Memories at Midnight

by Joanna Wayne

  “You’re being awfully agreeable all of a sudden. I guess you’re not too eager to visit my little jail.”

  “It’s not jail I’m afraid of. It’s that cemetery out there. I don’t know what McCord’s up against, but it’s more than just some harmless kook like he thought at first. He’s scared too. I can hear it in his voice. Maybe not for himself, but for Darlene and for you, Clint, and even me. He wants all of us to stay clear of this.”

  “It’s a little late for that, Caulder. The trouble’s boot high and getting deeper. Now, let me see what’s left in the treasure chest.”

  Darlene went through the boxes with Clint, while Caulder downed two beer and paced a nerve-racking trail from the fireplace to the door and back again. There were no photos of anyone named Whacko, or, if there were, that name wasn’t written under the picture.

  She gave up before Clint did. Bledsoe probably knew what he was looking for, but they were just stabbing in the dark. None of the men except McCord looked even vaguely familiar, and that was only because she’d seen his pictures on the walls of the Altamira. That didn’t necessarily mean a thing. Men changed a lot from twenty to fifty—aged from pimples to wrinkles, from long thick hair to balding gray.

  Clint walked over and stood in front of Caulder. “I don’t see you in any of these pictures.”

  “And you won’t. I wasn’t in ’Nam.”

  Darlene rummaged to the bottom of the smaller box, where her fingers slid against the sharp edge of a picture frame. She pulled it out, brushing away the loose snapshots that littered the top, and stared at the photo.

  She didn’t recognize the woman, but she knew the man right away. It was McCord, though he looked different out of uniform. He was wearing a western shirt, his face much thinner than it had looked in the other photos. Her gaze fell to the left leg. There was no prosthesis, though she knew he had one now. Just the edge of his pants leg pinned up. A wooden crutch was propped under his armpit.

  It wasn’t the injury that touched her heart, but the way the man and the woman were looking at each other. If you could picture Love, this had to be it.

  “This must have been taken a short time after McCord lost his leg.”

  Clint reached for the picture. She watched the muscles in his face clench as he stared at the photograph for several long moments before tossing it back into the box.

  “The woman he was with was very pretty. Is that Levi’s mother?”

  “I don’t know who the woman is.”

  “Sure you do, Clint.” Caulder reached down and retrieved the picture, sitting it upright on the corner of the coffee table. “That’s your momma before you were born.”

  The awkward silence that followed was excruciatingly long. Darlene made the first move to end it, saying she was tired and that she thought they’d looked through enough pictures.

  She’d forgotten her past, but being involved with this investigation was forcing Clint to deal with his on a daily basis. She didn’t know what role his mother had played in his problems with McCord, but it was evident in that picture that at one time the two of them had been very much in love. A fact that obviously did not set well with her son, even thirty years later.

  Suddenly, Darlene longed to be alone with Clint, to nestle in his arms, to pretend for a few hours that everything was right with their world and that the only worry they had was whether they should make love in the hayloft or in the bed.

  But the look on his face told her that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  “I want McCord to call me, Caulder. Get him that message, and tell him I mean business.”

  “I can’t tell him unless he calls me. I have no way of getting in touch with him.”

  “Just get him my message. And if you know anything at all about the man who’s after McCord and Darlene, Caulder, tell me now.” His muscles were coiled, his hands curled into tight fists. “If you don’t, and I find out later that you could have, you’ll wish your mom had been childless.”

  “If I knew anything I’d tell you, Clint.” Caulder bit his bottom lip. “All I know is that McCord is fighting the first demon he might not be able to whip. And I know you better work fast. If you don’t, it will be too late. For him and for Darlene. I just hope she didn’t make a big mistake when she missed that plane this morning.”

  “You can relax. She’ll be on the first one out in the morning.” He shot her a look that dared her to argue.

  She turned and walked outside without waiting for him. They’d discuss her leaving when they were back at his ranch house, and they’d discuss a couple of other issues as well. He claimed she left six years ago because she wanted a career and a life outside Vaquero. More likely, she thought now, she’d just wanted to share his.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darkness fell early beneath a blanket of rolling clouds and the promise of rain before morning. A new cold front was pushing in from the northwest. It had produced blizzard conditions over the Rockies, but by the time it arrived in the Hill Country, it would probably only bring sleet and temperatures that plunged to just below the freezing mark.

  Fitting weather, Darlene decided, for the chill that had invaded her heart. Every step forward in solving the mystery seemed a step forward in proving that the friend she had come to Vaquero to help might not have been who he seemed.

  Someone was seeking revenge against James McCord, and she had been dragged into it, become a victim, because of what she knew or what she had seen. Because of facts that she had chosen to erase from her memory—along with everything she knew about herself—rather than face.

  It was so bizarre that it defied belief, and yet it had happened. Clint had been at his computer or on his telephone almost every minute since they had returned from the Altamira, checking on facts and figures from the time span they’d pinpointed in McCord’s old letters. And once again he had shut her out, refused her offers of assistance. She felt as invisible to him as her past life had become to her.

