Vengeful Bounty (14 page)

15

I'd only gotten maybe four hours of sleep. For me, that sort of thing could be dangerous. It lowered my defenses. It made me more irritable. And it usually led to obsessive-compulsive rehashing of old problems.

While I'd had a lot of fun playing Chess with Jackson, the morning seemed abnormally quiet and void of joy. Though the sun shone brilliantly outside, a cloud had begun to form over my heart, and now hovered heavily.

I debated on whether or not to do it.

I fought with myself all morning long.

I knew it would be better to leave it alone.

But that tired, irrational side of me said,
Do it.

So I gave in.

I settled myself on the couch with one foot tucked up under me, and using the remote, I scanned through all the old saved video phone conversations in the TV system. When I located the one—that last talk I'd had with Damon—I played it.

There was no video image of me, of course, only Damon in a black shirt and jacket with his hair loose and flowing down his shoulders. He'd recently shaved, his angular face tense with some emotion: guilt, maybe, or fear?

It was too dark to see the background. He leaned against the side of a brick building. It could've been in Texas. It could've been in Transylvania. Hell, for all I knew, it could've been on a different planet.

“Mina,” Damon said in the video. His voice was hushed, worried. “I told you not to call. It could be dangerous.”

“Then why'd you answer?” my recorded voice responded.

His eyes darted to the left. “I don't know.” He lit a cigarette, exhaling dancing tendrils of gray smoke. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I wish you'd tell me where you were.”

“Mina, we've been over it a hundred times. I can't. I'm really close to something big. I wouldn't want to endanger you or the mission.”

“The mission being more important.”

“No, it's just that—”

Then came
her
voice.

“Damon?” she said, her tone light, but her voice husky and exotic. “Where did you go?”

He turned sharply to look at her. She still hadn't stepped into the camera's view.

My heart raced as I watched the replay. I'd only viewed it a couple of times, and that was right after it had taken place. I'd looked then, as I did now, for any sign, any hint of facial expression or voice that could give me some real comfort amid the confusion Damon stirred in my soul. But more than comfort, I wanted answers. I needed them in order to close this chapter of my life and move on.

“I'm talking to Mina,” Damon said.

“Oh,” she said.

Then I heard myself say:

“Who's that?”

“It's, um, it's someone I'm working with right now,” he said. “A partner of sorts. Listen, like I said, it's not anything for you to worry about. I'll explain it all to you soon, when we've made the catch and I come home for a bit.”

“For a
bit
?”

“Well, what I meant was—”

“Listen, Damon,” I said. “I want answers. Now. Not tomorrow. Not later.
Now.
You need to tell me what's going on, or I can't do this anymore. I can't keep waiting for you to come back when part of me thinks that—that you aren't going to.”

His eyes watched the ground, and he took a couple more drags from his cigarette. From where I sat in my apartment far away, I could almost smell the familiar scent of his favorite tobacco. It brought memories to the forefront of my mind, memories of passion-swept nights after a big catch, memories of talking about our goals over coffee, memories of life in the presence of
him
. It wrenched my heart even now.

“Let me see her,” said the mystery woman in an accent I couldn't quite place.

The camera view went blurry as she took the phone and pointed it toward herself so that she could get a view of me, and I her. And there she was. The striking goddess with olive skin, long raven hair, and dark eyes as mystifying as the night.

“Hello,” she said. “I only wanted to see who Damon speaks of so fondly. He says you will be a great bounty hunter someday. He says you are one now, but can only get better.” She waited for me to say something. I didn't. “He is fond of you and your father. He says he learned a great deal from you two.”

For some reason, that didn't give me one ounce of comfort. Maybe it was her tone; it was almost patronizing. Or maybe it was the way her full lips had curled into a curious grin. I'd wanted to slap her then, and I still did now. Only now, I was searching for any sort of clue as to what was really going on.

“That's very nice,” said my voice, lightly quivering with fresh wounds. “I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.”

Damon took the phone back, and his face replaced the woman's. “Mina, please. I don't want anything that can be traced. This mission is top secret.”

One could've filled the space of silence with a herd of elephants.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Okay? No! I'm not okay! I'm sick of this, Damon. This sucks. This just sucks! Secrets here, secrets there. You're just one big top secret bunch of nonsense! You know what? You need to come home. Come home and explain. Until you do, don't call me anymore. I won't be calling you. Just come home, and then we can talk. Right now, I'm done. I'm sick of this. This is stupid!”

Oh, how I'd wanted him to argue. To tell me that he loved me and of course he'd come home, that I was more important to him than his clandestine life.

