Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn - 02 - Broken Shield

by J. D. Rhoades

  When the girl came back, she surprised him by sliding into the booth seat opposite. As he started to fill out the slip, she murmured, “I’m off in about an hour and a half. If you want to come back and, you know, talk about it. It might do you some good.”

  He looked up in shock. She still had that bright, eager look in her eyes. The proposition couldn’t have been more explicit if she’d rented a billboard.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ve got to get up early.”

  She pouted. “Well, if you change your mind…”

  Buckthorn wanted nothing more on earth at that moment to be somewhere else. “Thanks,” he murmured. He signed the slip and passed it across the table to her. Then he got up and walked swiftly to the door without looking back.

  Wolf was waiting in the car near the door with the motor running as he came out. As he slid into the passenger seat, he looked into the back. Dushane was looking out the window, not speaking. Buckthorn looked at Wolf. She okay? he mouthed without speaking. Wolf nodded. “Sorry to stick you with the check,” he said. “We’ll settle up later.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Buckthorn said. He lapsed into silence as Wolf pulled out of the parking lot.

  The waitress’s reaction to the thought that he might have killed someone that day had left him shaken. He’d gone from being another faceless customer to something different. Maybe something dangerous. And that, somehow, had attracted her. He shook his head. His sister had always told him he didn’t understand women. He was beginning to think she was right.

  “You okay?” Wolf said.

  “Yeah. Just wiped out.”

  They arrived at the hotel without speaking further. As they got out, Dushane said, “I need another drink. I got a bottle in my room. Anyone care to join me?” Her voice seemed less slurred than at the restaurant, but she was still unsteady on her feet.

  “L.D.,” Wolf said, “the last thing you need is another drink right now.”

  “Fine. That’s a no from Agent Wolf. Buckthorn?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll pass. And I agree with Tony. You should just go to sleep.”

  “I don’t sleep, remember?” she said.

  “You should try.”

  “Yes, dad.” She slammed the car door and stalked off across the parking lot. Wolf and Buckthorn looked at each other. Wolf shrugged.

  “Just as well,” Buckthorn said. “I’m not really fond of angry drunks. She’s going to feel like hell in the morning, though.”

  “She says she doesn’t get hangovers,” Wolf said.

  “That’s actually a bad sign.”

  “Really? How?”

  “A lot of alcoholics don’t.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  “Yeah. Good night, Tony.”

  “G’night, Tim.” They walked towards their separate rooms.

  Back in his room, Buckthorn took off his shoes and lay on top of the covers, too tired to do anything more. Yet, somehow, sleep continued to elude him. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling for a long time, thoughts racing through his head.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Buckthorn groaned. He considered ignoring it. Then it came again, and he heard the voice. “Tim. It’s Leila. Come on, damn it, open the friggin’ door.”

  He sighed. Getting himself up off the bed seemed to take forever, but he did it. He went to the door and opened it.

  She was standing there, her hair disheveled. She held a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand. It was a little over a quarter full. She was crying.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” she said. The slurred voice was back. “I’m not here to fuck.”

  “That wasn’t what I was…”

  She pushed past him and plunked the bottle down on the table by the door. She practically fell into one of the two chairs. “Right now,” she said, punctuating the last word by slamming her open hand down on the table, “I just need someone to have a goddamn drink with me, because if I have to be by myself all night, I’m going to go out of my fucking mind, okay?” She looked at him savagely, her eyes red, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Okay?” she asked again, her voice breaking.

  “Okay,” he said. He went and got two cups from the sink. “You want ice?” he said. She shook her head. She poured two fingers of the dark amber liquid into each one.

  She drained off half of hers in one gulp and looked into the cup. “You killed anyone before this?” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “A couple right after I met your boss. Then one a few months later. On Christmas Day, in fact.”

  “Bet that sucked.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It really did.”

  “Lot of action for such a little place.”

  He took a sip. The whiskey made a pleasant burn in the back of his throat. “Yeah.”

  “You getting used to it? Killing people?”

  “No,” he said. “At least not yet. I hope I never do.”

  She looked up. “So how do you deal with it?”

  He set his cup down. “I remind myself that I’m an officer of the law, and that they were lawless men, who’d drawn weapons either on me or on someone I’d sworn to protect, with the intent to kill.”

  She drained off the second half of her whiskey, poured another two fingers. “And that made it all better?” she said bitterly. “That they were ‘lawless men’?” She made air quotes with her fingers on the last two words.

  He ignored the sarcasm. “No. But it helps some.”

  She took a drink, a smaller one this time. She closed her eyes and rolled the whiskey around on her tongue a bit before swallowing. “You know what the worst part is?”

  “That it felt good?”

  Her eyes opened in shock.

  He finished his own drink in a gulp. “Yeah. I know. When that man fell dead, killed by your hand, part of you was scared to death, part of you was cranked up like an engine running full throttle, but part of you—a big part—thought that was the most alive you’d ever felt in your life. Am I wrong?”

