by Sharon Shinn
“Once you know it’s over, there’s no point in dragging it out,” I say.
“Remind me not to lose my heart to you,” he says.
“I don’t need to remind you,” I reply in a voice of exaggerated patience. “Because we’re not going to be hanging out together anymore. You’re not going to be coming back to Dagmar to get to know me better.”
“Maybe not, but there are plenty of other people here. Some of them might be willing to talk about Ann.”
All the easy camaraderie I’d allowed myself to feel in the past half hour instantly drains away. Once again, I’m filled with tension, anxiety, and prickles of anger. “No. You can’t. You can’t keep coming back and asking people a bunch of questions about my sister. That would be—please don’t. Promise me you won’t.”
He carefully lays his fork on the table and stares at me across the table, giving me his absolute attention. “I’m a reporter,” he says in a gentle voice. “Reporters ask a lot of people a lot of questions and try to build a complete picture of a situation from multiple viewpoints.”
“I don’t care,” I say tightly. “I want you to stop.”
His voice is still soft. “Why? What do you think they’ll tell me?”
“They won’t tell you anything! They don’t know anything! There’s nothing to know!”
“Then why do you care if I talk to them?”
“Because if you keep asking questions, they’ll start asking questions! Ann was always a little weird, I guess, but not crazy-weird. But if you start asking people if she’s a shape-shifter—if you start putting ideas into their heads—I mean—what will they say? What will they think?”
“I think it’s most likely they’ll think I’m a lunatic,” he says. He shrugs. “Unless they already think Ann’s a shape-shifter. Either way, nothing’s going to change just because I ask them a few questions.”
“Brody, don’t. Please.” I have a sudden inspiration. “If you promise me you won’t ask other people about Ann, I will see you again. I’ll—I’ll meet you up in St. Louis for dinner some night, and you can ask me whatever you like.”
“Wow, and now you’re really insulting me,” he says quietly. “You think I’m the kind of guy who stoops to emotional blackmail.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” I say a little wildly. “I just—I want to protect my sister.”
“So what would it hurt?” he wants to know. “If people found out. If they believed she was a shape-shifter. What would change?”
I’m taken wholly aback. Of course it would hurt her. Of course it would change her life. It’s never even occurred to me that this is a secret that can be spoken aloud. “Well, they would—I don’t know, they’d try to lock her up or something—tell the authorities about her—”
He makes a face that clearly conveys an opinion of nah, they wouldn’t bother. “I just don’t see that being a public safety issue that gets the cops and the public health officials all riled up,” he says. “Hell, people keep tigers in their apartments in New York City, and no one even notices until someone gets bitten. Shape-shifters aren’t problematic unless they go around killing people.”
He stops abruptly, and I pounce on his words. “Exactly! Like the last shape-shifter who was identified in St. Louis! The one who murdered five people.”
He gives me an innocent look. “What shape-shifter? Don’t you know that footage was doctored?”
I’m so mad I want to stamp my foot, or throw something, or hit someone, preferably Brody Westerbrook. “My point is, if people think that’s what Ann is, they’ll do something to her. Something terrible.”
“Well, how about this?” he says in a reasonable voice. “You tell me your story, you tell me the truth, and you let me talk to Ann. I—”
“Talk to Ann!”
“That’s right. And then when I include her in my book, I’ll conceal the details. I won’t use her real name or location, just her story. No one will be able to find her. Nothing to worry about.”
I stare at him for a long moment. I realize I’ve been subtly, relentlessly, herded into a perilous and indefensible position. I am at the edge of the cliff, and I can either leap off or make my way forward onto the narrow, treacherous path that has been left open for me. Whether that path leads to safety or the slaughterhouse is still undetermined. “I feel like I’m a field mouse,” I say, trying for bravado, “and the big gray barn cat has just offered me a deal.”
He smiles. “And it’s a good one. Will you take it?”
