The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “It does. If I were to ask you—I asked Brody, but he and Sheriff Mardson are friends—so if I asked you, would you tell me what you think of him? As the sheriff.”

  “Highly enough to have voted for him both times he’s run. I’ve known him and Debbie a dozen years, since they moved here from Cheyenne.”

  “Yes, but…” Reece moistened her lips. “As far as police work.”

  “As far as that, he does what needs doing, and doesn’t make a fuss about it. You may not think there’s much needs doing in a town this size. But I guarantee you, every mother’s son, and daughter, in Angel’s Fist has a gun. Most more than one. Rick makes sure people use them for hunting and target practice. He keeps things as peaceable as you can expect when this town bulges at the seams with tourists. He does his job.”

  It didn’t take a hawk eye to see Reece wasn’t convinced. “Let me ask you this,” Joanie continued. “Anything else you can do about this business but what you did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then leave it to Rick, and go on back in the kitchen and do your job.”

  “All right. I guess you’re right. Um, Joanie? I’m making that list, and I just wanted to mention that buying bulbs of garlic would be cheaper and more practical in the long run than buying garlic powder.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  The soup was a hit, so there was no point thinking it would’ve been better if she’d had everything she wanted at hand.

  That was past—that constant striving for better, for best, for perfection. Hadn’t she learned by now it was fine to get by? Nobody here cared if the oregano was fresh or had been sitting in plastic jars for six months.

  Why should she?

  She only had to cook, serve and pick up her check.

  She had no investment here. In fact, she’d probably made a mistake taking the apartment upstairs. It was too close to settling in. She should move back to the hotel.

  Better, she should just toss her things into her car and move on.

  Nothing to keep her here. Nothing to keep her anywhere.

  “Brody’s here,” Linda-gail called out. “Ticket up, he and the doc are going for the soup.”

  “Brody and the doctor,” Reece mumbled. “Isn’t that perfect?”

  She’d fix them soup, all right. No problem at all.

  With rage just beginning to bubble, she ladled up two bowls, plated them with rolls and butter. And as the bubbling went to steam, she personally carried them out to the booth where the men sat.

  “Here’s your soup. And for a side dish, let me make this clear. I don’t need or want a medical examination. I’m not sick. There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight. I didn’t fall asleep on the trail and dream I saw a woman being strangled to death.”

  She spoke clearly enough, and with the outrage of her words stinging the air, conversations stopped at the tables near the booth. For a moment, the only sound was Garth Brooks on the juke.

  “Enjoy your lunch,” Reece finished and strode back to the kitchen.

  She yanked off her apron, grabbed her jacket. “My shift’s over. I’m going upstairs.”

  “Go right ahead.” Joanie placidly flipped a burger on the grill. “You’re on eleven to eight tomorrow.”

  “I know my schedule.” She walked out the back, round the side, and stomped up the steps.

  Inside the apartment, she went directly to her maps and guides and took out the ones that applied. She’d find her way to the spot by herself. She didn’t need an escort; she didn’t need some man tagging along to placate and patronize her.

  She pulled open the map, then watched it flutter to the floor from her limp fingers.

  It was covered with jagged red lines and loops and splotches. The area across from the trail where she’d stood the day before was heavily circled, dozens of times.

  She hadn’t done that, she hadn’t. Still, she looked at her fingers as if expecting to see red smears on the tips. The map had been pristine only the day before, and now it looked as if it had been folded and refolded again and again, drawn and scribbled on in some crazy code.

  She hadn’t done it. She couldn’t have done it.

  Breath wheezing, she dashed to the kitchen drawer, dragged it open. There, just where she’d put it, was her red marker. With trembling fingers, she pulled off the top, and saw the tip was dull and flattened.

  But it hadn’t been. She’d bought it only a few days before from Mr. Drubber.

  With great care she replaced the top, laid the marker back in the drawer. Closed the drawer. Then she turned, keeping her back to the wall, and scanned the apartment.

