With a Southern Touch: AdamA Night in ParadiseGarden Cop

by Jennifer Blake

  “And if you get caught? What am I suppose to do if they decide to use you to get to me and your aunt?”

  “Exactly what you’d do if I was tied to your side. Nothing, in other words, no negotiation.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” he snapped. “Deciding between letting you be hurt or turning your aunt over to those goons isn’t something I want to do.”

  “I don’t see…”

  “That’s because you aren’t looking at it from where I stand.”

  He had a point. While she was mulling it over, Aunt Kim spoke up from where she still sat at the kitchen table. “Does anybody mind if I get dressed? I’m not doing any good sitting here listening to you two argue, and I’d as soon face whatever is going to happen in something besides my nightgown.”

  “Suit yourself,” Adam said without glancing at her.

  “I have nothing to put on except the dress I was wearing. Could I borrow a pair of jeans, Lara?”

  “Take whatever you need,” Lara said at once, and told her where to find them as well as an extra shirt.

  “You’re a sweetheart, thanks.” She hesitated a second, then added, “I’ll leave the two of you to it then.”

  Her departure left an awkward silence. Lara stood watching Adam knead together a gummy mess that bore some slight resemblance to plastic explosive she’d seen on television. After a moment, she asked, “You need something to put that in?”

  “Just what I was thinking,” he answered. “You have an old margarine bowl or maybe plastic wrap?”

  “Doubt it. My grandmother was old-fashioned. She used only butter, drank her cola from glass bottles because she swore it tasted better that way, and stored her leftovers in glass bowls with glass lids that are practically antiques. But I may have a garbage bag lying around.” Moving to the big butler’s pantry that served as a pass-through from the kitchen to the dining room, she returned with the bag. She also had a couple of glass cola bottles, a quart of scented lamp oil, a package of extra lamp wicks, a box of birthday candles and a box of kitchen matches that she’d searched out.

  Adam glanced at the items, then paused in his task with one brow lifted. “That’s scary. I was just wondering if…”

  “Yes?” Her smile was seraphic.

  “Considering that your grandmother was old-fashioned, as you said, and that electric power isn’t too reliable around here during storms, an oil lamp or two for emergencies seemed…”

  “Logical?” she supplied innocently.

  “Right.” He watched her for long seconds before taking the items she carried. His lips tightened, especially as he saw the birthday candles, but he went back to what he was doing without further comment.

  She leaned on the cabinet, her gaze on the competent movements of his well-formed hands. There was something about watching a man work. It satisfied some kind of internal expectation, she thought, as if women had for millennia found security in that particular signal of proficiency.

  To escape the direction of her thoughts, she asked, “Where did you learn about explosives?”

  “Chemistry class in engineering college, partly. But my brothers and I experimented one year after reading a manual some of the guys were passing around in grammar school. Wade and I burned down a storehouse and almost caught Grand Point on fire.”

  “That would have been a shame.” The old Benedict place known as Grand Point was an historic landmark, one of several Benedict properties that dated back to before the Civil War.

  “Dad thought so, too. He tanned our hides for it, not that we blamed him. Mom thought he’d overreacted, that he was curbing our spirit and discouraging intellectual experimentation. They had a huge blowup about it. She left him, left us, not long afterward.”

  Lara, listening to what he wasn’t saying as much as to the words, said simply, “That wasn’t your fault.”

  He didn’t look at her. “I was the oldest. I should have known better.”

  “I meant you weren’t to blame for your mother’s leaving. Children aren’t, you know. Sometimes people are just too different. They can’t make a marriage unless one of them changes beyond recognition in order to fit themselves into the other’s life.”

  “People do it all the time.”

  “They used to, because women did most of the changing. They did it because it was expected, or because they had no choice, no way to get along without a man. They still do it sometimes because they love that much or have no strong inclination in any other direction. But some can’t, or won’t, make that sacrifice. They have to leave in order to save themselves.”

  Adam was quiet a moment, while carefully wrapping the mixture he’d created in a square of plastic he’d cut from the bag. “My mother was, and is, artistic. She’d forget that dinner was cooking while she painted, make huge messes with dripped and splattered paint. My old man thought she was wasting time better spent cleaning and taking care of her kids, that she was too lenient with us out of carelessness, and didn’t care enough about him to keep something edible on the table. Your typical mismatch between an artistic type and a pragmatist.”

  “And you agreed with your father.”

  He looked up with surprise in his face. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because you’re like him, of course.” It seemed so clear to her that she couldn’t see why he’d even ask.

  “You obviously don’t know me if you think so.”

  That was startling enough to give her pause. She was so used to her instinctive understanding of people that she seldom second-guessed herself, almost never had to revise her first impressions. There was a kind of arrogance in that, she realized, since it was impossible to ever fully understand another person.

  “You think your mother was right to leave?” she asked with a frown between her brows.

  “I didn’t at the time. Like all kids, I hated the change, blamed my dad for making her go away and resented her for not taking her kids with her. But I’ve come to know her better since leaving home, moving to New Orleans.”

  “You’re close now?”

