Together Always

by Dallas Schulze

  Lily was another story. She seemed to have accepted him without question. He was Mike's son and that was all she required. She was an interesting little thing. So young and

  yet so old. And her face,.. God, he'd traveled the world and he knew just how rare beauty like that was, yet she didn't seem to be aware of it. Under other circumstances he might have been t^npted to try for more than friendship from her. Not that it would have done him any good. You simply had to see the way she looked at Trace to know that only a fool would bother trying to come between them.

  He shook his head and reached out to shut off the lights. Thinking about Trace and Lily wasn't getting him home and it wasn't getting him any closer to a decision about his own future. He stepped outside, turning up his collar against the cold night air. He could worry about his future another time. For now, getting home was enough to think about.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Just what was stolen, Mr. Gillespie?" Trace tried to sound official and interested but his heart wasn't really in it. This was the sixth time in the past year that Gillespie's little Italian grocery had been robbed. No fingerprints that shouldn't have been there, no sign of forced entry, nothing but money taken.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gillespie's oldest son. Marty was nineteen and he had what Trace considered a severe attitude problem, the kind of attitude that might have been improved by someone giving him a quick kick in the seat of the pants. Trace wanted to be first in line. Marty was leaning against the outer wall of the store, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tight jeans, his back curved in an impossible slouch. His too-full mouth was twisted in a smug smile that made Trace want to bypass the kick in the pants and go straight for a punch in the lip. You didn't have to ask the boy if he was cool, everything about him shouted it.

  *'Did you or your wife hear anything last night? See anything that might give us a clue?"

  ''Not a thing. They were very quiet."

  It probably helped that "they" had a key. Trace looked up, meeting Marty's eyes head-on. He didn't have any doubts about who was responsible for the repeated burgla-

  ries. The first officer to suggest it to Marty's father had been harangued in Italian, and then the old man had called the station to complain. Trace didn't make the same mistake. He didn't doubt that Gillespie knew what was going on; the old man just wasn't ready to admit it yet. Until he was, there wasn't a whole lot the police could do. Marty looked at him for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders, widening his eyes in a mock-innocent stare before peeling himself away from the wall and wandering into the store, where Trace's partner, Sally, was questioning his mother.

  Trace looked back at the boy's father, seeing the hurt and anxiety in the old man's eyes. The look doubled his urge to knock a few of the kid's teeth out.

  *'He's a good boy. He's had a little trouble finding work now that he's out of school." Trace made a few useless notes and nodded. It wasn't easy to find a job, especially when you didn't bother to look.

  A movement in the street caught his attention and he glanced up. That was the second time that car had gone by. A pale blue Chevy Nova with a crunched right fender. It must have cruised around the block. The angle of the sun cast shadows over the driver's side. It was impossible to make out more than just a vague outline of someone behind the wheel. He could see that the person was looking this way but there was nothing surprising about that. The squad car parked in front of the little grocery was enough to catch the attention of any passersby. They were probably hoping to see someone being handcuffed or a little police brutality, something to liven up their day. Trace returned his attention to the old man.

  They were still standing in front of the store a few minutes later when the car came by again. Trace had put away his notebook and was listening to Gillespie talk about the problems of fatherhood. It was about all he could do for the old man until he was ready to face the fact that his oldest son

  was stealing from him. Inside, he suspected Sally was being fed bites of Mrs. Gillespie's lasagna or her spaghetti sauce or whatever today's special was. Which meant that she was going to moan about the ruination of her diet for the rest of the afternoon.

  He heard the car before he saw it. The engine had a miss that he hadn't consciously noticed but he remembered it when he heard the car turn the corner and start toward them. His back tightened as it crept closer. Stupid. The driver was just gawking, hoping to see something exciting. Nothing to justify the sudden anxiety he felt.

