Читать книгу Always a Hero - Justine Davis - Страница 9

The battles, for today at least, were over.

Wyatt sat wearily in the leather chair beside the now dark reading lamp. After Jordan had gone to bed he’d made a circuit of the house, then the big yard, inspecting every step of the way, looking for any sign those “old acquaintances” had overcome those misdirections and found him anyway.

If it was just him, he’d take his chances, rely on the skills that, while perhaps a bit rusty, he knew were still there, waiting. But now there was Jordan, and that changed everything. He couldn’t even risk assuming his old colleague was right, that the person asking about him was a friendly. Or if he had been, that he still was.

Again relying on that compartmentalization, he had finished the paperwork and reports for work, details he was allowed to complete at home, which in turn allowed him to be here almost all the hours Jordan wasn’t in school. His generous boss had two kids of his own, and although they were adults now, he remembered the teenage years well enough to be sympathetic with Wyatt’s predicament.

And you should be with his, Wyatt told himself, thinking of the suspicious incidents that had been occurring at the plant—evidence of a prowler, footprints, broken shrubbery, movement seen by the young night watchman. But the property surrounding the plant was open forest, with free access, so it was hard to prove it was even connected to the plant.

But he knew it was. He also knew he was lucky just to have the job he had. He’d hesitated to approach John Hunt, not liking the idea of cashing in on the sincere but emotion-driven “I owe you everything. If there’s ever anything I can do,” that the man had delivered years ago. He’d anticipated feeling like a beggar, or worse.

But John had been there like some—too many—of his former bosses never had been. He’d understood immediately, offered him a couple of jobs he knew he didn’t want before they had, reluctantly on John’s part, settled on the inventory control position the man couldn’t believe he really wanted.

“I need to learn how not to think,” he said, wanting to be honest about his reasons even as he realized that was the last thing he probably should have said to a prospective employer.

John Hunt had studied him for a long moment. The man was smart, you didn’t build the kind of thriving enterprise he had built if you were stupid or lazy. Hunt Packing—affectionately known by its employees as “Little HP,” as opposed to the computer giant—was small, but a model of success in a difficult time.

“You can have whatever job you want, Wyatt,” he’d finally said. “If you promise that when the time comes that you want more, you’ll come to me.”

He doubted that time would ever come. He’d had enough, he didn’t want challenge. He wanted numbness. No more life-altering decisions, no more explosive situations.

The thought of things explosive brought back what he’d been trying to avoid thinking about all evening; his abrasive encounter with the high-spirited and strong-willed proprietor of Play On. If stereotypes held a kernel of truth, then she lived up to the hair.

And she’d been more restrained than many would have been under the circumstances. He’d come in firing, and looking back, he wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d thrown him out, or called those cops. Of course, if she was up to something nefarious that drew those kids he was trying to keep Jordan away from, it wasn’t likely she’d be calling the cops for anything.

It occurred to him he should do some homework of his own, something he should have done before he’d charged into Play On. He supposed it was a measure of his progress in the last year that what would have been second nature in the past had only occurred to him so belatedly.

He didn’t want to move, had been seriously considering trying to sleep right here in this chair. But he also knew he didn’t dare risk Jordan finding out he was checking up on his girl idol, so he’d better do it now.

He got up wearily and walked to the desk in the den. He hadn’t powered the computer down after he’d finished his work, so a touch on the mouse brought it back to life.

He began to build the picture.

She was a couple of months shy of thirty. She’d seemed younger to him, but everyone did lately. Born in the heartland, although her parents, solid, level-headed folks, had moved to the West Coast early on in her life. Ordinary childhood, it seemed. She’d been listed as a flower girl in two family weddings before she was five. Then nothing until some speculation in middle school, after a district tournament in which she had apparently smoked the competition, that she might have a future playing tennis. That surprised him; how did you go from potential tennis player to a rock band?

He found the answer in a quote from her, upon the release of Relative Fusion’s first CD. “Tennis didn’t make my blood sing,” she’d said. “Music does.”

The history of the band was easy enough to trace; there were those who still mourned the end even now, years later. They were praised for deep songwriting, the powerful voice of lead singer Christopher “Kit” Hudson, and the innovative arrangements and playing credited to Kai Reynolds. Some canny internet promotion, also credited to Reynolds, plus rabidly loyal fans who adored their “Kit and Kai”—a bit cute, he thought—had brought them to the attention of a small, independent label. Their first CD release had done well enough to encourage a bigger sales campaign on the second.

