by Megan Hart
Clinton-mask fell onto into the gravel, his buddies making commiserating sounds of pain as they tried to help him up. Lisa rolled to her feet, ready to run. A roaring growl filled the night, close to her face, and she fell back.
Deacon's Harley spun the grit and stones, spattering her face. Lisa threw up her hands to shield her face and stood. The heavy folds of her skirt fell back down around her ankles.
Clinton-mask was still writhing on the ground, but the other president-masks were no longer trying to help him up. Deacon punched the kick stand down on his bike and leapt off it. His red helmet glinted like fire in the orange parking lot lights. With the face shield down and his leather-gloved fists raised menacingly, he didn't look human. He looked like some sort of alien warlord, a cyborg. An avenging angel.
The president-masks fled before him like fluff blown from a dandelion. Clinton-mask, spying the threatening form bearing down on him, somehow managed to find the strength to fight the pain from his bruised groin. He got to his feet in a flash, tripped and went down to his knees in the gravel. Yelping, he pushed to his feet again and flew into the tree row. The sounds of branches slapping flesh and cries of pain and terror echoed through the night.
"Are you all right?" Deacon knelt beside her, his arm around her. He yanked the helmet from his head. He smelled like pumpkin pie.
Lisa caught sight of her watch, stunned to realize that less than ten minutes had passed since she'd stepped out into the parking lot. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Deacon's arm on her shoulder was blessedly warm. Suddenly she felt chilled.
"Hey, what's going on out here?"
Lisa saw a tall, strongly built man racing toward them. His face in the orange light was grimly focused. His fists were clenched.
"Get your hands off her," he commanded Deacon.
"Hey, man, no problem," Deacon said smoothly, squeezing Lisa's shoulder. "I was just trying to help."
"Step away from her, mister, unless you want trouble," Lisa's would-be protector said. "I saw what was going on! You were trying to rape this woman!"
Deacon sighed heavily, but he dropped his arm away from her. "You've got it wrong."
"Back off!" The man turned to her. "Are you all right, miss?"
"I'm fine." Her voice didn't sound as shaky as she'd feared it might. She looked toward Deacon. "And he was trying to help me. A bunch of high school boys attacked me, not Deacon."
"You know him?" The man still looked suspiciously at Deacon.
Seeing Deacon's rumpled dark hair, his leather chaps over faded jeans, and the denim vest bespangled with the Harley-Davidson logo, Lisa guessed how a stranger might mistake him for someone who might be up to no good. Hadn't she, who thought she knew him, discovered his bad-boy exterior matched his internal character all too well? But not in this case. This time, he'd come to her rescue.
"Yes, I know him," Lisa said firmly. "But thanks for your concern."
"I saw a scuffle out here," the man said doubtfully, still giving Deacon an evil look. "I heard some screams as I was coming out of the vestibule. I saw this man grabbing you...."
"It's all right, really," Lisa assured him. "They ran off into the trees."
She looked down at the ground. "They didn't even get my purse." She didn't mention the other object Clinton-mask had demanded. The mortification was too much.
"My wife's called the police," the man said.
"Great," Deacon muttered.
"Great," Lisa echoed. Now that everything was passed, the last thing she wanted to do was spend the evening telling the local cops how an adolescent boy had tried to steal her purse and her underwear.
"If you're sure you're all right," offered the man hesitantly. He looked back and forth from her to Deacon, his brow creased in concern. "My wife's waiting for me over there."
"Sure, go on," Lisa said. "And thank you so much."
The man didn't seem to want to go, but he did, casting a hard look over his shoulder at Deacon. Then they were alone, the two of them, and his stare made a different sort of chill run down her spine.
"Thank you," she said. "If you hadn't come back --"
"You looked like you were handling it pretty good on your own."
"Why did you come back?"
His gaze pierced her and made her knees week. "I heard you call after me. I was going to keep driving home. Then I changed my mind."
He'd been coming back to talk to her. Lisa's heart thudded a little, but pleasantly. He'd actually turned around to come back for her. Now he opened his mouth as if to speak, and she wanted him to. It didn't matter what the words might be--accusation, confession, or explanation. All that mattered was that he was going to talk to her.
