Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  “Ah,” he said. “None of those men have families?”

  “Sure they do. And they all have wives. Wives who take care of absolutely everything else, so they can be a hundred and ten percent.”

  “I’d point out that women can have husbands, too,” he said. “Grandparents to help with the kids. Nannies. Whatever. But no matter what, that sounds like too high a price to pay. For a man or a woman.”

  “It might be,” she said, “but it’s the price. It feels too high.” She drew a ragged breath. “Right now, it feels way too high. But it’s the price.”

  “Then,” he said, “I guess it depends whether you’re willing to pay it. I guess it depends what you want on your tombstone.”

  “On my—no. I can’t think about dying. Not tonight. Please.”

  “Maybe tonight’s the right time,” he said, taking the curves in the dark without slowing, like he knew them by heart, because he did. “Sometimes you don’t know what matters most until you’re staring down the barrel of a gun. Or until you’re on the wrong side of one too many shoulder surgeries, wondering if that’s all your life was. If you’re anybody at all now that you’re not somebody. And I never heard of anyone whose tombstone said, ‘NFL quarterback.’ Mostly they tend to say, ‘Beloved husband.’ ‘Beloved father.’ ‘Beloved wife and mother.’ Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

  “Women shouldn’t have to choose. But they do.” She dropped her eyes to Junior, lying between them, because looking at Cal’s profile was too hard. Because she wanted to scoot over and sit close, to feel the strength of his body, and she couldn’t. She wanted him to hold her and tell her it would be all right, and he couldn’t, because it wasn’t all right. Because nothing was all right.

  “And there’s no other choice,” he said.

  “It’s my dream,” she said again. There was nothing else to say. “It’s always been my dream.”

  “Then,” he said, “I guess you have to go after your dream. But you’ll pardon me if I step out of the way while you do it. I’ll drive you in tomorrow. I’ll keep on pushing to find out who’s doing this. I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. But I’ll do it from a distance. I won’t come around while you’re at my folks’ place. Don’t ask me to. It’s too much to ask.”

  “I know. And I appreciate that.” Her voice came out small. She was so tired, so beaten, and all she wanted to do was cry. “I’m grateful.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve heard that one, too.”

  He pulled off the highway, through Fulton, and up into the driveway of the tidy brick ranch house. This would make the second time he’d dumped her on his parents without warning, and she wondered what kind of welcome she’d get this time. Now that she’d hurt their son.

  He grabbed her bag of files from the floor, hopped out and pulled her suitcase out of the truck bed, and left her to come along after him across the snowy drive, Junior trotting along behind. Cal opened the door, flipped the light switch.

  “What time is it?” Zoe asked quietly.

  “Five. Somewhere around there.” He set her things down, started peeling out of his outdoor clothes while she did the same, her arms leaden, because it all just seemed way too hard.

  The male voice made her jump, booming out from the back of the house. “Who’s there?”

  “Cal,” he yelled back. “And Zoe.”

  A pause, and Stan came around the corner, still shrugging into a flannel button-down, his gray hair sticking up from his head, and a bristle of whiskers covering the hard planes of his jaw. He looked them over. “I’m sure there’s a reason,” he said.

  “There is,” Cal said, and now Raylene was hustling out, still tying the sash of a fleece robe. A robe that actually was almost a twin of her own, just as Cal had said. Zoe had an absurd urge to giggle, born of exhaustion and nerves.

  “What?” Raylene asked in alarm. “What’s happened? Cal?”

  “Zoe’s coming to live with you for a while,” he said. “Sheets on the bed?”

  “Of course,” his mother said automatically. “And of course Zoe’s welcome. But . . .”

  “I should have called,” Cal said. He laughed a little, and Zoe realized that he was almost as shaken up as she was. “Sorry. The . . . the guy. He broke into Zoe’s apartment tonight and went for her. She let off that shotgun I loaned her.”

  “Oh, my,” Raylene said faintly. “Did you hit him?” she asked Zoe.

