Moonglow, Texas

by Mary McBride

  “Is this where you lived?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” Dan slipped his glasses off, then wrenched his gaze from the house to her. “How’d you know?”

  Molly shrugged. “I can’t think of any other reason to come here unless heartstrings were pulling you back.”

  “Heartstrings,” he said. “Sometimes I think that was all that held this old place together.”

  “Do you want to get out and have a closer look?” Molly asked, her hand already on the door handle.

  Dan shook his head. “Too many snakes.”

  Molly thought he might as well have said too many memories from the way his mouth twisted down at the corners and the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. “Tell me,” she said softly. “About the heartstrings.”

  “My mother ran off when I was two,” he said, his eyes locked on the ramshackle house. “And after that, my father dragged me around from one oil well to another in Texas and Oklahoma. By the time he died, I was twelve years old and I hadn’t lived any one place for more than two or three months. Then I came here, to live with Miss Hannah.”

  “Your aunt?”

  He shook his head. “My grandma. Born a Shackelford and died one, and never did bother to get married in spite of my daddy coming along.” He laughed softly. “She said she couldn’t live with a man for more than a couple of weeks without wanting to blow his head off with a shotgun, so she figured she was better off living alone than going to prison.”

  “I know the feeling,” Molly murmured. “So, you were twelve when you came to live with her?”

  “Twelve going on twenty-one. But she managed to knock a little sense and a few manners into my head.”

  “I’ll bet this place was all shiny and spit-polished back then,” Molly said as she watched an armadillo scuttle around a rear corner of the derelict dwelling. She was wishing she could have seen the place back in its prime. Wishing especially she could have seen the boy who was twelve going on twenty-one.

  “The county would never give Miss Hannah a proper address,” he said, still staring through the windshield. “That was the bane of her existence. So she made up her own. Thirteen twenty-eight Mockingbird Road.” He laughed. “She wouldn’t accept mail any other way.”

  “Stubborn,” Molly said.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And poetic.”

  Dan’s eyes drifted closed a moment. When he opened them, the green light there was hard as an emerald. “Miss Hannah died when I was seventeen. I walked out that door and I never came back.”

  “Until now.” Thank heaven, she almost added, wondering where that thought had come from.

  “Yeah. Until now.”

  He reached forward to twist the key in the ignition. “Let’s get out of here.”

  What a stupid thing to do, Dan thought as he wrenched the cap from a beer bottle and slung himself into the lawn chair. Piling bittersweet memories on bad ones wasn’t all that bright, and taking Molly out to Miss Hannah’s place was just about the dumbest thing he’d ever done.

  What did she care? Kathryn Claiborn had enough of her own bad and bittersweet memories to contend with. She didn’t need to be saddled with any of his, that was for damn sure.

  When they’d gotten back to Molly’s house, and while she was whistling and sorting out their purchases in a back room, Dan had picked up the phone in the kitchen and put in a call to Houston.

  “Bobby, I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can, amigo. Hell, just consider it a paid vacation. We have no reason to believe the Claiborn woman is in any jeopardy. Far as we know, there’s not a single member of the Red Millennium who hasn’t blown himself up.”

  “Bobby…”

  “You have to do it, Dan.” Robert Hayes’s voice lost its southern affability and took on a bureaucratic chill. “Everybody else is working double, even triple shifts. You hear me? I’ve already gone to the wall for you, son, but I’m not putting on a blindfold and smoking a final cigarette on your behalf. You got that? If you don’t do this, you’re done. There won’t be anything more I can do.”

  Dan twisted the cap off another beer now, thinking it would be easier if he just ran an IV into his arm. Eliminate the middleman, so to speak. The way he was going to be eliminated soon.

  Against regulations, Bobby had shown him his psychological workup a few weeks after he got out of the hospital.

