“Quick,” he said. “Quick prep.”
“Good.” He heard the snick as her seat belt unlatched. “I’ve waited eighteen months for you. I think I’m about out of patience.” She flipped the console out of the way and slid toward him.
“Buckle up,” he said automatically, and then she wrapped her arms around his chest and shoulders and her lips were on his neck, her tongue flickering along his jaw, her teeth worrying his ear.
He braced against the wheel, arms shaking, trying not to let his head drop back and his eyes close. “Clare,” he got out. “Jesus, Clare…” Her hands were all over him, touching him, unbuttoning his uniform blouse, tugging his T-shirt out of his pants. “What are you doing, you crazy woman?”
She kissed the corner of his mouth. “If you can’t recognize it, it’s been too long.”
He flew through the twin bridges, barely keeping the truck in its lane. “I got it all set up for you at the rectory.” His voice was a grating whisper. “I got candles.”
“I hope they’re in better shape than your flowers.” She pried his belt buckle apart.
He gritted his teeth. “I was shooting for romantic.”
“I don’t need romance,” she said. “You had me at ’Scuse my French.’”
She laughed against the back of his neck, and he laughed, and he said, “God, I love you,” and her hand closed around him and he groaned, laughed and groaned and shook. “Stop.”
She pulled his T-shirt away from his neck and bit into his shoulder. “Do you mean that?”
“God! No.” He thumped the back of his head against the headrest. “I mean yes.” He flapped a hand at her in a half-assed way. “I don’t want to make love with you for the first time in a year and a half in my goddamn truck.”
“I missed you,” she said into his skin. “Oh, my love. I missed you so much.” She stroked him, once, twice, three times. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. Exit 14 was coming up fast. He could pull off there. Where could they go? It wasn’t dark enough to park behind—he lifted his eyes to the rear view mirror and saw the whirling red-and-whites behind him.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “Clare, get off me.” He glanced at the speedometer. Eighty miles an hour. He jerked his foot off the gas and signaled to pull over.
Clare looked back over the edge of the seats. “Uh-oh. Is that what I think it is?”
“Sit down and buckle up.” One-handed, he attempted to zip back up and refasten his belt.
“Can I help you with that?”
“I think you’ve helped quite enough, don’t you?”
Laughing, she swung back into her seat and put on her seat belt.
“Christ.” He brought the truck to a standstill and turned off the ignition before stuffing his T-shirt back into his pants. “Let’s hope it’s not somebody I know.”
In his side mirror, he saw the state trooper get out of his car. Russ placed his hands on the steering wheel in plain sight. Clare had hers over her mouth, trying—not very successfully—to stifle her laughter.
The trooper reached Russ’s window and signaled him to roll it down. Russ complied. The trooper glanced into the cab, taking in Russ’s radio and switch light, the lockbox and roses in the back, and Russ’s crumpled uniform blouse, hanging loose over his T-shirt.
“License and registration, please.”
Russ reached for his rear pocket. “I’m retrieving my billfold,” he told the statie. “Clare, will you get my registration out of the glove box?” He waited until she had gotten the slip of paper, then passed both documents through the window.
The trooper studied them. “Sir,” he said, “are you a peace officer?”
Russ sighed. “Yes, I am.”
“In Millers Kill?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I see your identification, please?”
Russ flipped open his billfold and handed it to the guy. The trooper studied the badge and ID. Looked up at Russ. “Chief Van Alstyne?”
Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.
“That’s correct, Trooper—” he peered at the man’s name tag—“Richards.”
Richards handed the billfold, license, and registration back to him. “Mark Durkee’s in my troop. He was one of yours, right? He speaks very highly of you.”
Russ couldn’t think of a good response to that.
“Do you know why I stopped you, sir?”
“I was driving fifteen miles over the posted limit with an unbelted passenger in the front seat.”
“Actually, sir, when I first picked you up, you were going twenty-five miles over the speed limit. I’ve been following you for eight miles. You didn’t notice me?”
“I was … distracted.”
Trooper Richards looked at Clare, who was doing her best good-soldier imitation. “I see.”
