Covet

Chapter 18

A crossroads meant you went left or you went right, Jim thought as he lay stretched out on the garage floor, a wrench in his hand.

When you came to a crossroads, by definition, you had to pick a course, because going straight on the path you were on was no longer an option: You got on the highway or stayed on the surface road. You passed this car on the dotted line or stayed behind him to keep safe. You saw an orange light and either sped through or started to slow.

Some of these decisions didn't matter. Others, unbeknownst to you, put you in the path of a drunk driver or kept you out of his way.

In Vin's case, that ring he was sitting on was the equivalent of a right hand turn that took him out of the way of an eighteen-wheeler that was just about to hit a patch of black ice: What the guy did now meant everything to his life and he had to hit that direction signal and get onto the new road fast. The SOB was running out of time with his woman and had to pull the trigger on that all important question before she—

“Fuck!”

Jim dropped the wrench that had slipped and shook out his hand. All things considered, he probably needed to pay a little more attention to what he was doing; assuming he wanted to keep his knuckles where they were. Trouble was, he was consumed with the whole Vin thing.

What the hell did he do with the guy now? How did he motivate him to ask for that woman's hand in marriage?

In his old life, the answer would have been easy: He'd have just put a gun to Vin's head and dragged the fucker to the altar. Now? He needed to be a little more civilized.

Sitting back on the cool concrete floor, Jim glared at the piece-of-shit motorcycle that he'd been carting around since he'd landed back in the States. It hadn't worked then and it didn't now, and going by his half-assed rehabbing job this morning, its future didn't require shades. Christ, he had no idea why he'd bought the thing. Dreams of freedom, maybe. Either that or, like any guy with a set of balls, he was into Harleys.

Dog looked up from the patch of sunlight he'd been snoozing in, his shaggy ears pricking.

Jim sucked on the knuckle he'd skinned. “Sorry I cursed.”

Dog didn't seem to care as he put his head on his paws, his bushy eyebrows up like he was prepared to keep listening, whether it was curses or something folks could say in mixed company.

“Crossroads, Dog. Do you know what that means? You got to choose.” Jim picked up the wrench again and had another go at a bolt that was so encased in old oil, you couldn't tell it was hexagonal. “You got to choose.”

He thought of Devina looking up at him from the driver's seat of that fancy-ass BMW. I've been waiting for him to warm up and trust me and love me, but it hasn't happened, and I'm losing the strength to hang on, Jim, I really am.

Then he thought of the way diPietro had stared at that dark-haired prostitute.

Yeah, there was a crossroads, all right. The problem was, diPietro, the fidiot, had come up to the signpost and instead of going to the right, where the arrows pointed to Happyville, he was gunning for Work-yourself-into-an-early-grave-and-be-mourned-by-no-one-but-your-accountant-opolis.

Jim hoped that telling Devina about the ring would buy some time, but how long would that last?

Man, on some levels, his last job had been easier, because he'd had much more control: Get the target in his sights, drop the bastard, take off.

Making Vin see what was so obvious, though…much harder. Plus, before Jim had had training and support. Now? Nada.

The growling sound of two Harleys brought his head around. Dog's too.

The pair of bikes rolled up the gravel to the garage, and Jim envied the SOBs who were gripping those handlebars. Adrian's and Eddie's rides gleamed, the chrome fenders and pipes catching the sunlight and winking like the Harleys knew they had the goods and would be damned if they'd hide the pride.

“Need some help with your hog?” Adrian said as he kicked out his stand and dismounted.

“Where's your helmet?” Jim balanced his arms on his knees. “New York has a law.”

“New York has a lot of laws.” Adrian's boots crunched over the driveway, then stomped on the concrete as he came up to give Jim's DIY project a look-see. “Man, where did you find that thing? A landfill?”

“No. I got it at a scrap yard.”

“Oh, right. That's a step up. My bad.”

The men were nice to Dog, giving him pats as he wagged around. And the good news was that limp of his seemed a little better today, but Jim was still taking him to a vet on Monday. He'd already left messages at three different places and whoever could get them in first won.

Eddie glanced up from doing the pet and coo thing to shake his head at the bike. “Think you need more than one person on this.”

Jim rubbed his chin. “Nah, I'm good.”

