Fifteen years. She folded her long legs, salon-tanned against her tennis whites, and sipped the bottle of Perrier, oblivious to the flurry of activity at the juice bar of Boston’s most elite racquet club. The dreadful news from Van Horn had thrown her for a loop, distracted her to the extent that she’d pounded through her lesson with the tennis pro. It had been a wasted session; Vito had worked his cute derriere off calling out instructions and bounding around energetically, but her mind had been stuck on images of Robert Sullivan signing his fortune over to some wide-eyed orphan boy. A regular Oliver Twist. For fifteen years there had been yet another bastard child running around out there with no one the wiser, and now, Robert Sullivan had hired this seedy investigator to track the boy down. Robert must have lost his mind, thinking he needed to look outside the family for an heir. It was utter insanity, and the most unfortunate part was that Robert, as patriarch, still pulled the strings. If he wanted to pass his fortune on to a clown from the circus, not a soul could stop him. She knew about these things. God knew, she was the only Sullivan with a head for numbers, though it wouldn’t take a financial genius to realize that Robert’s assets were the ones worth inheriting now that Frank Sullivan had run his share of the business into the ground. Damn Robert for searching out this bastard child... and damn Bibi for getting herself knocked up by someone who must have been a complete and utter loser. Bibi had always played the forlorn bleeding heart, adopting strays and sighing over kittens and puppies. Who knew she’d turn out to be such a slut, too, having a secret baby. Everyone had always wondered about Bibi the year she’d dropped out of sight. Off to some camp... or was it a student exchange program abroad? Whatever the lame story, it had reeked of cover-up, though at the time no one really cared enough about Bibi to pursue it. Glossy red fingernails tapped the green bottle of mineral water as she considered this new development. The old patriarch who should leave well enough alone and his stupid daughter who should have crossed her legs. Morons. Not to mention the private detective who thought he was going to take her money and play her against Robert Sullivan. She felt sullied having had to spend thirty minutes with Van Horn. Washing down the bitter taste in her throat with the mineral water, she wished she could swipe out Van Horn with as much ease. Such an unpleasant man with beady little eyes and yellowed fingernails flicking nervously over that matchbook. He thought he was going to gain a small fortune and a modicum of control if he found the bastard boy, but he was wrong. He didn’t realize he was messing with a Sullivan, but he would soon learn. Oh, he’d learn. “Pull yourself together!” Kate stared into the foggy bathroom mirror, barely able to see her reflection through the condensation. Standing in a towel, her wet hair dripping to her shoulders, she silently reminded herself that Daegan O’Rourke was off-limits, the worst man in the world for her and yet... Trust me. Those two words had chased each other around her mind all night long. She’d barely sl ept a wink. A sense of foreboding, like the collection of storm clouds on the horizon, had been with her ever since she’d left Daegan standing on his porch, the light from one window throwing the hard-edged contours of his body in stark relief. Brushing her teeth, she reminded herself that Daegan O’Rourke was the kind of trouble she didn’t need. She heard the phone jangle in the kitchen. Quickly, she rinsed and wiped her mouth, then slipped her arms through the robe she’d hung near the door. On the third ring, she flew out of the room and was halfway to the kitchen when
Jon, from his bedroom, yelled down at her. “Hey, Mom, it’s for you!” “I’ll catch it down here. Are you about ready?” “I’m not going.” She heard the squeak of his mattress as he rolled back into his bed. She didn’t blame him, but she had mixed feelings about it. True, Jon would be the laughingstock at school, the object of much speculation and gossip, and Todd Neider would probably rub it in, but he had to walk through the hallowed doors of Hopewell High sooner or later, and facing his classmates wasn’t going to get any easier as the days passed. “Wait a minute, Jon, don’t you think—” “Mom, I look like hell and I feel worse,” he yelled through the open door of his room. “Fine—we’ll talk later.” This was no morning for a fight; besides, the restless feeling