The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  “Well, I am a bit older than I was—”

  “No, I don’t mean older.” Beth picked up another slice. “Never mind.” She bit off a sizeable chunk.

  Shane watched her chew. In a moment, he reached way over, plucked a strand of errant cheese from the corner of her mouth and placed it on his own tongue.

  Beth’s eyes widened. This was a new Shane. The old Shane might have just pointed and grunted.

  “Maybe I have matured a bit, Bethany. If that means it knocked me flat and sobered me up... when I lost you.” His eyes glistened.

  Beth dabbed a pizza-stained paper napkin at her eyes. “I wasn’t lost, Shane. I had to move.”

  “I know, Bethany, I know.” He moved his plate to the low table. “If I had a brother or sister who needed my help, I guess I would have gone away too. But I couldn’t see it back then. It hurt too—” He choked up.

  Beth hurried to the bathroom sink to wash her face. She stared at the woman in the mirror and barely recognized the image. That person had aged six years in the past three... and another full year in the recent ten days. The woman in that looking glass had left her lover, lost her confidence, buried her brother, and currently stayed constantly frightened. Who was she and what had she done with Bethany Muse?

  When Beth returned to the living space some ten minutes later, they did not resume the previous topic. Apparently it was more than either of them could deal with at the moment. Maybe later, after Ricks got himself caught. Perhaps after things settled down. But when and if things were better established, where would Shane be? West-bound on Interstate-40?

  Shane was still eating, but not as aggressively as he formerly consumed his favorites. His appetite seemed different now also. Beth wondered if that included all his appetites, or just those related to food.

  She nibbled a bit more, but the pizza had cooled by then. Once things cool off, they’re not as desirable. And that applied to more than food. “So, let’s say that you’ve matured a bit and sobered a bit... and, yeah, you’re slightly older.” Beth couldn’t resist poking a bruise. “Are you still fighting every chance you get?”

  Shane looked genuinely surprised. “How many times, in nearly eight years that we’ve been together—”

  “We were only together four-and-a-half years, Shane. Not these last three—”

  “Not to me, Bethany. I know you were gone and we lived in different states, but I never stopped—”

  “Shane, don’t.”

  “Okay. Maybe now isn’t good timing.” There was a long silence. “But anyway, back to your question. That whole time... how many guys did you actually see me fight?”

  “It seemed like a lot, but, two or three... I guess. The worst was that guy in the bar with the pool cue.”

  “Yeah, and he came after me. I was only defending myself.”

  “Well, you walked out with lumps and bruises... and he was hauled to E.R. in an ambulance.”

  “He was lucky somebody stopped it. I don’t appreciate guys coming at me with clubs when my back’s turned.”

  Beth thought for a moment. “Okay, maybe there weren’t as many as I thought, but it seemed like you were always about to fight somebody.”

  Shane smiled slyly. “You’re mistaking two distinct aspects of self-preservation: one is what I call positioning... which is a bit like defensive driving. You’re constantly aware of who’s around you and whether they represent a threat... and you keep shifting your position to keep open the most options. The other one—fighting—is what happens when positioning fails to, uh, mitigate the circumstances.”

  “That’s a funny way of expressing it. It doesn’t even sound like Shane Holder.”

  “Well, I got a new buddy—you don’t know him. He has a wife who’s a psychology person.” He dragged the napkin across his stubbled face. “When he saw how down I was after you left, he suggested I talk to his wife... with him right there, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And she helped me understand a few things.”

  “I can’t believe you went to a therapist.” Beth smiled broadly. “That’s wonderful.”

  “Well, she wasn’t a therapist, technically... because I didn’t pay her anything. So, she was just a friend’s wife talking with me.”

  “And she did that pro bono?”

  It took him a second. “Sure. She wouldn’t take any money so I built some utility shelves for her craft room.”

  Beth looked into Shane’s face and saw someone new. “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”

  “You weren’t returning my calls so I figured you didn’t care anymore.” He said it rather clinically, but it clearly still caused him pain.

  “Only reason I didn’t return your calls is because I assumed I knew what you’d say.” Her eyes grew moist and she looked down toward her slippers. “But I guess I was wrong.”

  “I think I understand... I did some guessing too. And assuming.” He reached over and placed a heavy hand on her knee.

  She let it stay... and stared at his weathered knuckles before she faced him. “Okay, I think I understand your notion of positioning... or what I’d think of as readiness.”

  “Yeah, tactical readiness is a good description. Some instructors use that. It’s partly about your surroundings—you know, keep your back to a wall, try to have more than one exit. But it’s also about having a defensive response prepared.”

  “Whatever. But what about all your threatening language whenever some guy would look my direction?”

  Shane groaned. “First of all, it was never about somebody just looking in your direction. I know guys and I could tell when one of them was looking you over. That’s a big step from just being in the same room.” He paused. “And, besides, it wasn’t threats.”

  “Then what were they?”

  Shane gestured when he talked. “I call it brushing ‘em back.”

  “Is that wording from the therapy wife too?”

  He chuckled. “No, that’s from major league baseball. If a batter’s crowding the plate, sometimes you have to brush him back.” His hand made the movement.

