Читать книгу Intimate Enemy - Marilyn Pappano - Страница 8

In less than a day and a half, three people had offered criticism of Russ’s life. He hadn’t asked for advice, hadn’t given a clue that he was open to suggestions, so why the hell couldn’t they keep their opinions to themselves?

And after three years of pretty decent avoidance, why the hell did he have to keep running into Jamie?

“Because God doesn’t like you,” he muttered as he walked into the kitchen.

It was after eight o’clock. The sun had set, darkness had settled in, and he was still on the job. The day had turned into the day from hell—too many appointments, too much work, too little time—and his run-in with Jamie at lunch had only made it worse. He’d walked out of the deli with a pounding headache, and the aspirin tablets he’d taken were eating a hole in his stomach. He should have gotten something to eat before the last dose, but anything he ate right now would just aggravate the burning in his gut.

But this Walton Way job was his last stop, and then he was heading home. A night’s sleep would make everything better—and no matter what else was going on in his life, he always slept like a baby. He was lucky that way.

The work on this remodel was slow going. The house was old, and they kept running into unforeseen problems, like wiring that wasn’t up to code and pipes that had to be replaced. Another few weeks, and he could scratch this one off his list.

Another few weeks, and he wouldn’t have to come back into Jamie’s neighborhood until someone else hired him.

He shouldn’t have spoken to her at the deli. He should have just walked past as if she were a total stranger. She was right: Robbie was grown. He didn’t always make the smartest decisions—his continued friendship with Jamie proved that—but he was old enough to face the consequences.

The next time Russ saw her, he would ignore her. He didn’t want anything to do with her; she didn’t want anything to do with him. Simple solution. They would act like strangers, and before long they would really be strangers.

He finished his walk-through of the house, then let himself out the front door, yawning as he locked the deadbolt. The homeowners were staying with the husband’s parents during the remodel, and the wife called every other day wanting to know when she could move home again. Russ, his secretary, his subs and everyone on his crew who’d had to deal with the woman would be as happy when that day came as she would be.

He was walking to his truck in the driveway when a familiar voice across the street caught his attention. “Mischa? Mi-i-i-scha.”

The call was distant, coming from the back of Jamie’s house. A sissy name for a pet. Probably a sissy cat.

Jamie’s outside lights came on, then the front door opened. He refused to let his gaze linger; the instant she stepped outside, he focused narrowly on unlocking his pickup, on opening the door and tossing the clipboard he carried into the passenger seat. He was about to slide behind the wheel when her voice sounded again, this time only slightly calmer than a scream.

“Mischa! Oh my God!”

He couldn’t stop himself from looking, even if it was just a damn cat. The lights on either side of her door shone down on a large form, and Jamie, damn near prostrate over it. Had she fallen? Was she hurt?

None of his business. If she had a problem, let her call someone for help. She had friends besides Robbie—freaky Lys Paxton, for starters—and the police were duty bound to come if she called. His head hurt. His stomach hurt. He’d dealt with enough for one day. He was going home.

But when he moved, it wasn’t to step up into the truck. Swearing with every step, he stalked down the driveway, across the deserted street and into her yard. As he drew closer, he could see that the form was a dog, huge, black and tan, lying motionless on the top step. Shivers rippled through Jamie, and her words were frantic.

“It’s okay, Mischa, you’re okay, baby. Wake up. Come on now, open your eyes. You can’t be…Mischa, you can’t…”

Tears. Jamie Munroe was crying. He wouldn’t have thought her capable of it.

He took the steps two at a time and crouched beside the dog. It could have been asleep, except no one could sleep through the shaking Jamie was giving it. “What happened?”

She looked up, startled, and swiped at her tears with one hand. “I don’t know. I let her out a few minutes ago, like I do every night, and she didn’t come back.”

The dog was breathing, slow and easy. Running his hands over its body, at least on the side he had access to, didn’t reveal any signs of obvious injury, but when he lifted its head, something crackled beneath his fingers. Heavyweight paper, index card-size, tied to the dog’s collar with a ribbon.

He worked it out from beneath the dog, read the message neatly printed on it, then lifted his gaze to Jamie. “What the hell…?”

I can get to you as easily as I got to Mischa.

She stared at the words as if they made no sense, then a great shudder jerked her gaze back to the dog. “Oh my God, Mischa…”

Russ ripped off the note and slid it into his hip pocket. “Get your car keys. We’ve got to get him to the vet.”

She scrambled to her feet and disappeared into the house, returning seconds later with her keys and purse. While she unlocked the car and opened the rear door, he heaved ninety pounds of limp animal into his arms, gritting his teeth with the effort. Getting the dog into the backseat of the rental wasn’t any easier. It took both of them, supporting, tugging and pushing, and he was out of breath by the time they were done.

