Charade (18 page)

"You can give it up." She smiled and shook her head. "Even with all its difficulties, 1 love it. It's worth every ounce of effort when we place a child with parents who've going to turn his or her life around, make a dream out of a nightmare. No, Dean, I'm not going to give it up." "So work's terrific. It must be something else." He probed her eyes. "Is it Pierce who has you on edge?" "Back to that?" "How involved are you?" She could not answer him honestly, for the truth was that she was involved with Alex to the point of wanting their relationship to intensify, to move to the next level. "He's interesting and intelligent," she said. "Articulate but uncommunicative, if that makes sense. Extremely complex. The better acquainted we become, the less I feel I know him. He intrigues me." "Cat," he groaned, "listen to yourself. He's a tough-talking, good-looking macho man who intrigues you. Don't you get it?" "He's the bad boy no woman can resist," she said softly, having thought of that herself before now. "If you acknowledge that, why are you pursuing it?" He shook his head in bafflement. "What could you possibly see in him? He's a thug. You can tell it at a glance. Have you noticed that scar in his eyebrow? God only knows--" "A punk hit him with a beer bottle." "Oh, so you have noticed." He bore down on her, firing questions like bullets. "Does he have any other scars? Have you seen them all? Have you slept with him?" "That's none of your business!" "Which means you have." "Which means that whether I have or have not, it's no concern of yours. I no longer owe you an accounting of whom I see, socially or otherwise." To spare his bruised ego another blow, she downscaled her anger. "I don't want to fight, Dean. Please understand." "I understand perfectly. You think you want the passion and fire you claimed was lacking in our relationship. You want a tough guy in tight blue jeans who makes your knees go weak." "Yes," she admitted with a spark of defiance. "The wardrobe is negotiable, but I'd like my knees to go weak."

"Jesus, Cat. That's so ... juvenile." "I know you think I'm foolish and idealistic." "You're right," he said. "I'm a pragmatist. I have no faith in ideals. Life is a series of realities, usually ugly ones." "No one knows that better than I, Dean," she reminded him. "That's why I'm holding out for something really terrific. In the most important relationship of my life, I refuse to settle for second best. The friendship and camaraderie are essential, but, if and when I fall in love, I want the whole fizzy package. I want romance. I want to tingle." "And you think this Alex character can deliver?" "It's premature to speculate. Besides, he isn't the issue." "Like hell. If I weren't here, would he be making you tingle right now?" For several moments Cat refused to answer. Finally, when it was apparent that he wasn't going to back down, she said, "I honestly don't know. Maybe." Then, remembering Alex's departing kiss, she added more quietly, "Probably." He yanked his coat off the back of the chair. "Maybe you should call him to come back." "Dean, don't go like this," she said, reaching for him as he moved to the door. "Don't leave angry. Don't punish me for not being madly in love with you. You're still my best friend. I need you in a very special way. I don't want anything to interfere with our friendship. . . . Dean!" He never slowed down, just went out the front door and let it slam shut behind him. The tires of his rental car squealed as he sped away.

Chapter Twenty-four

George Murphy was feeling particularly ornery as he strode up the buckled, cracked sidewalk toward the ramshackle rental house. As he stepped onto the sagging porch, the rotting planks threatened to crack. The blue paint on the front door was faded and chipped. When he hauled it open, the hinges squeaked.

The living room stank of old cooking grease and marijuana. Murphy kicked aside a stuffed bunny and cursed when he tripped over a toy truck. In a parody of Ward Cleaver, he sang out, "Honey, I'm home." She emerged from the single bedroom, her face puffy from sleep. Although it was the middle of the day, she was wearing a light cotton nightgown. She ran her tongue over dry, caked lips. "What are you doing here?" "What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here!" She clasped her hands at her waist. "When did they let you out?" "Hour or so ago. They had no evidence, so they couldn't hold me. It had been a pissant possession charge, trumped up by a couple

