“I’ve gotten just enough on it to make me think it’s not what we think it is.”
“Oh, well, good thing I wasn’t married to my beliefs.”
“I’ve heard talk that the good Father who owns it really is a good Father. He runs a mission for runaway kids downtown.”
“Kids?” I asked.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he asked, referring back to my deal with Julio Ontiveros.
“Nope. Since we have two kids involved in Mark Weir’s case, I’d say there’s a connection somewhere.”
“It’s possible. Can you give me a hint?”
A knock at the door saved me from once again having to say no. What was it with men and the word
It was the side door Garrett came through. “Come on in, Dad,” I called. Then I turned to Garrett. “You know, we do have a front door.”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug.
When Dad didn’t come in, I stood and walked to the door. “Dad, you can come in,” I said as I opened it. A split second later, my life flashed before my eyes, and I came to one important conclusion about it.
It was fun while it lasted.
Well, this is awkward.
Apparently, this really was Kill Charley Davidson Week. Or at least Horribly Maim Her. I considered the slick gun pointed at me from across the threshold confirmation. It would probably never get government recognition, though, destined to be underappreciated like Halloween or Thesaurus Day.
When I opened the door, Zeke Herschel, Rosie’s abusive husband, stood across from me with vengeance in his eyes. I glanced at the nickel-plated pistol clenched in his hand and felt my heartbeat falter, hesitate, then stumble awkwardly forward, tripping on the next beat, then the next, faster and faster until each one tumbled into the other like the drumroll of dominoes crashing together. Funny how time stands still when death is imminent. While I watched Herschel’s muscles contract through my periphery, his finger squeeze the trigger, I focused on his face. A cocky arrogance glittered in his colorless eyes.
I glanced down at the gun again, watched as the firing pin snapped forward; then my gaze traveled up and to my right … to him. Bad stood beside Zeke Herschel, glaring down at him, his hooded cloak mere inches from the man’s head, his silver blade glinting in the low light. Then he turned the full heat of his gaze on me. The effect was similar to the flash of a nuclear explosion. His anger, thick and palpable, hot and unforgiving, washed over me, stole my breath.
In the time it took to split an atom, Bad severed Herschel’s spinal cord. I knew this because he’d done it before. But at the same time, the tip of his silver blade sliced into my side. The moment I realized I had been nicked by Bad’s blade, Herschel flew back and crashed against the gate of the elevator so hard it rattled the building.
Then Bad turned to me, his robe and aura fusing together as one undulating mass, his blade tucked safely into the folds of the thick black matter. I realized then that I was falling. The world rushed to meet me at the exact moment arms locked around my waist, and I saw him for the first time beneath the hooded robe.
Reyes Alexander Farrow.
Dad handed me a cup of hot chocolate as we stood together outside the bar, leaning against his SUV. He had wrapped his jacket around me, as mine was still part of a crime-scene investigation. The jacket swallowed me. I was surprised, considering how thin my dad was. The arms hung to my knees. With infinite care, Dad rolled up the sleeves one at a time, relocating the cup in the opposite hand when he switched.
The elevator came to a creaking halt inside the bar, and I knew the EMTs were bringing Herschel out. I waited, my breaths shallow, as they wheeled him inside the ambulance and closed the doors. This was the same man who hit me in the bar. The same man who beat his wife into submission on a regular basis. The same man who pulled a gun on me with pure hatred in his eyes and violence in his heart. He must have figured out his wife had left his sorry ass, put two and two together, and came after me wanting revenge. Possibly even information.
And now he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life. I should’ve felt bad about that. What kind of person wouldn’t? What kind of monster relishes in the pain and suffering of others? Was I any different from Bad? From Reyes?
My heart stopped a moment when I realized, once again, that Bad and Reyes were the same being. The same creature of destruction. In fact, he must have been the blur I’d been seeing as well, swooshing around like an evil Superman. So, blurry guy equaled Bad equaled Reyes. The unholy trinity. Why did he have to be so freaking hot?
Placing a hand on my ribs where I’d felt the blade slice clean through, I marveled at the unmarred skin, the lack of blood staining my sweater. Bad had a way of slicing from the inside out. I’d been cut, but only slightly, and only an MRI could reveal the true extent of the damage.
Since I didn’t feel like I was bleeding internally, I decided to postpone the emergency room visit that would more likely end in a trip to the nuthouse than a meeting with a surgeon.
“Here’s the bullet,” a uniformed officer said to Uncle Bob. He held up a sealed plastic evidence bag for Ubie’s inspection. “It was in the west wall.”
How did it end up there? The gun was directly in front of me.
Cookie blew her nose again, unable to wrap her head around the fact that I’d almost been shot. I patted her shoulder. Her emotions drifted toward me like a tangible entity. She wanted to scold me, to tell me to be more careful, to hug me until my next birthday, but to her credit, she kept them controlled in the face of so many uniforms. Uncle Bob was talking to Garrett, who seemed in a state of shock if his pallor was any indication.
He’d laid me on the ground. Reyes. When he caught me, he’d laid me back on the ground, looked me over, paying special attention to where the tip of his blade sliced, then dissolved into nothing before my eyes with a growl. My lashes fluttered; then Garrett was over me, speaking loudly, asking me questions I couldn’t comprehend. Reyes had left palpable traces of himself. His desperation settled in every molecule in my body and began flowing through my veins. I could smell him and taste him, and I craved him now more than ever.
“This isn’t the first time this has happened, you know.”
I glanced up at Dad. Earlier, I’d begged him not to call my stepmom. He acquiesced reluctantly, swearing he’d have hell to pay when he got home. Somehow I doubted it.
“In the apartment building where you live now,” he said, standing beside me, “this exact same thing happened. You were little.”
Dad was fishing for information. He’d long suspected something had happened to me that night. He was lead detective on the case of the paroled child molester’s bizarre attack. After more than twenty years, he was putting it all together. He was right. This wasn’t the first time, or the second. It would seem Reyes Farrow had been my guardian angel for quite some time.
Unable to piece together the whys and wherefores, I decided not to think about it and focused on two things that were not Reyes related: drinking my hot chocolate and steadying my shaking hands.
“A man’s spinal cord was severed in two with absolutely no external injury to the surrounding area. No extraneous bruising. No trauma whatsoever. And you were there both times.”
He was fishing again, waiting for me to give up what I knew, what he suspected. I guess I’d changed that day, become a little withdrawn, even for a four-year-old. But why should I tell him now? It would only cause him pain. He didn’t need to know every detail of my life. And there were some things that, even at twenty-seven, were impossible to tell your father. I don’t think I could have gotten the words out if I’d tried.
I placed a hand in his and squeezed. “I wasn’t there, Dad. Not that day,” I said, lying through my teeth.
He turned away from me and closed his eyes. He wanted to know, but like I’d told Cookie, it wasn’t always better knowing.
“That was the same guy from the other night? The one who hit you?” Uncle Bob asked.
After lowering my cup, I answered, “Yes. He was trying to pick me up, I said no, he got hostile, and the rest is history.” I wasn’t about to tell them the truth. Doing so would risk Rosie’s freedom.
“I say we all go to the station and talk about this,” Uncle Bob said.
