by CJ Petterson
The aroma of coffee brewing followed him down the hall. He carried a white plastic box, the lid decorated with a small red cross. He set the first-aid kit on the bed then closed the bedroom blinds and turned on the bedside lamp.
He dragged over a chair, sat knee-to-knee with her, tipped antiseptic onto a cotton ball, and daubed the wetness across her cheek and the tiny nicks the box cutter had made on her wrist. She stared at his chin, sent her mind elsewhere, and steeled herself against the sting.
He tore off the adhesive covering of one side of a tiny, H-shaped “butterfly” bandage, gently pinched the edges of her cut together, bridged the seam with the center of the bandage, and pressed the adhesive against her cheek. In one motion, Sully stripped the remaining adhesive cover and pressed down the other side of the H. He used three butterflies to close the cut.
“That should hold it until you can get to a plastic surgeon.”
She ran her fingertips lightly over the uneven ridges of plastic strips. “It’ll do fine.”
“Not going to check my handiwork in the mirror?”
She shook her head. “I’m too tired to care.”
“You’re coming down from shock. I made coffee.”
“I can smell it. Thanks. Don’t take this as a reflection of your dynamic personality, but I think I need a nap. I’m whipped.” Mirabel felt around under a wad of sheets and pulled out a pillow.
“Sorry for the mess,” he said. “I didn’t plan on company.”
“I’m not company.”
She reshaped the pillow with a balled-up fist then held it behind her head, closed her eyes, and fell backward across the bed. The idea that falling into Sully’s bed wasn’t the prudent thing to do blinked on then off in the back of her mind. She pulled the sheets across her body then let her arms flop in an unclosed circle above her head. As tension left her limbs, she felt herself sagging into the mattress. Her stomach growled, and she chuckled. “My tummy wants to know if you have anything to eat.”
“How’s a chili omelet sound?” he asked.
“Sounds wonderfully messy.” She watched with one half-open eye as he packed up the first-aid supplies and set the box on the night table. “But ask me again in a few minutes,” she murmured just before her view of him disappeared completely.
“Not a problem. I have a phone call to make then I’ll come back and check on you.”
• • •
The bed moved, and Mirabel realized Sully had laid down beside her. She felt him watching her but kept her eyes closed even though the closeness of his body sent waves of heat into hers. She inhaled his scent — slightly sweet with aftershave, slightly sour with sweat — savored it, and exhaled slowly.
Several minutes later, when she had relaxed again to the verge of dozing off, she felt the feathery touch of his finger. He brushed the rim of her lips and moved over the curve of her chin, following the downward slope of her neck, honing her senses. The memory of how he loved to caress her there compressed time, and she was twenty-five and trembling again.
When his finger continued past the hollow of her throat, she opened her eyes. “What?” she asked. The finger halted its downward path, and his eyes took on a warm glow. They watched each other as he kissed her.
His mouth lingered on hers until she pushed him away. Mirabel became aware she was holding her breath only when she remembered to breathe again. She didn’t realize until then how much she wanted to be shielded, comforted. She ached for his touch.
She kept her hands braced against his chest while she studied his face, committing his features to a new memory bank. “Some gray, a few more character lines,” she said. Then she slowly shook her head. “This can’t be a good idea.”
He switched off the lamp. The distant kitchen light painted the room in shades of gray and played across his face, drawing shadowy angles.
Her heart started to race, forcing a groan into her throat. She needed him in a strange and desperate way. Sully’s body held memories, wonderful, sweet memories, and right then she could forget how painful and miserable love could be. She lifted to meet him when he kissed her again.
She outlined the shape of his mouth with the tip of her tongue then slowly ran her tongue over her lips. Then she sank down into the pillow and smiled, remembering the first time they had explored each other. She whispered the same thing she had whispered then: “I knew you would taste good.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Evan checked his watch and yawned. His shift wouldn’t end for another five hours, but he was content to be bored. The growling noises under his belt reminded him it was coming up on time to take a break. His wife would have supper on the stove. The sun had grown from a distant white dot into a fat, burnished golden globe retreating steadily toward the edge of the earth. A patch of cumulus clouds rimmed the horizon, captured the last rays, and changed the colorless day into a mauve and gold twilight.
He stopped at the blinking red traffic signal and watched a brown and white wire-haired dog of mixed and undetermined origins trot across the intersection. The stray stopped beside the gas station on the corner to inspect an overturned garbage can.
The sheriff caught sight of little more than a blur when a car tore through the light. The white limo passed his cruiser headed into oncoming traffic then swerved back in front of him, tires squealing.
“Stupid son-of-a — ” Evan gasped. He punched the accelerator and flipped the on-dash switch. The siren yelped, and the light bar strapped to the top of the police car strobed red and blue. The Police Special engine kicked into passing gear. The tires squealed and burned parallel strips of rubber on the asphalt.
He searched blindly for the microphone, yanked it out of its dashboard clip, and radioed his duty officer.
