Fatal Strike (4 page)

Yet, he clicked the number the message had been sent from, and hit “call.” It was brutally early, but Matilda wouldn’t want to wait for a callback, not about this. The phone rang twelve times. He had almost given up when the line clicked open. There was a brief pause. “Hello?”

It was a youthful female voice. Not Matilda.

“Hi, sorry about the hour. Can I speak to Matilda?”

A breathless squeak answered him. Nothing comprehensible.

“Hello?” he prompted. Then more loudly. “Hello?”

A male voice spoke into the phone. “Hi. Who am I speaking with?”

“My name is Miles Davenport,” he said. “I’m looking for Matilda.”

“Well.” The guy’s voice was heavy. “She’s, ah . . . she’s dead.”

Miles’ mind flash-froze. “Huh?”

“Like I said. A week ago.”

“A week . . . ?” That was the day Matilda had made the call. Miles struggled to organize his thoughts. “Who are you?”

“I’m Mike Stafford. Her granddaughter’s husband.”

“I see. I . . . I’m sorry for your loss. How did she die?”

The guy paused. “Haven’t been watching the news lately, huh?”

“No,” Miles admitted. “I’ve been out of town for a few weeks.”

“She was murdered,” Mike Stafford told him. “Home invasion. Some drugged-up asshole broke in. Threw her down the stairs.”

The news sucked him down. The gravity load on his guts tripled.

“Ah . . . I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Could you tell me the name of the detective who’s got the investigation?”

“You know something about it?” The guy’s voice sharpened.

“No,” Miles said. “But Matilda called the day she died, and left me a message. I didn’t take the call, but the cops might want to know.”

“Calm down, Amy,” the guy muttered, evidently to his wife. “Okay, don’t see why not. His name is Detective Barlow.” He rattled off a telephone number, which Miles committed to memory.

“The funeral’s today,” the guy went on. “Six
P.M.
at the Merriweather Presbyterian Chapel. If you want.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Miles groped for words. “Give my condolences to your wife. I gave her a jolt when I asked for Matilda. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, man. Not your fault. It’s okay. Whatever.”

Miles closed the conversation with what grace he could, and sat there, eyes squeezed shut.

Holy fuck. Matilda Bennet? Tension mounted in his body.

He’d thought he was as cold as ice, an orbiting satellite. Free at last, in his own lonely, fucked-up way.

But he wasn’t. His belly clenched over the sick, greasy nausea roiling there. A wedding, a murder, a funeral. A desperate ghostly entity locked in his own head, pleading for help and rescue. A cryptic voice mail message from a murdered woman.

It didn’t matter how hard he tried to stay anchored in reality.

Reality was getting royally fucked, from every single quarter.

Mud and rocks spat and flew as his tires jolted him out of the ruts and bounced him down the road, faster than conditions permitted.

Who could have wasted Matilda? She was a harmless old lady, built like a brick, stumping along with her dowager’s hump and cane. He didn’t need emotion to be outraged about this. It was outrage on every level, even that of cold logic. A scumbag who killed nice old ladies needed to be wiped off the face of the earth. Like the polio virus.

He’d liked Matilda. He’d hated to disappoint her. After all his big talk, all his good intentions, all his fantasies about being the brilliant courageous intrepid blah blah blah who saved the maiden fair.

Reality was always such a fucking letdown. Matilda had been nice about it when he threw in the towel. She understood. Still, she was the kind of woman you wanted to bring results to. To get your pat on the head, your cookie, your sternly measured dose of approval. A strict but benevolent grandmother type.

It made him . . . fucking . . .
furious.

He got gas at the station at the pass, holding his breath against the fumes, ignoring furtive stares. He must look strange, after weeks of sleeping rough and not much attention to hygiene, other than the occasional icy plunge into a mountain stream. He had to haul ass if he wanted to clean up and find decent clothes for the damn wedding.

His smartphone found him the perfect trifecta; a drugstore, a motel and a big-and-tall men’s clothing shop, all in the same strip mall. No time to schlep up to Aaro’s lair for his own stash of clothes.

The gods that protected speeding motorists were kind, even when he hit the I-5 corridor. The drugstore was his first stop in Portland, for toiletries, a comb, some razors. The fluorescent lights made his eyes burn, even through dark glasses.

