“Oh now, Mrs. Mac, no need for you to go bothering yourself and the sheriff …” he began, and let the sentence hang. As he knew she would, she leapt into the breach.
“Mr. Murphy, you’re my client and I have a duty to you. It’s no bother to me. And if it’s a bother to the sheriff, well maybe she should start looking for another job. ”
And so saying, she swept out of the room to begin preparing supper. Carl looked at him, long faced, and shrugged. He mirrored the gesture. Inside, he laughed quietly. The blond bitch on TV might have let the sheriff and her deputy down lightly, he thought. But at least now Mrs. McLaren would be there to make their life miserable.
It was almost an even trade.
FORTY-TWO
Abby had chosen her ground carefully. It was no accident that she had asked Jesse to pick her up at the gym. Originally she’d considered suggesting that he call for her at her hotel room, but she knew he’d be on his guard there, ready to resist any invitation to come in for a drink.
By contrast, the fitness center seemed like neutral territory. But it gave her the opportunity to dress in the sort of clothes she knew Jesse liked: casual, but designed to show off her body to best advantage.
He saw her almost instantly as the little Subaru clattered around the last bend before the center. She was standing outside, under one of the area lights that illuminated the parking lot. The light caught her pale blond hair, turning it into a beacon. She was doing a little jig to keep warm.
He noticed her legs, clad in black tights that clung to her shape, accentuating the curves of her calves and thighs. Over the tights, she wore an expensive-looking, down-filled parka—long-line, with a waist drawstring and a fine fur collar that stirred in the slight breeze.
He tapped the horn to draw her attention, then slid the little Subaru up to the curb beside her. She picked her way through a mound of snow that the plows had thrown up curbside and climbed into the car, hefting her gym bag over into the backseat. A few drifting snowflakes clung to her hair, melting almost instantly as she entered the warmth of the car. She grinned at him.
“Cold out there,” she said, then leaned across to let her lips brush lightly against his. They were cold, of course. But every bit as soft as he remembered them to be. It was something that had enthralled him with Abby during all their time together. Her lips were remarkably full and soft. The touch of them was pleasantly erotic.
She shivered theatrically, then huddled herself into the fine fur collar of the parka.
“Good workout?” Jesse asked her, easing out the clutch and guiding the Subaru back onto the main road. She nodded enthusiastically.
“Great!” she said. “They’ve got some good instructors in there. I did a whole class with one of them. Just what I needed.”
“Uh-huh,” he said noncommittally, keeping a cautious eye on a Chevy Blazer that didn’t seem totally sure of which lane it wanted to be in. He tapped the horn once to let the driver know he was there. Silhouetted against the other car’s windshield, he saw the driver raise his middle finger. Jesse eased up on the gas and let the Blazer get ahead of them. He was in no hurry.
“Just like LA,” Abby said, grinning. He looked at her and couldn’t help grinning back. She looked cute and little-girlish, sitting there, huddled up inside the fur collar of her parka.
His eyes dropped to her legs. They didn’t look so little-girlish.
She put a hand lightly on his right hand, where it rested on the steering wheel.
“Jess,” she said seriously “I’m glad we can do this.”
He grinned at her in his turn. “Go driving where Chevy drivers give us the bird?” he suggested, and she smiled and shook her head.
“You know what I mean,” she said patiently. “I’m glad we can see each other. I’m glad we don’t have to hate each other anymore.”
He hesitated, then said a little awkwardly “I never hated you, Abby.”
The fingers around his right wrist tightened a fraction.
“Didn’t you?” she asked earnestly. “Times there, I was sure you did. And I never wanted that, Jesse. There was too much between us that was good, wasn’t there?”
He shook his head, not in response to her question, but to emphasize his earlier statement. “I never hated you, Abby. I was angry maybe. And maybe I might have said some hard things. But I never hated you. You should know that.”
She smiled widely at that, took her hand away and folded it in her lap.
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Now let’s go eat.”
“Sounds good to me,” He took his eyes off the road long enough to grin at her. That crooked little grin of his that could still make her breath come a little quicker. Then he looked back at the traffic and she studied his profile, backlit by the streetlights and the glare from the headlights of passing cars. She liked what she saw, she decided.
The Barn was crowded, warm and friendly. The lighting was low-key and they sat close together in a small booth toward the back of the restaurant. They had to pitch their voices up a little to cut over the background babble of conversation. She ordered a steak, rare. Jesse ordered ribs. Knowing his preferred drink was usually beer, she decided he wouldn’t drink red wine, and so ordered a bottle of cold Napa Valley Chardonnay.
He hesitated over his almost automatic choice of a Moosehead, then shrugged as Abby raised an eyebrow.
“I can’t drink a whole bottle of wine myself,” she said. He looked at her, head tilted to one side.
“You must be slowing down,” he told her. “Time was, you sure could.” Then turning to the waitress, “Okay, I’ll have the wine as well.”
She tossed out their napkins into their laps with a practiced flick of her wrist, then hurried away to place their orders.
They looked at each other. For a moment, there was nothing to be said. Finally, Jesse broke the silence.
