by Brenda Novak
He ignored the accusation. “About that gun…”
Her stomach muscles tightened. “What about it?” Would he confiscate her Sig? She got the impression he was considering it. But now that she’d made the decision to keep the weapon close at hand, she didn’t want to lose the advantage it could give her.
“It’s dangerous to have it in the house.”
It was more dangerous not to have it, which was why Virgil had given her the Sig in the first place. “I’ll be careful.”
“Do you really need it? I mean…I’m right next door.”
With a thirteen-year-old. No way would she get him involved if The Crew came to call. The Crew would kill him and Marley, just like they’d butchered that U.S. marshal…?.
The panic she’d felt as she called 9-1-1 that night a few years ago returned to her mind, along with the memory of the marshal’s blood, still warm, as she tried to hold the wound in his neck closed. She couldn’t let anything like that happen again. Ever. Which meant she had to control herself and her emotions. “Thank you, but…I can take care of myself.”
She’d offended him. He wanted her to rely on him as a lawman, if nothing more, but he didn’t argue with her or try to convince her. He nodded once and turned to go.
Unable to stifle the impulse, she followed him to the steps. “So…that’s all you have to say?”
When he faced her again, the hooded expression he’d worn since he arrived dropped, revealing raw desire. “Yes. No. Yes. No. You’re driving me crazy,” he murmured.
She was driving herself crazy, wanting what she couldn’t have. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” he said, repeating her line from a moment before.
“Yes.” What more was there? She had no choice but to do exactly as she was doing.
“No.” He shook his head.
“No?”
“You want to keep your gun?”
Where was he going with this? She slid one arm around the pillar to steady herself. “You know I do.”
The emotion that’d burned so bright only a second before disappeared behind a professional facade. “Then go for a ride with me. Tonight at six-thirty. Marley will babysit.”
“The kids can’t stay here—” she started, but he cut her off.
“Then we’ll take them to my place.”
Even if The Crew was in town, they’d have no reason to go looking for her or her children at the sheriff’s house. Mia and Jake would be safe. But still… Was she getting in over her head?
“What if I refuse?”
“I’ll take your gun from you right now.”
She swallowed hard. “And if I go with you?”
“You might have a chance of keeping it.”
“Might?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not I’m convinced you know how to use it.”
This, she hadn’t expected. “Excuse me?”
“Bring it with you,” he said, and walked away. When he reached his car, he called back, “And dress warm. We’ll be taking the Ducati.”
7
Myles knew he shouldn’t push it with Vivian. She was too dodgy. Chasing someone so mysterious and closed off was asking for trouble. And yet…she attracted him like no one else. He hadn’t seen it coming, not initially, at least not the way it was currently playing out. He’d assumed he’d date her, see whether or not it went anywhere, and probably wind up moving on to the next candidate. He had no real hope he could meet someone he loved as much as Amber Rose.
But Vivian wouldn’t let their mutual interest travel along that well-worn path. She was so different from anyone he’d been with, so different from the kind of woman he’d married. Amber Rose had been a safe bet. Trusting, warm, sunny. Vivian, on the other hand, was complicated and full of shadows. That made her a definite risk. And he had no business taking a risk at this point in his life. Not with a daughter who’d already lost her mother…
So why couldn’t he seem to back away and forget his pretty neighbor?
Because he wanted her too badly. It was that simple. He’d been trying to engage her without climbing in too deep—get to know her better before deciding whether or not to lower his defenses. This was part of the reason, aside from the fact that she’d had too much wine, that he’d refused her last night. But she wouldn’t allow him to play it safe. He’d have to jump in over his head if he wanted to get wet at all.
Which was a stupid thing for him to do, right?
Of course. When he presented it to himself like that, he could see the danger easily enough.
He should call her and cancel…?.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew he wouldn’t. Last night had lit a fuse. Now it burned quickly toward detonation and he was actually looking forward to the explosion. For the first time since Amber Rose died, he felt some positive emotion about life in general and his neighbor specifically—excitement, eagerness, arousal, curiosity. If Vivian offered him another opportunity like last night, he’d take it. Even if he wound up mired in regret, at least he’d escape the numb emptiness that had replaced the pain of losing Amber Rose.
He glanced at his watch. Pat’s autopsy was scheduled for three. He’d expected to have plenty of time to make it back, but lunch with Marley had taken longer than expected. He’d also stayed at Vivian’s too long. He needed to hurry if he wanted to observe the procedure.
The needle on his speedometer edged up to seventy-five as Pineview faded in his rearview mirror. Like his office, the morgue was in Libby, thirty minutes away. But less than five miles down the road, he spotted a vehicle broken down on the shoulder.
Because he was so intent on reaching the morgue, he almost left the driver to work it out on his own. Two men were with the car. But there wasn’t any cell service here, so they couldn’t call for help, and when he saw one of them limp around the vehicle to reach the engine, he slowed.
The man had an awkward gait, as if one leg was shorter than the other. Maybe the second guy, who was sitting in the driver’s seat, wasn’t any more mobile and that was why he hadn’t gotten out.
