Gone Duck

by L. L. Muir

  Dorothy Jean was sitting at the table in a house coat, laughing and holding a cantaloupe smile close to her mouth. She finally gave up and set it back on the plate. “You make it hard to eat my breakfast.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, dear. Don’t be sorry. I haven’t had a good belly laugh for a while.” She reached for the decanter of syrup. “Maybe you’d better tell me about this duck. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Macey talked while Dorothy Jean ate. Apparently, she hadn’t been told about what was in her head. Or if she had, she didn’t remember.

  With a small hand, twisted with arthritis and covered in age spots, Dorothy rubbed a spot on her head where the nose of a pair of sunglasses might sit. “I wondered about this scar. Do you suppose that’s where they put it?”

  Macey shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Shawn emerged from his room in a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt. Apparently there had been more in his backpack than just money. He came to the table and dropped a kiss on the top of Dorothy’s head. “You all right this morning?”

  “Yes, sweetheart. I’m fine. And you?”

  He touched his throat gingerly and gave Macey a pained look, then a grin. “Oh, I’ll survive. But I want you to take it easy. We can lie low here as long as no one knows you’re here. So stay inside. Have Macey order anything you need. I don’t want anyone even imagining a shaky voice. I’m going shopping.” He leaned over her shoulder. “What size do you wear?”

  The old woman blushed and whispered in his ear. He stood up and grinned at Macey. “I already know your sizes.” He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and hurried to the door like he was afraid a couple of women wouldn’t allow him to go shopping without them. “I’ll try to be back in two hours. If I’m not back in three…”

  “I can handle it,” Macey said and popped a grape in her mouth, ignoring him.

  “If we ever get separated,” he said seriously, “here in Spokane, meet me at the Carousel, on the riverfront. It’s not far. Both of you could walk it if you had to.”

  And then he was gone.

  “I hope he brings me something better than sweats and a t-shirt,” she said to herself.

  Tears flooded Dorothy’s eyes. “I just hope he comes back.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Three hours later, no Shawn.

  Macey tried to keep Dorothy Jean from noticing the time, since the stress of worry might send the woman headlong into a bad spell, and if they did have to sneak out of the hotel and go looking for a carousel, she’d need to be lucid for as long as possible.

  At 3:20, Macey decided it was time. She was just about to suggest that Dorothy trade her moo-moo for the jogging suit so they could get some fresh air, when she was saved by the sound of a card zipping in and out of the door lock.

  Shawn opened the door and pushed a bunch of bags through the opening with his feet. More shopping bags hung from his fingers. He set those on the entry table and went back into the hall. There was a murmur of voices and then he returned pushing two rolling suitcases.

  Macey turned off the TV and stood with her hands behind her back, wanting to descend on the bulging plastic sacks but knowing they weren’t all for her.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he said. “I’m so relieved you’re still here.”

  “It was close. We were just about to change clothes and go.”

  He nodded, then let go of the suitcases. “It raises suspicions when you check into a hotel without luggage,” he said, like he was embarrassed he’d bought the bags. They were red and burgundy paisley. Too pretty for a man. “One for each of you. This one’s for me.” He shrugged a strap off his shoulder and a large, black leather duffle tumbled to the floor. It had wheels on one end.

  Macey glanced at the plastic bags. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head. “You’d better see what’s in them before you go thanking me. The grey bags are mine. The rest you can figure out.”

  Dorothy was suddenly at her side like her housecoat was on fire and she would die if she didn’t get out of it right away.

  Macey opened a sack and found socks, knee-high nylons, compression hose. “I hope these are for you.”

  Dorothy snatched them out of her hands and grinned. “Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you’ve tried ‘em.”

  There was a package of granny panties, same brand as those Macey usually wore. But they were way too large. She pushed them back into the bag and narrowed her eyes at Shawn. “You said you knew my size.”

  He grinned. “Those aren’t for you.”

  Dorothy dug into the bag to see and pulled out the package. “Perfect.” She crammed them into her armpit and started on another bag. “Uh, oh. Shawn, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have.” She dragged out a black lace nightgown and held it in front of her. “Too small. And too tall.”

  Shawn laughed. Macey closed her eyes and wished really hard that she was somewhere else.

  “Relax,” Dorothy said, pressing the nightgown into her hands. “It’s a nightgown. Nothing wrong with pretty.”

  “Yeah.” Shawn picked up his gray sacks and skirted around the piles of treasure. “Keep that in mind.” He stepped into the master bedroom, threw her a wink, and then closed the door. She was pretty sure he locked it.

  “Chicken!”

  She opened the next sack and found jeans—exactly like her favorite pair. The button-up shirts had different patterns but were all in familiar colors. A third bag had running shoes and a purse. Not exactly like her own, but close enough to prove he knew her well. And he was trying to help her get over what she’d left behind.

  “These can’t be mine.” Dorothy tossed her a sack then gathered a bunch of them into her arms and headed for their bedroom, whistling.

  All Macey lacked was some underwear.

  Please be underwear. Please be underwear.

