Night Mist

by Helen R. Myers

  She hesitated. “Bad news?”

  “Depends on how you look at it.”

  “Try from your point of view.”

  Soft voice, gentle persuasion…she would be good at the subtlety game. But he was tired of games. “It’s going to go down sooner than I’d anticipated, Doc.”

  The last traces of light went out of her eyes and she picked up the paper, found the article in question and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. “Monday…” she whispered. “So soon.”

  “Guess I got myself fired just in time,” he offered with false cheerfulness. He shouldn’t have bothered; he could tell she saw through it right away.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask one more time. Isn’t there any way to talk you out of going through with this?”

  “No.” He saw whatever hope she’d managed to remuster extinguish in her eyes like a candle flame in a gale wind. “I’m sorry, Rachel, but my decision’s final.”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “It’s a possibility. They might do that no matter what I did or didn’t do. On the other hand, maybe I’ll be home free.”

  Her expression turned incredulous. “What do you think has been going on out there this past week? What do you think I’ve been risking my sanity—my entire career—trying to comprehend and then prove to you?”

  “Lower your voice,” he warned, although he hated having to make the rebuke.

  The breath swooshed out of her, and she curled her legs into a lotus position as though folding into herself. “All right, but don’t expect me to sit here quietly and let you destroy yourself.”

  “Rachel…” What? What could he possibly say to her at this point? “Look at it from a rational point of view. The press conference is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. on Monday in White Mills. That’s where they’ll try to get me, because that’s where the tape will be. Not on that bridge out there in the middle of the night. For that to happen they’d have to know where I am, and if they knew where I was, they’d already have been here, wouldn’t they?”

  The hint of a wobbly smile lifted the left corner of her mouth. “Sure.”

  His own expression warmed. “Try to take reassurance in the thought that if I’m able to tell you that much, it also proves I trust you, doesn’t it?” he added quietly.

  Rachel started to rise from the bed, then stopped, as though unsure of herself or him. But the moment he extended his arms, she ran to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressed her cheek against his bare chest and held on. Hard.

  Having her so close again had an abrupt and profound effect on him, both in a physical and emotional sense. Yet even though he slipped his hand beneath her hair to caress the back of her neck, his heart remained heavy with regret as he realized that no matter how many more moments like this he was given, they wouldn’t be enough to fill the void of an eternity without her.

  Rachel didn’t try to respond at first, she simply tilted back her head to study him. This week’s extra stress was beginning to get to her and she knew it showed on her face. She even had to keep her lips compressed more than usual to stop them from trembling at the most unsuitable times.

  “You’re scaring me, Joe, and I hate to let fear take control of even a small part of my life.”

  “Then you should understand why I’m taking the position I am better than anyone,” he replied urgently. “I can’t allow myself to accept all that’s been happening around here the way you have. If I did, I’d have to acknowledge, then deal with, the fear, all the probabilities of failure. An army of one can’t open itself to that kind of suppositioning, Doc.”

  “So you think ignoring the odds makes more sense?”

  “I’ll bet plenty of people went out of their way to tell you how you couldn’t get through school on your own, that what you were doing made no sense either. But you went and did it, anyway.”

  “That was different.” Rachel stepped back so she could think clearly. How could he compare the two? “I’m not going to be overmodest and say what I did was easy, but it was hardly a matter of life and death.”

  “That’s overmodest, Doctor Gentry.” Joe tilted up her chin further. “People have crumbled like sand-castles under less pressure than what you’ve heaped on yourself through the years.”

  “Even so, what you’re involved in is far bigger. This is your life.”

  “It’s my job.”

  Who did he think he was kidding? Job! He couldn’t stop being a cop any more than she could take a break from being who she was. A sense of finality overcame her and Rachel rested her hand against her stomach as she realized what conclusion she’d come to.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think breakfast may not be agreeing with me.”

  “Ah…honey.” He put his arm around her and turned her toward the bed. “You don’t deserve my foul mood. Why don’t you lie down?”

  “No. I think I’ll go ask Jewel for some ginger tea.”

  “That sounds more like punishment, not a cure.”

  “It soothes indigestion better than anything I dole out at the clinic.” Rachel eased away from him and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She took the first set of stairs like someone who truly was feeling unwell. In case he felt he should follow, she cautioned herself. But once she reached the second floor, she broke into a dash, her bare feet moving lightly down the polished steps.

  Once she reached the foyer, she glanced back up the center of the stairwell to check upstairs again. From upstairs came a sound. Footsteps.

  She backed a few steps out of sight and listened. The footsteps were more like shuffling, and the blowing of a nose identified the person more clearly. Not the third floor, but the second. Old Mr. Bernard was on his way to the bathroom, which meant he was back in from his morning checkers game with his cronies and was about to take a nap before lunch and his afternoon game of dominoes at the café.

  The man sounded like a foghorn, Rachel thought, shaking her head. She used to wonder how Celia Nichols could sleep through all that—until Adorabella told her how Jewel had found earplugs in Celia’s room, along with a sleeping mask.