  The bullet that Deputy Marshal Shackelford took meant nothing to him. It was the bullet that killed his female partner that shattered his confidence. In my considered opinion, without long-term counseling, which Deputy Shackelford dismisses as “voodoo drivel,” he may never regain his former level of confidence, thus making him entirely unsuitable for the duties he is asked to perform.

  “Long-term counseling, my ass,” Dan muttered. You either did a job or you didn’t. You withstood the heat or you left the kitchen. If you said you lived at Thirteen Twenty-eight Mockingbird Road, then by God all your mail better be addressed as such or you’d slap it back in the mailman’s bag.

  He was glad Miss Hannah couldn’t see him now.

  Molly ate her spaghetti dinner at the kitchen counter, keeping an eye out the window as she slurped up the long strings of pasta. She’d called out to Dan earlier against her better judgment.

  “Hey! How about some spaghetti for dinner?”

  He’d saluted her with his bottle and called back, “No, thanks.”

  Somehow, after their visit to town and Miss Hannah’s house, the day had just frittered away. Molly hadn’t gone back to work. God knows Dan hadn’t even started. He’d opened a roll of wallpaper, stared at it thoughtfully, then rolled it back up and gone outside to his lawn chair where he’d been ever since.

  But despite his handyman shortcomings she liked him. Really liked him. Maybe she was drawn to his loneliness because of her own. Still, he didn’t seem to have the least bit of interest in her. He hadn’t asked her a single question about herself. Not “Where are you from?” or “What do you do?” or even a silly “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a hellhole like this?”

  It shouldn’t have surprised her. She wasn’t a very interesting person now, and probably hadn’t been even when she’d had a life. The most interesting thing that had ever happened to her was getting blown up by a terrorist’s experimental bomb, and that was something she could only discuss when and if she ever got to court, which seemed very unlikely now that the Red Millennium was considered dead as a doornail.

  Whoever said that blondes have more fun, she thought dismally, was way off the mark. Dan, on the other hand, seemed to be having fun, swilling beer while slung out in his shady chair. Maybe she’d do that, too. After all, it was her backyard.

  She scraped what was left of her spaghetti into the trash can, pulled out the plastic sack and hauled it to the big metal can out back.

  “Nice evening,” she called out, getting only a nod in reply.

  Maybe blondes had more fun because they were persistent, she thought. Like Raylene. She stood a little straighter, throwing her shoulders back, making the most of her 34Bs, then sauntered toward the trailer.

  “Pretty sunset,” she said. It wasn’t exactly an opening Raylene would have used, but she couldn’t quite imagine herself saying, “My Lord, Danny. Don’t you look cute out here all by your lonesome? Want some company?”

  Molly cleared her throat. “Want some company?”

  At some point, he had changed into a pair of khaki shorts, and when he shifted in his chair, resting an ankle on a knee, she couldn’t help but notice the muscles of his thigh and the long cords of his calves. A little stitch deep inside her pulled tight.

  “I’m off the clock, Molly.”

  “You’re in my backyard, Dan.”

  His mouth slid into a grin as he tipped his bottle her way as if to say touché. That little stitch inside her tweaked again.

  “Got an extra beer?” she asked.

  He jerked his thumb in the direction of
a cooler. “Help yourself.”

  She extracted a cold bottle, twisted off the cap and took a long drink. “That’s good,” she said, folding her legs and lowering herself to the ground beside his chair. “I keep forgetting how much I enjoy an occasional beer. Salud.” She reached up to tap her bottle against his.

  Dan promptly switched his beer to the other, more distant hand, sighing at the same time and recrossing his legs.

  “How’d you get the scar?” Molly asked.

  “What?”

  “Right there.” She touched her finger to the gnarled tissue on his thigh. “How’d you get it?”

  “Staple gun.”

  Molly blinked. “What?”

  “A staple gun. I was putting down a carpet and I stapled myself to the damned floor.”

  She laughed. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay.”

  “How did you get it? Really.”

