Killing Bliss (27 page)

"I don't wish you any harm, surely by now you know that." He twirled his beer glass, tried to don a sincere expression. A thought came to him, lightning fast. So fast he had no time to think it through. "And I have tried to help you through these past years." He stammered it out, his brain racing ahead. He blessed the God who gave Bliss an inflated ego and a soft brain.

"Help? Are you nuts?" Bliss said. "I've been fuckin' blackmailing you, Grover."

"Yes, I knew you saw it that way, and that was all right. But I never resisted you, did I?" He paused to let that fact, as true as his own fear, take on a new spin. "The truth was, I wanted to help. I always kind of thought I owed it to Belle—you know, for what I'd done and all. The trouble I caused."

Bliss frowned and looked at him as if he were the village idiot on dumb pills. "You get saved or somethin'?"

"No." Grover soldiered on, prayed he wouldn't choke on his own lies. "But I did get too involved. And I did put those kids in your home, and in the end, that's what caused her death. If I hadn't done either of those things, you and your brother's lives might have turned out differently."

"Jesus, Grover, what're you trying to pull? You were looking out for number one—just like everybody else. Like me when I called that vicious bitch you live with, told her about you and Ma."

Grover lowered his head, ignored the sweat building up on his brow. "Back then, yes, I wanted to protect myself, didn't want the disgrace of losing my job, my standing—"

Bliss snorted again, stuffed an onion ring in his mouth.

"But believe it or not, I did feel guilty, and you coming at me for money like you did helped me ease that guilt. Somewhat, anyway." Grover faltered, formed his risky lie, and forced himself to meet Bliss's cynical gaze. "The thing is, I'm dying, Frank. I have a few months at most, so I won't be able to help you much anymore. This"—he shoved an envelope with ten thousand dollars in it across the table—"is the last of it. I've already organized my affairs to take care of Sandra, and as to your calling my employer, telling him about Belle and me, what I did..." He lifted a shoulder. "It doesn't matter now."

Frank's brow furrowed. "You're full of shit."

"I wish I was. I really do, but what I'm full of is... disease." He'd leave what disease to the idiot's imagination.

"Christ." Bliss actually moved back in his seat as if germs were coursing in antlike masses across the wooden tabletop.

"So you see, I'm glad you'll be doing all right—that you've found your, uh, rainbow." Grover folded and refolded his napkin, but didn't look down at it. "Not that I'm surprised, you always were incredibly bright and capable." He choked out the last lie, and took another drink of his beer.

Bliss still looked suspicious, but Wayne finally had his full attention. "Like you noticed my brain power while you were humping mother dearest?" Still cynical, his voice had an edge of wistfulness, as if he were setting out on a flattery-fishing expedition.

Wayne nodded. "Hard to miss, Frank," he said, leaving a silence before adding, "But it is strange, isn't it? How things turn out? After all these years, you'll finally get some justice for what those kids did to you. In a way they owe you—maybe even more than I do."

"Damn straight." He shoved his burger plate aside. "You know, Grover, you're not half bad." He stopped, and his face went into neutral. Grover knew the look; every teenage boy he'd ever dealt with had it down pat. It was a you-can' t-get-to-me look, used like white-out over the emotions, to accent how tough they were. It was usually accompanied by a curled lip. Bliss skipped the curled lip, but he had the blankness nailed, when he said, "You know, back then, when you were doing the dirty with Belle, you were pretty okay with Brett and me. Better than most of her johns."

"Thank you, Frank." Grover, his lie exhausting him, kept his face sober, avoided trudging deeper into Bliss's emotional landscape.

Bliss drank the last of his beer, nodded toward his glass, hesitated, then asked, "How about another? You being on your last legs and all, a man shouldn't deny himself."

Grover's smile was weak—and sincere. "So true." He nodded at Bliss's vest pocket, where sat half his retirement savings. "But you're buying."

Frank laughed. "Sure, Grover, why the hell not?"

"And about your plan, son"—he thought the word
son
a nice touch—"there is one problem you should know about."

Bliss was flagging the server. "Uh-huh," he said distractedly.

"Someone has found the other girl."

His head swung back as though whiplashed. "What are you talking about? Who?"

"A private investigator, by the name of Cade Harding, hired by the grandmother of the missing boy."

"Grandmother?" He frowned. "Shit, I forgot about her. Susan something. She came nosing around with questions a couple of times. Way back." He stopped.

"She's still looking after all this time? Hiring PIs? Must have more money than brains." His face was flat, thoughtful.

"She never stopped looking."

"Waste of time and cash. Damn little screamer. She'll never find him now." He looked away.

Wayne swallowed his repugnance at Bliss's casual disregard for the life of an innocent child.

He should die. He deserves to die.

His hands stopped shaking, and his heart found a steady rhythm for the first time since he'd sat down with Bliss. He felt right suddenly... convinced the world would be a better place without Bliss in it. "Maybe not, but Harding has turned up one of the girls, and based on what you've told me, it has to be Addilene Wartenski—"

"She was a kid. Doesn't know nothing."

"Maybe not, but if she leads him to Gus before you get to him..." He shrugged and let the suggestion carry its own weight. "It could cause you some trouble."

"Shit."

Grover left him to stew in silence before adding, "If you like, we could keep in touch for the next while. If you keep me informed of your whereabouts, I'll keep you informed of Harding's. That way, you'll have no unwelcome surprises."