Flipping on his lights to warn other motorists to give them a wide berth, Myles pulled in behind the economy-size truck and cut the engine. Then he ran the California plate, only to learn that the computer system was down and had been for the past twenty minutes.
“No big deal,” he muttered. These boys just needed a hand. If he got them on their way soon enough he could still make the autopsy.
As Myles got out, the handicapped man leaned around the hood. “Afternoon, Officer.”
“Looks like you got trouble.” A red bucket of bolts, the truck probably hailed from the early nineties.
“Radiator’s busted,” came the response.
Camping and fishing gear filled the bed, not unusual for this time of year. The person inside the cab stared at Myles through his open window but stayed put. He seemed young. Not young enough to be the driver’s son, but maybe a nephew or brother.
The lame guy leaned heavily on his hands, as if it pained him to support his own weight. Although dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a ball cap, which didn’t expose a lot of skin, what skin Myles could see as he drew closer was covered with ink, even his face. The images of snakes and gargoyles were off-putting enough to make Myles wish he’d been able to run the license plate. He dealt with a lot of tourists, mostly men, some of them pretty rough. But this guy went beyond anything he’d seen since his days on the force in Phoenix. His appearance and lack of relief at the prospect of having help, not to mention the way the fellow behind the wheel pulled his ball cap down and sank lower in the seat, set Myles’s cop instincts abuzz.
He immediately thought of Pat’s murder and wished he could find out if they were driving a stolen vehicle or had outstanding warrants. “Engine’s hot, huh?” he said.
“Too hot to drive without cracking the block.” A jug of water sat on the ground next
to the speaker. Obviously he’d done what he could to remedy the problem.
Judging by the burned smell, Myles thought it was too late to save the engine. “If that’s true, it can’t be driven. Why don’t I call for a tow? Harvey can come out, pick you up and take you and your vehicle into town.”
Tattoo Guy fidgeted with the change in his pocket, then squinted at him. “How much will that cost?”
“Can’t say for sure, but I’m guessing it’ll be around eighty bucks.”
“You hear that?” He banged on the truck to attract his friend’s attention. “’Cause of you, we need a tow.”
The door cracked open. When the young man poked his head out, dark eyebrows met over vivid blue eyes. “I’m the one who said we had to stop!”
“No, you didn’t!”
“Yes, I did!”
“If you need a tow, then you need a tow,” Myles interrupted. These two didn’t seem to be getting along so well. The boy was definitely sulky and Tattoo Guy barely seemed able to contain his irritation.
“Go ahead an’ give ’em a call,” Tattoo Guy grumbled.
Myles offered them both a bland smile. “Will do, but first I need to see your license, registration and proof of insurance.”
Blue Eyes sat up straight. “Why? We haven’t done nothin’ wrong.”
Because he was outnumbered and had no idea whether or not these men possessed firearms, Myles kept his voice and expression calm. He didn’t want to spook them. “It’s nothing to worry about.” Unless they had something to hide… “Just standard procedure.”
The kid couldn’t be older than nineteen or twenty. Although he didn’t seem to have had a shower recently, and his clothes were wrinkled and dirty, he wasn’t bad-looking. Tall and thin, he had a good build. It was the furtive air about him, and the sweat popping out on his forehead, that made Myles nervous.
“Just because our radiator broke?”
His reluctance to provide the requested documentation rang another warning bell in Myles’s head. This wasn’t a situation he wanted to be in, not without backup or some assurance that these guys were law-abiding citizens. There wasn’t much traffic on the road today, which put the odds even more in their favor. Only one vehicle had passed since he’d stopped, certainly not enough to act as any type of deterrent. These men could easily shoot him, drag his body into the woods and steal his cruiser.
“Like I said—” Myles left his hand by his side so he could grab his gun if need be “—standard procedure.”
“Get it for him,” Tattoo Guy barked, as if he made the decisions.
Tension coiled in Myles’s chest. This was the most anxious moment of any traffic stop—when the driver reached across the seat to open the jockey box. He could pull out a gun instead of his registration. That wasn’t something Myles worried about when dealing with folks in Pineview. But these were total strangers.
Fortunately, there was no blast. Easing his stance, Myles breathed an internal sigh of relief as the younger man handed him registration and proof of insurance, all of which appeared to be in the name of one Quentin J. Ferguson.
“And your license?”
The boy lifted his cap and resettled it on his head. “Sorry, sir. Lost my wallet in the river yesterday.”
That sort of thing happened often enough, and yet Myles couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He turned to the other man. “What about you?”
“Didn’t bring any ID. Considering I’m such a cripple, it’s better if I don’t drive.”
Neither man could provide proof of identity? “Why don’t we start with your names?” Myles tilted his head at Tattoo Guy, who grinned from ear to ear as he answered.
“Ron Howard.”
Myles stiffened. “Like the director?”
“What director?”
Was he for real? No way. This guy knew exactly who Ron Howard was. “How’d you get injured, Mr. Howard?”
“Fell off a ladder while working construction. Hurt my back.”
Myles had a feeling he might have to arrest these two. Something wasn’t right… “I hope it’s only a temporary condition.”
“’Fraid not.”
The pain seemed real. “Sorry to hear that.”