  He glanced at his watch to check the time they had left. “As long as we don’t interfere in each other’s lives. She’s mighty interested in grandchildren for someone who claims she was never cut out to be a mother.”

  “Children don’t interest you?” He needed a funnel for filling the bottles with his explosive liquid. She found one in a drawer and handed it to him just as he picked up a cola bottle.

  “They’re fine, but first you have to have a wife.”

  That sounded as if marriage was the problem, but asking about that was a bit too personal. She made a noncommittal sound and let the subject lapse while she took the bottle that he had filled and handed him an empty one.

  “What about you,” he inquired without looking away from what he was doing.

  “What about me?”

  He snorted. “You know what I meant. Why aren’t you married with a couple of kids?”

  “I make men nervous,” she said shortly. “They don’t like having their minds read.”

  He glanced at the funnel in his hand as he said, “It seems to have its advantages.”

  “Outweighed by the drawbacks, believe me. Imagine having a wife who always knew exactly why you’d overdrawn the checking account—or when you were having impure thoughts about young things in string bikinis.”

  “Imagine one who knew exactly when you were in the mood,” he countered with the faintest hint of a smile.

  “Think of one who could tell when you thought she was being a witch.”

  “Or one who knew when you wanted her to be one?”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she informed him.

  “Don’t I?” He looked up, the deep blue of his eyes bright with amusement overlaid by understanding. “You think you’re different, and maybe you are. But all women’s brains are wired differently anyway—the way they work is pretty much a mystery to men. Yours is just a little more mysterious than most.” />
  She held his gaze for long seconds during which she felt enveloped by his rock-solid confidence. What would it be like to be able to depend on that surety, to take what he’d said at face value and abandon the fear of intruding or offending and know only acceptance of both her and her strange gift? The idea brought such fierce longing that she took a step away from him, withdrawing both physically and emotionally.

  “What?” he asked, his amusement fading.

  “Nothing.” She moistened her lips. “It’s so quiet outside. What…what do you suppose our visitors are doing?”

  He listened for a second, then sent a quick look at the ceiling above them. “It’s quiet inside, too, especially upstairs.”

  She nodded, accepting the chance to escape what had become an uncomfortable discussion. “I’ll see if Aunt Kim’s all right.”

  He made no effort to stop her. Leaving the kitchen, Lara made her way through the sitting room and up the stairs. She tapped on the door of the guest bedroom, then waited. When there was no answer, she knocked again then pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  It took only a second to see that the room was empty. The housecoat that Aunt Kim had been wearing was flung across the rumpled bed, her leather purse was gone from where it had sat on the ‘thirties dresser, and her high heels that had been kicked off beside the bed were no longer there. Whirling around, Lara walked quickly down the hall to her own bedroom. Here, she found drawers open and the clothing tumbled and left hanging over the sides. Her black jeans and matching T-shirt were missing.

  Her aunt was gone.

  She should have remembered, Lara thought, that her aunt Kim had been brought up in the old house so knew its many exits as well as she did. Then another idea occurred to her. It took only a quick search to confirm it.

  The pistol was gone as well, the weapon her aunt had brought with her and that she’d used to kill her husband.

  The only firearm in the house.

  Eight

  “Why in hell would she do that?” Adam demanded. “Where does she think she’s going?”

  He didn’t really expect an answer, but was only letting off steam. He should have guessed that Kim Belzoni would run since she’d been doing it all her life. It was his fault that the woman was out there now, wandering around in the dark. The thing was that he’d expected self-preservation to keep her from playing hare to the Belzoni family hounds.

  “She was afraid, I think, that she might lose in any final test of loyalties,” Lara said.

  “What? My loyalties? I thought I’d made it clear where those lay.”

  “You had, but circumstances can change the firmest of intentions.”

  He didn’t have a clue what she was getting at. “I was doing my damnedest to keep her safe.”

  “She wasn’t sure that would hold if—if you were really forced to choose.”

  “Between?”

  “The two of us.”

  “Because of what I said a few minutes ago,’ he said in exasperated understanding.

  “She realized how strong your doubts were and so thought it best if she took herself out of the picture.”

  He was silent while he digested that. Finally, he said, “You’re telling me that she could read my mind, too.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Hell, yes,” he answered, suddenly hot under the collar. “Wouldn’t it bother you?”

  She only looked at him with that clear, knowing gaze that he was beginning to anticipate, if not appreciate.

  “Yes, well, I know what I said about your power, or whatever you call it,” he allowed. “But having one woman poking around in a man’s head is different from thinking her whole family might be able to do it.”

  “I do realize.”

  He was afraid she did, which was the whole trouble, wasn’t it? This was getting nowhere, even if they had time for it. “Is this mind-reading thing, assuming it’s real, a two-way street? I mean, do you have any idea where she’s going?”

  “She has no particular destination but is certain that something will turn up.”

  He stared at the wall behind her while he cursed silently. Then an instant replay of their last exchange flashed through his mind. He set his hands on his hipbones while he gave a slow, disgusted shake of his head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “You almost had me believing that stuff.” Though the most irritating thing about it, he thought, was his own ambivalence.