  “No,” she breathed. “You’re not wrong.” A tear ran down her face. She wiped it away with her hand.

  “And you can’t talk to anyone about it, because you’re afraid it makes you sound like some kind of monster.”

  She nodded, her eyes closed again. He leaned over, took both of her hands in his. “Listen to me,” he whispered. “You killed, but you are not a killer. Someone tried to kill you. You lived anyway. That’s supposed to feel good, Leila.”

  Slowly, her eyes still closed, she leaned forward, until her forehead was resting on top of his hands, which were still holding hers. “Thank you,” she whispered. She raised her head slightly and nuzzled at his hands, turning slightly to rub her cheek against his knuckles. “You have nice hands,” she murmured. Then she was still.

  “Leila?” he asked. There was no response. “Leila?” he said, a little louder. She was asleep.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. He gently pulled his hands out from under her head. She wriggled her nose and leaned forward further, raising her arms and resting her head on them like a student napping at her desk. He stared at her in frustration, then looked at the bed. She wasn’t very big; he considered picking her up and carrying her back to her room. But he was just too tired, and he couldn’t remember her room number. Sighing, he stood up. He tried to shake her awake, but she just squirmed and made small sounds of annoyance. Eventually, his shaking put her off balance and she started to slide to the floor. He grabbed her before she could collapse and manhandled her to the bed. He laid her down on top of the covers and pulled her boots off. He arranged her in the recovery position, on her side, one knee bent, with a pillow at her back. He moved the wastebasket beside the bed where, he hoped, she could find it easily if she had to throw up. When he was done, he stood back, looked at her, and shook his head. There wasn’t an easy chair to sleep in; the only chairs in the room were the straight-backed chairs at the table. He found a thick, scratchy blanket o
n the shelf in the closet. Taking a pillow off the bed, he took his own shoes off and lay down on the floor in the narrow space between the bed and the wall, wrapping the blanket around him. He rose once, to snap the lights off, then lay back down. Exhaustion overcame him almost immediately and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  He awoke in the dark, momentarily disoriented. He thought he was lying in a ditch. After a moment, his wits returned. He lay on his back for a moment, staring at the ceiling. It occurred to him he ought to check on Dushane. Before he could sit up, she stuck her head over the edge of the bed. “Hey,” she said. “What are you doing down there?”

  He sat up. “You passed out. I didn’t know how to get you back to your room.”

  She looked around. “But why are you on the…” comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh.” She shook her head, then smiled. “You really are something else, Tim Buckthorn.”

  “Um. Thanks.”

  “Come on,” she said. “Get up here.” She rolled over and pulled aside the covers on his side. He got to his feet. “You’re going back to your room?”

  She smiled again. She made no move to get out of the bed. “No,” she said. “Not right now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Donovan arrived shortly after midnight. Patience let him in.

  “He’s sleeping,” she whispered, then she threw her arms around him. “Oh my God,” she said into his ear, “I was so worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, love,” he said. “I’m totally fine.” He kissed her. “How’s he been?”

  “Raging. Until he thinks I’m not looking. Then he’s crying.”

  “Huh. Who knew he actually cared about the eejit?”

  “He’s also been making a lot of phone calls. To Lofton’s people. Making sure they know he’s still in charge.”

  “And is he?”

  She smiled. “Well, that would depend on you, wouldn’t it? Maybe now would be the time to make your move?”

  He thought it over for a moment. “Not this second,” he said. “But soon. I expect I’ll be the one overseeing all of Lofton’s old businesses. And his people. Let me get them on my side first.”

  “Most of them already are.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s true. Some of the others may need persuading.”

  She snuggled closer. “And I know how persuasive you can be,” she whispered. “Some might not be on board, though. Some might think they can break away.”

  “Well,” he smiled. “I’ll just have to show them different, won’t I?” He looked at the closed bedroom door. “How long will he stay out?”

  “A while,” she said, then smiled a smile rich with erotic promise. “I gave him a little something to keep him under till morning.”

  “Good,” he said, and his hands on her became more demanding. She closed her eyes and moaned. “I knew what you’d want the second you got home,” she whispered. “And I knew I wanted to give it to you. Anything you want, Sean. Anything.”

  __________

  Dushane nestled into Buckthorn’s arms and sighed happily. “Very nice hands,” she said. She kissed his bare chest. “And everything else, too.”

  Her braid had come loose while they were making love. He brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead. “Thanks.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he kissed her again. She broke the kiss first and looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.” She nestled against him again. “So. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “About what?”

  She scowled. He wondered how someone could look so beautiful even with that expression on her face. “Oh no,” she said. “You keep shutting down on me. Don’t do that. Not now. Especially not now.”

  He considered for a moment. “I think I’m happy.”

  “You say that like you’re surprised.”

  He ran his fingers through her thick hair, loving the feel of it. “It doesn’t happen much.”

