Forever After Page 4

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to fix something else for supper. What sounds good?”

  “More hugs,” Sammy murmured, burrowing close.

  Meredith was happy to comply. She had been as horrified to see that dog in their yard as Sammy had been. Even now, she still couldn’t make her heart stop skittering, and when she walked, her legs felt as limp as overcooked spinach.

  She kept seeing her little girl, pressed against the shed like a sinner on a cross. Meredith didn’t know what she would have done if the dog had attacked her child. She’d had no weapon handy, not even a stick to use as a club.

  “Mommy, your face is all funny.”

  “It’s just the smoke, punkin,” Meredith said, shifting Sammy to the other arm. As she tightened her hold, she felt residual shudders course through the child’s body.

  Meredith began to pace, the toes of her sneakers catching on the occasional ragged edge of the speckled green linoleum, the floorboards creaking and groaning. At every sound, Sammy jerked to look over her shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” Meredith whispered. “It’s all right. Don’t be scared, sweetie.”

  Still trembling, Sammy hugged Meredith’s neck again, her thin arms so tense they felt like brittle twigs. Meredith rubbed the child’s taut shoulders, then worked at the knotted muscles along her spine.

  “Mommy?”

  “What, sweetie?”

  “What if that big, mean dog comes back?”

  Meredith was tempted to make rash promises, anything to ease the child’s mind. “I’ll think of something, sweetkins. You’ll be safe. I’ll see to it.”

  Only how? Just as Sammy had pointed out, the dog might come back. What was she going to do if it did? Maybe she should buy a baseball bat and keep it by the back door. Or, better yet, build a section of fence to keep that black monster out of Sammy’s play area. Getting a gun might not be a bad idea, either.

  Meredith reeled to a stop. Dear heaven, what was she thinking? The last time she’d handled a firearm was shortly before she left home to attend college, and since her marriage to Dan, she could barely stand to look at a weapon.

  Enough of this. She could obsess later about ways to keep her daughter safe. Right now, she needed to act calm and help Sammy put the incident behind her.

  “You never did answer me,” Meredith said. “What sounds good for supper?”

  Sammy kept her face pressed against Meredith’s neck. “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t? Wow! Does that mean I can fix”—she searched her mind for the food Sammy detested most—“beets?”

  The child shuddered. “Yuck! Not beets, Mommy. I hate ’em.”

  “Well, you did say you didn’t care. I’ve got it! How about okra?”

  “Nasty. It tastes like snot.”

  “And how would you know?” Meredith felt the child’s mouth curve against her neck in a halfhearted smile. “Sammy Kenyon! For shame.”

  “I di’n’t never!” Sammy protested, rearing back to scowl indignantly.

  Moving toward the wobbly dinette set she’d picked up for a song at a thrift shop, Meredith tweaked the child’s button nose. “I’m only teasing you.” The chair rocked as she set Sammy on the yellow plastic cushion and hunkered beside her. “Smiles?”

  The child tried, her forced grin displaying tiny, unevenly spaced front teeth.

  “Bigger,” Meredith ordered with mock sternness. When Sammy grinned more broadly, Meredith tousled the child’s hair. “Now I’ve got my pretty little girl back. How about sandwiches and soup for supper?”

  “The kind with letters?”

  “Soup with letters, coming up.” Meredith pushed herself erect. “Do you think you’ll be able to spell Samantha this time with no mistakes?”

  “Maybe,” Sammy replied solemnly.

  As Meredith rummaged through the cupboard, she heard Sammy nervously swinging her feet, the heel of one small tennis shoe thumping the chair leg. If only her life were as easy to organize as canned goods, Meredith thought wistfully. Soups in one row, vegetables sorted as to type. Aside from a few mouse droppings that had appeared since she’d scrubbed the shelves, there were no surprises here.

  If only she could say the same for Heath Masters. He was everything the newspapers and television proclaimed him to be—big, hard-edged, and intimidating. No wonder a group of parents were circulating a petition to get him recalled. Even less surprising was the fact that his law enforcement tactics had drawn national attention.

  Anyone who let a dog like that run loose was a lunatic.

