The Dark of Day (49 page)

Rick heard sirens in the distance. “We can't leave now. It's too late. We have to explain to the police—”

“You explain!” She hit him in the chest. “Let me go!”

“What is the matter with you?” He caught her wrists.

“It could be Kylie!”

“Wait for the police!”

“Kylie is my daughter! She's my daughter!” C.J. pulled in a breath. “Let me go. Rick, for God's sake, let me go. It could be Kylie.”

“What are you saying?” Rick stared into her eyes.

“Please. Let me go. She's my daughter.”

in his rearview mirror, Rick watched the emergency response vehicle, siren screaming, lights flashing, turn into the driveway of Billy Medina's house. They wouldn't have a problem getting through the front door. It had been left wide open. Rick went over the bridge and took a fast left on the causeway heading to the beach. For a Friday night, traffic was thin, possibly because of the storm. The rain was coming down in sheets.

“Hurry. Please hurry.” C.J. stared out the windshield as if her eyes could get them there faster.

Rick put his hand over hers. “Just tell me where to turn.” He knew the way, but it gave her something to concentrate on. Whatever she wanted to say about Kylie, and maybe that was nothing, she could say later.

Finally he got out of the business district and headed into some residential streets. “Kylie's probably not even there,” he said.

“If he has touched her, I will kill him.”

It took under five minutes to get to Milo Cahill's house. C.J. had her door open before Rick stopped the car. The gate was closed. C.J. ran to a smaller door in the wall just as a flash of lightning lit up the street. She rattled the
handle, jerked on it. Rick moved her aside and gave it a couple of kicks, then slammed into it with his shoulder. It finally gave.

A dark green SUV was parked by the garage. Shelby was here. C.J. pointed toward the side yard. They ran around back, pushing past wet foliage between the house and the wall. The terrace shone white in another burst of lightning, then went dim when it faded. Across the Intracoastal, the big condos on Collins Avenue glowed through the downpour.

Rick followed C.J. under a striped canvas awning, where they tried to see through the windows of a room that curved out from the back of the house. The room was lit only by a small lamp beside a rattan chair. The rain beat on the awning like a drum. Rick thought he heard the yapping of a dog. A moment later, a white Panama hat seemed to float across the room, materializing into a man dressed in dark trousers and shirt. Picking up the dog, he came a little closer to the window. The face stared back at them, the mouth making a small O of surprise.

“Milo!” C.J. yelled, “Let us in!” She went over and tugged on the door knob.

“Go away!”

Rick picked up a porch chair to smash the plate glass window.

“No, there's a key!” C.J. ran her hand over the top of the door and found it. She flung the door open. Milo turned and ran. Rick caught up with him halfway across the living room. A great many candles flickered on tables and in niches and in holders on the walls.

“Stop! What are you doing in my house?” Milo was furious. The dog yapped and snarled and struggled to get down.

C.J. closed in on Milo from the other side. “Is Kylie here? Is she?”

“Get out! Get out! I'm calling the police!”

She slapped him across the face so hard that his hat flew off. “Is she?”

He held his cheek. “I don't know what you mean! Get out of my house, both of you.”

She ran for the stairs. When Milo followed, Rick shoved him onto a sofa and told him if he moved from there, he would break his legs. The sofa was red, shaped exactly like a big pair of lips. C.J.'s footsteps faded on the steps to the second floor. Rick caught up with her. Music was coming
faintly from somewhere. Frank Sinatra, singing about it being a very good year. They looked up a narrow, circular staircase with a metal railing.

“Shelby takes them to the tower room,” Rick said. “Stay here, I'll go.”

But C.J. pushed ahead of him, her feet almost a blur. Rick followed her. They turned around the iron column supporting the steps. At the top, a yellow light in a small brass chandelier illuminated the landing and a wooden door.

The music was louder. C.J. beat on the door with her fist. “Paul Shelby! I know you're in there!” She turned the knob.

It was dim inside, only a few candles, but not too dim to see a man in a dark-colored knit shirt with his back turned zipping his pants. He was looking over his shoulder, yelling, “Get out! How dare you come in here!”

There were silk floor pillows and a low wooden table with wine and what looked like some rolling papers and a baggie of weed. The girl was on the floor, slumped against the pillows with her legs straight out in front of her. She lifted her head and tried to focus, but her eyes weren't connecting with her brain. She was still dressed, if you could call it that: a short plaid skirt and a white polo shirt, like a private prep school uniform.

C.J. cried out and ran to her. “Kylie, it's me. It's C.J. Don't be afraid.”

Rick saw the portable stereo in a corner and went over to shut it off. Now the only noise was Paul Shelby shouting, “What are you doing here? Get out, I said.”

Rick pushed him against the wall. He grinned and felt his jaw lock before he said, “You sick fuck. She's a child.”

“She's twenty-one!”

“She's seventeen, and she's dressed like she's twelve.”

“If she's under twenty-one, she lied to me. She came here of her own free will—”

“Shut up.”

“You're angry that we fired you? What do you want? Name a figure, I'll double it.” Shelby looked past Rick. “C.J., I don't understand. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just tell me what you want.”

Rick gave him another shove. “I said be quiet.”

“Nothing was happening! We were talking. She's a friend of Milo's.”

Rick took his pistol from his waist and held it under Shelby's chin. The safety was on, but Shelby didn't know that. His eyes shone with a primordial terror that Rick hadn't seen in a long time. “Shut the fuck up.”

