Low Pressure

Chapter 3

Together Dent and Gall got the airplane into the hangar. Dent climbed back in to retrieve his sunglasses and iPad, and spotted the copy of Low Pressure lying in the seat Bellamy had occupied. “Son of a bitch.” He grabbed the book and, as soon as he cleared the door of his airplane, made a beeline for his Vette.

Gall turned away from the noisily humming refrigerator, a six-pack of Bud in his hand. “I thought we’d crack a couple of—Where are you going?”

“After her.”

“What do you mean, after her?”

Dent got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, but when he would have pulled the door closed, Gall was there, the six-pack in one hand, his other braced against the open car door. “Don’t go borrowing trouble, Ace.”

“Oh that’s funny. You’re the one who set me up with them.”

“I was wrong.”

“You think?” He gave the door a tug. “Let go.”

“Why’re you going after her?”

“She left her book behind. I’m going to return it.”

He yanked hard on the door and Gall released it. “You should leave it alone.”

Dent didn’t acknowledge the warning. He shoved the Vette into first gear and peeled out of the hangar. He knew the road well, which was fortunate, because while he drove with one hand, he used his other to wrestle his wallet from his back pocket, fish the check from it, and, after reading the address, accessed a GPS app on his iPad. In a matter of minutes he had a map to her place.

Georgetown, not quite thirty miles north of Austin, was known for its Victorian-era architecture. Its town square and tree-lined residential streets boasted structures with gingerbread trim.

Bellamy lived in one such house. It sat in a grove of pecan trees and had a deep veranda that ran the width of the house. Dent parked at the curb and, taking the book with him, followed a flower-bordered path to the steps leading up to the porch. He took them two at a time and reached past a potted Boston fern to ring the doorbell.

Then he saw that the front door stood ajar. He knocked. “Hello?” He heard a noise, but it wasn’t an acknowledgment. “Hello? Bellamy?” As fast as he’d been driving, she couldn’t have been that far ahead of him. “Hello?”

She appeared in the wedge between the door frame and the door, and it looked to him like she was depending on it for support. Her eyes were wide and watery, and her face was pale, bringing into stark contrast a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks that he hadn’t noticed before.

She licked her lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Are you okay?”

She gave an affirmative nod, but he didn’t believe her.

“You look all…” He gestured toward her face. “Was it the flight? Did it mess you up that bad?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

He hesitated, wondering why he didn’t just hand her the book and tell her to shove it where the sun don’t shine, as he’d come here to do, then turn and walk away. For good. Forever and ever, amen.

He had a strong premonition that if he stayed for one second longer, he would live to regret it. But despite the impulse to get the hell out of there and away from her and all things Lyston, he gave the door a gentle push, which she resisted. He pushed harder until she let go and the door swung wide.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed.

The central hallway behind her looked like it had been the site of a ticker-tape parade. The glossy hardwood floor was littered with scraps of paper. Brushing past her, he went in, bent down, and picked up one of the larger pieces. It was the corner of a page; T. J. David was printed on it, along with a page number.

“You found it like this when you got home?”

“I was just a few minutes ahead of you,” she replied. “This is as far as I got.”

Dent’s first thought was that the intruder might still be inside the house. “Alarm system?”

“The house doesn’t have one. I only moved in a couple of weeks ago.” She gestured toward sealed boxes stacked against the wall. “I haven’t even finished unpacking.”

“Your husband isn’t here?”

The question seemed to confuse her at first, then she stammered, “No. I mean… I don’t… I’m divorced.”

Huh. He tucked that away for future consideration. “Call nine-one-one. I’ll take a look around.”

“Dent—”

“I’ll be okay.”

He set the copy of her novel on the console table, then continued down the central hallway past a dining room and a living room, which opened off of it on opposite sides. The hall led him to the back of the house, where he found the kitchen and utility room. The door to the yard was standing open. The locking mechanism dangled from a neat round hole in the door.

A striped cat curiously peered around the jamb. Upon seeing Dent, it skedaddled. Being careful not to touch anything, he stepped out onto a concrete stoop, where a bag of potting soil and a stack of terra-cotta flowerpots stood against the exterior wall of the house. One of the pots had been broken. Pieces of it lay on the steps leading down to the ground. The fenced yard was empty.

