Winter's Daughter (2 page)

He didn’t know who she was, or why she’d made such an impression on him. He just had this feeling she needed protecting. He’d sensed a kind of innocence about her, a childlike naiveté that both charmed and angered him. For God’s sake, didn’t she know the streets were a jungle? There were wolves out there. And nobody knew that better than Dillon James.

"Oh—shoot!"

Muttering under her breath, Tannis Winter braced herself and managed to wrestle the teetering shopping cart off the curb. A bus that was just pulling away from the stop honked at her, then roared on by, belching clouds of diesel fumes in her face. Ignoring the bus, Tannis wedged the cart’s wheels against the curb and bent over to retrieve the items that had fallen off into the gutter: a rolled–up newspaper yellowed from lying unclaimed on someone’s front lawn; a brown paper bag containing a bunch of wilted carrots and some brownish bananas; a pair of child’s tennis shoes tied together by the laces.

All the items were precious to her. The newspaper would be handy for sitting on when the grass was wet or the sidewalk grimy. The groceries were from her friend Binnie, who worried about whether Tannis was getting enough vegetables and always shared her gleanings from the trash bins behind the Food Fair market over on Pacific Street. The shoes were practically brand new and had once belonged to Tannis’s five–year–old nephew, Joshua. His mother, Tannis’s sister Lisa, had a tendency to buy things just the right size, forgetting how rapidly small boys grow. Which was all right with Tannis. She knew she would find a good home for those shoes.

Something winked at her from the gutter filth, something shiny and metallic, spotlighted by the morning sun. Investigation unearthed unexpected treasure—a quarter. Tannis happily picked it up and tucked it away in the handbag she wore hidden inside her voluminous coat. Her delight in the serendipitous discovery was tempered by concern; someone had obviously dropped part of his bus fare. She hoped whoever it was hadn’t been too badly inconvenienced. She especially hoped it hadn’t been a child.

The quarter wasn’t the only treasure Tannis found at that bus stop. A few feet away from the quarter she found a perfectly good pencil, and, beyond that, a flattened soft drink can and nearly half a pack of cigarettes. She tossed the cigarettes back into the gutter—she had no use for them since she didn’t smoke—but the pencil went into her purse along with the quarter, and the can joined her collection in a plastic trash bag tied onto the handlebar of the shopping cart. She could get cash for them at the recycling center. Pleased and cheered by the modest windfall, she straightened, tugged the cart around, and prepared to cross the street.

A hand at her coat sleeve arrested her. Startled, she turned and, in an unconscious, almost reflexive gesture, lifted her hand to touch the flower in her hat. "Oh," she said, smiling, "hello again."

It was the derelict from the park. She hadn’t noticed before how tall and thin he was. As he stood in the street blocking her way, he seemed to sway like a tree in the wind. The initial rush of pleasure she’d felt on seeing him again faded; suddenly, and for no reason she could name, Tannis felt stirrings of unease. She told herself he was harmless, that he was only drunk, poor man. Much more drunk than she’d thought, obviously; more drunk than he’d seemed when he’d given her the flower.

The derelict swayed toward her, loomed over her. Standing in his shadow, she felt chilled and uncertain. She was suddenly conscious of the hand on her arm; brown, long–fingered, and very strong, the wrist sinewy as rawhide. It occurred to her that the dirty brown jacket that hung from those broad, raw–boned shoulders must conceal a body just as strong, just as supple, just as hard. She didn’t know how she knew; there was something about the lines of his body that reminded her of a cocked bow.

"Hey," the man said softly in his cracked and ruined voice, "you dropped something." He held up the pack of cigarettes she’d just discarded, waving it between two long fingers. He was smiling, but it seemed to Tannis there was something almost wolfish, now, about the way his teeth gleamed in his hollow–cheeked, dark–stubbled face.

"Those aren’t—ain’t mine," she rasped, belatedly remembering to disguise her voice. Jerking her arm from the man’s grasp, she hunched her shoulders and pushed on her cart with all her might, sending it rattling and clanking across the pavement.

As she crossed the street, a new and unfamiliar fear pursued her, so potent it felt like a tangible thing, like a dog, snarling and snapping at her heels. Finally safe on the other side, she turned and looked back. The derelict was still standing where she’d left him. And suddenly she felt ashamed.

How could she have treated him so rudely? He’d only tried to be friendly, and after all, wasn’t that what she was here for? To make friends with the street people, to understand them, to find out who they were and how they’d come to this?

And yet— Something deep inside her, something vulnerable and uniquely feminine understood instinctively that this man was different. There was something about him, something that set him apart from the other homeless people she’d befriended—people like Binnie, The Showman, Crazy Frankie, and poor sad, hopeless Clarence. And because she was a psychologist, she understood the differentness she found frightening now was the very thing she’d found so compelling about him in the first place. It was something intangible, something not even a quarter inch of dark stubble, a drunken slouch, and an aura of cheap booze could hide. Because, incredibly, in spite of all those things, the man was attractive.

He was attractive the way a predator is attractive, Tannis thought. The wolf, the leopard, and the hawk— and a certain kind of man, the type with quiet, watchful eyes and a cruel twist to his sensual lips; the one with a body like a bullwhip, full of leashed power and sinuous grace. The kind of man who calls to something wild and primitive in a woman’s soul, even though she knows he spells Danger with a capital D.

