Red Queen's Run

by Morris, Bourne

  “I haven’t been with anyone else,” he said.

  “Joe, I am so...” I started to move toward him but he held up his hand.

  “Let me see the note.”

  I stopped, got up, and went to the hall table and picked up the note by one corner. He pulled a clear envelope from his jacket pocket. I handed the note to him and watched him read and then carefully slip the note into the envelope.

  “We’ll check it for prints.” He resumed petting Charlie.

  “Joe, I...”

  “I know, Red. I listened to all the messages and I read your letter about Max and I understand you know you were wrong about him. And I know I was wrong about you with him. That was a stupid thing for me to say.”

  I sat still and quiet.

  Joe breathed deeply and went on. “I need time to think this through, Red. I need to be able to trust you, and to trust us together. I can’t worry about you having feelings for other guys.”

  “I don’t have feelings for other guys.”

  Joe still looked troubled. “I share a lot of stuff with you. Stuff about myself and my work, and I need to be able to do that without wondering where your loyalties are. I don’t want to be one of those cops who keeps it all inside and never talks about how he feels or what he did on the job.”

  I knelt down in front of him and put my arms around his neck. His mouth found mine, but the kiss was light, his lips closed, and it ended when Charlie pushed his head in between us.

  Joe smiled at Charlie but not at me. “Okay, Red. I’m going to take this note down to the station.”

  He got up and went for his jacket.

  “Aren’t you going to stay tonight?”

  Joe was silent. He put on his coat and took forever putting his fingers into his gloves. He looked at me. “I need to get back to work.”

  “I see.” But I didn’t.

  “If anything happens tonight that scares you, call my cell. Otherwise, I’ll call when we’ve checked this note for prints.”

  Out the door, into the snow now thick and wild around the front step. Then he was gone into the darkness.

  I woke up late on Saturday. Snow covered the ground and the sky was pewter. More snow was due. My kitchen felt empty even though it was my favorite room in the house. Empty without Joe. Empty without croissants and jam and his arms around me. Even Charlie looked despondent. I made some coffee and then moved to the living room alcove to settle in front of my computer. Stacked on my desk were the personnel files for the entire faculty. Today I would have to re-read all the evaluations I planned to give next week. Nell had typed my notes and inserted them in each folder.

  The phone rang. Joe’s voice. “Sorry, Red, we could not get any definitive prints off the note that was left in your mailbox either. Apparently the writer wears gloves when he wants to threaten you.”

  “I see,” I said, my heart in my shoes. “Is it possible to see you?”

  Long pause.

  “Maybe for a drink later tonight. Gormley’s.”

  “Thank you.” I hung up. Bad news. I felt sure the note was from Simon. I could picture Simon’s cold bony hands in rubber gloves writing the note. I could see his wrinkled angry face, full of hate. I should feel sorry for Simon, but I was too frightened of what he might do, might already have done. But maybe it was from George. Big, beefy George so willing to try to dominate and intimidate. Did you kill Henry, George? Do you plan to hurt me?

  That night Joe met me at Gormley’s.

  “You look good,” said Joe, swirling the bourbon in his glass. If only he could believe in me again.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” I said.

  “How’s Charlie?”

  “He misses you.”

  “You haven’t mentioned your dad lately. How’s he doing?”

  “About the same as before. I rarely call now.”

  He sat back in his chair, stretching his long legs under the table at an angle to mine but not touching them. He looked inviting and sexy but I didn’t dare move my leg to his.

  “Tell me about your father. Did you love him?” Maybe if I could get him back to the subject of his own family, he would get comfortable with me again.

  Joe looked away and pursed his lips. “I loved my dad. Maybe not as much as you love yours, but I loved him. So did my mother for all the good it did her. Sometimes I think her love for him is what ultimately killed her.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “She pined for him. He was unaware for the most part, but he was always leaving us to go off on hunting trips, poker nights, baseball games, football games. Sometimes he took me to a game, but Mom and Elaine were left at home. My mother spent years trying to figure out what she had to say or do that would make him pay more attention, make him love her more.”

  Joe shifted in his chair and looked at the duck prints above the bar. He spoke to the wall. “Mom even had a brief affair to try to make him jealous. But it didn’t make him jealous. It just gave him another excuse to go out with the guys and keep his distance from her.”

  “Joe, you told me he was devastated after her death, that he lay on the kitchen floor all night.”

  Joe turned his gaze back to me. I could see the pain. “That’s right. The night she died he realized what he had lost. For nights afterward I could hear him sobbing in his room—deep, heavy sobs I never thought possible from my father.”

  “Are you like him at all?” Please Joe, don’t be.

  Joe looked down at his hands. “I don’t want to be,” he said, and then looked back up at me. “I don’t want to be like her, either.”

  That stung.

  I wanted to touch his face and kiss his eyelids but I sat there, respecting the distance he had requested, watching his rugged face and the lines around his desirable mouth.

  “If it’s any comfort, I don’t think you are like either of the parents you describe. You’re a good friend and a great lover. I’m just sorry I messed up what I know was a terrific relationship.”

