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frowned at the checkerboard, lost in concentration. I took a step backwards
toward the door. She looked up. "Except, I think it's already been sorted
through."
"Oh." I stopped. I was afraid of that. "So it's in a box in the administrative
offices?" I
could break in there and take a peek. But I didn't really want to.
"Oh, I don't think so. I just meant that his nephew already went through it
all. He's dreamy!"
so
"His nephew?" I asked, wishing it was easier to carry on a linear conversation
with Jenny.
"Oh, yeah. And he actually talked to me."
"Jenny, what are you talking about?"
She blew out a frustrated breath. "He's a celebrity, Mrs. Connor! I didn't
even know Mr. Sinclair had any relatives, but then his nephew shows up and
he's, like, a total hunk!"
"Got his picture in the newspaper and everything," Delia confirmed. "One hot
number, that guy."
"Hot number?" I asked, but Delia was already rummaging on the table for
yesterday's paper. She flipped
through, found the
Life
& Arts section, and handed it to me. And right there, on the first page, was a
picture of Cool at Saturday's cookout, front and center with the surfers lined
up behind him.
Sinclair was Cool's uncle? Maybe. But if not, then what reason did Cool have
to snoop through a dead demon's belongings?
Needless to say, my interest was piqued.
I figured I'd gotten as much information as possible from Jenny and Delia, so
I left them to their game and went down to Sinclair's old room.
As
I'd expected, it had been picked clean. I searched diligently, though, just in
case. The only contraband I found was a Snickers tucked between the mattress
and the box spring. Fattening, maybe, but hardly demonic.
I shut Sinclair's door, perched on the edge of his now-stripped bed, and
called Laura's cell phone. No answer. I tapped my fingers on my knee
, waiting for her voice mail to pick up, and then when it did, I
had to fight back the urge to blurt everything out. I was pretty sure Laura
was the only one who ever checked her cell phone messages. But
I wasn't positive.
So in what was probably more cloak-and-dagger than necessary, I left her a
cryptic message about how
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I'd learned some interesting stuff about the local celebrity we'd been talking
about, and maybe she could see what she could find out about him online.
Seemed pretty clear to me. Hopefully, it would to Laura, too.
I'd just clicked off when my phone rang again. I checked the display, saw that
it was Cutter, and smiled as I answered. "Hey there. What's up?"
"My banking advice work out?"
"Sure did. You're brilliant."
"Win me any brownie points?"
"Five, actually. Ten more and I'll have to officially label you a good guy."
"How many points until you tell me all your secrets?"
"Careful there, Cutter," I said, my voice stern despite my smile. "Keep
pushing and you'll start earning demerits, too."
"Damn. And I was so close."
I laughed. "What's up?"
"You're coming in today, right?"
"Sure." I worked out with Cutter most every Monday. We'd developed a nice
little routine, and I was honing my atrophied skills. "Why?"
"That new student I mentioned, the one who needs a sparring partner? I told
him to come by around four. That okay with you?"
"Too late now if it's not," I said. Cutter had invited the guy to arrive right
when my private session was scheduled to begin.
"He's good, Kate. And he'll make you better."
"He's that good
?"
"No. Not yet. But he's surprising. And he's not me. You're getting lazy."
"The hell I am."
He laughed. "Yeah? Prove it to me this afternoon."
"You're an ass, Cutter."
"I know. But I'm an ass who puts up with you."
So true. I told him I'd be there, then clicked off, looking forward to
sparring with this mystery man. A
little fresh meat would do me good.
When I'd first started working out again, I'd been surprised how quickly I'd
slid back into familiar routines. But there's a satisfaction that comes with
knowing you can kick the shit out of someone and, truth be told, I'd missed
that.
I'd found replacements, sure. I mean, there's also an intense satisfaction in
helping your kid learn to count, in making sure your family has clean clothes
(most of the time) and decent meals (if not gourmet). And although I disdain
all things housekeeping, there's even a perverse satisfaction that comes from
getting the layer of soap scum off the inside of the glass shower doors.
(Lemon oil. Works like a charm. Trust me on that one.)
But none of that matches the thrum of satisfaction that races through you when
you execute a perfectly timed kick and nail your opponent cold.
I spent the next few hours doing my typical volunteer routine at Coastal
Mists. I asked the residents about Sinclair, but no one had much to say other
than the usual ghoulish commentary on how horrible his death was, and how
unfortunate to have a heart attack and end up with a spike through your eye.
That got me thinking all over again about everything that had happened, and
how much I didn't know. By the time I arrived at Cutter's place, I was ready
to let off some steam.
"I hope this guy is good," I said, "because I'm in the mood to kick a little
butt."
"I'm good," came a familiar voice. I looked up, startled, and sure enough,
David Long stepped out from behind the curtain that separated the workout
floor from the changing rooms. "Or at least I used to be."
He held up his cane. "But I may not be a match for you."
My breath caught in my throat, and I realized I was standing there like a
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statue, just staring at him.
"Kate?" Cutter frowned at me. "What?"
"Nothing," I said. Except that I wanted to rip David's demonic little throat
out right then and there. What kind of a game was he playing? Getting close to
my daughter getting close to me and then setting himself up to spar?
Damn demons are getting ballsier every day.
"It doesn't look like nothing from here," David said. He took a step toward
me. I took a step back. "Are you feeling okay?"
"I feel just fine. How about you? Leg doing okay after the accident?"
"What accident?" Cutter asked, looking between us.
"Mr. Long was in a car accident. Busted his knee. Broke his tibia."
"That was a while ago," David said. "I'm doing just fine now. A slight limp,
and I keep the cane handy in case the leg gets tired."
"I didn't realize you two knew each other."
"Oh, yeah," I said. "David and I are old friends. Aren't we?"
"Yeah," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. "We are."
I shivered, goose bumps rising on my arms as I fought the urge to run. I don't
know where and I don't know why, but something about his words. Something
about his voice&
I shook myself, forcing the moment to pass. "I don't think this is such a good
idea," I said to Cutter. "I
don't like to fight men with canes."
David spun the cane like a staff, then slammed it down on the mat not two
centimeters from my foot.
"Why not? Figure you'll be at a disadvantage?"
"Give it a rest, you two," Cutter said. His voice was firm, but he shot me one
more questioning look. I
kept my face stoic and looked pointedly away. "Kate, David is going to spar
with the cane."
"I figure so long as I'm stuck with the thing, I may as well make the most of
it and turn it into a weapon."
"Your call, Kate. But I think it'll do you good."
"Fine," I said. I'd wanted to practice with staffs anyway, right?
I moved to the middle of the mat. "Bring it on."
David looked me up and down. "You're not going to change?"
"I'll ditch my purse," I said. "But I can fight in jeans. And I don't think [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]