Chapter 28
Reportedly, Wesley had been relieved to hear that she and Wick had passed the night safely and that there'd been no trace of Lozada. But since they'd left the ranch he had called Wick at half-hour intervals even though Wick had assured him he would be notified immediately if they spotted Lozada at any point on the long drive to Galveston.
Wick had insisted on taking his pickup, and he had insisted on driving. It would be a difficult and exhausting trip for him as a passenger. Driving would add more stress and strain, but she hadn't quarreled with him about it.
They avoided talking at all.
The tension between them since their last conversation was pulled so taut that one cross word could cause it to snap like an overextended rubber band. And Wick had resumed wearing one around his wrist.
She was staring out the passenger window looking disinterestedly at the scenery speeding by when his cell phone rang for the umpteenth time. "Jesus, Oren, give it a rest," he said.
"Extend to the detective my warmest regards," she said drolly.
"Yeah?"
Rennie sensed the change in Wick instantly.
She turned away from the window and saw that his free hand had tightened around the steering wheel and his lips were set in a thin, straight line.
His voice, however, was incongruently pleasant. "Well, well, well, Ricky Roy. Haven't seen you in a while. Of course the last time we shared space I didn't exactly see you, did I?"
Just knowing that Lozada was on the other end of the call caused Rennie to shudder. The fear she'd felt that evening in her kitchen was still a fresh memory. Had he been brutal or raving, he wouldn't have frightened her nearly as much, but his complacency had been terrifying.
Wick steered the pickup off the highway. "I hate to be the one to break it to you, Ricky Roy, but backstabbing someone is really a chicken-shit thing to do." When the truck came to a full stop, he pushed the gear stick into Park. "But I'm as good as new now. Pity I can't say the same for Sally Horton. Sally Horton, asshole.
You remember. The girl you killed the night you tried to kill me."
Rennie could hear Lozada's silky laughter coming through the phone. She unfastened her seat belt, moved closer to Wick, and motioned for him to hold the phone away from his ear so she could listen in.
"You must still be on mind-altering painkillers, Threadgill," he said. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Then let me clarify it. You're a cowardly woman killer."
Lozada was too clever to fall for such obvious baiting. "I read that you had barely survived an assault of some kind, and that you would have died if you hadn't received excellent emergency care."
"Rennie Newton is an excellent surgeon."
"A good fuck, too."
Rennie reacted as though she'd been struck.
She looked at Wick but could only see herself reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses.
"Is she there with you now?" Lozada asked.
"If she weren't you wouldn't be calling me, would you?"
"Strange, isn't it? You and I sharing a woman. Although," he continued smoothly, "it's not surprising that Rennie is attracted to both of us. Danger turns her on. Like when her friend Dr. Howell died. She described to me the violent way he died, and during the telling she got wet."
Rennie made a lunging grab for the telephone, but Wick caught her wrist and pushed her hand away. He shook his head furiously.
"That was only the second time we were together,"
Lozada said. "She was a wild one that night.
Even I could barely keep up with her."
"That doesn't surprise me,"
Wick said as though bored. "I always figured your murder weapons were substitutes for physical shortcomings."
Lozada tsked. "That was a cheap shot.
Unworthy of even you."
"You're right. I should have come right out and called you an impotent slug-dick."
Lozada laughed. "It really bothers you that I had her first, doesn't it? I bet you wonder how you compare. I once made her come just by licking her nipples. Can you do that?"
Rennie covered her ears, but she could still hear Wick say, "You know, Ricky Roy, I'm beginning to think you're trying to come on to me with all this dirty talk. What's the point of this call anyway?"
She didn't hear what Lozada said, but Wick's response to it was, "Wrong. If you were finished with her, you wouldn't be making this call.
You're jealous and can't stand it that she's with me now.
Eat your heart out, asshole."
He clicked off, practically threw the phone up onto the dashboard, and cursed viciously.
"He's lying," she said gruffly.
He shifted the pickup into Drive and checked for oncoming traffic, then pulled back onto the highway.
"He's lying, Wick."
He still didn't acknowledge her.
"He's manipulating you, and you're letting him!"
He turned to her then and she could feel his eyes probing hers from behind the sunglasses. But all he said was "Buckle your seat belt."
ALTHOUGH HE DISLIKED WICK THREADGILL hanging up on him, Lozada was chuckling as he clicked off his cell phone. The call had accomplished what he'd wanted. The only thing more gratifying would be to hear the conversation going on between them now. He would love to know if the seeds of doubt he'd planted had taken root in Threadgill's mind.