  “I’d tell you,” he said, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “Right.” Molly took another sip of the cold beer. Be persistent, she told herself. What would Raylene do now? “I’ve got a scar in just about the same place. Wanna see it?”

  “No.”

  She was already edging up her hemline to disclose the spot where shrapnel from the Chemistry Building basement had supposedly penetrated her leg. The final consensus was that it was a fragment of a Bunsen burner. “Right there. See.”

  His gaze drifted almost lazily from her ankle to her thigh, idled there a moment, then turned away. “Nice,” he murmured.

  Good God. Her leg felt warmer somehow just from his gaze. Imagine if he touched her.

  “Don’t you even want to know how I got it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aren’t you even the least bit curious?”

  This time his sigh was closer to a growl. “Molly, I’m sitting out here trying to medicate myself into a few hours’ sleep. I’m not in the mood to play Twenty Questions about damaged body parts. Okay?”

  “Sorry.” She pushed up from the ground, then furiously whacked twigs and grass clippings from the back of her skirt. Hot tears were stinging her eyes so she didn’t see Dan rise from his chair, but he must have, because the next thing she knew, she was wrapped in his arms and his lips were close to her ear.

  “You don’t want this, Molly,” he whispered roughly. “Trust me on this.”

  “I wasn’t…”

  “Yes, you were.” His embrace tightened painfully around her ribs as his hot breath nearly seared her ear. “Now leave me the hell alone.”

  When he practically pushed her away, Molly was hard-pressed to keep her balance. And even though she could hardly see for the tears in her eyes, even though she wanted to run, she and her bruised ego walked slowly toward the house and slammed the door behind her.

  Sometime during the night, somewhere between the low trill of the crickets and the high whine of the locusts, Dan thought he heard the insistent ringing of a phone through the open trailer window.

  He wrenched up on an elbow, eyed the clock and listened to the sound of Molly’s voice floating through the air.

  Who the hell was calling her at three in the morning?

  He dropped back on the air mattress, scowling, and let darkness wash over him again.

  Molly was slamming around the kitchen the next morning, opening drawers for no reason, slamming them shut again, cursing the slow-brewing coffeemaker, crashing a mug down so hard on the countertop that it broke in her hand. She didn’t even hear the back door squeak open.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Dan dropped his toolbox on the kitchen table. “If you’ve got another cup, I could use some coffee.”

  She ripped the pot from beneath the brew basket, sloshed the dark liquid into a mug and slapped it down on the table. “There you go.”

  “Molly, about last night…”

  She held up a hand. “I don’t want to discuss it, Dan. Please. Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “Fine with me.” He took a tentative sip from the steaming mug. “Who called you last night?”

  “What?” She could feel her eyes widen perceptibly. How did he know?

  “I heard your phone ringing around three. Who called?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Somebody,” he countered, eyeing her over the rim of the mug.

  “It was a wrong number.”

  “Do you always chat with strangers in the middle of the night?”

  “The guy was very contrite,” she said. “He apologized. At length.”

  Molly couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. Those green eyes could be so cool and inscrutable sometimes. What business was it of his, anyway, that her phone had rung last night at three, or that a man’s raspy voice had asked for Kathryn?

  “You seem a little edgy this morning,” he said, slinging a hip on the table. “Anything wrong?”

  “Wrong?” she croaked. “What could possibly be wrong? I make a blatant play for every man who comes to do work on my house. Sometimes they respond. Sometimes they don’t.” She lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “No big deal.”

  Just like the phone call, she told herself. It was no big deal. She probably only imagined that the caller had asked for Kathryn. It made sense. She always dreamed about her old self, and her dream had simply carried over to the caller’s question. The guy had probably asked for Carolyn or Marilyn or somebody. Not Kathryn. It had nothing to do with the terrorists. Anyway, the Marshals Service would have alerted her if anybody was snooping around. They had told her that.

  She glared at Dan. “Are you here to work or not?”

