"So what's that got to do with you?"
"You saw what happened, heard what happened. She accused him of raping her. Typical spaced-out Maureen. Things just finally clicked. I used to go with a boy who looked like that. He could be oh-so-nice or he could be mean--real mean, a walking ad for a women's shelter. Sure cured me of my Electra Complex damn fast, comparing him with Daddy. I . . . I think my first boyfriend raped my sister."
"And that makes you guilty?"
"I didn't protect her. I never even thought about that horny bastard alone with a ten-year-old kid. Too full of myself, fourteen and just found out why boys and girls were different. He raped her. I flat-ass know he did. And I set it up."
All those years and the little twit never told! And then another memory surfaced--her and Maureen whispering in a corner of the yard, and Maureen promising never to tell anyone about Jo and Buddy . . . .
The tears dried up, lost in the static-crackly air and leaving a scratchy feeling around her eyes. Funny how finding a key to Maureen defused the tension between her and David. Her focus changed from sad to mad. It was time to sort things out, rant and rave and throw things around a bit. Try some confrontation therapy.
She grabbed David's hand and hauled him along, stumbling over frozen ruts and tracks. She was not going to lose him to the family's skeleton in the closet. It had happened too damn many times . . . .
She wanted David. She wanted him permanently.
"Jo . . ."
He pulled back. She just latched down harder.
"Jo, what the hell are you doing?"
"We're going to have a talk, you and me and little Mo. She's going into therapy again before she screws up my life any further. Either that, or I move out and leave her with the bills!"
"Uh . . . okay. Look, Jo, slack off on the wrist. I'd like to be able to play again tomorrow. You've got strong hands, woman!"
She stared down at her fingers clamped around his wrist. It felt like she was drawing power out of the ground and feeding it to a ball of fire on the end of her arm. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to relax. Her grip creaked loud enough to hear, and strength flowed out of the muscles, leaving them limp. David peeled her hand off and shook blood back into his fingers.
"Sorry."
"Jo, you looked like some kind of witch. Your hair stood up and your eyes glowed like a cat and the world kind of turned sideways. You like to crushed my wrist. You're not big enough for that!"
"Momma cat defending her kittens. Lover, if I have any magic, I'm going to spend it holding on to you. I've never felt like this about a man before, and I'm not about to let you go. Maureen can sleep in a snow-bank, grab a blanket down at The Shelter, or curl up in the back of her rusty Tonka Toy. She comes between you and me, she's history."
David bounced along in her wake as if he trailed on a leash. Jo blinked against the pounding in her temples and tried to ease whatever she was doing. She wanted him with everything intact.
She felt a psychic tug when he stopped. What the hell was this magic thing, anyway?
"Jo . . . that gun. I'm not joking around. Maureen with a gun scares the living shit out of me."
She turned back, suddenly aware they stood on her front steps. It seemed like they'd covered two blocks in two seconds.
Jo stabbed a finger down-slope, toward the river. "That gun's going for a swim, first chance I get. If she's asleep when we go in, we take it and heave it and tell her if she tries to get another, the police chief is going to get a call with some names and addresses he might want to contact. You're not the only one. My psycho sister ain't got no business owning a gun."
Jo turned and headed up the steps again. The ice looked like somebody had dumped coffee all over it, dark stains in the blue glow of the mercury vapor yard-light. She had to watch her step all winter, what with the dogs and all.
Her glove stuck to the doorknob, wet wool on cold metal. And then inside she peeled it off and got some kind of gunk on her fingers. It was red under the hall light.
David ran a finger over the railing of the stairs and held it up for her. Red, again.
Blood.
"Somebody got hurt," he said. "Fall on the ice, most likely. You get cold enough, you don't notice it. When I was working construction one winter, about twenty below, I smashed my thumb and didn't even know it until I took a break in the warming shed. Blood like you wouldn't believe. Ruined a pair of gloves."
"Construction? You, working construction?"
He grinned at her. "Hey, even guitar players will work if they get hungry enough."
"Be careful of those hands, lover. I've got uses for them."
She climbed stairs, thinking more about Maureen and David than about which of her neighbors caught his finger in a door. It wasn't her problem. Sorting out things with her sister, was.
"Jo . . ."
She looked closer. The smears by the doorbell button were red and sticky. She looked down. Dark drops glistened on the floor, leading to a puddle smeared towards the door and across the threshold. Her brain slowed down.
About a tea-cup's worth of puddle.
Blood.
Maureen. That man . . . Brian.
Who looked so much like Buddy Johnson. Who knew where Maureen lived, who'd walked her home last night. Who left The Cave within minutes of his fight with Maureen, who easily could have gotten here before she did, who could have waited outside for her or called her and tricked
