by Holmes, Dee
“About eight o’clock. The driver called and said his Vermont delivery unloaded faster than he’d expected and he’d like to deliver the piano so he could get a good night’s sleep and start back tomorrow.”
“Back to where?”
“To where he came from.” She folded up the sheet music and placed it inside the hinged bench.
“And where was that?”
Without looking at him, she again ducked the question. “You sound like a cop.”
“I am a cop. Where did the driver come from, and where is he driving back to?”
He saw the dance of indecision in her eyes, the beginnings of panic.
“Kathleen, it’s not a hard question.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because you’re stalling and tap dancing and refusing to answer me.”
“It came from Wyoming,” she snapped. “And if you don’t believe me, I’ll show you the packing slip.”
“I believe you.”
“Then if you’re through with your questions, I’d like you to leave so I can go to bed.”
“How about you? Where did you come from?”
She stared at him, her fingers gripping the folds of her sweatshirt. In that moment she looked like a small defenseless child, and Booth hated himself for the questions he’d already asked and for the tougher ones still to come. He didn’t much believe in miracles, but in that moment he would have welcomed one.
“You know, don’t you?” she asked in a defeated whisper.
“I know.”
Her cheeks paled, her hand fluttering up to her mouth before she dropped it to her side. “So why are you asking all these questions if you already know the answers?”
“I want to hear it from you.”
“What? A confession?”
“Is that what you need to do? Make a confession?”
“No!”
“Okay. Then why don’t you just tell me who you really are, what happened in Wyoming and why you’re here. And give me at least one truthful reason why you hate cops.”
“Why are you doing this? If you know everything, then what does anything I have to say matter?”
“What you have to say matters because you and I just made love, and if you can trust me enough to be a lover, then I want to know why you can’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
“Because I can’t!” She nearly screamed the words. “Do you hear me? I can’t! I don’t trust anyone, and if you came here thinking that having sex would lure me into making some damning confession, I’ll tell you right now, Detective Rawlings, it’s not going to happen. And that’s what tonight was all about, wasn’t it? Is this the way you usually work? Or did you make an exception for me?”
“I want to make an exception of you, Kathleen. But I need your help.”
“My help? That’s a joke. You want me to make it easy for you. Well, I won’t.” She crossed to the door, then turned and marched back. “You want the truth, Detective, well this is my truth. I put up with my husband’s abuse and the put-downs and the terror. I gave up my piano, my life and my heart, for God’s sake. I protected him because I loved him, and I thought he loved me—he said he did. And we wanted children, and I wanted my marriage to be forever. I didn’t want to run away the way my mother had to. I wanted to make it work. I thought it was just me, that I wasn’t doing things the way I should. The town loved him and respected him. He was a cop sworn to uphold the law and keep the streets safe. But it was my home that wasn’t safe, because he lived there. I was a fool—a stupid, blind fool.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, and when he reached for her, she backed away, waving her hands to keep him at a distance.
Booth spoke softly. “You weren’t stupid, Kathleen. You were committed to honoring the vows you’d made.”
But she glared at him, her eyes suspicious. “You’re a cop.”
“And you’re still running. You can’t run forever.”
She tipped her head to the side, her eyes glittering with resolve. “Yes, I can. I learned something with you. I never should have let you become my friend.”
“Did you kill Steve?”
She went very still, swaying and shaking, before folding her arms around herself.
Booth moved closer, and she shrank back.
“Talk to me, baby. Give me a reason, an explanation, something I can use to help you. Did he beat you up that day? Did he threaten you? Was it self-defense?”
“You believe them,” she said as if she’d just lost her last hope.
He took her shoulders and shook her gently. “Kathleen, I have a lot of police facts, reports and opinions stacked on my desk at work. I’ve just spent the past eleven hours going over them so closely I have them memorized. According to all of them, you’re a fugitive. The facts say I should arrest you and notify Wyoming. I want you to give me a reason why I shouldn’t do that.”
“You want me to prove to you that I’m innocent?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Not self-defense?”
“No.”
“And not premeditated?”
“No.”
“Then why are you the prime suspect?”
She threw her hands into the air, her head fell back and she laughed. “Why? Why? Because I was his wife. I was there. I had a motive and everyone in the sheriffs office said I did it. Isn’t that the way it works with cops? A consensus of opinion—she’s got a good reason so she’s guilty. And of course poor beleaguered Steve was always the real victim. And you want to know why?” Sarcasm laced her voice as she continued. “Because I had the audacity to go to a safe house to get away from him. Because I didn’t give him a baby and had the nerve to mention to a friend that Steve wouldn’t accept that the fault was his, not mine. Because I wanted to destroy his macho image of tough guy who made his wife do as she was told. You know the old cop rule—‘If you can’t handle your wife, how are you gonna handle the criminals?’”
Booth tried to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away.
“But you know how to handle me, don’t you, Booth?”
“Kathleen...”