Small wonder, then, that when he had called to her there in the park the wild and primitive side of her had responded automatically, instinctively. And small wonder those same instincts were warning her now of the danger.

But there was something else too. In the park she’d had the impression she’d taken him by surprise, caught him in an unguarded moment—rather like coming upon a tiger asleep with his paws in the air. His spontaneous gesture of giving her the flower had been so endearingly charming, it had taken her breath away.

Just now, though, when he’d placed his hand on her arm, he’d seemed harder, darker, more alert, more focused. Focused on
her.

The tiger awake.

And for some reason he’d followed her. His intense interest was enough to send a shiver of fear down her spine, but it had also occurred to her he must have seen her pick up the quarter. She knew full well that street people had been murdered for the shoes on their feet, let alone money.

People had been telling her all along she was crazy, that there was danger in what she was doing. Now, for the first time, Tannis knew they were right.

With her heart pounding and cold sweat trickling down her ribs, she hoisted the shopping cart over the curb on the far side of the street. After a moment’s indecision she headed south, toward Cleveland Street. The derelict had followed her; possibly he was still following her, and there was no way she could outrun him or give him the slip without abandoning her cart. But she had friends on Cleveland Street. The butcher at Sam’s Deli had given her scraps of cold cuts and had even let her use the bathroom once. And, of course, there was Gunner, the handicapped man who ran the newsstand on the corner. If there was anyone she could count on to help her, it was Gunner.

Dillon stared after the bulky, shuffling figure and looked thoughtfully at the cigarettes he still held in his hand. It was another incongruity, her passing up a good clean pack like that. Even if she didn’t smoke, most of the street people he knew would consider them as good as money in trade. If she hadn’t figured that out yet, she hadn’t been on the streets very long.

And yet, the cart and the clothes said otherwise. Odd.

Stuffing the cigarettes into his pocket, Dillon rubbed his hand across his mouth, waited for a break in traffic, and crossed the street. On the other side he paused, then turned south. His loose–jointed stride was deceptive; it looked aimless and unhurried but wasn’t. In no time at all he had the bag lady’s purple knit cap in sight again.

No doubt about it, there was something haywire about that woman. Here it was, a gorgeous January day, with clear skies and the mercury moving toward a high in the upper seventies, and she was still wearing the coat, cap, and gloves. Moving along as fast as she was and pushing that cart to boot, she had to be working up a sweat. Dillon was beginning to feel sticky himself, and all he had on under the jacket was a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of his oldest, rattiest jeans. He was beginning to itch too; the jacket’s former occupant had had company.

He was getting too old for this, Dillon decided, indulging in a good scratch while his quarry waited fretfully at a stoplight. It had been a long time since he’d done any of this undercover stuff. Like his instincts, the old moves were coming back to him, and he hadn’t lost much in the way of reflexes. He just didn’t remember minding the discomforts so much.

Of course, he’d been a lot younger then. Younger, and idealistic enough to think he could make a difference. In the old days he’d known the seamy underside of the city as well as most people know their own living rooms. And he’d known the people—the hookers, the pimps, the winos and wierdos, the bag ladies, runaways, addicts and dealers—better than most people know their own kids. Eventually, though, he’d gotten to feeling like the Dutch boy with his finger in the dike, and the time had come when he’d known he had to get out or wind up being sucked into the sewer himself.

The newsstand was closed. Tannis had forgotten Gunner’s habit of slipping away to the deli for coffee and a bagel once the morning rush was over. It was past ten o’clock. She should have remembered. Sometimes, if her timing was right, she could get Gunner to bring back a cup of coffee for her, balancing it in the caddy he’d rigged up on the arm of his wheelchair.

As she leaned against the side of the newsstand to catch her breath, Tannis stole a quick look back. Yes, the wino was still coming, still following her, only half a block away now. He was impossible to miss. The blue baseball cap easily topped every other head in the crowd.

With a dry mouth and pounding heart she looked around her, studying the lay of things, considering her options. About a block away she saw a police black–and–white rolling slowly toward her. Briefly she considered flagging it down but rejected that except as a last resort. It would mean questions and explanations, and the odds were that before she was through, her cover would be completely blown. Word traveled fast on the street. There had to be a better way of attracting the patrolmen’s attention, one that wouldn’t focus it needlessly on
her.

"Hey!"

Tannis jumped as if she’d been stung as a dark, saturnine face was thrust around the corner of the newsstand, practically at her shoulder.

"Hey," the wino said, "where you goin’ in such a hurry, huh?"

Tannis ducked her head, tucking her chin into the collar of her coat as she pushed away from the plywood wall. "I’m not goin’ anywhere," she muttered, and added with one eye on the advancing patrol car, "I’m waitin’ for a friend."

"I’ll be your friend," the wino whined in his soft, whiskey voice.

Tannis’s breath caught. Her heartbeat accelerated as she looked up into the derelict’s face. Friend? It didn’t seem likely; there was something about that face, something dark and dangerous.

A small movement drew her eyes downward. Deep in his coat pocket the wino’s hand was turning the orange over and over, almost, she thought, as if he were caressing it. Oh, dear, Tannis thought, bitterly regretting the impulse that had led her to give it to him. Now what had she done? How in the world was she going to shake this poor guy? She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she couldn’t have him following her around, either.