by CJ Lyons
"My wife, Lily, she taught me lots of stuff like that. Holistic healing. We'd go to seminars on yoga, acupressure, tantric sex, herbal medicine. She even had her a bee hive, used to harvest the queen's jelly, make a special tonic from it." He paused for a moment, the dashboard lights revealing the spasm of his jaw muscle. "When she left, so did the bees."
Caitlyn laid a hand on his leg. Nothing sexual, merely a comforting touch. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Well." He gripped the wheel in silence, then abruptly turned to her, his voice bright. "So, where are you from, Agent Tierney?"
She sat back in her seat feeling blissfully free. No headache, no nausea, no motion sickness. She felt almost normal. "Believe it or not, Chief, I'm from a town even smaller than Hopewell."
"No sir."
"Yes. Evergreen, North Carolina. Population 318. We didn't have our own police force. Cherokee County Sheriff was the best we had to bring law and order to our mountain."
"You don't sound like a Southerner."
She swallowed hard against the memories the funeral carnations had resurrected. "When I was nine, we moved up to Chambersburg, Pennsylvania to live with my father's mother."
"Chambersburg. That's right outside of Gettysburg, right?"
"I soon learned my accent didn't endear me to the locals. But it was all right. My dad grew up there and he never had a Southern accent. So I learned to talk like he did."
"Your dad a law man?"
"Deputy Sheriff."
"Uh huh. Thought as much." His hands gracefully steered them around a hairpin curve. "Killed in the line, was he?"
"Something like that. How'd you know?" She'd been asked the question so many times that avoiding the truth came natural. But for some reason, this time, she felt a twinge of guilt after lying to him.
"Told you, you had the look of someone trying to prove something. Now that I know it wasn't your boss, Logan—"
"Hey, where are we going?" she interrupted as they passed the Hopewell Government center. He continued through town, ignoring the speed limit on the deserted streets. Seemed Hopewell closed down after dark.
"You said you wanted to see the old case files." He turned onto Lake Road, taking them along the ridge that followed the gorge around the east face of the mountain. "They're in storage. Up at my place."
"Why?"
He shrugged but she noted that his grip on the wheel tightened. "Small town, small budget. When the old police station was condemned and torn down, we needed some place to keep them. Haven't had a chance to move them back—not that there's a whole lot of room to move them to. Storage was one of the things Victoria Godwin forgot when she designed her Government Center." His tone made it clear that he hadn't been consulted on the new police department's quarters.
He turned onto a gravel road. Large hemlock trees swayed in the breeze, reaching out with their branches to skim along the sides of the truck. A single story house with a squared off tin roof came into view. "So here we are, home sweet home."
The frame house had a wide veranda encircling it. Steps made of river rock and a handicap ramp led up to wide French doors. Caitlyn followed Hal up to the porch.
"My grandfather built it," he explained. "Back in the fifties. He probably was one of the first people to ever design a fully wheelchair accessible house. Modeled it on houses he saw in Australia during the war." He held the door open wide. It was oak, lovingly hand carved with flowing vines and morning glories.
"Was he wounded?" she asked as she stepped inside the foyer.
"No. Not gramps. His beautiful bride, Eloise, had polio. She was in a wheelchair. But she used to say this house freed her." He led her down a hallway twice as wide as the one in the shotgun cottage she'd grown up in and into a kitchen, flicking lights on as he went.
The decor was distressingly familiar. Single cop. A uniform shirt hung on the back of a chair. The table was strewn with newspapers. On top of them sat a gun cleaning kit and a dissembled forty caliber Glock 22. Caitlyn smiled at the familiar scent of gun bluing. On the counter, a scanner nestled between a well-used microwave and a coffee maker. Several inches of black liquid sat in the bottom of a glass pot that was more yellowed than a smoker's fingers.
Dishes piled in the sink mirrored the stack of frozen dinner containers in the waste can beside the back door. She liked that Hal didn't apologize for the clutter or lack of ambiance. He recognized that a fellow in arms would understand.