But he didn't argue. Not one bit.

“Fine,” he said, his lips pressed tightly together. “I don't know what to tell ya. You don't trust me. I tried to get you to understand. I—” He stopped himself. “Never mind. I guess I'll say goodnight for now.” He shook his head, sighing. “Talk to you later.”

His eyes darted to the right, then. Toward the woman. Almost as if she'd said something.

“We'll see,” my faceless voice said.

With that, the transmission ended. I had ended it in a burst of fury that had just returned with the fresh viewing of this horrible, horrible memory.

But I wasn't finished with it yet.

Lifting my remote, I rewound the conversation back just a touch.

Damon's eyes. I could've sworn he'd heard something. I turned the volume up so loud that my neighbors could've heard it clear as crystal through the walls.

“Talk to you later,” he said.

Then
something
.

A faint voice.

Her
voice.

I paused the recording.

What did she say? It was something so very faint that I hadn't even heard it the last couple of times I'd watched the transmission. It was a whisper. Maybe a sentence? I rewound it back and listened again.

What language was she speaking? I couldn't make it out. It wasn't English. Was it Indian? Arabic, maybe?

I dashed over to my computer desk, not caring that my leg had fallen asleep in the awkward position I'd been sitting. I located a thin, rectangular digital recorder in one of the drawers. Tiny pinpricks of pain filled my leg as the blood rushed to it. I barely felt the sensation; I was so zoned in on this new and exciting lead.

I played back the last part of the scene one more time and recorded the whisper.

Unfortunately, I couldn't decipher what she was saying on my own.

But with a little help from my friends, I'd be able to decode her foreign bullshit language in no time.

Once I'd captured the sentence/phrase at an audible enough level, I shoved the recorder in the pocket of my khaki shorts, grabbed my keys, and bolted out of my apartment.

It was time for some answers.

* * *

A.J. answered the door.

“Mina!” he said, wrapping me up in a bear hug. I was just glad he had clothes on this time. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to see Bryan. Is he home?”

A.J. slumped a little. “Oh. Yeah. In the back. What do you need him for?”

“I need him to do a little translating work.”

“Oh, yeah? What for?”

“Nothing. Well, something. It's personal.” I didn't want to take the time to explain, so I changed the subject. “Hey, I really appreciate you helping Colt bring my car home. That was one crazy night.”

“He told me a bunch of high schoolers nearly had you strip! Man, where was
I
?”

I managed a smile. “The key word is ‘nearly.' It was just a crazy night. I'm sorry, A.J., but I'm in a bit of a hurry to get this done.”

“Ah. Not a problem.” He stretched his arms over his head. The muscles in his arms flexed. “I was just working out. I'll be back there if you need anything.”

“Sure. So Bryan's in the back, you said?”

“Yep!” He headed to the weight room, pointing toward Bryan's little office in the rear of the house. More muscles flexed. “Right back there. BRYAN! COMPANY!”

“Who is it?” said Bryan's muffled voice.

“MINA!”

Then A.J. disappeared into his sweaty little world of barbells.

I made quick strides to Bryan's closed door and gave it a gentle tap. Wow, my hands were shaking. Was I really that freaked out about the stupid whisper that probably meant nothing? (My gut argued with me tooth and nail. Something was wrong, something that clashed terribly with the truth I'd fought to believe. I knew it.)

“Hi, Bryan, are you busy?” I said as I stepped into his room.

“Nope,” he said.

He sat at a desk with three monitors. Microphones and speakers extended from the largest monitor. Wires of all colors snaked out the back of the screens and into computers. A couple of coffee cups with brown residue inside on the bottom lay with an aromatic open container of Folgers coffee and a dirty single-cup coffee maker on the floor.

“I'm really sorry to barge in like this,” I said, using all my willpower to control the wavering of my voice. “I have something I need translated. It's for personal reasons. It's very short. I think it may be Arabic or something.”

I fished out the recorder from my pocket, my thumb hovering over the PLAY button.

“Would you mind listening to it and telling me what you think it means?”

He looked at me for a moment, every strand of his brown hair combed in place to the side.

“Sure,” he said.

My fingers were sweaty. This was getting embarrassing. Bryan probably didn't notice, but I did. Mentally steadying myself, I played the recording.

Bryan turned his head to the side, looking out the window.

He closed his eyes, furrowing his brow, and asked, “Again?”

I rewound it and played it once more.

“Sounds Arabic,” he said.

“Okay, that's what I thought. Do you know what it means?”

“Not sure. Can find out though.”

Without asking, he took the recorder from my hands. I hoped he couldn't feel the ocean of sweat that had leaked on it. If he did, he was kind enough not to say anything.

