Clay (8 page)

Money, she had to have more money.

Her parents had loaned her a sizable sum already, though they objected on moral grounds and because they were horrified at the risk she was taking. They were nearing retirement age, however, and could part with no more, at least not comfortably. If she asked again for help with Lainey, they would try to talk her into coming back home where she’d be smothered and lectured and coaxed into resignation until both she and her daughter might well die from loss of hope.

Janna couldn’t go back. She was grateful beyond words to them for letting her return home while she was pregnant, and for helping with the baby while she completed her degree in art at Mississippi State. She knew it hadn’t been easy for them, knew also that they loved her and Lainey. But they didn’t understand her distrust of male promises or her need for independence. They felt she should have accepted the first marriage proposal that came her way and become a stay-at-home wife and mother with her fabric designing as a nice little hobby.

Arty had become a good friend. She appreciated his visits in this out of the way spot, and was grateful for the few times when he’d entertained Lainey so she could work. But as valuable as his presence had
become, there were limits to what she could or would expect from him, even if he had it to offer.

Dr. Gower thought she should turn to Clay. Now there was a joke. Ask for help from the man she’d drugged and tied to a bed, then kneed in his most vulnerable spot when he attempted to break free? He would help all right, help send her straight to jail.

And yet, Clay belonged to the Benedict clan, a family of influence, community standing and a certain amount of wealth. Of all the people she knew, he came closest to having the means to solve her problem. All she had to do was overcome his Benedict sense of right and wrong.

Clay was attracted to her. She knew that without conceit or any special sense of favor. It was purely physical, a chemical reaction with little emotion behind it. Could she soothe his wounded ego over being held captive by her? Was it remotely possible that she could convince him he was at the camp because she’d been so overwhelmed by instant desire that she couldn’t bear to let him leave?

Sex as a bribe again. Why did that keep presenting itself as such a compelling alternative? Maybe Dr. Gower was right about her libido.

Janna squeezed her eyes tight and leaned forward to put her face in her hands. She was strung out so far past exhaustion that the most incredible things seemed not only logical but also inevitable.

How had she come to this? She’d thought never to make love except as an honest expression of deep emotion. It was abhorrent to even think of that kind
of closeness, the orchestration of such intimacy, in any other way. How could she manage it without losing some portion of her pride and self-respect? Or, as far as that went, without getting hurt in the process?

It was impossible. She just couldn’t do it.

Could she?

It was a half hour later when she got to her feet with weary effort and went back inside. She checked on Lainey to make certain that everything was proceeding normally with her dialysis, and that she was still asleep. Afterward, Janna showered for the night, noting as she did so that Clay had used her absence to take his own bath. He was a self-sufficient man she’d discovered, more than capable of looking after himself, entertaining himself. It was a good thing, because she had little time for the task.

If he’d been a different kind of man, he could have made it harder for her, she thought. Thankfully he wasn’t, or hadn’t been so far. That was worrisome, she had to admit. From the things Arty had told her, she’d expected more fireworks. What did that mean, if anything?

She brushed her teeth and pulled on her sleep T-shirt. Picking up her discarded clothes, she left the bathroom. Her long hair was caught inside the shirt’s neckline, and she bent her head forward as she dragged it free. Some slight sound, or brief movement at the periphery of vision, snatched at her attention. When she glanced up, she was mere inches away from a half-naked, male body.

She stumbled, inhaling sharply, as she came to a halt.

“Careful,” Clay said as he put out his hand to catch her arm. “I didn’t mean to get in your way.”

There was a faint huskiness in his drawled words that brought moist heat to Janna’s face. She thought his every fingerprint must be seared into the skin of her arm. He was wearing only a pair of sleep shorts in a fabric that had the drape of silk but might be polyester, she noticed before hurriedly raising her gaze higher.

“My fault,” she said as she stepped back. “I wasn’t looking.”

“Had other things on your mind, did you? Such as whatever you were talking about with your late-night visitor?”

She might have known he’d have the hearing of a wolf on the hunt. “I must have been talking to myself,” she replied over her shoulder as she continued toward her bedroom and tossed her discarded clothes into the basket of dirty laundry just inside the door.

“Your testosterone level has climbed since dinner then. Sounded like a man to me.”

“You’re imagining things.”

Voice soft, he said, “Don’t play me for a fool, Janna.”

