Drummer In the Dark by T. Davis Bunn Page B

daughter who’s wasted every chance she’s ever had.” Pausing now, building up the venom. “And every man.”
    A bad day. Sometimes Jackie could slip in, spend an hour beside the inert figure in the bed, exchange no more than a few words. Converse only with her memories and all the old pain. Such days were a delight compared to these, when she was forced to remember how she never had the chance to be young.
    “Not a day goes by, I don’t regret the horrible mess you made with Shane. I adored him, you know.” Another pause to refill the fangs. “Didn’t even learn about it from my own daughter. Oh no. Shane had to be the one to come and tell me you’d run away. I couldn’t believe it even then. Told him no daughter of mine would be that stupid.”
    Jackie rose and picked up the chair. Deliberately she placed it back against the wall. There to wait another month for the only visitor her mother had. She masked her movements as she did her thoughts. Wondering what her mother would do if she lifted the chair and swung it down upon her head. Thank her, probably.
    “You’re going to see your brother’s grave now, I suspect. What a loser he turned out to be. The ultimate disaster. Just like his father. Hung around just long enough to ruin my life. Never could take the bad times, neither of them.” Evelyn swiveled her head back up, closed her eyes. “Don’t have a daughter, don’t have a son. All that sweat and worry for nothing. Might as well not have lived.”
    “Bye, Mom.” Jackie left the room without a backward glance. Her work here was done.
     
    J ACKIE SPOTTED THE TAIL while she was buying flowers. It was mostly the way the man stood and stared at her. Then she noticed the car, and something sparked inside her brain; he had been following her since the nursing home. She’d never been involved in a surveillance job, but while working around the office she’d learned the signals. Jackie checked in both directions but could not identify another suspicious car or tracker. She glanced back in time to see the man lock his car and hurry across the street. That was definitely an amateurish move, letting her spot him beside his wheels.
    She paid for the flowers and headed through the cemetery gates. Just inside she turned and faced him full on. The man knew he had been spotted, there was no disguising it now. But to her surprise, he did not duck back or head down a side lane. Instead he merely stood there, hands bunched together by his belt buckle, and waited. She continued along the gravel path, warmed by the thought that this might be one of the men who’d trashed her apartment. It was enough to grant the day a momentary reprieve. She would love to meet those guys, give them a piece of whatever was available and heavy.
    The cemetery was packed with mourners and gardeners. Jackie made the turning down the now-familiar lane and glanced back. He was still there, yet showed nothing to suggest either hostility or threat. What he looked like was a Latin hunk. Olive complexion, early fifties, extremely well groomed. Clothes with a European cut, shoes so well polished they reflected like black mirrors. The day was an oven set on wet-bake, yet he walked in jacket and tie. He held to a respectful distance, a professional mourner waiting for her to show him the proper place to grieve.
    The problem was, she had no interest in sharing this part of a lousy day. So she checked to make sure there were a couple of gardeners nearby, then walked straight up to him. “You want something?”
    “Forgive me, Ms. Havilland. I have no wish to disturb you in this hour of communing with your brother.”
    She recognized the voice instantly. Not Latin at all. Arab. But just as handsome up close. “You’re that guy. The Arab on the telephone. Esther’s emergency contact.”
    “That is correct.” He bowed slightly, a gesture as formal as his tone. “Nabil Saad is my name. I am Egyptian. Again, forgive this intrusion. But we needed to