Cut Throat (15 page)

“You should not speak of such things,” she said softly.

Cat stopped pacing and stared at Paloma, wondering what miserable sense of humor God had that would put her in the same room with a woman Solomon Tutuola knew personally.

She grabbed her gun and stuck it back in her shoulder holster, then put on her jacket before digging in her pocket. She pulled out a handful of bills and handed them to Paloma.

“I have to…I can’t stay…uh…thank you for the food.” She strode toward the doorway, then paused and turned back. “About Tutuola…”

“What about him?” Paloma asked. “Did he say where he was going?”

“No. I put a curse on him. He was trying to outrun it when he left.”

Cat stood in the doorway, staring back at the small woman with the dark brown eyes, realizing that size had nothing to do with guts.

“Good for you,” Cat said softly, and then walked out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

Paloma stood in the silence of her tiny home, waiting for the sound of the American woman’s vehicle to disappear. Only after she could hear nothing but the squawking of her neighbor’s chickens did she begin to relax. However, she’d had her fill of visitors, and for one of the few times in her life, she locked and barred her door, glad to be rid of them all.

Cat was almost a mile away from Agua Caliente when she suddenly jammed her foot on the brake, slammed the car into Park and staggered out just before she threw up. She retched until her belly hurt and there was nothing coming up but bile. Then she moved to the back of her car, got out a bottle of water, and rinsed her mouth over and over before she dared swallow a sip.

Her belly lurched a bit when the water hit bottom, but it stayed down. She poured the rest on her face and hands, and then squatted down beside the door.

Her head was still pounding, as was her heart. Every breath she took was an ache that went all the way to her toes. She couldn’t make sense of what was happening. She’d gotten the answer she needed regarding the mystery blip she’d been following, so she had to put a different mind-set to what she did next now that she knew what she was facing. The only thing she knew so far was that she wouldn’t leave Mexico until she watched that man die, and she felt no guilt for the thought.

He’d stolen her father’s life and left her for dead. It was payback time.

It was instinct that made her take her cell phone out of her pocket and turn it on. Almost immediately, it began beeping, signaling messages she had yet to hear. She flipped through the list, recognizing that every one of them was from Art, and realized she felt somewhat disappointed that none of them were from Wilson.

She would call Art, of course. And there was no time like the present. She’d also better check her answering machine at home. She’d left in such a hurry that there was no telling what she’d forgotten to tend to.

She glanced at her watch, trying to figure out what time it would be back in Dallas, then shrugged off the thought. It didn’t matter. She still felt the need to check in—to let someone else know that, at least for the time being, she was still alive.

She dialed Art’s number, counted the rings and then, to her dismay, got the answering machine. She’d wanted a voice—a connection with someone she knew—to remind her that there was a part of her world that was still there, but it wasn’t to be.

When the message ended, she waited for the ding, then began to talk.

“Art, it’s me, Cat. Sorry I haven’t checked in before now, but you know me…always in the middle of some thing unexpected. I’ll have to tell you all about it when I get back. At least, I will if I get back. Got a bit of bad news this morning. Solomon Tutuola is still alive after all. I talked to a woman who not only knew him, but had seen him just a few days ago.” She laughed, unaware of how bitter she sounded. “Isn’t that a pile of crap? The good ones die, and the bad ones just keep on going. Anyway, just wanted you to know I’m okay. I’ll see you when I see you.”

She disconnected, then grabbed a piece of paper from inside the SUV before dialing her own number. She rolled her head from side to side, wincing when her neck suddenly popped. Then the messages began to play back, and she forgot her exhaustion.

The first one was from her dentist. She’d missed her appointment, and from the sound of Debbie the receptionist’s voice, was on the dentist’s shit list for not calling in to cancel ahead of time.

“Well, Debbie, you’ll just have to get in line,” she muttered, and waited for the next message to play.

There were two hang-ups, then a message from her landlord. She rolled her eyes. Damn, she’d missed paying her rent. Well, hell, she’d never been late before, and he knew she was good for it. He would just have to get in line behind Debbie if he wanted a piece of her ass.

Her mind was already wandering when another message began to play. The sound of Wilson McKay’s voice in her ear washed over her and aroused an unexpected wave of longing. She closed her eyes and unconsciously pressed her cell phone hard against her ear, as if it would bring him closer. It didn’t take long to realize he was pissed.

When he mentioned he’d seen her shoot-out on the interstate on the news, she could tell by the tone of his voice that he was furious. Tears began burning at the back of her throat, but she swallowed harshly. No need to cry. She already knew he was done with her. She couldn’t imagine why he’d even bothered to call.

Then she heard him take a deep breath before the tone of his voice got rougher.

“…don’t know why I care. I wish to hell I didn’t. And just for the record, woman, if it hadn’t been for that piece of film on tonight’s news, I wouldn’t have the slightest notion of where in hell to look for your bones.”

She heard him saying something else, but she’d already lost her focus. When the line suddenly went dead, the disconnect was unmistakable.

There were a couple of other messages, but she hardly heard them. She

closed her flip phone, then put it back in her jacket as if nothing had happened. She looked up at the sky. It was gray. A sign that the weather might change, which wasn’t good. Even though she was a long way south of Dallas, it was still winter.

Her head began to hurt. She took a deep breath. There was grit in her mouth, and grit in her hair. She needed a bath and a change of clothes, and she needed to sleep for a week.

She strode to the back of her car, got a fresh bottle of water, then closed the hatch and slid back behind the wheel. The silence inside the cab was overwhelming. She reached for the key, intending to turn on the engine, just to hear something besides the thud of her own heavy heart. Instead, she laid her head down on the steering wheel and choked on her next breath.

She swallowed a sob that had come out of nowhere, then wrapped her arms around the steering wheel and let go of the pain.

