Dr. Strange Beard: Winston Brothers #5

by Reid, Penny

  “That’s right.”

  “No.” She was looking at me sideways, suspicion lacing her tone. “That doesn’t make any sense. If anything, shouldn’t that make you want to have more sex? So you have more sexy memories?”

  “It does make sense, if you think about it.”

  I paused here, because a scene played in my mind’s eye, a complete moment of the first time we’d kissed. I felt, with breath-stealing palpability, how badly I’d wanted to kiss Simone again, and again. The visceral, starving feel of it. The times after when we’d fooled around, when touching was a curiosity to her, but a building, swelling, proliferation of longing in me.

  But how could I communicate this to her without the risk of making her feel guilt? She shouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt for feelings she didn’t feel, or amorous attentions she didn’t want.

  As my momma would say, “Sometimes hurt ain’t nobody’s fault. It just is.”

  “How good of a memory are we talking about here?” Simone asked, pulling me from my recollections.

  “Really, really good.”

  From the internet searches I’d done and the books I’d read, I knew I was unusual. I knew it wasn’t normal to experience time travel, or have periods where controlling memories—a flood of them—was difficult.

  I’d read about folks with time-space synesthesia and I didn’t think I had anything like that. I didn’t see time as a grid laid out before me, and behind me, with myself at the center of a Möbius strip. I was no better or worse than the average person at marking dates in a future calendar.

  From everything I’d read, it seemed I had an eidetic memory, just situationally focused. That said, I’d never taken the time to seek a diagnosis. Nor had my momma. A diagnosis wouldn’t change the recollections or lessen them. It might give me a label, but so what?

  Plus, and maybe it was selfish of me, but I didn’t particularly want anyone to know. Correcting folks’ stories irritated them, pointing out discrepancies won me no friends. Maybe my situational memory skills could be used as a parlor trick, but that didn’t interest me any. I didn’t want the attention or the memory that went along with it.

  Perhaps it made me strange, but I didn’t want to become a research subject, I didn’t want to know more about how my mind worked, or why it worked this way. Content with who I was, I just wanted to live my life.

  Simone frowned, looking distracted even as her eyes moved between mine. Shaking herself suddenly, she glanced at the clock next to the bed, restless. My answer didn’t satisfy her, I could see that, but her attention appeared to be tangled in a more pressing issue.

  “I have more questions about this topic,” she said, like a warning, looking at me squarely again. “But I know you need to get to work, so it’ll have to wait.”

  “Fine.” I scratched my jaw in a show of nonchalance. But the fact was, sooner or later I’d have to sit Simone down and explain the full depth and breadth of the matter. If she truly wanted to be with me always, as she’d said last night, then it was only fair she understood what that meant.

  She gave me a tight smile, which I returned.

  But then she blurted, apropos of nothing, “Everything I’ve told you, since I arrived yesterday, has been true.”

  My eyebrows shot up and I arm-wrestled my urge to jump to conclusions. “Okay . . .”

  “But I also came here on a mission.” Her tone grew forlorn.

  “A mission?”

  “Yes. Roscoe.” She now held my hand gripped between both of hers and she looked deeply, searchingly into my eyes. “Don’t be upset.”

  I blinked. “Why would I be upset?”

  “Because I need to talk to you about your father.”

  Flinching, I rocked back on my heels and lifted my chin, an automatic defensive posture as I braced for the memory of him leaving me behind, of him trying to take Ashley and Billy after our momma’s funeral, unsure which would play first. Instead, the memory that surfaced was Darrell as he was now, asking me to give him my bone marrow, and the desperation behind his request.

  “Is this about his cancer?” I guessed, asking around the rocks in my throat. “Because I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “What I’m about to tell you, you can’t tell anyone. Promise?” Simone licked her lips and took a large breath, like she always did when she was about to tell me something big, like she’d done early this morning before admitting she loved me.