of cops who didn't like his looks and wanted to hassle him. No big deal. But jail time interfered with the things he liked to do. He was thirsty for a beer and horny as hell. He gave her a calculating look. She seemed unusually nervous. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Aren't you glad to have me back home?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously, then cut to the bedroom door. "Son of a bitch. If there's a man in there, I'll kill you." "There's no ..." He shoved her aside and barged into the airless bedroom. Lying asleep on his side, amid the dingy sheets, was a child. The little boy had drawn his knees to his chest. His right thumb was in his mouth. Murphy felt foolish now for revealing his jealousy to her. To save face, he also checked the bathroom, but of course it was empty. As he stepped out of the bathroom, he pointed down at the sleeping boy. "They brought him back?" She nodded. "This morning. I'd been up crying for two nights. Couldn't work. Couldn't do anything except think about Michael. I was so glad to see him. I thought they'd taken him for good this time." On the brink of tears, she swallowed hard. "The caseworker said that if ... if there was any more trouble, they'd take him away permanently. This is our last chance." Tears filled her eyes as she looked at him imploringly. "Please don't do anything that might--" "Get me a beer." She hesitated and glanced worriedly at the boy. Murphy cuffed her on the side of the head. "I said get me a beer," he repeated, over enunciating each word. "Are you deaf or stupid or what?" She darted from the room, returning momentarily with a can of Coors. "This is the last one. I'll go get you some more as soon as Michael wakes up. While I'm at the store, I'll buy something for supper, too. What would you like?" He grunted with satisfaction. This agreeable attitude was more to his liking. Sometimes the bitch got out of line and had to be reminded that he was the man of the household. "I don't want any more of that shit you fixed last week." "Polio guisado. It's a Mexican stew." "Couldn't even figure out what the fuck was in it."

"Tonight I'll fix you some fried potatoes." He belched beer and jail breath. Now, her eagerness to please was getting on his nerves. Women should be born mute, he thought. "And I'll cook hamburger steaks. With onions. Just the way you like them." No longer listening, Murphy crumpled his empty beer can and tossed it aside, then began rummaging through the junk on top of the dresser. "Wha'd you do with it?" "Don't, please. You can't. Not here. If the caseworker should come by . . ." On the dresser was a clear, plastic, compartmentalized box containing dozens of beads in various sizes, shapes, and colors. With a vicious sweep of his arm, he knocked it to the floor. Uttering a soft cry of helplessness, she watched as the spilled beads scattered across the cracked linoleum. He caught her arms and shook her roughly. "Forget the fucking beads. Where's my stuff?" Indecision played across her face, but the spark of rebellion in her eyes quickly flickered out. "Bottom drawer." "Get it." When she bent down, the nightgown pulled taut across her hips. He fondled her buttocks, squeezing the flesh with his hard, strong fingers. "After a few days in jail, even your fat ass looks good to me." She straightened up, but he kept his hands in place and began gathering up her nightgown. "Don't. Please," she whimpered to his reflection in the mirror. "Michael could wake up." "Shut up and cut me a few lines." He saw that she was about to protest, so he pinched her hard on the back of her thigh. "Now." With trembling hands she opened the plastic bag, dumped out a small mound of cocaine, and, with a playing card, cut two neat lines of it on a chipped mirror. He leaned over and snorted them through a short straw, then rubbed the excess into his gums. The hit was potent. "Ah, better." He sighed. Splaying his hand in the middle of her back, he bent her forward over the dresser and unfastened his pants. "Not now!" "Shut up." He tried to wedge his hand between her legs, but she

kept them tightly clamped. He slapped the side of her head again, harder this time, and she cried out. "Open your legs and shut up," he growled. "I don't want to do it like this." "All right." His tone was silky, but his face was twisted and ugly. He wound a handful of her hair around his fist and forced her around to face him, pushing her to her knees and cramming his erection into her face. "If you don't want it like that, we'll do it like this. See how nice I am? You like this better? Huh?" He pulled her hair tighter. "And if you hurt me, I'll tear every frigging hair out of your head by the roots." "Okay, okay. I'll do it good." Tears of pain and humiliation streamed from her eyes as she looked at the sleeping child. "But in the other room." "I like this room." "Not here, please. The baby." She sobbed. "Jesus, you're ugly when you bawl like that." "I'll stop crying. I will, I swear. Just please don't make me--" "The kid's asleep," he whispered. "But I can wake him up. Come to think of it, it might be educational for him." He made a move toward the bed. She clutched his legs. "No, no." Her pleas were almost soundless. "Then get to it." Half his pleasure was derived from watching from above as she avidly went about it, her mouth working hard and fast. In desperation she tried to get him off as quickly as possible and put an end to it. He was too smart for the bitch. Having caught on to that trick, he held back for as long as he could. When he came, he brayed like a jackass. Miraculously, Michael slept through it. After supper, he settled down to watch TV. The news was on every channel. He flipped from one to the other, waiting out the crap until Vanna White came on. A cute redhead on one of the channels caught his attention. He'd seen her before but hadn't paid much attention. Her face was okay, but she had no tits to speak of. A picture of a kid had been positioned

