Dear Santa Part 2

Katherine had asked herself those same questions about her personal credentials for the job they'd given her, but she wasn't going to let this testosterone case know that.

"It's a bit cold for sidewalk cafes this time of year, Mr. Maltese,"

she said.

"Too cold for a lot of things," he shot back and shook the metal gate with another loud clang before letting go of it.

"You'd better put me on that calendar of yours for first thing tomorrow, and the folks I bring with me, too."

He turned and walked away from her then with just enough arrogant street roll in his stride to make her want to scream, "Who do you think you are?" at his leather-clad back. But Katherine was a serious professional so she didn't.

COYOTE WATCHED them from the field where he was crouched down in the brush. He could tell they were arguing, but he couldn't make out the words except for Miss Fairchild yelling at Mr. Maltese to let her go.

Coyote had been to this place a few times and knew the recreation-program guy. Last spring during baseball games, he had helped Coyote out with learning how to pitch straight and hard.

Coyote had made a point of trying to steer clear of him, anyway. Mr. Maltese was the kind that wanted to be right up in a kid's business too much of the time. He did it because he thought he was helping out, but Coyote didn't need that attention. Well, maybe he did need it, but he didn't want it. Grownups who worked in places like this center had a way of getting in your life, messing around with it, then moving on while you were left with the mess. Coyote had seen it happen more than once, and he definitely didn't need that.

What he did need was this lady's help. He'd recognized her from the photograph in the newspaper, and he had to find a way to get to her.

After Mr. Maltese walked away and Katherine Fairchild let herself into the building, Coyote waited for a light to come on somewhere inside. Sure enough, a few minutes later, light appeared at the second set of windows from the end of the building. When Coyote got to those windows and peeked very carefully inside, he could see this was her office. But that wasn't what caught his attention and held it like a magnet to the spot.

At the top of a wire basket on the corner of her desk was a pile of unopened envelopes that must be her mail. About three pieces down in the pile, one stuck out from the others enough for Coyote to see it and recognize what was therea"his handwriting, the thin envelope paper from Rite Aid, even a dirt smudge and some wrinkling where it would have gotten wet when he dropped it on the ground.

That was two nights ago. Ever since then, Coyote had been on the run, steering clear of Tooley's place for fear the large man from the long, black car would be watching there. In between concentrating on what it took to survive out here on his own, Coyote had thought about writing another letter, but he didn't have an address where somebody could contact him. He'd decided maybe coming in person to see this Katherine Fairchild was his only hope. He'd snuck over here tonight to case out the possibilities of that, thinking that he'd talk to her the next morning. All the time, though, he'd been wishing he'd put his letter into that mailbox in the first place. Now, here it was, on her desk like a miraclea"or, like something else, Because if Coyote hadn't mailed the envelope, who did?

Chapter Three Vic knew he'd been hard on Katherine Fairchild last night. He tried to tell himself she deserved to be put in her place, brought down a peg or two, but he knew that wasn't why he'd acted like such a creep.

He'd been on his way to pick up some dinner and head home to his house on Livingston Avenue after work when he saw her pull into the parking lot of the center. Who could miss that big, expensive four-wheeler of hers? He'd decided to talk to her then, to tell her he was concerned about the way candidates for the holiday fund grant program were being picked. A reasonable discussion was what he had in mind, maybe even him volunteering to help her choose who would get the grant money. He would point out his background, tell her he came from the same kind of neighborhood as these families. At least, he had, before he'd left home at sixteen and started making it on his own. He'd planned to explain how that experience made him a natural to advise on this project. Then, last night when he was finally standing right next to her, all of his planning and reasonableness flew straight out the window.

Vic knew why that was, too. Something about her got to him, and he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. She was just about the last woman he wanted to have pushing his b.u.t.tons, but she pushed them, all the same. It wasn't the way she looked that got to him. He'd seen her enough times around the center to know she wasn't hard on the eyes. Still, she hadn't struck him as his type. She was too skinny, like she needed a few months of good meals to fill her out some. Her clothes tended to hang a little large on her, as if she might have lost a load of weight since she first tried them' on There was also something a little comical about the way she tried to keep that wild hair of hers under control and neat, probably to go along with the strictly-business briefcase she always carried. Some days she'd have it slicked down. Other times she'd have it pulled back in a band or clasped into a big barrette, but none of that did any good. Puffs of the stuff would spring loose and be flying behind her as she dashed along. Still, endearing as that might be, it didn't turn Vic on. Then, tonight, he'd seen her teetering across the ice in those high-heeled boots of hers, and he was a goner. But the foolish footwear only made him surer than ever that she was a duck out of water in this part of town. What if some street tough came after her and she had to run? Those boots would do her in for sure.