  She opened the bag. Two bras, tan and white, the perfect size. A pair of gray slacks. And lace—lots of lace. And in the center of each swath of frilly softness, a cotton crotch. She’d never worn fancy underwear in her life. She’d never had a reason to. But now…

  He may not have given her a make-over—all the clothes could have come from her own closet. But whether she liked it or not, she’d just been given a make-under.

  She was glad she was alone because she didn’t know how she felt about it. Would her granny panties be comfortable? Sure. But what would all that lace feel like? And was he mocking her? Or flattering her? It was so hard to tell without asking. But she’d rather die than ask.

  While she mused, she went to the paper shopping bags on the table. There were brushes, make-up in all the right shades, some hair products, some of which had to be for Dorothy. And in the last bag, there was a box. From a bakery.

  Macey would have left it alone but he’d told her she could figure the rest out, right?

  Two little flaps on the sides, along the bottom, held the box closed. She pulled them up and lifted the lid. On a little sign stuck in the center of a beautiful pie crust was the word Rhubarb. And she burst into tears.

  He didn’t think she was crazy after all. Or if he did, he didn’t mind it so much.

  “Don’t cry,” he said softly from behind her.

  She turned to face him and tried to hold it together.

  “I just figured you never had a chance to complete your celebration ritual the other day.” He shrugged one shoulder and looked past her at the box. “I know you always make one from scratch, but—”

  She threw herself at him and wrapped her arms over his shoulders and around his neck. When he caught her around her waist and seemed steady enough, she planted her lips on his and tried to say thank you in the most sincere way possible.

  And he said you’re welcome.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “So.” Dorothy took another bite of pie. “What about that duck?”

  Macey ignored the sharp look from Shawn. The woman deserved to know what was going on and what was inside her head.

&nb
sp; Macey braced herself for the argument to come. “I vote we go back and look for it.”

  Dorothy started to raise her hand, but Shawn took a hold of it and lowered it back onto the table.

  “There is no need for a vote,” he said. “I’m sure the duck isn’t there anymore.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Because you made such a fuss about it— Okay, we made such a fuss about it that old couple probably went back for it as soon as it was light. They had to believe it had some value. We were willing to run them off the road and subdue an officer of the law for it. They probably think it’s full of diamonds or something.”

  “But won’t they be in jail? You told that cop there were stolen goods in their truck, that he’d be a hero—”

  “I was just giving the kid a little hope to keep him from freaking out. That’s all. We weren’t around to press charges. I doubt the truck would have been searched, and even if it had, there was no one to say the stuff wasn’t theirs.” He pushed his empty plate away. “The troopers probably took their statements and let them go.” He shook his head. “No. If it could be found, they would have found it.”

  Macey pointed her fork at him. “You just don’t want to go back for it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re just being petulant.”

  “Don’t give me that. You don’t want to go back and look for something you were willing to risk your life for two days ago. I want to know why.”

  He sat forward and squinted at her in frustration. “There’s maybe a five percent chance it’s back there and that we can find it. Compared to the risk of being caught by the police and handed over to Lacrosse, it’s not worth it.”

  Macey mimicked his body language. “You thought it was worth walking into a police station and fighting our way out of there. Fighting Lacrosse. You walked right up and took out two of his goons with no effort at all. You were Jason Almighty Bourne then. What happened to you?”

  He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, stretching the tendons in his neck. He got to his feet, walked around his chair, then leaned on the back of it—like she’d be safer with a piece of furniture between them. She recognized the threat, but it was empty.

  “Yes, Macey, I did all that. But I wasn’t rescuing the duck, then, was I?” He lifted the back of the chair a couple of inches and then banged back it against the floor. It sounded like a gunshot—a small attempt to convince her that his threat might not be as empty as she thought.

  It worked.

  She sat stunned and silent while Shawn disappeared into his room and firmly closed the door. The loud click of his lock was a message. She was to stay the hell out.

  “What was he rescuing?” Dorothy Jean laid a hand on her wrist and shook it. “Was he rescuing something else?”

  Macey nodded, then nodded harder.

  “Well? What was it?”

  She sighed until all the air was gone from the depth of her lungs. Then she took a quick breath to say, “Me.”

  * * *

  Macey couldn’t sleep. It didn’t matter if she’d slept too late or had too lazy of a day sitting around the hotel suite. Even if none of that were true, even if Dorothy Jean wasn’t snoring ten feet away, she still wouldn’t have been able to sleep.

  Someone in the world cared about her. Not her agent, her publisher, her editor. Not anyone who needed something from her. Not anyone who became her friend from simply knowing her a long time, like the chick at the library, or the guys that delivered her groceries. Someone in the world, someone still living, cared about her.

  Someone in that hotel room…

  She’d handled barricade duty since Shawn seemed to be in for the night. So getting to the living room just to pace the floor would require noisy effort on her part. But she couldn’t just lie there and look at the ceiling and dwell on what might be going on in Shawn’s head.

  He was probably sleeping like a bear with no idea what he’d done to her by pointing out that he did actually care about her. Not because of the files hidden in her duck. And in spite of the strange life she led.

