Just Evil (33 page)

“It has. How are you, Doc?”

Quinn grinned as if she just remembered. “No Dr. Quinn
medicine-woman jokes, okay? I heard them already.”

 “What are you doing here?” Kit finally asked.

“Got an update from Baylee, came on the fly. Seems like
there’s something you two have completely forgotten about.”

Kit’s face tightened. She blinked in confusion. “What are
you talking about?”

“It’s a good thing I have a memory like an elephant. Do you
remember spending a very weird Fourth of July weekend at your dad’s house when
we were fourteen? Well, you weren’t, but Baylee and I were.  He was leaving
after the holiday for another shoot, on location, somewhere overseas. Anyway,
it was the summer before he died. Your dad had been drinking. He took a phone
call, a long distance call, just as we were about to go surfing. Afterwards he
was so upset, he started rambling, even started crying. We were so freaked out
we didn’t know what to do.”

A chill went through Kit. She closed her eyes briefly before
asking, “What else do you remember?”

“He started talking to himself about some guy named Benny
who lived all the way over in Ireland. Benny, Kit. Baylee told me Jake
uncovered a son who’s getting your dad’s residuals, a son who lives in Ireland.
I remember because, hey, born in Ireland here. But then your dad started
talking about how he couldn’t live with himself because of what he’d decided to
do.”

For a moment Kit had a stunned look on her face, but then a
light went off. Slowly, she turned to Jake. “We need to find Ben Griffin. He
might hold some of the answers.”

That night on board the
Sea Warrior
, they shared the
cramped space in the galley preparing dinner. As she watched Jake whip up a
marinade for their sea bass, squeezing fresh limes into a bowl before adding
garlic into the juice, a thought occurred to her. “You’re left handed.”

When he just looked at her strangely, obviously puzzled over
her observation and didn’t say anything, she pursed her lips and said, “Well,
haven’t you noticed?” She stopped slicing veggies in mid-chop long enough to
hold up her left hand, which held a very large, sharp knife.

“Noticed what?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, I am too.”

She was getting wound up. Amused at her behavior, he teased,
“Am too what? Are you left-handed, too? Huh. I hadn’t noticed.”

In the tiny galley, she was an arm’s length away. He didn’t
hesitate to bring her into him, knife and all. He nibbled at her lower lip
before telling her, “I’ve been much more interested in other areas of your body
to notice which hand you use. But if you’ll drop the knife, I’ll be happy to
show you how good I am at using both hands.”

As the knife clattered to the cutting board, in between his
nips and kisses, she pointed out, “Well, I think it’s cool, even if you don’t.
No bumping into each other when we eat. And it’s a known fact that left-handed
people are much more creative.”

At the moment, he was showing her exactly how creative he
could be. His hands roamed down her body. When she giggled, sudden heat spread
over him that had nothing to do with cooking. He’d been put off all day. All he
could think about was having her right here, right now. But she’d wanted food
and they had to eat at some point. Besides, she looked so happy in the galley,
so comfortable in this domestic scene after the kind of day she’d had, that he
tamped down his desire and turned back to the marinade.

She poked him in the ribs, telling him, “You said that
omelets were the only thing you could cook; yet, you look like you know your
way around that marinade.”

“Marinade is for grilling. Beach bums grill―anything.”
He spread a little butter on both sides of the fish before dropping each piece
into the marinade to saturate. After wiping his hands, he took a long pull on
his beer, watching her finish chopping the mushrooms. She dumped them into a
skillet to sauté for lobster bisque.

While the veggies cooked, she mixed together the rest of the
ingredients for the cream sauce, before adding chunks of lobster meat to the
thickening mixture. While the soup simmered, he watched her throw together a
batch of homemade cornbread from scratch. Jake stared at the woman in wonder.
She could flat-out cook. After several minutes, he said, “Not only beautiful,
but you move like a five-star chef.” 

“Oh, I doubt that. But if you enjoy the food, next time you
see Glo you should thank her. She’s the one who showed me preparing a meal
could be like an art form. Glo not only taught me how to cook, she made me feel
good about myself. I didn’t have that until Glo. She gave up owning a bed and
breakfast in Maine to move here. Imagine that, and she was a pretty good cook.”

