After Midnight

by Merline Lovelace

  Gradually, Niceville’s sprawl of new homes and golf courses thinned and the road narrowed from four lanes to two. Cypresses formed a dense canopy overhead. As the bay crept within yards of the road, she passed through the towns of her youth. Seminole, Villa Tasso, Choctaw Beach. She didn’t slow, didn’t look to either side. Nor did she make the conscious decision to stop at Steve’s until she turned south on Highway 331.

  As the Expedition approached the dirt road that led to his private little bayou, Jess debated whether she should fish her cel phone out of her black leather clutch and call first. He might not be at the boat. More to the point, he might want to maintain the distance he’d deliberately put between them at Whittier’s place.

  He was a cop, she reminded herself grimly. He wore the same badge as the man who’d escorted Helen Yount out of town all those years ago. If Paxton wanted to continue to wear that badge, he had to separate himself from Helen’s daughter. Jess had no idea when he was up for re-election, but she could imagine what it would do to his chances if it got out he’d rolled around between the sheets with a woman he suspected of extracting a deadly vengeance on the men who assaulted her mother.

  If that was what he suspected.

  Jess had to know. With a desperate need she didn’t stop to examine, she flicked on the directional signals.

  The sheriff’s unmarked cruiser was parked in the turn-around beside the dock. The hatch of the Gone Fishin’ was open. Mellow jazz floated from inside the cabin, sending the reedy wail of a sax across the bayou. Smoke curled from a small grill attached to the rear rail.

  Steve slouched a deck chair, tipped back at a comfortable angle, one bare foot propped against the rail. A ball cap shaded his eyes from the sun now blazing a gold trail across the water. The smoke from the grill evidently provided adequate protection from mosquitoes, since he all had on in addition to the cap was a pair of wet swimming trunks.

  The trunks were green, Jess saw as she slid out of the SUV, a bright, parroty green splashed with pink and orange hibiscus. For reasons totally beyond her comprehension, the baggy shorts blunted the razor’s edge of her tension. Leaving her purse in the car, she walked out onto the dock.

  “Mind if I come aboard?”

  He stayed angled back, one foot on the rail, the other on the deck, his eyes shadowed by the brim of the cap. Jess’s nerves did a slow tango until he drawled out a reply.

  “Watch your step. The deck’s wet.”

  With the boards rocking gently under her feet, she edged past the cabin and joined him at the rear of the boat. Her glance went to the foil-wrapped package on the grill.

  “What are you cooking?”

  “Shrimp romoulade.” He cocked his head. “Hungry?”

  Food seemed to be their neutral ground, their safest ground.

  “I haven’t been able to eat anything since…since yesterday,” she admitted, dropping into one of the chairs bolted to the deck.

  His face shuttered, Steve leaned forward to haul on a thin nylon tied to the rail. The other end of the rope anchored the remains of a six-pack. Extracting a dripping can from the plastic sleeve, he popped the top and passed it to her.

  “You sure you want to talk about yesterday, Jess? I’m an officer of the law, remember?”

  “I never let myself forget it.”

  “Good.”

  While she tipped her head and let the gloriously cold beer slide down her throat, his glance roamed her dark blue uniform slacks and light blue shirt.

  “Did you just come from the base?”

  “Yes. I had a meeting with the Area Defense Counsel.”

  “And he advised you to talk to me?”

  “No, she didn’t. But I wanted to ask you…”

  She framed the question in her mind a half dozen ways before deciding to just lay it out.

  “Do you think I deliberately shoved Wayne Whittier at that dog?”

  “If I did, you’d be sitting in the county jail right now.”

  The blunt reply lifted most of the weight pressing in on her chest. His next comment shoveled it back on again.

  “I do, however, think it’s more than mere coincidence that the men who reportedly assaulted your mother are suddenly dying off.”

  “I think so, too,” she said softly. “I’m the link. We both know that. We just don’t know…”

  “We just don’t know how,” he finished for her.