She cried for outliving her mother and father, for Marsha leaving her behind to face life all alone. She cried for all the years she’d given her passion to hate and revenge, and she cried for herself, knowing that she’d killed whatever it was that Wilson had ever felt for her.

She cried until her chest hurt and her eyes were so swollen that her vision was blurred. Her hands were shaking as she wiped them across her face. Then she felt beneath the collar of her turtleneck sweater to the cat charm on the thin silver chain.

Besides her memories, it was all she had left from her life before Solomon Tutuola had entered their house. She fingered it slowly, then let it drop. She felt the warmth of it against her skin as she leaned back and

reached for the laptop. A few moments later, it was up and running. She stared at the map for a long, long time.

So now she knew who was behind the blip, and she knew where he was. She’d never been to Chihuahua, Mexico. As the old saying went, there was no time like the present.

She leaned forward, then reached for the key in the ignition. Nine

Brothers Houston and Jimmy Franks had finally bonded out of jail, no thanks to Wilson McKay, and now Jimmy had transferred all his anger at the system to Wilson, refusing to consider that they’d gotten themselves into their own messes. They’d spent the last four hours staking out Wilson’s office, but he’d never showed. It wasn’t until Wilson’s secretary left the office with an armful of papers that they decided they’d gotten their break.

They followed LaQueen all the way downtown, watched her go in and out of the county courthouse, stop off at the cleaners, then head back uptown, ostensibly to the bond office. It wasn’t until they saw her pull over to the curb in front of a café that they realized she was meeting with McKay. They watched as Wilson got out of his car and went to meet her.

“There he is,” Houston said, and hunkered down in the car so McKay wouldn’t spot him.

Jimmy was reaching for the coffee cup sitting on the dash when Houston spoke. He looked away just long enough to knock the coffee over, then caught hell from Houston because the liquid rolled into the defroster

vents by the window.

“Damn it, Jimmy! Watch what you’re doin’,” Houston yelled.

Jimmy began mopping at the spill with a T-shirt he grabbed from the floorboard.

“It was an accident,” Jimmy snapped. “And if we’re supposed to be watchin’ McKay unobserved, then you might want to shut the fuck up. They can hear you all the way across the street.”

Houston glared, then looked back. McKay was nowhere to be seen. “Where did he go?” Houston muttered.

Jimmy took a last swipe at the dash, then shrugged, unable to do a thing about the liquid that had dripped into the vents. He tossed the T-shirt in the back, then rubbed his hands on his pant legs as he looked up. He stared around for a few moments, then pointed.

“There he is…inside that café. See? Ain’t that him there, with his back to the window?”

“Oh. Yeah. I see him. Damn shame I don’t have a piece with me. I’d pop a cap in his back, then we’d see who was in charge. Big son of a bitch…had you arrested and left me to rot in jail. And after I wasted my phone call on him an’ all.”

“Yeah. And that big bitch he’s got for a secretary. She’s got hers comin’, too.”

“Yeah,” Houston muttered.

Jimmy was fidgeting. He needed a drink, and he needed a fix. Spending all that time in jail had set him on a path to withdrawal that he didn’t intend to follow.

“Come on, Houston, let’s go. I need to score me some meth.”

Houston Franks hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, all right. We know we can find him anytime we want. I’m thinkin’ I could do with a beer or two myself.”

Houston started the car, and with one last look at the table where Wilson was sitting, they pulled out into traffic and drove away.

Wilson sat impatiently in the café, waiting for a man named John Tiger. They were meeting for lunch to discuss the possibility of John going to work for Wilson. After what had happened to LaQueen, Wilson was anxious to put safeguards into place so it wouldn’t happen again.

It was odd how he’d come to consider John Tiger as a possible employee. If he hadn’t been talking to his brother Charlie on the phone last night, he wouldn’t have known that John, a longtime friend of Charlie’s, now lived in Dallas. Wilson knew John slightly from back home, where Charlie said the man had worked as a deputy sheriff. Now he was a bouncer at a local nightclub. John would be perfect for the job, if he were interested. He had law-enforcement training, and he was big and strong, thus the job as a bouncer. Charlie had attested to his single-minded intent and honesty.

If John and Wilson hit it off, Wilson was seriously considering offering him the position.

As Wilson sat there, he got his cell phone out and started checking his voice mail. When he saw there was a message from Art Ball, his eyes narrowed sharply. There was only one reason for Art to be calling him. He’d heard from Cat.

He punched the button to return the call without giving himself time to change his mind. He needed to know she was all right, then he could go about the business of hating her again. Right now, though, he was too damned worried for anger.

“Art’s Bail Bonds.”

“Art, it’s me, Wilson. Have you heard from Cat?”

“Yeah, and damn it, I wasn’t here. At least she left a message. Said she’d been delayed a bit, but here’s the kicker. That man she went looking for— you know, the one you all thought burned up? Well, according to Cat, he isn’t dead.”

Wilson’s stomach lurched.

“Jesus,” he muttered, and dropped his head, then closed his eyes. “She’s trailing him, I suppose?”

“Best I could tell. Like I said, it was just a message. I tried to call her back, but I think she’s too far away or she turned her phone off or something.”

“Perfect,” Wilson muttered.

“Well…look at it this way, Wilson. She’s still alive. It’s more than we knew yesterday, right?”

“I guess,” Wilson said, then added, “thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem,” Art said. “Someone’s gotta look after her, ’cause she damn well don’t look after herself. It might as well be us.”

“Yeah,” Wilson muttered.

They disconnected just as his waitress arrived with the coffee he’d ordered while waiting for John to arrive.

“Here you go, honey,” she said, and slid the cup in front of him. “Cream or sugar?”