One Texas Night

by Sylvie Kurtz

  A knife lay tangled in the plant's roots.

  "Is this yours?"

  There was no use pretending. They both knew the answer. "It's the knife that's missing from my kitchen." She could clearly make out the remains of rusted blood on the blade and embedded deep into the hilt. A shiver of horror unraveled through her.

  Once more, he scanned the living room. "There are no open doors or open windows. Is there any other way the cat could have made its way into the house?"

  Goose bumps trooped up her arms. "No."

  "The cat never comes inside."

  Her fingers turned to ice. "No."

  "Why not?"

  She wanted to jump, to run, to move, but found herself paralyzed to the spot. "He's always been shy."

  "Would he have been scared enough to cause this damage?"

  Grady crouched beside her, blue eyes blazing with intensity. Her heart beat a mad race. Her thoughts grew more chaotic by the moment. Fear, sharp and bitter, snaked its way through her limbs, leaving her shivering at the possibilities. "I—I really don't know."

  "Someone went through a lot of trouble for me to find the knife here. Almost as if someone didn't trust me to find it on my own."

  He seemed to expect an answer of some sort, but she could make no sense of the thoughts scrambling through her mind. Except for one. Get out. Now. Get out. It took all she had not to run outside like a madwoman, to hide, to shrink, to disappear—as she'd done the night Angela had been murdered.

  "How did the knife get in your planter?" he asked.

  Faraway thunder sounded like phantom footsteps. Closer. Coming closer. "I don't know."

  "Convenient amnesia, or—"

  "Are you insinuating—"

  "Simply making a comment."

  She jumped up, no longer able to stand being still. Pacing a tight arc around the fractured remnants of her oasis, she ground potting soil into the green weave of the carpet. "Why are you going out of your way to make me suspicious of my own actions?"

  "Most murder victims are killed by someone they know. Someone they care about."

  Rain pattered against the roof, added a layer of edginess to the fear thrumming through her. "What does that have to do with me?"

  "You have secrets."

  "I didn't kill Angela." Melinda wrapped her left hand around her waist, nibbled the nail of her right thumb. "I cared about her. But I didn't know her well. I had no reason to want her dead."

  "When we found you, you'd lost track of reality." Voice like a metronome, he hypnotized her. "Could you have mistaken her for a monster, too?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  She wasn't sure of anything right now.

  "Who has a key to your house?" Grady persisted.

  Wind lashed against the house, driving sheets of rain against the windows. Her thoughts slowed. "No one does. Angela did. But she's dead."

  "Is there any other way to get in?"

  The rain drummed harder, seeming to fall in all directions at once, surrounding her in scrabbling sounds. The swirl of thoughts came down to a few. "I don't know. You're the cop. You tell me."

  "Nothing visible."

  His line of thinking finally dawned on her. He didn't really think someone had planted the knife. He thought she was guilty of preventing him from finding the knife, of hiding evidence, of killing Angela. He didn't believe her. Never would unless she could prove her innocence. And there was only one way to do that. Fingers shaking, she looked up a number in the phone book, picked up the phone on the counter in the kitchen, and dialed.

  "Gail, this is Melinda Amery. We met a couple of years ago when you did a piece about The Essential Gardener. Your paper carried an article about the Petersen murder in Fargate. My name wasn't mentioned in the article, but I was a witness. If you'd like an interview, please give me a call."

  When she hung up, Grady stood right behind her. Rain pounded at the roof like monster fists battering to get inside. A strange calmness filled her.

  "Why did you do that?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp against her skin, but the soothing tone didn't fool her.

  She turned slowly to face him, her hands instinctively gripping the edge of the counter, crowding away from the man who'd returned to being all detective. "It's the only thing I could think to do to make you believe I didn't kill Angela."

  He touched her face, his callused finger sliding down her cheekbone. Her skin hummed. She longed to lean into the heat, draw comfort from his hand, to take a step forward and curve her body into his strength—to end the constant fear making her want to scream. The rain redoubled its rhythm. Believe me. Please, believe me. I didn't kill her.