His motel room stank of cigarette smoke and room deodorizer when he got inside, but he breathed through his mouth and ignored it, heading straight for the shower.

He stared at himself grimly in the mirror afterward as he combed out the caveman dreads. His torso was burned a leathery brown from shirtless climbing. He still had muscle mass, but he was lean, stringy. Every muscle, vein, and tendon, right out there on display. He looked like a wild-eyed, underfed Afghani goatherd, left out alone in the desert mountains way too long.

Scraping off the beard helped, but that made his shaggy mane look that much wilder. At least it was clean. He might not have even recognized himself, if not for the nose, which was as big and hooked as ever. Christ, he looked so much older. New lines burned around his mouth. And his eyes . . .

He looked quickly away from his eyes.

Just keep moving. Breath.
Through his mouth. He dragged the cleanest clothes he had left back on, clean being a relative term.

The clerk at the big and tall store gave him the fish eye when he walked in, gazing pointedly at the grubby jeans, the stained T-shirt.

“I need a suit,” Miles announced. “Dark gray. I’m supposed to be at a wedding in . . .” He consulted his smartphone. “Shit,” he hissed. “Thirty-five minutes.” Maybe he’d get lucky, and the bride would be late. Like, forty minutes late. A guy could hope.

The young woman behind the counter leaned on her elbows and gazed at his torso appreciatively, dirty clothes and all.

“I need a shirt, too,” he told them. “White, I guess, or a pale gray. And a tie, and a belt. Dress shoes. Some underwear.”

The male clerk’s nostrils flared. “Price range?”

Miles shrugged. “It needs to look good, and it needs to be fast. Try and keep the tab under two grand.”

The clerk’s eyes squinched down. “And how will you be paying?”

Miles took off his sunglasses, and just looked at the guy. The man’s larynx began to bob up and down.

Aw, fuck it. Back in the old, pre-Spruce Ridge days, that guy’s attitude would have pissed him off. Not now. He didn’t blame the guy for judging by appearances. Every normal person did. He had, too, in the old days. Admittedly, he looked like hell.

Still, he let the prick blink and sweat for a minute before fishing the plastic wrapped envelope out of his jeans. He’d shrink wrapped some cash for random emergencies. He slit open the plastic, and peeled off fifteen C-notes. “We’ll start with this.”

The guy scooped up the bills. “One minute.” He disappeared into the back. The girl behind the counter fluttered heavily mascaraed lashes. “You don’t look like the type for a suit,” she observed.

Miles grunted. “Don’t feel like one, either.”

“You look more like the leather and chains type.” Big dewy blue eyes went blinkety blink. “Like, do you ride a Harley?”

Heh. Leather and chains and a Harley. That would have been rib-cracking, gut-busting funny, if he’d been capable of anything approaching humor. “Could we start with the shirt?” he asked.

The girl’s flirty expression cooled. Her colleague came back out, marginally more polite, but clearly wanting to get him served and gone as soon as possible. Fine with Miles.

Some time later, he walked out, in a suit a full size smaller than his previous, pre-Spruce Ridge days. Just his enormous feet and hands and nose were eternally constant. He peered at himself in the rear-view, wishing he’d bought clippers and buzzed off the hair. Even with the snarls combed out, it looked like exactly what it was, a badly grown out haircut that had been self-inflicted months ago in a state of emotional crisis. Ragged primordial locks dangled between shoulder and chin. It did not jive with the suit. But there was no time left for a barber.

After all, once he waltzed into the wedding, egregiously late, and faced down a mass of people who were all pissed off at him to varying degrees, his bad hair day would be the least of his problems.

He put on his sunglasses, and his ear plugs. The city haze of electrosmog, exhaust fumes and particulate matter were making him nauseous as hell, but there was no shield or remedy for that. He clenched his teeth till his ears ached and hit the road, wedding bound.

S
am Petrie lurked ouside the small, packed church, having shown himself to Bruno, and to Zia Rosa, the formidable Ranieri matriarch. That duty done, he’d slunk out to have a smoke.

