He sat for a few seconds, sorting through the tasks he needed to do tomorrow, then reached for his coffee cup, only to find it empty. When he got up to refill it, he found the pot empty, as well. He couldn’t
complain. John didn’t drink coffee, and LaQueen didn’t drink it after three o’clock, which meant he was probably the one who’d emptied the pot.
He dumped the used filter and coffee grounds into the trash, put in a new filter and measured out coffee, then took the carafe to the sink to get water. He was filling it when he heard the front door open.
“Be right with you,” he said, as he poured the water into the coffeemaker, then slid the carafe in place and pushed the start button.
He turned around, then froze.
There was a gun pointed straight at him, and the man holding it was unkempt and dirty, fidgeting from one foot to the other. From what Wilson could see, his pupils were blown, and he was nursing a runny nose. Wilson had seen too many junkies not to recognize the symptoms.
He also recognized the man with the gun. He’d filed charges against him only a few weeks ago.
Jimmy Franks.
Suddenly all the vandalism and harassment began to make sense. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Wilson asked. Jimmy giggled and did a little sidestep. “I think I’m gonna shoot your ass.”
“You’re already in enough trouble, Franks. Just put that gun down, walk out the door and we’ll call it quits.”
“You’re not in charge here!” Jimmy shouted. “I’m in charge! You messed me up, man! You had my ass thrown in jail for nothing! Nothing, man!”
“You manhandled my secretary, then threatened her, and we both know it.”
Jimmy snorted. “Hell, that woman ain’t no secretary. She’s just a nig—”
“Shut your mouth!” Wilson snapped, unwilling to let the man even utter the word.
Jimmy flinched, then cursed. “You don’t tell me what to do! I’m the man. I’m the one with the gun. You don’t tell me nothin’!” he yelled.
Wilson’s hand was still on the counter, his fingers only inches away from the rapidly filling coffeepot. It was obvious that this conversation was only going to go downhill, so he made his move. He grabbed the half-filled pot of hot coffee and flung it toward Jimmy, then made a dive for his desk, where he kept his gun.
Jimmy saw it coming but was too high to figure out what to do first. He cursed, then moved. It was a mistake. He should have moved first, then cursed, because the contents of the pot, as well as the pot itself, hit him square in the chest. The scalding liquid soaked into his coat and splashed up into his face. In a rage, he began firing.
Wilson was already in the air when the bullets began flying. His fingers
were on the drawer when the first bullet hit his chest, spinning him around and dropping him like a rock. Blood began flowing out of the open wound and pooling beneath his back as another shot hit him in the leg. After that, everything went black.
Jimmy wiped his sleeve across his burning cheeks and then laughed.
“I got you, you son of a bitch, just like I promised I would. Payback, man! You had it coming…ain’t payback a bitch?”
Then he bolted out of the office and into the street, still carrying the gun. The wind was rising, the sky dark with scurrying clouds. He felt wild —as wild as the oncoming storm.
A passerby had heard the shots and was already hurrying toward the building when he saw a man come running out. He ducked into an alley as Jimmy turned and ran in the other direction. As soon as Jimmy was gone, the passerby ran into the office, found Wilson on the floor and dialed 911.
It was after six. Cat kept telling herself not to worry. Even though Wilson was late, she was sure something had come up to delay him. She knew the business. She was well aware of how crazy it could be. She’d occupied her time by crocheting another four rows onto her growing afghan. Another thirty minutes went by, and then there was a knock on her door.
“Finally,” she said, setting the crocheting aside and running for the door.
The warmth in her heart had already spread to a smile. She yanked the door open, then froze.
It was a tall dark-haired man all right, but his hair wasn’t short and spiky, it was long and straight, and hung well below his shoulders. And he didn’t have a scar on his cheek or an earring in his ear, just a bear-claw necklace around his neck. She frowned.
“What…?”
“You Catherine Dupree?”
Her frown deepened. Any time someone knew her and she didn’t know them, she was suspicious.
“Yes.”
“My name is John Tiger. I—”
Cat’s eyes widened. “You work for Wilson.” Cat looked beyond John to the empty hallway beyond. “Where is he?”
John took a deep breath. This was hell, and it wasn’t going to get better any time soon.
“Wilson…uh, Wilson was—”
Cat’s heart dropped. Her gut was already tying itself into knots when she grabbed his wrist. “What happened to him?”
John Tiger shuddered. The look in her eyes had gone from calm to something he would expect to see in a wild animal.
“He was shot. He—”
She felt the room spinning around her. Shot? God, no! No! Not Wilson! Her grip tightened on his wrist. She was afraid to ask, but she had to know.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes, he’s at Dallas Memorial. His secretary, LaQueen Baldwin, told me to come tell you and see if you need a ride to the—”
“He’s alive. He’s alive. Oh, thank you, God.” The knot in her stomach eased just a little as she began to take stock of what had to be done.
“No. I don’t need help. I’ll take myself,” Cat said, and grabbed her coat, shoulder bag and car keys from the hall table, and pushed past him on her way out the door.
John felt her intensity in every fiber of his being. He knew the news he’d brought was devastating. He also knew from the way she’d reacted that she had no business driving herself. He shut the door to her apartment, then ran down the hall to catch her. He slid into the elevator with her just as the doors were shutting.
“Miss Dupree, you’re upset, and I want you to let me drive you to the hospital. The last thing Wilson would want is for you to be injured again.”
Cat punched the button for the lobby, then fixed John with a fiery glare.
“Upset? Hell, yes, I’m upset. That doesn’t mean I’ve lost my damned mind. I appreciate your concern, but I will drive myself.”
“Still, I—”
“Do they know who did it?” Cat asked.
