by Crowe, Stan
“Clint,” she called as she neared the kitchen. “Are you in there?” No one answered. She peeked around the corner to confirm the kitchen was empty. Next, she tried the basement, but with equally disappointing results. The driveway and garage were likewise deserted except for the Corolla, which was waiting patiently for use. Frustrated, she called out for him again, but heard nothing.
The backyard, she thought.
Lindsay rounded the deck that protruded over the rear garden, and descended the stairs. There, under the flowering trees at the edge of the yard, was Clint. Silhouetted against the moonlit water, he sat staring out at the city, shifting almost as if uncomfortable. Surprisingly, Molly was nowhere in sight. Perhaps the sleeping pills would prove unnecessary.
Lindsay stopped to admire him for a few moments. His darkened form edged with a touch of silver was captivating. How could he say her feelings for him were not real? Calling to mind the feel of his lips, she took a deep breath, and moved in for the kill.
“Clint,” she said, as she approached him. “It’s a nice night—”
Without warning, a new shadow emerged from Clint’s. Long hair spilled and shimmered with a rich, earthen sheen, framing what was clearly a woman’s face. Lindsay froze, and sucked in a breath as one of the woman’s hands came up around Clint’s head. He leaned in, and covered her mouth with his. In the distance, a boat horn whistled low. Water lapped on the sands, the peaceful sound belying the chaos in Lindsay’s heart. The kiss went on as Lindsay felt her heart knot up. Her dragon shrieked orders to kill the interloper, but her insides were slowly turning to stone. How could he do this? How could he lie to her like that? Tell her he couldn’t have anything real, and then turn around and throw himself at Molly like that?
In that moment, Lindsay was sixteen again, lying on her bed, swooning over his description of just how lovely the girl of Clint’s dreams was, only to find out that the girl of his dreams was someone else. All at once she wanted to scream, and cry, and run to Clint and tear his head off while kicking Molly in the teeth. She wanted to slap him until he was one, giant bruise, and then make him suffer the way she had suffered—was still suffering. His kiss had been the ultimate deception, a poison administered to her in the subtlest way. He deserved whatever ill fate he’d been chained to by the untimely death of his gypsy friend.
Lindsay took a quick step toward him, and then pulled up short. No. She was done with this. Done being a slave to stupid passions. Done being any man’s plaything. Done living life on shattered dreams and stupid ambitions. All her hopes and carefully planned fantasies, the long nights gazing at the stars and pouring her heart into her journal were nothing more than the silly delusions of a little girl who had been too afraid to grow up. Biting back the pain, she forced herself to not cry by focusing on wondering whether Mr. Stearns would still accept her into his firm.
TWENTY-TWO
By rights, Clint should have been drowning in Molly that night. He wasn’t.
Ever since she’d played cavalry for him, things had looked on the up and up between them. Still, even as Molly seemed to warm to him, he couldn’t get it out of his mind that Sullivan—Lindsay—was who he really wanted to spend his time with. But how was he supposed to do that after shooting her down a second time, fully conscious of what he was doing? The solution was a weak and patchy one: avoid her as much as possible until this was all over and figure out some way to make it up to her after the fact. Fine dining and a vacation for two were no longer options, and he’d have a hard time beating those.
The morning after Jane’s arrest, Molly had gotten him up extra early on the premise of searching the city for Fey. Clint had pointed out that Lindsay had already done most of the same leg work, but Molly insisted that it was always better to get facts first hand where possible. So it was that he spent the day with her, buzzing past trees or tall buildings, checking the same RV parks, taking pictures, and talking to people. It did seem a bit more official than what Sully had done, but the end results were still the same.
The second day was a repeat of day one.
Day three led out the same way. During his brief shower, Clint formulated a plan. Jonathan had stopped by that morning, and for a few minutes, he occupied Molly’s attention outside. Clint took that chance to creep to Sullivan’s room. When his quiet knock went unanswered he cracked the door open carefully, hoping he wasn’t about to walk into humiliation. Gratefully, Lindsay’s form was still buried under her covers, but before Clint could open the door enough to see more than the bump that was her legs, Molly had called him back for departure.
