The sour cherry surprise

Des didn’t budge, her mind racing. It was now or never if she was going to make a move for her Sig. But could she make it without endangering the girl? Or would she better off making a dive for his Glock? Yeah, that was it. Go for the Glock. Go for it. Go…

“Hands together now,” Clay barked impatiently.

As Des stood poised there, ready to spring at him, it dawned upon her that she did not like how the kitchen floor had suddenly started rolling back and forth. Or the way Clay Mundy’s face was swimming in and out of focus… Oh, no, not now! No, please… As she fought off the wave of dizziness, struggling to keep her wits, a cold splash of reality jarred her back to here and now: I have no time for this. Molly’s life is on the line. Blinking, she saw Clay clearly once again. Only now he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was over her shoulder at the living room doorway. And now she was hearing the creak of a floorboard-Hector coming up behind her.

“Run, Molly! Get out!”

Molly darted for the glass French doors just as Des dove for Clay’s gun, wrestling him for it. He got off one quick shot in Molly’s direction, blowing out the glass as she ran out. Then a second, wild shot into the ceiling. Des could not tell whether Molly made it. Because by now Hector was all over her. Both men were-pummeling her, kicking her. Des gave as good as she got. Landed a hard right to Clay’s nose that sent blood spurting. But then she felt a tremendous explosion inside of her head and this time there was no fighting it, no chance.

This time everything went black and stayed black.

CHAPTER 12

To: Mitch Berger

From: Bella Tillis

Subject: Local Emergency

Dear Mr. Big Shot New York Movie Critic-You need to come out here right away, tattela. Des is in the worst kind of trouble. I wouldn’t ask you to come except you’re the only one in the whole world who can help and this is a real life and death emergency. She needs you, Mitch. Come at once. Come directly here. Don’t bother phoning or responding to this e-mail. Just come. If you don’t, I promise that you will regret it for the rest of your life.

I’ll explain everything when you get here. Please hurry.

Much love, Aunt Bella.

The slow, agonizing crawl of evening rush hour traffic finally began to pick up after Mitch made it past Stamford. It was 8:30 by now-more than two hours since he’d arrived home to pack for his trip and discovered Bella’s strange e-mail.

He did try to phone her. But all he got was her machine. He’d hung up without leaving a message. Paced his apartment. Reread her e-mail again and again, searching for some hint as to what the hell was going on. A hidden kernel. A nuance. Something, anything. Got nowhere. Paced his apartment some more, boiling with frustration. Then abruptly grabbed the phone and switched to a later flight to L.A. tomorrow. Packed an overnight bag. Dumped some extra kibble in Clemmie’s bowl, said good-bye and dashed out the door. He caught a cab down to a rental car place on West 81st Street off of Amsterdam, signed for a Chevy Impala and took off, scarfing down a takeaway supper as he crept his way slowly up the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Cross Bronx Expressway.

It was a warm, humid evening. He had the air conditioning cranked high and the Mets-Cubs game on the radio from Shea, Mets leading 4-1 in the bottom of the third. However, thunderstorms were likely to interrupt play at any time, according to Mitch’s idol, the Weather Channel’s ace storm tracker Jim Cantore. Who was never wrong. Mitch drove, sucking the last of his sweet papaya drink through a straw. The greasy wrappers on the passenger seat next to him all that remained of the three Gray’s Papaya hot dogs he’d stuffed in his face before he’d reached the George Washington Bridge. Very first time he’d eaten anything so overtly unhealthy in weeks. But he’d had an uncontrollable yen. Stress, he supposed.

At a time like this a man needed a boost from his natural food group.

He drove, his mind drifting back to last night’s adventures in bed with Cecily. How smooth her milky white skin had been. How uninhibited she was. How incredibly, freakishly limber. Their love-making had been boisterous, loud and an amazing amount of fun. It felt great to take his new, toned body out for a test run after so many months of celibacy. Cecily felt great.

As they were lying there in each other’s arms, spent and exhausted, she’d murmured, “Now I expect you’ll be wanting me to catch a cab home.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Generally speaking, your prototypical male wants you out by two. Two-thirty at the latest. Can’t sleep with a living, breathing, twitchy-legged female in his bed.”

“I’m not your prototypical male.”

“Do you mean to say you won’t utterly freak you out if I spend the night?”

“Not at all. I happen to come from a long line of snugglers.”

“This is most… unexpected.”

“Unless you want to leave.”

“Actually, what I want is a long, hot bubble bath.”

“Right now?”