  “I thought you liked where you are.”

  “I do. I mean, it’s home. It’s where I belong. It’s just that…” he stopped.

  She struck him lightly on the chest with the flat of her hand. “Keep going.”

  “It’s just that I’m worried. All the time. It never stops.”

  “About what?”

  “About everything. About everybody.”

  “In general? Family? What?”

  He raised a hand, let it fall helplessly. “Everybody.”

  “Ahh,” she said. “You want to keep everyone safe. Like that girl.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And you worry that you can’t do it.”

  “I know I can’t. Not everyone.”

  “And it makes you crazy.”

  “I try not to let it.”

  She hugged him tight. “I don’t know what to tell you, Tim. It’s part of the job. It’s why we do what we do.” She pulled away a little and propped her head on her hand. “But with you, it’s just a little more intense that most people. Even most cops. I get the feeling there’s a story there you’re not telling.”

  He didn’t answer. He felt himself tensing up, willed his muscles to relax as he stared at the ceiling. She put a hand back on his chest, gently. “Your heart is pounding,” she said. “And I don’t think it’s pounding in a good way.”

  “I’m okay,” he whispered.

  She sighed, clearly irritated. “Okay. You don’t want to tell me, don’t tell me.” She started to sit up.

  “Wait,” he said. She stopped, then settled back down against him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t push.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s just something I don’t talk about much.” She didn’t answer, just kept stroking his chest with her fingers. After a moment, he spoke.

  “My dad died when I was three. He was a long-distance trucker. There was an accident. He slid on some ice. He was killed. My sister was six months old.”

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Thanks. But I don’t remember him.”

  “Still.”

  “Yeah. Still. My mom got some money from worker’s comp, and he had some insurance. But the accident…did something to her. Or maybe she was like that all along.”

  “Like what?”

  “I guess you’d call it ‘bipolar’. Some days, she was great. She played with us, she cooked great meals, she was laughing and happy.”

  “And some other days…” she prompted him.

  “Some days she wouldn’t get out of bed. For days at a time. If I or my sister was hungry, I had to get us fed. I’d have to get both of us up and dressed and off to school.”

  She sucked in her breath. “How old were you when you started doing this?”

  “The earliest I can remember was when I was seven.”

  “Jesus,” she said, “didn’t anyone try to help?”

  “My uncle…my Dad’s brother…tried. He’d come get us sometimes and take us to his house. We’d stay there a few weeks, then Mom would show up, all bright and shiny, and tell him she was better, she was seeing a doctor, then everything would be fine.”

  “And he’d let you go.”

  “And he’d let us go.” He fell silent. “Things got worse when she started drinking.”

  “They usually do,” she said softly.

  “Yeah. She’d get abusive. Not physically. She didn’t hit us. I think she knew that’d leave the kind of marks that would show. The kind someone would have to do something about.”

  “Damn,” Dushane said.

  “We were running low on money at that point. The house almost got repossessed. That was our fault. She couldn’t hold a job. That was our fault. The power got turned off, until my uncle paid the bill and got the lights turned back on. That was our fault, too, because I was the one that called him and told him. I was eleven.”

  “Oh, Tim,” she said. She hugged him tighter.

  “I don’t mean to say it was all bad times. When she was up, she was great. We’d
go places, she’d buy us stuff, even though we couldn’t really afford it. She was our best buddy.”

  “But never your mom.”

  “No.” He paused. “When Loretta…my sister…started growing up, things got really bad.”

  “How?”

  “You’ve seen her. Loretta was really pretty. Still is. Mom was, too. Or she was before…everything. But with all the drinking and…everything, her looks were starting to go. Loretta started getting interested in boys. And they got interested in her. That made my mother really crazy. She’d scream at Loretta. Say she was a slut, a whore…all sorts of things.”

  “And you’d try to protect her.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Tim,” she said, “have you noticed how much those pictures of Callie Preston look like your sister?”

  He was silent for a moment. Then, “I do now.” Another pause. She almost didn’t hear the next thing he said: “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh softly. “I mean, like I told my boss, it’s not a long-lost relative kind of thing, but you have to admit…”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I get it now.” He laughed, a little ruefully. “Looks like I don’t know myself as well as I thought I did.”

  “No one does,” she said. “You said you had to come home from college to take care of your sister.”

  He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I suppose I might as well tell you everything.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Might as well. This opening up thing works both ways, cowboy.”

  “Okay. My freshman year in college, my sister was a sophomore in high school. This older guy asked her to prom. Loretta didn’t drink, she didn’t get high, she didn’t sleep with the guy. She even got home in time for curfew.”

  “The guy must have been pissed.”

  “Probably. But not as pissed as my mom was when she saw how good Loretta looked in her prom dress. She started drinking. Hard. When Loretta got home, my mother jumped out from behind the door and slashed her face with a box cutter.”

  Dushane sat bolt upright in bed, her hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”