Sound of Secrets

by Darlene Gardner

  "I’ll pick you up at your hotel at nine o’clock." He mentally discounted that he had an ulterior motive for agreeing, such as seeing her again. "Tell June I said she should give you a ride wherever you want to go."

  That said, he headed out the door, thinking about the puzzling things she’d said.

  He didn’t believe for a moment that somebody in Secret Sound had deliberately disconnected the rubber coupling to her steering column. Her car was at least four or five years old, the time when parts started to wear out and cause problems. It was far more likely that her accident had been because of mechanical failure than malice.

  In the unlikely event that somebody was trying to scare her into leaving town, though, his guess about who it was wouldn’t be Sam Peckenbush.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tyler Shaw stood bent at the waist, his hands on his lean hips while he made a show of catching his breath. Sweat glistened on his bare upper body, and a drop of it trickled from the hairline of his perspiration-darkened hair down his face before plopping onto the uneven, pitted pavement of the basketball court.

  A well-muscled boy of about fifteen with a dangling sword hanging from one of his pierced ears stood out of bounds under the rusted basket, preparing to inbound the ball. Tyler’s other teammate, who had shaved his chest hair into an inverted triangle, clapped his hands, indicating he wanted the ball.

  The opposing team members, which included Gray DeBerg, Danny Peckenbush and a teenager who looked mean enough to be featured on an FBI list of most wanted fugitives, were poised to defend the basket. That is, what they could see of it. Only the weak reflected shine of a nearby streetlight illuminated the court.

  "Whatsa matter, Tyler?" asked the boy guarding him, the one who looked like one of America's most wanted. "We wearing you out?"

  "Don’t let him fool you, Bubba," Gray cut in. "He spends his days hacking bushes and chopping down trees, for God’s sake. He’s trying to con you into believing he’s beat."

  Tyler put annoyance he didn’t feel into his voice but couldn’t hide his grin. "Jeez, Gray, do you have to tell the guys all my secrets?"

  "That’s what friends are for, old pal." Gray positioned himself on the shoulder of the boy with the chest-hair artwork.

  "Besides, what about you?" Tyler continued. "You just got through telling me how beat you are."

  "I did get up at the crack of dawn."

  "You got up at the crack of dawn to go fishing. Like I’m supposed to feel for you when I know for a fact that you hate fishing."

  "I like Curtis."

  "What you like as much as I do is trying to get an edge," Tyler said while Gray jostled for position with his teammate. A second too late, Tyler saw what he was about to do.

  "Watch out for the steal!" he yelled to his teammate with the ball. It was already too late. As soon as the boy passed the ball in bounds, Gray cut in front of the intended recipient. Grabbing the ball with one hand, he took off for the other end of the darkened court with the bull-headedness he brought to everything he did.

  With a burst of adrenaline, Tyler gave chase. He’d always been the faster of the two, but Gray had a substantial head start. They both saw that Gray could end the game with an easy lay-up. Tyler didn’t intend to make anything easy.

  Gray went up. So did Tyler, reaching over Gray’s back as he lifted the ball toward the basket. The ball hit the backboard and fell through the net a split second before Gray and Tyler hit the cracked pavement in a tangle of bodies. For a moment, they both sat there, stunned into silence while Gray’s teammates celebrated the win.

  "Jesus, Ty," Gray groaned while he sat up and dusted bits of gravel and dirt from his legs. "Couldn’t you wait until we build the new courts to do something like that? I think I landed in a crater."

  "It’s only a crack in the cement." Tyler rubbed the side of the hip that had crashed onto the court. "And I don’t see any blood."

  "Probably because you’re seeing double. I know I am." Gray shook his head. "We’re supposed to be setting a good example for these kids, not showing them how to foul. What were you thinking?"

  "I was thinking," Tyler said slowly, unable to stop his smile, "that I didn’t want you to score the winning basket."

  "For such an easygoing son of a gun, you never did like to lose."

  "Like it?" Tyler’s smile grew wider. "I hate it worse than being attacked by fire ants.”