  He took a deep breath. “You’re very brave, Red. And very independent. You’ve been through more hell than anyone I know and you’re still standing, still fighting.”

  Somehow, perhaps to justify the compliment, I began telling him about my childhood, my mother and my own problems with drinking in college. It was so easy to talk to Joe and so hard not to touch him. He listened quietly, his eyes fixed on me. His green eyes softened when I described my mother’s death.

  “I think you may have had it rougher than I did,” he said.

  “I think I grew up skittish about serious relationships. My past has made it hard for me to commit to anyone or anything but work. I tend to push people away, especially important people. I test people to make sure they really care. I tested you, Joe. And I didn’t have to. It was insane to let you believe for a single minute I’d ever had an affair with Max.”

  “Red, I was an idiot about that. I couldn’t stand seeing you all upset and letting that son of a bitch get away with what he had done to one of your students. I couldn’t bear your compassion for him.”

  “Maybe I was the idiot.”

  Joe shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Face it. You were unquestionably wrong to let Max get away with having sex with Celeste. Even if he was your friend before, he’s not worthy of your friendship now. And when this investigation ends and we know who murdered Henry, I trust you are going to do the right thing about his behavior and his plagiarism.”

  “When we know who murdered Henry,” I murmured as Joe stood and put on his jacket.

  “When we know.”

  Clearly, I was not forgiven.

  I stared up at him, waiting for more. But there was no more and we went to our separate cars.

  Chapter 27

  I carried the stack of faculty evaluation folders into my office. Nell followed with
a cup of coffee.

  “I think I’ll start the evaluation meetings with the easy ones,” I said. “I’m going to keep some of the more difficult for later next week.”

  Nell obediently pulled George’s and Edwin’s folders out of the pile and put them on the bottom. “You don’t really have to meet with any of them just yet,” she said. “Everyone knows you had a horrible time dealing with Simon’s treachery.”

  “I need to work, Nell, but thank you.”

  After Nell had left for her office, I pulled out a new folder Nell had made for Max and put it on the bottom underneath the evaluation folders for George and Edwin. I dreaded the thought of having to confront Max even more than I dreaded Edwin’s smugness and a nasty conversation with George.

  The afternoon went quickly. Larry Coleman and Ardith Trent were easy on me. Ardith, overcome with emotions that made her pink and girlish, was grateful for a good evaluation and sympathetic for my distress. Then came Phyllis Baker, who read through my evaluation and then got up and hugged me. “Thanks Red,” she said into my hair. “Now go home and take care of yourself. The rest of these can wait.”

  The drive home was slow and cold, the streets icy beneath my tires. I pulled up to my mailbox and collected the small pile. One envelope caught my eye. No stamp, just “Red” on the front. Oh dear. But, when I opened the letter inside, the handwriting looked like Joe’s and it was.

  Dear Red,

  I was so sorry to leave you at Gormley’s. I wanted to take you home. But I couldn’t because I am still much too vulnerable to you and I still have work to do to protect you. I hope you understand. I am determined to unweave some of this tangled web created by Henry’s death and the notes you received.

  You must realize you are now a target, probably have been for some time. Max Worthington has become a person of interest and may be a suspect along with George Weinstein, Edwin Cartwell, and Simon Gorshak. They are all bastards in my book, but I don’t have an ounce of real proof against any one of them and, without proof, I can’t keep them away from you. So I have to be sharp. And I have to be objective. And I have to work night and day to solve this thing.

  So, please be patient with me. I am not seeing anyone else. I am working my ass off.

  Joe

  I hugged the letter. I hugged Charlie and then hugged the letter again. I wanted to call him. But then I re-read, “please be patient with me.” I took off my coat and sat down at my desk to write him back. Dear, dear Joe. How I miss you. How I miss your understanding, your jokes, your spaghetti sauce, and the sight of your stunning bare back and shoulders in my bed.

  Charlie pressed his nose against my arm. He wanted attention and supper and here I was mentally composing a response to Joe I knew I couldn’t send. I had to wait. I had to feed my dog and be patient.

  More important I had to keep my wits about me. Joe was right. Both George and Simon had openly threatened me.

  I woke up the next morning and felt warm, unusually warm. I rolled over and found a golden dog’s face on the pillow next to mine. Then the mouth opened and licked my cheek.

  “Charlie, Charlie. You’re not allowed in bed,” I said, patting the dog’s silky neck. Then I remembered the night before I had crawled into bed and invited Charlie to jump up and keep me company.

  I had fallen asleep with my arms around Charlie, needing his warmth. Joe’s letter was on the pillow above Charlie’s head. I read it again. And again while I drank my coffee. And again just before I left for work, looking for clues he was more than a dutiful detective protecting a threatened source.

  I spent the day in meetings with my faculty but I felt a renewed optimism. Someday, without all this business with Henry’s murder and the threatening notes to me, someday when this was all over, maybe Joe and I could start over.

  My reverie was interrupted. George Weinstein stood in my doorway. I had finished my last meeting of the day and was thinking about leaving early.

