Cut Throat Page 4

  The laptop she’d come to rely on was on the passenger seat, powered up and running. Every so often she would glance down at it, just to make sure the blip she was following was still where it had been the night before. It was. It was not lost upon her that this whole trip could turn out to be a bust. The blip could be nothing more than a leftover bug that her friend Pete had placed in a piece of clothing or a pair of shoes belonging to Mark Presley. After she’d taken Presley into custody outside of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, anyone could have come across his belongings. She had no way of knowing what had burned in the fire and what had survived. Someone could have come along and claimed the discarded clothing, unaware that some of it had been bugged. One way or another, she would soon find out.

  About an hour south, she began to be aware that the traffic in front of her was slowing down. When she drove up over a hill and saw that there’d been a wreck, and that for now both lanes of the highway were being shut down, she frowned and pulled off to the shoulder.

  One highway patrolman was stopping traffic. Another was down in the ditch with the wrecked cars and a tow truck. She eyed the situation carefully, then put her vehicle back in gear. While the patrolmen were otherwise occupied, she shifted her SUV into four-wheel drive, wheeled around the parked vehicles and drove onto the center median, bypassing the line of cars and the wreckage. When she was clear of the pileup, she drove back onto the highway and continued her trip south.

  * * *

  Wilson had nightmares all night and, in one way or another, every damn one of them related to Cat Dupree. His first phase of sleep revolved around Cat ordering him from her house. That nightmare evolved into a good two hours of being lost in a maze and hearing Cat screaming for help, but being unable to find her.

  He got up before daybreak feeling like he’d been run over. The last time he’d been this bummed about a woman, he’d been all of thirteen and learning to come to terms with the fact that his pretty, eighteen-year-old neighbor was probably never going to return his affections. Back then, a big breakfast of blueberry pancakes had gone a long way toward curing the heartache. Unfortunately, it would take more than his mother’s cooking to assuage the pain that loving Cat Dupree had left behind.

  By the time he got out of the shower, the streets outside his apartment were already beginning to fill with traffic. As he went to the kitchen to start the coffeemaker, he glanced out the living-room windows, judging the weather by the thin wisps of clouds and the gray, overcast sky. Whatever was going to happen today wasn’t going to be good. He could feel it.

  He poured his first cup of coffee, thinking of how his mornings used to be when he was a kid back home. The kitchen had been warm and full of noise and great smells. His mom would be standing at the stove cooking bacon or pancakes or something equally tasty, while keeping her rowdy, growing family down to a dull roar.

  In comparison to that, his place was a mausoleum. He turned on the small TV he kept on the corner of a kitchen counter just so he could add some voices to the silence, even if the news they were broadcasting was less than heartwarming. As usual, in a city the size of Dallas, the night had not been kind. Someone was dying, while others were already dead. He listened just long enough to assure himself that the suspected perps were none of his bonds, then opted for food.

  But when he went to the fridge to get some eggs, he saw a half-empty bottle of beer on the lower shelf and, once again, lost focus. His heart kicked painfully against his chest as he stared at it—remembering.

  It had been in his fridge for at least two weeks, maybe more, but he knew who it belonged to. It was Cat’s. She had been drinking from it to wash down a bean-and-beef burrito when he’d taken it out of her hands, picked her up in his arms, then carried her to his bedroom. The ensuing session of lovemaking had been gut-wrenching—a mixture of passion and lust that he wished to hell he could forget. Frustrated with himself for being such a loser, he emptied the beer into the sink. The desire for food was gone. If only he could rid himself of Cat’s memory as quickly as he’d dumped that bottle, he would be a lot better off.

  “Christ Almighty,” he muttered, then threw the bottle in the trash. “How in hell do I get past this?”

  Frustrated with himself for letting a woman get under his skin to this degree, he turned off the coffeepot, ignored the ache in his gut and went back to his bedroom to dress for the day.

  * * *

  Solomon Tutuola sopped up the last of the beans with his last bite of tortilla, then eyed Paloma as he licked his fingers.

  “Got any more?”

  Paloma frowned as she shook her head. This food had been meant to last her at least through tomorrow. He’d eaten it without thought for her situation.

  “No more,” she said, frowning as she glanced at his teeth then looked away. It seemed unnatural to file one’s teeth like a wild animal, but, as she remembered, Solomon was as close to an animal as any human could be.

  Solomon frowned. The pain pills he’d taken earlier were beginning to wear off, and what wasn’t hurting was itching. He glanced around the simple dwelling, frowning even more as he looked back at Paloma herself. Years ago, when they’d first met, she’d been a curvaceous woman with dark, flashing eyes and a rowdy laugh. The woman before him had run to fat, and the displeasure she was feeling was reflected on her face. He was tempted to say to hell with her and take his leave. But he still needed to rest, and he needed some help doctoring his healing wounds.

  “I’m going to sleep now,” he announced, and rose abruptly.

  “But the day is just beginning,” Paloma said.

  Solomon glared at her. “Then maybe I need some entertaining to keep me awake in this no-place of a town.”

  “No one asked you to come here,” Paloma muttered.

  Solomon slapped her.

