Cut Throat

“That will take care of the damage I’ve caused. Take it with my good wishes…just take away the curse. I’m begging you, Paloma. Please, take it away.”

Paloma forgot her sense of injustice when she realized he’d handed her the money—more money than she’d ever seen at one time in her life.

“Will you?” he begged. “Will you take away the curse?”

Stunned by the amount of money she was holding, she was momentarily silenced.

Reading it as another refusal, Solomon thrust another stack of money on top of the first one.

“Please!” he begged.

Paloma’s heart was pounding as she clutched the money to her breasts.

“Get out,” she said.

“Yes, yes, I’m going, I’m going.” He began backing toward the door, his arms outstretched. “The curse. Please, Paloma…the curse.”

“I will remove it…but only when you’re gone.”

He tried to draw a deep breath of relief, but it sounded more like a sob.

“God…oh, God…thank you, Paloma. I’m leaving now, and I wish you a long and happy life.”

“Get out,” she repeated. “Get out and never come back.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m going,” he said, and then turned on his heel and made a run for his car.

Before Paloma could move, she heard the sound of his engine starting. By the time she got to the window, all she could see were the taillights of his car.

She looked down at the money, then back up at the rooster tail of dust he was leaving behind him, and grinned.

“Fool,” she muttered.

Then, realizing she was standing in full view of the streets with an armful of money, she suddenly backed up, slammed the shutters shut and ran to the little niche in the wall where her Madonna figurine was placed. She picked up the figurine, then lifted the shelf on which it was sitting, revealing a large opening in the wall beneath. With one quick glance behind her, she stuffed her money into the hole, then replaced the shelf and statue.

The scent of fresh blood was strong in the air, along with the foul smell of chickenshit. Still, she couldn’t blame the chicken. If someone had wrung her neck as she had the chicken’s, chances were she would have messed herself, too.

She went back into the bedroom, eyed the chicken she’d just killed, then picked it up and carried it out back and buried it near the corner of her house. Then she went back inside, poured some water into a basin and began cleaning up the mess.

She was going to have to wash her sheets along with the walls and floor, but it was worth it to be rid of Tutuola and his evil ways.

Four

Three times during the day, Wilson caught himself about to dial Cat’s number. The first time he chalked it up to habit. The second time, he decided it was a habit he needed to break. The third time, he actually dialed the number and didn’t come to his senses until he heard her voice on the answering machine. He was so startled that he actually stammered what started out to be an apology until he realized he was talking to a recording.

“Damn it to hell,” he mumbled, then disconnected and dropped his cell phone back in his pocket. He stomped out of the restaurant where he’d been eating lunch, slammed his butt into the driver’s seat of his car and then hammered his fists on the steering wheel in mute frustration.

After a few moments the hopelessness of his situation passed, leaving him with an empty, helpless feeling. He sat within the silence of his vehicle, watching the sun go down on Dallas, and for the first time wished he’d never met Cat Dupree. A dark gray sedan pulled into the parking space beside him, interrupting his thoughts. He took one look as what appeared to be a happy family of five got out and headed toward the restaurant, then he leaned forward, started the engine and drove away.

LaQueen had locked up and was already gone when he stopped by the office, although the lingering scent of her jasmine perfume was a faint reminder of her presence.

He picked up his messages, taking note that, for once, there were no failures to appear to deal with. He sat down at his desk and started returning the calls, leaving some messages of his own, then left some paperwork on LaQueen’s desk to be filed in the morning. He was getting ready to go home when his gaze settled on a picture hanging on the wall. He stared at it until the edges blurred and his eyes burned with unshed tears.

Home.

It had been a long time since he’d thought of his childhood home that way. For him, home was his apartment in Dallas and the place in that picture was where he’d grown up. But it was his unreturned feelings for Cat that reminded him of how shallow his life was here. He’d been at this job, in this city, for the better part of his adult life, yet if he left tomorrow, there would be fewer than a handful of people who would even note his absence. For whatever reasons, he’d neglected his personal life, choosing to chase bail jumpers and the almighty dollar. It was more than humiliating to accept that he’d found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with who wasn’t even willing to spend an entire night with him.