  "Someone did. My gut says it's not you. But my gut's been wrong before."

  "Jamie." She swallowed hard, remembering the betrayal he'd suffered.

  "And now I've got this hard evidence staring at me in the face. There's a bloody knife in one of your plants. Hidden there. Can you see my dilemma?" He whispered the words into her ear. His voice, low and hot, slid deep inside her and resonated, sending a shiver of pleasure—of fear—rippling through her. "If you didn't kill her, then someone else did."

  "Yes," she said, her mouth dry. Thunder rumbled, its power stifled by the force of the downpour. "That's what I've been trying to tell you all along."

  "If you do the interview, that someone will think you truly saw something." Lightning split the night sky. His face blinked half dark, half light. Her spine prickled. The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. His voice lowered, became huskier. "Do you understand what you've done?"

  Thunder rocked through the small house, making the windows shudder in their casings. Her breathing went shallow. His blue, blue eyes burned into her.

  "Yes," she murmured, shifting from him, only to find the void in the middle of the living room even more frightening. "I've set myself up as the next victim."

  Chapter 10

  He'd scared her, Grady knew. He'd had to. As he walked to stand beside her in the middle of her fragmented living room, he saw how hard she tried to control the trembling of her limbs. Angela's murder had been vicious, savage. If Melinda wasn't the murderer, then she was placing herself in danger of suffering the same fate. He'd had to make her aware of the possibility, had to make her understand the extreme consequences her action could have.

  "If you go through with this interview, you won't be safe," he said, trying to soften the harsh blow he'd had to deliver. As the thunder again rumbled outside, her shoulders hitched up. He pointed to the knife tangle in the plant's roots. "You may not be safe now."

  Her face was pale. The light had died from her eyes. Fear hummed from her skin. He had the insane urge to kiss some color back into her cheeks, the mad impulse to caress the smolder of desire back into her eyes, and the crazy notion to love warmth back into her body.

  She's definitely getting to me. Not good. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not this time.

  "Given the evidence, I can't rule out the possibility you planted the knife there yourself. But honestly, I think it's just a little too convenient."

  "Thank you for that, anyway." Her shoulders sagged as some of the tension eased, but her eyes remained whirlpools of emotion.

  Against his better judgment, he pulled her body against his chest, pushed her head against his shoulder and held her loosely. "It's all right," he whispered into the damp softness of her hair. Her hands crimped around the material of his jacket on his upper arms. That tiny gesture of need moved him more than a bucket of tears could have. "I won't let anything happen to you. Pack a bag. I'll take you somewhere safe."

  "No, I need to stay here." Her voice was thin, but rang with determination.

  "It's not safe."

  Her head turned into his neck. When she spoke, her breath fanned in intimate little bursts against his collar. "The first time I ended up in jail not remembering who I was, I ran away. I buried myself in this little town, thinking I'd be safe."

  "This isn't the same thing."
He stroked the back of her head, and her chignon, loosened by the rain, fell apart in his hand, spilling through his fingers like silk ribbons.

  "I've tried hiding. It doesn't work. The fear … it follows me wherever I go."

  "Deliberately placing yourself in danger isn't the ans—"

  "Neither is pretending this isn't an option."

  He huffed a weary sigh. "We're not dealing with an imaginary monster, here. We're dealing with a murderer who won't be too happy to know someone saw him in action."

  "I should have done this years ago."

  "There'll be time later—"

  "But not a better opportunity."

  "Melinda—" He took her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. "Don't do it. Don't set yourself up as bait. The kind of person who did this is deranged, evil. He's killed once. He could do it again."

  She shook her head and gave him a weak smile. "I have to. It has to end. All of it."

  He reached up to stroke her jawline with his thumbs. She might be Ely Amery's daughter, but she was also a beautiful, brave, vulnerable woman. Grady had a hard time focusing on his hatred of her father, on the case, and on this new development that blazed many more trails to this maze.

