CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION

by Justine Davis

  Mud, who wasn't at all pleased with his reintroduction to the leash, didn't even yip in answer.

  "Still sulking?" Clay asked. "Never mind. I can't blame you."

  The truck was, thankfully, not overwhelmingly hot; the oak still had its leaves, and the shade was better than tolerable. He found the jug he kept Mud's water in, which he was thankful to see was half-full. He set out the collie's dish and filled it, stole a swallow himself, then capped the jug and put it back as the dog lapped noisily after the long walk.

  "Sorry, buddy. I didn't plan this very well. Best I can do for dinner is a couple of cereal bars."

  It had been enough for a long time, and it would just have to be enough again, he told himself.

  As soon as they were finished the scanty meal, he opened the hood again. He had to get as much as he could done before he lost the daylight. He was lucky it was still light out; if it hadn't been August… It was still August, wasn't it? Or had it slipped into September while he'd been slipping under Casey's spell?

  He fought off the memories, trying not to think of her voice, her laugh and the clear blue of her eyes. Trying not to think of the way she had made even him laugh, for the first time in so long that he'd been surprised he still knew how. Trying not to think of how sweet she'd been to kiss, and how hot and swift and fierce his body's reaction had been, the body he'd thought would never respond in that way again.

  Trying not to think about what she must be thinking now, about him.

  He forced himself to concentrate on his work, even welcoming the distraction of painfully skinned knuckles as he tried to work in the tight quarters. He ended up finishing, as he'd feared, by flashlight, and it took him twice as long as it would have otherwise, but at least it was done. Of course, there was the small problem now of the battery being dead, drained by the malfunction of the charging system.

  He should have thought of that before, but he'd been so focused on the immediate repair that he hadn't Maybe he could talk Buck into coming out and giving him a jump. At least the battery wasn't that old; once he got rolling, it would charge back up.

  And he was, he admitted wearily, too tired to go on tonight, anyway. He needed some sleep or he would likely drive right off the road. At the same time, he had doubts about whether he would be able to sleep any better now than he had last night. But he had to try. It wasn't late, but if he slept now, he could get an early start in the morning.

  He felt battered as he climbed into the back of the truck. He didn't understand why; he hadn't worked nearly as hard today as he had the whole time at Casey's. But he felt like he'd been caught in a riptide and bounced off every rock on the West Coast.

  He stretched out gingerly; at least the rest of him hurt so bad he didn't even notice if he was still sore where Casey had kneed him. He reached out and scratched Mud's ears as the dog settled into his spot. He seemed to have forgiven him, although from the heavy, very human-sounding sigh he let out, Clay wasn't sure it hadn't been grudgingly.

  But Clay was suddenly selfishly glad that he hadn't left the dog with Casey; Mud might have been better fed, but Clay knew he himself would be one step closer to the edge. He'd been there once, peering into the abyss, and knew if he ever went back, it would be to jump.

  He wasn't even aware he'd gone to sleep until Mud's sharp, warning bark woke him.

  He jerked awake. It was still dark. Perhaps some animal had wandered by, rousing Mud's interest. The dog let out a peal of barks, scrambling toward the back of the truck.

  Then Clay saw a light. Or rather, lights. Something nudged at his mind, something about the feel of this: car headlights behind the truck, another, single light in motion…

  Cop, he thought, coming abruptly and completely awake. And no sooner had the realization struck him than there came a pounding on the tailgate.

  Mud subsided into a steady, low growl at Clay's order. Which was followed by an order from outside, in a voice that seemed used to giving them.

  "Okay, buddy, come on out! And hold the dog!"

  He could see the outline of the figure now and caught a tiny glint of reflection off the left chest. Badge, he thought, confirming his guess.

  "Yes, sir," he said quickly, before the man could get any idea he had somebody uncooperative on his hands. He didn't know how things worked out here in the heartland, but cops were a lot alike anywhere; respect them, and they respected you.

