Dead to the Max (32 page)

“I’m going to strangle you. There won’t be any blood.”

She held her arm out to show him the scratch he’d left along her flesh, then rubbed the blood across the top of the file. “The mini-mart across the street is open all night. Someone’ll see you carry my body out to your car.” She smeared blood on the wall beside the file cabinet, too.

His swallow was audible. The smell of his acrid sweat reached her nostrils. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” His voice quavered. She felt him back off, one step, a scuff on the carpet, then another step.

She held her arms aloft, chanced a glance behind. He stood to her right, his hands busy with the rope, twisting, untwisting. “What are you going to do when they start asking you questions, Remy? Direct questions? They won’t let you get away with those ambiguous answers.”

He took a deep breath. “I’m thinking.”

“You’ll have to lie. No two ways about it.”

“Shut up,” he shouted. Agitation was good. Very good.

Max judged the distance between her hands, Wendy’s plant pot, and Remy’s head.

She saw him move, a flicker at the corner of her eye.

One second. Two.

She grabbed the pot, aimed, and met his lunge halfway.

The crack against his skull reverberated up her arms. The ceramic fell apart in her hands. Remy crumpled at her feet.

Like a horror movie monster, he could easily rise again. Max didn’t waste another second getting out of there.

She never made it to the front door. The lobby glass shattered with a great boom, something smashed against the front counter, and Max fell to the floor of her office, her arms over her head.

Oh God, Remy’d rigged the place to blow up.

Shouts. Someone called her name. No smoke. No flames. Just Witt. Hands on her, testing her arms, her ribcage, her face, then she was hauled against his hard body and the breath squeezed out of her.

“You all right?” he whispered, and she could have sworn there was a slight hitch in his voice.

“Hmm.” God, he felt good. Safe, solid. And warm.

She put a hand to his chest experimentally. He wore the teal shirt again. Freshly laundered. She closed her lids, burrowed into him. The man smelled good, too. She could have stayed in his arms forever. “You broke the door down?”

“Threw a potted plant into it.”

“Oh.” It was only natural to feel a trace of tenderness toward the first person encountered after almost getting killed. “Plant pots make great weapons,” she mused. Then her eyes flew open. She jerked back. “Remy.”

Witt looked down at her with brilliant blue eyes, but didn’t relinquish his hold on her. “Not moving. Did you kill him?”

“I cracked his skull.”

He rolled his eyes. “Who needs a gun when they’ve got you around? Never occurred to you to let someone be your knight in shining armor, did it?”

“Only if that someone wanted to be a pall bearer, too. If I’d waited for you, I’d be dead.” She gestured in Remy’s general direction. “Shouldn’t you check his pulse or something?”

“After I make sure you’re okay.” Witt ran his hands up and down her torso.

Oh boy, this was way too good. She wanted more. Max wriggled out of his grip. “We oughta call an ambulance. I don’t want anyone to bring me up on manslaughter charges.”

He stared at her a moment longer, those blue eyes of his unreadable—not that Max really tried anyway—then stood and held his hand out to her.

He made her skin tingle. She didn’t like it. Rephrase, she liked it too much. And that was dangerous.

“I won’t bite.”

She might like it if he did. She took the challenge and the hand he offered.

She looked down to Remy sprawled on the floor. “He’s a liar and a killer. We oughta cuff him, and
then
call the ambulance.”

Witt dropped her hand, turned all cop-like on her, reaching beneath his jacket to pull out a pair of handcuffs. Kneeling beside Remy, he checked his pulse, then rolled him over and snapped the cuffs on.

Sirens sounded in the distance. Witt glanced at her. “Backup. Called when I found both your cars parked outside, and the front door locked.”

“Does this mean he’s not dead?”

“Alive. And soon to be kicking when he wakes up.”

“Good. I want him to live in a tiny jail cell where he’ll learn how to bend over and get real used to being called ‘boy.’”

Witt chuckled. “Still too much TV, Max.”

Lying on his side, Remy’s face was covered with dirt and broken bits of crockery. His knees were close to his chest, fetal-style, his feet rammed up against the filing cabinet, the rope he’d intended to kill her with still coiled around his hands.

