Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

Maybe some unknown enemy had a voodoo doll that looked like him, a thousand pins stuck in it. Maybe the stars that charted his fate were out of whack or had collapsed upon themselves.

It was certain that something was fucked up. Or else why couldn’t he catch a break?

Bellamy Price had been seconds away from walking straight into his well-laid ambush.

When a cell phone rang.

Ray had heard it from inside the closet. Even as his jaw dropped with disbelief over his rotten luck, he’d heard her running footsteps going back the way she’d come. He’d heard her say, “Don’t hang up!” as she raced down the stairs.

The phone stopped ringing. Breathlessly, she said, “I’m here, Olivia.”

Then for a time, nothing, and Ray had thought to himself that if she was that absorbed by what her stepmother was saying, she probably wouldn’t hear him. All was not lost.

He’d eased open the closet door, slipped out, and tiptoed to the double doors of the bedroom, where he’d paused to listen. She was speaking in a murmur. She’d made a sound like a sob then began crying in earnest.

He’d left the bedroom and crept down the hall, knowing that her weeping would keep her from hearing him. It had sounded to him as though she was at the foot of the staircase. That close. If he could reach the landing without alerting her, the noise he made going down wouldn’t matter. By the time she’d registered his presence and reacted, she’d be dead.

Ray had heard her say, “I’ll leave immediately and get there as soon as I can.” Then more softly. “No, I’ll be driving this time.”

Some soft good-byes had been exchanged, and then she’d disconnected.

He’d peered over the banister and saw her snatch a large shoulder bag from the hall table, then go directly to the front door and pick up a suitcase. She’d paused only long enough to hit the light switch and plunge the first-floor rooms into darkness before she’d sailed through the front door and locked it behind her.

It had all happened so swiftly that Ray was still lurking on the landing, gripping his knife in a sweaty clutch and debating what his next course of action should be, when he’d heard her car starting. Headlights swept across the front windows as she backed out of the driveway and drove away. Just like that, she was gone.

Ray had had no choice except to punt. Again.

And that was why he was convinced that some bad mojo was working against him. He’d left her house and walked back to where he’d left his pickup. As far as he could tell, it had gone unnoticed. Just to be on the safe side, he’d switched out the license plates several times before driving to Georgetown.

Exhausted and out of options, he’d decided to go home.

Now, forty minutes after being thwarted again, he reached the duplex. He secured his pickup in the garage, then walked to the front door and let himself in. Groping his way around the living room, he lowered the blackout shades on both front windows. Only then did he move to a table and switch on a small-wattage lamp.

Turning toward the kitchen, he drew up short. “Jesus,” he grumbled. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

Rupe Collier stepped out of the shadows and into the circle of feeble light. “I’m here because you don’t do as you’re told.”

I don’t take orders from you.” Belligerently Ray shouldered past Rupe and lumbered into his kitchen. Rupe caught the full brunt of his body odor as he went past.

“You stink, Ray. Why don’t you go take a shower?”

“Why don’t you kiss my ass?” He took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap, which he dropped to the floor, and guzzled half of it before lowering the bottle and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he belched loudly and wetly.

Charming , Rupe thought. As soon as Ray’s usefulness ran out, he needed to disappear.

From the outset their alliance had been an uneasy and tenuous one, fraught with mistrust on both sides. But for Rupe’s peace of mind it had been necessary to forge the quasi-friendship.

Following Allen’s fatal stabbing, Rupe had heard about Ray’s attempts to scale the walls, both real and figurative, that protected the Lystons. As the prosecutor who’d gotten Allen convicted, Rupe figured he would also be a target for Ray’s revenge. He had an idiot’s IQ, but he was just pugnacious enough and stupid enough to be dangerous in a loose cannon sort of way.

Besides, Rupe was a firm believer in the adage that it was better to be lucky than smart.

He feared that one day Ray would get lucky and either kill, maim, or damage him in one manner or another. Rupe didn’t want to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, but he’d already made one attempt on Ray’s life by staging the auto accident. He’d decided to take a different tack and befriend the man.

Because Rupe also believed in keeping his friends close, but his enemies closer.

He’d found Ray living in the same rundown house he’d shared with his late brother. Being limited in all capacities including his mangled left arm, he’d been unable to acquire gainful employment and was barely scraping by on welfare.

In rode Rupe Collier on a white stallion—actually in a flashy white Cadillac—offering Ray a new place to live rent free. He gave him a recently repossessed pickup truck and a job at a glass company, which Rupe had bought so windshield repairs and replacements could be done there cheaply.

Initially Ray had responded to the extended olive branch with a threat to bash in Rupe’s skull. Playing meek and mild, Rupe apologized and said that he didn’t blame Ray for his antagonism. Of course “antagonism” had to be defined.

Ray was mollified by the apology, but not entirely without suspicion. “How come you’re doing this?”

“If I hadn’t prosecuted your brother’s case so well, he would still be alive. I feel terrible about that. Even if Allen was guilty, he wasn’t given a death sentence. He shouldn’t have died in prison. And if he was innocent… well, that’s a possibility I can’t bear to think about.”

“He was innocent. You and Moody cooked up a case against him.”

“You’re absolutely right, Ray,” Rupe had said, oozing remorse. “Moody was keen on sending your brother to Huntsville.”

“Even if he didn’t do nothin’?”

Rupe sighed. “Moody couldn’t make the charges stick with Denton Carter. He didn’t have anybody else to nail that crime on, so…”

He made a helpless gesture and left the thought unfinished. Ray’s beetled brow indicated that his pea-sized brain was trying to process it. Eventually he reached the conclusion that Rupe had hoped he would. “It’s Moody’s fault Allen got killed.”

Rupe protested, but gently. “I must take partial responsibility. That’s why I’m here. I can’t bring your brother back, but I can make your life easier. Otherwise, I’ll never be able to live with myself.”

Ray accepted the arrangement. He would work for Rupe, live in a rented duplex paid for by Rupe, drive a new pickup every two or three years, and tell absolutely no one about his benefactor.

“I want to remain anonymous. Do you know what that means, Ray?” After explaining the concept of anonymity, he said, “That means I’ll be like an invisible friend. No one can know about our friendship. Just us.”

“Why don’t you want anybody to know?”

“Because charity isn’t true charity if it’s advertised.”

If Ray had thought it through, he might then have wondered why Rupe was often photographed handing over checks in sizeable amounts to local charities. The funds came from his employees, who were encouraged, even browbeaten, to contribute. Not a penny came from Rupe’s private pocket, but he took credit for the generosity of Collier Motors.