Cat was still on his mind as he reached across the desk, picked up the phone and punched in a series of numbers. When he heard the first ring, he began a mental countdown of the number of steps it would take someone to get to the phone sitting on the old sideboard in the hall. His answer came on the fourth ring, and unconsciously, his tension eased as he heard her voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom, it’s me, Wilson.”

The lilt in her voice was proof of Dorothy McKay’s delight in hearing from her oldest son.

“Wilson! How good to hear your voice, son. What’s up?”

Wilson smiled to himself. It was typical that she would get straight to the point.

“Not much…just the same old thing. How are things there?”

“Oh, you know…your dad’s arthritis is an ongoing complaint, and your brothers and sisters keep me busy chasing grandbabies.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. Did Charlie’s boy, Lee, make the basketball team?”

Dorothy laughed. “Oh sure…you know Lee. He’s more like you than his own father. When he sets his mind to something, he doesn’t stop until he’s done it.”

Wilson sighed, trying not to think of how he’d missed the boat in this thing called life.

Alice heard the sigh and, like the mother she was, knew there was more behind the phone call than just “checking in.”

“Wilson.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong?”

He flinched. As long as he could remember, she’d always known when something was wrong before she ever heard the words.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I just called to say hi. Oh…heck, I’m still at the office and my other phone is ringing. I’d better go. Tell Dad I called, okay?”

“Yes, I’ll tell him,” she said, then added, “I love you, darling.”

Wilson closed his eyes. “I love you, too, Mom. Take care.”

He hung up, ignoring the fact that he’d lied to her about another call, then locked up and headed for home.

It was dark by the time he reached the parking lot of his apartment building. The temperature had dropped to freezing, and the security light where he normally parked was out. He got out, tripped on an empty beer bottle someone had thrown out, then managed to regain his footing. Cursing the lack of light and the person who’d tossed the bottle, he headed for the building.

There was a puddle of something in the corner of the elevator as he got inside, and from the faint scent, it was probably spilled beer, which just added to his mood. Sidestepping the mess, he reached his floor and got off with his head down, heading for the door at the end of the hall. Once inside, he slammed it, automatically locking himself in, bent over to pick up the mail that had been dropped through the slot, then stalked through the rooms, turning up the thermostat as he passed it.

He showered, grabbed an old T-shirt and a soft pair of sweats, and headed for the kitchen, going through his mail as he walked. Nothing but bills, which he laid aside. Maybe something hot for dinner would change his mood. After heating a can of soup and downing a sandwich, he called it quits. Food was in his belly, but he still felt the emptiness.

He put the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, then turned out the light in the kitchen. He moved into the living room without intent, glanced toward the darkened television screen, then instinctively walked to the windows and pushed the curtains aside.

Night in a city was a world of its own. A different set of citizens emerged to walk different streets. Darkness could be a friend, sheltering the weary from a long, endless day, or it could be something to fear, knowing that there were shadows through which the eye couldn’t see, leaving a person vulnerable in so many ways. For Wilson, the darkness just intensified the isolation in which he lived.

It was something deeper and older than time that made him look toward the west—toward the part of the city where Cat lived. He stared at the blinking lights and moving traffic until the lights all blurred together, and while his head said no, his heart still said yes.

At that point his phone rang, pulling his focus from the window. He walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Wilson, it is me, LaQueen. Are you watching your television?”

Wilson frowned. LaQueen never called him at home, and certainly not to ask what he was watching.

“No. What’s wrong?”

“Turn it on to Channel 4 and see for yourself.”