  “Threaten him?”

  “Not with words. The umpire won’t let you get in the batter’s face. So you just pitch your fastball a little inside and brush him back. It gets things back to even ground.”

  “You lost me.” Beth’s eyes rolled.

  “When a batter crowds your plate, it’s a signal that he’s trying to assume control of it. As pitcher, you can’t allow him to dictate where you place the ball. So you brush him back and the full plate is back under your control again.”

  “In baseball. But what about the guys who—according to you—were looking me over?”

  “Pretty much the same. It’s a signal that he’s trying to assume possession of you. And as your, uh, boyfriend, I can’t allow him to think that’s a possibility. So I brush him back. Then he understands that he has to step back... or else.”

  “Did the airborne teach you how to fight?”

  “I learned how to fight in grade school. Advanced Infantry Training and the specialized Airborne courses taught me better technique.”

  “Where’d you learn how to brush back the guys you considered encroachers?”

  “Baseball.”

  ****

  Shane could tell the baseball analogy just confused her so he just waited for her next probe. It wasn’t like Bethany to let anything rest.

  “So what is this science? How can you tell, allegedly, that some guy is checking me out?”

  He shook his head. This would not be easy to explain. “When guys walk into a room, they sniff it out.”

  “They smelled me?”

  “Not with their nose!” He chuckled. “They sniff it visually... check out every woman in the place.”

  “Like a robot? A screen covers over their eyes with a computer read out?” Beth made an electronic noise.

  “Actually, that’s a pretty good image. But it’s not that sophisticated. It’s
intuitive or instinctive... or something. Anyhow, not computer stuff.”

  “Okay. What kind of instinctive read-outs do these mysterious men receive as they visually sweep any space for every female?”

  Shane couldn’t believe how dense she could be at times. “Well... body, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Legs, if they’re showing,” Shane touched hers, though covered in denim. “Uh, ‘specially if they’re as hot as yours.”

  Beth didn’t immediately brush away his hand, so he lightly stroked a circle on that portion of her thigh.

  “And... breasts, if they have any.” He mimed cupping her bosom without actually touching.

  She shivered slightly. “Buns, I presume?”

  “Sure. But it’s all kind of jumbled up... not just one, uh, component at a time.”

  “Okay, body.” Beth slid her thigh from under his fingertips. “And I suppose face appears on the read-out at some point.”

  Shane nodded.

  “I don’t guess this instant diagnosis includes any analysis of the woman’s intellect... her interests, or goals. Her individuality... or personality.”

  Shane had started shaking his head when she began. “Irrelevant data. At this stage the guy is checking out all the potential females to see which ones he wants to monitor.”

  “Monitor?”

  Shane peered into her face briefly. Surely she already knew most of this. Or maybe not.

  “Because, if he finds a real babe... like you…” He grinned. “He’s gonna have to keep an eye on her.”

  “Have to?”

  “You never know when she’ll cross her legs, bend over, lean forward... whatever. So you have to be ready or you might miss it.”

  Beth slapped his arm. “That’s positively misogynistic!”

  Though he’d heard it before, that word had no place to land.

  “Are you leveling with me?” Beth didn’t wait for a reply. “Guys continually monitor a nice looking girl just against the possibility that they’ll show a bit of something interesting?”

  “Almost always do... and if you don’t watch, you’ll miss it.”

  “This is your avocation too, I take it.” Beth sounded huffy.

  Shane was silent briefly. “You asked me to explain how I know that guys are checking you out...”

  Beth nodded.

  “That’s how. After they determine who the babes are, they monitor.” He shrugged.

  Beth sighed heavily. “Well, other than being childish—in a caveman kind of way—there’s still no actual harm. No overt maneuvering... or whatever.”

  “I didn’t finish. While they’re monitoring, they’re also patrolling.”

  “I won’t even ask.”

  “Walking back and forth.” Shane’s fingers made the movements. “They go to the bar for more pretzels, but only take half a dozen at a time... anything to get closer, but not actually camp out on her tail. So to speak.”

  Beth cleared her throat. “Okay, that sounds mildly irritating, but still no crime that requires your confrontational intervention.”

  “You ever notice when the same guy stands in front of the juke box and pretends to read the titles, but every time you look up... he’s staring at you?”

  Beth had said her boss often did that. “Let’s say I have noticed. What does it mean... besides rudeness?”

  “He’s about one step from coming over. And that’s when the guy you’re with—me—has to assert that no encroachments are allowed.”

  “Alpha male.”

  “Whatever. So this guy on patrol needs a clear message: ‘Move on to the second-best babe in this joint, ‘cause this one’s with me!’ Understand?”

  Beth was obviously trying. “And in your interesting view of the relationship world, there’s no way this is just innocent curiosity?”

  Shane reached for her hand. “Bethany, I’ve seen lots of stuff... mostly before you and I got together. But lots of girls got in terrible situations mainly because they didn’t have any defense against what you’re calling curiosity. There are bad guys out there with a lot of momentum and power—but no conscience—and they’ll take the slightest opening and quickly turn it into something horrible. Maybe the woman gave him just a tiny smile to begin with... but half an hour later, she’s on the floor with a banged-up face and no clothes on.” He paused to see it if sank in. “You can’t always tell bad dudes from friendly guys... until it’s too late. And one thing’s for sure: it’s not about whether they’re handsome or homely, or whether, at first, they’re polite or rude. It’s something deeper—”

  Beth’s eyes were moist. “You make it sound like a serial killer. Who was that guy? Ted Bundy.”

