The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “And this is terrible dinner conversation.”

  “I’d like to hear the rest. My father drank more than his share, so I know what it’s like. Finish it off.”

  “All right. One day he came by when Mama was still at work. It was just Carter and me. He’d been drinking, and he popped open another beer, then a second one and pushed it at Carter. Told him it was time he learned to drink like a man. Carter didn’t want it. God, he was only seven. Carter told him to go away, leave him alone, and Reuben smacked him, right in the face, for sass. Well, I sassed him then, you can believe it.”

  The old rage bubbled straight up. “I told him to get the hell out of our house, to keep his fat hands off my brother. Well, he smacked me, too. And that’s when Mama came in. I’ll tell you something, Duncan, up to that point I loved her. She worked so hard, she did her best. But I never thought she had any backbone. Not until she walked in and saw me and Carter on the floor and that son of a bitch standing over us taking off his belt.”

  She paused a moment, took a sip of wine. “He was going to use it on us, going to teach us a lesson. Mama lit into him like ball lightning. Of course, he was twice her size, and drunk, so he knocked her clear across the room. She was screaming at him to get out, to stay away from her babies, and I told Carter to run, to run to the neighbor’s, call the police. When I was sure he’d gotten far enough away, I started screaming, too, saying the police were coming. Reuben called me and Mama names I wasn’t yet acquainted with, but he went.”

  “You kept your head.” His hand gripped hers on the table now, a solid link. “You were smart.”

  “I was scared. I wanted the police because the police are supposed to help. They came, and they talked to my mother. I don’t want to say they talked her out of filing charges, but they didn’t encourage it. They took his name, said they’d go talk to him. They probably did. I don’t know all that happened, just some. I know he went by her work, apologized to her. I know he came by the house with flowers, but she wouldn’t let him in. I’d see him sitting outside in his car, just sitting there watching the house. And once, at least once that I saw, he grabbed her when she was outside, tried to pull her into his car. I called the police again then, and some of the neighbors came out, so he took off again. And Mama, she took out a restraining order. That’s what they told her she should do.”

  “They didn’t arrest him.”

  “I think they may have put him in holding for a few hours, and they gave him a stern talking-to. So a few nights later, he got liquored up, got his gun, and he broke into the house. He hit Mama so hard she still has a little scar here.” Phoebe traced her fingers over her cheek. “He held the gun to her head, and he told me and Carter to go around, lock all the doors, the windows, close the curtains. We were all going to sit ourselves down, have a long talk.

  “He kept us in there almost twelve hours. The police came, after a couple hours, I think. Reuben shot a few holes in the wall for sport, and the neighbors called the police. He yelled out he’d kill us all if they tried coming in. The brats first. Pretty soon, the police shut off the power. It was August, it was hot. Then Dave got him on the phone and kept him talking.”

  “He talked him into letting you go?”

  “He kept him talking. That’s the first rule. As long as Reuben was talking to Dave, he wasn’t killing us. He would have; I could see it. Carter and me. Maybe not Mama because he’d gotten it into his head she belonged to him. But Dave got him talking about fishing. A long conversation about fishing, and kept us alive. But after a while, Reuben got himself worked up again. He was going to hurt Carter, I could feel it. So I distracted him, the way Dave had with the fishing. Between one thing and another, I got into the bathroom, unlocked the window in there, and I told Carter—bullied Carter—into going in first chance, getting out that way.”

  “You got your brother out,” Duncan murmured.

  “Reuben had a serious hard-on for Carter. He was going to hurt him.”

  She told him then about fixing the meal, the sleeping pills. And of sitting in the hospital while they stitched up her mother’s face, talking to Dave.

  “He kept my family alive.”

  “And you got them out. Twelve years old.”

