Just Fire

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Just Fire Page 25

by Dawn Mattox


  Duncan blushed. “I don’t think your husband likes me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He looked down. “No reason.”

  I moved past his discomfort. “So, what’s going on at the office?”

  “Nothing exciting—now that you and Paige are gone. Just the usual shoot-outs, drug busts, robberies, and such.” He laughed into my eyes, then shifted his gaze and wet his lips. He was holding tight to something that needed go.

  “What aren’t you telling me, buddy?” I gave his arm a little squeeze of encouragement. I was starting to nod.

  Duncan squirmed in his chair as his eyes roamed the room. He seemed to reach a decision. Leaning close, he pulled something from his pocket, lowered his voice, and whispered, “I found this in your inbox.”

  I frowned. “What were you doing in my box?”

  “Looking for stuff . . . making sure no one put another trap in it. I didn’t want you to come back and prick your finger on a poisoned dart or stick it into an open light socket or anything weird like that. I was looking out for you,” he said.

  I squinted for a moment trying to figure him out. “You and who else?” I asked. “And stop squirming. Just answer my question, please,” I added as an afterthought.

  “Bonita.” He said. “We’ve been on the lookout for the person who was sneaking things into your box. This is the only thing I’ve found. I thought you should see it before Bonita.”

  “Yeah? What is it?”

  Duncan handed me what appeared to be a playing card, and in a way, that’s just what it was. My mother had owned a similar set of cards when I was young, claiming that she could read her future. The tarot card that Duncan gave me was a familiar-looking card called the High Priestess—a female sorcerer, robed and sitting on a throne with her left foot resting on a crescent moon. Only, this card has been modified. In place of the high priestess was the traditional portrait of the Virgin Mary—but Mary’s sweet, compassionate face had been replaced by a bleached skull.

  I turned the card over and over in my hand. Duncan continued to squirm like a little boy needing to use the bathroom. He was holding tight to something that needed releasing.

  “You’re still holding something back. What else?” I asked. I was ready to squeeze his neck instead of his arm this time.

  “Guess what I got us for Christmas?” asked Duncan.

  “Us?”

  “Yeah, check this out.” To my amazement, Duncan almost blinded me when he pulled a snowy white arm from his long-sleeved shirt, exposing a bare Santa belly topped with a thatch of curly brown hobbit hair on his chest. Turning in his chair to give me a shoulder pose, he flexed his arm. Beneath his large tattooed banner proclaiming BORN TO RIDE, scripted in Old English and couched in a bed of roses was the word Sunny.

  Stunned and amazed, I was pretty sure my jaw hit the hospital bed.

  No wonder Chance is mad.

  “You like?” Duncan’s brown eyes shone with anticipation, his features filled with joyful expectation.

  “Uh . . . nice tattoo. In fact . . . it’s . . . beautiful. But, Duncan—you know I’m a married woman.”

  “That’s okay,” said Duncan as he shrugged back into his shirt. “I don’t mind. I can keep our secret.” I lay there with peaked eyebrows and a weak smile, puzzling as I shoveled through the mountain of recent traumatic events, trying to remember what I might have said to Duncan when he was in the hospital that he would consider secret. My memory blurred.

  “Our secret? I don’t understand.”

  A heated shade of fire-engine red shot from beneath Duncan’s collar all the way to the silly grin plastered across his face. Dropping his eyes, he stammered, “You know . . . remember? You told me that you ‘know all about sex.’”

  Oh yeah. The throbbing tempo in my head escalated into a pounding bass drum in a marching band—accompanied by a set of cymbals clashing behind my eyes as the memory came back to me. I was pretty sure I had said that I knew all about wrecks—not all about sex.

  Chance walked in carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of tortilla chips in the other, his eyes briefly crossing swords with Duncan’s.

  I tried to analyze the look. Anger? Jealousy? Maybe contempt? Duncan dropped his gaze in defeat, mumbling, “Well, I hope you feel better soon,” and turned to beat a hasty retreat.

  “Goodbye, Duncan. Thank you for coming,” I said.

