Go-Between (2 page)

She brought out the bottle of wine, two glasses, and then the pitcher of water with a couple of plastic tumblers. Put them down on the redwood deck. Slipped off her robe and draped it on the Adirondack chair by the tub.

He watched her now as she stepped into the tub and sat on the bench next to him.

“I bet you could kick my ass,” he said.

She had to smile. “I doubt it.”

“Maybe I'd let you.”

He leaned over and kissed her. His lower lip had cracked, probably from the fire's heat, and she could taste the hint of blood. She moved closer to him, and his arm circled around her back. His other hand came to rest on her breast, fingertips gently stroking her nipple.

Just the way she liked it.

This was one of the other answers.

Stupid, she told herself, and shallow. But true.

She couldn't pretend that it didn't matter. She liked looking at him, the long, lean body, the black hair shot with gray, the blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. It shouldn't matter, but it did. He loved sex, and he was good at it. Good with her. And after the long drought that had been her marriage, well, why not?

Don't ask that question, she told herself. But of course, she always did.

“I think I'm ready for some of that wine,” he said. The bottle and glasses had ended up almost behind him, and he leaned back and started to reach for the bottle. Drew in a sharp breath. “Shit!” he gasped, falling back against the side of the tub.

“Shoulder?”

“Yeah.” He managed a grin. “I think I'm getting too old to be a fireman.”

He wasn't that old. He'd just turned forty-two. And he was in good shape. But she could see the scar from the injury even in the near dark: a jagged oblong the size of a large grape, bigger than it needed to be because they'd waited to treat it, white edges around a dark, red-brown hollow.

She poured the wine. They toasted silently. Sipped.

It was smooth. Smoky. Which seemed appropriate.

“So how was the fire?” she asked.

“Fun. You know. Worked our asses off. Lost a house by Junction City, but that was it in terms of structures.”

“Are you really thinking about not volunteering any more?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I dunno. I mean, I need
something
to do.”

“The charter business
. . .
”

“Too slow. Not enough to cover the Caravan. Hangar rental's going up next month.”

“Evergreen's doing really well. You own the plane. We can cover the hangar.”

“It's not enough.”

He poured them both more wine. “Bobby left me a couple of messages. Said he has a gig.”

She hesitated. She knew that he probably wouldn't listen.

“Is it really a good idea?” she asked anyway.

“Minimum risk, maximum reward.”

“It's not minimum risk,” she said, feeling a surge of irritation. “You know, the rest of the country isn't Humboldt.”

“Compared to what I used to do?” He gulped some wine. “Look, setting up here took most of my bank.” Which might have been aimed at her. Opening Evergreen hadn't been cheap. “And there's no way I want to be without some real cash. In case, you know?”

Then he grinned. “Besides, it's patriotic. Supporting the local economy. Taking business away from the Mexicans. Win-win.”

She fought the urge to get out of the tub, storm off, slam a few doors. Not her style. Not the person she wanted to be, anyway.

Also, he had a point.

“Okay,” she said. “But you have to promise me. If we're
. . .
”

Her throat closed. She couldn't get the words out. She wasn't sure what the words even were.

It wasn't like they had a commitment. What did they have in common, really? They'd been thrown together, and they'd stuck together because it seemed to make sense.

It wasn't love, or anything like that. She wasn't sure she even remembered what being in love felt like.

It was attraction. Pheromones. It was making the best of the situation. He kept things light, and so did she.

Maybe I can't feel anything deep, she thought.

But she liked him. He was funny, and he was kind. And he'd kept his promises to her.

“If we're going to stay together,” she finally said, “there needs to be a point when you're done. With things like gigs for Bobby.”

He let out a long, slow sigh. Nodded. “Yeah. I know. You're right.”

“I'll clean up,” she said. “Why don't you go to bed? You look exhausted.”

He smiled, because that was how he was. The good guy. The one who let things slide. Who appreciated what he had. Pretended to, anyway.

“Thanks. I'm wiped.”

She shut down the hot tub, put on the cover. Washed the wine glasses and put them in the dish rack to dry. Threw the bottle in the recycling bin. Decent wine, she thought, and she liked that it was local. If she could talk them down a little on the case price, she'd stock it.

By the time she went into the bedroom, he was sound asleep.

She rinsed off in the shower, put on a T-shirt and pajama bottoms—no need for lingerie—and slid under the covers next to him.

Lying there, she thought, he's not perfect, but god knows, neither am I.

Maybe this is close enough, she thought.

Not a life she ever could have imagined living. But it wasn't bad.

x
x
x

Two days, he'd said.
“Texas. Flight plan's for Houston, if anyone asks.”

One day down, one to go.

Almost 10
p.m
. Time to close up shop, she thought, and go home. She shut down her computer, turned off the office light, locked the door.

Tuesday night. A slow one. The kitchen was already closed, except for bar snacks for another hour. She wasn't sure if the hour would be worth it. The bar empty except for two stools. The four-top settling their bill. Only one other customer that she could see, sitting at the two-top tucked into the alcove to the right of the front window. A dark corner, she thought. Maybe she needed to install another accent light. Kendra, the waitress, was there, laughing at something the customer had said, blocking her view of him, except for his shoulder, the side of his torso, some curly gold hair.

As she walked toward the door, a part of her already knew. Before Kendra stepped away and she saw him clearly, her heart had already started racing, raw adrenaline coursing through her body like a flood of melted ice.

The man at the two-top smiled and lifted his hand.

“Well, hello there, Michelle—how nice to see you again.”

Fucking Gary.

Chapter Two

A part of her
wanted to run. It was the rage that stopped her, coming in hard after the rush of fear.

Gun. She carried a .38 Smith & Wesson in her Be&D hobo. Tucked in a holster sewn into the leather. She'd had it made custom. Her hand snaked toward the flap.

Gary's smile broadened, his eyes trailing the movement.

Fuck, she thought. She couldn't just shoot the son of a bitch down in her restaurant.

Could she?

Kendra paused at her side, whispered in her ear: “He said you were old friends. He's been waiting. Do you want me to—?”

“It's fine.” She forced a smile. “I was just surprised.”

“Did he call you ‘Michelle'?”

“An old nickname. Excuse me a minute.”

She waited until Kendra had gone over to the four-top to pick up the check, and then she approached Gary's table.

“Why are you here?”

“I thought you might have time for a glass of wine.” He chuckled. “We have some catching up to do. Don't you think?”

The last thing she wanted to do was sit down and have a drink with fucking Gary.

“What do you recommend?” he asked, running a finger down the wine list. “You know a lot more about this stuff than I do. Something nice. And smooth. My treat.”

She kept her voice steady. Smiled like she would if he were any other customer. “Kendra? Would you bring over a bottle of the Turley, please? Two glasses.”

She turned back to Gary. “Anything else?”

His eyes moved from hers, slowly down her body. Taking everything in. “I've already eaten.”

She rolled her eyes. He was so fucking predictable.

Michelle pulled out the chair opposite Gary, and sat.

Kendra brought the wine.

“Well, thank you
. . .
Kendra, right?” He smiled. “Kendra was telling me about her studies at the college here, while I was waiting for you. Getting your master's in
. . .
environmental
. . .
systems,
is it?”

“That's right,” Kendra said. “It's a great program. I think your friend's son would really like it. But there's a lot of options. Environmental engineering, environment and community
. . .
” She was fresh faced and earnest, her enthusiasm for her subject close to the surface, like her enthusiasm for most things. A sweet girl.

Not someone Michelle wanted to put in front of Gary, not for another minute.

“Kendra, why don't you go ahead and punch out. I'll pay you for the rest of the hour.”

“I still have some side work—”

“It's been so slow. Don't worry. Matt can handle it.”

The bartender. In his late twenties, tattooed and pierced, hard bodied from mountain biking and rock climbing and whatever else he did.

Not that he'd be any match for Gary.

Michelle's heart started pounding again, and she thought, Matt will be okay. He's over at the bar, where he won't hear anything we say. He won't know anything. He won't be a threat.

She just didn't want to be left alone with Gary, even if Matt was no real protection.

“Thanks, Emily—see you tomorrow!” Kendra said over her shoulder.

Gary raised his glass.

“If you think I'm going to toast with you—” Michelle said.

“Now, now. We're two old friends, having a drink. How's it gonna look to your boy-toy at the bar if you don't?”

She pasted a smile back on. Lifted her glass. Clinked. Watched Gary sip.

She wasn't going to ask how he found her. He wouldn't tell her the truth, she knew.

Most probably, somewhere along the line she and Danny had been compromised, by someone who'd claimed to be on their side.

“Well, this is really nice,” Gary said.

If he meant the wine, it was. She'd been tempted to order the cheapest glass on the menu for him, but even those were decent. Might as well make him pay for it.

“The whole place, I'm just so impressed. I bet those are your photos on the walls, right? I always did think you had a real good eye.”

“Right.”

“You look like you've been working out,” he said, sniffing at the wine. “I mean, you always were into that as I recall, but seems like you've taken it to another level.”

It was true, but she wasn't going to tell him that. Wasn't going to tell him about the self-defense classes, the kickboxing, how all that activity was one of the few things that helped her relax.

“You know, you kind of inspired me, actually. I've been working out a lot myself.” He sat up straighter. Displaying himself. “You notice?”

Oh please, she thought.

But taking the opportunity to really focus on him, she could tell that he looked different. Thinner, for one. Harder. Even his face. His eyelids looked less puffy, the bags below them almost gone.

Good god, had he gotten his eyes done?

The mouth was the same, the cherub lips. And the hair, the gold curls, with their salon highlights.

“You've lost some weight,” she said.

“Well, you know, I was in the hospital for almost a month, thanks to you. Yeah, I lost a lot of weight. When I got out, I had to do a bunch of physical therapy, and after all that, I just thought, well hey, why not turn over a new leaf while I'm at it?” He rubbed a patch on his cheekbone. “Still numb. Multiple fractures.” Touched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, and that bump's left from where they reset it. I could've had more work done but I kinda like it, actually. Gives me a distinguished touch, I've been told.”

Deep, calming breaths, she told herself.

“So is that why you came here, Gary? You want to compare injuries? Because you know, I have a few. Thanks to
you
.”

“Be nice if we could just call it even. Wouldn't it?”

At that, she laughed. “Are you really going to tell me that you came here to kiss and make up? Do you think for one second I'd believe that?”

“No, I don't expect you would.” He settled back into his chair. “But one thing I hope you do believe, Michelle. You know how I used to tell you that I thought you had a lot of potential? A natural aptitude? I meant that. I really did.”

A sinking feeling. How many times had she read that description in a book, not really thinking about what it actually described? She felt it now, a hollow plunging in her gut.

She didn't need to know exactly what was coming to have a pretty good idea of its shape.

“No,” she said.

“You haven't even heard what I have to say.”

“I don't need to.”

Now he chuckled. Took a hearty swallow of wine. “You really think you get to say no?”

Red pulsed behind her eyes. She thought about the gun. “I should have fucking killed you,” she said.

“Yeah. You probably should've,” he said without heat. “Rookie mistake. It's always best to finish the job.”

He drank some more wine and finally pushed his glass away. “Tell you what. I know this is a lot to absorb right now. I'm staying at a little bed and breakfast just off the square. The Lady Jane Grey. Cute place. Got a hot tub and everything. Why don't you come see me tomorrow morning, nine-ish, and we'll get caught up?”

Michelle nodded. It was easier to agree than to argue.

Now he stood. Retrieved his wallet from a back pocket. “One glass is my limit these days.” He pulled out three one hundred dollar bills and tossed them on the table. “You can take the rest of the bottle home.” He smiled. “On me.”

After Gary left, she
stayed where she was. Picked up her wine glass. Thinking she wanted to snap the stem between her fingers, hurl the glass against the wall. At the redwoods photo, maybe. Because it really was a cliché.

Instead she had a sip, and then another.

