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She stopped, and he knew she was trying not to cry. He shifted his hands, wrapping his arms around her body, pulling her in tight.
“You’re not alone,” he said, and kissed her on the neck. She shivered, but not from fear, he thought. He hoped. “Come to bed,” he whispered into her ear and she nodded and then turned in his arms, and he knew what she was going to say. “I’ll sleep out here. You’ll be fine inside.”
“No,” she said. “I won’t be fine inside unless you’re in there, too. I know it’s just for tonight, but please stay with me.”
What if it’s for more than tonight? he thought, but he wasn’t sure about that, either, so he followed her back through the French doors and watched while she undressed, not ripping off her clothes in a rage this time but letting them drop as if she were too tired to do anything but let gravity take them, her round body lush in the moonlight, and he reminded himself that she needed comfort and sleep, not sex, even as he thought about taking her in every way possible as she climbed into the big guest bed by the glass doors. Then she patted the bed beside her, not bothering to cover her breasts as she leaned forward to him, and he stripped and joined her, the weight of his body in the bed tipping her to him so that he caught all her softness against him, trying to remember to be thoughtful and understanding instead of rolling her on her back. But she whispered, “Make me forget tonight for a while,” and he moved his hands down her curves, tasted her again as she moved hot beneath him in the quiet dark. He felt needed above all else, and knew it was more than just lust or even fear as he fell into her warmth and wetness, her body’s slide against him. And then even that thought faded as he lost himself in his need for her.
And when they’d both shuddered and come, he held her as she slipped into sleep, quiet next to him, no nightmares, and he watched the clouds in the night sky scuttle by and thought, This is a better room, and then he spooned himself against her and fell asleep, too.
thursday
cranky agnes column #92
“Eating for Your Beating Heart”
There are very few recipes that couldn’t be improved by the addition of three-quarters of a pound of butter and a cup of heavy cream, but this is cold comfort when you’re laid out like a slab of beef in intensive care, listening to the blood pound in your ears as you seriously consider going toward the light. Think before you eat, people: Food should be the life of you, not the death of you.
At eight thirty the next morning, Shane cradled a cup of Agnes’s good coffee in Carpenter’s van as his partner looked at the mug shot on the computer screen and then at the real mug on the body on the floor of his van lying in the unzipped body bag and said, “He looks better dead.”
They were parked away from the house. Carpenter had come back to eat the omelets Agnes had made for them, complimenting her on the food to the point where Shane thought he’d have to add to the body count. Agnes had smiled through all of it in spite of the bruise on her jaw. That was another thing he loved about her: Sex made her cheerful as all hell.
The bruise on her jaw made him want to kill the guy all over again, though. He’d have to settle for making the moron who’d sent the guy sorry he’d ever been born.
He heard another vehicle pull up, and he glanced out the small one-way bulletproof window and saw Joey’s pickup. He opened the back door and gestured, and the old man came over and hopped in, pausing when he saw the body wrapped in thick black plastic on the middle of the floor. Shane slammed the door shut.
“Who the fuck is that?” Joey demanded.
“The guy who came to whack Agnes last night,” Shane said. “The second one. The first was night before last, some guy named Macy.”
“What the fuck?” Joey exploded.
“Good question,” Shane said. “What we got here, Joey, is a food chain of hitmen, and I need to know who got the original contract and who let it. And I need to know it fast, before some pro shows up here instead of these amateurs. So you got any idea who would try to have Agnes hit?”
Carpenter was typing on his computer, but Shane knew he was listening to everything.
“Hold on,” Joey said. “You’re saying someone’s trying to whack Agnes?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“No idea.”
“Shit.” Joey sat down and passed his hand over his face. “Is she okay? Is she in there alone?”
“She’s never alone now,” Shane said. “Lisa Livia’s in there, Garth’s in there, Doyle’s working on the bridge. Now answer my question.”
“Right.” Joey nodded. “Jesus. Well, Four Wheels probably ain’t too happy about Two Wheels moving on to the afterlife and Three Wheels disappearing.”
“I don’t see Four Wheels sending Garth and Macy on the same night,” Shane said.
“Or somebody might not like you guys trying to open up that shelter and might figure whacking Agnes will stop that.”
“Nobody knows we’re opening that shelter,” Shane said.
Joey stared at him like he was stupid. “Lots of people know about the basement being opened. Stanley Harrison, the health inspector, was down there yesterday. He’s been telling everybody about some acid thing you’re doing down there. There ain’t many secrets here in Keyes.”
You’re keeping some, Shane thought, but he shook his head. “I still don’t see how killing Agnes is going to stop us from opening up that damn shelter.”
“Excuse me,” Carpenter said. “But as I understand it, if Agnes dies, Taylor inherits the house as part of the partnership agreement because of a survivorship clause.”
“What?” Shane said, taken aback. “How the hell did you find that out?”
“Lisa Livia told me last night,” Carpenter said. “What I’m saying is, maybe the hit isn’t about stopping us from entering, maybe it’s about allowing someone else to enter if they think there’s five million dollars in that bomb shelter.”
“That fuckin’ hairball is tryin’ to hurt my little Agnes? I’ll kill the bum.” Joey pulled his gun out. “Let’s go whack him.”
“No,” Shane said, though it was tempting. “We have to stop the immediate threat. Agnes can take care of Taylor with a toothpick, she doesn’t need us for that.” He turned to Carpenter. “What do you have on the stiff?”
Carpenter read from the screen. “One Vincent Marinelli, aka Vi
“Oh, fuck,” Joey muttered.
“I thought you didn’t know him,” Shane said.
“I never met him,” Joey corrected. “But I heard of the mutt. Small-time muscle man out of Sava
Carpenter’s fingers had been working the keyboard while Joey was talking. “The Torrentino brothers. Your uncle is right. Small time, but somewhat co
“So somebody put out a hit on Agnes, and whoever got it subcontracted it to this Marinelli guy, who subcontracted it to Macy,” Shane said.
Carpenter looked over from his computer. “The package that I disposed of Monday night in Sava
“What the luck is he talking about?” Joey asked. “What package?”
“Put the gun away, Joey,” Shane said absently. A plan. He needed a plan. He turned to his uncle. “You gotta level with me, Joey. It’s important. Are you pla
“Hell no. Why would I do that?”