Flying in Shadows (The Black Creek Series, Book 2)

by R. T. Wolfe

  He grabbed her wrists. "Me."

  "Mmm." Her labored breathing was in direct contrast to the patient lift of her arms, inviting him to finish with her clothes. He followed her lead, trailing his tongue painfully slow as he went all the way to her feet. He traveled back up her legs, sending her over an unexpected and brutal crest. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

  She pulled him up, and with shaky hands she could hardly control, groped off his shirt. The feel of his body ripped a rush of memories through her. Nails scratched as she rotated, carelessly dragging off clothing, grasping to feel every part of him along the way. Trying to take him where he could take her. Everything around them was a cloudy blur, with tight circles of sensation wrapping them together. She felt her latch release and she spilled out into his hands. The only thing for them now was flesh, hot and moist.

  "Now," she repeated breathy. "I need you now."

  His demanding lips kissed her as rough hands trailed down her neck, teasing circles around her before moving his hands down and whispering, "More."

  Her short nails held onto muscled flesh, this time at his back as she lifted to him and cried out. Desperate, she struggled through the aftershocks to roll over and straddle him. Taking his hands and linking fingers, she held on and lifted, taking him. Holding there, joined, she closed her eyes with drunkenness before she let her head fall back.

  Lifting, they began to move. She watched his eyes turn opaque with need as they sped, the desperation of wanting to push that last bit closer, uniting. They didn't blink as they held their gaze moving together. She saw his eyes turn from opaque to intense.

  Andy drove, all control lost at the feel of her, blowing them both away with a power that shook. As she collapsed over him, he shuttered with a need for her that he hadn't quite satisfied. He gently rolled over, then lifted her breathlessly. With weak arms, he picked her up and carried her to the single bed that doubled as a couch. As she lay dizzy on her back, he took her hands, lifting them over her head and wrapped her fingers along the small headboard. "You should hold on," and took her. Cheek to cheek, he felt tears drip down her face until they both went over again.

  Rose lay there with arms overhead, seemingly frozen in time. "Amazing," she breathed, lifeless.

  He laid his head on her chest, opening one eye to see her. "I hope I didn't set a standard. A little pent up, you could say." Resting his cheek between her breasts, Andy sighed. "I'm lost in love with you."

  Chapter 21

  Andy remained still as beams of morning light lined the air in the cabin of the boat. He would never let go again. She was his now.

  With their legs twined, Rose lay sleeping, using his shoulder as a pillow in the chilly morning. He watched the rise and fall of her back as it moved with the slight sway of the boat. Closing his eyes, he rested his chin on the top of her head. How did this happen?

  He was able to tell the moment she woke from the change in her breathing. Brushing the bits of hair from her face, he tucked the short pieces behind her ear. With her neck now exposed, he set his lips on the side of her neck and whispered, "Good morning," then rolled to his side, propping himself on his elbow.

  "Mmm." Her eyes lit when she opened and saw him. "Good morning."

  He heard her breath catch, just a little, as he crawled over her and walked naked to the small fridge, taking out two bottles of water.

  Sitting up, Rose blurted out, "Jeez, I left Grace, Gracie, Grace. I left both of them."

  Kissing her forehead, he sat back next to her. "I left the carpenter. They'll live. Today's the Fourth." He twisted the cap off the first bottle and handed it to her.

  Rose sighed. "Your folks' party, yes. We should start with food, though. I'm thinking I'm famished." Looking down at her naked body, then next to the floor at her torn shirt, she added, "And I need a shirt."

  He let his gaze travel to her breasts. "That would be a shame." He grinned. "I don't remember these."

  "I was one of the few that benefitted from the freshman fifteen."

  He got up and sauntered to another compartment. He had a small stash of clothes and an extra toothbrush for reasons he wasn't about to confess.

  "Thanks." She wrapped their blanket around her and headed to the tiny bathroom with things in hand.

  He dressed and waited on the couch with his legs propped on the secured coffee table. Surreal. She didn't seem to take any more time getting ready than she ever had and came out quickly still looking loose and lazy.

