Legacy (Page 42)
AMARA STARTS TO SAY SOMETHING, BUT I CUT her off. "I know what Sandra is doing. She's getting revenge because her cheating husband was getting ready to dump her ass. It's the only thing that makes sense. How she found out about Avery and me in such detail, I don't know. Maybe she's a voyeur and she was there that night watching us. Maybe that's how she gets her rocks off. What I do know is that possession isn't possible. I staked Avery and he didn't disappear or fly away or turn into a rat. He dissolved into dust. Into dust."
"You don't understand," Tamara says.
The vibe she's sending off is hostile, anxious and powerful as a bad smell.
It triggers defense mechanisms of my own. If she tries anything, the vampire Anna is ready. I lean forward, tighten my grip around her waist again until she whimpers, and whisper, "I don't want to understand."
Tamara grows quiet. We're approaching the turnoff that takes us off the highway, into the woods. For the next fifteen minutes we bounce along on a dirt road. Then, dead ahead is the last turnoff to David's cabin. It's not marked, so I drop my hands, touch Tamara's shoulder and point to the left. She maneuvers the Harley smoothly into the turn. I had braced myself because I wasn't sure she would. I figured she might take it at breakneck speed, bank sharply and dump me off the bike.
The dirt road drops off after about half a mile and becomes hard-packed gravel. Tamara downshifts and reduces speed. She can't see the cabin. It's set back about a mile and completely hidden in the pines. I remember how I felt when I saw it for the first time. Tamara is in for a surprise.
I point to the left again, to a paved driveway. She takes it, and I wait for her reaction when we round the last bend and the cabin comes into view.
Predictably, her shoulders jump. If I could see her face, I'm sure the eyes would be big and the mouth agape.
The "cabin" is a two-story affair, about twelve rooms and three thousand square feet. It's made of pine, stained a color close to that of a setting sun-or blood. David's father built it in the early seventies, right after the birth of his son, from logs harvested from their own land. Then David invested a lot of money during his football years to upgrade and renovate the place. There are two big stone chimneys, one at each end, and a wraparound porch in front. The windows are all open, and sheer curtains move with the breeze.
Tamara stops the bike in front and dismounts. "Who owns this place?" she asks.
I swing off the back and pull the cap off my head. "A friend."
I start away from the bike, but Tamara puts a hand on my arm. "This isn't over." It's spoken quietly, but the harshness of the threat comes through.
I shake off her hand. She's probably right. The next time I face Sandra, though, it will be on my terms.
David is splitting logs in a clearing behind the cabin. He's bare chested, sweaty and oblivious to our approach. Earbuds attached to an iPod at his waist explain why. I can hear the music. I could hear the music even without vampire hearing. He's got the volume turned way up. He's listening to Incubus, one of his favorite alternative/rock/trash/whatever groups.
He's really gotta be depressed.
"That's your friend?"
I turn to look at her. Tamara is staring, her mouth open. "Why are you still here?"
She doesn't answer, which makes me take another look at David. I guess I've known him for so long, I've become oblivious to how he must appear to other women. He's a big guy, hard muscled, broad shouldered, lean. He's wearing a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, no socks. His face is darkly handsome, strong mouth and jaw, full lips, blue eyes, cross-cropped dark hair. He swings the ax with easy grace, the muscles on his bare arms barely rippling with the effort. He's not aware that he has an audience, so there's no self-consciousness, no coyness in the way he's attacking that woodpile.
And attacking is what he's doing. I bet I know who he's thinking about.
Tamara is still staring. She's making no move to leave, so I tell her to stay here while I get his attention. No sense scaring the shit out of him and maybe getting bashed in the head in the process.
I cross around in front. He's so engrossed in the work and lost in the music I realize calling out to him isn't going to do it. I wave my hands and jump up and down until he catches the movement and looks my way.
His face turns red. He holds the ax in front of him like a weapon. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Good to see you, too. Want to put the ax down so we can talk?"
He's still glaring when Tamara moves to join me. She's grinning like an idiot. "You're David Ryan, right? Heisman Trophy winner? Played tight end for the Broncos?"
Now it's my turn to stare-at Tamara. "You know who he is?"
She thrusts out her hand and takes a step toward him. "Name's Tamara. People call me Tammy. I brought Anna up here. Didn't have any idea who we were coming to visit though. I can't tell you how thrilled I am to meet you."
I'm listening to this openmouthed. People call me Tammy? That's like calling a tiger "pussy."
David is smiling. He takes Tamara's hand and shakes it. "Football was another lifetime ago. I hardly think about it anymore."
"No way," Tamara says. "You were a great player. If you hadn't gotten hit in that Giants game and hurt your knee, you'd still be playing. It was a cheap shot, and Rutherford should have been thrown out of the league."
I can't believe what I'm hearing and seeing. Talking to David, Tamara's demeanor softens and damn, if she doesn't even look different. Prettier, somehow, more feminine. Christ, is this another spell? Here I am listening to a muscle-bound Amazon, a werewolf, no less (and one I would have sworn had a lesbian thing for Sandra), gushing over a muscle-bound, strictly heterosexual ex-jock whose chest is starting to swell like an overinflated inner tube. Her sense of purpose in bringing me here seems to have vanished.
"You know how I got hurt?" David asks, clearly flattered that she does.
That's it. I step between them. "Hey. I came up here for a reason, and I don't have all day. You two can continue this trip down memory lane another time. David, we have to talk."
The pleasant face he's showing Tamara morphs into the angry face he wore the first moment he saw me. "I told you to leave me alone."
"Believe me, I'd love to. Unfortunately, I can't. Gloria needs you. Another thing I can't believe I'm saying. You have to come back to San Diego now."
It's David's turn to look incredulous. "What are you talking about? Why would you think I'd be interested in anything to do with Gloria? Are you nuts?"
"You get that question a lot, don't you?" Tamara says to me with a smirk.
I ignore her and focus on David. "Gloria is in trouble."
I shake my head. "She's out on bail, but she may not be for long. She's at County General Hospital. The official story is she tried to commit suicide."
Emotions play across David's face like a fast-forward slide show-fury, hesitation, concern, distrust. "I don't believe it. Gloria would never try to kill herself. Is this a trick?"
"Good question. Detective Harris is working on that now. The important thing is, if she doesn't have anyone to stay with her, they may revoke her bail. I can't do it. I'm working on something else. You could. Will you?"
David slams the ax into the log he was splitting when we arrived. "Let's go."
No questions, no indecision, no wavering.
David goes inside to grab a shirt.
Tamara watches as he walks away. I think she's forgotten I'm here. She's focused on the door David disappeared through like a puppy eagerly awaiting her master's return.
David is back in two minutes. He secures the cabin and comes down the steps, pointing to the Harley. "That your bike, Tammy?"
She nods. He fishes keys out of the pocket of his jeans and tosses them to me. "I'll ride back with her. You take the Hummer."
Tamara beams, David takes her arm and steers her toward the bike, and I'm left standing alone on the porch.
Nice to see he's over Gloria.