While the cornbread baked, Jake slapped the fish on the
grill and turned it to low heat. He sat back to watch the fish and realized Kit
was talking a mile a minute about setting the table. No, she was talking about
decorating the table. He’d never seen a woman get such a kick out of finding a
festive blue tablecloth and matching napkins in one of the lockers than when
she discovered red dishes and an assortment of red candles to go with it.

As she chattered on for five minutes about the red and blue
color scheme, Jake watched, loving every minute of her enthusiasm over
something so mundane. She got so much pleasure out of the smallest ordinary
things most people took for granted. But then he realized that she hadn’t grown
up with many chances at ordinary.

After Kit ladled out lobster bisqué and sliced off chunks of
warm, steaming cornbread, Jake opened two more beers.

Kit watched with satisfaction as he hungrily dug into the
soup and cornbread, stopping long enough to tell her, “This soup is delicious.
And this cornbread’s as good as my mom’s.”

Kit liked this homey setting. Preparing a meal for Baylee
and Quinn had always given her a kick; however, cooking for Jake was more like
cooking with love. She had to admit everything she did with him was unlike
anything she’d ever done before. Okay, she had it bad.

Forcing her mind to think of other things, Kit asked, “Do
you think we’d get anywhere if we found Alana’s ex-husbands, starting with the
first one? That environmental engineer, what was his name, Forrester? Start
from the beginning.”

“Good idea. I checked McKetrick Construction and it’s no
longer in business.” When he saw the surprised look on Kit’s face, he added,
“It seems the company lost a major lawsuit in ’67 to BBG&G and was bankrupt
by ’70. I’m still digging, searching in between everything else. I’m trying to
locate Forrester.” As he finished off the meal, he asked, “If you’re thinking
the killers of that old couple were women, are you going to tell me who you
think they were?”

He thought he already knew.

“Good ol’ Lana and Jess. I just can’t figure out why,
although my guess would be money. I’ve never seen two people love money more
than they did. It was like a competition with them, who could get it, who could
keep it, who could spend it in record time. Did you make any progress on
finding out when her bank balances went south?”

“No. And I’m not sure I’m ready to hack my way there yet.
But even though we don’t have access I’d bet money that someone dipped into
those accounts recently.”

“Any progress finding Ben Griffin?”

“No. What I can’t figure out is the residuals are going to
an address in Galway. Slam dunk there, but I can’t get a phone number. If it’s
a P.O. Box that would explain why. You know, we might have to hire a private
investigator to go over there and check it out. We could use the guy I hired to
look into Claire’s murder. Jordan Donovan works with Reese.”

“No offense, but he didn’t exactly hit a home run there.
Maybe I could go over, check it out.”

“Alone? No way. We’d both go.”

She sighed and picked up her wine glass. “I doubt St. John
would be happy to see me board a plane and leave the country just now. Until
I’m no longer that person of interest, I’m not going anywhere. You know, I’ve
been thinking, the land that ranch sat on had to be worth a small fortune. With
Alana in real estate maybe...”

“Was Alana into real estate back then, in 1969 I mean? I
thought she was still acting and that came later as a sideline.”

“You’re right. She often said as a single mother she needed
the extra income after I came along. Well, it was just a thought.”

After they finished eating, they both began to clear the
dishes. Kit opted to wash while Jake dried. Soon, it became a game. Whenever
Kit had her hands submerged in the water, Jake took full advantage. Standing
behind her, he did his best to toy with every part of her he could reach.

Alternately, she would wash a plate while he nibbled at her
ear. After he’d dry whatever she’d washed, he’d go back to nibbling the back of
her neck, dry a dish, then gnaw at her shoulder, dry something else, and then
chew on the tender part of her arm. It was the most fun she’d ever had doing
dishes.

But after nibbling her ear once too often, he finally threw
the towel down on the counter and cleverly moved his hands to cup her breasts;
his fingers found her nipples through the fabric of her top, rubbing back and
forth until he felt the peaks go hard.

She finally leaned her back into him, dried off her hands on
the towel he’d thrown down, and teased, “Show me what you got, Sailor Boy.”

