“He’d’ve had to hustle to get those both, but it’s possible. Eddie Stinnet, brother of one of Aruba’s victims.”
Whitmore looked at his watch. “Mind if I come up, sit in on some questioning?”
“Door’s open.”
“Listen, you staying the night?”
“No.” She was broke. Didn’t want to spend the money, didn’t want to leave the kids alone.
“Sure? I can get you a place to crash.”
“No, but I appreciate the offer.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Watch yourself, driving home through Boone County.”
Sonora actually smiled. “Don’t worry, Whitmore. One cowboy a night, that’s my limit.”
58
The house creaked in the four A.M. hush, all quiet except in the living room, where Sonora, sleepless, restless, laid on the couch with a book open on her stomach. The television volume was at a low murmur, an old western with a young John Wayne, In Old California.
It should have worked for her, it should have been the video equivalent of comfort food, but the cinematography was too jerky, the black-and-white images flat and dull, the musical score perfunctory to the point of annoying, the script and characterization a joke, and the viewer too jaded and too distracted.
Sonora took a drink from an open can of Coke. She’d tried cutting back on Coke and coffee, wondering if it was just the caffeine that was keeping her awake, but four A.M. was a good time to abandon that particular theory.
Gunfire erupted on-screen, and Clampett lifted his head and barked.
“It’s okay,” Sonora said. “They’re just circling the wagons. Don’t worry, they’ll get those supplies to Bearclaw—unless The Duke catches the fever.”
Clampett went back to sleep.
He slept very well, Sonora thought, looking down at him. Was there such a thing as a dog who couldn’t sleep? Could it be the dog food?
She stood up, took the newspaper clipping she’d dug out of her dresser drawer off the top of the television set where she’d left it an hour ago. An old shot of Keaton, walking out of a courtroom, four years ago. He looked sad.
He still looked sad, Sonora thought. Even after four years.
She went into the kitchen, found a box of matches from Bogart’s, and lit the newspaper.
It was dry and old and the flame caught quickly, catching her by surprise. She dropped it in the sink, and the rubber mat over the garbage disposal flared. The oily dark smell of burning rubber filled the kitchen, just as the smoke alarm went off.
Sonora opened the back door, waving smoke out of the kitchen. The phone rang. She shut the door, alarm blessedly off, and turned off the water over the sink. The rubber mat was ruined, but the disposal would still work. She hoped.
“Blair,” she said into the phone. She glanced at the hallway. No sign of the kids. What was the matter with them? Hadn’t they heard the alarm?
“Hey, it’s me.”
It was a universal thing with men. In their hearts, they were all named “me.” But she knew the voice.
“Gillane. Hey. What are you doing up?”
“I didn’t wake you, did I? The nurse up here on five told me you called about half an hour ago, checking on your partner.”
“Yeah, I did. How is he? Everything okay?”
“Oh yeah, he’s doing okay, all things considered. You don’t need to worry.”
“Thanks. What are you doing up?”
“Working the graveyard shift. Did you get my messages?”
“What messages?”
“The ones I left with your kids.”
“You’ve been talking to my kids?”
“Frequendy. Didn’t they tell you?”
“Nobody tells me anything.”
“So what are you doing right now?”
“Ummm.” She looked over her shoulder at the sink. “Not much, really. Watching a John Wayne movie.”
“Is it The Sons of Katie Elder?”
“No.”
“I love The Sons of Katie Elder. Dean Martin—”
“I think I’ve seen it.”
“I get off in an hour. How about breakfast? The Waffle House’ll be open; you can always count on the Waffle House. And who else but me can you talk to at this time of night?”
“Nobody else is up.”
Sonora leaned over Heather’s bed and shook her daughter’s shoulder. “Hon’, it’s Mom.”
Heather’s eyes rolled backward and she snuggled deeper in her bed.
“Heather. Come on, I need to talk to you, just for a minute.”
The little girl sat up suddenly. Blinked. “Is the house on fire?”
