Читать книгу Nine Lives - Sharon Sala - Страница 8

By the time Cat got to the precinct to turn Charity in, she felt feverish. She started getting shaky and weak down in booking. A drunk had thrown up in a waste basket by the door, and two homeless men were trying to report the theft of their shopping cart from outside the alley near a Chinese restaurant. Along with the heat being pumped through the overhead vents, the mingled odors were appalling. She could feel her stomach starting to roll.

The desk sergeant was asking her something about Charity Kingman. She could see his mouth moving, but his words were all running together. When she looked away, the wall behind the desk started to melt. That was when she knew something was wrong.

“I don’t feel so good,” Cat muttered, and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat. “If you have any more questions, call Art’s Bail Bonds. She’s one of his.”

She walked away without looking back, telling herself that she would feel better once she got some fresh air. But it didn’t work. The cold blast of air just made her shiver.

She started across the parking lot toward her car, thinking that if she just got inside, she would be okay. But the more she walked, the farther it appeared to be. There was a part of her that knew she shouldn’t drive, but she wanted to go home—needed to go home. There might be word about Mimi. There had to be word. You couldn’t just “lose” a friend like you lost a wallet. She had to be somewhere.

Wilson’s day had been just as productive as Cat’s. He had turned in a bail jumper over an hour ago and was walking through the parking lot to his truck when Joe Flannery hailed him.

“Hey, Wilson. Heard anything more from your girlfriend?”

Wilson frowned. “She’s not my girlfriend, and you know it. At the moment, she’s as pissed off at me as she is at you.”

“She didn’t turn in a missing person’s report,” Joe said.

“Are you waiting for me to say, ‘I told you so’? Fine, I told you so,” Wilson said.

“Yeah, I figure her friend showed up and she’s too embarrassed to let us know.”

Wilson thought about it a minute, then shook his head.

“That doesn’t sound like something she would do. She appears pretty forthright to me.”

Joe grinned.

“She’s pretty, all right.”

But Wilson couldn’t play easy about what he felt for her. He didn’t even know why he kept thinking about her, other than he had that damned charm. Maybe when he got rid of it he would be rid of her, too.

“She’s tough as hell,” Joe said. “’Course, she had to be, to survive what she did.”

“What do you mean?” Wilson asked.

“You saw that scar on her neck?”

Wilson nodded.

“The man who killed her dad, some tattooed guy, also cut her throat. She was just a kid, but his death put her in the system. Eventually she aged out. Word is, she’s in this business because she’s always looking for the killer.”

Wilson felt a little sick to his stomach, imagining what a trauma like that would do to a child.

“Jesus…they never caught him?” he asked

“No.”

“What about her mother?”

“She and Cat were in a car wreck when Cat was six. The mother died. Cat didn’t.”

It was suddenly becoming clearer to Wilson why Cat Dupree kept an impenetrable wall between her and the world. It was too damned painful when she didn’t.

“So…you going home for Christmas?” Joe asked.

“Probably,” Wilson said. “I always do.”

“Tell your folks I said hello.”

“Yeah, sure,” Wilson said, and then Joe’s cell phone rang, and they parted company.

Wilson was on his way to his truck when he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired woman staggering through the parking lot. Almost immediately, he recognized Cat, and when he saw her stumble, he began to run.

Cat was going to fall, and she knew it. She could see the dark wet surface of the parking lot coming at her and tried to brace herself, but her reactions were too slow.

Then, just as suddenly as she was falling, the motion stopped. There were hands on her arms, then around her torso. She could hear a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t focus enough to see who it was.

Wilson was nervous. Cat was almost unconscious. That alone was unsettling. When he turned her in his arms, he realized she was hot—far too hot for the winter chill in the air.

“Miss Dupree… Cat! It’s Wilson McKay.”

Cat moaned and tried to hold on to him, but her fingers seemed disconnected from the rest of her body, and she couldn’t make them grip.

“I need to go home,” she muttered.

“You’re sick. You need to see a doctor,” he said, and started to pick her up.

She took a swing at him.

“No doctor.”

As sick as she was, the message came loud and clear. He braced her to keep her from falling, then picked her up in his arms.

“Don’t feel good,” she mumbled, and kept pushing him away.

At that moment a police cruiser drove into the parking lot. The headlights swept over them where they stood. Wilson caught a brief glance of her pale face and the scar at her throat, thought about what Joe had told him and weakened.

