by Lois Greiman
My mind was spinning. What to do? Play innocent? Play dumb? Play dead? I skimmed the possibilities. My innocent act had never been my most convincing role, but I tried it anyway. “That’s sure nice of ya, but I’m dandier than—”
“What’s that in your hair?” she asked, straightening abruptly.
Breath held, hand not quite steady, I came away with a sycamore leaf between my forefinger and thumb. Damn it! My mind was spinning up a dozen explanations, a hundred weak-kneed apologies, but then I remembered my roots: I lied like an Irishman. Sticking the foliage back into my hair at what surely was a jaunty angle, I said, “Rao leaf.”
Her brows lowered, nearly obliterating her eyes completely. “What the devil you talkin’ about, girl? You been creepin’ around outside?”
“I beg yer pardon?”
“You playin’ hide the zucchini with my boys?”
“Hide the…” I huffed a sound that might have been taken as outrage. Or indigestion. “What I’ve been doin’ is workin’ my tail off.”
“Yeah?” She peered at me from uncomfortably close quarters. “What else you been doing with your tail when—”
“Workin’ like a slave for hours on end. I’ve been patted and leered at and pinched. The last thing I want is to be playin’ anything with anyone.”
“So what ya been doin’ for the past hour or so?”
“I came straight up here and gave myself a nice Rao-leaf hair treatment.”
She leaned in, eyes narrowed, as if she could divine the truth through her pores. “Are you lying to me, girl?”
I tried to dredge up some honest-to-God outrage, but her breath, clearly set on “stun,” was making it hard to think. I pulled the covers a little closer to my chin. “It’s organic…’specially good for chemically treated hair.”
Her glare deepened.
I raised my chin and tried to convince my heart to saunter back into my chest. It was getting pretty cramped in my throat. “I can let you try it. If you’ve ever colored your hair, it’ll help—”
“Colored my hair!” She snapped upright like a church steeple. “What do you think I am? One of them loosey-goosey New York gals? I ain’t never dyed my hair a day in my life. This here’s all natural,” she said, and lifted a pomegranate-colored tress from her chins.
“No,” I said.
She stared at me, probably wondering if she should slap me just for kicks and giggles. “Go to sleep,” she ordered finally, and tromping across the room, left me with a pounding heart and a decade off my life expectancy.
The following day was hell on my…everything. News of Danshov’s culinary expertise was spreading like cheap mayonnaise.
Every man from the tri-county area seemed to pass through the Home’s battered front door. I was getting to know more than a few of them on a first-name basis. The rest I christened myself: Oily, Gimpy, Blinky, Restless, Pine Sol, Knuckles…If I could score a Sneezy or a Doc I’d have myself a mining crew. But the truth was, overall, they didn’t seem a bad lot. On the other hand, any one of them could be the Carver. Or maybe Remus had simply invented a serial mutilator just to torment me.
Regardless, I was afforded little time to dwell on my fears, past or present, during my shift. But later, when I had finally retired to my frothy room, half-remembered stories of people in the witness protection program nagged me. It’s a well-documented fact (at least according to Hollywood) that a disconcerting number of people in those programs have been found by their enemies despite the FBI’s best efforts. All sorts of things could trip a witness up—a hobby they couldn’t give up, an old acquaintance they wanted to see just one more time. But more often than not, it was their habits that got them in trouble.
It made sense when I thought about it. You could alter the color of your hair, change your wardrobe, tweak your voice, but deep down in the darkest recesses of yourself, you are what you are. I was learning that more profoundly the longer I spent in Hillbilly Holler, and I wasn’t sure I was all that thrilled about my dark recesses. Perhaps I had quelled my baser instincts for a time, fighting them off with ten-dollar words and secondhand designer ensembles. But the truth was…maybe I wasn’t quite as classy as I had hoped. Lying, for instance, came with awe-inspiring ease. And jacking an anti-theft club up against Rom’s tender bits had, perhaps, felt a little more exhilarating than it should have.
