He sat back on his heels and dropped one arm.
“You would go to prison for a very long time, and you’re a good person, Donovan. I can feel that, too, sense it, just like when I sense Rocket’s presence.”
My phone rang then, and I waited for a nod of approval from Donovan before answering. I fished it out of my jacket pocket but didn’t recognize the number. “This is Charley,” I said as Donovan got up and started pacing again.
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Garrett? Where are you?”
“At a convenience store. Where the fuck are you?” he asked, clearly upset. “What the hell is going on?”
“Is that guy still with you?” I asked, glancing underneath my lashes at Donovan.
“Hell no.”
Startled, I asked, “Where is he?”
Donovan stilled.
“He jumped out at a fucking stop sign. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”
Garrett seemed upset. He rarely used the word fuck that many times in a row. He usually staggered it more, used it sparingly. Surely he realized the act of incorporating the word into his speech that often lessened its impact, thereby systematically deteriorating its overall efficacy.
“Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry. Just stay there. I’m fine.”
“Are you still mingling with the out crowd?”
“Um, yes.”
“Then fuck that. I’ll be there in two.”
“Swopes. I totally have this.”
“You mean when they dragged you into the house by the collar?” he asked, clearly agitated. “Did you have that?”
“I’m telling you,” I said, leveling out my voice, “I’m good.”
“Damn it, Charles.”
“Garrett, holy cow.” Without waiting for another argument, I closed my phone.
“Where is he?” Donovan asked.
“He’s on his way back.” I knew my order would have done no good.
“With Blake?”
“No. He jumped out at a stop sign,” I said reluctantly. I expected outrage, curses, flying chairs. What I got was a smile.
He glanced around at the gang. “He’s ours.”
Well, probably the only good I did was to prolong Blake’s torture. Now they were angry and prepared. Wonderful. Maybe I was going to be indirectly responsible for his death. Maybe Blake the dog killer would be my guardian. I hoped not. I didn’t particularly want a guardian who’d been a dog killer in his previous life. Why would anybody do something like that?
Then I realized Donovan was still smiling at me, a seductive patience shining in his eyes. “Now, about that kiss.”
“Oh,” I said, stumbling to my feet with an utterly inane giggle. I started to back out, but the prince blocked my path. The traitor.
Donovan closed the distance between us and placed his fingers under my chin. “That was a pretty brave thing you did. Ultimately a complete waste of everyone’s time and energy, but brave.” He ran his thumb from my bottom lip down my chin and back up again. “How do you do what you do?”
I decided impress them with brutal honesty. “I don’t normally tell people this, but I’m the grim reaper.”
Smiles snaked across all their faces, even the prince’s. He looked around me from behind and winked.
Another emotion came over Donovan then, something startlingly similar to respect, admiration. He tensed as if fighting for resolve and studied me a long moment. “I’m so fucking in love with you,” he said before dropping his gaze to Danger and Will. “You’d better go before I change my mind.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I ducked past a grinning prince and tore out of that place like a cat in a room full of pit bulls.
While I wanted to stop and chat with Rocket, now was clearly not the time. Those men were going to be out for blood. I just hoped Blake had a good pair of running shoes.
20
Some days you’re the cat. Some days you’re the brand-new, suede leather Barcalounger.
—T-SHIRT
Cookie had left the info on Yost’s property in Pecos by the coffeepot in my apartment. I gave a shout out to Mr. Wong, then put on a pot of java before looking it over. According to the county tax assessor’s report, Yost had a hunting cabin deep in a wooded area of the Santa Fe Mountains a short distance from the Pecos River. Shouldn’t be too hard to find during the day. Since it was already dark, I’d have to wait and head out at first light.
In the meantime, I rummaged through my bag—a cross between a clutch and a suitcase—and fished out the mail I’d stolen from the crime scene of Farley Scanlon’s mobile home. The girl with the knife looked on, slightly interested. I’d managed to abscond with two envelopes addressed to a Harold Reynolds and one addressed to Harold Zane Reynolds. Unfortunately, two were credit card offers, and one was a flyer inviting Harold to invest in gold.
After making a mega-sized cup of coffee, I sat at my computer to see what dirt I could dig up on the guy. The girl stood beside me, mesmerized by the computer screen, her knife clutched solidly in her hand.
It didn’t take me long to find out Harold Zane Reynolds was fairly nonexistent. “Well, this sucks,” I said to the girl. She ignored me.
I searched a bit more and found a previous address for a Harold Z. Reynolds, that looked promising. If nothing else, maybe a neighbor knew Harold and could tell me where he’d gone. If he hadn’t killed them all.
I repacked my belongings, poured my coffee into a to-go cup, then headed out the door, leaving the girl in the incapable hands of Mr. Wong. She was too busy studying my screen saver to notice my absence anyway.
Garrett must have called it a day. Neither he nor his colleague was out front, which made me happy until I hopped in Misery and started toward the address. Something about it seemed familiar. And the closer I got, weaving my way through Albuquerque’s south side, the colder the realization prickling my spine became.
I pulled to a stop in front of a condemned apartment building, the reality of where I was washing over me in stupefying waves. The last time I’d been at this particular building, I stood in the street with my sister Gemma and watched as a man beat a teenage boy unconscious. If I hadn’t been sure Harold Reynolds was one of Earl’s aliases before, I was now.