I draw a long breath. “I might,” I say, making my voice careless, “if Ann was actually a shape-shifter.”
He laughs and leans back against his cushions. “You are a fighter,” he says in an admiring voice.
I pick up my tea and take a sip, just to prove I’m relaxed enough to swallow. I hope he can’t tell what an effort it is. “So I guess we’ve reached an impasse.”
He doesn’t answer; he glances up to see who’s approached our table while we’ve been so focused on each other. I’m expecting it to be Corinna’s daughter, so I’m caught completely off guard when the newcomer grabs a chair from one of the nearby tables and pulls it over to the booth. He reverses it and drops down in a straddle, resting his arms along the back.
“Hey, darlin’,” he says in the exaggerated Ozark accent that Missouri politicians affect because they think it makes them sound like common folk. “Good to see you out on a weeknight.”
Just when I’m thinking the day can’t get any worse, Kurt Markham has come to call. I make no attempt to keep the hostility out of my voice. “Yeah—not so great to see you,” I answer. “Go away.”
Kurt turns his high-wattage smile Brody’s way. “She’s a real friendly girl, as I’m guessing you’ve learned by now.”
If Brody were a bug, I’d say his antennae have gone straight up, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking as he assesses our visitor. Kurt’s bulked up since his high-school days, so he’s burly through his chest and shoulders, but he’s still in excellent shape. He still looks good in jeans and a leather jacket, and the short military haircut suits his strong, even features. He’s big enough, and powerful enough, that he can look menacing if he wants to, but people generally respond so well to his particular brand of charm that he doesn’t have to get ugly. At any rate, Brody is returning Kurt’s smile with one of his own. I don’t know him well enough to be sure, but I think the expression is a fake one. My guess is that Brody’s default response to any new situation is a cautious amiability that generally conceals what he’s really thinking.
“Friendly enough,” Brody replies. “I guess we all have our moods.”
I don’t know how this could be more awkward and annoying, but it seems pointless not to introduce them. I manage it without any grace at all. “Kurt, Brody Westerbrook. A guy I know. Brody, Kurt Markham. Guy who lives here.”
“Markham,” Brody repeats. “Any connection to that subdivision I passed on my way down here? Markham Estates or something?”
“That’s right,” Kurt says, pleased. “I own three parcels of property that I’m developing around town. This is a small community, but growing fast.”
“The houses I saw looked nice. What do they run, maybe twenty-five hundred square feet?”
Kurt hitches his chair even closer. “That’s about average, but we’ve got some floor plans that are right at eighteen hundred—for the retired couple, you know, looking to downsize—and then a few that are over four thousand.” I can see him trying to appraise Brody’s financial status. “You looking to buy something in this area?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Brody says casually. “Right now I rent in the city, but I’ve been thinking it’s time to put down roots, so I might be looking at houses in the next six months or so.”
Kurt reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a card. “Well, anytime you want to look at houses down around here, you call me. I’ll personally give you the tour. The Markham Estates subdivision is almost all sold
, but we’re still breaking ground on Markham Gardens, and you can pick everything—layout, floor coverings, kitchen cabinets, you name it.” He glances at me. “You’re a friend of Melanie’s, I’ll give you a special deal.”
I give him a fierce look. “Maybe I’ll just sell him my house and save us all a lot of trouble.”
Kurt’s perennial smile modulates into a look of earnestness that I trust even less than his friendliness. “You know that was a good offer,” he says. “I’ve always been fair in all my dealings.”
I catch Brody’s quick look between us, but he doesn’t say anything. “Not good enough,” I say. “I’m still not interested.”
Kurt scoots his chair back and stands up. He’s smiling again, and he hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “I haven’t given up on you, Melanie,” he says. “You’ll be hearing from me again.”
