Vengeance to the Max (10 page)

“No, she certainly isn’t. If fact, she’s right over there.”

Max turned and pointed to the woman with steel-wool hair, snub nose, and cat’s-eye glasses. Evelyn Hastings, as proclaimed by her shiny silver name tag, had shown Max to the fiche. Obvious now where that sense of familiarity had come from.

Was it coincidence, divine intervention, the devil at work. Or Cameron playing God?

“What’s the big deal? Walk up and ask where her niece is.”

“You think like a cop. This needs more finesse.”

Witt’s brow creased as if she’d offended him. “Cops have finesse.”

Max rolled her eyes. They stood within the small confines of the fiche viewing area, voices low, both gazes on the woman bustling behind the counter at the far end of the library. With the end of the school day, the place had filled up, the noise level rising with laughter, gossiping voices, and the almost constant
shushing
from the three librarians.

“We’ll lose her,” Witt said close to her ear.

“I can’t walk up and ask her where Cordelia is.” She’d work her way into it, make friends with the woman. She still had to tell her about Cameron since it was unlikely she knew of his death. After all, the only letter Max sent had been returned undelivered. First things first, and with that thought came the dread. How did you tell someone their nephew, brother, son, or husband was dead?

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She pushed Witt away with the flat of her hand on his hard stomach. She couldn’t think with him so close. Keeping her hand where it landed wasn’t such a hot idea either. Okay, it was
too
hot. God, she was losing control here.

“I’m thinking, too,” he whispered, pointedly looking down.

She snatched her hand away as if scorched. Then, as an afterthought, she said, “I’ve got it.” Actually, she’d had the plan all along. It was a matter of recognizing it for what it was. “We’ll set up an appointment with her. I’ll tell her about Cameron—”

“Tell her
what
about your husband?”

From the widening of his eyes, she could almost believe Witt thought she referred to Cameron’s current haunting of her. The truth was a bit worse. The gentle flush of shame stained her face. “About him being dead.”

“You never told his family?”

“I—” She stopped. What could she say? She’d made a half-hearted attempt. Because it was her duty. Then she’d dropped it because the pain had been too great. And because Cameron wasn’t really gone. “I didn’t know where they were at the time”—pause, no period—“and I didn’t try very hard to find them.”

She stood slightly in front and to his left. At the other end of the room, Evelyn Hastings adjusted her cat’s-eyes glasses, made a notation on something in front of her, then turned with a smile to a teenage boy standing at her counter. Max held the fiche screen print in her hand. She owed a nickel. Witt’s hand settled on her waist, warm, comforting, understanding.

“I should have found her, but I didn’t.” Though she said the words, they were for herself.

“Couldn’t,” he said. “Big difference there.”

Cameron had never blamed her either. She’d always been the one hardest on herself in most respects. Then again, she’d always been a chicken in most respects, too.

“I have to pay for the print screen.” She left Witt behind her. Some things you had to do alone.

The first and second assistants behind the counter asked if they could help her. She waited for Evelyn.

“Did you find what you were looking for, dear?”

“Yes.” Max pushed the now rumpled paper across the counter, facing Evelyn, easily readable. “I owe you a nickel.” She placed the silver coin on the corner.

Evelyn read. Her cheek pulled in, and her jaw slid sideways as if she’d bitten down. Her eyes widened behind her lenses. She took the coin and plopped it in a container under the counter. Max heard the tinkle of its landing amongst the other change.

“Thank you.” The woman’s polite words were barely audible.

Max waited. Witt was near; she smelled his aftershave. The rustle of backpacks and jackets went on behind her. Tittering teenage girls sat at a nearby table. Plastic boots squeaked on the tile entryway. The clock over Evelyn’s head declared the five o’clock hour almost nigh, but its second hand seemed not to move.

Max swallowed past that lump in her throat. “My married name is Max Starr. I came to talk with you about your nephew.” Then she added what she should have when she approached. “I’m sorry about your father. I’m sorry about showing you that ... paper all over again.” She told the truth, Witt witnessing her inadequacies. “I didn’t know how else to tell you who I am.”

You could have said you were my wife
, Cameron whispered in her head.
You could have told her somewhere other than here
.

He was right. Then again, Max had wanted to see the reaction; cruel, but, in her mind, necessary. The problem was, psychic or not, she couldn’t figure out what Evelyn’s reaction meant.

Most people would have asked what Max wanted to talk about. Most people would have either accepted or rejected Max’s apology. Evelyn Hastings merely stared at the print screen of her father’s obituary, her face wiped clean of all expression, her touch almost reverent on the sheet of paper.

“Could we make an appointment for tomorrow?” Max offered.

Most people would ask to hear now. Not Evelyn Hastings. “Tomorrow,” she echoed, then her voice dropped. “Tomorrow.”

They were the center of attention at the counter. The other two librarians, both ladies of Evelyn’s approximate age, looked on with concern, heedless of others waiting their turn for questions. Impatient feet shuffled behind her.

Then Evelyn’s head popped up. “Would ten o’clock in the morning be all right?”

“Yes,” Max answered quickly as if Evelyn might rip the meeting from her grasp.