She met his dark blue gaze across the space that divided them. It was cold and piercing in the dim light of the cheap overhead fixture, so that she felt suddenly chilled. It seemed there was nothing he didn’t know or couldn’t guess about her, that it was
useless to try to hide anything from him. The impulse to tell him everything and ask for his help rose inside her with such strength that holding it back almost choked her.

She had to say something, do something to convince him that things were at least seminormal. Slipping past him again, she walked into the kitchen as she said, “I wouldn’t dream of playing you at all. I’m having a glass of wine. Want one?”

He lifted a brow as he let his gaze travel from the top of her head, down the shining length of her hair, which trailed over her back like a damp shawl, to the pink toes of her bare feet. “Sure,” he said, lifting a shoulder. “Why not?”

She busied herself taking the wine from the refrigerator and finding a couple of tumblers, since there were no wineglasses. After pouring the wine, she turned to hand a tumbler to Clay.

He swirled the ruby liquid in his glass, watching it stain the thick sides. Without looking up, he asked, “So who was it out there just now? Maybe a contact for a drug drop?”

She laughed with a harsh sound of strained nerves. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“It doesn’t pay. So was the guy a dealer?”

“Do I really look like a drug pusher?”

“You could be a go-between. Artistic types are known for a certain friendliness toward alternate lifestyles, and they can usually use the money.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I haven’t reached that level yet.”

“No?” He paused, then said deliberately, “Must have been your contact for an illegal kidney then.”

Shock washed over Janna. She couldn’t speak for a second, couldn’t move. She had to clench her teeth to stop their chattering and break eye contact before she could recover her composure. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? I thought maybe it was the reason you decided to knock me out, because I got in the way somehow. Though I have to wonder who you were protecting by it, Lainey, yourself, your supplier…or maybe me?”

Outside, a breeze off the lake whispered through the trees and made the swing on the porch creak on its chains. An odd, surreal sensation gripped Janna. Almost without volition, she asked, “Why would you think any such thing?”

“It all adds up, the secrecy, your isolation out here with a sick child who is obviously the center of your life, the serious nature of her illness. Then there’s the fact that Lainey expects to have major surgery soon.”

Janna had heard Lainey ask Clay about a kidney, of course. The connection was fairly obvious, when all was said and done. “And what if you’re right?”

“If I am, you must be crazier than I thought.”

She turned slowly to face him again. Her voice as she spoke was uneven, and as breathless as if she’d been running a race. “Maybe I am, but some things do that to you. Things such as watching your child scream every time blood is drawn, or hearing her beg not to be taken in for the tests she must have to save
her life. Watching her try to smile because she doesn’t want the nurses to get mad at her so they pull and shove her and make her hurt. Cleaning her blood with dialysis every other night, and trying desperately to keep a sterile field for the treatments in spite of interruptions by ringing phones, someone at the door, or accidents caused by clumsiness from lack of sleep. Reading the numbers every week, knowing that they are rising and that each degree upward means your child is that much closer to dying. Going wild with hope and joy at the news that a kidney is available, only to crash when you learn that it’s incompatible. Being terrified that you can’t afford whatever it will take to make her well, or at least well enough to lead a seminormal life.”

“Don’t.”

It was a request, harsh yet polite, as he took a step toward her. Still she couldn’t stop now that she’d begun. “Then there are the little problems, like making certain that she never loses her favorite toy because letting her hold it is the only way to keep her from crying. Doing your best not to cause her pain like everyone else, but knowing you must. Listening to her cry anyway when it hurts too much.”

“Janna, please stop,” he said again, his voice husky and his face set as he reached with bound hands to brush the cool flesh of her arm.

She paid scant attention as she began a slow rocking motion where she stood. Voice trembling now, she went on in a rush, “I have to be the mean mama always, you know, have to say no to everything she
loves. To tell her, no, she can’t go swimming because it might cause infection in her peritoneal incision. No, she can’t have cake and ice cream and potato chips because every bite she takes should be nutritious. No, she can’t play with the other children because she might get a virus that she can’t fight or that would make surgery impossible at the chosen time. No, she can’t go outside because it’s too hot or too cold or too windy or too wet. No, she can’t run because she might fall and hurt herself. No, no, no, always no.”

Clay released her long enough to take the tumbler from her shaking hand and set it on the nearby stovetop along with his own. Then he pulled her against him, lifting his arms over her head and settling her into the circle made by his fettered wrists. It was only as her face came in contact with his bare shoulder that she realized she was crying, the tears running in hot, wet streams down her face and neck to pool in the hollow of her throat. He drew her closer with gentle care, and that very gentleness snapped what was left of her self-control.