  "I know an incredible little dive that I remember has the best French toast this side of the great lakes," he said.

  She adjusted an earring and smiled. "I'm hungry. Let's do it. Then, we should pick up Charcoal before heading to your folks'. He'll be so glad to see you."

  They found the place just before starvation hit. Debating, he argued they hadn't replaced the tables or chairs, while Rose thought they'd rearranged the layout.

  Eating dripping French toast, he noticed her watch the owners working behind the long counter. Although elderly and slow, they had a rhythm and seemed to work as a unit, a team. No one but Andy would have noticed the slight change in her expression.

  "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing." Her eyes softened as she looked at him. "Nothing at all, actually."

  "I've got to put in a few hours at work today and I'd like to get to Gracie's pad. That's what Delores and I like to call it."

  Rose lifted her eyebrows as she dipped a bite in syrup. "Delores?"

  "Mmm, yes. She'll be brokenhearted that I'm two-timing her now. Except, she has had her eye on a man in her Silver Sneakers class."

  Rose took her coffee in both hands and propped her elbows on the table, sipping as she listened.

  "...worked for me going on three years now. She's a gift. A good-luck charm and is one of the prettiest ladies I know." He picked up his mug and drank. "As I was saying, I'd hoped to finish Gracie's pad soon." He smiled wide. "But I was pulled off the job yesterday."

  * * *

  In Rose's pickup, they rounded the corner onto the cul-de-sac.

  "Look, the neighbor's flowerbeds are in full bloom. My mother takes care of these over here...blue hydrangeas, yellow day lilies, creeping petunias. This is one of the prettiest times of the year," she said. "Sometimes I miss working in the dirt."

  The next thing she mentioned was Dave's unmarked car in the drive. "Uh, oh," she mumbled. "This can't be good." She turned to him sheepishly. "I should see what's up. You don't have to be here for this."

  He shook his head at her. "I just got you back." They opened their doors at the same time and walked around to the front of her truck.

  "Together then," she said and reached out her hand.

  It was quiet as they climbed the handful of porch steps. No barking. No arguing. Rose used her key. Slowly, she opened the door halfway. Stopping, she softly called out, "Mom? Dad?"

  They could clearly hear murmuring from the kitchen. With Rose by his side, they headed in that direction.

  Sounding annoyed, Rose spoke up, "I know you can hear—holy shit!" Her hand covered her eyes like she'd been blinded by the sun.

  Her stepdad stood in his boxers, partially hidden by her mother, who was wrapped in a bed sheet. She was sitting on the kitchen counter with a carton of cookies and cream between them and the oddest expression on her face that Rose had ever seen—even if from between her fingers. Her frigging parents. Divorced parents. Eating ice cream. Half naked. In the kitchen. "What the hell?"

  "Hello, Andy." Her mother shifted her posture as if that would make a bit of difference. "Charcoal's in the yard, Rose dear. If you wouldn't mind going back to get him, your dad and I could... you know. Get dressed."

  * * *

  Rose paced as they waited, frustrated with Andy's easy demeanor. He sat on the floor, scratching the hundred-twenty-pound Lab's belly. They both made male purring noises of bonding and macho shit.

  Looking up to her, he smiled. "Don't look to me for shock and disgust, my folks ar
e like rabbits."

  Men.

  Dave came down in wrinkled work clothes, her mother in a coral no-sleeved mock turtle neck and ivory slacks with no-toe pumps.

  Andy joined them and they all sat at the kitchen table. This was one of those times she wished she couldn't read him so well, because she could tell Andy was ready to burst out laughing. Traitor.

  "Well?" Juvenilely, Rose crossed her arms. "Are you two sneaking the hell around? What the hell happened to your eye?"

  Dave and Andy looked at each other in some kind of silent understanding.

  Men.

  Her mother placed her hand gently on Rose's. "That's a lot of 'hells,' honey." Nodding over to Andy, she just as juvenilely responded, "Hypocrite much?"

  Rose looked back and forth between the three of them, then rubbed her hands over her face. "Okay, okay. Andy and me later. You two, now."

  Dave interrupted with what sounded like his detective's voice. "It's a holiday."

