by Rachel Caine
“Javier?” I struggle to sit up. “Can you let him in, please?”
It occurs to me too late as the door opens that it might not really be Javier, that the man who crashed my car might have come back to finish the job, and I start to call out to the cop stationed outside . . . but then I just gasp. I cry hot tears of relief at the sight of Javier, really here, rushing toward me. Then he’s hugging me carefully, and I bury my nose in the crook of his neck and take in a deep breath. It carries the scent of him—mint soap, leather, sweat, a whiff of gunpowder. He’s still in his reserve fatigues. The hug turns to a kiss, and it fills me with warmth and the most perfect kind of peace.
I sigh into his mouth, and I think he feels that peace too. We don’t let go for a long moment, until the pain bites again and I wince. Then he eases me back to the pillow and drags a chair over to hold my hand. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says. “You are okay, right?”
“Yes. And the baby’s fine too.” I have a vague, watercolor impression of most of the day, including the visit from Gwen, Sam, and the kids. I barely remember Pop and Prester’s presence, but I know they’ve been here. But the knowledge that my baby’s okay is completely, wonderfully clear. As is the love in Javier’s eyes. “They did tests. Everything’s going to be all right.” But even as I say it, I know it isn’t. Not unless I make it right. Now that I’m steadier, I’m also angrier. That anonymous driver meant to hurt me, and he also risked my baby, and rage shakes me hard.
Javier’s fighting back real tears. He kisses my hand, careful of the tubes. He’s angry, too, but he’s hiding it better. “Bet you hate this,” he says. “Being laid up.”
“No bet. It’s all I can do not to rip this needle out and go out the window.”
“You’d bleed like hell, and you’re on the third floor, so those are not good options.” He smiles, and it’s so beautiful it makes me lose my breath again. “You stay with me. Right here. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, because I can’t do anything else when he smiles like that. It’s powerful stuff. “How was training? Where were you?” I never ask in advance, because he’s not supposed to say. But he’s back now.
“Deployed on a ship,” he says. “I caught a bird coming home. They dropped me at NSA Mid-South. I rented a car from there. Sorry I’m so late getting in.”
From a ship at sea to here? “You’re not late, baby. You’re just when I needed you.” I put my hand on his cheek.
He kisses my palm. “You’re on the good stuff, or you wouldn’t say that. Especially calling me baby.”
“Probably.” I feel ironed out flat. Warm and wrinkle-free.
“So what’s the damage?”
“Crack on the head in the crash, concussion, could have been way worse,” I say. “Cuts and bruises. One broken rib, but they’ve got it strapped. Did I mention the baby’s okay?”
“You did. So basically you need a dent popped out, some paint work, and you’ll be good to go,” Javi says. “Except I don’t want you going anywhere except home, Kez. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Who the hell were you chasing?”
“How do you know I was chasing anybody?” He just gives me a look, and I have to smile. “Bad guy. I think a real bad one. Hard to be sure right now. This case is like fighting fog.”
“You don’t fight fog. You stay the hell home until the fog goes away.”
“You’re cute when you’re all protective.”
“Kez.”
“You staying the night with me, or are you too tired?”
“This chair folds out,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere until you are, Corazón. Besides, you didn’t eat your dinner. They told me to call when you got hungry. Are you?”
I have no idea, but I feel like I ought to be. “Pudding is mine. Fruit cup? All yours.”
“Deal. I’ll have them bring it.”
I’ve drifted off again, and I wake to a tray being pushed in toward me. Javier uncovers dishes like a waiter looking for a 30 percent tip. “Madame, your very late dinner this evening includes Salisbury steak—allegedly—some random vegetables, iced tea, a fruit cup, and pudding. We both win. But you win less, because you got to eat the Salisbury whatever.”
“I don’t have to do anything, mister.” I don’t feel hungry, I realize. I just want to sleep. But he shakes his head and starts cutting up the meat and threatening to feed me like a child, so I take the fork and do it myself. It’s a little cold. It’s not good either. We both get to the dessert pretty quick, and take our time over that part.
