"A fuse. So?"
"A two hundred amp fuse, to be exact."
He waited, staring at her.
"They took it out of the dispatch center circuit this morning."
One brow lifted then. "A two hundred amp fuse? That circuit must take at least twice that."
"Exactly."
He picked it up then, turning it around in his fingers. "It blew?"
"And took the whole operation down for hours."
He let out a low whistle. "Whew. What a mess. Who the hell would put that small a fuse in…" His voice trailed off, and his gaze shot to her face. It was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, but she made herself hold his look steadily.
She watched his expression change from puzzlement to disbelief, saw his eyes widen with sick, stunned shock. "My God," he whispered, his voice harsh, catching on the words. "You think I… God, you still suspect me … even after…"
A look of nothing less than agony twisted his face. Then it was gone, replaced by a flat, dead expression that was somehow worse. And somehow, she didn't know why, painfully familiar.
"I never had a chance, did I?" His voice was as dead as the look in his eyes.
Travis tossed the burnt fuse on her desk. He sat up in the chair and squared his shoulders; that he, with his great strength, had to concentrate so hard to do it tore at Nicki, but she couldn't seem to speak. Something was stirring, deep in the recesses of her mind, and she couldn't shake the feeling that grabbing it and dragging it out to the light was the most important thing in her life.
"You win, Ms. Lockwood. I can't fight this anymore." The exhaustion in his voice echoed the tremor that momentarily shook his rigid stance. "In the morning I'll sign the papers turning my share back over to you as soon as the six months is up." Slowly, unsteadily, he got to his feet. "Then the Lockwoods—and San Remo—will be rid of me for good."
A tiny, smothered cry escaped her, but it only echoed off the door he'd closed behind him. Nicki shook with the force of her tangled emotions. Not only could she not seem to stifle that crazy feeling that it was all familiar, there was no way she could doubt his shock, no way she could deny that his agony had been real. It all boiled up inside her, seething, churning, until finally, as if rising on the mist of the maelstrom, the inescapable truth loomed before her.
Grabbing the edge of her desk for the balance she seemed to have lost, she stood up. She had to move, she had to catch him before he walked out of her life again, this time forever. Knowing that it was her own fault for not trusting him lent her the strength she so desperately needed, and she started toward the door.
A sudden clatter and a shout from outside broke the nighttime silence. She ran out and down the hall, toward the sounds. She yanked open the outside door in time to hear Carl Weller's triumphant shout.
"I got him! Red-handed this time," he was exclaiming to a somewhat bewildered-looking security guard. Nicki raced down the steps, vaguely aware of Richard coming down behind her. Why was he still here? she wondered. Late nights at work were not his style.
"Caught him tryin' to break the master switch on the reclaimer!" Weller was exulting. "Somebody coulda got hurt real bad, if I hadn't caught him!"
Nicki skidded to a halt, staring at Carl, who stood with what looked like a bat clenched in his hand, and at the still, dark shape sprawled on the ground in the shadows cast by the headlights of the security guard's truck.
"Maybe you shouldn't have hit him so hard," the guard was saying. "Might have killed him."
"No more'n he deserves," Carl said, and Nicki saw the glint of his eyes as he looked at her. It was more than his usual, avid stare, it was vicious somehow, and made her shiver. Weller laughed; it sounded like that look. Then he reached out with one foot and gave the downed man's shoulder a shove, rolling him over onto his back.
It was Travis.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
"Uh, God." Nicki went down on her knees beside him.
"Told you it was him!"
Nicki heard Carl's words, but she was too worried about the blood streaming down Travis's temple to care. She looked up at the guard, squinting against the headlights' glare.
"Go and call the paramedics!"
"Just call the cops, man," Carl chortled. "They'll cart him away and throw him back in the slammer where he belongs."
"Shut up," Nicki snapped.
"I think it's time you shut up, Miss High and Mighty. The Miss High and Mighty who's sleeping with the guy who killed her old man and tried to close down his company."
