Best Kept Secrets

by Sandra Brown

  The morning was a washout in terms of discovering new clues. Nothing diverted her mind from the disturbing conversation she had had with Reede. If a deputy hadn’t knocked on the office door and interrupted them, she didn’t know whether she would have clawed at Reede’s eyes or yielded to her stronger urge to press her body close to his and kiss him.

  At noon she stopped trying to concentrate and crossed the street to have lunch at the B & B Café. Like most people who worked downtown, that had become her habit. No longer were conversations suspended when she went in. Every now and then she even merited a greeting from Pete if he wasn’t too busy in the kitchen.

  She dawdled over her meal as long as possible, scooting the yellow ceramic armadillo ashtray back and forth across her table and leafing through Pete’s printed brochure on the proper way to prepare rattlesnake.

  She was killing time, loath to return to the dingy little office in the basement of the courthouse and stare into space, recounting unsettling thoughts and reviewing hypotheses that seemed more farfetched by the hour. But one thought kept haunting her. Was there any connection between Celina’s death and Junior’s hasty marriage to Stacey Wallace?

  Her mind was steeped in speculation when she left the café. Ducking her head against the cold wind, she walked toward the corner. The traffic light, one of the few downtown, changed just as she reached the corner. She was about to step off the cracked and buckled concrete curb when her arm was caught from behind.

  “Reverend Plummet,” she stated in surprise. Subsequent events had quickly dismissed him and his timid wife from her mind.

  “Miss Gaither,” he said in a censorious tone, “I saw you with the sheriff this morning.” He could have tacked on any number of deadly sins to account for the accusation smoldering in his deep-set eyes. “You’ve disappointed me.”

  “I fail to see—”

  “Furthermore,” he interrupted with the rolling intonation of a sidewalk evangelist, “you’ve disappointed the Almighty.” His eyes rounded largely, then closed to mere slits. “I warn you, the Lord will not tolerate being mocked.”

  She nervously moistened her lips and glanced around, hoping to see some avenue of escape, though she didn’t know what form it might take. “I haven’t meant to offend you or God,” she said, feeling foolish for even making such a statement.

  “You haven’t locked the iniquitous behind bars yet.”

  “I haven’t found any reason to. My investigation isn’t complete. And just to set the record straight, Reverend Plummet, I didn’t come here to lock anybody behind bars.”

  “You’re being too soft on the ungodly.”

  “If by that you mean that I’ve approached this investigation impartially, then yes, I have.”

  “I saw you this morning fraternizing with that son of the devil.”

  His maniacal eyes were arresting, if repellent. She caught herself staring into them. “You mean Reede?”

  He made a hissing sound, as though the very name conjured up an evil spirit that must be warded off. “Don’t be taken in by his wily devices.”

  “I assure you, I’m not.”

  He came a step closer. “The devil knows where women are weak. He uses their soft, vulnerable bodies as channels for his evil powers. They’re tainted, and must be cleansed by a regular outpouring of blood.”

  He isn’t only nutty, he’s sick, Alex thought in horror.

  He slapped his hand upon his Bible, causing Alex to jump. Raising his index finger into the air, he shouted, “Resist all temptation, daughter! I command every lascivious impulse to desert your head and mind and body. Now,” he bellowed.

  He slumped, as though the exorcism had totally drained him of energy. Alex stood transfixed by disbelief. Coming to her senses, she glanced around uneasily, hoping that no one had witnessed this madness and her unwitting involvement in it.

  “As far as I know, I have no lascivious impulses. Now, I must go. I’m late.” She stepped off the curb despite the fact that the traffic light was flashing instructions not to walk.

  “God is counting on you. He’s impatient. If you betray his trust—”

  “Yes, well, I’ll try harder. Good-bye.”

  He lunged off the curb and grabbed her by the shoulders. “God bless you, daughter. God bless you and your holy mission.” Clasping her hand, he pressed a cheaply printed pamphlet into it.

