"—six, seven, eight . . ."
"—actually suggested we have another baby . . ."
"—she's really hot, but she wants to get married . . ."
Snatches of conversation drifted on the cool October evening
air around Selena McCaffrey, as comforting as the shawl wrapped
around her shoulders. She was sitting in a chaise longue on the
Ceola patio, with half the family scattered around in an impromptu
get-together.
It didn't take much to stir up one of those with the Ceolas.
That evening it had been nothing more than Tony and his brother
coming over to mow their parents' yard one last time for the season.
Selena and J.J.'s wife and kids had come with them, Tony's sister
and her family had stopped by, and before long younger brothers Dom
and Matt had joined them. Anna had been happy to switch gears from
dinner for two to fifteen, pulling pans of lasagna and garlic bread
from the freezer, tossing salads and whipping up zabaglione for
dessert. A spur-of-the-moment party, and everyone was enjoying it,
Selena most of all.
Anna sat down in the chair next to Selena's with a grunt, then
smiled. "I sound like Nonna Ceola, making that old-lady noise when I
sit down or stand up."
"You've done a lot of work this evening. You're entitled."
"Nonna used to say, 'When it's family, it's not work.'" Anna
was silent a moment, reflecting on that, then she shook her head. "Nonna
was full of crap."
Selena smiled faintly. She'd heard tales of Joe Ceola's
mother, from the Italian Alps in the north, who'd viewed Anna's
southern Italian blood with disdain. She'd forgiven her
grandchildren their southern heritage but not her daughter-in-law.
Now Anna was Nonna, grandmother to a handful of rambunctious
kids belonging to her three older children. She was hopeful that the
younger four would add to the brood, including Tony. The more Selena
thought about the idea, the more she liked it.
After sipping rich espresso from the tiny cup she held, Anna
asked, "How is your painting?"
"Fine. I just shipped three canvasses to the gallery in Key
West." Selena hid a smile. Like her mother, daughter, and
daughters-in-law, Anna had always been a stay-at-home mother.
Painting was something the kids did with finger paints. Standing at
an easel for hours at a time seemed to her an odd way to earn a
living, but for Tony's sake, she always showed interest.
Tony's five-year-old twin nieces ran past, giggling and
shrieking as Joe lumbered after them, arms outstretched, doing a
good imitation of a cartoon monster. He was grinning, having as much
fun as the girls, his pleasure lighting eyes that were too often
dull.
"How is Joe?" Selena asked quietly.
Anna's smile faded. "He has his good days. With the new
medication the doctor's got him on, they're outnumbering the bad. He
knew who you were this evening, didn't he?"
Selena nodded. The Alzheimer's that was slowly destroying Joe
often left him in a cloud of confusion. Sometimes he remembered that
Tony was his son and she was his girlfriend, though just as often he
thought they were neighbors from long ago. But this evening he had
remembered, had greeted them both by name and asked when they were
finally going to get married.
Soon, Dad, Tony had said. The promise had sent a tingle of
warmth through Selena that remained three hours later. Sure, they'd
talked about getting married, but he hadn't actually asked and they
hadn't discussed a date. She wasn't in a rush—she knew he loved
her—but it was a lovely thought for the future.
"This isn't what I wanted for my old age," Anna said softly.
"But I wouldn't have missed a moment of the last forty-some years.
Not even the bad ones. I'll make the best of his good days, and I'll
love him through the bad ones." She reached across to squeeze
Selena's hand. "That's all any of us can do, isn't it?"
With another of those old-lady grunts, she pushed to her feet,
making it only a few yards before one of the grandkids attached
himself to her. She swung the little boy onto her hip and continued
across the patio. Selena watched her ruffle the boy's hair, nuzzle
his neck, then say something to make him laugh, and she wondered . .
.
"You look way too comfortable there." Tony slid into the chair
Anna had vacated, then claimed Selena's hand, twining his fingers
with hers. "What are you smiling about?"