“She’s just gotten back from Iraq,” Russ said inanely.
“Welcome home, ma’am.” The trooper eyed Russ. “I don’t need to lecture you on the importance of safe driving, do I, sir?”
“No.”
“Or the importance of making sure everyone in the vehicle is properly belted?”
Russ resisted the urge to check his pants to see if anything was still hanging open. “No.”
“Then I trust the next time I make you at eighty miles per hour, you’ll be responding to a call.” He glanced at the radio mount. “You haven’t been on the radio, have you?”
“No.” Russ frowned. “Why?”
“Your dispatcher’s looking for coverage. A bar fight at some place named the Dew Drop Inn. She’s sent one unit out, but she wants another for backup.”
“I’ll get on it. Thanks for the tip.”
The trooper touched his hat. “You have a good night then, sir.” He glanced at Clare. “Ma’am.”
“Thank you, Trooper Richards. I’ll try to see that he does.”
The trooper’s stone face twitched. “After you get him home, please.”
“Absolutely.”
Russ powered up his window as Richards got back into his car. “God.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again.
“What? You got out of a ticket. If I’d been driving it would’ve been two hundred dollars and a point off my license.”
“I’d rather get a ticket, if it meant I wasn’t going to become tomorrow’s coffee break hot topic. Staties are gossip hounds. They make Geraldine Bain seem like a hermit under a vow of silence.” The Millers Kill postmistress was better known for passing on the latest tidbits than she was for handing out the mail. He switched on his radio and unhooked the mic. “Dispatch, this is Van Alstyne, in own vehicle. I understand you’ve got some trouble?”
Harlene’s voice came on immediately. “Chief? What are you doing on the air? I thought you were picking up Reverend Fergusson?”
“I’ve got her right here. What’s up?”
“Brawling at the Dew Drop Inn. Hadley’s on her way, but I thought she should have some backup.”
“Good call.” Knox had graduated from Police Basic a year and a half ago, and she had come a long way, but he didn’t like the idea of a woman alone tackling the lowlifes that frequented the Dew Drop. “Who’ve you got?”
“Paul’s tied down with a three-car accident out past Lucher’s Corners. Tourists. Eric’s in the hospital with a drunk driver.”
“Lyle?”
“Off fishing somewheres. I left a message for Kevin. He was planning on getting back to town today. I asked him to call me if he can assist.”
“He doesn’t have to report for duty until tomorrow.”
“Tonight, tomorrow, what’s the difference?”
He sighed. “I’m on my way.”
“No!” Harlene sounded scandalized.
He looked at Clare. She nodded.
“I’m on my way. ETA thirty minutes. Let Hadley know.”
“What about Reverend Fergusson?”
He looked at Clare again.
“I guess I can be pati
ent a little longer,” she said.
He keyed the mic. “Reverend Fergusson,” he said, and she smiled at him, as if there were a chance in hell she’d do as he asked, “will wait in the truck. Chief out.”
* * *
Love makes people do some pretty dumb-ass things, Officer Hadley Knox thought. In her case, it had convinced her a self-absorbed La-La Land user would make a good husband and father. She had paid big for her mistake; crawling back to her grandfather’s hometown for refuge, taking this pain-in-the-ass job to support her kids.
In the case of the shaved-head army guy in front of her, it had made taking on a small-town thug and his posse seem like a good idea. He had paid for it with a split lip and battered face.
When she arrived at the bar, he’d been getting the worst of it from a group of the Dew Drop’s finest: skinny-shanked guys with ropy muscles and nicotine-stained teeth. The big black guy in camo pants looked like he could have taken on two, maybe even three of them, but five tilted the odds way out of his favor.
Hadley had waded in, rapping elbows and knees with her extendable baton, giving it her best Russ Van Alstyne impression: hard voice, big presence, short commands. A pair of construction-worker types helped her take hold of Soldier Boy and drag him back into the jukebox corner; the locals retreated behind one of the pool tables.
