lifted the bag to the counter. Patrick could put the bread in the breadbox. He had to drag over the little stool, but once situated, he did the job like a fine young man. She, meanwhile, put the milk and butter in the fridge, then pulled out the hamburger for tonight’s spaghetti.
“Now?”
She looked down. Patrick had put the stool away and stood staring up at her, his blue eyes eager, his body bouncing with anticipation.
“Yes, now.”
He thrust his hands up in the air as if he’d just scored the winning touchdown. She reached up and grabbed the cookie jar, then gave him his prize. “Would you like milk or juice?”
“Juice.”
She put the cookies back and took a juice box from the fridge. He was already at the table, his legs swinging back and forth, his cookie the only thing in the world.
She’d make up a batch of bath salts tonight. Use it herself to see if she liked the fragrance.
So it wasn’t a thrill a minute. So what? It was safe. Safe was good.
SHE WOKE with a start, a sudden swell of panic in her stomach, a tightening in her chest. For a moment she held her breath, didn’t move an inch, just listened. There was the tick of the clock on her nightstand. Behind that, the quiet of Milford at four in the morning. But the silence did little to assuage her anxiety.
She threw back her comforter, put her legs over the side of the bed and slipped on her pale yellow slippers. Her robe, the one she’d bought from the Sears catalog, was perched at the ready on a hook by the door. She was halfway to Patrick’s room before she tied it on.
With each step the dread and fear worsened, all her nightmares of the past two and a half years melding together into an unthinkable terror. This wasn’t like the other nights she’d awakened from a bad dream… Her baby. Something…someone…
She flew into his room and the unthinkable became reality.
Patrick was gone.
She called out, but only once. Then her throat closed and the blood in her veins turned to ice. The window—his window, with the locks and the safety glass—open. His quilt on the floor, his Spider-Man sheet balled up, tossed aside. His pillow still held the impression of his head. So small.
And, in the middle of the bed, an envelope. Her hand shook so hard she could hardly pick it up.
When she finally did, it was a note telling her when to be at the Cedar City airport. It wasn’t signed. But then, it didn’t have to be.
THE VEGAS STRIP tried to be glamorous during the day, but it didn’t succeed. Like an aging actress without her makeup, all the flaws came to the fore in sunlight. The sun-baked sidewalks, the desperate bids from the small casinos, begging gamblers to come for the ninety-ninecent, foot-long hot dogs and stay for the video poker.
Nick Mason hated the place. Hated the thousands of lights, the electronic billboards with the perfect pictures and snazzy ads. He hated the heat of the place, which, according to the morning news, was almost one hundred, and it wasn’t even nine. If he’d had his way, he’d live in the mountains. Aspen, maybe, or Boulder. Somewhere green with thick trees and lots of water. He’d have himself a nice little cabin that had no address. Where he could walk to the nearest stream to catch his dinner.
This town wasn’t real. Yeah, okay, so there was Henderson and Summerlin, where there were grocery stores and dry cleaners, but there were poker machines in every damn market, in every gas station, in every drugstore. The ubiquitous machines lent an air of desperation to the most mundane of tasks. Just ask the housewife who spent five hundred bucks on that gallon of milk. Or the bank teller who’d lost the rent…again.
He’d been here too long, that was the problem. Living a nighttime life. If you were a player in Vegas, you slept during the day. Nothing important ever happened before sundown. Which could help explain his crappy attitude. He’d gotten to bed after four this morning, then Todd had called to tell him to make a pickup at the Henderson Executive Airport.
Normally he wouldn’t have to do anything so plebian, but Todd’s driver had gotten some bad sushi at one of those $3.99 buffets downtown and was riding it out at the Sunrise Hospital. As always, Nick had said, “Yes, sir,” keeping his voice even and his attitude go-to. Playing the part as if his life depended on it. Which it did.
He’d started working for C. Randall Todd three years ago. It had taken him all that time to gain a position of trust in the organization. Everybody who worked for Todd had to prove themselves worthy. The tests weren’t for the weak. Despite the fact that Todd’s business practices were impressive enough to pass the rigors of the Nevada Gaming Commission regulations, the man himself was a throwback to the old Vegas. No one double-crossed Todd. Not twice, at least.
Nick himself had done his time as Todd’s hatchet man. No one had ever ended up dead, but they’d been hurt something wicked. It turned his stomach to think about it, so he didn’t. Simple.
Enough. He had to get showered, put something in his stomach and get down to the airport on time. He threw the covers aside and hit the floor for his push-ups. One hundred. Every morning. No exceptions.
When he finished counting, he headed for the bathroom. Part of his incentive for completing his push-ups in good time was this little trick: no john until he was through. Some days were easier than others.
As he went through the rest of his morning routine, he wondered who was coming in. Todd hadn’t told him and he hadn’t asked. But it must be a hell of a whale to call out the boss’s private limo.
He remembered the first time he’d heard talk about whales. It was his second week in Vegas and he was so green he disappeared in front of the MGM Grand. Sweet, Todd’s majordomo, had been talking about this whale and that whale, and it had been everything Nick could do not to ask what the hell was going on. That night he’d done some research and discovered that “whale” was the designated slang for a high roller. A really high roller.
The minimum they had to bank was five million, at least at Todd’s hotel. Granted, Xanadu was as ritzy as it got in Vegas, but most of the major hotels had similar limits. Whales cost big money. But there was one basic fact about Las Vegas: casinos were not in the business of making gamblers rich. Anyone who thought different ought to check out the trailer parks on Main. Most of the decrepit mobile homes had doors. Some had windows. Not many.
Whales, on the other hand, had money to burn. At least, that’s how they acted when they came to his turf. It was like something out of an old Russian novel how these people got treated. It started with the private jet, the limo, the personal butler, the multimillion-dollar private suite complete with grand piano, twenty-four-hour massage service, personal swimming pool, personal chef. The list went on and on. If one of Todd’s whales wanted a purple elephant, he’d get one.
But there were whales and there were whales. This one, the one coming in at noon, had to be a mark in the billions, because Todd was stingy with his toys. Xanadu had a fleet of ten stretch limos for the customers. Todd’s personal limo put them all to shame.
Personally, Nick hated driving the monstrosity. It was huge, longer than a normal stretch, and white. Inside and out. He especially hated the button in the back that let the passenger speak to the driver. The reverb crap on the mike altered the sound so it sounded like the voice of God telling the peon behind