"Am I smiling?" She was, of course. She'd been imagining
another little boy in Anna's arms, one with the brown Ceola eyes and
her own cafe-au-lait skin. Anna hadn't been thrilled the first time
they'd met—Selena wasn't Catholic or Italian and was half-black—but
she'd gotten past it, and she would love any children Selena and
Tony had every bit as much as her other grandkids.
"Are you ready to go home, babe?"
She could sit there all evening, enjoying the evening and the
family. But dinner was long over, the cleanup was already done, and
a few quiet hours alone with Tony were a marvelous way to finish a
good day. She nodded and let him pull her to her feet. Hand in hand,
they circled the patio, saying their goodbyes, before strolling
around the house and out to the Corvette parked on the street.
The top was down, the heater on to take the edge off the
chill. They didn't talk much on the way home, but the silence was
comfortable. Tony broke it after turning onto Princeton Court. They
were passing her house and approaching his at the end of the
cul-de-sac when he gestured. "There's a package at your door."
She glanced at the box. She wasn't expecting anything, but
that didn't mean Asha, who was running the gallery for her, hadn't
sent something.
Tony parked next to the white Impala assigned to him by the
Tulsa Police Department. "Why don't you go on in? I'll get the
package."
"Okay. Just set it inside the door, will you?" Whatever it
was, it could wait until tomorrow.
She brushed against him when they passed at the rear of the
car. In the fenced backyard, Mutt was barking excitedly, but
everything else was quiet. There were only four houses on Princeton
Court—hers, Tony's, and two neighbors, none of whom were home this
evening.
She unlocked the door, then opened it carefully. The cats Tony
had taken in along with the dog were in their usual places—the
calico disappearing up the stairs and the fat black cat waiting just
inside the door. She scooped him, purring, into her arms before he
could escape, typed in the code for the alarm, then went back to the
driveway to watch Tony.
He climbed the steps to her small stoop and unlocked the door
before bending to pick up the package. "No return address," he
called. "Aren't you curious?"
"Not in the—" As he opened the door, the cat leaped from her
arms, streaking toward the house. "Kitty!" she called, but he'd
already passed Tony and dashed into the house.
The explosion shattered the evening, the ground shuddering,
the very air vibrating with the blast. The concussion pushed against
Selena, throwing her to the ground, her eyes closed, her head down
against the cloud of debris following in its wake.
The tremors were dying away when she struggled to her feet,
coughing, eyes watering. Most of the front central part of the house
was blown away, from the stoop all the way to the roof peak, and
glass, bricks, and chunks of wood littered her driveway and yard.
Lying unmoving in the midst of it was Tony.
"Tony . . . Tony!" The first came out a stunned whisper, the
second a terrified scream. She raced across the yard, dropping to
her knees beside him. "Dear God, please . . ."
He shifted beneath her trembling hand, then slowly lifted his
head. Dust coated his hair and face and turned his shirt grimy.
"Holy shit," he muttered. "That damn cat almost got me killed."
For a moment she stared at him, then she sank down, cupped his
face in her palms, and gave him a hard kiss. "That damn cat saved
your life." She turned to look at the house. Flames were licking
through the entry, dancing along the banister to the second floor
and down the hall to the kitchen, sending wisps of smoke into the
still-thick air. Upstairs her bedroom was tilted crazily, with much
of the floor support blasted away.
Tony sat up, brushing away dust and a fine sprinkling of glass
shards. He pulled his cell phone from his belt and called for both
police and fire department assistance, while one thought kept
repeating in Selena's head.
Not again.
God, she'd thought it was over. William Davis—the man who'd
saved her from life on the streets in Jamaica, whom she'd loved
almost as much as she hated—was still incapacitated, in what his
doctors called a persistent vegetative state. Damon Long, William's
right-hand man, was on the run from the law. He hadn't been seen
since the night two months ago when he'd escaped FBI custody. The
other enemies she'd made along the way, courtesy of William, were
dead, locked up, or had bigger problems on their hands than her—or
so she'd thought.