  “I’ll see you soon,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he wheeled out the door.

  My head was killing me.

  “Chance, what does it mean, for us, that we signed those papers for the baby—um, for Quincy?” I corrected myself.

  Chance’s hopeful expression was at odds with the pain in his eyes. “It means we have a baby to raise, honey. Just like we always wanted. We’re going to be a family.”

  Closing my eyes, I shook my head in disbelief. “Now who is the crazy one? We must be out of our minds. What were we thinking?” I needed time to process all that had happened—Paige’s death and the aftermath. Now talk about raising her baby. “I guess Travis and Cali will have something to say about that . . . and I kind of doubt it’s going to be ‘Good luck.’”

  “Umm, well.” Chance chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, his blue eyes sifting through mental notes. “I don’t think Paige’s mother will have a problem with us raising Quincy.”

  A short, derisive laugh escaped. “Really? I must have missed that part when she was screaming at me. What about Travis?”

  Chance shrugged. “We both know Travis isn’t exactly the family type,” he said with certainty.

  Stung, I scowled. “You think you have it all figured out, don’t you? You always do that. You never consider anyone else.”

  “Actually, you’re wrong. I have thought about everyone else . . . which is why I said I was Quincy’s father.”

  “But why? There was plenty of time to do a paternity test. Don’t you want to know the truth?”

  “No. I don’t.” Chance squared his shoulders and took a wide stance, positioning himself for battle.

  I stared in stunned in disbelief. “You are . . .”

  Things were heating up into a familiar pattern when Dr. Lance walked into the room and into the crosshairs of our remarks. His eyes shifted rapidly between us.

  “Now what?” he asked, extending his arms and lifting his hands with his palms turned out. “Can’t we all just play nicely?”

  We groaned, and he smiled. “You both should be counting your blessings instead of arguing.” He turned his eyes back to me in invitation. “Morphine?” he asked.

  Mark Anderson was in the room talking with Chance when I woke. Bonita was arranging flowers she had brought with her, a get-well gift from the office. They were there in an official capacity to take a written report regarding the “incident.” They were compassionate and sympathetic. Chance and I had a longtime relationship with Mark. More than sheriff of Butte County, Mark was a dear friend who’d had an amorous relationship with Paige.

  But then, who didn’t? I wondered.

  “Hello sweetheart,” said Mark with a kiss on my forehead. “How are you doing?”

  “Hey Chica,” Bonita joined in. “¿Cómo estás?”

  Mark seemed to be holding up well, but I noticed that he had brought Bonita in on the investigation. She would probably be the one to ask the painful questions. And they were—horribly painful—hurting in places and causing emotional pain that morphine could not numb.

  The week blurred. Chance came at least twice a day.

  Duncan returned several times with Bonita, whose endless questions forced me to relive the nightmare again and again.

  “Just one man at the cabin, right?” Bonita had already asked me several times.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “And just one man standing by the car out on the main road, Lumpkin Road?”

  Sigh. “Yes. Did you not hear me the first six times?”

  “Sí. Just double
checking. And at the lake? It was the same man you saw approaching the house?”

  “The same.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Unless there’s a pack of albinos chasing me. Yes.”

  Bonita smiled tolerantly. “Just making sure he was acting on his own. He filled up with gas in La Porte.”

  “Alone?” I asked.

  “Solamente. What about . . . ?”

  “Adios. Please, Bonita. I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired.”

  Bonita put away her notes and gave me a gentle hug before leaving. “Get well, my friend. Some of us have to get back to work while others of us take naps.”

  Duncan had sat staring at me with supportive puppy dog eyes. If he had a tail, he would have wagged it in adoration. I made a mental note to talk with Duncan the next time we were alone.

  Ashley rolled in, looking like two bodies with one head, or perhaps more accurately, three bodies with one head. My dear friend assured me that Kissme was being pampered and counting the days until her mama could come home.

  Shane and Pastor Mac visited a couple of times to encourage and pray for me.

