Abandoned: A Thriller (24 page)

He hangs up, no
good-bye
or
thanks, Smoky
, irking me further. I scowl into my coffee and take a gulp, when I usually take a sip. The taste and the caffeine, as always, mollify me a little.

A knock comes on the door, and I groan. “Why?” I complain. I plod over to answer it myself, defying anyone stupid enough to come knocking this early to have
any
problem with my hurricane hair and frayed bathrobe.

I open the door to find a woman in her early forties. Age and personal style have cast her looks somewhere between pretty and matronly. She already has herself fully together this early in the morning; her makeup is perfect, her hair is styled, and she’s wearing shirts and slacks with a thin sweater. The slacks are something I would wear, while the sweater reminds me of my grandmother. It’s slightly surreal. Her smile is cheerful and blinding.

All morning people should be killed. Except for Tommy and Bonnie, of course.

“Yes?” I ask, keeping my voice on the neutral side of pleasant.

“Good morning,” she says, saying it with that long
o
that I can’t stand:
good moooorning.
It seems to be favored by overly cheerful people who come selling magazine subscriptions or God. “My name is Darleen Hanson? I’m on the current homeowner’s association board?”

Another thing I can’t stand: people who turn all their statements into questions.

I sip my coffee, fighting the urge to snarl. “Yes?”

She soldiers on, undaunted by my unfriendliness. “Well, now, we’re a new board, and we want to get off on the right foot—a good start, you know? I think you’ll agree that the last board was a little bit lax. Letting people leave their trash cans out on the curb for an hour longer than they should per the bylaws, things like that.”

“Okay.”

My one-word responses don’t seem to be getting through to her. “Anyhoo, I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I have to get to work, as I’m sure you do too”—another blinding smile is flashed, a we’re-all-in-this-together-aren’t-we smile—“and I’m coming by to ask you for a little favor.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“Well, now, one of the bylaws states that vehicles need to be parked inside the garage. Leaving them out on the driveways everywhere is so unsightly, don’t you agree? So if you could just start parking your car inside each night, we’d really appreciate it. Okay?” She ends with her biggest, most beaming smile yet.

I lean forward and look at my driveway. Yep, there’s my car. I lean back again and sip from my coffee, staring at Darleen, who’s waiting for a response.

I decide to be polite. This woman means no harm, I’m sure. She’s asked nicely enough, and not once did her eyes widen at the sight of the scars on my face or flick with disapproval to my state of disarray.

“Listen, Darleen. I work for the FBI. There are times when I need to leave immediately, times when, quite literally, ten or twenty seconds can make a difference. So I’m more comfortable parking my car in the driveway. I’m sure you can understand.”

She nods, smiles again. “Of course I can—and how interesting! Our very own FBI agent! But I’m afraid a bylaw is a bylaw, and you’ll have to park inside. I appreciate your cooperation, I really do.”

The smile remains, but something in the quality of it has changed. I have misjudged this woman. There’s more steel than vapor behind that smile and those eyes, along with a touch of ugly busybodyness.

Cool. I can play this game, too!

I smile at her, nice and wide. I take a sip from my cup, wink, and say, “It’s never going to happen.” Then I close the door in her face.

I walk back over to the table, where Tommy and Bonnie are laying out plates of waffles and eggs and bacon. I have a warm, happy feeling in my stomach.

“Can’t say that was well handled,” Tommy remarks.

“Maybe not. But come on. Someone’s going to try to tell me I need to park my car inside my garage?” I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“I happen to agree,” he says, smiling, “but I know her type. You just started a war.”

I grab a slice of bacon and bite off a piece, grinning at him. “Well, one of two things will happen in that instance. Either I’ll beat her into submission, or you’ll go and smooth things over with the HOA for me. If they’re all women, you’ll have them eating out of your hand in no time.”

“Manipulative,” Bonnie observes.

“Realistic,” I assert.

