Mr. CEO (34 page)

M
y feet tingle
as Jackson and I take the stairs up to the third floor of the apartment complex, and twice I stop, Jackson waiting patiently for me to find the guts to continue. I didn't think it would be this hard.

Never in my entire decade since seeing them supposedly blown up have I felt as much fear as I feel right now. I've spent nearly ten years training, focused with burning intensity on one goal, and until Jackson came back into my life, I thought that focus, that intensity, would never waver. Now I'm seeing that my blind devotion has left me weak, at least in some areas, and I'm glad that Jackson is here with me.

We reach the third floor and we walk to our left, following the unit numbers as they drop from 310 toward 302. We get to the door, and Jackson takes my hand again. “Remember... live in the moment, focus on the goal. All that stuff you've been reading and training for, it applies here, too. Okay, Kat?”

At my assumed name, Jackson's words jolt me into place, and I nod, determined. I turn back to the door and knock three times, pleased that I don't sound weak at all. I'm ready to take this on, and as I hear footsteps approach the door, I'm strong, ready, and actually a little bit pissed off. These people left me behind.

The door opens, and I see, for the first time in ten years, my mother. She may be nearly forty-five now, and the years have added some stoop to her shoulders and some gray to her hair, the exact color as mine, but it's Theresa Grammercy. “Hello?”

“Mom... it's me,” I say, probably the stupidest reply in the history of the world, but I haven't exactly had a chance to practice this before, you know?

“Theresa Grammercy?” Jackson interjects, and Mom's eyes flitter to him, and before she can even start to protest, I see the truth. She knows who we are. “My name is Jackson DeLaCoeur.”

Mom's eyes come back to me, and there's guilt there, at least a little bit, but she doesn't move. “You shouldn't be here.”

“And you shouldn't have left me in New Orleans to live in foster care for six years,” I shoot back, keeping my voice low. “Now do you let me in, or do I have Jackson call the cops now? I know for sure that Michael and Theresa Ball are not legal identities.”

Jackson plays along, taking out his phone, even though there's no way in hell I'd call the cops. That would bring attention to me, and I don't have a legal identity right now.

Mom doesn't know that though, and backs up, letting us in. “The Lord teaches us to submit to the will of those in authority above us,” she mutters, and I see just how sad Mom looks. She'd always been pretty conservative, foregoing makeup most of the time, but she looks positively mousy now, her hair grown out, but hanging in two thick and limp braids that stretch halfway down her back. She's in a dress that I think might have started its life as a very ugly couch. Pale blue and pink rose patterns dominate the shapeless bag of a dress, and she's wearing house slippers. “You're breaking the Lord's will.”

“And I'm pretty sure if I dig in the Bible long enough, I'll find something that says that faking your own death and abandoning your daughter is also against the Lord's will, too,” Jackson replies, thankfully. Listening to her speak, I'm too angry and sad at the same time to form words. I want to scream and cry, but I'm paralyzed, not saying much at all. “Where's Samuel?”

“He don't live by that name no more,” Theresa says, but points anyway. “His name's Michael now. Like the archangel.”

“Theresa?” a harsh voice booms from the living room. “What the fuck are you babbling in there? We got visitors?”

The way Theresa flinches motivates me to speak, and I step forward, going toward the living room of the apartment. “Yeah, some ghosts from the past,” I say, walking into the living room. Samuel is sitting in a cheap recliner, his eyes going wide as I walk in. “Hello... Daddy.”

“Katrina...” Samuel whispers, then plasters a big, fake smile on his face. “Oh honey, it's so good to see you!”

Theresa and Jackson are right behind me, and I restrain myself carefully as Samuel gets to his feet and holds his arms out, coming over to give me a hug. I hold my hand up, and he stops a few feet away, realization dawning on his face that I'm not here for a happy family reunion. “I guess I should have expected that,” he says, dropping his hands and sighing. “Well, will you have a seat at least? We've got a lot to talk about.”

I look at Jackson, who arranges his body in the short connecting hallway, blocking most of it with his bulk while Theresa sits down in a wooden rocking chair, her hands folded in her lap and her legs jammed together. Her head is hanging slightly, but whether it's in shame or if she's praying, I can't tell. Jackson gives me a nod, and I grab an ottoman from the couch area and squat down on it. I don't want to be backed up against anything. “All right... talk. Start with why the fuck you faked your deaths and left me in New Orleans to go through six years of hell in foster care.”

“You will not use foul language in this house, young lady,” Theresa interjects, a hint of hysteria in her voice. “The Lord despises a foul mouth.”

“And a liar?” I ask. “Besides, after what I've been through, if there is a God up there, I owe him an ass kicking.”

“Katrina, your mother has... she's become very involved in the church,” Samuel says, trying to explain. “We've been through a lot of stress the past ten years, honey. Theresa has found that it comforts her. After the mob came after me, I knew I couldn't stay in New Orleans, and the only way to do it was to leave you behind. I thought that they'd ignore you if they thought I was dead.”