  “No,” she said. “I was just trying to stop him.”

  “Should’ve hit him,” Stan said.

  “Yes,” she sighed. “So I hear.”

  “And he got away,” Cal plowed on. “So she needs a safe place. And we broke up,” he added baldly. “So I thought here.”

  Stan was looking at Raylene, who didn’t miss a beat. “Of course,” she said. “Don’t just stand there, Cal. Put Zoe’s things in the bedroom.”

  “I’m going to leave Junior here, too,” Cal said, and the dog, sitting at Cal’s side as always, pricked his ears at the mention of his name. “At night, anyway. Dad, you got that shotgun handy?”

  “In the bedroom closet,” he said. “It can be by the bed instead. Can be there right now.”

  “I’d say that’s the place for it,” Cal said. “Come on, Zoe. Let’s get you squared away.”

  No “princess.” No “professor.” And definitely no “darlin’.” She was just “Zoe,” and it hurt. And all the same, here she was with his parents and his dog and his dad’s shotgun, all to keep her safe. Because that was Cal.

  She followed him into the guest bedroom. “You aren’t going in to work today, I figure,” he said as he heaved her laden suitcase up onto the top of the low dresser.

  “I have to. I have classes.”

  “Can’t you cancel?”

  Her chin went up at that. “No. Then he wins.”

  He looked at her, frowning, measuring, then nodded. “Okay. When do you have to get there?”

  “Uh . . .” She ran her hand through her hair. “What day is it?”

  His face softened. “Tuesday. You sure this is a good idea?”

  “It feels like I have to.” She didn’t know why. She was too tired to tell. “I have to keep going. And I’m prepared. It’s just . . .” She tried to think. Tuesday. “My advanced-topics seminar and a lab. And I’m not in class until ten. So . . . nine thirty.”

  “Pick you up at nine, then,” he suggested. “To get your car.”

  “Okay.” She sat on the bed, because she needed to. Because standing up was way too hard.

  “Why don’t you get some sleep?” he asked. “My mom will feed you when you wake up, and you’ll feel a whole lot better.”

  “I’m not sure I could. Sleep.”

  “How about with Junior right by your bed?” he suggested. “After this, he’ll stay out in the living room. One eye on the back door, one eye on the front door, and his ears all over the place. But for right now, this rug right here looks like a real good spot. Nobody’s getting at you, not with my dad in the house and Junior in your bedroom.” His hand went out to smooth her hair back from her face, and his touch was pure comfort. “You’re nothing but safe, baby,” he said gently. “I promise.”

  She nodded jerkily, tried not to cry. Tried hard, because that wasn’t fair to him. “Okay.” She got up so he couldn’t look at her, unzipped her suitcase, and pulled out her pajamas. “I will. Good idea.”

  “Right here. Down. Stay,” Cal told Junior, who’d been sitting near the door. The dog walked over and lay down exactly where Cal had pointed, sat poised like a sphinx and looked up at him, ears cocked. Down, but every inch alert.

  “Guard Zoe,” Cal said, and the dog’s tail thumped once and was still.

  “Get some sleep,” Cal told Zoe again, and then he was leaving the room, closing the door behind him, and her hands were still holding her pajamas
. And shaking.

  Junior helped. So did exhaustion, a late night, a few hours of broken sleep, and the most frightening experience of her life. But what made the treacherous tears leak from her eyes, lying in the sanctuary of the dark before she finally, gratefully, escaped into sleep . . .

  It was Cal. Not having Cal’s big arm over her chest, Cal’s solid body enfolding her so she could relax. Knowing it was her own fault that she didn’t. And knowing that there was nothing she could do about it. It was done. It was over.

  A SOFT PLACE

  Cal closed her door, went into the kitchen. His parents were both there, his mom still in her robe, starting coffee.

  “Sit,” she told him. “I’ll fix you some breakfast, and you can tell us.”

