Cut Throat. Шарон Сала

to tell.

      The laptop she’d come to rely on was on the passenger seat, powered up and running. Every so often she would glance down at it, just to make sure the blip she was following was still where it had been the night before. It was. It was not lost upon her that this whole trip could turn out to be a bust. The blip could be nothing more than a leftover bug that her friend Pete had placed in a piece of clothing or a pair of shoes belonging to Mark Presley. After she’d taken Presley into custody outside of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, anyone could have come across his belongings. She had no way of knowing what had burned in the fire and what had survived. Someone could have come along and claimed the discarded clothing, unaware that some of it had been bugged. One way or another, she would soon find out.

      About an hour south, she began to be aware that the traffic in front of her was slowing down. When she drove up over a hill and saw that there’d been a wreck, and that for now both lanes of the highway were being shut down, she frowned and pulled off to the shoulder.

      One highway patrolman was stopping traffic. Another was down in the ditch with the wrecked cars and a tow truck. She eyed the situation carefully, then put her vehicle back in gear. While the patrolmen were otherwise occupied, she shifted her SUV into four-wheel drive, wheeled around the parked vehicles and drove onto the center median, bypassing the line of cars and the wreckage. When she was clear of the pileup, she drove back onto the highway and continued her trip south.

      Wilson had nightmares all night and, in one way or another, every damn one of them related to Cat Dupree. His first phase of sleep revolved around Cat ordering him from her house. That nightmare evolved into a good two hours of being lost in a maze and hearing Cat screaming for help, but being unable to find her.

      He got up before daybreak feeling like he’d been run over. The last time he’d been this bummed about a woman, he’d been all of thirteen and learning to come to terms with the fact that his pretty, eighteen-year-old neighbor was probably never going to return his affections. Back then, a big breakfast of blueberry pancakes had gone a long way toward curing the heartache. Unfortunately, it would take more than his mother’s cooking to assuage the pain that loving Cat Dupree had left behind.

      By the time he got out of the shower, the streets outside his apartment were already beginning to fill with traffic. As he went to the kitchen to start the coffeemaker, he glanced out the living-room windows, judging the weather by the thin wisps of clouds and the gray, overcast sky. Whatever was going to happen today wasn’t going to be good. He could feel it.

      He poured his first cup of coffee, thinking of how his mornings used to be when he was a kid back home. The kitchen had been warm and full of noise and great smells. His mom would be standing at the stove cooking bacon or pancakes or something equally tasty, while keeping her rowdy, growing family down to a dull roar.

      In comparison to that, his place was a mausoleum. He turned on the small TV he kept on the corner of a kitchen counter just so he could add some voices to the silence, even if the news they were broadcasting was less than heartwarming. As usual, in a city the size of Dallas, the night had not been kind. Someone was dying, while others were already dead. He listened just long enough to assure himself that the suspected perps were none of his bonds, then opted for food.

      But when he went to the fridge to get some eggs, he saw a half-empty bottle of beer on the lower shelf and, once again, lost focus. His heart kicked painfully against his chest as he stared at it—remembering.

      It had been in his fridge for at least two weeks, maybe more, but he knew who it belonged to. It was Cat’s. She had been drinking from it to wash down a bean-and-beef burrito when he’d taken it out of her hands, picked her up in his arms, then carried her to his bedroom. The ensuing session of lovemaking had been gut-wrenching—a mixture of passion and lust that he wished to hell he could forget. Frustrated with himself for being such a loser, he emptied the beer into the sink. The desire for food was gone. If only he could rid himself of Cat’s memory as quickly as he’d dumped that bottle, he would be a lot better off.

      “Christ Almighty,” he muttered, then threw the bottle in the trash. “How in hell do I get past this?”

      Frustrated with himself for letting a woman get under his skin to this degree, he turned off the coffeepot, ignored the ache in his gut and went back to his bedroom to dress for the day.

      Solomon Tutuola sopped up the last of the beans with his last bite of tortilla, then eyed Paloma as he licked his fingers.

      “Got any more?”

      Paloma frowned as she shook her head. This food had been meant to last her at least through tomorrow. He’d eaten it without thought for her situation.

      “No more,” she said, frowning as she glanced at his teeth then looked away. It seemed unnatural to file one’s teeth like a wild animal, but, as she remembered, Solomon was as close to an animal as any human could be.

      Solomon frowned. The pain pills he’d taken earlier were beginning to wear off, and what wasn’t hurting was itching. He glanced around the simple dwelling, frowning even more as he looked back at Paloma herself. Years ago, when they’d first met, she’d been a curvaceous woman with dark, flashing eyes and a rowdy laugh. The woman before him had run to fat, and the displeasure she was feeling was reflected on her face. He was tempted to say to hell with her and take his leave. But he still needed to rest, and he needed some help doctoring his healing wounds.

      “I’m going to sleep now,” he announced, and rose abruptly.

      “But the day is just beginning,” Paloma said.

      Solomon glared at her. “Then maybe I need some entertaining to keep me awake in this no-place of a town.”

      “No one asked you to come here,” Paloma muttered.

      Solomon slapped her.

      “Don’t backtalk me, woman. You’re not pretty enough to get away with it anymore.”

      Paloma’s chin lifted. She might not be pretty anymore, but age had given her something else—something she’d been lacking when she’d first known him. Backbone.

      “You don’t talk about pretty to me, Tutuola. Your face looks like your heart…dark and ugly.”

      Solomon grabbed her by the throat and squeezed.

      Paloma glared back at him.

      Suddenly he shoved her aside and strode from the room. She watched him go, then turned and left her house as abruptly as he’d left her kitchen.

      Solomon heard her leave and thought nothing of it. She was of no consequence to him other than furnishing a free place to rest. He popped some pain pills, downing them without water, and lay down on her cot. Within a few minutes, he’d fallen asleep.

      Paloma was not as easily assuaged. Still, the crisp, coolness of the morning air was calming as she stormed from her little house out into the dusty streets. She paused in her front yard, glancing back one last time at her doorway, then doubled her fists and headed south to the casa of Maria Sanchez. Maria was a witch, and Paloma needed a sure cure for the devil who’d darkened her doorstep.

      Cat was less than an hour from the border when she glanced up into her rearview mirror and saw a police car bearing down on her with lights flashing.

      “Crap,” she muttered, and checked her speedometer. She wasn’t speeding—much.

      Rolling her eyes at yet another delay, she tapped on her brakes and began slowing down to pull off onto the shoulder. As she slowed, the cruiser caught up with her, then passed her at a high rate of speed. Her foot was still on the brakes as she watched the taillights of the patrol car disappearing over a rise.

      Breathing a quick sigh of relief, she glanced down at her laptop, then pulled back onto the highway and turned on the radio, tuning it to a satellite station that played oldies from the eighties. The next few miles passed with a song from Boy George, then one from Michael Jackson. But when Mike and the Mechanics came on with an oldie called “All I Need Is A Miracle,” she frowned and turned it off. Her hopes