Love Under Fire

by Frances Housden

  At six foot five, Rowan’s size usually attracted attention, and she was no small fry. Together their impact doubled, but although she couldn’t put her finger on it, she knew immediately the stir had nothing to do with their height, or their entry.

  Cheek by jowl on the outer rim of the U-shaped bar, a crush of men in jeans, work shirts and boots, not unlike the ones she’d been glad to take off, stood downing ice-cold beer. With a sense of timing that reminded her of a Mexican wave, they tilted an assortment of long-and short-neck bottles, poured the contents down their throats, then swiped the condensation running down the inside of their wrists onto the denim cloth of their jeans.

  On closer observation she noted the icy sweat had settled in rings on the counter that could have given the Olympic symbol a run for its money. Seemed as though Rocky’s mouth was working faster than his cleaning-up cloth.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she said to Rowan, stepping up to the bar with a loud “Excuse me.”

  The bodies lining the counter parted after a preliminary glance over their respective shoulders, then ignored the two of them once more. Or pretended to. She wouldn’t risk a five-cent bet on everyone minding their own business, even though they appeared to have developed a sudden fascination for the football game on TV.

  Everyone fixed their gazes on the bright screen sitting among the clutter on the wall. Did they think she didn’t realize that they could do two things at once even though they were men? Of course, the absence of any commentary helped.

  Rowan slotted into the remaining space, his shoulder overlapping hers as if protecting her back and, just for once, Rocky looked happy to see them.

  “You sent for me?”

  “Not exactly sent,” he answered, his initial pleasure collapsing as if someone had popped a balloon and let his features sag down his face in lines. “I’ve got something to show you. It came today.” With a flick of his wrist, a folded envelope, slightly discolored from handling, emerged from his hip pocket.

  Rowan leaned forward, his face close to hers. She felt the pressure of his shoulder as the latest development in Rocky’s saga unfolded like the envelope. “Maybe we’d be better off at a table?” he said in her ear.

  She eyed the inn’s patrons, checking their reactions, but no one met her gaze. Too many secrets. Too much to hide. Secrets and lies were the lifeblood of a small town.

  Hundreds of secrets that everyone but her was cognizant of.

  She was an incomer, a city girl, and as such, not to be trusted.

  As though someone had given him a shot of bravery, Rocky croaked, “I’ve got nothing to hide. Everyone’s seen the anonymous letter.”

  She reached out across the counter, and set her sights on the sloppy neckline of Rocky’s wash-faded, black T-shirt. Behind her Rowan tensed. A charge of electricity zapped where their shoulders met, as if he expected her to grab Rocky by the T-shirt, if not the throat.

  In next to no time, she put the big guy, and probably Rocky, too, out of his misery and crooked her finger in Rocky’s face. Besides, a girl would be unwise to get any closer to the swimming wet counter than necessary. “Come here, Rocky.”

  The innkeeper leaned forward and the breath Rowan released stirred her hair. Who had he really thought needed rescuing this time? Her or Rocky?

  She spoke low, pitching her voice to travel across the bar and no farther. “Did it ever enter your small mind that one of these guys you’ve been blabbing to, might be responsible for the letter? They could be laughing up their sleeve even now.”

  Rocky’s eyes widened and exposed a glimmer of fear. “Let’s get a table over there,” he said, sobered by the truth. The innkeeper opened the gate on the far leg of the U and ducked under, leading them to a table at the farthest side of the room. Was she the only one who noticed his gaze flitted around the room, never settling, shifting from one face to the next?

  She’d always known his shiftiness was endemic, but in an I’m-the-man sort of way. What amazed her was the difference today from the Cool Hand Luke bravado he’d demonstrated the night she’d visited the inn with Rowan.

  Betty was dispatched to tend the bar by a raised eyebrow and a jerk of Rocky’s thumb as they passed. The whole operation took less than a minute and as Jo caught Betty’s eyes, she shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “don’t blame me,” and added a half smile to soften Rocky’s gruff gesture.

