Текст книги "Beautiful Addictions"

Автор книги: Season Vining

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“Atrioventricular septal defect?” Tristan asked. Daniel nodded, proud and nostalgic at the memory of his raven-haired boy sprawled across the floor of his office, reading through medical journals like comic books.

“Fiona never told me what happened to him,” Tristan murmured.

“When I explained to the family that we’d lost him, Moloney went ballistic. He told me, ‘You will pay for this. An eye for an eye, my friend.’ His tone was maniacal. I still remember the look in his eyes. I just assumed that it was an empty threat fueled by grief.”

“Jesus, Dad, you think this would have been useful information when Fiona and I started seeing each other?”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“No,” Tristan admitted, shaking his head.

They sat in silence, each absorbing the heavy weighted words laid out before them. Bitsy immediately performed the sign of the cross and squeezed her eyes shut. The Lord’s Prayer whispered across the room and echoed off the walls. Then Bitsy opened her eyes as if remembering a secret of her own.

“There’s something else,” Bitsy whispered, breaking the rhythm of her prayer and abandoning its purpose. The men’s eyes shot up to her remorseful face. “I’ll be right back.”

Tristan and his father sat in silence, surrounded by Audubon prints and Bitsy’s finest china displayed in an antique cabinet. Tristan’s eyes stayed trained on his drumming fingers along the tabletop while Daniel openly observed every detail of his son’s appearance.

Bitsy reappeared carrying a large manila envelope. She took her seat and sighed, letting the guilt and regret absorb into her words.

“I should have given you this a long time ago,” she said, sliding the package across the table to Tristan. “It came about six weeks after they moved.”

Tristan retrieved the envelope and turned it over. A purple bound book dropped heavily onto the polished wood table, the sound of it echoed through the room like a slap to his face.

“I’m sorry for keeping it from you. I don’t even know why I still have it. I just figured that it was better to make a clean break. I never thought that…”

Bitsy’s voice became empty jumbled sounds as Tristan’s pulse raced through his ears.

“This is McKenzi’s diary,” he finally said, running his fingers over the cover. “How could you?”

“I’m sorry,” was her only answer as she cringed away from his angry words.

He turned the envelope over to find his address scrawled in McKenzi’s fourteen-year-old handwriting. Tristan jumped up from the table, clutching the diary, and raced to the comfort of his room. He locked the door behind him and sank to the floor. There he sat for hours, reading the words of his childhood best friend, each entry sending him farther into her world before the hurt.

* * *

Moloney sat on the antique chaise in his mother-in-law’s family room feeling emasculated by the very fabric. Its pink floral pattern looked humorous as a backdrop to his large frame and scowling face. He sipped his Jameson and tapped his fingers impatiently on the padded arm of the chair. He’d wanted to leave hours ago. Moloney wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted. The thing holding him here, his only weakness, was his beautiful wife, Jane.

She was a vision, growing more beautiful with age. Her long strawberry blond hair curled around her shoulders, a perfect frame for an angelic face. Moloney grinned as she told a story so animatedly that her hands flung about in a precarious manner. He loved her spunk, her fire. He loved that she loved him unconditionally. Jane made no rules when it came to their life together. She’d promised her devotion and would gladly endure whatever life Moloney provided.

Not that she suffered. Through racketeering, weapons, drug trafficking, and gambling rings Moloney had provided a cozy life. They had prize-winning horses, a private estate, and a beautiful home. All that was missing was a family.

Moloney poured the last of his whiskey into his mouth and swallowed. The burn of the alcohol slid down his throat and past his frozen heart before settling in his stomach. With all his wealth and power, he still didn’t have what he’d wanted most—a successor. His boy was gone and his daughter was across the country living a new life.

He frowned down into his empty glass and shifted on the uncomfortable piece of furniture. He found it hard to stay in the present conversation when there were so many more daunting things to worry about. Barry had phoned earlier with more news of Gino Gallo strong-arming Moloney’s clients into doing business. As if the Italians weren’t enough, Tristan and Josie were longtime thorns in his side.