He figured the house-breaker was no longer a threat, but he wanted to check the upstairs anyway. He retraced his steps through the kitchen and back into the wide hallway. Bellamy was standing where he’d left her, cell phone in hand.

“I think he came and went through the utility room door. I’m gonna check upstairs.”

He climbed them quickly. The first door on his left opened into a spare bedroom, which she obviously planned on using as an office. The computer setup on the trestle table appeared to have been left undisturbed, but, as in the entryway below, pages of her book had been made into confetti and strewn everywhere. He checked the closet, but there was nothing in it except boxes packed with basic office supplies.

Midway down the hall, a quaint pair of doors with glass panes stood open. He walked through them into Bellamy’s bedroom. Here, he drew up short. The room had been vandalized, but not with confetti.

Hastily he checked the closet, where he found clothes and shoes, several unpacked boxes, and a lingering floral scent. The bathroom was likewise empty except for the cream-colored fixtures, fluffy towels, and feminine accoutrements on the dressing table.

He returned to the bedroom’s double doors and called down to her. “Coast is clear, but you’d better come up.”

Moments later she joined him, doing exactly as he’d done when he walked in. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

“I take it that’s not part of the decor.”

“No,” she said huskily.

Scrawled in red paint on the wall was: You’ll be sorry.

The paint had run, leaving rivulets at the bottom of each letter that looked like dripping blood. In lieu of a paintbrush, a pair of her underwear had been used to write the letters.

The significance of that escaped neither of them.

Dent motioned toward the paint-soaked wad of silk lying on the carpet. “Yours?” When she nodded, he said, “Sick bastard. Police on their way?”

She roused herself, pulled her gaze away from the message on the wall, and looked up at him. “I didn’t call them.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t want a big deal made of this.”

He thought surely he had heard her wrong, and his expression must have conveyed that.

“It was a prank,” she said. “When I moved in, a neighbor warned of things like this happening in the area. There’s been a rash of it. Teenagers with not enough to do. Maybe an initiation of some kind. They scatter trash across lawns. Knock over mailboxes. I’m told they hit a whole block one night last month.”

He looked at the vandalized wall, the garment on the floor, then came back to her. “Your panties were used to paint a threatening message on your bedroom wall, and you put that on par with scattered trash and banged-up mailboxes?”

“I’m not calling the police. Nothing was taken. Not that I can tell, anyway. It was just… just mischief.”

She turned quickly and left the room. Dent went after her, clumping down the stairs on her heels. “When I got here you were shaking like a leaf. Now you’re passing this off as a prank?”

“I’m certain that’s all it was.”

She rounded the newel post and headed for the kitchen, Dent only half a step behind her. “Uh-uh. I ain’t buying it. What are you going to be sorry for?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think you do.”

“It’s none of your business. What are you doing here, anyway?” She dragged a chair from the kitchen dining table into the utility room and pushed it against the door to keep it closed. “The neighbor’s cat comes to visit uninvited.”

When she turned back, Dent was there, blocking her. “I’ve a good mind to call the police myself.”

“Don’t you dare. The media would get wind of it, and then I’d have that to deal with, too.”

“Too? In addition to what?”

“Nothing. Just… just please let it go. I’m waiting for the call that my father has died. I can’t take on any more right now. Can’t you understand that?”

He understood that the woman was on the verge of a meltdown. Her eyes were stark with something. Fear? Her voice was unsteady, like it was about to crack. She was holding on to the ledge by her fingernails, but she was holding on, and he had to give her credit for that.

He softened his approach. “Look, thanks to your family, I’m no fan of cops, either. But I still think you should report this.”

“They’ll show up with lights flashing.”

“Probably.”

“No thank you. I could do without the circus. I’m not calling them.”

“Okay, then a neighbor.”

“What for?”

“Ask if you can crash on their sofa.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“A friend? Someone who could come—”

“No.”

“Then call the police.”

“You want to call them, you call. You can deal with them. I won’t be here.” She pushed him aside and made her way back into the hall. “I’ll be at my parents’ house.”

“That idea gets my vote. You’d be crazy to stay here alone. But wait an hour. Let the police come—”

“No. I want to make the drive before the storm gets here.”

“It’s not coming here.”

She glanced toward the window. “It may.” She leaned down to retrieve her shoulder bag from the floor, where she’d apparently dropped it when she came in. She hauled the strap onto her shoulder. “You still haven’t told me why you followed me home.”