Tony stood, dusted himself off, then helped her up. His
fingers tight around hers, he drew her to the farthest corner of his
yard, away from the heat and the worst of the smoke, where he
wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
She needed that more than she'd realized.
The fire engines arrived first. Seconds behind them came the
first patrol car, followed over the next few minutes by another
officer, a crew from one of the local television stations, and, last
to arrive, Frank Simmons, one of Tony's fellow detectives and
friends.
Simmons ran a hand through his reddish-blond hair before
shifting his gaze from the house to Tony. "Christ, Chee. Don't I
have enough to do without you going out and almost getting yourself
killed?"
"If I'd done it intentionally, I would've picked a night when
someone who doesn't mind actually working had call."
"Hey, I work," Simmons protested. "I just don't see any reason
to devote myself to the job twenty-four/seven. I have a life." He
fumbled in his coat pocket, removed a note pad and pen, then
shrugged out of the coat and tossed it on the grass. His tie
followed a moment later. "See—this is me working. What happened?"
Tony told him in a few terse sentences.
"Anything unusual about the box? Any labels on it? Any
writing?"
Tony shook his head. "Selena's address. No return address.
Other than that . . . That damn cat distracted me."
"Sounds like the cat saved your life." Simmons made a show of
sniffing. "I don't smell burnt cat hair. Either it's in pieces
around here or it used up one of its nine lives and got away."
Selena's fingers tightened around Tony's as she gazed at the
destruction. She wasn't overly sentimental. The cat wasn't cute and
cuddly like the calico or Mutt, still barking wildly but this time
from the far side of the house, sheltered from the chaos. He hissed
at Tony every time he came around, and though he let her hold him,
he remained aloof. Still, she hated to think that he had died
because of her.
"Any idea who did this?" Simmons asked.
Tony looked at Selena. He had an idea, of course. So did she.
The one person they didn't discuss—couldn't discuss—without risk of
arguing. The look in his brown eyes was grim to match the set of his
mouth when he replied, "If I had to guess, I'd say that Damon Long
is behind it."
Selena shifted uncomfortably. Long had been at the center of
Tony's biggest case ever. His criminal record was
extensive—attempted rape, assault, breaking and entering, dealing
drugs, and more murders than even he could account for. He'd
committed nine of them in Tulsa County, all on the orders of William
Davis—better known locally as Henry Daniels, chief of police . . .
and Tony's godfather. Long had faced almost certain conviction and
the death penalty, until the FBI had gotten him released from jail.
We'll keep him under control, the feds had promised. He'll be as
much a prisoner with us was he was in jail.
They'd managed for nine days, and then he'd escaped.
Just as Tony had predicted.
Finally Simmons turned his attention to Selena. "You have any
idea when the package was delivered?"
She shook her head. "It wasn't there when we left to go to
Tony's parents'. That was about five."
"It'd be damn easy for someone to come in here," Simmons
remarked, gesturing with both arms open wide. "Only four people
living here, no damn traffic on the street, woods that back right up
to the houses. What's on the other side?"
"The Marlowe Mansion," Tony replied.
"Any fences between here and there?"
Tony shrugged and Selena shook her head. "No." When she'd
first arrived in Tulsa, she had parked at the mansion and walked
through the woods to the edge of Tony's yard, making note of the
locations of the other houses, of his fenced-in yard and the dog
snoozing there. She liked to know her surroundings . . . especially
since, back then, she'd come to town with the intent to kill a man.
"Well, hell, son." Simmons flipped the notebook shut and
tossed it on top of his suit coat. "Once the fire department
finishes, CSU will gather evidence. Maybe they'll find enough of
that cat for a proper burial. Why was it so eager to get in the
house, anyway?"
"He used to live there." Tony's expression was somber. "I
guess he was going home."