She hung up as Wilson was reaching for the remote. He hit the power button and watched as the screen came to life. It took a few moments for him to catch up to what the storyline and film they were showing was about. He was still trying to figure out why LaQueen thought a police chase on I-35 was something that would be of interest to him when suddenly what the journalist was saying sank in.

…identified as Cat Dupree, a bounty hunter out of Dallas. It was mere happenstance that she found herself facing the chase coming toward her, but it was guts that made her react as she did. According to Lieutenant Hooper of the Texas Highway Patrol, Ms. Dupree, without thought for her own safety, shot out the tires on the vehicle the thieves were driving, stopping them from causing further harm.

Unfortunately, Ms. Dupree didn’t come along in time to save the three occupants of a car the thieves had forced off the road earlier. They had already been pronounced dead at the scene by the time Ms. Dupree stopped the fleeing suspects. However, the occupants’ deaths resulted in the addition of charges of vehicular manslaughter to the federal charges already pending for bank robbery. Still, the Texas authorities, while grateful to Ms. Dupree for her assistance, want to reiterate that in no way do they advocate citizens involving themselves in police situations.

Wilson didn’t know he’d been holding his breath until he felt a sudden need to inhale. When he did, a curse came with it.

He knew exactly where that incident had occurred. It was less than thirty miles from the Texas-Mexico border and, while it could be nothing more than a coincidence that she was back on the same trail they’d taken when they’d gone after Mark Presley, his gut told him different.

He hit the mute button, then grabbed the phone book and flipped to the yellow pages, looking for the number to Art Ball Bail Bonds. Whatever Cat was doing, Art would have to know.

By the time he made the call, his thoughts were racing. He was still trying to come up with a way to question Art without making a fool of himself when Art answered the phone.

“Art’s Bail Bonds.”

“Art, it’s Wilson McKay. Where the hell is Cat?”

Taken aback by the intensity in Wilson’s voice, Art spoke before he thought.

“Going to see if the man who killed her daddy is dead.”

Shocked by the answer, Wilson was momentarily speechless.

“Did you see her on the TV?” Art asked. “Ain’t she a pistol? Just like her to be in the middle of something like that.”

Wilson shuddered, then swallowed past the knot in his throat. “Why would she want to go back to Mexico?” he asked. “The house he was in exploded. No way did he survive something like that.”

“She seemed to think different.”

Wilson stood up and walked back to the window. She wasn’t even in the city. She was gone, and he hadn’t known it. “Did she say why?” he asked.

Art hesitated. The shock of Wilson’s call was passing, leaving him concerned that he’d probably given away more than Cat would have liked. Still, she hadn’t told him not to tell. Not exactly.

“Well, she didn’t go into details or anything, but I got the impression that it had something to do with a computer and a map.”

Wilson groaned. That damned program she’d had on her laptop that they’d used to track Presley. If there was movement on it, she would naturally assume that Tutuola wasn’t dead. She’d wanted to go back and see, but he had stopped her. Now she was going on her own. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t give a damn what she was doing. She was never going to think about anyone but herself.

But it did matter.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard from her?” Wilson asked.

“No, even though I left a couple messages on her cell. She said she’d check in, so when she does, want me to tell her to give you a call?”

“Hell no,” Wilson said. “I’ll give her that message myself.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Thanks for the info, Art. Sorry if I seemed a bit abrupt. It was just that it was a shock to—”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for caring about her. I do, too, for all the good it does.”

“Yeah,” Wilson echoed. “For all the good.”

Art disconnected.

Wilson did the same, then dropped the phone onto the sofa. For a few moments he couldn’t think. He wanted to scream—to rage at the stupidity she’d exhibited by going off on some wild-goose chase like that without telling a soul where she was going. Then he slammed his fist into the wall, oblivious to the pain in his wrist and the dent he’d put in the drywall. It wasn’t that she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. It was that she hadn’t bothered to tell him. If he needed any further proof that he’d been living in some fantasy world where she was concerned, this would be it.

