"Kid?" was all she said.
"I was seven years older," Clay said, "but sometimes I got the feeling he was a hundred years older than I was, in grim experience."
Until your life fell apart, Casey thought. Then, before his thoughts could go to that same place, she said quickly, "He's rather … spectacular looking."
Clay smiled crookedly. "Women always said that about him." And then, as if the implication of her statement had just registered, he asked, "There's a picture of him?"
She nodded. "Page two of the photos."
He moved with a haste she was sure he hadn't meant to betray to find the page. "He looks good," he said softly.
"It says in the afterword that he remarried his ex-wife after this was over."
His head came up again, and she saw a flash of pure pleasure in his eyes. "Lacey? He and Lacey got back together?"
"They have a little girl now. Amanda."
He stared for a moment, then looked away, but not before Casey caught the sudden glint of moisture in his eyes.
"They had a baby," he said, his voice nearly a whisper. "They lost their first one. It's what split them up. But there were never two people crazier about each other."
Casey watched him, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. This was somehow important, she knew, this clear demonstration of emotion about someone he'd left behind.
You're not dead inside, Clay Yeager, no matter how hard you try to convince yourself you are, she thought.
She wasn't sure what that realization meant, or if it was really an indication of any change in his state of mind.
What she was sure of was that it gave her hope.
* * *
Clay hung up the phone. He was glad Casey hadn't come home before he'd finished. He would have to explain about the two calls when she got the phone bill—if he was still here by then—but he didn't want to tell her just now what he'd done.
And he didn't want her to know what he'd found out.
It was selfish, he admitted, but he didn't want to destroy her mood. She'd been so unfailingly happy, certain now after several days of peaceful, uninterrupted nights, that Nesbit had given up and gone away.
But Clay's instincts had refused to be convinced, and his uneasiness had grown until he'd done something he hadn't done since he'd left Trinity West—acted like a cop.
It had taken him a while to get through to Charlie Nantz, an old academy mate and Trinity West cop who had transferred to Chicago a couple of years before Clay had left.
Charlie had been more than startled to hear from him. And what he'd told Clay that morning had made him feel more than a little strange.
"Yeager? Damn, man, I half thought you were dead!"
"Not yet," he'd said dryly. Funny, the idea wasn't nearly as appealing as it had once seemed.
"Damn," Charlie had said again; his vocabulary had always been a bit limited. "You finally surfaced. Guess Trinity West can call off the dogs, huh?"
"The dogs?"
"Hell, yeah. Every couple months, like clockwork, we get the information request on you."
"But … it's been years," he'd said, a little stunned.
"Well, they finally called off the personal search, but we still get those flyers."
"Personal search?"
"You didn't know? We had one of them here, even."
"One of … who?"
"A bunch of your old buddies. They pooled money and vacation time, and each one took a turn looking for you."
He stared at the phone for a long, silent moment, unable to believe what he was hearing.
"That Sergeant Walker who was here," Charlie went on, "guess she organized the whole thing. Quite a looker, that one—"
Kit? Kit Walker had organized a search for him, had gotten people to donate time and money just to look for him? He sat down heavily in the kitchen chair beside the phone. An image formed in his mind of a young, trim, tousled-haired blonde with eyes like his own in color but much more innocent, looking at him with a serious intensity as he explained to her what she could expect trying to be a cop, a woman in what was still very much a man's world.
"—made you call out of the blue?"
Yanked out of his stunned reflections, Clay struggled to regain his bearings. He'd made his request, and Charlie had promised to check right away. Charlie had been true to his word, and when Clay had called back that afternoon, while Casey was out on her second job of the day, he'd had the info.
It wasn't what Clay wanted to hear, but it was about what he'd expected.
After mentioning that they'd already been alerted by the D.A.'s office that Nesbit was being a bad boy—Casey's friend Michelle had kept her word—and that he was due to meet with his P.O. in two days, Charlie told him Jon Nesbit had left his home the morning after Clay had spoken to him on the phone.
Now Clay stood there for a long time, staring out the kitchen window at the peaceful surroundings. It seemed nothing evil could invade this homespun setting. It seemed a good place to do what Casey had come here to do, heal.
But Clay was very much afraid that the sound of his voice hadn't scared away the evil but instead might have been the trigger that brought it down on this serene place.
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
Clay was acting very oddly. For the past two days he'd seemed edgy and almost nervous. Yet he didn't, as she constantly feared he would, pull away from her. In fact, he seemed to be watching her closely, so closely that she was starting to feel strained. Even Mud seemed to be hovering, although the slender little dog was much too quick and agile to really be underfoot.
Maybe it was the book, she thought. It seemed to have happened about then, the change.
She sliced another carrot into neat, thin strips and added them to the pile she'd already done for the salad. She'd read the book over the last two days, when it seemed Clay wasn't going to. She supposed she couldn't blame him. It couldn't help but bring back memories, memories he perhaps wasn't ready for.