  He turned his head, keeping half an ear on Gillespie's words. It was the same Chevy and he still couldn't see the driver clearly. The car was slowing again, barely creeping. The passenger window was open. There was nothing sinister about the car. Just a beat-up Nova that had definitely seen better days. He started to turn back to Gillespie when something caught his eye, a funny glint of light from inside the car, like sun catching on something metallic. Like a gun barrel.

  Trace lunged forward, catching the old man at the waist and dropping them both to the pavement. Thp staccato explosion of an automatic weapon sprayed the air where he'd been only seconds before. Glass shattered in the store window, falling to the ground in a shower of tinkling sounds.

  Trace didn't stop moving once he hit the ground. He rolled, taking the old man with him until they were both sheltered behind the patrol car. Assured that Gillespie was safe, Trace scrambled to his knees, drawing his gun. Keeping to a crouch, he moved toward the front of the patrol car. The Chevy was still there. He could hear the miss in the engine. The question was, where was the driver looking? Would he have time to get off a shot?

  He took a deep breath, tasting the acid tang of fear in the back of his throat. He could hear the sound of his own

  heartbeat, a little too loud, a little too fast. He raised himself cautiously, making sure that he was still protected by the bulk of the car. A quick breath and then he hit the ground in front of the car in a diving roll that ended with him on one knee. He brought his weapon up and snapped off two quick shots. Both hit the windshield but they clearly didn't incapacitate whoever was handling the gun. His shots were answered with a spray of gunfire that would have torn him to pieces if he hadn't already moved. The bullets smacked into the pavement where he'd >been but Trace was already behind another car.

  There was a sharp report and the smack of a bullet biting into metal. Looking over his shoulder, he could catch just a glimpse of Sally's pale hair. She was still in the store, protected by the old brick. He saw her aim again and then the sound of a taillight shattering. It was apparently all the incentive the driver needed to cut his losses.

  He floored the gas pedal and the car took off with a roar. Trace ran around the end of the car he'd been using as shelter. The license plate was clearly visible, the numbers imprinted on his brain. Not that it would do much good. He was willing to bet that the car was stolen.

  "You all right?" He turned as Sally ran up to him. Adrenaline still pounded in him but he took a deep breath and nodded.

  *'No damage. Everyone okay in the store?"

  His guess about the car turned out to be correct. The owner had reported it stolen three hours before the shooting. The Gillespies were all intact, though the same couldn't be said for their store. The squad car was towed off for repairs and Trace and Sally spent the afternoon giving reports and going over nonexistent details. In the end, the only guess anyone had was that it was a random cop killing. Or attempted cop killing.

  That idea was worse than shootings where a motive could be found. Everyone was edgy, wondering if this was an isolated incident or the beginning of some kind of spree where the next cop might not be as lucky as Trace had been.

  By the time he got home, Trace was worn-out. All he wanted was a tall Scotch, a hot shower and a bed, and he might even be willing to forgo the shower. He parked the 'Vette in the garage next to Lily's car and leaned his head back against the seat for a moment. He'd thought about what to tell Lily all the way home and he'd decided that there was
no need to worry her. No one had been hurt. Why upset her over nothing?

  He opened the door and climbed out of the low car, wincing as he straightened. Every muscle ached. He wasn't sure if it was tension or tumbling on the pavement that had done it, but he felt as if he'd gone forty rounds with a punching bag and lost.

  He let himself in through the back door. The lingering scent of turmeric told him that John must have cooked dinner. The house always smelled like the local Indian restaurants after he cooked. Trace hadn't eaten since morning but he wasn't hungry. Too much had happened for him to be interested in food.

  The low murmur of the television filtered through from the living room. He got out a glass and some ice, shutting the refrigerator quietly, though there was a good chance they'd heard the 'Vette and knew he was home. He was tempted to go straight upstairs but the Scotch was in the living room, so he carried his glass there.