The girl knew secrets that could surely bring down his whole operation. Her father, Earl, had been stupid enough to go to the feds, and now she would pay for his mistake. When Moloney’s men had kidnapped and held the chief and his daughter, she’d been a witness to their rather archaic torture methods. For days, they poked, prodded, burned, and bled that man, asking questions about what he’d told the feds. Josie had screamed and begged them to stop, but they were machines, immune to a child’s pleas. Eventually, they got all the information they needed. Moloney shot and killed Earl Delaune himself, in front of his daughter. With a quick warning that she was next and instructions to his men to finish her off, he’d left the Brooklyn warehouse and boarded a plane for home.

It wasn’t until eight years later that Moloney found out his men had failed in New York. One of those bastards had drunkenly confessed to Barry that the girl had escaped. Even though there was an official report from the NYPD that the girl’s body was recovered three days later in a subway terminal, he knew better. His gut told him so. He suspected that the FBI connected her to him and hid her away. He’d never been so angry to be right.

Once he was rid of Tristan and the girl, there would be nothing stopping him from crushing the Italians and solidifying his reign in New Orleans. He would not be run out of town by these greasy Wops, he thought.

“And then Myrtle confessed to sabotaging Sally’s flowerbeds!” his mother-in-law exclaimed.

Moloney smirked, knowing it was time for such insincere actions.

“We really should be going,” he announced.

There were hugs all around as he nodded for Frank to fetch the car. Moloney held Jane’s coat as she slid her arms inside. She kissed her mother’s cheek with a smile and promised to return soon.

As the couple stepped outside into the cold air, Frank pressed the automatic start on the car. The heater would warm the interior before they’d even entered. It was the small luxuries that Moloney appreciated, things his poor and meager parents never knew.

When the electronic signal left Frank’s hand and reached the car, a spark shot through a device attached to the undercarriage. A loud explosion rang in their ears as fire and smoke engulfed the car.

Moloney hovered over his wife, protecting her from debris, as she screamed into his shoulder.

“I’ll call the police,” his mother-in-law shouted.

“No,” Moloney answered.

The harshness of his retort left her frozen on the front stoop. Though she was not used to taking orders, she knew not to disregard this man. He was dangerous. If it were not for his undeniable love for her daughter, she would have turned him over long ago.

“What happened?” Jane asked, panic making her voice falter.

The red-orange flames reflected in his eyes and he could utter only two words.

“Gino Gallo.”

16. Far Side

The side of the moon that is not visible.

Mort sat on his front stoop, staring up at the few stars visible above the nighttime city lights. His leg bounced nervously as he flipped his cell phone over in his hands, staring at it for the answers to silent questions. He remembered when he was a kid, he’d had a Magic 8 Ball. All you had to do was ask a question, shake it up, and wait for your answer to appear in the small liquid-filled window. If only life were still that simple.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he decided to suck it up and make the call. Mort knew that when it came to Dean Moloney, if your information was important enough, it didn’t matter the time.

“Moloney.”

“I’ll have the girl within the week.”

“Excellent,” Moloney answered firmly.

“When this job’s done, I’m out. Retired.”

“Are you telling me or asking me?”

Mort gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed.

“I’d like this to be my last job.”

“Are you joining Gallo’s crew?” Moloney asked.

“No. I wouldn’t betray you like that. I just want out.”

“I’m not sure that’s in our best interest,” Moloney answered.

“I just want to disappear,” Mort begged.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

The line went dead before Mort could continue. You don’t just declare yourself out of the business. You either die or you run. Mort wanted to avoid both. He couldn’t imagine living the rest of his existence in fear or servitude. He knew to remain cautious.

Some guys were meant for this life. They were born into it and trained to succeed. Mort had just been good at it. He was young when one of Moloney’s men had recruited him straight out of high school. Frustrated by living under the same roof as his abusive parents, he’d hauled ass and never looked back. Living on the street wasn’t easy, but it was better than living with their tyrannical rules and severe punishments. Barry had taken him in and shown him how life could be sweeter if he just pledged his allegiance to Moloney. Mort hadn’t thought twice about it. He was in.