I can’t keep myself from scowling at his back as he saunters away, pausing to exchange hellos and hand slaps with a few other patrons. Everyone knows him, of course. Dagmar doesn’t forget its sports heroes, especially if they never move away, and Kurt has parlayed a decent sense of business and a huge store of goodwill into a thriving operation. There are plenty of people here who have jobs because he’s employed them to build houses—or because the growing population has caused a boom in the need for services. Hell, even Corinna has talked about opening a second location. It’s no wonder you always see Kurt down at her restaurant. She feeds him for free, and even I can’t blame her.
“Well, now, there’s a nice rural Missouri boy with some old-fashioned charisma,” Brody observes when Kurt’s out of earshot.
“He’s a prick,” I say, and Brody laughs.
“You made it obvious you think so,” he agrees.
I turn back to give him my full attention. “Well, at least I didn’t flirt with him like you did. ‘Oh, I’m thinking about putting down roots and buying a house.’ Lying to his face for no good reason.”
Brody shrugs. “I want people to like me. If I act like I’m interested in what they care about, they’re more apt to like me. Pretty simple.”
“Why do you care if Kurt Markham likes you?”
“Maybe he’ll be a source for a story I write someday.”
I lower my brows and give him a minatory stare. “Don’t you even think of asking Kurt about Ann.”
He’s grinning. “I bet he’d tell me anything. He seems like a real genuine and up-front kind of guy.”
I’m so irritated by Kurt’s appearance that I lose track of the main issue for the moment. “You don’t really think that, do you? I mean, you weren’t sucking up to him because you actually liked him, were you?”
“I wasn’t sucking up to him.”
“But you didn’t really fall for his good-ol’-boy act, did you? Everyone else does, and it’s so depressing.”
“After—what, five minutes’ conversation?—I don’t think I’m qualified to provide an accurate personality assessment, but I’d say he’s a big fish in a little pond and pretty proud of it. Smug, a little sleazy, but basically honest. He’s broken the hearts of a few local girls, maybe made a couple of deals that weren’t entirely aboveboard, but he’s not an out-and-out villain. Most people like him. He could be a better man, but he could be a worse one.”
“I hate him.”
“Why? He trying to by your house out from under you?”
I’m impressed that he figured it out, given the oblique clues during the brief conversation. “Yeah, but I’m not selling.”
“Why not? Isn’t the money good enough?”
Because I’m afraid Ann won’t ever come home again if I do. “Because I won’t give Kurt the satisfaction.”
Brody’s putting the rest of the pieces together. “So—what?—he needs your land to complete the rest of his Markham Empire? And you’re his last real stumbling block? You could probably make almost any kind of counteroffer, and he’d agree to it. Could be worth a lot of money to him.”
“I’m. Not. Selling.”
Brody leans forward as if he’s hatched a brilliant idea. “Hey, want me to start investigating? Checking out his tax returns and land deals? I could dig up some dirt on his company, go to the newspapers with an exposé. Hell, I could probably make some stuff up, stuff that’s bad enough that the city inspectors would suspend his licenses until he got it all straightened out. That would sure slow him down for a while. Want me to do that? Will you give me an interview then?”
I stare at him for a long moment in which I wrestle with the implications of his offer. Is he really the kind of person who would stoop to those kinds of dirty tricks? Am I the kind of person who would want him to? Is he revealing his true nature? Is he testing me? Is he joking? I’d love to see Kurt Markham taken down a peg or two, and I admit I’d feel pretty gleeful if he ended up in trouble because someone found out he’d been engaged in shady misdeeds. And if I thought he had the power to hurt Ann in some fashion, I’d promote whatever lie was necessary to thwart or annihilate him. But surely we haven’t yet come to that desperate pass. And surely I am not bitter enough to want to harm Kurt just because I can.
“And you accused me of insulting you earlier,” I finally respond. “I don’t know what’s more disturbing. That you’ve made the offer or that you think I might accept it.”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a no.”
He smiles. “That’s what I figured. You drive an SUV, but you have a heart of gold.”