  Her face changed, her eyes becoming as opaque as green jade, shutting him out. Turning away from him with an abrupt, jerky movement, she said, “We have to go after her.”

  That withdrawal felt like a desertion. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “I don’t think you understand the problem,” he said to her back. “The men out there aren’t going to let us just walk out, even if your aunt does seem to have managed it.”

  “What if they discover she’s gone? They’ll hunt her down like a rabbit.”

  He clenched his teeth as he realized that she had just used the same image that had flickered through his mind seconds ago. “And five minutes after we’re gone, less if we’re spotted leaving, they’ll find out the house is empty and chase down all three of us. Or do you really think we can outrun them?”

  “So we do nothing?”

  “I was thinking, rather, of a diversion to delay the discovery that she’s gone.”

  “She could still get lost, maybe wander in a circle so she comes back here. The best thing is to go after her.”

  He’d known she would find some objection, he’d just known it. “I’d say the chances of both of us slipping out unseen are about a million to one. Suppose I stay put, take care of that diversion.”

  “While I sneak out like Aunt Kim? I don’t think so.”

  “What do you want from me?” he demanded. “It’s the best I can offer.”

  “Do you really believe that I’d leave you here to chunk pop bottles at men that may be armed with submachine guns? I’m as impressed as all get-out by the heroics, but refuse to accept the sacrifice.”

  “Not even to save your precious aunt’s hide?”

  “I don’t like the odds,” she said, and closed her lips in a tight line.

  “If we both get out of here, if we can catch up with your aunt, and if I manage to keep us all alive, I’ll still turn her over to the police the first chance I get.”

  “I know that, but it’s better than letting her—”

  Shots exploded from the woods just beyond the house. The staccato roar proved that the goons outside were armed to the teeth. It also indicated that Kim Belzoni hadn’t got far. Adam said a few choice words even as he made an instant decision.

  “Let’s go,” he snapped as he scooped up the two bottles he’d filled with lamp oil and fixed with trailing, oil-soaked wicks. “If we’re going to make it, this is our chance.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Now. While they’re busy.” He didn’t wait to see if she followed, but charged through the swinging door into the darkened sitting room that was on the opposite side of the house from the commotion. He paused with his back to the wall next to a tall window, staring through the glass for any sign of movement.

  As Lara arrived at his side, he said, “Clear, I think.”

  “I’ll get the window.”

  He didn’t argue, since she knew exactly how it unlocked and opened. Still, his chest ached during the few seconds it took her to belly up to the tall glass panes and lift the sash from the low sill. The window went up with only a muted bumping of its iron counterweight inside the old walls, just as it had been designed to do more than a hundred years ago. Lara released the screen, then made a movement as if to skim through the opening. Adam touched her arm, motioning for her to step back. Ladies first was a nice concept, but if anybody was going to get shot at on sight, he’d rather it wasn’t her. Ducking out the tall, dark opening in a smooth movement, he dropped to the ground, then turned back to give her a
hand. Seconds later, they were easing along the outside wall, searching for the time and place to make a break for the woods.

  The bulk of the house was still between them and the hue and cry over Kim. As they eased toward the rear, Adam began to think that the men sent to bring them in had actually been dumb enough to be drawn away after the escapee. Then he put his head around the back corner and caught the smell of cigarette smoke. He spotted the man watching the rear door by the glowing orange tip of his cigarette.

  Adam drew back, flattening his spine against the wall. Lara did the same in eerie synchronization with him. He gave her a hard glance even as he whispered, “Go back. Wait for me at the other end of the house.”

  She didn’t argue, but only stared at him a second before moving away. When he could barely see her outline in the darkness, he turned to shield the bottles he carried with his body, then struck a kitchen match with his thumbnail. Lighting one bottle’s dangling wick, he immediately stepped out to hurl it at the trunk of a big oak beyond the guard.

  The fiery explosion lit up the backyard in a yellow-orange glare that made the surrounding woods appear black. The guard yelled and dived aside, scrambling away from the flames. Immediately, Adam sprinted toward Lara, now out of the guard’s direct line of sight. As he reached her, he caught her arm, half directing, half urging her toward the encroaching trees. She understood what he intended without a word, had been waiting only for his direction. Together, they raced for the cover. The wood’s dark shadows covered them like a blanket while they pushed deep into it, away from the house.

  Behind them lay pandemonium, as men shouted, shots were fired in random bursts and fire crackled toward the night sky. A few seconds of forward progress, and the noise began to fade, replaced by the soft crunch of their footsteps in the leafy mulch of the forest floor and the brush of twigs and branches against their clothing. Adam could hear no pursuit, but he thought it was back there. The question was how long it would last when the real quarry was Kim Belzoni.

  He pressed on, circling, keeping his bearings partly by instinct, partly by the distant glow of the brush fire started by his Molotov cocktail. He wound around thickets and deadfalls, crossed dry branches, and found the best spots for three different crossings of the small creek that meandered behind the old house in a channel as crooked as a snake. The night air was tainted with smoke, but still felt fresh and free in his lungs. It was good to be out in it, in spite of everything.