  He lowered the tailgate and slid out, cautioning Mud to stay put. He moved carefully, not wanting any quick moves misinterpreted, and made sure his hands were in plain view the whole time.

  The cop—a county sheriff's deputy, as he'd expected this far from a town of any size—watched him thoughtfully.

  "Done this before, have you?"

  Clay nearly laughed; he should have expected that reaction. But he didn't want to get into his history, not if he didn't have to. So he just said, "I've been on the road for a while." Then, figuring some explanation was in order, he added, "I broke down. Alternator. Took me until dark to get it fixed, and now the battery's dead. I was figuring to get a jump tomorrow. And I was tired enough that it wasn't safe to drive, anyway."

  The deputy nodded. "Figured it was something like that. But I wish you'd found somewhere else to do it."

  Clay drew back a little, not sure what to make of the words, or the regretful note in the man's voice. "I didn't have much to say about it. The truck chose to die here."

  "Tough break," the deputy said sympathetically. Then, at the sound of an approaching vehicle, he looked over his shoulder. With a slight grimace, he turned back to Clay. "Real tough break," he said. "You picked Harry Snider's place to break down. And he's the worst-tempered, most stiff-necked old buzzard for fifty square miles."

  Whatever was going on, Clay knew he wasn't going to like it. The other vehicle, a truck newer than his that looked twice as old, came to a halt behind the deputy's car, and a short, wiry man bolted out of it and hurried toward them. From ten feet away he started yelling.

  "That's him, Deputy! Right there, bold as brass, on my property!"

  The deputy turned to the wildly gesturing man. Clay opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, figuring it would be best for him to keep quiet.

  "He broke down, Mr. Snider."

  The man snorted, running a hand through a rather wild bush of white hair. "Likely story. Do your duty, Deputy."

  The deputy sighed. "He's got it fixed now, Mr. Snider." He glanced at Clay. "And I'll give him a jump and he'll be on his way right now, won't you?"

  Never let it be said I can't take a hint, Clay thought. "Right now," he confirmed quickly.

  "Like hell," the old man said. "He's on my property! Been there all day!"

  "I didn't know it was private property. I didn't see a sign or a fence," Clay began, then stopped when the old man took a step closer. Clay saw him glance past the truck for an instant before a crafty look came over his face, a look that was visible even in the stark glare of the headlights.

  "'Course you didn't see a fence, you ran right over it! Damn California types, don't care 'bout nothing but yourselves. Trespass, damage a man's property."

  Clay turned to look, certain that even in the sunlight he'd never even seen a fence, let alone hit it. He still couldn't see a thing. Apparently the deputy couldn't, either, because he walked around the side of the truck, lifting his flashlight to scan the ground.

  After one full arc, he moved the light back to the only thing that even vaguely resembled a fence, an old, broken piece of wood with some wire attached to it. The wood was bleached-looking on the top, and weeds had grown up around it.

  "See, right there! Pushed that fence right over."

  Clay looked at the old man. "That's your fence? That's been there for months."

  The man bridled, turning red in the face. "You calling me a liar, boy?"

  Uh-oh, Clay thought.

  "Now, he didn't say that, Mr. Snider. Tell you what, why don't we just get this fellow off your property, then
you can go back home and I can go back to work."

  "Oh, no you don't. He's not going to get off that easy!"

  The deputy sighed. Clay felt a pang of sympathy for the man, despite his own untenable position.

  "Just what is it you want, Mr. Snider?"

  "Do I have to tell you your job?" the man spat out. "I want him arrested!"

  "For what, Mr. Snider? There's obviously no intentional violation here."

  "He trespassed, and he damaged my property. That oughta be enough, even these days."

  "Perhaps we could work out some sort of restitution for the fence," the deputy said, glancing at Clay.

  "I'm down to my last twenty, after the breakdown," he said.

  "See there, and he's a vagrant, too! Prob'ly have to sell that truck to pay me for my fence, so you make sure it gets towed away and locked up somewhere."

