Say something! She silently begged him. Tell me what I want to know.
After a moment his gaze turned outward again and found her face. “I wanted to warn you about Peter,” he said. “Even if he has some aptitude as a policeman, he’s a man who works best by dark and stealth. You said it yourself, Sophie. You said he was sneaky.”
What on earth is he doing? Why is he back to talking about Peter. Why is he pushing the conversation back? Away? Sophie stared at him, her mind floundering.
“Jack…”
“Martin,” he said softly.
She sat up suddenly, the rocker scraping across a joint in the wooden floor. “No, we are not going to do this—”
His hand snagged her wrist, halting both her words and her rise to her feet. He was not gripping tightly. His touch alone anchored her to the spot. His gaze bored into her eyes, relentless in its focus. “We have to do this. It has to be this way, Sophie. You know why. Even Peter had it right, though he doesn’t know the details. You’re safe, as long as Martin is here. As long as Jack stays away.”
“I want Jack.” It was the uncomplicated, profound truth. It was the hard core of truth she had carried for eight years.
“He’s dead, Sophie.” His gaze was not letting her go, not letting her shore up her defenses. He was reaching into her soul.
Understanding came to her slowly, tinged with finality. Jack was gone. The man who faced her now was all that remained.
She pulled her wrist from his grip and it slipped free with little resistance. She got to her feet. Martin was watching her again, the careful, neutral expression on his face.
“Why are you here, Martin?” she asked.
His answer was a moment in coming. “To help out, I guess. To hole up for the winter, if you want a more practical answer.”
The answer hurt, as she had expected it to. “Then, Martin, as you’re a guest in my house, I’d thank you to keep your nose out of my affairs and keep to your own.” She deliberately locked gazes with him. “Do you understand me?”
The silence this time seemed to spin on forever and for a moment Sophie hoped he would change his mind and back her out of the dark, narrow dead-end alley they were in.
Finally, he nodded. “I understand,” he said, his voice low.
This time it was he who looked away. He propped his elbow on the railing and looked out at the mountains, his hand holding his head.
There was nothing else left to say or do. Sophie went inside.
Chapter Fourteen
“But I haven’t done nothing!” Dwayne Gaffney said.
He’d said it at least a dozen times since the deputy had pushed him into the back of the cruiser and it got the same response it had the previous eleven times.
The deputy behind the wheel snarled “Shut up, punk.” His gaze didn’t waver from the controls and his voice didn’t shift from the monotone delivery.
Dwayne was twenty-two and liked to think he was born for trouble. He would have given anything to be a disaffected urban street punk and cursed the fate that had given him rosy cheeks and the good, solid health of a farm boy. It was hard to cruise the neighbourhood nosing for trouble when the nearest neighbour was ten miles away and you need a four-wheel drive to reach them in every season bar high summer.
He’d moved to Kalispell straight out of high school and learned the basics from the small town criminals who ran there. After two years he’d gone solo, shrugging off his mentors when he realized their commitment to the life was a hesitant thing at best. He did cocaine runs to Canada on a regular basis and in between he learned his trade with the dedication of a true professional. More house-hits for more sophisticated goods, which required a competent fence—never too many because you didn’t squeeze the tit that fed you and Kalispell wasn’t New York.
But what he liked best were the scams. Some scams and schemes he figured had drawn marginal profits but made him wise to the ways a sucker will con himself every time. That was what fascinated him—the inevitability of the sucker drawn to the flame. If you built the scam right, the sucker would do the polka right into those flames with a smile on his face.
So far, he’d not acquired a jacket. Although the police in Kalispell knew him by name and probably by reputation, so far they were just nodding acquaintances. He’d managed to escape even a misdemeanour charge, which was why being stuck in the back of this shit-hole town’s cruiser was such a fuckin’ pain-in-the-ass because he hadn’t done anything.
