Christine Rimmer - Cat's Cradle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Overhead, the desert night exploded with fireworks: trailing comets, rockets, bursting stars. It was the Fourth of July in Las Vegas, and Dillon McKenna was about to jump a motorcycle over the man-made volcano that erupted every fifteen minutes in front of the Mirage casino.

The crowd seemed to stretch out forever along the Strip. Dillon cruised down the middle of the street, working the crowd like the pro he was. He popped a few wheelies. He rose with a quick, agile leap and stood on the seat. For a moment, as he balanced like a wirewalker, he let go of the handlebars and carefully straightened to his full height. He bowed.

The crowd went nuts. They waved their miniature American flags and threw their red, white and blue hats in the air.

Under his breath, as he bent for the handlebars again, Dillon muttered a low curse. It was hotter than hell’s basement in the heavy crash helmet and the star-spangled jumpsuit that L.W. had ordered made especially for this jump. Sweat ran in Dillon’s eyes, burning. He blinked to clear it away.

He thought, This is the last jump for me. After this, I’m done.

The thought soothed him somehow. Made him care a little more about doing it right for the people this last time around.

The people had been good to him, over the years. They deserved a good show. They didn’t know that he was quitting. Nobody knew yet.

Dillon slid his feet off the sides of the seat and dropped. His boots landed neatly back on the pegs. He waved. The people screamed and stomped and waved frantically in return.

He’d reached Flamingo Road. Time to turn it around and head for the ramp. A voice from the small speaker inside his helmet told him he had two minutes before the volcano went off. He raced the engine, letting off the clutch just enough to make the tires scream and skid as he turned the bike. Then he gunned it again. The bike, which he’d modified himself for this jump, sounded good to him. It sounded just fine.

All up and down the Strip the chant had begun.

“Dil-lon. Dil-lon. Dil-lon. Dil-lon...” A thousand voices speaking as one. To Dillon the sound was barely more than a whisper beneath the roar of the bike.

“One minute,” the voice from the speaker inside his helmet warned. Then the countdown began. “Fifty-nine seconds, fifty-eight...”

Dillon gunned the engine again. He let out the clutch. The faraway chant of the crowd faded to nothing as he shot forward, picking up speed, headed for the takeoff ramp that rose over the lagoon at the foot of the volcano. He hit the base of the ramp and zoomed for the jump. Ahead and beneath him, the eruption began. A sharp, high burst of fire.

He took off from the ramp and soared out into the half block of nothingness going seventy-five miles per hour, with fire belching skyward below him. He rocketed higher, higher, leaving the people and the fire behind. He was standing on the foot pegs, gripping the handlebars, leaning forward, his eyes on the landing ramp, his mind on trajectories, on the arc of himself and the machine. And then he was over the top, into his descent, heading right on course for the landing.

He felt the heavy thud all through him as his rear wheel came down on the lip of the ramp. For a fraction of a second, he thought he was home free.

But then everything went wrong.

Too fast! I’ve hit the ramp too damn fast!

The thought came blasting into his mind as the bike came alive beneath him, fighting him. The handlebars ripped themselves free of his hands.

Nothing held him. He left the bike and catapulted into the air. He fell, somersaulting, noting in a distant way that beneath him, fire had rimmed the volcano and was beginning to bleed down the sides to set the lagoon aflame.

He came down hard on the ramp in front of the runaway bike. Man and bike became tangled. Over and over they tumbled toward the hard pavement below.

The last thing he heard before he blacked out was his dead father’s taunting voice echoing in his head.

It’s your last jump, all right, you worthless piece of trash. ‘Cause you’re a dead man...

* * *

He was back in his hometown of Red Dog City, California, standing on the Beaudines’ front porch. It was a fall evening. He could smell burning leaves. There was a chill in the air. He was seventeen years old. And mean Cat Beaudine was telling him off.

“All I asked was that you get my sister in by nine, Dillon McKenna. One little request. And you couldn’t manage it.”

Adora, Cat’s sister and his high school sweetheart, was holding on to his arm. He wanted to impress Adora. And he wanted to show Cat Beaudine that he was at least as tough as she was.

He opened his mouth to tell Cat Beaudine just what he thought of her.

No words came out.

The porch faded away. Someone said something about vital signs. Faces in surgical masks looked down at him. The eyes above the masks showed concern. From behind the masks came soothing words. About how he was all right. He was going to be all right.

And then he was back on the Beaudine porch again and Cat Beaudine was raising her daddy’s double-barreled shotgun and aiming it right at his heart.

That was when he knew this wasn’t real. In real life, Cat Beaudine had never actually pointed that gun at him; she’d only threatened that she might.

In the dream–or the hallucination or whatever it was–he could talk now. He asked Cat Beaudine, “Why do you care what your sister does? Why do you care if she gets home at night?”

Cat answered, “Somebody’s got to care. Somebody’s got to keep this family together. It’s not a job I volunteered for, Dillon McKenna, but it’s the job I got stuck with. It’s a school night. You said you’d get her in by nine.”

He was still staring down those double barrels. He watched in disbelief as Cat disengaged the safety and wrapped two fingers around the twin triggers.

He threw his hands up, shouting, “Hey, you can’t shoot me just for keeping Adora out an hour late!”

But Cat pulled the trigger anyway.

And pain erupted through him, white and hot. Teeth of fire dug his flesh away.

And somebody said, “Where’s the anesthesiologist? We’re only waiting for the anesthesiologist....”

* * *

Much later, he swam toward consciousness. The pain was different now. It was still there, still eating him alive, but they must have given him something powerful to ease it. Now the pain seemed to be consuming him from a distance. He knew it was bad, the worst he’d ever experienced. But it was kept at bay somewhere, waiting for the medication to wear off just a little so it could leap on him and devour him whole.

He turned his head and cautiously opened his eyes. An IV drip stood by the metal side rail of the bed. It was hooked up to his arm. There was some machine close by that made little bleeping sounds, like bubbles singing underwater. The air smelled of disinfectant overlaid with the scent of flowers. The flowers were everywhere, intended, no doubt, to cheer up the invalid: him.

And there were voices, from across the room.

They whispered to each other.

“My God, L.W. I just can’t.”

“You can. You will. McKenna needs you now.”

“They say he may never walk again. He may be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. It’s too awful, too ugly, I just can’t–”