by Dawn Mattox
“In the house.” Logan gestured with his gun.
Crossing the room, I turned to look back at Logan who still held the gun as he closed the door.
“I came to talk. I want to help you. We can work something out if you tell me where Quincy is. I can probably get you a deal. I work for the DA and I’m friends with the head of ATF. They always cut deals for information.”
“You think you’re so damned smart.” Logan laughed long and hard. “You always were stupid. You guys caught Miasma and Deirdre and let the big fish get away. That’s my Sunless.”
I spread my arms wide with palms out, trying to look disinterested. “What big fish would that be?”
“Perry, stupid.” Logan spat the words and shook his head. “The millionaire porn king was right under your noses all the time. You and all your do-gooding, high-minded, dumb-ass notions. All of you blinded by your red, white, and blue while old Perry did business with the biggest warlock and priestess on the West Coast. That slimy bastard pimped his own daughter at parties until she got old enough to talk, and by then no one believed her. Except me. I believed her. The school counselors just laughed. All that talk about ceremonies and black robes and sacrifices.” He sniffed. “I wonder what they thought when Paige told them she was going to be Satan’s bride.”
“The school did nothing?” I asked.
“They told her parents. Cali thought Paige was going through a Ouija Board phase, but Perry wasn’t taking any chances. He unloaded her to the cartel.” Logan clenched his teeth, seething. “His own daughter!”
I gasped.
Logan gripped the gun so tight, his knuckles turned white, and his hand shook. “And you think old Perry is Mr. Upstanding and Law-Abiding. Seriously Sundown, your naivety never ceases to amaze me.”
Not Perry. Not her father. My ever-treacherous stomach churned. “That can’t be. You’re a lying snake.”
Logan’s nostrils flared, and the cords on his neck stood out. “Perry is the money man. He wanted those printing presses up and running.” Logan erupted with a sharp bark of contempt. “You screwed things up for everyone. But then, you have a habit of doing that.”
“I don’t believe you. If that were true, Perry would never have bought her back from Mexico.”
“But he did. You see, poor old innocent Cali was dying of cancer—and a broken heart. He did it for Cali, not Paige.”
Logan was crazy. Possibly even insane. But he made perfect sense as the final pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I swallowed bits of burning bile that had crept up my throat.
“I just want Quincy. Tell me where she is and I’ll go away and leave you alone, forever.”
“You’re not going anywhere. We have some unfinished business of our own—now that you’re the grieving widow and all. Whaddaya say we have a little fun, for old times’ sake?”
My brain froze.
“First I’ll need to check you for weapons. Take off your shirt.”
Then thawed.
“If I had weapons, I would have already stabbed you in the heart, blown off your head, and castrated you.”
His eyes narrowed, glittering, as he gestured with his gun. “I said off with the shirt, Sunblock.”
Hands on my hips, I raised my chin and glared. “Or what? You’ll kill me?”
Logan’s mouth twitched. “There are worse things than death. Oh yes. Much worse.” He wagged the gun. “Shirt.”
I took my time unbuttoning the shirt, feeling the .22 nudging against the small of my back.
Patience.
I threw Logan a sly grin and didn’t wait to be told what to do next. Slowly, sensuously, I slipped my fingertips under my bra straps and eased them from my shoulders in a sexy, tempting move. Reaching up from behind, I tipped my breasts forward as I unhooked the bra and let it drop, just a little, then dangle, before letting it slip through my fingers to the floor.
The glitter in Logan’s eyes kindled and caught, burning with lust. He moved forward, wolf-like, wetting his lips and reaching out to claim what he believed would always be his. Grinning, he cupped my warm breast in his cold, rough hand and raked my nipple with a calloused thumb.
Throwing my head back in sexual abandon, I arched my back and pushed my breast deeper into his palm, gasping with pleasure. The rat took the bait, quivering as he lowered the gun along with his mouth.
Pulling the .22 from my waistband, I stepped back in one quick motion and fired— once, twice.
Logan jerked, dropping his gun as he was propelled backward by the force of bullets. He fell against the wall and slid to the floor clutching his shoulder.
“Gawd dammit, Sunny. Stop!” Logan’s head rolled as he cussed and yelled.