“Jonas, I’m in pursuit of a white limo. Blew by me at the light on Main. Must be doing more’n a hundred. California plate. Got a partial: Three, seven, seven, Charlie. Don’t know the model. But I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of Mercedes.”
“What’s your twenty?”
“On County E16 right now, headed south.”
“Deputy Lee clocked out an hour ago. You don’t have backup.”
“Don’t need it. No way I can catch this guy. Just want to try to keep him in sight to see if I can figure out where he’s headed. Let me know when you run the plate.”
“On it.”
Evan watched the limo perform a screaming one-eighty and barrel toward him. Despite the car-rocking maneuver, its racing diesel engine didn’t slow down enough to change pitch.
Evan dropped the mic next to his leg. A burst of adrenaline sent sweat trickling down his back. “What the hell? I’m not about to play chicken with you,” he muttered.
He snugged down his seatbelt, and his pursuit training kicked in. Setting his hands at eleven and one o’clock on the steering wheel, he wrapped his fingers around the circle then moved his thumbs on top. He didn’t want them broken by the spokes if the wheel tore out of his grip.
He focused on the white vehicle hurtling straight at him then swung the cruiser hard right. The limo matched the change in direction and kept coming.
“Evan?” Jonas’s tinny voice crackled in the air.
“Kinda busy right now,” he said without reaching for the mic.
When he spun the wheel, the rear tires of the cruiser lost traction in the dirt on the shoulder of the road. The car swayed and fishtailed. The rear end swung wildly from side to side then snapped into the U-turn.
The sheriff stomped on the gas pedal and roared down the highway headed back toward town like a racecar on a straightaway. He swiped a sweaty palm across his pants leg. The cruiser’s horsepower was no match for what the limo had under its hood.
Evan’s eyes flicked between the road and the rearview. He watched the limo close the distance between them. Within a mile, the
vehicle pulled alongside his door.
The sheriff glanced toward his pursuer. With any luck, he thought, this sucker will think he’s got me going straight then I’ll break off.
The darkened rear-passenger window slid down into the doorframe, and an automatic weapon came into view. The size of the bore startled him. Evan’s eyes moved up.
“What the — ” At the instant he recognized the shooter, the gun spewed a glare of fire. Bullets pounded his door, shattered its glass. He grunted and was pushed sideways as the rounds thudded into his body. Suddenly it took a great effort to breathe.
His boot jammed between the break pedal and the accelerator. The throttle stuck wide open; he raced toward the glowing blister on the horizon that was Mendocito. The big sedan showed up in his rearview when the car swung in behind him, a blackened silhouette against the dying sun.
Jonas’s call sounded like an echo fading in the distance. “Evan? Come in, Evan.”
Evan pulled a shallow inhale through gritted teeth, blinked to clear his dimming vision. The cruiser’s tires crossed the shoulder. The car spun crazily in the dirt and then flipped into a death roll. The sheriff’s consciousness blinked out as black smoke and flames erupted from the under the hood.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sully stood in front of the bathroom mirror clad in a pair of black silk boxer shorts. He scraped morning stubble off his face to the sound of a plaintive, bluesy saxophone on the radio. Muscles rippled over his arms and shoulders with his slightest movement. A quarter-sized white scar that dimpled his skin just below his right collarbone reminded him of a near-fatal encounter with Saint John.
He was examining a still-red hash mark on his right upper arm when his cellphone made a racket on the counter. He toweled off the smear of shaving cream on one cheek, picked up the cell, and flipped it open. He read the caller ID — Mira Linda Hospital. He switched off the radio, straightened, and answered.
“O’Sullivan.”
“That’s pretty formal, isn’t it?”
The voice didn’t have the distinctive baritone boom he was used to, but Sully recognized it immediately. “Frank!” He smiled broadly at his reflection in the mirror. “I saw the hospital number. I thought — ”
“Don’t go all melodramatic on me. My cell is in hospital security. You been watching the news?”
“Not yet,” he said, padding barefoot into the bedroom to find the remote and switch on the TV. “What’s going on?”
“Channel three,” Frank prompted.
Sheriff Thompson’s official departmental picture was posted in the upper left corner of the screen. A young, blond field reporter with a nerf-covered microphone in her hand stood in front of a flurry of activity. Police, fire, and ambulance vehicles with lights flashing and uniformed personnel filled the background. Everyone seemed focused on a smoking hulk of metal. Sully turned up the sound.
“Tragic news this morning. Mendocito’s Sheriff Evan Thompson was killed in a fiery one-car crash last night on County E16, just outside the township limits. A department spokesperson said the sheriff had been involved in a high-speed pursuit of an unidentified vehicle. Authorities are investigating, but speculate he may have lost control of his vehicle, which then rolled and burst into flame. As you can see behind me, police, fire, and rescue units are still here at the scene working to free the body from the wreckage. We’ll have updates on this tragic accident as more information becomes available. I’m — ”
“Sully.” Frank’s hollow, electronic voice was a faint but insistent nudge. “Sully.”