Bitterness contorted his features, making those gargoyles on his face dance. “Yeah, so was I.”
“Ron Howard,” if that was really his name, was as fascinating as he was repulsive. With some effort, Myles pulled his gaze away and indicated the Toyota truck. “You the owner of this vehicle?”
“Nope.” He angled his head toward Blue Eyes. “His brother is.”
“What’s your name?” Myles asked the driver.
“Peter Ferguson.” He pointed to the registration. “Quentin is my brother. The J stands for Joe—” he squinted into the bright sun to read Myles’s badge “—Sheriff King.” Now that he was on the spot, he’d gone from trying to avoid notice to putting on a show.
Myles wished he could believe what he’d been told. He also wished he didn’t have to present his back to these two in order to return to his car. But he couldn’t stand there all day. “I’ll get that tow truck coming.”
The crunch of his boots on the gravel shoulder sounded loud, probably because he was so aware of every step. Pat’s murder, combined with the disconcerting appearance of Tattoo Guy and his younger sidekick, had made him skittish, as skittish as everyone else in Pineview. He strained to hear movement behind him, any indication of impending danger, but reached his car without incident.
Leaving the door hanging open so he could get out quickly if necessary, he called dispatch with the plate number instead of entering it into the computer—and was told what he’d learned before—California’s Motor Vehicle Division was down.
Shit… “Call me as soon as it goes up,” he told the dispatcher.
He used his radio to call Harvey’s Tow. Then he stayed in his car, studying the documents he’d been given. The address on the registration indicated the owner of the vehicle lived in a place called Monrovia, California. Was that northern or southern California?
Myles had no idea. He’d been to Disneyland once with Marley and that was it.
“Ron Howard” began to limp toward him. Myles had been stalling, hoping to hear from dispatch before going back to the truck, but there’d been no word in the past ten minutes. Knowing his open door could act as a shield should there be trouble, he stood but remained behind it. “Tow truck’s on its way.”
“You don’t have a bottle of water or somethin’ else to drink in there, do you?” “Ron,” the tattooed man, asked.
Myles didn’t have any food or drink. “Sorry.”
A nod acknowledged his response, then “Ron” headed back but got only ten feet or so before doubling over and cursing aloud.
“You okay?” Myles called out.
The guy seemed to be in pain; Myles couldn’t help being concerned. “Should I call the paramedics?”
“No, there’s…nothing they can…do,” he ground out.
“Do you need aspirin or something? I don’t have any of that, either, but the tow truck driver might.”
“Aspirin won’t…make any difference.”
“Then you must have a prescription for stronger meds.”
“It…fell in the river…with Peter’s wallet.”
Myles was just about to leave the safety of his car to help the man to his truck when the radio sparked to life. Dispatch was trying to reach him. “Hang on.” Ducking back inside, he grabbed the mic. “What have you got for me?” he asked the dispatcher.
“That plate you gave me is registered to Quentin J. Ferguson from Monrovia, California.” It was Nadine Archer. Myles had spoken to her so many times since coming to this area, he recognized the voice.
“Has it been reported as stolen?”
“No, sir.”
He looked up. “Ron” had managed to straighten and was dragging his foot as he made his way back to the truck. “Does Quentin J. Ferguson of Monrovia have any outsta
nding warrants?”
“Not a one.”
“When was he born?”
“In 1964.” That meant Quentin, Peter’s brother, was forty-six, quite a bit older than Peter was. But…it was possible. Quentin could even be a half brother.
When “Ron” climbed into the truck, he seemed to instigate an argument but, given the situation, that didn’t strike Myles as unusual. It was hot, they were stranded far from home and one of them was in pain and had lost his meds. “Can I get clearance on a Ron Howard?”
“Also from Monrovia?” Nadine asked.
Myles figured that was as good a guess as any. “Sure, give that a try.”
He had to wait a few minutes before she came back on the line. “There are several Ron Howards, but I don’t show any outstandings.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Sheriff.”
“Good to know,” Myles muttered as he returned the mic to his radio. Apparently his intuition was a little off today. Maybe. He still didn’t like these two.
The men stopped talking the moment he drew close. He sensed some unease, but knew there could be a lot of reasons for that. Perhaps they’d had some run-in with the law in the past. In any case, there was nothing he could do. He didn’t have any reason to detain them. He might as well get to the autopsy before he missed it entirely.
“Your tow will be here any moment,” he explained as he returned their documents. “I’ve got business in the next town, so I’m going to head out.”
The boy sat taller. “Really?”
“You don’t mind waiting alone, do you?”
“No, no problem at all. Thanks for your help, Sheriff.”
The man who’d said his name was Ron Howard didn’t speak. He merely rested his head against the back window and closed his eyes.
“Your friend going to be okay?” Myles asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Peter assured him. “It’s chronic pain. Nothing anyone can do.”
“He should contact his doctor, have him call in a new prescription. There’s a drugstore right across from Harvey’s Tow.”
The boy nodded. “We’ll do that. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” he said, and walked back to his car. He probably would’ve continued to wait, just in case “Mr. Howard’s” condition worsened and he ended up needing emergency care, but Harvey radioed to say he was five minutes away.