He was on his way back from British Columbia and had stopped off in the one-horse town last night to taste the brew at Beany’s, which had acquired a reputation across north-west Montana as a place where some eye-popping deals went down under the tables. He’d been caught on the edges of a fight just before the bar closed down and got kicked out for wielding his pool cue too easily—hell, he’d only been defending himself. So what if the guy knocked out a handful of teeth on his knee? But the skinny cowpoke deputy who had pushed him out the door hadn’t seen it his way. Dwayne had managed to stagger and get the guy a good solid elbow in the solar plexus as he’d “fallen” down the steps.
He’d been run off into the night. Later, he’d found himself a coke party at a shack parked just off the edge of the lake. Normally he refrained from imbibing the product but Serenity Falls didn’t have much to offer a fellow, so he’d accepted the hospitality.
Then the cops had raided that party, too, and who should show up but skinny Deputy Dawg, who was looking gray around the gills from Dwayne’s parting love-tap. They’d traded dark looks just before Dwayne went out a window with corrugated iron sheeting for glass and found himself rolling across crisp, frosted grass into the bushes that hung low around the shack. He stood up and brushed himself off and realized he’d got clean away again. He took off then, hoofing it back to the downtown area to bed down in his rented truck for what was left of the night, laughing to himself all the way back. Goddamn but this place was fun!
He’d slept most of the day away and woke in a good mood, enough to decide to try Beany’s again tonight. The coke they’d been handing out at the party had been pretty good stuff. He might be able to find the supplier at Beany’s.
Beany’s wasn’t as busy as last night. It took Dwayne a while to recall that it was Sunday night and most straight people were home in bed so they could get to their jobs in the morning. But the people in the bar remembered him from last night and he was welcomed like a lost son. He was basking in the glory when the belated thought occurred to him that in this shitty little one-horse town, he could be king in a way he’d never manage to achieve in New York.
Drunk on ambitious dreams, Dwayne had found himself facing Deputy Dawg. Deputy Dawg had his stick out and wasn’t too full of good cheer, despite the offer of a round on Dwayne. He grabbed Dwayne’s arm and force marched him out to the cruiser while Dwayne had screamed protests and kicked out a few times. But he didn’t try too hard and the protests were mostly just for form’s sake. He knew they had nothing on him. At best he was going to get his marching orders out of town and he would be back. Oh yes, he would be back.
Dwayne rested easily on the backseat, offering his token protest, aware that he had to keep up appearances. This would be a chance to check out the cop station—numbers, alertness, etc. Field research.
Then he sat up, taking notice for the first time that the town was falling away. The washed out trees and undergrowth were rising up in the headlights, glittering with frost in the sharp light, which the deputy had clicked up to high.
They were heading out of town.
“Where the hell are you taking me?” Dwayne demanded. This wasn’t okay. It wasn’t by the book and cops were sticklers for doing it by the book because if they didn’t, the poor slobs they picked on got a free walk.
But all he got back was the standard answer. “Shut up, punk.”
Dwayne sat back again, alert and watchful. Something was going down here, something he didn’t understand yet. But he would, if he was patie
nt. There would be something in this for him if he just waited.
He didn’t offer his protest again and the deputy didn’t seem to mind. After twenty minutes by the green digital clock glowing in the dashboard, he turned the patrol car onto a road that was really a parallel pair of ruts dug a foot or so into the ground.
Bet they don’t plough this come snow time, the farmer’s boy in him thought.
Deputy was fighting the steering wheel as the car tried to climb out of the ruts. The undercarriage banged and scraped itself over the high mound between the tracks. Bracken and low branches slapped at the paintwork as they passed.
It’s a helluva lonely spot, Dwayne realized with his first pang of fear. Anything could go down here.
The headlights picked out a wider opening in the trees ahead, a dark spot bigger than the tunnel of light the beams illuminate. The cruiser swung around, highlighting the edges of a clearing and then lit up another cruiser with a bulky shadow standing behind it.
The car stopped and the lights went out.
