THE HOMECOMING Read online

  Blinking, Jasmine brought her focus back to the matter at hand. Baxter. "Now, listen close, honey, it's only going to take me a minute to run into that building, grab the checks—"

  "And Aunt Rosebud's bag."

  "And Aunt Rosebud's bag, and run right back out again. I want you to wait right here. It's very important. Okay?"

  Baxter nodded again. But already his attention was being pulled away from her, his big eyes straying as he scanned the parking area, the buildings, the pigeons on the roofs, the trash cans near Leo's office window, the rear entrance to the bar. "If there were an owl back here, there wouldn't be so many pigeons hanging around," Baxter said casually.

  "That's good, Baxter. I'll be sure to tell my boss that, but you need to pay attention to what I'm telling you now."

  "No rats, either. Owls are their natural predators."

  "Yes, that's true."

  "We need more owls around here." He nodded thoughtfully, as if certain he'd just solved one of Chicago's biggest problems. Then he looked at her in all seriousness and said, "Can I drive the rest of the way to school?"

  "You can't even reach the pedals!"

  "Can so! Aunt Rosebud let me drive in the parkin' lot one day!" Then he clapped a hand over his mouth, and his eyes widened. Obviously he wasn't supposed to tell that little secret.

  "Aunt Rosebud lets you do just about whatever you want," Jasmine said softly. "That doesn't mean I'm gonna let you do the same. Now, do you promise to stay in the car like I told you and be a good boy for a minute, so I can get those checks?"

  "And Aunt Rosebud's bag," he gently reminded her. "Yes, I'll be good."

  "Promise?"

  He nodded solemnly. "Spit-swear!" he said, and he spat into his palm and offered it to her to shake.

  "Where do you pick this stuff up, Bax? Look, a promise is a promise. I don't need a spit-swear, okay?"

  He made a face. "Okay." Then he wiped his palm on his jeans.

  Jasmine locked his door, then got out and locked her own before she closed it. She blew him a kiss and headed to the bar's back door, but when she tried to open it, it wouldn't give. Locked. Damn. She would have to go around to the front. A cold shiver danced up her spine the second her car and her son were out of her sight. "It'll only be a minute," she told herself. "He'll be fine." But she didn't like him being here. Not in this neighborhood, much less in this bar. She'd be damned before she would take him inside with her.

  She walked through the front door, underneath the neon sign that read The Catwalk. On the walls were photos of mostly naked women in various poses. The round tables were clean, their chairs upside down on top of them. She waited tables here four nights a week. On weekends she danced. The stage was empty now except for the poles she and Rosebud and a couple of other girls twined themselves sensuously around on Friday and Saturday nights while music pounded and men howled. She never took everything off. And she never turned tricks, though several of the other dancers did, including Rosebud. She didn't like dancing for drunks for a living, but some nights she could bring home three hundred bucks just in tips. She couldn't make that kind of money anywhere else. And she needed that kind of money. She needed to keep Baxter in a good school, in a decent apartment, in a nice part of town. There was nothing she wouldn't do for her son. Nothing.

  And she wouldn't do this forever. Just until something better came along. As far as she was concerned, it was a symptom of a sick society, though, when a classically trained dancer had to take her clothes off to make a living at her art.

  She walked beyond the stage, into the back part of the building, which housed a communal dressing room for the dancers, the boss's office and the time clock, mounted on the wall in the hallway. Muffled voices came from Leo's office. If she wasn't quiet, he would be sure to come out and try to strong-arm her into working on her only night off. It never failed. So she walked softly up to the time clock in the hall. Sure enough, she spotted her check in the slot with her time card. Rosebud's was in her slot, as well. "Damn Leo Hardison," she muttered under her breath. He couldn't be bothered to stick them into an envelope and mail them. She snatched both checks up, then tiptoed into the dressing room and spotted Rosebud's denim bag slung over the back of a chair near her makeup mirror. She'd half turned to go when something caught her eye, made her turn back. On Rosebud's dressing table a fat manilla envelope sat in front of the makeup mirror. The name Jenny Lee Walker was typed across the front.