She giggles, and I follow suit. Tommy shakes his head and sighs, but I know he’s happy too. Nothing like some suburban politics to make us all feel, well,
normal.

Normal’s hard for this family.

“Will Kirby be coming today?” Bonnie asks me.

Last night, we’d discussed what was going on. I’d agonized over what to tell her and had decided, in the end, on full disclosure. I thought Bonnie could handle it, and I was right. She took it in stride, asking few questions and accepting both the necessity and wisdom of a bodyguard.

“You’ll call her and tell her where to meet you,” Tommy says to me. “After you brief her, she’ll park herself near Bonnie’s school.”

“So that’s a yes, honey,” I say. “You ready for that?”

She shrugs. “Kirby’s cool. And I guess she’ll try to stay out of sight, right?”

“Do you want her to?”

She struggles with something. “I like Kirby, but … it’s hard enough fitting in at school sometimes, you know? If she can stay back a little, that’d be great.”

I kiss her on the top of her head, saddened by her struggles to assimilate, gladdened that she cares. “I’ll tell her.”

“Don’t worry,” Tommy says. “She’ll only get close if something’s happening.”

“Didn’t you say there’d be some other guy too?” she asks. I nod. “Kirby can’t watch you 24/7 by herself. Do we know who that’s going to be?” I ask Tommy.

“No. She just said she had someone good.”

“I’ll make sure she introduces him to you,” I tell Bonnie. After she introduces him to me. “Time for you to go, babe. Don’t miss your bus.”

She rolls her eyes. “I never miss my bus.” She gives me a hug, goes over and gives Tommy a hug, grabs her backpack, and heads out the door with a final “Bye!”

I stare at the door once it’s closed and I sigh. “You know the hugs are going to stop soon, right?” I ask Tommy, a little wistfully.

“Surprised they haven’t stopped already,” he says.

I scowl at his back. “Not helpful.” He says nothing, but for some reason I get the sense that he’s smiling. No one takes me seriously around here. “I’m going to take my shower,” I say, flouncing off in high color.

Some mornings it’s nice to play the princess. Almost comforting.

I’m enjoying the usual heavenly morning spray, eyes closed, when Tommy opens the shower door and appears naked next to me in the rising steam. He wraps his arms around me and hugs me to him. The contact is exquisite. The smell of apricot scrub hangs in the air.

“Do we have time?” he asks, a low rumble in my ear that makes me shiver.

I turn around, grabbing him in a way that makes him shiver too. “Does that answer your question?”

He lifts me up, something that I never fail to find incredibly sexy. He grabs my ass and hoists me off the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist and we kiss while the water runs down our faces.

“Do you think we’ll still be doing this in our sixties?” I ask him.

“As long as my back holds out,” he murmurs, covering my neck with distracting kisses.

I giggle at his answer, but that dies away soon enough. Desire and laughter are kissing cousins, but they don’t belong in the same room together.

I walk into the hospital feeling refreshed and alert. It has been quite a morning, between the director’s phone call and HOA Darleen, but coffee, hugs from my daughter, and some satisfying last-minute shower sex have lifted my spirits considerably.

Alan and Burns are waiting at reception. Alan’s chatting with Kirby, who I’d called and asked to meet me. There’s another man standing off to the side. He’s thin and bald and watchful. He’s listening to everything without participating in any of it, and something about him makes me certain that this is Kirby’s second man. He seems mild enough on the surface, but I smell “predator.”

Kirby spots me first and flashes one of those über-white beach-bunny grins. “Hey, boss woman!”

I smile as I walk up to them. “Hi, Kirby. Alan, Detective Burns.”

Kirby frowns, cocks her head, and peers at me. “Hmmmmm,” she says.

“What?”

“You have that freshly fucked look.” She sidles up next to me and bumps me with a hip. “Did someone get lucky this morning?”

I’m mortified to find that I’m blushing. For his part, Alan smiles.
Burns watches it all, fascinated. “None of your beeswax. Can I talk to you outside?”

