Second Grave on the Left (22 page)

I had no choice but to ease as quietly as I could through the swinging doors that led into the pitch-black kitchen. Once inside, I inched into a corner to allow my eyes to adjust. Why I didn’t carry night-vision goggles on my person twenty-four/seven, I would never know.

Before I could get my bearings, the lights flickered on and I suddenly found myself just as blind as I’d been before. I raised a hand to block the blast of light and squinted into a stark whiteness. That’s when a beefy arm came into view with a knife much longer than my own. It rocketed toward me so fast, my one and only thought consisted of probabilities. If my calculations were correct, taking into account the weight behind the swing, and the length and glistening sharpness of the blade thrusting toward me, this was going to hurt.

Chapter Twelve

YEAH, BUT WHAT IF LIFE HANDS ME PICKLES?

—BUMPER STICKER

At the very moment I was supposed to die from a razor-sharp blade rushing toward my heart, a spike of adrenaline coursed through my veins, and the world seemed to slow around me. I looked at the knife as it inched closer. I looked at the man’s face, thick and furious, a snarl twisting his features. Oh yeah, he wanted me dead. Which sucked, ’cause I didn’t even know him. Then I glanced to the side. My father sat gagged and bound on the kitchen floor. Another dose of adrenaline spiked when I saw the blood streaming down the side of his head, his eyes wide with fear, but not for himself. For me.

The knife was closing in. I looked back just as the tip broke the skin over my heart. Before I could second-guess myself, I ducked and the world came rushing back. The man, unable to stop his forward momentum, flew toward the wall behind me. As he flew past, I raised my own knife, and between his own lumbering weight and the force of my upward thrust, I sliced into his throat.

He stumbled over some boxes and launched headfirst into the wall, knocking himself senseless and dropping the knife. I kicked it under the stainless steel prep tables and rushed to my father’s side, all the while keeping a wary eye on my would-be murderer. The man grabbed his throat as blood spewed through his fingers. He made gurgling sounds, too.

I felt kind of bad, but he started it.

About that time, I heard sirens. Maybe Dad had been able to trip the silent alarm before the man disabled him. I tried to get the gag off, but there were just so many layers—the man liked him some duct tape—and I realized I was coming down off an incredible high when the world darkened and I lost my balance, falling into the cabinet beside me. I took in a lungful of air, righted myself onto the balls of my feet again, then went in search of the end of the duct tape, which was apparently as elusive as the end of a rainbow. It didn’t help that my fingers were shaking uncontrollably.

I heard a couple of uniforms burst in through the back door. “We’re in here,” I called out, studying my attacker. He was flailing like a fish on dry land, trying to squirm over the boxes and hold on to his severed jugular at the same time.

The cops entered the kitchen cautiously before one of them rushed to my side to help. The other one called for backup and an ambulance.

“That man tried to kill me,” I said to the cop, appalled. I didn’t know the officer. He was young, probably a rookie.

He glanced over his shoulder as he unwound the duct tape from my father’s head, then back at me. “I think you won,” he said with a wink.

For a moment, pride swelled within me. “Yeah. I did win.” I refocused on Fish Man. “Come at me with a really pointy blade, will ya.” The other cop had handcuffed the man and was now applying pressure to his neck with a dish towel. I hoped he wouldn’t bleed to death. I’d never been the direct cause of someone dying.

The rookie managed to get the tape unwound.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” my dad said, his voice hoarse.

I hugged him to me as the cop continued his quest to release my dad. Duct tape galore decorated almost every inch of him. Dad and I were both shaking and teary eyed.

“Are you hurt?” I asked him just as Uncle Bob stormed into the room, an EMT team on his heels.

“Leland,” he said as he knelt down. He leveled a long, cold stare on Fish Man, then turned back to us. “We didn’t get the signal.”

“What signal?” I asked, becoming very wary.

My dad glanced at the floor as Ubie explained. “Caruso has been threatening your dad for a couple of weeks now, which is pretty much in direct violation of his parole. We’d placed men to keep watch, but we’d also worked out a signal if he should show up.”

“He sort of surprised me,” Dad said, his voice sarcastic.