  Chapter 3

  Waiting for someone to answer his call, Heath held the phone to one ear and shoved a heaping spoonful of gooey macaroni into his mouth. The pasta wasn’t quite done and tasted like dirty rubber.

  “Wynema County Sheriff’s Office, Deputy Bailey speakin’. May I help you?”

  Heath gulped. “Hey, Charlie.” He could almost see the deputy, fiftyish and thick at the waist, his bald head gleaming. “I need to ask you a favor. You real busy tonight?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m busy. Scamp Hollister beat the shit out of his old lady again.”

  “Fantastic. Is Cora all right?”

  “Bradford took her to the ER for stitches. The son of a bitch beaned her with a beer bottle. Other than that, I think she’ll live. Scamp’s bellarin’ like a stuck hog about bein’ locked up, though. Bein’ a royal pain in the arse.”

  Heath shoved his bowl of macaroni away and ran a hand over his hair. “Well, I’m glad to hear Cora’s okay. She’s a nice lady.”

  “Too nice for Scamp.” Bailey grew quiet for a moment. “So, what’s the favor?”

  “I need a twelve-seven for the RO, Oregon plate, SAV—235. Can you run it for me?”

  “Son, I can eat acorns and fart oak trees. Hold on.”

  The phone clattered, and Heath heard the click of a keyboard. From where he stood, he could see the pasture across the road through his living room window. Deceptively placid, whiteface cattle grazed on the hock-high grass. Just hauled in from winter grazing lands, the Herefords were actually as wild and unpredictable as drunk cowpokes on Saturday night.

  “You still there?” his deputy finally said.

  Heath turned to grab a notepad. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Got a writin’ stick handy?”

  “Yeah, go.”

  “Registered owner, Meredith Lynn Kenyon, last name spelled Kilo, Echo, November, Yankee, Oscar, November.”

  Heath grunted with satisfaction as he wrote down the name. Network computer access had its advantages.

  “White female,” Charlie continued. “Birth date, 4/23/70. Five feet, four inches, one hundred and six pounds, brown hair, brown eyes, and a negatory on organ donation.” He paused to give Heath time to write. “Address, 1423 Hereford Lane. That’s your place, ain’t it?”

  “No, I’m at 1420.”

  “Got a problem with that new neighbor?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. A little misunderstanding, is all. I need her name so I can call and apologize. If information can’t give me her number, I’ll get back to you.”

  “Son, your technique with the ladies needs work. Just go over and apologize, then ask her name. Wink and smile real nice while you’re at it. Works every time.”

  Heath chuckled, remembering how furious Meredith Kenyon had been when she stormed into the house. “Thanks for the advice, Charlie. I’ll remember that.”

  “She a looker, or what?”

  Heath recalled her fragile build. “Not bad. A little on the thin side. Pretty face.”

  “Nice rack?”

  “Charlie, go home to Mabel and scratch your itch. She’s just my neighbor lady, all right? I didn’t notice her bra size.”

  “I can’t go home to Mabel. I’m on duty, remember? And don’t lie to me. When the day comes you don’t notice a woman’s bra size, you’ll be stone blind.”

  Heath was shaking his head as he hung up the phone. Gazing down at the information he’d just scri
bbled, he shoved another spoonful of macaroni into his mouth. Tapping his pen on the counter, he pictured Meredith Kenyon.

  A generous “B” cup, no question about it. He only wished she had a few other generous traits. A more forgiving nature, just for starters.

  The lights of Manhattan cast a rosy glow through the unbreakable glass window of Glen Calendri’s penthouse study. He blocked out the muted drone of the traffic that passed by on the street thirty-six floors below him, listening instead, with growing impatience, to the voice coming over his speaker phone.

  With each passing second, he tapped his pen on the desktop a little more loudly, the sound rhythmic at first, then increasing in tempo and volume until it resembled the rat-a-tat-tat of an automatic weapon with a silencer. With one final tap, he shoved back in his chair, chucking the pen onto the blotter.

  “Damn it, Sanders! The bitch couldn’t have vanished into thin air. How’n hell do you think she got out of the city, on a magic carpet?” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. Maybe that Scotty fellow beamed her up.”