  There was nothing out of place. She’d know. She’d know if a book had been moved an inch out of position. But everything was precisely how she’d left it that morning. When she’d locked the door behind her.

  Checked the lock twice. Maybe three times.

  She looked down at the map on the floor again. Had she done that? Sometime during the night, between the bad dreams and the shakes, had she gotten up and taken the marker out of the drawer?

  Then why couldn’t she remember?

  It didn’t matter, she told herself, and walked back to pick up the map. She’d been upset, that was natural. She’d been very upset and she’d gotten the marker to be certain she didn’t forget the exact spot where she’d seen the murder.

  It didn’t make her crazy.

  She refolded the map. She’d buy a new one, she decided. She’d throw this one away—bury it in Joanie’s trash—and buy a new one. It was only a map. Nothing to worry about.

  But when she heard footsteps on the stairs, she stuffed it hastily—guiltily—in her back pocket.

  The knock was brisk and, if she could interpret the sound of knuckles on wood—irritated. It made her certain it was Brody on the other side of the door.

  She took a moment to be sure she was calm enough, then walked to the door to unlock and open it.

  “You ready?”

  “I changed my mind. I’ll go by myself.”

  “Fine. Do that.” But he nudged her back a step, then slammed the door behind him. “I don’t know why I bother. I didn’t drag Doc downstairs to take a look at you. Why the hell would I? It happens he comes in for lunch a few times a week—which, unless you’re blind and stupid, you’ve seen for yourself by now. It also happens that if we happen to be in there at the same time, we sometimes sit down together. It’s called being sociable. Happy now?”

  “No. Not especially.”

  “Good because this is bound to get you going again anyway. Rick’s made some inquiries—which would be his job, by my description of it—so word’s getting around. Doc asked me if I knew anything about it. Whether I’d have told him or not was up for debate until you served the soup. Damn good soup, by the way. You maniac.”

  “I was in a psych ward for three months. Being called a maniac doesn’t hurt my feelings.”

  “Maybe you should’ve given it a few more weeks.”

  She opened her mouth, shut it. Then walked to the daybed, sat. And laughed. Kept laughing as she pulled the tie out of her hair so it fell free down her back. “Why is that comforting? Why the hell is that sort of rude, inappropriate response easier to hear than all the ‘you poor things,’ the ‘there, there, it’s all right nows.’ Maybe I am a maniac. Maybe I am just out of my mind.”

  “Maybe you should stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I thought I had. I guess not. Well-meaning people, people who care about me, lined up doctors or therapists every time I blinked.”

  “I’m not well meaning. I don’t love you.”

  “I’ll remember that next time.” She set the tie on the little table by the daybed. “Are you still willing to take me out there?”

  “My day’s shot to hell anyway.”

  “Okay then.” She rose to retrieve her pack.

  He stood by the door and watched her check the contents. Zip the pack. Unzip it, check inside again. Unless he misse
d his guess, when she zipped it shut a second time, she struggled for a moment not to open it yet again.

  When he opened the door, she went out, locked it. Then simply stood for a moment staring at the door.

  “Go ahead. Check the lock. No point worrying and obsessing over it after we leave.”

  “Thanks.” She checked it, sent him a brief, apologetic look, then checked it again before she made herself start down the stairs.

  “It’s an improvement,” she told him. “It used to take me twenty minutes to get out of a room. And that was with a Xanax to take the edge off.”

  “Better living through chemistry.”

  “Not so much. Pills make me…off. More off than I might seem to be to you.” Before she got into his car, she checked the backseat. “I didn’t care about feeling off for a while, but I’d rather just take the time to make sure about things than take a pill and not care about them.”

  She secured her seat belt, tested it. “Don’t you care why I was in a psych ward?”

  “Are you going to tell me your life story now?”

  “No. But I figure since I’ve pulled you in this far, you should know part of it.”

  He pulled away from the curve to start the drive around the lake and out of town. “I already know part of it. The sheriff did a background check on you.”

