Mortal Sin (23 page)

Now, touching it, he was reminded of its sole purpose. Not hope, but death. The pistol he held in his hands was a sleek, shiny killing machine. And he was a man dedicated to peace.

He set the pistol gently on the desktop and poured himself a cup of coffee. It had been sitting for hours, and was the consistency of used motor oil. But he drank it, anyway, while he gazed at the gun sitting incongruously next to his jar of cinnamon candy and contemplated the possibility that the situation was more serious than he’d originally thought. If the man who held Kit was pimping her, why would he be so determined to hold on to her that he’d send thugs to ensure she wasn’t found? In the sex trade, girls were expendable. One whore was the same as another. What made Kit so special?

Perhaps this wasn’t about prostitution. Maybe there was something bigger at stake. Drugs, extortion, even murder. And who did Cheech and Chong belong to? Pimps didn’t generally employ muscle. Had he borrowed them from somewhere, or simply pressed them into double-duty emergency service?

He played various scenarios through his head, but nothing clicked. There was no
aha
! moment when everything fell into place. He checked his watch. It was past eleven, late to be calling Sarah. But she probably wasn’t sleeping, anyway. He suspected she didn’t sleep much these days.

She answered on the second ring, confirming his suspicion. In the background, he could hear voices, the canned hysteria of a television commercial.

“It’s me,” he said. “I’m sorry to call so late. We need to talk.”

At the other end, there was a sharp intake of breath. “Is something wrong?”

“Remember that seed we talked about planting? It didn’t take long to sprout. I just had a visit from a couple of thugs who could have come direct from central casting. They were here to strongly suggest that I cease and desist.”

“Cease and desist?” she said. “All you’ve been doing is asking questions.”

“I must be asking the right ones. I’ve apparently stepped a little too close for somebody’s comfort level. I’m just not sure if this is good news or bad.”

“Oh, hell.” She let out a hard breath. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

“They threatened me with dire admonitions of what evil might befall me if I failed to listen to them. Then they broke my ceramic pig to illustrate just how tough they were. But I’m okay. Looks like they’re trying to scare us into backing off.”

There were several seconds of silence at her end before she said, “Somebody doesn’t want us to find Kit. Do you think this means she’s in danger?”

“I don’t think so. Not at this point. It looks as though she’s of significant value to somebody, enough value so they don’t want us getting into the middle of things and screwing it up. I have no idea why. Or who. Listen, Sarah, I don’t want to frighten you, but—” He studied the gun sitting on his desktop. Its cool, blue steel appeared innocent enough. But that innocence was an illusion. In reality, those two pounds of steel possessed the power to end a life in a single instant. “I want you to be careful,” he said. “Keep your doors locked. Don’t go out alone at night if you can help it.”

“Be serious. I’m a businesswoman. I can’t very well hide in the house.”

“Until we find out what Kit’s mixed up in, I can’t guarantee they won’t come after you. And I don’t intend to let anything happen to you.” He struggled against the sudden clenching in his belly. He hadn’t been able to protect Meg. This time around, he wouldn’t let that happen.

He refused to look too closely at what he meant by
this time around
.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me, sugar. I’m invincible. But if Kit’s usefulness to these people should come to an end—”

“Sarah,” he said softly, “don’t do this to yourself. Please.”

“She’s all I have, Clancy. I’m not sure you understand.”

“Of course I understand. And we’ll get her back in one piece.” He suddenly realized how tired he was. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “Would you feel better if I came over?”

“To do what, Father Donovan? Hold my hand? Sleep on my couch? Pour coffee down my throat so I’ll stay awake for what’s left of the night?”

He felt a little foolish. She was right, of course. There was no comfort he could offer in person that couldn’t be given over the telephone. It was eleven-thirty at night, she was a beautiful woman, and he was a priest who had no business thinking about the quick clutch of his heart every time he heard that soft, melodious voice. It would be better for both of them if he found a way to keep his distance.

“I’m a big girl,” she said. “And you’re a lovely man for offering. Let’s just leave it at that.”

It wasn’t enough, but it was all he had a right to expect. “Fine,” he said.

The open telephone line between them hummed. “You be careful, too,” she said. “Because, you know, Father Donovan, I’ve grown quite fond of you. G’night.”

She spent the day running interference between a nervous author and a book distributor who’d failed to deliver the books for an upcoming signing. With five days left until the book signing, Felicity Knowles was getting antsy. She called twice while Sarah was out running errands, and Josie tried valiantly to soothe the author’s ruffled feathers. But the recalcitrant Ms. Knowles insisted on speaking with the store owner personally. Sarah did her best to reassure the seventy-two-year-old dowager that her books weren’t lost somewhere. Then she called the distributor.

He hemmed and hawed about delayed shipments and computer glitches, finally admitting there’d been a screwup and the books hadn’t been ordered. It took all her Southern charm, as well as a promise of two tickets to opening day at Fenway, to convince him to do a special rush order.