  Her mother looked at him much like Rose might toward Andy if they were having one of their silent conversations, then turned back to her and Andy.

  "Yes, it's a holiday," her mother said to them all, "and it looks as if we both have some explaining to do." She dropped her head on Dave's shoulder, then up again. "But you'll need to come by this weekend, then I'll explain. Saturday? Please? It's important. You pick the time."

  Rose looked at her through the corner of her eyes. Sighing heavily, she nodded. "All right. Early afternoon. I have a publicity shoot for the new enclosure with Gracie in the morning." She turned to Andy. "So, no pressure for you," she said sarcastically.

  * * *

  Standing in front of the police station, Amanda sighed as Dave ran a hand over her hair and her cheek, then lightly kissed her bruised eye. "I'm so sorry. Some detective. Right under my damned nose."

  "Stop saying that. This is on me." She took his hand and kissed his palm. "Me." Then, placed his hand on her cheek. From her small purse, she took out a large pair of sunglasses.

  Dave took them from her hands and placed them gingerly over her eyes. "This is the last time you'll ever have to wear these."

  She saw something terrifying in his eyes and it made her feel strangely safe.

  "He will never lay a hand on you again. Never. Promise me one more time."

  "I promise." She reached up to kiss him. "To never keep anything from you again as long as I live." Then deepened the kiss before letting him take her hand and walk into the tall, brick building. She was self-conscious and nervous, embarrassed and ashamed. Those were familiar feelings. Yet, she also carried a newfound strength.

  He led her first to the sketch artist, stopping outside the door. "He came in on the holiday as a favor. Can you do this? He's good. He'll help you."

  Flashes of Michael's face ran across her mind. "It won't be a problem. I should tell you, though, he changes his appearance. Hair color, style. Colored contacts."

  "Yes, we'll go through all that. Get us a face, Amanda."

  She gave his fingers a squeeze before parting with him.

  Dave went directly to Lieutenant Tanner's office, knocked on the open door before entering the large room and shutting it behind him. Promptly, he sat in one of the smooth chairs across from his boss' desk. Then, impatiently rested his forearms on his thighs.

  Dave Nolan and William Tanner went way back to when Tanner was the detective and Dave just an officer. In the nearly thirty years they'd known each other, Dave had never entered his office so disheveled. Not really knowing where to start, he decided on the beginning.

  * * *

  Rose stood next to an eight-foot, plastic folding table that was set up just outside the main building. The male bald eagle brought in during the night would like the outdoors, she decided. It was drizzling, but the eagle didn't care. Not just cold proof, eagle feathers were nearly waterproof thanks to a gland near their tail feathers that excreted an oily substance. Strangely, she didn't mind the rain either. The smell of fresh rain after the long dry spell was soothing and carried its own unique scent.

  The bird was weak, yet could stand. Although, at the moment, he preferred to lie on his belly much like a hen sitting on her eggs. Tearing off small pieces, she hand fed him bits of frozen rat meat.

  At the rumble of the engine, her hand stopped inches from the eagle's mouth. Andy. Her heart raced. Adrenaline rose. Andrew Reed. He was hers for good this time. Taking a deep breath, she gave herself a few seconds to take in the thought. She was a little old for running around the building to jump into his arms, so she focused on the bird.

  He must have been frustrated that his food dangled just out of reach, because he rose up from his belly enough to grab the meat from her hand.

  "Good, boy. You're not too weak to get annoyed with me, now are you?"

  She heard the car door shut, then saw him make his way around the corner from the front. She felt like a teenager but made herself keep working. Mature. Professional. Head over heels. He made worn jeans and a faded polo look like he was on a catwalk, and she knew that walk minus the jeans and polo. Looking to him slyly, she nodded.

  His responding wink stirred her insides. It didn't take him long to pause at the sight of the bird. Lifting his chin, he walked sideways around to her, then narrowed his eyes at the eagle. She could have sworn they were having a male testosterone moment, staring each other down. After what seemed to be an appropriate length of posturing glares, Andy continued his sideways walk to her. While keeping his eyes on the eagle, he wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her forehead with the side of his mouth, before turning quizzically to look at her.

