Fall Into Me: Hearts of the South

by Linda Winfree

  The familiar landscape of Long Lonesome Road flashed by and he braked for the next drive on the left. An ironic laugh scoured his throat. Like he’d find any answers here, of all places.

  Regardless, he turned down the long gravel drive. Tick’s truck was absent, but Mark pulled to a stop behind Falconetti’s Volvo. The quiet murmur of the river beyond the tree line greeted him when he stepped from the vehicle. Some of the comfortable calm surrounding the home settled into him.

  He rapped a quiet knock at the back door and waited. Moments later, Falconetti appeared, warm welcome blooming on her face. “Hey, Cookie.”

  “Hey.” She stepped back to let him enter and he rubbed at his jaw, trying to pull himself together. He glanced around the living area. “Where’s the rugrat?”

  “Asleep. It took me half an hour to get him settled.” She pointed at the bassinet next to the leather chair. “Please don’t wake him up.”

  An unwilling smile pulled at his mouth. How Tick, of all people, had fathered an infant with a temperament like unstable nitroglycerin was really beyond him.

  “Do you want something? Coffee?” She pulled a couple of mugs from an overhead cabinet, movements colored by her easy elegance.

  “Sounds good.” He’d never finished the cup he’d gotten from the diner. Hell, he didn’t even think it had made it into the car with him. He couldn’t remember. He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and surveyed the array of photos lining the living room wall. His gaze fell on a snapshot of Tori and Tick sitting on the dock at their mother’s home. Her eyes sparkled with good humor, the impish smile he adored curving her pretty mouth. His chest seized up all over again.

  “Here you go.” Caitlin presented him with a painted mug full to the brim with steaming black coffee. She gestured with her own cup of milk. “Would you prefer to sit in the living room or at the dining table while you spill your guts?”

  He darted a glance at her, the cup halted halfway to his lips. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, please.” She pinned him with her Fed look, not softened at all by her casual appearance—jeans, thin T-shirt, hair piled in a haphazard knot. “You’re not here looking for Tick. So you just stopped by in the middle of a shift to admire Lee? I don’t think so. I’ve interviewed death-row inmates hours before execution who looked less haggard and shell-shocked than you do right now. Something is wrong and you’re looking for someone you can trust.”

  He released a shuddery exhale. “I hate when you do that.”

  “So I’ve heard.” She tilted her head toward the table. “So sit and spill it.”

  With one last glimpse at Tori’s image, he obeyed. He wrapped his hands around the mug, hoping the warmth from the pottery would transfer to his chilled spirit. It didn’t. Caitlin didn’t speak, the silence around them broken only by the slight whistle of the wind whipping under the eaves and Lee’s occasional snuffle.

  He sipped. The hot liquid didn’t soothe his too-tight throat, either. He chafed his thumbs around the rim. “I just had a conversation with Angel Henderson.”

  “Should I know her?”

  “She owns the Cue Club.”

  “The cute blonde with the turquoise boots.”

  “That’s the one.” He felt Caitlin’s steady gaze on his face but didn’t look up. Instead, he bracketed his mug with both hands and studied the pattern of veins and lines and scars on their backs. “I’ve known her a long time, since she bought the bar. When I was at DCPD, the guys and I would hang out there on our nights off, play pool, watch the game, that kind of thing. Angel and I…we flirted. She was engaged, I wasn’t interested, it didn’t mean anything, you know? It was just some stupid thing we always did.”

  He lapsed into silence. Caitlin didn’t prod him, but sat patiently, sipping her milk. From the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of sunlight over Tick’s rings on her hand. He cleared his throat.

  “So a couple of months back, one night she tells me her engagement’s off. He’d married someone else on a lark while he was in Biloxi. So I said, hey, why don’t we go out sometime then. I wasn’t expecting her to take me up on it.”

  “And she did.”

  “Yeah. I thought, why not? It’s just dinner and a movie. Except I got called out to work a domestic at the ER with Tori and…I don’t know. Angel made a move and I followed through on it. It was the stupidest goddamn thing I’ve ever done.” He propped his elbow on the table and buried his mouth in his hand. “She’s pregnant.”

  “Oh my God.” Caitlin’s dismay didn’t make him feel any better.