that something was wrong, or missing, trailed after her as she hurried to the kitchen and cinched the tie of her robe tight around her waist. Snagging the receiver, she shoved aside the uneasiness that shadowed her mind. “Hello?” “Where were you—across town?” “Very funny, Laura,” she said, smiling at the thought of her sister. If only they didn’t live so far away. Right about now she could use some of Laura’s quirky bursts of sunshine. “Hey, I think I got some information for you,” Laura said brightly. Kate’s heart stilled. Her fingers clamped around the receiver in a death grip. “About Jon?” “No, about O’Rourke. I wanted to ease your mind. Doesn’t look like he has a prison record, at least not here in Boston.” Kate’s knees nearly gave way. She leaned against the ladder back of one of the kitchen chairs. “You’re certain?” “Y ep. If he was ever charged or indicted, I can’t find it, and he certainly was never sentenced. I checked the records going back forty years.” Kate let out her breath. “So you can relax around the new neighbor.” Relax? Around Daegan O’Rourke? No way. Just because he didn’t have a prison record didn’t necessarily clear him of all bad intentions, but she felt her pulse jump a little and some of the barriers she’d built around her heart seemed to give way. “Did you find out anything about him? Did he come from Boston or ever live there? Was one of his cousins killed and—” “Hey, slow down,” Laura said, laughing, and Kate imagined her green eyes filled with mischief and amusement. “I’m still checking. I’ve weeded out a couple guys who couldn’t possibly be your cowboy—” “He’s not mine,” she said swiftly. “Ooh, touchy about that, aren’t we?” “Go on,” Kate r eplied, surprised how quickly she’d risen to Laura’s bait. “There are still two guys in the mix who fit the physical description and are about the right age. One guy was illegitimate, born to a Mary Ellen O’Rourke in South Boston and that’s all I know about him. He left town before he
was twenty. The other guy is the sixth of ten, a working-class family who moved in the mid-seventies. I’m still looking into it.” Slowly, they were getting closer to the truth. “I owe you.” “I know, I know. You always owe me. That’s why our relationship works so well. Hey, look, I’ve got to run. I’m on my break and have about forty-five seconds to get to a staff meeting. I’ll talk to you later.” “Thanks.” Kate hung up and her heart buoyed a little, even though there was still something wrong—an emptiness this morning. Thoughtfully she poured a cup of coffee from the pot and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Jon?” No answer. Maybe it was just as well. Give him today and maybe tomorrow to heal, then wait until the weekend was over before he returned to school. Rotating the kinks from her neck, she walked to the front porch and felt vaguely uneasy. Even Laura’s good news or a fresh cup of coffee didn’t help shake the sensation. Opening the door, she felt a rush of winter-cold air. Outside the sky was as gray as the worry playing with her mind. Thick, black clouds brought the first drops of rain just as the bus slowed at the mailbox then picked up speed again. Again the uneasy sensation and suddenly she knew what it was. The dog. She hadn’t seen or heard Houndog all morning. She gave a short sharp whistle and listened for an answering bark. All she heard was the gentle pounding of the rain as it started to pour. “Houndog! Come on, boy!” Setting her cup on the table by the platter of cupcakes, she mounted the stairs. Jon was in his room alone. “Have you seen the dog?” Stretching, Jon yawned and his eyebrows slammed together. “He’s not here?” “Not in the house.” “But—oh, yeah, maybe I left him outside.” “When?” “He started scratching at the door and whining, like he does when he hears a possum or cat, so I let him out. He took off like a streak across the front yard, barking his head off.” “So you left him outside?” “He wouldn’t come back when I called, so I figured he’d be all right.” She bit her lip. Apprehension knotted her stomach. “When?” “I don’t know. Last night sometime.” He rubbed his face and his eyes locked with hers. “Geez, Mom, what? You think something happened to him?” “Probably not,” she lied. “So where is he? It’s not like he ever wanders off.” He threw off the covers, and dressed only in his boxer shorts, he searched in the pile of clothes near the foot of the bed for something to wear. Frowning, he came up with a pair of wrinkled jeans and a sweatshirt. “I think I’ll look outside.” “We’ll find him, Mom.”
