Dead Again: A Romantic Thriller

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Sophie had only ever been inside Beany’s once, with Peter. He had been following up a lead on a case he was working on and had finally run the man down at Beany’s.

  She had rested against the edge of her barstool, too nervous to take the weight off her feet in case she needed to bolt. The atmosphere had been thick with cigarette smoke. Loud conversations were liberally dotted with language that made Sophie’s occasional lapses as innocent as a blush in comparison. The promise of violence in the air had unsettled her the most and kept her perched on the edge of the barstool, willing Peter to finish his business so she could get out.

  The memory of those tense few moments didn’t stop Sophie from crossing the parking lot and mounting the two short steps, pushing the door aside and stepping into Beany’s. But it did make her heart beat a little harder and louder.

  She almost sidled into one of the booths lining the outer two walls, ducking into comparative privacy as soon as she could. As she settled herself with her back against the wall so she could look out, she saw the man—Jack, her mind whispered persistently—lower the backpack to the floor and sink onto a barstool with the slow deliberation of one who was weary.

  The barman, his tight white tee shirt sleeves rolled up to display the well-developed biceps and a colourful tattoo, wandered over to the new arrival and jerked his chin up in a silent What will you have?

  The man spoke. Sophie couldn’t make out words but she could just hear his voice, low and laconic, from across the room. The wall behind the bar was mirrored and she could see his lips moving, his gaze on the barman. The mirror was smoked, which distorted some of the finer details. He looked like Jack but there were differences. This man was too gaunt.

  The barman drifted away again.

  “Help you, ma’am?”

  Sophie tore her gaze away from watching the man at the bar digging into his back pocket.

  Another barman, this one young, stood at the side of the booth, tray in hand, a few dirty ashtrays piled on it. He looked at her properly and did an almost comical double take. “Mizz Kingston. Wow! Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”

  She winced. The recognition came from her connection with Peter, of course.

  “A glass of white wine,” she told him and he went back to the service section of the bar.

  The room wasn’t terribly crowded. There were empty tables and one pool table wasn’t being used. The ten or so men playing pool looked like they’d made an afternoon of it. Their movements were careful and controlled, while their gazes were not.

  Sophie saw one or two of them shoot a glance at her, sizing her up and she sank even farther into the booth, hunching her shoulders so she could push back into the corner. She looked back toward the bar. The man had a beer in front of him now and was resting his hand around it almost possessively, while he talked to the barman.

  * * * * *

  “Anything. I’ll even work an idiot stick,” Martin said, feeling the chill of the beer creep along his fingertips.

  “Idiot stick?” the barman asked, puzzled.

  “Shovel on one end, idiot on the other,” he explained. He was dying to take a long deep swallow of the beer. His throat contracted longingly at the thought of it. It had been months since he could justify the expense of buying one. But he had to keep talking to keep the barman there, so that he could pump him for information.

  The barman grinned appreciation at his small joke. Martin sensed the grin was genuine and relaxed a little. He’d won a small point.

  “I don’t know that there’s much call for that around here. But logging now…you done some of that?” The barman ran his eye over him sceptically, as if he doubted he was strong enough to survive a day in the mill, or out in the forest.

  “Every year,” Martin answered truthfully. “Mill work and up the sharp end too.”

  The barman shrugged doubtfully. “See that guy in the white cap down there?”

  He looked down the bar toward the end near the pool tables. There was a man there with a big stomach, his elbows propping up his chin on the bar, a nearly empty beer glass in front of him. He wore a dirty white baseball cap on his grizzled hair.

  “I see him.”

  “He’s foreman of the morning shift down at the mill. He might be able to help.”

  “Thanks.” Martin picked up his glass. “You wanna give me another one of these?”

  “Sure.” The barman floated away again, moving easily despite his bulk. He’d obviously been hired because of his stature and the hint it gave about his physical abilities, which said volumes about the kind of clientele this bar attracted.

