I listened with my mug still cupped in both hands, thankful suddenly that Marc was around to do what I wasn’t willing to do. If my training involved any of what he’d done to Miguel, I would have to find a way out of my promise. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.
An hour later, everyone had showered and dressed, and no one said a word about me using up all the hot water.
They’d wrapped Miguel’s body and its various detached parts in a sheet of black plastic from the garage. Lucas taped up the bundle with his ubiquitous duct tape and tossed Miguel into the back of his own getaway van, which Vic had found parked down the road. Sean’s body got the same treatment.
They took far more pains with Anthony, wrapping him carefully and positioning his limbs as if for comfort. But he had to go in the white van, too. Rule number four for cleaning up at the site of an incident: carry all dead bodies in one vehicle so that if both cars get pulled over, fewer people will be caught with corpses. That was also why no one traveled with the bodies except the driver, who, in this case, was Lucas. Vic wanted to do it, to be with his brother, but Marc and I both vetoed his decision. He seemed to be holding up remarkably well, but at some point his grief would sink in, and he shouldn’t be behind the wheel when it did.
After inspecting the scene of the incident one last time—out of habit more than necessity—Marc pronounced us ready to go. Someone had redistributed a pile of leaves to cover up all evidence of violence, including my vomit, and Marc assured me that the first good rain would take care of anything they missed. Then he assured me they didn’t miss anything.
Unfortunately, the chain-link fence was history. Daddy offered to pay for it, but the Taylors refused his money. They said a fence was a small price to pay for securing their daughter’s safety and ridding us all of the men responsible for so much trouble. I thought the term trouble was a bit of an understatement, but the Taylors saw no reason to complicate things with the truth.
And, really, who was I to judge?
Thirty-Two
“Did you really throw up?” Jace asked me.
I smiled. Enough time had passed for me to be able to laugh about it, though there were a couple of weeks following that night when I thought I might never smile again. “Yeah. All over the ground. I think I splashed Vic’s shoes.”
Jace laughed, then grimaced, clutching his chest. He was able to sit up, and had insisted we play chess while we talked, but I knew it was a ruse. He didn’t think I could concentrate on the game if I was busy talking. But I had news for him: I was always busy talking, so for me it was business as usual.
“Check,” I said, moving my bishop into place.
He moved a knight in to block my bishop. “I wish I could have been there.”
“No, you don’t.” I eyed my captured pieces, lined up on his side of the board. If I could just get my other bishop back… “Trust me, it wasn’t pretty.”
“Well, considering the alternative…” His sweeping gesture took in his entire body.
“How many times can a girl apologize?” I asked, moving my queen forward to back up my remaining bishop. “I should never have taken your car. But look what you get out of it. I’d love six weeks off.”
“Not me.” He moved a pawn forward one space to threaten my only remaining knight. “Four weeks down, and two to go.”
His nose had healed the fastest, and thanks to Dr. Carver it looked as good as new. It would have been a shame to ruin Jace’s face with a crooked nose. His toes hadn’t been quite as lucky; the little one on the end would never be the same. Jace had a great attitude about it, though. He said the flaw gave him character.
What it actually gave him was a new pick-up line. He’d already made up a story to try out on poor un-suspecting women next time he and Ethan went barhopping. It involved a runaway train, a damsel in distress and a baby carriage. No one ever said he was original. Luckily, he still had his looks. And two more weeks to work on his pick-up line.
Two of his ribs had been broken quite badly, and Dr. Carver refused to set him loose on the world again until they healed. Until then, it was my job to keep him company, playing the game of his choice, so long as no clothes came off. It was my punishment for taking his keys. It was also punishment for Marc. Daddy had finally been forced to agree that Marc’s temper was out of control.
Marc was handling it well, mostly because one side of my bed smelled like him more often than not. He was happy, and annoyingly chipper. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. If it didn’t happen soon, I’d have to take off one of my own and throw it at him.
“Checkmate,” I said, moving my poor overworked queen to her final resting place, in direct diagonal line with Jace’s king.