That's what he'd had in his mind to tell her last night when he grabbed her arm to keep her from takin ga nosedive into the ice.

She'd whipped around on him just before he grabbed her, and that's when it happened. The way she looked didn't have anything to do with it. The parking lot was too dark for him to see much in the way of details. He was feeling her more than seeing her, and what he felt took him totally by surprise. At that moment, she was no longer a skinny little bird of a thing who couldn't even make her hair behave.

She was as fierce as a lioness, tensed to do him damage no matter what the odds might be against her. Vic had been in enough one-on-one tussles to know that was where this particular opponent was coming from. She was no helpless twit. She was sc.r.a.ppy as h.e.l.l, and for some reason that got under his skin, to a place Vic had no intention of letting this woman go.

Katherine Fairchild was about as far out of his ballpark as she was from these rundown, mean streets she insisted on walking in her uptown-lady boots and expensive clothes. Even her name said, "Not your sort, Vic." It sounded like' one she'd picked up off a society page, but he'd heard it was a hundred percent authentic. There'd been lots of talk buzzing around the place when she first came on staff at the center, when she'd breezed into town from Chicago after she and her husband had split. She'd bought herself a fancy apartment, and from the employee address list at the center, Vic had seen she lived up on Washington Park where lots of yuppie types were settling these days. Some sad story went around too, about a sick kid or something like that, but n.o.body had any details. Whatever the specifics of her background might be, Vic knew she was definitely out of the picture for a guy like him, who tended toward good old girls from the neighborhood, even though he'd never seemed to care about sticking with any of them for very long.

All of that had set him off last night somehow, when she spun on him and he felt the fire of her spirit flash hot in his blood. He couldn't let her pick up on that, of course. He didn't even want to admit it to himself. That's why he'd acted like such a jerk, manhandling her the way he did, practically dragging her across the parking lot and growling at her instead of talking reasonably like he'd planned. He'd even threatened to show up here this morning with his troops in tow ready to do battle with all five feet plus a few inches of her.

Fortunately, there'd been a long night between then and now. Vic had used that time to pull himself and his head together.

He'd reminded himself of what he was supposed to be doing here at the centera"what he was all about. He wanted the best for these kids and their families. They needed desperately for somebody to cut them a break. The Most Needy Cases Fund was a chance for that to happen.

Vic could make sure it did, but he'd have to work with Katherine Fairchild to do it. And, in order to work with her, he'd have to keep a tight lid on his nerve endings, and other parts of him too. He'd have to stay in control, stop reacting. Most of all, he'd have to keep his anger in check. That had never been an easy thing for him to do, not from the days of his adolescent brawls with his father till now. Vic paused for a moment outside Katherine Fairchild's office door and resolved to stay in control no matter what happened. No matter what!

CAROLS WERE PLAYING on the center's intercom. Katherine had always loved Christmas music until last year. Ever since then, it had reminded her of loss. She'd read about how the holidays were hard on people with problems. All those reminders of giddy shopping, families gathered together, wishes for peace on earth and well-being fell painfully on the ears of those for whom life was less than festive at the moment. Katherine had learned the truth of that firsthand last season. She'd wished she could shut it all out then, especially the carols. She'd done her best to plug her ears against the tinkling bells and swelling chords meant to make her feel that heavenly blessings were close at hand.

She was relieved to realize that she didn't feel quite so bleak about the holiday season this year. Sadness still plagued her, popping up when she was least prepared for its onslaught, but the sharpness had grown less keen and cutting over these twelve months and stabbed her less frequently now. She could actually hum s.n.a.t.c.hes of "O, Little Town of Bethlehem" again, though she wasn't yet ready to sing along happily with the chorus of "Adeste Fideles" as she once would have done. She was congratulating herself on her progress toward leaving the doldrums behind, or at least beginning to shove them off to one side, when a knock came at her office door and she looked up to see who might be there.

