it into the VCR. I kept the sound low and watched the tape once through. Then I rewound it and watched again. There had to be something here. None of it made any sense. John didn’t seem to have enough on the ball to pull off a swindle. He barely seemed to be holding himself together. Smiths seemed like a nonfactor, too. He hadn’t missed the money. Even if he had, the bank got it back. So it couldn’t be about the money.

  What was it about? The interview? Slipping into the bedroom, I picked up the files. I dug for the transcript. Line by line I read it through. Except for the description of the murder of his parents, it was all white noise. No specifics, just lots of conspiracy theories about the government. People out to get him. Delusion or reality?

  It wasn’t so much that all the victims were tied to Charles Smiths. It was more than that. They were all tied to the murder of Charles’s parents. The maid who witnessed it. The cop who took the report. The kid left an orphan. The interviewer who heard the story. One missing, one shut out of the case, one crazy, and one dead. Why?

  ‘‘Why what?’’ Connor asked from the doorway, rubbinghis eyes. He was wearing boxer briefs and nothing else.

  ‘‘I must’ve been talking to myself. I didn’t mean to wake you.’’

  ‘‘You didn’t.’’ He sank into the chair opposite me. ‘‘Why what?’’

  ‘‘I was just thinking about things.’’

  ‘‘Me, too.’’