Nine Lives. Sharon Sala

on the shower and then stepped beneath the spray, not waiting for the water to heat. The cold water was like a slap in the face. Shivering slightly, she reached down for the soap and lathered her washcloth.

      Soap burned her eyes as she began to scrub at her face, then washed herself all over. When the soot and smoke were gone from her skin, she shampooed and rinsed her hair until it felt clean, as well. Then she turned her face up to the water and closed her eyes.

      Most of the time, her world sucked. Today was no exception.

      Two

      It was almost dark by the time Wilson left the hospital, satisfied that Wanelle was going to be all right. The fire at the apartment building had left Wanelle homeless, but her cousin, Shirley, had come to collect her. Shirley had a good heart and an extra bed, which left her better off than most. Wilson had given Wanelle a couple of hundred dollars to go toward replacing her lost clothing, which was all the cash he had on him.

      “You’re a doll,” she said, as she pocketed the cash. “Any time you want a freebie, just give me a call.”

      Wilson stifled a grin as he gave her a hug.

      “You are, without doubt, the most memorable birthday present I’ve ever had.” He brushed a finger along the side of her jaw, where a noticeable bruise was forming. “Sorry about having to whack you like that.”

      “No biggie,” she said. “It was my fault for freaking out.”

      “You had a reason to freak,” he said. “So…take care of yourself, okay?”

      She smirked and rolled her eyes at Shirley.

      “He’s the best, I tell you. The best.”

      “See you around,” Wilson said, and watched as they drove away.

      Then he got into his car. For a few moments he just sat, thinking back over the events of the day. He’d been watching the evening news in the lobby of the E. R. while waiting for Wanelle to be released and had seen footage on television. It was daunting to learn that seven people had died in the fire they had escaped. Were it not for the grace of God, they could have been included in that statistic. Even now, as a cough bubbled up from deep in his chest, he was reminded of how close they’d come and wondered how Cat Dupree had fared.

      Lights from a passing ambulance swept across his line of vision and broke his musing. His belly growled from hunger as a cold gust of wind rocked the truck. He shivered slightly and quickly started the engine. As soon the motor warmed up, he put the truck in gear and drove to work.

      He put in several hours at his office, then sent his receptionist home when the weather began to worsen. He set the phones in the office so that they would ring at his apartment, then locked up and went home.

      Due to the freezing rain, traffic was heavier than normal. There appeared to be some kind of pile-up on the freeway he normally drove, so he took the closest exit and wound through a small business district before driving into a residential area.

      He couldn’t help but notice the colorful Christmas lights decorating the outsides of the homes. He tried to imagine what it would be like to drive up one of the driveways and be met at the front door by a loving family. There would be kids—maybe three, two boys and a girl—and a wife who, after fifteen years of marriage, still rocked his world.

      In the middle of the fantasy, a car sped out of a side street and cut in front of him without caution. If it hadn’t been for Wilson’s quick reflexes, he would have broadsided the other vehicle.

      “Dumb ass,” Wilson muttered, as he watched the man drive away. He had everything Wilson wanted and didn’t have the good sense to take care of it by even looking where he was going.

      A muscle ticked at the edge of Wilson’s mouth as he shifted mental gears. Obviously he didn’t want that kind of life bad enough, either, or he would have done something in the last ten years toward making it happen. His parents would be ecstatic if he ever committed himself to a woman. Of all their children, he was the only hold-out. His brothers and sisters had married years ago, making him an uncle many times over.

      A short while later, he drove into the parking lot of his apartment complex. His steps were dragging as he entered the building. When he got inside his apartment, he dropped his smokey clothes in the floor of the utility room, turned up the thermostat and headed for the shower. As soon as he was clean, he dressed in an old pair of sweat pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, then moved to the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten all day, except for a Coke and a package of cheese crackers he’d gotten from vending machines in the hospital, and he was hungry for real food.

      The contents of his refrigerator were slim, but there was enough to make a decent-sized cheese omelet—one of his favorite quick meals. He finished it off in front of the TV, watching an old Chuck Norris movie and washing it down with the last of the Coke.

      Remembering the pile of dirty clothes he’d left in the utility room, he went to put them in the washer. As he was going through the pockets, he found the cat charm again. Fingering it lightly, he set it on a shelf, poured in the soap and started the machine.

      The phone rang as he was going to the bedroom. He could tell by the ring that it was a call being forwarded from the office. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been called back to some jail to bond someone out, and he frowned as he answered.

      “McKay Bail Bonds.”

      “Um…hey, Wilson, old buddy. It’s me, Shooter.”

      Wilson’s frown deepened. “Well, old buddy, you better not be in jail again,’ cause if you are, then you’ve just wasted your free call.”

      Shooter Green shifted to whining.

      “Aw…now, Wilson…it ain’t like you think. They’ve got me on a bad rap and—”

      “I’m serious,” Wilson said. “You and I aren’t doing any more business. The last two times I bonded you out, you let me down. The first, you were a no-show. If your public defender hadn’t sweet-talked the judge on your behalf and gotten you a second appearance date, you would have cost me my money. Then, the second time I bond you out of jail, I have to go after your ass…remember?”

      “Yeah, but—”

      “No buts, Shooter. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

      Shooter was still begging as Wilson hung up the phone.

      Cat slept fitfully through the night, reliving the trip down the stairs with Brownlee over her shoulder so many times that her legs were actually aching when she woke up. She rolled over on her side and opened one eye just enough to see that it was after ten in the morning. With a sigh, she sat up in bed and ran her fingers through her hair. The urge to lie back down and sleep away the day was strong, but there were a couple of things she’d been planning to do, and one of them was taking her best friend, Marsha, out to lunch.

      There weren’t many people that Cat Dupree called friend, but Marsha Benton was one of them. She and Marsha had been fostered to the same family just before their seventeenth birthdays and had become fast friends. Their bond had lasted, even after they’d been processed out of the system.

      Cat and Marsha often laughed at how different their lives had become once they’d been on their own. For the past eight years, Marsha had been a private secretary for Mark Presley, CEO of a company with worldwide distribution rights for farm implements, while Cat chased down bad guys with a taser and a gun.

      Marsha was a little over five feet tall.

      Cat was almost six feet in height.

      Marsha was a curvy redhead who loved to eat.

      Cat often forgot to eat, which accounted for her lanky build.

      But they spoke the same language, laughed at the same jokes, and were the only family each other had.

      Cat stretched languidly and then reached for the phone, punching in the number for Marsha’s office from memory. She was