  “If this baby’s mine, I can’t turn my back on that.”

  “Of course not.” She folded her fingers around his. “No one who knows you would expect you to.”

  He looked up then, into dark green eyes soft with concern. “You believe in fate, Falconetti?”

  “Not per se.” She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “But I agree with Tick, that there’s a plan for our lives if we look for it.”

  “Part of me keeps hanging up on the insane idea that somehow, I’m being given back what was taken from me.”

  “Just not in the way you expected.”

  “Right.” He dropped his hand from his mouth and glanced away. “Crazy, huh?”

  “Not at all. Makes perfect sense to me.” Her gaze dwelled a moment on the nearby bassinet before tracking back to his. “You said if it’s yours. Is there a question?”

  “It could be the ex-fiancé.” The memory of Angel’s defeated demeanor, her tears and hurt, swam in his mind. “Might be better for most everyone if it’s not.”

  “For most everyone?”

  He scuffed at his nape and stretched back in the chair, seeking movement to relieve the god-awful tension gripping him with iron tentacles. “This could…I don’t know how Tori will take this.”

  “I wondered when we’d get to that.”

  Eyes closed, he fought the squeezing sensation in his chest again. After a moment, he lifted heavy lids. “She could leave me.”

  “Yes, she might.”

  Reaction to her calm statement crashed through him, a torrent of hurt and anger and fear. “Damn it, Cait, you’re supposed to tell me she won’t.”

  “You came looking for someone to trust, Mark, not to bullshit you.” She didn’t look away. “She’s unpredictable, and I can only begin to imagine how she might respond.”

  “Shit.” He leaned forward, face pressed into both hands.

  “Does Tori know you slept with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she react to that?”

  “Not well.” He lifted his head. “She’s insecure about Angel. I thought she was moving beyond that, but this might be too much.”

  “She’s insecure about Angel,” Caitlin repeated. “Not other women in your past?”

  “No, not really.”

  “So her uncertainty is fixated on Angel.” She tapped a fingernail on the table, her brow wrinkling in familiar concentration. Mark shook his head. Nice to know the soap-opera nightmare his life had turned into in a matter of minutes could provide fodder to hone her profiling skills. “Who just happens to be the last woman you had sex with before becoming involved with her.”

  Maybe she’d just rather open his wrists for him. “Falconetti—”

  “That’s it.”

  “What’s it?” he snapped.

  “She’s experiencing a sexual awakening with you, but she probably hasn’t come fully into her sexuality, not yet. It’s still too soon. She’s missing the confidence that comes along with that, and Angel represents everything she’s not.”

  “It’s great that you figured it all out, Falconetti, but how does that help me?”

  “It doesn’t.” She bit her bottom lip and her apologetic gaze met his. “You’re probably screwed.”

  “Great.” He’d been afraid of that. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

  “You have to tell her, today, before it gets out and she hears it from someone else.”


  “Yeah.” He let his lashes fall briefly. “I know.”

  The distinctive rumble of Tick’s truck sounded in the drive, and Mark tried not to cringe. Shit, no telling what trouble this was going to cause there either. He could see the rift in their partnership getting wider by the second. Damn it, all of this because of one careless, stupid action, because he’d been—

  “Cookie.” Caitlin touched his wrist, brought him out of the self-recriminations. “Don’t.”

  He nodded, taking a quick moment to gather himself. A key grated in the lock, and the door swung open.

  “Hey, precious.” Tick dumped his keys, the mail and a grocery bag on the island. The small box he juggled on his forearm toppled to the floor with a quiet bang. In immediate response, a coughing cry rose from the bassinet, building rapidly to a wail. “Holy hell, I didn’t mean to wake him.”

  Caitlin slanted a you’re-a-dead-man look in Tick’s direction and hurried to lift the angry baby into her arms. “You must find a quieter way to enter this house, Lamar Eugene.”

  “Hey, Cookie.” Tick leaned against the island, handheld radio near his ear. “What are you doing here?”

  “He dropped by to see me.” With the baby tucked beneath her chin, Caitlin swayed him from side to side.

  “You’re not listening to this?” Tick pointed at the radio and adjusted the volume higher.

  “No, I went 10-6 for a while.” He patted his side, where his radio should be. Hell, had he left it in the car? Was he that far gone today? “Left my radio in the car. What’s going on?”

