by Sylvie Kurtz
"Police, open up!"
"Get lost!"
"Open up, Jackson, or I'm coming in!"
As Grady opened the trailer door, a police unit screeched into the park. With a scanning glance, he spotted Carson huddled beneath the kitchen table against the wall, and a raging Jackson only a few feet away, holding an empty beer bottle by the neck in one hand and an aluminum baseball bat in the other. In the harsh light from the fluorescent tube over the sink, stark lines of fury and hatred etched Jackson's face.
"Get outta here!" The bottle flew in a weak arc and exploded against the wall a foot from Grady's head. Jackson, swaying as he turned, searched for another missile. Finding none, he charged at Grady, brandishing the bat like a mace. "Stay out of this, you bastard!"
"Put the bat down, Jackson." Glass from the smashed bottle and fractured dishes crunched under Grady's feet.
Jackson took a swing at Grady and missed. Grady caught the drunk by the collar and shoved him against the wall.
"It's your fault the son of a bitch wants to leave." Jackson aimed a punch at Grady's stomach. Grady moved aside and the punch connected with air, throwing Jackson off balance. With a twist, Grady wrenched the bat free from Jackson's grip and threw it out of reach. Standing straight, he waited for Jackson's next attack.
"You ain't never gonna mess with my business again." With the maddened grunt of a bull seeing red, Jackson launched himself at Grady. A uniformed policeman stepped into the trailer in time to witness Jackson's assault.
"I've been waiting a long time for this," Grady muttered as Jackson neared. Venting all of his frustrations, Grady swung at the man and flattened him. Sprawled on the floor, Jackson looked up drunkenly at Grady, then passed out.
"He's all yours." Grady flexed his smarting knuckles. The punch hadn't given him as much satisfaction as he'd expected, and he instantly regretted stooping to a drunk's level. Was it any wonder the town council had no faith in him? With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned his attention to Carson, who still cowered under the table.
"He broke my pitching arm!" Carson sobbed, edging out from the table's protective cover at Grady's urging. "He broke my pitching arm! The big game's next week and the bastard broke my pitching arm!"
"Let's take a look at it." Grady examined the swelling arm, feeling Carson's heartbreak as if it were his own. He remembered being that young and watching his world shatter around him, remembered the helplessness and the fear. "Can you move your fingers?"
Face contorted in pain, Carson shook his head. Grady went to the small refrigerator and pulled out a tray of ice. No need to ask what had happened. The broken beer bottles and scattered beer cans told the story. Time enough later for details. All that mattered now was Carson. He dumped the cubes onto a dishcloth and tied the ends in a knot. Kneeling once more beside the boy, Grady placed the ice on Carson's arm.
"I love him, Grady. But no matter how hard I try, I can't do nothin' right by him."
"I know." Grady tied a makeshift sling over the arm. "We're going to take you to the hospital now, then we'll file a report."
A frightened look crossed Carson's too-white face.
"It's got to be done, Carson. He's got to take responsibility for what he's done to you. It's the only way he can get the help he needs."
Jackson moaned in the background. After a fearful look in his father's direction, the boy nodded and struggled to his feet.
"I'll be right beside you every step of the way." Grady would stand by Carson the way Seth had stood by him. "Come on. Let's get this arm looked at."
Outside, the whirling blue and red of the police unit's lights added a macabre effect to the sick yellow of the sodium bulbs high on their safety perches around the park, giving the curious crowd an unhealthy complexion. Grady spotted Melinda poised half in, half out of the truck and didn't know whether to be mad at her for disobeying his orders, or take her in his arms and smooth away the deep frown creasing her forehead. He did neither.
"Why don't you settle Carson in the truck," he said instead, then headed back to the trailer. He came back out with the officer, Jackson's weaving body supported between them. Melinda's arm circled Carson protectively.
"Kids," Jackson muttered as the officer guided him into the unit. "They're all morons. They don't appreciate nothin' parents do for them. All the sacrificin'. Here …" Jackson reached into his jeans pocket and drew out a fistful of change. Most of the coins fell through his thick, uncoordinated fingers. He threw the rest in Carson's direction. "Here's a quarter. Call someone who cares."
