Bitter Sweets (4 page)

“Earl, my ex-husband. He wants to kill me and kidnap my daughter. He's certainly threatened to often enough.” Anger blazed in her eyes, but beneath the fury, Savannah saw the fear, the pain. Lisa shook her head and for a moment, Savannah thought she might start to cry. “I don't understand,” the woman said. “How can you people help someone like that?”

Savannah's heart went out to the woman, in spite of the weapon pointed at her. In Lisa Mallock's shoes, stalked by a vengeful ex, with a child to protect, she might do the same thing.

No “might.” She would.

“I'm not working for Earl,” Savannah told her. “I've never met him, I swear. The man who hired me is Brian O'Donnell, your natural brother. He wants very badly to get in touch with you.”

For a brief moment the woman's eyes softened, a look of hope crossed her face, but it quickly dissolved into bitterness. “It's Earl, all right. He lied to you.”

“I don't think so. He's—”

“A fat guy with dark brown hair, blue eyes and a beard, right?”

“No, kinda skinny with dark red hair, like yours and Christy's, and brown eyes. No beard. Just a curly mustache. Looks like a barbershop quartet tenor.”

For the first time, the hand that held the gun began to tremble. Savannah was immensely relieved to see Lisa lower the pistol to her side.

“Really?” Lisa's eyes searched hers, begging her to be telling the truth.

Holding up two fingers, Savannah said solemnly, “Scout's honor.”

“Were you ever a Girl Scout?”

Savannah shrugged and gave her a sheepish grin. “No, but I was a Blue Bird for six months in '62.”

“Close enough.” She opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

 

Usually, Savannah refused any form of refreshment when conducting an investigation in someone's home. But the fresh peanut butter and M&M cookies on the kitchen table were too great a temptation to be denied.

“I put the candies on myself,” Christy bragged, still prancing around in her regal, fairy queen attire. “Four on each one and all different colors.”

“I can see that. You did an excellent job.” Savannah smiled at her and once again felt the twang of loss.
Dang those biological urges,
she thought. “You're almost as good a baker as you are a dancer.”

Christy blushed with pride, but Lisa seemed less affected by her comments. Silently, she stepped over to the stove and poured two mugs of coffee. Joining them at the table, she slid onto a chair across from Savannah, pushing some piles of bills aside.

Overdue . . . . considering the red envelopes.

But then, Savannah wasn't going to judge the woman. Recently, her own phone had been scheduled for disconnection, and she had been granted a reprieve only by the grace of Brian O'Donnell's retainer.

With only a modicum of civility, Lisa shoved the mug of coffee across the table at Savannah.

“Chris, go to your room now and play or something. This lady and I have some business to discuss.”

Christy's face crumpled into a pout, her bottom lip protruding to the extreme that Savannah thought pigeons might have been tempted to perch on it. “I don't wanna play right now,” the child said, casting a curious look at Savannah.

“Then go into my room and watch television.”

“I'm not supposed to watch TV until I have all my homework done.”

“So, do your homework first . . . . in your room.”

“But . . . . but it's that hard stuff . . . . long division . . . . and you said you'd help me. I can't do it by myself.”

“Christina Louise.”

“Okay, I'm going. I'm going.”

Savannah wiped her hand across her lips, trying to hide her smile as the once-graceful pageant queen stomped away to her bedroom, ruffles bouncing indignantly.

“Do you have kids?” Lisa asked as she took a sip from her mug. Savannah noticed that, in spite of her forced nonchalance, her hands were still shaking. Savannah didn't think it was from a caffeine overdose.

“No, I'm sorry to say I don't. But I practically raised my eight younger brothers and sisters back in Georgia. Do I get credit for that?”

Lisa nodded, and a bit of her hostility seemed to slip away.
“Eight
of them? Yes, tons of credit. That must have been a lot of work and responsibility for a young person.”

“It was. But I wouldn't have missed it for the world. I really love kids.”

Across the table, Lisa's eyes met hers with an intensity born of fear and determination. “Then you can understand why I have to protect my daughter from a man who would destroy her life and mine.”

“Yes, I can.”

Lisa paused and took a long drink of her coffee, as though fortifying herself for the rest of the conversation. “Tell me, Ms. Reid, do you think some people are really evil? Not just misguided, but truly evil?”

Having been a cop for fifteen years, Savannah didn't have to think long to answer Lisa's question. “Yes, I do. Thankfully, I think they are rare. I believe that most folks mean well, that the majority live by some sort of moral code, however warped their philosophy might be. But I have come across a few individuals who I would say are evil to the core.”