  “You never leave it in the car.” Tick looked at him askance then shrugged it off. “10-80 out of Whitman County, that new guy who’s been over there less than a month. Just came across the river bridge, headed this way. He’s requesting interception.”

  Mark frowned. “Who’s he chasing?”

  “Late-model red F-150 with Chandler County tags. Deb’s running them, since he’s going through our dispatch now.”

  Oh, hell. A new red Ford? Foreboding hurtled through Mark. Surely not…

  “Chandler to Whitman 806, registration comes back as James Isaac Bostick, 113 Schley Road, Coney. No wants or warrants on the vehicle.” Deb’s calm voice filtered through the slight crackling.

  “10-4, Chandler. Continuing pursuit, approximately two miles from county line, request assistance.”

  “Damn it,” Mark muttered. Ten to one, Paul Bostick was driving, even with his license suspended. Apprehension curdled in his gut. This was not going to be good. He lifted his gaze and found his own uneasiness reflected in Tick’s dark eyes.

  “Chandler C-13 to Whitman 806.” His tone cool and capable, Troy Lee broke into the radio silence. “Discontinue pursuit. Suspect won’t stop if you continue. We’re aware of the suspect’s domicile, will 10-91.”

  Mark nodded along with Troy Lee’s suggestion. He didn’t see Paul stopping, and they could easily pick him up at home.

  “Negative, C-13.” A siren wailed behind the Whitman deputy’s voice. “Suspect is traveling in excess of ninety.”

  “806, suspect is known and will not stop. Repeat, suspect will not stop. Discontinue pursuit at the county line.” Natural authority laced Troy Lee’s voice.

  “Negative again, C-13. Just crossed the line, passing Long Lonesome Road.”

  “What?” Tick frowned at the radio. His gaze jerked to the windows. “There’s no way. We’d have heard them come by and even at ninety—”

  “He’s confusing Old Lonely with Long Lonesome, which means he’s chasing that kid straight onto Highway 3, north of the second S curves.” Disquiet shivered over Mark’s already stretched nerves. “Tell that son of a bitch to stop and get Troy Lee’s twenty. Chris’s too.”

  “Chandler C-2 to Whitman 806, cease 10-80 immediately. Repeat, cease 10-80 immediately. C-2 to C-13 and C-5, 10-20.”

  On his feet, Mark tagged Tick’s chest as he headed for the door. “Come on.”

  “Precious, I’ll be back.” Radio at his ear, Tick followed him outside as Chris responded with his location.

  “C-5 to C-2, southbound on Highway 3, approximately seven miles north of the Flint crossroads.”

  Troy Lee keyed in behind him. “C-13 to C-2, northbound on Highway 3, just passed PSC Road.”

  “They’re gonna cross over each other.” Mark strained his ears, listening for sirens. Nothing. “If he was passing Old Lonely Road, doing ninety, they should be…where?”

  “Hell, I can’t do that math in my head. Probably…near the Flint crossroads. Troy Lee’s closer than Chris.” Tick lifted the radio to his mouth again. “C-13, can you intercept with the spike strip?”

  “Negative, C-2. If they passed Long Lonesome, suspect is headed in opposite direction. C-5 should be able to intercept.”

  Mark ground his teeth. “But he didn’t pass Long Lonesome—”

  “Whitman 806 to Chandler, suspect traveling south on 3, in excess of a hundred.” A buzz of static accompanied the deputy’s voice.

  “That son of a bitch didn’t stop when I told him to, in my county?” Tick bounded down the back steps two at a time. “I ought to kick his ass.”

  “We’ll do it together.” Mark jogged to the driver’s side. He fired the engine and pulled into a three-point turn. He tried to pin down a mental map of the county. His back tires squalled on the pavement as he entered the roadway. “They’re going to cross over Troy Lee near the curves, but they’re going that fast, no way he has time to put out the strips.”

  “I know.” Tick bounced the radio against his thigh, his jaw tight. “I want Troy Lee in between them and this idiot from Whitman County, to make the stop. And then I want that asshole’s badge.”

  He brought the radio to his mouth, but the Whitman deputy keyed in. “Whitman 806 to Chandler, approaching the curves on 3. 10-20 on assistance…oh, shit!”

