“Run, Molly! Get out!”
Molly darted for the glass French doors just as Des dove for Clay’s gun, wrestling him for it. He got off one quick shot in Molly’s direction, blowing out the glass as she ran out. Then a second, wild shot into the ceiling. Des could not tell whether Molly made it. Because by now Hector was all over her. Both men were-pummeling her, kicking her. Des gave as good as she got. Landed a hard right to Clay’s nose that sent blood spurting. But then she felt a tremendous explosion inside of her head and this time there was no fighting it, no chance.
This time everything went black and stayed black.
CHAPTER 12
To: Mitch Berger
From: Bella Tillis
Subject: Local Emergency
Dear Mr. Big Shot New York Movie Critic-You need to come out here right away, tattela. Des is in the worst kind of trouble. I wouldn’t ask you to come except you’re the only one in the whole world who can help and this is a real life and death emergency. She needs you, Mitch. Come at once. Come directly here. Don’t bother phoning or responding to this e-mail. Just come. If you don’t, I promise that you will regret it for the rest of your life.
I’ll explain everything when you get here. Please hurry.
Much love, Aunt Bella.
The slow, agonizing crawl of evening rush hour traffic finally began to pick up after Mitch made it past Stamford. It was 8:30 by now-more than two hours since he’d arrived home to pack for his trip and discovered Bella’s strange e-mail.
He did try to phone her. But all he got was her machine. He’d hung up without leaving a message. Paced his apartment. Reread her e-mail again and again, searching for some hint as to what the hell was going on. A hidden kernel. A nuance. Something, anything. Got nowhere. Paced his apartment some more, boiling with frustration. Then abruptly grabbed the phone and switched to a later flight to L.A. tomorrow. Packed an overnight bag. Dumped some extra kibble in Clemmie’s bowl, said good-bye and dashed out the door. He caught a cab down to a rental car place on West 81st Street off of Amsterdam, signed for a Chevy Impala and took off, scarfing down a takeaway supper as he crept his way slowly up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Cross Bronx Expressway.
It was a warm, humid evening. He had the air conditioning cranked high and the Mets-Cubs game on the radio from Shea, Mets leading 4-1 in the bottom of the third. However, thunderstorms were likely to interrupt play at any time, according to Mitch’s idol, the Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker Jim Cantore. Who was never wrong. Mitch drove, sucking the last of his sweet papaya drink through a straw. The greasy wrappers on the passenger seat next to him all that remained of the three Gray’s Papaya hot dogs he’d stuffed in his face before he’d reached the George Washington Bridge. Very first time he’d eaten anything so overtly unhealthy in weeks. But he’d had an uncontrollable yen. Stress, he supposed.
At a time like this a man needed a boost from his natural food group.
He drove, his mind drifting back to last night’s adventures in bed with Cecily. How smooth her milky white skin had been. How uninhibited she was. How incredibly, freakishly limber. Their love-making had been boisterous, loud and an amazing amount of fun. It felt great to take his new, toned body out for a test run after so many months of celibacy. Cecily felt great.
As they were lying there in each other’s arms, spent and exhausted, she’d murmured, “Now I expect you’ll be wanting me to catch a cab home.”
“Why would I want that?”
“Generally speaking, your prototypical male wants you out by two. Two-thirty at the latest. Can’t sleep with a living, breathing, twitchy-legged female in his bed.”
“I’m not your prototypical male.”
“Do you mean to say you won’t utterly freak you out if I spend the night?”
“Not at all. I happen to come from a long line of snugglers.”
“This is most… unexpected.”
“Unless you want to leave.”
“Actually, what I want is a long, hot bubble bath.”
“Right now?”
“If you care to join me I’ll feed you strawberries dipped in hot fudge sauce.”
“You make it hard to say no, Naughton.”
“Making it hard is the general idea, Berger.”
It all felt so right between them that when they were lolling in the tub together he impulsively suggested she spend some time with him out in L.A. And she impulsively said yes. He wasn’t the least bit worried that they were moving too fast. They were just going with it. Letting it happen.
Except now, instead of jetting out to the coast in the morning, Mitch was steering a rental Chevy along I-95 through Westport. It was starting to drizzle. Back at Shea, the rain was coming down so hard that play had been halted. Mitch flicked off the radio and turned on the windshield wipers, recalling the first time he’d driven out to Dorset on another dark and stormy night one year ago. He’d never been to the place before. Barely even heard of it. It was Lacy who’d sent him there. Tossed him a Weekend Getaway assignment for the travel section-her way of forcing him to get his fat butt out of his apartment after Maisie died. As he drove along now, Mitch remembered that first time he set eyes on the little piece of paradise called Big Sister Island. The first time he’d seen the moldering wreck of a carriage house he would rent and eventually own. Finding the dead body in his tomato patch. Coming face to face with a tall, cool, supremely elegant homicide investigator named Desiree Mitry. She of the alluring light green eyes and breathtaking figure. A rescuer of feral cats who had a secret gift for drawing the victims whose killers she hunted down. It all seemed like much longer than a year ago. Maybe because it was so over between the two of them. And yet now he was heading right back out there to help her. Why? Because Bella asked him to? Or because he was the putz of the century? Why did he even care what happened to this woman who had stomped on his heart with her size 12 and a half AA lace-up boots?
He didn’t know. But here he was, cruising his way north past New Haven and into the Land of the Quaint. Welcome to Connecticut’s Gold Coast-Sachem Head, the Thimble Islands, Madison, Fenwick, Griswold Point and his very own Dorset.
He moved over to the far right lane as he took the Baldwin Bridge over the Connecticut River. Got off at the exit just on the other side of the river and started his way down Old Shore Road, rolling down his windows so he could inhale the rich aromas of the tidal marshes. By now it was past ten. He could hear helicopters circling low overhead. And when he passed Turkey Neck Road he noticed a police barricade had been set up there. TV news crew vans were nosed in together along the shoulder of the road. Mitch wondered what was up. And whether it had anything to do with Bella’s e-mail. He flicked on his radio in search of local news. Couldn’t find any. Settled for an oldies station that was playing “If 6 Was 9” by Hendrix as he eased the rental Chevy through the darkness of the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve to the gate, where he used his card to raise the safety barrier and started his way bumpety-bump-bump over the narrow wooden causeway.
Home.
Hearing the water lapping against the rocks of his little beach. Smelling the fresh mown meadow grass. Seeing the welcoming lights of his snug little cottage. As he got out of the car, Mitch felt something thunk into his shin. It was Quirt’s head. The cat had come running over to greet him. Now he was rubbing up against Mitch’s leg and making that eerie, screechy noise that was what he did instead of purring.
Mitch picked him up. “Hey, big guy, don’t tell me you’re happy to see me.”
Quirt licked him on the nose, which he never did. Then began to squirm and writhe in his arms, which he always did. Mitch let him in the house and stood there in the doorway looking around. Bella had moved the table over by the bay windows, which he didn’t care for. His beloved sky blue Fender Stratocaster was parked just inside of the door. He’d chosen to leave his axe behind, and shouldn’t have. He reached for it now and held it, loving the feel of it in his hands again.