“No, sweetie, of course not.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, hon’. I’m just going to meet someone for breakfast, then I’m going on in to work. There’s lunch money in the box, and Tim will take you to school if you miss the bus, but don’t miss it. Will you be okay if I go?”
“Who’re you going with?”
“You don’t know him.”
“Is it Mark Gillane?”
“How—”
“I forgot to tell you, he’s called a lot.”
“Heather, will you please write my messages down?”
“Sorry. Mom?”
“What?”
“You know if you want to ever get married again, it’s okay with me. I wouldn’t mind, so long as he doesn’t try to boss me around.”
Sonora gave her daughter a hug. This was the third time they’d had this conversation. Sonora was curious about Heather’s criteria.
“Thanks, hon’, but I don’t have any wedding plans right now. And you might not like some strange guy in the house.”
“If I knew him, he wouldn’t be strange. And he might cook me an egg in the morning, or give me a ride to my friend’s house.”
“I’ll cook you an egg.”
“No, Mom, go on and go.” Heather kissed Sonora’s cheek and pulled the covers back over her head.
59
The Waffle House was well lit and almost crowded. Gillane was waiting for her in a booth near the back, sitting so he could watch the door. Something out the window had caught his attention. She’d expected him to be in scrubs, straight from the hospital, but he’d taken time to change into jeans, hiking boots, and big socks, and an oversized gray sweatshirt that looked spotless but comfortable.
He turned then and saw her, stood up and held out his arms. She did not have to tell him that yesterday had been horrible.
He took her jacket and folded it next to him on the seat. “I’ve got coffee for you, and a menu whenever you’re ready. How are you, sweetie?”
Sonora settled into the booth, thinking she felt surprisingly well. It was warm inside, and familiar, plenty of construction workers, farm laborers, students, and hospital employees going off shift. She decided she liked the five A.M. ambience, now that she was sampling so much of it. Still dark out, and quiet, nobody around, but morning on the way. She could not quite put her finger on what she liked about it, but she liked it.
And she was glad to see him. Scary, that.
“I checked on your partner before I left. He’s in some pain, but that’s about par. I made sure they gave him something before I left, and he’s probably sleeping it off right now.”
“Thanks, Gillane.”
“My first name is Mark.”
“Thanks, Mark.”
She looked down at the menu, saw him peeping at her over the top of his. “What?”
“Nothing. You know what the best thing is to get here?” He pointed to a section on the plastic menu. “You get everything with that. Waffle, bacon or sausage, eggs. Hash browns, which are by the way a specialty of the house.”
“I couldn’t eat all that.”
“You don’t have to. Just a bite of whatever you want. It’s just the most fun thing to order.”
“Gillane—sorry, Mark. Where have you been the last ten years? Eating isn’t supposed to be f
un.”
“You don’t strike me as one of those women who order dressing on the side for dipping lettuce edges.”
“Why not?”
“Too sensuous.”
She let that pass. “Okay, let’s order fun.”
It was getting to be that the less she ate, the more she ordered. A smack in the face to the anti-eating crowd, which was almost everyone these days. She would eat two bites of anything that had any hope of pleasing her, but lately it all tasted of anxiety and ashes, and her hunger was an elusive thing. Her stomach had this new attitude that food was a chore.
But she was getting good at shoving her food and rearranging it so it would look eaten. Sort of.
The waitress seemed to know Gillane. She looked grandmotherly, and she had the comfortable air of being in her own kitchen. She brought them orange juice that tasted suspiciously of Tang.
“This is one of the few places where they know how to cook bacon,” Gillane told her.
“As in?”
“Chewy. I don’t like it to crunch.”
“Me either!” she said, in her best Valley Girl voice. “We’re so much aliiike!”
“You do that very well. You’re not from California?”
“No, but we all watch TV.” Sonora added another bucket of half-and-half to her coffee.
“How’d it end with The Duke?”
