Everyday Hero
Page 9
“We need to talk.”
“I don’t need your counseling. I didn’t torch the store.”
“We don’t know that Bobby did, either,” she said, as firmly as she could.
“Right. He was probably out there helping old ladies cross the street.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of that cynicism?”
“Don’t try and take that from me, honey. It’s all I’ve got.”
“How can you get through a day believing that?”
“It ain’t easy.”
He looked her in the eye, finally. She inhaled sharply at the plea in his face.
“That isn’t fair,” she whispered. “I can’t do that for you.”
He nodded once, slowly, then stood up. “A walk is a hell of an idea. But I think I’ll go it alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Wait—”
He didn’t. He walked out of the kitchen toward the back door.
“Go on,” Molly said. “I can handle the kid.”
Kate looked at Molly, so sure of herself, so sure of everything. “Don’t let him run out again. See if you can find out where he’s been.”
“No problemo.”
Kate smiled at the breezy reply. When had anything in her life been no problemo?
T.J. got to the pier, but he didn’t go down the steps. There were a lot of people on the beach. Moms in their floppy hats, dads with their transistor radios, little kids with sand in their bathing suits. And all those teenagers looking for hot summer sex.
It was a stupid thing, thinking about the past. What good did it do? It just made him miss things that never were. Still, he longed for the summers of his youth, even while he knew they were nothing great when he’d gone through them. He wanted someone else’s childhood. Beaver Cleaver’s, maybe. Or Greg Brady’s. No, he would have had to shoot himself if he’d been a Brady. Who was that kid on “Flipper”? Yeah, that would have been cool. Living in Florida, having a dolphin for a friend. Ten-to-one, Flipper never once thought of joining a gang. A few fish, maybe a lady Flipper and that was one happy mammal.
But no. He got Teresa and Ed Russo. Gus the Wonder Drunk. Bobby, who hated his guts. “Those are the breaks, kid,” he said aloud. “Deal with it.”
“I want to help.”
He spun around at the sound of Kate’s voice. She stood several feet away, at the edge of the stairs.
“Go back to the center. Bobby’s the one who needs you.” He turned and started down the concrete steps.
She came up behind him. He already knew the sound of her shoes.
“Cut it out, T.J. Things aren’t that bad.”
“What do you know about it?” he said, over his shoulder.
“What?”
Her pace picked up and then he felt her hand on his shoulder. Resisting the urge to jerk away, he settled for standing still. Not turning around. Not looking at her.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t shut me out.”
He closed his eyes. The sound of the waves filled him up. The salty smell of ocean and sand, the breeze coming strong from the west. It all hurt.
“Talk to me.”
He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was her face. The gentleness there hurt most of all.
He walked past her, grabbing her arm as he went down the steps. “I want to show you something.” Leading her from the concrete onto the sand, he was keenly aware of the cool skin beneath his fingers. The softness as foreign to him as a baby’s cheek.
He took her under the pier, the air temperature dropping several degrees the moment they were out of the sun.
“Where are we going?”
“Hold on,” he said, staring at each huge round piling, at each scrawled word of graffiti. He didn’t let her go as he walked closer to the shoreline. The odds of his mark still being there were astronomical. The wind would have blown it away by now, the sand scratched it out of existence.
He hurried her until they reached the last pole that was completely free of the water. There it was, after all these years.
Pointing up, just under the pier itself, he showed her. His initials. T.J.R. Underneath that, the remnants of what had once been a dagger. A crude dagger at that.
“I was twelve,” he said. “That dagger was my brand. Like Zorro, you know? I’d read a book when I was a kid. It was about a soldier who thought of himself as his own sword. Sharp, deadly, a real piece of art. Sheathed until someone messed with him. Then watch out.”
He looked from the weathered crest to Kate.
She stared up at his dagger, saying nothing for a long time. The surf kept creeping in, then slipping out, over and over. The gulls landed in the sun, searching for food.
“Now you have your badge,” she said.
She understood. The fact revved his pulse, made him stupidly glad. “Yes. I have my badge.”
“Bobby doesn’t have either one.”
“I don’t know how to give it to him.”
“He has to get it for himself. Just like you did.”
“I owe him.”
She reached across the distance between them and touched his arm with her fingertips. “Let’s walk.”
One more look at the dagger, a flash of anger, then release. It did no good to fight with dragons. They always had the home-field advantage.
He took hold of the hand still resting lightly on his arm and led her out into the sunlight.
“What are you going to say to him?” Kate asked.
“You know what? I’m sick to death of this whole subject. I don’t want to talk about Bobby or Danny or anything remotely connected to them. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to talk at all. How about you tell me something?”
“What?”
“I don’t care. Anything. A slice of your life.”
Kate bent and slipped her shoes and socks off, one at a time. “Come on. We don’t have all afternoon.”
“I don’t want to go swimming.”
“Your shoes, Sherlock. Just the shoes. And you’d better roll up your pant legs, ’cause I may want to splash.”
Shaking his head, he reached for his right shoe, lost his balance in the sand and sat down. Kate laughed and the sound of it was like a tonic. She made it hard to stay mad. Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. He liked being mad. It gave him something to do with his hands.