  Steve knew he should end the discussion there. He didn’t want to ask the question that had kept him awake most of last night, was almost afraid to hear the answer, but the need drove him just as it had Jess a few moments ago.

  “Why did you drive out to Whittier’s place yesterday?”

  “I wanted to stand toe to toe with him and make him understand that the law might not have meted out justice, but his retribution would come. Sooner or later, he’d burn in hell.”

  “Well, shit. Is that what you told Hazlett?”

  “Who?”

  “The FDLE investigator.”

  “Not in so many words, but that’s what I intend to tell Billy Jack Petrie if he shows his face at work again.”

  Steve’s fist went so tight the aluminum beer can crinkled inward. “What do you mean, ‘if?’”

  “Petrie knows what he did. He’s also got to know I can’t have him in my squadron.”

  “That’s not how you felt the first time his name came up between us.”

  “Hey, I’m only human. Of course I thought about using my position as his commander to hammer him, but I can’t. I won’t.”

  Steve said nothing. There was more coming. He knew her well enough now to be sure of that much, anyway.

  “I’m guessing he may be using the time he took off to rethink his career options,” she said after a moment. “Hopefully, he’s planning to apply for a position at another base. If he isn’t, I’ll arrange to have him transferred. What’s between us isn’t going to be played out on the job.”

  Christ, she made him sweat more with every word. Didn’t she see how close she skirted to offering a motive for the three deaths, if not the means? Didn’t she care?

  “How about what’s between us, Jess?” he asked curtly. “How do you see that playing out?”

  “I think we both saw yesterday that it can’t play at all. You put on the skids and backed away, just as I had to….”

  Disbelief whittled his anger to a sharp spike. “You thought I was backing away?”

  “You had to. I understand.”

  “The hell you do.”

  His bare feet hit the deck. He came out of his chair, got her out of hers in one swift jerk. Her beer jabbed cold against his belly.

  “My main concern yesterday was to keep you from falling into the pit you insist on digging for yourself. As I would have explained if you’d bothered to return my phone call.”

  “Steve…”

  He drew her up then, so tight her arms folded against his chest, so close her mouth hovered mere inches from his.

  “I’m so far from stepping back that I’m surprised you don’t feel me bumping around inside your skin. You’re sure as hell bumping around inside mine.”

  It would be so easy to stretch forward, mold her body to his, draw him further into the morass. Jess couldn’t do it.

  “As you reminded me so pointedly just a few minutes ago, you’re a cop. Your credibility is on the line here. You’ve got to distance yourself before it’s too late.”

  “It’s already too late. I let Hazlett know he’d have to go through me to get to you.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “I told you. You’re inside me. I can’t get you out. Correction, I don’t want to get you out.”

  She wasn’t prepared for the need that cut into her heart and left it raw and bleeding.

  This was the wrong time, the wrong man. Desperately, Jess tried to hold out against the craven desire to sink into his arms, forget the past, and ignore the future. She managed to hang on until Steve summoned a lopsided gri
n.

  “We’ll figure out tomorrow when it comes. Right now, the only decision we have to make is whether we eat now or later.”

  “You’re the cook,” she said, surrendering the fight with barely a whimper. “You decide.”

  Steve had already made his choice, but the knowledge that she’d eaten nothing but a piece of toast all day reprioritized his immediate needs.

  “Go below. Get out of your uniform and into something comfortable. I’ll dish up the stew.”

  When she ducked through the hatch, it dawned on Jess that her universe had just shifted, realigning along unfamiliar patterns. She’d been wary of Steve Paxton since the first night he’d knocked on her door, still wasn’t sure just what she should and shouldn’t say to him. Yet for now, for what was left of the night, they were allies. Friends. Lovers.

