Dead Again: A Romantic Thriller

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Dwayne unzipped his vest and reached for his jeans. “You’re a nice-looking lady. Bet you’ve got lots of friends. Bet you know just what to do with this…” He unzipped his jeans.

  She was staring at him, her gaze unmoving. Her face might have been carved from marble—it was completely without expression and very white.

  It was even better than fear, Dwayne decided, reaching into his jeans—just as the baseball bat took out the side of his knee.

  Bright, iridescent bolts of pain shot up and down his leg and exploded through his spine. He threw his head back, a scream ripping from him. He staggered but his left knee had been taken out and he fell to the side.

  Behind him, he heard the door he’d blocked being rammed.

  “Sophie!” It was muffled but he could hear the fury anyway.

  She was getting to her feet, the baseball bat in her hands, her face white and expressionless.

  Dwayne lifted the gun up, overriding all the agony in his leg to do it. “No,” he said. “You don’t get it.” This isn’t what a victim does.

  But the end of the baseball bat was lifting, then whistling down across his wrist. The bone snapped. He heard it and felt the wet, quiet crack that made his gorge rise. He screamed again as the gun skidded across the floor behind him.

  The old wooden-handled mop jamming the door gave way with a splintering snap. Too late, Dwayne realized.

  He looked up at the woman who was watching him, her determination to stand up to whatever he dished out clear for him to read now in the clenched jaw and the flicker of anger in her eyes.

  Why hadn’t he seen that before, when he first walked in? Why hadn’t he been warned about her?

  The tall skinny guy he’d watched go into the back of the shop before making his move was through the door now. He was coming for him and the woman was watching calmly.

  Dwayne had wanted to know who the sucker was in this scam. He had his answer now.

  He was.

  The blow on the back of his head was expected. Dwayne embraced unconsciousness with a sigh of relief.

  * * * * *

  Sophie could feel her control starting to shake and jitter apart. She dropped the end of the bat and leaned on it as Martin checked the guy’s pulse.

  “I-i-is… Is he dead?”

  “No.” He turned and picked up a pen then carefully picked up the gun by the trigger guard. Sophie had seen it done countless times on television and Martin looked natural, doing it. He dropped it on the counter. “Don’t touch it,” he said shortly.

  “Not in a million,” she assured him.

  He was turning back to the guy. “His jeans are undone.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her knees were getting weak now and even her mind was sluggish. She felt a little sick and very shaky.

  Martin turned to glance at her, then strode forward and caught her as she sank to the floor, her strength gone. She grabbed at his sweater as she was scooped up but he didn’t stand up. He kept lowering her until he was sitting on the floor, his back against the edges of the shelves on the underside of the counter. She was cradled in his lap.

  “I’ve got you,” he said.

  The trembling had become violent shaking and her teeth chattered a little. “H h e could have k-k-killed me!”

  “I know. I know.” His voice was low.

  She wanted to cry, could feel the sobs building but this was too important, she had to get it out. She shook the fistful of sweater she held for emphasis. “I could be dead, don’t you see? You were here anyway, Martin. Not somewhere else.”

  “Shh, Sophie, I get it. I know.”

  “No! You don’t! What good is it staying away to keep me alive if I could get killed, anyway? What guarantees are there, Martin? I don’t get it!”

  He pushed back her hair and lifted her chin so she was looking at him properly. “It’s Jack,” he said softly.

  She did cry then, the hot tears rolling down her cheeks, scalding them. But happiness took away the sobs in one bounding leap of her heart.

  “Jack?”

  He kissed her and she clung to him, unsure of who was holding the other more tightly.

  It was then they heard the car coming, its engine screaming. It pulled up outside the store and footsteps on the gravel sounded. The door was wrenched open.

  “Sophie!” It was Peter’s voice.

  She smiled at Jack, then lifted her voice. “Here, Peter.”