  She picked up a section of newspaper Clint had tossed onto the coffee table that morning. The pages were crowded with seasonal sales. Only a few days left until the biggest gift-giving day of the year.

  Christmas. The concept seemed foreign. She knew the holiday, what it stood for, how it was celebrated. Knew it impersonally and from a distance, the way she knew everything in her life.

  Everything and everyone, except Clint Richards. Danger, amnesia, fear. In the face of all of that, she’d still fallen hopelessly in love with him. Or more likely, she’d never fallen out of love with him. The feelings had found a way through barriers that kept her memories hidden. All they had needed was a look, a touch, a kiss.

  From the very beginning she had sensed that they had been far more than friends, knew even before he admitted it that they had been lovers. Now they were lovers again. Lovers, but not partners. He told her only what he decided she should know. Shared only the part of his life he chose to share.

  She knew so little about herself, and yet she was certain she could never bear to be an outsider with the man she loved.

  “You look like you might have run into a dead end,” she said, turning from her view of the flames that frolicked in the stone fireplace to find him staring into space.

  “I was just thinking about what I told Freddie Caulder, and wondering if he got my message to McCord.”

  “Do you think McCord will call if he did?”

  “He might. If Caulder actually tells him I need to talk to him.”

  “You sound like Thornton Roberts. You’re not beginning to doubt Freddie Caulder too, are you?”

  “I doubt everyone’s motives, right now. The more I try to make sense of this, the more it doesn’t add up. Why would any man wait thirty years and then risk murder to seek revenge?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know where to find McCord until the press started dogging his every move.”

  “No, the ranch has been in the McCord family forever. He would have been easy to track down.”

 
“I was thinking about Leon’s description of the man he’d had the run-in with outside Bledsoe’s ranch.”

  “It wasn’t much of one.” Clint picked up a stack of loose computer sheets and clipped them together.

  “Middle-aged, graying, near six-feet tall. I know it sounds far-fetched, but Thornton Roberts would fit that description.”

  Clint nodded. “He was the first person I thought of. I faxed a picture of Thornton to the sheriff over in Prairie. He took the photo out to Leon’s house and had him take a look at it. Leon said the man he’d seen was heavier, and that his hair had been a lot darker—a kind of salt-and-pepper. At any rate, he was certain Thornton was not the man.”

  “Is there a chance Leon would lie to protect himself? That he was just afraid that if he identified the man, he would come after him?”

  “An outside chance. That’s why I went ahead and ran yet another check on Thornton’s background. I can’t find anything to tie him to McCord before he signed on as security supervisor. And he was never in any branch of the armed services.”

  Clint tapped his pen on the pad and then bounced it across his desk. “Bits and pieces, but not quite enough to fit the puzzle together.” His chair clattered against the tile floor as he pushed it back from his desk and stood up.

  “Maybe you should take a break.”

  “I would, but my mind will never let me.” He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching out the kinks. “I’m having another cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

  “I’d never sleep tonight.”

  “I’ll never sleep anyway.”

  Her eyes followed him until he’d disappeared through the kitchen door. She loved the way he walked, the way he smiled—even the way he frowned and stared into space when he was deep in thought. Loved the way he fit into the life he’d chosen for himself.

  Even though he was out of her sight now, she could hear the cacophony from the kitchen and could visualize him warming his coffee on top of the range. No electric pot to brew his beverage of choice. He made it the old-fashioned way, dripping the boiling water over an abundance of dark crushed beans and then letting it steep over a low gas flame. He was a man grounded in the ways of the Hill Country where he’d grown up, yet he blended the old ways with technology to fight crime.

  He knew the people he served, their weaknesses, their strengths. He knew who to push to the limit and who to coddle to get what he wanted from them. Yet, his computers at home and at his office were on the cutting edge, allowing him to track down the latest data from millions of files with the click of a hand-held mouse.

  And everything about him, from the unruly shock of dark hair that defied attempts to control it to the scuffed toes of his western work boots, appealed to her sense of honor and order in a world gone haywire.

  Even now, when she sensed they were running out of time, and when she feared the images from the other night were not a figment of her drug-affected imagination but the memory of facts buried in her subconscious, she longed to go to him and bury herself in his arms.

  But if she did that, she’d only prolong the inevitable. She had to get a few things settled between them. Needed to find out if there was a chance for them to make it work this time. If not, when she left tomorrow, it would be goodbye.

  “Come and sit by me, Clint.” Her voice was soft and strained, betraying the emotion and the strength of conviction that drove her.

  He stretched and took another sip of his coffee. “I have another file to search, another list of casualties during the time period in question.”

  “It can wait a few minutes.”

  He relented, easing to the floor beside her, stretching his long legs in the direction of the fire. She shifted over to share the oversize pillow she’d propped against the back of the couch.

  The aroma from his cup of coffee floated upwards, blending with the pungent odor of burning wood and the spicy fragrance of a bayberry candle she’d lit and placed on the hearth.

  “Have we spent nights like this before, Clint, just you and me, sharing a warm fire on a chilly evening?”