  Frowning, Jasmine picked it up and murmured, "That's funny. I didn't think anybody but me knew Rosebud's real name." It was addressed to her in care of The Catwalk; the return address was some law firm in Texas. Vaguely, Jasmine thought of the lawyer who'd contacted Rosebud with the news of her mother's death. Must be connected. Hell, maybe Rosebud had inherited a fortune or something. Jasmine stuffed the two checks and the big envelope inside Rosebud's oversize denim bag, hitched it over her shoulder and turned to leave.

  She walked quietly into the hall and started down it, intending to go past Leo's office to the back door, which would save her a few steps. His office door was closed anyway, and the back door would open from the inside, even when the lock was engaged.

  She was almost to the back exit when the gunshots rang out. Three explosions, equally spaced, each one making her heart slam against her chest and her entire body jerk in reaction as she stood there frozen. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Leo's office door flew open ahead of her, and she could see, for just an instant, very clearly inside. Leo stood there, holding the door open but still facing inside, muttering, "What the hell did you do? Dammit, Petronella, what the hell did you do?"

  Another man, familiar to her from the club, stood over the still body of a third, his back to Jasmine. "Did what I had to."

  Jasmine's horrified gaze slid down to the man on the floor. He was bleeding from his head, a dark pool that spread itself slowly underneath him. Then something made her look past the body, up at the rear window. She saw the wide eyes and wire-rimmed glasses of her little boy looking right back at her.

  "He was a cop!" Leo said. "You've murdered a freaking cop!"

  Jasmine had to move, and she had to move fast, before either of those men looked up and saw Baxter there. She couldn't get out the back door without moving right past Leo's open office door, so she backed away instead, inching, as silently as her shaking knees would allow, back up the hall. If Leo or that other man so much as turned their heads, they would see Baxter.

  "Why the hell didn't you know about this before now? Huh? What the hell am I paying you for, anyway?" Leo demanded, his voice loud, ringing, bouncing off the walls of the empty bar and off the insides of her head.

  The other man swore. "I don't know everything that happens in the department, Leo. What do you think I am, the chief or something? Besides, this guy wasn't one of mine. He was a Fed."

  A federal agent, her mind whispered, but only briefly. She didn't have time to listen or to try to analyze their words. She had to get to Baxter. Get him out of here before either Leo or his murdering cohort saw him … or realized she had ever been here. She eased back up the hall, the way she'd come, out into the front of the bar, toward the front door. She opened it carefully, started outside. And then she heard the clanging metal of those trash cans out back, underneath Leo's window.

  "What the hell was that?" Leo asked suddenly. Jasmine ran. She raced around the club, to the lot in the back. As she neared the lot, she saw Baxter running toward the car. The trash cans near the window he'd been peering through were lying on their sides. Then the bar's back door opened just as Baxter reached the car and yanked the passenger door open. Leo and the other man lunged out. The killer, Petronella, had a gun, and he lifted it, pointed it at Baxter, as the boy pulled the car door closed behind him. A shot rang out.

  "Leave him alone!" Jasmine scooped up a broken piece of brick and hurled it at the man for all she was worth. It clocked him in the head, and he went to his knees. She heard her car start up and couldn't believe it.
Leo was turning toward her now, squinting and shielding his eyes. He was looking right into the sun, and she was in the shadow of the building, she realized. But the other man was struggling to his feet again, pulling up the gun, pointing it at her. The next thing Jasmine knew, her car was lurching forward. She had to jump out of the way or get hit. Baxter's head was so low she didn't think he could possibly see where he was going. The car roared to a jerking, rocking stop right between her and the killer, and she yanked the door open and climbed in, shoving her baby aside, holding him down with one hand. She stomped the gas pedal and left rubber as she sped away.

