Yours, Mine, and Ours Read online

  “Yes, ironically, Cadence once again donated for me, though she did not know it at the time. I suppose her silly urge to donate platelets or what-have-you is good for something.” In fact, if not for her silly urge, I might never have …

  Been in the mess I am now. It was not a blessing.

  “And that doctor thinks your name is Adrienne.”

  “Yes, that’s how Michaela set it up,” I replied absently. “Fret not, Patrick, I have thrown in my lot with you.” Truer words, as they say, have never been spoken.

  “Well, good, because that skinny guy with the catalogue was kind of cute.” There was a dark glint of something in Patrick’s eyes—jealousy? Anxiety? “But like I said, I’ve got her, so don’t worry about Olive.”

  “Got her where?” Patrick lived in a hotel when he was in town. It was one of the many reasons he wished to buy a home. And his own closing was still a day or two off.

  “Cathie’s.”

  Oh, dear. That was bad. Cathie, Patrick’s sister and Cadence’s best friend, had OCD. A shedding dog would likely drive her over the edge into the red rage of madness.

  For the first time in my life, I was relieved to find I would be in a hospital for the next few days. I had zero interest in calming Cathie out of one of her volcanic OCD-fueled rages. And zero interest in changing my living situation.

  Because it would change. I had not lied; I had thrown in my lot with the baker. I was selfish, and I loved driving the body, but I would not ruin Cadence’s chance at happiness, nor Adrienne’s chance at acceptance. Patrick was willing to take us all; I was willing to go along with all that entailed.

  I would not turn my back on a good man because I was intrigued by one who was complex.

  I would not cheat Cadence out of the family she had sought since before I was “born.”

  And I would not break the baker’s heart because I sensed something deeply interesting in a man I hardly knew, a man who took me for a motorcycle ride on a whim and, though he would never know, snatched my love before I realized I was holding it out to him.

  “You’re coming home with me,” the baker was insisting. “I close on the house next week. Shit! There’s no furniture. I’ll buy you a bed. I’ll buy you a hospital bed. I’ll hire a nurse to—”

  “You will not.”

  “Shiro, will you be reasonable for once? You can’t take care of yourself. A nurse will just—”

  “Be shot on sight.”

  “Agghh! Okay, okay, a fight for another time.”

  Ha! That was what he thought. As my personal hero Stewie Gilligan Griffin would say, victory was mine. I would live with him and lay with him, but I would not tolerate a home nurse.

  He collapsed into the chair beside my bed. Rested his head in his hands. Groaned into them. “I was so worried,” he said to his palms. “I was so afraid you were going to die.”

  “As your lawyer, I can tell you it was foolish to fret. I was very far from dying.”

  “I gotta get used to this stuff, I gotta get a handle on it, I get it. But I am never gonna like it. I guess you wouldn’t be you if you weren’t charging after gunmen. But you got him? The bad guy who killed all those kids?”

  “Yes.” For I held it to be true that the evil old man had been as responsible as any Stinney through the decades for the deaths. They could have stopped at any time. They chose not to. It took one of their own to turn, to understand, for the killings to finally, mercifully come to an end. “The killings are over.” Those killings, I should have said. But why destroy the mood?

  “That’s good. I just wish you could have stopped them without getting hurt.”

  “It was a small enough price to pay.”

  It was true. I had a wound from which I would recover. I still had my friends, my family. I was loved, though was no longer certain I could return that love. Comparably speaking, I had everything.

  She had nothing. Just a drawer in the morgue, poor thing.

  I was no longer a child, so I would not waste my breath with “It’s not fair!”

  Sometimes, though, the cost seemed too high. For all of us.

  chapter seventy-seven

  “Opus didn’t have clearance,” George told me a day later, “but the guy was a fucking genius with a fucking psycho-genius brother and sister. He was able to hack our system, no problem. Because he’d never had clearance, after Michaela killed his ass we never thought to revoke something that had never existed.”

  “Terrific,” I grumbled.