  “Thank you.”

  Alex worked her hand free and jogged across the street, quickly putting two lanes of traffic between her and the preacher. She trotted up the steps and barreled through the courthouse doors.

  Glancing over her shoulder to see if Plummet had followed her, she ran right into Reede.

  He caught her against his chest. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Where have you been?”

  She wanted to lean against him, feel his protective strength, until her heart stopped racing, but didn’t allow herself the luxury. “Nowhere. I mean, I went out. To lunch. At the, uh, the B & B. I walked.”

  He studied her, taking in her windblown hair and ruddy cheeks. “What’s that?” He nodded down at the pamphlet she was clutching in her white-knuckled hand.

  “Nothing.” She tried to stuff it into the pocket of her coat.

  Reede snatched it out of her hand. He scanned the cover, flipped it open, and read the message heralding doomsday. “You into this?”

  “Of course not. A sidewalk preacher handed it to me. You really should devote some attention to clearing the panhandlers off your city’s streets, Sheriff,” she said haughtily. “They’re a nuisance.”

  She stepped around him and continued downstairs.

  Chapter 22

  Nora Gail sat up and retrieved the filmy garment she’d worn into the room.

  “Thanks,” Reede said to her.

  She gave him a reproving glance over her milky-white shoulder. Drolly she replied, “How romantic.” After shoving her arms through the ruffled sleeves of the peignoir, she left the bed and moved toward the door. “I’ve got to go check on things, but I’ll be back, and we can talk.” Patting her beehive hairdo, she left the room.

  Reede watched her go. Her body was compact now, but in a few years it would go to fat. The large breasts would sag. Her oversized nipples would look grotesque without any muscle tone supporting them. Her smooth, slightly convex belly would become spongy. Her thighs and ass would dimple.

  Even though they were friends, he hated her at the moment. He hated himself more. He hated the physical necessity that propelled him through this travesty of intimacy with a woman.

  They rutted, probably more mindlessly and heartlessly than some species of animals. The release should have been cleansing and cathartic. It should have felt great. It didn’t. It rarely did anymore, certainly not recently.

  “Shit,” he muttered. He would probably go on sleeping with her through their old age. It was convenient and uncomplicated. Each knew what the other was able to give and demanded nothing more. As far as Reede was concerned, passion was based on need, not desire, and sure as hell not on love.

  He got off. So did she. She had often told him he was one of the few men who could make her come. He wasn’t particularly flattered because that might be, and probably was, a lie.

  Disgusted, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. There was a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, courtesy of the house. The carefully rolled joints you had to pay for. He lit one of the cigarettes, something he rarely did anymore, and drew the tobacco deep into his lungs. He missed the postcoital cigarettes more than any others, maybe because the tobacco punished and polluted the body that continually betrayed him with a healthy sex drive.

  He poured himself a drink from the bottle on the nightstand—that would be added to his bill, even if he did fuck the madam herself—and tossed it down in one swallow. Rebelling, his esophagus contracted. His eyes teared. The whiskey spread a slow, languid heat through his belly and groin. He began to feel marginally better.

  He lay back down
and stared at the ceiling, wishing he could sleep, but welcoming this coveted time of relaxation when he wasn’t called on to speak, move, or think.

  His eyes closed. An image of a face, bathed in sunlight and wreathed by loose, dark-auburn hair, was projected on the backs of his eyelids. His cock, which should have been limp with exhaustion, swelled and stretched with more pleasure than it had felt earlier tonight.

  Reede didn’t whisk the image away, as he usually did. This time he let it stay, evolve. The fantasy was welcomed and indulged. He watched her blue eyes blink with surprise at her own eroticism, watched her tongue nervously flick over her lower lip.

  He felt her against him, her heart beating in time with his, her hair tangled in his fingers.

  He tasted her mouth again, felt her tongue shyly flirting with his.