If she'd been less worried about Travis, Nicki knew she'd be enraged at Weller's filthy mouth. But there was no room for anything but fear now. She reached out to touch him; he groaned, and the dark lashes fluttered.
"Aw, I didn't hit him that hard," Carl drawled. "Just enough to stop him from tamperin' with that switch. Why, somebody could get chewed up real bad if that thing came on at the wrong time." He glanced at the big auger that turned with crushing power to reclaim the unused cement from the returning mixers. "Cops might even look on that as attempted murder or somethin'." He laughed, that malevolent laugh again. "'Course, he's been there before, hasn't he?"
Nicki ignored him. Travis had opened dazed eyes to peer at her through the darkness.
"Ni-Nicole? What…?"
"Shh, don't move. It's all right."
"I'll say it is, Halloran," Carl crouched beside them. "I got you good, this time. You won't slide out of this one."
A puzzled look lowered dark brows, then he winced as the movement tugged at the wound on his temple. "I … don't…"
"Go ahead and play dumb, it won't do you any good. Not with the evidence still in your hand."
Carl's words made Nicki glance at Travis's outflung right hand, the fingers curled around the handle of the heavy, twelve-inch, flat-bladed tool. Something about it made her brow crease, but before she could think about it Travis made a small sound, and her gaze flew back to him. Then it was there again, that uncanny sense of familiarity about the heart-wrenching combination of fear, anger, and desperation in his face.
"I didn't," he whispered.
"Shh. I know you didn't." He stared at her, doubt clouding his eyes. "I know you didn't do any of it," she said emphatically. "I'm sorry I ever doubted it."
He let out a breath, lowering his eyes, but she saw the relief, the joy leap in the gray depths before they were masked by the thick, dark lashes.
She meant it. In those taut, strained moments in her office, she'd worked her way through the morass of confusion and returned to the one thing she knew for certain: Travis was incapable of pulling those sneaky, petty tricks. Not just because he was the man who'd risked his life for two men he barely knew, not just because he was the man who'd built Willow Tree into one of the most prestigious companies in the state, but because he was, simply, Travis. Her Travis. He always had been.
"You're siding with him. Again." Richard's words, the first he'd spoken, drew Nicki's eyes to his face. As there had been with Travis, there was something familiar about his expression. And about the whine in his voice.
"He didn't do it, Richard. Any of it," she repeated.
"How can you say that? Carl caught him in the act!"
Travis moved then, lifting himself gingerly up on the left elbow that had been bent awkwardly beneath him when he'd fallen. He stared at the screwdriver in his other hand, still looking a little dazed. Nicki saw the bewilderment in his eyes, and glanced at the long, silver blade of the tool.
Then she went very still. Slowly she lifted her gaze to Carl. "You caught him like this? Just like this?"
"Yeah." Carl grinned again. "I saw he was monkeying with that switch, so I popped him."
"What else did you do?"
Carl looked at her, suddenly wary. "Nothin'. I just yelled for the guard. And then you showed up."
"You didn't move anything? You left him just as he fell?"
"Yeah," Carl said angrily, "just like
that. I caught him, he's guilty as hell, and you spreadin' your legs for him won't change that."
"You bastard." Travis moved sharply. His eyes had cleared now, were hot with anger, and she knew he was going to try to get up. She stilled him with a hand flat on his chest, gently pushing him back.
"So tell me, Carl," she said, almost conversationally, "just what were you doing here so late?"
"Watchin' out. For more trouble."
"And you just happened to be carrying that?" She nodded at the heavy, wooden club he held, which looked like a small baseball bat.
"Hey, I got to protect myself."
Her eyes flicked to the guard. "Did you see Carl?"
"Sure," the man said.
"Didn't you … wonder what he was doing?"
"Why should I? Mr. Lockwood said he was okay, and he's always around at night."
Nicki felt Travis tense beneath her palm. Her gaze went to his, and she saw the same glow of realization in his eyes that she knew must be in hers. Richard said nothing, as usual, letting someone else deal with things. She looked a query at Travis, but he gave a slight shake of his head.