He sat down with a thump, then leaned back and covered his face with his hands. The shock and pain of what he’d learned was turning into anger. The longer he sat there, the angrier he got. An ambulance raced past his apartment building with sirens screaming on the way to someone else’s disaster, but it felt like the disaster was his.

He kept remembering the first time he’d seen her, coming out of a burning apartment building with a bail jumper over her shoulder. After that, there was the night he’d found her staggering in the police parking lot, sick as a dog from some bug and about to pass out. Then, when Marsha turned up missing, it had been Cat’s persistence that had led the police to Marsha’s body, as well as to her killer, and Wilson had been with her all the way. He’d seen her stand as strong through that hell as any man—maybe even stronger—and all through it, the passion between them had simmered. When they’d finally made love, it had been more than lust for Wilson. He had known, almost from the start, that she was going to be something special to him. But he and Cat had been on separate pages when it came to their futures. He’d made love to a woman who was stealing his heart. She’d just had sex with a willing participant. When he’d “paid” her for their last session of sex, he’d promised himself it would be their last contact.

Now this.

He couldn’t have her in his life and remain sane. He needed his head examined for caring about what she was doing, but what she’d done was dangerous, and, God help him, he couldn’t live with himself if she got herself killed and he did nothing about it.

Suddenly his anger peaked. He grabbed the phone. Art had said she wasn’t answering her cell, so he was leaving his message on her home phone. When he dialed her number this time, it was no mistake. He listened to the rings, then took a breath when he heard her voice on the answering machine. As soon as the message beeped, he started talking.

“You made the news tonight. I’d congratulate you on your heroism, but at the moment I’m too damned pissed at your stupidity. I talked to Art. I know what you’re doing. And, just so you know, I’m not calling to meddle in your damned business. However…going off alone like this to chase a fucking ghost isn’t just stupid, it’s dangerous. You got lucky when you found Marsha’s body. It gave you a chance to bring her back and give her a proper burial. So you brought one killer to justice. Good for you, Dupree. However, if this bastard you’re chasing happens to still be alive, it might do you well to remember that when he killed your father, he also cut your damned throat. You survived him once. You might not be as lucky another time. I don’t know why I care. I wish to hell I didn’t. And just for the record, woman, if it hadn’t been for that piece of film on tonight’s news, I wouldn’t have the slightest notion of where in hell to look for your bones. It’s obvious you don’t give a damn about me, yourself or anyone else. I wish to hell I could return the favor.”

His hands were shaking when he hung up. He sat there for a moment longer while his vision blurred and his belly burned. Then he pushed himself up from the sofa.

The apartment was in complete darkness, lit only by the nightlight in the hall and the faint glow of a security light outside the kitchen window. He stood within the shadowy silence, barely aware of the night sounds from the city beyond. All he could hear was the steady thump of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears.

Cat had opted to spend one last night in Texas and then cross the border in the morning, but when she’d come back from the gas station where she’d gone to make a pit stop and fuel up, what she’d seen on the laptop had changed her mind.

The blip that had been stationary for so long was, once again, on the move, but it had changed directions. It was no longer headed toward the coast but had begun moving in a northwesterly direction. Nuevo Laredo was just across the border, but after that it was mostly small villages and a lot of sand and cactus and mountains in the direction the blip was now moving.

She didn’t think of the dangers she could be putting herself in by driving through the desert at night. The only thing on her mind was catching up with whoever was carrying some of Mark Presley’s property. If it turned out that this trip amounted to nothing, well, she was willing to feel like twelve kinds of a fool just to know the truth.

It was still daylight when she crossed the border, and since bounty hunting was illegal in Mexico, she politely lied about her reasons for entering the country, confident that her weapons were well-concealed under the fake bottom of her console. The fact that she was wearing her tightest sweater and her hair was down and windblown had been distraction enough for the border guards. In fact, they’d even had her exit the car while they did a quick search. Cat had occupied herself with some exaggerated stretches, tightening the sweater across her breasts even more. She knew the guards were watching her, so to add to their interest, she did a couple of deep knee bends, which nicely tightened her blue jeans over her backside.

