SHATTERED

by Alice Sharpe

  “Which brings us back to Peter Jacks,” the sheriff said with a shake of his big head. “I knew the boy was having trouble. Him and Stew’s boy both.”

  “You mean Stewart Netters, the editor of the paper? So we’re talking about Jason?”

  “Yeah. The kid hasn’t been right since the shooting. Having both those girls gunned down right in front of him, to say nothing of the other two dead kids— I don’t know. Maybe it’s survivor’s guilt.”

  “Yeah,” Nate muttered. He’d thought a lot about survivor’s guilt. Unfortunately, he hadn’t come up with a way to turn it off.

  “Not that people haven’t tried to help,” Gallant continued. “There’s a relatively new organization around, started by a man named Morris Denton. He calls it B-Strong. It concentrates on building character and self-esteem. Some of the local kids have attended summer programs and weekend workshops, things like that. The hope is positive reinforcement will empower them. It certainly seems to have empowered Thomas Jacks.”

  “Thomas had been part of this camp?”

  “Yeah. Of course, after the shooting we interviewed anyone who had ever talked to the kid. No one up there had a thing to offer.”

  “Did you meet Denton?”

  “Briefly. He was out of the country when the shooting occurred and was horrified by Thomas’s actions, just like everyone else.” He shook his head. “Lots of people rallied round Peter after the shooting, but there were some, too many, who seemed to be waiting around for him to do something terrible like his brother did. I’ve known the Jacks family for years. Peter and Thomas were on the same soccer teams as my own kids, went on the same campouts, attended the same church. When Thomas went berserk in the mall, the whole town suffered, but no one worse than his folks and his brother. There was no warning, no nothing.”

  “Is there anyone who thinks a foreign terrorist group might be involved?”

  “Well, I think Netters did at first. He ran a couple of articles about something called People’s Liberation, right after they took credit for the Hawaii shooting last December, but I think Thomas acted alone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The sheriff’s department found no link between him and any terrorist group. Neither did the city cops or the feds, at least as far as I know.”

  “How about the possibility Thomas was in league with another individual, you know, another kid, maybe?” Nate stopped short of naming Jason.

  “Nope. It’s pretty much like the mayor says. In recent years there has been a rash of domestic acts of violence across the country, where one citizen directs his rage at a random group of others.”

  “The mayor said that?”

  “He’s running for office. His bottom line is America for Americans, take care of yourself, do for government, don’t wait around for government to do for you. His rhetoric might sit easier if he was a self-made man, but he’s riding on family money. Still, what he says makes sense to lots of folks. I wouldn’t bet money on the other guy winning.”

  “Do you think the mayor’s sentiments made sense to Mike?” Nate asked.

  “Up to a point. Mike took things a step further. He was convinced these random acts were related, that there was someone behind them. In my humble opinion, teenagers aren’t generally disciplined enough to organize some clandestine movement.”

  Gallant paused to scratch his jaw. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, and those came off next for a quick inspection before once again returning to the perch on his nose. “Around here, gun permits doubled after the shooting,” he said, his voice softer. “No one felt safe. And now this thing with Peter. It’s going to absolutely kill his parents.”

  Nate’s gaze drifted to the view out the window. There was still snow on the ground and the skies were a clear, cold gray. A winter world, to be sure, but was it really such a threatening place that people were afraid to go outside without a weapon in case their neighbor went nuts? Scary thought.

  But look at Peter Jacks. What had gone wrong?

  Peter, lying by the river with an ax in his back, thanks to Nate. “Did Mike try to help anyone?”

  The sheriff sipped at his cold coffee before answering. “Mike was in here all the time, spouting his favorite conspiracy theory about some evil mastermind at work behind the scenes.”

  “Did he say who he suspected?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Did he ever mention anything about the Washington Memorial or Monument?”

  Gallant looked slightly pained. “Yeah. I heard about that.”

  “Did you tell anyone with the authority to guard, say, the Washington Monument on Presidents’ Day?”

  “Nate, now listen. The feds are always on the alert during crowd situations and especially on holidays. You think the little old sheriff from Shatterhorn, Nevada, is going to tell them something they don’t know? For that matter, do you think they’d actually listen to me?”

  Nate took a deep, frustrated breath. “I guess you have a point.”

  “Well, Mike sure as heck didn’t think I had a point. I told him to leave the matter to the government and all those counterterrorist experts. If there was really some kind of conspiracy, domestic or foreign, they’d find it. But he wouldn’t listen. If he wasn’t lecturing me or the city council or trying to get things published in the paper, he was showing up at meetings where he didn’t belong. Made a real nuisance of himself.”

  “Enough so that someone wanted to kill him?”

  Gallant shook his head. “Heck, I don’t know. Does his daughter have any idea who wanted her father dead?”

  “No,” Nate said and, anxious to change the subject away from Sarah, added, “I’d like to get my truck towed into town and repaired.”

  “You’re kind of hard on your vehicles,” Gallant said with a chuckle.