Clint decided there was no point in stressing himself over something he couldn’t immediately resolve, and so instead decided to just enjoy Molly. She’d changed so much since high school—changed in ways he could definitely get used to. Then again, Lindsay had been utterly transformed from what Clint remembered of those humiliating days when she pestered him, with that nasally laugh, and those overwrought compliments about his amateur art. He could scarcely believe the P.I. he’d hired was the same person.
It was absolutely time to get to know her better.
When they returned from another day on the town, Sullivan was still nowhere to be seen. After a quiet dinner for two in the kitchen, Clint had opted for an evening stroll on the boardwalk. Molly got her jacket without hesitation, and Clint didn’t have the heart to tell her he wanted to go it alone tonight.
Sunset over the bay was great in San Francisco, but it was breathtaking here. Mount Rainier stood as a silent bulwark over its sister waters and the puny inhabitants of the surrounding lands. Where Frisco’s nightlife was energetic to the point of overstimulation at times, Bainbridge nights slowed one’s pulse, relaxed you to the core, and were perfect for drifting away in thoughts and conversation. The chatter with Molly was enjoyable, but somehow hollow—a stage play where the actors said what they did because it was in the script, but not in their hearts.
Molly was gorgeous, intelligent, and obviously capable. She was also hard. Not solely as an FBI agent (he was still digesting that little revelation), but guarded, as though she was constantly expecting to need to defend herself. Sully, by contrast, was much easier to tease, and to enjoy riling. Where Molly was intellectually (and physically) stimulating, Sully was just plain fun. Someone he could see himself enjoying long past the end of this crazy episode. Someone who could need him and be okay being taken care of for a long, long time.
And then Molly had derailed his train of thought with a surprise kiss.
Immediately before the incident, Clint was certain he’d heard someone call his name from across the garden. Before he could turn to look, however, Molly was pulling him toward her with a tender determination in her eyes the likes of which he’d never seen. But when the kiss commenced, it was Lindsay’s face he saw in his mind.
The following sunrise brought new worries. Molly was up even earlier than normal, talking in quiet, clipped tones in the kitchen. She held up a hand when she saw Clint, and then tossed him a newspaper. He caught it with one hand, and set it on the table. He grabbed a bowl of cereal and banana, and poured himself some orange juice. Munching on the cereal, he flipped idly through the paper. Old news. More old news. Recycled articles. What was with these people in Seattle? He turned to the front page and noticed the date; it was yesterday’s paper. He rolled his eyes and pushed it aside. Nursing a migraine, he thought about the fact that Sully hadn’t been first in the kitchen as always. It was one more little way Molly’s arrival had shifted the dynamic between him and Lindsay. It was starting to rankle.
“Where’s Sully?” Clint asked as soon as Molly hung up.
Molly looked at her watch. “Gone. Presumably as far as Portland. Would you like some waffles?”
Clint jumped to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”
“Would you like the dictionary definition or the short version?”
Clint shook his head. “I know what the word means. When
did she leave? And why?”
Molly shrugged, and pulled a waffle iron and a mixing bowl from a cupboard. “Would you like blueberries in your waffles?”
“You knew about this?”
“I’ve known you since you were nine. You’ve always liked blueberries in your—”
“Look,” he said testily, “stop with the waffle thing. Did you, or did you not know that Sullivan was leaving?”
“She’s left the last couple days. Still trying to find your gypsy before we could.” Molly looked pointedly at Clint. “What was in your orange juice this morning?”
“You said she was halfway to Portland. That doesn’t sound like looking for Fey. What did you do to her?”
“I garroted her and set her car on autopilot. Stop glaring. I did nothing.”
He seized Molly’s shoulders. “Then how do you know she’s left the state?”
Molly only blinked. “I read her note.”
He stopped. “Note?”