“Congratulations,” he says. “That is way worse than a marine mess, and that’s saying something, because an army marches on its stomach but marines don’t march, so we don’t eat that good either.”
He’s lying, but that’s okay too. We debate what to watch—I choose a Project Runway marathon, over his objections—and sit together in contented silence until I fall asleep. Again.
It’s about two in the morning when I wake again, and I swim up out of the darkness only because I hear Javi talking. I know that tone. He’s not happy, and that brings me out of my cloudy haze fast. It’s two people at the door of the room, and Javier confronting them and saying, “No, man, you have to come back, she needs her rest—”
“I’m awake,” I tell him, and hit the control after a second of fumbling to raise up my backrest to a sitting position. I hit the room lights and blink as they blaze on. “Who is it?”
“Prester,” Javi says, and steps back so the shadows in the hall can step inside the room. “And some guy I don’t know.”
The second man is white, with blond hair; I don’t know him, but I know the bearing and the type. He’s police, no doubt about it. He’s wearing khaki slacks and a white shirt, like some kind of door-to-door missionary, with a plain dark-blue windbreaker unzipped over it. I can see the outline of his shoulder holster under it, and the gleam of a badge clipped to his belt.
“Ma’am,” he says. “Randall Heidt, TBI.” He skips the hand sanitizer and comes straight at me. I hold up a hand to keep him at a distance. I’m not sure if that works, or if it’s the fact that Javier steps in his way, blocking his access.
“It’s not ma’am,” I tell him. “Detective Kezia Claremont, which I guess you already know, since you dragged Detective Prester out to come at me this late.” I fix my partner with a look. “You ought to be home resting.”
“Ought to be,” he agrees. “I took your father home to get some sleep. Boot’s with him. Don’t worry.”
It does help knowing Boot and Pop are together and, I hope, not stressing over me right now. I just wish Prester had stayed home too. I love the gesture, but he looks worse than I do.
Meanwhile, there’s man-drama going on behind Prester, and that keeps me from asking him to go and get himself in bed.
“Back off,” Javier says to Heidt, who’s standing way too close to him. Heidt locks stares with him for a moment, and I take back my first impression of a missionary. Now he looks more like one of those white-bread paramilitary types.
But he steps away, after a long enough pause to make it clear it’s his own idea. He looks past Javier at me.
“Detective,” he says, “what the hell do you think you were doing out there, meddling in our investigation? Again?”
“What investigation?” I ask. “You’ve had plenty of time to follow up with that truck stop and get the video. You didn’t. I was just cleaning up after you. Did you get the trash? The video?”
“We did,” he says. “We found a disposable phone in there that traces back to that 911 call. But you shouldn’t have gone out there. Not by yourself.”
I see Prester take that personally. He’s here, I realize, because he feels guilty about letting me waltz off into danger without him. And that makes me mad.
So I take it out on Heidt. “Just trying to move things along, since your team wasn’t getting it done. We got a missing woman and two dead kids, and it’s my case from the start. So do
n’t tell me I was off base. If you got questions for me, ask them.”
He takes out his notebook and starts firing them at me. I have to concentrate, but the questions are easy enough. He walks me through my actions leaving the truck stop, spotting the SUV, the chase, the crash. I give him as much as I can remember about the make and model, and the fact the license plate was obscured.
Heidt asks me if I saw anyone and whether I can give him a description. I concentrate, but that part is a frustrating blur. I think I did. Didn’t I? But if it was ever there, that memory’s gone now. I know that happens in head injuries. Maybe it’ll come back. Maybe not.
I finally tell him no.
Heidt snaps his notebook shut and stuffs it in his pocket. He doesn’t have much of a range of facial expressions, but he manages something that looks like a scowl. “Okay. That’s all I need. Detective, I don’t know how many ways to say back off, so I’ll just put this out there straight: if you continue to interfere in this investigation in any way, I’ll put the full weight of the TBI on you. You’ll get busted back to uniform so fast you’ll wish you’d stayed in that bed. Same goes for your little friend Gwen Proctor; if she wants to keep that PI license, she’d better stay out of our way. Understood?”