Dwayne blinked furiously. He had to get his night vision set in real quick here. He had to be able to see what was going on. He didn’t know what was going to happen but whatever it was, he’d better be on his toes.
The door opened next to him and a rough hand hooked him around the elbow. “You. Out.”
He scrambled out and was pushed closer to the other cruiser. The darkness in the clearing was almost complete. Only a quarter moon was up there to shed light and there was no snow to bounce it back up. The ground crunched under their feet. The crisp sound of their steps and the ticking of the cooling engine were the only sounds Dwayne could hear above his own rapid breath.
Then the big bulking shape moved around the cruiser and came toward him.
“Dwayne Ellerson Gaffney,” it intoned.
This was his moment, Dwayne realized. This was what he was made for. He looked up at the shadow with a sneer and the perfect response rolled off his tongue. “It was the black prick who did it. I was with my mother having a turkey dinner.”
In the dark, he didn’t see it coming until it was almost on him. He heard it—the rushing sound of fabric and flesh whistling through the air. The fist—it felt like it was the size of a six-pack—slammed into his temple. As he staggered, something else rammed into his stomach. His legs went out from under him and this time it was the ground that hammered him. The air pushed out of his lungs and his ribs wheezed a protest. His hips turned into instant white fire.
His mouth was mashed against the icy ground and he tasted dirt and rotting leaves. The push of his whistling breath sent grains of sand up flying, some of it into his eyes. He cried out. The loss of his sight, even temporarily, was not a good thing. Not a good thing at all.
His stomach was doing little butterfly things that didn’t feel so wonderful, either.
A hand caught the hair at the back of his head and hauled. Dwayne pushed with his hands, trying to keep the tension off his hair. “Goddamn fucker!” he cried, his eyes streaming tears. His head was forced back even farther, bowing his whole back like one of those Indian contortionists who looked like they had rubber bones and ball bearing joints.
“Language!” the voice chided him.
His head was released and a boot slammed into his hip, rolling him over and over across the cold dirt, to come up against the wall of a tire. His hand was flung up to rap against the ice-covered rocker panel of the cruiser, scraping the knuckles raw in one easy pass.
He didn’t notice the knuckles too much. He was more worried about his churning stomach. “Sick….” he muttered and turned his head enough to clear his own shoulder. He heaved, bringing up all the free beer he’d scored at Beany’s.
“Hope that hit your boots,” he muttered, wiping the spit from his mouth with a shaking hand.
A hand came down on the back of his head and forced his head downward. He splayed out his arms, realizing what was intended. He was going to surf through his own vomit.
“No, ah no, man!” he protested, pushing back on his hands with desperate strength.
The powerful hand at the back of his head relented. Dwayne knew he’d been let off the hook. There had been more than enough power there to drive him right into the dirt. His head was hauled around and he was dragged to his feet. The shadow man loomed over him and he recognized the outline of the same sort of hat as the deputy’s. But this wasn’t skinny Deputy Dawg in front of him. This guy was bigger by a good foot and carried easily an extra eighty pounds on him.
“You think you’re going to move in on my town?” the voice asked. “You think I’d allow a little snot-nosed creep like you to take up residence here?”
It was then Dwayne realized that he’d never be king of the town. The crown was already on this guy’s head. “Hell, no, man, I’m just passing through,” he said quickly. “I’ll be gone by tomorrow, just a passing breeze.”
“You were talking to an interesting crowd in Beany’s tonight. Quite a collection of characters. I might be tempted to conclude that you were trying to put together some deals for yourself tonight.”
“Hey, man, I was just blowing time,” Dwayne said a little desperately, for it was dawning on him that he was in deep shit here, miles from nowhere, no friends to call on and the law threatening to do the funky chicken up and down his spine.
“I’m glad to hear it. I’m going to offer you some further inducement, Dwayne. Are you listening?”
“Yessir.”