All three of them, Adrian, Eddie, and Dog, looked over at him with identical expressions of doubt…

Jim slowly dropped his hand, his nape tightening sure as if a cold palm had settled on it.

None of them cast a shadow. As they stood backlit by the brilliant sunlight, in the midst of the spindly dark trails thrown by the bare branches of the trees around the garage, it was as if they had been Photo-shopped in—in the landscape, but not of it.

“Do you know…an English guy named Nigel?” As soon as the words left Jim's mouth, he knew the answer.

Adrian smiled a little. “Do we look like people who'd hang out with a Brit?”

Jim frowned. “How did you know where I lived?”

“Chuck told us.”

“He tell you it was my birthday Thursday night?” Jim slowly got to his feet. “He tell you that, too? Because I didn't, and you knew yesterday when you asked if I'd had myself a birthday present.”

“Did I.” Adrian's big shoulders shrugged. “Lucky guess on my part. And you never did answer that question of mine, did you.”

As the two of them went nose-to-nose, Adrian shook his head with a curious sadness. “You did her. You had her. At the club.”

“You sound disappointed in me,” Jim drawled. “Hard to believe, considering you were the one who pointed her out to me in the first place.”

Eddie stepped in between them. “Relax, boys. We're all on the same team here.”

“Team?” Jim stared at the other guy. “Didn't know we were on a team.”

Adrian laughed tightly, the piercings at his eyebrow and lower lip catching the light. “We aren't, but Eddie's a peacekeeper by nature. He'll say anything to chill people out, won't you.”

Eddie just fell into silence and stayed right where he was. Like he was prepared to physically break things up if it came to that.

Jim leveled his stare on Adrian. “Englishman. Nigel. Hangs out with three other pantywaists and a dog the size of a donkey. You know them, don't you.”

“Already answered the question.”

“Where's your shadow? You're standing in sunlight and throwing a whole lot of nothing.”

Adrian pointed to the ground. “Is this a trick question?”

Jim looked down and frowned. There on the concrete was the black reflection of Adrian's wide shoulders and tight hips. As well as Eddie's huge body. And Dog's scruffy head. Jim cursed to himself and muttered, “I need a fucking drink.”

“You want me to beer you?” Adrian asked. “It's five o'clock somewhere in the world.”

“Like England,” Eddie cut in. As Ad glared at him, he shrugged. “Scotland, too. Wales. Ireland—”

“Beer, Jim?”

Jim shook his head and planted his ass back on the floor, figuring that if his brain wasn't working right, he wasn't about to chance his knees anymore in the event they decided to take up the fad. As he stared out at the pair of Harleys in the drive, he realized he was in a rat-piss kind of mood and clearly paranoid. Neither of which was a newsflash.

Unfortunately, beer was only a short-term answer. And head transplants had yet to be approved by the FDA.

“Any chance you know how to work a socket wrench?” he said to Adrian.

“Yup.” The guy took off his leather jacket and cracked his knuckles. “And I got nothing better to do than get this piece of junk back on the road.”

As Vin stared across the table at Marie-Terese, the cascading daylight filtering through the diner window transformed her into a vision, the echoes of which resounded in the back of his mind. Where did he know her from? he thought once again. Where had he seen her before? God, he wanted to touch her hair.

Vin forked up the last bite of his pancakes, and wondered why she had asked him if he liked redheads. Then he remembered. “I don't like red hair enough to be with Gina, if that's what you want to know.”

“No? She's beautiful.”

“To some…probably. Look, I'm not the kind of guy who—”

The waitress came up to the table. “More coffee? Or do you want the ch—”

“—fucks around with other women.”

Marie-Terese blinked and so did the waitress.

Shit. “What I mean is…” Stopping himself, Vin glanced up at the other woman, who seemed to be ready to hang around. “Are you pouring? Or what?”

“I—ah, I could do with some more coffee,” Marie-Terese said, holding up her mug. “Please.”

The waitress topped slowly, looking back and forth between them like she was hoping to hear the rest of the story. When Marie-Terese's mug was full, the woman went to work on his.

“More syrup?” she asked him.

He pointed to his clean plate. “I'm finished.”

“Oh. Right.” She cleared what was in front of him and walked away with the same alacrity with which she'd worked the pot: Molasses moved faster.

“I don't cheat,” he repeated when there was some privacy. “After watching my parents, I learned more than enough about what not to do in relationships, and that's pretty much rule number one.”