  For the first time Clay began to realize that this was not going to end up like some comedy skit, with everyone laughing at the end. The old man meant every word. He'd finally met the exception to Casey's rule; this man would have been right at home in any heartless big city.

  "Well?" Snider said expectantly. "Do I have to make a citizen's arrest?"

  Clay swore to himself; he knew the position that put the deputy in.

  "You sure you want to do that, and have to write a report and appear in court and all?"

  "Never shirked my duty as a citizen before. If that's the only way I can get you to do what oughta be done, then I'll do it."

  The deputy turned to Clay and said regretfully, "He's got the right, I'm afraid. I'll have to take you in."

  And that, Clay thought, was the real capper to this stinking, godforsaken day.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  She nearly didn't answer the phone. Why should she, just because she happened to be sitting in the living room, wide-awake, in the dark, thinking about things she couldn't change?

  It rang again, and she set her jaw, determined not to let her mind take off on some wild flight of imagination, thinking it might be Clay, calling to explain, or say he was coming back. If it was anyone, it was probably her phantom caller, back to his nighttime harassment after he'd gotten such a lovely response from her today. She never should have lost control like that. The deputy she'd reported the calls to had told her that reactions like that were exactly what callers like this were after.

  At the third ring she turned to stare at the phone, as if she could force it to stop by sheer will.

  On the fourth ring, her control broke, and she grabbed the receiver.

  "Listen, you slimy worm, find somebody else to bother!"

  "Excuse me? Is this … the Scott residence?"

  It was a woman. And a stranger. Casey let out a squeak of both relief and embarrassment.

  "Yes. Yes, it is. I'm sorry. I've been getting some crank calls."

  There was a pleasant laugh on the other end. "I understand. I've been there myself."

  "This is Casey Scott, can I help you?" she asked, glancing at her watch. She found only her bare wrist, since she'd taken the watch off before her fruitless effort at sleep. She looked up at the clock on the mantel, whose faintly glowing hands told her it was after midnight. That realization made her sit up straighter in the overstaffed chair.

  "I hope so, Ms. Scott. Do you know someone by the name of Clay Yeager?"

  Casey's heart leaped. "Yes. Is he hurt?"

  "No, he's fine. I'm sorry, I usually tell people that first."

  She let out a long breath of relief. "I didn't give you much of a chance. What's wrong?"

  "He is in a little jam. He was brought in a couple of hours ago."

  "Arrested?" Casey's voice rose slightly.

  "It's nothing serious—"

  "Sorry, but to me an arrest for anything is pretty darn serious."

  She could almost hear the woman smile. "Wish more people felt that way. But really, in this case, the deputy who brought him in said it was mainly to placate a … rather crotchety old man. I'm sure it will all be dismissed eventually."

  Casey tried to absorb it all, but one question kept playing back in her mind. "He gave you my number? He wants me to … bail him out?"

  "Yes, and no. He gave us the number, but not for himself. He said you wouldn't help him, but you might help his dog. That's all he was worried about."

  "Mud?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "That's the dog's name," Casey explained. "Is he okay?"

  "Yes, except that he's locked in the storeroom, making a heck of a racket, and won't let anybody near him. The sergeant isn't happy. He wants to send him to the pound, even if they have to tranq him."

  The image of smart, quicksilver Mud in a tiny, cold cage—or, worse, victim to an overdose of tranquilizer—made her stomach knot.

  "Mr. Yeager said you were the only one the dog would go with willingly." The woman hesitated, then added, "He said he knew you didn't want anything to do with him, but to tell you that it wasn't Mud's fault."

  She was, Casey assured herself later, only doing this for Mud. She just couldn't bear the thought of the live-wire dog, that crazy, squirrel-herding dog, in the pound, all alone and scared. Besides, you heard about accidents all the time, where dogs were put to sleep by mistake.

  That his master was in pretty much the same boat was something she tried not to think about as she drove through the darkness toward the sheriff's substation. She didn't care, not after the way he'd vanished in the middle of the night without a word or even a note. She didn't care, even though they'd told her that if the complainant, who was there writing out his citizen's-arrest paperwork, couldn't be reasoned with, Clay would be transferred to the county jail, since they had no facilities beyond one small holding room.