  He drained the mug and put it down on the table. “Have hammer, will travel, darlin’. Wire Dan. Moonglow.”

  Dan was up on the roof with a mouthful of nails when Molly came out the door wearing her floppy hat, with her straw bag hooked over her shoulder. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes when she called up to him. “I’m going into town. Need anything?”

  He spat out the nails. “Hang on. I’ll go with you.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I won’t be gone long. You just keep on keeping on.” She gave him a sprightly little wave and started down the driveway.

  Dan muttered a curse, shoved the hammer through his belt loop and started a controlled slide down the pitch of the roof toward the ladder. He realized immediately that loose and rotten shingles precluded any notion of control, and the next thing he knew he was hanging on to the guttering for dear life while his legs flailed in empty space.

  Okay. Damn. He loosened one hand and reached for the ladder, only to send it sliding down the sidewall to hit the ground with a distinct thud.

  “Molly,” he yelled.

  “I’m right here, Ace.” Her voice drifted up from below, accompanied by something close to a chuckle. A fairly nasty one.

  “You wanna pick up that ladder for me?”

  “This ladder?”

  “Aw, come on, Molly. I really don’t want to break my neck.” As soon as the words left his mouth, the guttering gave a horrible groan and began to buckle. “Molly, get the goddamned ladder. Now.”

  “I’m getting it.” There was panic in her voice now rather than amusement. “Here. Let me just…”

  “Dammit. Never mind.”

  Dan tried, not all that successfully, to launch himself away from Molly and the useless ladder as he and ten feet of metal guttering came crashing down.

  “The last time I saw you, Danny, I think my dad was treating you for a broken nose.” Dr. Richard Pettigrew Jr. shoved the X ray into a slot on the light box and studied the black-and-white picture that emerged. “Well, you’re lucky this time. It’s not broken.”

  “Lucky me.” Dan looked at his throbbing ankle. Bullets didn’t hurt half as much, he thought.

  “I’ll just wrap it,” Rich Pettigrew said, “lend you a pair of crutches and let you go. You’ll have to stay off of it for a few days, though. Keep it iced and elevated as much as possible. And stay away from roof
s.”

  Molly flew out of her chair in the waiting room as soon as he angled the crutches through the door.

  “Is it broken?” she asked.

  “Sprained,” he answered through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, that’s good. Well, I don’t mean it’s good. I meant sprained is a lot better than broken.”

  “I know what you meant.”

  She was fluttering around him like a gnat.

  “Look out. You’re gonna make me trip over the damned crutches now.”

  She stepped back, hands on hips, her chin thrust up into his face. “Are you implying that I made you fall from the roof?”

  Dan hobbled past her. “You just could have been a mite quicker with that ladder, is all,” he grumbled.

  He could hear her muttering all the way to the parking lot, mostly about handymen with a pretty snide emphasis on the handy.

  “What are you stopping here for?” he asked when Molly pulled into a parking space on Main Street.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” She reached around his crutches for her handbag in the back seat.

  Dan looked out the window. This stretch of Main Street didn’t have a single store. It was mostly offices, real estate, insurance and—hello!—the telephone company.

  “You need to pay your phone bill?” he asked innocently.

  “Yes. That’s right. It’ll just take me a second.”

  Dan watched her disappear through the door. “People in WITSEC pay their bills through the regional offices, babe. But you don’t know I know that. Who called you last night, Molly? Who?”

  Chapter 3

  “Here, Hopalong. Take these.” Molly jammed two capsules into his left hand and a glass of water into his right. “And don’t look at me like I’m trying to poison you. They’re pain pills.”

  “Shackelfords are suspicious by nature,” Dan said, tossing back the capsules while casting another bleak look at his throbbing ice-packed ankle on Molly’s foot-stool.

  She hadn’t said much after their stop at the phone company. She was being a good little witness, keeping her own counsel. He guessed that she’d run into a bureaucratic brick wall trying to find out where that phone call had come from.