“Well, my ex-husband is one of those people. He doesn't care who he hurts as long as he can control everything and everyone around him. I left him. I divorced him. I removed myself and our daughter from his control. He'll never forgive me for that. And he will never accept the situation.”

Savannah liked to believe she knew people. After years of dealing with the best and worst of humanity, she could usually read a person and know what was going on behind the facade they presented to the world. This woman was telling the truth.

Savannah's heart went out to Lisa and her little fairy princess daughter.

“Have you been running from him for long?” she asked.

“It seems like forever. He always finds us, and then we have to move. A new house, another job for me, a change of schools for Christy. Thanks to that bastard, we're a couple of nomads.” She sighed, and Savannah could see the depth of her fatigue. Lisa Mallock wasn't just tired; she was deeply, dangerously exhausted.

“It isn't fair,” Savannah said, feeling the impotence she had always experienced when confronted with this situation. Even as a peace officer, she had been unable to do much in these circumstances. The law protected men like Earl Mallock far better than it did the women and children they terrorized. A restraining order was a flimsy bit of paper that did nothing to protect a victim from a bullet or the blade of a knife.

In Savannah's career, it had been one of her most profound frustrations.

“No, it isn't fair,” Lisa agreed, her voice as hollow as her eyes. “But it's the way things are. And for right now, all I can do is be careful. That's why I'm so reluctant to trust what you're telling me about my brother.”

“I understand. But this could be a wonderful opportunity for you and your daughter. With all that's going on in your life, it might be nice to be reconnected with your brother, to have a sense of family. He lives in Orlando, Florida, with his wife and children and—”

“Brian has kids of his own?” Lisa's eyes misted.

“Three boys. He said he wants them to meet your children, to play with them.”

The moisture on Lisa's lids puddled and spilled down her cheeks. “We used to have a tree house,” she said wistfully. “I remember playing in it . . . . before my mom died . . . . before my dad gave me away. . . .”

“Your dad . . . . oh, yes, by the way . . . .” Savannah swallowed, wondering how the already-stressed woman would take this news. “Part of the reason why Brian is looking for you now is because your father recently passed away. It seems he left you with an inheritance.”

“My father included me in his will?” Lisa looked pleased and touched.

“Well, I'm not certain of all the facts, but I do know that Brian wants to make sure that you get your share.”

Savannah glanced around the sparsely furnished duplex. Nomads couldn't afford luxuries. “I understand it's around fifty thousand dollars. That much money might help you and your daughter, too,” she added.

Lisa nodded, studying her coffee as though the swirls of cream—like a fortune-teller's tea leaves—might tell her something. “Mostly,” she said, “I just want to see Brian again. I don't have many memories of him, but the ones I have are some of the happiest of my life.”

Setting down her coffee mug, Lisa covered her face with her hands and began to cry softly. “I don't know what to do,” she said.

Savannah reached across the table and placed her hand on the woman's arm, trying to impart some degree of comfort and reassurance.

“We've checked this guy out, Lisa,” she said, “from top to bottom. This time it isn't Earl. It's Brian. This time it's something good coming into your life, not something bad. It's true. You can trust me.”

Lisa uncovered her face and stared at Savannah with a haunted, hunted look that Savannah would never forget. “Trust isn't something that comes easy for me anymore,” she said.

“I can understand that.” Savannah patted her arm. “But can you bring yourself to do it . . . . for yourself, for Christy . . . . one more time?”

Slowly, Lisa Mallock nodded her head and a light of hope entered those tired eyes. “Okay,” she said with quiet conviction. “I'll trust somebody. One more time.”

 

By the time Savannah left Lisa Mallock's home, the hour was much later than she had thought. Once Savannah had convinced the worried mother of her child's safety and Savannah's own altruistic intentions, the visit had turned more social. The two women had shared a few more cups of coffee and enough personal information to convince Savannah that she would like to pursue a friendship with this gutsy, compassionate lady. Apparently, being a nurse had required some of the same personality traits as law enforcement. They had found they had a lot in common.

Feeling good about the turn of events, Savannah left the house and strolled down the deserted sidewalk toward her parked car. The air currents had shifted, the Santa Ana winds abated, and an onshore flow of evening breeze had covered the city with a thick layer of fog.

The streetlamps glowed golden, haloed by the mist, their haze-diffused light casting a dim, surreal glow over the quiet neighborhood. Children, parents, and pets had deserted the streets and were behind closed doors, attending to homework, late evening meals, and the perpetual television viewing. Only the trash cans—beige for recycling, green for normal—stood, silently waiting for the morning collection.

