And come back they did. The Mockingbird was almost always packed when Victoria Welling was at the piano, and the long hours she spent sweating at the keyboard in the crowded club were among the happiest of her life.
But not tonight. Tonight, she wasn’t feeling the music. Playing was a chore made even more difficult by the near-breakdown she had suffered driving here. Seeing Stark on the streets of Vegas had shaken her badly, despite knowing for months that this day was coming.
It was always coming.
Victoria had enjoyed almost a year of peace and near-normalcy since the last time he found her, during which she had been living and working in Muncie, Indiana. She had picked up stakes immediately—again—and made another random move, this time ending up in the Las Vegas area.
Stark had chased her around the country over the past five years, somehow always managing to find her and flush her out of hiding. After the break-in and rape in Manhattan, he had been apprehended within a week, busted by an NYPD officer while trying to gain access to another young college student’s apartment through her bedroom window.
Victoria ID’d the man in a police lineup as her attacker with absolutely no uncertainty, and the D.A. had predicted a slam-dunk conviction. “A positive ID by the victim, plus a positive DNA match from semen left on the bedcovers and in Victoria’s body, adds up to a sure win,” the confident prosecutor had said.
Except it didn’t work out that way.
She dragged her thoughts back to the present and played on. The Mockingbird was crowded, as usual, and Victoria felt fairly confident Stark wouldn’t dare come in here, even if he had already discovered where she was working. There were too many potential witnesses for him to attack head-on. He preferred darkness for the commission of his evil, where he could slither around like the reptile he was.
Still, the nervousness threatened to overwhelm her. She worked on autopilot, launching into a Scott Joplin medley that never failed to bring down the house. Every time the front door opened she glanced over, praying that she would not—but fearful that she would—see the pitted, scarred face of her worst nightmare.
12
Jack Sheridan strolled through the terminal at Las Vegas’s McCarran International Airport, carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. He had spent a good portion of his time in the air sleeping. Dreaming about Edie Tolliver and her adorable little girl and how much he would love to settle down.
Now that he was in Vegas, though, it was time to focus on the job: eliminating a mob guy in a hit the man’s own gangland family wanted nothing to do with. Jack had already come up with a couple of potential scenarios by which he could fulfill his assignment, but at this point, things were necessarily fluid. He needed a little “boots on the ground” time before committing to any specific plan.
He dodged fellow travelers and shook his head at the sight of tourists so anxious to begin donating their money to the local economy that they were bellied up to slot machines located right in the terminal building. Jack had never been much of a gambler; he supposed risking life and limb to earn a living by eliminating some of the most dangerous men—and occasionally, women—in the United States might have something to do with that. Adrenaline was easy enough to come by without going looking for more.
As he wound his way toward the exit, he stopped at a newsstand and purchased a small pair of scissors. He ducked into a men’s bathroom and locked himself in a stall, then cut up and flushed the ID’s he had used to purchase tickets for this leg of the trip.
Then he pulled out a fresh driver’s license and credit card—he would be Harry Carson for the remainder of his stay unless he decided to change identities again—and placed them in his wallet.
The entire quick-change operation took less than three minutes, and then Jack was on his way. He rented a car and drove to the Tumbling Dice Motel, located on the outskirts of Las Vegas’s southwest side. He had used the motel before when in Vegas on business and liked it. Each unit was a separate small cottage, affording as much privacy as possible under the circumstances.
Once in his room Jack unpacked, an operation that took less than a minute. Then he stepped into the shower to wash some of the miles off his back. He contemplated trying to sleep and dismissed the thought immediately. It was too early and he had slept too much on the way here.
Instead, he elected to get dressed again and go out for a bite to eat and maybe a drink or two. He needed to contemplate his next move and hated sleeping on an empty stomach. Despite not having been to Nevada in years, Jack had spent enough time in Vegas to become moderately familiar with the area; at least that portion of the city outside The Strip, which was constantly evolving.
And Jack had no intention of spending any time on The Strip unless his work took him there. What he had in mind for tonight was someplace more sedate, the kind of place the locals would go to eat and drink and avoid the constant crush of tourism. The locals would know where to go for the best food.
He stopped at the office on the way out to get the desk clerk’s opinion on local taverns. The clerk, an older lady with blue-tinted hair who, judging by the tight jeans and t-shirt she was wearing seemed to think she was still seventeen, smiled wryly at his question.
“A place away from the limelight?” she said. “Most people who come here want to head straight for the bright lights and the action.”
Jack returned her smile. “Not me. I just want a decent meal and a quiet drink. I’ve got a business meeting tomorrow, and my boss’d flip out if I blew all my per diem at the Sands.”
The clerk snapped her gum and chuckled. “You don’t get to Vegas much, do ya? The Sands has been gone for years.”
Jack shrugged sheepishly, happy to play the ignorant businessman.