She'd found it grimly fascinating. The author had a flair for keeping the reader engrossed despite knowing the outcome, that the vicious gang known as the Pack had been vanquished. He wrote modestly, as well, playing down his own courage in daring to join the gang, in managing to survive in that world while he gathered information. The real hero of the piece was Ryan Buckhart.
Lang had written in his preface that, as a journalist, his intent had been only to do a piece on life in a gang, an expose of their workings and the appeal that drove people to join. But when he inadvertently became witness to the downfall of the Pack, orchestrated by Trinity West detective Ryan Buckhart, his vision changed.
He also said he'd always been a skeptic about that nebulous thing known as a cop's instinct. He wasn't skeptical now, not after watching Ryan Buckhart. The man had sensed from the start that Carny Lang had been more than he seemed.
The rest of the story had been as exciting as any movie, and more frightening, because it was all true. The reality of long-term undercover work, not the glamorous fictions of movies and television, came through, the hours of routine, the moments of terror and, most compelling, the danger of losing yourself in the lies, of seeing the cash flowing on the other side while you took home a paycheck that was barely a drop in that ocean, of working so hard to appear one of the slime that you started to become one.
Had Clay ever done the kind of work Ryan Buckhart had? Casey wondered. Had Buckhart's statement that Clay had been his teacher meant he'd taught him this, too, the kind of steely mentality it took to go up against a gang of cutthroats like the Pack on their own turf, and win?
She didn't doubt it for a moment. Not with three Medals of Valor to his credit. She wondered what they had been awarded for. Not that it mattered. Not when it was clear that all the people he'd ever helped or saved couldn't make up for the two he hadn't.
I'd failed them. Both of them.
Don't trust me. I'll only let you down.
How
long? she wondered. How long would he make himself pay for someone else's decision?
She thought of the hero in the book again and wondered how he'd felt—for that matter, how all the cops of Trinity West had felt—when Clay's life had shattered around him. And when he'd left, cutting all ties, even with those he'd been closest to, like Buckhart. She'd always heard about the bond between cops and that it was unlike anything in the world. Something between friends and brothers, and often beyond both.
He'd had friends like that. And a father who loved him. Who was wondering where he was. Perhaps wondering if he was even alive.
And now he was alone, his only companions a clever, loyal dog and a punishing conscience that had never heard of the concept of mercy.
It was too painful to think about, and Casey tried to stop. She wiped back an errant strand of hair from her forehead. After a day of baking for the upcoming Labor Day town picnic, one of her prime advertising tools, Casey was hot and sweaty. She cleaned up the kitchen, stuck the lasagna in the oven for dinner and escaped for a long, cooling shower. When at last she returned to the kitchen, Clay was already there, sitting in the chair by the telephone, Mud beside him. When she came in, Mud looked over his shoulder at her as Clay stood up quickly, his boots in his hands, as if he'd just been taking them off.
"Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes," she said.
He nodded. "I'll get cleaned up."
He moved quickly, almost as if he were nervous about being in the room with her. With a sigh, she went to the refrigerator and got the salad. She couldn't keep up with this, she thought.
"I thought women were supposed to be the ones with mood swings," she said to Mud as she set the table.
It was a silent meal; she lost both interest and her appetite about halfway through. And she was just testy enough to bring up what she'd been thinking about, not even bothering to ease into it.
"When was the last time you spoke to your father?"
He blinked, a forkful of lasagna midway to his mouth. "What?"
She wasn't sure if he was angry that she'd dared to ask, or just shocked.
"I asked when was—"
"I heard you."
"I thought so."
He set down his food untouched. "Look, just because we—"
He broke off suddenly, but Casey sensed what he'd been about to say. If she hadn't known his story, hadn't known what he'd gone through, she might have taken offense. But she did know, and so she couldn't.
"I'm not expecting you to share your life with me just because we're sharing a bed," she said. He flushed, telling her she'd been right, he had been about to use that defense. "It was a simple question."
His expression almost amused her; he seemed embarrassed that she'd read him so easily, ashamed at what he'd almost said, but he was still clearly reluctant to answer her.
"A couple of years ago," he said finally. Then, after a pause, "No, probably three."
"You don't know?"
He shrugged. "It was when my driver's license expired. I had to ask him to do the mail renewal. He was already doing the truck license."
The mundaneness of it startled her. And then the rest sank in. "And if you hadn't had to do that, would you have called at all?"
He hesitated, looking at her. She watched him steadily.
And finally, in a tone that told her he was being utterly honest, he said, "Probably not."
"Did he condemn you, as you did yourself?" she asked bluntly.
After another second, he lowered his gaze, breaking the contact. "My father," he said softly, "never condemned anyone in his life. Said that was God's job."
"Too bad you didn't learn from him."
His head came up.
"Too bad you didn't learn that it's not your job to take the blame for someone else's decision. That some things are truly out of your control."
"I should have known—"
"And I should have known Jon Nesbit couldn't be trusted. So we're both blind."
"That was different."
"Why? Because I was naive and you weren't?"
"Something like that," he said, but he didn't sound convinced.
"Did you know anything about clinical depression? Isn't that what they call it?"
"No."
