Chapter 26
Oren answered on the first ring. Wick told him they had decided to go along with his plan.
"Dr. Newton is okay with it?"
"No," Wick said. "No more than I am.
It's hackneyed and Lozada would have to be a moron to fall for it."
"But no one has a better idea."
"I do. Arm me to the teeth and let me hunt down the bastard and blow him away."
"That plan could sorely affect your quality of life in the future."
"Which is the only reason I'm agreeing to this one. Rennie is of the same mind. It's not an ideal strategy, but it's the only one we've got going. On the plus side, it smacks Lozada right where it'll hurt most--in his ego."
"That's why it just might work."
"What did you and Grace decide?"
"The girls went. Grace stayed."
Wick smiled into the telephone. "Good for Grace."
"Yeah, well ... Listen up. By the time you get to your place in Galveston, there'll be men watching it around the clock. Don't look for them.
You won't see them. I hope not, anyway."
"Will you be coming down?"
"Would you invite your best buddy to a lovefest with your new squeeze?"
"I don't know. How kinky are we gonna get?"
"Wick."
"Sorry. I got it." If Lozada spotted Oren, he would know it was a setup.
"I'll be in touch by phone 'round the clock," Oren continued. "Keep your eyes open and check in often. If you hear a seagull fart, I want to know about it."
"Are you sure? 'Cause if they fart as much as they shit--"
"Will you stop messing around? This isn't funny."
"I know. All joking aside." And he meant it.
"Lozada's gone underground, Wick. You know what usually happens when he disappears for a few days."
"A body turns up."
"I don't like it."
"Neither do I. However, I don't think he could find us this soon."
"But it's possible. I've got people all over town talking up your affair with the surgeon who saved your life. Word has probably reached him that you and Dr. Newton are a hot item."
"Oh, he'll turn up. I'm sure of that."
He hadn't told Oren or Rennie about the red flag he'd waved in Lozada's face in the form of a nursery rhyme. Lozada wouldn't be able to resist the dare.
He signed off with Oren, then went outside to take a look around. He walked the perimeter of the house, around the barn and garage, checked inside both. Nothing seemed to be amiss. When he came back in, he and Rennie checked all the windows and doors to be certain they were locked.
She wasn't overwrought, but she had the good sense to be cautious.
"Who would have thought my stint as a juror would result in this?"
"You didn't know the defendant was going to develop a crush on you."
"That word implies an innocent, almost childlike infatuation. This is far beyond that. This is ..."
When she seemed at a loss for the right word, Wick summed it up. "Lozada."
"Even his name sounds menacing." In a subconscious gesture, she rubbed her arms as though she were chilled. "Did he honestly expect me to be flattered by his creepy attention?"
"Absolutely."
"How could he be that arrogant? He was on trial for murder. Capital murder that carried a death sentence. In that situation who could be thinking of romance?"
"No one who's rational. Only someone with Lozada's delusions of grandeur. He thinks of himself as the winning quarterback."
"In the Super Bowl for professional assassins."
"Something like that. He's one of the best at what he does. As far as we know he hasn't gone international, but why should he? He can make more money with less risk working out of Fort Worth, USA. Besides, most of the guys who do that kind of killing work deep undercover, which isn't Lozada's style. Why should he hassle with popping public officials and having entire governments and Interpol on his tail? He's a big fish in a relatively small pond."
"So what woman wouldn't welcome his attention. That's his thinking?"
"Exactly," he said. "Add to that his quest for the best. He grew up middle class. His only sibling was severely retarded and physically handicapped. His parents depleted their resources providing for him.
"So to Lozada, acquisitions are a big thing. He sees himself as a well-paid businessman who can recognize and afford the finest of everything.
To complete the package, he wants a classy woman by his side."
"What about scorpions?"
"He collects them. Yeah, gives you the heebie-jeebies, doesn't it? They're sort of like his mascot. They're nocturnal, they kill their prey at night. He wouldn't collect anything like coins or stamps or even art because that would be too ordinary. He prides himself on being exceptional."
She tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. "You've analyzed him thoroughly, haven't you?"
