Wordless (Pink Sofa Secrets Book 1)

by Mel Sterling

  When Q was out of sight at last, Jack turned and stared at Gard, who was grinning. "You got a damn fine gut, JT. Your watch now. You can have the coffee. You're gonna need it."

  Jack made a retching sound. Gard laughed.

  "But you know what else," Gard said, "and it ain't the least bit funny."

  "What's that?"

  "Now we got two little gals to watch out for."

  Jack groaned, opened the jar of coffee, and poured a mouthful. He chewed a couple of times, grimaced at the bitter taste, and dry-swallowed most of it. "Just as awful as I remember. Damned if I don't think you're right."

  Gard swung his legs out of the car. Jack heard the soft thump of the prosthetic's shoe on the pavement. "I'll stay back a couple of blocks, but I think I'd better make sure our little coffee gal gets where she's going safely. Catch you in the morning, JT."

  With a soft thump of the car door, Gard was gone, leaving Jack alone in the dark.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE VIDEO OF JACK in Iraq ended with a stern remonstrance. America had sent her soldiers ill-prepared and poorly outfitted. Was this the best America could do? Where did the billions spent go? Not to the front lines where they were needed, that was certain.

  It was past midnight, but Lexie clicked replay, sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea and a half-eaten sandwich to the side. Melville toured the kitchen, hoping to draw her attention when he rubbed against her ankles. First he went to the cupboard where his food was kept, then his empty dish. He gave a plaintive mew. Lexie ignored him; he'd had plenty of dinner, but Melville considered any time spent in the kitchen without feeding the cat wasted time.

  She paused the video at a classic John T. Jarvis moment, a serious brown gaze directed at the camera, his mouth a firm line, letting what was going on in the background speak for itself. In this case, Lexie thought she recognized Gard from his general build and stance, alertly scanning the area while three men worked under the hood of a Humvee. This Gard had both legs and was fully dressed in desert camo. But it was Jack—no, John—who captured and held her attention. She'd watched dozens of his videos long before she ever met him. Why she hadn't recognized him, hadn't even really been nagged by a sense of deja vu for more than an hour or so when they first met, she didn't know.

  Perhaps it was because John T. Jarvis was better known for his danger-filled scenes, his controlled and scathing denunciations of relief agencies and talking government heads in the face of abject human suffering and tragedy. Perhaps she would have recognized him had she seen him with collapsed buildings in the background, or with the lurid glow of a forest fire looming too close for safety. Why on earth would John T. Jarvis be in a sleepy little Oregon college town? There was nothing here to draw him, no explosions or tidal waves, sudden devastation or massive tragedy.

  Lexie couldn't reconcile what she knew of John T. Jarvis and the man she knew as Jack Tucker. They were different men with different agendas. Jack seemed only to want to help her get to the bottom of whatever was going on with the book smugglers, and to find ways to kiss her—and more—as often as possible. John T. Jarvis would find the data chips full of stolen financial information an irresistible subject, even without a forest fire or a war to provide a visually exciting backdrop for his legions of readers and viewers. He'd be in there fighting for the everyman, whose financial information, retirement savings or personal funds had been stolen. He wouldn't care who got dragged through the muddy court of public opinion, not even a small-town bookseller who had nothing at all to do with the crimes.

  Melville let out a "brrt!" and galloped to the foyer, where he hopped onto the windowsill and stared intently at his own reflection in the glass. Lexie watched the tabby until she realized he wasn't looking at his reflection, but something outside. Curious, she went to see what held Melville's attention.

  She frowned at the sight of Q loitering on the sidewalk just past her house. Instinct made her dodge to the side of the window, where she could see but not be seen. Maybe Q walked past her house often. She'd seen him the day she had her locks changed. The coincidences just kept piling up to the point where everyone she knew looked suspicious to her. Whoever was taking the books in order to adulterate them was someone who knew the store, and therefore someone who knew her. The probability was extremely high that it was someone she knew, too.

