Beneath Bone Lake

by Colleen Thompson

  Impulsively, he hugged her, as much to reassure himself that she was real and solid as to offer comfort. “Opal’s granddaughter’s going to leave some things outside our door. So if you hear a knock in ten or fifteen minutes, don’t be startled.”

  “What things?”

  “She said she’ll send some clothes for us. Might be a little short on style, but they’ll be clean. And I’ve brought something for your head, too.” He pulled a two-pill packet from his pocket. “How about some water?”

  Ruby made an affirmative sound, her gaze still unfocused. In the kitchenette, Sam found a glass and brought her water, then fed her the tablets, one at a time, though he suspected the dose wouldn’t be enough to do more than blunt the edges of her pain.

  “I have to go back to the car now,” Sam explained, “go get the computer. I want you to stay right here. Stay here and do not move.”

  When he came back, he found she hadn’t. Not a millimeter. But he heard her sigh slide out, heard a slight hitch in her breathing.

  “Who was it you talked to, out there?” he asked.

  She looked up, her eyes shining. “Sheriff Wofford. She says they’ve found my sister’s car. It’s underneath the water. Underneath the water and…”

  Keeping his distance was impossible. He pulled her to him and rocked her gently, saying, “Tell me it was just the car.” His words were hoarse with emotion.

  “They brought up Misty’s wallet with her license and some torn clothes. And the divers are recovering some chunks of…something that looks human, not far from the Bone Yard back off Coot Channel Road, that little pass near Hammett’s.”

  “I know the place.” Sam pictured what locals called the Bone Yard, the flooded hollow filled with the bleached skeletons of dead trees. Passing through the center of this navigational hazard, Coot Channel had been named for the ducklike, black water birds so common to the area, but Sam knew the spot for its lunker bass and ancient catfish.

  Along with big-ass alligators, such as the enormous specimen he’d heard bellowing not two weeks before. One evening, out in the johnboat, he’d seen the dark gray monster—maybe fourteen feet in length—take one of the stunted island deer that had ventured to the water’s edge for a final, fatal drink. Sam couldn’t forget the image of the huge creature exploding from the shallows like a steel-jawed trap. The client in Sam’s boat, an experienced outdoorsman in his fifties, had given a teenaged girl’s scream, and Sam’s gut turned to ice water at this vision of death at its most primordial.

  He shoved it out of his mind, telling himself that Misty and Zoe, if they were gone, hadn’t died by any act of God or nature. But the hand of man could be even more cruel.

  “I told Wofford I need to be there,” Ruby said. “I need to see…But she told me they’ve blocked off the road, that they aren’t letting any civilians back there until they clear the scene.”

  “There’s nothing you could do there. And besides, you’re in no shape to—”

  “Do you think…” Ruby’s gaze flicked to meet his. “Am I deluding myself to keep hoping they’re alive? Am I just another of those pathetic family members you see on TV, the ones who always think the body found is going to magically turn out to be somebody else’s? That they’re going to be the ones to get the miracle?”

  “There’s nothing pathetic about hope, Ruby. And nothing in the least pathetic about you.”

  Fingering the blood-stiffened strands of her hair, he waited perhaps a minute before adding, “Except maybe that death-metal neopunk look you’ve got going.”

  He lobbed the jest with utmost care: a life preserver to a fallen swimmer. To his relief, she made a grab for it, responding with a brief and rueful smile.

  “I should clean up,” she said. “This feels—it smells—I have to get it off me. Have to get ready for whatever comes next.”

  Struggling off the chair, she climbed to her feet before he could assist her. Once there, however, she swayed, her eyes closing and her forehead wrinkling.

  “One step at a time,” Sam said. “Only focus on that.”

  As she moved, he ached to see her pain, his own healing injuries giving a sympathetic throb. “You’re going to have to let me help you. Otherwise I’ll be peeling you off the bottom of the tub.”

  “Oh, hell.” She sounded resigned to the necessity, though none too happy. “What’s a little dignity between friends?”