She winks. “Sure thing. Come on, Raymond,” she says to the thin, bald man. “Time to go to work.”

Raymond doesn’t respond, but I get the idea he’ll follow. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Alan and Burns.

The three of us exit through the automatic doors. The sky above is covered in clouds. It’s a gloomy morning, though that could change by noon.

“Smoky, this is Raymond,” Kirby says, introducing us.

“Pleased to meet you,” I say, not really meaning it.

Raymond doesn’t speak, but he nods. Barely. He has green eyes. They contain a faraway look that I don’t like.

“Raymond and I did some work together down in Central America,” Kirby says. “He’s got great instincts, and I trust him.”

I don’t, but I let it go.

“Bonnie had some concerns,” I say. I tell her about our conversation at breakfast.

“Jeez,” Kirby says, somehow pouting and rolling her eyes at the same time. “You’d think having a bodyguard would be, like, a status symbol for a kid or something. But, hey, no problema. We’ll keep back unless we gotta kill someone, right, Raymond?”

Raymond nods, still wordless. I decide I’ve had enough of his menacing-silence act.

“I need to hear your voice,” I say to him. “If you’re going to guard my daughter, I need to hear your voice.”

He doesn’t reply. He glances at Kirby and raises his eyebrows.

“Uhhh … awwwkward!” Kirby says. “Raymond can’t talk, babe. Someone tried to cut his throat a few years back. He lived, but his vocal cords are screwed.”

“Oh. Shit. Sorry, Raymond,” I manage. “Now I feel like a complete idiot.”

Raymond reaches inside his jacket. He comes out with a notepad and writes something down. He hands it over to me. I read:

I hand the notebook back to him. It’s a strange reassurance, this promise of murder, and disturbingly comforting. “Fair enough,” I say. What else
is
there to say?

“Cool stuff,” Kirby says. “You have her school address?”

I’d written it down on a sheet of paper this morning. I give it to her.

“Raymond and I will go there now. We’ll do the first day together, get the lay of the land, and then we’ll figure out the best use of our time.” She smiles, dazzling me. “Righty-right?”

“Sounds good.”

“Right on!” she cries, lifting both hands, fingers configured in the universal horns salute of rock-and-roll lovers everywhere. They walk away like a spiritual Mutt and Jeff: the assassin who can’t talk and the one who talks too much. I watch them leave and then head back into the hospital. I reunite with Alan and Burns.

“Interesting crowd you hang with,” Burns observes. “Girl scared me, but at least she’s cute. The undertaker-looking guy just gave me the creepy-crawlies.”

“Me too,” I admit.

Hopefully the bad guys will feel the same.

Heather Hollister’s eye movements have slowed. They no longer dance over everything like a crack-addled ballerina, now they simply stare. She is lying on her back, arms folded over her stomach, staring at the white hospital ceiling. Her mouth is closed. Only the rise and fall of her chest and the occasional blink let us know she’s alive.

Burns stands just inside the room, staring at her. His mouth has fallen open, and his eyes are filled with a heartbreaking blend of raw hurt and exhausted spirit. I imagine he is seeing her at twelve, staring up at him with solemn eyes, telling him to catch the man who killed her daddy. It was a promise he’d been unable to keep, and things have gotten far, far worse.

He moves toward her bed. He finds a chair, and sits down next to her. His movements belong on a much older man. He reaches over and takes one of her hands in his. Alan and I stand back, watching, feeling like intruders at a funeral.

“Heather, honey, it’s Daryl Burns.” He squeezes her hand. “Can you hear me?”

I imagine the faintest twitch of her eye.

Burns sighs. “I guess I really let you down, honey. I’m sorry about that. One thing I can tell you, though, is we got that snake that called himself your husband. Douglas was up to his ears in this.”

This time I’m certain; I see the faintest tremor in the placid lake Heather’s become. Burns senses it as well. He cranes forward.