back. "You don't want to take me on, Lou. I'll carve you up."
"Funny," Mason said. "I thought your client was the killer. Not you."
Chapter 7
Mason and Abby Lieberman lay in bed late that night, windows open, begging for a breeze, the crickets too hot to make much noise. Electric power came and went, the mayor broadcasting an appeal for people to turn up the thermostat on their air conditioners to ease the demand for electricity. Mason's air conditioner went the mayor one better. It quit. He found a fan buried behind boxes in the attic, dusted off the blades, and set it on a TV table at the foot of his bed.
"It's an oscillator," Mason explained to Abby with due reverence, the fan pushing warm air at them. "Says so on the label."
"My favorite kind," she said, kicking the sheet off of the bed.
"We could go to your place," he offered.
"This is good," she murmured, snuggling close. "It reminds me of summer camp."
"You never went to camp," Mason said.
"I saw a special on the Discovery channel."
They were naked, glistening from lovemaking, Abby tracing the path of the scar on Mason's chest with her fingertip. It was an eighteen-inch raised track, pink, smooth, and shiny, short zipper scars bordering each side. He'd been stabbed in the heart, lost his pulse in the ambulance, dead on arrival. A surgeon opened his chest in the ER to stop the bleeding, massaging his heart, bringing him back before hypoxia cooked his brain. Half a day of open-heart surgery repaired his wounds.
"Does it ever hurt?" she asked him, the fan drying them.
"Nope," he told her. It was the same answer he gave her each time she asked, even though there were days when his chest was filled with a dull ache that pressed against his ribs. Normal, give it time, his surgeon said. Abby gave him a T-shirt featuring a beat-up biker scarred from stem to stern promising that chicks dig scars. He counted on that.
They'd been together almost a year, their relationship igniting when Claire invited Abby to Harry's birthday party the day after Labor Day. Abby owned a public relations firm, Fresh Air. Opportunity and crisis management she called it until the phone stopped ringing after she was caught up in the Gina Davenport case. Then she turned off the lights.
Josh Seeley bailed Abby out when he hired her to help with his race for the United States Senate, his first run for elective office, the primary scheduled for August 1. He was one of Kansas City's moneyed elite who decided that his balance sheet qualified him for office. Abby guided him through the fallout from murky business deals dug up by his primary opponent, Congressman Delray Shays. Abby accepted Seeley's offer to work full time for the campaign, shut down Fresh Air, and recruited Mickey Shanahan as an unpaid volunteer.
The loss of her business festered like a low-grade fever in her relationship with Mason. They told each other it was neither of their faults, more the rule of unintended consequences. No hill for their love to climb, Mason assured her, Abby nodding through gritted teeth. Abby told him that her credibility would be restored if Seeley won. Then she would reopen Fresh Air.
Mason propped himself on one elbow, Abby on her side facing him. She'd let her hair grow to cover the scar on her neck left by the same knife that had lacerated his heart. She recoiled whenever he touched her scar, the closed wound still raw. It was shorter than his, no more than a couple of inches, but jagged. It was a cut made as much to disfigure as to kill. Abby wore high collars, scarves, and turtlenecks year round.
Mason told her about his two new clients, gauging her reaction. He had promised her that he'd stay away from cases with deadly retainers, the kind of case that appealed to what she called his death wish. Not that he wanted to die, she explained. It was that he wanted to find out how close he could get to death to prove he was really alive. She'd been there with him the last time and had made it
"Funny," Mason said. "I thought your client was the killer. Not you."
Chapter 7
Mason and Abby Lieberman lay in bed late that night, windows open, begging for a breeze, the crickets too hot to make much noise. Electric power came and went, the mayor broadcasting an appeal for people to turn up the thermostat on their air conditioners to ease the demand for electricity. Mason's air conditioner went the mayor one better. It quit. He found a fan buried behind boxes in the attic, dusted off the blades, and set it on a TV table at the foot of his bed.
"It's an oscillator," Mason explained to Abby with due reverence, the fan pushing warm air at them. "Says so on the label."
"My favorite kind," she said, kicking the sheet off of the bed.
"We could go to your place," he offered.
"This is good," she murmured, snuggling close. "It reminds me of summer camp."
"You never went to camp," Mason said.
"I saw a special on the Discovery channel."
They were naked, glistening from lovemaking, Abby tracing the path of the scar on Mason's chest with her fingertip. It was an eighteen-inch raised track, pink, smooth, and shiny, short zipper scars bordering each side. He'd been stabbed in the heart, lost his pulse in the ambulance, dead on arrival. A surgeon opened his chest in the ER to stop the bleeding, massaging his heart, bringing him back before hypoxia cooked his brain. Half a day of open-heart surgery repaired his wounds.
"Does it ever hurt?" she asked him, the fan drying them.
"Nope," he told her. It was the same answer he gave her each time she asked, even though there were days when his chest was filled with a dull ache that pressed against his ribs. Normal, give it time, his surgeon said. Abby gave him a T-shirt featuring a beat-up biker scarred from stem to stern promising that chicks dig scars. He counted on that.
They'd been together almost a year, their relationship igniting when Claire invited Abby to Harry's birthday party the day after Labor Day. Abby owned a public relations firm, Fresh Air. Opportunity and crisis management she called it until the phone stopped ringing after she was caught up in the Gina Davenport case. Then she turned off the lights.
Josh Seeley bailed Abby out when he hired her to help with his race for the United States Senate, his first run for elective office, the primary scheduled for August 1. He was one of Kansas City's moneyed elite who decided that his balance sheet qualified him for office. Abby guided him through the fallout from murky business deals dug up by his primary opponent, Congressman Delray Shays. Abby accepted Seeley's offer to work full time for the campaign, shut down Fresh Air, and recruited Mickey Shanahan as an unpaid volunteer.
The loss of her business festered like a low-grade fever in her relationship with Mason. They told each other it was neither of their faults, more the rule of unintended consequences. No hill for their love to climb, Mason assured her, Abby nodding through gritted teeth. Abby told him that her credibility would be restored if Seeley won. Then she would reopen Fresh Air.
Mason propped himself on one elbow, Abby on her side facing him. She'd let her hair grow to cover the scar on her neck left by the same knife that had lacerated his heart. She recoiled whenever he touched her scar, the closed wound still raw. It was shorter than his, no more than a couple of inches, but jagged. It was a cut made as much to disfigure as to kill. Abby wore high collars, scarves, and turtlenecks year round.
Mason told her about his two new clients, gauging her reaction. He had promised her that he'd stay away from cases with deadly retainers, the kind of case that appealed to what she called his death wish. Not that he wanted to die, she explained. It was that he wanted to find out how close he could get to death to prove he was really alive. She'd been there with him the last time and had made it
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