  But Martin had known that before he’d stepped inside. Rough joints were where you found the contacts that could get you a casual job.

  Martin parked himself on the stool next to the foreman, dropped his backpack and placed his beer. “Hi,” he offered.

  * * * * *

  Sophie watched the man shake hands with Val Beaumont. The barman put a second beer down in front of the man, who pushed it across to Val. Val picked it up with a smile before chugging back more than half of it. Then they settled down into a concentrated talk, with quick exchanges.

  Clearly, the man had introduced himself to Val in hope of getting a job at the mill. She admired the quick, efficient way he’d gone about his business. It spoke of practice.

  Movement out of the corner of her eye and a loud guffaw drew Sophie’s gaze back toward the pool tables. She vaguely recognized a couple of the men. Vince Baltonia and Harry Cormick. They were long-term unemployed, squeezing out an existence on welfare and the occasional job. Because of their penchant for solving problems with their fists most companies in town were wary of taking them on.

  They were scowling and shooting glances at Val and the man talking to him. Sophie’s stomach clenched. Trouble.

  Val lifted his hand and offered it. The man next to him shook it.

  * * * * *

  Martin poured power into the grip, knowing that despite the job offer, Val was testing and measuring him up. He was used to the constant sizing up process and adjusted his handshake accordingly.

  Val grinned. “Shift starts five a.m. sharp, okay?”

  “Sure.” He nodded and looked around for the barman. “Would you like another one of those—” he began.

  The rest of the words jammed up in the back of his throat as his gaze was caught by the view in the mirror behind the bar.

  Red-gold hair in an abandoned tumble around her shoulders. Sea-green eyes—even in this smoky light, they were almost iridescent. They were looking straight at him. No compromise, no apology.

  Sophie.

  Sophie Rosemary Kingston.

  For an endless aching minute time stood still. The whole world faded away from his consciousness, save for her face reflected in the bar mirror. She was here. Now. Real, live, warm. Not a faded memory dug up from his mind. The man who called himself Martin feasted on the image, storing it with the single-mindedness of an addict.

  What was she doing here in this place?

  With that mental whisper reality came crashing back down around him, along with something he had thought long gone. Crushing, relentless guilt. It sank like a shroud around him, bearing down on his soul.

  * * * * *

  Sophie saw his gaze catch hers in the mirror and her breath caught. There was unmistakable recognition in his eyes.

  It was Jack.

  Jack.

  Forget that he was dead, that she’d mourned and married too hastily a man who looked like him. Forget the last ten years. Forget all the questions.

  It wasn’t important. It was all forgotten and pushed aside without effort because it was all suddenly insubstantial, weightless.

  Jack was here. Now. In this bar. He’d seen her and recognized her and she watched as sick despair shadowed his features.

  His reaction slammed into her with the impact of a truly unexpected hammer-blow, making her fingers clench around the wineglass and her heart to thud sharply.
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  Then his gaze let her go. He turned back to Val, as if his attention had been pulled away.

  * * * * *

  “If you’re buying, I will. Never let it be said I’m above the occasional piece of blackmail.” Val’s voice penetrated the fog in Jack’s mind. He wrenched his concentration back to the task at hand, anxious to finish it and be free to deal with the consequences—the dire, disastrous complications—of Sophie’s presence in the bar.

  “Consider it a way of saying thanks for the job,” he said stiffly.

  “You won’t thank me by the time one o’clock rolls around. You’re going to be sorer than a whore’s fanny, my boy. But you reckon you can handle it. Anyway a beer earns you a try.” He lifted the glass and drained it.

  “How come it don’t earn us a try no more, Val?” a belligerent voice demanded right next to them. “What’d this skinny drainpipe do that gets him work and not us?”

  Jack watched Val’s face close down, all the cheery goodwill fading. Jack looked up.

