Riptide

“I don’t like the feel of this, Hatch. We’ve got this other mess and now this damned skeleton falling out of Becca’s basement wall. It’s enough to make a man give up football.”

“Nah, you’ve always told me that God created the fall just for football. You’ll be watching football when you throw that last pigskin into the end zone in the sky, if they still have the sport that many aeons from now. You’ll probably lobby God to have pro football in Heaven. Stop whining, boss. You’ll figure everything out. You usually do. Hey, I hear that Maine’s one beautiful place. That true?”

Adam stared at the phone for a moment. He had been whining. He said, “Yeah. I just wish I had some time to enjoy it.” He suddenly yelled into the receiver, “No smoking, Hatch. If you even think about it, I’ll know it. Now, call me tomorrow at this same time.”

“You got it, boss.”

“No smoking.”

Silence.

Becca said very quietly, “Who is Krimakov?”

Adam turned around very slowly to face her. She was standing in the doorway of the moldy-smelling guest room where he’d spent his first night in Jacob Marley’s house. She’d opened the door and he hadn’t heard a thing. He was losing it.

“Who is Krimakov?”

He said easily, “He’s a drug dealer who used to be involved with the Medellin cartel in Colombia. He’s dead now.”

“What does this Krimakov have to do with all this craziness?”

“I don’t know. Why did you open the door without knocking, Becca?”

“I heard you on the phone. I wanted to know what was going on. I knew you wouldn’t tell me. I also came up to get you for breakfast. It’s ready downstairs. You’re still lying. This doesn’t have anything to do with drug dealing.”

He had the gall to shrug.

“If I had my kitchen knife, I’d run at you, right this minute.”

“And what? Slice me up? Come on, Becca, why can’t you just accept that I’m here to do a job and that job is to make sure that you don’t get wiped out? Get off your high horse.”

He stood up then and she backed up a step. She was afraid of him still. Hell, after seeing him all civilized that entire evening with four-year-old Sam, it surprised him. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said patiently. He realized at that moment that he didn’t have a shirt on. She was afraid he might attack her? Well, after his teenage attempt last night to prove to her he wasn’t gay, he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He moved slowly, deliberately, and picked up his shirt from where it was hanging over a chair back, then turned his back to put it on. He faced her again as he buttoned it up.

“Who are you?”

He sighed and tucked in his shirt. Then he flipped the sheet and blanket over the bed. He straightened the single too-soft pillow that smelled, unexpectedly, of violets.

When he finally turned to face her again, she was gone. She’d heard Krimakov’s name. It didn’t matter. She’d never hear it again. The bastard was dead. Finally dead, and Thomas Matlock was free. To come and finally meet his daughter. Why hadn’t Thomas said anything about that? He combed his hair, brushed his teeth, and headed downstairs.

She fed him pancakes with blueberry syrup and crispy bacon, just the way he liked it. The coffee was strong, black as Hatch’s fantasies, the fresh cantaloupe she’d sliced, ripe and sweet.

Neither of them said a word. She ate a slice of dry toast and had a cup of tea. It looked like she was having trouble getting that much down.

He said, a dark eyebrow arched, his mouth full of bacon, “What is this? No questions right in my face? No bitching at me? By God, could it be that you’re sulking?”

That got her, just as he hoped it would.

“How would you like that nice sticky syrup down the back of your neck?”

He grinned at her and saluted with his coffee cup. “I wouldn’t like that at all. At least you’re speaking to me again. Look, Becca, I’m just trying to find out what’s going on. Everyone is floating a lot of ideas, a lot of names. Now we have this skeleton.”

He was so slippery, she’d bet if he were a pig in a greased pig contest, no one could hold him down, but she was tenacious.

“Who were you telling not to smoke?”

“Hatch. He’s my main assistant. He has more contacts than a centipede has legs, speaks six languages, and is real smart except when it comes to cigarettes and loose women. That’s the way I can control his smoking. I pay him very well and threaten to fire him if he lights up.”