Web of Smoke (3 page)

Young Mexican men standing in the open doorways of the clubs handed out flyers and called, “Free margaritas. Lots of girls. Come this way. Best place in town.”

Winding his way through the adolescent drunks, DC kept his face in the shadows and his eyes averted. The underage drinkers screamed and laughed with drunken excitement, thankful to have a border to slip over when their parents weren’t looking.

DC spotted the flashing sign to Bambi’s Club and headed for it. Inside the dark bar young, copper-skinned women danced in G-strings and veils, shimmying down poles and doing the bump-and-grind to the fixed stares of the slack-faced sailors and civilians inside. Two teenage boys watched with saucer eyes as one of the dancers gave them a special show of her tricks.

Neither one of them would ever see a beer bottle again without thinking of her, DC thought with a black grin. He spotted Greg sitting in the very back. Slapping money on the bar, DC got a beer and joined him at the table.

“Buy you a beer?” he asked.

Greg looked up and frowned. “Get lost, man. I’m waiting for someone.” With a wave of his hand, Greg dismissed DC and returned his attention to the dancers.

DC felt a dose of pleasure as pure as any drug he’d ever taken sing through his veins. He stood there, looking down on Greg. Waiting for recognition.

Greg glanced up again. “Did you hear me?” he demanded. “I said get—” He paused, his eyes widening as he looked at DC’s face. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed.

DC laughed and took a drink of his beer.

“What the hell’d you do to your face, man?”

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” DC said.

“Beautiful, shit. It’s a fucking miracle.”

Greg took a swig of his beer, swallowing with an expression that looked close to pain. He couldn’t seem to stop staring at DC’s face. In shock, he lapsed into a silence that made DC impatient. He hadn’t agreed to come to discuss his new face.

“So what’s up?” DC asked.

Greg shifted in his seat, bouncing his gaze around the bar. “I’ve been thinking….” he began slowly. “About what we talked about.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it will work.”

DC pinned him with a sharp look. “I told you that.”

“I know, man. I had to make some calls first, though. Tie up the ends.”

“And?”

Greg shrugged. “All the players are ready.”

“You got a doctor?”

“Yeah. Took a little digging, but the world’s full of desperate people. You know? Shake some coin in front of them and they start begging.”

Greg grabbed a black duffel bag off the seat next to him and passed it across the table. DC unzipped it and looked at the jumble of manila folders inside. Each had a color-coded tab with a typed name on it.

DC gave a low whistle. “How’d you get these?”

“A little nurse who likes ‘em big and black,” Greg said with a nervous laugh. “They’re old. You may have to hunt down some new addresses, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Not for a smart man like you.”

DC nodded. Keeping the bag concealed beside him, he flipped through the manila folders. “These are local,” he said, looking up with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t worry, man. If anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

“It’ll cost you more.”

“Don’t worry,” he repeated. He began working the label off his beer bottle, peeling the damp edges back as he watched DC go through the files. “We want Jordan first. Call me when you’ve got her. I’ll take care of the rest.”

DC zipped the bag and looked up. “When do I get paid?”

“You worried I’ll burn you?” Greg asked.

“Nah. You ain’t that stupid. I’m just a little short on cash now.”

“Keep digging in that bag. There’s an advance. This time it’s not much. As soon as we deliver, you’ll get your cut. Don’t worry, man. This is going to make us rich.”

DC nodded, draining his beer. Greg scribbled a number on a napkin. “Call me here when you’re ready, but watch what you say.”

“I know that.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you then.”

With that Greg stood, gave DC’s face one last, incredulous stare, then left without a backward glance. Smiling, DC leaned against the split vinyl booth, fingering the duffel bag. He felt like celebrating, but not here. Not now.

He glanced at his watch. He’d cross back over the border, and later he’d celebrate in style.

* * *

DC woke with a start, covered in sweat and the stink of his own fear. He’d dreamed about the dogs again. Always the same damn thing. Grandpa’s dogs. Ripping him apart.