“So, did the network pick up your piece? Or haven’t you heard yet?”
She made a small moue with her lips, shook her head.
“They passed,” she said. “I heard just after I spoke to you this evening. Seems nobody wants to hear good news about cops, Jess.”
“You could have made it bad news if you’d wanted to,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow, questioning the statement. The waitress chose that moment to return with the bottle of chardonnay. Abby inspected the label, the year, the drops of dew that covered the bottle and nodded her approval. The girl busied herself stripping the foil from the cork, then carefully removing the cork from the bottle, easing it out the last few tenths of an inch so it didn’t pop. Abby frowned slightly. She wondered why waiters did that these days. The pop was one of the more enjoyable moments in a bottle of wine, as far as she was concerned.
“Just pour it,” she said. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
The golden-colored wine spilled into their two glasses, frosting the outsides almost immediately. Abby picked up her glass, paused with it on the way to her lips.
“So,” she said lightly. “Just how could I have made the network with that piece?” Her eyes smiled at him above the rim of her glass. He took a deep drink of his own, felt the chilled wine bite against the back of his throat, felt the slowly releasing glow of the alcohol fuse through him. Then he answered.
“You could have come down heavy on us,” he said. “You know it. I know it. You did everything you could to make us look good.”
She nodded to concede the point, then said distinctly, “Well, fuck the network. Maybe I don’t need them quite as much as I thought I did.”
That stopped him, as she knew it would. Truth to tell, she admitted to herself, it had stopped her when she first thought about it. She allowed herself a wan little smile.
He said nothing. But she knew she’d set him thinking. She shrugged to herself, took a slightly larger drink of her wine than normal.
Their meals arrived and they changed the subject to less challenging matters. Jesse expressed his regret that she would
n’t have time to ski before heading back to Denver. It seemed a shame to miss out.
“Snow’s pretty near perfect the past few days,” he said. She shrugged again. Channel 6 had given her a leave of absence from the morning program while she did the special report. Now she’d filed, she had no real excuse for staying on. Also, she’d sensed an undercurrent of anger from the head of News and Current Affairs when he’d called earlier. The channel would have enjoyed the prestige of having one of its reports picked up for national broadcast and she thought her boss knew she’d blown the chance intentionally with her choice of angle on the story.
“I guess it’s good skiing at the moment?” she asked, and he nodded.
“Knee-deep powder everywhere,” he said. She thought about it. She was a good skier, although try as he might, he’d never been able to convince her to ski moguls. She could imagine the mountain in weather like this. It was exhilarating skiing Mount Werner at any time. With soft, aerated, super-light powder flying waist or chest high, it would be simply great.
“Maybe I’ll try to get back later in the season,” she suggested.
Jesse shook his head. “Time to ski is when the snow’s good,” he said. “It’s good now.”
She laughed lightly at him. Skiing to him went beyond a recreation. In his eyes, it was almost a religion, and not to ski when the snow was perfect was very close to blasphemy.
“Things I’ve got to do back in Denver, Jess,” she said. She hesitated, waiting to see if he’d try to convince her to stay longer. But he said nothing.
On the small stage at the far end of the room, a five-piece bluegrass band started playing. They stopped their conversation, turning slightly in their seats to watch.
“Fiddle player’s good,” she said. Jesse nodded. The fiddle was sawing out the two-string stops of “Orange Blossom Special,” then flying into the fast-paced notes of the solo. The girl playing the piece couldn’t have been more than twenty years old. In spite of the frantic pace of the music, her face was relaxed, calm, almost detached.
The boy playing the five-string banjo beside her joined in, trading breaks with her. They blended easily, grinning at each other.
“Five-string’s no slouch either,” Jesse agreed. Abruptly, Abby came to her feet.
“Dance with me, Jess,” she said, knowing that this had been in the back of her mind hours before, when she’d asked if there were any good bands playing in town. Jesse hesitated for a moment, not sure if he wanted to revisit that area. She caught his hand and dragged him to his feet, leading him between the tables to the dance floor.
There were a few couples already swing dancing to the fast, rippling music as they stepped onto the polished parquet tiles that made up the dance floor.
One thing that they had always done superlatively was dance together. They both loved country music and, individually they were both excellent swing dancers. But as a pair, they had a chemistry a special, instinctive understanding that let them blend smoothly together. He stood behind and to one side, set his left hand on her hip, took her right hand in his and they started.
And, instantly, the old magic was back. They glided across the floor, feet moving in half steps, then full slides, then heel kicking behind. It was instinctive, totally unplanned, absolutely coordinated. Then he swung her out and they faced each other and went into another of the complex routines they’d danced years before.
There wasn’t another pair on the floor to match them and the other dancers, sensing their expertise, moved to the outer limits of the floor, simplifying their own movements to watch, acknowledging their superiority. The musicians noticed them, as did people at the tables close to the floor, who started clapping in time to encourage them.
They spun, kicked, stamped. He marveled at the fact that he knew, simply knew, every small move she was going to make just before she made it, and matched each one with his own.