  Rocky Skelton sat down with his back to the wall. His bony chest seemed to cave in as his shoulders hunched over the table. If ever a man looked ready to duck incoming fire, it was Rocky.

  She threw herself into the opposite chair and felt the metal legs creak as they spread under her, then watched Rowan test his weight on the only other one at the table. Rowan had positioned himself so he had a view of the room as well as the new and unimproved version of Rocky.

  Keeping her face expressionless, she demonstrated it would take more than a few glances over his shoulder to convince her he was running scared. Hard luck, pal. Rocky’s peculiar choice of names for his bar was about to ricochet and take a bite out of him.

  In her peripheral vision, she watched Rowan rub his chest as if it ached. His expression was set, unreadable, except for a gleam in his eyes that she couldn’t help but answer. Then it was back to business and she let her impatience bare its fangs. “C’mon, Skelton, spit it out, we haven’t got all day.”

  “It’s the satanists. They’re after me.” Again!

  The strident riffles of a heavy-metal guitar that had buffeted them around the head, chose that moment to stop, leaving a gap for Rocky’s cry to fill. Everyone in the bar stopped talking at once and Rocky’s glare only succeeded in driving the suspenseful whispers to greater heights.

  A new, slightly quieter track began and restored privacy to the table. “So, what’s new?” she asked, “You’ve been singing that song for months.”

  Gingerly, Rocky laid the envelope on the tabletop as though it was on fire, then he flicked it with one finger, spinning it in Jo’s direction.

  She picked it up by one corner, looked at the address, then squeezed gently on the sharply creased edges until the jagged rips in the top of the envelope yawned open like a mouth full of crooked teeth.

  “What’s this, then?” She shook it upside down until the contents fell out on the table. “I don’t suppose the idea of not smearing your dabs all over entered your mind?”

  Rocky’s scowl deepened as he went on the defensive. “It did, but not until I realized what it contained. I didn’t expect to find this crap in the mail. The envelope was in the middle of the pile and I didn’t notice until I’d opened the damn thing.”

  She carefully unfolded the paper.

  Rowan pushed his chair back and stood behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder. Like many threatening letters she’d seen in her time, each character in the message had been cut from a newspaper or magazine and stuck on the paper. It was as if they’d all taken anonymous letters 101 by watching reruns of old films.

  Call off your dogs Skelton.

  Next time we won’t miss you or your wife.

  Rowan’s fingers tightened their grip. They’d signed it with a pentagram. “Have you shown this to Molly?” he asked.

  Rocky shook his head. His gaze slithered over to the kitchen door and he swiped at his top lip where beads of sweat had gathered. “I didn’t want to worry her. She has enough on her plate with the fire and everything. It’s no fun trying to make a home in what used to be our storeroom.”

  Mark one up for Molly. Rocky gave no indication that his wife had reported Jo’s faux pas. Maybe she hadn’t heard.

  “You’d better warn her. Both of you stick together. Don’t, and I mean don’t, go anywhere unaccompanied or leave your wife alone. Have you got that?” She captured Rowan’s gaze and was pleasantly surprised to read agreement written there.

  “This is the thing, Rocky. Hopefully by tomorrow night we’ll bring an end to all this satanist mumbo jumbo, but keep it under your hat.
If word of what we’re doing gets out, the whole town will know before morning.” Deliberately, she kept their intentions vague. On the one hand, she wanted to reassure him, if his fear was genuine. On the other, something didn’t smell right.

  Jo couldn’t put her finger on it. Near as she could figure, after the first fire she would have sworn Rocky was acting, but he sure as hell wasn’t now.

  And why had Molly kept quiet? She’d never liked Jo. Why protect her now?

  Had Rocky actually been mixed up with some demonic weirdos and this was a payoff for some misdeed or attempt to leave the cult? Whatever they were hiding, it would take more than browbeating from her or Rowan to make the jerk talk. No threat they made could top the ones he’d already received.

  “We mean it, Skelton. Keep your mouth shut.” Rowan added his weight to her order.

  “Rowan and I want to talk among ourselves. It’s all right, you go tend bar. I can tell from the way you’re looking at Betty, you don’t think she’s meeting your standards.”