But what bothered me most were the continuing dreams involving Rivera. It would have made sense if I had nightmares regarding his well-being. Instead, my midnight meanderings were generally more carnal and often confusing. The latest featured him as a chef and me as a flounder. But it probably didn’t mean I was the lustful catch of the day longing to be stuffed. In fact, if I knew anything about dream analysis—which, of course, I do, since I have a PhD and years of clinical experience—I surmised that such dreams were nothing more than a symbol of my willing separation from Rivera. We had become so far removed from each other that we no longer shared so much as a species, despite how he had looked in nothing but his apron and semi-erect chef’s hat.
Nevertheless, he had given me his treasured Jeep and sent me from his house in an attempt to protect me.
But if that was true, why hadn’t the L.A. Times featured so much as a sidebar about the incident?
I paced the short distance of my bedroom, roaming past the frilly curtains like a caged hound in a lollipop factory. I needed information before I went mad. I needed—
I stopped dead in my tracks. In the darkness below, I could just make out a form trekking through the sparse trees…Danshov, heading off to meditate by the lake, as I had seen him do in the past.
Who was he? And why was he here? Rivera had said he would find me. But if he was capable of locating me, could the Black Flames do the same? Had they, in fact, done just that? Was Hiro Jonovich Danshov a member of that despotic gang, come to murder me? But if that were the case, why would he wait?
The agony of not knowing was making me crazy. Maybe it was that craziness that prompted my next action. In retrospect, I see that it might have been wiser to strategize, to think things through. But the irritating little Zen was leaving his cabin empty, allowing any passing lunatic to invade his privacy.
Turns out, I knew just such a lunatic. Stiffening my spine, I waited to the count of fifty (thirty, actually, patience not being my best quality), then crept back through the window. In a matter of moments, I was in the woods. Beneath the tortured trees, it was as dark and spooky as my senior prom. A hundred small noises suggested hidden eyes at every turn. But I hurried through the underbrush, heart thumping, mind running wild. Still, I reached his domicile without being torn to shreds by any of the sundry monsters scared up by an overactive imagination.
A small, dilapidated Volkswagen was parked beneath a twisted pine. I assumed it was Danshov’s, though I’d never seen him drive it. Peering through the passenger window netted me no information except for the fact that he fostered a deplorable lack of clutter. Where were the fast-food wrappers? The mystery novels? The undergarments he’d shimmied out of and shoved between the seats?
Peeved and twitchy, I moved on to the cabin. Unlike the main house, it was locked. Glancing nervously behind me, I slunk around the corner and gazed into the window on the far side of the building, but I could see nothing.
A scrape of noise sounded to my right. I spun around, ready to spout apologies or explanations or pleas for mercy, whichever would save my sorry hide, but the opossum that squinted at me from the shadows seemed to be doing no more than spying on me. I stared at him. He stared at me, and then, in silent accord, we hurried off in opposite directions, him into the woods, me around the corner of the house.
It took several minutes for my heart rate to bump down to normal, for me to continue my quest. But every window was covered. I could see nothing inside. Maybe if I bent double and peeked—
“Hello.”
I squawked, twisted, and bounced off the window frame.
Danshov stood not six feet away. H
is dog was marginally closer, lips curled silently away from exposed fangs. I couldn’t figure out which one to fear more. Even the marsupial spy seemed benevolent by comparison.
“Holy shit, ya scared the crap outta me.”
Only the left side of his face was visible, making his head appear disconnected from his body. “Yes,” he said, tone a velvety threat in the darkness. “I should not be creeping around my own house.”
“I suppose…” I shook my head, though I have no idea why. “This probably seems odd to ya.”
He said nothing.
I cleared my throat, searching for an explanation for my uninvited presence there. Nothing, absolutely nothing, came to mind.
“Perhaps I could help you search,” he said.
“Wh…what?”
“I assume you have lost something?”
“Lost…” It was ridiculous, of course. But I had nothing better. “Oh, yeah. I’ve lost…something.”
He raised one brow a hair’s width, waiting.