He held out his hand, and she slapped the keys into his palm, then wiggled into the back with the dog. He adjusted the seat for his legs, backed out of the long drive and headed out of the neighborhood. Sliding his cell phone from the clip on his belt, he offered it to her. “Call Yancy and tell him we’re on our way. His number’s in the phone book.”

What the hell was he doing getting involved with this? He didn’t like animals. Didn’t like Jamie. Didn’t care what had happened to the dog or who had left that note on its collar or whether Jamie was in danger. With Robbie out of the state for the time being, he didn’t give a damn about anything.

But there was no way she could move the dog on her own, and his mother, Rick, Mitch—all of them would have kicked his ass if he’d gone on home and left her there to deal with it. A Calloway—at least, their particular branch of the family—didn’t walk away from someone in need, regardless of his opinion of her.

Yancy Yates’s vet clinic was on the east side of town, a large cinder block building dating back to the 1920s. He was married to Russ’s aunt Diane and lived in the rambling farmhouse next door.

Yancy had already unlocked the door and turned on the lights. Looking surprised to see Russ, he helped him unload the dog and place it on a stretcher, then together they carried it into the back room of the clinic. Yancy checked the dog’s breathing, listened to its heart and examined it thoroughly, keeping up a quiet murmur to Mischa, still out, and to himself.

“I’ll draw some blood and send it to the lab,” he said at last, “but my best guess is that she’s been drugged.”

Jamie’s color was ashen under the florescent lights, and her voice was little more than a whisper. “With what?”

“I’ll have to see the tox screen to know for sure. It could be something as simple as a sleeping pill or a sedative.” Yancy looked from her to Russ and back again. “Why would anyone want to drug Mischa? I thought Russ here was your only enemy in town, and he would never harm an animal.”

Russ’s face warmed. Jeez, did everyone in Copper Lake know how much he resented Jamie? It wasn’t as if he advertised the fact. Until lately, he hardly ever saw her, and other than a few outbursts three years ago, he never talked about her with anyone outside of a small group of friends and relatives.

Who apparently talked to everyone else.

Jamie didn’t seem to notice the comment about him. “I don’t know,” she murmured, clearly not intending to mention the note. When she bent to stroke the dog’s fur, Mischa breathed heavily, then rested her big head against Jamie’s neck, as if seeking familiar comfort.

“Have you called the police?” Yancy asked.

“I didn’t think about it.”

“You should. Anyone who would drug someone’s pet is obviously up to no good.” Yancy rubbed one weathered hand over the dog’s spine. “All we can do now is watch her. Odds are she’ll get a good night’s sleep, nothing else. I’ll keep her here, and we’ll have the results of the tox screen by noon tomorrow. Russ, you want to help me put her in that kennel over there?”

After they settled Mischa in the kennel, Jamie knelt beside it, stroking the dog, whispering to her. She didn’t look so much like Satan at that moment.

Finally, she got to her feet. “Thanks, Dr. Yates. You’ll call me?”

“I’ve got your numbers. I’ll keep you updated.”

They left Yancy there, making notes on a chart, and walked outside into the muggy night. Still looking pale, Jamie waited in silence for him to unlock the car doors, but instead he faced her over the roof of the car.

“What the hell is going on?”

In the past thirty minutes, Jamie had gone from pleasantly tired to exhausted. Her jaw hurt, her nerves were on edge, and the last thing she wanted to do was talk. She just wanted to curl up someplace safe. But where was safe? Not her house. Not after what had happened to Mischa right outside her door.

What kind of lowlife would threaten her dog? Mischa wouldn’t hurt a fly, though she might chase it around the room a few times. She wasn’t a guard dog, would never attack. If someone broke into the house, she would hide under the bed, eyes closed and whimpering. She loved everyone.

But apparently not everyone loved her.

The bulk of the lights went off inside the clinic, throwing them into shadow. She gestured impatiently toward the car door and Russ unlocked it. She slid into the seat and fastened the seat belt, but she didn’t kid herself that she’d escaped his questions. She couldn’t be that lucky.

The first thing she smelled inside the car was the earthy fragrance Mischa always wore when she’d been outside. The instant Russ slid into the driver’s seat, it was replaced by his scents—sweat, hard work, a faint hint of cologne, him. Familiar smells. Comforting.

Even though Russ Calloway was the last person on earth she could take comfort from.

Through the plate-glass window, she caught a glimpse of Dr. Yates, still in the back room, no doubt checking on the other animals spending the night in his care. He was a good vet. Mischa would be safe with him.

Russ started the engine, powerful enough, but it had nothing on his own growl. “Well?”

“Someone wanted me to know that Mischa’s vulnerable.”

“No, someone wanted you to know that you’re vulnerable. Someone who knows where you live, who knows your dog’s name. Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I don’t! If I did, I’d have his ass hauled off to jail for messing with Mischa.” Threatening her was one thing. Threatening her dog…That was cold.

“What else has happened?”

She stared out the side window, hardly noticing the buildings they passed. “He’s sent me flowers. Candy. A note.”