Thicker Than Blood (31 page)

Goldie would have bet her paycheck that wishy-washy Andrew Greer would cop out. She had been flabbergasted when he telephoned to thank her and say he was calling a board meeting. He hadn’t sounded like the same man she had talked to in that office.

And there was Peter’s discovery of that strange sheet of paper beneath the rug in the Emerson woman’s office. Rachel would be interested in that, too.

Grasping the arm of the rusty, blackened knocker from the cabin’s front door, Goldie tapped it against the plate and waited, gazing down at her feet, thinking her shoes looked like the Mexican army had borrowed them for a million-mile march. She’d have to stop by Kmart for another pair.

Lifting the knocker again, Goldie slammed it hard against the plate. Where was Rachel? She banged on the door with her fist. No response. She tried the knob. It turned.

The door swung inward. Still no sign of Rachel.

Brows a sharp line above her eyes, Goldie stepped inside. The living room was dark and empty, drapes closed, fireplace cold. She went to the bedroom and yanked open the closet door. It banged against the wall. Eight empty hangers swung a little on the rod. No clothes. On the floor of the closet, like a pool of blood, lay a red scarf.

Chapter Fifty-two

Hank had been adamant. “I don’t want to hear any more about it,” he had said, a muscle jumping along his jawline, as it had since he’d heard Rachel’s story. “I’m glad your father is okay, but we are clearing out of here.”

He’d wanted to leave the rental car behind. “Whoever was shooting at you out there by Coyote got a good look at that Toyota.”

“But when you go into town or whatever, I’ll be trapped without a car. I need to be able to escape,” Rachel had insisted.

Hank had relented, had even paid extra to park it in a closed garage.

Now he set the suitcases down in front of the furnished condo on the outskirts of San Jose and tried a key in the lock of the unfamiliar front door. Late-morning sun drowned the blue of the sky. The lock didn’t open.

“We have to call Goldie right away. She thought she might drive up this morning. If she did, she’s probably called out the Special Forces by now. Why did we have to come here?” Rachel muttered while Hank tried the second key, which worked.

“It was my fault,” Hank shouted. “Okay? The subject is closed.”

“This guy could have offed me a dozen times. He didn’t,” she said, following Hank up the inside stairs.

“Look,” he pointed. “There’s even a fireplace.”

Ignoring him, Rachel marched to the kitchen. When she had unloaded the plastic bags she’d brought in, she brought her fist down on the sink and burst out, “I hate condos. There are twenty-two of these exactly alike. You have to count the doors to figure out which is yours.”

“Of course. There should be a sign: Rachel Chavez is hiding here.” Hank touched her shoulder. “You aren’t moving in for the rest of your life.”

“I was just beginning to get used to that cabin.” With morose flips of the wrist, Rachel opened each cabinet, not really bothering to look inside. “I want a salad. I’m sick of frozen peas,” she said, knowing it sounded childish, but unable to stop herself.

“Rachel.…” Hank touched her cheek. “Believe me, I do understand. It’s got to end soon.” He pulled her toward him.

A tear flowed over the inside corner of her eye. “I know it sounds silly, but I miss Clancy. He’s been my friend for a lot of years. No place is home without him. I just want this over,” she said quietly and moved away.

Hank left Rachel to unpack, made a list of staples they would need, and left to hunt out a grocery store.

Her spirits sank from doleful to wretched. Was her father really safe, or did this man they called El Jefe have some stake in the horror that engulfed Rachel? Was he playing his own game?

Dismally, she took her few belongings from the suitcase and stowed them in drawers, wondering how long it would be before another frenzy sent her to rush them away to yet another drawer in another town. What had she done to land herself in this predicament?

A paper-wrapped something, the shape of a pencil, fell to the floor as she yanked the last pair of jeans from the suitcase. She picked it up. One of the damned syringes. She must have scooped it up with the rest of her things. She wished she had some mind-altering drugs to go with it.

Hank returned. Without lettuce. She didn’t even mention it.

When they had emptied the sacks and put things away, he put his arms around her and studied her face. “You look like a lost child.”

She only shrugged.

“I know it’s been rough on you,” he said. “We’ve got the rest of the day. What would you like to do?”