  Sam helped her into the bathroom and lifted her like a child to a perch on the counter. “So we’re friends now, are we?” Important to keep her talking, he reminded himself. Keep her mind off both her physical pain and the torment of imagining what the recovery divers might be finding at this moment.

  As he untied and pulled off each of her shoes, she said, “Of course we’re friends, Sam. What you’ve done—what you’re risking…in spite of what happened between you and Aaron.”

  He hesitated, frowning.

  “Wofford tried to tell me—she said you have a grudge against him.”

  “I did, for a long time.”

  “Did he pin the blame on you, Sam? Or did his parents just assume and he said nothing? Maybe because he was a scared kid, or just weak in that moment?”

  Sam shook his head, wondering what Ruby had guessed and resisting the temptation to say that he’d been scared, too, going to that group home after six years with the Monroes. But seeing her empathy, her willingness to listen even in these circumstances, made him more determined than ever not to tell her what the man she’d loved had done. “We’re not having this conversation, hear me? We’re taking care of you now.”

  He began unbuttoning the shirt she wore, his shirt, now smeared with blood. And in spite of everything, in spite of the filth and their varied wounds and the dread he knew both felt about what would come during the next hours, the reprobate McCoy in him noticed the female form beneath the cloth.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “I don’t know why you’re doing all this. Why you’re helping me if you and Aar—”

  “I was only out to save my own skin,” he reminded her, his lie serving as penance for the lustful thought.

  Pain spasmed across her features as he helped her slip the shirt off. He focused on that pain, that face as he stood her up to unfasten her jeans.

  “Maybe that’s the way it started,” she said.

  Her fingers bumped his, at her zipper, and their hands shot apart, as if each had felt the shock. As if each recalled the kiss they’d shared the last time they’d been in such close quarters.

  “Here, let me start the water.” Sam quickly turned from her, from the low rumble of sexual awareness between them. “Maybe a bath and not a shower, so you won’t have to stand up?”

  “A shower, I think. I want this blood, this day, to run right off me.”

  Sam moved the ivory shower curtain to start the water running, and the ancient plumbing groaned in the same pained tones that he remembered. And he thought that in this place of all places, he wanted to deserve grace. He wanted to believe in the man Ruby saw instead of the man who’d thrown away every good thing that had ever come his way.

  He wanted to be stronger than his history of screwups and suspicion, stronger even than his DNA, to give her the tenderness and care she needed. From a friend.

  But when he turned back to Ruby, she was completely naked, her limbs trembling, but her head held high. He swallowed hard and said, “Let me—let me check this water.”

  When he stuck a hand in, it remained cold.

  Ruby, still behind him, clutched his shoulder, her short nails digging in. “Sorry. Accidentally checked the mirror. Got a little dizzy when I saw the blood.”

  “That makes two of us.” After unwrapping the soap, Sam fumbled a small bottle of shampoo onto the tub’s edge, beside a folded washcloth. “You going to be all right?”

  “If you can give me a hand in.”

  As the water warmed, he pulled the curtain back and all but lifted her inside. Instead of standing, however, she sank d
own to her knees as her legs gave way. Sam bent with her, struggling to support her—and getting thoroughly soaked in the process.

  “Shit,” he said, on all counts. Then, after a hesitation, “How about some help there, Ruby?”

  She groaned in reply, turning to sit on the tub’s bottom, the warm water sluicing over her back. Her hair darkened, some of it falling into her eyes, and ruddy streams trickled from her body to swirl down the drain.

  Sam’s resolve threatened to do the same, but he stepped in, jeans and all. “Scoot forward. Can you do that?”

  When she did, he knelt behind her, trying to distance himself from the purely physical reaction of his body. He fixed his attention on the movements of his hands as he unscrewed the shampoo’s top, on the cool slick of the liquid pooling in his palm. On Ruby’s needs and not his own.

  “Tip back just a little,” he said roughly.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He rubbed in the shampoo, his fingers slipping through strands whose stiffness melted into silken warmth. A lightly evergreen scent sprang up, clean and woodsy, vanquishing the pungent, iron reek of blood.