"Go for it, Nicki." Pride and—unmistakably—love, lit his eyes. It warmed her, as did the name he used, and gave her a strength she'd never known. She looked back at Carl.
"When was the last time you were at the pit, Carl?"
The man stiffened.
"When, Carl?"
"I haven't been there—"
"I wonder what the guard would say about that? The one who told Esteban that only our people have been in and out."
"I told you—"
"He keeps a list, Carl."
"That doesn't prove nothing! I got a right to be there!"
"It proves you just lied. And makes me wonder why you've been skulking around here nights, like perhaps the night the conveyor motor belt broke. And why you conveniently disappeared and forgot to sound the alarm when the acid leaked."
"I told you," Weller squeaked, fear beginning to take the place of his blustering anger, "I got a phone call—"
Nicki went on as if he'd never spoken. "And where you were when that call was made to mess up the Shelby run, that call from a 'familiar' voice. And the slurry tank valve-will that have your fingerprints on it? Like—" she was bluffing, hoping Carl wouldn't guess "—the broken bunker gate at the pit? They already know it was tampered with. O.S.H.A. is very thorough, you know."
Carl's eyes widened; fear was uppermost now. "You're not going to hang me to save your lover, bitch! I caught him red-handed—"
"Right-handed, you mean. And that's what's going to hang you, Carl, not me."
"What the hell does that mean?"
She gestured at the screwdriver. Travis grinned at her, hefting it against his right palm. "He's left-handed, Carl."
Weller paled, and backed up a step. "I'll get the gate logs from the pit, Carl. And I'm sure this gentleman—" she gestured at the guard "—will be able to remember just what nights he saw you here. And maybe I'll just have you call Ed Hartman on the phone, to see if he recognizes your voice—"
"Hey," Weller sputtered, "I'm not taking the heat for that! It was Richard who wanted him out, he's the one who said to do what I had to do!"
Four pairs of eyes turned on Richard Lockwood, but he saw only one set, cool, gray, and full of knowledge.
"No! No, I didn't!" He pointed a shaking hand at Travis. "He did it! I didn't, he did! He did!"
There, in the shaft of light projected by the truck's lights, Nicki watched her brother tremble, heard his mewling accusation. She recognized the pattern, recognized Richard's old, familiar tactic of shifting the blame. He'd always done it, from when they were children, blaming her for breaking the crystal lamp, for leaving the door open, or for any number of childhood misdeeds he'd committed.
She saw the expression on Richard's face, and remembered that awful look in Travis's eyes, and how they both seemed oddly familiar. Time seemed to shift for her. Memory swept over her like the shock wave from an explosion, and she shook under its force.
"It was him!" Richard had been screaming. "It's all his fault, he was going too fast!"
Her mother, eyes wide and dark in her chalk-white face, staring at her son. And herself, cowering in her favorite chair in the library, staring at the ominous men in uniforms and guns, who had just, in gentle but impersonal words, blown her world to bits.
"You're … certain?" Her mother's voice was shaken, something Nicki had never heard before.
"I'm afraid so, Mrs. Lockwood. We found the other boy, Travis Halloran, at the car, trying to get Mr. Lockwood out, but it was already too late."
"I had to go for help," Richard yelped. "Travis wanted to run, but I made him stay."
Nicki huddled deeper into the chair, her dazed young mind seizing only on the absurdity of the idea of Richard making Travis do anything.
"It appears your son's car was traveling at high speed, on the wrong side of the road. Your husband's car was forced over the side."
"It was Travis," Richard whimpered. "He always drives too fast, you know that—"
"He doesn't!" Nicki burst out. "He's always careful when I'm with him!"
Richard whirled on her. "Shut up, you little brat! It's just like you to side against me, you always do! Ever since he started hanging around here, you've been on his side!"
"I don't care what you say, Travis wouldn't do that! He would never hurt anybody! And he would never run!"
"What do you know about it? He's always fighting, hurting people—"
"Be quiet."