  “No.” He stared into the fire. “But we swam naked in a spring-fed pool. At least, I tried to swim. You jumped on my back and dunked me.” He touched her nose with his fingertip, teasing. “You were vicious.”

  She knew he was trying to keep the mood light, but she couldn’t play his game—not tonight. “I envy you the memories of the time we were together.”

  He picked up his coffee cup and stared into it as if it held magical answers. When he didn’t find them, he lifted the cup to his mouth and took a long, slow sip. “Your memory will return. In the meantime, don’t create fantasies of happy-ever-after. They may come back to torment you.”

  “Is that why you’re shutting me out, Clint, because you’re afraid that letting me in to your life will lead to torment?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then answer a few questions for me.”

  He pulled away from the pillow they shared and sat Indian-style beside her. “Fire away.”

  “It was you who spread the rumor that I had suffered irreparable damage in the attack and that my memory was never coming back, wasn’t it?” She watched him tense and knew how he hated to get into these confrontations. But this time she wasn’t going to back down. “Just answer me, Clint. It’s easy. I ask a question. You answer with the truth.”

  “I don’t want us to fight.” He slid his arm about her shoulder.

  “Talking isn’t fighting.”

  “Then why does it always seem that way?”

  “It wouldn’t. If you’d just be completely honest with me.”

  He exhaled and swallowed hard. “Okay, I told Dr. Bennigan to spread the rumor. I decided that if the killer thought you were never going to remember anything, he wouldn’t be as desperate to kill you. I thought it would buy us a little time before he struck again.” His fingers tangled in her hair. “I was trying to protect you. That’s all.”

  “So why didn’t you just tell me that? Instead, I had to hear it from people who’d picked it up third-hand from the streets.”

  “You were supposed to leave town in a day or two. I didn’t see any reason to bother you with it.”

  “The same way you didn’t see any reason to ask me how I felt about flying back to D.C. tomorrow morning?”

  He threw up his hands in exasperation. “My job is to protect you.”

  “I’m an adult, Clint. An FBI agent. I don’t have a memory, but I have a brain. I can make decisions about my own life, especially if we talk about the issues, examine the dangers together.”

  “I have work to do, Darlene. We’ll talk later.” He stood up and walked back to his desk.

  She followed him. “No. I’m leaving in the morning, remember?”

  “They have telephones in D.C. I’ll call you.”

  “I don’t think so, Clint If we can’t talk about important issues when we’re together, then we certainly can’t deal with them over miles of cable.”

  She was hurting inside, knowing she was delivering ultimatums that she would have to live with forever. She didn’t want to lose Clint, but if he didn’t trust her enough to share his life with her, she’d already lost him. Probably the same way she’d lost him before, though it obviously wasn’t the way he’d chosen to view their breakup.

  “The truth, Clint. That’s all I ask. About the little issues and the big ones.”

  “Fine. The truth is, I deliberately made the decision to spread the rumor about your amnesia not being reversible.” He stepped in front of the window and stared into the darkness. “I made a mistake. I should have asked you before I did it, the same way I should have asked you if you wanted to go back to D.C. But if I had, you would have said no to both questions. And I can’t take a chance with your life.” Agony tore at his voice.

  It would be so easy to step into his arms, to hold onto him until the quaking fear inside her melted away. But she couldn’t.


  “Why did you lie to me tonight, Clint? Why did you tell me you didn’t recognize the woman in the picture with McCord? My life wasn’t in danger over that.”

  “Because it didn’t matter.” He stuck his hand on the window frame and leaned into it, still directing his gaze into the night, and away from her.

  “If it hadn’t mattered, you would have told me the truth. If you trusted me, you would have told me the truth. The way it is now, I feel as if you’re deliberately holding a shield between us so that I can’t get too close to you.”

  She stood at his elbow, but didn’t touch him. And even the sky seemed to react to the tension that hovered between them. Slivers of lightning darted around and through dark, threatening clouds. The silence grew ominous, the invisible abyss between them growing wider and deeper with each passing second of silence.

  But still she couldn’t give up on him. Not yet. She had to see if he could open up to her and share the feelings that shaped his life, that ruled his very existence. If he couldn’t, there was no way they could make it together, no matter how much they loved each other.

  “What is there between you and McCord that tears you apart, Clint? Half the time you speak his name as if it were poison on your tongue. Tonight you wouldn’t even admit that the woman in the picture with McCord was your mother. And yet, I sense you’re worried about him.”

  “I’m the sheriff. My job is to protect everyone in my district. Even McCord.”

  “You’re avoiding the question.” She stepped nearer, until she was so close she could all but feel the pressures grappling inside him. “Did you resent my friendship with him? Resent the fact that he could give me things you couldn’t, that he helped me get that appointment at Quantico? Because if you’ve harbored that kind of enmity over no more than that, then you’re not the man I think you are. Not the man I fell in love with.”

  He turned around to face her, and she trembled at the anguish that burned in his dark eyes. “I love you, Darlene. But I can’t change who I am. No more than I could six years ago.”