"Well, he's in his final home now. Better him than you." He
slapped Tony on the shoulder, then headed off to talk with the fire
captain.
Selena sat down on the curb and, after a moment, Tony joined
her. For a time they watched the firemen in silence. Finally,
though, he glanced at her, his attention a weight she could feel
even if she refused to look back. "You don't seem too upset that
your house got blown up."
"I only lived there a few weeks."
"What about your paintings? Your brushes?"
"Brushes can be replaced." She hesitated, then risked a
sidelong look at him. "You think Long's back in town."
His features took on the hard expression that mention of Damon
Long always prompted. "Who else wants you dead as much as he does?"
"Do you really think he would risk coming back to Tulsa?" Long
was at the top of the TPD's most wanted list, and the FBI was
searching for him, as well.
"Do I think he's arrogant enough to believe he can come back
here, kill you, and get away again? Yeah. On the other hand, maybe
he hired someone. God knows, he's got the contacts."
Her chest grew tight, and Selena realized she'd forgotten to
breathe. She forced in a slow, steady breath, then exhaled it just
as steadily. If Tony was right, she could say goodbye to the peace
of the last two months. Damon Long was a psychopath. If he was
determined to kill her, he wouldn't stop until he'd succeeded . . .
or she'd stopped him.
She'd known this day might come. The first few weeks after
Long's escape from the FBI, she'd expected it—had curtailed her
activities, kept her pistol close at hand, been overly suspicious of
everything and everyone. But as the days had passed with no sign of
him, her fear had lessened. She'd begun to think that Long had
forgotten about her, that all his energies were going into staying
free, creating a new life—a new criminal enterprise—for himself.
She'd begun to think, for the first time ever, that life was
going to be normal. She wanted that, dear God, more than she could
say.
"If it was Long, he'll try again." Her voice was steadier than
she'd hoped for, not even hinting at the fear and distress she felt
inside.
Another explosion sounded from within the house, startling
her. The firemen, sweaty and grimy inside their turnout clothes,
fell back and regrouped as flames erupted through the roof at the
far side of the house. Like her, Tony watched for a moment before
finally looking at her. "We'll have to be ready for him."
Be ready. Go back to living in fear. Cowering behind locked
doors. Facing every moment of every day knowing that this could be
the time he'd strike again. There could be no more lovely evenings
like this one; Long liked suffering and wouldn't hesitate to harm
Tony's family to punish her. She should stay away from Tony, as
well. In fact, she should pack her bags and go on the run. Change
her name, change her appearance, give up her life for a mere
existence.
Slowly Tony turned to face her, his dark eyes fierce. "Don't
even think about it."
"What?" she asked unconvincingly.
"Leaving me for my own good. We'll be ready. We'll face him
together."
She smiled weakly, but before she could think of a response,
Simmons joined them again.
"Arson investigator's on his way, though they're gonna have to
get this thing knocked down before he can do anything. What's the
plan?"
"We're going to check into a motel for the night. Tomorrow . .
. we'll see," Tony said.
"We can call the local news stations and get 'em to run Long's
picture on the news. If he is back in town, he's gotta be staying
somewhere, eating somewhere. Maybe someone will recognize him. You
don't need to be driving any of these cars, either. They tend to
stick out." Simmons indicated Tony's Impala, obviously a police car
with its antennas and grill lights, the red vintage Corvette, and
Selena's bright yellow Thunderbird. "I'll take you to the motel, and
tomorrow we can see about getting something less flashy for you.
Fire captain says you can go in and grab some clothes from your
place if you're quick about it."
Tony stood and extended his hand to Selena. "We'll have to
take Mutt and the other cat. I'll get one of my brothers to—"
An unholy screech echoed through the air as a streak of sooty
black raced across the yard from the back of Selena's house. It
cleared Tony's steps in one leap and huddled there against the
closed door.
"I'll be damned," Frankie said, shaking his head. "That is one
lucky cat."