In a series of rapid movements, he pulled one of his microphones into his lap and switched on a white box-shaped machine. He played the recording again, the feminine whisper digging like sharp red-painted fingernails into my nerves.

“Oops,” he said. “mic's not plugged in.”

“That's okay,” I said. Forcing my smile was like a child trying to mold a piece of concrete. “Take your time.”

He crawled underneath his desk and found the appropriate wires. Turning onto his side, he reached behind the mess of machinery and plugged in the microphone. A soft hum filled the air, and he returned to his chair. He tapped the mic and the sound of it was amplified through the white machine's speakers.

“Fixed,” he said, smiling. He nodded toward the Folgers bag. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you, I'm fine.” Coffee at that point would probably send me into a seizure. “Anything I can get you?”

“A new roommate.”

“Oh? Who's getting on your nerves?”

“Who do you think?” He nodded toward the doorway. “One guess.”

It wasn't until then that I heard A.J. belting out The Village People. Good grief.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “He is a nice guy, just sort of insane.”

“He's okay. Just joking about the new roommate. I like him and Colt.”

“Yes, Colt's a good brother.”

“Mmmhmm! Back to your request.”

He spun around, facing his desk now, his fingers speedily typing in something on his keyboard. A white text box popped up on his center monitor. His back blocked most of my view. I struggled not to shove him out of the way.

“Hmm,” Bryan said. “Arabic.”

“Just like we thought.” I felt my breath fall shallow. “Does it tell you what it means?”

“Yep.”

“Well?” My heart slammed against my chest.

He turned around in his chair to face me.

“It's a sentence,” he said in a business-like tone. “A command.”

“A command? Who would whisper a command?”

“The lady. Who is she?”

“Nobody!”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Well, somebody,” I said, softening my tone. “Please, Bryan, just please tell me.”

I had a nasty gut feeling before his lips parted that I wasn't going to like this.

Turns out I was right.

He said, “It means ‘Come back to bed.'”

16

A void swallowed me up.

A black swirling void.

My own voice sounded distant, as if it were underwater, when I asked Bryan:

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. It's never wrong,” he said. “Why? Who said it?”

Sickening dryness overtook my mouth, and my stomach clenched. I was going to puke on Bryan's office floor. No—no, I wasn't. I was going to puke somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Somewhere away from people, a place private for the puking and fainting I was sure would occur as soon as I allowed it to happen.

“Mina?” he asked. “You okay?”

His words didn't register. I shook my head, begging myself to remain dignified. The room was so hot. Sweltering. I had to leave right now.

I rushed out of the room, not hearing A.J.'s singing, barely recognizing the shapes of the furniture I placed my hands on to help me keep my balance as I ran to the front door.

It opened for me, and I crashed into Colt.

“Sis?” he said, grabbing me by the arms. His smile immediately fell into a blank look. “Sis, what's the matter? You look sick!”

“Move, please!” I whispered, my voice croaking.

“Wait!”

I couldn't. The vertigo wore off for the time being, and I raced across the freshly cut lawn to the curb outside of the fence. I got in my Honda and struggled to find the right key, the metal pieces jangling on the loop. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. All the keys looked the same. Finally, I put my hands in my lap and tried to breathe.

“Mina,” Colt said, tapping on the car door window. “Talk to me!”

Maybe it was the real concern on his face. Or maybe I had stayed tough as long as I could.

I broke.

“He was sleeping with her,” I said, my eyes welling up with tears.

Colt opened the door. “Who?”

“Damon,” I said, slumping against the steering wheel, all of my energy sucked out of me. “That woman he was with—he was
sleeping
with her.” Oh, how it stung to admit it. “I don't know what to do.” I gulped, my throat unbearably tight. “I just don't know what to do.”

Colt chewed on the inside of his cheek. I knew he was thinking,
I could've told you that.
But he was decent enough to remain silent and nod. He shook his head, his face a mixture of anger and pity.

“Forget him,” he said, kneeling down to put his arms around me.

I managed not to sob, but the way my tears streamed so steadily, I wondered if I'd ever get them to stop.

“Wait here,” he said.

I'd stepped outside of time.

Nothing mattered anymore.

I'd found my answer, and it was what I'd known all along. You'd think that finding out the truth would be like a breath of fresh air, confirming my suspicions, laying all confusion to rest. But it didn't work like that. The truth was like smashing through a levee of my own making, destroying that shaky barrier, the action bringing forth a wave of hot, searing pain. I was drowning.

Why?

I'd known the truth, only avoided it.