“You’re asking me? You’re not just going to lock me up in this contemptible place?”

“You can lie down in the back seat until we’re sure there’s no one following us. And we can’t go anywhere we might be seen. But—”

“I’d like to see the ocean,” she cut in, already giddy with the thought of a little freedom. “Is that too far?”

He thought for a moment. “No, I guess we could do that.”

By the time they got to the tiny beach, it was nearly dark. The sun’s scarlet halo marked where it had drowned in the Pacific, and to the east, wisps of clouds were flirting with the rising moon.

Hank found a place where a rock blocked them from the casual observer but allowed them a view of anyone who chanced upon the beach.

“I feel like an old time gunslinger,” Rachel said. “Always sit with your back to a wall, your face to a door.” She took off her shoes, exulting in the feeling of still-warm sand under her toes, and ran fingers through hair that felt coarse from all the bleaching and dying.

“Aren’t you going to take yours off?” She pointed at his shoes, then dropped to the sand, grabbed one of his feet, and when he toppled, whisked off his loafers and ran toward the water.

“Don’t you dare,” he yelled, dashing after her, grabbing her about the waist and tickling as she poised to toss one of the shoes into the sea. They both crashed to the sand in a giggling heap.

Rachel writhed, then reached her hands to the back of his neck and brought his mouth to hers.

“This is a public beach,” he said when they drew apart.

“I was going to speak to you about your wanton behavior,” she said, rolling over and propping her chin on her hand. The waves were making soft fizzing sounds a few feet from their heads. “There’s some brush over there,” she added solemnly.

“Are you serious?”

“Well, okay, here will do.” She pulled him back down on the cooling sand, and watched moonlight dance across his slightly bewildered face as she unbuttoned his shirt.

They lay, bare legs still tangled, the breeze beginning to cool the air. Hank rubbed a five-o’clock-shadowed chin against her hair. “When this is all over—”

She cut him off, “It will never be over.”

“Yes, it will. All things pass, even this, and when it is—”

“No.” She drew a finger across his lips. “Don’t.”

“Why not?”

She wanted to say, Even if this is ever over, I’ll still be an alcoholic. You don’t know that, do you? Alcoholics aren’t very stable people. We live from one AA meeting to the next, and I haven’t been to a meeting in weeks. Instead she said, “Just treasure the moment. Never mind the future,” and turned to gaze at the sea. Far away, the lights of a boat bobbed with the waves.

She stood, dressed, and began walking. The sand beneath her feet was cool.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the car,” she said, her voice was so low it was almost a croak.

When, after a few steps, she looked back, he was still staring at her, the ache of confusion written in his eyes.

Rubbing the back of her hand across her lips, she returned and sat down again. “Remember when you said it’s funny how sour things can become? Well, it isn’t. It isn’t funny at all.”

After a time, Hank rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “What are you thinking?”

A small tear left a damp streak in its wake as it slid down her cheek. “That plants always try to bloom when they think they’re going to die.”

Chapter Fifty-three

The next morning arrived wrapped in a fog that pressed itself against walls and crept under the doors.

They slept late and rose reluctantly. After a haphazard breakfast, Rachel reached for the phone to call Goldie. Hank took it out of her hand.

“But I don’t know if she’s picked up her messages. She’s either been to the cabin or she’s been trying to call. By now she’ll be certain someone is boiling us in oil.” Rachel reached for the phone again.

“Better not make any calls from here.”

“It’s just to Goldie.”

“Maybe especially Goldie. If that Mexican Mafioso could follow me, how do we know someone isn’t tapping her phone?”

“What about your cell phone?”

“I’m not sure how, but I think someone could get a fix on that, too,” Hank said. “I need to run some errands in town. I’ll call her from a pay phone and tell her everything’s okay.”

“I can’t stand being cooped up like a prize pig.”

“I know. I know. That’s why we got away yesterday.”

“It wasn’t enough. It made it worse.”

Hank put his hands on her shoulders and shook her a little. “Don’t go out.” He said the words slowly, then turned and moved toward the door. “Don’t,” he said again, then left.