I was ready to let it go. I was. But this only makes me want to pick it up again, because I get the feeling that at the very least, he just wants full credit for solving it, and at most, he’s covering something up. Or maybe it’s just pure stubbornness on my part. I don’t like his tone much, and neither does Javier from the way he shifts and centers his weight, like he’s getting ready to throw hands. Last thing I want is a fight in my damn hospital room, so I say, “You do what you got to do, Detective. I expect we’ll hash this out somewhere else.”
“Oh, we will,” Heidt says grimly. “Count on that.”
He turns to leave and finds Prester standing in the doorway, blocking his exit. It looks accidental, but I know the old man well enough to know it isn’t. Prester looks Heidt up and down and says, “Son, you don’t know shit about who her boss is, because her boss is me, and you can complain all you want. Now, I already told her that we’re going to step back, but your ability to threaten anybody in this room is full zero. Clear?”
It’s really, really rare for Prester to be that blunt, and for a second I think it’s going to backfire . . . but then Heidt turns and looks at me, shakes his head, and says, “Locals,” like it’s a plague on his house.
Prester moves into the room. Heidt leaves, and the door silently closes behind him. “Staties,” my partner says sourly. “Can’t work with ’em, can’t kill ’em. Kez, he’s right. We are done with this case. I’m going to take my tired self home and get some sleep. You rest. That is an order.”
He leaves, too, and Javier takes my hand again. Squeezes. “You all right?”
“Sure,” I say, and yawn. “I got all the good drugs. Hey, who sent the flowers? You?”
“I would have, but I didn’t want to stop to do it,” he says. “Now I feel shitty because you’ve got a better boyfriend.”
“I’d rather have you here than flowers any day.”
Javi goes over to retrieve the card from the bouquet and hands it to me unopened. My name is label-printed on it: Det. Kezia Claremont. I flip open the envelope and pull out the small, flat card inside.
It’s a graphic of a sad teddy bear, and the printed message says, Choose to let this go.
It takes a few seconds—I blame the drugs—before what I’m holding comes into real focus, and then I feel a red streak of alarm sizzle through me, head to toe. I drop the card to the sheet and stare it like I expect it to grow fangs.
“What?” Javi asks. “Who’s it from?”
I look up at him without saying anything. He reaches over to pick up the card, and then I find words. “No, don’t touch it,” I say. “See if you can catch Prester before he leaves. Use my phone.” I point. My finger’s shaking a little from the rush of adrenaline.
Javier grabs my phone and calls Prester. He doesn’t take his eyes off me while he tells Prester to get back up here, now. Once the call’s done, he puts the phone down and says, “Are you going to tell me?”
I shake my head. “When Prester gets here.”
It takes about three long minutes before my partner slams open the door. He sweeps the whole room with a look, and I see the officer who’s been stationed outside the room has his gun drawn, ready to back Prester up. “It’s okay,” I say. “The flowers are evidence.” I point to the card and envelope, both lying on my lap. “I didn’t want to touch it more than I had to.”
Prester takes his hand off the butt of his gun and turns to nod to the KPD officer, who looks sweaty and relieved. Prester lets the door shut and comes in, putting on blue gloves while he’s walking with the unconscious precision of somebody who’s done it too much. He picks up the envelope first, examines it, then turns his attention to the card. Without a word, he opens up a small paper bag produced from his coat pocket and slides both pieces into it, and fills in the evidence tag already attached to the bag with quick pen strokes. “If you needed another reason to step back, here it is,” he says. “Getting flowers from somebody that ran you off the road is a pretty damn clear warning light.”
“Wait,” Javier says. “These flowers are from the guy who tried to kill you? Can’t you trace him with that?”
