by Julie Miller
He realized the reverend was waiting for an answer. “Maybe a cup of coffee.”
“Help yourself. I have to go do some paperwork. End of the month, end of the year—it’s always a mess to add up the donations and government funding and expenditures.” He pointed a stubby finger into the air. “The Good Book says that the Lord will provide.” Then he poked Merle in the chest with that same finger. “But not if I don’t get everything turned over to the accountant first. Enjoy.”
Reverend Wingate was still amused with himself as he walked down the hall to retrieve a folder from the lodging check-in. He stopped twice along the way to chat with someone in line as if he or she was an old friend, and reminded all of them who were staying the night to sign in. Briefly, Merle recalled the cold-case reports he’d read and Sergeant Watkins’s comments. Ulysses Wingate seemed far removed from a man who would murder a prostitute—strip her naked, wrap a scarf tight around her throat and watch the life snuffed out of her eyes.
But he’d seen and heard stranger things. All of the murders had happened around his mission. Just because Ulysses Wingate had an alibi for one murder eleven years ago didn’t mean Merle was going to scratch him off his list of suspects. Tomorrow morning he was going to pull that cross necklace out of the evidence box and see if he could trace it back to Wingate or the mission.
The reverend might be innocent of murder. But logic said the cross and the mission location was too big a connection to ignore.
If he wanted morning to get here, though, he’d better get today over with. Using the reverend’s joke as a reminder to put in some money to pay for his cup of coffee, Merle stepped into the dining hall. He didn’t want to take Kelsey away from her job before everyone was served, but he ached to put an end to the long day, go home, put his knee up with some ice and get some sleep.
Trouble was, the longer he stood there, the less he seemed to mind the wait.
Kelsey Ryan was fascinating to watch when she wasn’t talking psychobabble and trying to save the world.
A hair net tamed her wild hairstyle and muted the color, giving her face a chance to shine. She had quite a smile when she decided to use it, and the warmth of the kitchen and all these bodies in one room flushed her skin with a peachy glow. Without her bulky black-and-white coat to camouflage her, he got a better idea of her womanly shape.
Everything about his ideal woman—Ginny Rafferty-Taylor—was delicate and petite. Two words he couldn’t apply to Kelsey Ryan. She was taller than Ginny. More voluptuously built. He saw nothing overtly sexy in Ginny. She was smart, beautiful, vulnerable—a woman to cherish.
But Kelsey’s full breasts pushed at the snowmen on her sweater every time she breathed or laughed. She stood with her hands at her waist, emphasizing the lush swell of her hips. Ginny was tough enough to make an excellent homicide detective—but she was all lady, all understatement, all femininity, through and through.
Kelsey was earthier, louder, brighter. She was more impulsive, more temperamental. She was, well…more.
Funny how his accelerated pulse rate and heated, itchy skin seemed to take note of the differences.
An elderly man with a walker tapped Merle on the arm and asked him to give him some more room to pass. Surprised at how long he’d stood there spying on Kelsey, Merle excused himself and quickly stepped to the side. The older man thanked him and scooted past.
But the interchange in the doorway was enough to snag Kelsey’s attention behind the counter. Brown eyes met green across the huge, noisy room, questioning his presence, his interest. Just as quickly, those soft eyes switched focus back to a man at the counter. Kelsey handed the man a roll, asked him something about the weather and smiled.
Merle Banning wanted that smile.
But he didn’t suppose he’d done anything yet to deserve one.
Maybe it would be best if he stuck to business and good manners and positive press for the department, and forgot anything his misfiring hormones and lonesome heart were asking him to do.
After stuffing five dollars into the locked wooden donations box beside the door, Merle put his money clip back in his pocket and made his way toward the serving counter. Bypassing the offer of a tray, he grabbed a ceramic mug and filled it with hot, black coffee. He waited his turn until the line thinned and he stood in front of Kelsey. It hurt the ego to note her smile had vanished again.