  John was sprawled in a chair, his long legs stuck out in front of him, his attention on the television, though he didn't look too interested in the sitcom that was dancing away on the screen. A burst of canned laughter didn't draw even the flicker ftf a smile from him. Lily was curled up on the sofa with a book in her lap. There was a lamp on over

  her shoulder and the light caught in her hair, finding blue highlights in the heavy black length.

  She looked up, her mouth curved in a welcoming smile. It was enough to soothe some of his tension. How bad could the world be when Lily could smile at him like that?

  ''Hi, You worked late."

  "Hi. I hope you didn't hold dinner for me." He moved to the small bar and poured himself a glass of Scotch.

  *'No. Lily and I polished off an excellent batch of chicken curry all by ourselves. I outdid myself, if I do say so myself." John pulled himself a little more upright.

  Trace took a hefty swallow of his drink, feeling it bum its way down his throat before settling in a warm pool in his stomach. He turned, arching a brow at John.

  "That's not saying much. The last time you cooked, it took longer to get the burned chicken off the bottom of the pan than it did to cook the stuff.''

  "Details." John waved his hand dismissively. "Actually, we did leave you some dinner. It's in the fridge."

  "Thanks but I'm not really hungry." He settled himself in a chair, stretching his legs out and relaxing for the first time since the shooting.

  "What happened to your face?" His feeling of relaxation evaporated with Lily's question. Damn. He'd forgotten about the scrape on his cheekbone. He reached up to touch it. He'd apparently gotten it when he tackled Gillespie, scraping his face on the concrete. It was nothing serious but it was a little sore. He smiled and shrugged.

  "I had a small argument with a piece of concrete. Nothing serious."

  Lily plucked nervously at the cover of her book. "There was a report on the news about a shooting incident in Glen-dale. They said there were officers involved in it. Was it anyone you know?"

  Trace met her eyes reluctantly. He wanted to lie to her. He'd planned to lie to her. But he could see from the look on her face that she akeady knew he'd been involved. Damn the news. He hadn't thought of that, either, which just showed how tired he must be.

  "Actually, I was involved in it." He shrugged. "It was really no big deal." With the simple phrase, he dismissed those moments when he'd thought his heart was going to stop.

  "No big deal? They said someone shot at an officer. They showed the front of the store." Lily's voice was tight with the effort she was making to control it.

  "It looked worse than it really was," he lied. His eyes met John's. He didn't think it was his imagination that put understanding there, but there wasn't anything the other man could do. "Reporters always like to exaggerate things, you know that. I was taking a burglary report and some fruitcake drove by and took a few shots at me. No one was hurt."

  She twisted the book in her hands, her eyes wide and frightened. "You could have been killed."

  "Guess it just wasn't my day to die." He regretted the flip words as soon as they were out of his mouth but it was too late to take them back. Flip was not what was needed right now. He downed a swallow of Scotch. He wasn't up to this.

  No one said anything for a slow count of ten. The television continued to mutter in the background. Occasional bursts of mechanical laughter punctuated the silence. Trace couldn't look at Lily's pale face. He didn't know what to say to her. This had certainly punched holes in his assurances that his job wasn't more dangerous than any other.

  "It's late. I think I'll go to bed." Lily stood up, the mangled book still clutched in her hands. "Good night."

  Trace looked up at her, seeing the fear she couldn't hide. She was trying to be brave, trying not to show how fright-

  ened she was. But he'd known her a long time. He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her not to be scared. If John hadn't been there, he might have done just that. Lily left the room without another word and Trace listened to her footsteps as she climbed the stairs. Her bedroom door clicked shut.

  He leaned his head against the back of the chair, holding the glass too tight. John reached out to snap off the television and the sudden silence was deafening.

  "She loves you." The quiet words dropped into the silence. Trace didn't look at the other man. He focused his eyes on the blank television screen.

  **She'll get over it." The words sounded harsh. "I'm no good for her."

  "Maybe that's true, but then again, maybe it's not. She's a hell of a woman. You'd have to be either a fool or a very brave man to walk away from her."

  Trace's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "If I'm either one, it's got to be the fool."

