One Texas Night

by Sylvie Kurtz

  "Just go away. Please."

  She counted the seconds of Grady's silence by the pounding in her head. His touch lightened, then disappeared. Her eyes burned. Her throat tightened.

  "Melinda." He stroked her hair so gently, the first tears seeped into her pillow. "I promise, I'll give you some breathing space. Not forever. But for now."

  As Grady rose, the mattress returned to its original position.

  When the front door clicked shut, Melinda let her dammed emotions burst.

  He had the power to change her life, and he was using it. And she didn't know which frightened her more—her monster's invisible claws scratching to be free, or Grady Sloan's gentle kiss.

  * * *

  Grady cursed himself with every step he took to reach his car still parked in front of The Essential Gardener.

  He'd touched her.

  He'd kissed her.

  Knowing who she was, what she kept from him, he'd still wanted to take her right there in her garden.

  All of it was against the rules.

  If the city council ever got wind of his blunders, he'd lose the chief's seat to Winnin' Wayne faster than old Brasswell could blink.

  He yanked his cruiser's door open, plopped into the driver's seat and jerked the door shut with a satisfying slam.

  She had him feeling like a rope in a tug-of-war contest. He was losing control of the situation and doing it fast. The truth was, he hadn't felt in control since he'd first set eyes on her. She made him feel exposed—in a hail of bullets without a vest. Which wasn't a feeling he cared to own.

  He ground his teeth in a tight circle. He had to get a grip. If he didn't, he might lose all propriety and do something he'd really regret. Something stupid like let himself be drawn in by the mysterious aura that surrounded her, by her beauty—by his hormones, raging like a teenager's, for crying out loud!

  He snapped on the ignition and the engine roared to life.

  Melinda was right. In this case, even the law wasn't black-and-white, but an awful shade of gray.

  Tests trickled in with inconclusive data. Alibis of other possible suspects checked out. And each person he questioned seemed to open more doors than he or she closed.

  Though evidence, or lack thereof, appeared to point in Melinda's direction, technically, she hadn't done anything. Her loss of memory was real and, thanks to Desiree, supported. Between that and the immunity her father's power gave her, it left him mired in that huge gray area he hated so much. And with precious little time to sort through the muck.

  All in all, a dangerous spot.

  And he'd gone and promised her time he didn't have to give.

  As he sped by the high school, he recognized the slim figure of a boy walking with a baseball-equipment bag slung over his shoulder. At seventeen, the towheaded, freckled-faced Carson Crews was the county's best pitcher, good enough to earn a sponsorship on the Select league. Not only could he throw strikes, he could throw them with smoke. Batters never saw the ball coming. Grady figured he imagined his father's face hovering over the plate and aimed for it with all his tamped-down anger. In Carson's place, that's what he'd have done. Grady slowed the car and rolled down the passenger-side window.

  "Want a ride?"

  Carson hesitated. "Sure."

  He tried to hide the right side of his face, but Grady zeroed in on the purpling mark. Grady's anger billowed into a thunderhead, but he couldn't let it explode. Not in front of Carson. He shoved the car in gear. "Quite a shiner you've got there."

  "Got hit with a baseball at practice."

  Yeah, right, Grady thought. A baseball with knuckles attached to that bastard who's your father.

  Ninety percent of Grady's calls were false alarms or domestic disputes. Too many of those calls had come in from the Crewses neighbors when Jackson, Carson's father, decided to vent some steam.

  Frustration twitched through him like a snake looking for a strike. Every bruise he saw on Carson made him want to slam his fist into Jackson's face and let Jackson feel what it was like to be on the receiving end and not be able to do a thing about it. But his badge forbade him.

  He'd beaten the system once.

  Now he was part of it.

  So much for all the changes he'd imagine he'd achieve when he'd entered the academy.

  Grady felt for the boy. Saw a lot of himself in him. Knew the boy took the blows aimed at his kid brother, too. But the only thing Grady could do was let Carson know he was on his side, and wait until the boy wanted help to fight back.

  "How's your old man?" Grady's jaw twitched.