With a strangled sob, Janna put her arms around his waist above his harness and held on tight while her chest heaved with difficult breaths and all the endless, useless pain tore at her heart. He smoothed his hand up and down her back and whispered curses and other things she couldn’t quite hear. He brushed his jaw against her temple in an aimless caress, and when her tears still ran, pressed a kiss to her forehead and the tear-streaked corner of her eye in the kind of passionless caress reserved for grieving children.

Feeling it, accepting the benediction of its intent, Janna found a degree of self-restraint. Lifting one hand, she caught the sleeve of her oversize sleep shirt and wiped her face. Then she leaned back a little in the circle of Clay’s arms and raised her wet eyes to search his face.

He was watching her, his own gaze shuttered behind his lashes. They stood perfectly still while time stretched to match the slow and heavy beating of their hearts. Her breasts were pressed to the hard planes of his chest; her pelvis met and fit his in perfect alignment. His breath feathered her cheek, and it seemed she could feel his gaze on her skin like the touch of blue-hot steel. She couldn’t move, couldn’t step away for the imprisoning hold of his arms. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to try.

He dipped his head a fraction, then paused. She parted her lips for a swift intake of air. Did he move again, or did she? She wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell, but an instant later his mouth was on hers.

T
he touch of his lips was warm and tender and tasted of wine and desire mingled with her own salt tears. It filled Janna’s senses, setting off a rising tide of pure, rich pleasure. She breathed deep, inhaling his scent, which acted like an aphrodisiac so her nipples tightened, pressing more firmly against him. In some dim corner of her mind was a vagrant gratitude that he had made it unnecessary for her to carry out her half-planned seduction, but it was short-lived, banished by unexpected, unimagined wonder.

He was perfect, the absolute match for her every curve and hollow, like a lock and key or the last piece of a puzzle. The brush of his bare thighs against hers, the slight abrasion of the dark hair along their muscled length, was an enticement to move closer. She complied in mindless instinct, until only a few threads of white knitted cotton separated them.

And then there was nothing except endless, aching space as he released her in an abrupt movement.

Lifting his arms up and over her head, he stepped away until his back was against the white metal of the refrigerator. With the fingers of his bound hands lightly meshed and held in front of him at the level
of his crotch, he slumped against it with his ankles crossed. In tones as devoid of emotion as his face, he said, “Sorry.”

So was she, sorry that he had stopped, sorry that she was caught without a glib rejoinder to assuage her pride, sorry she could not pass off the incident as one without meaning. Frustration, both physical and mental, clouded her mind until all she could think of was how he could appear so unmoved.

“I just meant to offer a handy shoulder,” he went on with the brief flicker of a smile. “Anything else seems like a bad idea under the circumstances.”

“Yes,” she said in mechanical agreement. Immediately afterward, she wondered why he hadn’t taken advantage of her moment of weakness to force her to release him. He could have, she knew; she’d felt his strength of body and will. True, she still carried no padlock keys on her, but that obstacle could have been overcome if he’d been prepared to be cruel. Was she being lulled into complacency? Did he have some idea of taking her and Lainey hostage when he made his bid for escape so he could turn them over to the authorities? Or could Clay Benedict possibly have a concealed agenda that involved remaining at the camp?

Janna opened her mouth to put the questions to him, then closed it again. Some things it was just as well not to know, she thought, especially when they couldn’t be changed.

She moved away from him and down the hall. He didn’t offer to stop her. At the door of her bedroom,
she looked back to find him following her movements with intent concentration. In quiet appreciation, she said, “Thanks for the shoulder.”

He didn’t reply. She closed the door quietly behind her then stepped to the bed. Easing down beside Lainey, she flung an arm over her eyes. After a long while, her breathing and her heartbeat slowed and she was reasonably calm again.

She couldn’t sleep. The problem of the extra money chased itself in her head. Anxiety over the doctor’s odd manner set her nerves on edge. The mystery of Clay’s patient, watchful quiescence, like that of the stalking wolf she’d named him before, plagued her. Unappeased desire, held at bay for years, clamored in her blood along with the new knowledge of how easily the man in the next room could satisfy it.

She was going crazy. Nothing was working out as it should. And the consequences, should things go completely wrong, would not be simply the embarrassment and inconvenience of a prison sentence for her, but death for her daughter.

