She still did, she told herself as she signaled, then made the turn into the visitors' parking lot in front. It was just an individual member of the group she didn't care for. And what she'd felt last night had been only a natural concern she would have had for anyone under those circumstances. That was the first thing she'd convinced herself of this morning, after she managed to blot out the memory of how he'd held her shaking hands and comforted her, when by rights it should have been the other way around.
She parked and went up the front steps, wondering if the front doors would be open on Saturday. They were, and when she stepped inside, she had an instant to realize that it seemed as bustlingly busy as any weekday here before the rush of memory hit her. The last—and only—time she'd been in this lobby was when she'd been released from custody here.
She made herself move before the swamp of painful memories made it impossible. She got in the line at the front desk, wondering what exactly to say. How did one get to see a detective? Did you just ask?
There was a young man who looked as if he was barely out of high school behind the raised counter. He wore a light blue uniform shirt, which she guessed meant he wasn't a street cop, but he wore it with a tangible pride that made her wonder again what made people choose a line of work that forced them to deal with ugliness on a daily basis.
There had been a time when she would have said it was for the power, that they got off on being able to mess with people's lives, but Caitlin's Quisto had cured her of that. He was charming, a pure gentleman, and loved Caitlin more than she'd ever seen any man love a woman. And in his job, he wanted only to make things better for people.
She listened to the people ahead of her, marveling at some of the petty things people seemed to expect the police to solve. For every routine request for a copy of a report or legitimate small crime to report, there were two of the other kind, the "my neighbor parks in front of my house, lets his leaves blow in my yard, mows his lawn too early in the morning" kind of complaint, and she wondered at the young man's composure; she would have been laughing at the absurdity by now.
There are murders happening, people, she thought. Get a grip. She'd never really thought about this side of police work, never realized they really had to deal with this kind of thing so much.
Apparently there was a lot she hadn't realized, she thought with an almost weary sigh.
When she got to the front of the line, she realized she'd been so lost in thought that she hadn't really decided what to say and ended up blurting out a quick question.
"I understand Officer Butler is here today?"
"Detective Butler?" The young man corrected her politely before he nodded. "Yes, he is. Did you want to see him?"
Was it that easy? "Yes, if it's possible."
He gestured to her right, to a pair of double doors. "Detective Division is through there, first door on your left." He gave her an apologetic smile. "I'd take you in, but I'm kind of busy here."
"I can see that," she said, rolling her eyes at him as the woman behind her began to chatter about the stray cat that was terrorizing her.
The young man—cadet, she saw now on his uniform beneath the Marina Heights Police patch on his shoulder—started to grin, then covered it discreetly by pretending to cough.
"Give me your name and I'll let him know you're coming back," he said, reaching for the phone.
She hesitated, wondering if Gage might just say, "Don't let her in." But she didn't see any way around it, so she gave her name.
The cadet nodded, waving her toward the doors. As he dialed, he also pushed a button that apparently buzzed open the locks, and she pushed on the right-hand door. When it opened, she waved a thank-you at him and went through.
She found the door on the left as the cadet had indicated, but the lights were out in what was obviously a reception area, and she hesitated. A moment later Gage came through a back door from what appeared to be a huge single room with several cubicles. She only had time to see that he had on the same battered leather jacket he'd been wearing every time she'd seen him before he flipped on the lights and stopped dead, staring at her in surprise.
"It really is you," he said unnecessarily.
"Didn't he give you my name?"
"Er, yeah, but…"
He shrugged, then winced; he was definitely feeling the aftereffects, she thought. Although his eyes looked shadowed with something other than simple pain, something darker, something that made her think of Sam Gregerson's words about hurt animals.
"Pretty sore?" she asked.
"I've felt better," he agreed with a wry twist of his mouth. "And … thanks again for sticking around last night."
"You're welcome."
"What are you doing here?"
It sounded rather abrupt, and Laurey began to question her wisdom in coming here. Something must have shown on her face, because he spoke hastily.
"I didn't mean it like that. I was just wondering… I mean, I guess I didn't figure you'd ever come back here if you didn't have to."
"I wouldn't. But I was looking for you."
He blinked. "You were?"
She nodded.
"Why?"
There it was, the logical opening. Tell him, she ordered herself silently. The words wouldn't come. "I … wondered how you were feeling," she said instead, it was partly true, but it sounded false, even to her own ears.
Gage's blond brows furrowed. "I'm okay, just a bit stiff. And sore in spots. A little headache. Nothing serious."
"I'm glad," she said, relieved to hear she sounded more genuine that time.
"How'd you know I was here?" he asked.
"I … called," she stammered; not for the world did she want to admit to him what she'd done.
His eyes narrowed then, and she thought with a sinking certainty that he knew she was lying. Or at least not telling the whole truth. Was this some sixth sense cops were born with? Did having it somehow guide them in to being cops, or did they learn it on the job?
"Laurey," he said, and to her ears his voice sounded ominous. Her common sense told her it was her imagination, that he didn't really sound almost threatening. She was reacting to this place, she thought, and the bad feelings she had about it—and him—that was all. But still, her words came out in an uncomfortable rush.