“Damn it, Catherine…quit fighting me and I will take you home.”

Her lips twisted as her hands went to her throat.

“Daddy calls me Catherine.”

The admission was telling in its simplicity. God only knew what her nightmares were like. As much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to feel sorry for her.

Her head fell forward. He could smell the lemon scent of the shampoo she used. It was no fuss, just like her, but from the feel of her in his arms, she was too damned thin.

“Home… I want to go home.”

He stood her up against her SUV, then took her car keys out of her hand, opened the door and slid her into the passenger seat, carefully buckling her in. He could always take a cab back to the precinct to pick up his car. This way, her vehicle would be at her home when she was well enough to drive.

“Hey, McKay, need some help?” someone yelled.

He turned around. The man who’d called out was a detective going off duty.

“I got it,” he yelled back, then shut the door and ran around to the driver’s side.

“What’s wrong with her?” the detective asked, as he stopped on his way to his own car.

“Not sure, but she’s got a heck of a fever. She’s too sick to drive.”

“Want me to follow you and bring you back for your car?”

Wilson thought about it, then shook his head.

“No, but thanks. I might need to take her to an E.R., and if I do, I’ll use her car.”

“Yeah, okay. See you around,” he said, and walked on.

Wilson jumped into the car and started it up, quickly turning on the heater and then re-checking her seatbelt. Once he was satisfied that she was as safe as he could make her, he drove out of the parking lot with a mental map of the route to her apartment in his head.

Twenty minutes later and with only one missed turn, he pulled into the parking lot of her housing complex, found the building her apartment was in and parked.

Before he got out, he checked her key ring, making sure that her front door key was on it. He saw one that looked right, then slipped the keys into his coat pocket and opened the door. The cold air cut straight to the bone. He buttoned the top button of his coat as he circled the SUV.

Cat roused up as he lifted her from the seat. A few feet from the apartment building, she knew she was going to be sick.

“Throw up,” she muttered.

She didn’t have to say it twice. He set her down on her feet and then braced her just as the nausea struck. By the time she was through, she was even weaker than before.

“Sorry.”

Wilson was staggering, trying not to let her fall.

“It’s okay. Just be still. I’m trying to help you.”

Even though she was sick out of her mind, Cat wasn’t the kind to give up or give in. Her legs wouldn’t work, but she kept trying to walk and ended up stepping all over Wilson’s feet.

A couple who happened to be Cat’s neighbors were coming into the building as Wilson was struggling with her and the door. When they saw she was ill, they quickly offered to help. The man held the door for Wilson as the woman ran ahead to get an elevator. They rode up to the sixth floor together, chattering rapidly about their concern for their neighbor while admitting that they hardly knew her.

The man took the key from Wilson’s pocket and opened Cat’s door. Wilson walked in with Cat braced against him, still weaving and moaning. The man leaned in, shook his head at Cat’s condition, then laid the key on the hall table and left.

Wilson sighed with relief. They were home. Now all he had to do was get her into bed. He picked her up, eyed the layout of the rooms, then headed for the hallway to the left. The first door he came to was closed, but the second one on the right was ajar. He toed it open, grunting with satisfaction when he saw a bed.

Cat began to rouse as he laid her down, and when she recognized her surroundings, began unzipping her pants, clearly forgetting she wasn’t alone.

Wilson didn’t know whether to help her or get the hell out of the room before she got naked, but the decision was taken out of his hands when she tried to get up, staggered and almost fell.

“Here,” he said, and guided her back to the bed. “Sit down and let me help.”

She didn’t bother to argue when her boots came off, and when he pulled her sweater off over her head, she lifted her arms like a baby.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Am I going to die?”

He started to smile, but she’d already faced that question twice in her life and survived, so he supposed, from her standpoint, it was a fair question.

“You’re not going to die. You’re just sick, but I don’t think it’s food poisoning, because you have a hell of a fever.”

He opened the closet and took a flannel nightgown off a hook as Cat motioned toward the bathroom.

“Pills in the medicine cabinet.”

“I’ll get them in a minute,” he said, and then pulled the nightgown over her head, letting it fall loosely down to her waist. “Can you get the rest of your clothes off by yourself?”

Cat looked down, confused by the nightgown bunched around her lap.

“What clothes?”

“Never mind,” he said gently. “I’ll help.”

He slid his hands beneath the gown, undid the clasp on her bra and then pulled it off without touching her. As soon as he had it off, he held out the sleeves of the gown.

