Deadly Gamble by Linda Lael Miller Page A

conversation with either Heather the Stalker or Geoff the Parent/Cat Killer, and saw Clive Larimer’s name and number in the little window. With only slight trepidation, I pressed the talk button. “Mojo Sheepshanks,” I said.
    My uncle responded with his name, in a businesslike tone, and then a smile sneaked into his voice. “Mojo Sheepshanks, is it? I guess I’ll have to get used to that, but you’ll always be Mary Jo to me.”
    I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. If things fell out right, though, I decided I might get around to telling him about last night’s casino encounter with the mad killer. I was used to playing my cards close to my vest, and it would be a hard habit to break.
    â€œWe have a lot of catching up to do,” my uncle went on. I liked the warm, confident timbre of his voice. “Barbara—that’s my wife—and I are hoping you’ll drive down to Cactus Bend for a visit today or tomorrow, if it’s not too short notice. We have a guesthouse, so you’d have a little privacy. We don’t want this to be too much, all at once.”
    I knew Larimer’s voting record in the state senate, and his surface stats—married to Barbara, four beautiful offspring, gracious mansion just outside of Cactus Bend. He was considered a contender in the upcoming governor’s race, too. Beyond those public-consumption details, though, he was merely a misty figure from a past plunged into oblivion one horrible night in 1983.
    I hadn’t been back to Cactus Bend since the day Lillian and I went on the lam. I couldn’t help passing it whenever I went to see Jolie in Tucson, but I always whizzed by the freeway exit with my jaw clenched and my gaze fixed straight ahead.
    An old, nameless fear gripped me, all of a sudden; Jolie and six or eight different therapists had suggested, more than once, that I had deliberately chosen not to remember the murders. Now, scared as I was, I was also curious, and I needed some answers. Maybe it was time to bite the bullet and wade in.
    â€œOkay,” I heard myself say. It was Thursday; the weekend was coming up. I could check out Clive and Barbara, in their native habitat, ask a few questions and answer a few of theirs. In case of cataclysmic anxiety, I could always either speed back north to Cave Creek or pay Jolie a visit in Tucson. Come to think of it, the latter wasn’t a bad idea. I hadn’t seen my foster sister in two months.
    â€œWill I be meeting the children?” I heard myself ask. I hadn’t given the Larimer sibs a conscious thought, but my shadow side wasn’t up for the inevitable comparisons between their lives and mine. They were professionals, no doubt. I, on the other hand, lived over a bar, read Damn Fool’s Guides, and did billing and coding for half a dozen doctors to scrape out a living.
    Greer could be right, I conceded silently. There was a good chance that I needed to get a real job.
    Hell, I needed to get a life.
    Uncle Clive chuckled warmly. “The ‘children’ are thirty-two, twenty-nine, twenty-six and twenty-four respectively, and scattered all over the country. We’ll show you their pictures and tell you all about them—probably more than you want to know. Anyway, it’s better if you just have Barbara and me to contend with on this first trip.” He paused, waiting for me to agree.
    â€œYou’re right,” I said.
    â€œYou’ll join us, then?”
    â€œYes,” I decided, in that moment. It would be good to get out of town for a few days. I was caught up on my work, Tucker and I were on hold, and here was an opportunity to put some miles between myself and my half brother.
    Unless, of course, he decided to follow me.
    Don’t be paranoid, I told myself.
    â€œWhen should we expect you?”
    I glanced at the clock on the stove. It was barely eight-thirty, but I was running low on clean