The only consolation Janna could find, as she lay staring into the darkness, was the occasional protesting squeak of cheap bedsprings from Clay’s room. For all his appearance of control, he was as restless as she was.

The following day was a nightmare. The problems began at six in the morning with the arrival of the propane gas truck to replenish the camp’s supply. Janna heard it coming, but didn’t know what it was
until she’d rolled out of bed and gone to look out the window. By the time she’d pulled on her clothes, the delivery driver was already out of his vehicle and stringing hose toward the aboveground tank located at the back corner of the house.

Janna grabbed her purse then headed outside. On her way, she pulled the door of Clay’s room shut. It would be much better if he slept through the visit, though she didn’t depend on it. Her mind raced as she tried to concoct a tale that would explain his captivity should he make it known. The only thing she could come up with, however, was too embarrassing for words.

Denise had requested the delivery, it seemed; she was afraid the tank was low. The gas man, Mike, was a cousin on her mother’s side of the family, a detail Janna heard with resignation. She remembered Denise complaining that getting away with anything in Tunica Parish, where Turn-Coupe was located, was impossible since some relative always caught her.

Cousin Mike was a talkative sort, with a tall, skinny frame, sandy hair and an engaging grin. Working with easy competence, he advised Janna about the best bass fishing on the lake while delving into her and Denise’s history together. He also told her about his baby girl who was the same age as the recent arrival of another of Denise’s cousin’s, Kane, mentioned the latest book out by Luke’s wife, romance writer April Halstead, and described the big to-do with the sheriff’s upcoming wedding. Janna let him talk because she figured he’d be less attentive to what
was going on inside the camp that way. Not that there’d been much to worry about up to that moment, since the propane truck itself made a considerable racket.

So centered were her thoughts on this problem that she almost missed his change of subject. Then the tail end of what he’d said snatched her attention. Swinging back to face him, she asked, “What? What did you say?”

“Kid was found floating in the swamp. Awful, don’t you think?” Cousin Mike gave a doleful shake of his head. “I really feel for his people, having to live with what happened, wondering what he saw or knew before he died, or if he was dead before they sliced him up.”

“Please.” The word was stifled as Janna put her hand to her mouth.

“Sorry, but it gets to me that there are people who can actually kill a kid like that for his body parts. But I guess that’s the point, isn’t it? If he hadn’t been young and healthy, they wouldn’t have bothered with him.”

Sickness rose inside Janna. She’d done enough research, seen enough photos of organ transplant surgery, to have much too vivid an idea of the wounds inflicted by it. Beyond that image, however, was a specter too terrible to allow even a small place in her mind.

Her voice faint in her own ears, she asked, “Do things like this happen often around here?”

“Lord, no! First time that I know of.”

“And they haven’t found the person responsible?”

“They haven’t even identified the kid. I mean, he’d been in the water for a while. I expect whoever did it thought the turtles and alligators would take care of him.”

She drew a hissing breath, even as she shook her head.

“Sorry,” Cousin Mike said again. “But you can bet they’re pulling out all the stops looking for the creep who did it. Roan doesn’t cotton to things like this happening in his jurisdiction—that’s Sheriff Roan Benedict, you know? And the list of suspects can’t be that long.”

“You don’t think it was someone from around here?”

The gas man checked the tank’s gauge, then began to remove the hose. “My money is on the crime bosses down around Baton Rouge and New Orleans. I mean, it’s not that far, and they’ve used our swamp for their dumping ground before.”

“I’d think it would take someone with medical knowledge,” she observed, almost to herself.

“Could be, maybe a doc that had his license pulled, med. school dropout, surgical nurse who’s seen one too many botched operations, and so on.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t have to be, though.”

“Meaning?”

“Lots of folks in this part of the country know a thing or two about butchering. Hunters, trappers and farmers cut up meat all the time. You don’t do that
without learning where all the important bits are located.”

“I see your point,” she said, her voice constricted in her throat.

He lifted his head, gazing around at the camp and the lake beyond. Then he asked, “You seen anything of old Alligator Arty since you’ve been here?”

“He came by.” It had become second nature to be cautious.

“Might want to watch out for him. He has a record, you know. Not that I’m saying he had anything to do with this deal.”

“A criminal record, you mean?”

“Spent almost twenty years in the pen at Angola for taking his hunting knife to a man who got too friendly with his wife. Cut his throat for him, pretty as you please, and left him back in the swamp for ’gator bait.”

“I can’t believe it,” she said with a slow shake of her head.