  She hadn't been inside a police station since the last day of Jon's trial. The prosecutors and the detectives and even the arresting officers had all gathered there in a show of support for her that she knew she would never forget. They'd all told her there was no way he wouldn't be found guilty, thanks to her steady, unshakable testimony, but that no matter the verdict, she'd done herself proud.

  She hadn't felt proud. She'd felt drained, exhausted, battered, and nearly numb. She'd been attacked, her words twisted by lawyers who cared nothing for the truth, their only goal getting their client off. Their lying, vicious, coward of a client.

  She shivered, as if shaking off his evil touch, even after all this time. And nearly missed the building she was looking for. The dispatcher had told her it looked like a bunker, and that it did; with low concrete windows narrow enough to be rifle slits.

  The lights were low inside, but after the unrelieved blackness of the night, they seemed bright. Behind the sliding window that looked as if it belonged in a doctor's office, there was a rangy older man in uniform who turned as she came in.

  "Casey Scott?" he asked before she could speak.

  She nodded, heading that way, and he approached the small counter. Before she got there, she heard the barking from down the hall.

  "Oops," she said. "I guess he's still wound up."

  The man gave her a wry grin. "I will be eternally grateful to you if you can quiet him down."

  "I'll try," she said.

  She heard a click, and he came around the counter and through the door beside it. He wore a name tag that said D. Vickery, a neatly trimmed, graying mustache, and a small revolver on his right side. He reminded her of the man who had been the bailiff at Jon's trial. The man had been a silent, stoic presence in the courtroom, but he had broken into a smile of satisfaction when the guilty verdict had come in, and had given Casey a short, sharp nod of salute.

  It was odd, she thought, as she followed D. Vickery down the hall to a small door, the little memories that stuck with you. It had been a moment of support from an unexpected source during a horrible ordeal, and she'd never forgotten it. It made her feel rather favorably toward Deputy Vickery.

  "I was half-convinced I sh
ould lock it," Vickery said. "That's one smart dog."

  "That he is," Casey said softly.

  Then the door swung open and Mud launched himself at her. She barely managed to catch him and hold on. He wriggled in her arms, swiping a tongue across her face wetly. He whined, but quietly. And she was surprised at the strength of her own response as she hugged the black-and-white bundle of fur tightly.

  "Bless you," the deputy said fervently. "If he'd still been howling when the sergeant came back, it would have been the pound for him, and I really didn't want to do that. His owner said he wouldn't have gone peacefully."

  She was not going to ask, Casey said firmly. She was here to pick up Mud, no more. It was bad enough that, whenever he got out, Clay would have to reclaim the dog from her, but she would deal with that when she had to. She took hold of the leash she'd never seen before—and doubted Mud would take to—but she couldn't bring herself to let go of the dog just yet.

  "He sure was worried about this pup, more than himself. Practically begged the deputy not to lock the dog up. Said you were the only one who could handle him."

  She said nothing, not wanting to encourage him, not wanting to even think, let alone hear, about Clay. But instead the man took her silence as license to continue; perhaps he was just happy to have somebody to talk to, to break up the monotony of his graveyard shift.

  "It's a shame, really," Vickery said as they walked back to the lobby. "Old Mr. Snider, he's kind of notorious around here. Always making complaints about ridiculous stuff. But this one was the topper."

  Scratching Mud's ears, she bit her lip to keep the natural inquiry from breaking through. Not that it mattered to the voluble deputy.

  "The trespassing was trumped-up enough, but he's blaming the guy for breaking down his fence. The deputy who brought him in said he was sure it was real old damage, though."

  "Then why did he arrest him?" It was out before she could stop it.

  "He didn't, really. And he hasn't been booked—we're trying to avoid that. But he was on private property, so he had to bring him in, with old man Snider yelling about his right to make a citizen's arrest."