  He came around the counter. “There was a call, a neighbour said—” He halted at the end and his jaw sagged. “Jesus christ!” He was staring at the robber lying next to them.

  “He tried to hold me up,” Sophie told him. “I’m pretty sure I broke his wrist. I heard it.”

  Peter glanced at her, his eyes wide. It was the first time she had ever seen him so shocked. “You took him out?” he asked.

  “Genuine antique Louisville slugger,” Jack drawled and slid the bat along the floor toward the police chief.

  “Martin finished him off,” Sophie explained. “With the broken mop. He had a gun. It’s on the counter,” she added.

  Peter glanced at the counter.

  “I preserved the prints,” Jack said.

  Peter’s eyes narrowed a little. “You did, hmm?”

  Sophie nestled her shoulder into Jack’s chest. She had no idea why she felt it was necessary to stay as close as she could but she obeyed the instinct. She looked up at Peter, waiting for him to take over. It was his job, now.

  Peter was examining them both, not missing a single detail, she was sure.

  Then the man lying between them groaned and his head rolled. He was coming around. That got Peter moving, finally. He pulled the radio off his belt and called in for assistance and an ambulance.

  While he was talking, Jack spoke quietly. “Time to go. Let’s ease out of here now or we’ll be here for the rest of the day.”

  They got to their feet. Jack kept his hand on her shoulder. “I’m taking Sophie home,” he said as Peter clipped the radio back on his belt. “She’s had a shock. She needs rest.”

  “I’ll need statements—”

  “You can get them any time. You know exactly where we’ll both be. Sophie’s not in a condition to stand up to long questioning.” Jack indicated the man on the floor between them, who was moving a little, but was mostly unconscious. “It’s perfectly clear what happened, anyway. Armed robbery and attempted sexual assault thrown into the bargain.”

  “Sexual assault?” Peter’s eyes widened enormously.

  “Look at his pants,” Jack said.

  Peter looked. His face darkened and his eyes narrowed again. “The little prick,” he muttered. “Are you all right?” he asked Sophie. “Did he…”

  “She’s shaky. She needs rest,” Jack intervened smoothly.

  Peter considered this for a minute. He seemed confused. The sound of a police siren reached them, coming closer. Finally, he nodded. “Sure. Yeah. You go home and rest,” he told Sophie. “I’ll lock up when we’re done.”

  Jack steered her past Peter and out of the shop. Outside, the siren was louder and as they stood there, a deputy’s cruiser raced to the shop and braked hard, showering the glass front with pebbles and blue chips. Duggie Brent, one of Peter’s long-time deputies, jumped out. “Ms. Kingston, you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I’m going home. Peter’s inside.”

  “Thanks. We’ll take care of it for you. For crying out loud, can you believe it? A holdup? Here?” He shook his head and hurried into the store.

  Sophie watched the slim man head inside. Duggie’s promise that they’d take care of it reassured her more than Peter’s. She shivered.

  Jack’s arm around her waist tightened. “I can get the car, if you’d prefer.”

  “No. I want to walk the shakes off.”

  They started down the short slope that quickly started uphill again. Her mind was so full of what had happened in the last few minutes that she could find no place to even start organiz
ing it.

  Jack walked next to her, equally as silent.

  “Jack,” she began.

  “Yeah.”

  That simple acknowledgement. She glanced at him, feeling a huge wave of happiness swell and burst over her. Jack saw her expression and touched her shoulder briefly. “Wait ’til we get home,” he told her. “I’m Martin to everyone else.”

  Acknowledgement. No more baffling masks.

  Sophie didn’t walk home. She floated.

  * * * * *

  Jinni was in the kitchen, preparing after-school snacks for Georgia and Morgan, who would arrive home on the school bus at any moment. Jack pulled a kitchen chair out for Sophie and pushed her into it with a warm hand on her shoulder, then set about making coffee.

  “The store was held up,” he told Jinni, who had paused with her butter knife in midair, her brow lifting at Sophie’s appearance.