  Once things settled down again, Rachel went straight for the phone in the cubicle beneath the stairs and dialed for information. A few moments later she dialed the number the recorded voice had given her.

  A female voice answered on the third ring, and Rachel asked for her party. Less than a minute later, she found herself listening to an all-too-familiar drawl.

  “Hello…?”

  She could barely make herself reply. “Mr….Mr. Maddox?”

  “Yes? Who is this? You sound familiar, do I know you?”

  “That’s not important,” Rachel replied. “I know you.”

  Their conversation went surprisingly smoothly and was agreeably brief. Just before she hung up, Wade Maddox said, “Hey, sugar, come on. Tell me your name. You know I’m gonna find out, anyway.”

  Carefully, she set the old-fashioned receiver back on the cradle of the phone.

  There, she thought, it was done.

  Backing away from the phone, she felt something cool and breezy. But spinning around, she found nothing.

  Disconcerted, she went to glance into the parlor. It was empty. Adorabella, who often liked to sit in here at midday hoping to catch Mr. Bernard before he slipped out, was, no doubt, still in the kitchen with Jewel fussing over that crow. At any rate, it had to be her subconscious that had made her sense the presence of an eavesdropper.

  She started back toward the stairs again and realized it was too soon. Joe wouldn’t believe she could have made and drank the tea so quickly. So she decided to go into the kitchen and beg Jewel for a beer for him. It might help keep him from asking too many questions.

  In the dining room she saw that either Adorabella or Jewel had replaced the roses in the crystal vase again. These were a deep crimson red. Bloodred. Rachel frowned, not able to recall having seen that particular shade anywhere around
the property.

  Well, there must be a bush she’d missed, she thought, pausing to touch one of the petals, because dew still clung to them. She rubbed the moistness between her fingers and thought how lovely, but tragic somehow. Like her mood. Like her future.

  Then she noticed it wasn’t moisture she was smearing between her fingers at all. It was blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Joe decided he’d had plenty of time to think about what he’d said to Rachel and that he couldn’t take any of it back. But he also knew he wanted to spend what time he had left with her. So when she returned from downstairs, more pale and subdued than before, he was more quick than usual to tune in to that.

  “I think you’re coming down with something,” he said, crossing over to touch her forehead and cheeks. “It’s as I thought, you have a slight fever.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “It’s just the tea.”

  But when she stared at her free hand for a moment and then, abruptly, began rubbing her arm as though she was chilled, Joe wasn’t convinced. “Rachel…you’re not well.”

  “I’m fine,” she insisted. “And you know what? Instead of worrying about me, we should be looking at your cut and changing that bandage.”

  Joe didn’t buy her sudden show of cheerfulness for a moment. “It’ll wait. Why don’t you lie down and try to rest for an hour or two?”

  “No! I mean…I couldn’t sleep right now. Besides, I want to be with you.”

  It was what he wanted, too; so much so that hearing her say the words filled him with pangs no other hunger could hope to match. It amazed him that he managed to plant an almost benign kiss on the tip of her nose, and he smiled. “I want you with me, too. How about using my bed? Maybe we’ll both end up taking a nap. Considering how much sleep we’ve been missing lately, that might not be a bad idea.”

  “Drink this first.”

  He accepted the beer she handed him, touched that in her condition she’d thought of him. To placate her, he took a long drink, then urged her onto the bed. But he didn’t lower himself beside her until she insisted he stay close.

  “Comfy?” he asked, once he adjusted the pillows against his back and had her curled against him.

  “Thanks. But maybe this is too hot for you, even with the fan on.”

  He’d relented and switched on the noisy relic, thinking it might help her. “Doc,” he drawled, hoping to win a smile from her, “in case you haven’t noticed, I stay hot around you.” He didn’t get the smile, but he did enjoy the way she rubbed her cheek against his chest.

  “Tell me what you were like as a boy, Joe. Were you as clever at getting girls to do what you wanted?”

  “Hardly.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “They thought I was too arrogant.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  “Not really. I was too busy having fun to notice.”

  “I’ll bet your mother thought you could do no wrong.”

  Joe took a long swig of beer and thought about all the ways he could answer that. “My parents divorced when I was nine. We were never a close family. The court gave my mother custody of me, but she didn’t really want me around—especially not after she hooked up with Phil. She finally let me go live with my father when I was eleven.”

  “You mean, you didn’t get along with your stepfather, either?”

  “He and my mother never married, and I never thought about him as any kind of father figure,” he replied, feeling as though he was talking about something from another lifetime.

  Rachel sighed and stroked her hand soothingly up and down his torso. “It sounds as though you had it rough.”

  “I was fine once I got back to my father. You would have liked him, Rachel, and he would have…” He’d almost said, “loved you, too,” and it would have been one of the most natural things he’d ever said to anyone. That revelation, along with the awareness of the short time they might have left, made him take another deep swallow of beer.

  “He’s gone, isn’t he?” she murmured, sounding almost awkward, as though she understood what he was going through and felt it, as well.

