by Jane Graves
He slumped with disappointment. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never understand women. What in the hell did they want, anyway? He knew for a fact that being himself didn’t work, but he wasn’t completely sure just who else he was supposed to be.
And now he was going to have to talk to Tony and Roy Jr. and try to get them to cut out the vandalism. Unfortunately, they were exactly like the guys he’d known in high school, the ones who’d called him a wimp and a weenie and snapped towels at his ass in the locker room.
High school. Four years of his life he’d just as soon forget. He’d been a walking, talking cliché—a hundred-pound weakling who’d had far more brains than brawn. And he’d have gladly traded all of those brains for a body that girls couldn’t wait to get their hands on, retaining only enough gray matter to enable him to run a post pattern on the football field or hit a baseball out of the park. He would cheerfully have lived in blissful oblivion, never knowing anything but glory on the sporting field and even more glory between the sheets.
After high school, things hadn’t gotten a whole lot better. He knew the only reason he’d gotten this job was that Sheriff Dangerfield had a thing for Stanley’s aunt Thelma, which meant that most of the citizens of Tinsdale didn’t have a whole lot of faith in him, which meant his dream of becoming sheriff when Dangerfield retired in a few years was pretty much impossible.
He dragged himself through the rest of his rounds, finding the town pretty quiet because nobody wanted to venture out in the hundred-and-three-degree heat. He came back into the sheriff’s office, flipped on the portable TV sitting on the credenza, then collapsed in a chair behind his desk to look over some citizen complaints. A lawnmower theft. A noisy dog. An abandoned car.
Damn. Did anything interesting ever happen in this town?
Then he heard familiar music coming from the TV. He checked his watch. Yep. Time for Gunsmoke.
Stanley would never have admitted it to anyone, but in his favorite daydream, he was one of those guys in old westerns who rode into a lawless town and cleaned it up, making it a place where decent people could live. He was a man the young widows in town came to for protection against gun-fighters and Indians and other assorted bad guys, then threw themselves at him in gratitude for his strength and fearlessness and deadeye marksmanship. And most of the time he imagined one of those women was Glenda.
Still reeling from his failure with her, he needed a little pick-me-up. Something to let him know he was making progress somewhere in his life. Some indication that he wasn’t the great big screwup everybody in this town seemed to think he was.
Just him and Matt Dillon. One on one. He’d always had the feeling that if he could ever outdraw TV’s most famous marshal, his life just might take a turn for the better.
He looked at the television. It was time.
Stanley stood up, teasing his fingertips over the handle of his revolver, waiting for Matt to go for his gun. The instant he did, Stanley whipped his weapon out of its holster. Matt pulled the trigger.
So did Stanley.
In a reflex action, his finger clenched the trigger and a shot exploded. A bullet flew dead center into the television screen, obliterating Matt, Matt’s weapon, and every storefront, hitching post, horse, and pedestrian on Main Street in Dodge City. Television parts sprayed all over the room, sounding like a bomb going off, slinging shards of glass against the walls and pinging to the floor.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Stanley whipped around. Sheriff Dangerfield. And boy, did he look pissed.
Dangerfield, a big man with a lazy walk and a rapidly receding hairline, slammed the door of the sheriff’s office and walked over to what used to be an intact television, giving it a deadpan look of utter disbelief.
“Boy? You mind telling me why you shot the television?”
“I-I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”
“Shit. It was Gunsmoke again, wasn’t it? Didn’t I tell you to cut that out?”
Stanley swallowed hard. “I kinda pulled the trigger by mistake.”
Dangerfield buried his head in his hands in utter frustration, and Stanley wanted to shrink down to mouse size and disappear into a hole. Forever.
“I ought to fire your ass,” Dangerfield said. “And if you weren’t Thelma’s nephew, I would.”
“It won’t happen again, Sheriff. I promise.”
“Boy, when are you ever gonna learn? I mean, it’s not that hard a job, is it? This is Tinsdale, Texas, not one of those hellholes like Los Angeles or Chicago. Just quit trying to act like Bruce Willis and Clint Eastwood and all that other shit and just do the job, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, I’m leaving in a couple of hours for Wichita Falls. I’ll be there for three days. And during that time, I don’t want that gun of yours to leave that holster. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I come back and see a window blown out or a hole in the side of the building, not even Thelma’s wheedling will save you. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That set cost three hundred dollars. It’s coming out of your paycheck.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going over to the diner to have a little lunch, and then check out the setup for the celebration tonight. Then I’ll be getting on the road. You’ll be the only law enforcement there tonight. Think you can handle that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get this mess cleaned up, and then I want you out on patrol, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The humiliation Stanley felt at that moment was probably one of the worst of his life, and he had a lot to compare it to.
As the sheriff walked out the door, Stanley picked up some of the bigger pieces of the decimated television, piling them together, then headed to the back room for a broom. On the way, he passed the bathroom and caught his own reflection in the mirror.