  She wasn’t asking, and anyway, he needed them to know what they were dealing with. So he sat across from his dad, accepted the mug of coffee his mom handed him, and took a grateful sip.

  They listened without commenting until he’d finished telling them, and by the time he was done, his mom had served up the eggs and toast, and he started to eat and tried not to think about what he’d just said.

  “Shotgun by the bed,” his dad said after a minute. “You got it.”

  “Sorry,” Cal said. “You and Mom . . . I don’t think he’d try it. But I didn’t even think about that, that it’s risky for you, and I’m sorry. I’d have her with me, but I . . . couldn’t.” He reached for the jam, spooned it onto his plate, started spreading it on his toast. Keeping busy.

  “That’s a shame,” his mom said. “I like Zoe.”

  He laughed, quick and short. “Yeah. Me, too.” He took a bite of toast, a sip of coffee, and didn’t look at her. “But she’s not sticking around,” he found himself going on, “and I can’t do that again.”

  “Huh. I thought she liked it here,” his mom said.

  “So did I. But it seems the big guns in her line of work don’t hang out in the sticks. Bright lights, big city. Same old story, same old song.”

  His mother shot another look at him, but didn’t say anything more. And neither did his dad, of course. But then, his dad usually didn’t need you to draw him a map.

  Cal finished up, stood, and put his dishes into the dishwasher. “Thanks for breakfast. I’ll be back in a few hours to take Zoe into town again. She has to teach today. Would you make her something to eat, Mom? She’s pretty tired.”

  “Of course,” his mother said automatically, then shut her mouth on whatever else she would have said.

  “I’m not sure when she’ll be back,” Cal said. “You all will have to work that out, I guess.”

  “Don’t worry,” his mom said. “We will.”

  His dad got up with him, put on his own outdoor gear along with him without saying anything, even though it was still dark out there and would be until nearly eight, and followed him out to his rig.

  Cal stood and waited, and his dad sighed, looked at the ground, then looked at him. “Don’t beat yourself up for loving her,” he said.

  Which wasn’t what he’d expected at all. “Yeah,” Cal said. “Well.”

  His dad smiled, a little twist to it. “Hell, boy. We can’t help it. Every man needs a soft place to put his heart.”

  He was going to cry in front of his dad, and that wasn’t happening. He nodded once, opened the door, and swung on up into the cab. Then he hesitated, his hand ready on the door handle, and looked at his father. Standing planted there, steady and strong, the rock he’d always been. Immovable.

  “Take care of her,” Cal said over the lump in his throat.

  “Don’t you worry,” his dad said. “We’ve got her.”

  He went on home, got his morning chores done, took a shower, and went back out to get her.

  She was waiting as promised. Of course she was. Wearing the blue sweater dress, because as he knew, she didn’t have much else. Looking pale and tired, but ready to take on the day anyway.

  “You might be able to get Rochelle to help you go shopping,” he said on the quiet drive back to town.

  She turned her head from where she’d been watching the snow-covered fields go by. She still had her hand on Junior’s head, though. The dog was showing Cal his butt, Cal having clearly been relegated to an also-ran. “What? Sorry,” she said.

  He took a hand off the wheel, gestured at her dress. “You know. Since you shot up your clothes.”

  “Oh.” She rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I guess. She’s too tall for me to borrow pants. Maybe a couple of skirts. She’s too tall for those, too, but she wears them shorter than I do. Or I could borrow from your mom.”

  “Please. No. Anything but that.”

  She smiled a little, the first time she had all morning. “You don’t get to say, I guess. I can wear all the turtlenecks I want. Your mom and I think they look nice. Your dad does, too.”

  “Still got that sass, haven’t you?” he said. “I’m glad he didn’t take your sass.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “He made a pretty good dent. Him and . . .”

  “And me,” he said.

  “No.” She sighed. “And us. And me.”

  He was in town now, stopped at a light behind four cars on Main. Idaho traffic jam. He couldn’t think of much to say to that, so he didn’t say anything, and there was silence in the truck until he was pulling up outside her place, helping her transfer her things to her car.