The unit's slamming door cut off the rest of Jackson's litany. The officer stooped over an object on the ground. "Grady, you might want to take a look at this."
On the dry red clay, highlighted by the flashlight's strong beam, lay a heart-shaped locket. The fall from Jackson's pocket had sprung it open. Inside was a picture of Tommy Lee Petersen.
* * *
It was nearly two in the morning when they returned to Grady's home and to separate beds. Carson Crews, arm in a cast, had been settled in a hospital room until something more permanent could be arranged in the morning. Because of the danger stalking Melinda wherever she went, Grady hadn't been able to see to Carson himself. Jackson Crews had fallen into the blissful oblivion of the drunk in a holding cell, and questions would have to wait until morning for answers.
Melinda had longed for the comfort of Grady's arms, but the incident at the trailer park seemed to have left him wearing the mask of the terminally polite. It irritated the stuffing out of her, but she wasn't about to beg for a hug—no matter how badly she needed one.
She tossed and turned on the small mattress in Grady's spare room, alone under the cool white sheets. She kept picturing him on the other side of the wall, wondering if he was as sleepless as she was. Finally, the constant flap-flap of the ceiling fan's paddles allowed her to relax and the tiredness in her limbs migrated to her mind.
But when she slept, the nightmare returned. The splashes of color electrified her brain into overdrive. Melinda had to get up. It wasn't a choice, but an overwhelming need—a need to release the potent energy swirling through her like a tornado of wind, fire, and lightning.
She didn't bother wiping the sweat from her brow. Didn't bother getting dressed. Her mind remained focused on the urgency of the need to draw. Her heart told her it would unlock the gates of her private hell.
She snapped on the overhead light. With frantic movements, she scrounged the night table for paper and found none. As she ransacked her suitcase, the monster's feral growl pounded in her head. Tears of frustration strangled her throat. Biting at her trembling lower lip, she swiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Sketchbook in hand, she dumped the contents of her purse on the sand-colored carpet and snatched a pencil from the debris. She drew her knees up, and used them as an easel.
Fast and furious pencil lines appeared on the pristine white sheet of paper. Then came the painstaking layers of detail. One after another, creating a transparent effect of images within images. They made no sense, even to her. But she didn't analyze. She sketched, guided by an unknown internal force, and trusted that in time she'd understand.
She drew until her cramped hand could no longer hold the pencil and the rush of explosive force died.
Hands flat by her sides, she stared at the feverish lines until slowly a picture took form. Flames, high and hungry. A knife, large and sharp. A body, felled and falling. And there, in the midst of chaos, a glint of recognition. A cuff link, plain and simple, with an A etched on its face.
Sense she was no longer alone, she looked up.
Grady stood at her bedroom door, his face pale, his eyes pinched with worry, his mouth a thin line, but he offered no physical contact. She could taste his loneliness across the space from bed to door, could feel his inner turmoil in his knuckle-whitening grip on the knob and jamb, could hear the hesitation in his breath. Some sort of demon had stolen her memory, but she sensed a different kind of mon
ster had stolen something from him, too.
They were kindred souls.
Except kindred souls didn't look at each other as if they were strangers—not after what they'd shared the previous afternoon. And lovers didn't hold each other at icy arm's length.
Slowly, he turned away.
"Grady …"
He hesitated, then continued on. The soft click of the door closing sounded like doom. He was back to being the cop and she the witness.
Distance—maybe it was best.
She'd known there was a risk in giving in to her physical need for him. She'd thought it would be all right, had thought she could keep heart and body separate. She hadn't known the union would be one of soul and spirit, too, and would touch them both so deeply. She wanted to go to him, wanted to hold him until morning, wanted to feel the peace that came with contentment in his arms. But her body seemed incapable of movement.