  “Yeah. About two years ago. It was during a drug-related murder investigation. He was the detective on the case and while tracking down a lead he got in the middle of a domestic argument. In our business it’s one of the most dangerous scenarios to find yourself in, and in his case it was unexpected.”

  “That’s tragic.”

  “It happened less than a year before his retirement. He’d planned to move to Galveston. All he wanted was to fish and drink beer until he got fat enough not to get into trouble for watching the girls go by in their string bikinis.”

  Rachel made a sound that could have been a chuckle or an empathetic sigh. “The theory being that fat men are safe?”

  “Yup.” Joe couldn’t help but grin. “But he would’ve proved it unreliable.”

  “A lady-killer like his son, huh?”

  Bemused, he frowned, shifting slightly to see her better. “Is that how you think of me?”

  With eyes shut and a faint, sad smile curving her mouth, she replied, “No matter what you said about yourself, the first time I saw you, I felt such a…You don’t need to hear that.”

  Joe put the beer on the table beside him and tilted Rachel’s chin up, forcing her to look at him. “Tell me. I want you to.”

  “Awareness. I felt as though you were reaching straight into my soul and…”

  She trembled and buried her face against him. The movement was reminiscent of how she lost control when he made love to her, and Joe drew her closer because he had no choice, he needed to. But inside he couldn’t dismiss the nagging reminder that technically he wasn’t the one she’d met first.

  He swore silently.

  “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear that, and I have no right to burden you with my rambling nonsense when you have much more important things to focus on.”

  Her gentle words deserved some reassurance, some thanks, but caught in his own nightmare, Joe found himself unable to provide them. He didn’t, however, want to relinquish his hold on her, either.

  “Shh…you need to shut down and stop carrying the world on your shoulders for a few hours. Close your eyes. Go on. I’ll be here when you open them.”

  For a moment he thought she might argue, but then she relaxed, curled more securely against him and let the compelling tide of fatigue carry her away.

  It was better this way, he thought, ignoring his body’s tenseness. As it was, he wouldn’t make it to Monday without taking everything she offered him, but at the moment he had just enough nobility left to keep his hands to himself.

  But he yielded on his other weakness and reached for the cigarettes beside the bed. To hell with resolutions, he thought. There was little doubt in his mind that a bullet would stop him far before any damned cigarette could.

  With every breath, fog seeped into her lungs, filling them until, too late, she realized she was suffocating. She fought for oxygen, but it was everywhere, and spreading…extending like fingers covering her head, closing around her throat, covering her mouth. Cruel, punishing fingers full of malice and mischief.

  She had to move. She had someplace she had to be…yes, a meeting, and she had to find the strength to struggle and fight.

  Somehow she broke the fog’s phantom hold over her mouth and throat and pushed onward across…Oh. It was the bridge.

  Joe—that’s why she was here. She was going to see Joe. Energized with the thought, she surged forward and fought harder, needing to reach him.

  Lights stopped her. Lights that came from behind. There were two, sudden ones, twin beams in the middle of the road like those from a car. It had crept up behind her and abruptly turned on its high beams. Wondering why she hadn’t heard the car coming, she shaded her eyes to see who would be so callous and cruel.

  She heard a door open, and footsteps. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice sounding foreign
to her, heavy like the fog, deep like the darkness, and fearful. Not her voice at all, she thought. What was wrong with her?

  A man stepped before one of the lights, becoming a silhouette instead of simply a voice. His size made her nervous, though. Big, brawny, and it disturbed her that she couldn’t see his hands.

  “Hello, Rachel. I understand you have something for me?”

  She looked down and realized she held a box in her hand. She hadn’t noticed it before. Was she supposed to give it to him? Why did that seem wrong? Yet she didn’t think she wanted to keep it herself. That didn’t feel right, either.

  “Why do you—?”

  A flash stopped her. She heard a roar and then she was flying…flying backward. No, falling. And she couldn’t breathe.

  She landed hard on the wet road, dazed and terrified. Then the pain came, slow, steady and building until it was horrible, burning and relentless. It ate at her like a carnivore. She clutched herself around the waist and tried to twist away, but every inch took incredible strength, too much. What’s more, the man was advancing.

  To her horror, he pointed a stick at her. Wrong—wrong, not a stick…the barrel of a gun. At her forehead.

  “Oh, God, don’t! Don’t hurt me anymore!”

  “You deserve this, Rachel. You know you do.”

  “No. I only wanted to help. To save him!”

  “You can’t, but don’t worry. You’ll be together soon.”

  She heard him pull back the trigger, and she screamed again. “Joe! Joe!”

  She tried to sit up, but hands held her down. She fought, struggled with all her might and wept because she couldn’t get free. “Oh, God, please. Don’t do it. Please don’t…”

  “Rachel, stop it. It’s me!”

  In the vague blue-white light she saw the half-moon face of the man looming over her. She saw how he held her by her wrists and how her hands were clenched painfully into fists, how her whole body was shaking with rigidity and terror.

  But she was alive.

  Joe was alive.

  It hadn’t happened. Yet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR