Jericho Point

by Meg Gardiner

  Jesse angled into the bathroom. ‘‘Let me.’’

  I sat on the edge of the tub. The bathroom was barely big enough for the two of us, and he had to lean around the sink to reach the taps. He checked the temperature and watched the tub fill. I huddled on my perch.

  ‘‘Want me to help you get the shirt off?’’

  I shook my head.

  His gaze lay lightly on me. ‘‘I know you’re a modest Catholic girl. But, sugar, I’ve been making you scream for a while now.’’

  I had to make the effort. I scooted toward him. And he was right; I needed help. I managed to get one sleeve off, but couldn’t raise my injured arm high enough to do the other side. Even though this was a big shirt, one of his, plenty loose across the chest.

  He teased the neck of the shirt over my head and eased it down my arm. Every brush of his hands against me was like hitting a nerve. I kept shying from him.

  He bunched the shirt on his lap. ‘‘If it’s this painful, you should see an orthopedist.’’

  ‘‘That’s not it.’’

  He turned off the water.

  ‘‘I feel disgusting,’’ I said.

  His voice was quiet. ‘‘Why?’’

  The water dripped. The way water had dripped from my face into the mud puddle while Merlin held me by the hair, while Murphy lay on my back. I yanked the shirt from Jesse’s lap and fought my way back into it. I had to be covered. I had to be dry.

  He looked bewildered. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  ‘‘Murphy.’’

  I hadn’t told him, hadn’t told anybody, but he saw it on my face. He went ungodly still.

  ‘‘Evan.’’

  The water was dripping. ‘‘Turn that off. Please. I can’t stand it.’’

  ‘‘What did he do to you?’’

  I looked away. He tightened the faucet.

  ‘‘Did he touch you?’’

  He put his hand to my cheek and turned my head back. I stared at his chest.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ I said.

  His hand stayed steady on my cheek. I kept my eyes on his shirt. And I told him. The hand like a catcher’s mitt. The drumsticks. The ripped panties. Murphy.

  I waited for him to smash something, or to back out of the bathroom in revulsion. At length I looked at his face. I saw pain, as though he had taken a physical blow. And anger that he pushed away. Compassion came into his eyes.

  ‘‘Whatever you need,’’ he said. ‘‘Whatever you want me to do.’’

  Finally, for a moment, I felt safe. Not safe from everything lurking outside my front door, but safe with him. I pulled him close and laid my head across his lap. He put a hand on my back. I let go.

  How long I stayed there I don’t know. Finally I said, ‘‘You’re going to be late for work.’’

  ‘‘It’s okay. Do you want to get back in bed?’’

  ‘‘I want to take this bath.’’

  He added hot water and held my arm while I got in the tub.

  ‘‘If you don’t want me to touch someplace, shout,’’ he said.

  He wet a washcloth and stroked it across my back. He smoothed the soap along my arms and legs, taking care not to dampen the tape. I held my damaged arm against my side. When he was done, he clasped my hand and helped me out of the tub. I felt better.

  He wrapped me in a towel, and asked if I needed help getting dressed. I told him I could manage it. I dried off and put on some sweats. I went out to the living room and found him with Brian. Jesse was holding a semiautomatic pistol in his hand, loading the clip into the butt of the gun.

  They paused, looking like schoolkids caught smoking in the boys’ room. Outside, Luke was playing with his fingerboard, practicing skateboard skills on a three-inch version of the real thing. He was covered with red chicken pox spots, but his fever had broken and he looked perkier. I walked over to Jesse and Brian.

  ‘‘Great,’’ I said.

  Brian jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘‘It’s mine. I have a permit. I’m merely lending it to Jesse until he gets through the background check and—’’

  ‘‘Excellent,’’ I said. ‘‘Do you have more ammunition?’’

  They exchanged a glance.

  ‘‘This box,’’ Brian said.

  ‘‘That’s only twenty rounds,’’ I said. ‘‘Jess, can you pick up some more? At lunchtime?’’

  ‘‘I guess,’’ he said.

  ‘‘You’re leaving it with me today, right?’’

  ‘‘Okay.’’