behind her right shoulder. She was speaking earnestly into the camera. "... was neglected. Both his parents were drug abusers. He'll have some difficulties bonding, but he has unlimited potential to become a bright, healthy, emotionally stable child. With the right family giving him the affection and guidance he needs, he . . ." Murphy listened with mounting interest. When the story was over and the redhead turned the newscast back over to the dorky anchorman, Murphy looked hard at the boy playing in the corner of the room with that dirty, stuffed bunny of his. The kid was a nuisance. He didn't make much noise, and he'd learned the hard way to stay out of Murphy's way. But Michael was always interfering with something he wanted to do--screw, snort, you name it. He had to watch everything he did in his own house. Because of the kid, she was always nagging him about this or that. Don't do that where Michael can see you; don't say that where Michael can hear you. Don't, don't, don't. Jesus! It was enough to drive a man freaking crazy. And that goddamn caseworker was always poking her long, skinny nose into his business. She was probably the one who'd put the cops onto him the last time he'd had to work over his old lady. So he'd knocked her around a little. She'd needed it. He'd come home and she wasn't there. When she finally showed up, she wouldn't give him a straight answer about where she'd been. What was he supposed to do, let her get away with shit like that? He should never have agreed to let her do that bead stringing, either. It gave her too much independence. But his major problem was the kid. Almost every time she got out of line, it related to him. If the little fart wasn't around, life would be a lot more pleasurable. Adoption, the redhead had said. Not for orphans necessarily, but for kids whose parents had grown sick and tired of them and wanted to get rid of them. Garage-sale kids. It sounded good to him. He glanced at her as she sat working with her beads. She'd go totally apeshit if Michael was taken away permanently. But sooner or later she'd get over it. What choice would she have? Or maybe

she wouldn't get that upset if she knew that Michael had been adopted into a good home. Whatever the hell that was. Murphy slurped his beer as Vanna turned letters, but his mind was on the redhead. She might have the solution to his problem. It bore thinking about.

Chapter twenty-five

"Cat?" "Good lord!" She jumped and reflexively flattened her hand over her lurching heart. "I didn't know anybody was in here." The television studio was dark and, she'd thought, deserted. "Nobody is. Just me. I've been waiting for you." Alex eased himself out of the anchorman's chair behind the news desk and sauntered toward her. Fright had rooted her to the floor. In the dark, the television cameras looked like life forms from an alien environment, with their myriad cables coiling around them and snaking along the concrete floor like electronic umbilicals. The monitor screens were unblinking, sightless eyes. At this late hour, when they were no longer performing their high-tech functions, the studio equipment assumed the shapes of nightmarish creatures. Until recently, such a silly notion would never have crossed Cat's mind. As it was, she was seeing ghosts and goblins everywhere. "How'd you know where to find me?" she asked. "I was told you usually take a short-cut through the studio on your way out."

"Who told you that? How'd you even get in here?" "I talked my way past the guard." "They're not supposed to let anyone into the building who isn't authorized." "Old Bob extended me a professional courtesy." "Old Bob?" "We're already on a first-name basis. Once I told him that I was a former policeman, he couldn't have been more accommodating. He served on the San Antonio PD before retiring and becoming a rent-a-cop." "That former-cop camaraderie must come in handy." "It opens closed doors," he said with a shrug. "Are you cold?" Arms folded across her chest, she was hugging her elbows, but she hadn't been aware of it. "A little, I guess. I hadn't really noticed." "Or are you shivering because of what happened in here this afternoon?" Her eyes snapped up to his. "How'd you know about it?" "I was here." "You were here? Why?" "I'd come to see you. I arrived just after the fire truck got here. In the confusion, I talked my way past Old Bob, but I didn't make it as far as the studio. It was cordoned off, and they wouldn't let me through. "I asked one of the cops what was going on, and he told me. I identified myself as a friend and asked to see you, but his orders were to let absolutely no one in." She wished she'd known that Alex was in the building. Everyone had been solicitous, but he was a stalwart presence she would have liked to have there following the incident. Keeping her eyes downcast, she murmured, "Accidents happen." "You're sure it was an accident?" Her soft, nervous laugh didn't convey much conviction. "Of course it was an accident. I just happened to be seated in that chair when the light fell." "Show me." He followed her to the news desk. There were four swivel chairs behind it. Two were for the anchormen, one for the weatherman who chatted with the anchorman before moving to the station's