“That’s what tonight was about, wasn’t it? That’s what it’s always been about. Turn her on and you can get anything you want. I said I didn’t do it, but do you believe me? Of course not. I knew you wouldn’t from the very beginning, and all your soft smiles and gentle tones now aren’t going to convince me otherwise. You want me to make a full confession and make your job easier? Or are there more cops waiting out there in the bushes for your signal to come in with guns and tear gas?”
Booth reined in the words he wanted to fling at her. He’d bungled this badly, and he wasn’t sure if he was furious with her for her offensive tack or if his fury was self-directed. He knew better than to handle a case where he was emotionally involved. He should have given all the details to another detective and let him deal with it. But he couldn’t now.
“If you’re not going to arrest me, I want you to leave.”
“So you can disappear?”
“You’re in charge, Detective Rawlings. If you’re worried about that, then arrest me.” She held out her wrists. “Bring any handcuffs with you?”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“As much as you are.”
Then he looked at the piano. This was the source of her happiness, her joy. Not him, not even her freedom or her innocence. She’d risked discovery by sending for it. He’d listened to her play, watched the contentment bloom within her like spring after a long winter. Just as it had set her free emotionally, it would also hold her here physically. At least for a little while.
He had some time. Maybe only until she could make arrangements to have her piano returned to storage, but a few hours, at least.
He knew he was procrastinating, and he knew he was taking a huge chance with his career and his future if he was wrong. But Kathleen as killerturned-fugitive was impossible t
o reconcile with the woman he knew, the woman he loved. He wanted to go through those police reports one more time.
“I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“No. I don’t want you to come back tomorrow. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Tough.” He turned and started for the door.
“Booth, wait.” She grabbed his arm and halted him. “What are you going to do?”
“Since you don’t want to answer my questions, I’m going to try to find someone who will.”
“You’re going to call Wyoming, aren’t you? You’re going to tell them you have me.”
He could read the terror and panic in her eyes. “Do you honestly believe I’d do that without warning you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand why you’re walking away and not doing anything.”
Because I fell in love with you. But he didn’t say it. He knew she’d read it as a ploy to manipulate her, and he couldn’t blame her for that conclusion. At the moment, her trust of him was bobbing around the zero mark. Using what was still new, scary and fragile as a way to hold her—hell, he couldn’t do it.
“Lock the door.”
“I don’t understand.”
He cupped her neck and drew her close. The kiss was soft and bland, more friendly than passionate. Kathleen didn’t respond, but she didn’t push him away, either.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he walked out into the night, got into his car and drove away.
Kathleen stood in the coolness of the dark until the sound of the vehicle had faded. She stepped back inside, closed the screen door and locked it.
Her head ached and her thoughts were a jumble of confusion. Why hadn’t he arrested her? Did he believe she was innocent or was this some kind of trick? She didn’t know. If this were Steve, then trick would be the obvious answer. But this was Booth, and as he often had in the past, he rattled her perceptions and mixed up her feelings.
He was coming back tomorrow, but she didn’t intend to be here. She’d leave all the information, and she’d leave him her statement of what had happened, but she couldn’t face him tomorrow. She didn’t have the strength or the will to resist if he asked her to trust him. She wanted to, but she was too scared, too used to be being blindsided and lied to.
She went into her bedroom and dragged out the box of newspaper articles Clarke had sent to her. Also in the box were all the papers she’d taken from her car before she’d sold it in Pennsylvania. They’d been in a desk drawer at Gail’s, and she’d swept them into the box when she’d moved to Booth’s.
She put all those aside, and for the umpteenth time she went through the articles. News reports gathered from the police left no place for her innocence. Someone had killed Steve, and thanks to a very cooperative sheriff’s department, she’d been accused and convicted even before a charge had been filed. It was obviously a frame-up, but why? And since she’d had no witnesses, hadn’t been anyplace where someone could vouch for her—
My God!
She grabbed the pile of papers she’d shoved aside and went through them. Old gas receipts, a wrinkled map, outdated car registrations—and then she found it. The speeding ticket. Given to her by a Wyoming state trooper almost a hundred miles from home. She held it under the light. It wasn’t the original, and some of the printing was light, but the time and place were clear. No way she could have killed Steve, for he’d been murdered when she was being stopped for speeding a hundred miles east of Rodeo.
She swung around in a circle, hugging herself, feeling as if some inner floodgate had opened; all the tightness of the past few months flowed out. She put the ticket back in the box and remembered Booth’s advice. She skipped past the piano on her way to lock the door.
“Ah, she dances, too.”
She stopped and froze at the strange voice coming out of the darkness. Booth had been gone less than half an hour.
The figure came farther into the light. First she saw the ax and then she saw the man. Big, dressed in black and silver. Behind him was another figure, shrouded in the scent of cigar smoke.
She was so scared her mouth refused to open. He was going to kill her and she didn’t even know who he was.
“Relax, doll baby, this isn’t for you. You’re already claimed.” The other man stepped into the light, grinning and aiming a gun at her. The first man lifted the ax and, brought it down on her piano.
Then she screamed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A HAND CLAMPED OVER her mouth, and the gun jammed into her ribs. She struggled, arching back, trying to kick, fighting for her freedom as she watched the destruction of her most prized possession.