"I haven't been idling my time away since leaving the department. Contrary to what Oren believes, I've been busy. I've collected everything on Lozada I could get my hands on."
"Such as?"
"Public-school records. He was psychologically profiled when he was in junior high school, roughly when his criminal career began. That's where I got most of the background stuff. His sociopathic behavior, the superiority complex, have been consistent throughout his life. I've studied him inside out.
Psychologically speaking, I probably know him better than I know myself."
He paused, then said grimly, "One thing I didn't know was that he was sleeping with Sally Horton. If I had, I would have warned her to stay away from him, and from me, and I'd have been watching my back that night. If he thinks you and I are lovers ..." He didn't need to say more. "Sally Horton wasn't even important to him. You're very important, Rennie."
"And I've betrayed him with another man."
"That's how he'll see it. Don't underestimate the danger you're in. Oren has got cops and informers spreading juicy gossip about us. Lozada won't be able to tolerate our being together. You've cheated on him, and I've stolen one of his play-pretties."
"But I'm not his anything, except an obsession."
"If he thinks you're his, you're his."
"Over my dead body."
"I'd like to avoid that." He tipped up her chin so that they were looking directly at one another. "Say the word and I'll call Oren back, tell him we'll get Lozada by some other means, some way that doesn't put you in danger. I came here last night to warn you, to urge you to get far away until Lozada is out of the picture one way or the other."
"That could take a long time."
"I don't think so," he said, thinking again of the note he'd sent to Lozada last night.
"I'm already in danger, Wick. With or without you, I spurned him. Besides, I can't just up and leave my responsibilities. No, let me put it another way. I won't."
"All right then, how soon can you be ready?"
"You aren't thinking of leaving tonight?"
"As soon as you get packed."
"Packing isn't the issue. You're less than twenty-four hours out of the hospital and you left days before you should have."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Your back is stiff and sore. You can't walk across a room without grimacing. Imagine driving across the state. You have no stamina, and I'm still afraid of infection and pneumonia, both of which could be fatal.
You might've popped some stitches."
"You said the incision looked fine."
"There are many more sutures inside than out.
Promise me that at the first sign of tenderness in your abdomen, you'll tell me."
"I'll tell you. If I start feeling really rotten between here and Galveston, I'll stop at the nearest hospital."
"We're not leaving tonight," she said stubbornly.
"I've deferred to you and Wesley on the police matters. But your health is my domain. We're going nowhere until you've had more rest. End of argument."
They shared the bed since he refused to leave her downstairs alone to sleep on the couch. He said,
"It's a police matter to which you should defer. End of argument."
Being a true-blue gentleman, he kept his pants on and lay outside the covers. He dozed, but falling into a deep sleep just wasn't going to happen tonight, partially because he had slept so long during the day, partially because he was alert to every sound, partially because he was trying to think with the guile of Lozada, and partially because he was acutely aware of Rennie sleeping beside him.
The features of her face and the contours of her body had relaxed in sleep. One hand rested outside the covers, near him. It lay palm up, the slender fingers curved inward. It looked susceptible and defenseless, not like the strong, skilled hand of a surgeon. She was the most self-reliant and capable woman he'd ever met. He admired her accomplishments. But he also felt protective of her.
And he wanted to make love to her.
God, did he. He wanted to because ... well, because he was a man and that was what men wanted to do with women. But it wasn't just that. His humor, charm, even anger, had failed to pierce her hard shell of self-containment. Dented it perhaps, but hadn't broken through. Would he be able to reach her if he penetrated her body? It was a provocative thought that left him agitated on several levels.
She shrank from his touch, but he didn't think it was because she disliked him. The reaction was a self-imposed conditioned reflex, part of that control she was so hung up on, a legacy of the Raymond Collier incident. Passion had landed her in a terrible fix. That didn't necessarily mean that she was any less passionate. She just no longer submitted to it.
In spite of her reserve, he could imagine her flushed with arousal. Today when he kissed her, for a few incredible seconds, it hadn't been all one-sided. She hadn't permitted herself to kiss him back, but she had wanted to. And that wasn't the pompous disclaimer of a braggart who'd kissed a lot of women.