His legs were pushed up under his chin, pinned by the steering wheel, his swollen knee aching to the bone. Carefully, he eased both feet to the floor, wincing, as the blood raced to his toes. Needles of pain shot through every nerve. He endured it, as he always did after The Dream. The Dream turned him into a pretzel no matter where he was when he fell asleep.

Finally, he wiggled his toes without pain and stepped out of the seventy-six Ford Granada. He closed the door carefully behind him. The fresh air felt good. It chased away the residue of The Dream, if not the memories that had inspired it.

Under the cover of darkness, he relieved himself of some of the Mexican beer he’d drunk earlier, then pulled a rubber band from his pocket and looped it around three fingers. Stretching it, knotting it, loosening it, as he watched the back of her house from the street directly behind.

He shouldn’t be here. He knew it was stupid. But he couldn’t stay away, not when he knew she was there. Alone.

Not when he knew that she hadn’t recognized him. The thought filled him with power as it consumed him with rage.

He swallowed around his anger. It didn’t matter that he looked different. She should have
known
him. The fact that she didn’t meant that she’d managed to forget him since he’d been gone.

Forget him.

That really pissed him off.

He stared at her darkened windows, simmering with anger. He figured he’d been asleep about an hour. That made it somewhere close to midnight. Now was as good a time as any for the little get-reacquainted party he planned. Favoring his sore leg, he cut through the neighbor’s yard to hers.

A sliver of a silver moon gilded the dark night. Fog, white and transparent, hovered over the mats of grass that shivered against the elegant white porches. Silent and invisible, DC climbed up and over the top of her fence and made a soft, quiet landing in her backyard.

Shadowing the shadows to the back door of the garage, he tested the lock and found it secure. Bolted against the boogie man. DC dropped to his haunches. Back against the rough and cool bricks of the garage, he squatted next to the door.

Innocent in itself, the small flap of the doggie door still struck him hot with fear. Hands cold and clammy, DC tapped the rubber flap. It
swish-swished
softly against the metal rim. He knew the sound well.

He listened to the night. Listened to the crickets and wind talking in the dark. Listened for a signal that he’d been heard. No signal came.

Gently, he touched the flap again.

Swish-swish.

The sound amplified in his mind, and with it, the fragrance of terror. The perfume of his childhood.

Swish-swish.

But this door was plastic, not aged and dirty leather, and DC wasn’t caged anymore. Still, three dogs waited for him on the other side.

A cold sweat dotted his upper lip as he reached out, lifting the door as carefully as a tourist’s wallet. Looking into the dark cavern of the garage, DC could hear the echo of his own breathing and smell the damp concrete and oil mixture that permeated it.

Across the way he could see the twin to the door he peeked through. Closing his eyes, he forced the rancid residue of The Dream from his mind, and, just as he’d done a hundred times before, to a thousand different doors, DC poked his head through the opening. He shimmied right and left, easing his shoulders through. Hips, legs, and feet. He was in the garage.

He moved to the second door, stooping to peer through into the kitchen. Like a snake in grass, he wiggled soundlessly into the house.

* * *

Inside the house.

Christie awoke to the hot-cold uncertainty that
he
was inside the house.

Hearing her wake, Barney’s watchful gaze met hers from his spot on the floor. For a fraction of a second they stared at one another in the thick dark of midnight before some slight shift of sound sent Barney bounding to his feet. Teeth bared, fur standing fierce and on end, he charged the doorway and stairs like an enemy. His furious barks bounced from the high-ceilinged landing to the bare tiled floor.

Yanked from sleep by his barks, Snort and Bear jumped from the end of Christie’s bed, slipping through her reaching fingers in their race to join Barney.

With the force and speed of a zooming bullet through a sawed-off rifle, fear shot Christie from the warm comfort of bed into the cold reality of her situation.

Why hadn’t she listened to Sam? Because she hadn’t wanted to believe what she knew was true, she answered herself. She’d hidden under the security of denial and now she’d pay for it.

In seconds she dressed, cramming her feet into her shoes as she yelled for the dogs to come back. Their answering snarls told her they were prepared to fight to the death.

She faltered only a second, knowing hesitation could cost her her life. The baseball bat propped in the corner mocked her. Had she really felt protected by its presence?