  “That so,” Jinni said. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle her placid surface. Jinni went back to buttering. “You dealt with him, of course,” she said to Jack.

  “Sophie dealt with him. I just finished him off,” he said, filling the carafe.

  Jinni glanced at Sophie, then back at Jack. “Who was it?” she asked him. “Anyone you know?”

  Jack shook his head. “A kid. Out for his jollies.”

  Sophie stared at Jinni, surprised at her oddly direct question. It was not something Sophie would have thought to ask. How much did Jinni know about Jack, anyway?

  But then, Jinni had a way of just knowing things. She intuited them from the air around her, reading more into a gesture or expression than most people could get from a thick manual of instruction. Jack had been living with them for weeks. Jinni would have guessed much, noticed more and would be closer to the truth than perhaps even Sophie was. Her question certainly spoke of an area of concern that Sophie had not considered.

  The front door opened and Georgia and Morgan rushed through to the kitchen, yelling at each other, dragging their bags and shedding coats, mittens, caps and scarves as they went. It was the first time in a long time Sophie had consciously noticed the amount of noise generated by two small children. The level hitched up a notch or two when they realized that Sophie was home too. They bounced over to her, full of news about their day and the impending Christmas concert. She tried to deal with them fairly and in the small quiet moment when they first settled down to eat their snacks, she glanced over at Jack. He was watching her and when she looked at him he smiled a little. It was a good smile, reaching his eyes.

  “Later,” he murmured.

  She understood. Their time would come later.

  There would be a later. That fact was enough, for now, to keep her glowing with an inner peace she had not felt for…Go on, admit it, Sophie. It’s time now for facts.

  She grasped the prickly truth. This sort of peace had evaded her for ten years.

  Later.

  She smiled and turned back to her children.

  * * * * *

  Duggie came through to Peter’s office, a clipboard in his hand. “Got some reports for you, boss,” he said.

  Peter sat back a little, putting down his pen. His ability to fill in forms seemed to have disappeared out the window, anyway. Not that paperwork had been the reason he’d signed up as a deputy, all those years ago.

  “Go,” he said.

  “The perp doesn’t have a record but ID says he’s Dwayne Ellerson Gaffney. Mitch says he kicked him out of Beany’s Saturday night and saw him at that party we raided on the lake the same night.”

  “Yup.”

  “Hospital says the guy barely has concussion but they’ll keep him in for the night, for observation.”

  “Standard procedure.”

  “I figure the charges will be armed robbery and attempted sexual assault. Anything else you want to add in there?”

  Mitch had come to the door of the office, listening. Peter exchanged glances with him. This hadn’t been part of the plan. None of it had been part of the plan. Certainly not Sophie getting up the guts to take an armed man out with a baseball bat, for crissake.

  Someone was going to have to wear it though and it wasn’t going to be him. He had enough to deal with.

  For the thousandth time the image of Sophie in Martin’s arms, the simple happiness on her face, flickered through his mind too quickly to even notice its passing in a conscious way, but it had the same impact. His gut tightened and the acid ate a little farther into his chest.

  “Book the son of a bitch,” Peter said. “Whatever you can think up that even vaguely fits. Get it over to the Walden DA’s office before you go home.”

  Duggie looked a little startled, then resigned. His shift had ended over an hour ago but Peter had just given him more than an hour’s paperwork to deal with. “Right, boss,” he said and went back to the outer office.

  Mitch was watching.

  “What?” Peter demanded.

  “What if he says something?” Mitch said quietly. “He’s not going to like being shafted. He figured he’d get a free walk out of this.”

  “Who’s going to believe him?” Peter asked. “I want the prick off the streets. He decided to add his own little frills to the deal and for that, he pays.”

  Mitch, who had probably got the details from Duggie, straightened up from his lean on the door. “Right,” he agreed and went away.

  Silence. Peter looked at his desk, at the reports he would have to fill out as the first cop to arrive at the scene. It had been years since he’d had to deal with routine paperwork of this sort and he was rusty.