C.J. hauled Kylie to her feet. “Rick, take her downstairs and stay with her. I want to talk to him.”

“I'm not leaving you up here alone with him.”

“Take her out of here, Rick. Please.” C.J. nodded. “I'll be all right.”

“Just a second.” Rick leaned closer to Shelby. “One hair. You touch one hair on that woman's head, I will rip you apart, and then I will kill you. Do we understand each other?”

Shelby nodded. He was taking some deep breaths now, patting his hair into place, thinking of a way he could get out of this.

Rick lifted the girl and carried her down the steps. She laughed and hung onto his neck going around and around the circular stairs. In the living room, Milo Cahill was on the lip-shaped sofa, hugging his dog. Rick carried Kylie to the back room, put her in a chair, and knelt beside her. “Kylie. You okay?”

“Hi.” She smiled.

“You know who I am?”

Her head moved slowly side to side.

“That's all right. You just sit there. We're leaving in a minute.”

“Okay.”

Rick patted her shoulder, not knowing what else to do. When he heard the back door open, he looked around and saw Carlos Moreno peering in. He wore a rain-drenched yellow poncho, and there were bulges underneath, where his cameras hung at his hips.

He came in and pushed the hood back. “I got some pictures of Shelby's car. Where's Shelby?”

“Upstairs with C.J. They're having a talk.”

He saw Kylie and whispered, “Is that her? The girl? What's the matter with her?”

“She's been drugged, probably by Milo before Shelby got here.”

“Did Shelby—you know?”

“No, we got here in time.”

“How old is she, fourteen? Oh, man, we've got him by the balls. Do you know her name? Who is she?” Carlos opened his poncho and turned on his digital camera.

Rick pulled him across the room. “No pictures. The girl will be gone in five minutes, and so will we.”

“Her face won't be in it.”

“You were never here, Carlos. You never saw her.”

“But the story—”

“There will be no story.”

“Why? Rick, you can't let it go. It's what you wanted.”

Rick shook his head. “I'm letting it go.”

 

 

C.J. could hear the rain on the roof. It streaked the dark glass of the windows. She leaned against the door and watched Paul Shelby. In the candlelight, she saw him gradually recovering his composure. The tension in his spine releasing. Color returning to his face. Straightening his shirt collar. Then forcing a slight smile.

“What next?” he said. “You have me in a difficult situation, I admit. What are you and Rick Slater doing here? Did you drop in to see Milo? What did he say to you? Talk to me.” Shelby laughed nervously. “You're not saying anything, C.J.”

She didn't move from her place by the door. “Two days ago, Rick told me why he got a job with you. He's a freelance reporter. He's been investigating you. Alana Martin came to him and said that Milo Cahill had arranged for her to have sex with you. She met you here in this room several times. She wasn't the first.”

“That's a vicious lie!”

“It was for your support of The Aquarius. Milo gave you Alana Martin as a payoff.”

Paul Shelby was still smiling, but he looked sick. “You've been against me from the start, haven't you? I felt the hostility but didn't know why. Okay, I get it now. You hate me because of what you say I did to you. It's
in the past. Let it go. There is no profit to you, or to Rick Slater, in spreading these rumors. You will hurt innocent people. My wife. My sons. The girl who was just here—”

“Don't you even know her name?”

“She said it was Traci.”

“Her name is Kylie Willis.”

“Good for her. If you want to throw guilt around, throw some in her direction. She came here willingly. I have resources, C.J. I will fight you all the way. Think very carefully before you try to bring me down.”

“Do you like little girls, Paul?”

“I didn't know she was seventeen! She lied to me. Milo won't tell you anything, because he would be damning himself. All right.” Shelby raised his hands, a gesture of surrender. “What are we going to do about this? Do you want me to resign from office? Is that it? Do you want money? Does Rick want money? Talk to me!”

“Do little girls turn you on? Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

Slowly, as if something might break, Paul Shelby sat on the window ledge and crossed his arms. “I have desires. Everyone does. You ask any man, or any woman for that matter, about their fantasies
.
We all have our weaknesses.”

“Stop making excuses for yourself! Open your eyes and see who you are, Paul. A pedophile. A man nearly fifty who likes sex with little girls.”

“All right, I admit it! Does that make you happy?” He added, “I'm seeking therapy.”

C.J. shook her head. “You're pathetic.”

“I would like to have assurances that Rick Slater isn't going to smear me in the press. I tried to help him, getting him a good lawyer—”

“Shut up and listen,” C.J. said. “I have something to tell you. I never had the abortion. That's right. I spent most of the money you gave me, then I had to go to my mother and ask her for help. I thought of suicide. It would have been easier, I thought, than telling her what I'd done. She was a religious woman. She said the only way God would forgive me was if I gave the baby to a good home. She had some friends. They couldn't have children. Fran and Bob Willis. They lived in Pensacola. They still do.”

Shelby was staring at her, frozen. His face was pale against the dark window behind him. A flicker of lightning put him for an instant in silhouette, and rain slid down the glass.

“I had a baby girl. They named her, but Kylie was—she is—the most painful, the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. You never noticed her eyes? They're gray, like yours. She's your daughter, Paul.”

The silence stretched out. He cleared his throat. “If that's true—and maybe it is—what do you want me to do about it? Do you want me to support her? Is that what this is about?”

“My God.” C.J. laughed. “No. I don't want you to have anything to do with Kylie. Ever. I just thought you ought to know where your—your
fantasies
almost took you.”