by Sandra Brown
“We went to bed angry. Friday afternoon when I saw her off, there were still bad feelings on both sides. Neither of us apologized or took back anything we’d said the night before.”
Knight grimaced. Grange didn’t even blink.
After several moments of weighty silence, Knight asked, “During that argument, what did you vent about?”
“Generally, the time she spends running. Specifically, this upcoming marathon. She’s spent over a year organizing it. Big charity event. She’s pledged a bundle if she finishes. This will be the first one she’s run since injuring her foot. The training has been rigorous. More than I believe is healthy or wise.
“I urged her to go only half the distance, but she wouldn’t hear of it. How would it look to all the other runners if the organizer failed to finish? I said that was ego talking and referred to her commitment as an obsession.”
Knight whistled.
Jeff said, “I’ll admit, that was hitting below the belt. She stormed out of the room, and I was too angry to go after her. The quarrel ended on that note.”
“What did she vent about?” Grange asked.
Jeff took his time before answering, weighing how much he wanted to disclose, and decided to be forthright. “I was passed over for a promotion to partner in my firm. Not because I hadn’t earned it, but because of inner-office politics. Which is galling. I was disappointed, disenchanted, and, I confess, Emory bore the brunt of my dissatisfaction.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been moody and withdrawn. Admittedly, not much fun to live with. I rebuffed her attempts to cheer me and bolster my self-esteem.” He raised his shoulders. “Thursday night, months of frustration came to a head. We both said things.”
Grange just sat there looking at him. Knight asked, “No abusive language? Did the fight ever get physical?”
“Good God. No! We’re not white trash. Raised voices was the extent of it.”
Knight nodded. “My wife and I had a fight this morning over a wet towel I left on the bathroom floor. She yelled at me, asked why I didn’t pee on the floor while I was at it. You never know what’s going to set a woman off.”
The comparison left Jeff too affronted to speak.
Knight stood up, and, as though he’d given Grange a silent signal, he did likewise. Knight said, “Anything turns up tonight, we’ll let you know.”
Jeff looked at them with incredulity. “That’s it? You’re closing up shop and going home?”
“Don’t worry. We’ve got people working different angles.”
“What people? What angles?”
“Angles. In the morning, we’ll get an early start. Might actually help to have you come along, Jeff.”
“I’d like that very much. I don’t think I could endure another day of just sitting around.”
“Good. You can ride up there with us.”
In that rigged-out SUV? Not likely. “I’ll follow you in my own car.”
“Naw, let’s all go together,” Knight said, settling it and leaving no room for argument. The detective lifted his quilted coat off the back of his chair and pulled it on. Eyeing Jeff’s overcoat and Burberry scarf, he said, “You’ll need different clothes.”
“I packed a ski jacket.”
“You packed?”
Jeff turned to Grange. “Sorry?”
“You packed before leaving Atlanta to come up here?”
“I brought some things, yes.”
“How come? Did you count on being up here for a while?”
“I reasoned,” he said, emphasizing the word, “that when I joined Emory, it was unlikely that we’d drive back before Monday morning. I came prepared to spend at least one night.”
Grange registered no reaction to the explanation.
Knight pointed Jeff toward the exit. “Tomorrow morning we’ll pick you up, say…seven? Is that too early?”
“I’ll be ready. I only hope the motel can accommodate me for another night.”
“Taken care of,” Grange said. “We called and booked the room for you.”
Chapter 14
Emory clutched the strap above the passenger window as the pickup took a curve. They were on the same dark and icy road as before, this time ascending, which made the navigation even more difficult. But in addition to the perilous roadway, she worried about being pursued.
They’d been in and out of the doctor’s office within five minutes. The man who had engineered the break-in had held a flashlight and monitored not only what she was doing, but had kept watch through the windows to make certain that no one had been alerted to the break-in.
She’d collected instruments, supplies, and medications she thought she might need and had placed them in a plastic trash can liner to bring with her. No one accosted them when they left. They drove out of town the same way they’d driven in: unobserved.
Or so she hoped. The third time she turned her head to look out the cab window at the road behind them, he said, “Relax, Doc. There’s no posse chasing us.”
“Since I’m new to thievery, I’m a bit nervous. How did you know there wasn’t an alarm system in the doctor’s office?”
“I didn’t.”
Stark with disbelief, she said, “What would have happened if an alarm had sounded? We would have been caught.”
“No we wouldn’t.”
“You think we could have slipped out of that sleepy little town in this large and conspicuous pickup truck?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.”
“No it isn’t. I’ve done it.”
She didn’t know whether to be shocked by his admission or comforted to know he had a knack for eluding capture. “I still can’t believe that you—that I—broke the law.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve more than compensated for our minor B and E tonight.”
She gave him a pointed look, and he answered her unasked question.
“There’s a lot online about your philanthropy.”
“Is that why you called me a do-gooder?”
“You don’t need to go to Haiti or organize fund-raisers to help someone in need. You’ve got a girl right here.”