  "Right about now, your arm looks like it’s crawling with ’em," Gray said wryly, indicating the angry red brush burn on Tyler’s left arm.

  Tyler gazed from his smarting arm to the peeved look on Gray’s face and started to chuckle. Gray’s lips twitched once, then twice. Laughter bubbled from deep inside him in a great guffaw that fed Tyler’s own guffaws like a gust of air to a flame.

  Tyler wiped the edge of his eyes, where tears of laughter had gathered. He gingerly got to his feet, testing to see if he’d broken any limbs. Satisfied that he was whole, he held a hand out to Gray.

  "Next time," he said, pulling Gray to his feet, "I’ll think twice about trying that if I don’t think I can stop you from scoring."

  "Next time—" Gray sputtered.

  “You two okay?” Bubba interrupted. He held the basketball, which he must have retrieved from the overgrown weeds at the edge of the court.

  "We’re standing, aren’t we?" Tyler patted Gray on the back. "Although my ego’s smarting from getting beat by you guys. And only by two."

  "Woulda been three," Bubba dead-panned. "You fouled him, Ty. He had a foul shot coming."

  "What makes you think he woulda made it?" Tyler ignored Gray’s snort of dissension. "How ’bout a rematch tomorrow?"

  "You’re on. Maybe I could rustle up a few more players." Bubba’s lips curved into the closest he came to a smile while he rhythmically bounced the basketball. It hit a particularly deep crack and careened toward the opposite end of the court. His near-smile faded. "When did you say those community center courts would be ready?"

  "They’re pouring the concrete tomorrow," Gray answered, "so we figure we can try ‘em out in three or four days."

  "And they’re gonna have lights, right?"

  "That’s the plan."

  "Cool," Bubba said. "See you guys tomorrow. Same time. Same place."

  "You joining us, Danny?" Gray asked the youngest of the boys, and Tyler looked at his friend sharply. He wouldn’t have singled out Danny Peckenbush without good reason.

  "Probably." Danny looked downward and shuffled his feet. He picked up the basketball, passed it to Gray on one bounce, and disappeared into the night with his three friends, bumping and talking as they went.

  "I sure hope they’re going home," Gray said.

  "At seven o’clock at night?” Tyler asked. “Get real, pal. You remember what it's like to be their age. The only thing you were thinkin’ about this early was what kind of hell you could raise."

  Gray frowned. "Let’s hope they take more after you than me. Especially Danny."

  "Why especially Danny?"

  "I arrested a couple of kids today over at Oakwood Estates for stealing CD players out of parked cars. They’re kids Danny hangs with."

  "You think he’s part of that? That he just didn’t happen to be along for the ride when you busted the kids?"

  "Yeah," Gray said after a moment. "That’s what I think."

  "You gonna talk to Sam about it?"

  "Don’t see it would do any good. Especially if I’m wrong. Danny’s a good kid, Ty. Most of them are. Once we get that clubhouse built, they won’t have to hang out on the streets looking for trouble."

  "Speaking of the clubhouse, you got any idea when we’ll see those donations your old man wrote about?"

  Gray’s brows drew together. Since Tyler was the better of the two at business, they’d decided he would handle the money end of the project. "You haven't gotten the money yet?"

  "Not a penny, and God knows we need it. We’ve got enough to cover the cost of the courts, but we’re ab
out twenty thousand short for the down payment on the clubhouse."

  "That much?"

  "Yeah." Tyler kicked at a stone. "I was planning to stop by the paper tomorrow and try to figure out who’s handling the donations. Unless you want to ask your old man about it first."

  "I’ll ask him and give you a call tonight," Gray said as they walked side by side to their parked cars. "But I don’t think the money goes through him. It’s probably sitting in an account waiting for us to ask for it."

  "Yeah," Tyler said again, hoping it would be that easy. "You get your business taken care of last night?"

  Gray blew out a breath and leaned against the side of his car. "My business is a little complicated at the moment. She’s five-foot-six and asks way too many questions."

  "Want to tell me about it?"