She thought of his hands curled around Wendy’s throat.

“He’ll soon learn the true meaning of the
penal
code.” She dusted her hands off, set them on her hips. “What about Nick?”

Witt’s features turned to granite. “What
about
Drake?”

“This means he’s free.”

“It means I can’t hold him for murder. There’s a load of other stuff—”

“Hey.” She stopped listening to Witt as another, more immediate thought took over. “How’d you know it was Remy?”

He rose, knees creaking. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

Amazingly, a flush of red swept across his face. “I—” He stopped, clamped his lips shut.

“You what?”

Remy moaned. They both ignored him.

The sirens screeched, then cut. Within seconds, the cramped office was filled with paramedics, uniforms, noise, bright lights.

Witt looked immensely relieved.

“You’re not off the hook, buster,” she whispered to no one in particular.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Max hadn’t cleaned house in months, at least nothing beyond pouring disinfectant into the toilet and doing laundry. The former she did simply because keeping a clean toilet was one of the basic tenets of life, the latter because she didn’t own enough clothes to last more than a week.

The day after Remy Hackett was carted off to jail for killing Wendy Gregory, Max celebrated by scrubbing the bathroom tiles, sweeping the dust bunnies out from under the bed, and giving Buzzard a flea dip in the bathtub.

Remy’s words resonated inside her head. Repeat, stop, rewind.
Making me want her was power, and Wendy craved power.
Repeat, stop, rewind.

The young Wendy had been powerless. Broken. Terrified. Sex would never have been her weapon of choice. The ensuing fifteen years couldn’t have wrought such changes.

So Remy had lied. His life depended on that lie.

Not true, Max,
she had to admit. The only life in the balance at that moment had been her own.

Answers were scarce, questions endless. Arms filled with a grocery bag of garbage, Max hipped the side garage door open to dump the load. The wooden structure, built in the days of one-car families, was no longer usable for anything but storage. It was dark, damp, and cold. She shivered, thinking of Wendy’s closet.

With an elbow, she flicked the lid off the big plastic can. Someone had forgotten to roll the trash out last week, and the rancid odor burned her nostrils.

Gravel crunched beneath tires outside. A car door slammed. Footsteps approached the small garage, then stopped. Max shuddered. The walls closed in on her with the intensity of a nightmare. The closet wasn’t the only place Wendy used to hide.

Thirteen-year-old Wendy was still alive and well inside Max.

“I did what you wanted,” Max whispered. “I found out who murdered you. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

There’s more you have to do.
Echoes of Cameron. God, she was demented, talking to herself the way her dead husband used to.

She yanked the garage door open.

Nick Drake stood outside in the bright morning, shades covered his eyes. The sun glinted off the windshield of a dusty, dented, red pickup behind him. He’d left the engine running.

Max didn’t know what to say. Wendy wanted to throw herself in his arms. Max moved to the left to go around him.

He stepped with her, blocked her, just as Wendy wanted him to. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, waved her hand in dismissal. “Look, it was just sex. No big deal.” Reminded of that final fight with Cameron, Max winced.

“That’s not what I was talking about.”

“For what then?”

“For leaving you alone when you needed me.”

“You should be saying that to Wendy.”

He had enough sensitivity to flush slightly. God, she’d wanted nothing more than to tell him to take a flying leap, but there were so many questions she still had about Wendy.

And why hadn’t she sought him out to get them?

Simple enough. Wendy had wanted
him
to come to her.

You know, if you’re living inside me, why can’t you just tell me it all at once instead of giving me this piece-meal crap?

Pissed, she glared at Nick. “So they released you. I thought they’d have to wait till Monday when a judge could sign the papers.” She hadn’t wanted to ask Witt. Too conspicuous.

“They never arrested me.”

“What?” Damn that Witt.

“The big guy didn’t believe my story, kept pointing out inconsistencies.”

Double-damn Witt. He’d led her on, used her to flush out the real killer.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m listening.”

“Not out here.”