“My kind of woman,” he said huskily as he turned her around
to face him, dragged her into him, found her mouth, and devoured. They began to
move toward the stateroom wrapped up in each other and worked at getting each
other’s clothes off.

By the time Jake got her to the bed, all she had on was a
pair of black panties. He unzipped his jeans, threw them in the corner, pushed
her gently to the bed and followed her down.

He covered her mouth with his, rode the kiss out before
sliding her panties past her long legs. Then his fingers dug into moist heat.
Kit rode each stroke out, lost in the pleasure, matching his pace until she hit
the curl in one big O. As soon as she came, Jake moved to a breast, began to
lick and taste there.

But Kit used her newfound confidence to take the reins.
Wanting him inside her, she began to stroke him, taking him out of his rhythm.
Struggling to maintain control, he slid his hands around her body and rolled
her to her stomach. Running his hands up and down her back, he leaned down and
whispered in her ear, “I’ve wanted to do this all day.”

“Show me…I want you. Now, Jake.”

He nuzzled her ear, brought his hands around between her
silky wetness. He lifted her hips and in one smooth motion slipped inside her
from behind. She was wet and tight. He tried to slow his pace, slow his
thrusts, but Kit would have none of it. When she began to rock back and forth
into him, they both lost the battle and rode the peak toward completion.

Moonlight drifted through the room’s skylight, bathing them
in shadows. As they lay on the bed uncoupled, content, and sated, Jake
recovered on his back, while Kit lay on her side with her head resting in the
crook of his arm. Her hand draped across his chest, she toyed with a few hairs.

“You know I’ll always remember my first time making love on
a boat. Without much effort, a woman remembers moments like this—I’ll be
eighty, sitting around the nursing home. Someone will be talking about boats.
The conversation will remind me of tonight and I’ll tell them I remember the
first time I made love on a boat.”

Entwined in each other, he took her chin, turned her face up
to his and looked into her jade eyes. “We’ll be in the same nursing home. I’ll
be the guy talking about boats. You’ll turn to me and ask if I remember the
first time we made love on a boat. I’ll say, of course I remember that first
time. I may be old, but how could I forget that? It was spring, a beautiful May
evening, but as beautiful as the night was it could never compare to how
beautiful you are now and how beautiful you were the first time we made love on
a boat.”

Tears pooled in her eyes. The usually talkative Kit went
silent for a long time before telling him, “No one’s ever said anything like
that to me.”

He kissed her brow. “I know, but it’s time someone did.”

“Do you really think it’s possible to stay together with
someone for that long?”

“If you’d have asked me that question years ago, I’d have
said no way…” He chose his words carefully. “But now…I’m beginning to think if
you find the right person...” He didn’t tell her he hadn’t felt this way about
the woman he’d married. When it came to Kit, he felt a rebirth, energized, as
if all he’d ever need was her.

But he didn’t say that to her now.

“Maybe it’s just sex.”

He put his fingers to her mouth. “Hmmm, don’t you feel it
every time we’re together?”

“I thought it was just me.”

“It isn’t.” He yawned. She yawned. Two days of not very much
sleep finally caught up with both of them. Happier than she was used to
feeling, she stretched out her long legs and curled up into his pillow.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms.

The little four-year old girl with a tearstained face
sits on the floor of the black hole closet with her arms tightly wrapped around
knees drawn up to her chest, gently rocking back and forth. Surrounded by
blackness, in the dark, confined to the small space, she uncurls her little
legs long enough to kick at the door to no avail.

Locked inside its parameters, unable to get out, she
sits, lies, crawls a short distance on the floor, which is hard and unyielding.
The hardness of the floor prevents the child from getting any actual rest or
finding any comfortable way to sit or sleep.

There’s no pillow for her head, no blanket to wrap up in,
no toys to play with, no stuffed animal to keep her company. As part of her
punishment, it’s always the same. She is never allowed to bring anything into
the closet with her. Crying has made her eyes hurt, and her thin face shows
puffy red cheeks. But she knows there isn’t much she can do that will bring
anyone to the door to let her out of the darkness anytime soon; even when she
has to go to the bathroom, no one will come. When she gets hungry, no one will
bring her food. No matter how long she cries, or how loud she screams, no one
will open the door and let her out of the black hole closet.