  Ruby sighed. “This—this is good. I can’t remember the last time someone did this for—” Air hissed through her clenched teeth.

  “Sorry.” Moving his hand from the sore spot, he gently untangled her hair with his fingers as the water washed it clean. “You all right?”

  “If I can stay right here,” she answered, craning her neck to regard him. “Right here, inside this second. If I don’t think about the past or future. If I don’t think of anything except…”

  The look she gave him sent a jolt of pure desire through him. Stifling a groan, he reached for soap and washcloth.

  “Let’s finish cleaning you up.” Lust roughened as his words were, he refocused on the necessity of cleaning her skin. Of washing every speck of blood and dirt and violence from her body.

  But it was torturous, watching that tautly curved flesh come clean, steadying her with one hand while running his other—behind the thin square of white cloth—over creamy skin, or gliding over small but beautifully formed breasts whose rosy nipples peaked with his touch. Just once more, he lathered her breasts, his overheated brain supplying the excuse that he needed to be extra certain she was clean there.

  Teeth gritting and wet jeans growing even tighter, he screwed shut his eyes, thinking it might be easier if he couldn’t see her. But still, he felt her sleek limbs as he washed them, memorized the curve of her back, the sweet flare of her hips.

  When he reached the juncture of her legs, he told her, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to—”

  “You’re doing fine,” she whispered, and guided his hand with her own.

  The cloth fell from his hand as it lingered.

  “Ruby…” Control breaking, he arched above her to mouth her neck, to press his nose against the clean, sweet fragrance of her hair.

  And she twisted round, taking the soap from him. One finger trailed down toward his fly. “Please, Sam.”

  Relief flooding through him, he undressed as she washed him. Except that when the cloth again fell, she didn’t bother picking it up.

  She kissed his mouth fiercely, sleeked her slippery hands along his chest, and crawled onto him, her slim thigh nudging his rock-hard erection. He felt no languor in her movements, not the slightest hint of caution—only a desperation to lose herself completely, to give away her consciousness, if only for a while.

  As the hot rain pelted his skin, as his mouth found her breasts and his fingers found their way inside her, every reality but instinct disintegrated and washed away completely. Until the only thing left was the rhythm, the power of their bodies joining, a relentless, rocking maelstrom that neither of them could control, a storm that broke when Ruby cried his name, when all too soon, he spilled his lust inside her, unable to hold back.

  Ruby curled against Sam as he lifted her from the tub, her body swaddled in white towels that felt scratchy against her pink flesh. Stripping off the bed’s comforter, he laid her on the soft sheets. Her body felt limp and loose and utterly relaxed. Though her head ached vaguely, her mind drifted, blankly restful, content to allow Sam to do what he wished.

  Pleased that what he wished seemed to involve a slower, gentler round of touching, beginning with undemanding kisses that lingered at her mouth, she gave in to sensation. All conscious thought submerged into an oasis of taste and scent, of every sensation she could take in as the two of them made love with a languid ease that slowly built to a devastating climax.

  Devastating, because as the world around her shattered, so did the cell-thin barricade between shock and pain, crushing blow and comprehension. In the wake of physical release, the reality of her situation struck her like an axe blow.

  She cried out, her pleasure turning inside out, her tears rolling to soak into the pillow. When Sam wrapped his arms around her, she pushed him away.

  “I haven’t been with—this was my first time since—” She couldn’t even finish, couldn’t force Aaron’s name past the grief knotting in her throat. “And to do it now, with my daughter out there somewhere—to drag you deeper into this instead of handling it on my own—”

  Lying on his side to face her, Sam carefully pulled up the sheet to cover her nude body, then placed his hand atop the back of hers. “Stop. Right there. You’re human, Ruby, and human beings reach out for comfort, for contact when they’re hurting. Because nobody’s equipped to get through something like this on her own.”