  “Very funny. I’m not the one who keeps shooting at them.”

  The sheriff sobered right up. “I’ll let you know as soon as you can. I need to go talk with the Jacks family and then drive out to the Donovan farm. You come back in the morning, okay? Don’t leave town, by the way.”

  “Am I being charged with something?”

  “Not right now. But you’re in the business—you know there will be more questions.”

  “I’ve taken a leave of absence for a few months,” Nate said.

  Gallant looked surprised. “Mind if I ask why?”

  “Just trying to get some things straight. I needed a little time.”

  “I see.” He pried himself out of his chair and took his jacket from a hook on the wall. “If Sarah doesn’t show up by tomorrow night, I’m going to get a warrant to bring her in for questioning.”

  “She’ll be here,” Nate said, not sure if she would or not. “All right if I go now?”

  “Sure. Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try the Motorcoach Inn. It’s a little on the old side, but they got cable TV, a free breakfast, and the coffee shop next door isn’t bad for dinner.”

  Nate stood and offered a hand. The resulting shake just about jarred him out of his boots. He put his hat back on his head and buttoned up Mike’s old coat, something else he would need to replace.

  “How about your arm?” the sheriff asked, apparently noticing the gingerly way Nate pulled on the jacket. Nate had told him about the shot, of course, and the fact that he believed he’d wounded the shooter in return.

  “I’ll have it looked at tomorrow,” Nate said. “All I want now is something to eat, a hot shower and eight uninterrupted hours in the sack.”

  He figured he’d be lucky to get even one of those.

  * * *

  NATE ASKED FOR a corner table away from any windows at the back of the restaurant and took the chair that faced the door. He’d come across the parking lot to
eat as soon as he’d checked in, before taking a shower, even, and imagined he looked like something his dog had pulled from under a rock. He’d had a feeling, however, that once undressed and clean, he’d fall into a coma. It had been a good long time since he’d had anything to eat, and his stomach was grumbling.

  Now he watched everyone who entered, looking for anyone who acted uncomfortable or out of place. A man would have to be nuts not to be cautious when two different people on two different occasions tried to kill him on the same day. And maybe yesterday, too... What had he done to deserve all this very unflattering—and deadly—attention? He had absolutely no idea.

  Though he detested using a cell phone in a restaurant, there was no one else seated close by, so he employed the time between ordering and eating to make a call to Alex Foster’s house. Hopefully he’d be home by now or Jessica would know where he was. But Nate’s call went straight to voice mail. The message he left was short and to the point.

  Dinner was hot, substantial and filled some of the hollow spots that had been growing inside him for the past couple of days. His waitress resembled Debbie, his ex, right down to her lush curves and black curls. She had the same high-pitched laugh, too, the same way of using a hundred words to say what could be accomplished with ten, and it came as something of a surprise to Nate that he was glad he wasn’t going to spend his life dealing with Debbie’s nonstop chatter.

  Which brought to mind Sarah’s way of talking, the words she chose, the sound of her voice, and from there, it didn’t take too big a leap to zero in on the shape of her lips as she formed those words, the taste of her mouth and the stirring in his loins that thinking of all this created.

  He needed some cold air on his face, and he paid his bill, leaving a big tip for his waitress in a vague, convoluted apology to all the ways he’d failed Debbie. Maybe she’d been right. Maybe she hadn’t left him; maybe he’d left her.

  Before Nate walked back into the night, he asked to borrow the restaurant’s phone book. He wasn’t sure the motel room would have one, and he knew once he was close to a shower and bed, he wouldn’t want to leave again. Using his own cell, he first dialed the airport, where he asked if Alex had landed his plane and was assured he hadn’t. Then Nate called the mayor’s house. A male employee with a crisp, cultivated voice answered and revealed the mayor was out of town until the day after tomorrow. Leaning against the wall, Nate flipped through Mike’s notebook and decided to call the editor of the newspaper, Stewart Netters. Though it was late, the man answered the phone himself. He seemed pleased to hear from Nate and agreed to meet him in his office the next afternoon, even though it was a Sunday.

  Nate had to find Mike’s killer, not only to avenge his friend, but because there was the off chance that the attempts on his own life were somehow connected to Mike’s murder. Nate wanted to figure this out, put a stop to it and get back to Arizona and his ranch and his life. He’d hoped to find answers of some sort in Shatterhorn, but what he had gotten were more questions.

  It was dark by the time he walked outside, and the melting snow had started to refreeze, making it slippery as all get-out. He kept to the shadows, waiting for something to happen—a gunshot, a racing engine, heck, a bomb landing at his feet. He found himself looking over his shoulder, walking as fast as he dared. He hated feeling vulnerable, and it was a relief when he closed the door and locked it, sliding home the deadbolt, claiming his space.

  “His space” was hopelessly old-fashioned, but what it lacked in character, it made up for in cleanliness. The drapes were closed, the bed looked comfortable and he’d hope for the best when it came to the shower behind the closed bathroom door.

