Vive la difference!
She looked at him and wanted him again. She felt bad taking him away from their work designing the ultimate unisex video game, but every time they sat down and put their heads together to do some design, they started putting their lips together and pretty soon they'd have everything together.
LOL!
She loved this townhouse. A bangin' cool place. All this mad chrome furniture and a home theater with a huge screen and a surround sound system to die for. She totally wanted to move in here but didn't want to push things—Jerry might not be ready for that yet. But he would be. And soon. She could tell.
The only thing she didn't like was the painting Jerry had stuck here on the bedroom wall. She didn't know why the turbulent abstract swirls of black and deep purple bothered her, but she always got the totally crazy feeling it was watching her.
Looking at it now made her pull the sheet over her. Weird. And even weirder, she'd touched it once and it felt wet. Ugh.
But Jerry loved it. Said it "spoke" to him. He'd found it in a secondhand store in Monroe. He was always on the lookout for others by the same artist—Melanie Ehler or something like that—but never found any. Dawn was glad for that.
As she was deciding whether or not to reach up and grab his joy stick, the phone rang. Jerry stepped over to it, stared down at the caller ID readout, and frowned.
"Hey, it's your momma."
Dawn felt all the heat rush out of her.
"Don't answer."
He looked at her. "Maybe I should. Maybe it's important."
"Nothing she has to say can be important. Let her leave a message."
"I'm gonna see what's on her mind." He picked up the receiver and said, "Hello, Mrs. P. What can I do for you?"
Always such a gentleman. Even to her. Dawn couldn't believe she'd cooked up those things about Jerry. If she were him she'd so tell her to go to hell.
What had come over Mom anyway? Maybe it was more than love. Maybe it was crazy-mad possessiveness. Yeah, Jerry was twice her age, sure, but so what? It was only eighteen years. So okay, get a little upset, but don't go around accusing him of murder!
And if you are going to make some total bullshit charge, at least make sure whoever he was supposed to have killed is dead.
That wasn't like Mom either. She was usually pretty together and well thought out. If she so wanted to bust them up, you'd think she could come up with something better than that.
Maybe she'd been lied to. Maybe she'd believed because she wanted to believe anything bad about Jerry.
Dawn was so proud of how Jerry had handled it. Yeah, he'd looked like he was going to go totally nuclear at first, but then he'd calmed himself down and wanted to go over and confront his accuser.
She watched Jerry's frown deepen as he listened. What was she saying? Then he glanced at her.
"Without Dawn? I don't know about that."
Without Dawn? She sat up. What was she saying to him?
Finally he said, "Okay. Give me about an hour." Then he hung up.
"What's going on? What did she say?"
He stared at her. "She wants to talk to me. Alone."
"Why alone?"
"She didn't say. Just said we have to talk—without you around. Maybe she thinks if we have a heart to heart she can somehow convince me I'm wrong for you."
Dawn's stomach spasmed at the possibility. She jumped to her feet.
"And you're going?"
"Look at it this way, darlin: It's a chance for me to turn the tables on her and convince her how important you are to me. If I can convince her that I'll never harm you—in fact, I'll protect you with my life—maybe she'll stop seein me as a threat and get off our backs."
Dawn threw her arms around him.
"Don't go. She's gone totally crazy. She's got a gun, you know. For all we know she's going to shoot you."
He stiffened. "Whoa! Didn"t know about that. But I wouldn't worry about it. She seemed very calm."
Dawn pleaded with him as he showered and got dressed, but couldn't change his mind.
As he smiled and waved on his way out the door, Dawn prayed he'd return in one piece.
9
Jack pressed the doorbell and waited. A few seconds later he saw Dr. Levy peek out through one of the sidelights, then duck back. The door didn't open right away, so Jack reached for the knocker. The door retracted a few inches just as his fingers touched the brass.
"What are you doing here?" Levy said in a hushed tone.
"We need to talk."
"I have nothing to say."
After the way Levy had clammed up last night, Jack had expected resistance tonight. He'd decided during the trip up that the best approach might be to fire his big gun immediately and see if it hit something.
"Not even about Jeremy Bolton?"
Levy's expression didn't change. He didn't even blink. But the color in his cheeks faded half a shade toward white.
"Doctor-patient privilege prevents me from discussing anyone incarcerated at Creighton."
Jack locked eyes with him. "What if we're talking about a Jeremy Bolton who's not incarcerated?"
Now he blinked. And shook his head.
"You don't want to go there. You may think you do, but really, you don't."
"You're probably right. Answer a few questions for me and I might decide to disappear."
"Sorry, no."
He went to close the door but Jack jammed the steel toe of his work boot into the opening first.
"You owe me."
"Yes, I do. But you're asking too much."
"Aaron?" said a woman's voice from somewhere in the house. "Is someone at the door?"
"Your wife might think you're being ungrateful. Why don't we ask her?"
"You leave her out of this!" he hissed.
Jack saw an opening and pressed his advantage.
"You mean you didn't tell her about your ride in the trunk of the family car last night? About the stranger who took it upon himself to save your ass? She'll probably have a lot of questions for you after she hears. I'm sure she'll be especially interested in why you didn't tell her. Or anyone else, for that matter—not even the police."
Levy's shoulders slumped. He pulled the door open.
"All right. But just for a few minutes." He turned and called up the stairs. "Business, Marie. Papers to be signed. I'll take him to the office."
He ushered Jack into a room off the front foyer—medical texts lining the shelves, a computer and a brass banker's lamp on a cluttered mahogany desk. He shut the door and pulled out a set of keys as he went to his desk.
As Levy unlocked a lower drawer and reached in, Jack pulled his Glock. Levy rose from his stoop with something in his hand—and found the muzzle of Jack's pistol an inch from the bridge of his nose.
He froze.
"What's this?"
"This is a Glock twenty-one. You saw it the other night." Jack gestured to the gizmo in Levy's hand. "What's that?"
"An RF detector."
"You think I'm wired?"
"Never can tell. Just let me turn it on and check. Otherwise, I don't say another word."
"Fine with me."
As he watched Levy fire up his little meter he wondered what kind of guy kept an RF detector in his desk drawer. With a start he realized: a guy like me. Jack owned a different model of the same thing. But he didn't keep it within such easy reach. He wasn't that crazy.
The readout indicated background levels, and no increase when Levy moved it closer to Jack.
Okay," he said as he slipped it back into the drawer. "One question. I'll answer one question."
Jack intended to ask more, but figured he'd go with the Big One again.
"Why is Jeremy Bohon out of jail?"