“If she’s as you described, she needs an ER.”
“I offered to take her. She refused to go.”
“Why?”
He concentrated on climbing a steep grade, downshifting and steering with care, but Emory thought he used that as an excuse not to answer her.
“Why did she refuse?” she repeated.
“She’s scared.”
“Of what? Doctors? Hospitals?”
“When we get there, you can ask her.”
“When we get there, I’m calling nine-one-one.”
“Good luck with that.”
“You’d stop me?”
“They would.”
“The brothers?”
He muttered what sounded to her like fucking hillbillies.
“If that’s your opinion of the Floyd family, why did you get involved with them?”
“Would you rather the girl suffer?”
“Of course not.” Knowing she was treading on thin ice, she said, “But I think the situation with her has given you a valid reason to engage with them. It’s an opportunity you didn’t expect, but you’re seizing it. Tell me if I’m getting warm.”
His gloved fingers flexed against the steering wheel before resuming their grip, but he didn’t say anything.
“You’ve locked horns with them before.”
“No. I haven’t.”
“I don’t believe you. You said—”
“Look, Doc, you could speculate till you turn blue, and you’d still be wrong. All you need to know is that I gave Lisa my word that I’d bring back help. I keep my word.”
“You gave me your word that you’d take me back, yet here I am.”
“I’ll see you safely back. Just not tonight.”
“No, tonight you were too busy burglarizing a doctor’s office and making me your acc
omplice.”
“I forced you to at gunpoint.”
“Not exactly.”
“Close enough. If the need ever arises, you can lay all the blame on me.”
“How? I don’t even know your name.”
He glanced at her. “You’re beginning to catch on.”
He spoke rather tongue-in-cheek, but there was truth in the statement. When she did go home, how would she ever explain him, explain any of this? Everything that had taken place since she regained consciousness in his rustic cabin seemed beyond the realm of possibility.
These kinds of adventures simply didn’t happen to people like her. In her wide circle of acquaintances, no one she knew had experienced such an unthinkable departure from their world and their ordered life within it. Was bizarre the new norm? It seemed so, because reality had become surreal.
Or was this reality? Had she really burglarized a doctor’s office? Was her fellow criminal a man who’d admitted to being in hiding from the authorities? Had she eaten from his table, used the bar soap in his shower, worn his clothes, come perilously close to making love to him?
Or would she soon wake up and find herself lying next to Jeff in their well-decorated, climate-controlled bedroom where the temperature remained constant year-round, where one day and night were more or less the same as the ones before and the ones after, where nothing too cataclysmic ever happened? Would she shake him awake, and laugh, and say, “You won’t believe the wild and woolly dream I had.”
But that scenario was difficult to envision. She couldn’t pull it into sharp focus. Details of it—the texture of her favorite sheets, the color of the bedroom walls, the sound of Jeff’s soft snores—were disturbingly indistinct, while the profile of the man beside her was shockingly familiar.
She couldn’t call him by name, but she could describe the crescent-shaped scar above his left eyebrow. His silver-threaded hairline, the lines bracketing his mouth, the ever-changing facets of his eyes—these were only a few of the many aspects of him that had become well known to her.
His voice, which at first had seemed without inflection, could be very expressive if one knew the nuances to listen for. He could whisper, when one would think that a man of his size was incapable of speaking that softly. He never failed to fold the dishtowel after using it. When he sat in his recliner to read, he mindlessly stroked the corner of his lips with his thumb, and after adding a log to the grate, he always dusted his hands on the seat of his jeans.
He’d turned her into a criminal tonight. A week ago, she would have been flabbergasted by the prospect of such a thing. But as she considered it now, she realized she wasn’t as scandalized as she should be.
When they came around a curve in the road and there was the familiar split-rail fence, the gate, his cabin, the thought that flitted through her mind was, We’re home.
She was accepting of and comfortable with the outrageousness of her situation. That, more than anything, should have frightened her.
He slowed down. “Should we stop? Is there anything you need from inside?”
“I don’t think so.”
For days she’d wanted to escape his cabin. Now anxiety tugged at her as they drove past the relative safety it represented. “Regardless of my objections, I want you to know that I do think it’s noble of you to help this young woman,” she said. “I even admire the extremes to which you’ve gone in order to help her.”
He didn’t respond, sensing there was more she had to say.
“But this isn’t my specialty and I’m ill-equipped. And if her condition is as serious as you indicate, despite her scary brothers, despite you, I’ll do whatever is necessary to get her to a hospital.”
“She won’t go, Doc. I told you. She was in Drakeland this morning. She could have gone to any number of clinics. She didn’t. She called her brothers to come get her and bring her home. They were on their way when they wrecked the truck.”
“Are the brothers expecting us?”
“I got their grudging consent to bring back a doctor. Took some persuasion from their mother.”
“There’s a mother?”
“She introduced herself as Pauline. Don’t hold the sons against her. She’s pathetic, beaten down. She’s very worried about Lisa.”