“Shut up, Logan.”
“Logan howled, “My arm—my leg. Oh shit!
The cabin door cracked as it blew inward from an explosive kick to the door. Travis entered fast and straight. “ATF, nobody move!”
“You’re late,” I said, turning to face him.
Logan made his move, grabbing me by the knees. I buckled and fell on top of him and felt him rip the gun from my hand. He rolled onto his back with me on top and pressed the gun to my neck, triggering the familiar rush of heart-crashing fury and utter helplessness I’d felt each time he’d beaten me.
“She's going with me,” Logan warned. He showed no signs of relenting.
“Don’t! Don’t do it!” I cried out. “Don’t shoot him, Travis. You can’t. Don’t kill him.”
“I can and I will. He’s already dead.” Travis’s voice was as steady as his gun; he repositioned himself for the kill shot.
“No, no. Travis. You don’t understand.” My voice soared, high and excited as I stuttered, “Travis. Travis. Logan. Logan is . . . Quincy’s father.”
Travis blinked. Then his brows tightened into a solid line. “What?”
Logan staggered to his feet, groaning from the effort, dragging me with him, one hand clutching a fistful of hair, the other pressing the .22 to my temple.
“Oh, this is rich. If it isn’t Maxwell Smart and Agent 99. Sweet! But you guys don’t know shit,” Logan hissed.
Travis didn’t flinch. “So enlighten us.”
“Paige was my ride long before Captain Fucking America here came along. She was mine. You hear me? Mine. And there’s never been a sweeter piece of—”
Travis shot him.
The bullet scorched along my shoulder and tore into Logan. The .22 went flying, and Logan bounced off the wall for the second time.
“Gawd damn it . . .” Logan repeated, crying out in agony.
I crawled forward, blood dripping down my bare breast. Travis moved like a cat as he crossed the room and helped me stand.
“I like the outfit,” said Travis.
“You shot me!” I howled in disbelief.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” said Travis.
Okay, it was just a flesh wound and I was still alive, but it burned like hell. “What arcade did you learn to shoot at?” I fumed, using my bra to pat my bleeding shoulder before shrugging back into my shirt.
“What is this—fucking comedy night? I need a doctor.” Logan moaned. “Call a fucking ambulance.”
Stooping to pick up both guns from the floor, I turned Logan’s gun back on him.
“Where is Quincy?” I hissed, cocking the trigger. “Do not mess with me, Logan!”
“You guys are such idiots.” Logan laughed between clenched teeth as he sat on the floor, still slumped against the wall. “Only, he’s dumber. At least you figured out the kid is mine.”
The muscles in Travis’s face flexed and tightened.
“They were lovers,” I interjected. “Have been since high school.” I let go of my shoulder long enough to take the picture from my pocket and hand it to Travis—a picture of Logan and Paige at the prom. It seemed like a sad cosmic joke that it would be a prom picture. Of all the possible events they might have shared. Taken almost a decade later in classy Sausalito after I had begged Logan to take
me to my little country affair.
Logan snarled. “She didn’t have to die. I loved her.”
I drew back in revulsion. “You were lovers during our marriage.” It was an accusation, not a question.
Logan spewed, “You bet your sweet ass. She was worth a dozen of you. She was perfect . . . until her dad—”
Travis tucked the photograph into his pocket. “What about Perry?”
Logan barked out a laugh and then groaned as he clutched his shoulder. “Call an ambulance and I’ll talk. I don’t want to die on this damned floor.”
“This is as good a place as any. You left my father to die in the dirt in the middle of nowhere,” I reminded him.
“Paige is dead—because of you, Sunstroke. And now I am going to lose my daughter—all because of you.”
“Unbelievable! You say that after killing our baby!”
“One at a time.” Hans Solo was about to blow a gasket. Travis scrunched his face and flicked the barrel of his gun toward Logan. “No cell service up here. Tell you what—you talk and I might drive you to the hospital. You’re running out of time. You choose.”
Logan’s brows peaked; his eyes were watery pools of pain. He shook his head and grimaced. “Paige was trying to protect our baby.”
Travis and I silently rode the current of Logan’s streaming words.