  The man next to them was in his late thirties. Drunk. Mean. He was holding his pool cue like a weapon. He was a fighter and looking for a fight, Jack concluded with an inward sigh. He knew they would try to take him on, not Val, who was a local and therefore owed slightly more loyalty.

  From the corner of his eye, Jack saw the barman float toward the pool table end of the bar with catlike, unstudied stealth, instantly alerted to trouble.

  Jack cleared his throat. “I guess it’s time to go find a pillow for the night.” He started to stand up.

  The pool player dropped a meaty hand onto Jack’s shoulder before he had lifted himself more than a couple of inches off the stool. The hand was heavy, with lots of muscle behind it. He was pushed back onto the stool effortlessly. Mentally he shrugged. He’d known the risks of coming into the town but he’d come anyway. He wasn’t going to begrudge the consequences. He just hoped they were light this time.

  He waved a hand toward the barman. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked the pool player, making his voice friendly.

  The player blinked slowly, processing Jack’s question. He hesitated, torn between the prospect of a free drink and the potential satisfaction of taking him apart.

  Then Val spoke. “You oughtta get home to that little wife of yours, Vince. Don’t you know when to call it a night?”

  It was absolutely the wrong thing to say. Val was operating under the assumption that Vince had the same values as him.

  Jack had always been good at reading people and out of the need for survival over the last ten years, had got infinitely better at it. He’d known within the first five seconds of studying him that appealing to Vince’s better nature was a waste of time.

  The heavy hand sitting on Jack’s shoulder tightened up, painfully squeezing the muscles together, making his bones creak. Jack kept a pleasantly stupid expression on his face with effort. “Sounds like a good idea to me,” he added. “How about one for the road?”

  He knew the offer would fail but it would make Vince pause for a few seconds while he mentally processed the question, which gave Jack all the time he needed. He grasped one strap of his backpack, slid his hips off the stool and ducked out from under Vince’s grasp. He turned to head for the door, moving fast. There was a chance he could make it out in time and he was all for running away from a fight that wasn’t his idea in the first place, especially when the opponent had thirty pounds on him and was mean with it.

  “Vinnie, no!” the barman yelled, just as something slammed across Jack’s back with the impact of a runaway train, shoving him through ten feet of air before he hit the floor. He sprawled there, his nose half an inch off the cold linoleum, staring at an old burn where someone had stomped out a cigarette butt eons ago. There was a line of white fire across his back and his chest was locked. Winded, he thought, I just got taken out by a pool cue.

  He knew he had to get up. He doubted Vince had heard of Queensbury rules. He wouldn’t wait politely ’til Jack was on his feet again. Vince would lay into him with whatever was handiest and while he was on the floor that meant boots. Around here everyone wore steel-toe safety boots. One kick from Vince, with his weight behind it, would put him in hospital for at least a week.

  Problem was Jack couldn’t get his muscles to obey his mind. He clenched his teeth and poured effort into it. He turned his head with the slowness of a snail, all the while waiting for the impact of Vince’s boot.

  At last he got his head around enough to spot Vince and saw a remarkable thing. Vince was wearing a woman on his back. One slender arm was locked around his neck, the other was pounding hell out of his upper chest. Both denim-clad legs were clamped around his waist. As he watched, one boot lifted and drove into Vince’s thigh, barely two inches from his crotch, which told Jack exactly where she had been aiming.

  “Just stop it!” she yelled, pounding on his shoulder with her balled hand to emphasize each word.

  Vince reached over his shoulder with one of his huge hands and grabbed her upper arm. With a snarl, he shrugged her off him, almost tossing her away.

  She hit the floor with an impact that vibrated through Jack’s body but was back up on her feet, cat-quick. She was heading back for Vince before he could take a full step toward Jack. She slipped around to stand in front of him, put both hands on his chest and shoved hard. Vince was too heavy to do more than take a half step backward but he did halt.

  Jack could see her quivering. Fear, he thought. But then she spoke and he knew it was fury that rippled through her. “You stay away from him, do you hear? You leave him alone!”