“Bullshit!” Jace cried. “Give me a minute and I’ll find another move.”
Fat chance. I had him walled in with my remaining bishop and knight. “Take all the time you need.” I leaned back in my chair, lacing my hands behind my head. “Just wake me up when you think of something.”
“Who won?”
I spun to find Marc in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a plain black T-shirt. Work clothes. Great.
“I did.” I unlaced my hands and leaned forward. “What’s up?”
“Stray in southern Louisiana. The call just came in.”
I froze, my heart pounding in my ears. “Jungle cat?” I asked, but he knew what I really meant. Is it Luiz?
Since ridding the world of Miguel, we hadn’t seen or heard a thing from Luiz, in spite of doubled-up patrols in every claimed territory. Because there were no known victims after the girl in Oklahoma, the council was convinced that another stray eliminated the problem for us, even before we’d caught Miguel. There was also a rumor circulating among the wildcats that Luiz had fled the country after hearing about what happened to Miguel. I didn’t know which was true, and I didn’t really care, so long as he never showed up again.
Marc shook his head, keeping his smile easy and light, trying to set me at ease. “Nope, plain old garden-variety American stray. He’s ours if we want him.” He grinned. “You feel like seeing New Orleans?”I glanced at Jace. He was frowning, but when he noticed me looking, he smiled. “Go ahead.”
“You sure?” I asked. “I can stay and kick your ass in a couple more games if you want.”
“Gee, how could I turn that down?” He waved me off with a flick of his hand. “Go on. Bring me back some beads.”
I laughed. “Jace, it’s July.”
“So what?”
“So, Mardi Gras is in February.”
He frowned again. “Oh. Then just bring me some jambalaya.”
I smiled and rolled my eyes. “Sure, Jace. I’ll bring you some jambalaya.”
“Thanks.” He turned back to the board and began setting up the pieces. “Grab Ethan on your way out and tell him I’m bored, will you?”
“No problem.”
Marc followed me to my room and took my suitcase from the closet.
“We’re staying overnight?”
“In New Orleans? Hell, yeah.” He dropped the hard-shell case on the bed.
“What if we catch him this afternoon?”
He grabbed me around the waist and tossed me onto the bed next to the suitcase, pinning me down before I could get up. “What Daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
I rolled us over and straddled his waist, staring down at him with a smile. “It’ll hurt you if you try to bill him for the trip.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned up at me.
“What?”
“You’re beautiful.”
I blushed. I’d refused to look into the mirror for weeks, until my face felt normal when I touched it. My cheek healed okay, but my throat had scarred. I had four small white crescents running in a vertical line, just to the left of my esophagus. I wasn’t vain enough to think they marred my reflection, but I never once looked at them without remembering that night. So I looked in the mirror less and less.
“You’re right,” I said, planting my palms on his chest. “And you’re very lucky.”
“I never denied it.” And he hadn’t. He pulled me down and kissed me again, then rolled me onto my back. “Get packed.” Flashing me one last smile, he left for the guesthouse to pack his own bag.
I stood at the end of my bed and opened the suitcase, surprised to discover that it was already full—of books. What the hell? Then my eyes settled on a technical-writing textbook, and I remembered.
After my face healed, I’d gone back to school to pack up my stuff, say goodbye to Sammi, and to try to explain my decision to Andrew. But he wasn’t there. He’d withdrawn from school shortly after I left, with no explanation. Confused by his absence, I said a tearful goodbye to Sammi as I tossed my belongings into various suitcases and boxes, paying very little attention to what I took and what I left behind.
Now, staring down into the bag, I realized I’d never bothered to unpack.
With a sigh, I began pulling out books, lining them up on my shelf four at a time, in front of the row already in place. At the bottom of the suitcase, my hand hesitated over the last book. Walden, by Thoreau. It was a thin paperback edition—and it wasn’t mine. I hated the transcendentalists. I preferred to experience nature on four paws rather than read about it.