“Everybody wanted the kid. Perry and that dumb-ass Miasma wanted it for their stupid rituals, and the cartel wanted to trade me my daughter for their guns and money. They said if I tried anything this time, they would sell her.” Logan moaned again as blood continued to ooze between his fingers, soaking his shirt.
“I almost had her too. Down in the tunnels with their hokey ceremony.” Logan’s lips pulled back in a twisted grin. “But I screwed ’em all when I put the guns and money in the same room with Perry’s gawd damned printing presses.” Logan laughed until he coughed and cried out in pain. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “Is that rich, or what? Can’t you see it? Everybody shooting everybody trying to get it all?” He smiled and gasped again. “Well, I gave them all exactly what they wanted. Only, the bitch here”—Logan threw me a stabbing glance—“wrecked everything.”
“You have one more chance to answer the question, and then I’m putting a bullet in your other shoulder,” said Travis. “Where is the baby?”
Logan staggered to his feet, clutching his shoulder, the circle of blood still flowering on his upper arm and thigh where I had shot him. “Out there,” he gasped, nodding toward the bomb shelter. “Out in the old rec room.”
“Sunny.” Travis pulled a flashlight from his belt and handed it to me. “Can you do it with your shoulder?”
I shot him a sour look and ripped it from his hand in reply.
“Be careful,” Travis cautioned as he started cuffing Logan.
The doors to the bomb shelter were heavy and difficult to open. I couldn’t imagine Quincy being in there and still alive. No way, I thought, but clung to hope nonetheless, trembling, fueled by another rush of adrenaline.
I set the flashlight on the top step that led down to the shelter. Both the door and my shoulder groaned in protest as I pulled it back and pushed it wide. Inside was as still as death, as dark as a coffin. The moon was long gone, but as I reached for the flashlight, a blow from behind set stars in motion.
From down below came the plaintive sound of a protesting baby.
“Hush, hush now,” a woman’s voice said. Footsteps hurried past me, and my head spun. Crawling back to the top step, I called, “Mercy! Mercy!’ and the big dog came, whining eagerly and slobbering on my face until I had to push her back. “Get ’em!” I said, doubtful that the term was on her list of commands. A sturdy piece of wood on the stairwell caught my eye. I rubbed the back of my head, stood, and stumbled back down the steps, picked up the stick and held it under Mercy’s nose. She sniffed eagerly and looked at me, alert and expectant. “Get her,” I snarled in fierce determination. “Go get her, Mercy. Get her.” Mercy whirled and sprinted away into the dark. I could only pray she wouldn’t return with a half-eaten Quincy.
Travis’s voice called out from the house, “Sunny. Hey, Sunny. Can you hear me? Everything okay?”
The sound of snarling came from the woods. Screams of terror shook the night.
I staggered toward the shouts, and there stood Mercy, standing guard over a squalling baby in a torn blanket. The woman had fled.
“What the hell are you doing?” Logan asked from the floor, where he lay handcuffed and dotted with towels that Travis had used to staunch his wounds.
Little noises rose from the baby blanket where I cradled Quincy in one arm, happily oblivious to the gun I held on her father in my other hand. I glanced heavenward and then silently lowered my gaze to the bloody man on the floor.
“Praying.”
“Cute. That’s just what I need—prayer. Forget Jesus—what I need is some Jack.” He groaned and then turned his dark eyes back on me. “Prayin’ for my soul, darlin’?”
“Praying for a flat tire.”
Logan gave a slight chuckle. “Right—like your boyfriend’s really out there calling for an ambulance. Ha! More likely he’s out there fucking what’s left of Nikki.”
“Nikki? Your babysitter? I don’t think she’s going to be a problem. The cops will probably pick her up when she checks into the ER for dog bites. Anyhow,” I added with a growing smile, “you can send her a get well card from High Desert.”
Logan wrinkled his nose with disdain. “I’m coming for my kid when I get out. You know that, right? Got it, Sunburn? She’s mine. You can play house all you want, but in the end, she’s all mine!”
“Hmm . . . I’m thinking hers is one prom you’re going to miss.”