“Good chance that they were internet-ordered, probably with a pay-as-you-go cash card; this guy isn’t dumb enough to give his own name and address. But I’ll run it down regardless.”
My heartbeat picks up a painfully fast rhythm. “Prester, please be careful—”
“Kez. Don’t teach your granddad how to fish. This son of a bitch came for you. I’ll run it down, and I’ll give it to Heidt after I do.”
I don’t like it, and not just because of the danger implied in that; Prester seemed okay when he was facing down Heidt, but now he seems . . . drawn. Tired. And I see a little flicker of pain contort his face. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
Prester shakes his head. “Nothing. Tired. You rest.” He leaves before I can push the issue. Javier stares at the shutting door, then at me. Then he takes the vase of flowers and carries it out of the room. I feel relieved. Strange how oppressive that gift felt when it was just colorful, lovely flowers. When he comes back, I ask him what he did with it.
“I put them in a hazmat bag in case the TBI wants it for some reason.”
“Hazmat bag?”
“Not taking any chances, querida.”
I realize that Javi is actually afraid for me. Really, really afraid.
And now I’m afraid for him too. And Prester.
All of us.
17
GWEN
Sam and I take the kids home. We’re all tired and dispirited; seeing Kez laid up is hard on all of us, and I think it makes the kids feel especially vulnerable. I hug them both close before I get them off to bed. It’s not even that late. But I’m flat-out exhausted, gray inside with the stress of the day.
But I can’t sleep. I find myself lying awake, listening to Sam’s even, slow breathing. I finally slip out of bed and wander like a ghost. This is happening too much. I don’t want to develop insomnia, but I feel like that’s a depressing possibility. There are medications, of course, but deep down, I fear being drugged, helpless, unable to meet a threat head-on.
That’s why you’re not sleeping. Because you can’t relax for a second, Gina. You know I’m always going to be out there, maybe not physically, but I’m in the heads of people who can hurt you. Who want to hurt you.
I hate that I can still hear Melvin’s whisper at low moments like this. I visualize shredding his letter, and I feel peace descend like a light, low, cool mist. I find myself yawning, and I keep visualizing the shredder chewing up paper, chewing up emails, and those damn wanted posters. I imagine putting in every picture ever taken of Melvin Royal, from baby pictures to the photo of him screaming at the jury, and watching them spin into
fragments like grim confetti. Last, I imagine taking the photo of his grave off the wall. Watching it disappear too. Like he was never here at all.
When I close my eyes this time, I sleep soundly.
When I wake, it’s because my daughter is shaking me. I blink at her tense face and sit up fast. Sam’s doing the same. He finds his voice first, but keeps it low. “What is it, honey?”
“Cops,” she whispers. “They’re outside.”
“What?” I launch myself out of bed and move to the window. I bend the blinds just enough to get a look outside at the street, and she’s right: there are two police cruisers parked in front of our house. Neither has its lights flashing. Maybe it’s a coincidence, I think, but then I see movement. There’s an officer moving around at the side of the house. Another near the front door. “Sam. Better get dressed. Lanny, get in your room, but do not lock the door, and don’t resist if something happens, understand? Do everything they say, when they say it.”
“What if they’re not really cops?” she asks, and that pauses me in the act of dragging a shirt over my head. I tug it down and turn to look at her. “Like back at Stillhouse Lake? What if they’re fakes?” She sounds really, really scared. And I have to admit she ought to be, because we’ve had that experience before. But this . . . this looks different.
“Honey. We’re in the middle of a city suburb, in a neighborhood. The police will not be fake. We’ll ask to see their badges. Okay?”
She grabs a breath and nods. “Okay. Are they here for you, or—”
“I don’t know.” It’s a horribly likely possibility, since I was just impersonating a police officer. Maybe Len did go to the police and file an assault complaint. Maybe there was a 911 call, and they somehow, despite all my precautions, traced it back to me. I don’t know. I just know that we have to handle this right, and carefully. “Go tell your brother to do the same thing I told you. Go. Now.”