“Oh, the movie? He got the wagons to Bearclaw. And I do remember The Sons of Katie Elder.”
“What’s your favorite movie ever?”
The food arrived. Huge plates, with strawberry topping on the waffles, and whipped cream, which she did not want. She spooned some of it into her coffee.
“Witness. You?”
“That looks good.” He put whipped cream into his coffee, also a strawberry.
“Was that intentional?”
“What?”
“The strawberry.”
He looked into the coffee cup. “Now I’m in a bind. I think I’m going to say yes, it was intentional. And my favorite movie is The Princess Bride. It used to be Animal House, but that’s sort of dated. Are you a Jackie Chan fan?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You like guy movies?”
“Yeah. You like chick flicks?”
“No. Why are you smiling?”
“No reason.” When she was younger, and not so wise, she used to wonder why a guy could not be more like a girl. Keep a clean house—never mind that she didn’t, she was busy, okay? Like Fred Astaire movies. And when she did, at last, meet men like this, she found they did have a lot in common, including an appreciation for the romantic company of other men. “Do you like Fred Astaire movies?”
He paused, a forkful of hash browns halfway to his mouth. He clearly felt he was on dangerous ground. “I don’t mind seeing the clips,” he said carefully.
Sonora smiled again. Perfect. She ate a bite of fried egg, cooked over easy, and shoved some food around her plate while she chewed. She glanced at the other women in the restaurant, few and far between at this time of the morning. Something in the face of the girl in the nurse’s uniform, long brown hair with blond streaks, green eyes, attacking her food like it was her enemy, the irresistible lover who calls you and hurts you and won’t go away.
Eat, Sonora told her, in silent communication. Eat all you want and fill up, it’s okay. Don’t be like me. If you lose your hunger, you can lose your life.
Gillane smeared butter over his waffle.
“I know somebody who makes the best biscuits,” Sonora said.
“Who?”
“A lady I met a few days ago. Mrs. Cavanaugh. She knew … she knew the family that was murdered.”
“Still not sleeping?” he asked.
“Now and then. Thanks for bringing me that Benadryl, by the way.”
“Helping at all?”
“Some.”
“Who was that guy who was at your house?” Gillane asked. He dumped Tabasco on his scrambled eggs.
“Old friend. Ancient history.”
“When was the last time you were in love?”
“Elementary school. A boy named Rocky Newman. I keep looking for another one just like him, but so far, no luck.”
“Your luck could change.” He smiled at her, over a mouthful of waffle. “How are your children, how are your mice, how is your horse?”
“The mice are thriving. I came home last night and Tim was sitting on the floor, watching TV, feeding one of them a Dorito.”
Gillane grinned. “I don’t think you’re supposed to feed them if you want them to leave. You better be careful, Sonora, or word will get out and every mouse in America will be at your kitchen door.”
“Now he tells me.” Had she checked to see if the kitchen window was locked? She was sure she had.
“Clampett must be having a heyday.”
Sonora took a bite of bacon. Chewy. Perfect. She was actually feeling a tiny bit hungry. “You’d think so, but he’s stopped chasing them. It’s like he’s gotten used to them or signed a no-interference treaty.”
“A laissez-faire kind of dog?”
Sonora nodded.
“Must be a lot of golden retriever in him.”
She set her fork on the plate. The hunger had vanished, like it did these days, no rhyme or reason. Gillane put a hand out to touch her sleeve, but whatever he was going to say went out of his mind. He looked at her, and she felt the chemistry, so strong and sudden she wondered why the sprinklers didn’t go off.
“How long before you have to be at work?”
“Two hours.”
“You up for another cup of coffee? I grind my own beans.”
She thought about it.
He took her hand. “We’ll keep the lights low.”
“To be romantic?”
“That, and because I haven’t vacuumed.”
The house had been built in the forties, a dream rental near the hospital, with an arch over the porch, red brick, red tile roof. Small. A narrow, newly blacktopped driveway that led to an old-fashioned freestanding garage.