“Oh, me, too,” I said, confirming Dad’s statement. “He totally surprised me, too.”

“I knew you would come out of this okay,” Dad said as the rookie cut his arms free. His expression turned to one of a wary awe. “How did you do that?”

I glanced at Ubie self-consciously. “Do what?”

“The way you moved,” he said, his voice airy, “it was … inhuman.”

“Okay, let’s get him something to drink, shall we?” Uncle Bob said to the rookie.

“Absolutely, sir.” The rookie glanced at me with a frown as he left. Great. Half the police force already thought I was a freak. I guess it was time to recruit the other half as well.

“Leland,” Ubie scolded as he helped him to a chair, “you can’t say shit like that in front of other people.”

“You didn’t see it,” Dad said, and I suddenly felt like the ugly duckling again. I thought I had shed that persona years ago. Apparently not. “The way she moved, it was like—”

“—like a well-trained private investigator?” Ubie offered.

Dad blinked, tried to focus on something else, but his gaze kept coming back to mine, a million questions in his eyes.

The EMTs were already pushing Fish Man out, their movements precise but quick—he must not have had much blood left—and a second team surrounded Dad and me. I realized when one of them started to poke around Danger and Will Robinson, I had a long gash in my chest from when I had ducked with a knife protruding from me. Next time, I would dislodge the knife before ducking.

“That’s going to need stitches,” said the EMT.

Fortunately, Cookie charged through the police barrier about that time and drove me to the hospital. What did Dad mean, he knew I would be okay? His frightened expression as I was being attacked would never have led me to believe such a thing. But it was the way he said it, like he’d been calculating the odds long before the actual event. And the look on his face. He’d never looked at me that way before. It was disturbingly similar to the way my stepmother looked at me every time we saw each other.

Still, that wasn’t the only thing niggling at me. For the first time in my life, Reyes didn’t show up to save it. Which meant he was either really pissed or dead.

*   *   *

After a long wait, I sat in the ER with superglue holding me together, though the attending actually called it SurgiSeal. The cuts seemed to already be fusing, surprising more than one doctor and several nurses to boot. Thus, no stitches. Just superglue.

“I smell supergluey,” I said to Cook as she waited beside me. The freaking paperwork took way longer than the two minutes it took for them to glue me back together.

“I just can’t believe this,” she said, upset that Dad hadn’t told me about the parolee threatening his life. “If nothing else, he should have warned you for your own protection, instead of trying to keep you blissfully unaware that a madman was out to kill him and his entire family.”

Uncle Bob walked over to us. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, don’t even,” Cookie said, her mouth a thin line of disappointment. “You are just as much a part of this as that man.” She pointed to Dad, who lay asleep on the other side of the emergency room, his head bandaged. He had to stay the night for observation. Probably a good thing. Cookie was on a rampage.

My stepmother looked up when Cookie started in on Uncle Bob. Really. The man didn’t stand a chance.

“You of all people should have warned her.” Cookie poked him in the chest to emphasize her point, and I just knew Ubie would come unglued. I glanced around for the tube of superglue just in case.

Instead, he bowed his head in regret. “We just didn’t think—”

“Exactly,” she said and took off in search of coffee.

“Dude, could you hold it down?” the man on the bed next to me asked. “I got me a nine in my head and it’s pounding like a son of a bitch.”

I didn’t doubt it. I’d never had a nine-millimeter in my noggin, but it probably hurt. I looked back at Uncle Bob. “Is that why you had Garrett following me?”

He pursed his mouth. “That was the number one reason.”

“And the other was just in case Reyes Farrow happened to show up.”

“That would be number two.”

I stood, disgusted with men at the moment. “So, you could tell Swopes but not me?”

“Charley, we didn’t know if this guy would ever show or if he was just full of shit. He blamed your dad for the death of his daughter. She died when Caruso crashed his car during a police chase. Your dad was the one doing the chasing. When he got out of prison, he started calling your dad, telling him he was going to kill his entire family, so we put tails on all of you. Your dad didn’t want you to worry.”

He may as well have ended that statement with
your pretty little head
. That was the most chauvinistic thing I’d ever heard come out of Ubie’s mouth.