  Then Chance arrived one evening with fresh flowers and a box of chocolates, talking about his day as he sat down and turned on a football game. I had spent the day mentally replaying a previous conversation between us, and the unasked question that resulted was driving me crazy.

  “Chance, honey, I don’t think I understood you. Something you said when we were in Quincy. You told me that you chartered a flight to Oroville. You chartered a flight from Mexico?”

  Chance quietly reached for the remote and turned off the TV. He sat up, thoughtfully chewing on his lip, with only the soft whirring of the electronic monitors that tracked my vitals filling the distance between us. “I wasn’t in Mexico,” Chance said at last. “I was in Sausalito.”

  “I . . . I don’t get it. You were supposed to be in Mexico. What were you doing in Sausalito?”

  Chance raised his head, turning up the intensity of his gaze. He seemed to be garnering strength, like a soldier who’s been waiting for the order to attack. Sitting tall, Chance said, “I was staying with Paige’s parents. Paige’s father works in Oakland, but they live in Sausalito.”

  I could feel furrows deepening between my eyes as I processed his words, from puzzling, to concern, to suspicion. Closing my eyes, I shook my head back and forth. Trying to unscramble my thoughts was like trying to sort out a pan full of beaten eggs; it wasn’t going to happen.

  “You what?”

  The fire was lit, burning up the fuse for a solid sixty seconds.

  “Don’t make me pry it out of you,” I warned.

  Chance cleared his throat, running his index finger back and forth along his thumb in a nervous tic. “It isn’t anything new. It never stopped. It’s just a continuation of where things left off when Logan went to prison.” He took a deep breath, squinting as he exhaled. “I’ve been working undercover for ATF.”

  More morphine please—preferably an overdose. I squeezed my eyes shut and slowly opened them. Chance was still there. It wasn’t a nightmare.

  “Are you telling me you haven’t been in San Diego . . . all this time?”

  Chance exhaled again, this time with a long, drawn-out sigh that answered the question more clearly than words. “I spent some time in San Diego, between school and work. Old job—fresh eyes, tracking the cartel that kidnapped Paige. They’re the same people that bought guns from Logan.”

  In a flash, my brain was in the ultimate to-the-death cage fight with my heart, each trying to pulverize and eliminate the other forever. It was a good thing that I was more than just brain and heart. I was also spirit.

  “Okay.” Been here, done that. I took a deep cleansing breath. “Let’s agree to put the whole lying thing on hold for now,” I said, knowing the subject should wait until I was stronger, less vulnerable, and less likely to be sabotaged by my emotions. It was one of those defining moments that spoke to the unshakable core of my faith: that God can make good things come out of bad for those who believe.

  Not that I believed it was God’s role to rescue me. I don’t think that God puts people through fiery tests and trials. I think he brings his people out of them and then shames evil by turning it to good.

  In this moment of crisis, I clung to my conviction that what some people called crisis could be an opportunity for God. I didn’t always believe that, but I’d learned it, one crisis at a time.

  So I dealt with what I could and tabled the rest in faith for later.

  “Why you? Paige’s father is a director at ATF. Why would he need you when he has a whole fleet of agents?”

  Chance looked down and to the left as he continued to nervously rub his thumb. The tic told me he was stressed, but his eyes said that he was truthful.

  “I volunteered to work undercover, working in the mission field and traveling to Mexico. When my job took me back to headquarters, I would stay with Perry and Cali.”

  My heart twisted, and the word love knot came to mind—or was it love not?

  “Were you planning on them being your future in-laws? You and Paige, planning to raise your child together?”

  “No, honest! Nothing like that.” Chance sat up straight and looked me in the eye. “I didn’t see Paige once, and I have never thought about leaving you. Not ever. You’re my wife,” he exclaimed. “More than that”—Chance lowered his voice—“you are my life.”

  I gazed into his face, a face that I loved: blond hair and mustache over turned-down lips, a strong jaw covered with a slight stubble, his skin bronzed from the outdoors and the light of truth shining through him.

  About time.