“Anyway,” the clerk said, “I’ve got the perfect place for ya. It’s called Tequila Mockingbird, and it’s just a couple-three miles down the road.” She jerked her head in an easterly direction before returning her attention to a stack of paperwork that seemed much too big for a smallish to moderate sized motel like the Tumbling Dice.
He thanked her and turned for the door, and she waved without looking up.
***
It turned out the clerk’s somewhat vague directions were right on the money, as Tequila Mockingbird was exactly two and a half miles “down the road.”
Jack drove into the lot and parked. He liked the place immediately. It had the look of an old-time roadhouse, complete with flickering neon sign at the edge of the parking lot that featured a bird holding a martini glass. Presumably it was supposed to be a mockingbird, but he would have to take that on faith.
The moment he stepped through the door, Jack decided he had been right to trust the blue-haired desk clerk’s judgment. The place was the anti-Vegas lounge. No slot machines. No signed photos of celebrities hamming it up with management. No glittering showgirl costumes for the waitresses.
A solid walnut bar, polished to a mirror shine, had been constructed along one wall. The bar ran from the front door all the way to the rear of the room, where it terminated at the entryway to the kitchen. Tables of varying sizes dotted the interior, with a small dance floor almost looking like an afterthought plunked down in the middle of the room.
The wall opposite the bar featured a raised platform with a massive piano placed on top of it. The piano was clearly the focal point of the club and it had been maintained every bit as lovingly as the bar. Seated behind it, her fingers a blur of motion as she ripped through a lively jazz tune, was a slim, beautiful redhead dressed in a traditional tuxedo. Long red curls cascaded over her shoulders, ending a third of the way down her back.
She was stunning.
And she was terrified.
Jack could sense her fear instantly as he met her wandering gaze for a fraction of a second. The music continued, upbeat and catchy, but the eyes of the young woman were haunted pools of blue. They searched the crowd restlessly, stopping on Jack for less than a second before continuing their constant motion.
***
Victoria caught sight of the new arrival the moment he walked in, and why wouldn’t she? Her nerves continued to thrum, and despite the fact she didn’t expect Stark to show up here, there was always at least the possibility he would. She had learned over the years never to underestimate him; the man might be sick and obsessed but he had proven himself willing to try new things and to approach the object of his obsession from myriad different angles.
So with her nervous system working overtime, she spotted the stranger before he had taken one full step into the crowded club. She locked eyes with him for a fraction of a second and then continued scanning.
A second later, though, she looked back his way. Her eyes were drawn to him although she couldn’t have said why. He an average-looking guy: not ugly by any stretch of the imagination, but not strikingly handsome, either, at least not in any conventional sense.
And he was at least ten years older than her twenty-four years. Normally, Victoria wouldn’t have given him a second glance. But there was something about him, the way he carried himself; a strength, a self-sufficiency that seemed lacking in most men. When their eyes met, she got the strangest feeling that he could see deep inside her, could sense her pain, could feel her raw emotion.
But then she shrugged off the sensation. She continued playing, entertaining the crowd, her fingers working solely by muscle memory, her guard up, her eyes scanning.
She couldn’t afford to lose her focus.
Joel Stark was out there somewhere.
And he was coming for her.
13
Jack had an unobstructed view of the pretty piano player from his corner table. Within thirty seconds of his being seated, a waitress approached, dressed conservatively for Vegas in tight-fitting black jeans and a maroon Western shirt with white embroidery on the breast pocket that indicated her name was Brandy.
Jack grinned at her and said, “Now, that’s appropriate. Brandy serving brandy. Your fate was sealed at birth, wasn’t it?”
She leaned close and stage-whispered conspiratorially, “Actually, my name’s Geraldine, but Brandy fits better on the blouse.”
“Ah,” Jack answered. “Plus, it’s a good conversation starter for a cocktail waitress. Leads to better tips, am I right?”
She laughed. “Hell, yeah. Is it working?”
“That all depends. Steer me toward a good meal and it’s working like a charm.”
“The Blackjack Burger is always the freshest thing on the menu. It’s what the cook likes to eat on his break.”
“Blackjack Burger it is, then. And can I get a side of fries and a draft beer with that?”
“You bet.”
Brandy turned toward the kitchen and Jack said, “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“The piano player. What’s she drinking?”
“Juice is about all I’ve ever seen her drink.” The waitress smiled. “If you’re thinking about trying your luck with her, take my advice and save your money. She’s not one to mingle with the customers. We’ve got guys who come in here every night, great-looking single guys who’ve been trying to get with her and haven’t been able to get one foot in the door.”
Jack returned her smile. “Thanks for the tip. But I’m not trying to knock down any doors. Just for fun, would you get the young lady at the piano an orange juice?”
***
If there was one thing Victoria Welling had mastered—besides playing the piano—it was deflecting the advances of men in bars. The polite brush-off was a talent every woman working as a bartender, cocktail waitress or entertainer needed to master, and after her attack six years ago in New York, learning to let men down easy had become an absolute necessity.