  “I wouldn’t have had a family to get out if it hadn’t been for Dave. We moved into Cousin Bess’s house after that, the house on Jones Street. Dave kept in touch. Lots of longer stories in all of that, but Dave talked to me about hostage and crisis negotiation. He thought I’d have a knack for it, and the perspective of what it’s like on the other side. I wanted to please him, and it sounded exciting. So I trained, and I found out he was right. I have a knack for it.”

  She lifted her glass, half toast. “It’s no lottery ticket, but it put me where I am.”

  “What happened to Reuben?”

  “He died in prison. Pissed someone off enough for that someone to shove a shiv into him multiple times. As a moral woman, as an officer of the law, I’m obliged to deplore that sort of thing. I went out and bought a bottle of champagne, not quite up to these standards, but a very decent bottle. I enjoyed every drop of it.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You’ve had an interesting life, Phoebe.”

  “Interesting?”

  “Well, you can’t claim to have lived in the rut of routine.”

  She laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I can.”

  “I’ve got some insight now on why I saw that purpose in you when you walked into Suicide Joe’s apartment. And you have the sexiest green eyes.”

  She watched him with them as she sipped her champagne. “If you think because I’ve bared my soul, more or less, and have had several glasses of this lovely champagne, I’m going to slide down into the cabin and have wild sex with you, you’re mistaken.”

  “Can we negotiate? Any other kind of sex a possibility?”

  “I don’t think so, but thanks all the same.”

  “How about a walk along the river where I can kiss you in the moonlight?”

  “We can start with the walk.”

  He rose, took her hand. And as she came to her feet, he simply cupped the back of her neck to draw her mouth to his.

  Warm lips and cool air, a hard body and a gentle touch. She gave in, gave up to the moment. Her fingers twined with his and curled tight as she leaned in for more.

  He could feel the strength of her under the soft, soft skin. It was that, he knew, that had pulled at him from the first moment. Those contrasts, those complexities. There was nothing simple, nothing ordinary about her.

  Yet he thought this could be simple—this one thing—this slowly building heat between them.

  So the long, long kiss spun out, hinting of a spark that might flash at any moment, while the deck swayed gently under their feet, and the air blew soft over the water.

  She brought her hand to his chest, kept it there a moment as his heart thumped beneath her palm. Then she used it to ease him back.

  “Someone else has quite a knack,” she commented.

  “I’ve been practicing religiously since I was twelve.” He brought the hand on his chest up, to rub his lips over the knuckles. “I’ve developed a few variations, if you’d like me to demonstrate.”

  “I think that was enough of a demonstration for right now. We discussed a walk.”

  “Probably best to save the variations. I’m not sure you’re ready.”

  “Oh really? Don’t think you can use that kind of maneuver on me. I’m a cop.”

  He stepped off, onto the pier, held out a hand for hers. “Variation Seven’s been known to cause temporary unconsciousness.”

  “That’s a straight dare.” She stepped from boat to dock. “And I haven’t taken a dare since I was seven. We’re walking, Mr. Swift.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  As they walked, she angled her head to study his face. “Variation Seven?”

  “I’m required by law to give the previous warning befor
e use. Now that you’ve been warned, I’m in the clear.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Her laugh floated over the water. And her face, bright with it, filled the field glasses.

  He dug into the takeout bag for his fries as he watched her, watched them. And he considered how quick and easy it would be if he had that face of hers in the crosshairs of a rifle scope.

  Bang!

  Too quick, too easy.

  But before much longer, she wouldn’t be laughing.

  7

  At her desk Monday morning, Phoebe attacked paperwork, returned calls, then squeezed out time to go over her plans for the upcoming training session.

  It might have been kicking Arnie Meeks when he was down—and absent—but she wanted to lay out the protocol, procedure and psychology of the first responder’s actions.

  Sets the tone, she thought. Arnie had sure as hell set the tone for the Gradey incident. What happened, why it happened, would be strong points made in training, and would illustrate, she hoped, why there were guidelines.

  She added a copy of her own report to the day’s packet, added it along with logs and tapes and transcripts from other incidents.