  “I’ve gotten close to Cali. She has a lot of guilt over what happened to her daughter, and she’s not well. When I found out that she was sick . . . terminal, well . . . I’ve been able to talk to her about death and God and his promise of an afterlife.”

  “Sure.” My tone had teeth. “You never talked about Paige or the baby, right?”

  Again, Chance looked down and repositioned himself. “Of course we did. She knows that the father of her grandchild is either Travis or me, but since neither of us could do anything about it, we mostly just talked about Paige and what happened to her in Mexico.”

  I was pretty sure that Chance and I were both thinking the same thing. “Nothing is standing in the way now,” I said. “So why did you really sign papers prohibiting a paternity test?”

  “Because, in a way—but for different reasons—I’ve come to agree with Paige. It doesn’t matter anymore who the father is. What is important, is who is willing to be a father, and of course who would make the best father. I’ve known lots of bio dads who weren’t fit to own a dog, much less raise a child. Nothing is more important to God than the love of a family.” Chance’s brows pinched in earnestness. “Sunny, you and I can give this child a family. It’s an answer to our prayers. It’s what we always talked about—God making something good come out of something terrible.”

  I felt like a rabbit in a trap. Nothing like being snared with your own words. Give me enough rope, and I would usually hang myself.

  “It’s too sudden. I can’t think straight.” A little groan escaped. “I’m in too much pain. I need time.”

  “It’s okay,” Chance hastened to reassure me. “We don’t need to know all the answers right now. All we need is for you and Quincy to get well.”

  A twinge of jealousy sparked and smoldered, how we had become us before the spark was smothered under a blanket of guilt. Paige had died because I left her behind, knowing that she was unstable and that danger coming through the door at any minute. And now, here I was, hesitating over the correctness of raising her child as Cali’s words rang in my ears: “Haven’t you already done enough?”

  CHAPTER 32

  Pale pink and yellow fingers of light waved seductively from the rising sun, beckoning and calling to me as they flash-danced through the treetops. Blazing through
nature’s strobe lights, I soared up the canyon on my Harley Fat Boy, completely elated—exhilarated. I leaned with my machine as I rounded the bend.

  In the road stood a tall man, legs apart in a shooter’s stance, two hands on his pistol grip, arms thrust forward as he took careful aim. As fast as I could process the scene, the trigger was pulled, and my world exploded.

  When I opened my eyes, I was lying in the wreckage, my foot—torn from my body—still twitching inside the boot that lay just out of reach. The killer walked with a confident air as he stalked through the twisted metal to where I lay, broken and bleeding, writhing in agony. His leathers were black—his skin as pale as death—and he had come for me. Laughing. Laughing.

  “Help! Help me! Someone . . . anyone . . . help . . .”

  “Sunny. Sunny. I’m here.” A familiar voice slashed through the veil of the nightmare that held me like a trash bag pressed into my face, leaving me fighting and screaming as I wrestled the apparition.

  “Help! Can someone please help in here?” the familiar voice called out.

  Nurses rushed in, taking over the job of alternately ordering me to wake up and calm down. I was okay.

  Fresh air rushed in to soothe my burning lungs and sweep the dark images from my mind. When I had finally quieted, sinking back into the half-sleep of medication, I looked around to see that Chance was gone. His startling blue eyes had been replaced by a pair of solemn brown ones.

  Joyce? Joyce. The brain fog started to lift, and memories returned. Joyce. I had killed her husband. I had killed her precious Kenny—the always patient, always kind, always giving Kenny. Joyce had lost her husband. Her children had lost a father and grandfather. The guilt was unbearable. I could not face one more truth. I could not face her.

  Twisting the top half of my body to face the wall, I turned my back to Joyce and wept in secret. The consequences of my decisions were piling up like rocks on my grave, weighing me down and burying me alive.

  “Turn over, Sunny. Don’t you turn your back on me or on Kenny’s memory.” Joyce’s voice was X-Acto sharp, slicing through my defenses. “Turn over and look at me. Talk to me.” A poignant pause followed. “You owe me.”

 

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