Now, she noticed the soldier kept looking toward a trio of girls backed against the bar. Two of them had long acrylic nails and streaked hair scraped back in Tonya Harding ponytails, but the third was a blunt-fingered natural brunette with a Dutch Boy bob. Short. Practical. Like maybe it fit under a helmet. Tears had smeared the girl’s makeup, but she looked more angry than upset. “Tally, get your ass over here,” a good-looking guy in a Poison T-shirt and steel-capped boots yelled; in response, the girl flipped him the bird.
The soldier lurched forward. Hadley blocked his path. “Sir, you have got to stay here.” The man wiped his bloody nose on the back of his hand and stared over her shoulder. “Sir? Are you listening to me?” Hadley slapped her baton into her palm for emphasis.
The man shrugged off the hands holding him. Hadley nodded to the two guys behind him, letting them know it was okay, even though she was worried it wasn’t. The air in the Dew Drop sparked with the tension of a boxing ring between rounds. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Nichols,” he said. “Chief Warrant Officer Quentan Nichols.”
“What are you doing here, Chief Warrant Officer Nichols?”
Finally, he focused on her. “You ask that of everybody who visits this podunk town? Or just the black folks?”
She thumbed toward the pool table. In the light cast by the hanging lamp, she could see the good ol’ boys scowling and glaring at the CWO. Poison T-shirt was at the center, speaking fast and low to the guy next to him. “I want to know why that man and his buddies were trying to take you apart.”
“Maybe they’re down on the army.” His eyes darted back to the angry brunette. This guy was a worse liar than her eleven-year-old.
She pointed the baton toward the girl. “You know her?”
Nichols jerked his attention back to Hadley. “We were talking.”
“Uh-huh.” She slapped the baton into her palm one more time. “Stay here.”
She crossed the scarred wooden floor toward the bar, her boots sticking with every second step. She was maybe five feet away from the girl, close enough to read the IN MEMORIAM tattoo circling her arm, when she heard the thud of footsteps and the shouts and she whirled to see the locals charging Nichols. Shit! Dumb, sophomore mistake. She should’ve shut those assholes down once and for all before talking with anybody else.
Somebody bumped her from behind, sending her stumbling. She staggered upright, baton at the ready, but it hadn’t been aimed at her. The brunette had joined the melee, punching and kicking at the white boys like Xena, Warrior Princess, while her girlfriends screamed and wailed.
Hadley breathed in deep and bellowed, “Break it up!” One of the construction workers, a fresh-faced blond with pierced ears and impressive muscles, came in on Nichols’s side. Oh, great. Hadley advanced toward the nearest man, baton extended, and whacked him: back of the thigh, side of the arm. He staggered away, howling, but two more roughnecks came off their bar stools in defense of the home team, causing the construction worker’s buddy to wade in, airlifting another guy, who went flying into the jukebox. Shit! Property damage. Hadley advanced again, whacking away with her baton, trying to weigh her blows—pain, not injury, because injury could mean lawsuits—aware that she wasn’t going to be able to stop them unless she reached the ringleader, aware that getting into the middle of the fight would make her utterly vulnerable.
A crack, rifle-sharp, sliced through the meaty thuds and half-voiced curses, bringing every head up for a second, like a pack of coyotes spotting a much larger wolf. “Police!” a man bellowed from the door.
Now or never. Hadley thrust herself into the crowd, driving the butt end of her baton into stomachs. Men folded, retching, around her. She reached Poison T-shirt, grappling with Nichols, and swung the baton with all her might into the small of his back. He arched upward, screaming, and Nichols lunged toward him, knocking Hadley aside, and then there was a tall, lean man blocking the way; yellow letters on a black T-shirt, cropped red hair, and Officer Kevin Flynn was twisting Nichols’s arm around like a pretzel, bringing the soldier to his knees.
“Straps?” he asked, speaking loudly to be heard, and she tugged the plastic restraints off her belt and tossed them to him.
Poison T-shirt was pawing at his back. “You broke something!” She captured one wrist with her cuffs and locked the other one in place. “Didja hear me? Jesus Christ, you broke my friggin’ spine!”