Was it her imagination or did she hear a little hint of anxiety in his voice? “Of course we will,” she lied as she hurried downstairs and into her room. In seconds she was dressed and outside, sidest epping the puddles that were already beginning to collect and calling Houndog’s name. Jon, wearing a Mariners’ hat, joined her and together they searched the wet acres, trudging through grass and mud, hoping against hope that they’d come across the puppy, alive and somehow trapped so that he couldn’t free himself. But why then wouldn’t he whine or bark? Silently praying that he hadn’t been hurt by a passing car or truck, she checked the road and stood in the thicket of trees that sheltered the house from the county highway. Where would the dog run off to? Would someone pick him up? Was he hurt somewhere... or was it worse? “Don’t borrow trouble,” she told herself as she felt the drip of rain soak the hood of her sweatshirt. Oh, Houndog, where are you? She searched the undergrowth and heard Jon’s voice, edged in worry, as he called for his dog and best friend in the world. Around the house and past the rosebushes with their dry leaves and blossoms gone to seed. Fear congealed in her heart when she walked around the woodshed and saw the pumpkins smashed against a pile of old flagstones. “Did you do this?” she asked but Jon just stared at the seeds and stringy orange pulp that dripped from the pumpkin shells. “Neider,” he whispered. “You don’t know that.” “Who else?” “I... I can’t imagine.” “Damn it, Mom, of course, it’s Neider.” His jaw thrust forward, he blinked hard and fought a brave but losing battle with tears. His discolored face twisted into a determined grimace. “You think he... he killed him?” “Of course not. Why would he hurt an innocent animal?” “Neider doesn’t need a reason. He’s just mean.” “We don’t even know it was Todd. Come on, let’s go inside.” But as they turned, they both saw the walls of the pump house—the time-darkened wood covered with graffiti. HAPPY HALLOWEEN FAG CRY BABY COCK SUCKER FUCK YOU, SUMMERS Ugly, filthy epithets all aimed at Jon and written in neon orange and stark black. “Oh, Lord,” Kate whispered, reading the slurs and hate. “This has got to stop. Come back in the house,” she ordered, marching up the st eps not really knowing what she would do, but convinced that the police had to be in volved. Jon could scream bloody murder for all she cared, but she was going to dial Sheriff Swanson and explain to the authorities everything that had happened. She’d just reached for the phone when she heard the sound of a truck pulling into the lane. Nerves strung tight as new barbed wire, she ran to the front of the house and thought about grabbing the old rifle she had locked in the closet. Look what I’ve come to, she thought, her heart hammering wildly as she recognized Daegan’s truck through the blinds. “Thank God.” Flinging open the front door, she ran across the porch and would have willingly thrown herself into his arms if they weren’t already full with a wiggling mass whom she assumed was Houndog. “No!” she cried just as Jon rounded the corner. “Bastards!” He was across the yard in an instant and taking Houndog from Daegan’s hands. Tears mingled with the rain as they drizzled down his face.
“At least he’s not dead,” Daegan said, a dangerous fire burning in his eyes. “I found him on the back porch tied and drugged, I guess.” The dog had been shorn, scratches evident in his naked, mottled skin, only his face and tail showing more than clumps of fur. On his shaved body, the same filthy words had been sprayed. “I’m gonna wash him.” “No,” Kate said, “not yet. Take him into the car and we’ll go visit the sheriff.” Outrage searing through her blood, she turned to Daegan. “Would you be willing to sign a statement about Todd Neider assaulting Jon and then discovering the dog this morning?” “Absolutely.” “No!” Jon protested then looked down at the shivering, drowsy dog in his arms. “Fine. Let’s go. Just let me wrap him in a blanket.” “I’ll drive,” Daegan said as Jon ran into the house. A muscle worked overtime in his jaw. “I guess it’s time I met the sheriff anyway.” “... a shame about the pup, there... we’ll investigate, of course, but since you have no proof it was the Neider boy, there’s not a lot I can do,” Sheriff Swanson said. Fit, trim, with a clipped silver moustache and thick glasses, the sheriff leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together. Daegan had grown up not trusting the law and he stared at this military-looking man through suspicious eyes. Swanson was trying hard to placate Kate and she was having none of it. “It’s more than a shame and it’s more than criminal,” she said through tight lips. “It’s downright cruel and immoral and it’s got to stop!” “Hey, I’m not disagreeing with you, Kate. I’ll send a d eputy out to take pictures of the vandalism, and we’ve already got shots