  “I promise.” Once more, I wrestled with my fears, suppressing them, determined to let her explain.

  “I have a friend with—with the bureau, and there have been some murders over the last two years, bikers, or associates of bikers. Their family members. But only in June.”

  “The bureau?”

  “Uh, the FBI.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “Yeah, I know about this, about the murders.”

  “Did you read about it? In the paper?”

  “No, I haven’t seen anything about it in the papers. I overheard something at the jam session last year.”

  Sheriff James had been talking to Simone’s cousin, Officer Boone. They’d been in the back row of the bluegrass room, just behind me, and had mentioned that the body count had reached over twenty. Cletus was playing the banjo on the right side of the makeshift stage, glaring daggers at Beau in the audience for finishing off all the coleslaw earlier, and I was wearing a green flannel shirt. Beau made Cletus more coleslaw that Saturday and all was forgiven.

  “The thing is, my—my friend believes that your father knows information which he will share, probably leading to the capture and conviction of the murderer, in exchange for cancer treatment.”

  Her eyes were beseeching, near frantic, and I could tell she believed what she was saying. I could also tell there was a lot she wasn’t saying; which meant she had her reasons for withholding details; which meant there was a lot I’d have to guess.

  “You don’t want to endanger your friend,” I said, examining her closely.

  She neither confirmed nor denied my theory, merely watching me.

  “Is this someone you knew in DC?”

  Simone remained motionless, her eyes communicating only that she hated not being able to answer me.

  I sighed. “Are you in danger?”

  Her attention dropped to the floor and panic speared me right through the heart.

  “Simone—”

  “Please don’t ask me that.”

  I didn’t know where to look, I could hardly breathe, but I did huff a frustrated laugh. We’d just found each other, we’d just started living a shared life, talking about moving closer, her parents probably already planning a wedding—which I, for one, would encourage—and now this?

  I tried something else, something I considered fairly obvious. “You want me to donate my bone marrow so your friend can get Darrell’s information about the murders.”

  Even before I’d finished speaking, she began nodding, but she also looked a little green, like this entire conversation was making her nauseous.

  “Yes. Yes, that’s exactly right. I would never ask you to reconsider helping your father. I remember—I remember . . .” Now she was breathing hard, her eyes full of sympathy. “Well, let’s just say, I remember.”

  I nodded faintly, thinking this information over, wondering briefly if she’d answer any of my other questions, but I knew at once she wouldn’t. Or rather, she couldn’t.

  She wanted to keep her friend safe, and I respected that. I respected the badge, the good folks who kept us regular folks safe, and I’d always thought I’d do anything in my power to help, if I was ever called to.

  A long-buried memory surfaced, one I’d worked tirelessly to forget, playing in my mind as clear as the walls of the bedroom I stood in now, one of my mother unable to get out of bed after a visit from our father. I’d been five. I hadn’t made it to kindergarten that day.

  And Billy . . . Billy.

  I winced, swallowing, closing my eyes and turning from Simone. She released her h
old on my hand, but almost immediately after she wrapped her arms around my middle, placing her cheek on my back.

  “I’m so sorry to ask this.” Her voice was thick with the truth of her words. “God, I am so sorry. If there were any other way.”

  Keeping my eyes closed, I nodded. “If I help, will you be in less danger?”

  She didn’t answer, instead pressing her forehead against my back and taking a breath that sounded suspiciously like a muffled sob.

  Christ.

  “How long do I have?”

  Simone didn’t answer right away, giving me the sense she wasn’t sure how to answer the question, which was all the answer I needed.

  “The sooner the better,” I guessed, placing my hands over hers.

  “Correct.” The word was quiet, and she added bleakly, her voice watery, “June is next month.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “If you erase all of your bad memories, you erase all of your wisdom.”