She called Felicity Knowles back and assured her that the distributor had promised delivery by Saturday morning, even if he had to deliver the books in person. Then she swept a pile of paperwork into her tote bag, picked up her coat and purse, and strode to the front of the store.

“I’m leaving,” she told Steve. “I’ve had the day from hell, I feel a headache coming on, and I’m suffering from major PMS. I’m going home to suffer in solitude. If the sky falls, tomorrow’s soon enough to tell me about it.”

She felt a little guilty for being so blunt. Her crankiness had nothing to do with her job. The bookstore was doing well, and she had a small but copacetic group of employees who, right down to the last part-timer, were always willing to go the extra mile to ensure customer satisfaction. The problem was all with her. She wasn’t getting enough sleep, and it was starting to show.

This morning, she’d spent ten minutes ragging Josie for stripping a box of books she’d intended to mark down to half price to display in the entry. Once she got her temper under control, she apologized, then she tried to make it up to Josie by buying her lunch at the Taco Bell across the way. Josie was a solid worker, loyal to the end, and Sarah had spent most of the afternoon feeling guilty. She shouldn’t be bringing her problems to work. It wasn’t fair to Josie and Steve and the rest of the crew. They all had their own lives, their own problems, yet they always managed to maintain professionalism when they were on duty. She could learn something from their behavior.

It was probably foolhardy, but she’d taken to driving into the city late at night and cruising the streets, hoping by some quirk of fate to see Kit. Clancy had been a godsend, but he was already doing enough. Besides, Kit was her responsibility, not his. And she wasn’t the kind of woman who could just sit back and wait for some man to rescue her. She’d promised Clancy she would be careful, and although driving alone in the city at night probably didn’t fit into his definition of careful, she always kept her doors locked, made sure she had a full tank of gas, and checked to make sure nobody was following her. After the breakdown at Sheila’s, house, she’d had the Mustang checked out thoroughly by a local repair shop. They’d replaced the ailing part that had caused the trouble and given the car a clean bill of health. She wasn’t worried about her own safety. It was Kit’s safety that concerned her.

Every time she thought about the men who’d threatened Clancy and the implications that went along with that threat, her throat closed up and she had difficulty breathing. Her baby was out there somewhere, and if they harmed a single hair on Kit’s head, she would personally castrate the lot of them and stuff their privates down their collective throats.

But tonight, she needed to unwind, have a quiet evening, get to bed early. She’d been running for weeks on too little sleep and too much caffeine, and if she didn’t get back on an even keel, she was bound to crash. On impulse, she stopped at the butcher shop and bought a single pork chop for dinner before venturing into the crush of North Shore rush hour traffic. She would saute the chop with butter and a smidgen of garlic, and boil a couple of the fancy little red-skinned potatoes she’d bought last week at the supermarket. Maybe she’d accompany that with a sprig or two of the asparagus buried somewhere in the back of her freezer.

But first, a hot bubble bath, scented candles, a glass or two of white wine, and Tim McGraw’s latest CD. It was the perfect antidote to a perfectly awful day.

The air wore the rich, muddy scent that heralded the arrival of spring. Sarah drove with the window down, passed house after house bedecked with blooming forsythia and bright, cheerful tulips. She pulled into her driveway and turned off the ignition, her mind still on dinner as she gathered up her purse, the tote bag stacked with invoices she planned to go over this evening, and the pork chop neatly wrapped in butcher’s paper. She rolled up the window and locked the car, then strode across the lawn toward her front porch.

She was halfway to the house when she realized something was amiss. Sawdust littered the tender spring grass. At the end of the path, where her old, saggy stairs had squatted just this morning, a brand-new set of wooden steps, so new she could smell the pungent aroma of fresh-sawn pine, sat snugged up tight against the porch.

She stopped dead in her tracks and glanced around, half expecting a
Candid Camera
crew to step out from behind
Lizzie Figoli’s honeysuckle bush and yell, “Surprise!” But she saw no camera crew, no eyewitnesses, no clue as to who had left her this unexpected gift. The street was deserted, with the exception of Lizzie’s ancient one-eyed cat, Casper. And she doubted he’d be a reliable witness.

Baffled, she glanced back at the house.

And saw the magnolias.

White with a subtle flush of pink, they’d been inexpertly hacked off, crammed into an oversized applesauce jar full of water, and left directly in front of her door, where she couldn’t possibly miss them.

Tiny butterflies of pleasure fluttered inside her stomach, accompanied by something else, something wispy and ephemeral that she dared not examine too closely. She wondered who the good Father had sweet-talked into allowing him to cut their precious blossoms, for she had no doubt whatsoever that was how he’d acquired them. It was a good thing he was on the side of God; had he been a con artist, he could have talked a little old lady out of her life savings and left her smiling as he walked away with her last cent jingling in his pocket.