Another Man's Treasure

by Anna Kittrell

  Charis swallowed the lump in her throat. She wondered where this man came from. A man, in this day and age, who believed in simple honesty, doing the right thing and trusting your heart. She would’ve never believed such a man still existed. The very idea of it moved her to tears.

  “I understand,” she said. And she meant it. She knew what she had to do.

  ****

  Deason stuffed his wallet into the back pocket of the Levi’s he’d worn into the county jail exactly three weeks ago. He took his key ring from the clerk’s hand, thanking her.

  “Hope I never see you again.” She winked.

  He grinned, lifting his hand in a wave before turning away with Deputy Evans. “It’s been good to know you, Deason,” the deputy said, gazing down the corridor as they walked. “You’re not nearly the badass I expected you to be.”

  Deason chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  The deputy stopped walking, turned to look at him. “You should. I’ve been a deputy sheriff for fifteen years. Not very many people surprise me anymore, the way you did. When me and Detective Benton picked you up that night a few weeks ago, I took you for a cocky smartass with a hot temper, ready to pick a fight to prove your salt. Sure thought I had you pegged. But I was wrong.” He glanced around then lowered his voice. “I’ve been watching you. Between you and me, whichever way this thing pans out, I’ll never believe you killed Vic Locke and tossed him into that dumpster. Not your style. You’ve got too much decency to pull a stunt like that.”

  “I appreciate it, dep.”

  Deputy Evans resumed his stride. “I’m not supposed to say things like that. So if I go losing my job tomorrow, I’ll know you’re a snitch, and that just might change my opinion.”

  Deason grinned. “Not a chance.”

  Deputy Evans opened the door leading to the waiting room. Deason stepped over the threshold, greeted by applause, shrieks and whistles. He barely noticed in his urgent, unbroken stride to the most beautiful woman on earth. His eyes swallowed her, followed by his arms. With an embrace that squeezed the world away, leaving only the two of them, he lifted her from the floor, twirling her across the room. He laughed with her as her head fell back. He looked into her eyes, slowing his spin, setting her feet lightly on the floor.

  Charis’s breath rushed in and out, cheeks flushed, blue eyes dancing like ripples in a pond. He smoothed the unruly tresses from her brow, then slid his hands under her jawline, caressing her face, stroking the delicate skin with his thumbs. She closed her eyes and he lowered his head, brushing her mouth with his, tenderly at first then harder as she parted her lips, her response stirring him.

  “Excuse me. I wasn’t aware this was a conjugal visit,” Daphne’s voice rang out, bringing him back to earth.

  “No joke. Why don’t ya’ll just step back through that door and rent a jail cell for a couple hours,” Jagger piped in.

  Charis giggled against Deason’s mouth, her hot, sweet breath tickling his lips, the sexy rumble in her throat nearly rousing a primal moan from his deep in his belly. She turned to look at their friends, the blush on her cheeks darkening. He followed her gaze.

  “Oh. Hello,” he said, evoking laughter from Daphne, Jagger and a few other people who’d apparently entered the room during the kiss. He embraced Daphne then traded Jagger slaps on the back. “Let’s blow this joint,” he said, grinning. Taking Charis by the hand, he walked through the waiting room door, across the courthouse foyer, down the front steps to freedom.

  “So, where to, bro?” Jagger asked as they piled into Daphne’s Blazer.

  “Good question. Guess I should head to the house and pick up my clothes and toothbrush. If they didn’t get sold off, that is.”

  “Way ahead of you, my friend. Picked up all that was left yesterday—clothes, toothbrush, razor, pillow and what looked like a hand stitched quilt. Hauled it all back to my place.”

  “Sure you don’t mind me crashing with you for a while? I don’t know how long it’ll be. My preliminary hearing is this coming Tuesday. I guess that’s when they’ll tell me when the actual trial will be held.”

  “What happens after the trial?” Charis asked, her voice strained.

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “Then, depending on what the jury decides, I’ll either go free or—”

  “Don’t. Just leave it at ‘go free’ because that’s what’s going to happen.” She squeezed his fingers.