  “He—” She broke off, made herself think it through. “I guess that would be a logical step. Nobody knows me, and suddenly I’m yelling murder.”

  “Did they ever catch the guy who shot you?”

  “No.” Automatically her hand came up to rub absently on her chest. “At least, they think they identified one of them, but he OD’d before they could bring him in and question him. There was more than one. I don’t know how many, but more than one. There had to be.”

  “Okay.”

  “Twelve people. People I worked with or cooked for and cared about. All dead. I should’ve been dead, too. It’s one of the things I think about. Why I lived and they didn’t. What’s the meaning of that?”

  “Luck of the draw.”

  “Maybe. Maybe it’s just that cold.” Was there comfort in the cold? she wondered. “They didn’t get but a couple thousand. Most people use credit cards when they go out to dinner. A couple thousand, and whatever was in wallets, purses. Some jewelry—nothing special. Wine and beer. We kept a good wine cellar. But that wasn’t why they died. Nobody would have stopped them, nobody would have put up a fight. Not over some money, some wine, some watches.”

  “Why did they die?”

  She stared at the mountains, so powerful, so wild against the milky blue of the sky. “Because the people who came in wanted it that way. For the fun of it. Thrill kills. I heard the cops say that. I’d worked there since I was sixteen. I grew up in Maneo’s.”

  “You worked at sixteen. You must’ve been a wild child.”

  “I had my moments. But I wanted to work. I wanted restaurant work. I bused tables, did food prep on weekends, during the summer and holidays. I loved it. I loved them.”

  She could see it now, as it had been then. The bustle in the kitchen, the clatter outside the swinging door, the voices, the smells.

  “It was my last night. They were giving me a little going-away party. It was supposed to be a surprise, so I was fooling around in the kitchen to give them time to set it up. There was screaming and gunfire and crashing. I think I went blank, just for a minute. You didn’t hear screaming and gunfire in Maneo’s. Not in a nice family restaurant. Sheryl Crow.”

  “What?”

  “On the kitchen radio. It was Sheryl Crow. I grabbed for my cell phone—that’s how I remember it, anyway. And the door swung open. I started to turn—or maybe I started to run. In my head, when I think about it, or dream about it, I see the gun, and the dark gray hooded sweatshirt. That’s all. I see that and I’m falling, then the pain erupts. Twice, they said. Once in the chest, and the other bullet grazed my head. But I didn’t die.”

  When she paused, he glanced toward her. “Keep going.”

  “I fell back into the closet. Cleaning supplies. I’d been putting away cleaning supplies in the closet, and I fell back inside. The cops told me that later. I didn’t know where I was. I came out of it, a little. Felt numb and cold and confused.”

  She rubbed her hand between her breasts again. “I couldn’t get my breath. This weight on my chest. This awful pain, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get air. The door was still open, not all the way, just a few inches. I heard voices, and at first I tried to call out for help. But I couldn’t. Lucky I couldn’t. There was crying and screaming, and laughing.”

  She lowered her hand, very deliberately, into her lap. “Then I didn’t think about calling for help. I only thought about being quiet, very quiet, so they wouldn’t come and check. They wouldn’t come kill me.

  “Something crashed. My friend, my line cook, fell on the other side of the door. Ginny. Ginny Shanks. She was twenty-four. She’d just gotten engaged the month before. Valentine’s Day. They were getting married in October. I was going to be her maid of honor.”

  When Brody didn’t speak, Reece closed her eyes and let the rest come. “Ginny fell; I could see her face through the crack of the door. Bruised and bloody where they must have hit her. She was crying, and she was begging. And our eyes met, just for a second. I think they did. Then I heard the gunshot, and she jerked. Just once, like a puppet on a string. Her eyes changed. A fingersnap, and the life was just gone. One of them must have kicked the door, because it shut. Everything was black. Ginny was just on the other side of the door, and there was nothing I could do for her. For any of them. I couldn’t get out. I was in my coffin, buried alive, and we were all dead. That’s what I thought.