“Weird old coot, keeps to himself. Never hurt anybody else that I ever heard, but you never can tell.”

“What about his wife?”

“Divorced him, of course, moved clean out of the country. Told people she was afraid of what he’d do when he got out of prison.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t get the death penalty,” she said.

“Jury only gave him twenty because they thought he had cause for being riled, I guess. Which is probably the same reason the wife hightailed it. Anyway,
I’d watch out for Arty. Well, and for any other strangers hanging around.”

“Yes. Yes, I will.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms as goose bumps rippled over her skin.

“Yeah, gives me the willies, too,” Denise’s cousin said with sympathy as he eyed her quick movement. “I mean, what kind of fiend could do that sort of thing?”

“Exactly.” Even as the agreement left her mouth, Janna wondered what this plain working man would think of her if he knew she could have some remote involvement with the incident.

At that moment, she heard a sound from the direction of the house. She glanced around in time to see Lainey standing at the bedroom window with Clay like a shadow only a few paces behind her. The angle of the house created glare on the glass that kept them from being plainly seen, still Janna moved to block Cousin Mike’s view as he straightened and turned back in the direction of his truck. “How much do I owe you for the gas?” she asked, raising her voice a little to cover any more attention-drawing noises.

“Don’t worry about it. Denise said put it on her account.”

“I pay my own way,” Janna insisted. “Just tell me how much.”

“Can’t do it.” The sandy haired man shook his head as he disconnected the hose and began to stow it away. “You and Denise will have to settle it between you. I only do what I’m told.” He gave her a droll smile. “So, you going to be here long?”

His curiosity, as idle as it might be, set off alarm bells inside Janna. “Not really,” she answered in dismissive tones. “But thanks for bringing the gas, anyway.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.” He hesitated as if he’d like to say more, but apparently thought better of it. Touching a finger to his cap in a farewell salute, he turned and climbed into his truck. Moments later, the heavy vehicle rumbled down the gravel road.

Janna didn’t move again for long minutes, but stood staring blindly at the drifting cloud of dust that had been left behind.

Dear God, but was it truly possible that the kidney Lainey was to receive had been cut from the body of the dead boy? As horrifying as the idea might be, it defied reason to think otherwise. Or did it?

A kidney was viable outside the body for less than 72 hours, and that was under controlled conditions with specialized machinery sending pulses of preserving fluid through it at regular intervals. Dr. Gower had said the kidney for Lainey would be ready within the week, not immediately. The time frame did not match. The death of the boy found in the swamp could not be on her conscience, then.

No, it couldn’t, but what about when the specified time arrived? Might someone else be destined to die to insure that Lainey lived?

Jana had never dreamed anything like this might take place. The implication had always been that the process of harvesting organs outside the system was
unethical and the profit from it illegal, but that was all. It wasn’t supposed to be lethal.

A hard knot gathered in her chest, threatening to choke her. She felt trapped, caught in something inescapable. What was she going to do? What?

How long she might have stood there, she didn’t know. She was recalled to a sense of where she was and what she had to do by Lainey knocking on the window behind her. She turned and tried to smile at her daughter, though the effort felt cramped and unnatural and she could barely see for the rainbow prisms of the tears that pooled in her eyes. Focusing on Clay Benedict was so impossible that she didn’t even try. Bending her head as if watching her step, she wiped under her lashes with the edge of her hand and turned back toward the house.

Lainey had been trying to attract her attention because there was a call on her cell phone. Janna took the unit from her and spoke into it with caution since Clay was standing in the doorway down the hall.

It was Denise on the other end. She was just checking, she said, wondering if the gas had been delivered as promised, if the air conditioners were keeping the place cool enough, also how Janna was making out so far without malls and supermarkets. Satisfied on all these points, she finally said, “So. Anything exciting happening that I should know about?”

“Same old, same old,” Janna told her as casually as she could manage.

“Really.” Her friend’s voice carried a note that made the muscles in the back of Janna’s neck tighten.

“More or less.”

“Having Clay on the premises isn’t unusual?”

Janna closed her eyes. “Lainey told you, I suppose.”

“Bless her little heart,” Denise said with wry cheer. “At least she seems to be enjoying his company. But he must have been there a while.”

Janna did not like the suggestive tone of Denise’s voice. She could just picture her, the dark eyes, glossy, perfectly coiffed black hair and red, red lips that made the very image of New Orleans sophistication and suspicion. “It isn’t what you think,” she said with some asperity. “He only came by to check on the camp.”