  Matshona Dhliwayo

  *Simone*

  After making me promise to stay at least one more night with him—like I was going home anytime soon, puh-leez!—Roscoe left for work. Before he left, we made plans to meet for lunch at the vet clinic. As I promised Cletus the night before, I would also pick up Pavlov and bring him back to Roscoe’s apartment.

  The moment Roscoe’s front door shut, because I didn’t want to give myself a chance to second-guess anything, I picked up my phone and texted Nelson.

  Payton: R says he’ll do it.

  That done, I collapsed on the couch, stared forward, and allowed the reality of what I’d just talked Roscoe into—i.e. helping his scummy father—wash over me. I felt sick.

  I belong in a lab.

  My phone chimed, pulling me from my miserable reflections, and was surprised to see that Nelson had already responded.

  Nelson: Meet me at Biscuit Love Gulch for breakfast in 45 min, I’ll send the address.

  Startled to discover Nelson was in Nashville, and queasy at the prospect of breakfast, I forced myself to finish dressing, gathering all my gear, and reassembling my gun. Less than fifteen minutes later, I was on my way to meet her. I was also fretting and owning my guilt.

  So. Much. Guilt.

  Closets and basements and storage units full of guilt.

  I belong in a lab.

  What if Roscoe was only donating his bone marrow because of me? Because he believed I was in danger? I was in danger, as all undercover agents are, but in an indirect, roundabout sort of way. Maybe my non-answers had ultimately manipulated him into agreeing?

  That was not okay with me.

  Also not okay, I couldn’t tell Roscoe that I was “my friend the FBI agent.” It was a fuzzy lie, but it was still a lie.

  You belong in a lab.

  A sour taste on my tongue, I parked, walked across the street to Biscuit Love Gulch, and easily spotted Nelson sitting in a booth inside. Her elbows on the table, her eyes presumably on the screen of her phone, she was dressed in all black—leather—and dark, dark sunglasses. Inside.

  So, you know, casual breakfasting attire for a badass.

  Looking up nonchalantly, she waited until I was a few feet away before lifting her chin in greeting. “You hungry?”

  I shook my head, slipping into the bench seat across from her.

  I felt her gaze move over me from behind her sunglasses. “You sick?”

  “I feel sick.”

  Glancing at something off to the right, she slipped her phone in a pocket and removed her sunglasses. “You feel guilty.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer it.

  Crossing her arms, she brought her gaze back to mine. “How did you get him to agree?”

  The question gave me pause and I gathered a deep breath as a stalling strategy. I didn’t want to tell her how I’d convinced Roscoe. I didn’t want to tell her I’d given him half-truths, which might’ve jeopardized the security of the mission and undercover agents (but I didn’t think so).

  I’d done it.

  I’d done what she asked.

  He’d agreed.

  Why did she need to know how I’d accomplished this despicable Herculean task?

  She didn’t.

  So I mirrored her posture, crossing my arms, and said, “I did what I had to.”

  Her ebony eyes drilled into me, twin obsidian probes of suspicion and intelligence. I cleared my mind and met her gaze evenly—imagining a future happy time when all of this was over, Roscoe and I were settled in Washington, DC with our three-bedroom apartment and German shepherd named Cletus Maximus, and we were having enchiladas with Nancy on Tuesday—bracing myself for a chew-out or a set down or whatever was coming.

  But then Nelson sighed, the stiffness in her shoulders easing. “Okay.”

  I was surprised, obviously, and relieved.

  I worked frantically to hide both, saying, “Okay.”

  Giving me another once-over, she sipped her water. “Want to watch me eat?”

  “That’s fine.” I reached for my water glass, pulling it and the square napkin it sat on closer to me. “I have more to tell you, if you think now is the time and place.”

  “Tell me.” She returned her glass to the table.

  “Roscoe invited me to the Kentucky Derby.”

  “Hmm.” Nelson examined me. “Do you have a hat?”

  “Not yet.” Dammit.