Marie-Terese held out the sugar to him, and when he stared down at the bowl like he didn't know what it was, she said, “You know, for your coffee. You put sugar in yours.”

“Yeah…I do.”

As he doctored up his Java, she said, “So your parents' marriage wasn't a good one?”

“Nope. And I'll never forget what it was like to watch them rip each other apart.”

“Did they divorce?”

“No. They killed each other.” As she recoiled back in her seat, he wanted to curse. “Sorry. I probably shouldn't be so blunt, but that's what happened. One of their fights got really out of control and they fell down the stairs. Didn't end well for either of them.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“You're very kind, but that was a long time ago.”

After a moment, she murmured, “You look exhausted.”

“Just need a little more coffee before we go.” Hell, on that theory, he'd keep drinking the stuff until his kidneys floated if it meant they had more time together.

The thing was, as she stared across at him, her warm concern made her…precious. Utterly precious and therefore susceptible to loss.

“Are you safe on the job?” he blurted. “And I'm not talking about from violence.” During the long pause that followed, he shook his head, feeling like both his loafers had just served as pancake chasers. “I'm sorry, it's none of my business—”

“Do I practice safe sex, you mean?”

“Yeah, and I'm not asking because I want to be with you.” As she jerked back again, he cursed himself. “No, I mean, I want to know because I hope you're taking care of yourself.”

“Why would that matter to you?” He stared into her eyes.

“It just does.”

She turned away and looked out over the river. “I'm safe. Always. Which makes me very different from loads of so-called 'honorable' women who sleep around without using anything. And you can stop searching my face like you're trying to solve some deep mystery. Anytime. Now would be good.”

He resigned himself to staring down into his mug. “How much do you cost?”

“I thought you said you didn't want to be with me like that.”

“How much?”

“What, because you want to pull a Pretty Woman and buy me out of my horrible life for a week?” She laughed in a short, hard burst. “The only thing I have in common with Julia Roberts in that movie is that I get to pick who I'm with. As for how much, that's none of your business.”

He still wanted to know. Because, hell, maybe he hoped that if she was very expensive the quality of men would be better—although if he was honest with himself, that was a crock of shit. He did want to pull a Richard Gere, except he didn't want to buy a week. Years was more like it.

Even though that was never going to happen.

As the waitress trolled by with the pot of coffee and both her ears open, Marie-Terese said, “The check would be great now.”

The waitress put the pot on the table and fished around in her apron for her pad. Ripping free a page, she put the thing facedown. “Take care, you two.”

As she went off, he reached across and touched Marie-Terese's arm. “I don't want this to end on a bad note. Thanks for keeping me out of it with the police, but I want you to come clean about me if you get any heat, okay?”

She didn't pull away, just looked down at where they were linked. “I'm sorry, too. I'm not great company. At least…not for the civilized.”

There was pain in her voice—just a sliver of it, but he heard the note as clearly as a bell struck on a still night.

“Marie-Terese…” There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it was his right…and none of it would be received well, “…is such a lovely name.”

“You think?” When he nodded, she said something under her breath that he couldn't quite catch but that sounded a lot like, That's why I picked it.

She broke their contact by taking the check and holding it as she opened her purse. “I'm glad you liked the pancakes.”

“What are you doing? Here, let me get that—”

“When was the last time someone bought you breakfast?” When she glanced up, she smiled a little. “Or anything, for that matter?”

Vin frowned and considered the question as she fanned out a ten and a fiver. Funny…he couldn't remember Devina ever paying for anything. Granted, he was always front and center with the cash, but still.

“I usually pay,” he said.

“Not a surprise.” She started scooting out of the booth. “And I don't mean that in a bad way.”

“Don't you need change?” he said, thinking he'd do anything to keep her with him a little longer.

“I leave big tips. I know how bad it can be, working in a service industry.”

As he followed her out of the diner, he put his hand into his pocket to get his keys and felt something small and out of place. With a frown, he realized it was the gold earring he'd taken from Jim's.

“Hey, you know what? I think I have something of yours,” he said as they closed in on her car.

She unlocked her door. “You do?”

“I think this belongs to you?” He held out the hoop.

“My earring! Where did you find it?”

“My buddy Jim picked it up in the parking lot outside the club.”

