Vengeance to the Max (4 page)

“I have to find Cameron’s sister.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She sounded as bad as Cameron.

“What’s your husband say?” She’d grown used to Witt’s knowing about Cameron. He didn’t even think she was crazy. They’d been through too much for him to doubt her, at least as far as the whole psychic debate went. Besides, his own mother talked to the ghost of her late husband, Witt’s father. And he
knew
Ladybird wasn’t crazy. Odd maybe, but not crazy.

She shifted, moved ahead to fill the space that had widened in front of her. “Cameron doesn’t know, either.”

“Who got whacked in your vision this time?”

Someone always got whacked in her visions. That’s what they were all about, finding the whacker of the whackee so Max could exorcise that particular ghost.

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. The line inched forward. The terminal had felt empty with passengers spread out, but now, congregated by the departure door, there were far more travelers than she’d realized, and it seemed they’d all gotten up at once, most long before their boarding zone was called. She regretted she’d worn a jean skirt with some bizarre notion that it would be more comfortable on the plane than jeans or slacks. Now, standing around, her legs were cold, she’d shiver to death, she’d...

“The vision was about your husband, wasn’t it?”

Her throat closed like Witt had pulled up on a choke chain. Uncanny the way he read the expression on her face. “Yes.”

“After two years of nothing?”

“Why is the vision of his murder coming now?” she finished for him. “We don’t know.” We, she and Cameron. Her heart throbbed like a migraine.

“Tell me everything.” God, he was destined to sound like Cameron. Or she was destined to forever hear Cameron in him. Whatever the reason, she told him every dirty, painful detail. She told him despite the now clamoring crowd around them, letting the sounds of cellular phones and P.A. systems cocoon them, insulate them. Witt’s only reaction, a grim tightening of lips, especially when she talked of Bootman. Witt had read the police report. He knew what Bootman had done to her after he’d killed Cameron, when he’d dragged her off into the night. The iciness of Witt’s gaze could slice the man’s muscle down to the bone.

He, however, respected her desire to discuss that part as briefly as possible. His sparse questions made the telling of it easier.

“In the dream, your husband told you to find his sister.” He went on at her nod. “But that didn’t happen for real back then?”

She shook her head. Nope, no mention of Cameron’s sister.

Witt drew in a deep breath, shoved the bags forward with his foot as the line moved.

“Do you think his murder might have been more than wrong-time, wrong-place?”

Max was aware of blinking, but her gaze never left Witt’s face as she nodded once more.

Witt closed his eyes, issued a long-suffering sigh, then stared down at her again. “Shit, Max, what the hell does a sister in Michigan have to do with a robbery in a 7-11?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, echoes of Cameron’s litany in her head. “But I
will
find out.”

“I know.” Damn right he should know; she always found her culprit. Then he managed to stop her heart with his next question. “How does 452 fit?”

“452,” she repeated almost in a daze though she knew what he meant. Like an omen or a talisman, that number had figured significantly in every vision she’d had. A flight number, an address, the suite where a murder occurred, that number hovered at the edges of everything, connecting every death, a psychic connection to every murder she’d witnessed in her visions.

“The month and year she was born?” he pressed.

“Cameron’s sister? Like in April of 1952?” She shook her head. “That’s way too early.”

“What then?”

She leaned into him, pursed her lips, then knocked on his forehead. “Hello? This is about Cameron. This is different. His death has nothing to with all those other...” Realizing people had begun to stare, she lowered her voice. “...those other murders. It’s not connected to them.”

“It’s a vision like all your others, not just a nightmare. Why would it suddenly be
un
connected.” Gone was the slow speech, the lazy words. He was either pissed or very, very serious.

That’s what scared her the most.

Finally, they reached the front of the line. Handing her boarding pass to the agent, she ended the discussion, stepped forward, then turned to wait for Witt.

That’s when she saw
him
against the wall by the men’s bathroom. Head down, his concentration centered,
apparently
, on the newspaper page in his hands. The guy looked like a Greek God, handsome of face and form.

He looked up. For a brief moment, their gazes locked. Then he shifted, and his expression shuttered. He folded the paper, tucked it beneath his arm and high-tailed it back down the concourse. How the hell had he gotten through security without a ticket?

Max was sure Mr. Greek God over there had been following her for well over two weeks. She just didn’t know why.

Max didn’t tell Witt about the guy following her. There were lots of things she didn’t tell Witt. Mostly because she wasn’t used to telling anyone anything, except Cameron. After Cameron, no one guessed she would quit her job as a CPA, sell the condo, get rid of all the stuff that wasn’t absolutely necessary, move into a studio and start temping as an accountant at less than half the salary she’d been used to earning. She hadn’t asked advice, sought a psychiatrist, or vacillated over the decision. She’d simply done it without telling anyone why. Not even her best friend Sutter Cahill.

It was the same with Witt. Telling him things didn’t come naturally. It took too much effort, too much concentration. So she didn’t tell Witt about the man because she hadn’t figured out what interest the guy could possibly have in her. It never occurred to her to think she was in danger. Okay, so it had
occurred
, but she’d swept the thought aside.

They ambled through the cabin, stopping for this person to stow luggage, that person to get a pillow or take paperwork from a briefcase. Finally, she found their seats.