Emily Lockwood silenced them both; they'd never heard her sound like that. She shivered, and it frightened Nicki even more; never had she seen her mother so shaken. She turned to the uniformed man with the stripes on his sleeve.
"You will see that … he's moved?"
"Of course, Mrs. Lockwood. We'll handle it."
Nicki shuddered, barely able to comprehend that the "he" they were talking about as if he were a thing, not a person any longer, was her father.
"I'll make … arrangements as soon as possible."
"Yes, ma'am."
Nicki saw her mother's head turn toward the library door, then heard the sound of steps, one set firm and even, the other unsteady, as if someone was hurt, or being dragged. The door burst open, and she cried out as another uniformed man shoved Travis into the room. He stumbled, and Nicki scrambled out of her chair to go to him, to help him. "Sit down, Nicole."
Her mother's voice was quiet, still shaken, but some undertone in it held Nicki fast, and she dared do nothing but obey. Trembling, she sank back down in the chair, her shock-filled eyes fastened on Travis.
He looked horrible. His clothes were torn, even more than usual, and stained with grease. And blood, she realized. He was hurt. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling visibly as he pulled in air. His hair was tangled, falling over his forehead, and sweat shone on his face. He was standing awkwardly, his arms…
She realized with a sick little jolt that he was handcuffed, his hands held tightly behind him in the merciless steel grip. Her gaze flew to his face, to his eyes. They were wild, full of fear and anger and desperation as he looked around the room. His eyes found her mother, and he seemed to straighten somehow, despite the caging of his hands.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Lockwood," the sergeant said quietly, "but we are looking at a possible manslaughter case here. I'm afraid I have to ask you a couple of questions."
Emily Lockwood looked at Travis for a long, drawn out moment. Then she turned to the sergeant and nodded.
"You saw your son and the Halloran boy leave the house? In your son's car?"
"Yes," she answered flatly.
"Do you remember what time?"
"Shortly after nine."
"Could you be a little more exact?"
"Nine-fifteen, perhaps. My daughter had just gone to bed."
A glance passed between the sergeant and the deputy who had brought in Travis. The sergean
t's eyes flicked to Travis, who glared back at him defiantly.
"Mrs. Lockwood," he said slowly, "this is very important. The accident occurred at nine-eighteen. When you saw them leave … who was driving?"
"He was, I told you!" Richard cried, pointing a shaking finger at Travis.
Nicki saw Travis's eyes widen as if he'd been struck. He drew back slightly, as if bracing himself. "What the hell are you trying to pull, Rich? You know damned well you were driving! I told you not to take that turn so fast—"
"We've taken your statement, young man," the Sergeant said sternly. "I'm speaking to Mrs. Lockwood now. Ma'am? Who was driving your son's car?"
Emily looked past her son to Travis for one long, silent, strained moment. With an expression tinged with something oddly like remorse, she looked at Nicki. Then the slender, regal woman drew herself up straight, and without another glance at any of them, said frozenly to the sergeant, "Travis was."
The noise Travis made, not a word but a strangled, anguished chunk of sound that tore like red-hot talons into Nicki's heart, drew her eyes back to his instantly, irresistibly. Disbelief twisted his face, and an agony so great she could feel it radiating off of him in waves. She must have made a sound of her own, because he looked at her, his eyes filled with a pleading she'd never thought to see in them.
"Nicole, no," he choked out, "I didn't—"
"Will you please take him out of my home?"
Her mother's cold words did nothing to ease the effect of his look. In all the times he'd come to her, beaten and battered, knowing she alone knew why, he'd never looked like that. The day she'd found out the truth about his father, when he'd looked at her with such anguish, he hadn't looked like that. She'd never seen anyone look like that.
And then, even as she watched, she saw the chill begin. She saw his eyes go cold, the life withdraw, even the pain fade, as he retreated into himself until there was nothing left but the flat, hard gray of granite. He drew himself up, just as her mother had, and without waiting for the deputy who had handcuffed him, he turned and walked out of the library. And out of her life. "Nicole? Nicole, what's wrong?"
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