“Will you get a move on?”
He nodded and took his shoes off, then his socks. Putting them aside, he rolled his jeans to his knees. They wouldn’t go higher. Then he grabbed his gear with one hand and held out the other. Kate took it and pulled him up.
They stood facing each other. Very close. The sound of the surf diminished so he could hear her sigh. The wind died so he could feel her soft breath on his cheek. The sun moved down an inch to make her hair glow like fire. He moved his head toward her, never letting go of her gaze. It was as if the kiss had already begun. He could almost taste her, feel her lips and the heat of her.
A gull screamed from above; its shadow crossed Kate’s face. She pulled back, dropped his hand and his gaze. The moment passed and he wondered if it had really happened at all.
“So, when I was a little kid,” she said, “I don’t know, eight maybe, I was in love with horses.” She was moving already, walking closer to the surf, her feet sinking into the moist sand, leaving perfect prints in her wake. He hurried to catch up, the mystery still unsolved.
“I wonder why it is that little girls love horses so much? Anyway, I was mad for them. I collected plastic replicas, read every book I could find. God, how I loved Misty.” She looked at him, a smile curving her lips. “I don’t suppose you ever read Misty of Chincoteague, did you?”
He shook his head. “Hardy Boys. And Playboy.”
“What an intriguing combination,” she said. “I wanted a horse so much it consumed me. I don’t think I’ve ever been that passionate about anything since. I begged for a horse. A pony. I was sure a pony could live in our backyard. Finally my father sat me down and told me
that when he made his third million, he’d buy me a horse.”
They stepped around a little girl who was dumping wet sand in a bucket. She didn’t even look up.
“I got so excited. I planned out everything. I was certain that third million was just around the corner. It was all I could think about.”
A wave came up, higher than most and they both scurried sideways. Cold water washed over his feet and it felt good.
“Did you ever get the horse?”
“My father was a coach. A high school coach. There was never a chance. Only I didn’t understand. It was a good year before my brother Craig clued me in. I cried for days.”
“That’s depressing as hell.”
She laughed again. He liked it when that happened. “Well, I got over it. Expecting the horse, I mean. But I never did stop dreaming.”
“So, uh, you still want a pony?”
She shoved him. “Be serious. This is a heartwarming story, damn it.”
“Sorry. Go on.”
“It’s ruined now. You’ve spoiled it.”
“No, no. I want to hear the moral. Please. Don’t make me beg.”
Her smile, the way the last rays of the sun played on her face, the wind, the air—it was all perfect. He wanted to stop time. That laugh. Low, throaty, uncomplicated. He wanted that to last forever, too.
“There is no moral. It was a slice of my life, that’s all. Isn’t that what you asked for?”
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you a story now. There was this dead guy—”
“Oh, nice beginning.”
“Shut up and listen. There was this dead guy and he was sent to hell. Or maybe it was purgatory, I don’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, so he lands in this big room that was filled with manure.”
“Oh, God—”
“Will you be quiet? So it was filled with manure. He finds a shovel and starts digging. He digs and he digs and he digs. Finally this other guy comes in and asks him what he’s doing. Why’s he digging so enthusiastically? So the first guy says, ‘There’s gotta be a pony in here somewhere.’”
Kate stopped and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s it? That’s the worst joke I’ve ever heard.”
“Joke? That wasn’t a joke. That was a character sketch.”
“A what?”
“A character sketch. Of you.”
“Please do go on, Doctor.”
“Don’t you get it? That’s who you are. At the center. With the kids. You keep looking for the pony.”
Another wave came up and washed their feet. The sun had an inch to go. Then Kate laughed. Big time. Her whole body got involved. He watched her until he couldn’t help but laugh, too.
Finally, when she’d finished wiping her eyes, she said, “You’re exactly right, Detective. I do keep looking for the damned pony.”
Chapter 7
Kate sat on her bed, her sleep shirt in her hand. She was very still, listening.
A bump against the wall, then silence. T.J. was unpacking, moving into the room next to hers for the rest of the summer. A wall, not a very thick one, the only thing between them. This, she thought for the third time in as many minutes, was a very bad thing.
Against her better judgment, she was starting to like T.J. Russo. No use denying it, or blaming it on the flu. He had hooked her when she wasn’t looking. Was it the walk on the beach? The run this morning? Or was it when he’d looked into Pam Greer’s eyes and listened to her advice as if every word had been golden?
What about the other side of him? The dark half? That was there, too, which was no little thing. He was a damaged man, with a whole troop of skeletons in his closet. He couldn’t handle Bobby, he was enraged at Gus and his mother—and that’s just the stuff she knew about. This was not the mental health poster boy.
Dating him would be no walk in the park. He would test her over and over, just like Bobby was testing him, to see if she would stick around. Then, likely as not, he would leave her without so much as a goodbye.
Sighing mightily, she reached down and grabbed the bottom of her T-shirt and pulled it up over her head. That spurred her into changing the rest of the way, although her clothes didn’t quite make it into the hamper. She would pick up tomorrow. Tonight, all she wanted to do was slide between her sheets and go to sleep.