“Slide your arms inside,” he said.

She did as he asked, then fell backwards onto the bed with a groan. Her voice was so weak Wilson barely heard her whisper.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord…make this go away.”

Wilson felt sorry for her. Being this helpless was probably twice as difficult to accept for a woman as strong and independent as Cat Dupree.

“Scoot up a little,” he said, and then maneuvered Cat’s head onto her pillow. As soon as he had the covers down and her settled in the middle of the bed, he pulled the hem of the nightgown down, then reached up beneath it and pulled off her jeans and panties.

“Hey,” Cat murmured, and took another helpless swing at him when she felt the panties coming off.

“It’s all right. You’re still decent,” Wilson said as he dodged the blow and quickly pulled the covers over her.

She exhaled on a shaky sigh as he tucked her in.

She was trembling and feverish. It worried him that he hadn’t taken her to the hospital. What if she was desperately ill and he was only making it worse?

He didn’t know what to do next, then remembered the pills she’d mentioned. He ran into the bathroom, got a bottle of pain and fever relief tablets and a glass of water, then hurried back. Once she’d downed the pills, he got a wet washcloth, folded it lengthwise and laid it across her forehead.

Cat sighed. “Feels good.”

He breathed a little easier as she closed her eyes, and while he was watching, she fell asleep.

Wilson sat at her bedside until he was confident that her breathing had evened out. When she finally broke into a faint sweat, he knew the fever had broken and the pills were working.

He thought about calling a cab and going home, but he was afraid that when the pills wore off, her fever would come back and she would be in worse shape than before. Sometime after midnight, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure she could cope and began to make himself at home.

He kicked off his shoes in the living room and hung his coat on a tree in the hall. After a quick look into her bedroom to assure himself she was all right, he went to the kitchen and began digging through the refrigerator for something to eat.

To his surprise, there was plenty of food, mostly leftovers, but still intact. Nothing looked moldy or on the verge of turning green, which wasn’t always the case in his own kitchen. He shuffled through the drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed, then dished up some food onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. While he was waiting, he gathered her mail and newspapers, which had accumulated under the slot in the door, and brought them to the kitchen. He tossed everything on the counter, ignoring the fact that several envelopes fell across her answering machine. He did, however, notice the red blinking light, which reminded him to check his own messages. Later, as he was eating, he decided to check his calls.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and listened to the messages, none of which were pressing. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went back to check on her.

She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn’t help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn’t going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her.

It wasn’t until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip.

His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep, she appeared daunting. But this little tattoo was proof that there might be a softer side to Catherine Dupree.

The tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink.

Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that?

Barbed wire? Yes.

A skull and crossbones? Sure.

A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible.

But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.

Still grinning, he straightened the covers and left her alone. Another facet of this woman had been revealed. It was definitely something to consider, which set him to wondering what else she might be concealing.

As she slept, he prowled. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but no one had ever called him a gentleman. He was curious about her and, despite his better judgment, a little intrigued. It wasn’t until he got to her office and saw the boxes stacked against one wall, saw that they were filled with the same things that adorned the walls and the top of her desk, that he got a slow chill.

Every page was of a different man—all criminals with rap sheets—all with varying numbers of tattoos. It was then that he remembered what Flannery had told him—that she and her father had been killed by a tattooed man. The case had long since gone cold, but she, obviously, had not given up the hunt.

Wind was whipping the branches of the lilac bush against Catherine’s window. The sound was familiar, and it barely registered as she turned over and pulled the covers a little closer beneath her chin.

In seventeen days school would be out for Christmas vacation, and she could hardly wait. Daddy had promised to take her to New Mexico to go skiing. It would be their first trip to a skiing resort, but hopefully not their last.

Suddenly the sound of breaking glass filtered through her dreams of hot chocolate, roaring fires at the ski lodge and flying down the slopes so fast that she would outrun the sound of her own laughter.

She opened her eyes, then rolled over and sat up just as a loud thud sounded in the hallway.

“What the—”

It was her daddy’s voice, but it was cut short by the thud. She jumped out of bed and bolted toward the door. What if Daddy had fallen and hurt himself? They couldn’t go skiing if Daddy was hurt.

When she ran out into the hallway, she saw her father crumpled on the floor.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed, and was running toward him when someone came out of the bathroom and grabbed her around the waist.

