Nightwalker. Heather Graham
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She didn’t finish, because just then a loud gasp came from her right, where the family room abutted a courtyard. “Mom! Mom! It’s Jessy—she’s on TV! A man was murdered!”
Sandra stared at Jessy, who grimaced and went running past her to reach the family room, where Reggie was draped over the big comfortable sofa, staring at the television. She gasped again when Jessy walked in.
Jessy stared at the television. She’d been so focused on getting home that she hadn’t noticed the news cameras out front when she and Dillon Wolf had finally escaped the casino, but there she was. She hadn’t realized that she had actually been hanging on his arm.
“You were involved in a murder?” Sandra asked.
“Forget that. Who the hell’s the hottie?” Reggie demanded. Tall and slim, she had her mother’s green, dark-lashed eyes and a perfect heart-shaped face. Despite her beauty and her age, though, she was basically a nice kid, and Jessy was always pleased when she came over to help Sandra with Timothy.
“Murder?” Sandra repeated.
At that moment, Timothy emerged from his bedroom. He was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt that was on backward. Despite that, he maintained his dignity as he straightened regally and said, “Murder? Yes, it was murder. They can bury my heart at Wounded Knee for a fact, because the slaughter of the American Indian remains one of the greatest tragedies and injustices of our nation’s history.”
“Don’t worry. The Native Americans are taking a just revenge. It’s called bingo, and it’s wonderful. They make money, and no one dies,” Sandra said, placating him gently.
Jessy walked over to give him a hug, but he only stared at her. His eyes, light blue and misted like fog at the coming of day, were blank at first. Then they registered that she was in front of him. “Granddaughter. You’re home. And you’re safe.”
She was startled to feel him trembling as he hugged her. She looked over his shoulder, frowning questioningly at Sandra.
“This just came on,” Reggie said quietly.
“You were in danger,” Timothy said. “They told me so.”
“Who told you so?” Jessy asked.
“The ghost riders. Their ghosts came and told me that I needed to be strong, that you were in danger, and that I need to defend you,” he said earnestly.
“I’m all right. Honestly,” Jessy said, really worried now. Ghosts? This was new. “Timothy—”
“I miss my bed,” he said.
“Tim, you have a bed here,” she told him.
He smiled at her, his eyes misty again. “Yes, and I’m grateful. But it’s not my bed. I should be in my own place, where you come to visit me.”
“You’re going back tomorrow, Timothy. It’s going to be fine,” she said.
Sandra was staring at her, arching a brow. Her silent look said quite clearly, It’s wrong to lie to him. Where can you get that kind of money?
“Come on, Timothy, let me get you to bed,” Jessy told him, ignoring her friend’s silent admonition.
His shoulders straightened, and he was entirely lucid. “I can take myself to bed, Jessy girl.” He turned to face Sandra and Reggie. “Thank you, ladies, for the lovely dinner, and for listening to an old man tell even older tales. Good night.”
Reggie hurried over to give him a hug, and Sandra gave him a kiss on the cheek. He turned and headed back to his room. Jessy didn’t want him to see her checking up on him, so she kept an eye on him from where she was and promised herself that she would look in on him later.
When she turned back to Sandra and Reggie, they were both staring at her, wide-eyed.
“What the hell is going on?” Sandra demanded.
“And I still want to know who that guy is,” Reggie added.
“And there’s…blood all over you,” Sandra said, ignoring her daughter. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, I promise, but you’ll have to excuse me,” Jessy said, wiping at the blood, suddenly desperate for a shower.
She practically ran to her room, where she couldn’t get her clothing off quickly enough. She threw it all straight into the trash basket, knowing she would never wear a single piece of it ever again. She hurried into the shower and turned the water on so hot that it was almost scalding, then rubbed her skin practically raw. She massaged shampoo through her hair over and over, until, finished at last, she threw on her terry robe and hurried back into the family room.
Reggie and Sandra spun around to stare at her again, and before Sandra could manage a word, Reggie demanded, “Tell me now. Who is that guy? Have you been holding out on us?”
“No. I never saw him before tonight. His name is Dillon Wolf,” Jessy told her.
“Oh, okay. They said his name on TV,” Reggie said.
“Oh? Did they say my name?” Jessy asked.
“No, you’re just the unidentified redhead,” Sandra told her. She looked concerned, and rose from the sofa to bring Jessy a cup of tea.
Jessy thanked her and took a sip, then choked. It was half brandy.
“Sandra—”
“You need it,” Sandra told her.
“You might have warned me,” Jessy protested.
“Could we get back to what happened?” Sandra asked.
“I was playing craps—”
“What?” Sandra broke in, frowning.
“Not to worry, I wasn’t betting the house or anything,” she said. Not quite, anyway.
“And was the hottie playing craps, too?” Reggie asked.
Jessy laughed. “I don’t think he’d like being called a hottie.”
“Is he here to complain?” Reggie asked.
“No, but—”
“Let’s get off the guy,” Sandra said. “We know more about him now than Jessy does, I’m willing to bet.”
“What are you talking about?” Jessy asked.
“Oh, they kept announcing his name on TV, like Reggie said,” Sandra explained. “He’s a P.I. with a hush-hush government agency of some kind.”
“I think he’s working for Emil Landon,” Jessy said, confused. She took another swallow of the brandy-laced tea. Now that she was forewarned, it was delicious.
“I bet he’s working undercover,” Reggie said, excited. “So how did you get to know him so quickly? When is your next date?”
“We weren’t on a date,” Jessy said.
“I was playing craps. Dillon Wolf was at the table—I didn’t even know his name then. But—I won. I won a lot of money. It was bizarre—as if an invisible hand was literally moving the dice until they landed on a hard ten. Anyway, I was starting to leave, and then the man plowed into me, knocked me onto the table—”
“Dillon Wolf knocked you onto the craps table?” Reggie asked.
“No, the dead man, the murder victim.”
“He was dead, but he knocked you down?” Sandra asked, confused.
“He was dying when he knocked me down, and then he died on top of me. And then Dillon Wolf came back and helped me up. Actually, I think he convinced the cops to let me out of there, too,” Jessy said.
“Cool,” Reggie told her. “So are you going to see him again?”