  “Here’s the part you’ll really hate, Shiro. Right up until last week they had access to all our shit. All the files. HOAP, VI-CAP—everything we could electronically access, they could, too.”

  “You were correct, George. I really hate this part.”

  “Yep. Now we’ve got IT weenies crawling over everything in the office. Nobody can find shit. I’m tempted to ask Emma Jan to shoot me in the shoulder so I can have a nice relaxing week in a hospital.”

  “I will oblige you whenever you wish.”

  “Yeah. So, good news, nobody’s peeking over our shoulders anymore. Bad news, they were able to look for a long time. They saw all the JBJ stuff and drew their own crazy brilliant conclusions. Watch for another letter, Shiro. They like writing to you, I bet. They’ll do it again.”

  George was correct. I, too, was certain I would hear from Two of the ThreeFer. And soon.

  “The old guy was her uncle. His dad had taught him, and he taught Luann. And he tells us he’s always had doubts about her, he always kept a special eye on her.”

  “He has confessed this?”

  “He won’t shut up about it. There’s all kinds of misplaced pride there.” George paused. Looked at me, doubtless gauging how I would take the news. “Her kid came to see him. The old man. Emma Jan explained it to him. What was coming. What his mom did. How she got him out of it. And the price she paid for all that shit and more.”

  “How … how did that go?”

  “He’s ready for a fucking straitjacket,” George said flatly. “Maybe someday he’ll get it. Right now, he’s seriously fucked up.” He sighed.

  “Do you know what distresses me the most?”

  George crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back. Two of the chair legs left the floor as he rocked beside my bed. “Not being able to gaze upon my hot bod?”

  “Yes, of course, but I am working through that. What upsets me is that there was no question that TwoFer of the ThreeFer helped us. Thanks to their mocking letter, we were able to look at JBK in a new light. And let us not forget an inanimate software program did some of the thinking for us. Without HOAP.1, we may never have solved it. Remember, too, the niece—”

  “Luann Stennen. That’s the name she was using, anyway. We’re tracking down every single blood relative of hers we can find. The old man, he’s bragging about family loyalty and not giving us shit. I can hear the jury already: ‘But he’s so old!’ If he walks, I swear I’m gonna find him and make him eat a gun.”

  “A fine plan. But remember, Luann wanted to be caught. She wanted an end to it, she wanted her son out of it. We solved a case after the killer left clues, after other killers gave us tips, after Paul revamped his software program.

  “There it is. The thing that haunts me. Would we have been able to solve it without their help? How can we pat ourselves on the backs for putting an end to all this when we actually did not?”

  “Shiro, you know what? Honest to God, I love the collar as much as you do, but in this case? I’ll take ’em any way they come. Luann’s dead. The next generation’s safe. Dr. Gallo even got closure—how often does that happen? You know, Michaela must have briefed him already, he knows all about it. He’s kind of cool, for a vampire. So don’t be greedy. That’s…” George trailed off and stared into space for a long moment. “That’s gotta be enough for now.”

  “Why, George. You sounded very close to human just then.”

  “Yeah, I need some coffee, I’m feeling pretty light-headed. Thi
s isn’t like me at all. Maybe I’m catching the flu? Uh…”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you flash me your tits before I go? That hospital gown is really doin’ it for me. And can we get one of those nurses in here to give you a sponge bath? Me likey.”

  “Ah. There you are. The real George Pinkman has joined us at last.”

  “And the real George Pinkman is getting the hell out of here. My TiVo isn’t gonna set itself.” He frowned. “Although it ought to be able to by now. I should reread the manual. They’re afraid to send any more cable guys to my apartment. And you should sleep. You look like hammered shit.”

  “I still have questions. I shall sleep when I am dead,” I lied, with a tough attitude I faked.

  “At least you have a plan,” George said dryly. He gave me a two-fingered wave, and sauntered out the door.