  “Don’t backtalk me, woman. You’re not pretty enough to get away with it anymore.”

  Paloma’s chin lifted. She might not be pretty anymore, but age had given her something else—something she’d been lacking when she’d first known him. Backbone.

  “You don’t talk about pretty to me, Tutuola. Your face looks like your heart…dark and ugly.”

  Solomon grabbed her by the throat and squeezed.

  Paloma glared back at him.

  Suddenly he shoved her aside and strode from the room. She watched him go, then turned and left her house as abruptly as he’d left her kitchen.

  Solomon heard her leave and thought nothing of it. She was of no consequence to him other than furnishing a free place to rest. He popped some pain pills, downing them without water, and lay down on her cot. Within a few minutes, he’d fallen asleep.

  Paloma was not as easily assuaged. Still, the crisp, coolness of the morning air was calming as she stormed from her little house out into the dusty streets. She paused in her front yard, glancing back one last time at her doorway, then doubled her fists and headed south to the casa of Maria Sanchez. Maria was a witch, and Paloma needed a sure cure for the devil who’d darkened her doorstep.

  * * *

  Cat was less than an hour from the border when she glanced up into her rearview mirror and saw a police car bearing down on her with lights flashing.

  “Crap,” she muttered, and checked her speedometer. She wasn’t speeding—much.

  Rolling her eyes at yet another delay, she tapped on her brakes and began slowing down to pull off onto the shoulder. As she slowed, the cruiser caught up with her, then passed her at a high rate of speed. Her foot was still on the brakes as she watched the taillights of the patrol car disappearing over a rise.

  Breathing a quick sigh of relief, she glanced down at her laptop, then pulled back onto the highway and turned on the radio, tuning it to a satellite station that played oldies from the eighties. The next few miles passed with a song from Boy George, then one from Michael Jackson. But when Mike and the Mechanics came on with an oldie called “All I Need Is A Miracle,” she frowned and turned it off. Her hopes of a miracle had died when
she’d found Marsha’s body. She knew better than to hope for another one. She drove for about a mile without consequence; then everything began to happen at once.

  The eighteen-wheeler about a quarter of a mile in front of her was suddenly heading for the ditch. The church van that had passed her a couple of miles back swerved onto the center median, as did a pickup truck and a small compact car. She couldn’t see what they were dodging, but something had to be wrong. Either there was a roadblock from another wreck or something more—something potentially deadly for the people on the road.

  Seconds later, another vehicle ahead of her swerved, and as it did, she finally saw what was causing the panic. There was a northbound car coming fast—but in the southbound lane.

  She tapped on the brakes and began slowing down. It wasn’t until she realized there was a phalanx of Texas Highway Patrol cars barreling up behind the northbound car that she realized the enormity of the situation. Someone was on the run from the cops with no care for the innocents heading south. When she saw the windshield of a patrol car suddenly shatter, she realized that the occupants of the car were shooting at the cops in pursuit.

  Slamming on her brakes, Cat pulled over to the side of the road, killed the engine, then grabbed her handgun from the glove box. She got out of her SUV on the run and took cover on the passenger side.

  As the chase came closer, she heard a series of rapid gunshots and winced when the windshield of another patrol car shattered. The patrol car fishtailed, then swerved into the ditch, barely escaping being rear-ended by the cars giving chase behind it.

  Bracing herself, she went down on her belly at the rear of her vehicle, using it as cover while waiting for the fleeing vehicle to draw near. Seconds later it was on her, with the police cars only a few yards behind.

  Her first shot hit the left front tire, her second, the left rear. There were two loud pops as they blew in quick succession, then a cloud of smoke and the scent of burning rubber as the driver tried to keep the crippled car on the road.

  Helpless, without control, the car quickly fishtailed, then slid onto the center median, rolling several times before coming to a stop upside down.

  Cat heard tires squealing as the patrol cars began stopping. From where she was lying, she could see the smoking car upside down, with the tires still spinning.

  She got up slowly, laying her gun on the bumper of her car and raising her hands as she stood.

  “I’m unarmed! I’m unarmed!” she shouted, as two officers came at her with guns drawn, shouting for her to drop her weapon.

  The other officers converged on the wrecked car before the passengers had time to crawl out and run.

  Cat stepped out from behind her car.

  “My weapon is on the bumper,” she said, well aware of what was coming next.

  “Hands on the back of the vehicle! Legs spread! Do it now!” one of them shouted, while the other began patting her down. When the handcuffs went around her wrists, she winced.

  “Some thanks,” she said, as the handcuffs clicked.

  The patrolman in front of her frowned as she began to speak.

  “My name is Cat Dupree, and I have a permit for the gun. It’s in the glove box. I thought it was prudent to stop this crazy bastard before someone got killed, but if I messed up your race, boys, I’m real sorry.”

  The officer who’d patted her down asked her to repeat her name.

  “Cat Dupree. I work for Art Ball Bail Bonds, out of Dallas.”

  The officer’s eyebrows arched as he opened the wallet he’d taken out of her pocket.

  “You’re a bounty hunter?”

  She nodded, then tilted her head toward the wrecked car.

  “How long have they been on the wrong side of the highway?”