of the dog.” He stared at the little pup shivering in Jon’s arms. Between the shaved, painted mutt and Jon’s bruised and swollen face, they made a pitiful picture. Just looking at his son caused fury to burn through Daegan’s blood, and whether the sheriff did anything or not, Daegan sure as hell planned to visit Neider’s old man. “As for the charges of assault,” Swanson said, eyeing the signed complaint on the desk, “I believe you. Todd’s an ornery character, but the two other boys, Morrisey and Flanders, they’re usually not into much trouble. Why, Morrisey’s father’s a minister down at the First Christian—” “Just because his old man spouts the word of God doesn’t mean he can’t get into trouble,” Kate said swiftly. “I know, but—” “Those two—Morrisey and Flanders—weren’t throwing any punches,” Daegan said, unable to ke ep his mouth shut a second longer. Content to drink the sheriff d epartment’s sludgelike coffee, he’d rested his hips against the window sill and nodded in confirmation whenever the sheriff had glanced his way. He’d let Kate and Jon tell their side of the story, but when it became obvious that the law would rather just swe ep this “little incident” under the carpet, Daegan had decided to stand up and be counted. “But they were egging him on. And if they say different, they’re liars just trying to save their own miserable hides. Cowards, they took off running when I showed up. But the Neider kid, he’s the ring leader, the one who needs to be horsewhipped himself.” “I’m afraid that’s a little harsh.” “Right,” Daegan said sarcastically. “We’ll save the whip for his old man.” To hear Jon tell it, Carl Neider spent too many nights drinking down at the Plug Nickel. If he es caped a brawl at the tavern, he usually came home mean as a wounded rattler and ready to strike. His primary target was his son. In turn, the oaf of a kid took out his frustrations on smaller boys, primarily Jon.
Swanson smiled at the thought of whipping one of the regulars he had to lock up on Saturday nights. “Neider’s a mean cuss when he’s had a few too many, but he’s had a hard row to hoe, what with his wife walkin’ out on him when Todd was barely two.” “Doesn’t make it right, Swanson. Lots of people raise kids alone these days.” The sheriff promised to look into matters but Daegan wasn’t satisfied. “Not exactly a ball of fire,” he remarked once they were back in the car and headed to the veterinary clinic on the edge of town. Doc Martin, a short balding man with a horseshoe of snow-white hair and freckles on his pate, took one look at Houndog and scowled fiercely. “Who did this?” he asked, taking the shivering pup from Jon’s hands. Kate exchanged glances with her son. “We’re not sure yet.” “Well, whoever it is, he’s one sick individual, isn’t that right, Houndog?” Running expert fingers along the dog’s body, Doc Martin poked and prodded gently, took Houndog’s temperature, looked into his eyes, and pronounced him none the worse for wear. “He’s traumatized, naturally. Who wouldn’t be? Just because Houndog here is an animal doesn’t mean he doesn’t realize when he’s been mistreated. Isn’t that right, fella?” He stroked the pup behind his ears. “Boy, I’d like to get my hands on the jerk who did this.” Shaking his head, he looked over the tops of reading glasses. “I might just get out my own razor and can of paint.” Daegan grinned. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Just leave this little guy here overnight and we’ll clean him up and make sure he’s all right,” the vet suggested. By the time they returned to Kate’s, it was nearly noon. Daegan parked his truck and turned off the ignition. Over her protests, he walked them to the house, pausing at the pump house where he stood in the wet mashed- down grass and read the graffiti hastily sprayed on the graying siding. His jaw hardened and Kate watched as a transformation took place. No longer the affable rancher, Daegan, eyes narrowed, muscles tensed, appeared dangerous, even deadly. His gaze moved to the ground surrounding the old building and to the garden before settling on the horizon. “You know, Jon,” he finally said, as if he’d come to some inner decision, one that made Kate’s blood run cold. “If you’d like, you can come over to the house and I’ll teach you a few things.” “Yeah?” Jon was interested. Kate didn’t like the hard glint in Daegan’s eyes. “Like what?” “To ride a horse, for one.” That seemed safe enough. “Would you? Really?” Jon’s black-and-blue face split into a grin. “Y ep, but we’ll start with Loco before we move on to Buckshot.” “Why couldn’t your horses be named Midnight and Scout? I’d feel a whole lot better,” Kate said, still nervous. A soft mist had begun to fall and a breeze stirred her hair. “That’s the way they came.” He glanced over at Jon again. “I’ll also teach you how to shoot a rifle.” Her gut clenched. “Wait a minute, I don’t like guns. Not even BB guns.”