  “Can I send her over with a drink, a beer maybe?”

  Rowan sat down again and the metal scrape of his chair added a bizarre off-key element to the music. She saw his lips move, grumbling indistinctly, before he said, “No thanks.”

  “Me, neither. In fact, I think we should finish this conversation at the station house. We ought to see if they can lift any prints off this.” She maneuvered the letter and envelope with the tip of a ballpoint, sliding them into a small clip-tight bag that she’d stuffed in her pocket this morning for just such an occasion.

  Simply stepping outside that place did wonders for his equilibrium. The air smelled sweeter somehow. Rowan took a deep breath and let it permeate through him.

  On the short walk to the station house, he told Jo, “Sorry if I trod on your toes back there, with Skelton, I mean. It’s really your call.”

  “No problem. You’ve got a heavier hand than mine. Whether or not he’ll take your advice is another question.”

  “So, what was your take on Skelton? Was he sweating over this, or was it my imagination?”

  “No, he was feeling the heat. There’s something rotten in the house of Hard Luck and I don’t think it’s in the kitchen.”

  She stopped at the curb and their hips brushed as he lost his balance and swayed into her. Without rationalizing his need, he reached out and pulled her into the curve of his arm until they both steadied. Beyond all reason, he realized he only felt truly alive when she was in his arms. Beyond all the craziness and suspicion, he relished the days ahead with her.

  It was broad daylight and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her right there in front of everyone on the sidewalk. Instead, he pressed one finger to the tip of her nose. “You always had a great sense here for anything slightly off-kilter. I’m positive you’re right. But never mind, he’s got more than satanists or devil worshipers on his tail now. You and I are going to find him out.”

  “Hi, Detective Jo. Hi…sir.”

  His first reaction to the young voice was annoyance. He’d have felt the same about anyone who made Jo flush and push away from him, taking her warmth.

  One glance gave him a clue to the owner of the voice. There couldn’t be many red-haired kids wearing pink barrettes in Nicks Landing. She looked up at him with a frank show of adoration in her eyes. Now he wanted to color up. He wasn’t used to kids this age, or the way they didn’t hide their feelings.

  “Well, hi to you, too, Ginny. This is Rowan McQuaid.”

  The kid nodded but didn’t say anything. “Where are you off to?” asked Jo who put a hand up to her own hair and commented, “Love the barrettes.”

  Seemed Ginny had plenty of adoration to go round. It shone from her face as she responded to Jo, copying her action and fingering the touch of pink in her hair. “Me, too. Don’t worry, I’m not getting into trouble. I’m cooking supper for Dad and getting an early night.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Ginny. I hope you’re not still planning on hiking into the bush tomorrow night after what I said?” Jo crouched, bringing her face level with Ginny’s, and held her lightly by the shoulders. “Promise me you won’t go near Te Kohanga Park tomorrow. It’s dangerous…and I don’t mean all those rumors that have been flying around. I’m talking about the bush. It’s too easy to get lost in there and I don’t want to have to send a search party out after you.”

  “Oh, we changed our minds about that anyway. Sandra’s mom won’t let her have the car.”

  Straightening up, Jo rolled her eyes at him, but he could see she was thinking, thank goodness for Sandra’s mom. “That’s great. I didn’t want to chase through there looking for you.” She winked at the kid. “Remember what I told you about the B-U-G-S,” she whispered, as if he couldn’t spell.

  Bloody amazing. She’d pit herself against a satanist any day, but cave in the face of a bug.

  Ginny wrinkled her nose the way he’d often seen Jo do. It was either a girl thing or the kid had a case of hero worship. “Not to worry, Detective Jo. I couldn’t go anyway. I’ve got the paper route. I have to get up early in the mornings.”

  Jo gave her the thumbs-up. “I’m proud of you. We’ve got to go, but don’t forget to say hi next time you see me.”

  The station house door had barely swung closed behind them when Harry got to his feet, frowning. There was little he missed, including the fact she’d been out of range all morning, her cell phone reception shaded by the volcano at the southern end of the park.