  The patrolman sighed wearily.

  “Too long.”

  Cat frowned. “Someone get hurt?”

  “Yeah. The guard at the bank they just robbed and a woman and two kids about six miles back.”

  Cat stifled a shudder. “Bad?”

  “As bad as it gets.”

  “Lord,” Cat said, watching as the cops began pulling two men out from the overturned vehicle.

  The patrolman escorted her to his car, put her in the backseat and then went about the business of checking her credentials. A few minutes later he opened the door, helped her out and took off the cuffs.

  “Sorry. Procedure,” he said, and dropped the gun into her hands.

  “No problem,” Cat said, absently rubbing at her wrists as she took her pistol, walked back to her SUV and put the gun back in the glove box.

  It was at that point that she realized there was more going on than what was happening on the ground.

  “Damn news crews,” the highway patrolman muttered.

  Cat glanced up. A helicopter with a Channel 4 logo on the side was hovering overhead.

  “Smile pretty,” the cop said. “I can guarantee they got all of this on tape.”

  Cat frowned, then looked away. “Well, crap,” she muttered.

  “Exactly,” he said, then glanced into her SUV and saw the laptop and the program running on it. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Bounty.”

  He arched an eyebrow, then looked back at her and grinned.

  “Damn, lady…you don’t even give them a fighting chance, do you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” she muttered, then put her hands on her hips. “Are we through here?”

  “Yeah. We have your info if we need more from you later.” Then he smiled. “Watch your back.”

  “Always,” she said.

  She was opening her door when the cop added, “Hey…by the way…thanks.”

  “No problem,” she said, then with one last glance up toward the hovering helicopter, got in and drove away.

  * * *

  Solomon was still sleeping when Paloma returned, carrying the items that Maria Sanchez had given her in a basket, along with a chicken she clutched under her arm. The chicken clucked nervously. Maria walked into her bedroom, frowning as she saw Solomon stretched out on her little bed. The mattress was sagging almost to the floor, and he’d gone to bed without covers or removing his shoes, leaving a dark, dirty streak on the bedclothes.

  “Animal,” she muttered, and set the basket down on the floor, then took the chicken out from beneath her arm. Without hesitation, she grabbed it by the neck and twisted violently, quickly separating the chicken from its head. It flopped about on the floor beside the bed, splattering blood and gore in its death throes.

  Solomon woke up as Paloma was taking a cross out of the basket.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he shouted.

  Paloma continued her spell by sprinkling the contents from a tiny bag Maria had given her onto the pooling blood beneath the now-quivering carcass of the chicken.

  When she began to chant in a singsong voice, Solomon realized what was happening. He was as cold and vicious as a man could be, yet Paloma had unknowingly hit upon his Achilles’ heel. He was superstitious to a fault, and now he went into a panic at what she was doing.

  “Stop! Stop!” he begged, and bounded off the bed, only to find himself blocked from the exit by the blood and carcass of the chicken.

  Paloma completed her chant, emptied another tiny bag on Solomon’s feet and then looked up at him. The challenge was in her eyes. Solomon crumpled beneath her gaze. His heart was hammering so hard he could barely hear his own voice, and his legs were trembling to the point that he had to grab at the wall to stand.

  “What have you done? My God, woman…what have you done?”

  “You came into my home, availed yourself of my body with no thought for my feelings, took my food without invitation and threatened me with harm if I did not do as you wished. You want to know what I’ve done? I want to know what the hell you were thinking.”

  Solomon’s eyes were wide, his expression one of shock. He kept looking at the floor, then back up at Paloma.

  “What did yo
u do to me?” he begged.

  She lifted her chin as she met his gaze head-on.

  “You will never hurt another woman as you’ve hurt me, that I promise you. Your manhood will fester, then wither. Running sores will cover your body. Worms will devour you as you lie in your grave.”

  Solomon dropped to his knees and began to beg.

  “Please…please, no, no…Paloma. I’ll leave. I’ll leave right now. I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Take away the curse, I beg of you. Take away the curse.”

  Paloma threw back her shoulders, taking strength from his weakness.

  “It’s too late. I’m a poor woman, and the damage to my person and my place has been done.”

  Solomon’s eyes suddenly widened. He held up his hands in a beseeching manner as he scrambled to his feet.

  “Wait! Wait here! I’ll pay for the damage. I’ll pay for shaming you.”

  His pants were blood-soaked, dotted with herbs and feathers, as he pushed past her and ran from her house. Thinking that he was running away, she was surprised when he came hurrying back. He thrust something into her hands and then began backing out of the house, still begging.

  “That will take care of the damage I’ve caused. Take it with my good wishes…just take away the curse. I’m begging you, Paloma. Please, take it away.”

  Paloma forgot her sense of injustice when she realized he’d handed her the money—more money than she’d ever seen at one time in her life.

  “Will you?” he begged. “Will you take away the curse?”

  Stunned by the amount of money she was holding, she was momentarily silenced.

  Reading it as another refusal, Solomon thrust another stack of money on top of the first one.

  “Please!” he begged.

  Paloma’s heart was pounding as she clutched the money to her breasts.