I rub my temples. I am suddenly so tired I think I might disintegrate into dust on the vinyl of the booth. “You’re exhausting me. Let’s pay the check and go.”
On the words, the waitress reappears and lays the bill on the table halfway between Brody and me. Dagmar is a pretty conservative place, but times are hard; lots of women are the breadwinners in local families, and waitresses no longer assume that men are going to be picking up the tab. I know Brody’s on a limited budget, so I consider reaching for the check, but then I remember that I haven’t had a particularly good time, and I didn’t even want to be here in the first place. It’s true that, despite these limitations and the fact that I really, really shouldn’t, I sort of like Brody Westerbrook, but I harden my heart. Let him pay the damn bill. Serve him right.
He doesn’t seem to be having the same internal dialogue; he just scoops up the paper, studies it, and says, “Bargain.” He lays thirty dollars on the table for a total that I know cannot have exceeded twenty dollars. Add to the list of his positive attributes the fact that he’s a generous tipper. So far, the only fault he seems to have is that he wants to destroy me.
“Maybe next time we can have that root beer float,” he says as he scoots out of the booth and stands up.
“There isn’t going to be a next time,” I say, but I’m not sure my voice is convincing.
He shrugs and leads the way to the door. “I’ll let you think it over a few days, then give you a buzz,” he says. “Maybe you’ll have changed your mind.”
I’m still smiling as we settle into the Jeep. Maybe because I’m amused that he thinks I’ll ever betray Ann. Maybe because I’m pleased at the thought that I’ll actually hear from him again. It’s full dark by now, and the parking lot is crowded, so I turn on the headlights and back carefully out of my parking spot. Not until I put the Jeep in drive do I notice the car that’s parked two spaces over and spilling its four occupants onto the lot. The large man is occupied with keeping the two small boys from running into traffic, but the woman is standing next to her closed door, and she’s staring at me right through my windshield.
It’s Debbie, out for a dinner with the family, though it’s awfully late by Corinna’s standards. I roll down the window, and call, “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” I’m almost laughing as I turn out of the parking lot, but there’s an edge of hysteria to the sound. Seriously, this has been one of the strangest days I can ever remember.
“Is that one of the people you don’t want me talking to?” Brody a
sks.
I snort. “Ha. She’s one of the few people I’d trust not to tell you anything. If there was anything to tell. She’s my best friend.”
“Well, good. Maybe you can introduce me sometime.”
I don’t answer, and we don’t speak again until we pull up in front of the house. I’ve left the lamp on in the main room but forgotten to turn on the porch light, so very little illumination reaches the front-yard-cum-gravel-parking-strip that borders the road. The sounds we make as we slam the doors and crunch across the rocks are very loud in the nighttime stillness. I come around the Jeep to stand next to Brody at the driver’s side of his Honda.
“I guess you don’t want to invite me in,” he says.
“Yeah, you know, I feel pretty battered. I just want to curl up and watch TV or maybe go straight to bed.”
He nods. “Can I phone you later in the week?”
Now that I can’t see his face, I’m struck again by the quality of his voice, a soothing tenor with a timbre of sincerity. I don’t want to be seduced by vocal cords, so I try to peer at him through the darkness. “You already threatened to do it.”
I think he’s grinning. “Yeah, but it would be nicer if I didn’t think you were dreading the call.”
I make a helpless gesture with both hands. “I don’t know what to say. I’m never going to talk to you about Ann.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Maybe. Or maybe once you get to know me, you’ll realize you can trust me, and you’ll decide to tell me stuff. And if not—” He shrugs again. “Still doesn’t seem like it would be a waste of my time to hang out with you.”
I try to suffocate the treacherous little flare of warmth that curls around my heart at the words. God, when’s the last time someone flirted with me? “Lotta great entrées you still need to try at Corinna’s.”
“Yeah. Just what I was thinking.”
I can’t come up with anything else to say, so I point at his car. “You think you’ll make it safely back home before your car breaks down?”