  He didn’t realize that he made a low moan or that his penis twitched reflexively. A drop of moisture pearled the tip. Yearning pressed down on him suffocatingly.

  “Reede!”

  The door to the room was flung open and the madam rushed back in, no longer looking cool and elegant.

  “Reede,” she repeated breathlessly.

  “What the hell?” He swung his feet to the floor again and stood up in one economical motion. He didn’t think to be embarrassed by his evident arousal. Something was desperately wrong.

  As long as he’d known her, he’d never seen her rattled, but now, her eyes were wide with alarm. He was stepping into his briefs before she even started speaking.

  “They just called.”

  “Who?”

  “Your office. There’s an emergency.”

  “Where?” Already standing in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, he crammed his feet into his boots.

  “The ranch.”

  He froze and swiveled his head toward her. “The Minton ranch?” She nodded. “What kind of emergency?”

  “The deputy didn’t say. Swear to God he didn’t,” she added hurriedly when she could see that Reede was about to question that.

  “Personal or professional emergency?”

  “I don’t know, Reede. I got the impression that it’s a combination of both. He just said you’re wanted out there pronto. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Call back and tell them I’m on my way.” Grabbing his coat and hat, he pushed her aside and ran into the hallway. “Thanks.”

  “Let me know what happened,” she called down to him, leaning over the banister, watching his hasty descent.

  “When I can.” Seconds later he slammed the door behind him, leaped over the porch rail, and hit the ground running.

  Alex was in a deep slumber, which was why she didn’t associate the knocking on her door with reality. Subconsciously, she thought the racket was an extension of her dream. A voice finally roused her.

  “Get up and open the door.”

  Groggily, she sat up and reached for the switch to the bedside lamp, which always seemed to elude her. When the lamp came on, she blinked against the sudden light.

  “Alex, dammit! Get up!”

  The door was vibrating with each fall of his fist. “Reede?” she croaked.

  “If you’re not up in ten seconds…”

  She checked the digital clock on the nightstand. It was almost two in the morning. The sheriff was either drunk or crazy. Either way, she wasn’t about to open her door to him in his present frame of mind. “What do you want?”

  Alex couldn’t account for the change in the sound of the thumping until the wood began to splinter, then shatter. Reede kicked the door open and let himself in.

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, gathering the covers against her as she sat bolt upright.

  “Coming to get you.”

  He grabbed her, covers and all, plucked her off the bed and stood her on her feet, then ripped the covers away from her grasping hands. She stood shivering in front of him, wearing only panties and a T-shirt, her usual sleeping ensemble. It would be difficult to say which of them was the more furious or riveted.

  Alex recovered her voice first. “I hope you have a damn good reason for kicking in my door, Sheriff.”

  “I do.” He crossed to the dresser, yanked open a drawer, and began riffling through articles of clothing.

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “You will.” Another drawer fell victim to his searching hands. She moved beside him and pushed the drawer shut with her hip, almost slamming it on his fingers.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Clothes. Unless you’d rather go out like that.”

  He gestured down toward the panties with their high, French-cut legs. The spot where the sheer lace panel tapered between her thighs seemed to capture his attention for several tense seconds before he dragged his eyes toward the alcove where her clothes were hanging. “Where are your jeans?” he asked, his voice thick.

  “I’m not going anywhere. Do you know what time it is?”

  He jerked the jeans off the hanger. It rocked on the rod, then fell unheeded to the floor. “Yes.” None too gently, he tossed the jeans at her. “Put those on. These, too.” He threw her casual boots at her feet, then faced her, hands on hips, looking mean. “Well? Want me to do it for you?”

  She couldn’t imagine what she had done to provoke him. It was obvious, however, that he was livid over something. If he wanted to play out this caveman game, let him. She would go along, but she wouldn’t do it graciously.

  Turning her back on him, she stepped into her jeans and wiggled them over her hips. She took a pair of socks from one of the ravaged bureau drawers, shook them out, then pulled them on. The boots came next. Finally, she turned and glared up at him.