Even though he was twenty-seven years old, he still looked like a kid. He’d tried growing facial hair, wishing he could have one of those sexy five-o’clock shadows women seemed to love, but all he’d gotten were a few scraggly hairs and people laughing behind his back at the pitiful attempt.
Maybe someday he’d leave here. Maybe he’d try to become one of those cops he admired so much. But first he wanted to be sheriff of Tinsdale, Texas.
He grabbed the broom, sighing with resignation. Unless he woke up tomorrow morning six inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, with the ability to kick a major amount of ass and shoot only those things that required shooting, that was never going to happen.
chapter twelve
Val decided there was nothing worse than riding in a van for three hours on a state highway that felt as if it hadn’t been resurfaced in fifty years. It ran dead center through the middle of nowhere right into the afternoon sun, which was so strong that even her sunglasses and the sun visor did little to counter it.
They’d stopped at a Wal-Mart in a small town about two hours outside Tolosa. Alex told her to go inside and buy a couple of changes of clothes and any toiletries she wanted, while he did the same. They checked out at different registers so nobody would put the two of them together. Val was glad for the stop—she had no idea how long they’d be gone, and wearing the same clothes for days on end and not even being able to brush her teeth held very little appeal for her.
“It’s going to take us forever on these back roads,” Val said to Alex. “Are you sure we can’t chance the freeway?”
“We’ve already been through this twice.”
Val sighed. “Okay. So what are we going to do when we hit San Antonio?”
“Highway Twenty-one intersects Highway Forty-six, north of town. We’ll swing around the city, then head up through Kerrville and then west from there.”
She looked at the map, at the route he had outlined. By the time they got where they were going, her insides would be mush.
Then Alex’s cell phone rang. H
e picked it up off the seat and looked at the caller ID.
“Dave.”
He laid the phone back down.
“Guess you don’t want to talk to him, huh?”
“No. The less he knows about what I’m doing, the better. I don’t expect it’ll be the last time he calls, though. Just don’t answer it.”
Alex leaned back against the armrest of the driver’s door, one wrist draped over the steering wheel. Even though he wore sunglasses, she still could see his watchful, tense expression, full of controlled intensity. He was a cop, through and through. To a certain extent, all cops were immersed in their jobs, and she could spot one in a crowded room in a heartbeat. Their stances. The looks on their faces. The way they watched their surroundings as if they expected all hell to break loose at any moment. But with Alex, it was more than that. She knew this murder accusation had shaken him to his very core, a core that would be true blue until the day he died. If he ended up in prison, if he had that taken away from him, what kind of man would he emerge as years later?
She didn’t even want to think about it.
Alex glanced down at the dashboard. “We’re getting low on gas. I need to stop.”
To Val’s surprise, a few miles later he bypassed a fairly decent-looking truck stop with a restaurant attached and turned into a beat-up gas station/convenience store that was so outdated that it wasn’t even equipped to allow a customer to pay at the pump.
“Alex.”
He killed the engine. “What?”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
“So go.”
She looked back over her shoulder. “They might actually have a clean one back at that other station.”
“That other station is crawling with people. We can manage just fine here.”
“You mean you can manage just fine. I’m the one who has to sit down to pee.” She sighed. “Imagine that. My first case of penis envy.”
He gave her a warning look. “Just keep a low profile. Keep your sunglasses on, and don’t talk to anyone.”
Val got the key to the bathroom from the attendant, a room that turned out to be one of the more disgusting ones she’d ever encountered. The mirror was grimy, the walls were filled with graffiti, and it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in … well, ever.
A minute later as she was finishing up her business, she saw something out of the corner of her eye, skittering across the floor.
A roach. Yuck.
And it wasn’t just any roach. It was a Texas-size roach, huge and black and ugly as hell, and she had no doubt it had brothers who were hiding in the woodwork, ready to join the battle.
She stomped her foot to try to get it to go the other way, but that only confused it, and it turned and came right for her. She heaved a roll of toilet paper at it, missed, then picked up another roll and managed to cripple the creature just long enough to make her escape. Once she was outside, she realized she’d left the key in the bathroom.
Too bad.
Alex was already back in the car. She yanked the door open and got in.
“Don’t you ever stop at such a god-awful place again,” she said, slamming the door.
“What’s wrong?”
“I thought they grew roaches big only in east Texas.” She shuddered. “I just saw one the size of a Shetland pony.”
Alex shook his head. “What is it with women and bugs, anyway? Just stomp the damned thing and move on.”
“Stomping it would only have made it mad. Shooting it. Now, that might have stopped it.”
“Good, Val. Nobody would pay any attention to us here if you pulled out a gun and shot an insect.”
He started the van. “I got some food. We may get into a situation where we can’t risk going someplace public. At least we’ll be able to eat.”
Val looked into the sack behind the seat. Crackers, granola bars, potato chips, cookies, snack cakes. In another sack were two dozen bottles of water.
“Not exactly health food,” Alex said, swinging the van back onto the highway. “The selection was a little limited.”
“Works for me,” Val said, extracting a package of Ding Dongs. “Want anything?”