  But it was probably too late for relationships.

  “I love you, Macey, but you’re going to have to summon Keefer and get around this guy.”

  Holy shit.

  She pulled back the covers and got out of bed. She went to the vanity and put a hot washcloth on her face and breathed in the steam.

  Think of nothing. Clear my mind. Think of nothing.

  She felt for the bathroom wall and turned on the fan, then tried to focus on the sound.

  “But I wasn’t rescuing the duck, then, was I?”

  The washcloth cooled and she let it drop off her face into the sink. The fan was forgotten while she studied her image, looking for something loveable. Her ears weren’t bad, she supposed.

  She groaned inwardly and crawled back into her bed. Thirty seconds later, it seemed perfectly reasonable to tear down the barricade—quietly, of course—and go knock on Shawn’s door. She just wanted to ask him a question, then she’d leave him alone. Just one question. She just wasn’t sure what that question was.

  Finally clear, she pulled the door open and hurried…into the loveseat. It hit her mid-thigh and she flew forward. She quickly brought her hands up to save her face. Her forearms absorbed the shock, hitting along the edge of both cushion and hard frame, while one of her elbows landed in the soft body tissues of the man lying on said loveseat.

  It was both gasp and scream that erupted from him. An exceptional human feat since one required inhaling and the other, the opposite. But the ungodly sound ended in a gurgle and she thought she might have killed him when she couldn’t hear him breathe. So she pushed off the ground, intending to flip over the couch and have her feet land on the other side, leaving her in a better position to look him over.

  However…

  She didn’t flip over the couch. What she did manage, by suddenly lifting her weight off her feet, was to exactly duplicate the accidental maiming of a few seconds before. That impressive sound repeated too.

  “What the hell?” He pushed her arms out of the way so he could fall onto the floor and out of her reach. She fell against the couch again, and her lower body finally caught on to what she’d been trying to do…and flipped over the couch. Her feet landed where she’d intended them to land once before, but unfortunately, there was a moaning, groaning body in the way. She quickly forced her feet to slide forward so the bulk of her weight would land on the floor just beyond him, which it did. But then her butt headed for his “soft bits.”

  “I’m so…” She landed. He grunted. “…sorry.”

  Shawn roared and turned over beneath her, then crawled out from under her bum. And he kept crawling in the near darkness all the way to his bedroom. The faint light from within was dowsed when the door whipped closed.

  Macey sat in the dark, on the floor, suppressing her laughter while she relived the accident in her mind and tried to figure out how to use it in a book. When a good ten minutes had passed, his toilet flushed and she hoped he was recovered enough to talk.

  After a while, she realized he didn’t intend to come out again, so she went to his door and knocked softly.

  “Shawn?”

  No answer.

  “Are you dead?”

  “Yes,” came a small voice.

  She laughed. He didn’t.

  “Please talk to me. Just for a minute.”

  She heard shuffling—very slow shuffling—and then the door opened a crack.

  “Go to sleep, Macey. Forget I ever said anything. I didn’t mean it.”

  “I think you did,” she whispered. “I hope you did.”

  “No.” His voice was suddenly clear. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I was just striking out, you know? And besides, I’m not the kind of guy you want.”

  “Oh? You might know the size of my…clothes, and the kind of pie I like, but you can’t read my mind. You can’t know what I want.”

  He nodded. “T
hat makes two of us.”

  She grunted in frustration. “Just come out here and talk to me.”

  He opened the door just a little so she was able to see his whole face. “Here’s the deal. I’ve changed my mind. I’ve realized that the only thing that matters is getting the two of you to safety. I’ve decided that’s enough. I’m going to put the past in the past and move on. Let someone else bring down Lacrosse and the rest. Someone with the power to do it.”

  “You just need some time to recover. Time to think. I’m sorry I complicated things.”

  He laughed lightly. “Macey, listen. You’re not hearing me. I’m not the guy you think I am.”

  “Yeah? Who is that?”

  “You think that deep down I’m a good guy. A hero. I’m not. I know a few tricks of the trade. That doesn’t make my hat white.” His voice had faded a little and she had to move closer to hear him. He wasn’t facing the door anymore.

  “You’re doing great.” She ran her hand along the door, wishing she could reach him and give him a little comfort.

  He shook his head. “I’m just trying to undo what I’ve done. That’s all.”

  She suddenly felt very small. She was just a mistake he was trying to undo? Okay. A few kisses. It hurt, but she could understand that. But what about Dorothy?

  He started to close his door but she shoved her foot in the way. If it hurt, she didn’t feel it. “Go to bed, Macey.”

  “One question.” She was surprised she could speak clearly.

  He huffed out a breath, staring into her eyes. Finally, he gave a little nod. “One question.”

  “Who took Dorothy Jean away from her daughter…and put her into that research hospital?”

  He blinked. Then he swallowed. “I did.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That was the secret he’d been keeping. After they’d left the cabin in Island Park, she’d known he was keeping something from them—and she’d been just as sure his secret wouldn’t matter, that she’d choose him over Jason Bourne himself if given the chance.