  He cleared the chamber, clicked the safety, and set it down on the table. I rested my hand on it. It felt solid, and warm where Jesse had held it. I would have taken it straight up to the firing range and spent the day practicing head shots, if not for the fact that I didn’t want to step outside the door.

  They swapped looks again, and Jesse held out a hand to me.

  ‘‘Call me. For anything,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m fifteen minutes away.’’ He looked outside, and a wistful expression came over him. He called to Luke. ‘‘Hey, polka-dot dude. Have to tell you good-bye.’’

  Brian walked him to his car. When he returned, I had the sense that they’d been discussing things. Such as me. Brian stared surreptitiously, as though I had grown a third, beady eye. With a gunsight attached.

  ‘‘If there’s any way I could stay, I would,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I know.’’

  He refilled my coffee cup. I warmed my hands on the mug.

  ‘‘How long does Marc think he’ll be in town?’’ I said.

  ‘‘Few days at least. He hasn’t been by?’’

  With Jesse staying here? Ha. I shrugged and drank my coffee.

  Brian leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’’

  ‘‘Nothing.’’

  ‘‘Sis. Dupree’s a cool customer, but he’s blatantly crazy for you.’’

  I felt miserable all over again. ‘‘Marc saved my life.’’

  ‘‘Marc’s a hell of a guy. And he’s not after gratitude,’’ he said. ‘‘And the way you were flirting with him the other night at the motel, you let him think he’s going to get what he is after.’’

  I ducked his gaze, looking outside at Luke. He had earphones on and was listening to a tiny audio player.

  I waved at him. ‘‘Hey, where’d you get that?’’

  ‘‘Jesse gave it to me.’’

  I recognized it. It had Hendrix, Clapton, Creedence— Jesse was starting Luke’s indoctrination.

  ‘‘Turn it up,’’ I said.

  Brian pulled out a chair and sat down at the table next to me. ‘‘I have to hit the road in ten minutes. We don’t have time for evasive maneuvers. So I’m going to fire this at you, head-on.’’

  I pulled my knees up. ‘‘Watch out. Let me activate my cloaking device.’’

  ‘‘Why don’t you marry Jesse?’’ he said.

  ‘‘Oh, brother.’’

  ‘‘Do you love the guy?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘So what’s stopping you from getting hitched?’’

  ‘‘When did you become my yenta?’’

  ‘‘I have nine minutes left.’’

  ‘‘He drives you bonkers half the time,’’ I said.

  ‘‘I’d take that as a glass-half-full scenario, if I were you.’’

  I slumped back in my seat.

  ‘‘Let’s cut to the chase. Are you waiting for him to get his legs back?’’ he said.

  ‘‘No.’’ I looked at my hands. ‘‘That’s not going to happen.’’

  ‘‘Then are you afraid of what it would be like to be married to him?’’

  ‘‘His disability isn’t an issue.’’

  He weighed that, nodding. ‘‘Shall I tell you what I think?’’

  ‘‘As if I could stop you.’’

  He pulled his chair closer to mine. ‘‘I think you’re allergic to permanence.’’

  My eyebrows jumped up toward my hair. It hurt.
‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Look at how you’ve structured your life. You do freelance work. You live alone. You hop from job to job.’’

  ‘‘You think I’m some kind of emotional gypsy?’’

  ‘‘Blame our itinerant childhood, or Mom and Dad getting divorced. And me as well.’’

  ‘‘I don’t like your nine-minute love diagnostic.’’

  ‘‘My point is, you always plan an escape route, so that at any time you can blow. Eject, eject, eject.’’

  ‘‘That’s ridiculous.’’

  ‘‘Really? You picked the one man you’ll always be able to outrun.’’

  I stood up. ‘‘You’re a son of a bitch.’’

  ‘‘And when you turn around, who do you line up with?’’

  ‘‘I’m not listening to you anymore.’’ I walked into the kitchen.

  ‘‘A pilot who goes out of sight at Mach two.’’

  I leaned on the counter and let my head drop. Brian came over to me.

  ‘‘I may be a son of a bitch. But I’m a smart one.’’

  He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘‘Things are crazy enough right now. You don’t need more excitement in your life. You need to cool things down.’’