  “Fuck it,” he said and reached into the bottom drawer for the fifth of Jim Beam he kept there.

  Her glowing face. The way she’d leaned into him.

  It was a good day to get totally shitfaced, he decided. After that, he’d have to figure out what he was going to do about all this.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shock was a hard thing to ignore, Sophie discovered.

  As soon as the kids had settled to their homework, leaving her to her own thoughts, she found she was abruptly sleepy, to the point where she could have dropped her head onto her folded arm on the table and slept right there.

  Then Jack was there, pulling her to her feet. “Come on, Superwoman. Time to put your head down.”

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she said but the idea of snuggling under the covers made her protest a token one at best.

  “It’s shock,” Jack told her clinically. “You need to sleep. Two hours and you’ll feel like a different person.”

  “Already do.” She realized the words were slurred a little. It was almost like she was drunk. He was walking her up the stairs.

  “How come you don’t have shock?” she demanded.

  “You get used to it. Here.” He had the quilt pulled back. She slipped underneath it, curled up on her side. The quilt was dropped over her and tucked in.

  She sighed and let sleep take her.

  When she woke it was almost completely dark in the room. She sat up, alarmed at the total silence and lack of light. The bedroom door might be shut but surely there would be light showing around the door, underneath it, from the passage or the stairwell…

  “Hi, there.” It was Jack’s voice. Quiet.

  He was sitting on the dresser stool, his back against the wall.

  She blinked. “Are you watching over me?” she asked.

  “Thinking, mostly. I didn’t want you to wake and wonder what the hell was going on. It’s nearly midnight. Everyone else has gone to bed.”

  Instant orientation. Had he known she would be confused when she woke? Yes, he probably had.

  You get used to it.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Starving.”

  “Jinni left a meal in the oven for you.” The darker patch of shadow against the paler wall rose. “I’m putting the light on,” he warned.

  She blinked as the overhead light came on. Jack closed the door, keeping the light from wa
king anyone else. “I’ll go get the plate out,” he told her and slipped out, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

  Sophie changed into clean clothes, washed her face and brushed her hair before going down. Jack was right. She felt like a different person, now. She was fresh, rested and the twitching, skin-crawling tension had gone. Even her headache, which had lived at the back of her head for months, emerging to scream at her on a regular basis and retreating to a dull roar the rest of the time, had gone. There wasn’t even a hint of it left.

  Amazing. Taking someone out with a baseball bat should be patented as the new millennium’s Tylenol.

  But she knew it wasn’t just that.

  When she got downstairs, Jack had her dinner on the table and fresh coffee already brewing. The rest of the house was dark and silent. He was leaning against the sink, dressed in black denim shirt and jeans, looking more like the Jack she remembered than ever he had before.

  Was it just because he was Jack now? Was that what made the difference? Yes, probably. He wasn’t holding it all in, the drawstrings pulled tight, any more. He’d gained weight since he’d been here. Not walking off the calories on the road. Good food, hard physical work and a comfortable bed.

  Jack’s back.

  She sat down to eat and he joined her at the table, watching. The sensation made her a little uneasy.

  “So, what are you thinking?” she asked, cutting into the steak with relish. “And don’t tell me ‘later’. It’s later, now.”

  “For most things, yes,” he agreed. “Some of it needs broad daylight.”

  “Promise?”

  He nodded. “I promise. There’s time, Sophie. We’ve got time, now, I think.”

  The qualification made her jump. “You think?”

  His mouth thinned a little. “That’s the part for daylight,” he explained. He got up and poured coffee for them both. He sat down again, added sugar and cream to hers, stirred it and pushed it toward her. He sucked the drops off the teaspoon and grimaced, putting it down.

  There were so many questions pushing at her. She knew simply plucking one of them at random would start the trickle, encourage the flood. But she held back. There was something else that must be done, first.