Nine Lives

“Pills in the medicine cabinet.”

“I’ll get them in a minute,” he said, and then pulled the nightgown over her head, letting it fall loosely down to her waist. “Can you get the rest of your clothes off by yourself?”

Cat looked down, confused by the nightgown bunched around her lap.

“What clothes?”

“Never mind,” he said gently. “I’ll help.”

He slid his hands beneath the gown, undid the clasp on her bra and then pulled it off without touching her. As soon as he had it off, he held out the sleeves of the gown.

“Slide your arms inside,” he said.

She did as he asked, then fell backwards onto the bed with a groan. Her voice was so weak Wilson barely heard her whisper.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord…make this go away.”

Wilson felt sorry for her. Being this helpless was probably twice as difficult to accept for a woman as strong and independent as Cat Dupree.

“Scoot up a little,” he said, and then maneuvered Cat’s head onto her pillow. As soon as he had the covers down and her settled in the middle of the bed, he pulled the hem of the nightgown down, then reached up beneath it and pulled off her jeans and panties.

“Hey,” Cat murmured, and took another helpless swing at him when she felt the panties coming off.

“It’s all right. You’re still decent,” Wilson said as he dodged the blow and quickly pulled the covers over her.

She exhaled on a shaky sigh as he tucked her in.

She was trembling and feverish. It worried him that he hadn’t taken her to the hospital. What if she was desperately ill and he was only making it worse?

He didn’t know what to do next, then remembered the pills she’d mentioned. He ran into the bathroom, got a bottle of pain and fever relief tablets and a glass of water, then hurried back. Once she’d downed the pills, he got a wet washcloth, folded it lengthwise and laid it across her forehead.

Cat sighed. “Feels good.”

He breathed a little easier as she closed her eyes, and while he was watching, she fell asleep.

Wilson sat at her bedside until he was confident that her breathing had evened out. When she finally broke into a faint sweat, he knew the fever had broken and the pills were working.

He thought about calling a cab and going home, but he was afraid that when the pills wore off, her fever would come back and she would be in worse shape than before. Sometime after midnight, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure she could cope and began to make himself at home.

He kicked off his shoes in the living room and hung his coat on a tree in the hall. After a quick look into her bedroom to assure himself she was all right, he went to the kitchen and began digging through the refrigerator for something to eat.

To his surprise, there was plenty of food, mostly leftovers, but still intact. Nothing looked moldy or on the verge of turning green, which wasn’t always the case in his own kitchen. He shuffled through the drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed, then dished up some food onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. While he was waiting, he gathered her mail and newspapers, which had accumulated under the slot in the door, and brought them to the kitchen. He tossed everything on the counter, ignoring the fact that several envelopes fell across her answering machine. He did, however, notice the red blinking light, which reminded him to check his own messages. Later, as he was eating, he decided to check his calls.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and listened to the messages, none of which were pressing. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went back to check on her.

She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn’t help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn’t going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her.

It wasn’t until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip.

His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep, she appeared daunting. But this little tattoo was proof that there might be a softer side to Catherine Dupree.

The tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink.

Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that?

Barbed wire? Yes.

A skull and crossbones? Sure.

A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible.

But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.

Still grinning, he straightened the covers and left her alone. Another facet of this woman had been revealed. It was definitely something to consider, which set him to wondering what else she might be concealing.

As she slept, he prowled. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but no one had ever called him a gentleman. He was curious about her and, despite his better judgment, a little intrigued. It wasn’t until he got to her office and saw the boxes stacked against one wall, saw that they were filled with the same things that adorned the walls and the top of her desk, that he got a slow chill.

Every page was of a different man—all criminals with rap sheets—all with varying numbers of tattoos. It was then that he remembered what Flannery had told him—that she and her father had been killed by a tattooed man. The case had long since gone cold, but she, obviously, had not given up the hunt.

Wind was whipping the branches of the lilac bushagainst Catherine’s window. The sound was familiar,and it barely registered as she turned over and pulled thecovers a little closer beneath her chin.

In seventeen days school would be out for Christmas vacation, and she could hardly wait. Daddy had promised to take her to New Mexico to go skiing. It would be their first trip to a skiing resort, but hopefully not their last.

Suddenly the sound of breaking glass filtered through her dreams of hot chocolate, roaring fires at the ski lodge and flying down the slopes so fast that she would outrun the sound of her own laughter.

She opened her eyes, then rolled over and sat up just as a loud thud sounded in the hallway.

“What the—”

It was her daddy’s voice, but it was cut short by the thud. She jumped out of bed and bolted toward the door. What if Daddy had fallen and hurt himself? They couldn’t go skiing if Daddy was hurt.

When she ran out into the hallway, she saw her father crumpled on the floor.

“Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed, and was running toward him when someone came out of the bathroom and grabbed her around the waist.

She started to scream as she fought, kicking and swinging her arms in an effort to get free. Then she heard a rough, ugly voice cursing in her ear and someone telling her to shut up. She answered by kicking backward and knew that she’d hurt the assailant when he suddenly shrieked with pain.

“Bitch!” he screamed.

Catherine saw the glitter of lamplight on metal; then she saw the hand and arm swinging toward her, like an extension of the knife that was going to end her life.

At that moment her father got up from the floor, staggering toward them and cursing the man who held her, begging him to turn her loose.

Suddenly she was falling.

At first she felt no pain, but within seconds of hitting the floor, the coppery scent of blood was in her nose and her throat was on fire. She grabbed at her neck, thinking she’d been burned, only to find her hands covered in blood.

She looked up just as the assailant grabbed her father and began stabbing him repeatedly in the chest.