"I'll get the records," he said, hanging his duty belt on a hook beside the door and depositing his pager, radio and phone into respective chargers before moving into the next room. When he flicked the lights on, Caitlyn saw a paneled den cluttered with cardboard storage boxes. The only furniture was an old fashioned console TV and a beat up tweed recliner.
She held back her laughter, rolling her eyes as she thought of her own apartment cramped with crime scene photos, training exercises, workout equipment and the gun safe she'd inherited from her father. It was the only piece of furniture she'd kept with her on her travels from one assignment to the next. Everything else she owned was quickly disposed of at the nearest Goodwill and replaced with a quick trip to her new locale’s Target or IKEA.
Hal shuffled boxes, trying to unearth the records from the Durandt case. She rinsed out the coffee pot and rummaged through his cupboards until she found a can of Folgers. She set it beside the sugar bowl on the counter and started a fresh pot brewing. It finished just as she heard his footsteps approach on the oak floorboards.
"Hope you don't mind," she said, turning to him with a cup in each hand.
He dropped the document box onto the table and stared at her, his mouth agape. His eyes were wide but his face had gone pale, as if something had frightened him. Then he stepped towards her and his expression changed to that bewitching smile she had glimpsed earlier. The one that made him look like Gary Cooper in those old movies her father had loved so much.
"I don't mind," he said, his voice so low it approached a whisper. He reached behind her for the sugar bowl, his other hand sliding down to rest on her hip. "I don't mind at all."
Caitlyn met his gaze, not moving to free herself from his embrace. He lowered his face to hers, then stopped, hovering a mere inch away, his eyes searching hers. He hesitated, silently asking her permission. He looked so vulnerable, as if he were entrusting her with a precious gift.
She tilted her face and closed the distance between them, accepting his kiss and startling herself with her own reticence. Her usual approach with men was one of brutal competition, forcing them to win her—then just as quickly leaving them when they failed to meet her standards. But not with Hal. He was as wounded as she was, there was no need for machismo or bravado with him.
Hal feathered his fingers along her jaw, tousling her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ears, tickling her with his breath as his mouth followed his hand. He returned to her lips, taking his time as he kissed her again.
Caitlyn felt dizzy—but it wasn't the gut wrenching vertigo born of her migraines. This light-headedness was something that tingled along her nerves, straight down to her toes, curling them until she almost stepped out of her shoes.
The scanner behind them squawked. "Hopewell-2 to dispatch. On scene, three vehicle TC. Minor casualties, backup, EMS, and fire requested, milepost 24, route 374."
Hal jumped back, breaking the spell. He reached past her for his radio in its charger, then drew his hand back.
"Your guy?" Caitlyn asked, watching the wariness that came to his face. Like a father watching his kid climb across the top of the jungle gym for the first time.
"Yeah. We run short in summer, alternating twelves." His face closed down as the dispatcher responded.
"Hopewell-2, I have County Unit 12 en route. ETA fourteen minutes. EMS and fire dispatched, ten minutes out."
Hal tilted his head, listening closely to his officer's reply. "Sounds good. Ten-four, dispatch."
"I guess Tucker has it covered," he said, but his gaze was stil
l fixed on the radio, his jaws clenched.
Caitlyn noted the hollows etched below his eyes. "You just finished a long day with that recovery on the mountain and I'll bet you worked a shift before that," she said, recognizing a compulsive over-achiever when she saw one. "When's the last night you got a full night's sleep, Chief?"
He tugged his gaze back to her, his index finger rubbing at an eyebrow as if seeking an answer. "Too long to count. But that's why I get paid the big bucks."
"Why don't you hit the sack? I can go through these records myself."
A slight smile curled his lips. "Nah, you've got my curiosity riled up now." His hands came to a rest on her waist. "Besides I want a chance to see a big time Federal Agent in action. Might just learn something." He paused, his hands pressing against her hips with a promise of things to come. "Unless you were considering joining me? In the sack?"
Caitlyn laughed. "Don't push your luck. Let's get to work."