  I pulled the note from beneath my pillow. I had read it twenty-seven times. I had memorized it. Still, I liked looking at the ink scrawled on the paper, and would allow myself this one last indulgence: Next time you want to go flying, call me.—Max G. 439–0263

  I crumpled the note and tossed it toward the wastebasket across the room. I did not miss.

  I never missed.

  chapter seventy-eight

  “Dumbest thing I ever saw.” Emma Jan had brought me sushi from Byerly’s, which would do in a pinch. “Who charges a gunman? You’ve been watching too much Law and Order.”

  “I loathe Law and Order.”

  “Cadence is gonna be pissed,” she added, eyeing my heavily bandaged shoulder.

  “Why do you think I have remained? I should like to put that off as long as I can. Thank you for the sushi.”

  “No big. Listen, I went to the range last night. Dan was asking about you; I told him you’d be out in a day or two. He said he’s got some Tec-22s for you to try when you make it back.”

  I gasped happily. “Really? Wonderful.”

  She laughed. She had a new purse slung over one shoulder—I still felt a bit guilty about ruining her other one—and it was stuffed with napkins and chopsticks. “You sounded just like a little kid just now. A little kid on Christmas morning.”

  “Yes, but … Tec-22s, Emma Jan!”

  “Yes, great, calm down. If you tear another stitch, Michaela will probably tear something in me. Did they really find you on the other end of the hospital? Were you sleepwalking, or did you have a fever?”

  “A fever,” I agreed. One that was unlikely to go down soon.

  “Well, thank God you didn’t hurt yourself worse. You’re a tad behind on paperwork, so Michaela doesn’t want your return delayed.”

  “No doubt.”

  She didn’t say anything else, just struggled to get comfortable in an uncomfortable chair. I said nothing, as well; I was thinking about Luann. I could not recall being comfortable enough with another person to just … just sit there with them. And not talk.

  “Emma Jan, why do you think she did it? Why now, after all the murders, all the decades of the family business?”

  She looked surprised that I would ask, and stopped rooting around in her new big purse. “It’s pretty simple, Shiro. Her family, all they ever did, they did for hate. It might have started off as this noble vengeance-killing thing, but after a while, it wasn’t even about revenge anymore. It was about keeping the hate alive for years to come. They did that, all that, for hate. Luann did what she did for love.”

  “For love.” I tasted the word, musing. “It sounds overly simplified.”

  “Yeah, Shiro. I know it sounds stupid, or oversimplified if you will, but sometimes, things just are. That’s all it is. There isn’t any more, so don’t keep looking.”

  Good advice.

  “I am tired, my friend. I think I will leave for a bit. Get some rest.”

  Her eyes widened. “You mean … you’re gonna let…”

  “Yes.”

  She leaned forward and put her hand on mine. “Thank you for giving me some warning. Feel better soon; I’ll come back tomorrow and bring you more sushi. But I gotta get the hell out of here now. Talk to you later.” She brushed a distracted kiss on my forehead, then rapidly vacated. I could actually hear her running footsteps in the hospital corridor.

  Well! Enough malingering. The time had come.

  Epilogue

  I opened my eyes, astonished to find I was in … was this a … yes! It was a hospital room. An all-too-familiar sight, yet I was always amazed to find myself in these places. Which proved what a slow learner I was. But never mind the slow learning, what the heckfire was I doing in a fargin’ hospital room with a … a …

  I clutched my shoulder, then nearly shrieked as the torn muscles reproached me for moving too quickly.

  What had happened? What day was it? Where was JBK? Had I missed Christmas? If I missed Christmas, somebody was going to pay and pay and pay. What—who—?

  Oh, someone was gonna die for this one. They were going to see an ugly side of Cadence Jones. They would rue the day they messed with me. I hated to be such a meanie, but punishment needed to be doled out. They were … off the Christmas card list!

  I threw back my head, opened my mouth, and shrieked, “Oh, come on!” at the ceiling.

  addendum

  A friend of mine looked over the manuscript and made an interesting comment. “When that local cop is all pissed because they brought BOFFO in on the JBK case,” she said, “and he couldn’t figure out why crazy people were getting all that money from the government? And Cadence says, ‘Well, it’s the government.’ That seemed overly simple to me.”