“You don’t have good news for me,” she stated, instead of offering a cheery “Enjoy your meal” the way she had to the three men ahead of him.
Merle shook his head. “Sergeant Watkins thinks your car is already being broken down for parts. You’ll need to call your insurance agent in the morning. I’ll have a report ready for you to turn in with the claim by the end of the day.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“I wish I could do more. I’ll at least offer you a ride home once you’re done here.”
She inhaled deeply, as if she had to debate the pros and cons of the practical offer. Merle shamelessly watched the snowmen dance across the front of her sweater and decided then and there that no matter how much his knee hurt him, he was definitely taking a cold shower tonight and washing these crazy thoughts of attraction out of his system.
“I suppose that’s okay.” Ah. Lukewarm approval. His ego was definitely taking it in the shorts tonight. “I promised I’d help with clean-up, though. It might be another hour or so before I can leave.”
Thoughts of atonement kicked in, along with a modicum of surrendering to the inevitable. Merle smiled even if Kelsey wouldn’t. He set his coffee on the counter and took off his coat. The tie and top button of his shirt went next. “I’m off the clock. Worked my way through high school washing dishes. Just point me to the kitchen.”
T. MERLE BANNING had actually rolled up his sleeves, manned the sprayer, scraped plates and helped the mission’s volunteer staff clean hundreds of dishes.
Not quite so uptight and buttoned-down as you thought, hmm?
Kelsey could almost hear her grandmother’s voice saying I told you so in her head.
Despite his handsome face and down-home charm, her grandmother had never liked Jeb Adams. She’d gone to her grave warning Kelsey to dump the man whom, for a few insane weeks, she’d actually agreed to marry. Fortunately, she’d finally come to her senses and realized her grandmother was right about the man who’d loved her with such vicious words.
But Kelsey had a feeling Lucy Belle would like T.
Kelsey did.
It was stupid. It was pointless. But she did.
How could she not have feelings for a man who saved her life, risked dishpan hands and looked at her across a crowded room as if he actually enjoyed the view?
True, it was the same man who thought she was a fraud and a pain in the butt.
But the tenuous feelings were still there.
Ho boy.
She’d needed to work at the mission tonight. She was still raw with guilt at accomplishing nothing to help the women she’d seen murdered. She’d made a mess of things. And then someone had had the gall to steal her car and leave her stranded with no way to escape to the sanctuary of her home.
Before her day got any worse, she’d needed to do something good. She’d needed to make a difference in somebody’s life.
Amazingly enough, T hadn’t chewed her out for being selfish or making him wait. Instead, he’d rolled up his sleeves and joined her.
Now he was waiting patiently for her, holding her coat while she dried her hands and gathered her things.
Jeb had never been patient about anything.
“Yuck.” Kelsey’s long turquoise scarf had slid off its hook and landed on the tile floor where the staff had mopped. She picked it up by one grungy end and watched grayish water drip off the other.
“Problem?”
“Nothing a little dish soap won’t fix.” She hurried to one of the sinks and rinsed it, twisting it carefully when she was done so the wool wouldn’t stretch out of shape.
B
anning stood beside her by the time she was done and grimaced in sympathy. “Probably wouldn’t be a problem if it didn’t feel like twenty below outside.” He snapped his fingers with an idea. “I know. Reverend Wingate has a box out in the hallway where they were handing out blankets. It was full of coats, hats, gloves, that kind of thing. I’ll bet we can find you a replacement scarf there.”
He stepped aside to let her lead the way. “Do you think he’d mind if I took one?”
“From what I can tell, for the right donation, he’ll let you have anything in the building.”
Kelsey let her guard slip a little and laughed at the joke. “I thought that hair net did a lot for me. I’ve got ten bucks left in my purse. You think he’d let me have it for that?”
Banning reached out and combed his fingers through the hair on top of her head, mussing the curls and pulling one spiky strand straight beside her ear. “I’d pass on that. If you’re going to have hair this bold, you don’t want to hide it.”