He was immediately suspicious again. "And for that you'll want what? Half?"

"This isn't about money." Wayne shook his head, sadly he hoped. "I won't live long enough to spend it."

"What then? Everybody wants something."

"I just want what you want, Frank," he said, then to allay his suspicions, added, "And the promise you'll leave my wife in peace after I'm gone."

"Ah, the little woman again." He stuck out his hand, looked relieved that Grover had asked for something in return. "Sure, Grover, why the hell not? Besides, leavin' that bitch of yours alone would be about the easiest thing I ever had to do."

* * *

After a serious round of pacing, cursing, and flat out avoidance, Cade picked up the phone. He was lucky; the person he wanted to answer did.

"Brenton, this is Cade. We've got a problem, and I think backup is in order. I assume you carry?" Cade was licensed, but he'd gotten rid of his artillery years before. By now, he'd probably have trouble nailing a soda pop can from a foot away. But he wasn't going into this drama unprepared. Addy had no idea what wheels she'd set in motion, what to expect. She'd admitted as much.

She wanted him in; he was in—his way. It was for damn sure the cast of characters he'd be dealing with would be armed to their back molars.

"Not as a matter of course," Stan said, in his easy way. "Generally keep it in mothballs."

"Well, get it out of mothballs and bring it here. Do the traveling salesman routine and check in. I'll watch for you. When you get here, I'll fill in the details. But for God's sake, leave Susan behind." One more person to look out for might prove one too many. If he could work things out with Addy, there was a chance of avoiding bloodshed—and finding Josh—but if he showed his hand too soon, she'd warn the others, then bolt herself. He'd bet on that. If that happened, he'd lose any possible lead to Josh—and Addy would be out of his life.

Neither thought was palatable.

"I'll do what I can. Care to tell me what's going on?"

"Like I said, I'll fill you in when you get here. For now, it's enough that you know I've verified my original suspicion. I've found Addilene Wartenski."
And she's going to break both my legs when she finds out I've called you.
But while that made him feel like a rat, her safety came first.

"You sure it's Wartenski?" Brenton said. "Absolutely sure?"

"It's her. And she's told me most of what happened the night Belle Bliss was killed."

"Hell." he said. "You're good, Harding. Maybe you and I should partner up."

"Not in this lifetime, Brenton. I'll take my thrills from plotlines and carefully edited mayhem." He forked a hand through his thick hair. "How soon can you get here?"

"I'll be on my way within the hour. A few directions would speed me up, though."

Cade gave him detailed instructions on how to find the place, then closed by repeating, "And Stan? Don't bring Susan. It's too soon."

A pause. "Now that oughta be interesting. She's been a hound dog since she found out I knew where you were in the first place. She's not going to like being left behind, it being her missing grandson who started all these goings-on."

"Being left behind is a hell of a lot safer than being in the line of a stray bullet." And if Cade couldn't stop it, bullets were definitely in the future of Star Lake.

"You're right about that, and hell"—he laughed a bit—"if I can't shake off an itty-bitty woman, I'll have to retire my PI license."

"See you, Brenton."

* * *

"
'Itty-bitty woman
'?" Susan said from behind him, her tone dripping in honey and laced with arsenic.

Stan closed his eyes and cursed to himself, before he turned to face the music that would undoubtedly be his dirge. "Sweetie—"

"Don't even think about it, Stan. Let's pack together," she smiled and raised her brows, but the gaze under them was implacable. "And if it's guns my nephew wants, it's guns he'll get. I have a Glock in the drawer of my bedside table."

"Susan, please listen to—"

She raised a hand—the one holding the bedroom cordless telephone—and glared up at him. "If I were you, Stan Brenton, I wouldn't say another word. It will take you at least a year to atone for 'itty-bitty.'" She stomped out of the room. "I've got a call to make, then I'm packing. Then, big man, we go and find my grandson. If we hurry, we can be there in a couple of hours."

Chapter 18

Grover watched Linda Curl through the glass window in his office. She was laughing into the phone. Probably a personal call, he thought. She had lots of those. Probably had lots of friends, one of those things called a "life."

The one thing Sandra wouldn't let him have.

And the one thing he hoped to have when this thing with Bliss was finally over.

Linda got up and ambled toward his office, still smiling, and wearing some awful slack suit, the kind where the jacket looked okay, but the pants were all shiny in the ass.

Linda was no fashion plate, that was for sure, but she always had that wonderful grin, a kind of morning-after, smugly satisfied grin that made promises.

Grover watched her come toward him and again thought about those bad pants of hers and how he'd like to be in them. He stiffened slightly, and touched himself under the desk. Curl would want to be on top. He liked that.

But even if he did sort the Bliss part of his life out, there was still Sandra.

There was always Sandra. He sighed, lifted his hand from his semi-erect penis, and picked up a pen.

"Hey, Grover, I'm about to make your day." She perched on the edge of his desk and faced him.

He leaned back in his chair. "I can always take good news."

"I placed Millie Fawcett. And the home is absolutely perfect for her." She lifted a joyous hand. "And I'll even bet money she won't take off this time. I'm telling you, as foster parents go, these two are the best."

"Then it's the Johnsons."

She nodded. "Uh-huh. Like I said, perfect. Am I good or what?"