For some reason that remained a mystery to her, she seemed to attract men like moths to a flame. She had no idea why. When she looked in a mirror, she saw a shy girl who was too tall, too redheaded and not busty enough.
She hadn’t been with a man since that awful night in October 2008. Hadn’t even been out on a date. Just thinking about being touched made her want to gag, made her stomach clench in fear. She would be terrible company for a man.
Plus, running around the country in an effort to stay one step ahead of a madman was her fate. She had long since come to grips with that fact and had accepted that law enforcement could do little or nothing to protect her. Joel Stark was a free man and until he actually did something to hurt her—and by then it would be too late—in the eyes of the law he had every right to go where he wanted, and to do what he wanted.
Given all of that, there was no way in the world Victoria was going to start a relationship with any man. So when Brandy approached the piano carrying what looked like a glass of orange juice on her tray, Victoria’s immediate inclination was to tell her to take it back to the bar.
She guessed it had been sent by the stranger with the compelling presence who had entered the Mockingbird a few minutes ago, and when she glanced over to the table where he sat alone, she received confirmation in the form of a friendly smile and a glass raised in acknowledgment.
The waitress set a coaster down on top of the piano and then placed the glass on it. “I told him you wouldn’t accept this,” she said semi-apologetically. “But he insisted. He said to tell you he doesn’t believe in angels, but if he did, he’s pretty sure they wouldn’t be any more beautiful than the music that comes out of your piano.”
Victoria was between songs, and she looked from the glass to Brandy, to the stranger seated across the bar, and then back to Brandy.
“For what it’s worth,” Brandy said, “you have to give the guy a little credit. It’s a better line than what you usually get in a room filled with drunken fools.”
Victoria hesitated and looked over at the man again. As when he had entered, she got the strange sensation that he could see inside her. And rather than making her uneasy, that sensation gave her a rare sense of comfort. Of safety.
Surprising herself, she nodded nervously and said, “Sure. I’ll take it. I’m kind of thirsty anyway.”
Then she surprised herself even more. “I think it’s about time for a break,” she told Brandy. She took a deep breath and pushed the piano bench back. She stepped down off the platform and walked across the floor to the stranger’s table, aware of the look of incredulous disbelief on Brandy’s face, as well as the fact that every male regular in the bar was watching her in stunned surprise.
She was as shocked as they were. Seeing Joel Stark yesterday had shaken her to the core, but this was completely out of character.
The stranger stood as she approached and pulled a chair out for her. “I didn’t really expect that angel thing to work, but I couldn’t come up with a better line on such short notice,” he said with a laugh. “And it’s true, you do play like an angel.”
Victoria returned his smile nervously. “I-I can’t sit,” she said. “I just wanted to thank you in person for the drink. That was very kind.”
“Just a short break? Ten minutes? Surely your boss won’t mind a ten-minute break. You know, to rest those fingers.”
This time she chuckled. Surprised herself again by sitting. “You’ve never been to the Mockingbird before.” It was a statement, not a question.
“True enough,” he said. “You know everyone that comes here?”
She shrugged. “Not everyone, I guess. But I know I would have remembered you.” She cast a glance toward the front door and then away. Her eyes had never stopped scanning, even though—or maybe especially because—she was no longer at her piano.
“I never do this,” she said apologetically after a short silence.
“Never do what? Take a break? Eat dinner?” The stranger took a big bite of his burger. “Must make it easy to keep off those unwanted extr
a pounds.”
Victoria laughed in spite of herself.
He nodded approvingly. “You should do that more often. Your whole face lights up when you laugh.”
Victoria said nothing, the compliment catching her completely by surprise.
“I’m Harry Carson,” he said. He gestured at his plate. “I understand you never eat dinner, but I could really use some help with these fries. I had no idea they were going to serve me a metric ton of the things.”
She laughed again and reached for a fry. “Yeah, the cook does go overboard sometimes. But I meant I never mingle with the customers. I mean never, ever. And my name is Victoria. It’s nice to meet you, Harry.”
She offered her hand and he shook it gingerly. “I’d hate to damage those impressive fingers. It’d be just like me to get too enthusiastic and ruin your career. But this truly is my lucky night. I get to enjoy a delicious meal and spend it in the company of a beautiful but mysterious piano player.”
“Mysterious? I’m not mysterious,” she said, scanning the room reflexively. “But I do have to get back to work in a couple of minutes.”
“I guess that’s not enough time for you to tell me who you’re running from.” The stranger said it matter-of-factly, as he was popping a french fry into his mouth.
Victoria sat back in her chair, rattled. “Why would you think I’m running from someone?”
The stranger shrugged. Took a drink of his beer. “You’re as jumpy as a guy facing a root canal with no Novocain. But, hey, no worries. It’s not any of my business anyway, right?”
Victoria chewed on her lower lip, trying to decide whether to take a leap of faith and trust this man she had just met. There was no reason to. None. And yet, he radiated such a sense of strength and calm, she was actually considering it.
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