All at once the red-blue, red-blue of the police car lights lit up the parking lot and turned the orange from the overhead lights to alternating bands of fire and sickly purple. Deacon bit back whatever he'd been about to say, his full mouth closing abruptly. A pang of disappointment filled her stomach.
Deacon bent down and picked up two things from the ground. "You might want these."
He pressed her purse and the shredded remains of her white cotton panties into her hand.
Chapter 4
* * *
"So let's go over this one more time," said Officer Hewitt. Though he spoke to Lisa, his sharp gaze didn't waver from Deacon's face. "You were attacked by four men wearing rubber masks."
"Reagan, Nixon, Clinton and Carter masks," Lisa replied. "Terry, I told you all this already."
Deacon knew the cop was up to something. He just didn't know what. They'd been at the station for hours, far longer than should have been necessary for Lisa to tell her story and sign the essential papers. He didn't like the way the other officers milled around the desk, looking at him. Like he'd committed a crime.
"And they took your purse and your..." Deacon was pleased to see Hewitt falter. "Your underwear."
"They tried to." Lisa was beginning to sound aggravated, and no wonder. Hewitt was questioning her like she'd pushed herself down in the gravel. "I told you before. Only one of them actually assaulted me. The others just watched. I got the feeling they'd been put up to it somehow."
Hewitt cast another piercing glance at Deacon. "Uh-huh."
Lisa sighed impatiently. "Terry, I think they were just kids. They didn't hurt me really."
The cop was looking at her with raised eyebrows. "Honey, they pushed you down in the parking lot! Your hands are all scraped up. What do you mean they didn't hurt you?"
Lisa's cheeks flushed. In a low voice, she answered, "I mean they didn't hurt me, Terry. I'm okay."
"Are you saying you don't want us to pursue this?" Hewitt sat back in his seat, frowning.
"No," Lisa said hastily. "I just... I think they were just doing it for a dare or something."
"Robbery and assault isn't something to be taken lightly," Hewitt told her sternly. Lisa looked chastened. "If we find these young men, you can be sure they'll be facing criminal charges."
"And jail time?" she asked weakly, with another quick look at Deacon.
So that was what this was about? She was worried about sending somebody else to jail? Deacon frowned at her, aware that every move he made was under the scrutiny of half a dozen officers. She hadn't seemed to care so much when it had been him up on the stand, even when he'd protested his innocence. She hadn't believed him.
"Yes, Lisa." Hewitt looked at Deacon.
Right then, Deacon knew something was up. They were going to try and pin something on him, just because he had a record. He watched the cop's eyes flicker behind him, giving some sort of silent signal to his co-workers.
Hewitt's smile didn't meet his eyes. "You can go now. We'll let you know."
Lisa got to her feet and clutched the beaded handbag. It was a little worse for the wear after landing in the dirt. She leaned awkwardly across the desk, allowing Hewitt to kiss her cheek.
"Call me later," she said quietly.
Deacon got up from his seat
when she did, knowing even as he did so what would come next.
"Not you, Campbell," said Hewitt. "We still need to talk to you."
Deacon glared at the cop, but there wasn't much he could do about it. They were going to grill him like a burger on the Fourth of July. Lisa, however, looked confused.
"Why are you keeping him?" She asked. "I told you everything about what happened already. Deacon was helping me."
"This doesn't concern you, babe," Hewitt said. "Go on along home."
If he thought Lisa was one to be put off with a patronizing comment, Deacon thought with real pleasure, the cop had sorely misjudged her. Lisa didn't move. She stared down the cop, bringing a flush to his face.
"Please don't call me babe," she said coldly. "And don't patronize me, Terry. This certainly does involve me."
"But... Lisa, just go on home. I'll call you later. Let me do my job." Hewitt seemed shaken by her resolve.
Lisa raised her eyebrow at him and put her hands on her hips. "And does your job include harassing innocent people?"
Hewitt sneered. "Innocent? I guess we'll see, won't we?"
"Terry--" Lisa began, a warning in her voice, but Deacon cut her off.