  He wasted no time easing his arm out of the sleeves of the jacket and shirt, both Mike’s. On his way back to Shatterhorn, he’d stopped at a clothing store, where he’d bought himself some essentials. That bag sat on the chair beside the door, promising clean, warm clothes that actually fit for the next morning. He fought off a yawn as he stripped off the rest of his things.

  He was putting his watch on the nightstand when he heard a shower go on so close by it had to be right next door. He groaned. If his neighbor was using this exact time to shower, what would that do to his own water pressure in a place this ancient?

  Wait a second. Did he really care? No, not really. A hot trickle would do for tonight.

  He opened the bathroom door to find that the water sounded as though it was running in his room because it was. Steam billowed out of the corner shower. Did the unit next door share this bathroom or had the motel mistakenly double-booked the room? He stared at the opaque shower door, trying to discern if the trespasser was male or female, but it was useless. He grabbed a towel from the rack and tied it around his waist as he considered the best way to handle the situation.

  And that was when the clothes hanging on a hook behind the door caught his attention. He didn’t recognize the white dress, but the equestrian boots sitting in a corner—they were a different matter. He blinked a couple of times and really opened his weary eyes. A purse the color of an old saddle perched on the back of the vanity and beside it sat a brand-new box of condoms. A smile spread his lips. He was suddenly wide-awake.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sarah jumped as the shower door opened. Even though she knew whom to expect, the past couple of days had cautioned her to be prepared for surprises, but this time there was no gunman, no threat, just Nate standing there giving her a lingering once-over, wearing nothing but a white towel.

  And from the look in his eyes, to say nothing of the obvious engorgement beneath the terry cloth, he was just as happy to see her as she was to see him. She hadn’t been sure he’d feel that way. Every inch of her body burst into excited flames that made the steamy water feel tepid against her heated skin.

  “Are you going to stand there all night and ogle me?” she said.

  “Not all night. Mind if I join you?”

  She smiled. “What do you think?”

  “I think I’ve never seen anyone in the world look better wet and naked.” He threw aside the towel as he stepped into the small shower and closed the door. He slipped his arms around her waist. “How in the world did you find me?” he asked.

  “I looked in every motel parking lot until I found a truck covered with bullet holes with a cardboard insert in the back window. Then I told the guy in the office I was your wife.”

  “So much for security.”

  “Has anyone else tried to...well...”

  “Kill me? Not since Reno. And now you’re here. The sheriff will be beside himself.”

  “And how about you?” she asked, staring into his eyes. “Are you beside yourself, too?”

  “I’m giddy,” he said and nuzzled her neck. She knew how he felt about seeing her, at least in a physical way. There was no hiding that.

  “I brought you a present,” she added.

  He opened his hand and she found that he’d opened the box of condoms and brought one with him into the shower. She threw back her head and laughed. He put an end to that by pulling her against his powerful chest and claiming her lips.

  The kiss started out hot and quickly boiled over. Sarah had never quite been kissed that way before, even by Johnny. So deep and long, like intercourse with tongues. Maybe it was because she’d brazenly initiated this scenario with Nate or maybe it was because she hadn’t been positive he would welcome her, but she felt dizzy with the desire to touch and explore every solid, throbbing inch of him as his fingers set off discovering her.

  He backed her against the tile and leaned in to kiss her neck, licking her ear, his hands gently fondling her breasts, his mouth dipping to suck rock-hard nipples, his erection hard against her abdomen. “I want to take it slow,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, but that just fanned the fire, and she knew if this wasn’t consummated within seconds, she would come completely undo
ne. Kiss led to kiss, water sprayed and dripped. He touched her between her legs, his fingers gentle but insistent, his need echoing her own. She closed her eyes, consumed with passion, desperate to be closer. He lifted her bottom in his hands and she wrapped her legs around him; somehow he’d managed to put on the condom while she’d been soaring who knew where, and then he was inside her.

  She gasped with the pure vibrancy and strength of his thrusts, the way he filled every crevice of her body from her brain to her toes, like an invading army with a take-no-prisoners approach. Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks and she saw his face through the water, both confident and lost, suffused with ecstasy that drove her over the edge at the same moment he leaned his head against her throat and exploded inside of her.

  For several minutes, he kissed her, still holding her against him, then her feet touched the tile and she opened her eyes.

  The smile on his face as he looked down at her was one of wonder. He smoothed her hair away from her face. “You’re the sexiest, warmest, most slippery lover in the world,” he whispered, his eyes devouring her. “So much for making it last,” he added.

  She touched the skin around the wound on his shoulder, but he didn’t flinch. “You can make it last next time,” she said. “Let me wash this wound for you.”

  He leaned against the shower wall as she found the tiny bar of soap and worked it into a lather against the hair on his chest, gently rubbing the resulting suds against his wounded skin. It really did look 100 percent better, and from the way he’d made love to her, she knew it must feel better, as well. From his biceps to his well-defined pectorals, down lower to his washboard abs, she followed the newly cleaned and rinsed skin with small kisses, smiling when he groaned with pleasure.