Damn, this group was heavy into weddings. It gave him an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. He’d lurked outside during Kev and Edie’s ceremony, too. He didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but the giddy nuptial scene made him feel smothered and vaguely depressed.

Next time this crowd inflicted a wedding invitation on him, he’d send a salt and pepper shaker and his apologies, and stay far away. For now, he compromised by lurking, which was why he was perfectly positioned to witness Miles Davenport’s arrival.

He didn’t recognize Miles at first. He was giving a habitual once-over to each person as he or she approached, and his attention snagged on the tall man striding purposefully toward the church. He pegged the guy as a potential problem instantly. Dark, hard eyes. Leathery, dark, tanned skin. Shaggy, unstyled hair. He’d been sleeping rough, in spite of the nice suit. Flinty gaze. Granite-lipped. A walking unexploded bomb. Not an element you wanted waltzing into a friend’s wedding. He was stepping forward to do his civic duty both as friend and cop, to ask if the guy had mistaken his venue when the recognition slammed in.

Jesus, that nose. Was it . . . holy
shit.
He stared. “Miles?”

“Hey.” Miles shook his shaggy mane off his face. He did not smile.

Petrie reached out to clasp his hand. Some instinct stopped him, a sixth sense, of stray wires, high voltage. “Good to see you, man.”

Miles nodded. “Yeah.”

He did not offer further pleasantries, or say it was good to see Petrie, too. That part of Miles Davenport had been rendered away, along with twenty-five percent of the guy’s body weight, from the looks of him. His big hands contrasted starkly with the cuffs poking from the sleeves of his suit. Brown, covered with scabs, nails battered. Like he’d been crawling through rocks and thorns under a desert sun.

Where the fuck have you been, man? Everybody’s been worried sick about you.
He stopped the words. The unlucky bastard was going to be fielding that question all afternoon. He did not look up to the task.

Before Petrie could come up with anything, the limo pulled up. Rosettes, with streamers flying from the antenna. Behold, the bride.

Doors opened, and a confusion of gartered and stockinged legs and fluffy skirts started spilling out. Lily straightened up, adjusting her gown, which was a graceful, pleated Grecian goddess sort of thing, which looked awesome on her. Nina was also looking hot, her figure set off in a clingy, eye grabbing shade of sunset orange. She adjusted her friend’s hair. The wind caught the veil, flipping it out like a banner.

And there she was. It never failed. Petrie’s mouth went suddenly dry as Sveti emerged, in a satin sheath that clung to her like she’d been dipped in slate blue liquid. She came out ass first, focused on the squalling occupant of the car seat. Marco Ranieri, the newest addition to the McCloud Crowd’s progeny. An opportunity to gawk at Sveti’s awesome booty with no repercussions was precious, so Petrie took advantage of it, forgetting Miles altogether as Sveti emerged, swinging shiny locks back over her pale shoulders. Marco was drapped over her bosom, hiding what the gown’s neckline was designed to showcase. Damn shame, but predictable as sunrise.

Aaro and Kev McCloud unfolded themselves from the front seat. Miles shrank back, as if hoping not to be noticed. A vain hope.

Aaro spotted Miles first. His face went blank. He murmured to Kev, who was offering Lily his arm. Kev’s bright gaze instantly zapped up to Miles, but he’d positioned himself well out of their trajectory, and the bride was busy getting up the steps without tripping on her train.

Nina glanced over at them, a puzzled frown between her eyes, but Aaro hustled her in to do her maid-of-honor duty.

Sveti lagged behind, joggling the fussing Marco to calm him down. The movement made her tits quiver. Her shoulders were creamy pale in contrast to her long, dark hair. Petrie wrenched his gaze away. Down, boy. Daring to look at the lofty goddess’s perfect ta-tas. But her scolding attention was focused mostly on Miles, not him. So no worries.

She stopped on the step below, frowning up. “Miles?” she asked, as if she didn’t quite believe it.

“That would be me,” Miles said.

“Where in hell have you been? Do you know how worried—”

“Don’t.” Miles’ voice was hoarse. “Don’t start.”

Sveti’s lips tightened up. She looked almost like she might start to cry. “At least you are here,” she said. “How nice of you to make such an effort. So generous of you, no? Such a loyal friend.”

Miles looked relieved. Sarcasm was easier to deal with than tears.