"Ever known anyone else with it?"
"No, but—"
"Sorry, Yeager, but you don't get to be omnipotent. You don't get to judge. Or to condemn. That's somebody else's job. Something at least your father knew."
He stared at her, and for a moment she thought she saw hope flicker in the depths of his eyes. But it was quickly hidden behind that practiced mask she'd come to hate. She got to her feet, staring down at him. She tried to put it in terms that would get through.
"You've tried, convicted and sentenced yourself as if you had the right. And your judgment is based on the assumption that you could control Linda's actions. A bit arrogant, isn't it?"
"I never tried to control her. Just the opposite," he protested.
Her point made, Casey changed tack. "Maybe you should have seen she was in trouble, just like I should have seen Jon was trouble."
"Casey—"
"But neither of us did. So if you're going to condemn yourself, you have to condemn me, too. But you don't. Or was all that just talk? Was it really my fault I was raped?"
"No!"
His tone was horror-filled enough to make her feel a touch of comfort. But she knew she couldn't dwell on it. There was something more important at stake; Clay needed to think about this, and hard.
"I rest my case, Officer," she said.
And then she turned and left him, unable to bear witnessing his torture any longer.
* * *
Clay sat staring into his half-empty plate. He vaguely realized there were chaotic emotions churning within him, more emotions than he'd felt at once in a long time. But above them all, glowing amid all the confusion, was Casey. She'd been victimized in the worst way, but she hadn't let it defeat her. She'd come out whole and strong and so gallant it made him ache inside.
She'd methodically hacked away at his defenses, at all the things he'd lived with for so long, all the assumptions his life had been based on since the death of his family, until he was beginning to question them himself. She'd been strong enough to fight them for him, strong enough to use her own pain against his in a way he couldn't possibly refute.
But as strong as she was, she was no match for the madness that was about to descend on her.
He crossed his silverware neatly on the plate and stood up. Slowly, methodically, he cleared the table. He put the dishes in the dishwasher, covered the last of the lasagna and put it in the refrigerator. When he was done, he stood looking out the kitchen window into the shadowy yard.
Charlie's words echoed in his mind. He'd sneaked in the call while she'd been in the shower tonight; she didn't have any jobs until next weekend, so she'd been home, and he hadn't been able to get to the phone before.
But when he had, he'd caught Charlie just before he was leaving.
"I was hoping you'd call back," he said. "Wish you'd left a number."
"Let me guess," Clay had said, already knowing in his gut. "Nesbit didn't check in with his P.O. today."
"Nope. No call, no show up, nothing. P.O.'s already put the parole violation through, after the word from the prosecutor."
"Good," Clay said, although he doubted it was going to do him—or Casey—any good. If Nesbit was the kind to follow the rules, none of this would be happening in the first place.
"I thought you might want to know, so I checked—he hasn't been back to his place, either."
"Thanks, Charlie," Clay said, meaning it.
"No prob," his old friend said. "I'm just damn glad to hear from you."
Clay had hung up just as he heard the shower turn off. He'd quickly sat and tugged off his boots; he needed to think about this, decide just what he was going to tell Casey. She had the right to know the possibilities, but he didn
't want to scare her, didn't want to destroy the peace she'd found.
But he knew a confrontation was coming. He could feel it in that bone-deep way he'd long ago learned not to discount. Nesbit was on the move—if not already here, then on his way.
One part of him fiercely wanted it, wanted to crush the animal who had savaged Casey.
But another part of him knew that wasn't the only battle approaching, knew that he had to confront more than just an external enemy. And that deeply buried part of him where the nightmares lived knew that Nesbit might be the smaller of the two. Because that part of him knew too well the demon in his own soul, the demon who mocked him, laughingly assuring him that he would yet again fail someone he loved.
Someone he loved.
He braced his hands on the sink as he stared unseeingly out into the darkness. He was sure that if he didn't, they'd be shaking. It couldn't be true. He couldn't let it be true.
He couldn't love Casey.
And then he remembered again the way she'd just stood up to that inner demon, the way she'd fought so hard for him. He remembered the nights in her arms, the zest, the fire, the pure joy and pleasure he'd found when he'd thought himself incapable of such feelings. He remembered the hours he'd spent simply watching her sleep and taking a quiet enjoyment from it. He remembered the way she teased Mud, the way the aloof Border collie responded to her like he did to no one else.
He remembered how he'd felt when he'd heard that vicious, threatening voice on the phone, and how his gut had heaved when he'd realized Nesbit was on his way here, that Casey was in danger of much more than a few sleepless nights.
Then, finally, an image formed in his mind, of Casey, cold and lifeless, like Linda had been, like Jenny had been. And he knew that if that happened, this time he would not survive it himself.
And he knew that he'd committed the most unbelievable folly of his entire life.
He had fallen in love with Casey Scott.
He saw it all before him in the darkness of the yard, the choices that were no choices. He could run, leaving Casey to face the deadly threat alone, or protected only by someone who had no personal stake in her safety. Or he could stay, and perhaps fail her as he'd failed before.
CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Page 19