"Look, I wanted to apologize, all right? And it's not easy for me, so can we please get it over with?"
He drew back slightly, his face suddenly impassive. "If it's that hard, then maybe you should just skip it."
"I can't."
"But you'd rather."
His voice was flat, as expressionless as his face. And it made it even harder for her to go on, but she did it, doggedly.
"I was rude, and I'm sorry. And you were right, it should have been—should be—ancient history. It's childish to hold a grudge so long, and I apologize."
"Pretty speech. Been rehearsing?"
She flushed. Stung, she backed up a step. She'd said what she'd come to say, now she could leave. She drew herself up to her full height, which wasn't as imposing next to Gage as it was with many others; he still had a good four inches on her five foot nine.
"It doesn't really matter if you accept my apology. I had to make it," she said stiffly.
An audible breath escaped him, and his head lolled back on his shoulders. The thick, blond hair fell back, starkly revealing the rapidly developing bruise on his temple. A little headache, he'd said, but she would be willing to bet it was a bit more than that.
"Now I'm sorry," he said, raising his head to look at her again. She hadn't really realized just how green his eyes were. There was no touch of hazel or brown in them; they were simply, purely green.
"I'm afraid I don't get … apologies like yours often enough to know how to deal with them gracefully. But … thank you." His mouth quirked. "Even though you still don't like me much."
"I don't like what you did," she said, the correction small, but important to her. "Or the fact that you did it so
easily."
He went very still, his eyes fixed on her. "I did it well, but it was never, ever easy. Do you think I liked having kids who thought I was their friend look at me like … you did? Do you think I liked it when even the kids who didn't get involved hated me? Hell, half the teachers who knew hated me being there, and I felt like I was being pulled apart by them, by my boss, by the kids, and by the slime that was channeling drugs and guns in by the truckload."
She didn't want to think that it had cost him emotionally just as it had cost her and the other kids who had gotten caught up in the dragnet he'd started. She didn't want to think he had been torn by what he was doing. She didn't want to think that he'd hurt, just as she had. Because if she admitted that, she might start forgiving him, and while she'd felt she had to apologize, she didn't think she was ready for that.
"I never saw all that much of drugs, and I never saw a gun at school," she said, because it was the only thing she could think of to say.
He gave her an odd smile. "Of course you didn't. That wasn't your crowd. Or hadn't been, until you started hanging out with Chadwick."
She gaped at him. How on earth had he known—and remembered—that? "You knew I … started being friends with Curt?" she said, sounding as astonished as she felt.
"I knew he was always trying to suck in the straight kids. And I saw you with him a couple of times. Made me move him up on my timetable a bit."
She was still staring at him. "Why?"
"I didn't want you in any deeper than you were."
He'd been … protecting her? Was that what he was trying to say? That he'd had her arrested for … for what? Her own good?
"Curt was one of the prime distributors," Gage said, as if in answer to her skeptical look. "Anything from grass to coke to heroin. And if you didn't see him with a gun it was only a matter of time. He had a small arsenal."
"He … did?" she asked weakly.
"Automatic pistols, revolvers … when you're dealing, you have to protect your inventory, not to mention the cash."
"I … knew he was into pot, but…"
Her voice trailed off, and she shivered. It had been Curt's car she'd been in that night, his car the police had found the bag of marijuana in. Only days later the rumors had been flying that it had been Curt's arrest the cops had been waiting for, but that had seemed so wild that she hadn't put much credence in it. And besides, everything else had been driven out of her mind a few days later when it had come out that they'd pulled it off thanks to the narc they had on the scene. Gage.
She didn't realize how long she'd been standing there, her thoughts whirling, images from the past engulfing her, until she felt a touch on her elbow. She came back to the present abruptly, to see Gage looking down at her in apparent concern.
"I was about to go get some lunch," he said. "Come with me? You look like you could use a stiff cup of coffee or something." She hesitated, and he gave her a lopsided smile. "Peace offering?" he suggested. "For my lousy reaction to your very nice apology?"
She didn't know if she was just too numb to protest, or if some part of her had made a subconscious decision, but a few minutes later they were walking eastward down Trinity Street West
, toward a small restaurant Gage said had the best coffee around. He'd offered to check out a department car, saying he'd ridden his bicycle in, figuring it would help keep him from stiffening up any more, but when he told her it was just a few blocks, she had opted for the walk.
"If you ignore the cheesy decor," he said as they turned onto a small, narrow side street and neared the restaurant, "it's not a bad old place. They have good food, anyway."
It was old, Laurey could see. It was on the edge of the older part of Trinity West, just before the change into the east side, where buildings of this era were the norm.
"If the food is good," she said, "the decor doesn't—"
Gage choked off the rest of her words, grabbing her, shoving her hard into the small alcove of a shop doorway. Her face was pressed against glass. A store window, she thought inanely, full of secondhand clothes and costume jewelry. His body, tall, lean and frighteningly powerful, was pressed against her back, as if he were trying to smother her.