“You’re probably wondering what it is.” And possibly planning to decapitate me and use my head for a torch.
The hound stood beside him, silver eyes steady, white teeth gleaming.
“Shikoku is.”
I blinked, shook my head.
“The dog,” he explained. “She is wondering what it is you have lost.”
“Oh.” I laughed again. He didn’t join me. Neither did the dog. “The truth is…” That I was certifiably insane. “I’m lookin’ for a computer.”
“When did you last have it?”
I didn’t try the laugh again. The sound of my last attempt had scared me almost more than the dog did. “I guess I shoulda said I need a computer.”
“So you thought you would take mine?”
“Do you have one?” Maybe the fact that he owned a computer wasn’t the salient point here. His tone, after all, was about as welcoming as an open grave. “I mean…” I found some semblance of good sense. “No! I’m not going to take yours. That’d be wrong. I just thought…I thought maybe I could use it.”
The hell wolf growled. The sound reverberated in her throat like a rumble from the underworld, making my hair stand on end.
“But I can see this isn’t a good time. So I’ll just—” I backed away. The hound followed me with liquid-silver eyes.
“Now is fine.”
It took all my effort to pull my gaze from hound to Hiro. “Wh…what?”
“Now is a good time. Come.” He motioned toward the door.
I glanced in that direction. The house looked as black as death. “You know, it’s late and I—”
“Come in,” he repeated. The beast growled in concert. “So that Shikoku can learn to know you.”
I glanced at the dog, clearly a wolf in wolf’s clothing. “To know how I taste or…” I let the words trail off.
He smiled, the slightest lift of plum-honey lips. His corner incisors were sharp and slightly tilted, like a budding vampire’s. “She will not harm you…if I do not tell her to do so.”
“Oh, well, that’s…comforting.”
“Come in,” he said again.
“I’d love to. Really. But…” I stretched my arms over my head and faked a gargantuan yawn. “It’s late. I should be gettin’ on.” True. So true, and yet I couldn’t seem to force myself to turn my back on him. “I’ll let ya return to…” Don’t say “making a head torch.” “Whatever ya were doing.”
“I am afraid I must insist.”
“No.” I managed to force my arms back down to my sides, to shake my head. “Ya don’t. Really. Ya don’t.”
The dog lowered her head and took one calculated step toward me.
“Shikoku is quite territorial. We must convince her that you are not a threat.” Reaching out, he took my arm and steered me toward the door.
Perhaps I should have screamed. I’m aces at screaming under normal circumstances. But this was hell and gone from normal, and my breath seemed to be stuck like a cork in a bottle.
Inside, he switched on the lights. The floor plan was simple: bedroom, kitchen, and living area all shared space. The interior was as clean and uncluttered as the inside of a conch. The furniture was utilitarian. There wasn’t a dish on the counter or a sock on the floor. Even the logs near the fireplace were orderly.
I took in the tidiness with suspicion. Where were the TBR piles of novels, the mounds of clothes that would be put away “any day now”? The normal, all-American detritus. “How long have you been here?” I asked.
He held my gaze. “Three days.”
“No. I meant, how long have you lived in…wherever we are?”
He didn’t even blink. Why the hell did the man never blink? “Three days,” he repeated.
I was sure he was wrong. The horrifying working conditions of the Home Place had caused some sort of intentional dementia. Obviously, he’d arrived before me. And yet I felt the blood leave my face in a rush. “What?”
“Thursday was my first day of employment.”
I shook my head. He couldn’t have arrived thirty-six hours after a tongue-severing Chinese gang had tried to annihilate me. That would be too coincidental. Wouldn’t it? “Why are you here?” My voice creaked like an opening crypt.
“To cook.”
I shook my head, numb with premonition.
“I believe you have seen evidence to support the theory.”
“Why here?”
“Why not?”
So many reasons, but I began with the safest of the lot.
“A chef with your abilities should be in New Orleans or New York or New—” I began, but a glint of light caught my attention. I jerked my gaze to the right. Five steel blades lay perfectly aligned on a rough-hewn kitchen table. I swallowed my bile.