“You can’t come into my apartment.” She didn’t trust Wendy alone with him. Her skin felt flushed, her pulse skipped beats, and her nipples were taut against her T-shirt. It wasn’t because the damn thing was damp. Oh, no,
she
was the one who was damp. Inside and out.

“All right. We’ll skip your place and go for a drive.”

A drive. At least the truck had no back seat. She glanced at it, only to find that it had one helluva a big bench seat that would allow more than enough room for... “I don’t think so.”

He came at her, put his hands at her waist, and lifted her bodily to the driver’s side door.

When he let go, she almost crumpled to the ground at his feet.

She jumped away from his touch. “A drive? Fine. I’ll get in the other side.”

He opened the door with one hand while barring her from going anywhere with the other. With a sweeping gesture, “Ladies first.”

When she hesitated, he laughed harshly. “Don’t trust yourself to be alone with me?”

She didn’t trust Wendy. Max felt the woman inside her head like the buzz of a high-tension wire. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She climbed up and would have scooted to the far side, but he clamped a powerful arm around her shoulders and held her close. He put the truck in gear and backed out with one hand.

He frowned. “You love to fight, don’t you?”

“It’s a defense mechanism,” she admitted freely.

“I’m sick to death of fighting. Let’s try a little honesty.”

“You’re a man. I’m a woman. Honesty’s not possible.”

He shook his head and went on. “I ran out on you Friday night when I realized my wife needed me more than you did.”

“That’s not honesty. It’s brutality.”

“I’m sorry I left.”

“I’m not the one you should apologize to. Wendy is. As I recall, you did the same thing to her.”

He winced at the truth of her statement, then shook his head. “Jesus, you’re different. I’ve never met anyone so tough. So in control. You know what you want, and you go for it.”

She gave a half snort. “Who are you kidding?”

“It’s the impression you give.”

“I should get an Academy Award.” She pulled away, scrunched up against the passenger door and faced him. “You asked for honesty. Here it is. You ran out because you knew that Wendy’s death was your fault. Guilt. Plain and simple.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have left her alone that night.”

She pointed a finger at him. “You shouldn’t have had an affair with her. When I told you about the 4Runner trying to run me down, you thought it was your wife. That, too, you figured was your fault.” She tapped her temple. “You’re like an open book.”

He stared straight ahead, his jaw worked, then he jerked the steering wheel to the right. The high school parking lot was empty except for a few cars over by the track. Nick pulled in beneath a tree and turned off the engine.

The silence didn’t bother her, but she knew it drove him nuts as he raked his hands through his razor-short hair. Finally, he grunted through clenched teeth. “I
was
to blame.”

“Big Nick’s responsible for everything. Whatcha gonna do now that you know your wife didn’t have anything to do with it?”

He didn’t answer directly. “I’m staying at my buddy Rick’s. Carla came by this morning. She’s lost weight. She’s not meant to be a thin woman. She’s got broad hips from having kids, and she just doesn’t...look right to me. Doesn’t feel right.”

“You want her the way she was when she thought you were a god.”

“I was just the only one who stayed with her after the first fuck.” He swallowed, then turned to look at Max. “I don’t know her anymore. I don’t want to know her. I want you.”

Yesyesyes. Wendy almost jumped out of Max’s skin.

“And I don’t mean only the sex.”

Max closed her eyes and felt the power course through her veins. God, Remy had been so right. Wendy wanted this, wanted to be wanted, to be needed, to be loved. She’d wanted it the night she died. But even more, she’d given Nick that special gift, she’d let her body explode with his. And she’d
never
come willingly in her life, not unless she was the one giving herself the orgasm. That climax had been more than a sexual release, it had been an epiphany.

She had found the man who wanted her more than anything, the one who wanted her beyond the physical.

Then he’d left her.

Max’s eyes snapped open. “You told Wendy you wouldn’t marry her.”

“Yes.”

“When Remy showed up, she did everything he said, even let him kill her with a minimum of resistance.”

“Is that what he told you?” An edge crept into his voice.

“He didn’t have to. He was jealous of you, but you quit, and that satisfied him for a while. But when he knew she’d left him for you, he went crazy.”