All the promises of fat living and easy money were fulfilled, but he hadn’t been prepared for living for the job. He soon realized that his life was not his own. He was owned by Moloney and was reminded of that on a daily basis. Eventually, Earl Delaune had wangled up charges against six of Moloney’s men, Mort included, landing him in prison for a short time. He served his time quietly, fueled by anger and plans for retribution.

Years went by in the blink of an eye, and he found himself with the reputation of a heartless killer. Mort didn’t mind, though; it secured the respect of his associates and kept his enemies in check. When this job was thrown at him, he was only too happy to oblige. Not only would it supply enough money to retire with, it would allow him to carry out his vengeance on a dead man. After almost a year of digging and chasing and loathing the idea of this girl, he’d finally found her. Despite all records, McKenzi Delaune lived and breathed. Not for much longer.

17. Earthshine

Sunlight that is reflected back from Earth onto the moon.

Tristan lay in his childhood bed, his phone trapped between his cheek and pillow. Josie’s purple diary sat propped open before him.

“‘August 3, 2002. New York is like so chaotic I sometimes feel like I can’t breathe.’”

Tristan read aloud. He could hear Josie’s anxious breath over the phone.

“‘I’ve never met our neighbors, but I do know that they have a loud dog that lives there. Dad and I have made the trip to my new school a few times so that I could get comfortable with the bus and the walk. It’s a big brick building that looks nothing like Gretna High School.

“‘I probably won’t be able to make friends here. But who cares. Just three years and then I’ll head back home. I miss all the green and the trees. Central Park is the closest thing I have to home and I find myself wanting to go there all the time. I miss Tristan so much. Talking on the phone just depresses me because I can’t see him or kiss him. God, I miss kissing him. Plus, we’ve got a ten-minute time limit, so I barely have time to tell him anything! Daddy says I’ll get over it, but he’s wrong.

“‘August 8, 2002. Dad and I got into a huge fight yesterday. I cried and screamed at him and blamed him for making me miserable. I hate this city. He held me while I cried and tried to explain his reasons. He said that we’d had to move because we were in danger from a powerful man because of a case he worked on. He said that he was trying to make it all better. Later, I heard him on the phone telling someone he thinks this man was responsible for my mother’s death. I don’t understand how that’s possible when she died in a car accident. I miss her so much.

“‘I want to call Tristan and have him tell me that everything is going to be okay. I want to hear that he misses me half as much as I miss him. I want to climb into our tree and kiss him until he makes that humming sound in the back of his throat. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in this fifth-floor walk-up, listening to Vanessa Carlton’s “A Thousand Miles” song over and over. I can just hear Tristan complaining to turn it off because he’s sick of hearing it. I just bet Tracy Veltin is thinking of ways to sink her shiny, glittered nails into my boyfriend. Stupid frosted-hair-C-cup Tracy Veltin.’”

“That song is awful. Who is Tracy?” Josie asked.

“Just some girl.”

“Huh. Some girl who wanted to hump you?”

“Maybe,” Tristan said.

“Was she pretty?”

“I don’t remember, Josie.”

“Liar. You remember everything.”

Tristan laughed and quickly moved on.

“This is the last entry. ‘August 13, 2002. Dad called this morning and told me not to leave the apartment today. He sounded bad. It kind of freaked me out, but he told me not to worry. He’s been working longer and longer every day, and I feel like we never even see each other.

“‘Some men in suits came by last night, and he sent me to my room so that they could talk. I hate how he treats me like a damn child all the time. I’m practically an adult.

“‘This is the last page of my journal. Who knew that I’d ever fill up this entire thing with my nonsense? I’ll admit, some pages just have drawings on them, but mostly it’s filled with the last two years of my life. Good times, bad times. There’s only one person I’d ever share it with.

“‘Tristan, please keep this journal. From this far away, it is the only thing I can give you. Save it, and when we are together again, you can return it. Love, McKenzi.’”

“Wow. I was such a whiny twat,” Josie said, laughing uncomfortably.