  Her heart thumping in slow anticipation, she descended the companionway stairs. The galley was as neat as the last time she’d come aboard. Only a roll of tinfoil and the shrimp peels cluttering the stainless steel sink gave evidence that Steve had prepared his evening meal here before going topside to cook it. As before, his laptop computer sat on the drop-down mahogany table. Her heart gave a painful thump as she passed it.

  The stateroom beyond the galley wasn’t much larger than the bathroom in Jess’s condo, but cleverly fitted compartments that kept his belongings neatly stowed. Like the galley, the stateroom was almost Spartan in its austere neatness. No keys or loose change cluttered the wood surfaces. No discarded uniform items lay tossed across the bed.

  The only personal items were two framed photographs. One obviously depicted his family – father, mother, three siblings, including a teen-aged Steve. The second showed two police officers, one black, one white, arms hooked over each others’ shoulders. Jess’s gaze lingered on the photos for some moments before she pulled out a drawer in search of a replacement for her uniform slacks and blouse. She settled for a faded maroon T-shirt with APD stenciled in black letters across the front and back. The T-shirt hung to mid-thigh and wrapped her in the scent of Tide and sun. After liberally spraying her arms and legs with the can of mosquito repellant she found on a shelf, she padded barefoot back through the galley.

  They ate with their feet propped on the back rail, scooping spoonfuls of the spicy concoction of shrimp, onions, and rice from wooden bowls, savoring the heat building inside and out. They said little, she and Steve. There was little they could say without stirring dark waters best left untouched.

  Slowly, the hot, muggy darkness wrapped around them. The jazz CDs that had been playing when Jess arrived finished and the deep-throated bullfrogs took over. Cocking her head, she listened to the chorus of night sounds.

  “It’s so quiet out here,” she murmured, “even with all that noise.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I like living here.”

  “Is it? What are the others?”

  “The mobility. The absence of anything even remotely resembling a yard to mow. The freedom to strip down and dive in whenever I want to.”

  “You swim here?” She eyed the bayou doubtfully. “Aren’t you worried about snakes or alligators crawling around in the weeds beneath the surface?”

  “I have the channel dredged every couple years to keep the it clear and deep enough for the boat.” Reaching for her bowl, he dropped it beside his on the deck. “Want to give the bay another try, Jess?”

  “The last time I went in these waters,” she reminded him with a grimace, “I almost didn’t come out.”

  “This time I’m going in with you.”

  That might have offered her some comfort if it hadn’t hit too close to home.

  Pushing out of his chair, he snagged her hand and gave it a tug. “Ever made love in the water, Jess?”

  “Not in saltwater, and not…”

  “This end of the bay is river-fed fresh water.” Ignoring her protest, he pulled her to her feet. “Cool and clean and soft as silk.”

  His palms planed her hips, raising little goose bumps as he skimmed the T-shirt up and over her head. Bending, he grazed her bare shoulder. The scrape of his teeth raised more shivers, more heat.

  “So are you,” he murmured against her skin. “Soft as silk and a moveable feast for the mosquitoes. We’d better go in before they eat you alive.”

  He cut into the water with barely a splash and bobbed to the surface some yards away. Ripples undulated across the water, so seductive, so deadly.

  Jess stood at the rail, her stomach clenching at the sinuous movement. She remembered all too vividly how the dark beast below had held in its maw until she’d fought free of her submerged Mustang and clawed to the surface. Remembered, too, how she’d swum to a bridge abutment and clung to the cold steel for what felt like hours until rescue arrived.

  The terror of that night tried to sink its teeth into her once more. The husky promise in Steve’s voice when he urged her to take the plunge had her setting her jaw. Shimmying out of her bra and bikini panties, she followed him over the rail.

  He was right. The bayou was cool and clean and so welcoming Jess soon buried the horror of her last excursion into these waters under a thick layer of pleasure.

  The silvery wash of moonlight on the dark surface helped. So did Steve’s adroit maneuvering as he kicked out of his trunks and caught Jess just as she surfaced. They curved together, joined at chest and hip, gliding like dolphins through the night. His hands and mouth worked their magic, his body bouyed hers.