  She got to her feet when Dave came into her office. “Captain.”

  “Need a minute.”

  “Sure, I’ve got a few before a training session. Want coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” When he shut the door behind him, the muscles between her shoulder blades tightened.

  “Problem?”

  “Could be. I got a call from Sergeant Meeks, Arnold Meeks’s father. He’s making noises about filing a complaint against you.”

  “For?”

  “The unwarranted suspension of his son. Also there was some mention of a legal suit for slander, defamation. He wants a sit-down with you, me and his son’s rep.”

  “I’m available for that, at any time. I instructed Arnie he was free to contact his delegate at the time of his suspension. And,” she added, “that’s on the record.”

  “You’re going to stand by the thirty-day rip?”

  “I am. He violated every guideline. He goaded Gradey, a hostage-taker, into suicide, and he’s lucky Gradey didn’t kill the hostages, too. You read the report, Captain, including the witness statements—civilian and law enforcement.”

  “Yeah, I did.” Wearily, Dave rubbed the back of his neck. “He couldn’t have screwed it up more if he’d set out to.”

  “I’m not sure he didn’t. That’s not colored by personal dislike,” she continued when Dave frowned. “He’s a power-tripper, and he’s bigoted, sexist and rash. He shouldn’t be a cop.”

  “Phoebe, that kind of stand, the bias in it, isn’t going to help hold up your end of this.”

  “It’s not bias, it’s fact. And, I believe, the psych eval will bear me out. Dave, he put that mutilated doll outside my house.”

  Dave shoved his hands into his pockets, and inside the pockets they curled into fists. “I’m not going to contradict you on that, but you’re going to want to be careful about making that accusation to anyone but me. You’re going to need more to—”

  “He called me a bitch to my face, that’s not counting the number of times he’s called me one behind my back. He stood just about where you’re standing now and threatened me. He has no respect for my authority, and, in fact, only contempt for me.”

  “Do you think I don’t want him out?” Dave tossed back, and for the first time he let some of the anger, some of the frustration show. “Out of this squad, out of the department? I’ve got no cause to put him off the job, not at this point. And, Phoebe, sitting behind that desk means you have to demand respect for your authority.”

  “And so I have,” she said evenly. “Thirty days may give him time to consider that. Captain, he stood in this office and accused me of being behind this desk because I’ve performed sexual acts with you.”

  Dave stared at her a moment. “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.” He sucked in a breath. “Were there any witnesses to those accusations?”

  “No, and I’d turned off the recorder before he made them. But he made them. Very specifically. Which indicates he has as much contempt for you as for me. Moreover, I believe he was about to make a move on me—physically. Detective Sykes interrupted. I don’t like playing it this way. I don’t like spreading this kind of crap around, but the fact is, I think Arnold Meeks is dangerous. So ask Sykes about it.”

  “I’ll do that. I’m going to schedule that sit-down for this afternoon. Make sure you’re clear for it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you want to file sexual harassment charges?”

  “Not at this time. I’ll stand with the insubordination.”

  He nodded, turned toward the door. “You may want to contact your own rep.” He glanced back. “The Meekses have some muscle in the department, connections, history. Keep your ass covered, Phoebe, because even if we’re able to take this asshole down, he could do some damage.”

  “I will. Dave? I’m sorry I had to pull you into it this way, this personal way.”

  “You didn’t,” Dave said shortly. “He did.”

  Trouble, she thought when she was alone again. Trouble was coming. Well, she’d dealt with trouble before. When the morning session was finished, she’d make some time to review Meeks’s jacket, the statements from the Gradey incident and her own personal report of her altercation with Meeks in her office.

  Through the glass wall of her office, she saw Dave was already gesturing Sykes toward the break room. A private talk. Her captain’s protective instincts were up, and she was sorry, damn sorry, she’d had to incite them.