“Thought I’d missed it,” he said. “Good thing Lily was late.”

“Marco had a terrible attack of colic,” Sveti told him. “Lily ended up having to take her whole outfit off so she could nurse—”

“Christ, spare us the gruesome details,” Petrie cut in.

Her eyes flicked over him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Miles peered down at the creature squirming on Sveti’s chest. “Marco. Wow. He’s, uh . . .” He paused, at a loss. “Bigger.”

“Oh, yes.” Sveti held the wriggling striped entity up to be inspected, as proudly as if it were her own. “He’s gained three pounds in two months. Almost up to the 50th percentile in length and weight for a full-term baby. But the colic is very bad. Want to hold him?”

Miles recoiled visibly. “No, no,” he said hastily. “You keep him.”

She cuddled Marco back to her tits again, studying Miles intently, with those huge, exotically tilted eyes that haunted Petrie’s wet dreams.

“This isn’t about Cindy, is it?” she asked, very softly.

Miles shook his head. “Not at all.”

“Ah. That is good. Because, you know, ah . . . she is no longer with that man, hmm? The one she ran away with. You know that?”

“Don’t care,” Miles said, his voice flat. “Irrelevant.”

Sveti gazed at Miles searchingly for a moment, and then nodded, evidently satisfied. “Good,” she said. “She was just an excuse for you, anyway. A reason to hide. No one was contented with her. Not for you.”

Miles shook his head. “Can’t go there with you, Sveti. Not today.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about excuses,” Petrie blurted, and was immediately appalled at himself. What the fuck possessed him? A death wish? A schoolyard hunger for attention? Jealous because she was talking to Miles and not him? Sveti had turned her fathomless dark eyes on him, wide and affronted and furious. Too late to turn back.

“I beg your pardon?” she said, icily.

Petrie gestured toward Marco. “Excuses. Like that one. You’ve always got a baby wrapped around your neck. Like a suit of armor. No guy’s going to get that close to a full diaper, so you’re safe, right? Good old Sveti. Always first in line to help with the kiddies.” He took a long swig, but Sveti was still glaring at him when he capped the flask.

“You are an asshole, Petrie,” she informed him.

“As you have told me many times before.” Petrie clucked his tongue. “Such tough language for Marco’s tender ears.”

“Shut up. My armor is of a better class than yours.” She slapped the capped liquor flask out of his hands, sending it spinning and bouncing off the steps. “Better to stink of baby poop than of bourbon.”

Marco tugged at Sveti’s neckline with a red, dimpled hand that shone with drool, and nuzzled hungrily at Sveti’s cleavage. Petrie jerked his chin toward the kid. “Looks like he wants to top up,” he observed.

Sveti’s face went crimson. She pulled a bottle from her purse, stuck it in Marco’s mouth, and stalked away. The two men waited until the doors of the church thudded shut, and exhaled. In unison.

“Wow, Petrie,” Miles said. “You have such a way with the ladies.”

Petrie retrieved his flask from the steps without comment.

“You are an asshole, though,” Miles went on. “Like she said.”

That pissed Petrie off. “This, from a guy who runs out on his friends without even a message to tell them he’s not rotting in a ditch?”

Miles shook his head. “You don’t see it, and it’s right in your face.”

“What?” Petrie felt his voice rising. “What’s in my face?”

“She likes you,” Miles said.

Petrie stared at the guy, slack-jawed. “Wrong,” he finally said. “Dead wrong. Don’t know where you got that. She hates my guts.”

Miles grunted. “That explains why her heart spikes to one-forty when she gets close to you. Her eyes dilate. And those pheremones must have . . .” He glanced discreetly down at Petrie’s crotch. “Yep. She blushed, too. I only saw from tits up, but God knows where it started from. All those capillaries, expanding just for you, you lucky bastard.”

“Bullshit,” Petrie muttered. His balls tingled, and his belly did a strange, flopping maneuver. He clenched to subdue it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, looking at her tits?”

A mirthless smile twitched the corners of Miles’ hard mouth. “I may be fucked up, but I’m not dead. Watch yourself, dude. Sveti’s the untouchable virgin princess. Rescued from evil ogres. They’ll shred your ass if you look at her funny. Let alone touch her.”