  “Or what, sweet buns?” Vince sneered. “You gonna take me on again? I might have to hurt you.”

  Another pool player plucked at Vince’s sleeve. “Vinnie. Leave her alone.”

  Vince shrugged the hand off. “Shut up, Harry.”

  Val cleared his throat. “Vince, you really don’t want to try anything with her.”

  Vince frowned.

  Harry plucked at his sleeve again. “That’s Gallenson’s woman,” he said, trying to whisper but failing.

  “The police chief’s woman?” Vince slurred, all his hostility fading.

  * * * * *

  Sophie felt a momentary irritation at the description but it was eclipsed by the knowledge that the moment of danger had passed. It would be safe to turn her back, now.

  She turned and went down on her knees. “Jack?” she whispered. “Are you all right? It’s me, Sophie.”

  She rested a hand on his shoulder momentarily, then lifted it away, unsure whether her touch would be welcome. “Can you get up?” she asked.

  She saw his jaw clench and his hands shift under him. With obvious effort he got slowly to his knees, then his feet. While he stood there, filling his lungs with a slow in-drawn breath, Sophie picked up the backpack. It was unexpectedly heavy. Jack had moved it around as if it were much lighter. She lifted it awkwardly by one strap and took his elbow.

  “Come on. We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  He nodded, silent. Sophie walked him to the door, pushed one of the swing doors open and stood aside to let him through. She didn’t look back into the bar, even though she was aware of the customary noise starting up again as things settled back down.

  Down the two steps, back out into the car park. It seemed like she had crossed the car park months ago, not the bare fifteen minutes it really was.

  They’d only taken a few steps when bright lights from a car dazzled them, bringing them to a halt. The car was moving toward them fast, sliding on the loose surface. Jack recognized by the way the car was driven on the treacherous surface that an expert driver was behind the wheel. Expert but reckless, he decided. With all the people who could have been on foot in the car park, racing around at that speed was asking for trouble.

  The car came to a sliding halt beside them, the forward momentum translated into a spin than turned the car side on. It was a black Mustang. The driver’s door was flung open and a tall
man in his mid-thirties got out, jet-black hair with a blue sheen glinting under the parking lot light.

  “Sophie!” The man’s voice was both relieved and angry. “What the hell have you been up to? I just got a call from Ben saying you were trying to take on Vince Baltonia.”

  The barman had sent out a mayday, Jack realized. But why call this man? Then the man stepped away from the door and started toward them and Jack had his answer. Neat uniform, gold badge. Holstered gun. The town’s chief of police.

  The police chief’s woman, Vince had said.

  “Peter!” Sophie responded with a startled voice, tinged with a touch of relief. “I’m glad you’re here. Vince deliberately attacked Jack with a pool cue—”

  Jack overrode her quickly, straightening up and sticking out his hand. He spoke in a loud voice, trying to drag the man’s attention away from Sophie’s words. “Martin Stride. This lady here intervened on what could have been a pretty nasty situation, chief.”

  Besides him, he felt Sophie stiffen, heard her quiet “But…”

  The cop had taken Jack’s hand automatically but the shrewd eyes sized him up cautiously. “Peter Gallenson. Captain. You’re new in town.”

  “Just got in.”

  “Peter, Vince was going to take him apart,” Sophie interrupted, her voice strident. “You have to do something about that guy. He just gets worse and worse. It looks like he’s been in there all day.”

  “And what the hell were you doing in there, Sophie?” Peter demanded, his anger flaring anew, all concern about Jack clearly fading.

  “I…followed….” Sophie’s voice trailed away weakly. Jack didn’t dare look at her face, for he knew she would be looking at him, her wonderful eyes puzzled, unsure. He kept his gaze on Peter Gallenson’s face. She’d obviously seen him on the street and followed him into the bar to get a good look at him, to make sure of her suspicions.