“You were a kid, Josie. I think you were probably a typical fourteen-year-old girl.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, your mom had this the whole time?”

“She thought a clean break would be best for me. What a fucking joke. Now she’s created parental trust issues.”

“Translate.”

“I no longer believe my mother knows what’s best for me.”

“What kid does?”

“I mean, she hid away the only connection I had to you.”

“She was only trying to help.”

“I know.” He sighed and closed the diary, setting it on the nightstand.

“You think that my dad was involved with Moloney back in New Orleans and we moved to escape him?”

“Yeah, I think that much is clear. The fact that your dad was suspicious of Moloney being responsible for your mother’s death would be enough to scare him across the country, especially if he thought you were in danger.”

“Moloney caught up with us in New York?”

“It’s a theory.”

Josie sighed and mumbled something about theories. Tristan could hear the weariness in her voice. He longed to hold her and kiss away all her fears, but again, distance was their enemy.

“I miss you,” Tristan said into the phone, staring out his window blackened by the night sky.

“God, I miss you too. I hate being stuck in this damn apartment with my only human contact being Alex. His idea of fun is counting pills and doing pull-ups on my doorframes.”

“You could call Monica. You guys could do a girls’ night or something.”

“Do I come across as someone who enjoys having a girls’ night? No, what I want is to go back to Seaport Village with you. We could ride the carousel again and I’d let you buy me a hat this time.”

Her frustration was palpable. On instinct alone, Tristan wanted to grant her wish. He never wanted to deny her anything, but safety deemed that she stay put.

“I’m sorry. When I get back, we’ll do that.”

“You bet your fine ass we will.”

Tristan chuckled and felt relieved at her teasing tone.

“You think my ass is fine?” he asked.

“I think all of you is fine,” Josie said dryly.

“By what ratio do you like my ass compared to the rest of my body, considering it only represents approximately 9 percent of my 575 inches of overall body surface area,” he teased. “Is my ass your favorite part?”

“No. Your dick is my favorite part. It’s so perfect I want to construct a twenty-foot statue in its honor so that I may kneel before it and worship every day.”

Tristan sat stunned by her words, a deep sensation stirred in his groin. He finally released the breath he’d been holding and fumbled with the phone.

“Fuck, Josie,” he breathed out.

“Good night, Tristan.”

“Wait! What? You’re hanging up?”

“Yeah, I’ve got to go wash my hair or something. Smooches,” she teased, barely holding in her laughter.

“Uh, bye.”

The line disconnected before he’d even uttered his pathetic parting words.

* * *

The breeze was warm and damp, but it felt like a reprieve on Tristan’s heated flesh. He sucked on his cigarette, needing its toxins more than air. He’d brought one of the old books from his room to read, but he couldn’t bear turning on the harsh porch light. He loved the dark of this land. No city lights glowed here. Crickets serenaded each other and he found a sense of calm in their song.

Bitsy stepped lightly across the porch and took a seat beside him. As much as it pained him to do so, Tristan didn’t acknowledge his mother’s presence.

“I know that you’re upset with me, Tristan. I know what I did was wrong. I can see that now,” Bitsy said softly. “Back then, honey, I was only trying to protect you. You were already in such a fragile state and I just couldn’t add to that hurt. I wanted to take away your sadness and I just didn’t see how prolonging your connection with McKenzi would do that.”

Tristan exhaled, watching the smoke float between their faces, creating an effective curtain that, in reality, had always been there. His mother had never really seen him. Like everyone else, she’d never looked past the charming façade and the brainy performances. For most of his life, Tristan had felt like Bitsy was more like an adoring fan than a mother. She’d always said how smart he was, how handsome and polite, but she’d never really gotten to know him. She sure as hell didn’t know him now.

“I didn’t understand what she meant to you, Tristan. I wish I could go back and do things right. You know what they say. If wishes were horses we could all ride away.”

Bitsy looked out over the dark yard, the treetops creating sharp silhouettes against a gray clouded sky. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes before the tears could fall.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are, Ma.”