“Come to my house. I’ll give you directions.” A pad of paper appeared, and a pencil worked in Evelyn’s nimble fingers. They were not the hands of a seventy-something-year-old woman—no age spots, no crippling arthritic joints, relatively few wrinkles. She wrote with those long, elegant fingers. Cameron’s fingers. And there it was, the resemblance, all in the hands.

* * * * *

She had an early dinner with Witt. He’d asked only necessary questions during the meal, forgone the sexual banter he loved, then dropped her off at her room with little more than a peck on the cheek. The drone of his TV wafted through the connecting door, the news, she assumed. The guy was intuitive, she’d say that for him, having the sense to leave her alone for a little rumination.

“What’s your plan?” Cameron, a soft voice in the room.

The plan wasn’t really a plan. Max would do what she’d been obligated—and failed—to do two years ago. She would tell Evelyn her nephew had died. She would tell her how it had happened. Then she’d ask how to get in touch with his mother and his sister.

“Why do you feel bad about this?”

She didn’t know. “Don’t
you
feel bad?”

Jesus, you’d think he’d feel
something
. It was his aunt.

“I ... it was years ago. I stopped thinking about my aunt long before I even met you.”

She struggled to understand his lack of emotion versus her overabundance of it.

“It’s like looking at a stranger,” he finished.

Max knew he had no memory of actual events before his death. He’d told her that often enough. He had only the emotions. Why was he hiding them now?

“My emotions are about you, Max. The rest...” He let the sentence hang in the air.

Yes, he
told
her he didn’t remember. Yes, he focused on her. But there were moments when she felt so much more was going on than she understood, as if not only the visions led her, but Cameron himself. Cameron with a higher purpose he wouldn’t divulge.

Something pulsed in the air around him, something pale yet distinctly red. Anger? Anticipation? Excitement? Thrill of the hunt?

“You’re not telling me everything,” she said.

“I’m telling you all I can.”

“All you
will
.”

“The phone’s flashing. You’ve got a message.” His way of changing the subject. His way of telling her she wouldn’t get another thing from him.

When she checked, the message was from Sunny Wright, her boss, owner of the temp agency Max worked out of. “Why the hell would Sunny call?”

She couldn’t say she was good friends with Sunny. These days she couldn’t say she was good friends with anyone, unless she counted Sutter, whom Max had dropped for two years after Cameron’s death. Not much of a recommendation there.

But Sunny had phoned, leaving a cryptic message telling Max to call back
ASAP
, underscored by her tone. Max had told her she’d be out of town for a few days. She’d even given her the hotel name in case she never came back, in case someone somewhere cared what had happened to her. Sunny was thorough. If Max didn’t check back in, Sunny would follow up. But call Max using that tone? Something was wrong.

Six-thirty in Michigan, it would be three-thirty back in California, and Sunny would still be in the office. Max dialed.

“How’s the sun out there, Max?” Sunny asked with her effervescent voice.

“They don’t know the meaning of sun out here in the middle of November.” She paused for a breath. “Why’d you call, Sunny?”

“A man came by looking for you.” The bright voice faded with the news.

A man? Looking for her? “Was he late twenties, dark hair, and gorgeous?”

“No. He was in his sixties, gray hair, and distinguished.”

Holy shit. She managed to keep the words silent. Sunny wasn’t big on cursing. She squinted when anyone else did. But this knowledge deserved it. “Did he tell you his name?”

“No.” Sunny paused. “And I asked, several times. He wasn’t forthcoming.”

“Did you tell him where I was?”

Sunny snorted. “I do know the meaning of confidentiality.” Max had never told Sunny to keep her whereabouts quiet. After a pause, Sunny said, “You know who he is, don’t you.”

It hadn’t been a question. The fact that Max didn’t confirm was answer enough. “Something bothered you about him.”

“He was ... smarmy.”

As good a word as any. And accurate. “What’d he say?”

“First he was all charm, even asked me out. I still refused to tell him. Then he said he had a job for you, something only you could do. But ... the way he looked from my head down to my shoes ... and everything in between, well, I thought—”

Sunny wasn’t usually at a loss for the right words. Max prompted. “Thought what?”

Her voice dipped as if someone had entered the room. “He meant something ... sexual.” Sunny didn’t use that word either. “Or he wanted me to think he did.”

Goosebumps prickled Max’s skin, not the good kind, but the walk-over-your-grave kind.

“Then he got mean. Only it wasn’t his words, it was in his eyes.” Max gauged the subtle nuances in Sunny’s voice. “I think he was threatening me, but now I don’t know exactly what he said to make me think that.” Sunny paused, and when she spoke again, there wasn’t an ounce of sunshine in her voice. “It was the oddest thing, but I felt nauseous when he left.”

Max knew the feeling. It burrowed into her bones.

“I didn’t tell him anything, I promise.” Sunny was a can-do-will-do kind of gal, but a
promise
? She’d been spooked. “Why did he want to know where you were so badly?”

Max’s question exactly. She didn’t doubt the identity of Sunny’s mysterious—and threatening—visitor, not for even a moment. But what the hell did Bud Traynor want?