  “There, I’m dressed. Now, are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “On the way.”

  He yanked a sweater from a hanger and moved toward her as he gathered the material up to the turtleneck. He pulled it over her head, then shoved her arms into the sleeves and tugged the hem to her hips. The narrow neck had trapped her hair. He lifted it out.

  Instead of withdrawing his hands, he closed his fingers tightly around her scalp, then roughly tilted her head up and back. He was shaking with rage.

  “I ought to break your neck.”

  He didn’t. He kissed her—hard.

  His lips crushed hers, bruised them against her teeth. He thrust his tongue inside her mouth with no semblance of tenderness. It was an angry kiss, spawned by angry passion.

  It ended abruptly. Her coat was lying across a chair. He tossed it at her. “Here.”

  Alex was too shaken to think of arguing. She put it on. He pushed her over the threshold. “What about the door?” she asked inanely.

  “I’ll send someone to fix it.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “Forget the goddamn door,” he roared. Cupping her bottom in his palm, he boosted her up into the cab of the Blazer, which he’d kept running. The light bar across the roof of it was flashing a tricolor code of emergency.

  “How long before I get an explanation?” she asked as the Blazer careened onto the highway. Her seat belt did little good. She was thrown against him, and had to clutch his thigh to keep from being pitched onto the floorboard. “For heaven’s sake, Reede, tell me what’s happened.”

  “The Minton ranch has been set afire.”

  Chapter 23

  “Set afire?” she repeated in a thready voice.

  “Drop the innocent act, will ya?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He banged his fist on the steering wheel. “How could you sleep through it?”

  She stared at him, aghast. “Are you suggesting that I had something to do with it?”

  Reede turned his attention back to the road. His face was taut and rigid in the greenish light emanating from the dashboard. The police radio discharged its scratchy static. The transmissions were loud and intrusive. There was no other traffic on the highway, so the siren
wasn’t necessary, but the lights overhead continued to whirl and flash, making Alex feel like she was caught in a weird kaleidoscope.

  “I think you had a lot to do with it, you and your close friend and associate.” Her bewilderment only seemed to infuriate him more. “Reverend Fergus Plummet,” he shouted. “The preacher’s a good friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Plummet?”

  “ ‘Plummet?’ ” he mimicked nastily. “When did the two of you cook up this idea, the evening he paid a visit to your motel room, or the other day, on the sidewalk in front of the B & B Café?”

  She took a series of quick, shallow breaths. “How’d you know?”

  “I know, okay? Who called who first?”

  “He and his wife showed up at my room. I’d never heard of him before that. The man’s a maniac.”

  “That didn’t stop you from enlisting him to your cause.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  Swearing beneath his breath, he pulled the transmitter of his radio toward his mouth and notified one of his deputies at the scene that he was only minutes away.

  “Ten-four, Reede. When you get here, go to barn number two.”

  “How come?”

  “Don’t know. Somebody said to tell you that.”

  “Ten-four. I’m at the gate now.”

  They turned off the highway and took the private road. Alex’s stomach turned over when she saw a column of smoke rising from one of the horse barns. Flames were no longer visible, but the roof and those of the adjacent buildings were still being doused with fire hoses. Firemen, wearing slickers and rubber boots, were frantically trying to contain the fire.

  “They got to it before it did too much damage,” Reede informed her harshly.

  Emergency vehicles were parked near the smoking stable and in front of the house. Nearly every downstairs window had been broken out. All exterior walls had dire warnings of Armageddon spray-painted on them.

  “There were three carloads of them. Apparently they circled the premises several times, throwing rocks through the windows, but only after they’d done their real dirty work. You can see how well K-Mart did tonight in the spray-paint department.” His lip curled snidely. “They dumped shit into the drinking troughs. Fine class of friends you’ve got there, Counselor.”