  He opened the back door, flipped up the blanket on the floor of the backseat to show her what he’d done the night before. “Shotgun right here,” he told her. “Keep it there. Shells in the glove compartment. You see something, you get a bad feeling, you get a tickle? Load first, think second. Long as you don’t rack the slide, you’re all good. And keep the doors locked.”

  She was inside, her hand on the door. “Doing it now.”

  “I’ll follow you on up there,” he said. “Walk you to the door.”

  “All right,” she said. “I have to go now,” she added patiently, because he was still standing there holding that rear door open like he wanted to get in.

  He slammed it, followed her as promised into the lot of her building. Only thirty yards from the front door. Not too bad.

  “Get somebody to walk you all the same,” he said when she was out of the car again.

  “I will,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  “The cops are coming by with that report today, I guess,” he said. “Make me a copy, and you can give it to me tonight when I drop off Junior, and I’ll share it with Jim, too. I’ll let you know if I hear anything, and you do the same.”

  “Thanks,” she said soberly. “For everything. I appreciate it. Really.”

  She headed inside, and his arms hung there by his sides with nothing to hold. He got back in his truck instead, and Junior wagged that whip of a tail, looked up at him inquiringly.

  “You and me again,” he told the dog. “Just you and me, but at night, you hear? You take care of her.”

  The dog cocked his blocky head, his eyes intent on Cal’s, and Cal reached a hand out to fondle the soft ears.

  “You keep her safe,” Cal told him. “That’s your job. And meanwhile, I ride Jim’s ass hard to find out what’s going on, make sure they’re on it. He’s got a new best friend, and it’s me.”

  MUDDYING THE WATERS

  The man sat at his desk two weeks later, his hand still on the receiver, and stared out at the mounds of mid-December snow that made up his crappy view. He wasn’t sweating, because he didn’t sweat.

  “Just rumors,” he’d just heard from his buddy up at Fairchild. Well, not a buddy. More of a stooge, but then, stooges were useful, too. “But I heard they were asking about you.”

  “They?” he’d snapped.

  “That’s the thing,” the other man had said, almost whispering. “Not SF. OSI.”

  No
t the Security Forces. The Office of Special Investigation. The big guns, asking about him. “Huh.” He laughed, made it a joke. “Sure it was me? What the hell would there be for OSI to investigate me about? I’m out, remember?”

  “I know,” the other man said. “Total clusterfuck, as usual. It wasn’t just you. They’re asking about a bunch of guys, I heard.”

  “Asking about what? Not like you or I had any military secrets to sell.”

  “They aren’t asking about me,” the other man said in alarm.

  “Sure?” He leaned back a little, making it casual. “If they’re asking about me . . .”

  “Shit,” the other man breathed. “I’d better get on that.”

  “You got some boxes gone AWOL?” he needled. “Bet you do. You always did. Could be they want to talk to me to find out what I know. But don’t worry,” he went on smoothly, “I’ve got your back.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  He could hear the relief, almost smell the sweat, and he smiled. It was so easy. All you had to do was shift it to a personal threat, and everybody refocused. So very few people could actually think, there was almost no challenge in it. Which was why he’d taken to getting his kicks in more entertaining ways.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said now. “Keep your nose clean, or . . .” He laughed again. “Fake it good.”

  Now, he sat and thought. This wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad, not really. His tracks were covered. If they hadn’t been, something would have happened long before this. Five long years doing this, and not a single suggestion of anything leading back to him. Not a whisper of suspicion.

  On the other hand, he was going to have to lie low for a good long time, and that wasn’t optimal at all. He never failed, and this was more than annoying. This was personal.

  How about if he redirected the suspicion so it fell on somebody else? He could think of a couple ways right off the top of his head. Time to get on that.

  How had they connected the dots, though? Why now, after all this time? The answer to that was staring him in the face.