Witt reached over her head to put first one bag, then the other in the overhead. She didn’t move, allowing him to lean against her side, allowing herself the luxury of breathing in the light scent of aftershave, fresh shampoo, and all-American male.

He looked down at her, caught her staring with what must have been some bizarre orgiastic expression on her face. Giving her a knowing quirk of his mouth, he said, “What ya thinking?”

“I was wondering whether you wanted the window seat or the aisle.” The planes configuration was three seats on one side, two on the other, and when booking the flight, she’d chosen the two.

Witt’s smile grew. Bastard knew she hadn’t been thinking about seating assignments. He played along anyway. “Aisle. Don’t wanna have to crawl over you when I gotta take a leak.” He leaned down and said softly, “Rather have you crawling over me.”

Ooh-la-la. She would, too. Then she remembered Cameron and the dream, elbowed Witt and moved to the window. The only thing she could be thankful for was that Witt had forgotten about
that
number. All right, Witt never forgot anything, unlike like herself, so he’d dropped the subject. Whatever, she was thankful.

Of course, she was sure 452 would come back to haunt her if Witt or Cameron had anything to do with it.

After pushing her purse beneath the seat in front of her, Max shoved a pillow behind her and rolled her shoulders to find a comfortable position. The low hum of engines vibrated through the cabin wall. Cold air blew down on her head, and she reached up to turn off the nozzle. Witt’s eyes tracked the soft rise and fall of her breasts, then his gaze dropped to where her skirt had ridden up her thighs. She shivered though the air was now off.

“I need a blanket.” Her voice came out just short of a squeak.

Barely needing to rise, Witt reached into the overhead, pulled down a blanket, shook it, then draped it over her lap. His fingers brushed her bare flesh as he tucked it in. She shuddered, wondering if he’d insist on sharing a room at their hotel. She chanced a quick look at his eyes and figured the answer was a definite yes.

A mother with a small child shuffled past their row. Thank God. The little tike must be tired out this late at night, but the flight from San Francisco to Chicago was too long to be seated across from a child under five. Max wasn’t a mother and never would be.

She liked stray cats instead. She’d tasked her friend Sutter with feeding the little buzzard while she was gone, Sutter, her
best
friend, whom she hadn’t spoken with since Cameron died. Until two weeks ago when Max had suddenly shown up on her doorstep. Sutter had a very forgiving nature. And she loved animals.

“I hope Buzzard will be all right without me.” She’d probably lose him to Sutter’s caring arms.

“It’s a stray,” Witt murmured with raised brow as he buckled himself in, then reached over to help her. “It can take care of itself.”

She slapped at his hands. “I can do it.” His touch made her wriggle. She breezed on with her thought, hoping to ignore the sensation. “What about your mother? You haven’t mentioned her.”

Witt closed his eyes and leaned back. “Ladybird will be fine. She’s got Horace.” Max did not point out that the ghost of Witt’s father couldn’t call 911 if there was an emergency. “She thinks we’re running away to get married,” he added.

Max barely restrained a shriek. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing.” He rolled his head to look at her. “I smiled.”

She whapped his arm. “Bastard. She’ll be disappointed.”

“Not as long as we’re home for Thanksgiving.”

Which was why he’d insisted they fly back Monday in order to beat the holiday air traffic. Max hoped they could find Cameron’s sister in five days, three if you figured in all the travel time.

Ohmygod, it suddenly hit her. Thanksgiving at Ladybird’s. “She’s not making Turkey TV dinners, is she?” Max might have to remember how to cook and make the big offer.

“Worse,” Witt answered. “She’s cooking a real turkey.” With another of his gorgeous smiles, he added, “For you.”

Things were getting way too serious in the relationship department, but damn, it felt nice to imagine her and Witt and Ladybird around the dining room table drooling over the scent of overcooked turkey and sawing into undercooked potatoes. There’d be a place for Horace, Witt’s departed father, at one end, and another for Cameron beside Max. Ladybird never neglected a guest, living or spirit.

The queue of passengers waned. A businessman and a college-age boy took the seats opposite, the kid on the aisle. Upon taking his seat and strapping in, he promptly plugged himself into his iPod and closed his eyes. He was snoring by the time the air hostesses cruised the cabin, closing down overhead bins and checking for unfastened seat belts.

The whir of the engines became a roar. Witt sat straighter as the plane pulled away from the gate. The lights flashed on and off, and Witt curled his fingers around the edges of the armrests.

“What’s wrong?” Max murmured.

“Stretching my hands.”

It didn’t look like stretching. It looked like clawing. The plane moved into line for take off. A drop of perspiration beaded on his upper lip. His cheeks paled.

“Are you getting sick or something?” Pressing a hand to his forehead, she found his skin clammy and cool.

Witt’s breath came in short blasts. His knuckles whitened. Max got scared. “Hey.”

He didn’t answer.

The jet taxied down the runway. Witt closed his eyes, put his head back, and grimaced as the plane picked up speed.

Damn. The man was afraid of flying.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Shut up for a minute, okay?”

She did, glancing out the window. The tarmac blew by. She saw the lights of the San Mateo Bridge, the beam of a few headlights, the glow from the houses, and the nose began to lift. In moments, they were airborne. Witt’s Adam’s apple bobbed. That’s why he didn’t want the window. He hadn’t wanted to see.