She opened her mouth to scream. Whether he'd suddenly gone crazy and decided to exact vengeance for her treatment of him, or this was just an absurdly heavy and utterly unexpected pass, she wasn't about to—
The sound of a racing car cut off her scream. The sound of gunfire cut off her breath.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
The window Laurey was pressed against exploded. Shattered, the shards falling with odd tinkling noise like crystal rain. She nearly fell forward against the razor-sharp fragments that stayed in the frame. Gage grabbed her as the store's burglar alarm blared. He pulled her hard and tight against him, shuddering at the mere thought of what those jagged edges could have done to her.
For the first time in his career he paid little attention to the suspects in a crime. He'd caught a vague glimpse of a small blue sedan, noted that it had a brown primered right front fender, that there had been at least two occupants, but beyond that, his well-trained powers of observation had failed him. He was aware only of the woman trembling in his arms.
"God, those were gunshots." Her voice was as shaky as she felt.
"Yes," he said, tightening his grip on her. She seemed to welcome it, pressing herself against him, tremors still shaking her.
Get back to business here, Butler.
He stayed hunched over her, keeping his body between her and the street. With one hand he reached under his jacket and pulled out the small, plainclothes revolver he carried while in the station, wishing he'd changed to the larger semiautomatic that was in his desk; it wasn't unheard of for drive-by shooters to make a second pass, and the little two-inch lacked the fire-power he would have preferred. He craned his head as far as he could without leaving Laurey unprotected. There was no sign of the car on the narrow side street, although the usual traffic rolled by out on Trinity Street West
.
Not, he thought, flicking an irritated glance at the clamoring alarm bell, that he could hear it. Or anything else, over that racket.
After a long moment when nothing happened except that damn bell making his head ache, he released her and started to turn. She made a tiny sound of protest that he miraculously heard. He squeezed her arm reassuringly.
"Just stay here." He had to put his mouth practically next to her ear to be heard, and he caught a whiff of that sweetly spicy scent he'd noticed before.
"No!"
"I'm just going to take a look, make sure they're gone."
She shuddered violently, her eyes widening at what obviously hadn't occurred to her. And when he took a step away, she made a convulsive little movement after him.
"All right," he said, conceding she had a right to her fear, and her reluctance to be left alone, under the circumstances. "Just stay behind me."
She nodded, still a little wild-eyed. And just then, mercifully, the alarm shut off.
"Hopefully that scared them off," he said.
He moved carefully out to where he could see the street. It was still empty. One of the parked cars had a shattered back window, the hole at the center of the starburst of cracks ominously large. Still cautious despite the silence, he edged the two-inch around the corner, ready to fire. Then he moved his head so he could see. The sidewalk was empty in both directions.
He could see some people huddled in the entrance to the restaurant, staring out with frightened faces. But there was no sign of the car, or of anyone else who looked suspicious. He let out a long breath. But he didn't holster the two-inch. Not yet.
When he turned back to Laurey, she was staring at him.
"It's okay now," he told her quickly. "They're gone."
"Who … what…?"
"I don't know. Most likely a random drive-by, although they're not frequent this far west. Or maybe it was for whoever
owns this—" he gestured at the shop "—and we just got in the way."
"You did, you mean," she said, her voice steadier now. He had to give her credit for that, he thought; she'd just seen an incident that would leave most people terrified for days, yet already she was pulling herself together. She was still pale, and her eyes were still wide, but the trembling had already lessened.
"I got in the way?" he asked, puzzled.
"You got in between them and me. And you stayed there."
She said it so wonderingly, sounding so amazed, that his mouth quirked upward at one corner. "What is it, Laurey? Did you think that 'to protect and serve' was just lip service? Or that it only goes for the people who like us?"
Color flooded her pale cheeks. "I … I don't… But you could have gotten hurt. Or killed!"
His smile gentled then. "That's what the job means, Laurey. It means you stand between the bad guys and the people you're sworn to protect. And sometimes it means it … literally."
"But … I never thought…"
"Most people don't. They've never dealt with things like this firsthand. And part of our job is to see that they don't have to. It's what we get paid for."
"Nobody gets paid enough for that."
He grinned at her. "We've been saying that for years."
Her gaze flicked to the weapon he still held, then back to his face. "How can you joke like that?"
His grin faded. Old memories stirred, of the man who had helped so many of them, yet been unable to help himself as his life had crumbled around him. The man who had become a legend, not only at Trinity West, but throughout the county, even the state. The quintessential good cop, Clay Yeager had been the first to tell him that you had to see the humor in the darkness or the darkness would overwhelm you.
As it had, eventually, overwhelmed Yeager himself.
"Because," Gage said softly, "if we don't joke about it, it'll eat us alive."
Before she could respond he heard the sound of an engine approaching. His fingers tightened around the two-inch. Then he caught the reflection of a black-and-white in the surviving glass window and relaxed his grasp.
GAGE BUTLER'S RECKONING Page 9