“Are you…making soup?” I guessed.
He tilted his head the slightest degree.
“Chopping vegetables for…” I swallowed. I’m sorry to say that more than one person has thought it a dandy idea to try to kill me with a sharp instrument. “Soup or stir-fry or maybe…” I shrugged. “I’m a big fan of teriyaki.”
“Why are you here, Miss O’Tara?” His voice was very soft, but I heard him loud and clear. Even my tongue was listening.
“I…” I cleared my throat. “Like I said, I was just out for a stroll.”
“In shark-infested waters?”
“In…” Had he made a joke? Was he quoting one of my favorite movies of all time? “You’re a Princess Bride fan?” Any fan of my sweet Westley couldn’t be all bad. Could he? Unless…The breath clogged in my chest. Did he know about my obsession? And if so, how? I didn’t glance toward the knives again, for fear that the sight of them in all their surgical grimness might change my mind about the goodness of anyone Bride related.
“Why,” he asked again and stepped forward, crowding me a little, “have you come here?”
“I…I was just…tired of the same old, same old. Had to…had to get away…for a while. Ya know how it is. The noise and the stress.”
“Most bring a change of clothing, do they not?”
I didn’t dare break eye contact, but I had yet to see a single pair of shoes in his domicile. “I just had to get outta the city. I’m a…I’m a country gal at heart.” I wished quite fervently that I hadn’t drawn attention to any internal organs he might plan to remove with those horrifically mesmerizing knives.
“What city is that?”
My mind raced like a hamster on a rusty wheel. “Uh…Vegas?” I shouldn’t have said it like a question. It wasn’t a question. “Vegas,” I corrected.
Both brows lifted a fraction of a millimeter. “Are you a showgirl, Miss O’Tara?”
“A—” My well-educated mind screeched to a blistering halt at the idea, but perhaps, suggested the lightly used practical side of my mind, I should be a little more concerned about keeping my head above my clavicle than about maligning myself. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with entertaining folks,” I said.
&nb
sp; He tilted his head at me, then reached back without turning and locked the door. I zipped my gaze from the door to the knives to him. Door, knives, him. “What act?” he said.
“What?” My throat felt dry, my underwear wet.
“In Las Vegas,” he said. “What was your act?”
“Oh.” Dear God Almighty, the knives glistened like a dentist’s torture tools. “You probably haven’t heard of it.”
“Perhaps I am more cosmopolitan than you think,” he said, and waited.
I didn’t know anything about Vegas acts. I mean, come on, if I wanted to see a pair of boobs I’d look in the mirror. Ditto if I wanted to catch a glimpse of a singular boob. But some time ago, while trying to extradite Laney’s super-dweeby soon-to-be husband from a similarly hideous situation, I had met a performer who had been dubbed, possibly by himself, as mystical. And as long as I was stealing other people’s identities…
“I was a magician’s assistant,” I said, remembering Athena, Mr. Mystical’s go-to gal.
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye as he headed toward the table. I held my breath, waiting for him to call me a liar…or kill me dead in my tracks.
“Ever work with knives?” he asked, and lifted one of the blades from amongst its fellows.
Oh dear God, he was the Carver! Of course he was the Carver! Why hadn’t I thought of him immediately? Nerves. Probably just nerves.
“Listen, I’d love to stay and chat with ya. But I gotta go.” I turned jerkily toward the door.
“Don’t leave,” he said.
I closed my eyes and hoped for a miracle, but the elves failed to whisk me into the magic kingdom. Damn lazy-ass elves.
“For whom did you work?” he asked.
I swallowed and tried like hell to think. When I spoke to the magician’s real-life assistant, better known offstage as Gertrude Nelson, she’d been studying for her premed exams. “The Mystical Menkaura.”
“Was he?” he asked, and fingered the nearest blade. The entire unit was steel. Light whisked from tip to handle.
I would have passed out if I weren’t so scared of what he might do to me while I was unconscious. “What?”