Rennie had probably been listening in. She would be denying everything and Threadgill would be finding her denials hard to believe. Especially since he knew all, if not more, of what Lozada's own investigation had uncovered about the young Rennie Newton.
In another life he might have been a cop, he thought philosophically. He definitely had the instincts of an undercover detective. He had turned these intuitive skills one hundred eighty degrees to serve his own needs, but he would have made as good an investigator as Oren Wesley or Joe Threadgill or little brother Wick. And, unlike them, he wasn't constrained by conscience or legality.
For instance, had the waitress at the Wagon Wheel Cafe in Dalton not been so cooperative, he might have followed her home and tortured answers out of her before killing her.
As it turned out, however, Crystal had been a gushing fountain of information. At first she had thought it curious that he was the second man in so many weeks to inquire about Rennie Newton.
"Funny that you're askin' 'bout her."
Lozada had picked at his plate of greasy enchiladas and said nonchalantly, "How so?"
"There was another fellow in here not long ago. I think it was a Sunday. He'd known her in college, he said. He was a real cutie pie." She winked. "Rennie missed out on him, same as she did on you, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome."
"Thank you. What did the other guy look like?"
She had described Wick Threadgill from his mop of blond hair to his scuffed cowboy boots. When he told Crystal that this dreamboat was a cop, she had been miffed. "Now that pisses me off," she exclaimed. "I fell for every word of his BS!"
He told her that Wick was an investigator for a sleazy medical malpractice lawyer.
"His sole job is to dig up dirt on defending doctors." Crystal fell for the story just as she'd fallen for whatever line Threadgill had given her. "Don't blame yourself, Crystal. He can be very convincing."
"Dadgum right. Must've been those big blue eyes of his." Her gaze turned wary. "You some kind of investigator too?"
He gave her his best smile. "I'm a freelance writer. I'm doing an article on Dr. Newton. About her volunteer work in underprivileged countries."
"Well, if you ask me, all her volunteering won't make up for her past
shenanigans," she said with a righteous sniff. Then for the next half hour she had regaled him with stories about the licentious Rennie Newton. "Don't guess we should've been surprised when she shot poor ol' Raymond."
Oh, yes, his trip to Dalton yesterday had been very worthwhile and informative. He had even come away with a complementary piece of chocolate meringue pie, packed up for carry-out.
Weenie Sawyer had come through for him. The threat with the scorpion had rendered all kinds of information, such as new and useful facts regarding Wick Threadgill, including the place of his last credit-card charge, which happened to be located in the town where, according to other computer data, Rennie Newton had been born and reared.
He had also learned how much property tax she paid on her ranch in a neighboring county, that she was quite a horsewoman, and that she had competed in rodeo barrel racing in her hometown. That is, when she wasn't fucking for sport.
Now, feeling flush with the success of his phone call to the former cop, he turned up the volume on the CD player in his SUV and inhaled deeply, wondering when he would catch the first whiff of coastal air.
WICK UNLOCKED THE DOOR and it swung open on rusty hinges. He motioned her inside. "Don't expect too much."
"It'll be fine."
"I don't earn a six-figure surgeon's salary."
"I said it's fine."
"Kitchen's there. Bedroom and bath through there.
Make yourself at home."
"I'd like to shower."
"I don't guarantee hot water. Clean towels--if there are any--will be in the cabinet above the commode."
Without another word she went through the door into the bedroom, closing it behind her. "Never mind, Your Highness, I'll bring in the bags by myself," he muttered.
He returned to the pickup, consciously telling himself to act naturally and not to look around for the police personnel posted to watch them. He hauled the two bags from the bed of the pickup, wincing at the pinching pain in his back.
Twice Rennie had offered to drive.
The first time he had declined the offer and politely thanked her for the courtesy. The second time he had snapped at her. That was after Lozada's call, when their strained silence had turned into hostile coexistence. The last three hours of the trip had seemed like thirty. The tension had found his weak spot and settled in. Every time he felt so much as a twinge, he cursed Lozada.
With no regard for his guest's privacy, he pushed open the bedroom door and went in. He could hear the water pipes knocking in the bathroom. A naked and soapy Rennie would be the best thing ever to grace that sorry shower, but he'd be doing himself a favor not to think about Rennie either naked or soapy or at all.