With his loving, he had taken a part of her that would never belong to anyone else. With his quiet leaving, he was marking boundaries. With his silence, he had pushed her away. She curled her fingers around the nightgown over her heart, trying to hold the jagged pain from spreading.
It was too late. Already her limbs were numb, cold and shaking.
* * *
Melinda didn't bother trying to sleep again. She showered, dressed, and stared at her mad drawing until the steely light of a cloudy day filtered through the curtains, until the lines blurred and the feeling of betrayal had deadened into nothing more than a slow throb. When noises came from the kitchen, she joined Grady.
"I don't have tea or English muffins," Grady said as he placed a glass of orange juice and a plate of toast spread with peanut butter on the square card table. Dressed in his uniform blues, he looked neat and pressed and very remote. "Coffee?"
"That'll be fine." Her smile felt brittle. She was touched that he'd remembered her preferences, yet hurt by the distance his stiff body language proclaimed. Had she been wrong to think their lovemaking had affected him as deeply as it had her?
"It'll have to be a quick breakfast. I've got to get to the station." Grady handed her a mug of coffee and settled in front of the sandwich he'd set on the counter for himself.
"That's all right. I can find my way to work on my own." If being around her was so painful, she wouldn't prolong his agony.
"It's not safe."
"Neither is this house," she said looking pointedly at his covered thigh. "At least at work I won't be alone. There'll be plenty of other people around."
"I'd rather have you were I can keep an eye on you."
She fidgeted with her glass. Having him so close and yet so far would mean a tortured she wasn't sure she could endure. "I'd go stark raving mad with nothing to do all day. I have a business to run, Grady. I need to be there."
His cool, blue gaze raked her with the intensity of a laser, but she didn't recoil. As if he were weighing two sides of an equation, his jaw flinched.
"You'll stay inside," he said finally.
"Yes," she said, her relief evident on her sigh. She looked away, concentrating on the contents of her glass, her fingers feeling jittery, her muscles twitching for action.
"You won't go anywhere alone?"
She smiled, countering his seriousness with a light tone. "Not even the ladies' room?"
"Not even there." His expression remained grim.
"Isn't that a little extreme?"
"So was that van nearly making you the stuffing of a deadly sandwich."
Her smile faded. Was it her personal safety or her wellbeing as a witness that worried him so much? A kernel of anger settled in her stomach and as prolific as a weed in mulch, it took root and wouldn't let go. "You're right, of course," she said, her voice stiff and tight. "I'll be careful."
After a silent ride in his truck, Grady saw her settled at her desk at The Essential Gardener, and after giving her a set of safety instructions rivaling a clearance application for a secret military project, he left.
Her police escort had naturally drawn plenty of attention and it wasn't long before Dolores showed up at her cubicle, hands flying, asking oblique questions. Not in the mood to deal with anyone, Melinda gave evasive answers.
"So what's really going on?" Dolores asked, perching on the corner of Melinda's desk.
Melinda opened a drawer and closed it again. "Nothing."
Dolores's grin grew Cheshire-cat wide. "After all the dates I've tried to arrange for you, you've gone and fallen for the starched cop!"
Shrugging, Melinda searched the top of her desk, she wasn't quite sure for what. "Of course not. Grady's just a cop doing his job, and I'm just someone he thinks is a witness."
"Uh-huh. Well, you'll get over him soon enough. He wasn't right for you, anyway. What you need is someone who can add some fun to your life. Stiff upper lip and whalebone corsets are fine, hon." Dolores's voice softened. "But sometimes, you've got to let down the wall to see the view. It might surprise you."
Melinda found a file and shuffled the papers inside. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Tonight, I'm taking you out. I've got two very handsome young men who are dying to meet you."
With a firm slap, Melinda closed the file. "I doubt that idea's going to sit well with Grady. He's determined to keep me under lock and key until he's found Angela's killer."
"For how long?" Dolores leaned forward. Irritation showed in the thinness of her voice. "It could take a while before the killer's found. Are you going to let him keep you prisoner like that, keep you from having a life?"
"Dolores—"
"Or have you remembered anything more that's given him a solid lead?"