But when you tell yourself a lie for so long, you start to believe it, and the truth can still be devastating. I should've listened to everyone—especially my own intuition. It wasn't enough that I'd told him not to call. It wasn't enough that I'd shoved him from my mind, trying in vain to evict him from renting space in my head. I should've accepted the fact that had been staring me in my face the entire time I'd known Damon:

He was nothing but a dishonest jerk.

Colt returned with a black leather bag slung over his shoulder. He propped me up and helped me to get inside his Dodge Charger.

“Come on,” he said, fastening my seat belt for me.

I stared blankly out the window, the tears still sliding out of my eyes. He patted me on the shoulder, then leaned over from his seat to hug me again.

“I might throw up,” I said.

“I'll clean it,” he said.

Starting his car, he muttered a few choice curse words for Damon under his breath. He turned on his radio full-blast to a classic rock radio station. We lifted off the ground, and Metallica boomed in my ears. “Master of Puppets” was the song. I let each pounding chord sink into my soul, steadily transforming my grief into solid anger. Colt reached over to wipe the moisture from my cheeks. Then he put on his sunglasses and grinned.

“I know exactly what you need,” he said. “It's something that'll help, I promise.”

And off we headed to whatever that “something” was.

* * *

The farm wasn't in use anymore. My family had sold all the livestock once Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother Maxwell passed away. But we'd kept the land. It was what they wanted. Though I'd never met him, Great-Grandfather used to say that land was the most important thing a man could own because it always provided a safe place to go. If the rest of the world experienced Armageddon, one could escape to his country plot and could plant gardens, dig wells, and breed livestock to survive.

It looked like something out of an oil panting: a dirt road cutting through the wild grasses of a hill, an abandoned wooden house, an old rusty windmill, a faded red barn. Colt drove the car into the air and over the house, whose shingles were in terrible need of disrepair. Dad used to bring Colt and me out here when we needed to get away. Plus, it was a private place, perfect for training.

Colt parked the Charger next to the barn, and as we walked around to the back of it, a multitude of grasshoppers jumped out of our way, their solitude now disturbed by two human strangers.

I leaned against the barn's back door, thankful that it was shady. Today was hot. Another sweltering Texas afternoon. Sweat tickled as it fell in a thin stream down my face. I didn't mind. At least it wasn't tears. I think I was all out of tears by then. I felt drained. But the
hum
of busy bugs, the cry of a nearby hawk, the
creak
of the windmill—all of this was a great nostalgic comfort.

“Remember that time we put the stick bug on Mom?” I asked.

“The one we found in the attic up there?” He nodded to the top of the barn. “That was crazy! It was like a whole nest of them!”

“She about threw a fit,” I said, rediscovering my smile. “She didn't realize it was a bug until she picked it up off her leg and looked it in the eyes.”

Colt snorted. He unearthed some dust as he opened the barn door, then came back out with a stuffed black trash bag. He walked through the grass, careful to keep an eye out for snakes, to a wooden stand a little ways out into the field. There he placed a row of cans and bottles and returned to my side, handing me a couple of earplugs from his pocket. I put them in my ears and he did the same with another pair.

He loaded both bullet-firing pistols from his leather bag, and we got ready to take turns shooting the cans. He went first, the bullet hitting the first metal can with a loud ricochet. At first I wasn't sure if I could even lift the gun; my arms felt so heavy.

“Colt,” I said. “I should've listened to you.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. My brother probably knew me better than anyone, Dad included. He'd watched me grow from a crooked-toothed tomboy with holes in every pair of pants she owned, to an awkward, attitude-infested teen who changed her hair as often as most people change clothes, to a driven college student and bounty hunter who fell in love with a man who lied to her and cursed her with false dreams. He'd been there through it all, from my falling out of tire swings to having drinks together in a fancy Dallas bar, talking about dreams of going Global. We'd shared our lives together.

What is it about falling in love that makes people so insane that they push aside the opinions of those that matter, those who really love them?

“I don't know if I can do this right now,” I said.

“Sure you can,” he said. “Imagine they've all got Damon's face on them.”

I huffed and cracked a side grin. “I don't want him to die.” I kicked a grasshopper off my shoe. “I just want someone to lie to
him
for years, and for him to grow old and impotent and think of me when nobody else will love him because he's a bastard. Penis cancer. I want him to get penis cancer.”

“Well, pretend the cans are his gonads! Shit, they're old enough to be his gonads!”

I couldn't help but laugh. But as soon as the laughter came, it was gone.

“Colt?” I asked.

“What.”

“Was I not good enough?”

He shook his head. “That's crap.”