Sully pushed the mute button on the TV remote and lifted the phone to his ear. “Yeah, Frank, I’m here. You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Somebody got rid of a liability.”
“Evan seemed to be dragging his feet on the investigation,” Sully said, “but we don’t have any proof he was on the wrong side of this thing.”
“When has not having proof stopped you from playing a hunch? Where’s the doc?”
“She’s here with me.”
“Let’s see — it’s seven-thirty in the morning. I’d say that was an all-nighter. Get lucky?”
“Mirabel was right. You are an S.O.B.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Griebe said and chuckled. “Ow, that hurts. Stop making me laugh. Where’d Ridley get to?”
“Beating the grass for info on Briggs.” Sully cleared his throat. “How — ”
“I’m going to be fine. I had a cramp in my foot this morning and moved my leg. Doc says another day or so, and I’ll be out of here. I’m thinking you’ll have to hire me a nurse, though. I get to do the interviews.”
Sully felt the tension drain out of his shoulders, and he chuckled. “Can’t keep the old dog down.” Then he lowered his voice. “Are you up to doing me a favor?”
“Sure, as long as I don’t have to get out of this comfortable bed.”
“When Ridley checks in, I’m going to bring Mirabel over to babysit you.”
“Gee, that ought to be fun,” Griebe said. “Quality time with an alpha female.”
“Can’t handle it?”
“No problemo. Just give me time to see a man about a chair and a whip.”
• • •
Mirabel watched Sully finish shaving then held out a cup of coffee. “Just like you like it: black, no sugar … if memory serves.”
“Thanks.” Sully nodded and wiped the last vestiges of shaving cream off his face before he reached for the cup. “Sleep okay?”
She read an intimate tenderness in his eyes, and her face warmed at the memory of their lovemaking. And that was a problem. She had stirred the cold ashes of feelings and found an ember. It wasn’t what she wanted out of a one-night stand.
She tightened her jaw a notch, lifted her chin, and smiled. “Fine,” she said. “And you?”
“Like a baby at his mother’s breast,” he teased and sipped at his coffee.
She slid her eyes across his scars to the television and gasped.
“Before you ask, I had nothing to do with that.”
Eyes glued to the TV set, her answer came in a breathy whisper: “I didn’t think you did.”
His cellphone vibrated across the sink top again. He checked the display and toggled it on.
“What have you got, Pete?”
After a few seconds, Sully ended the call and set his coffee cup on the dresser. “Pete’s got a lead on Ray.”
Hearing Ray’s name distracted her from the tragedy being reported. “I didn’t hear the phone ring.”
“I had it turned off so it wouldn’t wake you.” He tossed the phone on the bed and stepped into a pair of jeans.
She put her cup down next to Sully’s. “I’m going with you.”
He shook his head. “There’s something else I need you to do. Go by the hospital and check on Frank. Can you do that?” He pulled on a black T-shirt.
“If you hadn’t just asked him to babysit me, I might’ve bought that baloney,” she said over his protests. “I heard you talking to him when I was coming down the hall.”
“Not what I said. I said you were going to babysit him.”
“Then why did you ask him to do you a favor?”
“I never could lie to you.”
“Excuse me? You lied to me the first day we met and have never quit.”
“Not because I wanted to, Mirabel.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to the hospital.”
He plopped on the edge of the bed, pulled on sweat socks and a pair of grungy running shoes. “You’re probably not going to stay put either, are you?” he said.
“Tell me what I can do.”
“How’s your leg?” He stood up, lifted his holster off the back of the chair, and slipped his arms through the straps. The SIG-Sa
uer was on the dresser.
“Healing fine. Pinches a little sometimes, that’s all.” She lifted her leg and flexed her knee a couple of times.
He watched her then checked the load on the SIG. “I need to know about Evan,” he said and holstered the weapon. “Go down to his office and talk to Tina and his new deputy. Get as much information as you can. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything about Ray.”
She studied him for a few moments without committing.
“I’ll call,” he said.
“I believe you. I’m just surprised you’re letting me go alone.”
“Pete just told me where Saint John is, and you’ll be going in the opposite direction.”
Her heart quickened. “Saint John’s got Ray.”
He nodded and reached into the top dresser drawer and lifted out a Glock 17. He pulled a loaded magazine from under a pile of socks, inserted it, and held out the weapon to her, butt first. “Here. It’s small, less than two pounds loaded. Just your size.”
She shook her head. “I might accidentally shoot someone.”
“Can’t happen. It’s got three safeties. Including this modified thumb safety.” He pointed to each one.
“I’m no good with a gun.”
“Now who’s lying? I’ve seen you on the firing range, and you’re better than a lot of cops I know.”
“I don’t need a gun to talk to Evan’s deputy.”
“Take it. Please.”
She shook her head and took a step back with her hands in the air.
He looked at Mirabel then at the gun. “You are the most — ”
“I know, and you love it.”
He dropped out the magazine and slid the weapon’s pieces back into the drawer. “Come on, I’ll drop you off.”