He hadn't imagined that catch in her breath or that almost-but-not-quite surrendering of her tongue. Her skin had felt feverish even through her clothes.
He hadn't had to coax a response from her, either. Two strokes of his thumb and her nipple was hard, ready to be drawn into his mouth.
He stifled a groan by pretending to clear his throat. Beside him, Rennie slept on, undisturbed and unaware of his misery. He rolled onto his side to face her. If she woke up and challenged him, he could truthfully claim that his back had begun to ache. He couldn't really see her anyway. It was too dark in the room.
But he could feel her soft breath, and he didn't need to see her in order to feed his fantasies. During those long nights of surveillance he'd had plenty of time to memorize the features of her face.
He summoned up the memory of her removing the dress she'd worn the night of the wedding. were those inadequate patches of lavender lace the lingerie of a dispassionate woman? Hell no.
One by one, moving slowly, he undid the buttons of his fly. If she woke up now, she would raise the standard for freaking out, because his back wasn't all that was stiff. He was grateful that his sexual apparatus hadn't suffered permanent damage and had resumed full, operational capacity, but it seemed to be trying to prove itself better fit than before the injury.
That pressure having been relieved, he closed his eyes and willed himself if not to sleep, at least to clear his mind and rest. He would not remember how good that kiss had tasted, or how perfectly her breast had molded to his hand. He would not think of her, warm and soft, under the light covers, or of that sweet place where she would be even warmer and softer. Taking him in. Enveloping him.
A HORSE NICKERED, WAKING HIM WITH the impact of a clanging alarm clock. He lay perfectly still, eyes open, holding a lungful of air he didn't dare exhale for fear of missing another sound. He didn't have to wait long before hearing another equine snuffle.
The noises hadn't awakened Rennie. She continued to sleep soundly. Despite the soreness in his back, he came off the bed with the alacrity of a cat and picked up his pistol where he'd left it within easy reach on the nightstand. He tiptoed to the window, pressed himself against the adjacent wall, and leaned forward only far enough to look out.
He watched for several moments but detected no movement in the yard or in the clearing between the rear of the house and the barn, but instinct told him something was going on inside that building. Maybe a mouse had spooked one of the horses. Maybe the bobcat had a mate who'd come looking for him.
Or maybe Lozada was paying them a call.
He crept across the bedroom and, after checking first to see that Rennie was still asleep, slipped from the room and moved soundlessly across the gallery.
At the top of the stairs he paused to listen. He waited for a full sixty seconds but heard nothing except his own pulse beating against his eardrums.
He took the stairs as rapidly as possible but was mindful of creaking treads that would give away his presence. The living room appeared just as they'd left it several hours ago. Nothing had been disturbed. The front door was locked and bolted.
His pistol was cradled between raised hands as he approached the door leading into the kitchen. He hesitated, then sprang into the room and swept it with his outstretched hands. It was empty, as was the walk-in pantry.
He unlocked the back door and slipped through, walking in a ninety-degree crouch but still feeling exposed. He took cover behind the patio chair in which he'd sat earlier. It wasn't very substantial cover, but darkness also provided concealment. He blessed the skinny moon.
He waited and listened. Soon the unmistakable sounds of movement came from within the barn. He slipped from behind the chair and covered the distance at a run. When he reached the barn, he flattened himself against the exterior wall, hoping to meld into its shadow. He also needed it for support. He was dizzy, out of breath, sweating profusely, and his back felt like he'd been impaled on a railroad spike.
That's what a few days in the hospital would do for you, he thought. Make you a weakling. Against any foe stronger than a pissant, he might be in trouble. But he had a pistol, and it was fully loaded, and, at the very least, he was going to give the bastard a fight.
He inched along the wall until he reached the wide door, where he stopped to listen. And what he heard bothered him, because he heard absolutely nothing. But the silence was heavy, not empty; he sensed another presence. He knew someone was in there. He knew it in his gut.