"Not really." She shrugged again. "Not about Angela's murder anyway." She frowned down at the hands twined in her lap. "I'm starting to get the really bad feeling my father is responsible for my mother's death, though."
Dolores perked up. "What makes you think that?"
She hesitated, then leaned back in her chair, looking intently into Dolores's eyes. "Did my father own a pair of gold cuff links with the letter A etched into them?"
As Dolores nodded, a pained look crossed her face. "They were a wedding gift from your mother."
"I saw one last night in a … memory."
"Oh, Melinda." Dolores reached for Melinda's hand and pasted on a bolstering smile. "Then you need this evening out more than ever." She squeezed Melinda's fingers gently. "Your mother would want you to laugh, to enjoy life, not to dwell on this painful past like you are."
"If he did kill her, then he needs to face the consequences of his actions."
As Dolores hopped off the corner of the desk, her face pinched. "Men like your father don't have to. That's something I learned a long time ago. You'll only make your life miserable by pursuing this. If you really want to hurt him, what you need to do is divorce yourself from him."
Melinda didn't answer, couldn't think of what to say. But hiding once more from the truth felt wrong.
"About tonight—" Dolores started.
"I'll think about it," Melinda said, but the idea of going out with one of Dolores's boy toys held no appeal. Not with so much weighing on her mind. Not with Grady's loving still imprinted on her body and soul. Not with her heart so heavy from Grady's forced distance.
"You do that," Dolores said, "and I'll arrange everything." With that, she left, and Melinda's tension deflated like a balloon that had lost its tie.
Melinda drummed her fingers on her desk. She'd never asked questions about that night so long ago. Instead she'd accepted what she'd been told and hidden in the comfort of surface reality. But even that hadn't buried the truth. Her checkered dreams had visited her every night to remind her of the past. And while she'd been pretending everything was normal, her nightmare had slipped from the misty folds of nighttime dreams and invaded her daytime life, destroying the illusion of safety she'd created for herself.
She'd made her own prison.
It was up to her to set
herself free.
Chapter 14
The old house with its red bricks, thick trees and homey English ivy climbing the chimney looked inviting. But the doorbell echoed eerily inside the house and an icy blast of air-conditioning welcomed her when Melinda opened the door with her key.
"Daddy?" she called as she deactivated the alarm. Her voice carried across the marble-floored hall, but her father's answering boom didn't follow.
She'd spent most of the day at her desk, making phone calls between editing copy for the spring catalog. One of those calls had been to her father, who'd agreed to meet her here at five. Another had been to Grady, who'd seemed relieved to hear she'd be tied up at work until later. But before he'd agreed, he'd made her promise that Dolores would keep her company, and that she'd double lock the doors and set the alarm.
Lying to Grady had proved harder than she'd expected, but with him as her shadow, her father would never speak openly, and she'd grown weary of lies, of nightmares, of fears. Finding the truth, finding peace, had become worth any price. Grady had shown her how much of life she was missing. With her past known and faced, maybe she'd feel safe enough to allow her current repressed memories to return. Then she could help Angela receive justice and Grady solve his case.
She wandered into the living room with its triple set of French doors. The lure of the outside garden was too much to resist, so she opened the middle doors and stepped into the greenery.
Gray clouds frothed in the sky like a brew from a witch's cauldron. The wind swirled the rayon of her dress against her ankles, made the tree limbs shake and shiver, the flowers bend and bob. The scent of rain tainted the air. And edginess crept into her limbs like tiny hungry spiders.
Sitting on the stone bench where her mother's greenhouse had once stood, she absorbed the surroundings. Nothing remained of that night, except her memories. Crossing her arms beneath her chest, she rubbed at the sudden chill and started rocking her body slowly back and forth.
"It's okay. You'll be okay …."
She realized she was falling back on her habit of self-hypnosis, stopped rocking, unfolded her arms and drew in a deep breath. Superimposing Grady's strength onto herself, she straightened her spine, closed her eyes and forced herself to look at the images forming at the edge of her consciousness.