  Mark’s gut heaved to his feet, sending a surge of adrenaline into his chest.

  “Chandler, Chandler, Whitman 806. Suspect vehicle is 10-50. Repeat, suspect vehicle is 10-50. Chandler unit 10-50 also. Did you hear me? 10-50, suspect vehicle and Chandler unit.”

  “Holy hell,” Tick muttered. Mark punched the accelerator. Shitshitshit…that had to be Troy Lee. It had to be.

  Chris’s unit screamed by at the intersection, his voice calling in ETA to dispatch as Deb reported ambulances and wreckers en route.

  “Try to raise Troy Lee. See if he’s all right.” A 10-50 accident call could be anything, including Troy Lee merely putting the unit in the ditch, but Mark didn’t like the ominous absence of Troy Lee’s voice on the radio.

  “C-2 to C-13, copy?” Only Deb’s voice and that of responding emergency personnel crackled on the frequency. Tick’s mouth tightened, the skin around it pale, and he keyed the mike again. “C-13?”

  Nothing. Mark held the wheel tighter. Damn it.

  Ahead of them, Chris swooped around the first of the curves. His brake lights flared. Mark slowed as he entered the curve and the short straightaway before the second curve, the wicked one with the dip in the road. Blue lights atop Chris’s car and the Whitman County unit sparked in the watery winter sunlight.

  The scene, what he was seeing, twisted metal and smoke, broken glass and still-spinning wheels, slammed into Mark’s brain.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” Tick whispered.

  The salon door squeaked as Angel pushed it open. Peroxide and hairspray tickled her nose, but something else entirely made her eyes burn. She was hollow and hurting, and sometimes a girl just needed her mama. She dropped her bag on the bench under the window.

  “Hey, baby.” Mama looked up from organizing her roller tray. Her gaze sharpened. “What’s wrong?”

  Angel walked into her embrace and buried her face against the neck that always smelled like Avon Night Odyssey. A sob tried to escape and she closed her raw throat, holding in the wail. “Oh, Mama, it’s been the day from hell.”

  Mama rocked her side to side and patted her back. “Trouble with
that young man of yours?”

  “No, he’s fine. He’s great.” With a rough sigh, Angel pulled back and knuckled fresh tears from under her eyes. “It’s just…stuff. Is Daddy home?”

  “Not yet.” Still eyeing her with maternal concern, Mama went back to sorting rollers and rods. “He should be here soon. I’ve got a perm to do before supper.”

  The door leading to the hallway between the salon and the house swung open, and Hope’s oldest daughter Brittany flounced through, her arms full of folded towels. “You’re mean, Mama.”

  “Yes, I am,” Hope agreed, settling a load of empty color bottles on the shelf over the sinks. “Get used to it.”

  “We were just going riding at the river.” Brittany shoved towels in the baskets by each salon chair. “You could have let me do that.”

  “And you could just follow the rules.” Hope snapped her fingers sideways for emphasis.

  “I am so going off to college, just to get away from you.”

  “Great. In two years, I’ll help you pack.” Hope pointed toward the hallway. “Right now, go vent your teenage resentment in the laundry room and fold the rest of those towels.”

  Brittany huffed through the doorway. Hope sank into her salon chair. She graced Angel with a saccharine smile. “Don’t you wish you had one of those?”

  Angel wasn’t touching that one. She perched on Mama’s chair. “What’s she mad about?”

  “She told us she was at one of her friend’s houses the other night. Turns out, she was riding around with Paul Bostick. Darryl ’bout had a fit. So she’s grounded and she’s pissed at the world, especially since he called her earlier, wanting her to go to the river with him and some other kids.” Hope shook her head. “I don’t like the idea of that boy around her. He’s a senior and way too fast for her, if you get my meaning.”

  Mama slid an ironic look in her direction. “Chickens do come home to roost, you know.”

  Hope rolled her eyes. “Thanks a lot, Mama.”

  A big diesel engine growled outside, followed by the thump of boots on the hall floor. Mama tilted her head to the side with a smile. “There’s your daddy.”

  He burst through the door, his beloved scanner in hand. “Marie, where’s my power cord? Damn batteries won’t hold a charge.”