“Seriously. I mean, what did I do wrong? What was it about me that made him have to start sleeping with someone else, then not have the guts to tell me?
Why
didn't he want me anymore?”

“Why do dogs eat poop? I have no idea! They just do.”

“That is slightly different,” I said, shooting him a look, trying not to smile.

“Yeah, but not really. He's a loser.”

“I just wonder if maybe I'd given him more space and privacy, and hadn't been so demanding—”

“You gave him plenty of space. It wasn't you, Mina. It was him. I promise you that. A.J.'s practically in love with you. Bryan has said you're cute. Like, all my friends think you're hot. And you go out on dates with
Jackson Kincade
! Who needs stupid Damon?”

“I don't know,” I said, my voice trailing off.

Didn't it always work out that way—the one you wanted, the
only
one you wanted, was the
only
one who didn't want you?

“Come on, just do one,” he said, gesturing toward the gun in my hand. “And then we can go back. It'll make you feel better.”

I gave him a look. He lifted his eyebrows in anticipation and pointed to the field.

I nodded. Homing in on the row of targets, I lifted the weapon. I breathed in deeply, filling my lungs to the brim, and let it out, imagining all the ugly terrors the day had brought me floating from my mouth and disintegrating in the air.

Years of training took over, and I aimed the gun with steady arms. I focused solely on a green glass bottle through the sight. Then I pulled the trigger.

The firearm had a nice kick, pushing a firm jolt of recoil into my arms, a loud
POW
echoing through the air as the bullet soared to the target. Satisfaction rested on me as the glass shattered.

We finished off the rounds without talking, each of us taking turns. Neither of us missed a single time.

On our way back into town, Colt let me listen to a classical music radio station—he never let me do that, as I usually have to play it in my car and then tie him down and gag him. Otherwise he delights in mimicking passionate violinists, pianists, or opera singers until he looks like a clown having a seizure. But today he drove in composed silence, other than asking me a couple of times if I was okay, and nodding when I said I was.

“Thanks,” I finally said. “I do feel better.”

“Good.” He smiled. “How about I pick you up tomorrow morning for a spar?”

Some good ol' hand-to-hand combat practice did sound good. “Sure. Just swing by when you're up. I'll be home.”

“'Kay.” He let out a sigh. “You know, I really hope that Damon never shows back up.”

“Yeah, me too.” Just thinking about seeing him after all this made me feel nauseated. “But don't worry, Colt. I have
no
intentions of ever letting him back into my life after this. I have way too much pride for that.”

“Oh, I'm not worried about you.”

“You're not?”

“Nope, I'm worried about
him
,” he said, as calm as I've seen him in a while. “Because if I ever see that prick again,”—he shrugged—“I'll kill him.”

* * *

Maybe it was a good thing that I'd had a draining day. I stared at my closet, not really in the mood to mortify my mother with one of my more outgoing outfits. Instead, I chose a safe pair of black slacks and flats, and a burgundy sleeveless blouse. A black pearl necklace and set of earrings completed the look.

I did my best to work make-up magic to hide the puffiness of my eyes, rubbing a little cream into my skin, when the doorbell rang.

Rogue started to bark, good guard dog that he was. I gently scooted him away from the door with my foot and peeked through the peephole. FedEx. Interesting. Was I expecting something? No, I didn't think so.

I opened the door a crack.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi,” said the FedEx man. His well-trimmed moustache moved with his mouth as he said, “Mina Maxwell?”

“Yes. Rogue, stop. Get back.” I nudged him away again and he hopped backwards, thinking we were playing. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem! Love dogs, myself. He's a cute little fella! Sign here, please.”

He held a clipboard with a digital receipt screen. I pressed my thumbprint in the appropriate box, and the man handed me a square box about the size of an orange.

“Thank you,” I said. “Hot out there today, isn't it?”

“Phew! You're tellin' me! I'm just glad the boss lets us wear shorts!”

“No joke.”

“Well, have a good day!” he said.

“Thanks. You, too.”

He skipped two steps at a time down the stairway, greeting an older couple at the bottom with a touch of his hand to the brim of his cap. I closed the door to shut out the oven-like heat.

I sat in my papasan chair and scanned the package for the return info.

Jackson Kincade.

Well, goodness. What on earth would he be sending me?

I opened the package and leaned back, holding a treasure in my hands.

It was a little music box: a green-jeweled, gold-leafed marble frog sitting on a low pedestal with a tiny turn-key beneath it.

Attached to it was a small white paper tag. I opened it. It read:

In Memory of Douglas. May his little froggy soul find peace in the Great Pond Beyond.