  Before he could stop himself, he kissed her fiercely, protectively. She tasted of wine and innocence, of sadness and spring; and the improbably combinations sent a jolt zinging through him like an arrow on fire. She murmured his name against his lips and he deepened the kiss. He wanted more of her … all of her …

  What am I doing? I don't want this. I don't need this. Not now.

  He released her, backing up one step until his hands cupped only her elbows. Her dark eyes widened with confusion, with longing. If he drew her back into his arms, she would let him. If he led her to her bedroom, she would offer no resistance. It would be easy to take advantage of her, to seduce her the way Jamie had him. But looking into her eyes, he found his taste for revenge dampened. This shadow of Melinda wasn't what he wanted. He wanted the warm Melinda of the garden, filled with life and color; the one whose fathomless eyes promised paradise. Blurring the lines of his boundaries with the investigation was one thing; sleeping with the primary witness quite another.

  The stood there for a while, not speaking, just looking at each other.

  "Your father's not going to be happy once he finds out what you've done."

  A half smile wavered on her lips. "Then we'll have to keep it our little secret until the article comes out in the paper."

  "You won't be safe, Melinda. Do you understand that?"

  She nodded once and went to the front door. "I think maybe it would be best if you left now." In the yellow glow of the outside light from the open door, rain dappled the cement stoop. "I'm tired. I just want to go to sleep. Tomorrow—"

  "There are procedures that have to be followed," he said, loathe to leave, needing in spite of everything to protect her.

  Her gaze shifted to the mess on her living room carpet, but she didn't let go of the door. "Yes, of course. How long will it take?"

  "A while."

  She nodded and closed the door. Rubbing her arms, she went to inspect a mangled plant. She crouched and reached to right the pot.

  "Don't touch anything just yet. I'll need to take some photographs first and gather evidence for the lab."

  With a resigned nod, she moved toward the back of the house, then hesitated. One hand on the corner of the wall, she looked back over her shoulder. "Is it all right if I take a shower and change?"

  "Go ahead."

  He called Oscar and arranged for a car to be dropped off. The rustle of her dress falling in a heap at her feet, the slide of drawers, the creak of a closet door distracted him. To the soft patter of the shower, he checked and rechecked the locks on the windows and doors of the little house.

  And questioned his decision once more.

  The phone rang, and Melinda's restrained voice reassured her father that everything was fine. She didn't mention the incident.

  By the time the two squad cars pulled up to the house, impatience tainted his mood like slow-acting venom. He didn't wait for a knock to yank open the door.

  "I've got the evidence kit you needed," Oscar said, his body half in, half out of the house. A gust of wind drove rain through the open door and peppered the floor mat at the entrance.

  Grady took the kit from him, grumbling his thanks.

  "Hey, man, want me to handle that for you?" Oscar asked, his thick brows creasing together on his forehead.

  "No, you go on." Grady placed the kit on the rattan footstool and flicked open the metal tabs. "I'll take care of everything."

  "It might be better—"

  "I said, I'll take care of it."

  Oscar lifted both hands in surrender. "Sure, man."

  Realizing he was turning his nameless anger on his best friend, Grady softened his voice. "Thanks."

  Oscar shrugged. "No problem. Want me to make sure extra patrols cruise by tonight?"

  "That won't be necessary."

  Oscar opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. Shaking his head, he closed the door and left.

  Grady tugged on the bow tie at his neck, pulled the strip of silk from under his collar and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. Walking carefully around the scene, he noted everything, drawing on logic to drown out the instincts he'd come to mistrust. The department wasn't large enough, and so far, hadn't warranted a separate crime-scene unit. As the officer on the scene, he was responsible for making sure everything got done right. He photographed the green "victims" with their twisted limbs and smashed pots, distancing himself from the feelings tangled inside him. Then he combed the area once more, measuring, mapping, sketching, taking latent fingerprints—for all the good that would do—and bagging evidence. No one, not even Brasswell, would be able to fault this part of his procedures.