CHAPTER 26
Sarah had watched in frustration as the two men spoke. The nearest cover she'd been able to make it to was too far away for her to be able to hear Sam at all. Alan faced her, and the wind carried some of his words to her. Enough to stir the cauldron of fear churning in her gut. The sight of Alan raising a gun, looking for all the world ready to use it on Sam hadn't helped either.
She raced through the trees, following Sam. Alan had driven off and Sam had melted into the forest, but she'd quickly caught sight of him on the trail leading over to Lake Road and the reservoir below the lower falls.
Thankful for the full moon and scant cloud cover, she jogged over the trail, dodging tree roots and downed branches with practiced ease. Sam kept up a steady pace himself, although she heard him curse and swear at times as he stumbled and once fell. His lead diminished as she grimly pushed herself along the trail. Finally, at the clearing above the dam, she drew close enough to stop him with a shout.
"Sam!"
He lurched to a stop and spun around. His mouth dropped open at the sight of her and he stepped forward. Sarah raced toward him, launching herself at him, pounding him with her fists as they slammed to the ground.
"You bastard! Where's Josh? What have you done with him?" Tears strangled her words until they were barely audible. Sam did nothing to defend himself other than to ward off her blows before they could inflict too much damage. Finally she was sobbing so hard she couldn't breathe. Blinded by tears and anger, she collapsed onto his chest.
Sam sat up, cradling her against him in a tight embrace. Every breath brought with it his scent—that unique, tangy musk that was his and his alone. Sarah hated herself for it, but she couldn't resist her overwhelming need. She curled her arms around his shoulders, clutching him with all her strength.
God, how many thousands of times over the past two years had she dreamt of him holding her like this, had she wished for this? Now she was terrified to let go, afraid that he might break her heart again.
What if Josh was really dead? She couldn't bear it, would rather die than hear it.
Sam's tears mixed with hers, warm against her face and neck. He was trembling, shaking uncontrollably. She caught her breath, wiped her face and nose against his flannel-clad shoulder.
"Josh?" she asked, closing her eyes, bracing herself against his answer.
"He's fine." Sam's voice broke. He laid his palm flat against her cheek, caressing her face. "Safe. He's waiting for me to bring you back to him."
Sarah choked on her tears. She slid off his lap, away from his embrace and caught her breath. Then she slapped him as hard as she could. The crack of flesh striking flesh ran out like a shot.
"You godamned, shit-faced, sonofabitch!" Her words thundered through the few inches that separated them. "How dare you? Who gave you the right to take my son away? To put me through that?"
Sam sat, one hand covering his cheek, tears still streaming down his face. He looked pale and gaunt. As if all his smooth edges had been filed sharp.
Sarah pushed herself to her feet, standing over him, not bothering to hold back any of her fury. "Get up, you bastard. You're going to take me to my son, right now, this very instant. And then we're leaving you."
He met her gaze. God, his eyes looked ancient. Ancient and overwhelmed with sorrow. With his shaved scalp and the moonlight casting him in an unearthly glow, he looked like a skeleton of the man she'd known and loved.
Slowly, he shook his head. "I can't take you to Josh."
Her breath caught in her throat, leaving her speechless. She aimed a kick at his side, but he caught her leg and pulled her down on top of him. Once again she tried to pummel him, bite, scratch, kick, but this time he wrapped his hands around her wrists and held her at bay.
Finally she was reduced to snarling at him like a wounded animal. She would have spit at him but her mouth was too dry. "Bastard. Let me go."
"Not until you calm down. Listen to me, Sarah. We don't have much time. Does Alan know you're here?"
"What do you care?"
He gave her a shake. "Josh's life may depend on it. And yours."
"Josh? Is Alan going after Josh? I saw his gun—" She struggled anew to free herself from his grip.
"Josh is fine. Alan doesn't know where he is. But he can't know we've spoken. It may be our only hope."