  Gray didn’t say anything for a minute, and Tyler knew enough not to pry. Gray never talked until he was good and ready.

  "Do you think," Gray asked slowly, "there’s ever a good enough reason to break a promise?"

  Tyler thought for a moment. "A man doesn’t have anything more valuable than his word, so I’d have to say no."

  "That’s what I thought."

  "Unless..." Tyler trailed off, the rest of the thought so nebulous he wasn't sure how to put it in words.

  "Unless what?" Gray prodded.

  "Unless somebody else, somebody innocent, is being hurt by what you promised to do. I guess that’d be a good enough reason."

  Gray grew silent.

  "Any particular reason for asking?" Tyler asked.

  "Not really," Gray answered.

  Tyler had known him long enough to realize he was being evasive. When something was bothering Gray, he was more likely to internalize it than chat about it. Tyler was his exact opposite. When something was on his mind, most everybody knew about it.

  "Karen showed up at the Dew Drop Inn last night." Tyler smiled, remembering. "I take it that was because you invited her."

  "I did it for your sake," Gray said quickly. "But if you want me to apologize, I will."

  "Apologize? For what?"

  Gray slanted Tyler a look. "She doesn’t much like you, did you know that?"

  "Sure she does." Tyler’s ever-present smile didn’t even fade. "She just doesn’t know it yet."

  "That’s a novel excuse for being rejected."

  "Who says I was rejected?"

  "Weren’t you?"

  Tyler shook his head. "Nah. I thought things went rather well, all things considered." He rubbed the side of his face that she’d walloped.

  "That’s funny," Gray said. "I heard a rumor she slapped you."

  "She did."

  "That doesn’t sound to me like it went rather well."

  "That’s ’cause you’re not looking at it the right way. If she was indifferent, now that would be a different story. Nothing’s worse than indifference."

  Gray looked doubtful. "Not even a slap across the face?"

  "A slap’s nothing but a sign that she’s ready to play. And I aim to win, pal." Tyler lowered his voice so that it was almost a whisper. "I aim to win."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sam Peckenbush’s service station appeared different in the soft light of morning, more like a place where cars pulled in for a fill up and mechanics rotated tires than the setting for a horror show featuring a boy who had been dead for thirty years.

  Cara slanted a look at Gray’s strong profile as he prepared to turn the car into the parking lot. He was freshly shaven and dressed in the same uniform he’d worn the first time she’d seen him. He looked not at all like the dangerous man who had made her tremble in his arms not even forty-eight hours ago, but like the sort of man you’d want coming to your rescue if a couple of bad guys cornered you in a dark alley.

  As long as Gray was around, Cara was confident that nothing bad would to happen to her. Gray simply wouldn’t let it. He might be suspicious of her, but he'd protect her. She wouldn’t have doubted that even if he didn’t have a gold badge on his khaki shirt.

  Cara chewed on her lower lip, unsure precisely why her emotions should be in a riot around him while the rest of her felt perfectly safe.

  She noticed Peckenbush’s midnight-colored pit bull moving sinuously among the junked cars beyond the chain-link fence and thought it amazing that she needed protection.

  Gray had asked the question the day before, and it bore repeating. Since it was common knowledge that Peckenbush’s car had been involved in the accident that killed Skippy Rhett, why did Cara’s questions constitute a threat to him?

  As before, Cara didn’t have an answer. Gray would say that was because her premise was faulty. He hadn’t made it a secret that he thought Peckenbush was a hard-working mechanic being falsely accused.

  "Remember you’re just along for the ride. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen," Gray said.

  She muttered something he could have taken for acquiescence. When he shut off the engine, she got out of the car before he could circle around to open the passenger door.

  She followed him toward the open double doors of the garage, noticing the loose-limbed, confident way he moved. Peckenbush was bent over the open hood of a late-model sedan. She straightened her shoulders, trying to learn from Gray’s example.

  "Morning, Sam," Gray called as they approached. "Sure is a beautiful one."