Twenty minutes later Rachel was flinging her crossword puzzle across the table, eyeing her watch and craving lettuce and tomatoes and blue-cheese dressing. For the second time, she checked the refrigerator and cabinets, banging the doors. Nothing looked fit to eat. And she had forgotten to ask Hank to pick up some salad makings.

Outside, the fog had slunk away, leaving a bright, cloudless sky. Hank is paranoid, she thought, dropping the kitchen curtain back in place.

If I’m stuck here even five more minutes, I may start screaming and not be able to stop. If only I had my revolver—or any weapon, even a knife maybe.

She went to the kitchen and opened a drawer: only three knives, all pitifully flimsy and hopelessly dull. Then her eye caught on the syringe packet she had tossed in with the knives.

She did have a weapon.

333

Checking her rearview mirror every thirty seconds and eyeing all cars with cold suspicion, Rachel drove into town, located a supermarket, and left the Toyota down the street at the back of a McDonald’s parking lot. Hoping no one would notice the car’s several bullet holes, she walked back half a block to the grocery.

Rachel selected three different kinds of lettuce, then added some spinach. Looking for the checkout, she found herself in the liquor section. She reached out and touched a bottle of Napa Valley Chardonnay. Why not? I’ll probably be shot in my sleep or gunned down in the street anyway. She placed the bottle in her basket.

Leaving the store, a sharp wind caught the grocery bag, nearly wresting it from her fingers. She set it down to get a better grip. When she looked up, a young man, probably out of his teens but still in search of manhood, was making his way between the cars toward the store entrance. He swung his gaze in her direction, then ducked his dark head, protecting his face from the wind. As he reached the store entrance, the silver rivets in his black leather jacket caught the sun.

Was he…? She was certain he was. Had he recognized her? Rachel didn’t think so.

She backed down the street toward McDonald’s, eyes fixed on the grocery store entrance. She got into the car, put on her sunglasses, and brushed her hair forward. The man in the black jacket was still in the store. She started the car and waited.

The automatic doors busily opened and closed, spitting out basket-pushing shoppers. But no spindly guy in a black leather jacket. Had she somehow missed him? No, there he was, thin arms in black leather sleeves, one hand thrust in a pocket, the other carrying a plastic sack.

She craned her neck to follow his passage to an aging panel truck, the body a blotchy white. Rachel was certain she had seen that truck before: circling her garage the day her apartment was burglarized.

And its driver was a dead ringer for the guy who had hung around her hotel.

He turned, seeming to stare in her direction as if seeking her out. Then he climbed into the van and drove slowly along the street toward her.

Was he going to stop? Say something to her? But no. The van rolled on by.

Easing her car onto the road, Rachel stayed a block behind as he drove casually, at moderate speed, taking the freeway north several miles before exiting onto a state highway. She settled into the easy pace, thinking that following someone was really quite easy.

Eight miles later, as she topped a rise, she was dismayed to find the panel truck had disappeared. She examined every vehicle ahead of her. Not one was a white van. She had blinked at the wrong time.

By the time she noticed the small county road that ran east, she had to cut the wheel sharply, spilling some of the groceries, to turn onto it. But yes, a quarter-mile or so away was the van. Slowing, to put a little more space between them, she glanced at the groceries that had spilled on the floor. An orange tag dangled from the spinach: Organically grown.

Something gnawed at her.

Organic farming.

When Hank had talked of his time in Brazil, he had mentioned that organic farming didn’t work because of the insects and they had to resort to dusting. Crop dusting. He had taught the native farmers, had flown a crop duster.

Like the drug-smuggling plane that crashed?

She tried to remember exactly how he looked, what he said, when she confronted him in the cabin with the fact that he knew all the people who turned up dead. Except Lonnie.

Hank had been indignant. And she had believed him because she wanted to.

Dear God! It couldn’t be Hank alone, but is he involved in some diabolical scheme?

Was that why he kept moving her around? So no one would know where she was? How much did she really know about him?

Was that why Hank had come on to her, become her friend, and more?

But why?

Because she knew something.

What do I know?

She began to recite in her head everything she thought she knew—about the car that killed Jason; about the crop duster that crashed, disappeared, and reappeared in a warehouse. That Charlotte had not committed suicide, but was murdered. That Lonnie had died from an overdose of selenium.