  Q lit a cigarette, the lighter flame struggling in the breezy damp night. Melville made a sudden move, twisting on the sill to look in a new direction. Lexie, bitterly amused that she was allowing the cat to direct her thoughts and actions, followed his gaze.

  Gilly emerged from the shadows between streetlights.

  One more nail in the girl's guilt coffin? As Lexie watched, she saw Gilly remonstrating with Q, Q reaching out for her as if to restrain her or pull her in for a kiss—and then Gilly slapping his hands away before turning and stomping back the way she'd come.

  Lexie watched until Q, too, had gone, but not before he made a telephone call while he was watching her house.

  Was it Q, then? It could fit. She thought about his behavior at the open mics. She had attributed Q's shelf-prowling to a short attention span, stage fright, or even disdain for his fellow poets, but now she saw things in a different light. What if Q were locating books that were good candidates for smuggling the data chips? What if Q chose the books, then told Gilly which to borrow? That way, Q wouldn't even have to try to hide the book in his bag and steal it, and later bring it back. Gilly would get it for him as part of her arrangement with Horace's Books, he'd stash the chip, and give the book back to Gilly to return. Then someone would buy the book online, and someone would buy the book's twin not long after.

  Lexie's heart thumped hard. The story felt right to her, though as criminal acts went, it seemed needlessly complicated. So many steps, so many potential points of failure, just like the one that had started her chasing the whole situation. One wrong book mailed, and now she was afraid for the store, for the future of her employee, for her own personal safety, and, unbelievably, even her heart. If it could be Q, it could just as easily be Jack, who spent even more time in the store than either Q or Gilly, and knew it as well or better than she did herself.

  Lexie peered out the window again and saw a car down the street, its dome light on and two figures leaning, one on each side, car doors open. One of the figures moved away with a wave to the other, and she knew that walk. That half-awkward, half-gliding stride, with a sweeping hitch and a spring.

  Gard, walking away from a car parked on her street.

  That meant the other figure was Jack, because who else did Gard know in Camden? Lexie watched for a moment longer, hearing the dull clunk of the passenger door slamming. Jack walked behind the car, and as he did so, Lexie opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, turning on the light. Jack reached the driver's side, but he looked up, freezing, as her porch light came on.

  Lexie folded her arms and stared at him. How dare he and Gard spy on her? She couldn't believe it of either of them, but the evidence was too bald to ignore.

  He spoke her name. He did it quietly, but the single word filled the night and echoed up and down the midnight street. For a change he didn't call her "Alexia." He closed the car door and jogged toward her house.

  Lexie felt her heart break the rest of the way, this time with all the longing she felt but didn't dare indulge. Before he quite reached the porch steps, she slipped hastily through the doorway, closed the door, and locked it. She stood on the far side of it, staring at the knob, just…waiting.

  He didn't make her wait long. His knock was soft. She thought it was maybe just one knuckle, a tap or two to let her know he was standing there, with only a few inches of wood separating them.

  "Please."

  Just the one word, as soft as the knocking. She leaned forward until her forehead pressed against the wood. She lifted a hand and touched the spot where he'd knocked, imagining them palm to palm.

  "No," she said, so softly tha
t at first she was sure he hadn't heard, but then she heard his long sighing exhalation. She didn't move, and she didn't hear the porch boards making their usual squeak as boards worked against nails beneath someone's feet.

  "My full name is John Tucker Jarvis. You know me as Jack Tucker. That's the name I use when I'm not in the public eye. I guess if I'd ever used a credit card in the bookstore, you might have figured things out sooner, maybe got a peek at my name, put two and two together. Ben knows who I am. Horace knew; I guess I thought one or the other, or both, would've told you, or maybe they thought you already knew."

  He quieted for a moment. "Lexie? Please open the door."

  "No," she said again, but she didn't lift her forehead from the wood. Instead, she turned her face so that her cheek and ear lay close against it. She smelled the wood, a dry scent beneath the faint tang of old varnish. The door was old, like all the woodwork in Horace's house, old and cared for.