“It was on the counter when I walked in this morning. Have a look.” She nodded toward a cream-colored piece of stationery resting on the granite bar top. Clint released Molly and snatched up the note.
“Dear Mister Christopherson,” he read aloud. “Thank you for your business. It has come to my attention that my services are no longer required, so I’m leaving you in the care of your friend. I’ll take care of the Corolla. Consider your debt canceled. You should have no further need to contact me.
“Thank you. Miss L. Sullivan. Private Investigator.”
Clint slumped back against the wall.
Molly stepped up next to him and gently touched his shoulder. “You didn’t read the morning news, did you?” The understanding in her voice was surprising.
He leveled an even gaze at her, surprised to see she looked genuinely concerned. “What… was in the news?” Clint didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped quickly to the table and picked up the paper. The front page was about local politics; nothing to do with Sully. He started flipping pages, scanning quickly, but finding nothing that would indicate why she’d suddenly leave without saying goodbye.
“Try B-Six,” Molly said. “Bottom, right-hand corner.”
Clint complied, and saw a small blurb about a vehicle fire. He read it, but thought nothing of it until he glanced at the picture. He did a double take and felt his heart drop into his stomach. His dreams of freedom were wrapped in the black and white flames of a photograph. His only chance for a return to a normal life drifted upward in the thick, oily smoke rising from the conflagration that used to be Aunt Fey’s Roadside Wishouse. Clint sagged into his chair and slouched onto his elbows, unable to take his eyes off the picture.
“She’s… gone,” he muttered. “Gone. I am never going to lead a normal life again.
“And she’s gone, too! Sully.” Clint let his face hit the table, and groaned. “What am I going to do?”
Molly sat next to him, and put her hand on his back this time. “Clint,” she said quietly, “I read the article.” She pursed her lips in thought. “If Holly were here, I’m sure she’d say something sweet and comforting at this point. I don’t do sweet and comforting. I’m the ‘get over it and move on’ kind. But even I know when that’s the wrong thing to say.”
“Thanks. I think.” He stood suddenly. “I need a car. Will Jonathan take me?”
Molly looked up at him strangely. “You’re going after her?”
Clint hoped his face read “no duh” sufficiently that Molly wouldn’t miss it.
She shook her head. “Out of the question.”
He briskly started for his bedroom downstairs, and heard Molly’s footfall behind him. In his room, he grabbed basic personal effects, unlocked the phone Molly had given him, and dialed Lindsay’s number. His heart began to sprint as the phone rang. Maybe this time, Lindsay’s cell phone would actually be turned on.
“Clint,” Molly said from the doorway, “you’re a key witness in the prosecution against Jane. I can’t have you running off again. You will stay here.”
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he murmured. When her voicemail greeted him instead, he hit the “end call” button, and then quickly mashed the redial.
“Clint, you outgrew this kind of behavior in high school.”
He continued ignoring her, and pushed past her and back up into the kitchen where he began pacing as he waited for Lindsay to respond.
“She never loved you,” Molly said quietly from behind.
He stopped. The drone of the voicemail message played in the phone’s tiny speaker.
“She told me herself, Clint.”
“She… told you?”
Molly stepped up to him. “Not in so many words. You’re a man. You don’t get body language unless it involves something incredibly primal.”
“You’re real sweet, Mol.”
“How has she treated you for the last two days? The last week? And let’s not pretend it was a fluke, either.”
He thought about it. A ray of understanding began to dawn in his mind.
“I know how women think, Clint,” she added. “I’ve had a bit of practice. Maybe you didn’t catch the cold shoulder. I watched her, Clint. She was a side of beef in a meat freezer.
“Ask yourself,” she continued, “whether she ever did anything to hint that you were someone she’d willingly enter into a romantic relationship with. I’ve read her profile, Clint. When I found you’d been an idiot and left San Francisco, I spent the next several days sniffing out your trail. It led me to her. Her background isn’t quality resumé material. She was desperate for work. Any work. You just happened to be the first person to walk through her door.”