“Kai’s the brains,” one label representative was quoted as saying. “She’s got a knack for the business. If she ever quits performing, we’d hire her in a minute.”

So perhaps it wasn’t such a reach that she’d ended up running a small-town music store, that she’d gone from winding up venues full of appreciative fans to selling instruments to the local high school band program.

From electric guitars to tubas, he thought wryly.

But she hadn’t, by all accounts, wanted to quit performing. It had been taken out of her hands. One writer, on a popular blog chronicling the music scene in the Northwest, had told the story in bleak detail; the death of lead singer Kit Hudson, and the resulting departure of lead guitarist Kai Reynolds, had spelled the end for the inventive, talented and rising band.

“The fiery couple were the nucleus of Relative Fusion,” the man wrote. “Onstage and off. When Hudson died tragically of an accidental overdose at twenty-six, it took the heart, and the music, out of Reynolds, and she quit the band shortly thereafter. Without that nucleus the rest of the band disintegrated quickly, going their separate ways.”

… took the heart, and the music, out of Reynolds.

It only took a couple of minutes to find what apparently was the only public statement she’d ever made on her lover’s death.

“Kit’s death is the biggest waste I’m ever likely to see in my life. I loved him, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t stop. I can’t be a part of a world that will remind me every day that he was just the latest in a long line that will continue endlessly.”

He read the words again, and then a third time. Including the reference at the bottom of the article that as Hudson’s executor, she had funneled his entire take from the music into funding a rehab clinic in his hometown.

He could almost feel his view of her shift. And he suddenly doubted she was either doing, enabling or selling drugs in the back of her store.

The blogger may have been right, death may have taken the heart out of her, but she had also apparently seen it for what it was, another in a long line of deaths chalked up to not just the drugs but their prevalence in her world.

So she’d walked away.

She’d left behind a career she probably loved, doing what kids all over the world dreamed of doing, and having achieved some amount of success at it. She probably could have stayed, played with another band, but she’d left before it swallowed her up, too.

And he found himself admiring her for having the wisdom and courage to walk away from a soul-eating existence.

And to do it a lot sooner than he had.

Kai knew who it was the moment she heard the back door open. Only one person came in that way when there was still parking out front. She wasn’t sure why, or why it faintly annoyed her.

“Hello, Max.”

“Hey, sweet thing.”

She tried not to wince at the overdone effort at charm. Max was barely into his twenties, fairly good-looking with thick, medium-brown hair, flashing dark eyes and a killer grin, but he walked and talked with a smug swagger she instinctively disliked. She’d seen it before, and in her experience there was rarely anything of substance beneath all the bravado.

But at least he was alone, this time. When he came in with his two followers, he was a different guy, the bravado taking on an ugly edge. Part of maintaining his leadership in his small posse, she supposed. But whatever it was, she didn’t like it, and she was wary whenever the three of them came in together.

And he was a customer, a regular one. Not for instruments; he spent his time in either the sound system corner, or the small CD section in the opposite corner of the store. The big box store in the next town drew people for the big sellers, so she focused on the stuff they didn’t, the smaller, local groups, Americana, the indies, alternative and the more eclectic, off-the-beaten-path stuff.

Things it was hard to find even to download, not in any coherent manner. It didn’t make a huge profit, but most quarters she broke even on it. And since he was a not-insignificant contributor to that, she kept wearing her best service-oriented smile.

But today he wasn’t looking at CDs; instead he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the counter.

“Remember that sound system we were talking about?”

“I think we were drooling more than talking, but yes,” she said, her smile more genuine as she remembered Max’s very real enthusiasm for the very expensive equipment.

Max laughed, and he seemed to drop the swagger. “I want it,” he said.

“Don’t we all. You could blast music all the way to Seattle.”

“No, I mean I want to order them.”

She blinked. “The price hasn’t changed in two weeks, Max.”

“I know. But my … resources have.”

“You get a nine-to-five?” she asked wryly.

“Shit, no,” Max exclaimed with a grin. “I’m a freelancer, you know that. The everyday grind, that’s for drones, you know? Worker bees.”

Like your parents, she thought; the Middletons were a hardworking pair, but they were anything but wealthy. And Max still lived with them, Kai suspected because he had them charmed—or buffaloed—into continuing to support him, negating the necessity for him to actually do something with his young life.

“Don’t tell me you talked your dad into springing for expensive, high-end speaker gear so you can blow him out of his own home?”

He laughed again, but there was an edge in it this time, as if something she’d said had rubbed his pride the wrong way.