"You can go," Deacon told her, returning to his seat. He didn't really want her to see him get laid out on the platter. Not again.
"No." She shook her head, the stubborn woman. "If this involves what happened to me tonight, I have a right to know about it."
"Once a thief, always a thief." Hewitt said to Lisa, but again looked at Deacon.
"I was convicted of robbing a convenience store." There was no use in Deacon proclaiming his innocence again. "You want to tell me how that translates into stealing ladies' purses and their scanties in dark parking lots?"
"And I already told you, it wasn't Deacon at all," Lisa cried, her voice frustrated. "There were four people. Deacon came up on his motorcycle. He wasn't one of them, I'd swear to it."
"We're not suggesting that Mr. Campbell here actually was one of the offenders," Officer Hewitt said smoothly. "But he is a suspect."
"Why?" Lisa cried indignantly.
Deacon was as surprised at her vehement defense of him as the cop was. In fact, Lisa seemed surprised herself. She glared across the desk at Hewitt, then flicked Deacon an expression he couldn't identify.
"Your testimony sent Campbell to jail three years ago."
"Yes." Lisa lifted her chin but didn't look at Deacon. "So?"
"He has a prior record," Hewitt pointed out. "And a motive."
"Motive?" Now Lisa was on her feet, leaning over the desk and waving her finger right in the cop's face. "A motive to steal my underwear, for God's sake? Terry, what the hell's the matter with you?"
Her outburst had the whole station looking in at them. Hewitt's thinned lips and set jaw showed he didn't like that--not one bit. Didn't like the little woman acting up, Deacon thought, with a flash of insight into Hewitt's character. This pointing of fingers had more to do with Deacon's romantic past than with his criminal record. Hewitt was jealous, and Deacon smiled at the thought.
"He thinks that because your account at the trial was what put me in jail, I might have a reason to want revenge." Deacon met Hewitt's angry glare steadily, his smile never wavering. Let the cop say what he wanted, he couldn't pin this on Deacon.
And if Terry he kept insisting, it seemed he was going to find himself driving a wedge between himself and Lisa, which would be quite all right with Deacon.
"That's ridiculous," Lisa snapped, but a moment later he saw by her look that though the thought hadn't occurred to her, it made sense.
Officer Hewitt sat back in his chair with a smug grin. "Mr. Campbell is exactly right. How astute."
"But Deacon came back to help me," Lisa said softly.
"What better way to prove my innocence?" Deacon said. The game was on. Hewitt liked to play apparently.
"Right again."
Lisa sighed, looking very tired all of a sudden. Brown smudges shadowed her gray eyes. She rolled her neck on her shoulders as though to get the kinks out.
"You have no proof," she said finally.
"We still have some questions we'd like him to answer," said the cop.
"Then I retract my statement."
Deacon and Hewitt both spoke at the same time. "What?"
"I'm withdrawing my statement," Lisa said. "I don't want this investigation to go any farther. I won't press charges."
"Are you insane?" Deacon sputtered. The woman had gone crazy.
Hewitt might have wanted to ask her the same thing, but he'd managed to restrain himself. "We can't do that, babe."
Lisa's reply was a growl. "Watch me. Babe." The last word was a snarl, not an endearment. It seemed to sting Hewitt.
Deacon had almost forgotten how hard-headed Lisa could be when she wanted something. Lisa slung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. She flapped the papers Hewitt had given her and tore them in half quickly, then dumped the scraps in the trash.
"You're nuts," Deacon told her, even as something stirred inside him. Was this her crazy way of assuaging her guilt? What had changed her mind about his character that she'd be so willing to take this stand for him?
Hewitt frowned. "You're being unreasonable."
"Deacon didn't have anything to do with what happened tonight," Lisa said firmly.
"You of all people shouldn't be so certain of this man's innocence in anything." Hewitt scowled and crossed his arms.
"Frankly, I'm tired of being told what I should or should not be certain about." Lisa slipped her arms into her lightweight black jacket and slung her purse back over her shoulder. "I'm retracting my statement. You have no reason to keep Deacon here. I'm leaving now. Good night."