The hated word froze Sarah's blood. How many times had people told her not to give up hope those first few days before Wright confessed? Even as they were bringing in cadaver dogs and calling off the search and rescue crew, replacing them with evidence recovery teams. How many times had she dared to whisper secret hopes in the darkness, muffling them with her pillow and tears?
"There's no such thing as hope." She practically spat out the words. "Just tell me where Josh is, take me to him." She was begging now, but she didn't care.
Sam pulled her close again but this time she held herself rigid, an immoveable object within his embrace. "Where. Is. My. Son!"
He relaxed his grip and she pulled away from him as if he were toxic. "Promise me you'll listen to everything I have to say." He gazed up at her, his eyes wide with pleading. "Please, Sarah."
She rolled off his lap and onto her knees. "Tell me what I need to know."
He exhaled, his breath a shaky sigh, and rubbed at his right side. "I'll tell you everything. Then," he reached for her hand but she snatched it away, "you decide what to do."
His voice trembled, his entire body was shaking again. She wanted nothing more than to pull him into her arms and offer comfort. Instead, she fisted her hands, held them rigidly at her side, denying him anything. A single tear slid down his cheek.
"You'll have to decide. I don't know what's right or wrong anymore. It's all up to you, Sarah."
JD hated this feeling. His body was tingling with the urge—no, the need—to touch Julia, his mouth was dry, and every time he tried to say anything it came out totally lame. They sat together on the blanket, watching for the mysterious lights, their jean-clad legs touching. She was so casual, sometimes leaning towards him, brushing his skin with her hair, touching him to emphasize a point as they talked about home, their parents with their hopeless, retro ways, school, their hopes and dreams.
God, what was he doing wrong here? He couldn't stop rubbing his sweaty palms along his pants legs when his fingers were itching to stroke her creamy, smooth skin. He wished it was colder, he could wrap his arms around her.
But the night was warm enough that Julia's jean jacket was plenty. They sat in silence for a few minutes, JD thinking of the way the guys would laugh at him not even able to make it to first base, when she turned to him, her neck arched back, exposing a lovely expanse of skin just waiting for him to—do what? Kiss her? What if he did it wrong? Or touch her—an image of her convulsing in laughter at his incompetent fumbling made him yank back the tentative hand he'd begun to stretch out toward her.
It wasn't like this in the movies. Or to hear the guys talk in the locker room. Why couldn't he just be normal? Know what he was supposed to do
with a girl?
"Why is this so important to you?" Julia's voice slid through the silence like warm maple syrup, calming his jitters. "It's got to be more than just a chance to win that internship if you're giving up your entire summer to it. And why the lights? Why not make a film about something easier?"
He slid his gaze up to meet hers and sat up straight. She was looking at him with such an earnest expression—like she really cared, like what he said made a difference. To her.
His heart revved up and he licked his lips twice before he was able to answer. He needed to tell her the truth, not the lies he'd told everyone else. "I wanted to figure out what was going on with the lights because," he looked away, certain that he was probably making a fool out of himself, "I needed to make up for what happened two years ago. See, it was because of me that that guy Damian Wright got away."
CHAPTER 27
Julia looked at him, her mouth open in surprise. JD hung his head, his face flushing with shame. He hadn't told anyone about what happened that night—and now here he was blurting it out to her of all people.
Smooth move, Casanova. Way to get the girl.
"Damian Wright?" she asked, her voice tight. "The guy who killed Mrs. Durandt's little boy?"
"And her husband. And those other kids after he left here." JD drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them. His body shook but he refused to give into his tears. Not in front of her. "It's all my fault."
To his surprise, Julia slid closer to him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling his head to rest on her shoulder. "No. JD, you can't think that. How could it possibly be your fault?"
JD's shoulders sagged with the weight of the burden he'd been carrying for two years. "I saw him. Damian Wright. I saw him that day. Me and Tommy Bowmaster were hanging out at the park, skateboarding, practicing some moves. Tommy fell and banged up his wrist, so he had to leave, but I stayed. I saw this guy, hanging around where the little kids play, taking pictures."