Free Rage Factor by Chris Rogers Page A

seat, dropping a hand to his crotch, and eased his pants seam over enough to relieve the tightness. The rain had picked up again, pounding the hell out of the Jaguar’s roof. He liked the sound. Rain always made him horny.

Chapter Ten
    The dark house gave Dixie a start. The kitchen windows should be lighted, at least, Parker creating something scrumptious at the stove. He’d told her once that he never spent more than three years in any town. Before they met, before he moved in “temporarily” with Dixie, he’d already lived in Houston nearly three years. Every day she half expected to find a note saying he’d moved on. Was this the night he chose to drift away?
    When they parted that morning in Galveston, she was certain they’d agreed to sleep at her place tonight. The rented summer cabin was only theirs for a month, and the month was up. Parker’s own house on the island wouldn’t be finished for several more days.
    She didn’t look forward to telling him about Belle’s bodyguard job. But as Barney’d often said, “If you have to swallow a bullfrog, it’s a good idea not to look at it too long.” She wanted to get the telling part over with. The work she did was part of her life, part of who she was, what she believed in.While Mud had been in doggie paradise these past weeks—running on the beach, chasing waves, worrying sand crabs out of their holes—and Parker had driven off to sell boats every day, Dixie’d been bored witless. Even chauffeuring a teenager around town was beginning to sound exciting.
    Driving toward the garage, she looked for smoke wisping skyward from the chimney. Parker liked sitting by the fire after dinner. Maybe he’d eaten early, as he sometimes did when she worked late. But tonight there was no smoke in the night sky.
    She parked her taxicab in the old barn that now served as a four-car garage, housing a variety of vehicles she used from time to time. The taxicab made a fine surveillance car, and was the only one of her recycled vehicles that boasted an automatic transmission. Until her clutch foot was operational again, the van, tow truck, and Mustang, a retired DPS unit, were about as useful as a trunk of Confederate money.
    At the kitchen door, the
tick-tick-tick
of Mud’s toenails said at least someone was eagerly awaiting her arrival.
    “Hey, boy.” She patted his great ugly face. “Bet you thought we forgot you.” She stooped to Mud’s height, using the crutch for support. Mud nosed her ear, his warm breath a small measure of comfort.
    Parker was merely working late, she reasoned. Maybe he’d hit some heavy traffic in the fifty-mile drive from Clear Lake, where he sold boats. Or maybe he’d stopped off at one of the gourmet supermarkets he enjoyed shopping at in Houston. Or maybe he’d driven back to Galveston to check progress again on his new place.
    Dixie switched on the kitchen light and opened the refrigerator. Habit. They’d cleaned it out before leaving for Galveston, and she wasn’t really hungry. The freezer held leftover spaghetti sauce. Sausage biscuits. The last piece of fudge pecan pie. She put the pie on the counter, Mud padding alongside. When he scooted his empty water dish, Dixie filled it, then noticed the telephone message light blinking.
    Snatching up the receiver, she dialed the message center. The first two calls were solicitations, the third was from Parker.
    “You
turned the cell phone off again”
he said. Outside the window, Dixie saw a pair of headlights swing into the driveway. They paused at the gate. Mud’s ears twitched forward.
“If I could’ve reached you, wherever you are”
Parker’s message continued,
“you’d already know Til be late tonight. Tell you why when I get there.”
    The headlights bounced through the gate. Dixie could hear the faint rumble of Parker’s Cadillac. She skinned off her jacket, and hobbled to the kitchen closet to hang it up. By the time his heavy, reassuring footsteps sounded in the utility