  “The police found me. And I lived.”

  “How long were you in the hospital?”

  “Six weeks, but I don’t remember the first two at all, and only patches of the next. But I didn’t handle it very well.”

  “Handle what very well?”

  “The incident, surviving it, being a victim.”

  “What would be the definition of handling well being shot, left for dead and seeing a friend killed?”

  “Responding to therapy, accepting there was nothing I could have done to avoid or prevent any of it, eventually being grateful to have been spared. Finding Jesus or throwing myself into life’s pleasures until I wrung them dry,” she said impatiently. “I don’t know. But I couldn’t cope with it, or didn’t cope with it. Flashbacks and night terrors. Sleepwalking, bouts of hysteria, then bouts of lethargy. I’d think I’d hear them coming for me, see that gray sweatshirt on strangers on the street. I had a breakdown, hence the psych ward.”

  “They put you in Psych?”

  “I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital when I realized I wasn’t getting better. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t anything.” She rubbed her temple. “But I had to leave because I realized how easy it would be to stay in that controlled environment. I had to stop taking the pills because with them I pretty much stayed blank, and I’d been blank for large chunks of time too long already.”

  “So now you’re just neurotic and anal.”

  “That would be about right. Claustrophobic, obsessive/compulsive, with some occasional paranoia and frequent panic attacks. Crappy dreams, and I do sometimes wake up thinking it’s all happening again, or could happen again. But I saw those two people. I didn’t project, I didn’t imagine. I saw them.”

  “Okay.” He veered off to the side of the road. “We’ll walk from here.”

  She got out first and, bracing herself, pulled the map out of her pocket. “I went to get this when I was pissed, thinking you’d sicced the doctor on me. I went upstairs, got this out because I was going to come out here on my own.”

  She opened the map, handed it to him.

  “I don’t remember doing that, marking it up. I don’t remember, but that doesn’t mean I imagined what happened yesterday. I must’ve had a pa
nic attack during the night, and I’m blocking it out.”

  “Then why are you showing it to me?”

  “You ought to know what you’re dealing with.”

  He studied the map briefly, then refolded it. “I saw your face yesterday when you came running down the trail. If you imagined seeing that woman killed, you’re wasting your time in the kitchen. Anybody with that vivid an imagination should be in my line of work. You’d outsell J. K. Rowling.”

  “You really do believe me.”

  “Jesus. Listen up.” He shoved the map back into her hands. “If I didn’t I wouldn’t be here. I’ve got my own life, my own work, my own time. You saw what you saw, and it’s not fucking right. A woman’s dead, and somebody ought to give a shit about it.”

  She closed her eyes a minute. “Don’t take this the wrong way, okay?” So saying, she stepped up to him, wrapped her arms around him, pressed her lips lightly to his.

  “What would be the wrong way to take that?”

  “As anything other than sincere gratitude.” She swung her pack over her shoulder. “Do you know the way?”

  “Yeah, I know the way.”

  As they stepped off the road, she gave him a quick glance. “That’s the first time I’ve kissed a man in two years.”

  “No wonder you’re crazy. How was it?”

  “Comforting.”

  He snorted. “Some other time, Slim, maybe we’ll go for something a little more interesting than comforting.”

  “Maybe we will.” Now think of something else, she ordered herself. “I ran down to the mercantile on one of my breaks this morning and bought your book, Jamison P. Brody.”

  “Which one?”

  “Down Low.Mac said it was your first, so I wanted to start with that. And he said he really liked it.”

  “So did I.”

  She laughed. “I’ll let you know if I do. Does anyone call you by your first name?”

  “No.”

  “What’s theP stand for?”

  “Perverse.”

  “Fits.” Now she wet her lips. “They could have hiked through from any direction.”

  “You said you didn’t see any packs, any gear.”

  “I didn’t, but they could have left it farther back, out of my line of vision.”