He tossed the bags onto the bed, then went to the bureau and opened the bottom drawer. Beneath a jumbled pile of his oldest and most comfortable shorts he located the mike and transmitter that had been planted there for him. Wesley had told him where they would be hidden. They would keep him in constant communication with the surveillance team.
He inserted the earpiece and spoke into the minuscule microphone. "We're here."
"Ten-four. We see you."
"Who's this?"
"Peterson. I'm heading the operation."
"Threadgill."
"Pleased to meet you."
"Where are you?"
"Best you don't know," Peterson said.
"Don't want to tempt you into looking for me and giving us away."
"Hey, Wick, how was your trip?"
"Long. Who's this?"
"Plum."
"Hey, Plum. I didn't know Oren had sent down any of his guys."
"It's a coordinated effort between Fort Worth and Galveston PD'S. Lozada was a suspect in a murder case here. Organized crime bigwig who was trying to get legalized gambling in here. Some said a church group hired Lozada."
"I'd vote for a competing organized crime bigwig."
"Me too," Plum said. "No church group could afford Lozada. Anyhow, it's an unsolved murder on their books down here, so they were willing to help us out."
"Glad to have you, Plum. Thank God it's you and not Thigpen."
"Kiss my ass, Threadgill."
"Oh, Jesus," Wick groaned. "Tell me no."
"And, while you're at it, kiss the doctor's sweet ass for me."
"I'd volunteer for that," said an anonymous voice.
"Animals," growled a distinctly female voice, obviously a policewoman.
Thigpen said, "Hey, Threadgill, leave the mike on. We want to hear everything."
"Okay, that's it," Peterson cut in sharply. "Shut up, all of you, unless you've got something to report."
"Bye-bye, boys and girls. Have fun,"
Wick taunted.
"Up yours," he heard Thigpen whisper.
He kept the earpiece in so he could hear their warnings, but he turned off the mike. Rennie emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.
When she saw him, she pulled up short. "I forgot that my bag is still--" He motioned toward the bed. "Oh. Thank you."
He could have taken it to her. He didn't. He could have excused himself and left the room. He didn't. Instead, he let her cross the room and get her bag and carry it into the bathroom with her, which she did with amazing dignity for a woman who was wet from head to toe and covered only by one of his skimpy towels.
The rear view was just as good as the front, and he enjoyed the hell out of it, although he wondered uneasily if he was turning into a slimmer, cleaner version of Pigpen.
Wick was in the kitchen when Rennie rejoined him.
"Did something die in here?"
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "An opened package of bologna. Found it in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Real slimy. Do you want to eat out or in, honey?"
"Whatever."
"No, you decide, sweetheart."
"All right, since you asked, I'd rather eat in so I don't have to dress up."
"Do you like steak?"
"Filet mignons."
"Naturally," he said as he added filets to what she had determined was a grocery list. "Only the best for you."
"Is this how you're going to be, Wick?"
He looked over at her and asked innocently.
"How am I being?"
"Sarcastic. Snide. Because if so, I'm leaving. You, Wesley, and Lozada can go to the devil. I don't know why I consented to this. Lozada probably won't even show."
Wick turned away from her and stared through the salt-encrusted window. "You're wrong, Rennie. He'll show. I don't know how or when, but he'll show. You can count on it."
The dark conviction with which he spoke made her wish for a return of his sarcasm.
At least the solemn reminder of why they were there leveled the chip on his shoulder that had been there since the call from Lozada. He insisted that she go with him to the supermarket. As he ushered her to his pickup, he said, "Lovers on a getaway do chores and run errands together."
She was glad he had insisted she go along. The house was a dreary place, and she hadn't relished the thought of being there alone, anticipating an appearance by Lozada and knowing that she was under constant observation by undercover officers.
Even sitting in the passenger seat of Wick's truck she felt conspicuous. When they stopped for a traffic light she said, "I haven't noticed anyone watching us."
"They're there."
"Can they hear us?"
"Not if I don't engage the mike."
He had explained the tiny, clear earpiece he was wearing. "Are they saying anything now?"
"The blue van two cars back just passed us off to the gray Taurus over there signaling to turn left."
She forced herself not to look and instead leaned forward to change the station on the radio.
"Very good, Rennie."
"I'm trying." As she sat back she smiled at him. He surprised her by reaching across the seats and stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
"What's that for?"
"For show. Just in case the cops aren't the only ones who have us in their sights."