  Their splashing echoed in the sudden, startled silence. Their ragged breathing grew almost as loud as the bullfrogs’ now stilled chorus. With the water kissing her breasts and Steve hungry at her mouth and throat, Jess wrapped her legs around his waist and tried to take him into her. He seated himself, thrust hard, and sent them both under.

  When they surfaced, Jess spit out the mouthful of bay she’d nearly swallowed. “I thought you said you knew how to do this.”

  “I did,” he admitted, “in my younger, considerably more athletic days.”

  “I wish you’d shared that particular piece of information with me before you lured me in.”

  She squirmed, attempting to tread water without sacrificing the smooth, delicious friction of his flesh inside hers. She succeeded only in pushing them both down into the depths. They broke the surface again, gasping.

  “I don’t think this is going to work!”

  “Sure it is.”

  Keeping her body locked against his, he rolled onto his side and swam toward the boat. Each time he contracted his muscles for another sissor kick, he withdrew an inch or two. With every smooth lunge forward, he shot in again. By the time he grabbed one of the mooring lines and anchored them both, Jess had forgotten her terror of the bay, forgotten her session with the JAG this afternoon, forgotten everything but the feel of Steve’s body inside hers.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The following Monday morning, the Daily News broke the story linking Whittier and four other unnamed local residents to an alleged assault of a waitress at the Blue Crab twenty-five years ago. The same story identified Jess as Helen Yount’s daughter and speculated with chilling detachment on the real reason behind her visit to Whittier the afternoon he died. The reporter also hinted that authorities were reassessing the findings in the recent deaths of two more of the men involved in the supposed incident at the Blue Crab.

  Jess had expected the stories, had expected as well the curious glances and rumors that buzzed like dogflies around the Supply Squadron Monday morning. The civilian attorney she consulted later that afternoon advised her not to acknowledge or address them in any way.

  She couldn’t avoid addressing one issue, however. Calling in her deputy, she laid out the problem.

  “Did you read the paper this morning?”

  “Yes.” His face grave, Al Munroe fingered his silver Harley Davidson belt buckle. “Did the reporter have that story about an attack on your mother right?”

  “As far as I know.”

 
“Hard to believe something like that could happen ‘round here.”

  “Bill Petrie was one of the five men who attacked her, Al.”

  “Awww, hell. You sure about that?”

  “I got his name along with the others from a police source.”

  “I’ve worked with Billy Jack for a lot of years,” Munroe said, shaking his head. “He and his wife used to come to dinner before my Luanne took sick.”

  “I have to move him,” Jess said flatly. “I can’t have him in the squadron.”

  “Shouldn’t you discuss this with him first? He’s back from leave.”

  She fully intended to talk to him, but not about the transfer.

  “Even if we both agreed to let the past die,” she told Monroe, “every performance evaluation or merit pay raise Petrie comes up for would raise doubts. I’m going work a detail to another unit as soon as possible.”

  It was the wisest course. The only course. To protect herself, Jess had to get the fuels superintendent out of her squadron. The fact that she was protecting Petrie as well left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  After a series of phone calls, Jess discovered a transfer would take longer than she’d anticipated. Her counterpart at Hurlburt was on temporary duty in the Balkans and not expected back for another two weeks. Since he was the only one with the authority to accept a civilian of Bill Petrie’s rank, the move was put on hold until his return.

  Nor could Civilian Personnel find a fit for Petrie elsewhere on Eglin itself. His background and experience was all fuels. He was too specialized to place in any other field. The best Jess could do was a two-week detail to a quality assurance team chartered by Colonel Hamilton to look at ways to improve customer service within the logistics complex.

  Jess called Petrie into her office early Tuesday morning to personally deliver the news of his move. With Al Monroe there to act as a witness, she let the man sweat for long, tense moments before breaking the charged silence.