  "Tucker is my mother's maiden name. I was named John after my father, but they called me Jack to keep from confusing everyone. I've been Jack all my life, until I went to Iraq, and Gard called me JT because there was another Jack in the company, and half the men there were named John, seemed like."

  There was a long pause, then he spoke again. This time his voice came from lower down, and Lexie realized he had sat down on the porch. "At first they called me 'the reporter' but Gard said it took too long, so JT it was after that. Are you still there? Are you still listening?"

  Lexie slid down to the floor herself, wrapping her arms around her knees, leaning her head against the door. This was both more and less intimate than sitting in the same room with him. Now instead of interacting, watching his body language and facial expressions, she had only his voice to rely on. That meant, for good or ill, that he could not distract her with his body, she could focus on his voice and words. Would she find truth or lies? It mattered too much to her. If only the force of nature that was Jack Tucker had happened at a different time in her life, she would have had the freedom and capacity to handle it. But with Uncle Horace gone, the bookstore to run, a new life in an unfamiliar town and now the investigation…she questioned her own judgment. Still, she listened, breathing quietly, so attuned to Jack's voice that she could all but touch his words. She ignored Melville when he pawed at the door, because he, too, heard Jack and wanted her to open it.

  "I like being JT. I like being Jack, too." His voice deepened, became slightly roughened. "I especially like it when you call my name in bed. Nothing's changed. I'm the same man I've always been. I write books and make videos to expose imbalances, inequities, nightmares that could have been avoided. I get paid to go where things are worst, to show us all what it's really like, tell the truth. It's my job."

  Melville pushed his cheek against her knee and flopped onto her feet, showing her his pale furry belly. It was just one more way of coaxing her into opening the door. Melville would probably like nothing more than to be out at one in the morning, yowling in hedges and disturbing the neighbors.

  "I've been seeking those things half my life. Looking for something, doing what I could to make things better after I left a place. I hope you're still in there listening. It wasn't until I met your uncle and got to know him that I understood there are ways of helping that don't involve getting caught up in natural disasters or war. Horace changed lives every single day, just by finding a book a customer didn't know she needed, or letting some street kid spend a night on that ugly pink sofa in the back room."

  Lexie sat up a little. This was something she hadn't known about Uncle Horace.

  "Ben was one of those kids. It was a few years ago, but yeah. Anyway. Now he's in college. Not because Horace fixed him, or anything, Horace was careful to point that out. Ben always had strength in him. Horace just gave him a place to be for a while, where nobody hit him for being book smart. Gilly spent some nights on that sofa, too." Jack paused. "Maybe that's the reason I don't quite believe she's a willing participant in whatever's going on. Horace trusted her, and I trusted Horace."

  Horace had trusted Jack, too. Lexie felt ripped in half by the knowledge.

  "I want to…I want to be like Horace, I guess. Make that difference on a human scale. I want to learn how. Because—"

  Jack broke off, and Lexie could hear a new edge in his voice, one that matched the look she'd surprised on his face from time to time. That rawness, some deep pain he'd never talked about. "Because the first time it really mattered to me, to be able to help someone out like that, I failed."

  Lexie waited, closing her eyes. Maybe this time she'd learn why he traveled so light, one foot always halfway out the door.

  "Now here I am, failing again, with you."

  There was silence for a long time. Lexie knew Jack hadn't left the porch, because the creaking steps would have given him away.

  "I hope you're still listening." He cleared his throat. "Maybe I'm not good with people. Maybe I'm better with mobs and earthquakes and fire and hurricanes and politicians. But with the two people who matter the most to me right now, you, and Gard, I've failed, and I'm sorry."

  Failed, with Gard? What was Jack talking about? Was that the secret that tormented him?

  "Lexie, I just want to make things right. I meant what I said to you the other morning in bed. I know you're confused right now, and stressed, and having me follow you around like a lovesick puppy doesn't help, but give me a chance. Let me be there for you, whether that's as John T. Jarvis or Jack Tucker or JT. We're all the same man, we all love you."

  I love you, Lexie. Love you.