She couldn’t let this man—this stranger—start running her son’s life. “Neither do I,” he admitted, turning his gaze back to her and staring hard. She felt as if a raw wind had rushed past her soul. “But living out here, Jon needs to learn to respect how guns work and what kind of damage they can inflict.” “I don’t know,” she said, still caught in his mesmerizing steely eyes. “Mom, come on!” Jon insisted, seeing a chance to work with weapons as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Daegan wasn’t finished. He dragged his eyes from hers and motioned through the trees to his house. “I was thinking about putting up a punching bag in the old barn, too. Do you have weights?” Jon shook his head. “You might want to start with those at first.” Kate felt as if she were losing control, of her son, her life. Aside from the outside forces physically attacking Jon, there was this man who was working some kind of magic on him and her. Maybe he could be trusted, but maybe he couldn’t. The jury was still out on Daegan O’Rourke, and even though he’d acted in her and Jon’s defense with nobility in the past few days, she wasn’t convinced that she could trust him. Not completely. Not yet. “Let’s just slow down a minute, okay? I’m not letting you turn Jon into some kind of... Rambo.” “Ah, Mom—” “Shh!” she said. “This isn’t how we live our lives, Jon. We’re not survivalists or—” “Maybe you should be.” Daegan was serious and she felt a frisson of cold fear slide down her spine. “This”—he motioned to the ugly words scrawled on the wall—“won’t end here.” “Oh, God.” “It’s just the beginning.” “How do you know?” “I was a kid once, too. Had my share of fights. Knew guys like Neider.” His eyebrows slammed together and his eyes thinned to a distance only he could see—a distance that looked past time. “Jon just needs to learn to defend himself, that’s all.” “Yeah, Mom, why not?” “No guns,” she said firmly. “If you want to teach him about wrestling or boxing or whatever... that’s okay, but no firearms.” “Mom,” Jon protested. “Don’t argue with me, Jon. Go on in and clean up and I’ll make lunch —” “But I want to—” “Now!” she said, at the breaking point. With the anxiety she’d felt over Houndog, the fear for her son’s safety when it came to Neider, the worry about his dreams, and now these new frightening emotions that gripped her every time she was with Daegan, her patience was running thin. For once Jon didn’t push the issue, and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, he turned on his heel and headed for the house. When he’d rounded the pump house and was out of earshot, she said, “You’re scaring me, you know.” “You should be scared.”
“Because of Todd Neider or because of something else?” she asked, the words tumbling after each other. She felt the cool mist against her face and the wind tug at the hem of her jacket. He stared at her long and hard, as if weighing what he knew about her in his mind. His gaze flicked to her lips and she realized in a heart-stopping second that he was going to kiss her. The back of her mouth turned to cotton and she licked her lips as his head lowered and his breath caressed her skin. “I’m just telling you to be careful, Kate. You can’t go around being a Pollyanna, believing that everything will turn out right just because you want it to.” “I’m not.” “Then give the boy a chance. Cut the apron strings, let him learn to defend himself.” She swallowed hard. He was so close she could see the streaks of blue in his eyes, noted when his nostrils flared with a breath or when his pupils dilated as the day grew darker. Unspoken questions hung between them and that raw, restless energy that was part of him seemed to pulse. It was all she could do to st ep away and clear her throat. “I—I should go in. I promised Jon lunch. Would you like to—I mean, I have plenty. Oh, for the love of God, listen to me. What I’m trying to say is would you like to eat with us?” A shadow crossed his face for a second as if he were wrestling with some inner torment, but he nodded curtly and shrugged. “Sure,” he said, turning away from the damning obscenities. “Why not?” A dozen reasons, you idiot, his mind scolded, but he ignored that harsh, irritating voice. His son had been through a lot; he just wanted to make sure Jon was okay. And besides, the more he knew about Kate and her deal with Tyrell Clark all those years ago, the better. Right? Wrong. Right now Daegan felt as if he were treading water and getting