  "My God, baby. My God, baby, are you okay?" She kept her foot to the floor, veering in and out of lanes, as she ran her free hand over her son's head, his neck, his shoulders. "Are you hurt, Bax? Are you all right?" Her eyes were on him more than they were on the road, scanning him for injuries, fully expecting to see blood and bullet holes.

  "I'm okay, Mom. I'm okay."

  "You are?"

  He nodded. Tears streaming, Jasmine let the relief course through her. It was true; he hadn't been hit. "Thank you, Jesus," she whispered, pulling him up onto the seat, into a one-armed hug. She kissed his face, felt the way he was trembling. She looked in the rearview mirror. No sign of anyone chasing them. She slowed down an iota. "Come on, baby, get your seat belt on now. We're gonna take you somewhere safe. Somewhere far, far away from those bad men. I promise you that. You're safe now, Baxter."

  He nodded, but she didn't think he believed her.

  Three things kept running through Jasmine's mind over and over again as she drove. Leo and that other man—the man she'd been seeing around The Catwalk for weeks lately—they'd seen her car. They'd seen Baxter. And they knew he had witnessed them murdering a federal agent. They'd tried to kill her little boy, and it would not be difficult for them to find her. She stroked Baxter's hair as she drove, while he refused to shed a single tear and yet shook all over. "It's gonna be okay, baby. I promise, it's gonna be okay."

  He wasn't talking, wasn't asking questions, which was so unlike him that it scared her. His little arms were twined tight around his waist, his head down, his whole body shaking. Every few seconds Jasmine glanced into her rearview mirror again, but she didn't see them following her.

  No, they wouldn't follow her. Why the hell should they? They knew where she lived.

  Suddenly her heart seemed to freeze in her chest. Rosebud! God, she had to warn Rosebud! Looking around her, she spotted a pay phone. Dammit, she was so afraid to stop the car. But she had to.

  She circled the block three times. The phone was on a corner, near a convenience store. It was broad daylight. It shouldn't feel so damn frightening. "Mama's gotta make a phone call, honey," she said softly, finally pulling the car to a stop with the driver's door right beside the pay phone. "Scootch right over here behind the wheel, baby. You can hold my hand the whole time, okay?"

  Nodding, his huge dark eyes riveted to hers and wet with unshed tears, Baxter gripped her hand. She opened the car door, the quarter already in her hand. Getting out, she kept hold of Baxter with the other hand and dropped the coin into the slot. Carefully she punched the numbers. She noticed her nails. She and Rosebud had both had their nails freshly done just yesterday. Extra long and curving, and ruby-red. Rosebud had a white rose painted on every nail. Jasmine had opted for tiny sparkling bits of glass that looked like diamonds. They gleamed in the sunlight now as she punched the numbers on the keypad. Then she listened while the phone in her apartment rang and rang and rang. Why didn't she answer? Rosebud would have turned on the answering machine if she'd gone out.

  What was she supposed to do, dammit? What the hell was she going to do?

  She put the phone down, slid back into the car with Baxter, closed the door. Think. Think, dammit!

  Rosebud might be out on the stoop. She did that sometimes, just sat on the stoop and watched the people go by. Said it helped her think. Jasmine could just drive by. Just drive by, not stop, not go inside, not risk her baby. Just drive by and see. If Rosebud was there, she could pick her up and they would be out of there. That would work. She could see it all plainly in her mind. She would just pick Rosebud up and they would speed away. And everything would be fine. They could go to some other city. It could work. She was forty-five minutes from the apartment by now. God, please let her get back in time.

  She drove as fast as she dared. And when she got to her neighborhood, she put on her sunglasses and skirted the outermost streets, then dared to get in closer. "Lie down on the floor, baby," she told Baxter. "Stay down low for just a minute, okay, honey?"