Quickly, she punched 911 and left the phone dangling on the cord, knowing they would come. She grabbed the bat and moved to the window that the police had so recently brought to her attention. She threw the lock and opened the window, glancing fearfully over her shoulder, feeling like a mother abandoning her children. She climbed out and stepped onto the ledge. Vertigo toyed with her as she balanced above the closest branch. She would have to step off and free-fall a few feet to catch it.

The fog twisted and played with the dark, rustling branches below, adding terrifying unseen monsters outside to the known monstrosity within. She tossed the bat to the ground and immediately wished it back, but she’d never make it down if she tried to hold on to it.

From the house, the war of dog and man escalated. With a fevered prayer, Christie stepped off the ledge.

The bark scratched and peeled the tender skin on the underside of her arm before she could halt the momentum of her fall. With a jerk the limb stopped her plunge, groaning under her weight. For a second she froze, suspended above the ground, below her window. She felt trapped, a bug in a web with a spider soon to be home.

She twisted, looking for the next foothold. A small twig jutted from the trunk offering her only hope. She tested it with her foot. It snapped.

Frustrated tears blurred her vision. She eased herself closer to the trunk, hand over hand. Rough bark lacerated her palms. Biting down on her pain and terror, she made it to the solid trunk of the tree and wrapped her arms and legs around it.

Carefully, slowly, she eased herself down. Six feet from the ground, she jumped.

She hit the ground with a thud that knocked her off-balance and sent her rolling to the street. Quickly, she got to her feet and, for the second time in as many days, Christie ran screaming for help.

* * *

DC hit the floor at the first roaring bark and darted back to the doggie door. He was halfway through when the yellow dog rounded the corner, his paws skidding across the tile. Scrambling for footing, the dog sank its teeth into DC’s calf. DC fought. Kicking the dog, he cursed himself for the instinctual lunge to the floor. Why hadn’t he gone for a window? With incredible strength and determination, the dog pulled DC away from his small chance of escape and dragged him back onto the cold, hard tile.

Two smaller, but no less terrifying mutts appeared from nowhere and snapped at his face and fingers. DC struggled to his feet, feeling their teeth, their hot breath and spit, as they snarled and nipped at his legs and ankles.

The big dog got a hunk of DC’s thigh and began chomping and gnawing, working his way up.

DC came unglued. Felt himself regress and revert as the dogs evolved into great gnashing beasts. His control tipped, came unhinged and ready to hurl away, when a lucky shot sent one of the little beasts winging across the floor. Its tiny skull whacked the wall and the dog lay stunned and still.

One down.

DC forced himself to breathe, expelling his breath like a lifeline in a storm. He caught the ugly, flat-faced one by the neck and hurled him across the room. The dog twisted and squirmed as it flew. Hitting the ground, it turned and charged again.

They were winning.

“No,” he whimpered.

DC kicked at the yellow dog that continued to tear at him with fierce, strong teeth and steely resolve. The flat-faced dog closed in on the right. Snapping, growling, snarling. DC’s frantic gaze cut from wall to window, where he could see his own reflection. Panic sizzled from his toes to his eyes.

He crouched, facing the biggest dog defensively. The yellow dog lunged, sailing through the air, all teeth and fur and fury. DC collided with it, bouncing the dog off his chest and following through with a chop to the throat.

Back on its feet, the dog charged again while the ugly one drew blood from DC’s ankle.

They were winning.

“No!” DC hollered, throwing the full force of his weight at the yellow dog. He caught the dog from behind, gripping its throat with all his strength and jerking hard enough to snap its neck. The dog screamed, a chilling tortured wail, and then stilled. DC dropped it to the floor.

The tables turned. The ugly one backed off and cowered behind the island bar, suddenly not so fierce. From the distance, DC heard the rage of sirens.

He scrambled to open the sliding door but fumbled over the lock. Too frantic to leave the way he’d come, he grabbed a barstool and hammered the glass door until it shattered. Wicked shards tore at his clothes as he raced outside.

He paused as the protective cloak of night concealed him and looked back at the house.
His house. His woman.