“If you’re not gone by tomorrow six p.m., my deputies are going to pick you up and shake you down. They’re going to find twelve grams of that cocaine you were seen sniffing last night in your back pocket. Even a cherry like you knows what that means, don’t you?”
Dwayne knew. Twelve grams meant he’d be hit with a charge for possessing coke in commercial quantities. He’d be charged with dealing. That meant mandatory jail time.
Then he realized the voice hadn’t said leave tonight. He’d said tomorrow night.
Dwayne smiled a little. “It means you and I are going to do a little deal, right?” His window of opportunity had just cracked open again.
“Clever boy, Dwayne. But there will be no negotiating here. I’m going to tell you what to do. You will do it and I will be watching you. If you deviate from the plan by an inch, I will come after you with everything I’ve got. I’m sure you realize by now that my resources are infinite and I don’t mind in the least wasting them on your miserable skin if you try to cross me. Do you understand me?”
“Oh yeah. I got it,” Dwayne assured him. This was not New York, oh no, but a scam was a scam was a scam. The only thing he needed to know now was the name of the sucker.
* * * * *
Sophie was doing dishes in the big, glazed stone sink that had probably been part of the original fixtures and fittings. It was an enormous rectangle that took all of the dishes that didn’t fit into the dishwasher and plunged Sophie up to her elbows in suds in search of plates below.
Jinni had gone out for the night. Sunday night was her formal night off, although Sophie was more than happy to give her whatever time she asked for. Jinni rarely asked for anything, yet for the assistance, security and peace of mind she gave Sophie, she could have demanded the moon and Sophie would have done her best to get it for her.
So Sophie always uncomplainingly cleared up the kitchen on the few nights Jinni went off with her fellow, a long laconic cowboy from out east by name of Gerald, who picked her up in a white ’79 Continental Town car with red upholstery.
It had been two years before Jinni admitted Gerald took her dancing. The confession had made Sophie blink, for she couldn’t understand how Jinni could dance with her brace. If Sophie could not manage it with just a little center-of-balance thing, then how on earth did Jinni do it?
But Jinni never had explained that fact away. Her answer had been a glowing smile and a pat on Sophie’s cheek and because Jinni always came home with a deeply contented air, Sophie had never asked a
gain.
So she was washing dishes, staring at her reflection in the night-blind window when she wasn’t watching what her hands were doing, her mind in neutral. It had taken her hours to reach this point of mental equilibrium after her conversation with Martin on the verandah and she had hidden in her bedroom for most of the rest of the afternoon while she struggled with it.
Finally, she had emerged for supper when Georgia had tapped on her door. Perhaps sensing her distress, Georgia had hugged her and held her hand as they walked downstairs. Although always short on conversation, this time Georgia’s silence had given Sophie the focus she needed to pull herself together.
You have to hold it together for Georgia and Morgan. Remember the promise you made yourself when Phillip left. Nothing will come between you and them. Nothing. That includes any ghosts you may have dug up.
By the time she sat down at the table she’d found the precious balance she had been fighting for and could chatter normally with both of them and even speak civilly to Martin, who took up his usual place next to Morgan.
It had been, she reflected as she pulled out the last saucepan, a perfectly normal meal with a perfectly normal ending. Dishes, then coffee in the lounge, then a book or some television depending on how bad the reception was tonight, then bed.
Martin crossed the kitchen, reflected on the window in front of her. He pulled a tea towel from the handle of the range where they’d been hung to dry in the heat from the oven.
Sophie felt herself stiffen a little and tried to let the tension go. Normal, she chided herself.
He came over and picked up from the draining rack the big stainless steel thermos cup he took to work and started drying it.
“There’s no need. They can drain,” she said.
“I don’t mind.” His voice was low. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
He sounds tired.
Just like that, all the carefully held tension in her snapped and scattered. It disappeared completely for she had glimpsed the other side of the equation. Martin wasn’t doing this on a whim. What sort of price was he paying for insisting on this game?
Dead Again: A Romantic Thriller Page 17