“I’ll wait awhile to clog my arteries, thank you.”
“Oh!” she said. “I almost forgot.”
She set the Ding Dongs on the dashboard, reached behind her seat, and hauled out the small backpack she’d taken into the Reichert house with her. Zipping it open, she pulled out a notebook computer.
“What’s that?” Alex asked.
“Shannon’s computer.”
“What?”
“Or at least I think it’s Shannon’s. I found it in her underwear drawer.”
“Are you telling me there was a notebook computer in that room and Henderson didn’t take it as evidence?”
“That’s right,” Val said. “I didn’t know if it would tell us anything, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to grab it.”
“Val—”
“No!” She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare yell at me for stealing! Don’t you do it! This could tell us a lot, and I wasn’t about to leave it behind!”
“Val,” he said gently. “I was just going to tell you to check the charge. See how much juice it’s got left. I’m way past worrying about a little petty theft.”
“Oh,” she said a little sheepishly. “Sorry. Conditioned response.” She turned it on and found the little battery icon. “Looks like it’s almost fully charged.”
“What else do you see?”
Val ran her finger over the touch pad, then clicked on “My Documents.” “Not much, really. Hmm. Beef Stroganoff?” She opened the file. “A recipe. I guess Shannon liked to cook someplace else besides the bedroom.”
She looked down the rest of the file names. Chicken Cordon Bleu. Teriyaki beef. Peanut butter cookies. Thai salad. Lemon squares. She clicked a few open. Definitely recipes.
“It looks as if that’s all she used this for. To catalog recipes. She’s got some drink recipes, too.”
Val read down the list. Velvet Hammer. Fuzzy Navel. Zombie. Alabama Slammer. Screaming Orgasm.
Screaming Orgasm?
She smiled furtively. “Alex? Have you ever had a Screaming Orgasm?”
He glanced at her, then turned his eyes back to the road. “Sure I have. Just not the kind you drink.”
Val blinked. “Did you just make a joke?”
“Does that surprise you?”
Actually, it flabbergasted her. “Of course not. You’re one of the funniest people I know.”
“And you’re one of the most sarcastic people I know.”
“Wonder what’s in a Screaming Orgasm,” Val said. She clicked. The document popped up on the screen, and her heart skipped. It wasn’t a recipe. It was a letter. She scanned it, and excitement raced through her.
“Alex. I think we hit the jackpot.”
“What?”
“It’s a love letter. And I don’t think it’s intended for Reichert.”
“Who is it addressed to?”
“It’s not.”
“Read it.”
“ ‘I’ve missed you so much, my darling. I know we can’t be together now, but I’m counting the days until we can.’ What do you suppose that means?”
“I don’t know.”
She continued reading. “ ‘J is still as unreasonable as ever, and I don’t know how much longer I can go on. The days seem to drag by.’ ”
“I assume J is Jack Reichert?”
“Probably. ‘The only thing that keeps me sane is my memory of the last time we were together. I remember how I—’ ” Val stopped short.
“How she what?” Alex asked.
“She’s reminding him what she used to do to him. It’s lewd, graphic, and vulgar.” Val scanned the paragraph, wondering how the computer had kept from bursting into flames as Shannon wrote. “Interesting. Shall I read it out loud?”
“Does it clearly indicate that they were having an affair?�
�
“It clearly indicates that they were having wild, animalistic sex. Does that count?”
“Just tell me what else it says.”
“ ‘I’m so glad you’ll be free soon and we’ll be together. J is giving me a hard time about the divorce, but only because of the money.’ ”
“Shannon had filed for divorce?” Alex asked.
“I don’t think so. I always check those things out before I take a case, because sometimes clients don’t tell the whole story, and I like to know what I’m getting into. She may have asked him for a divorce, but no papers had been filed yet.”
“Is there more?”
Val read on. “ ‘He doesn’t love me, but I know you do, and that’s what keeps me going. Stay safe, and always remember that I love you, too, and I’ll see you soon.’ ”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she sign it?” Alex asked.
“No.”
“ ‘I can’t wait until you’re free.’ Sounds as if her boyfriend was getting a divorce, too. Apparently he decided that it was too risky to see her again until it was final. What date was that file created?”
“April twenty-second.”
“Four months ago. Wonder what’s happened since? Are there any more letters?”
Val clicked on “White Russian.” It was a recipe for a White Russian. She scanned the other drink names. Whiskey Sour … Singapore Sling … Tom Collins … Sex on the Beach …
“Aha,” she said. “Sex on the Beach. I’ll just bet …” She clicked. “Yep. Here’s another letter.”
“Any indication who this one’s to?”
“No.” She read through it quickly. “It says pretty much what the other one did: ‘I can’t wait until you’re free’ … graphic sexual description … ‘love you, love you, love you’ … no signature.”
“Any other suspicious drink names?”
Val found two more letters under “French Tickler” and “Between the Sheets.” The last one actually mentioned a date.
“ ‘I’m counting the hours until August second,’ ” Val read, “ ‘when we’ll be together again.’ ”
