Cry Uncle (27 page)

“
I know how adults
are.”

He knew some of them were prigs. Pamela, for
instance. “What happened? Did some blue-nose come over and tell you
to cover her up?”

“
Blue-nose? Do you think I’m
talking about morality? You think that’s what this is about?”
Pamela’s knuckles turned a bloodless white. The tendons in her neck
stood out. Slowly it dawned on him that she was really in a state
about this.

He lowered his bottle and regarded her
cautiously. “I’ll admit Lizard can be wild, but come on. She isn’t
even in school yet. Kids are always losing their swimsuits at the
beach. They love skinny-dipping.”

“
This isn’t about Lizard’s
wildness, or skinny-dipping, or losing her swimsuit. This is about
the real world, Joe. It’s about creeps who get their jollies with
little girls.”

“
Jesus Christ.” His heart
lurched in his chest. Had some creep touched Lizard? Had someone
approached her? He’d strangle the guy with his bare hands, so help
him. He’d tear off his head—and other parts of his body, too.
He’d—

“
Maybe you don’t see the
danger. Maybe you think I’m being hysterical—”

“
Who touched her?” His voice
emerged low, raw, the rage barely suppressed. “Did someone touch
her?”

“
No. But you let her run
around naked, and you’re asking for trouble.” Pamela began to pace
the kitchen, not so much burning off steam as charging herself up.
“I’m not talking about fun and games, Joe. I’m not talking about
skinny-dipping. We were on a public beach, and Lizard removed her
bathing suit because Birdie told her it would free her essence.
Well, let me tell you something, Joe. I’m not going to let that
precious little girl free her essence on a public beach. The world
is full of creeps. And Lizard thinks she’s perfectly safe exposing
herself when who the hell knows what kind of perverted beast might
be on that beach with her, watching her and getting ideas. I don’t
know what you allow, what you think is just children being
children, what you consider acceptable Key West behavior. And
frankly, I don’t give a damn what you allow and what you consider
acceptable. As long as I’m here, as long as I’m Lizard’s aunt by
marriage, that child is not going to go naked on a public beach. I
absolutely refuse to let her expose herself to that kind of
danger—and if you disagree with me, well, tough luck.”

Her eyes flashed at him, shiny with tears.
Joe realized that this wasn’t about Lizard’s lack of decorum, or
the hang-loose atmosphere of the island, or Pamela’s arguable
paranoia. She cared about Lizard, cared about his niece so much she
was willing to wait up for Joe, and rant and rave, and wave her
fists in the air. For Lizard’s sake. Because she cared.

He still wasn’t sure he believed she was in
any danger. But for the moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered
was that she loved his niece as much as he did, loved her enough to
go to the mat with him about her, and fight for her, and worry
about her.

How could he not believe in a woman who cared
so much about Lizard? How could he not want her?

One long stride carried him across the room
to her. He snagged her in mid-circuit around the room, wrapped his
arms around her, and pressed his lips to hers in a hard, fierce,
angry, loving kiss.

Chapter Twelve

KEY WEST. MICK supposed it made a certain
sense that she would get herself as far from Seattle as her car
would carry her. Although she could have crossed the border into
Canada. More’s the pity she hadn’t. If she had, it would have been
a hell of a lot easier for Tony to track her down, what with
certain acquaintances of his who happened to be affiliated with the
border patrol.

Okay, so whatever. Key West might be far
away, but it wasn’t inaccessible. All Mick had to do was fly to
Miami, rent a car, scoot down Route One on the causeway that
connected all those dinky little islands, find the lady currently
going under the name of Pamela Brenner and pop her. Easy as
pie.

Mick inventoried the contents of his suitcase
one more time. Underwear, toiletries, fake mustache, sunglasses,
baseball cap. Traveler’s checks. Auto club directory of lodgings in
Southern Florida. Unassembled plastic gun, the pieces neatly
stashed inside the suitcase lining.

He would buy the bullets once he got to
Florida.

