Jan Burke - Nine

Some milagros were body parts-a leg for the healing of one’s leg, for example. But the milagros were of many other shapes, too-for anything for which one prayed for help-houses, animals, fruits, vegetables. There were also saints and praying figures. “And for help with love,” the clerk had said, and handed him a small, silver-plated heart.

Kit, ever aware of the power of charms of any kind, and a strong believer in divine intervention, bought the milagros by handfuls.

While the clerk had been counting up his purchases, Kit kept an eye on Spooky. She was getting rusty, he thought, because he had clearly seen her hand dive into her pocket.

He saw now that the object she had taken was a Day of the Dead figurine, a skeleton dog wearing a saucy, colorful, wide-brimmed hat and a carefully decorated leather shoulder bag. A female dog, then.

“Add that to my purchases, please,” he said to the clerk.

Outside, they walked in silence for a time. She asked for the dog and he gently removed it from the sack and handed it to her.

“Is it Molly?” he asked.

She nodded, not looking at him, studying the figurine. A few minutes later, she tucked it into her jacket. “Thanks for buying it for me,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry about the stealing.”

“I know.”

“If we just go to California-just go by ourselves, you and me, I promise I won’t steal anything more. Ever.”

He paused and turned toward her. He decided to face this head-on. “You know me pretty well. Do you think I’m going to abandon you?”

For several moments, she didn’t reply, and he didn’t like the wait much. But he was also glad she didn’t return a flip answer. She gave him a long, searching look, then said, “No.”

“Good. Because I won’t. Not ever. That was why I became your guardian and we spent all that time in court.”

“They let you because you have so much money.”

“You’re changing the subject. And besides, I don’t care why they ‘let me.’ I’m talking about why we went to court. Why did we go to court?”

“Because,” she said, “you’re crazy.”

He said nothing.

She relented. “Because you wanted to be my big brother.”

“Right. So don’t be afraid of my friends. My friends can never be my sister.”

They walked a little farther. She said, “It’s not like you’re really my brother, though.”

“Yes, it is. That’s exactly what it’s like. Genetics aren’t everything-right?”

Despite the warmth of the afternoon, she gave a little shudder. “Right.”

They were almost back to the Suburban now. “By the way, you might want to give up on the stealing anyway,” he said. “I think you’re losing your touch.”

She dropped her head, so that he couldn’t see her face. After a moment, she said, “Maybe you’re right.”

“Good.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and couldn’t find his keys. He patted down his pants pockets, the other pockets of the jacket, then happened to look up to see her clasping both hands over her mouth, stifling laughter.

“Very funny. I suppose you have my wallet, too?”

She fell asleep in the Suburban not long after he started to drive toward the mountains. He called Meghan’s cell phone. They had checked in with each other several times since last night, much to Spooky’s annoyance.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine. The view from my new room is gorgeous, and I want to be outside. Feeling restless, in fact.”

“Just a little while longer. The taxi will pick you up at the service entrance. You’ve cleared that with the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He gave her the name of the man from the security company who would be meeting her. “He will already be in the cab, and he’ll make sure you get safely to the tram.”

She thanked him and started to summarize a soap opera she had just watched. He wasn’t familiar with the show and could make little sense of the story line as she presented it, but he knew she was nervous and going stir-crazy, so he let her talk. Before long, though, he started losing the signal, and they were forced to end the call.

Frederick Whitfield IV was in a foul mood. Grimly, he thought he could wait it out. Since leaving the little victory party in the bar yesterday evening, he had been subject to one mood swing after another.

Stealing the old man’s Thunderbird had not worked out as planned. Frederick suspected the man had figured out he was being followed. Well, perhaps not that, but the damned old geezer had taken so long getting out of his car, he had seen Frederick’s lame-ass rental car drive by, and stared at it in a hard way. “Quit mad-doggin’ me, you old butthole,” Frederick had muttered to himself.

Not an hour later, these words would seem prophetic. Sure that he had given the old man enough time to stop worrying about his T-bird, Frederick moved nearer to the car, ready to pop the lock and hotwire that baby, simple tools at hand. He hadn’t stolen a vehicle in a few years, and as he pulled his gloves on, he found himself joyfully anticipating this test of his old skills. In the next instant, he heard a screen door open, and turned to see a ferocious, noisy mutt bearing down on him, barking loudly. The dog had been allowed to chase Frederick back to the rental car. To be forced to haul ass out of perfect setups twice in one day was nearly more than Frederick could stand.

So, using the handheld GPS device he had with him, he drove to the closest shopping mall that had a big theater complex in it. He watched a middle-aged couple leave their pickup truck and walk to the theater box office. It took less than ten minutes to transfer his belongings from the rental car into the truck and be on his way.

The cab of the truck, though, was redolent with an odor he could hardly withstand, an aroma emanating, he was sure, from the half-empty bags of corn chips, wadded-up Kleenexes, and other souvenirs that awaited him courtesy of the previous occupants. He felt some punishment was due, and, reaching into the glove compartment, learned the owners’ address for the car registration. He used the GPS again, drove to the address, and spent a therapeutic forty-five minutes tossing the place completely. He made the happy discovery of a Ford Bronco in the garage. Not only did he now have keys for it, it was cleaner than the pickup truck. He switched vehicles and gleefully drove off.

He found a room for the night in a small but clean hotel. He had no intention of sleeping there. He merely shampooed in the hair color he had brought with him, coming closer to his natural blond. He wasn’t especially pleased with the result. He considered another set of tinted contact lenses, but he was uneasy about these props after the mishap at the Sandia Towers. He yawned at the face in the mirror, a wide, uninhibited donkey yawn. Everett would have hated to see him show such a lack of refinement.

“Tough,” he said aloud.

He lay on the lumpy mattress to watch the latest update on CNN, thinking he would see happier news of himself, but he fell asleep during a stock market report.

At four in the morning, angry at himself for having dozed off, he peered cautiously outside, saw no one else stirring, and quickly changed into jeans, a white T-shirt, worn leather aviator jacket, and black boots. The pair of Ray-Bans that went with this outfit were already in the jacket’s right pocket. He didn’t put them on now, but knew that when he did, he’d looked an awful lot like James Dean. A really buff James Dean. He left the room.

He realized that if he showed up in the parking lot at the Sandia Towers at this time of day, he would attract undue attention. He drove to the highway, eventually found a truck stop, and ate a hearty and-he could not help but believe-manly breakfast. He mistook the other patrons’ quick dismissal of him as a sign that his aura of dangerousness had been perceived. After all, he hadn’t shaved that morning, so he was probably looking pretty much like a bad-ass kind of guy.