nowhere fast. It was coming up on decision time and he’d have to figure out just what he was going to do. He could tell Kate the truth, warn her about the Sullivans, admit that he was Jon’s father, but if he did, she’d never trust him again. Of course that shouldn’t matter. But it did. It mattered a helluva lot. Carl Neider’s place made old Eli’s homestead look like a palace. The house was a shabby single-wide mobile home that was thirty years old if it was a day. With a rusted trailer hitch still attached, as if the owner were contemplating a quick es cape, the aluminum home stood on concrete blocks drenched in rust and surrounded by weeds. Two skinny cats were huddled in the corner of a small lean-to porch of tarpaper and silvered wood. Scattered throughout the yard were pieces of old cars—rusted-out radiators, wheels, dashboards, and stacks of bald tires. Long grass going to seed was clumped around the two rickety st eps leading to the front door. Daegan slid his toothpick to the corner of his mouth as he observed the arid acres Todd Neider called home. Patches of scotch broom, tansy, and sage brush were interspersed with a few thin-barked oaks and jack pines whose naked branches danced in the wind. The sky was an ominous shade of gray, and Daegan could almost smell the scent of disenchantment that had settled into the cold earth on these few rundown acres. Daegan felt a pang of pity for the kid—this place was every bit as disheartening as Mary Ellen O’Rourke’s old apartment over the Cat O’Nine Tails Tavern in South Boston had been. Well, it was showdown time. He parked his truck behind a massive black pickup with huge tires and a string of lights mounted above the cab.
Two rifles rested on the gun rack mounted over the seat. One mean machine; probably owned by one mean hombre. Good. Daegan had been ready to take on Old Man Neider ever since he’d seen Todd trying to beat Jon to a pulp. Now or never. Since Daegan didn’t have much faith in the local law, he wasn’t about to let matters lie. He rapped hard on the door and waited until the giant of a man, six-four and pushing three hundred pounds, appeared in the frame. Dressed in a tight T-shirt and dusty jeans, he loomed above Daegan, the same roughneck who had shown up in the café that day, but this time Daegan got a better look at Todd Neider’s old man. His face was messed up—a broken nose and scar under one eye, the result of one too many fist fights, Daegan guessed. A tattoo of a snake wrapped around a heart decorated one meaty forearm and a wad of tobacco filled one cheek. “Yeah?” Neider growled, crossing both arms over his chest. “You Todd’s father?” Daegan asked without preamble. The guy didn’t look much for small talk, which was just fine with Daegan. “Who’s askin’?” “Daegan O’Rourke.” Daegan thought about extending his hand, but didn’t. This wasn’t exactly a social call and they both knew it. The behemoth stared down at him and shot a stream of tobacco juice into a cluster of weeds. “So you’re the bastard who threw my kid’s keys into a field of cow shit?” “That’s right.” Daegan didn’t even wince at the name. Neider couldn’t guess how close he was to the truth and it really didn’t matter. This was Jon’s battle and Daegan was going to savor fighting it. “Whaddaya want?” “You to ke ep your boy from picking on other kids, including Jon Summers.” “That little piece of faggy shit? He’s a fuckin’ retard, not worth botherin’ about.” Neider waved, as if shooing aside a pesky horse fly. “Just tell Todd to lay off.” “Or what?” “He’ll have to answer to me again.” Daegan managed his cruelest smile, one that had been known to worry bolder men than this hulking beast. “What’s it to you, O’Rourke? None of your business.” “Jon’s a friend of mine.” “Ha! Sure. You’re just out for a piece of his ma’s ass, like half the men in the county. She’s a cold bitch, that one. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time.” Daegan’s teeth clamped over his toothpick. Every muscle in his body tensed. His right hand fisted, and for one quick second, he thought about throwing the first punch. Instead he pinned Carl Neider with a look as cold as ice. “If I were you, I’d be worried sick that a mean son of a bitch might nail my boy the next time he tries to make trouble.” He crunched the toothpick into two halves and spit them out on the st eps. “As for Mrs. Summers, all she wants is her boy left alone.” “Then maybe she shouldn’t raise such a pansy. Christ, that kid’s weird.