  She wasn’t kept in suspense for more than a few seconds.

  “You get hold of Rocky?”

  “Yeah, no problem, Harry. He received a threatening letter. I don’t know if it’ll tell us much. The idiot got his prints all over it. Still, I’m going to need it sent down the line and have it checked.” She held the clip-tight bag out to Harry. “Did the forensics team leave already?”

  One of the biggest hindrances she had found in Nicks Landing was the lack of a forensic team. They didn’t have enough continuous work to warrant the expense of one there.

  Sure, Nicks County was a big area, thus three detectives, but it was mainly rural. There was no knowing how many cannabis patches were hidden back in the hills. Bull and Jake were always following up leads. Especially at this time of year, when the fresh young growth of the plants stood out among the darker green bush, making it easily spotted by crop dusters or copters passing through. And often as not if they got too close, they were shot at for their trouble.

  It had happened on Great Barrier Island to a friend of Rowan and hers, Jamie Thurlo. He’d been flying the helicopter the day Rowan had got shot. As far as she could make out, Jamie had taken an investigative reporter with him on one of his regular flyovers of the island. They’d been lucky to come out of it alive, though she’d heard Jamie was pretty scarred.

  “You just missed them. The team’s on its way back to Gisborne. I read your report. You were right to be wary of that newspaper with the pentagram, Rowan. They found the remains of a pressure switch. Looks like it was connected to the tractor mower in the basement. It only took one spark.”

  “That’s great. Now they’re getting technical, working their way up from candles to pressure switches.”

  “More than technical,” said Rowan, “the bastards are getting serious. Did you tell Rocky?”

  Harry nodded. “When he came looking for you.”

  “No wonder Rocky was sweating on it. From now on, ex-cop or not, I say we keep him in the dark. What do you think, Jo?”

  “Definitely. I still don’t trust the guy. His going up to the house yesterday might have been more of a fluke than anything else. We were the only ones who had made definite plans to visit Lonely Track Road. Rocky knew that. But, who else did he tell?

  “Which makes me think we could be getting too close and the fire was a warning for us. You know Rocky once he gets behind that bar. He could have spilled our plans to any number of people. You can’t keep secrets in this town.”

 
“Somebody can,” muttered Rowan, frowning, his brow as dark as a thunderhead.

  “Well, I didn’t tell anyone about our lead to the national park. Not even Moira. She thought we were just having a day out.”

  “On a Friday?” gibed Harry.

  Jo shrugged it off. “She’s got used to my insignificance in the scheme of things around here. Why should she be surprised if I get a day off?”

  “Well, I might have something here that will cheer you up, if it doesn’t piss you off first that is.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Rowan chimed in. “That’s the kind of attitude that got the messenger shot, Harry,” he said. “But let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The sergeant held out an envelope, a twin to the one inside the baggie.

  “You didn’t open it?”

  “It’s not addressed to me,” he answered.

  Meticulous to the last. She wouldn’t have expected anything less. Harry was a good cop. “Got a knife?”

  “Here,” said Rowan, retrieving a slim pocketknife from his jeans, then opening the equally slim but lethal-looking blade.

  “Offensive weapon?” she teased, refusing to acknowledge the letter had any power over her. She focused on Rowan, and why not? Over the last three days it was as if he’d been her hold on reality while everything around her went mad.

  Rowan gave her a crooked grin. “Boy Scout knife.”

  One thought dominated after he passed it over. And it wasn’t, hurry up and open the letter. No! The one seducing her concentration went, she could feel the heat from his body flowing from the knife into her palm!

  “It’s sharp. Be careful,” he warned.

  “Don’t worry, I can handle an itty-bitty knife like this one.”

  She lifted the blade to slit the fold, remembering the jagged rip Rocky had torn in the other one. It was a short step from there to the words with their implicit threat that she’d read at the inn. Her hand trembled as the memory wiped out any humor she’d found in the situation. “I think I’ll take this through to my office. I should photocopy the note Rocky handed over…and this one, too, if your suspicions are correct.”