He remembered that first time he’d met Lindsay, sitting there in her cramped office, the air thick with hope.
“But… the other day, on the beach…”
Molly walked up to him, stopping a breath away. “You mean, me shooting Jane’s underlings? They drew first, Clint. I assure you I acted only in self-defense. What does that have to do with Miss Sullivan?”
That shocked him. “You mean, you shot them?”
“I do believe I just said that. I mentioned it that morning, too, after Sullivan stormed out of the room.”
“Oh. Right. No, the beach. I… I kissed her. Lindsay. I kissed Lindsay that morning.”
Molly’s eyes widened slightly. “I never took you for the suicidal type, Clint.”
He waved it away. “Yes, yes, it was stupid. She tried taking me, not unlike Jane did. I’m sure she would have if she’d been untied at the time.”
“Did you like it?” Molly queried softly.
“I loved it. That’s why it hurt when I woke up and realized I’d hosed myself once again. I’m lucky Sully didn’t chain me while I was asleep.”
“Based on what you’ve told me,” Molly mused, “that is unusual. Do you think she might be immune to your… issue?”
Clint shook his head. “Oh, believe me, she had it bad. Not ‘psychotic Jane’ bad, but she sure tried. No, you’re the only qualifying woman I know who seems immune.
“Still,” he said, and he sat again, heavily.
“Clint, let me help you move past this.” Molly pulled a chair next to him. “Don’t forget I’ve watched you pine over girls before. Marcia Sanderson, Autumn Taylor, Hillary Wells.”
“How’d you know about Hillary?”
“Holly talks.”
“Right.”
Molly leaned forward. “You need help, Clint, and heartbreak is low on the list of stakes. Keeping you safe until Jane is put away is priority number one. I’m assigned to you until after you testify. We’re hoping for open and shut; Jane’s father isn’t exactly on the list of people in line for sainthood. Still, you know the legal system.”
Clint didn’t move.
“We’ll place you in the Witness Protection Program,” she continued. “You’ll be secure, you’ll have your needs covered, and you’ll have a chance to take this all in. You’re going to be fine. I’ll
be with you the entire time. And I will help you past even the heartbreak. It might not mean anything to the FBI, but,” and she pressed her face into his neck, “it means everything to you. And to me.”
He shook his head and looked up. “But she’s gone, Molly. Sullivan’s not coming back, is she?”
She looked directly into his eyes. “You really wanted her, didn’t you?”
Clint turned his head.
Molly snuggled into him and wrapped her arm around his waist. Instinctively, Clint rested his head on hers. It felt good in its own way, but he’d much rather be doing this with Lindsay. He clung to the thought of her like a lifeline against the sucking void of Fey’s untimely demise and all its implications.
As if sensing his remorse, Molly kissed his cheek. “It’s going to be fine, Clint. You’ve got me now.”
TWENTY-THREE
Three years later…
The dark wood paneling of the courtroom seemed to almost glow with the victory. A man with an equine face and raven hair coated in enough gel to style an entire yak stepped up to Lindsay and proffered a hand. “Congratulations, Counselor,” he said. “Those were some of the finest prosecuting arguments I’ve heard in my time. How long have you been doing this?”
Lindsay shook the hand and nodded politely. “Not quite three years, but thank you. And you, Mister Reaves. You’ve earned your reputation. Frankly, I wasn’t sure that we’d be able to sway the jury after you got done speaking with them, notwithstanding the body of convicting evidence we had.”
Reaves smiled. “You’re too kind. But honestly, it was excellent work.”
Lindsay thanked him again, and began organizing a stack of documents before filing them carefully in her briefcase.
“I was thinking,” Reaves added, sitting sideways on her table, “that our firm could use a sharp, new prosecuting attorney. Mister Kinsler is set to retire at the end of next month. He’s old hat, but I think you’d be able to fill his shoes in no time.” He scooted closer and leaned in. “I’d be willing to give you a little personal training, even.”