“Nah,” he said. “But he’s giving me the garage. I’m going to convert it into the biggest, baddest entertainment room in this whole loser little town.”

Kai had the thought that if the latter was really true, accomplishing the former wouldn’t take much, but kept it to herself.

“So, you gonna order those bad boys for me?”

“Look, Max,” she said frankly, “I can’t afford to eat the cost of an order that big. You sure you can manage it?”

She’d been afraid he would take offense—funny how those with the least reason got their egos in a pucker the easiest—but instead he reacted as if he’d only been waiting for her to ask. With dramatic flair he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

“Sure, I can. I’ll even pay the whole thing in advance,” he said with a smile that told her she was supposed to be impressed.

“Cash?” she said, surprised.

“I’ve been saving up. Doing some favors for a friend,” he said, with a pious look she couldn’t help doubting. “He’s very grateful.”

He was counting it out as he laid it out on the counter, mostly tens and twenties but the occasional fifty and even a couple of Benjamins.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked, wondering what was wrong with her, why she didn’t just leap at the sale. It would put her well into the black for the month, and lessen the worry about the next month as well. And he could have easily just ordered them online, or gone out of town to one of the big electronic or audio/video stores that would have what he wanted, maybe even in stock. But he’d come here, and she should, she told herself, be more appreciative.

Even if she suspected he had more in mind than just a proprietor-customer relationship.

“There’s more where this came from,” he answered. “There’s always more.” He flashed that smile at her again. “I’m even paying my old man rent, how about that?”

Well, that’s something, Kai thought, and pulled out a form to make the order. She made a call, found out the equipment was available for immediate shipment. When she had all the information, she marked down the amount paid, and signed the receipt.

“Hey, look at that, I finally got your autograph!”

She couldn’t help laughing at that. “I’ll call you when they come in. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of days.”

“And don’t forget the phone number after,” he said, with what she supposed was his best effort at a leer.

Max was always flirting with her, in a clumsy way she found odd and somewhat amusing, a reaction she guessed he wouldn’t be too happy about.

Today’s riff, a Stephen Bruton favorite, sounded again. She looked over, and was relieved to see Jordy coming in. Apparently his father had decided against forbidding the boy to come here.

Or he had, and Jordy was disobeying.

She hoped it wasn’t that. Not only for Jordy’s sake but her own; she so did not want to be in the middle of that mess, with Wyatt Blake coming after her again, the way he had last week. She’d be happy never to see the man again.

But somehow she didn’t think she was going to be that lucky.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

John Hunt looked up and motioned Wyatt into the office.

“Close the door, will you?”

Uh-oh.

Wyatt did as asked, but warily. John was normally the most approachable of bosses, genial and willing to listen, hence the usually open door.

He stopped in front of the man’s desk, shaking his head at the offer of a seat; he hoped he wasn’t going to be there that long. Hoped as well this was just to catch up after the man’s recent business trip. Doubted he was that lucky.

“I meant to tell you this before I left for the East Coast, but I’m afraid it slipped my mind. I’m still not sure if it means anything, but it might to you.”

Truly wary now, Wyatt asked, “What?”

“About a week before I left I got a phone call about you.”

Wyatt went very still. “A phone call?”

“From somebody else who owes you.”

“That’s what they said?”

John nodded. “They thought I might know where you were.”

A week before. And John had been gone two weeks. He could have been already burned three weeks ago. His mind was racing as John studied him.

“I told him I didn’t. Just like you asked.”

“Thank you.”

For all the good it would do. If whoever it was knew enough to call here, then he could find him. John was the only one who knew about his desire for secrecy; they’d decided early on it would make things worse rather than better if they asked everybody at Hunt Packing to keep him secret. Better just to give them nothing to talk about.

But that didn’t help if you had people calling and asking about him directly.

And back then, it had been merely a precaution. Now, this coupled with that emailed warning….

“Wyatt—”

His boss stopped when he shook his head. And let him go.

Wyatt headed back to his cubicle. When he’d gotten tangled up in the mess John’s youngest daughter had gotten herself into, he’d been startled to learn the man’s business was headquartered so close to his old hometown. And been thankful she’d gone off to the big city to get herself in trouble; he’d been nowhere near ready to go home, for any reason.

And now here he was, back again, hiding. Trying to keep his son out of the same kind of mess.

Only now he was wondering if his own less-than-tidy past was going to follow them here.

Wondering if anybody ever got to truly leave their past behind them.