  George’s eyes were dark and unfriendly. “You and I have an evaluation meeting next week.” His voice was flat; his big body leaned against the doorframe. I couldn’t leave. He was blocking the door.

  “Yes, George. We do. Nell will let you know the time.”

  “She’d better,” he said, filling the doorway. “And you should know I expect you to recommend a significant merit increase for me this year. I trust you will not try to use our disagreements as an excuse to do otherwise.”

  Bile in my throat. I put on my coat and grabbed my briefcase. As I approached the door, he glared and did not move. “I have to leave now, George. I’ll see you next week.”

  His jaw jutted out and he worked it back and forth. “I believe I have done a great deal for the school this year, Red. Saving you from the mess Simon made and voting for Coleman’s tenure, just to name a couple of matters that should be acknowledged and rewarded.”

  I moved until I was a foot away from his beefy glaring face. I glared back.

  “Let me pass,” I said. I was furious. Good thing I wasn’t evaluating him until next week. I wanted to challenge him, put him down. Be patient, Red. Joe’s voice in my head.

  George moved aside.

  It was still daylight when I pulled into my driveway. I was unlocking the kitchen door when I heard a noise. It was Joe in his four-wheel monster Jeep instead of a police car. “Get the dog and pack your blue jeans. I’m getting you out of town. We’re going to Graeagle.” Joe had once promised we would go to his parents’ log cabin in the mountains northeast of Reno in Graeagle, California.

  I could hardly contain my excitement as I obeyed instructions and, fifteen minutes later, I was packed and we were on our way with Charlie in the back seat.

  “Am I in danger?”

  “Of course you are, but for the next two days only in danger from me.”

  “Oh. I’m a little surprised given your requests for me to be patient and wait until the investigation is over.”

  “I’m sick of patience. We both need to get out of Landry. My captain asked me to turn over my notes and let someone else work on the case for a while. He suspects I may not be seeing clearly.”

  “Does he know about us?”

  “He knows I have been spending a lot of time with you.”

  “Are you upset he took you off the case?”

  “Not really. It means I can now protect you by being with you. Hope you don’t mind.” A small smile flicked across his mouth.

  “I don’t.”

  The drive to Graeagle from Landry takes about an hour and a half during the day when you can see the narrow roads clearly.

  As night approached, I expected it might take longer, especially if there was snow in the mountains. Once past Reno and the outlying suburbs and industrial areas, the road was dark. Few houses, no lights.

  “Ranch country,” said Joe. These were the first words either of us had spoken in miles. I had a thousand questions but I was too tense and too excited to talk and terrified of breaking the mood of anticipation. I felt happy for the first time in weeks, glad to be with Joe and my dog in a big, warm car on a dark night driving away from troubles.

  The cabin was large and comfortable with a huge stone fireplace and a generous kitchen. Walls of wood with family photographs surrounded me. A large bedroom was off to one side. I spotted a king size bed with an old quilt and a large fur blanket at the bottom of the bed. Joe put my weekend bag by the door of the bedroom.

  I opened some wine I had stashed in my bag.

  Joe lit a fire, opened up an ancient turntable, and put on an old record of Anita O’Day singing ballads from the forties.

  I huddled on the hearth enjoying the warmth of the fire and letting the wine take effect. O’Day’s throaty, rich voice filled the room.

  Spring will be a little late this year,

  A little late arriving in my lonely world over here

 
For you have left me...

  Joe lifted the needle off the record. “That’s probably not the right song for now.”

  I lifted my head from my knees. “No, Joe. That’s exactly the right song for now. Let it play.”

  Yes, time heals all things, so I needn’t cling to this fear

  It’s merely that Spring will be a little late this year.

  Joe sat in a large worn leather chair in front of the fireplace. His rugged features were softened in the firelight. “We haven’t left each other,” he said.

  “I hated it when you stayed away so long.”

  He rubbed his chin. “I came to your house three times and stood outside and watched through your window and then got back in the car and went back to my place.”

  “Why didn’t you come in?”

  “This is hard for me to say. But, as I wrote when I’m around you, I feel vulnerable.”

  I watched him for a moment.

  He still looked away from me and into the fire. “I suppose vulnerability is not a good thing for a tough homicide detective,” I said.

  A smile, yet he still looked at the fire.

  “But you brought me here anyway?”

  He nodded. “You’re safe here.”

  “Have you forgiven me?”

  “For?”

  “Letting Max off the hook, at least for now.”

  “I’ve decided you’re smart enough—and decent enough—to take care of that problem when the time comes.”

  Change the subject, I said to myself. Now. “I loved the letter you left in my mailbox. It was stirring.”

  A smile, but he did not move toward me.

  “I started to write you a response but then remembered you’d asked for patience and what I was thinking of writing would not have sounded patient.”

  At that he looked at me. “What would you have written?”

  I still sat on the hearth with my knees under my chin, soaking in the warmth of the fireplace and dizzy with expectation. “I would have written about your kindness and your green eyes and funny jokes...and your body.”