She hadn't stayed long at the center the evening before. Her encounter with Victor Maltese had left her fuming and too worked up to accomplish much. Finally, she'd snapped off her computer in exasperation and slammed out of the place, cursing her sliding boots all the way to her car. She'd resolved there and then never to wear the ridiculous things again, though it irked her no end to appear to be taking that Neanderthal's advice. Now, here he was tapping at her office door, no doubt bent upon mining her morning the way he'd mined her evening.

Katherine took a breath and forced herself to smile before she said, "Come in."

"I wouldn't blame you if you told me to get lost after the way I acted last night," he said before he even had time to close the door behind him.

"I wouldn't blame me, either."

"What do you say we start over?"

He was smiling. Unlike last night in the dark, Katherine could see his features now. His eyes were dark and deep, the kind many women find mysterious and fall for without thinking what the nature of that mystery might be. The rest of him looked like he'd just hopped off a Harley Davidsona"black leather jacket over black turtleneck, blue jeans, engineer bootsa"just the sort of arrogant, aggressive macho style she'd always been careful to maintain a safe distance from.

"Start over in what way?" she asked.

Katherine told herself she should match his conciliatory tone, at least for the sake of the center.

"Invite me to sit down, and I'll tell you what I hope we can do together."

He smiled even wider with a flash of strong, white teeth. A dimple she'd never noticed before dented his left cheek.

"Sit down, then," she said, telling herself she needed to be reasonable here, despite the danger signals her instincts seemed intent upon telegraphing.

Vic Maltese lowered his tall frame into the vinyl-seated chair across from her desk. Blue denim stretched tight along his muscular thighs as he leaned back in the chair. Katherine turned her attention for the moment to straightening the file folders she'd been working on and setting them aside. She wanted to believe his thighs weren't the reason she was looking so deliberately away from him. Meanwhile, the instinct telegraph tapped out its message even more loudly than before.

"Are these the letters you've been getting for the Most Needy Cases Fund?" he asked, indicating the wire basket at the corner of her desk.

"That's the latest batch."

She couldn't figure out why he was asking that. The basket was labelled "Most Needy Cases Fund Correspondence," and Mr. Maltese didn't strike her as the obvious-question type. Maybe this was his attempt at small talk.

"There's lots of people writing in, I see," he commented.

"We've had a big response to the publicity in the newspapers."

"You mean that interview you did a few days ago in the Chronicle. The one by Mariette Dugan. I saw that. You have to Vatch out for her, from what I hear. She's supposed to be a real shark."

"I've heard that too, but she did well by the center this time."

Small talk, all right. Katherine had a feeling Mr. Maltese couldn't have cared less about the state of journalistic ethics in the Capitol District. She was sure he was working UP to something, but she couldn't imagine what that might be. She was trying to decide whether or not to ask him right out what he was after when he reached into the wire basket and scooped up the top half of the Most Needy Cases Fund letter pile in his large hand.

"I'd like to help you out with these," he said.

"That really isn't necessary," she began.

He was out of his chair and leaning over her desk so abruptly that she was almost frightened by the move.

"I know you don't have reason number one to believe this, but all I want to do is what's best for the kids we work with here. And for other kids and families just like them."

His dark eyes had turned very intense as they honed in on her. 8he had to will herself not to back away from their impact.

"I have no doubt your intentions are most admirable," she began again, trying to impose some formality on what appeare0 to be in danger of turning into an emotional exchange.

"The let me work with you on this."

He held up the fistful of letters.

"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Maltese, but we already have a committee in place."

"I knw you have a committee, but none of them have the neighborhood experience I do."

So, that was it. He didn't think the rest of them were equal to the job, probably especially not her. He'd said just about the same thing last night in the parking lot.

"I believe we are capable of handling the project on our own," she said, her tone more formal than ever and turning frostier by the second.

"I'm not suggesting that you aren't capable." He leaned closer still.

"I'm only saying we could do an even better job together."

His face was inches from hers, well into what Katherine pretty much unconsciously took for granted as her intimate s.p.a.ce. She was entirely conscious of it now.

"Mr. Maltese..."