  I thought that was hilarious. “But it’s the government” overly simple? Unrealistic, even? The federal government would never fund a department full of gun-toting psychotics; the very idea is absurd?

  Well, maybe. But below is a list of things the government has funded. So check it out, and draw your own conclusions.

  * * *

  In 1976, the National Institute on Drug Abuse funded a six-figure project to develop “objective evidence concerning marijuana’s effect on sexual arousal by exposing groups of male pot smokers to pornographic films and measuring their responses by means of sensors attached to their penises.”

  In 1978, the Office of Education spent six figures on a package designed to teach college students how to watch television.

  The United States Postal Service spent millions on a campaign to encourage Americans to write more letters to each other.

  The Justice Department conducted a study on why prisoners want to get out of jail.

  In 1978, the National Institute of Mental Health studied a Peruvian brothel.

  In 1975, the Federal Aviation Administration did a study on the measurements of 432 flight attendants, paying extra attention to the “length of the buttocks.”

  In 2010, the Oregon Department of Corrections spent almost a million dollars on free satellite television service for prisoners (its second Golden Fleece Award, two years in a row).

  In 1975, the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism spent millions to find out if drunk fish are more aggressive than sober fish.

  In 1995, the Health Care Financing Administration cost taxpayers $45 million by letting Medicare “foot the bill,” heh-heh, for cutting toenails.

  The worst part, readers? I could go on. And on. And on.

  acknowledgments

  Again: the boring part, unless you know the author. So, for those of you who know me (and those of you gathering info the better to spy on me), here we go.

  Many thanks are due to my family, who pay me the ultimate compliment of being unsurprised, yea, even unmoved, by my success. (I’ve been trying to work in yea for quite a while, and lo, opportunity, she knocked! Okay, “unmoved” is a little strong, but I saw a chance to jam yea in there and went for it.) Thanks for being unsurprised, gang!

  Thanks are also (over)due to my friends Cathie and Stacy for putting up with my long absences from planet Earth. I’d tell them where I go or what I do wh
en I disappear from their lives for weeks at a time, but then I’d have to kill them—and not in a “nothing personal” way, but in a “sorry to be so mean” way. And who needs that?

  Thanks to the rest of the gang, Andrea and Sara and Vana and Jon and Mike and Curt and all the rest, for same, and for still trying to buy my books. (Stop that. Stop trying to buy them. I have a zillion copies and I know how they all end. Stop it!)

  Thanks also to my fearless assistant, Tracy. She doesn’t look fearless. In fact she looks quite mild-mannered in a cute-face-cute-figure-sugar-cookie-personality way. But she’s fearless, even though she’d be the first to deny it. The things she’s heard … the things she’s seen me do and, more important, tried to prevent me from doing … the things she’s talked me out of … the times she’s refused to buy more shotgun shells … or Malt-O-Meal … anyway, thanks, Tracy, for often saving me from myself. And shrapnel. And thunder thighs from too much Malt-O-Meal.

  Many thanks are also due to my tireless editors. Tireless, because I can be exhausting. Editors, because they are my editors. They never question if I can do something, they just wonder how. And sometimes why. As in, “How do you come up with … never mind. I don’t want to know.” But they’ve never once told me I couldn’t, or shouldn’t. And how often in life do we run into people like that? Rare enough so I thank ’em in a book.

  Seriously, whether it’s teachers or bosses or neighbors or friends (nice friends, friends who mean well, friends who don’t want you to go to jail and truly feel you were provoked) or family members or pets … wait, did I say pets?

  My point is, we run across people who say “better not” or “the police will have questions” or “they’ll deport you” all the time. So much so that we think nothing of it.

  So when I run across someone who says “Great idea, let’s see it!” I tend to make a note of it. They’re always editors. And sometimes children. Okay, usually children. Either way, I’m really, really lucky.