“To return your lousy book.” He pointed toward the console table where he’d left it. Then he moved his boot through a heap of torn pages. “Seems somebody else likes it even less than I do.”

She was about to speak, but faltered and looked away from him, then turned abruptly and opened the front door.

Dent reached beyond her shoulder and pushed the door shut. She came around angrily, but he was the first to speak. “This is about the book. Right?”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her expression said it all.

“You’re good and truly spooked, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Because you know as well as I do that this wasn’t a teenager’s prank.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“What else would you have to be sorry for? You wrote that book, and it made somebody real unhappy.”

“I never said—”

“Unhappy enough to threaten you, and you’re taking that threat seriously. I know that because you’re scared. Don’t deny it. I can tell. So what’s going on? What gives?”

“What do you care?”

“Call me a nice guy.”

“But you’re not!”

There was no arguing that. For seconds they glared at each other, then her head dropped forward and she kept it bowed for several moments. When she raised it, she brushed back a strand of hair that had shaken loose from her ponytail.

“Dent, I’ve had a perfectly rotten day. First I had to encounter you, when you were so obviously hostile and rejecting of any olive branch. I had to stand by, uselessly, in that cancer ward and watch my dad, whom I love more than anyone in the world, suffer untold pain and indignity.

“I didn’t want to leave him, but he invented a business matter that needs to be dealt with tomorrow morning as soon as the offices open. But the real reason he sent me back was to spare me having to see him like that.

“Then, during the flight home, I had to talk myself out of having a full-blown panic attack, which was not only terrifying, but humiliating because you were there to see it. I got home to find my house wrecked, and then you showed up and started giving me grief. I’ve had it. I’m leaving. You can stay, or leave, or go to hell. It makes no difference to me.”

On her way out she flicked a master switch that turned off every light in the house, leaving Dent in the dark.

Ray Strickland was a man better avoided, and he worked at making himself appear so.

He had come by his mean countenance naturally, but he had developed mannerisms to match his appearance. A thick, low brow formed a perpetual scowl that kept his deeply set eyes in shadow. His wide shoulders and muscled arms would have made him look top-heavy if his legs weren’t equally stout.

He didn’t shave his head, but buzzed it closely with an electric razor every few days. An iron cross, like the German war medal, was tattooed on his nape. Other tats decorated his arms and chest. He was especially proud of the snake, bared fangs dripping venom, that coiled around his left arm from shoulder to wrist.

The serpent hid the scars.

Attached to his belt was a leather scabbard that held a knife he kept honed and ready in case somebody didn’t heed the advertising and decided to mess with him.

He gave off an aura of Leave Me the Hell Alone. Most anyone who crossed paths with him was happy to oblige. Tonight he was in a particularly fractious mood.

The bar where he had stopped for refreshment was crowded and hot, the band lousy and loud. Every new arrival that came through the opaque-glass entrance increased Ray’s irritation. They encroached on his space and sucked up his air. He’d left his leather vest open for ventilation, but he still felt constricted.

He signaled the waitress for another shot of straight tequila. She was wearing a black cowboy hat with a feather band, a black leather bra, and low-rise jeans. Her navel was pierced with a silver ring, and attached to it was a chain that dangled right down to there.

Ray let her see that he noticed. “I like that chain.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a silent Drop dead added. After pouring his drink, she turned her back to him and sashayed to the other end of the bar, giving him an eyeful of a heart-shaped ass.

The rejection made him mad as hell. Not that he wasn’t used to it. Women just didn’t seem to take to him, not unless he plied them with enough cheap liquor to urge on a little friendliness and cooperation. He never inspired their lust.

He just didn’t have the gift. Not like his big brother, Allen. Now there was a ladies’ man for you. All Allen had to do was crook his finger at a female and she’d come running. In no time flat, Allen could sweet-talk his way past her bra and into her panties. He’d loved women and they’d loved him back.

Only one had ever turned Allen down.

Susan Lyston.

After that bitch, there had been no more women for Allen. No more nothing.

Ray reached for his shot glass and slammed back the throat-searing tequila.

If it hadn’t been for Susan Lyston, Allen would be with him tonight, chasing tail, getting drunk, having fun like they used to. ’Course they’d been a pair of wild and crazy kids back then, but Ray had no reason to think they’d be any less fun-loving now than they had been eighteen years ago. But he would never know, would he? No. Because of Susan Lyston.