She finished the glass. Picked Gary's money up off the table, grabbed the bottle of wine, and went over to the bar.

“For the Turley on number five,” she said, handing Matt the money.

“Wow. That's a big tip.”

She shrugged. “Make sure it gets divided up.”

“What about the bottle?”

Michelle glanced at the two customers on bar stools. Students, she thought, a girl and a boy who looked like they'd barely reached drinking age. On a date, probably. Nursing draft beers.

“You like wine?” she asked them. “It's on the house.”

Outside, the fog was
thick, leaving her face damp with its chill. She kept one hand on the butt of her .38 as she clicked on her key to unlock the Prius, parked behind Evergreen.

Stupid, she thought, sliding into the front seat. He's not waiting out here to kill me, or kidnap me. He wouldn't have come into the restaurant that way if that had been his plan.

Whatever it was he wanted her to do would be his version of revenge. Or the start of it. He'd put her in some situation that she couldn't get out of. Where she'd be afraid, all the time. Terrorized.

She remembered the things he'd threatened her with, before. She remembered the things that he'd done.

It's all a game to him. It's fun.

She arrived home, not remembering the drive.

Still keeping her hand on the pistol, she clicked off the alarm and went inside.

No Danny. He wasn't due back yet, but still, she'd wanted desperately to find him here. She wanted to tell him what had happened. To have him hold her.

She went out to the garage and retrieved one of the burner cell phones.

They could have kept the phones in the house safe, but that looked bad, Danny had said. “Just throw them in a box of crap in the garage. Like it's a piece of junk we haven't taken to the electronics recycling. If anyone finds one, you don't know what it is or how it got there.” A cheap phone, with no GPS. Prepaid minutes, bought with cash at a big-box store in another state.

She dug out the charger, stashed in a different bin on the workbench. Plugged in the phone. Went to texts, and punched in a number.

A two-character text: 86.

She waited. No response.

Okay, she thought, it might still be okay. He could be on his way back. He could have already tossed the phone.

She went back into the house. Grabbed her iPhone. Her “Emily” phone. The one with the plan through AT&T, the one that she paid for out of her “Emily” bank account every month, like a normal person.

She called Danny's “Jeff” phone. “Hey,” his recorded voice said, “Sorry I missed you. Leave a message.”

“Hi, it's Emily. Can you call me back, as soon as you pick this up. It's important.”

He turns his phone off all the time, she told herself. If he's still doing his run, it would definitely be off. Stashed in a signal-blocking bag, to make sure it couldn't be tracked.

But he was supposed to have his burner cell on, if he was still doing his run.

She went to her bedroom closet. Retrieved another cell phone from her other hobo, a Marc Jacobs she didn't use much any more. Her “Michelle” phone. Also prepaid. A risk, she knew. But she didn't keep any numbers in the phone book. Deleted the calls she made after she made them, as well as any incoming.

The only person who had the number was her sister, and Michelle had already changed it twice.

She couldn't tell Maggie what had happened in Mexico, or after. Where she was now, what she was doing. She'd seen Maggie and Ben once, eight months ago, meeting them in Santa Barbara for a “getaway weekend.”

“You can't ask questions,” she'd told Maggie. “Only call me if it's an emergency. I mean, a
real
emergency.” She'd given Maggie an email address too, that she accessed through a VPN. “Use that first. I'll check it every day.”

It wasn't foolproof. Cutting off all contact would have been the safest thing to do. But she'd lost everything else. She wasn't going to lose what was left of her family.

Their parents had been older. They'd gone from retirement community to assisted living to nursing home, the kind of journey where the horizons shrunk to a room and a wheelchair. Mom was gone. Dad had Alzheimer's. It was a weird blessing, in a way, that there wasn't enough left of him to miss her.

She put money into an account for his care, every month. Derek, their lawyer, took care of that. It was supposed to be untraceable.

She didn't necessarily trust Derek.

Michelle dialed Maggie's number. If her sister's phone was tapped, so what? She didn't have to worry about them pinging the cell phone tower, about them locating her. Gary was here. They already knew.