The man with the ax walked over to Kathleen, taking a long strip of nylon rope from the man with his hand over her mouth. He then reached down and grabbed first one ankle, then the other, yanking so hard it felt as if her hip and leg joints had separated.
Within seconds she found herself facedown on the floor with her feet tied together, her mouth gagged and her hands tied behind her. Her head was forced around so she had to face the piano. When the chopping began anew, she squeezed her eyes closed and wished she could block her ears.
The other man, the one with the gun and the cigar, returned to the shadows. Obviously he didn’t want her to see him, or he’d been told his turn came second. Destroy the piano, make her watch and then kill her.
Kathleen couldn’t scream, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t fight; and when the noise finally stopped, she waited for the other man to do something. Inside her head a demon cackled. “Your turn.”
Nearby she heard their voices, low and muted; the two were plotting the next step. She couldn’t run. She was helpless, left to await whatever new horror was planned for her. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly closed. She couldn’t look at the remains of her piano; the sight and sound of its end would be forever blazoned in her mind.
That was what hurt so excruciatingly—the deliberate cruelty. The same delight in savagery that Steve had so often displayed toward her. A jubilee of inflicted pain and terror.
Ironically, the place where she lay tied on the floor was where she and Booth had made love. If she pressed her nose into the carpet, she could smell him, feel his body envelop her; she could blank out the nearby rubble. She almost wished for insanity or amnesia or numbing shock—any harbor of denial would be better than the present reality.
She couldn’t win. She hadn’t been able to run far enough. And did it really matter? It wasn’t as if anyone cared, as if there were anyone she needed to protect. She had no children, no family, no place where she belonged. For a while she’d pretended she had a bond with Booth, and she’d opened her needy heart to his daughter. Yet at the same time, she’d judiciously guarded her spirit, and she’d maintained her mistrust. To have ignored either would have made her too vulnerable and therefore destroyed the tiny world she’d created.
Turning, she winced anew with inner pain. The men hadn’t told her their names or where they had come from or who had sent them, but it was obvious that they’d been waiting for her piano, waiting for the right time. It was clear to her now that being caught had been inevitable. This wasn’t random devastation; she’d been found and the point was to break her spirit as thoroughly as they’d dismembered her piano.
How they’d succeeded in tracking her down, she didn’t know, but the sheriff or his minions would get her eventually. Wistfully, she regretted her silence and stubbornness with Booth. She should have told him the truth a long time ago. She closed her eyes, weeping for all her mistakes, all her lost hopes, the family she’d found with the Rawlings—all she’d treasured and couldn’t keep.
Then the voices stopped and she strained to hear, but there was only silence. Had the men gone? Had the one with the gun been there only to make sure she didn’t run? Was there no intent to kill her?
In one small crevice of her soul a sprout of hope came to life. Maybe. If she could talk to Booth. He wanted her to tell him her story.
Not the story from Wyoming. Not the story the Rodeo police had. Her story.
Yes, if she could see Booth. He was coming today. He’d said he would come back. Yes, he would come....
When the hand closed over her arm and rolled her onto her back, the face looming over her sent her terror level to a new high.
The voice had a mesmerizing silkiness. “It’s all over, Kathleen.”
The pitted face was too familiar with its muddy brown eyes and deep pouches beneath. He took the gag from her mouth, untied her and hauled her to her feet. Kathleen’s knees buckled from the numbness in her legs, and he dragged her to the bench, forcing her to sit down.
She stared at him. His face and neck were fleshier, his belly saggier, and she concluded that her flight from the frame-up might have taken a toll. For some bizarre reason she wanted to laugh. Sheriff Buck Faswell had always prided himself on being fit, an example of mental toughness and physical stamina. It was obvious that doughnuts and weekend beer and gambling feasts had prevailed.
“How did you find me?” she asked, her voice a husky squeak.
“Brilliant police work plus a couple of timely tips.” He laughed then, and she turned away. He’d had bacon and pancakes; she smelled the remains on his breath.
Brilliant police work would have found her weeks ago. More than likely he’d gotten lucky. The arrival of her piano and the arrival of the two men were too close not to be connected. “Tips like the delivery of my piano?”
“You mean that pile of kindling?” He pulled a toothpick from his mouth and picked at his teeth. “Stupid move, Kathleen.”
Which meant that her piano delivery was a tip. “Or brilliant.”
“Huh?”
“It got you here,” she muttered, enjoying his gathering frown. It felt good to knock that sanctimonious smirk off his face. The smarmy grin of a dangerous man, not of a man on official business.
He’d come personally to get her. First to destroy the piano and then kill her. A legitimate sheriff would have notified the Crosby police that they had a fugitive in their town. Probably the two men had flown from Wyoming to Boston or Providence and then driven to Crosby. No stop at the police department, as any honest law-enforcement officer would have done. He’d come straight to the carriage house after eating his pancakes and bacon. Probably at the Silver Lining Restaurant, she thought with some irony.