Bitsy sat back, smoothing her hair and swiping at the black makeup smeared beneath her eyes. She always said a Southern woman must look her best, even at her worst.

“It doesn’t change anything. I’m not ready to forgive you.”

Bitsy looked back toward the house, as if searching for Daniel.

“Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone I’m in town.”

Tristan stood and made his way to the back door.

“To err is human; to forgive, divine,” Bitsy said to his back.

Tristan kept his eyes on the door.

“‘We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell,’” he responded.

Tristan left his mother on the porch, alone with her tears and the words of Oscar Wilde.

* * *

The street was quiet as Mort made his way around the house. He checked each door and window, finally finding one that was unlocked. Once inside, he let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting and began his investigation.

The house was typical of a single man. Not much decor, not much food in the fridge, and not much security. He made his way through each room, finding nothing out of the ordinary. When he pushed the door open to the small office, Mort had to press his lips together to keep the foul words from escaping. On one wall sat a small desk and laptop computer. The adjacent wall held hundreds of photos of Monica Templeton taped and stapled to the wall, forming a collage. Photos of her leaving work, leaving her apartment, in her car, eating lunch, and having drinks. Among the photos were random items attached to the wall as well. Gum wrappers, a pair of lace panties, and her missing work badge.

In slow, calculated movements, Mort removed every photo, every item from the wall and placed it in a small bag to take with him. He had come here for information, but now his plans had changed. He would have to dispatch this nuisance.

Satisfied when the wall was bare, he pulled his piece from his waistband and made his way toward the bedroom.

“Wake up, bitch,” Mort spoke loudly into the quiet room.

The man stirred in his sleep but failed to realize that he was not alone.

“I said, wake up!”

Evan shot up in bed, panicked by the booming voice. When his eyes adjusted to the dark room, he found himself at the end of a very large gun.

“What the…?” he shouted, scrambling back, trying to press himself into the headboard. Evan’s panicked voice cracked like a pubescent boy’s.

“Go ahead and try to run, it will only make this more enjoyable.”

The voice was cold and sickly evil. It sent a terror-filled chill down his spine when his eyes finally landed on its owner. He could barely see the man standing over him in the shadows, but his identity was unmistakable.

“Rob? How did you get in here?”

Dread settled in his stomach, making him nauseous. Fear prickled across his skin, and he knew his time was limited.

“I found your little shrine to Monica,” Rob said, waving his gun toward the hall. “I took it all down. Don’t want a piece of shit like you to be connected to my girl in any way. You’re quite the fucking stalker.”

“No. It’s not what you think! I swear!”

“What is it, then? You working for Moloney?”

“Who?” Evan asked.

“That’s what I thought. How long?”

“How long what?” Evan’s eyes scanned the room, searching for an escape.

“How long have you been stalking her?”

“I haven’t been stal—”

Mort placed his gun to Evan’s forehead.

“I dare you to finish that sentence.”

“Ni-nine months,” Evan stuttered.

“Ah, so in all fairness you did find her first. Too bad. I just needed her for a job. She was my link to someone else. But she got me. I couldn’t help but want her.”

“So you understand,” Evan hedged, “her appeal. How amazing she is.”

“I understand her in a way you never will.”

“I’ll stop. I swear. I’ll leave her alone. Just let me live,” Evan begged through heaving breaths.

“Such a fucking coward. That’s not dedication. You’re willing to give her up to save yourself. She’s worth way more than that. It’s too late for you.”

“What can I do? What do you want?” Evan asked, thinking he’d trade anything to save his own life.

“I wanted you to stay away from my girl, but you just couldn’t help yourself.”

Rob placed the end of the silencer to Evan’s forehead and before the man could even beg for his life, he pulled the trigger. He didn’t wait around to watch the light fade from Evan’s eyes, he didn’t need to. The kill itself had been more satisfying than anything he’d ever felt. This man was a thief, out to steal his most prized possession.

The next evening’s news would report that Evan Randal, thirty-eight, was found dead in his home by his housekeeping service. There were no signs of forced entry and no witnesses. The police had no suspects.