As Savannah approached her car, a particularly cool breath of evening air whirled around her, invading the thin linen jacket she wore. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose and she shuddered.

It was a feeling she had experienced several times before, a distinct, unpleasant sensation that had little to do with the weather.

Pausing, she stood still in the middle of the sidewalk and studied her surroundings.

Silence.

Stillness.

But for all the quiet, the air didn't seem empty. She didn't feel alone.

Straining to hear, she listened for anything: the sound of muffled footsteps, movement in the nearby shrubs . . . . even the sound of another human being breathing.

But there was nothing. Nothing, except for her overpowering premonition that someone, somewhere was watching, waiting, listening . . . . even as she was.

“Who's there?” she asked, knowing there would be no response.

But there was.

From the darkness behind the closest house came the deep, bass growl of a dog. A big dog. Probably about the size and temperament of Beowulf. Then the animal began barking in earnest.

As it was hidden by the shadows, Savannah couldn't see the creature, but she didn't have to. She wasn't interested in being introduced. One ferocious beast per day was her quota.

Without wasting another moment, she hurried to the Camaro, jumped inside, snapped down the door locks, and started the engine. A few seconds later, she was headed down the street and out of the neighborhood.

There wasn't anyone there,
she told herself as she pulled onto the better lit, more heavily traveled Harrington Boulevard.
It was just the dog. That's what you sensed. The dog. It was looking at you and
. . . .

Sure, that was all it had been, she decided. But a voice inside told her not to believe it. That little something inside knew better.

You know it wasn't just the dog,
she warned herself.

It was just the dog . . . . and Lisa's stories about her creepy husband,
came the comforting reply.

Okay, she admitted, it had her there.

Steering her car toward home, she decided it was too late to try to contact Brian O'Donnell. He had waited all these years to get in touch with his sister. Surely, he could hold out until morning.

Besides, Savannah had already decided that she had to sleep on it before turning the information over to him.

Lisa and Christy Mallock were trusting her. And Savannah knew she was going to spend a fitful night, wrestling with the demon—or maybe it was her own intuition—who was telling her that she was about to do something she would regret.

S
avannah woke with a start and sat up in bed, gripping her sheets with shaking hands. Her new silk nightgown clung to her perspiration-soaked body. It was a cold, clammy, sick sweat. She was deeply frightened, her pulse pounding in her ears, her mouth dry. Probably the residue from a nightmare . . . . but she couldn't remember many details.

The last time she had awoken this abruptly and this unpleasantly had been during the Northridge earthquake, an event that she and her fellow Southern Californians weren't likely to forget anytime soon. But the fern hanging in the corner was still, not swinging wildly, as before. The pictures remained on the wall. The same walls were intact and basically vertical . . . . always a good sign.

So, why did she feel as though she needed to throw up?

She wasn't sure, but her dream had been inhabited by tiny, star-spangled dancers in pink ruffled skirts and a dark, menacing presence, that had somehow gained access to the innocents by way of her own actions.

Earl Mallock. She couldn't get him out of her mind. Dark hair, heavy set, blue eyes. And pure evil. That had been Lisa's description of her ex-husband.

Brian O'Donnell. Dark auburn hair, slender, soft-spoken and brown-eyed.

They couldn't be the same person.

But what if the man in her office had been working for Earl Mallock? Perhaps he was a misguided friend performing some sort of grim favor?

No, he had seemed sincere enough. Savannah prided herself on being an astute judge of character, and she could have sworn that she had seen only honesty in his face, that she had heard only love and concern in his voice.

But then, she had been fooled before. Good judgment or not, no one was infallible. Not if a con was good at his job.

Either way, she couldn't simply lie there in bed, thinking, worrying. The hope of going back to sleep was a futile fantasy.

With a sigh she threw back the sheets and duvet and stared at the alarm clock on her bed stand as though it were a mortal enemy—1:25
A.M.
Great . . . . she had been asleep a whole hour and a half.

Dragging her tired body from the warm, soft bed, she walked to her closet and pulled on some jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers, sans the socks. Then she headed downstairs to get her purse and car keys.

She wasn't sure where she was going, or what she was hoping to accomplish at this time of night. But she knew she had to do something. She had to make sure everything was okay with Brian O'Donnell. Because, in eight hours, she was supposed to tell him where to find Lisa Mallock and her daughter.

And before she gave him that precious information, she had to be absolutely, positively sure.