She started to scream as she fought, kicking and swinging her arms in an effort to get free. Then she heard a rough, ugly voice cursing in her ear and someone telling her to shut up. She answered by kicking backward and knew that she’d hurt the assailant when he suddenly shrieked with pain.

“Bitch!” he screamed.

Catherine saw the glitter of lamplight on metal; then she saw the hand and arm swinging toward her, like an extension of the knife that was going to end her life.

At that moment her father got up from the floor, staggering toward them and cursing the man who held her, begging him to turn her loose.

Suddenly she was falling.

At first she felt no pain, but within seconds of hitting the floor, the coppery scent of blood was in her nose and her throat was on fire. She grabbed at her neck, thinking she’d been burned, only to find her hands covered in blood.

She looked up just as the assailant grabbed her father and began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest.

She tried to scream, but when she inhaled, she choked.

Her father fell lifelessly to the floor as the assailant jumped over him and ran to the front door. Catherine watched him disappear into the night as she waited to die.

Over and over, she struggled to breathe, then finally, blessedly, everything went dark.

Cat sat straight up in bed, choking and coughing and grabbing her throat, certain that her hands would come away covered in blood. Instead, all she felt was the hard ridge of scar, followed by the certainty that, although she was in her bedroom, she was not alone.

She rolled toward the bedside table, pulling a handgun from the drawer as she turned on the lamp.

Wilson had been dozing in a small, overstuffed chair, but the sudden brightness, coupled with the fact that he was now staring down the barrel of a gun, was better than any alarm clock he’d ever owned.

“Don’t shoot,” he said quickly. “It’s me, Wilson McKay.”

Cat was breathing hard and shaking as she leaned back against the headboard and let the gun fall in her lap.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you get in?”

He frowned as he eyed the gun lying in her lap.

“Put that thing away,” he muttered, waiting for her to do as he’d asked. When the gun was back in the drawer, he answered. “You nearly passed out in the parking lot of the police department. Good Samaritan that I am, I brought you home, then held you in the parking lot while you threw up on my shoes.”

“Oh Lord,” Cat muttered, but Wilson seemed bothered that she’d pulled a gun on him and wouldn’t stop talking. If he only knew how badly her head was pounding, he would shut the hell up. Trouble was, she couldn’t focus enough to tell him.

“Your neighbors in 6E helped me get you inside the apartment. I put you to bed and gave you some pills—which have obviously broken your fever, because you’re back to your normal bitchy self.”

Cat fell back against the pillows, staring at him in disbelief.

Wilson’s tirade ended as quickly as it had begun. He took a deep breath then stood, walked to the bed and felt her forehead. It was damp, but cooler. The fever was gone.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Water? Something for pain?”

She shook her head no, then groaned when the motion made her feel as if the bed was spinning.

“Are you going to be sick to your stomach again?”

“No.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Water?” Her voice sounded weak.

“Not a problem,” he said and took the glass from the table and filled it with cool, fresh water, then carried it back to her bed.

He steadied her as she sipped it, then watched her give in to weakness as she fell back onto the pillow with a thump.

“I feel like shit. What happened?”

Wilson eyed the dark circles beneath her eyes and then laid the back of his hand against her forehead just to make sure the fever had abated.

“I’d guess you picked up some kind of flu bug.”

Cat closed her eyes.

“Not a bug. Nothing that small could possibly be causing this much agony.”

Wilson grinned. Her sense of humor was unexpected. He watched her hand go to her throat, then trace the scar on her neck. His grin died as he remembered how abruptly she’d awakened.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked.

He heard her snort. At least it sounded like a snort, but he’d never heard a woman really snort before. It was somewhat surprising, as was most everything else about Catherine Dupree.

“Are there any other kinds?” she asked.

He frowned.

She scrubbed her hands across her face in an effort to wipe away the memory. When she lowered her hands, he realized she was staring straight at him.

“Sorry about the gun. Sometimes my dreams get mixed up with reality.”

“Remind me never to sleep with you,” he said, and when her mouth dropped open, he realized what he’d said. “Well…that’s not exactly what I meant. I just meant that I need to be the one sleeping on this side of the bed, so that when you go for the gun, you have to crawl over me to do it.”

Cat’s cheeks burned.

“Not in this lifetime,” she muttered.

He grinned again, then winked.

“I think you’re well enough to be left on your own now.” He stood up, then dug in his pants pocket and pulled out the little silver charm. “Hold out your hand,”

Cat did so, palm upward. When she saw the glint of silver as he dropped the charm into her hand, her vision blurred.