"Wait," Hewitt called after her, and she turned. "Lisa, don't go off mad."
"You haven't left me much choice, Terry," Lisa said, and swept out of the office.
Now the two men stared each other down from across the desk. Deacon stood, expecting Hewitt to tell him to sit back down. The cop didn't say anything, though, just watched him.
"You can't tell her what to do," Deacon told Hewitt almost apologetically. The guy was a self-righteous blow-hard with an ax to grind, but Deacon still felt a little sorry for him. He'd been on the receiving end of Lisa's will once or twice, and he knew how hard she could hit.
"Don't tell me how to treat my girlfriend," Hewitt retorted, his mouth twisting.
Okay, so they'd never be friends. Deacon shrugged. "Just some advice, man. Lisa doesn't like being told what to do."
"And you're an expert on Lisa?" Hewitt said in a low voice.
"No." He'd never claim that.
"Get out of here," Hewitt said, dismissing him.
Deacon was all too happy to leave. After the close air of the station, the fresh night breeze was a sweet perfume. He gulped it greedily, then headed over to his motorcycle. As he unbuckled his helmet and prepared to pull it on his head, her voice stopped him. She called his name, then appeared from the dark. She'd been waiting for him.
"Didn't you learn your lesson about hanging around dark parking lots?" he asked gruffly, not sure he wanted to hear her reasons for waiting.
She laughed, a sound he'd imagined often in the past three years. "I think a police station parking lot would be pretty safe, don't you?"
"What do you want, Lisa?"
The bluntness of his question seemed to shock her. Her smile faltered, the good-humored laughter fading away until the night air was once more silent around them. Finally, she cleared her throat and held out her hands to him.
"I wanted to thank you again."
"You're welcome," Deacon said. "I'll see you at work on Monday."
"Yes." But she didn't go, just stood there staring at him with those damned lovely eyes.
"Do you want me to wait while you get in your car?"
She shook her head. "Deacon, what were you coming back for?"
"To talk to you," he said. "To hear why you we
re calling after me."
She nodded as though his simple explanation made sense. "What would you have said?"
"I would've asked you," Deacon said, "why you did what you did."
She had the grace to look away, and the sense not to ask him what he meant. "I'd have asked you the same thing."
"The questions might have been the same, but the answers wouldn't have." He slid the helmet on and flipped up the dark face shield.
"You know I had to tell the truth," she countered.
"So did I." He swung his leg over the bike.
"But we both said different things!"
"Then one of us," he replied as he started the engine, "was wrong."
* * * *
Every light in the house blazed as Lisa pulled into the driveway. She rested her head on the steering wheel, mentally gathering her strength before going into the house. Allegra was home, and by the looks of things, she wasn't happy.
Sighing, Lisa got out of the car and went to the kitchen door. It was almost too much. She was bone weary, and her palms and rear ached from her tumble into the gravel. Did she have the strength to deal with Al now? And did she have a choice?
The answer to became clear as she stepped into the tiny kitchen. Allegra waited at the kitchen table, a burning cigarette in her hand and an ashtray full of dead butts on the table. Lisa hung her jacket on the coat tree, waiting for the tirade.
"Where...have...you...been?" Each word, sharp as a knife, was punctuated by the clicking of Allegra's jaw as she bit them out.
"At the police station," Lisa said.
"With him."
"Terry was there, yes." For some reason, Lisa was reluctant to tell Allegra the truth about her evening.
"Ter-Bear." Allegra sneered. "So, what'd you two do? File? Eat donuts?"
"I'm going to bed." Lisa got up from the table and headed for the door to the hallway. Allegra reached out as she passed, snagging Lisa's arm.
"I waited for you all night."
Lisa pulled out of her sister's grasp. "You shouldn't have."
Allegra's laugh was harsh. She stubbed out the cigarette and bent to the plate of pie in front of her. Without another word, she shoveled the dessert into her mouth, spilling fruit and pastry out of her mouth and down the front of her shirt. Pie wasn't the first stain on her clothes. Ice cream from the empty gallon container on the table also marked the fabric, and ketchup, and some other things Lisa didn't recognize.