  Deason hoped she was right. He couldn’t spend the next twenty years in prison, watching lines form on her beautiful face through the greasy smears of other people’s fingerprints. If she’d wait that long. He certainly wouldn’t expect her to. She had her whole Vic-free life ahead of her, ready to be lived to the fullest. Charis deserved a man, a husband, present and unmoving by her side and a yard full of beautiful children.

  He looked down at her hand, firmly wrapped in his own, and caressed her fingers. He paused, focusing on the winged outline where her ring used to be. His gaze flew to her face and she smiled, eyes glistening. He kissed her slowly, fully, ignoring the jeers from the front seat, breaking only when the car rolled to a stop in Jagger’s driveway.

  “Pull up a hunk of couch,” Jagger said as they stepped into the living room. “Sorry. Haven’t had much time to pick up the place.”

  “It looks fantastic,” Deason assured him, sinking into the faded brown cushions, pulling Charis down beside him. “So, any stories circulating on the outside I should be aware of? Rumors can get out of hand when a person’s in jail.”

  “Assholes know better than to tell me any stories. Anyone says a wrong word about you to me, and they’ll be pickin’ their toenails outa their teeth.” Jagger gave a sharp nod. “How about you, Deason? Any yarn bein’ spun in the pokey?”

  “Mostly the same old story, that I’m the murderer who killed Vic. The normal kind of stuff I’d expected.” He kept quiet about the information Mitch volunteered. The remark about Gabby having a “sugar daddy” stuck in his craw for some reason. That plus the fact she’d called him from Vic’s phone the night Vic died told him there was more to the story. He had every intention of finding out how much more, and the sooner the better. But he needed to do it alone, without implicating anyone else. “I want to know what my pretty lady’s been up to,” he said, squeezing Charis to his side.

  “I spend most of my time with Mr. B and occasionally Wendell.” She shuddered and made a disgusted sound. “Although Wendell’s been so paranoid since Vic’s death, I can barely stand to be around him at all.”

  “What else is new? He’s always made your skin crawl,” Daphne interjected, flopping down on the end of the sofa.

  “True. But this time it’s for a different reason. I truly think he’s gone off the deep end. Sometimes I seriously believe he’s in the early onset of Alzheimer’s. He’s so fixated on the murder, he’s convinced the police are coming to get him at any given moment. The evening Vic’s body was discovered, he called me from Colorado. He freaked out the second I told him about the murder. I explained to him that his cellphone records prove he was out of state at the time of Vic’s death but he wouldn’t listen to reason. He just babbled on and on about how they’re coming for him.”

  “And he’s still working?” Deason asked.

  “Amazingly, he is. I guess maybe it keeps his mind off things. In fact, he just returned from a two and a half week stay in Albuquerque. Several banks in the area were due for an audit. He came back yesterday morning, and I can’t wait for him to leave again. I don’t think his paranoia is good for Mr. B.”

  “So Vic got the last laugh after all. Drove Wendell completely batshit from the grave.” Jagger grinned.

  “Enough unpleasant conversation. I’m sure Deason’s ready for a good meal, a hot shower and a soft bed. Charis, let’s see what we can rustle up in that disorganized mess Jagger calls a kitchen.” Daphne rocked forward, scooting from the couch.

  “Now listen, woman. I’ve had just about enough of your lip.” Jagge
r playfully balled his hand into a fist.

  “Of these lips? You can never get enough.” Daphne leaned and planted a kiss on Jagger’s mouth.

  Deason couldn’t remember ever seeing the man blush before.

  ****

  “It’s real good to be able to talk to you without a chunk of plastic between us.” Jagger crushed a cigarette into the ashtray then pushed play on the portable CD player in the center of the coffee table. Alice Cooper’s No More Mr. Nice Guy poured through the tinny speakers.

  “Yeah. It’s nice to relax on your couch and talk instead of balancing on one of those wooden stools. And I won’t have to pick splinters out of my ass later.”

  Jagger chuckled. “So how was the food on the inside?”