Gillane pulled the Caddie three-fourths of the way into the drive and led her up the concrete steps to the front porch, which had been coated in blue enamel. It reminded Sonora of her grandmother’s house.
The living room had hardwood floors and a blue and tan Oriental carpet, just like one Sonora had almost bought at Wal-Mart. A huge brown leather couch took up one side of the room; there were bookshelves, a gigantic big-screen TV. Black-and-white photos on the wall, and some Wyeth prints. An old marble fireplace with a brass grate took up one corner. A beautiful room, decorated in busy male. Gillane was clearly passing the I-am-a-heterosexual decorating test.
His stereo system was fabulous. The best speakers. He hit the CD, and “Last Train to Clarksville” filled the room.
“Oh hell, I thought that was the Sheryl Crow CD. Great make-out music.”
“No, leave it on, it’s been years since I heard The Monkees.”
“Did you used to watch their show?”
“Sure, didn’t you?”
“If I did, I’m not telling.” He headed for the stereo, stopped when he was walking past. “Take your jacket?”
It came in a wave, the heat between them. In the back of her mind, she’d been thinking, make out only, a nice cup of coffee, talk before work. But, God, he walked her backward to the wall, and she wrapped her legs around him, and he snuggled his body into hers like he couldn’t get close enough.
He kissed the side of her neck and she laughed because it tickled but felt so damn good. And there she was, sliding down the wall. He grabbed her by the waist, pulled her close and kissed her again. He was leading her down the hallway, taking the time to kiss her slowly like he was learning her from the lips.
“Come on, twenty more feet, we can make it to the bed.”
It struck her funny, somehow, like they were cartoon characters trying to make the oasis.
“We could crawl,” she said, which set him off and he led he
r to the bed, started unlacing his boots, laughing and trying not to. She pulled the Reeboks off, tossed them, one hit the wall. “Oh hell, sorry, Mark.”
He threw his boot against the wall next to the shoe, and that made her laugh again.
He took a breath. “This is not cool. Giggling. Our first time.”
“I’m sorry, I think it’s just … I haven’t had any sleep, and neither have you.”
He kissed her, pinning her arms gently to the bed. She pushed him away and he pulled up. “Okay?”
“Okay.” Just testing. Making sure he kept things gentle.
He got up. “Music.”
“The Monkees?”
“No, dammit, Louis Armstrong. It’s sexy, unless you don’t—”
“I do.”
He fumbled for the CD, put it in a black boom box on the dresser. And condoms. She saw the flash of a foil pack and felt relieved. No speech required. He hit a button on the boom box, there was a pause, then the pure filling notes of a master making a presence in the room.
Big bed. Brown bedspread. Unattractive, that, but so … guy. If it had been purple or pink she’d have run. It felt so weird taking off her clothes, and she slid under the blanket, shy, still wearing panties and a demibra. It was a rule with her—all lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. No point wasting money on dull stuff when you could be pretty every day.
He laughed again; they were both weirdly nervous, like it mattered and like it didn’t. She felt lightweight. Nobody was here for a performance, and being close to him felt so good. He pulled the covers back, slid in beside her, then tucked the covers back up because it was cold in the room. His body was so warm beside hers, and he, no shy boy, had not a stitch on.
He slid a hand along her spine, and she arched her back and snuggled closer to his chest. He pulled a bra strap down over her shoulder, kissing her up and down her neck.
And suddenly no one was laughing. He unfastened the back of her bra and pushed it away, rolling on top of her. God, how good he felt, warm and heavy and smelling so male, the faintest scent, Obsession. She buried her face in his neck and ran her hands down his chest to his thighs. He sighed and moved closer, kissing her, shifting his weight carefully till he was on top of her, and there he was, hard and ready and she didn’t think she could wait. He hooked a thumb in the lacy edge of her high-cut panties and pushed them down and away, and then he was inside, and Jesus he felt so good.
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