Onstage, only a few yards away the fiddle player and the banjo picker exchanged a quick glance and upped the tempo progressively. It was a challenge to the dancers to see if they could maintain the rhythm with them, to see if they could keep the beat with their complex steps and moves. And they could.
Until finally the band capitulated, bringing the piece to a close with a repeating eight-bar riff. As the banjo rang out the closing chord in a loud rasgueado, the other dancers clapped and cheered and the people at the tables stood and applauded.
Breathing hard, sweating freely, Jesse and Abby laughed into each other’s eyes. The banjo player leaned down to shake hands with Jesse.
“Nice going, man,” he said, grinning. “You ready for another?”
Jesse grinned back, shaking his head, still a little short of breath. “Not just yet bud,” he replied. “Got to get some O2 back in the lungs here first.”
The banjo player smiled and turned back to his companions as the fiddler began the introduction to “Earl’s Breakdown.” Jesse looked back to Abby. He was conscious of the rise and fall of her breasts under the soft lambswool sweater she was wearing. He was aware that she was wearing no bra, or anything else, under the sweater.
She grinned at him, brushed a stray tendril of her glowing blond hair back from her eyes.
“Let’s finish that wine,” she said happily.
She took his hand to lead him from the floor, guiding it to slip naturally around her waist as they walked back to their table, then moving it just a fraction lower. He could feel the warm, firm flesh under her tights, and felt no ridge of a waistband or legband under them. Unobtrusively she moved his hand with her own, allowing him to confirm the thought, letting his hand stray over her buttock and hip. She was naked under the tights and the sweater and he felt a sudden rush of warmth in his groin.
In her hotel room, she stood nude before the big windows, pulling the curtains aside to let the lights from Mount Werner in.
He watched her, fascinated by the perfection of her body reveling in the play of light and shade on the perfect curve of her hip and thigh. She turned slightly, allowing the cold light to play on the swell of her breasts, and smiled at him.
She moved toward him and he rose to meet her, his erection throbbing almost painfully. She slid the zipper down on his jeans, laughing softly as his erection forced its way out through the gap. Then, with increasing urgency she shoved his jeans and briefs down, kicking them free, leaving him as naked as she was.
She thrust forward against him and he moaned softly. There was a distant part of his mind telling him he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. Then his hands went under her firm, muscular buttocks and he lifted her as she let her legs twine around him. He was searching for her and he felt her hand on him, guiding him into the amazing heat and wetness of her. He moved slightly, resting her on the dressing table, letting it take some of the weight, then began thrusting urgently into her, feeling her matching his movements as her legs tightened around his waist, then he lifted her clear off the table, allowing her to slide down upon him, taking her full weight as he strained to reach farther and farther inside her and then, shatteringly, explosively he came. And came. And came.
Legs wrapped around his waist, arms twined around his neck, she smiled down at him and kissed him, open-mouthed. Then she smiled at him.
“Let’s try that one again, shall we?” she said.
FORTY-THREE
It was wet and cold in Virginia. Agent Annie Dillon hung her raincoat on the hook on the back of her office door and settled down in front of her computer. The message “Have a good weekend, Babe” scrolled endlessly across the screen. She grunted at it. The weekend hadn’t been wildly successful. She’d caught a large piece of near frozen ground with a five iron and damn near wrenched her left wrist out of its socket. It hurt like hell at the time. By Sunday night, she couldn’t move her left hand at all without intense, searing pain.
As a result, she’d spent most of Monday morning with doctors, X-ray technicians and physiotherapists. Now it was nearly midday and she was hours behi
nd in her work. She brought the computer online from its standby setting, unlocked her top drawer and took out the sheets of part numbers that she’d received on Friday. She sighed as she glanced down the ranks-four columns to a page, forty-three lines to a column.
She flicked through the pages to get a quick count, and frowned. The last two pages were a different format—an address sheet from a sheriff’s department in some godforsaken place called Routt County, out in Colorado.
Frowning, she read the note and reached for her phone. She could pass this on to one of the research interns but she felt a little guilty about it. It was her fault that the request had gone unanswered for almost three days. She’d do it herself.
She dialed the library and requested a copy of any information they might have on a Wilson Purdue. Telling the clerk that the job was urgent, she requested the file ASAP
It arrived fifteen minutes later, a single sheet. She glanced quickly at it to make sure it was complete, not really taking in any details. Then, making a note of the Routt County Sheriff’s Department fax number, she headed for the fax room at the end of the corridor.
Several hundred miles away in Denver, Carrie Tolliver was back at work after an absence of several days.
Carrie was an administrative assistant with the Denver Fire Department. She looked after paperwork, filing, interdepartmental communication and requests from other authorities for assistance or information.
But a flu epidemic was sweeping Denver and health authorities had estimated that city residents had a one in three chance of catching the bug, sooner or later.
Carrie had caught it sooner. She fought for a day against the aching head, the soaring temperatures and the dry rasping throat.
Then, finally, she gave in. She went home, gulped down a handful of aspirin and fell into bed for four days, rousing herself at irregular intervals for soup, hot tea and more aspirin.
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