True enough. There was an unspoken dictate against thinking dirty thoughts about vulnerable, waif-like, china-doll perfect, tragically orphaned Sveti, always and eternally way too young. If anyone did think such thoughts, eight different guys in the McCloud Crowd, plus Tam Steele, who was worse than all of them put together, would rise up and smite him down. Splat.

“So it’s true, then?” Petrie said. “What they say, about your new superpowers? You saw all that? Or are you just jerking me around?”

Miles laughed and then put his hand abruptly to his head, wincing. “Superpowers, my ass. I heard the heart rate, I heard her breathing, I smelled the pheremones, I saw the pupils dilate. I’ve got a sensory overload problem. It comes at me like a fire hose. I can’t block it out.”

“I don’t see why you’d want to,” Petrie said. “Sounds handy.”

Miles just looked at him. The guy’s stark gaze gave Petrie a guilty twinge. It would seem that the guy was not having any fun at all with his super-senses. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean to make light of your, uh . . . disability.”

“It’s okay,” Miles said. “I’m used to being out there. I was a freak before. Now I’m a freak with brain damage. Just a little category shift.”

“So, it hurts?” Petrie pressed for more, unable to help himself.

Miles rubbed his temples. “Cigarettes and bourbon on your breath. Pert shampoo. Old Spice aftershave. Arid Extra Dry, the chemicals they used to dry-clean your suit, the plastic they wrapped it in. Christ, if I took a step closer, I’d pass out from the toxic fumes.”

Petrie uncapped his bottle, drank. “Keep your distance, then.”

“I will,” Miles assured him. “Sveti smelled way better than you. Those pheremones pumping out of her, man. Yum.”

“Keep your dirty mind off her pheremones,” Petrie snapped.

That smile twitched across Miles’ face again. Caught out, in his fucking schoolboy crush. What a dickhead. He held out the flask, in silent invitation.

“Tried that,” Miles said. “Doesn’t help.”

Petrie stoppered the flask, stuck it in his jacket. “That’s sad, man,” he said. “I’m sorry for you. Let’s get on with this.”

They pushed into the church. The organ blared, and lace fluffed, orange flower-scented matrimonial hooplah swelled to greet them.

 

If managing his disability was like walking a tightrope, managing it at this wedding was like walking a tightrope with an army of screaming maniacs constantly trying shove him off. The kids alone, Jesus. The McCloud Crowd’s brood had pelted straight for him, en masse, shrieking for joy. He could armor himself against the adults, barely, but man, he loved those kids. Even through the shield, he felt it.

He’d gotten through the ceremony without losing his shit, evading Zia Rosa, but he could not evade everybody. And nobody was satisfied with his lame mumblings about camping to “get his head together.”

A few hours of that treatment, and he found himself circling the reception restlessly, like a shark that had to keep swimming or die. Pretending he was going someplace specific with great speed and purpose so he had a reason to avoid eye contact.

“Miles! I was hoping I’d find you here!”

He jerked his head around, nerves jangling. Holy shit.

It was Cindy, looking stunning, in a skin-tight, red cocktail dress like an old-time Hollywood star, her lips painted red to match. He had not expected to see her here. By no means. He had to scramble to keep his shield strong and steady, he was so startled.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Were you invited?”

Cindy rolled her eyes. “Crashed it. Erin and Connor are furious, but everyone else is too polite to say anything.” She threw back the last of her flute of champagne, and exchanged it for a fresh, full one from a passing server’s tray. “I mean, like, what harm could I possibly do?”

That was a question he would not care to debate. He edged back, hoping she wouldn’t try to touch him. The shield, the shield. It was all about the shield.

“Wow, you look different,” she said, her eyes wondering as she circled him. “I’ve never seen you so brown, not even in the summer. And you’re so thin. Your face. You look sort of, I don’t know. Feral.”

He choked off a bark of laughter. “I’m still housetrained.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, batting her eyes. “I think it’s hot. Have you been, like, not eating? Missing me, maybe?”

That he did not want to touch. He shook his head, backing away.

“Wait!” she lunged forward, trying to grab his hand. He whipped it away just in time, and she looked hurt. “You’re still mad?”