He couldn’t believe how simple it had been,
once some homicide detective had mentioned in passing to Tony that
he’d heard from a friend of Pamela’s. “She’s still running scared,
according to her friend,” the detective had told Tony, all
innocence, all goo-goo helpfulness.

Tony, bless his little heart, hadn’t given
anything away. “A friend of hers, huh? Did you happen to catch her
name?”

“
It was a he. Let’s see, we
got it on the tape: Joe Brenner.”

Bull’s-eye. Pamela Hayes had changed her name
to Brenner, hadn’t she? Joe Brenner’s phone number could be traced
easily enough, to a bar on Key West. From there, a quick Google
search had produced Joe Brenner’s home address: Leon Street, same
address that appeared on Pamela Hayes Brenner’s new Florida
license.

Thank you,
God
.

Mick had considered contacting someone on the
East Coast to do the dirty deed for him. Technically, he wasn’t
allowed to leave the state while he was free on bail. But
technicalities could be smoothed over with a little cash, and Mick
wanted the Hayes woman for himself. No one had ever had the guts to
stand up to him before. She was a prize, and he wanted her scalp on
his belt.

He zipped his bag shut, grabbed his car keys
and left the apartment. A cool drizzle bathed the road and created
haloes around the street lights. A sign, he thought, humming to
himself. A sign that the angels were with him on this mission.

Oh, he was going to get her, all right. He
was going to plug her with so many holes she could do service as a
colander. And he was going to enjoy it. Nobody testified against
him in court and walked away.

The clock on his dashboard read eight
o’clock. He’d arranged to have a ticket waiting for him at the
airport. The red-eye’s departure time was nine-fifty. When he woke
up tomorrow, he’d be in the Sunshine State.

He hummed a tune in time to the clicking of
his windshield wipers. This was going to feel good, he thought.
Pamela Hayes deserved to die, and not just because she’d fingered
him. Women didn’t belong on construction sites. It was a man’s
business: designing, building, raising capital and keeping the
union in line. What the hell had they brought in a female architect
for? Female architects ought to be designing doll houses.

Yeah, she deserved to die. The world would be
a better place minus one uppity professional woman.

He drove onto the highway, southbound. The
asphalt was slick with rain, forcing him to slow down. He batted
down his rising frustration. So what if he got to the airport five
minutes later? The less time he hung around the terminal, the less
chance some TSA bozo might pull him out of the security line and do
a thorough check on his background—or his suitcase.

Up ahead he saw a swarm of red lights. Brake
lights. Traffic jam.

“
Shit!” He banged his fist
against the steering wheel, then struggled to rein in his temper.
Traffic happened. He was just going to have to be
patient.

This wasn’t merely traffic, he realized after
his car caught up to the mass of motionless vehicles clogging the
highway. No one was moving, period. A few drivers climbed out of
their vehicles to see what was going on. Mick climbed out, too.

Around a bend in the road he saw a
jack-knifed eighteen-wheeler, the trailer of which had skidded
sideways to block all three southbound lanes. Somewhere behind him,
Mick heard the approaching wail of a siren.

He spat out a few foul words. It could take
hours for the truck to be removed from the highway. Mick didn’t
have hours.

He yanked open his car door, slumped onto the
seat and slammed the door shut. In his rear view mirror he saw two
state troopers cruising along the shoulder, their blue lights
flashing. Behind them was another vehicle, this one beaming a
flashing yellow light. A tow truck.

Oh, right. One little tow truck was going to
clean up this mess.

Drumming his fingers against the dashboard,
he watched the troopers and the wrecker cruise past. He counted to
five, then eased his car onto the shoulder. Shifting into reverse,
he backed up to the exit ramp, all the while praying that no more
cops would be coming along for a few minutes.

A couple of cars honked at him as he coasted
backward past them. A van pulled onto the shoulder, following his
example. Good thing, Mick thought. He would be less conspicuous if
he wasn’t the only driver breaking the law to escape the gridlock
up ahead.

Slowly, cautiously, he made his way down the
ramp to the street. At the bottom, he navigated a three-point turn
and headed west, leaving the traffic-snarled highway behind. “Yes!”
he hissed triumphantly.