From the width of his grin to his brief, teasing touch, Kelsey knew that had only been a friendly gesture—as if they were comrades of sorts. But to feel a man’s hand in her hair… The familiarity… Her breath seemed to catch in her chest and her cheeks felt feverish with heat.
It was the third time that day he’d touched her. Without hesitation. Giving her money. Claiming her hand. Teasing her. As if he thought she was normal.
Normal.
Sheesh. That doused her body’s silly reaction to his touch.
She was so far from normal that Detective Logic would never believe it. He just thought she was crazy.
“I’m warning you, Ulysses. I can do better than this dump.”
Kelsey stopped at the raised voices from the open doorway to Reverend Wingate’s office. A tall, skinny man with stringy brown hair pulled back into a ponytail stood with his hand on the knob, either ready to make a dramatic entrance or beat a hasty retreat.
“You’ve threatened me before. To no avail.” The calmer voice inside belonged to Reverend Wingate. “Halliwell will come through. He always does. Besides, you know you won’t find a job anywhere else.”
“This isn’t a job, it’s a sentence. You get me the money,” the skinny man warned, his knuckles white around the doorknob from squeezing it so tight. “Or this hell-hole will be short a doctor as well as a teacher.”
Skinny Man spun around, nearly crashing into Kelsey. T grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back a step, saving her from a collision. “Watch it,” he warned.
The other man spared a wild-eyed glance at Banning, then dropped his gaze to Kelsey, raking his eyes up and down her body. His bleary inspection missed nothing and left her feeling as violated as Edgar’s touch had back at The Underground. He stood there for only a second, but stared long enough and hard enough that T drifted up beside her, subtly positioning himself between her and those eyes.
“Can we help you?” T asked, moving even closer.
Kelsey didn’t mind. She curled her fingers into the sleeve of T’s jacket and held on. There was such anger, such contempt in that man’s gaunt face—an eerie recognition in those black eyes she couldn’t put a name to—that it frightened her.
“Get the hell out of my way.” He finally moved, knocking shoulders with T as he strode down the hallway and out the front door.
“Doc?” Reverend Wingate’s voice grew louder. “Doc!”
Doc? “Great bedside manner,” she cracked.
Banning watched him all the way to the door.
Neither of them laughed.
When the reverend popped through the doorway, he looked like the wrath of God. As soon as he saw Kelsey standing there with Banning, though, his bearded face creased into a smile. “Headin’ out?”
“Sorry.” Kelsey apologized for eavesdropping. “We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Not a problem. That’s Doc Siegel. He’s what passes for a medical professional around here—if I can keep him sober long enough. Which wouldn’t be tonight.” She didn’t see the humor in it that Ulysses did. “Would you believe he first walked in here as one of the homeless men off the street? Had a degree, had a life. Lost it all in the bottom of a bottle. That was more than ten years ago. Now he helps me run the place. But forget him. He’ll have to sleep that temper off. What can I do for you?”
Kelsey released her death grip on T’s jacket and held up her soggy bundle of turquoise wool. “I got my scarf wet and was wondering if I could buy one from your coat box over there.”
“Take what you need. If you want to leave something, just put it in the box. Everything’s a freewill donation around here.”
Except, apparently, Doc Siegel’s time and expertise.
“Thanks, Reverend.”
“No. Thank you.” He stuck out his hand to shake hers. It had taken a lot of years of training and discipline not to automatically extend her hand and risk skin-to-skin contact. “We appreciate your help tonight. Both of you. Anytime you want to stop back by, we’d love to have you. Especially around the holidays when volunteers are in short supply.”
“Thanks,” T answered, questioning her hesitation. “We might take you up on that.”
The men shook hands first, giving her the time she needed to pull on her right glove. By the time they had finished, she was ready to take his hand.
He thumbed over his shoulder to his office. “Well, back to the books. You two help yourself to whatever you need. Good night.”
“Good night, Reverend.”