  Allen Sanders’ sigh of frustration echoed over the speaker into the room. “Boss, I’m doin’ the best I can here.”

  “Well, your best isn’t good enough.”

  “We can’t come up with any leads. The last trace we got on her was that bank withdrawal. Not a damned thing since then. No paper trail, and she’s not usin’ plastic.”

  “She had to use some form of transportation. Did you check the bus stations? It can’t be that difficult to track a woman traveling with a kid.”

  “We checked everywhere, boss, and then went back and checked again. Every airport, every bus station. The trains, too. My guess is, she bought herself a used car from a private owner. Prob’ly paid cash and used another name. The broad’s smart, I’m tellin’ you, and as slippery as an eel.”

  Glen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Smart? She has ovaries, for chrissake.”

  “That don’t mean she ain’t got brains. She’s sharp, I tell ya.”

  “Luck, sheer luck. You find her, Sanders. Do you understand? No excuses. It’s been five weeks. With every day that passes, the trail grows colder.”

  Glen rose from his chair, aborted the call with a jab of his finger, and strode angrily around his desk, his gaze fixed on the painting of his son, Daniel, that hung in an ornate, gilt frame above the mantel.

  His boy.

  Taking care not to step on the Dobermans that slept before the hearth, Glen drew to a stop and stared at the image of Dan’s face. He tried never to think of how that face had looked when he’d gone to the morgue to identify the body. A car accident. Just that quick, and Dan’s life had been snuffed out. Glen still couldn’t believe it had happened. Even now, he kept expecting his son to walk through the door, alive and well, these past months of grief nothing but a nightmare.

  Now the only blood relative Glen had left was his granddaughter Tamara. He wanted the child back. She was a Calendri, by God, Glen’s only living heir, and she would be raised by a Calendri, not by that stupid little bitch his son had married. Glen would see to that. And if the broad just happened to get herself eliminated in the process, so much the better.

  Sammy stood on a kitchen stool, both arms thrust into the sudsy dishwater. Standing behind her, Meredith supervised as the child ran a sponge over a plate.

  “You missed a spot.” Meredith pointed out a stubborn alphabet noodle that still clung to the dish. “Very good, Sammy! Now, into the rinse water.”

  Sammy swished the plate in the clear water, then went up on her tiptoes to stack it in the drainer, Meredith clasping her waist to make sure she didn’t fall.

  “I’m almost as good at washing dishes as you are. Right, Mommy?”

  Meredith was pleased to see Sammy so engrossed in what she was doing. Supper had been a trial, with the child leaping at every noise.

  She bent to kiss the crown of her daughter’s head. “You’re the very best four-year-old dishwasher I’ve ever seen.”

  Sammy pushed an arm farther into the water, pulled the stopper, and watched the suds spiral slowly down the drain. The sluggishness concerned Meredith, making her wonder if the plumbing was partially blocked. In this house, anything that could go wrong did go wrong. High-rent districts were definitely a thing of the past. Until Sammy started to school, at least. Then Meredith would be able to work outside the home in her chosen field again, computer programming.

  When she’d leased this place, Meredith had been determined to make it into a home. Now, after meeting the sheriff, she was no longer sure that staying here would be such a wise idea. Not that she had a choice. At least not for the next six months.

  After drying Sammy’s hands and dimpled elbows, she set the child down and returned the stool to its place under the light switch next to the ancient refrigerator.

  “There. We’re all done,” she said, glancing around the tidy kitchen.

  “Yup.” Sammy hugged her waist, looking forlorn.

  “Want to watch television?” Meredith asked.

  The child wrinkled her nose.

  “How about a game of Old Maid?”

  “Nah.”

  It was going to be a very long evening if she couldn’t think of some way to keep Sammy’s mind off that dog. “You know what sounds fun to me?”

  “No, what?” Sammy asked, her blue eyes luminous in the light from the ceiling.

  “Making sugar cookies,” Meredith replied in a stage whisper and leaned forward to place her hands on her knees. “We could cut out fun shapes and decorate them.”

  Sammy’s dimple flashed. “San’a Claus cookies?”