  He didn't argue, didn't ask why, for once. He just did what she said. She almost sobbed in a mix of relief and worry. It wasn't like her Bax to be so timid, so obedient, so quiet.

  She turned and went closer, not turning onto her own street but passing by it and glancing down it as she did.

  "Oh, no…"

  Lights, flashing red and blue. Lots of them. She could see people standing in the street. She turned the wheel, went around the block, came back up to her street on the other side—her building was on the corner. She could see clearly from this end. She drove, almost holding her breath, until she reached the corner. And then she stopped and just sat there and looked.

  Two men carried a stretcher out the front door onto the stoop, and started down the steps to the waiting ambulance. But the person on that stretcher didn't need any ambulance. Jasmine could see, even from here, the black vinyl that enveloped the victim on that stretcher. A body bag.

  The men paused on the top step as a uniformed officer spoke to them. Leaning over, he unzipped the vinyl tomb. A hand fell free, slender and white, and Jasmine sucked in a breath. Long, freshly done nails adorned that hand. Bright red, with something tiny and white on every one.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out loud. But her tears rolled so thick and so fast she couldn't stop them.

  Behind her, a horn blasted. She was holding up traffic.

  The cop paused in zipping the body back up again and turned to look her way. Jasmine froze as she got a full view of his face. He was the same man who'd been with Leo this morning—the same man who'd killed a federal agent and done his best to kill her, too. He stood there with the sun winking off his shiny badge, and Jasmine whispered, "Petronella."

  His eyes narrowed on her, and he lifted a hand to shield them from the sun, as if trying to see better. Jasmine stomped on the gas pedal, and the car lurched away.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

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  Luke kicked a chunk of moss off the wide stone steps of the old brick house and gnawed his lower lip. "I've made up my mind, Garrett," he said to his cousin, a man who, in the past three months, had become almost a brother to him, something that still amazed Luke to no end. "I'm staying."

  He looked up, saw the wide grin he'd known damn well he would see on the big man's Stetson-shaded face. Garrett slapped his shoulder. "The family's gonna be glad to hear that, Luke. Chelsea's been nagging me every single night on this one. 'Can't you talk him into staying? Why don't you try harder?' And so on and on and on."

  Luke blew a long sigh. "I didn't mean to leave everyone hanging so long. It's just that, well, it wasn't an easy decision." He looked at the gleaming machine parked in the long driveway. "That rig's been my partner and pretty much my only friend for a long while now. But … well, hell, Garrett, I guess it took Buck's dying to make me realize it wasn't the only thing I wanted out of life."

  Garrett nodded. Luke had talked to him at length about Buck's life and death, and that moment when he'd made the decision to come out here. So he knew the story. "Does that mean you've figured out what you do want, Luke?"

  Luke smiled. "What I've figured out is that my options are wide-open. I loved my mother dearly, Garrett, but she did me a little bit of a disservice in raising me the way she did. Refusing to share me with anyone else, or to let anyone else get close to her—to either of
us. She raised me to believe it was better to be closed off, independent, solitary." He shook his head. "I never in my wildest dreams imagined being a part of a huge, sprawling family like this one."

  Garrett nodded. "I can't imagine not being a part of it. And it seems to just keep getting bigger!"

  Luke laughed aloud, thinking of the two expectant daddies in the clan, Wes and Elliot, and how close Taylor and Esmeralda were to their due dates.

  "But that's the beauty of it, Garrett. And that's what I want. I've spent a lot of time figuring that out. So much that I can see it in my mind just as clear as I can see you standing there. I want what you have, Garrett. I want a home that opens its arms up to me when I walk in the front door." He turned and looked back at the still sad looking brick house, seeing only its potential. "I want a family that does the same. I want to find a woman who wants the same things out of life that I do. A good, clean, wholesome woman who can make biscuits and babies."

  Garrett laughed out loud, a deep booming sound. "Well, we got the home part covered, at least. This place goes up for auction next week. And you're the only interested party in town."