  "The usual."

  "Drunk?" He'd wanted to use more disparaging terms, but curbed himself.

  Carson shrugged and looked out the side window at the passing view. "He got a job last week. Some carpentry work in Fort Worth. Says he's got something else lined up, too. It'll pay big bucks, according to him."

  "I'm glad to hear that." With Jackson busy and out of the way, Carson would get a break—until the next bender. "What's Jody up to these days? Haven't seen him around lately."

  "Moved to Oklahoma with Aunt Liv. Goin' to school there this year."

  That was a relief. At least one of them was safe. "Why didn't you go, too?"

  Carson shrugged. "Someone's got to take care of Pa."

  Yeah, somebody had to pick up the pieces after a drunken binge. Someone had to make sure he didn't choke on his own vomit. Someone had to make excuses. He'd done that often enough for his mother to know. But at least his mother had never laid a hand on any of them.

  At the curve of the street leading to the Crewses' trailer, Grady slowed. "You need anything, you call me, you hear?"

  "Thanks, Grady."

  Face drawn much too sternly, shoulders hunched, and back straight, Carson hiked down the dusty lane leading to his hell of a home. Grady checked for traffic, jerked the steering wheel to the left, and whipped the car onto the road.

  Melinda with her monster. Carson with his bruises.

  Two reminders in one day.

  The past was doings its best to catch up with him.

  * * *

  Walking into his house, Grady couldn't help contrasting his static living space to Melinda's peaceful retreat. Compared to her garden paradise, his home was lifeless, empty.

  The nondescript brown-plaid couch blended with the sand-colored carpet. The chocolate leather recliner offered no variety to the monochrome arrangement. Neither did the battered walnut coffee table, end tables, and television console. Not even a plant brightened the gloomy room. Desiree had given him a fern of some sort when he'd bought the house, but through neglect, the fern hadn't lasted more than a couple of months.

  The room looked like a cheap hotel suite, for all the individuality it had. Yet, before today, he'd never noticed how dull his home looked—and felt. He found himself longing for the small touches of home Melinda had created in her house. How would she transform these dull walls into a welcoming refuge?

  Home. The word implied so many things. A wife. Kids of his own. Someone to come home to. Before today, he'd never thought it was something he wanted for himself.

  Shaking the stray thoughts out of his mind, he changed out of his uniform into jeans and a T-shirt, and headed for the barn to feed his two horses. Ironsides, the gray gelding, pawed the ground for his dinner like an impatient locomotive. The sorrel mare, unimaginatively named Red when he bought her, preferred him to summon her. She looked up, acknowledging his call, then ambled toward the corral nibbling at the grass all the way.

  He usually enjoyed his chores around his miniature ranch, but tonight, not even grooming the horses' coats to a polished gleam could relax him.

  After a quick dinner, Grady decided to head back to the station and vent some of his frustration going over the facts he'd gathered on Angela's death. Half way there, he changed his mind, and continued on toward the hospital.

  Seth dozed in a sitting position. His gray hair was still thick on his head and in its usual mussed sta
te. His grizzled mustache made too wide a broom under his nose. His beefy jowls drooped on each side of his square chin. For the first time since he'd known Seth, Grady saw a fragility beneath the pale skin, and the thought saddened him. Seth had been his rock; the only person who'd stood by him, who'd understood how important keeping his family together was to him.

  Just as Grady decided to let his old friend rest, Seth opened his eyes.

  "Grady! How'd you get past the missus?"

  "Sent her down for a well-deserved breather. How are you feeling?"

  "Like I got stomped on by a mule with studded shoes." Seth waved one of his square hands at him. "Come in, son. I'm glad you stopped by. I'm dying of boredom here. I was just fixin' to call you. No one in this danged station'll tell me what's goin' on. Where've you been, anyway?"

  "Hasn't Brasswell stopped by to liven up your days?"

  Seth's eyes, the same warm color as the butter toffee he kept on his desk in a green Arby's Christmas glass, twinkled with amusement. "Unfortunately! That woman could talk the ear off an elephant. But you know her. When she wants to, she can dance around any situation."