  But she was damned if Meeks was going to endanger lives, threaten her, upset her family, then pull out his departmental pedigree as a shield.

  She didn’t care who his father was.

  And right now, she reminded herself, she needed to put this aside and get downstairs. She swung by the PAA on the way through the squad room. “I’m in the conference room for the next ninety minutes.”

  “Oh, okay. Lieutenant?” Annie Utz, the squad’s public administrative assistant, sent Phoebe a quick, nervous smile. “I, ah, may have to take a day off later in the week for some, um, personal business.”

  “All right. If you can let me know ahead of time, that’d be good. We’ll see the desk is covered.”

  “Um…um…Lieutenant?” The smile wavered around the edges. “I know I’m still new and all. But I like working here. I hope I’m doing a good job.”

  “You’re doing fine.” Wouldn’t hurt to tone down the makeup and buy the next size up in your shirt, Phoebe thought, but the work itself wasn’t a problem.

  “Um…I brought in pralines today. Homemade.” She held up a covered paper plate. “Maybe you’d like one.”

  “After the session.”

  “You’re taking the stairs, right? The way you run up and down those stairs instead of taking the elevator, sugar sure won’t hurt you.”

  “My fondness for sugar is why I run up and down the stairs.”

  She hurried out before Annie could make her any later. With the opening of her lecture winding through her mind, she pushed through the door, started the jog down the stairway.

  Her carhad to be ready today, she remembered. Had to. She’d call the mechanic during the break and—

  She barely saw the flash of movement, had no time to react much less reach her weapon as the attack slammed her against the stairwell wall. Pain burst along with an explosion of fear when her head rammed hard against the concrete. And her vision hazed with red.

  Seconds, it took only the few seconds when her instincts were screamingfight and the stun from the blow buckled her knees for tape to slap over her mouth, for her arms to be wrenched back.

  Struggling, dizzy from the blow, she tried to bring her heel down, missed the mark. Then she was blind from the hood yanked over her head. Her scream muffled to nothing against the tape as she pitched forward from a violent s
hove. Shock and pain radiated as her body hit the landing, rolled. She tasted blood, and through the thunder of her own gasps, heard her attacker laugh. Praying for a miracle, she kicked out. And when hands closed around her throat, she thrashed.

  Not this way, she couldn’t die this way. Unable to look into the eyes of who killed her. Who took her away from her baby.

  Her body bucked, her legs pushed and kicked while her lungs wept for air. When the pressure released, she gasped and gulped it in only to fight to scream it out again when she felt a knife, the point of a knife, cutting through her clothes, and the quick, horrible sting of that point slicking carelessly into her flesh. Hands—gloved hands, part of her mind registered—squeezed her breasts.

  It couldn’t be happening. Attack and rape a cop in her own precinct? It was madness. But her kicks and struggles didn’t stop his hands from tearing, from touching, from pushing roughly between her legs.

  And she hated herself from the sobs and pleas that babbled behind the tape. Hated that they made him laugh, that they gave him power.

  “Don’t worry.” He whispered it, the first words he’d spoken. “I don’t fuck your kind.”

  Fresh pain erupted from the blow to her face. She teetered toward unconsciousness, almost welcomed it. Dimly she heard, thought she heard, footsteps.

  Someone coming. Please, God. But no, no, leaving. He was leaving. Leaving her alive. She moaned. Everything wept, everything wept with pain. But survival, that primal need to survive, was stronger. She was afraid to roll, to try to get to her knees, to her feet. How close was she to the stairs, how close to a nasty, perhaps fatal, fall?

  The cuffs he’d snapped on her bit brutally into her flesh, weighed down by her own body. The need to see—escape, survive—was greater than the need for relief. She hunched her shoulders, turned her head right and left, inching tortuously forward as she tested the ground with her feet. Slowly, keeping a vicious grip on panic, she worked the hood up her face until her chin was clear, her mouth, her nose. Then blessedly her eyes.