Now her little sister was continuing in that same destructive vein. She’d written a book about it, for crissake! Oh, she’d changed the names, even her own. She’d set the story in a fictitious city. But those thin disguises weren’t for shit if you knew the true story. Her characters were easy to match up to the real people.

It made Ray burn every time he thought of how she’d described the character representing Allen. She’d called him “smarmy.” Ray wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. His big brother was being ridiculed and reviled all over again in the pages of that goddamn book. And to make certain of it, Susan’s sister, who was all grown up now and ought to know better, was on TV talking it up, profiting off of Allen and the event that had ruined his life.

No way in hell was that right. Ray wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

Soon as he heard she was back in Austin, he’d started a campaign to make her rosy life a little less so. He’d wanted her worried, nervous, afraid, like Allen had been when he was arrested. Like Ray had been when Allen was arrested.

Then, after having his fun with her, he was going to make her regret she’d ever written a single word about his brother.

Today, he’d decided to send her a warning. Even though he hated making her more money off her book, he’d bought a copy and had enjoyed shredding the pages with his knife. At an Ace Hardware store, he’d bought a can of red paint and a brush. Getting into her house had been easy and so had finding her bedroom.

And this was the best part: At the last minute, he’d gotten the idea of using a pair of her panties instead of the paintbrush. He’d found her undies folded into neat stacks in a bureau drawer. He’d taken his time to choose the pair he liked best. They hadn’t absorbed the paint so good, but they’d got the job done.

When he’d finished, he moved into the kitchen, where he settled in to wait for her to come home. The afternoon wore on. The temperature rose, as did the humidity, but he didn’t turn on the AC. For some reason, it seemed important that he be uncomfortable. He didn’t want it to be easy. He was doing this for Allen.

Night came on, but the temperature didn’t go down along with the sun. He had sweat through his jeans, and his leather vest was sticking to his torso by the time he finally heard her car wheel into the driveway. He listened as she unlocked the front door and knew the instant she saw the mess in the hallway. Her gasp of surprise made him want to laugh out loud.

He was tempted to come charging out of the kitchen giving a rebel yell and scaring the living daylights out of her. Instead, he played it smart. He waited, straining to hear where she’d go or what she’d do before deciding what his next move would be.

Then the low growl of a car motor reached him. A door slammed. Footsteps on the walk.

Shit! Ray had grabbed the plastic bag containing the paint can and gotten the hell out of there. He hadn’t even paused to close the back door. He jumped over the flowerpot he’d broken while jimmying the backdoor lock. He vaulted the fence and ran through a neighbor’s backyard.

Eventually he covered the few blocks to where he’d left his pickup. He was panting and leaking sweat from every pore by the time he reached the truck, but he was more angry than scared. Somebody had interfered with his plan.

He took a risk by driving past her house, but men like him were into danger and taking risks. As it turned out, this one had paid off. He had identified the motherfucker who’d spoiled his fun.

Denton Carter.

At first Ray couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw him standing under the porch light at Bellamy Price’s front door. But there was no mistaking him.

“Cocky flyboy,” Ray muttered now as he hunched over the bar and rolled the empty shot glass between his hands. Resentment bubbled inside him. Dent Carter was one of those lucky sons o’ bitches who could be dragged through shit but somehow always came up smelling like roses. Ray knew he’d suffered some hard knocks over the years. He’d gotten fired from an airline. Something about a near crash.

But, true to form, Dent had rebounded. Parked at the curb in front of Bellamy’s house was a sexy red Corvette, and Ray had seen for himself Dent being welcomed inside. Why wouldn’t he be, when, in her book, she’d all but labeled his character a superstud?

The whole thing made Ray spitting mad.

He signaled the waitress and pulled a wad of bills from his front pocket. Warmed up by the sight of cash, she came right over to him, bringing the bottle of Patron with her.

“Another for you, handsome?”

Oh, now he was handsome? Money sure had a way of changing people’s minds. He wondered how far it would get him with her. How friendly would she be if he reached out and yanked her chain? Literally. She’d probably scream like bloody hell.

“Make it a double.”

She reached for a second shot glass and filled it. “What are you celebrating?”

“I’m holding a private wake.”

“Oh, sorry. Who died?”

“Nobody.” He raised his glass to her. “Yet.”