He hears voices or sees visions or some such crap. Probably speaks in tongues and handles snakes, too. It’s freaky, just out-and-out freaky. But that’s not the worst part. That kid doesn’t know when to ke ep his mouth shut—ke eps botherin’ Todd at school.” “That’s not the way I hear it.” Neider grinned, showing off stained, tobacco-flecked teeth in sad need of a dentist. “Then he’s a lying son of a bitch.” “Carl, honey?” a woman’s voice slid through the open door. “In a minute,” he shot back. “I haven’t got all day,” she pouted. “I said ‘in a minute.’” Turning his attention back to Daegan, he continued, “You got anything else you want to say?” Daegan’s smile was grim as death. “I’m just here to warn you, Neider. Tell your boy to ease off, ’cause if he doesn’t, I won’t wait for the law; I’ll handle him myself, and next time it won’t be just a quick kick in the butt and a game of hide and seek with his keys.” Neider made a sound of disgust but his tiny eyes narrowed. “I’ll haul his ass to the county jail myself and make sure Swanson deals with him. Then I’ll call social services, see if they think Todd needs help or more supervision or maybe a father that doesn’t try to beat the living tar out of him when he’s tanked up.” “You scrawny fuck, get off my land!” “Just tell Todd he better stay away from Jon, his mother, and his damned dog.” Daegan glared up at the ugly ox. “Believe me, Neider, I’m not just screwin’ around. If I hear of him botherin’ anyone—anyone—I’ll take it personally.” “Christ, you’ve got a bug up your butt.” Carl’s thick brows drew together as if they’d been pulled by a purse-string, and his breath, smelling of stale beer, drifted over Daegan’s face as they squared off. “Oh, I get it,” the bigger man said with a leer. “You’ve got the hots for the kid’s old lady, don’t you? So you’re out stirrin’ up trouble about her boy. Trying to look like a damned hero to her. It won’t do no good. She don’t let anyone near her. Likes to ke ep to herself. Better men than you have tried, O’Rourke, and no one’s ever landed in her bed. There’s a running bet down at the Silver Horseshoe, the first son of a bitch who fucks her wins two hundred bucks!” Daegan nearly jumped out of his skin. He rolled onto the balls of his feet, his fingers curled, his muscles itching to pummel the sick bag of wind. “Don’t get yourself all worked up about a piece of ass you can’t have and a kid that’s a crappy little misfit,” Neider advised. “What’s going on between the boys, that’s their business. You stay out of it, O’Rourke.” “No way,” Daegan said as Carl lumbered down the two st eps and poked a thick finger at Daegan’s breastbone. “My boy fights his own battles. If someone’s giving him shit, he gives it right back, only a little harder. That’s the way he was taught, that’s what makes him tough, and that’s why that whiny little Summers kid is such a wimp. Now take a hike. You’re trespassin’ here.” “Just so as we understand each other, Neider.”
“Carl? You comin’?” A tall willowy woman leaned against the door frame. Wild blond hair framed a face that had once been pretty. Long legs were covered only by the hem of a T-shirt that was big enough to lop over one tanned shoulder. “You got a friend?” she wheedled holding a cigarette between long, slim fingers. “He was just leavin’, and no, he ain’t no friend.” “Too bad,” the woman said, looking longingly at Daegan, her soulless eyes sliding down his body and resting for a moment on his fly. With a sigh, she said, “See ya around, sugar.” “Go back into the house, Flo,” Neider ordered, his face flushing to an ugly purple color. “And you, O’Rourke, get the hell off my property before I kill ya.” Cold steel presses into the shoulder blade—the gun. The weapon’s brutal potential freezes him in place. He’s going to kill me. He’s thinking about it. The man’s thoughts are clearly transmitted through the nose of the pistol. Just kill the boy now and be done with this... “That’s where you’re wrong,” Jon tells him in a voice that sounds as aloof as the snowflakes that drift past them. “Kill me now and you’ll never be done with this. You’ll be paying for the rest of your life.” How do you...? Stop messing with my head! “Just shut up,” the man says with a low growl, but ke eps the gun stabbing into his back. Still pr epared to pull the trigger, still tempted to end it all now. A hand clamps hard on Jon’s left shoulder as the man presses closer, cloaking Jon in his evil. “You left without your jacket, son.” The man’s voice oozes with paternal concern, loud enough now for