He closed the door behind him with an almost noiseless click, giving no indication of the argument they’d just witnessed.
“Let’s get going.” T’s purposeful sigh enervated them both.
Kelsey nodded and reached for her coat. Instead of handing it to her, T held it open and waited for her to slip her arms inside. After only a brief internal debate, she turned and let him help her on with it, allowing herself to be pampered in a way she wasn’t accustomed to.
“Thanks. Just give me a second to grab a scarf.”
After putting her money into the donations box, Kelsey knelt beside the deep wooden box and dug in. She’d forgotten to put on her left glove, but the sensations she received were mild and easy to block out. Good feelings mostly. Relief at getting rid of an item. Gratitude that the item offered warmth. The contented pride of having done a good deed. She rifled through parkas and ball caps, mittens and umbrellas. Her fingers brushed across nubby wool and smooth nylon and…
Oh, hell.
It hit her hard and fast, before she could pull away. Before she could throw up any walls and stop the nightmare from coming.
A woman screaming. No, dying to scream. A choking sound gurgled in her own throat.
No. Just dying.
She was back in that horrible place. Back in the damp, black, rotting smell. The wall cut into her back. The air chilled her naked body down to the bone. Her lungs burned, starved for oxygen. She scratched at that dark face, clawed at her own throat.
But the hands were too strong. The man was too big. The scarf was too tight.
They should have been gentle hands. Kind hands. Why?
Her head felt like lead and toppled to the side. Her legs went limp.
He lay her on the floor beside the other tiny body and the darkness rushed in until there was nothing left but the sounds in her ear. The deep, angry chant.
“Abi in malam rem.” Over and over, fading into the darkness. “Matrona. Abi in malam rem.”
“Kelsey?” She heard her own name from far away. Outside the darkness. “Kelsey?”
Her left hand was on fire.
“Kelsey!”
She jerked her mind back to the present. Jerked herself to her feet. She threw the fire from her hand and stumbled back into a warm, solid wall.
“Whoa. What the hell’s going on?” Strong arms folded around her stomach and chest, holding her close to that wall. “Kels?”
Not a wall at all. But a man. Living, breathing. Real.
> “T?” She spun around in his arms and buried her face against his chest. “Oh, God. T.”
“I don’t know why the hell you call me that.” That crisp, articulate voice was clearer now, close to her ear. She reached behind him and linked her hands behind his back, inhaling the clean smells of wool and winter and man, desperately trying to absorb his abundant heat. He rubbed slow, soothing circles against her back until she stopped shaking. She hadn’t even realized how her body trembled with the aftershocks of reliving that horrible scene. “What happened? Is there a snake hiding in the bottom of that box? A mousetrap get ya? C’mon, Kels, you have to talk to me.”
Snake? Mousetrap?
Of course. Detective Banning would be looking for a logical explanation for her bizarre behavior.
But for her, the only explanation was the truth. Taking a deep, resigned breath, she left the temporary security she felt and leaned back against his arms.
“I got mascara on your coat,” she remarked, wiping at the black smudges. That meant she’d been crying. She hadn’t known that, either. But scrubbing the wool between her gloved fingers was a simple detail to focus on while she hid that nightmare beneath a thin veil of conscious thought and placed herself back in the empty hallway of the Wingate Mission.
“Kelsey,” he urged gently. “You just cried out as if you’d been attacked. Are you hurt? What happened?”
He still hadn’t released her. He would soon enough.
She looked up into that moss-colored gaze so he could read the sincerity in her own eyes. “I had another psychic impression about Jezebel’s murder. I saw more this time. I heard words.”
His eyes went cold and his hands stilled their massage. She braced herself for the chill to return when he let her go and backed away. “Don’t play that game with me. If you’ve got facts to share, fine. Tell me. But don’t wrap it up in all this drama. I can’t take a man to court because of some daydream you make up about him.” He counted off the requirements on his fingers. “I need facts to arrest a man. Facts to convict him. Facts to keep him from killing anybody else.”