  “Don’t ask,” Deason said, picturing milky grapes. “My second cellmate wasn’t bad, though. Seemed like a smart kid. Takes care of the books at Suds.”

  “Must be crookeder than hell to get thrown in for cookin’ Joe’s books.”

  “He wasn’t in for fudging numbers. He was in for fleeing the scene of an accident, a fender bender, he said.”

  “That’s what they all say,” Jagger spouted, a sudden expert on the subject of accident fleeing.

  Deason thought back on what else Mitch had said. Things he’d mentioned about Gabriella and her “sugar daddy.” The situation sounded off kilter. He suspected Vic Locke’s murder was somehow tangled up in the whole mess, and he was dead set on getting to the bottom of it.

  “Hey, mind if I ask you a personal question, bro?”

  “Go ahead, shoot,” Deason said. “If I don’t like the question, I just won’t answer.”

  “The day the gals and me went to your trailer to get your stuff ready to sell…”

  Deason lifted an eyebrow.

  “Well, I was explainin’ to Daphne why you probably wouldn’t want to sell your land. How your folks’ house used to stand where your trailer is.”

  “Yeah. Go on.” Deason shifted on the sofa, impatience needling him. He wished Jagger would just spit out what he was trying to say.

  “I was just wonderin’ why you never told Charis about the fire. When she heard me and Daph talkin’ about it, she turned away and got real quiet. Looked like she was cryin’.”

  Deason blew out a breath. “I just don’t talk about it.”

  “But why not?”

  Deason closed his eyes, red lights flashing behind his lids. The air tasted like smoke. His arm hurt. Mom and Dad’s house, the house he’d grown up in, the house little Beth should’ve grown up in, crumbled in a smoldering wet heap surrounded by black grass.

  “Nothing we could do…nothing anyone could have done…” The fireman had said, never knowing his voice would forevermore chase itself around Deason’s skull.

  “Not something I really like to think about.” Deason massaged his forearm.

  “Maybe that’s the reason you should talk about it, brother.”

  Talk about what—the childhood fantasy he’d had since he was five of being a fireman, filling his grandpa’s rubber boots, following in his footsteps?

  Or maybe Jagger wanted him to rehash the fact he’d moved out of his parents’ aging house to attend firefighter academy at nineteen, knowing full well the wiring needed to be replaced. Deason’s father, along with being a skilled butcher and a fair carpenter, had also been a trained electrician. Deason heard him mention the old-fashioned knob and tube wiring a dozen times when he lived at home. Repeatedly (unforgivably) he’d ignored his dad’s hints about needing an “extra pair of strong hands” to help him run new wire, choosing instead to waste gas with his buddies or laze around his room.

  “I wanted to be a fireman. But a real fireman doesn’t let his parents and baby sister burn to death in a house with faulty wiring while he stands on the lawn with his grandfather’s Shaydn City Fire Department watch in his pocket.”

  “You did all you could. Almost burned your arm off goin’ in after ’em. You would’ve died too, if they hadn’t pulled you back out.”

  “I should’ve died too,” Deason yelled, the tendons in his neck throbbing. “I deserved to.” His voice softened. “I swear to god, watching little Beth die slowly in the hospital, I wanted to. Can you imagine, Jag, her sweet, soft baby skin charred like a campfire marshmallow? Flesh bubbling off her body, infection oozing between the cracks… Sometimes I can still smell her.”

  Jagger lowered his gaze. “Sorry, man.”

  “It’s my fault, Jag. That’s why I haven’t told her. I’m not looking forward to seeing the disgust, or even worse, the pity on her face.”

  “That ain’t Charis. You know her better than that, bro. No way you’re gonna see anything but respect on that pretty face of hers…except maybe love. Hell, the fact she’s stickin’ with you through this shit storm that’s pourin’ down on your head oughta tell you somethin’.”

  “Shit storm. Great analogy,” Deason said.

  “I try,” Jagger answered, yawning at the same time.