other people to hear. The two women decked in hooded jackets and boots cannot smell Jon’s panic as they walk right by and duck into the door of a boutique strung with white lights. “You can’t run around out here without a coat,” the man says, performing for passing shoppers. “You’ll catch your death of cold.” Jon twists his neck to turn toward the man, but unforgiving metal stabs de eper into his shoulder, ke eping him in line. The man is a shadow behind him, but Jon is able to make out the bubble jacket around the man’s fist, loosely concealing the pistol pressed within inches of Jon’s life. The pistol. No running from a gun... no es cape. A prisoner again. The wind tears over them, shrill and sharp, freezing the tears of frustration gathering in Jon’s eyes. He came so close. He nearly slipped away from this man... so close. And yet, he is back in the man’s grip, gun to his back. Trapped again. Kill him now... The man’s thoughts se ep through the broad palm of his hand on Jon’s shoulder. Kill him now and collect the money... “No! No, don’t!” Ducking the gun, Jon dove for the ground and found his face and hands sinking into soft sheet. His bed. Damn! He rolled over and sat for a minute, waiting out the thrumming in his ears, the roar of his racing pulse, the shrill terror of the dream. It was his first glimpse of the man’s motives, the first time the dream of his pursuer had spun on so long, though Jon wasn’t sure that was a good thing. After all, the ending sucked. A gun to his back with the man behind him licking his chops about killing him.
For money. What was that about? Ransom money? And why would anyone hold him for ransom when his mother could barely pay her Visa bill, let alone scrape together the kind of payoff that would make kidnapping worth the risk. He slung the blanket over his shoulders, went to the window, and stared out at the moon, barely visible through the tangled tree branches. The inky sky above him was as vast and dark as the morass of his nightmare. Who was the man, his pursuer... his killer? And the strange city, lit with Christmas lights? It was a far cry from Hopewell, Oregon, or even Bend with its downtown streets crowded with tables and pedestrians in the summer. No, the dream took place in a location as foreign to Jon as the icy fear instilled by his pursuer. A gust of wind shook the bare branches outside Jon’s window, bending the tops of tall fir trees down the lane. That was when he spotted it—a parked vehicle. Adrenaline shot through Jon as he scrutinized the dark hunk of metal near the road—a truck. Todd and his guys? Were they back to cause more damage? Squinting into the night, Jon recognized the truck as Daegan’s. Yeah, definitely Daegan’s, parked in a weird spot, as if he were ke eping watch. Guard duty. That was all right by Jon. If Daegan wanted to help fend off Todd Neider and his gang, well, he could use the help. But even a big guy like Daegan O’Rourke had his limitations. Too bad. No one, no one could save Jon from his dreams. Wind rattled through the old pickup. The sky was dark and gloomy, night settling like a shroud over the land. Parked at the end of his drive with a clear view of the Summers place, he settled in for the night. Daegan had sl ept in worse places and he didn’t plan on getting much shut-eye anyway. Whoever was terrorizing Jon and Kate was gonna get caught red-handed. He was going to see to it personally. Through the trees he noticed the lights of Kate’s house, imagined her walking through the rooms in little more than a robe, her hair pinned up from a recent bath, her skin flushed and warm, her voice soft. What was her routine? What did she wear to bed? What did she look like without any clothes when the suspicion left her eyes? He swallowed hard, tried to think of anything but her naked body, but try as he might, he saw her in his mind’s eye, slowly disrobing, showing off proud, full breasts with big, rosy nipples, long legs with a thatch of brown curls at the apex. Muttering under his breath, he scowled into the darkness and shifted on the seat, his jeans suddenly too tight. Hell, this was getting him nowhere. He couldn’t afford to think of her as anything but an obstacle. So why’re you freezing your tail off here trying to protect her and her son? Not because she’s an obstacle. Face it, O’Rourke, the woman’s getting to you. Whether you admit it or not, you want her. Gritting his teeth, he pulled a small flask of whiskey from the glove box, took a sip for warmth, and settled in. It promised to be a long night.