John sighed. “Yes, we know who did it. It was caught on the security camera in the office.”
“Did they catch him?”
“No, but there’s a BOLO out for him now. I’m sure—”
Cat poked a finger in John Tiger’s chest. “Here’s what you can be sure of. You tell the Dallas police department that they’d better find that bastard soon, or I’ll do it for them, and when I find him, I’ll bring him back in pieces.”
The elevator doors opened, and she strode away without looking back.
John was so stunned by the rage in her voice that he forgot to get out of the elevator. The doors were already closing when he came to himself, thrust his arm into the opening and pushed through.
All the way to the car, he kept thinking of Catherine Dupree. He was
beginning to understand Wilson’s fascination with the woman. John had expected her to be horrified by his news, maybe even hysterical. He would have expected her to cry. He hadn’t expected the female warrior who had come to life right in front of him.
By the time he got to the parking lot, she was already gone.
Cat was beyond scared. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when she’d finally let herself believe there was such a thing as being happy. She drove through traffic, flying through yellow lights and taking corners on two wheels. Even though the rational part of her mind was telling her this wasn’t her fault, she couldn’t help but think that she’d somehow jinxed him, too.
Everybody she loved always died. She should have known better. She should have been thinking of someone besides herself.
He’d been fine until she’d come along. She’d tried to tell him right off that she wasn’t into love, but he wouldn’t listen. He knew her history. She didn’t know what she’d done in a former life that was so awful that she had to atone for it now, but for anyone who was listening, she was heartily sorry.
She braked for a red light, and for the first time allowed herself tears. Her vision blurred, and there was an ache in her chest that kept getting bigger and bigger. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and she started to shake.
“God…please, please…don’t let him die.”
A horn sounded behind her. She looked up, saw that the light had turned green and took off through the intersection. A short while later she was running through the parking lot and into the hospital.
LaQueen had never met Catherine Dupree, although she had her own opinions about her. Any woman who had caused as much grief to Wilson as she had couldn’t be all that. She had a mental image of some pretty, pushy female who didn’t know what was good for her.
But all that changed when Cat appeared in the surgery waiting room. She took one look around at the people who were waiting, zeroed in on LaQueen and headed straight for her.
LaQueen looked up, saw the tall, leggy woman trending to skinny, and stiffened. Could this be her? The woman had long black hair, an angular face and a gaze so intense LaQueen felt instantly branded. The closer she came, the more details LaQueen could see. There were fresh scars on her face, as well as the fading remains of bruises. But it was the thick, pink, ropy scar on her throat that shot her first assessment. She didn’t know what had happened to this woman, but she wasn’t a pretty piece of fluff. This woman had been through fire and lived to tell. LaQueen had some tough times in her past, as well, and recognized a kindred spirit.
She took a deep breath, then stood up.
Cat stopped in front of her, unaware that her eyes were swimming in tears or that her chin was trembling.
“Are you LaQueen?” she asked.
LaQueen nodded. “And you are Catherine.” “Where is he?” Cat asked.
“In surgery. Sit down before you fall down,” LaQueen said, and pulled Cat down onto the sofa beside her.
Cat sat, wadded her hands into fists and jammed them into her lap. “How long has he been in?” Cat asked.
“About two hours.”
“Jesus,” Cat whispered, and then leaned back and closed her eyes.
“I already prayed to Him,” LaQueen said. “But it won’t hurt to add yours to the pot.”
Cat shuddered, then looked at LaQueen. “He can’t die.”
LaQueen sighed. She knew better. People died all the time, whether you liked it or not. “He’s in God’s hands,” she said.
Cat shook her head. “No. You don’t understand,” she whispered. “He can’t die. He can’t…die.”
After that, there was little to be said. A few minutes later, John Tiger entered the waiting room. Cat didn’t acknowledge his presence. She couldn’t. He was the one who’d brought the bad news. Instead, she watched the clock. Another hour passed before a doctor came in.
“Is the McKay family here?” he asked.
Cat stood up. LaQueen and John followed. “His parents are on their way from Austin,” LaQueen said. “Until they get here, we’re it.”
The doctor nodded to them, then began explaining what procedures had been done.
“The surgery went well, although he lost a lot of blood. We had to transfuse him twice, but the bleeding finally stopped. Both bullets were through and throughs, which was good. They missed the bones. He’ll be in recovery for about another hour, then we’ll move him to his room. I suggest you all go home and get some rest. For a while, we’ll keep him heavily sedated to keep him immobile, so you won’t be able to talk to him.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Cat asked.
The doctor hesitated, then nodded. “Barring any complications, I would expect him to have a full recovery.”
Cat’s eyes welled. Tears spilled over, then ran down her cheeks. She took a deep breath, then walked out of the room without looking back. She got all the way to the bathroom before she came undone. At that point, she started to sob.
LaQueen walked in right behind her, took one look at Cat and knew she’d been right to follow. She grabbed Catherine by the shoulders, turned her around, then pulled her into her arms.
“Go ahead and cry, honey girl. Cry it all out, ’cause when you see Wilson, you’ll be needing to put a smile on your face for him.”
Cat cried until she was sick to her stomach and her head was throbbing to the point of detonation. Then she pulled out of LaQueen’s arms and headed for the sink. She sloshed her face with cold water over and over until the swelling in her eyes was beginning to subside.
When she looked up in the mirror, she saw LaQueen standing behind her, watching.
Cat reached for a paper towel and swiped it over her face, then tossed it in the trash.
“Thank you,” she said, and started out the door. “Where you going, girl?”
“To wait. I can’t leave. There’s something I need to tell Wilson.” “You can tell him tomorrow,” LaQueen said.