  What a knife to her soul. She wanted so badly to believe him, to open the door, take his hand, and lead him up the stairs. Take comfort from his body, sleep the delicious, deep sleep of someone who has relinquished burdens and strain. Shut off her rational empiricist's mind for a while, let someone else solve the mystery of what was going wrong at the bookstore. But he was still holding something back, and she could not cope with half measures right now.

  She wanted to tell him the truth: she loved him too.

  She disentangled Melville's claws and got to her feet. "Goodnight, Jack," was all she could make herself say. She turned off the porch light and felt her heart burst, not just break. She had to sleep, and she had to think, and make some decisions. Letting Jack come inside only meant she would be putting off all of those things. The laptop still hummed softly to itself on the kitchen table, but she left it there, and took her miserable heart up the stairs. Even though she heard Jack's step on the porch, he didn't knock or ring the bell.

  Lexie didn't know whether to be disappointed or glad. As she pulled up the covers, she heard a plate hit the kitchen floor followed by the jingle of Melville's collar. There'd be a mess in the morning. The little opportunist was eating what was left of her sandwich.

  "JT, where you going, looking like that?"

  Jack, shoving his tablet back into his satchel, turned to Gard, who was finishing the cold egg rolls left over from dinner two nights ago. Jack himself had snarfed the last of the kung pao, also cold.

  "Man, you're really going to eat those like that? Right out of the fridge? That's like eating a stick of butter. Nothing but grease."

  "That's different from when they're hot exactly how? Don't change the subject. You're not going off to Lexie like that. You look like you slept in your clothes."

  "I didn't sleep." Jack shrugged. "I talked to her—maybe it was at her—through her door for an hour last night after you left to follow Gilly. It didn't work. So now I know the only way I'll get her back is to unravel this mystery. She's running scared of everything right now."

  Gard went on chewing the egg roll, which was so greasy it wasn't even flaky anymore. The tilt of Gard's head told Jack Gard thought he was full of shit.

  "So I have to figure out who's behind the book smuggling."

  "How you gonna do that when even the Feds haven't figured it out?"

  "I'm going to start with the books that've been smuggled. I'
m going to talk with Gilly."

  "Lexie won't like that, and you know it."

  "Lexie won't know."

  "You're just gonna lie to her."

  "I'll tell her. Just…after." The kung pao was sitting uneasily in his stomach. He'd been starving by the time he came home from sitting on Lexie's porch in the cold. He was grainy-eyed from lack of sleep. Watching Gard eat those cold egg rolls with their paper carton half transparent from soaked-in oil, and the strings of cabbage trailing out, made him feel queasy. "I need coffee."

  Gard took another egg roll out of the carton and bit into it. Not even dipping it into the plum sauce. His silence spoke volumes.

  "You think I'm doing the wrong thing, I know. You're a straight shooter. But I can't just sit on my hands. Something's going down, something bad, and soon." He put a hand over his gut. "I feel it, right here."

  "That's the chili peppers talking."

  "If I can't fix this by going to the heart of things—going to Lexie—I'm going to have to pry up the edges. See what squeaks. Something always does. I'm starting with Gilly."

  "Try not to hurt that little gal when you pry on her. Lexie wouldn't like that, either, and I wouldn't want to be you when Ben finds out."

  "I'm just going to talk to her."

  Gard swallowed the last bite of egg roll and wiped his hands and mouth with a paper napkin. "JT, I know you have this bone-deep urge to ride in like the white knight, be the hero you think Lexie needs, but what if that isn't what she wants?"

  Coming from Gard, that stung. Gard, who knew him inside out, had been there for a dozen three-AM calls when the whim-whams, as Gard called them, crawled gibbering from their hiding place in Jack's rational mind.

  Jack shouldered his satchel. "Then I'll settle for fixing it for her, even if she kicks me to the curb. I'm going to make a difference, this once. I'm not going to fail again. Look what happened last time." His chin jerked toward the swoop of metal that was Gard's leg. He waited for Gard to remind him to let it go, but this time Gard just stared at him, long and steadily, until Jack jerked his chin once again, in goodbye.