Yours, Mine, and Ours (22 page)

He had been determined to have a son. And was not the kind to forgive a letdown, any letdown, and was not above punishing the innocent. He never let Michaela forget he was sorry she had been born a girl.

And after he had finally come for her and forced her to be his latest victim, his girl-child castrated him. After his disgusting attack, she had crept up on him with her softball bat and nailed him just behind his right ear.

While he was unconscious she somehow managed to get him duct-taped to a kitchen chair, then spent the entire day castrating
other
things—carrots, pork loin, cucumbers, French bread, celery—so that by the time she got around to gelding her father, he had gone quite mad from stress and terror. His hysterical protests and pleading did not save him from the fate suffered by the celery and loin and bread.

He bled to death waiting for an ambulance she never called.

She had been eleven.

chapter fifty-three

“Aw, God.” Emma
Jan pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever heard. And I come from a long and distinguished line of alcoholics.”

“I think she has overcome a great deal to get where she is,” I said carefully. I did not like Michaela, exactly, but I respected her and, I will admit it, I was a little intimidated by her as well.

Unlike Cadence, I did not believe Michaela hid her affection for us. I believed she did not care about us and was fine with not caring, as long as we were productive. I hoped telling Emma Jan the story was the right thing to do, but there was always a small margin for error.

“I do not like her, you know.”

Emma Jan gave me an odd look. “You’ve said that before. Are you sure?”

“I just wish that
you
could be sure.”

“I think you do like her.”

“I do not!” I felt my hand tighten on the bulge that was my pistol in my bag, and forced my fingers to loosen. This was no way to nurture a friendship, drawing down on someone not expecting it.

“Not
like
like,” she said patiently, unaware she was courting death. “I think you want
her
to like
you
. I think you look up to her and want to please her.”

“She is my supervisor.” My! That was difficult to force out through teeth that would not unclench.

“Yeah, and maybe a maternal figure?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you’re right, what do I know?”

“That is correct!”

“Being new and all.”

“Exactly! You understand nothing!”

“Chill, Shiro, you’re
screaming
.”

“I … need … new ear protection.” I shook my head, chasing away fake sound waves. “The shooting match…”

“Oh. Well, since I’m up for a rematch to show you how this shit is done, you should get new ones ASAP.” Emma Jan sighed and scooped her empties into a section of her bag. “Does anybody here have a happy story? Or at least a sad story with a happy ending?”

I shook off my irritation. Michaela? A maternal figure? To a charging bull, perhaps. “Here, America? Here, planet Earth? Here—”

“Here, BOFFO.”

“Ah. No.” I gave it more thought. “No. It is a building full of sad stories and massive doses of Halcion.”

“And firearms.”

I smiled. It felt stiff on my face; then, after a long moment, more natural. “Yes. And firearms.”

I thought about asking Emma Jan for her origin story, but pulled back at the last moment. That was my methodology: when I started to pass the barriers people erect around their secrets, I always pulled back.

In many ways, I was as much a coward as Cadence.

“Did I hear you correctly earlier? Your last girlfriend?”

“Hmm?” She was carefully disassembling her weapon. “Oh. Sure. It’s no big deal, I’m out and everything.”

“Forgive me for such a personal question, but—”

“Yep! I’m a big fat dyke,” she said cheerfully.

I snorted. “Is that the acceptable form of address now? I have such trouble keeping apace with political correctness.”

“I also go by ‘great big lesbian.’”

I thought it over, then went ahead and came out with it: “Is this a date, then?”

She looked up. “Uh, no. Is that a problem?”

“I do not know.”

“Who should I ask, then?”

The very question made me laugh. “Sorry, sorry. I’m sexually confused.”

“You’re telling that to a black lesbo.”

“Big deal. You have not cornered the market on sexual oddities. I
have
a boyfriend. He’s … a wonderful man. He knows about us. All of us. He is … perfect for us, I think.” I slowed, thinking hard. “But lately, I have someone else on my mind. I don’t know why that should be.”

“If you did, would it be any easier?”

“I … do not know.”

“Maybe you just need some time off,” she said kindly. “Or to get laid.”

“Neither are likely,” I said dryly.

“It’s funny, I don’t usually jump to conclusions. I thought you liked men.”

“I do.”

“Oh. So you’re…”

“Flexible.”

She laughed. “That’s great! Hey, you’ve just doubled your dating pool.”

“And yet, remain remarkably unlaid,” I said dryly, and Emma Jan laughed at that for quite a while.

chapter fifty-four

I let myself
into my apartment, put my keys back in my coat pocket, then hung up my coat. The apartment was quiet, except for the sinister sound of heavy breathing. Someone was waiting for me. Or someone was having an asthma attack. Now let me think, what did I have nearest to hand…?

Bo shuriken. Crisper.

Chakram. Under sink behind dishwasher soap.

Throwing knife. Inside flour canister.

Beretta 950 Jetfire. Back of silverware drawer. Eight rounds in the mag, nothing in the pipe. Safety on.

Remington SP-10 semiauto shotgun. Pantry behind mop and broom. Legal load: three shells. Actual load: five shells. Fully loaded with buckshot, safety on.

Stun grenades. One behind spice rack. Two in pantry: one in Frosted Flakes, one in Raisin Bran.

Forty-five Colt Magnum. Loaded, not cocked. Back of junk drawer behind Scotch tape and dry erase markers.

Two speedloaders, full. Third drawer down.