“Oh, bullshit. You left me behind. Why?” I look at Theresa, ignoring Samuel for a while. “Huh, Mom? Him, I can understand, what with what I've learned... but you? Why did you go along with it?”

“
Wives, submit to your husbands as you do to the Lord,”
Theresa shoots back. “My husband's will as head of this household is the final say. He said that this was the plan, and I obeyed him.”

“The very next paragraph though says that husbands should love their wives as Christ loved the church, and that they should ensure that their wives are pure and blameless, to love them as their own bodies. I don't think faking your death and abandoning your daughter follows that particular teaching,” Jackson says quietly. When I look at him in surprise, he shrugs. “I've been to my fair share of church in my time, too.”

“Regardless, you're still lying to me,” I add, looking back at Samuel. “Why?”

“You need to go, Katrina. It's not safe,” Theresa says, her control wavering. “You can't be here. You need to go.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Not until I have answers,” I say, my own calm evaporating. “For Christ's sake, you two left me! Why?”

Theresa starts crying, sobs shaking her shoulders, but I feel no guilt, no pity for her as she trembles and shakes. She's muttering to herself, and as I catch words of it, she's praying or quoting the Bible or something like that, which just infuriates me more. I jump to my feet, having had enough. “Shut up!”

“That's enough!” Samuel half-screams, getting to his feet as Theresa sobs harder. “We did it to protect you, Katrina! The mob was after me, and I couldn't think of any other way to protect myself and my family!”

Protect his family. His words are yelled with such vehemence, with so much passion that for a moment, I want to believe him. But then I remember what Jackson told me Nathan Black said, and what I went through going through foster care. Virginia may have trained me, but it was tough love from the beginning, and there was nobody there to protect me for the six years I lived under her roof. The pain of the past ten years protects me from being swayed by his lies, and I square up, looking at Samuel, who I realize I am now actually taller than in my boots.

“You lie, Samuel. You were a corrupt cop, and if you were running from the mob, why'd you go to Peter DeLaCoeur for help? Why'd you get Nathan Black to rig the whole thing? Peter's as much in the mob as anyone else.”

Samuel stops, then starts to go red, his anger at being called a liar turning him the color of old brick. “Fine. If that's the way you want it, you miserable little whelp, then I guess I'm going to have to throw your ungrateful ass out of my house.”

Jackson goes to move, but I hold up my hand. No, this is my battle. I tilt my chin, cracking my neck, and nod. “Then come on. Maybe while I'm kicking your ass you can finally tell me the truth.”

I
'm tempted
to move from my position on the wall, but Katrina's gesture stops me, and I remember how well she can handle herself. I settle back, waiting. Actually, I do have to admit, part of me is looking forward to this. It could be better than a Bruce Lee movie.

“So why'd you do it, Sam?” Katrina asks as Samuel raises his hands and tries to come after her. Katrina moves with a ballet dancer's grace, avoiding his grab and spinning out of the way, pushing him on the back as she does, causing him to stumble a bit. “Was it that the FBI was going to come after you? Internal Affairs?”

“I was a good cop!” Samuel yells, turning and coming after Katrina again. She's backing up, light on her feet even in her boots, and I can see she's toying with him. It's hot actually, watching her move. She's graceful, not like a dancer or a stripper, intentionally working her body to tease, but instead she's graceful in an unconscious way, like she's focused on something greater and her grace is just a means to an end.

“You were a dirty cop,” Katrina replies, ducking as Samuel grabs a little knickknack off the top of the television and throws it at her. Katrina moves so quickly that it almost looks like the porcelain projectile passes right through her, exploding on the wall behind her. “You were a dirty cop who worked for Peter more than you worked for the people of New Orleans.”

“You don't know a damn thing about what I did!” Samuel screams, trying to grab Katrina again, who blocks his hands, slapping them away before shoving him in the chest. Samuel stumbles back, and gets ready to charge Katrina, who I can see is obviously ready for him. Before he can, though, Theresa is up and out of her chair, trying to get in between her daughter and her husband.

“Michael, no! Stop!” she yells hysterically, grabbing his arm and yanking. Samuel's not in good shape, hell, I'm worried the man's going to have a heart attack if this goes on much longer, but Theresa's scrawny. Maybe Katrina doesn't understand, but I do. She might get some of her height from her father, and I can see a little bit of his face in hers, but the hair, the slender frame... that's all from Theresa Grammercy, and that body's been worn down by a decade of guilt, so what was once thin has become bony and weak.

Theresa tugs, but Samuel barely moves at all, except for turning and pushing his wife, sending her sprawling. “Shut up, bitch. You're half the fucking reason I left anyway, you and that constant harping on me, threatening to go to Peter and tell him about me and Margaret. If you were a good wife, I wouldn't have had that problem!”

