Charles lifted his brows at her. “I can call 911 if you prefer.”
Bobby glared. “I said I was sorry for this morning and I’ve thanked you a thousand times for coming to help me, even though it took you long enough to get here.”
“I told you I couldn’t just drop everything. I was with a client.”
“Which one?” she demanded.
He shot her a sober look. “And this became your business since when?”
She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry. Just get the damn thing out, all right?”
He chuckled suddenly, remembering the look on Rose Bowie’s face when his cell had started vibrating on the table just as he’d started to commune with the spirit world. “You called at a perfect time, actually. I thought Rose Bowie would have coronary.”
“Rose Bowie? What did that old bag want?”
“She was worried violence would mar her daughter’s funeral tomorrow,” he said, pulling Bobby’s arm far harder than he needed to. “Rose didn’t want a scene like there was at that Sheila Cunningham’s service. Since I was reasonably sure you had no more staff to shoot, I told her it would be fine.”
“And for this she paid you?”
“A considerable fee, both for the reading and to keep our sessions secret. Her husband’s constituency would not approve of her dabbling in the occult, nor would Rose’s friends at the Baptist church.” Rose was one of his most lucrative clients.
Although Carol Vartanian had paid much more. Charles missed their sessions. Who knew that under that cool exterior beat the heart of a woman who had truly despised her husband? She’d started coming to Charles to see her future and he’d made certain that just enough of it had come true to keep Carol believing every word that came from his mouth. She’d kept coming out of a perverse desire to do exactly what would have enraged her husband the most.
That sex had been Carol’s best weapon had been his gain. Yes, he missed Carol Vartanian. Susannah looked a lot like her mother. It would have been such a pleasure to initiate her, to have her hang on my every word. But that was no longer in the cards, as it were. That Susannah would die was never in doubt. That she’d die painfully became an inevitability the night she destroyed one of his best and brightest.
An eye for an eye was a fool’s trade, Pham had always said. His mentor had never been wrong. Charles bent over Bobby’s arm, his movements harsh as he dug the bullet from her flesh. “You took a chance coming here. To this house.”
“They won’t look for me here and if they do, there are tons of places to hide. Shit,” she hissed again. “That hurts.”
He imagined it did. He handed her a bottle of Arthur’s best scotch. “Drink this.”
She pushed it away. “I can’t be drunk. If they come looking, I have to be sharp.”
“You said they wouldn’t look for you here.” He tugged, earning more hissed curses.
“Who taught you bullet removal, Joseph Mengele?” she muttered.
“Actually, I learned when I had to pull a bullet out of my own leg,” he said mildly.
Her gaze whipped over to the walking stick he’d propped against the table. “Oh.”
Charles pulled the bullet out with a twist. He’d actually had it in his grip several times, but playing with Bobby had suddenly become old. He held it in the palm of his hand for her to see. “You want to keep it as a souvenir?” he mocked.
“Did you?” she asked bitterly. “When some Vietcong soldier shot you?”
Charles considered slapping Bobby senseless, but he wouldn’t have to slap that hard. There was no sport in breaking her when she was hanging on to control by a thread. But she was hanging on, and a small part of him had to admire her for that, so he answered her. “Actually I did. I kept the bullet to remind me how much hate I felt at that moment. I needed that hate to survive. And I was not shot by the Vietcong,” he added. It was a point of pride, after all.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Then who shot you?”
She’d never asked before. She’d never had the nerve. Toby Granville had asked long, long ago. He’d been only thirteen and far more self-confident than Bobby had ever been. Charles had answered Toby then. He decided to answer Bobby now. “Another American soldier. We’d escaped together.”
Her eyes opened, narrow slits as he cleaned the wound. “From where?”
“A hell-hole in Southeast Asia otherwise known as a POW camp.”
She let out a breath between her teeth. “That explains a lot.” She flinched when he jabbed the needle into her flesh. “Sir. So why did he shoot you?”
“Over a crust of bread,” he said, still mildly, although speaking the words aloud brought the cauldron within him to a steady boil. “Then he left me to die.”
“Obviously you didn’t.”
“Obviously.” But that wasn’t a story he’d share.
She gritted her teeth as he began to suture the wound. “And your revenge?”
“Slow in coming.” Charles thought of the man who sat in a New York prison for a crime he had not committed, protecting the family he’d never had the chance to know. The man who deserved every day of his torment, and more. “But long in duration and well worth the wait. Every day I smile knowing that every day he suffers. Mind, body, and soul. For the rest of his natural life.”
She was quiet while he stitched. “Why didn’t you just kill him?” she finally asked.
“Because in his case, death was too quick.”
She nodded, her teeth imprinting her lower lip, but she didn’t cry out. This was the tough girl he’d met all those years ago. This was the backbone he hadn’t seen in some time. He pulled hard on the suture. She sucked in a harsh breath, but remained silent, so he pushed her further. “Susannah, on the other hand…”
“I want to see her dead,” Bobby said between her teeth. “But it won’t be quick.”
“Good,” he said, a little too vehemently, and she looked up at him, eyes narrowed.
“You hate her, too. Why?”
He frowned, angry with himself for being so transparent. “My reasons are my own.”
She frowned back. “All these years you’ve pushed me to hate her. To take back what’s mine.”
He bandaged her arm. “As you should. Susannah lived the life to which you were entitled.” He placed her arm inside a sling and stepped back. “I’m finished with you.”
“I’m not finished with you. You’ve pushed me for years to kill her for you. Why do you hate Susannah Vartanian? What did she take of yours?” When he didn’t answer she grabbed his arm with her free hand. “Tell me.” She towered over him, blue eyes flashing cold fire, and for the briefest of instants he felt a tiny spear of fear.
Well done, he thought, proud of her once more. Carefully he removed her hand from his sleeve. “Sit down before you fall down. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
She sat, shaky, pale, but still intense. “Tell me,” she repeated, more quietly. “If I’m going to kill her for you, I at least deserve to know why. What did she take of yours?”
Charles met her eyes. She made a fair point. “Darcy Williams.”
Atlanta, Sunday, February 4, 7:45 p.m.
“Susannah, wake up. We don’t want to be late.”
Susannah fought her eyelids open, then sat straight up, looking around. “Why are we here?” Here was the airport and Luke was pulling into the parking garage.
“Surprise,” was all he’d say. “It’ll be worth it. I promise.”
“Why are we here?” she asked again when he led her to baggage claim, toward the wall where the oversized luggage had been placed. “You had my clothes sent? But how…?” The question trailed as he took her shoulders and turned her. Susannah stared for a moment, then her heart flooded. “Oh.” She ran to the hard pet carrier sitting against the wall, falling to her knees to peer in the little wire door. A familiar face peered out, happy to see her. Thor. “How did you do this?”