Vengeance to the Max (28 page)

Max intended to finish him off before he ever got the chance.

“I can take your name and number and have him call you.”

Thanks but no thanks. Max smiled without showing teeth.

She left the office and headed to Bud’s home. Tree-lined streets, racing kids out of school for the day, a crossing guard on every corner, Beemers, Volvos, and minivans full of Moms and excess children. Affluent, ordinary, and without a clue, Max wanted to warn them, too, about the monster living in their midst.

His Cadillac wasn’t in the driveway. Could be in the garage. Cruising, she parked two houses down on the opposite side of the street, again to keep out of Witt’s way should he read her mind. The Toyota would fool him, but not if she parked anywhere near Bud’s house. Slamming the door behind her, she turned her head left then right, scanning for telltale black-and-whites, non-descript department vehicles, blue Cameros, or Ram trucks. Nothing. She was as clear as she was going to get. Crossing the street, she walked down, paused a long second before the expanse of green lawn rising to the colonial-style monstrosity, then padded through it despite her heels sinking into the turf as she cut to the front path.

The doorbell sounded inside, echoing through the house howling with emptiness. She could have broken in to make sure. She’d done that before when she’d had to. But she didn’t need B&E or psychic powers to know he wasn’t there.

She swore once, then went back to the SUV. The interior was cold; she’d parked in the shade. Late afternoon, she was suddenly tired to the bone, the day washing over her. “Can’t stay here,” she whispered and started the engine.

Pulling out onto the street, her eyelids burned. Sleep, she wanted so badly to sleep, five minutes, half an hour.

“Let’s take a nap.” Cameron had said that sometimes on a Sunday afternoon when he’d wanted sex.

Her chest ached, and she couldn’t answer.

“There’s a mall just down the freeway. Park there. Sleep.”

“I have to find him.”

“Sleep will help you find Bud.”

She parked in the sun in the far end of the mall lot where few cars ventured.

“I should be out looking for him.” But she was tired, so tired, her limbs unwilling to obey the dictates of her mind.

“You need sleep.”
Sleep, sleep
echoed in her head as if he were trying to hypnotize her.

The sun through the windscreen took the bite out of the raw November air, its warmth lulling her. She scrambled into the back seat, with a brief thank you to Sutter’s roomy Toyota and its tinted rear windows. A pillow, carelessly tossed, lay on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Convenient. Too convenient? Seemed someone had anticipated her every move.

“Sleep,” Cameron whispered once more, and, without another protest, Max succumbed to his voice and the dream that came.

Daytime. Heavy traffic. The car got in the left lane at the first light. Green arrow. Turn. She’s sleepy, so sleepy. And the car is doing all the work. Turn again at the second right. Then first left. Right into a driveway. Warehouse ahead. The gates close with a bang behind her like the gates of a prison. Or the gates of hell. The car rolls to a stop. Rolls. Her lids droop.

Bud Traynor.

Max woke with a cry of rage, fear, and impotency on her lips. The bastard had been laughing at her, taunting her. She couldn’t escape him even in her sleep.

“What kind of poison was it?”

“How the hell should I know?” She wanted to slam her fist through the window.

Cameron needled her. “In
The Wizard of Oz
, it was poppies.”

She gave in, sitting up and throwing the pillow back on the floor where she found it. “Those flowers were
not
poppies.”

“Arsenic? Strychnine?”

“Arsenic’s a metal, isn’t it? And Strychnine? I don’t know.”

He waited a beat. “Maybe it was Belladonna.”

She knew the vision’s message. “Bud’s at the restaurant.”

Not by choice, Max had once met Bud at Belladonna’s. Back then, she’d gotten the impression he frequented the place. Seated at the best table, he’d received the most attention. Then again, maybe the owners and staff pandered to his money.

He waited for her now, wearing a dark suit and formal white shirt instead of his usual casual polo. At the back of the restaurant in the same booth they’d sat in before, the white tablecloth masked his legs as she approached. He patted the seat beside him without a flicker of surprise or question. Yes, he’d been expecting her.

Dammit, why did it seem everybody could read her moves?

The dinner hour not quite upon them, only two other tables were occupied. Busboys smoothed out linen tablecloths and set silverware. The gentle chink of china and the drone of soft voices followed her as she crossed the room.