Samuel turns to kick Theresa, and I start to move, but before I can even take a step, Katrina's right there, spinning him around and sweeping his legs out from underneath him. “Don't touch her!” she screams, stomping down on Samuel's left ankle. I don't hear anything break, but that doesn't mean it doesn't probably hurt like hell. “You have no right!”

Unfortunately for Katrina, while she's an expert in the martial arts, she probably hasn't watched as many cop shows as I have, and she forgets one of the main cop rules in a domestic disturbance, which is never ignore anyone. Her own mother, who should have been grateful for her daughter's assistance, instead throws a shoe at her. It catches Katrina in the chest and surprises her just enough that Samuel is able to grab her ankle, sending her tumbling to the floor next to him with one hard yank. Theresa's still trying to get involved, but I grab her, dragging her away toward the bedroom.

“Sit down!” I say, shoving her into the bedroom and closing the door. It's not great, but it's better than nothing, and before she can push the door open, I grab a bookcase and jam it under the handle. It's not much, but it’ll give me a minute.

I run back to the living room, and watch as Katrina flips Samuel over neatly, landing on top of her father, anger and rage etched on her face. “You son of a bitch! You fucking bastard! You left me, you cheated on your wife, and you try to pretend that you're the victim! I hate you!”

Katrina starts pounding him in the face, vicious elbows and forearm blasts that batter away at his arms. He's beyond trying to defend himself, he's out of shape and exhausted already, but Katrina isn't letting up. Samuel's just got his arms up over his head to try and absorb the punishment, but I can tell from looking at Katrina's face, she isn't letting up.

His arms slip, and one of Katrina's elbows slices through, shattering Samuel's cheekbone, and his head drops back, stunned. His arms fall to the side, and she grabs him by the throat, a look of murder on her face. “Katrina! Katrina, stop!”

“No way, Jackson,” she hisses, her eyes locked on Samuel's face. Her fingers start to tighten, and he hacks, trying to grab at her wrist, but her grip is too strong. “He's got to pay.”

“By turning you into a murderer like him?” I ask, coming next to her. I can't grab her, she's so high-strung right now that I'd probably just make her angrier, but I lay a hand on her right arm, just above her elbow. “Katrina, do you want to become as bad as he is? To become like him?”

“He took ten years of my life away,” Katrina hisses, twisting Samuel's hand with her left when he finally gets a grip on her wrist. I hear something snap like dry twigs, and Samuel's gasps and coughs weaken as he gives a pained whine. “I think I deserve that much, with interest.”

“Then do it the right way,” I whisper, closing my hand on her arm. Her arm is thin, wiry with muscle, and I can close my fingers all the way around it, but I don't tug. I have to try, to let her do the right thing. “Let him go, Katrina. Do it the right way.”

Katrina's face is still etched in fury and anger, but her fingers relax, and Samuel coughs, a little bit of blood dotting his lips as he does. He starts to raise his head and Katrina throws a palm strike, catching him between the eyes and bouncing his head off the floor, knocking him out. “Fine.”

Katrina gets up, her knees shaky as she looks down on her father's laid out frame, and I hold her carefully, supporting her as she starts to walk away. The door to the bedroom finally gets opened and Theresa comes out, running to her husband and looking back at us in an expression that's so pathetic and miserable I actually feel slightly sorry for her. “How can you do this to your own father?”

“My father died ten years ago... along with my mother,” Katrina whispers. “I swear to you, though, you two will pay for what you did. If I were you... I'd start running before he even wakes up.”

“Come on, Katrina,” I say softly, holding her arms. “We don't need to be here any longer.”

We leave, and I have to half-carry her to the stairs, where she starts to recover, brushing my hands off. We run down the stairwell and out the gate, not stopping until we're around the corner. Slowing, we begin walking, Katrina looking straight ahead. “You okay?”

“No.” Her voice is steel-hard, her eyes emotionless. I look down, and see that her hands are balled up, her forearms still tense and corded with effort at restraining herself.

Okay, fine. I understand that, and that's what I'm here for right now, helping her when she's not totally in her right mind. “Let's get back to the hotel, figure out what to do next.”

“The Metro station's just up the street.”

We walk in silence for a little bit, and I feel more confident as we put some distance between us and the apartment that we're not going to have Miami-Dade cops come rolling up to arrest us. Part of me is turned on, Katrina was so sexy and beautiful as she unleashed only the smallest bit of retribution on her father. However, it was scary too, watching her so close to going over the edge.

“Jackson,” Katrina says as we reach the station, and I still can see in her eyes a lot of steely hardness, but also a hint of my Katrina coming back.

“Yeah, Katrina?” I ask, taking out my wallet to pay the ticket machine.

“Back there, talking to me. You were right.”

I put the money in the machine and look at Katrina, who's still got her hands balled up. “I swear to you that you will get them. And Peter.”

Katrina nods once. “Let's get back to the hotel.”