I stood toe to toe with him, furious that every man I was even remotely close to had been lying to me for the past two weeks. I tiptoed and whispered, “Then fuck you all.”

Paperwork or no paperwork, I left to look for Cookie, also known as my ride home. As I walked past the elevators, the doors opened, and there stood my sister. She sighed and stepped out. “So, are you going to live?” she asked.

“As always.”

“How’s Dad?”

“The doctor said he’ll be fine. He has a concussion and a few bruised ribs, but nothing’s broken. He’s going to be out for a good while.”

“Fine. I’ll come back in the morning.” She turned and strode down the hall slightly ahead of me, as if she didn’t want to be seen with me in public. In that case, I’d give her good reason.

With a gasp, I grabbed my chest, collapsed against the wall, started hyperventilating. Trying to fake hyperventilation without actually hyperventilating was not as easy as one might think.

Gemma turned back and glared. “What are you doing?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“It’s all coming back to me,” I said, throwing a hand over my head in agony. “When I was in the hospital getting my tonsils out, I tried to escape. The fluid leaking from my severed IV led them right to me and I was recaptured.”

Worried someone might be watching, she did a quick perimeter check before refocusing on me. “You’ve never had your tonsils out. You’ve never even been in a hospital overnight.”

“Oh.” I straightened. That was embarrassing. “Wait! Yes, I have, when Aunt Selena died. I stayed with her, held her hand all night.”

She rolled her eyes. “Aunt Selena is a missionary in Guatemala.”

“Seriously? Then who was that old lady?”

After a loud and lengthy sigh, she started for the exit again and spoke over her shoulder. “Probably your real mother, because we cannot possibly be related.”

I smiled and trotted after her. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

Chapter Thirteen

DON’T GO BUYING TROUBLE.

IT’S FREE AND IT KNOWS WHERE YOU LIVE.

—T-SHIRT

The next morning, I slept until nine, which was understandable since I didn’t go to bed until well past five. My mental state was still leaning toward fluffy when I searched out the coffeepot.

“Morning, Mr. Wong,” I said, my gravelly voice sounding as sleep-deprived as I felt. As I was reaching for the coffee can, I noticed a note lying on Mr. Coffee. He was so romantic. I paused to open the first fold.

What do you call a PI who doesn’t give up?

Hmmm. Several options came to mind. Aggressive. Dependable. Stalwart. Somehow I doubted any of those would be the answer they were looking for. I opened the last fold of the note.

Dead.

Dang. I should have stuck with monosyllabic guesses. Criminals weren’t keen on big words.

As enlightening as that was, I had work to do—so many lives to destroy, so little time—and new locks to buy. Having approximately three minutes to spare after I turned the pot on to brew, I decided to pee. But as I walked past my front door, someone knocked. I stopped, looked around, waited. After a moment, another round of raps echoed in my apartment.

I tiptoed toward the door, vowing that if they were already there to kill me, I was going to be really pissed. I peered out the peephole. Two women stood there, Bibles in hand. Please. That was such a bad disguise. They were probably expert assassins, sent to put two in my head before noon.

But there was only one way to find out. I slid the chain on my door into place and cracked it open. The older woman smiled and started in right away. “Good morning, ma’am. Have you noticed how the world is plagued with bad health right now?”

“Um—”

“That disease and illness have spread to every corner of God’s green earth?”

“Well—”

“We’re here to tell you that it is not always going to be that way.” She opened her Bible and thumbed through it, giving me an opportunity to speak.

“So, you’re not here to kill me?”

She paused, crinkled her thin brows at me, then glanced at her friend before saying, “Excuse me? I don’t think I understand.”

“You know, to kill me. To assassinate me. To put a gun to my head—”

“I think you have us confused with—”

“Wait! Don’t leave.” I closed the door to unchain it. When I swung it open, they took a wary step back. “So, you’re not assassins?”

They both shook their heads.

“You’re Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

They nodded.

This could be a good thing. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. “Perfect. Let me ask you,” I said as the younger one in back let her gaze wander over my attire, which consisted of a Blue Oyster Cult T-shirt that advised people not to fear the reaper and a pair of plaid boxers, “as Jehovah’s Witnesses, what exactly have you witnessed?”