  She stared at him as her emotions turned kaleidoscopic, a shifting pattern of guilt and need that gradually gave way to gratitude. For in Sam’s eyes, his touch, his voice, she read nothing but acceptance and a depth of comprehension she’d never before known.

  “And you aren’t alone,” he added, “no matter how tough this gets. Because I swear to you, I mean to see you through as far as I can.”

  “Thank you.” She wanted to say more, but the sincerity of his vow overwhelmed her.

  “Absolutely, you should thank me.” He feathered a touch beneath her chin, a wicked grin slanting across his handsome features. “Sacrificing my virtue like this, it’s one hell of a job.”

  A smile slipped up on her, took her by surprise. And for the first time in a long while, she felt the possibility of joy beyond a distant horizon, the faint glow of the unseen edge of dawn.

  Justine Wofford hated like hell to leave the search scene, especially to Savoy, who would end up using it against her in one way or another. But Harriet Wickenfield had called, screeching like a barn owl about Justine’s son, Noah. No matter how hard she tried to calm the older woman, Mrs. Wickenfield kept going on about the boy’s having broken something. As she flipped on the siren and raced toward home, Justine prayed it wouldn’t prove to be his neck.

  Already, Justine had been shaken by the grim scene along Coot’s Channel and her phone call to Ruby Monroe. Worse yet, Justine was horrified by the suspicion that her own failings, her own weakness could have played some part in the case’s sad conclusion. She was sickened, haunted by the thought that everything she did, everything she’d touched since the election was tainted. Including the only pure relationship she’d known in all her life.

  She turned onto a road far from the water, a potholed, single-lane that wound past well-spaced, older homes surrounded by fenced pastures. In spite of her anxiety, her spirits lifted just a little at the sight of horses of all sizes, from the brown and white minis to the black and sorrel Morgans, grazing in the lush spring growth. When a pair of huge white dogs—Lou’s dogs—loped out to meet her, she convinced herself that everything was all right, that the only thing her son had broken was another drinking glass, left carelessly within reach.

  But as she pulled up beside the white two-story, Harriet Wickenfield boiled out of the back door with her flabby white arms waving.

  “What’s going on?” Justine asked as she bailed out of the same ragged-out Expedition Lou had bitched a
bout for one hundred and six thousand miles.

  “Noah won’t come out. He’s locked himself inside—”

  “Is he hurt?” Justine was already trotting toward the back door, the rush of adrenaline cutting through her fatigue.

  The caregiver panted in her wake.

  “No—no, ma’am,” huffed Mrs. Wickenfield. “What I meant to say is he’s busted out a window in his bedroom. You can see it from here.”

  Justine looked up, heart falling as she caught sight of the missing pane. Too small for the nine-year-old to climb out, but that didn’t guarantee her son was not in danger.

  “Where is he now?” Justine demanded. “You didn’t leave him with the broken glass?”

  “He’s blocked the door somehow. He—”

  Without waiting to hear more, the sheriff sprinted for the house, her long strides rapidly outpacing the older woman’s. As Justine reached the door, she flung it open, wishing for the thousandth time she’d found someone better trained than a retired grocery store clerk, someone more prepared to handle Noah’s special needs after school hours. Justine would see to it, she swore. Screw the trouble, screw the legal problems keeping her from accessing her and Lou’s joint accounts and forcing her to sell her mother’s jewelry bit by bit to pay the bills. Risky or not, Justine had to use the money, the money she’d vowed to return or at least report, to get good help before her son…

  “Noah,” she shouted, reflexively looking toward the kitchen floor, where he spent hour after hour banging pots and their lids, delighting in the harsh metallic jangle. The noise had driven off at least two previous caregivers and at times drove Justine wild, yet at the moment, she’d give anything to hear it, anything at all to see the child who wouldn’t let her touch him and couldn’t seem to show he loved her back.

  Making for the stairs, she called his name again and listened. Not for a vocal response—she’d learned it was useless to expect that—but for the reassuring jingle of a ring of keys or the rattle of one of the cans of pebbles, bolts, and spare change that Lou had welded shut for safety.