He’d been here one day. One day! And already she was thinking about him as if he were boyfriend material. Was she stupid, or what?
She had ground rules, damn it! So he knew she was still looking for the pony.
Big whopping deal. One acute observation does not a husband make.
Reaching over to her bed table, she switched on her radio. Whitney Houston was telling Kevin Costner that she would always love him. See? There’s a perfect example of how relationships didn’t work out. If Kev and Whitney couldn’t make it work, what made her think she and Russo could? It was impossible. Ridiculous. Just plain dumb.
She turned the radio off and then the light. She climbed under her comforter and closed her eyes, commanding herself to go to sleep.
But the damn song kept playing. At first she thought it was all in her head, then she realized she was hearing the radio in T.J.’s room. He’d turned to the same station. Had he also been thinking the same thoughts?
She put her hand on the wall. He was just on the other side. A few inches away. Oh, God.
T.J. stared at his hand on the wall. She was just on the other side, probably sound asleep by now. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
It was bad enough that his family had screwed up his life by forcing him down here. He wasn’t about to let Kate Dugan mess things up even more. This was not his life. This was not his home. His job waited for him, his apartment waited for him, even Debbi Q, the woman he’d spent a good many pleasurable, no-strings-attached nights with waited for him.
He needed Kate like a hole in the head. That was the given. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t dream about those long legs wrapped around his waist. Which is just what he intended to do.
The alarm woke him thirty seconds later. At least it felt that way. Despite his last conscious thought, he hadn’t dreamt of Kate. Instead, there had been fire.
He flung the blanket off and sat up. The coarse stubble on his chin scratched him as he rubbed his face. He thought about the day to come and, for the first time in a long time, he had no idea what he was going to do.
Of course, back home he’d never known when a murder would crop up, but even with that, his days had been remarkably similar. He was a man of routine—everything from his morning coffee and newspaper to his parking place was mapped out to suit him. This was like a vacation. A very bad vacation.
He stood. And moaned.
His leg muscles were angry. Vicious. They let him know in no uncertain terms that he hadn’t been quite truthful about his state of fitness. He’d been a slug for the past six months and clearly that was a crime punishable by pain. Moaning again, louder this time, he hobbled over to the wooden bureau in the corner. He pulled on his robe, the plaid number Joanna had given him for his last birthday.
Someone banged on his door. The sound startled him and that made him jerk, which pulled his muscles yet again.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. You gonna be in there all day?”
It was Molly. She would have to die.
“I’m coming, damn it all to bell,” he said, but not loud enough, because she pounded on the door again.
“If you don’t get out here now, I’m going to take your turn in the bathroom.”
Turn? He had to share? He hadn’t thought about that little detail. He didn’t even know where the bathroom was. Surely the staff didn’t use the big rest rooms in the main center.
He heard Molly clomp down the hall. Thoughts of a shower danced in his head. A long, hot, soothing shower. He grabbed his bathroom kit and went into the hallway, then walked gingerly past Kate’s room. She wasn’t there.
Checking first to make sure he was alone, he entered
her sanctum sanctorium. She’d made her bed. The comforter was plaid or maybe that was tartan, he wasn’t sure what the difference was. The blue, green, yellow and red rectangles looked nice, though. The top of her dresser had a hairbrush, a stand-up mirror and a box of tissues on one side and three paperback books on the other. One small bottle of perfume hid behind her copy of The Stand. He picked it up and sniffed. Flowers. Kate flowers. The combination of this scent and her neck was really something to think about. Putting it down, he noticed a snapshot half hidden by the hairbrush. He lifted it from underneath.
It was Kate. Kate and a man. He was taller then her by several inches and wore UCLA sweats. His arm was around her waist and she’d rested her head on his shoulder. She looked beautiful. Long and slim, like some vision from a Greek myth. The guy, on the other hand, looked like a schmuck. There was a territorial glint in his eye and a smirk on his thin lips.
T.J. checked himself in the mirror. Yep, he was so much better looking than this schmo, it wasn’t worth thinking about. He didn’t know who the jerk was, but he hoped Kate had sent him packing. She deserved better.
The sound of laughter filtered in from down the hall and T.J. quickly put the picture back where he’d found it and left the room, feeling only a little guilty for snooping.
The next door was closed, but he remembered that was Molly’s room. The door after that was the bathroom. It was small—a stall shower, a commode, a sink. One shelf with a cup full of toothbrushes and a half-squeezed tube of toothpaste with the cap off next to it. Down below that was a cupboard, and to his relief there were fresh towels inside. He locked the door and dropped his robe, itching to feel that hot spray.
The water was cold. Not completely, but enough to make him wish he’d kept that motel room. The only thing he could do was wash. And swear.
“Captain Marvel found the shower,” Molly said. “Think there’s any hot water left?”
Kate grinned at her. “Nope.”
“Think he’ll get up earlier tomorrow?”
“Nope. He’ll just complain about it.”
Molly sat down with her second cup of coffee. “You know so much about men. I’m impressed.”