  Grady grabbed the lone chair cozied under the window, dragged it beside the bed, and straddled it backwards, forearms hanging from the chair top's back. "Then you know about Angela Petersen."

  Seth's smile disappeared. He shook his head in short, sad strokes. "Poor thing. I was looking forward to hearing her pretty voice at the Fall Festival. How's her family holdin' up?"

  "Not too well. The reverend's concern about the investigation is getting a tad obsessive. He's been calling every day for updates." His thumb rubbed the chair back's smooth metal. "I don't suppose Brassy had anything good to say about the way the investigation's going."

  "Well, you know her." Seth pulled the thin blue blanket higher over his round belly. "She thinks the whole town'll fall apart unless she holds it together."

  "She doesn't want me to take your place."

  Seth paused, looking deep into Grady's eyes. "She doesn't make the decision by herself."

  Grady looked away and studied the blue-and-orange geometric design on the curtains. "You think those sniveling councilmen won't follow her lead? They usually do."

  Seth cleared his throat and worried the blanket's satin trim. "You gotta understand. For her it's personal, Grady. It's that smart-mouthed kid who blew down her thunder she can't forget."

  "I couldn't let them take Des and Aimee away. I was responsible for them."

  "You made her look bad. She's not the kind to forget losing out to a seventeen-year-old boy. And being proven wrong to boot."

  Grady stood up and paced the length of the bed. "So I'm supposed to roll over and let Wayne take the spot I've more than earned?"

  "What's really on your mind, son?"

  That stopped Grady cold. As much as he trusted Seth, he couldn't bring himself to mention Melinda and her effect on him. The uncharacteristic indecision. The lust so hot it practically had his blood on fire. The fear he wasn't supposed to feel now that he was a grown man, the law, and not a boy of seventeen. "Nothing I can't handle."

  As if Seth could read his mind, he nodded understanding. Somehow the accepting gesture calmed the storm raging inside him. Whatever happened, Seth would be there for him.

  "I have confidence in you, son. I know you'll make the right decision."

  A nurse poked her head into the room, interrupting them. "Visiting hours are over," she announced with too much brightness in her voice.

  "I was just leaving." Grady returned the chair to its position beneath the window. "Take care of yourself, Seth."

  "Next time you come, bring me some real food, will ya? Nothing's got any flavor around this place."

  Grady smiled. "What's your pleasure?"

  "A sampling of Mamie's desserts would be a good start."

  "I'll do that."

  He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and strode out of the room.

  The right decision. For once, Seth's faith in him might prove misplaced. And was the right decision always the better one?

  * * *

  Back in his office at the station, Grady ignored the stack of messages from Brasswell demanding proof of results. As he caught up on paperwork, he worried about recovering the murder weapon with its possible clues of fingerprints and blood. The longer it took to recover the knife, the less likely the evidence would be usable. Though he hadn't seen any evidence of fresh digging in Melinda's garden, he couldn't quite shake the feeling the knife might lay hidden somewhere in the floral fantasy. The heavy rain might have washed away the signs. No way around it: to eliminate his doubts, he'd have to get a search warrant.

  Concentrating on the crime-scene pictures, he lost track of time.

  He went over the gory photographs time and time again, analyzing the patterns of tear-shaped blood spatters, the slitlike stab wounds, questioning the lack of tool marks on the doors or windows, the lack of footprints on the carpet and floors, searching for the one thing that could help him solve his case, or at least point him in the right direction.

  He went over the lab reports, trickling in daily. So far nothing conclusive. He looked over the reports filed by fellow officers on interviews made in the neighborhood of the crime, with the relatives, and with a few suspects.

  He found nothing.

  Whoever had committed the crime had covered his tracks well. The fact niggled at him like a sand spur under a saddle pad, irritating his already sour disposition. Too neat. Too perfect.

  He knew the what, when, where, and how. The why and the whodunit remained a puzzle. A crime of passion committed by someone who knew her. Not exactly the solid answer Brasswell expected.