“Listen, bitch—and you better hear me good. No one—no one—is taking my kid.” Logan’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s all . . .” he gasped “. . . Paige . . .” and then he broke.
I didn’t know that snakes could cry.
The predawn light was pierced by the soft flash of the light bar on the ambulance. Memories trailed me, like Mercy, who had followed me about and now sat close by, watching anxiously as the EMT applied the last of the tape to the thick pad on my shoulder. The technician offered a thoughtful suggestion.
“You can walk through the ‘No Admittance’ door next to ER if you like. We’ll be waiting for you.”
“Thank you, because I’d rather die than ride in an ambulance with him,” I said, pointing to Logan secured in the back of the ambulance.
The EMT smiled and drove away, leaving Travis and me standing in the driveway. Travis seemed enchanted, under Quincy’s spell, as little fingers grabbed at his nose. He leaned in, tenderly kissing her searching fingers.
“I hate Logan, but I glad we didn’t kill him,” I said.
Travis looked up with a cocked brow. “You’re happy we didn’t kill him?”
“Mostly. I wouldn’t want to have to tell Quincy someday that I killed her father. Telling her that her daddy is a dirtbag will be hard enough.”
Both brows were on an even keel as Travis thought about Quincy. Then a slow smile spread across his face, and he replied, “Maybe she doesn’t need to know about Logan at all. Fathers aren’t the men who make babies; they’re the ones who raise them.”
Maybe he was right. It sounded like something Chance would say.
“I never understood why Logan didn’t want the baby we had made together. When I wouldn’t abort it, he killed it. That’s a lot of hate.” I dropped my head in shame. “There was a time I loved Logan. I would have done . . . did do . . . anything . . . everything . . . for him.”
Travis moved close and put a hand alongside my face, drew me in, and kissed me tenderly on the forehead.
“That’s the hardest part of our work,” said Travis. “We’re trained to see everything— except what’s under our noses. I’m a cop, and I not only admired Perry”—Travis dropped his arm and dropped his gaze—“but I loved that
guy like a father. And you”—Travis lifted my chin to meet me eye to eye—“are an advocate who has forgotten everything you ever knew about victims of domestic violence.”
From somewhere high in the treetops, we heard the lonesome hoots of Kenny’s favorite bird: the Who-Who-Me. Somehow, it gave me hope.
“In the end, babe,” Travis said with a sad smile, tapping the end of my nose with his finger, “we are just like everyone else—victims of love. We see what we want to see.”
My shoulders drooped. “Then how can I know when love is real?”
Travis stared at the ground for a moment.
“I think you already know the answer,” he said at last. “You taught it to me. You called it, ‘faith.’”
CHAPTER 50
I packed the last of my personal possessions into the file box, bowed my head, and prayed, “Lord, please bless the next advocate with patience and wisdom. Let her be a light that shines in dark places, and may she touch the lives of each victim who enters this office seeking protection, direction, and justice.”
One long last, lingering look around the room that had been my home-away-from-home for so many years. Not so much taking note of the things that remained but rather the things and people who were gone. I smiled, remembering the fullness of my days.
In my mind I saw Travis lounging in the doorway holding bags of food and cups of coffee, always watching out for me. I saw Paige jangling her bracelet with baby charms, amazed and delighted that someone actually cared. I saw sweet Amanda, the prosecutor with the presence of a lioness and the heart of a kitten. And Gayle, my friend who was always the essence of kindness and thoughtfulness. There also, in a very special place, was Bonita. I laughed to think that I actually hired her because she was a lesbian. I had grown to love that woman, for she was razor sharp and ever perceptive. Closest of all, my dear friend Duncan . . .
“Duncan?’ I was ripped from my reverie. “What are you doing here? Don’t you know it’s Saturday?” I raised a brow and did a slow eye scan from head to toe. “You look fantastic.”
Duncan’s smile brought light to my otherwise shadowed moment. Other than the trademark blush, he looked a much different man from the day we first met. The shy, geeky, nerdy gentle giant looked both rakish and roguish today. His gelled hair was stylishly messy, and he was wearing contact lenses that accentuated his toffee-brown eyes. He was looking good in his bad-boy earplugs and a Live Free or Die T-shirt that showed off his tats.