  He did the best he could to straighten the plants and clear away the broken pottery and loose soil. The man in him didn't want her to go to sleep with this destruction only a few steps away; the hunter in him thought maybe that was exactly what she needed to shock some sense back into her. As he swished the last dustpanful of dirt into her kitchen garbage can, he knew he was getting too soft.

  Her bedroom door opened once more. She came out wearing a baggy sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, her hair loose and wet around her shoulder, looking stronger than before. Only her eyes betrayed the turmoil still tumbling inside her.

  "You're still here," she said as she examined his attempt to clean up. As soon as he left, she would probably beat the rug, repot the viable plants, and do what she could to rescue her haven from the hell it had become.

  "Just finishing up." He secured the broom and dustpan in her hall closet.

  "You didn't have to clean up."

  "I thought it might help you get a good night's sleep."

  Her eyes glittered, erasing the fear for a moment, then she nodded and walked him to the front door. She opened it and silently urged him out. She stood there, small and vulnerable, in her home that was no longer an oasis. But even with the remnants of chaos under her feet, her shoulders were straight and her gaze held his steadily.

  Stay, an insistent nudge urged. But he could think of no logical reason to obey the disturbance in his gut, so he picked up the evidence kit and placed it by the threshold. "I want you to lock the door behind me."

  "I will. Good night, Lieutenant."

  For half a moment, indecision kept him rooted to the spot; then, with a tap on the doorframe, he turned and left.

  He sat in the car parked across the street from her house, watching—he wasn't sure for what. The bait hadn't been offered yet. He had no reason to believe Melinda would be anything but safe in her home tonight. But something held him back.

  For all her brave front, Melinda was afraid. Every light in her house blazed. Just as he'd suspected she would, through the lightweight shades, the outline of her figure rearranged her living space. She wouldn't get mu
ch sleep tonight.

  And like a fool, neither would he.

  * * *

  The room swirled with color. Black, red, green, yellow. Noises came in layers. Rain, thunder, a swish, a hiss. As the colors formed into a vortex settling above her, the stench of blood and sulfur permeated Melinda's senses. She willed her eyes to open. They wouldn't. She was powerless to avoid the cloud of color descending on her. The colors slowed and blended, then stopped. A crash. All became black once more, but she couldn't relax. The darkness clung until shards of light broke it apart, shaping themselves into something resembling a photo negative. Panic struck her, sharp and raw. The picture shifted once more, bringing into focus one corner.

  "Lindy, what you doing up?" A smiling face beamed down at her.

  She recognized the voice. Her eyes sprang open. "Mama?"

  The image faded and disappeared.

  "No! Come back!" she yelled with all her might. Her body shot straight up. As she sought to regain use of her limbs, her breath ripped through her lungs. She felt bruised and battered. Her nightdress clung to her sweat-drenched body. Her head pounded as if all the blood had squeezed out, then rushed back in.

  Great forks of lightning speared the sky, casting tortured shadows on the walls. The darkness around her tensed past endurance. The persistent pounding of rain pecked at her brain. Her body shook. Thunder rumbled through the countryside. She had to escape. She couldn't breathe inside. She had to feel free.

  Barefoot, without thinking, Melinda raced across the houses to the screened-in patio. Drops of rain crashed through the screen onto the white wrought-iron table, pinging a warning. Lightning struck the sky, making her jump and gasp. Every fiber in her urged her to run, to leave, to disappear—anywhere, it didn't matter, as long as it wasn't raining.

  But she couldn't. Not this time. She had to fight.

  She shoved through the screen door and ran over the stones arranged in a curving pathway to the front of the house. She'd go to the park and sit on the bench and watch the ducks float on the pond. That wasn't running. That was making a conscious decision. The ducks loved the rain, and watching them always took the edge off the apprehension making her feel as if she should apply as a circus sideshow attraction. Come one, come all! Come see the September Storm Woman. She goes crazy each and every September just from the sound of the rain! She'd watch the ducks swim for a little while, then everything would stop swirling, and she'd be okay.