  I tried to resist his hug, but gave in, putting my head against him.

  ‘‘But I can’t cool things down as long as Avalon’s still around.’’ I laughed without humor. ‘‘Don’t you get it? I’m being pursued by a wedding band.’’

  At three I stepped outside to go to my dentist’s appointment. The garden was still. Sun was gentling on the hibiscus. Playground noise roiled from the school up the street. It emphasized Luke’s absence. And beneath it I seemed to hear whispers—the voices of Merlin and Murphy, slinking around the side of my house in the dark, saying, She’s pulling something sly.

  I set the burglar alarm and struggled with my house keys. With my left arm in a sling, I had to lock the door single-handed. The garden gate swung open, and I jumped, adrenaline slamming my heart. The keys fell from my hands. I picked them up and stabbed them at the lock, frantically trying to open the door.

  The police officer who was guarding the house came through the gate. He was carrying a spectacular flower arrangement.

  ‘‘Hope you don’t mind,’’ he said. ‘‘The florist was delivering these. I took the liberty of intercepting him.’’

  I stood shaking like a paint mixer. ‘‘No. Great.’’

  The flowers were extravagant—red snapdragons, white lilies, yellow roses in a vase wrapped with a velvet bow. I couldn’t carry them with one arm. I couldn’t even see straight. The officer brought them in for me and set them on the dining table. I thanked him and locked the door.

  The snapdragons looked sinister. The lilies made me think of death. My nerves were vibrating all the way up in the register only dogs can hear. What if Toby had sent the flowers, as a warning?

  I called the dentist and canceled my appointment. Then I took Brian’s gun into my room, set it on the nightstand, wrapped up in my quilt, and lay on the bed, listening. I was still there when Jesse turned his key in the front door at six thirty.

  ‘‘Ev?’’

  ‘‘Back here.’’

  He leaned through the doorway, face half shadowed by the bedside lamp.

  ‘‘Gorgeous flowers. Who sent them?’’ he said.

  ‘‘I didn’t look.’’

  His gaze lingered. ‘‘I’ll check.’’

  That got me out of bed fast, ouch, ouch. When I got to the living room he had the card envelope in his fingers. He raised an eyebrow, asking permission. I nodded.

  He opened it, read the card, and his mouth skewed. ‘‘We’re safe.’’ He handed it to me.

  Feel better soon. Love, P.J.

  The next morning the officer guarding my house went off duty. He told me good-bye. I heard him start the engine of the patrol car. And drive away.

  I straightened up the living room, and made my bed, and put on another pot of coffee. Listening. Keep the stereo and television off, that was the thing to do. Don’t make any noise that could obscure the sound of people approaching.

  Breathing, for instance. Breathing was noisy. Just hold your breath, Delaney.

  Nikki stopped by at lunchtime, bringing me my mail. She had the puppy on a leash. He strained at it and wound around her legs. She looked unusually whimsical.

  ‘‘That’s because I have news that will cheer you up. We’re going to keep the pooch.’’ She smiled and bent to scratch Ollie’s ears.

  ‘‘You’re a pal,’’ I said.

  ‘‘I’m going to go whole-hog. Enter him in dog shows. Knit him a little tartan blanket and Tam o’ Shanter.’’ The fanciful smile remained. ‘‘Nah, Thea loves him. Thanks, Ev.’’

  After she left, I went through the mail. Bracing myself for unwanted bills, screaming demands for repayment, and, of course, offers to sign up for new credit cards. I sorted through the envelopes. Mine, mine, junk, junk. And a manila envelope. Addressed to Rowan Larkin. I felt it, making sure there weren’t any wires attached, and ripped it open.

  It was the paperback of my novel, the one Toby had deconstructed. It was now physically deconstructed. The cover artwork had been defaced. My name had been scratched out with a knife. Most of the pages had been ripped out. But one chunk remained: the chapter where Rowan’s soldiers were massacred. The page describing their deaths had been circled in fat red marker. An arrow was pointing to the worst atrocity. An angry hand had written, YOU, BITCH.

  Motion at the door, and a knock. I leaped, practically clawing my fingers into the ceiling.