  Meredith saw no reason why not. “And Christmas trees? I’ve got green sprinkles and confectioner’s confetti.”

  Sammy raced to the cupboard for the cookbook. “Can I mix ’em, Mommy?”

  Recalling the mess from the last time Sammy had mixed cookie dough, Meredith smiled. “Oh, absolutely. You’re a much better cookie mixer than I am.”

  Minutes later, the counters were littered with bowls and ingredients, Meredith supervising while Sammy scooped flour from the canister into a measuring cup. The child frowned in concentration.

  “One more should do it,” Meredith told her.

  Sammy stuck the scoop into the canister again, spilled flour from there all the way to the measuring cup, and then asked, “Now do I shake it?”

  Meredith leaned down to see the red lines on the clear glass cup. “Not too hard, remember. Just a jiggle to even it out so we can tell for sure how much we’ve got.”

  Sammy started to shake the cup and lost her grip on the handle. The cup hit the edge of the counter, flour exploding upward in a white cloud. Meredith made a wild grab, but she was too late. The cup glanced off the counter, dive-bombed to the floor, and broke into a half dozen pieces.

  “Oops.” Sammy twisted to look. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I made a real bad mess.”

  Meredith swatted the legs of her jeans. “Yes, well, these things happen, punkin.”

  She helped Sammy down from the stool, then went for the broom and dustpan. When she returned, Sammy had already gotten the trash container from under the sink.

  “Uh-oh, our garbage is filled all up. I forgot to take it out.”

  “Here in a minute, I’ll go empty it.” Meredith set to work with the broom. “First I want to sweep this flour into a pile so we don’t track it all over.”

  “I can do garbage, Mommy. It’s s’posed to be my job.” Sammy picked up the trash container. “I’m sorry I broke your messing cup. I di’n’t mean to.”

  “Measuring cup,” Meredith corrected, even though “messing” seemed a more appropriate word at the moment. “And it’s no big deal, sweetkins. I have another one.”

  Circling the flour on her tiptoes, Sammy headed for the back door.

  “Don’t walk on the weak spot!” Meredith called after her.

  “I won’t.”

  Meredith waited to hear the back door open. Nothing. After a moment,
she set aside the broom and stepped to the utility room doorway.

  “Sammy?”

  The child stood frozen before the closed back door, one hand clasping the doorknob, the trash container sitting beside her on the floor.

  Meredith wanted to give herself a swift kick on the rump. The dog. Making cookies had been even more distracting than she hoped. For a few minutes, she had completely forgotten about the Rottweiler, and evidently Sammy had as well.

  Skirting the rotten flooring, Meredith went to crouch by her daughter. “Sammy?”

  No answer. Meredith leaned around and saw the anxiety reflected in her child’s eyes. “Oh, sweetkins.”

  “He could be out there,” Sammy whispered in a shaky voice. “In the dark, he could eat me, and you’d never know where I went. I’d just be swallowed up.”

  Meredith’s stomach rolled with sudden nausea. Sammy was still staring at the door, her small face drained of color. God knew what the child was remembering, the only certainty being that the images weren’t pleasant. In that moment, if Dan Calendri hadn’t already been dead, Meredith would have driven nonstop back to New York and done her level best to murder him. It had been one thing for him to make her life a living hell, but how could he have done this to their daughter?

  It was a question that had no answer, and Meredith had long since stopped searching for one.

  Sighing, she gave the child a heartening hug. “I’ll do the trash tonight, okay?”

  “No, Mommy, don’t go out there! I’m ’fraid you won’t come back.”

  Meredith was sorely tempted to take Sammy’s advice and stay put. But if she humored her daughter in this, it would be the same as admitting she was afraid herself. “Don’t be a doofus. Of course I’ll come back. That silly old Rottweiler isn’t out there.”

  As Meredith pushed to her feet and grabbed the trash container, she tried her best to believe that. Rottweilers, Dobermans. Except for their body builds, the two breeds were unnervingly alike.

  Winking at Sammy, Meredith opened the door. Darkness lay over the backyard like a thick velour blanket. A Rottweiler would blend into the blackness, invisible until it was almost upon you.