  “Turn in, Jag, it’s been a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Chapter Eight

  Deason slid from the twin size bed, listening for changes in Jagger’s breathing. A long snort followed by a soft whistle, the pattern remained unchanged as Deason crept down the hall and to the front door, work boots in hand. It would be risky, sneaking around town after midnight, but with his preliminary hearing just days away, he had no other choice. He had to find out if Gabriella had anything to do with Vic’s death. The death that may very well cost him his life. At least the part worth living.

  He gently pulled the door closed behind him then sat on the front steps lacing his boots. Gabriella would talk. She had to. Deason had never known the woman to be even the slightest bit jumpy, let alone nervous. He aimed to find out what was causing the recent anxiety Mitch mentioned.

  He’d have to be careful, though. The thought of pretending to have feelings for her sickened him, and if she touched him, he seriously might recoil—or regurgitate. Either way, he’d blow his cover. Stepping lightly, he descended the last two steps then strode noiselessly down the walkway. On the sidewalk, he turned west, beginning the six-block trek to Suds Bar.

  Laughter, like donkeys braying, filled the air as Deason approached, walking against the buildings, out from under the glow of the streetlights. He couldn’t afford any trouble, not while he was out on bail, hanging by a thread. After a few minutes, the small clutch of men meandered back into the bar, releasing a brief blare of country music into the street, shutting it behind the door.

  He checked his watch. One forty-five a.m. The bar would close down in fifteen minutes. Gabby should be cleaning up the place, wiping down tables, taking out the trash. He ducked around the building into the alley, knowing what it would look like if Gabby turned him in—a murderer returning to the scene of the crime. The media would have a field day.

  The bar’s back door rattled, and then swung open. Deason crouched in the shadows, flattening his back to the brick wall. Gabby stepped from the doorway, a bulging black garbage bag slung over her shoulder like Santa’s toy sack, bottles clinking as she walked. She threw open the dumpster’s lid and with a small grunt, hurled the sack over and in. Joe must’ve changed his mind about the lock—either that or the key was lost again, and he’d had to cut the lock off.

  She closed the lid, dusted her hands over her Daisy Dukes and headed toward the back door.

  Deason took a deep breath, his heart accelerating, palms sweating. It was now or never. “Gabby,” he whispered.

  She froze, skin blanching under the alley’s halogen streetlamp, her mouth a trembling red circle.

  “Please don’t be frightened, it’s Deason.”

  She blinked, frantically looking around. “Deason?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Are you going to scream?”

  “No. Please, come out. I want to see you.” Her voice shook.

  He stood and stepped from the wall, approaching her slowly.

  “Oh, D
eason, mi amor. I thought I’d never see you again.” She ran to him, gathering him into her too-skinny arms, pulling him close. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and stale beer. He’d never known her to drink or smoke, and from the unwelcome press of her ribcage against his body, she must’ve been at least thirty pounds lighter than the last time he’d seen her. “Kiss me, please.” With bony fingers, she roughly turned his face to hers.

  “Wait,” he said, clasping her hands together in his, releasing the lungful of air he’d held, for fear of gagging on the stench of her breath. “Slow down. Let me look at you.” He stalled, thinking of how to approach the subject of Vic’s phone records.

  “I’m afraid I’m not much to look at lately. I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Worried? It’s not like you to worry. About what?”

  “About you…and other things.”

  Now maybe he was getting somewhere. Still grasping her hands in one of his, he wrapped the other arm around her frail shoulder, lightly patting her back. “Come on, Gabby. What could be so bad?”

  “You called me Gabby.” She turned, tore her hands fee, intertwining them behind his neck, bending him toward her. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Wait,” he said, covering her hands with his at the nape of his neck, stilling her fingers. “Gabby, please, first I want to know what’s bothering you. It hurts me to see you like this.”

  “What I’ve done to you bothers me. Believe it or not, I do have a conscience.” Her gaze met his, her bloodshot eyes suddenly large with what looked like terror. “He made me help. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t go along with it. But he’s going to kill me anyway.” She swallowed loudly.

  Deason’s blood ran cold. “Kill you? What do you mean, Gabby? Who’s going to kill you?”