  "I wouldn't have thought that fifteen years ago."

  John's words sank in slowly. Trace lifted his head, staring at the other man with narrowed eyes.

  "Fifteen years ago?"

  "I've been waiting for you to figure it out. A snowy road, two kids on their way to California." He leaned back in the chair and waited.

  Trace stared at him for a long time, memories flipping through his mind. The truck driver who'd given them a ride to Denver, the man who'd given them Mike's address. It didn't seem possible and yet it all fit together. So much had happened to them after that. His memories of the truck driver were all tangled up in everything that had come after, and yet there'd been that niggling sense of familiarity ever since he'd met John. And there'd been the fact that the driver had been the one to give them Mike's address.

  "Geez. That was you?"

  **Moreorless.'*

  "Why the hell didn't you say something when you first got here? It's been driving me crazy for weeks, thinking I'd met you somewhere."

  **I don't know. I guess I just wanted to see if you'd remember first."

  "My God." Trace shook his head. "I don't remember a lot of details about that time but I can't believe I didn't recognize you."

  **It was a long time ago."

  "True."

  "You know, you may be underestimating yourself and Lily," John said. "When you think you know what's best for someone else, it's always a good idea to stop and think again. You're usually wrong." He stood up. "I'm going to go catch a late movie."

  Trace watched him leave without saying anything. His head was spinning. It was incredible to think that John was the truck driver who'd helped them all those years ago. But it explained so mucl>. He leaned his head back, listening to the sound of John's car pulling out of the drive. The house was quiet and he shut his eyes. Too much had happened today. There were too many things to think about, too many things to try to understand.

  He graduaUy grew aware of something disturbing the quiet. Low, almost inaudible, it pulled at him even before he realized what it was. Lily was crying. She was crying because of him. His fingers tightened over the glass until his knuckles turned white. The sound tore him apart.

  With a curse he stood up, setting the half-finished Scoich down. He took the stairs two at a time, the muffled sound of her
sobbing growing more audible with each step. Standing outside her door, he hesitated, knowing he shouldn't go in, but he couldn't stand the sound of her tears.

  There was only one lamp on, throwing a small pool of light next to the bed. Lily was stretched out on the bed, her face buried in her pillow, her slim shoulders heaving with the force of her anguish. She caught her breath with a gulp when the bed dipped beneath his weight.

  "Go away." The muffled command was interrupted by a sob. Trace set his hands on her shoulders.

  **I can't leave you here to cry. I can't bear the sound of it." He turned her over despite her weak resistance. She stared up at him, her eyes a dark and stormy green and swimming in tears.

  *'What are you crying for? Fm all right."

  Her lower lip shook. *'You could have been killed."

  "But I wasn't." He brushed the tangled black hair back from her forehead, his expression tender. "I wasn't even close to killed."

  "This time. But what about next time? I couldn't stand it if something happened to you." Her face crumpled and she put her fist against her mouth, trying to swallow the tears.

  "Nothing's going to happen to me. I'm tough. Oh God, don't cry anymore. Please don't cry. I'm not worth it." He hfted her, holding her trembling body against his. She sobbed against his shoulder, the sound tearing at him until, at last, he could stand it no more. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, his mouth smothering her sobs. She gasped, her breath catching in her throat, and then her arms came up to circle his neck, her fingers burrowing into his thick hair.

  Perhaps it was the lingering adrenaline left over from the afternoon. Perhaps it was the need that he always tried so hard to bury. Whatever it was, passion exploded in his gut, catching him off guard, giving him no time to regain control.

  His tongue plunged into her mouth, tasting the honeyed sweetness of her. She responded, her tongue coming up to meet his, demanding even as she gave. They kissed until the need for air forced th^n apart. Trace stared down at her, his hand still tangled in her hair, his chest heaving with the effort of breathing. Somewhere, far back in his mind, a small voice spoke of the need to think, but the pounding of his pulse drowned it out.