Okay. One disaster averted. Now he had to
find an alternate route to the airport—and he had to make tracks.
That one good-for-nothing eighteen-wheeler had cost him fifteen
precious minutes.

He veered around the block, meandering
through damp, dark streets, weaving his way toward Route 99. He
tried not to look at the dashboard clock, but its digits glared at
him, taunting him.

Damn it. If he didn’t catch this flight, he’d
have to wait a day—assuming he could even get a seat on the next
flight. The longer he waited, the greater the chance that Pamela
Hayes would move on, change her name again, do something to screw
him the way she’d screwed him in court. He just wanted to take care
of her so he could get on with his life.

He pressed harder on the gas pedal. He was a
better driver than that idiot trucker. He wasn’t going to skid.
Seattle residents knew how to drive in wet weather; it was the only
kind of weather they had.

The light ahead turned from green to yellow.
Mick didn’t have time for red lights. He floored the pedal and
zoomed through the intersection. And heard a siren as a traffic cop
turned the corner, switched on his lights, and chased down Mick
Morrow, professional murderer, for running a red light.

***

“
JOE?” HER VOICE emerged as
a whisper, uncertain. Just a minute ago she’d been steaming with
rage. She’d actually wanted to punch him, shake him, force him to
acknowledge her.

She hadn’t been prepared for him to
acknowledge her like this, though. Even worse, she hadn’t expected
to respond to his kiss, to feel the steaming rage turn to steamier
desire as he twined his fingers through her hair and slid his lips
from her mouth to the bridge of her nose, to her forehead.

“
I’m sorry,” he
murmured.

For what? Making light of Lizard’s nudist
proclivities? Treating Pamela so cavalierly? Or kissing her?

She hated him for his ability to arouse her
with his touch, with the lean grace of his body as he closed in on
her. She struggled valiantly to resist her treacherous reaction to
him. “What’s going on, Joe?” she asked. “Why are you doing
this?”

“
You’re my wife.” He said it
as if it were news to him, a profound revelation.

“
You could have fooled
me.”

He slid one hand from her hair to her
shoulder and down her arm, to capture her left hand in his. With
his thumb he traced the thick gold band that marked her as his
wife. “Why did you marry me, Pamela?” he asked.

She frowned, momentarily bewildered by both
his question and her own uncertainty as to her answer. For a
strange, unnerving moment she believed she’d married Jonas Brenner
because his eyes were so blue. Because his smile was so deliciously
wicked. Because deep in some hitherto unknown part of her soul
she’d been longing for a bum in torn jeans and an earring to become
a part of her life.

“
I told you,” she said,
lowering her gaze so she wouldn’t have to see his handsome face,
his intense stare. “There’s a hit man after me.”

“
Tell me about
him.”

Her frown intensified. She took a step back
and found herself pressed against the counter. She’d thought—maybe
even hoped, in that same hitherto unknown part of her soul—that Joe
was going to seduce her. Obviously he was more in the mood for a
chat. But if they were going to talk instead of make love, they
ought to be talking about Lizard, not Mick Morrow.

“
Tell me about this hit man
who’s after you.” Joe remained close to her, his thumb strumming
across her knuckles. His chest remained an inch from hers; his feet
remained apart, framing hers.

She didn’t want to talk about the murder
she’d witnessed. Whenever she talked about it—whenever she even
thought about it—dread welled up inside her, making her feel weak
and wretched.

“
Pam.” He released her hand
and let out a long breath. “A hit man isn’t stalking you,” he said,
sounding oddly disappointed.

“
Of course he is,” she
retorted. “His name is Mick Morrow, and he’s a cold-blooded
killer.”

“
Mick Morrow.” Joe scratched
his chin thoughtfully. His fingernails made a rasping sound against
the day-old stubble of beard. “It doesn’t sound like a hit man’s
name.”

“
What name would you prefer?
Black Jack Morrow? Homicide Morrow? AK-47 Morrow?”

“
He uses an AK-47?” This
took Joe aback. “A semi-automatic?”