Four X-acto knives. Left drawer beside stove under potholders.

It wasn’t much, but I would have to make do. I glided into the kitchen, opened the silverware drawer, and pulled the Beretta. I clicked off the safety, then walked back the way I had come, taking a right instead of a left, and then I was in the living room.

Ah. I should have realized. Patrick had fallen asleep on the couch. A small black dog was curled up next to him, also sound asleep.

“Olive!” I said, very surprised. The dog opened her eyes, jumped down, and approached me with her tail wagging. I knelt to pet her. “What in the world … oh, no. No, do not tell me.”

“Muh … Cadence?” Patrick was blinking sleepily at me, and his eyes widened when he saw the handgun. “Hey, Shiro. Guess nobody told you we’d be here.”

“Ah … no. No one did.” Still, I must be tired. I should have remembered. Or assumed. Or at least been ready for anything, instead of ready for nothing.

“Thanks for not shooting first and asking questions later.”

“It was just that one time,” I protested. “Must you forever hold that over my head?”

“Sure.” He grinned, then groaned. “Gah, what time is it?”

“Not quite midnight. Have you been here watching Olive all day?”

“Who the hell is Olive?”

I pointed.

He sat up, yawning, and stretched so thoroughly I could hear things creaking. “I thought her name was Dawg.”

“It is
not
. Don’t you think the small blob of white hair on her head is the right size and shape for an olive?”

“A white olive?”

“Her name is Olive.” I paused and straightened. “I assume Adrienne…?”

“Yup. Then she called me and wanted cream puffs and my presence in the apartment, in that order. She has some sort of freaky sixth sense … How the hell does she always know when I’m making cream puffs?”

I hid a smile. He did it whenever he had not seen Adrienne for more than ninety-six hours. He just was not consciously aware of that fact. He was too close to the pattern to see it. Which made Patrick the one person, other than my psychiatrist, who actively sought contact with Adrienne.

His bravery and devotion to a raging psychotic was almost enough to make me love him unconditionally. Or enough to make me jam him full of tranquilizers until the feeling passed.

“Anyway,” he was saying, “I leapt to obey.”

I shook my head. Such a glorious, kind, thoughtful idiot. “You are too good, Patrick.”

“That’s what my other two girlfriends … uh … never, ever say, come to think of it.”

I could not help smiling, both at the small, docile-yet-friendly dog at my feet, and the large man sprawled on the couch.

I might love Patrick. I was certain Cadence did. And I did not know precisely why, for either of us. Adrienne loved his cream puffs, but probably not the man.

Still: Dr. Gallo would simply not leave my brain alone. Why? I had no idea. Was that part of his allure? I was drawn, and did not know why? I hated to think I was so easily bewitched.

“Cadence is not going to like this.” And I was not referring to Olive.

“Oh, she sure didn’t. At least the hairy thing she woke up next to this time was a dog and not a date.”

An excellent point. “We should all give thanks.”

He was scrubbing his face with his hands—slow to wake, was Patrick. I envied that.

“Listen, I was able to sneak her out into the trees behind the building—luckily you guys live on the first floor—and she just had one accident in the house. Oh, boy. She was
so
scared of me then. It … kind of broke my heart a little.

“I mean, jeez. It’s just shit. And not even that much of it—it’s not like I’m cleaning up after an elephant. We’re talking a hot dog’s worth, max. So I didn’t praise her, because I don’t want her to connect accidents with praise, but I didn’t yell or anything, and she still was scared to death of me for a good five minutes.”

Curious about this new side of him, I asked, “You know about training dogs?”

“Yeah, when my sister was just a kid, before my parents decided—” He cut himself off, sounding almost … angry? Before I could pin that down, he visibly shook himself and said, “You know what? Never mind; it’s a story for another time.”

“Patrick, what is—”

“Anyway, I didn’t yell or anything but it still took me more than ten minutes to coax her out from under the table.” He shook his head. “Somebody used to beat the hell out of her for … uh … everything, I think. Whoa!”

He had jumped to his feet, startling Olive, who ran behind me and peeked at him from behind my legs. “I know that look, Shiro Jones, just stop with the look, okay? Adrienne put her owner—”

“
Former
owner.”

“Yeah, anyway, he’s in the hospital counting all his broken bones, so don’t go all Ninja all over him. Okay?” He was holding up both hands in an attempt to placate what he assumed was my simmering rage. “He’s too chickenshit to press charges, but if you show up and start cutting things off the man he might change his mind, so just staaaaay away. Okay?”

Hmph. Through clenched teeth I managed to grind out, “We should make an appointment for her at a veterinary clinic.”

“Uh, I’m not trying to step on toes here or anything, so don’t beat the shit out of
me
, either…”

“Well.” I sniffed. “Not tonight.” Maybe.

“… but I had the same thought so I called the clinics in the area, and one of them had a cancellation and I brought Daw—uh, Olive—right over.”

I was silent for a moment. We had been casually dating for several weeks, but in truth Cadence saw more of him than Adrienne or I. I was fine with that. I still thought it odd that he was dating all three of us. When I did not find it threatening or comforting.

Patrick was very kind. And quite patient, since none of us had agreed to have intercourse with him yet. But there were times I worried he was the type of man attracted to wounded women. Cadence and Adrienne qualified, to be sure.

And now he had a canine damsel in distress, and had rushed to assist her.

Were we … a project to him? Something to be fixed? That was something to ponder later. “That was thoughtful.”