She pushed his shoulder, nudging the back of his knee so he’d get the message. “We will provide transportation to the hospital if you’ve been injured.” He collapsed into a sitting position. “Sir,” she tacked on.
With two cops in the room and the instigators restrained on the floor, the air went out of the balloon fast. Poison’s buddies limped back to the bar and the pool table, clutching their midsections and wiping blood off their mouths. The frosted-blond gal pals tried to drag the brunette away, but she shoved them off to kneel beside Nichols. “I’m sorry,” she said, low, for his ears alone. “I’m so sorry, Quentan.”
“Goddamn it, Tally!” Poison T-shirt made to rise from the floor. “You were supposed to have got rid of him!”
Hadley pushed his shoulder down, harder this time. “Stay seated. You get up again before I tell you to and I’ll cuff your ankles as well.”
He sank back down, glaring at the brunette across the floor.
Hadley gestured to Flynn to step away, out of earshot, trying to figure out what was an appropriate way to welcome a fellow officer back after a year. A fellow officer she had dumped after a very against-the-regs one-night stand.
The earringed construction worker came up to them, grinning and wiping his hair out of his eyes. “Hey, Kev! Haven’t seen you in dogs’ years, man. Where you been?”
“Hey, Carter.” Flynn bumped fists with the guy. “I was away on detached duty. Albany, and then Syracuse.” He sounded older to Hadley. More assured. Or maybe she had forgotten his voice.
“Dude. They put you on a SWAT team or something? You look like you’re ready to blow shit up.”
Flynn did look like a tactical agent, with the black POLICE T-shirt and the many-pocketed pants laced inside a pair of paratrooper boots.
“Badass Officer Flynn,” she said under her breath.
“Yeah. Well.” Flynn’s cheekbones went pink and he rubbed the back of his neck, popping a bicep and a blue Celtic armband. Hadley knew neither the muscle nor the tattoo had been there a year ago. He still looked like a reed next to Carter’s bulk, but he had put on some much-needed weight while he was away. She became aware that she was staring at him.
“So.” She bobbed her chin at him. “Not that I don’t appreci
ate it, but what the hell are you doing here? I heard you weren’t back on duty until tomorrow.”
“Harlene called me, looking for backup for you.” He glanced to where Poison was rocking back and forth on the floor. “Although it looks like you didn’t really need it.”
She snorted. “Right. John McClane with boobs, that’s me.”
Carter stared at her chest. “Who?”
“Die Hard,” she and Flynn said at the same time. He dropped his eyes to the floor and smiled before looking back up at Carter.
“You know this guy?” Flynn gestured toward the black soldier, who was sitting quietly, bent well forward to take the stress off his shoulders.
“Never saw him before in my life.” Carter dragged his gaze away from Hadley’s chest. “But I know that dipshit.” He flicked a finger at Poison. “We worked together on the new resort before his ass got fired.” Carter shook his head, sending his blond hair swinging. “What a tool. I figured if he was against somebody, I’m for him.”
“What’s his name?” Hadley asked.
“Wyler McNabb.” Carter smiled winningly at her, displaying teeth as dazzling as the diamond studs in his earlobes. “What’s yours?”
“Not Available.” She turned toward Flynn. “Will you find out what McNabb’s story is? I want to talk to her.” The brunette was hunkered down next to Nichols, arguing with him, from the tone and her body language, though Hadley couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Hadley slid her baton back in her duty belt and squatted next to the girl. “Ma’am, I need to talk with you.” Hadley stood up. “Leave your friend for a minute, and let’s go over there where we can have some privacy.” She waited while the girl rose, then steered her toward the dark corner past the jukebox.
“Am I in trouble?” Up close, she was older than Hadley had guessed. Flynn’s age, maybe; twenty-five or twenty-six.
“Let’s try to figure out what happened before we start assigning blame. What’s your name?”
“Tally. Tally McNabb.” She rubbed her hand over her IN MEMORIAM tattoo. “It’s really Mary, but nobody ever calls me that except my mom.”
One Was a Soldier Page 3