That was an unnerving possibility, so she didn't protest when Wick threw an arm across her shoulders and stayed close as they walked from the parking lot into the store where he played the role of attentive and affectionate lover. He smiled at her a lot, and nudged her shoulder playfully, and asked her opinion about everything he placed in the basket, and showed off for her by juggling a trio of oranges.
They shared a cone of frozen yogurt, and when they were in line to check out, he held a Sports Illustrated in one hand and read an article while his other hand massaged her neck with the absentmindedness of someone accustomed to doing it. Had she been observing them, she would have been convinced that they were two people in love and comfortable with the relationship.
The sun was going down by the time they returned to the house. "I'll start the charcoal. While it's smoldering, let's go down to the water."
"I didn't think to bring a suit."
"Then I guess you'll have to skinny-dip."
She shot him a retiring look and headed for the bedroom. "I brought some shorts. They'll do."
When she came out a few minutes later, Wick had exchanged his jeans for a pair of baggy shorts with a stringy hem. The low-slung shorts made his chest look even wider, his waist more tapered. She made a point of not looking at his tanned, muscled calves.
He, on the other hand, took one look at her and said a soft but emphatic, "Damn."
Her face turned warm. She had changed into a black knit top with thin straps and a pair of faded denim shorts. The outfit--or perhaps Wick's reaction to it--made her feel more self-conscious than she had wearing only the towel.
"Let's go." He turned and headed for the door.
"What about those?" She pointed to the communication apparatus he'd left lying on the coffee table alongside his pistol.
"Shit. Almost forgot."
He had to put his shirt back on so he could clip the mike inside the collar and hide the thin cable to the earpiece. He stuck his handgun into the waistband of the shorts. It was covered by his long shirttail.
Holding hands, they walked to the shore and waded into the strong tide of the Gulf. It was twilight.
Only a few stragglers were on the beach.
"Afraid of sharks?" he asked.
"In water this shallow?"
"That's where most attacks occur."
"Don't we have a better chance of getting struck by lightning?"
"Or getting popped by Lozada."
She tugged on his hand, pulling him to a stop.
When he was facing her, she said, "He was lying, Wick. Those things he said were not true."
"Shh." Apparently someone was speaking to him through the earpiece. He pulled her into a close embrace and nuzzled her neck. "There's a man moving at seven o'clock, but don't turn around.
Keep up the act. But if something happens, if all hell breaks loose, you hit the surf, Rennie. Got that?"
She nodded.
He angled back, but kept his hands loosely on her waist. The current surged against their legs. Their bodies swayed together. For balance, he assumed a wider stance, placing her feet between his. He kissed her cheek just beneath her ear. His hands moved down to her hips. Another wave caught them just behind the knees. Reflexively she reached for him so she wouldn't lose her balance.
She could feel the tension in his biceps. He was playing his role well, but he was primed for action.
Then he said, "Not our man."
It had been a false alarm, but they remained as they were, with her hands resting on his upper arms and his on her bottom. Beneath her feet, the sand shifted with the current. She felt like she was losing ground and that the only solid thing in the universe at the moment was Wick's blue stare.
"He was lying, Wick."
"I know. I--"
"Do you?"
"For a few minutes there--"
"You believed him."
"Not really. Okay, for maybe half a second he had me going. He probably guessed that you were listening and said those things to embarrass you. But even if you weren't listening, he knew they would rile me. And they did. He got to me, and I acted like a jackass. I realized it about ninety seconds later, but was--"
"Too bull-headed to admit it."
"Am I allowed to complete a sentence here?"
"I'm sorry. What did you want to say?"
"I wanted to say that the way he talked about you is reason enough for me to want to kill him. And that ..."
"What?"
"That I'm going to kiss you now and make it look like I mean it."
He dipped his head and settled his mouth on hers. His tongue slipped easily past her lips and moved against hers in what felt like a mating ritual, ancient and elemental. A wave took her unawares from behind and pushed her against him.
Middles bumped together. And stayed.
"Oh man," he groaned. His fingers flexed tighter on her hips, held her firmly against him.
A burst of heat spread through her center. It all felt too good. So she pulled back.
"Wick, I can't ..." The words stuck in her throat. "I can't keep my balance."
He set her away from him. "That's enough for now anyway."
But as they walked back toward the house, his face was hard and set, his stride was long and angry, and she didn't believe for an instant that it had been enough.