Deadly Decisions_ A Novel Part 44

"Cool," he said.

I took a deep breath.

"I made airline reservations today."

"Off on another trip?"

"The flight is for you."

"Uh-oh. The b.u.m's rush." He kept his eyes on the salad bowl.

"Kit, you know I love you, and I love having you here, but I think it's time you went home."

"What is it they say about houseguests and old fish? Or is it relatives?"

"You know that isn't it. But you have been here almost two weeks. Aren't you bored? Don't you want to see your friends and check on the boat?"

He shrugged. "They're not going anywhere."

"I'm sure Harry and your father both miss you."

"Oh, yeah. They've been burning up the phone wires."

"Your mother's in Mexico. It's not eas-"

"She arrived in Houston yesterday."

"What?"

"I didn't want to tell you."

"Oh?"

"I knew you'd hustle me off when she got back."

"Why would you think that?"

His hand dropped, fingers curling over the bowl's edge. Outside, a siren wailed, soft, loud, soft. When he answered he didn't look at me.

"When I was a little kid, you always stayed just out of reach, afraid Harry might feel jealous. Or angry. Or resentful. Or inadequate. Or, or-"

He picked a crouton, threw it back. Drops of oil jumped onto the table.

"Kit!"

"And, you know what? She ought ought to feel inadequate. The only thing I should thank Harry for is not burying me in a G.o.ddam shoe box when I was born." He got to his feet. "I'll pack my stuff." to feel inadequate. The only thing I should thank Harry for is not burying me in a G.o.ddam shoe box when I was born." He got to his feet. "I'll pack my stuff."

I stood and grabbed his arm. When I looked up his face was tight with anger.

"Harry has nothing to do with this. I'm sending you home because I'm frightened for you. I'm frightened over the people you've been seeing and what they may be doing, and I'm afraid you're involved with things that could place you in jeopardy."

"That's bulls.h.i.+t. I'm not a baby anymore. I make my own decisions."

I flashed on Frog Rinaldi, his shadow rippling across a grave. Gately and Martineau had made a decision. A deadly decision. So had Savannah Osprey. And George Dorsey. I would not permit Kit to do the same.

"If something happened to you I'd never forgive myself."

"I'm not going to get hurt."

"I can't take that chance. I think you've been putting yourself in dangerous circ.u.mstances."

"I'm not six years old, Aunt Tempe. You can kick me out of here, but you can't tell me what to do anymore." His jaw muscles bunched, then his Adam's apple rose and dropped.

We both fell silent, realizing our proximity to words that, once spoken, would wound. I released my grip, and Kit disappeared down the hall, bare feet swis.h.i.+ng softly on the carpet.

I slept fitfully, then woke and lay in the dark, thinking about my nephew. The window shade changed from black to charcoal. I gave up on sleep, brewed tea, and took it to the patio.

Bundled in Gran's quilt, I watched stars fade overhead, and remembered evenings in Charlotte. When Katy and Kit were small we would identify constellations and christen patterns of our own. Katy would see a mouse, a puppy, a pair of skates. Kit would see a mother and child.

I tucked my feet and sipped the hot liquid.

How could I make Kit understand my reasons for sending him away? He was young, and vulnerable, and desperate for recognition and approval.

But recognition and approval from whom? Why does he want to stay with me? Do I provide a base from which he can pursue activities he won't disclose to me?

From the day of Kit's arrival his apathy had puzzled me. While Katy would have craved constant peer contact, my nephew seemed satisfied with limited sight-seeing, video games, and the company of an aging aunt and her aging cat. The current Kit was jarringly at odds with the youngster I remembered. Skinned knees. St.i.tches. Broken bones. Kit's perpetual motion had kept Harry on a first-name basis with her local paramedics for the duration of his childhood.

Had Kit been staying in, or had he been out and about with Lyle Crease? Or the Preacher? Or the hyena? Was he lethargic around me because he was tired?

More tea. Tepid now.

I pictured two men behind blood-spattered plastic, and even the tea couldn't warm my chill.

Was I making a mistake? If Kit was going through a rough patch could I have some positive influence? If he was involved in something precarious would it be safer to keep him with me?

No. The overall situation made it too risky. I would stick to my plan. My nephew would be in Texas before George Dorsey's body was underground.

As dawn crawled up from the horizon, a gentle wash spread across my yard, tinting trees, hedges, and the old brownstones across the street. Edges softened, until the city resembled a Winslow Homer landscape. A gentle watercolor, a perfect backdrop for a gangland funeral.

I poured the last of my tea onto the lawn, and went to wake my nephew.

His room was empty.

37.

A NOTE WAS STUCK TO THE REFRIGERATOR NOTE WAS STUCK TO THE REFRIGERATOR. I READ IT IN PLACE READ IT IN PLACE, afraid to trust my unsteady hands.

Thanks for everything. Don't worry. I'm with friends.

Friends?

My heart felt dead in my chest.

I looked at the clock. The Dorsey funeral would start in a little more than an hour.

I dialed Claudel's pager, then made coffee, dressed, and made the bed.

Seven-fifteen.

I sipped and picked at a cuticle.

The earth rotated. Tectonic plates s.h.i.+fted. Twelve acres of rain forest disappeared from the globe forever.

I went to the bathroom, combed my hair, dabbed on makeup, added blush, returned to the kitchen for a second cup.

Seven-thirty. Where the h.e.l.l was Claudel?

Back to the bathroom, where I wet and recombed my hair. I was reaching for dental floss when the phone rang.

"I wouldn't have thought you an early riser." Claudel.

"Kit's gone."

"Cibole!"

I could hear traffic in the background.

"Where are you?"

"Outside the church."

"How does it look?"

"Like a theme park of deadly sins. Sloth and gluttony are well represented."

"I don't suppose you've seen him."

"No, but I might not spot Fidel Castro in this crowd. Looks like every biker on the continent is here."

"Crease?"

"No sign."

I heard a hitch in his breathing.

"What?"

"Charbonneau and I did some more checking. From '83 to '89 Lyle Crease was playing foreign correspondent, not secret agent. But the only reports he was filing were with the guard on his cell block."

"He did time?" I asked, unnerved.

"Six years, south of the border."

"Mexico?"

"Juarez."

My heart came back to life and thumped inside my chest.

"Crease is a killer and Kit may be with him. I've got to do something."

Claudel's voice went cop cold.

"Don't even think about freelancing, Ms. Brennan. These bikers look like sharks smelling the water for blood, and it could get rough down here."

"And Kit could get sucked into the feeding frenzy!" I heard my voice catch, and stopped to steady myself.

"I'll send a patrol car to pick Crease up."

"Suppose he has funeral plans?"

"If he shows his face, we'll arrest him."

"And if a nineteen-year-old kid gets nailed along the way?" I was almost yelling.

"All I'm saying is don't come down here."

"Then find this b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

I'd hardly disconnected when I heard my cell phone.

Kit!

I raced to the bedroom and pulled it from my purse.

The voice was quavery, like a child after a long cry.

"You need to know what they're doing."

At first I felt confusion, then recognition, then apprehension.

"Who, Jocelyn?"