 

Just outside the San Carmelita city limits—fifty yards outside, to be exact—sat the Blue Moon Motel. The sign in front of the establishment boasted easy access to Lake Arroyo, the best fishing, boating, and skiing in the county. But, cynical as she was, Savannah had long suspected that its location had been chosen because it was beyond the jurisdiction of the San Carmelita Police Department.

With only occasional interference from the county sheriffs deputies, the Blue Moon owners provided a convenient, out-of the-way, no-tell motel for those individuals engaging in clandestine meetings. Twenty-five bucks would buy you three hours of uninterrupted debauchery beneath mirrored ceilings, on vibrating beds with blue crushed velvet spreads—circa: 1972.

And if you weren't fortunate enough to have company in your room, any one of four X-rated cable television stations would show you what you were missing.

Fourteen units long, the building glowed an anemic blue-white in the light of the flickering neon sign which announced that there were, indeed, vacancies.

Each dark blue door bore a crescent moon, reminiscent of a couple of outhouses Savannah had known as a child in Georgia.

Savannah pulled her Camaro into the parking lot, gravel crunching under her tires. The area was dark and located behind the motel. No doubt to provide even more privacy for nervous customers.

As she entered the squeaking front door, she spotted the innkeeper sitting behind the counter, his feet propped on a table beside a chrome coffeepot. From beneath the rim of a battered fishing cap, he was staring at a small, black-and-white television set, which had been shoved onto an overhead shelf, above the ancient cash register.

“Yeah?” he asked without taking his eyes off the TV. She couldn't see enough of the picture to know what had him so entranced, but from the groans and moans that issued from the set, she assumed he was watching one of his own cable channels.

“I need—” she began.

“How long?”

She stepped closer and caught a glimpse of exaggerated male anatomy on the screen. “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

“How long do you need the room for?” he replied, still not looking her way. “We rent by the hour. I got one with a king-size water bed and—”

“No, thank you. I just wanted to visit one of your guests.”

“Fine with me.” He finally turned toward her and shifted the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. “But, you visit, you pay.”

“I'm just going to talk to him.”

“Yeah . . . .” the guy grinned unpleasantly, revealing teeth that looked as though they hadn't been acquainted with a toothbrush in a decade or so. They appeared to be wearing tiny yellow-green sweaters. “. . . . you just wanna talk. Now, don't they all.”

Unconsciously, Savannah reached for the badge, which she had worn for so many years on a heavy chain around her neck. The badge which had been stripped from her, along with her authority as a peace officer. It certainly made moments like this more complicated.

“My name is Savannah Reid,” she began, opening her purse to produce her private investigator's license, “and I—”

“Savannah Reid? Well, why didn't you say so?”

Mmmmmm. . . . he had heard of her; she wasn't sure if that was good news or bad.

“I didn't know it would matter,” she replied.

“Of course it does.” His grin widened, revealing gaps between the rows of “sweaters.” “I got a message for you, right here.”

He bent over and began to riffle through the pile of papers on his desk top. After tossing aside an assortment of ancient phone messages with curling edges, musty girlie magazines, and wadded gum and cigarette wrappers, he produced a fairly fresh-looking slip of pink paper.

“A message, for me?” she asked. Her stomach began to chum, as though she knew she wasn't going to like what she was about to receive. “Who is it from?”

Do you really have to ask?
she told herself.

“It's from a fellow who was staying here for a week or so.”

“A red-haired guy.”

“That's him.”

“You say he
was
staying? Does that mean he's gone?”

“Yep. Checked out a couple of hours ago. Don't know why he'd leave so late. Might as well have stayed. I'd done charged him for the night. He seemed to be in a hurry to get on his way.”

Adrenaline flooding through her veins, Savannah unfolded the pink slip of paper and read three simple words:

“That's it?” she asked, staring at the writing, which looked as though it had been scrawled in haste. “He didn't even sign it?”

“Guess not,” the clerk said with a shrug as he leaned over the counter to glance at the note. As though he hadn't already read it.

“What did he say when he gave it to you?”

“Just said something like, ‘There's gonna be a lady come in here by the name of Savannah Reid. She'll be asking for me. Give her this.' Then he sorta grinned and handed that to me.”

“He
grinned?
What do you mean, he grinned? Was it a nice, friendly smile?”

“Nope. It sure wasn't. It was one of those weird grins like people give you when they're enjoying something they shouldn't.”