  "Morning, Gray.” Peckenbush straightened, the beginning of a smile on his thin lips before he spotted her and it disappeared. He wiped his hands on a towel hanging from his waist. A streak of grease marred his fleshy cheek. His clothes, too, were grease-stained. "What brings you out this way?"

  "Just a couple of questions about that faulty steering column on Miss Donnelly’s car, is all.” Gray’s voice was cordial, even friendly.

  "Car’s not even here anymore."

  "I still want to hear what you have to say about it."

  "Not much to say ’cept the towing bill’s not been paid." Peckenbush finally leveled an unfriendly stare at Cara before bringing his attention back to Gray. "I already told June over at your office the problem was the rubber coupling. It was so old that it deteriorated, and that’s why the wheel wouldn’t turn."

  "Miss Donnelly thinks," Gray said, and it seemed to Cara that he was weighing his words, "that the mechanic who tuned up her car before she left home would have caught something like that."

  "Depends on how good a mechanic he was.” Peckenbush’s ever-present toothpick bobbed, and he seemed to be grinding it between his teeth. His mean little eyes focused on Cara. "Didn’t catch your busted water pump, now did he?"

  "Miss Donnelly thinks—" Gray began.

  "I think," Cara interrupted, glaring at Peckenbush, "that you fixed it so my steering would fail just like I think you deliberately tried to scare me with your pit bull."

  Peckenbush crossed his thick arms over his barrel chest. “And why would I do those things?"

  "You don’t want to answer my questions, that’s why." Cara’s insides quivered even though her voice was steady. What was she doing, confronting this man and making him even angrier?

  The mechanic shook his head and then had the audacity to laugh. He looked at Gray, dismissing her. "She’s been askin’ me questions about an accident I’ve been tryin’ to forget for going on thirty years. I don’t have to answer them questions, do I now, chief?"

  "No, you don’t," Gray said.

  Cara finally dared a look at him. He was shaking his head, and his handsome face had displeasure stamped all over it. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to know it was directed at her.

  "Then you can see how damned foolish this whole thing is. Why would I mess with her steering? I don’t care what she does, as long as she doesn’t do it around me."

  "That’s not true," Cara protested. "After your dog almost attacked me, you said it was time I left Secret Sound."

  Peckenbush lifted one beefy hand and gave a dismissive wave. He turned and headed for his office in the ponderous, h
eavy-legged way he had of moving.

  "I thought I told you to keep quiet," Gray said through his teeth. His eyes were shaded by dark sunglasses, but she guessed he was glaring at her.

  "You did," she snapped. “You didn’t tell me you'd phrase your questions as though you don’t believe Sam did what I said he did."

  He took a step closer, backing her against the car Sam Peckenbush had been working on. He bracketed his hands on the sides of her body, penning her in. She lifted her chin, trying to convince herself the heat that flooded her was strictly anger.

  Gray lowered his voice. If anything, it sounded more menacing. "For your information, Miss High and Mighty, it’s an investigative technique not to put the person you’re interviewing on the defensive."

  He was so close she could feel his breath on her face. It smelled not of coffee, but of oranges, as though he’d downed a glass of juice at breakfast. He’d obviously shaved upon awakening, and his skin looked so smooth she wanted to touch it. That made her even angrier.

  "That’s not the point. The point is you don’t believe me." Cara didn’t have to wait for his answer, because she already knew what it was. She also knew it was the reason she had to resist this crazy, dangerous attraction. "You think I’m some paranoid nut case who screams at the air and thinks everybody’s out to get me."

  "You said it, lady," Gray said, a drawl in his voice. "Not me."

  Her hand itched to slap his face. Reason got the better of her. She stared pointedly down at the prison he'd made with his arms. “Let me past.”

  He let his arms drop, and she immediately shouldered past him. She moved across the paved lot to where his car was parked, trying to sustain her anger.

  But her eyes fell on the stretch of road in front of the service station, with its gray pavement and unremarkable landscaping where all this had started.

  Nothing was there.

  "Damn it all to hell." Gray gritted his teeth, angry at both of them.

  Had she slapped him, he wouldn't have defended himself. He had it coming for letting her believe he thought the worst of her.