Whoever it was had stopped whatever he'd been doing. Something, maybe his own keen instinct, had alerted him to Wick's presence. He was now listening for Wick with the same intensity that Wick was listening for him.
The standoff stretched into its second minute.
Nothing moved. There wasn't a sound. Even the horses had become completely still and silent inside their stalls. The atmosphere was thick with expectation. Wick felt the weight of it against his skin.
Acrid sweat ran into his eyes. It trickled down his rib cage and between his shoulder blades. It stung his incision. His hands, still gripping his pistol, were slippery with it. He reasoned he could either stand there and slowly dissolve or he could end it here, now.
"Lozada! Have you got balls enough to face me like a man? Or are we gonna continue this silly game of hide-and-seek?"
Following a short silence, a voice came to him from the other side of the wall. "Threadgill?"
It wasn't Lozada. Lozada had refined his voice into a low-pitched purr. This one had the nasal intonation of a Texas native.
"Identify yourself."
The man stepped from behind the wall into the opening.
Wick's hands tensed around the pistol and kept it aimed at head level. Toby Robbins raised his hands. "Whoa, cowboy."
His easygoing manner didn't faze Wick.
Cops had died when fooled by that. "What the hell are you doing sneaking around in the dark?"
"I could ask you the same thing, couldn't I? But since you're the one with the firearm, I'll be pleased to answer first. If you'll direct that thing somewhere else."
"Not until I hear why you're in Rennie's barn."
"I was checking on things."
"You gotta do better than that."
"Heard one of her horses got a nasty scratch from a bobcat."
"Who told you?"
"Game warden. I came to check it out, see if I ought to call the vet."
"At this time of night?"
Toby Robbins glanced toward the eastern horizon where by now the sky was blushing pink.
"It's practically lunchtime."
Wick glanced toward the gate. It was closed and locked, no vehicle parked beyond it. "How'd you get here?"
"Walked."
He looked down at the man's feet. He was wearing athletic shoes rather than cowboy boots.
Robbins tapped the left side of his chest.
"The cardiologist recommends at least three miles a day. That's about a round trip between our place and Rennie's. I like to get the miles in before it gets too hot."
Reluctantly Wick lowered the pistol and stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans. Or would have if they'd been buttoned. Hurriedly he did up his fly with one hand. "You know, Robbins, I ought to go ahead and shoot you just for being stupid. Why didn't you call first? Or turn on a light, for godsake?"
"The light switch is in the tack closet.
It was locked. Rennie keeps an extra key above the door. I was looking for it when I heard you. Didn't know it was you. Thought it might be another bobcat."
Wick eyed the older man distrustfully. He didn't think he was lying, he just wasn't telling the whole truth. "Rennie told me she put antiseptic on the scratch and thought it would heal up in a day or two. If she had thought the horse needed a vet, she would have called one."
"Doesn't hurt to get a second opinion."
Robbins turned and reentered the barn.
Despite his bare feet, Wick followed. As long as he stayed in the center aisle he would be okay. As stables went, Rennie's was as clean as an operating room.
Robbins went straight to the tack closet and ran his hand along the top of the doorjamb. He came away with a key. He unlocked the closet door, reached inside, and, an instant later, the overhead lights came on.
Paying no attention to Wick, he entered a stall, speaking softly to the mare as he moved in behind her. He located the scratch on the horse's rear leg, then hunkered down to examine it more closely.
When he'd finished, he left the stall, moving around Wick as though he were an inanimate object. He returned to the closet, switched off the lights, locked the closet door, and replaced the key where he'd found it.
Wick fell into step behind him. When they got outside, he said, "That scratched mare wasn't your only reason for coming over here this morning, was it?"
The older man stopped and turned. He gave Wick a look that could've scoured off paint, then he moved to the corral fence and leaned against it.
For the longest time he kept his back to Wick and focused on the sunrise. Eventually he fished a small pouch of tobacco and rolling papers from the pocket of his plaid shirt that had white pearl snaps in lieu of buttons.
He spoke to Wick over his wide shoulder.
"Smoke?"
"Sure."