Savannah mentally digested that for a moment, then pushed a bit further. “Do you mean like a mischievous gr—”

“I don't know, lady.” The clerk settled back into his chair, obviously tired of the subject and eager to return to his television viewing. “Just a weird look. That's all I can tell you. That and . . . . well . . . . it kinda gave me the creeps.”

“Gave
you
the creeps,” Savannah muttered as she turned to leave, clutching the terse note in her palm, which had suddenly grown moist and cold.

Her client had disappeared abruptly, without collecting the information he had hired her to uncover, without paying her the remainder of what he owed, leaving behind only a three-word message and a smile which even a weirdo had described as “weird.”

Not good,
she decided.

 

“Don't cry, Christy. Everything's all right. Mommy's here now and you don't have to worry about anything.”

Cradling her sobbing daughter in her arms, Lisa Mallock tried to sound more calm and confident than she felt.

That ghostly, nocturnal creature, the Night Mare, had galloped across the landscape of more than one victim's dreams tonight, it seemed. Lisa herself had been plagued with disturbing images of violent confrontations, off and on all night. Perhaps most disturbing of all was the fact that in her dreams she was losing those battles. And there was so much at stake; she simply couldn't afford to lose.

Just before dawn she had awakened to find Christy standing beside her bed, weeping. She had pulled the shivering child into her bed and snuggled her close. Lisa didn't want to think about how much she needed that comforting contact herself. How weak and vulnerable she felt at this point in her life.

“Daddy's gonna find us again.” Christy buried her face against her mother's neck. Lisa could feel the child's tears, wet and warm, tickling down her skin. “He's going to hurt us. I know, because I saw him in my dream.”

“A dream is just a story that your imagination tells when you're asleep, honey.” Lisa stroked the glossy copper curls, so like her own, and kissed the girl's forehead. She tasted salty with sweat. “Dreams are like fairy tales. Some are pretty, and some are scary. But none of them are real.”

“Then Daddy isn't going to find us, ever again?”

By the light of the bedside lamp, Lisa saw the innocence, the trust in her daughter's eyes. She couldn't bring herself to lie to the child. “I don't know if he will or not. But even if he does, you don't have to worry. I'll keep you safe.”

The words seemed to have little effect on the girl. Reaching up with her small hand, Christy stroked her mother's cheek. “I know you will. But Daddy's really big and strong. Mommy, who's going to keep
you
safe?”

Who, indeed?
Lisa wondered, trying to find an honest answer that would reassure her daughter. And herself.

The courts? The police? They hadn't been much help in the past.

“My husband is going to kill me someday,” she had told them, again and again. “Really, he will. It's just a matter of time.”

“Get a restraining order,” they would suggest.

“I have one.”

“So, when he shows up at your door, give us a call,” they had replied. “We'll be there within ten minutes.”

Great,
she thought,
he could kill me five times in ten minutes.

Maybe, God would protect her. Maybe He would remember all those mornings she had spent in Sunday school as a child, all the Bible pictures she had colored oh-so-carefully, all the quarters she had placed in the offering plate. Maybe He would send a host of angels to rescue her when the time came.

But somehow, Lisa Mallock didn't think so.
She
had chosen to marry Earl Mallock of her own free will.
She
had ignored that wiser, inspired voice inside that had warned her about him. Now, she had the sinking feeling that God had decided to let her deal with the consequences of her actions alone. She had no one to blame but herself.

And she had no one else to protect her. Just she, herself . . . . and the pistol locked in her nightstand . . . . if she could get to it in time . . . . if her aim was straight . . . . if she could summon the courage to shoot someone she had once loved more than life itself.

If.

Lisa felt the child in her arms go limp, relaxing at last as her breathing slowed and her eyes closed. Christy had drifted off to sleep without an answer to her question: Who would protect her mommy? And Lisa was thankful, because she didn't have an honest answer, for her precious daughter, cuddled warm and trustingly against her side . . . . or for herself.

 

“I can't believe you would haul me out of bed at four in the morning and not even bring me an apple fritter and some java.” Usually, Dirk's voracious appetite was a source of mild amusement for Savannah, but, under the circumstances, she wasn't in the mood.

“Don't hassle me, Coulter,” she said as she slid onto the chair in front of a police station computer and began to type furiously. “Take my word for it, this isn't the time.”

“That bad?” Dirk asked, the pout dissolving from his face.

“Yeah, that bad.”

“Whatcha looking for?” He leaned over her shoulder to study the blue screen that quickly switched to green. She had accessed the Department of Motor Vehicle files.

“Earl Mallock.”

“Your lost sister's old man?”