Whatever she had been about to saya"and the exact words hadn't yet quite formed themselves in her minda"was interrupted by a sharp knock on her door, which opened before she could respond.

"Katherine..."

Megan Moran stood in the doorway. Her mouth was open but silenced in mid-sentence as her stare moved from Katherine to Vic Maltese looming so closely over her. She recognized instantly what Megan had to be thinking. Maltese straightened to his usual towering height. If he felt any of Katherine's sudden awkwardness, he certainly wasn't letting it show.

"Megan," he said.

"How's everybody's favorite head-shrinker this morning?"

"Like I always tell you, Vic, I may be good but I'm not ready to take on a cranium as thick as yours."

He laughed. Their easy camaraderie surprised Katherine. She hadn't realized that Megan and Vic Maltese were friends. Katherine found herself wondering if they'd ever been more than that.

"Actually, Vic, you're the one I barged in here looking for," Megan said.

"The boy who takes care of your equipment came to my office a few minutes ago. There's a kid asleep in your equipment room. He may have been there all night."

THE MINUTE Coyote woke up he knew he'd made a terrible mistake, and not by falling asleep in a strange place so he couldn't remember quite where he was this morning. He'd been doing exactly that for three nights now. His terrible mistake was back before that. He'd taken a step that put him on the path toward trouble, and he hadn't been able to get his feet off that road ever since. Except he still couldn't figure out what that wrong step had been, unless it was asking for help in the first place. He'd written that letter he thought would save Sprite and him, but all it had done so far was put him in the way of danger. He had to get that letter back.

As he peered up at the faces circling him above the pile of tumbling mats where he'd fallen asleep, he could hardly believe what he saw.

There the letter was again, sticking out of the gym teacher's hand.

He was hold ing a bunch of other letters, too, but Coyote had no problem spotting his own. He'd come to see that blotched, crumpled envelope even in his dreams last night. He couldn't quite remember why, but the letter had been chasing him up and down North Pearl Street. Now, here he was, waking up to find it had caught him.

Chapter Four The boy appeared to be about eleven, maybe a little older, though with the way he was rubbing his eyes and yawning at the moment, he might also have pa.s.sed for nine. A dusting of freckles crossed his cheeks. His hair was dark, and there was no telling whether straight or curly because he'd cut it short in what used to be called a brush cut and was now known as a buzz. He was a good-looking boy, wiry but not overly thin. Except for some wrinkles in his jeans and T-shirt, he looked clean enough too.

"I know this kid," Vic said, staring down at the sleepy-eyed boy on the pile of mats in the gymnasium equipment room.

"His name is Coyote Bellaway."

"I've heard that name before," Katherine said.

"I think I may have read it somewhere. Megan, could that have been in one of your reports?"

"I've never seen the little guy. I'm sure I'd remember a name like Coyote."

The gentleness of Megan's tone made Vic aware that they were gaping at the boy as if he were a bug in a jar.

"Let's give him a chance to wake up before we start grilling him,"

Vic said, backing off a little so the others would follow.

"In fact, why don't I handle this?"

An instant of relief flashed in Coyote's eyes, then disappeared. Vic couldn't remember when he'd ever seen a kid who more obviously wanted to get up and run away.

"Okay, everybody. It's time for you to get back to business," Vic said.

"Coyote and I need to have a talk, just the two of us."

"I think you're right about that," Megan agreed.

"Come on, Katherine.

Let's go. "

Katherine hesitated. Vic recognized concern in her eyes. " For the first time, he wondered if he could have been wrong about her having an account book where her heart ought to be. She turned to follow Megan out of the equipment room.

"Let me know what you find out," she said before shutting the door behind her.

"Well, sport, do you want to talk here or in my office?"

Vic asked Coyote once Megan and Katherine were gone. "I don't care."

Vic could tell from the belligerence with which those words were spoken that this wasn't going to be an easy interview. He knew everything there was to know about belligerence. He'd carded around a snootful of it himself since he was not much older than this kid here. One thing Vic was certain of, applying pressure wouldn't get him anywhere in this situation.

I'll tell you what. I didn't have time for breakfast this morning,"

he said.

"How's about we go to the kitchen and see what we can scrounge up to eat."

Another flash of relief relaxed the set of Coyote's jaw for a moment before he clamped it down tight again.