  Grady flung the folder of pictures aside. The photos scattered in a fan over his desktop. He reached into a drawer and pulled out the wrinkled sketches he'd found in Melinda's closet. He propped one booted foot on the edge of his desk, and unfolded the papers. Smoothing the paper down, he tried to decipher the drawing beneath the vicious masking scribble.

  It was almost as if she'd tried to X out the event she'd drawn, like an angry child might do with something she didn't like.

  A real event? An imagined one? Or the monster itself?

  He picked up the next sketch and found it just as undecipherable. Before he went cross-eyed, he refolded the drawings and returned them to the drawer. Plopping his foot back to the floor, he ground his fists into his eyes, then raked his hands through his hair.

  The sketches made no more sense than the photographs. No more sense than Melinda's hole-ridden memory.

  Nothing made sense.

  He called up a file on this computer, entered Melinda's name, and waited for the information to process. She'd been reluctant to discuss her mother, the way her mother had died, which aroused his curiosity. Maybe he'd find a clue there.

  As he waited for the computer to find the information, he closed his eyes. His mind drifted.

  His jumbled thoughts formed pieces of images. He tried piecing them back together, but the shreds floated out of his grasp like leaves in the wind. Then he glided along with them. They curled and curved until scenes whirred by like clips from a black-and-white movie—Wayne trotting up to the stage at the Fall Festival, his grin wide and sloppy, accepting his promotion to chief; Angela's sightless eyes, her body scored with slashes, advancing toward him, her disjointed voice saying, "Help me! Somebody help me!"; and Melinda laughing. He turned around. She came to him, her hair rippling in the wind, her smile aglow, her eyes on fire. She kissed him, stealing his soul, and when he was soft in her arms, her lips nibbled at his earlobe, and she whispered, "I did it, Grady. I killed Angie."

  He awoke with a start and shook his head to clear the dismal pictures. Forewarned was forearmed. He would not fall under Melinda's spell.

  As he stretched to work the kinks out of his back, something on one of the photographs spread on his desk caught his attention. Some of the dots on the kitchen slice in front of the back door didn
't match the perfectly spaced rust periods around the pink and blue-ribboned geese.

  Dried blood?

  Drops that had struck the surface and left slightly elliptical markings. Which meant the killer might have gotten hurt in the struggle.

  And the only way blood could have gotten there was if the murderer had used the back door to flee. The rain had washed away the outside evidence, but the half-moon shaped piece of carpet had trapped at least three good drops and absorbed them into its pile.

  Finally, a break.

  Chapter 7

  Melinda placed a saucer of cat food and a bowl of water outside her back door for Angela's cat. The big, orange tom had taken up the habit of visiting her daily since his mistress' death. He refused to come inside, but did accept a caress and food before he took up his vigil two houses down. She'd tried to hold him for Kerry, but Rusty skittered away if she got too close. With a heavy heart, she secured the rest of her house.

  As Melinda opened her front door, ready to leave, her father had his hand up ready to knock. "Daddy, what are you doing here?"

  Her father smiled and hugged her. He looked as impeccable as usual in his dark suit with its red rose in the lapel. "I called your office and Dolores said you took the afternoon off. I decided to treat my little girl to a late lunch."

  "Oh, I can't, Daddy." She rummaged through her purse for her keys. "I was just leaving for Angela's funeral."

  He frowned. "Why are you going at all?"

  "She was my neighbor." Less than five minutes. That had to be a record. Melinda inserted the key into the lock and gave it a sharp turn. She wasn't going to let him get to her today, not when the funeral, the reason for it, and the determined Lieutenant Sloan already had her nerves on edge.

  "Were you close?" he asked gruffly.

  Following the narrow stone path, she strode to the garage door. "Not really. I had her key in case of emergency, she had mine. She liked my flowers. We talked once in a while—but no, we weren't close."

  Her father trailed her. "I thought you didn't like funerals. You wouldn't even go to your Aunt Lorinda's three years ago."

  "I don't like funerals." She unlocked the garage door and pulled the door up. The door wobbled on its tracks, but with an extra push, finally settled in the open position. "It's just I feel I have to."