Up ahead she caught a glimpse of lights through the trees. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“So they are close neighbors.”
“I already admitted to lying about that. Now, pay attention. This is important. I can’t turn my back on those guys. So if I say ‘git,’ you go, understand? No questions, no arguments, no hesitation. You just do what I say, when I say.”
“Are they really that dangerous?”
He clenched his jaw, and the ferocity of his expression was chilling. “They’re stupid and mean, and that makes them dangerous.” He patted in the vicinity of his waist. “I’ve got the pistol handy.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“What should make you feel better is that I won’t hesitate to use it.”
He stated it unequivocally, and she believed him.
“You’ll be okay,” he said, as though sensing her mounting apprehension. “One more thing, though. They don’t know that you’re my…guest. Better that they don’t know you’re staying under my roof.”
“Better for whom?”
He braked. The truck skidded several yards before coming to a stop in the center of the road. Laying his arm along the back of the seat, he turned to her. “Better for you,” he said angrily. “Don’t use them to get away from me.”
In a small voice, she said, “I was joking.”
“It’s no joking matter. Do not ask for their help.”
“I won’t.”
“Swear it, Doc.”
“I won’t. I swear.”
He continued to stare hard at her, then lifted his foot off the brake and drove on. A quarter mile farther, he turned into a drive that was rutted and strewn with junk of every description. Even the softening effect of the snow didn’t hide the ugly scars of neglect and disrepair. Lights were on inside the house, but nothing about the property looked inviting.
Especially not the dog that charged out the front door and set up a ferocious barking. He looked like a guardian of hell as he came up on his hind legs against the passenger door of the pickup, his nails scratching against the metal. Only the window separated Emory from his bared, snapping teeth. Breathless with fear, she flattened herself against the seat.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said. “There’s also a mean dog.”
* * *
She hadn’t screamed, or even yelped, but she looked petrified. Disregarding the frenzied dog, he put the truck into gear and executed a three-point turn so the vehicle was facing out.
Moving only her head, she turned to him, a question in her eyes. He said, “A precaution. In case we need to leave in a hurry.”
A piercing whistle brought the barking to an abrupt stop. The elder brother had come out onto the porch. The yellow light bulb shining down from under the eaves cast deep shadows on his face, emphasizing his glower.
“That’s Norman.”
Responding to another sharp whistle, the dog backed off, but it retreated only a few feet and stood just beyond Emory’s door, rigid and alert, ears twitching, as though anticipating a command to tear their throats out.
He leaned across Emory and pressed his hand against her thigh for reassurance as he shouted through the passenger window. “Call off your damn dog.”
Norman shaded his eyes against the porch light glare. Seeing Emory, he said, “Who the hell is she? You were supposed to be bringing a doctor.”
“This is Dr. Smith.”
Norman clumped down the steps and sauntered over to the pickup. Through the window now smeared with canine slobber, he gave Emory a once over. “She’s a doctor?”
“She is.”
Smirking, Norman drawled, “Too bad I ain’t sick.”
To he
r credit, Emory didn’t flinch or give any other indication of fear. But the contempt in her voice could have chiseled ice. “I understand that you neglected to get medical treatment for your sister. So I came to see about her. But I’ll leave right now if you don’t restrain that animal.”
Amused by her feistiness, Norman gave her his stupid grin and said, “Yes, ma’am, doctor ma’am,” then turned and took the dog by the collar. He dragged it over to a tree and clipped a chain to the collar. “Lay down,” he commanded, throwing in a kick that sent the dog sprawling in the muddy snow. It sprang up immediately but stayed where it was, sitting on its haunches and panting hard.
Emory turned her head and spoke in an undertone that Norman would be unable to hear. “Are you sure your gun is loaded?”
“Always.” After a beat, he added, “I’ve got your back, Doc. You can count on it. I would kill them before I let them touch you.”
Their faces were very close, so he could see the bewilderment with which her eyes searched his. Then she assumed an expression of determination. Turning away from him, she opened the passenger door and got out. “Where is Lisa?”
Norman bowed from the waist and swept his arm wide toward the house. “Back bedroom.”
The dog growled as they filed past. They trooped up the steps and across the porch and went inside, stepping directly into a living room. He’d seen it this afternoon when he brought them home. Nighttime hadn’t improved it.
It was filthy from the moldy ceiling to the stained rug. Sections of wallpaper had been peeled away, exposing the Sheetrock. A tent made of newspaper was acting as the shade for the floor lamp, the stand of which was bent.
Will was sprawled on the sofa watching a wrestling match on TV. The shotgun was propped, barrel up, against the cushion beside him. Upon seeing Emory, he raised his eyebrows. “You shittin’ me? What the hell’s goin’ on?”
His brother said, “Neighbor man here brought us a lady doctor. Ain’t that a stitch?”
Norman’s moniker grated on him, but he let it pass because he wasn’t about to tell the Floyd brothers his name. Furthermore, they were appraising Emory like hungry jackals, which made him feel all the more protective of her.