Bud smiled like a predator, flashing lots of white teeth. “I’m so glad you found me, Max.”

Her stomach rumbled over the scent of fresh bread. Her mouth watered. She imagined her hand at the back of his head, slamming him into the wood table, drowning him in a saucer of balsamic vinegar, the fragrance of garlic masking the stink of his death.

Her palms sweat with need. God, she was losing it.

“Why didn’t you just have your secretary tell me where you were?” The even rhythm of her voice pleased her.

“That would have spoiled your fun, wouldn’t it, Max?”

“It would have saved me time and gas.” She erased all inflection and watched him with a steady gaze.

He patted the fabric once more, hands peppered with light-colored liver spots she’d never noticed. Despite encroaching old age, he was no less powerful, no less a menace. Seated as he was in the middle of the bench, whether she entered from the left or the right, her thigh would be too close to his. Exactly as he intended.

She took the seat, slid close enough to smell his aftershave mingled with cigar smoke, the same scents that had trespassed in her apartment. The waiter appeared from nowhere, draped a white napkin over her lap, then looked to Bud for instructions. Receiving a nod of dismissal, the man inclined his head, and left.

Max took the opportunity in the brief silence. “Have you murdered them all yet?”

Bud knew she meant Cameron’s three killers, but he ignored the question. “I ordered you a white merlot, Max. I know you like the blush wines, but really, a white zinfandel is so”—he waved his hand in the air—“common. Something that earthy detective must have served you. They also have a white burgundy, but I think you’ll like what I’ve chosen. It’s dryer than a white zin but still fruity.” He leaned close. “Drink up, my love.”

She didn’t fall for the last dig or allow a spark of emotion to flare inside. He would have seen it, in her eyes, on her lips, in the quaver of her hand. She recognized his tactics. He could have found out her preference in wine in any number of ways, the easiest being a search of her small refrigerator when he broke into her studio apartment. The slur against Witt proved his jealousy. Another weak spot she might be able to use against him.

Foregoing the question and answer period, she went straight to the heart of the matter. “I’ve never killed anyone.” She paused, eyes on his face. “But I think I’ll enjoy killing you.” She tried the words on like a coat and found they fit well.

He laughed. Heads at the occupied tables turned their way. Studious busboys and the maitre d’ glanced with sly eyes.

Bud’s smile remained beatific. “You’ve always been my greatest challenge, Max.”

“One of us is going to die.” Not an ounce of emotion accompanied her flat words.

“
One
of us is going to jail for the murder of young Cameron’s assailants. And I don’t think it’s going to be me, Max.” Confident, he tipped his glass of red wine at her. Max didn’t touch hers as he sipped, watching her over the rim.

She wanted to feel some moral emotion, anger for Bud’s self-absorption, remorse for Tattoo’s and Scarface’s deaths though they were less than animals. Instead, a rumble of satisfaction heated her chest. They would pay,
all
of them, including Bud.

“How did you feel when you heard he was dead?” She didn’t need to say Cameron’s name.

He rolled his glass stem between his fingers. “I believe, Max”—he stretched his speech with brief interludes—“when I read in the paper he’d been killed”—pause—“I felt a great sense of ... sadness.” He looked deeply into his wine.

“Why?” She stared, wanting to know, as if his answer would give meaning to the universe.

His mouth was a straight line, his dark eyes bottomless pools of emotion Max didn’t trust for a moment. “I loved him, Max.”

She could have puked, right there on the table in front of him, mostly because she knew what he said was true. He could love and demolish the thing he loved in the blink of an eye. That bit of knowledge
was
the key to the universe. “Like you loved Cordelia?” And Wendy and Tiffany and Bethany, his lovers, his victims.

“Cordelia would have made a wonderful mother.”

A puff of air escaped her throat as she made the connection he hadn’t quite stated. “Cordelia would never have let you harm her baby.” Thus the young girl, the new mother, had signed her own death warrant. Bud couldn’t let her get in the way of his heinous plans for his own daughter. That was the meaning of the license plate in her vision. Bud had committed multiple murders, first to keep Wendy as his personal toy, then to hide what he’d done, and finally to destroy the being he’d created.