At that point, one of the guards called out to her.

“Señorita!”

She turned, purposefully arching her back as she looked at him over one shoulder.

“Yes?”

He smiled, then held the door open for her.

“You are free to go. Have a safe trip.”

She flashed him a quick smile as she slid behind the steering wheel.

“Thanks so much,” she said.

“De nada,” he replied.

She was still smiling as she drove into Mexico.

The sun had gone down hours ago. More than once, Cat had thought about pulling off to the side of the road, crawling into the back of her SUV and sleeping until daylight, but she hadn’t done it yet. Part of her reasoning was that, even if she stopped, she wouldn’t be able to sleep. And even though she was driving on a well-defined road, it wasn’t well-kept. The potholes were only slightly less startling than the armadillos and coyotes she kept dodging.

It was sometime after midnight when nature finally called loudly enough that she had to pull over. With nothing remotely resembling a gas station or a diner at which to stop, she chose the nearest cactus. After grabbing a flashlight from the glove box, she aimed the beam all around, making sure there were no snakes nearby before undoing her jeans.

A minute later she was zipping up her jeans and about ready to head back to her car when she heard something that didn’t fit in with the night sounds of a desert. She held her breath, waiting to see if she could hear it again, and when she did, a chill ran up her spine. Unless she was mistaken, she’d just heard a baby crying, which made no sense. According to her maps, the nearest village was about twenty miles south.

Still, she listened, trying to convince herself that it must have been an animal—one that just sounded human.

Then she heard it again, and this time, the wail was accompanied by another sound—the yipping of a pack of coyotes.

The implications of those two sounds together was frightening. Cat grabbed her flashlight, then ran for her car. She started the engine, then swerved off the road on which she’d been traveling and headed slowly out into the desert in the direction from which she’d heard the sound. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be far. She just had to make sure she didn’t drive off into some arroyo and get herself stuck.

As she drove, the rougher ground caused the beams from the headlights to bounce up and down, giving her nothing but brief glimpses of the landscape. Once she braked and hung her head out the window to see if she could hear that same haunting cry, but either the engine was too loud or the sound had stopped. One thing was for certain, her presence had scared away the coyotes. She didn’t hear them anymore.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she ducked back into the car and accelerated slowly. Just when she thought she’d imagined the whole thing, a flash of red and yellow caught her eye. As she turned toward the color, she quickly realized it was a blanket—covering a woman.

The woman was lying on her side, facing the headlights of Cat’s car.

She wasn’t moving, which any normal person would have done if they’d been faced with headlights coming toward them.

Cat’s stomach lurched as she hit the brakes and slammed the car into park. She got out on the run, trying not to think of how she’d found Marsha’s body by the color of the coat she’d been wearing. Within seconds, she was on her knees beside the woman, feeling for a pulse.

There was none.

She reached for the blanket, her hand shaking, then pulled it back and shined the flashlight—into the face of a baby, who was looking right back at her.

It wasn’t until the baby closed its eyes against the glare of the flashlight that she realized it was still alive.

“Oh God…baby…poor baby. Poor little baby.”

But when she tried to pick it up, the mother’s grip—even in death—was so fierce that Cat couldn’t pull the baby free. By now the baby was wailing again, but the sound was so weak, it was scary. Cat had no way of knowing how long they’d lain like this—or how long it had been since the baby had been fed. Finally she managed to pull the mother’s arms away and gather the baby up into her arms.

The scent of urine and feces was strong as she headed for her car. She opened the back hatch of the SUV, using the flat surface as a changing table, and began a quick check of the baby.

It was a girl. Except for almost certain dehydration and an incredibly dirty diaper, she could see no obvious bruises or injuries. She didn’t know much about babies, but this lethargy couldn’t be good.