  “I’m not a crime expert, but it’s probably the same streak or disease... whatever. Except, most of the time, the guys I’m talking about don’t actually kill anybody... they just—.” No conscience... no inner restraint.

  “So, when you used to muscle those guys away—”

  “Brush ‘em back.”

  “You actually were protecting me? Not just being a bully?”

  That word stung a bit and Shane waited to answer. “No, Bethany... not a bully. I’ve never been that. I fight when I have to, so I’m always ready. But I don’t pick fights just to knock somebody’s lights out. I’m a protector. I defend myself, and I defend—”

  “Me.” Beth leaned way over and hugged him tightly as tears dropped to the firm trapezius muscles along the tops of his broad shoulders. They remained that way for several minutes.

  It was close to ten o’clock when Shane looked toward his jacket and helmet near the front door. He wanted to stay but would not push himself on her. Bethany looked like she wanted him to remain, but she didn’t say so. Or wouldn’t.

  “In a day or two, this will all be over, Bethany. And you can rest easy again.” But even as he spoke, he wondered if those words also applied to him.

  “Good night, Shane.” She stood on her toes and kissed his stubbled cheek. “Thanks for the pizza.”

  Shane left.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  October 13 (Thursday morning)

  Beth heard her cell phone vibrate down in her purse. Since she was at work under Steve’s scrutiny, she surreptitiously checked and saw a text message from Jeff: call me @ work quick. Though entitled to a fifteen-minute break every morning and afternoon, she seldom left the building. But she did then.

  As she exited, Beth was already dialing the library reference department. “What’s so important?”

  “I found a corroborating blurb in the Hickman Courier for December thirteenth!” Jeff sounded like he was panting. “The hanging was December ninth instead of November.”

  “That’s awesome!”

  “Yeah... unbelievable. Like being a guest star on CSI and Cold Case Files on the same night.” Jeff sounded excited despite trying to keep his volume on library low. “But the news account varies a lot from the manuscript version.”

  “So, how is it different?”

  “You’ve got to read the article before anything I say will make sense.”

  “You can’t leave me hanging...”

  “I’m not. It’s attached to a message I sent you a half hour ago. Check your e-mail... immediately.”

  “I’m about to wet my pants with excitement.”

  “Then take care of that first.”

  About fifteen minutes later, after she’d handled an incoming call, Beth checked her personal e-mail and sent an attached document to the office printer, near the coffee machine. Knowing Steve’s squinty eyes were constantly on her, Beth hid the single page beneath a blank file folder. Back at her desk, she positioned her body so the paper was shielded from her boss’s view.

  The photocopy was clear enough, but it had obviously been scanned from an original in faded and torn condition—considerably yellowed and rather dim.

  December 13, 1889 issue of Hickman Courier

  HANGING AVERTED

  Suspect Sought in
Explosion

  The convicted murderer of a local businessman cheated the gallows Monday when unknown accomplices set off explosives nearby, causing panic among numerous spectators and sufficiently diverting officials’ attention to allow the criminal’s complete escape. Sabert T. Smith, age 22, of Desoto County, Mississippi, was convicted in district court Nov. 25 for his Oct. 12 cold-blooded murder of prominent local merchant Frederick Slate, age 49, behind the Cherokee Theatre.

  After the trap was sprung, Smith had dangled from the end of his noose for a matter of only one or two minutes before he was apparently cut down by helpers unknown. Sheriff Harry King deputized a dozen citizens on the spot and they duly searched those entire surroundings.

  Salacious rumors notwithstanding, there was no doubt in the jury’s mind as to Smith’s guilt, inasmuch as several upstanding citizens testified the traveler had been in the company of his victim when Slate was last seen alive. Some placed those encounters near the dock area, while others avowed sightings around the town square or in front of the theatre. Such discrepancies were explained by the prosecution as simple movements of the two men in the hours before the horrible murder occurred.

  No motive was proven during the trial, though the district attorney speculated robbery was surely the impetus for that foul deed. The court-appointed defense countered that no money or valuables were found in Smith’s possession when he was apprehended. Throughout the proceedings, Smith protested his complete innocence of any wrongdoing. He further denied ever meeting Slate at any time or place, though he admitted recognizing the victim’s face when shown a recent tintype photographic plate of him in life.

  Little is known of Smith’s history: he testified that he’d arrived here by steamboat, though he could not name the craft and claimed he forgot the exact date. Under oath, Smith admitted he had been in this vicinity since the first week of October, which would have been a matter of days before this terrible act was committed.

  With the aid of state champion hounds loaned by our own good mayor, the felon’s tracks were found heading toward the river. Sheriff King told the Courier that Smith is presumed drowned and “as the murderer met his end—though by other means—justice has nonetheless been served.” Smith had no known associates and no one stood for him at his trial.