  Marc stood outside. He was holding a bouquet of purple iris. Beneath his aviator shades he wore his enigmatic smile. When I opened the door, it vanished.

  ‘‘What’s the matter?’’ he said.

  I handed him the manila envelope and paperback. I balled my hands and pressed them against my forehead. He hung his shades in the collar of his polo shirt, his demeanor stiffening, and read the envelope.

  ‘‘Postmarked Los Angeles.’’

  My fists were knocking against my forehead. ‘‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.’’

  He led me to the sofa and sat me down. I heard him on the phone, calling the police. Then he sat down beside me.

  I squeezed my hands between my knees. ‘‘It isn’t over. Murphy said that it wasn’t, and he’s making sure I know.’’

  He put an arm around my shoulder. I felt his strength and chill heat. His brown eyes held a merciless calm; he was wearing his game face.

  ‘‘I’m going to cover your six. Twenty-four by seven,’’ he said.

  I felt relief and thankfulness and a yearning for him that came on like fever. That was as scary as anything. ‘‘Thank you. But I need something else.’’

  ‘‘Tell me.’’

  ‘‘Target practice.’’

  He nodded. Clasping my hand, he stood. ‘‘Come on.’’

  He took me to the firing range up in the mountains off West Camino Cielo. When we checked in and went out to the range he laid out Brian’s gun, the magazine, and a box of nine-millimeter ammunition.

  ‘‘Have you ever fired a gun?’’ he said.

  ‘‘Of course. I’m a military brat. I want to be sure I can hit a moving target. In the dark. Fifty times in a fricking row.’’

  He picked up the gun. ‘‘This is your weapon. A Beretta semiautomatic pistol.’’ He put it in my hand. ‘‘Hold it. Get used to the weight.’’

  I had been carrying it back and forth from the living room to the bedroom, so I wasn’t surprised by the weight, a couple of pounds. And the cool. The metal felt good in my hand.

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Marc said. ‘‘Can you get by without the sling for the next hour?’’

  I took it off.

  He led me through it. Loading the clip. Racking the slide to chamber a round. Safety on, and off. Adopting a stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly flexed. Two-handed grip, left hand bracing the right.

  He put
a hand on my injured elbow. ‘‘Arm all right?’’

  ‘‘Fine.’’

  ‘‘Hold it,’’ he said. ‘‘Feel the weight. After only a short time it can affect your aim. And if you’re in a situation to fire, you won’t be calm. Patience.’’ I knew all this, but having him run me through it calmed me.

  ‘‘The main point is commitment,’’ he said. ‘‘If you draw your weapon, that means you’re in a life-or-death situation. You shoot to kill. Not to wound, or wing, or frighten. Do you understand?’’

  ‘‘Absolutely.’’

  ‘‘Do you? You can’t falter. You have to commit. Sometimes women . . .’’ He put up his hands. ‘‘Don’t take offense at what I’m going to say. My ex took a self-defense course, and this is the point the instructor drilled home to the gals in the class. Women can let compassion trip them up. They’ll hesitate, pulling back at the last second, not wanting to inflict the fatal blow.’’

  ‘‘That won’t be my problem.’’

  I held the pistol out. He steadied my arm. He radiated a blue-star intensity that went through me like a burn.

  ‘‘Marc, I . . .’’

  Eyes on me.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what I felt. I remembered Brian’s warning to cool things down.

  His eyes held mine. ‘‘What?’’

  I adjusted my grip on the pistol. ‘‘Anything else your ex gleaned from the class?’’

  He held quiet for one beat, then two. His hand slipped off my arm. ‘‘Beyond ten feet, most shooters won’t hit you. If you’re unarmed, your best option is escape.’’

  ‘‘I’m planning to be armed.’’

  ‘‘Then plan to get within ten feet of your target, so you’ll have a chance of hitting it.’’

  ‘‘Gotcha.’’

  He pointed at the paper target out on the range, and stepped back. ‘‘Take your shot.’’

  I aimed at the silhouette of a human form. Exhaled. Squeezed the trigger. Again, and again, and again. But it was just a target. No resolution. With anybody.

  27

  I don’t believe in luck. I believe in chance, but I think we make our own luck, good or bad. And I was about to live the luckiest day of my life.