  Answering his unspoken question, she explained, "Lead poisoning. Bullets. Damned hunters... and I'm not against hunting per se."

  "Says the woman who gathers up a loose spider from my boat and sets it free on the dock." This time he kissed her quickly on the mouth. "Hello."

  "Hello back." She thinned her lips. "Several grants and conservation efforts come from wildlife and gaming groups. They're useful and appreciated. Hell, Dr. Gray is an avid hunter. It's the careless ones that get to me. And I do mean the ones who could care less. They claim to be humanely saving animals from overcrowding and starvation. Do they aim for the ones that would starve? The sick? The old? Never. They go for the biggest, healthiest buck with the most points they can find, so they can stuff its head and put it over their fireplace mantle."

  Andy dared to get a little closer, checking over the bird. "This one's been shot?"

  "No, no. Lead poisoning. Some hunters use lead bullets and leave poisoned carcasses for other animals to scavenge and become sick. He should be better in a few days—one of the lucky ones. How much longer do you think you'll need on the aviary? He could use a larger area to get his strength back."

  Inconspicuously, he took her hand. "Mmm. I've always loved it when you get riled up. I could be done a lot quicker if you helped me. What are you feeding him?"

  She smiled suggestively, tightened her bandana and set back to the feeding. "Ratscicle. Let me finish up a few things. I can find some time in a little while, sure."

  * * *

  The sketch artist wasn't the only one Dave called in on the holiday. He eyed his assistant who sat in his rickety guest chair. Dave pulled over a new whiteboard in front of their current case board. "We might not have much time. He's likely on the run again."

  "Who—"

  "Shut up and take notes." Dave took out his marker and drew five vertical lines from top to bottom. He labeled the columns: Description, Known Victims, Suspected Victims, Known Facts/Patterns, Suspected Facts/Patterns, and Locations. "This is what we've got: A man approximately five-foot-six; native language Espanola but can speak English without an accent. He's between forty-five and sixty years old. Suspected to use several aliases, one of which is Michael Rainer—"

  "Rainer," his assistant interrupted. "I've read that name."

  Dave looked up in question.

  With raised hands,
Nick explained, "I wasn't creeping, just have seen it on your desk. Don't ask me to be your assistant if you don't want me to look through stuff you leave in plain sight. From the looks of it, you've tried that case on and off for twenty years. What's up?"

  Conceding, Dave went on, "We have a... description. A sketch in an hour or so. A pattern. Listen to this." Dave took the tape recorder from his top desk drawer. Gathered the strength to listen to it again. "Then, we're making some calls to see which larger cities over state lines have detectives working on the holiday."

  * * *

  "I want you to know that I fully expect to be announced as your favorite son." Duncan worked with his uncle, anchoring two-by-fours to frame a volleyball court in the field behind Nathan's home. With sweat beading along Duncan's lanky back, he eyed the two truckloads of sand that waited to be spread.

  The area was measured precisely to game regulation, of course. Nathan wouldn't have it any other way, and Duncan wouldn't have his uncle any other way. As reluctant as a younger Duncan had been about letting him in his life and his heart, Nathan slipped seamlessly into the role of his deceased father. Never replacing him, Nathan made sure that he and Andy remembered their parents. Duncan's father had been Nathan's only brother. Photo albums were left out, home movies were watched and they visited their graves each year on their wedding anniversary as well as their birthdays. And the stories—Nathan could tell a story.

  But Duncan didn't need the reminders. He appreciated them, yes, but his memory served him well enough, too much some times.

  He worked shirtless, exposing the tattoo he hadn't told his aunt about. Hardly stopping his work, he quickly pulled a band from his pocket and tied his hair in a low tail, lifting it from the back of his neck in the heat. The fresh smell of the wildflowers growing along the floodplain of Black Creek wafted in the gentle breeze. He wouldn't trade these times.

  Nathan handed him a towel. "Does your mother know about that one?" He gestured to the tattoo.

  "Why does everyone around here seem to be more fascinated with the art on my body than on my canvases?"