“Oh, thank you.” She pushed her hair out of the way and put it on. “I didn't want to lose these. They're not worth much, but I like them.”

“So…thanks for the pancakes.”

“You're welcome.” She paused before she got behind the wheel. “You know, you should take a day off. You look really tired.”

“Probably just the bruises on my face.”

“No, it's the ones behind your eyes that make you seem worn down.”

As she slid in and started the car, Vin caught a flash from over on the left and he looked across the river—

The instant the sun hit his retinas, his body seized up and tingled all over.

There was no gradual, fogging possession this time. The hateful trance claimed him between one second and the next, as if what had happened the night before had been just a warm-up and this was the real deal.

Sagging against Marie-Terese's hood, he went for his coat, opening it so he got some air— When the vision struck him, it was more sound than image and it replayed over and over: A gunshot. Ringing out and echoing. Someone falling. A body dropping on a thunderous bounce. A gunshot. Ringing out and echoing. Someone falling. A body dropping on a thunderous bounce…

As his knees buckled and he sank down onto the asphalt, he struggled to stay conscious, holding on mentally to anything he could—which turned out to be the memory of when he'd had his first attack. He’d been eleven and the trigger had been a watch, a ladies' watch that he'd seen in the window of a jeweler's downtown. He'd been on a field trip with his classmates to the Caldwell Art Museum, and as he'd passed by the store, he'd looked at the display.

The watch had been a silver one, and when the sunlight had hit it, his eye had focused on the flash and he'd stopped in his tracks. Blood on the watch. There had been bright red blood on the watch.

Just as he'd struggled to understand what he was seeing and why he suddenly felt so strange, a female hand had reached into the display and picked the thing up. Behind her, there had been a man standing with happy expectation in his face, a customer…

Except the guy couldn't buy the watch—whoever wore it next was going to die.

With the kind of strength that came only with full-bodied panic, Vin had broken the hold of the trance and bolted into the store. He hadn't been fast enough, though. One of the parent chaperones had raced in and caught him before he'd been able to say anything, and when he'd fought to get to the man and the watch, he'd been dragged out by the collar and condemned to wait in the bus while the others continued on to the museum.

Nothing came of the vision.

At least, not right away. Seven days later, though, Vin had been in school and seen one of the teachers in the cafeteria with what appeared to be the watch on her wrist. She'd been showing it off to her colleagues, talking about a birthday dinner she'd had the night before with her husband.

In that instant, a flash of sunlight on the playground slide had come through the window and captured Vin's eye…and then he'd seen the blood on the timepiece again, as well as much, much more.

Vin had collapsed on the linoleum of the cafeteria, and as the teacher had rushed over and leaned down to help, he saw with great clarity the car crash she was going to be in: Her head was hitting the steering wheel, her delicate face splitting open on impact.

Gripping the front of her dress, he'd tried to tell her to wear a seat belt. Get her husband to pick her up. Take another route. Take a bus. A bicycle. Walk home. But as his mouth had moved, nothing but random syllables had come out as far as he knew—although the horror dawning on the faces of the other teachers and the students suggested they were understanding what he was saying.

In the aftermath, he'd been sent to the nurse's office, and when his parents had been called, they'd been told he needed to go see a child psychiatrist.

And the teacher…the lovely young teacher with the thoughtful husband had died that afternoon on the way home from school with her new watch on her wrist.

Car accident. And she hadn't been wearing her seat belt.

When Vin had heard the next morning in his classrom, he'd burst into tears. Of course, a lot of kids had started crying too, but it was different for him. Unlike the rest of them, he'd been in a position to do something to prevent the outcome.

Everything had changed after that. Word had gotten out that he'd predicted the death—which made the teachers nervous around him and his peers either avoid him or ridicule him as spooky. His father had started having to beat him to get him to go to school.

Abruptly, Vin lost his train of thought, the past getting submerged by the seizure's command of his mind and body, his consciousness ebbing more than it was flowing…

A gunshot. Ringing out and echoing. Someone falling. A body dropping on a thunderous bounce…

Just before he passed out, the vision crystallized in his mind's eye, no longer just sounds but bona fide images…a sand castle being formed by the wind instead of worn away by it: He saw Marie-Terese with her hands up as if she were trying to protect herself, her eyes wild with terror, her mouth opening in a scream.

And then he heard the shot going off.