  I made a mental note to figure out what to do about a hat, and what to do about putting a hat on my hair, and all the nightmare logistics involved with that. I bet my sister would know what to do . . .

  “Why is he going?”

  “One of the vets in his office works with horse breeders. She’s an equine specialist, and has tickets.”

  “Does your contact still believe Razor will be present?”

  “My contact hasn’t given me any reason to doubt it.” I knew better than to ask what the plan was for apprehending Razor at the Kentucky Derby, having resigned myself to the fact that I was more or less an information mule at this point. It was need-to-know information and I didn’t need to know.

  “Are you meeting Roscoe at the Derby? Or driving separately?”

  I gave her an eye-squint. “Why?”

  “I’d prefer you to arrive separately. Then, you’ll drive in with us and go through the law enforcement entrance, keep your gun and gear on you. I hadn’t planned on you being there, but if you are, you might as well come prepared.”

  This earned her my crazy eyes—as in, I was looking at her like she was crazy. “Does this mean you’re bringing me into the loop?”

  “No.” Nelson eyed her water. “You’ll be backup.”

  “How can I be backup if I’m there with Roscoe? I’d blow my cover.”

  She shrugged. “I doubt it’ll come to that. But if you’re going—with Razor Dennings there—you should be in gear. We’re talking about a serial killer.”

  “Fine,” I said, resigned to the fact that I’d have to carry my weapon, handcuffs, phone, flashlight, et al. all day. Carting my gear around wasn’t a problem—occupational hazard—but hiding it under a dress would be.

  “What is it?” Nelson was peering at me funny.

  “Do you have any tricks for hiding your gear under tight clothes? Or dresses?”

  She rubbed her chin. “Where do you usually carry?”

  “Back, left side.”

  “What about when you wear a dress?”

  “I don’t usually wear a dress.” Last night, I’d left my gear hidden at Roscoe’s place for our dinner date, pieces of the gun scattered all over the kitchen since I couldn’t figure out where to put it on my person.

  Nelson’s expression seemed to relax, and she leaned forward as she spoke. “You know those conceal-carry thigh holster shorts? The ones that sorta look like SPANX? Those are perfect for dresses. If you add a second thigh holster—buy it with the garter, otherwise you’ll be yanking it up all day—you can use the second one for your additional gear. Car
ry on the front, inside of your thigh—both thighs—so you can sit comfortably. Oh, and definitely bring a hat. You can set it on your lap to hide any bulk. Better yet, get a dress with tulle beneath, so it’s already fluffy in the front.”

  Halfway through her instructions, I’d pulled out my phone and began to take notes.

  “The field office here only stocks the external thigh holsters, which are useless for undercover work,” she said irritably. “I’m sure you can find what you need at a gun store in Knoxville. You can also get everything online, but make sure to rush the shipping.”

  “I will,” I responded distractedly, still typing.

  She said nothing for a few seconds as I finished, but when I looked up she was smirking at me. “Have fun with your boyfriend.”

  “I will,” I said again, more firmly this time.

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? So now Roscoe Winston is your boyfriend?”

  “Yep.” I turned off my phone and slipped it back in my bag.

  Agent Nelson studied me, her eyes once again probing. “You know you can’t tell him. You can’t tell him about what you do, why you’re in town. Not even when all this is over.”

  “I know.”

  Still looking wary, she reached for her glass again. But instead of picking it up, she pushed it to one side because a waiter approached with her food. After ascertaining that she was pleased, and that I was fine with the water already in front of me, he promptly left.

  I glanced at Nelson’s plate, wrinkling my nose slightly at the sight of her egg white omelet with spinach, sliced tomatoes, and air. I wouldn’t judge her for the world’s most tasteless breakfast, even though breakfast food was my favorite, but I did send a little prayer upward in thanksgiving that I wasn’t the one working undercover as a stripper.

  Seriously. The woman needed her own series on TNT. She was dynamite.

  “Anything else you want to share?” she asked, reaching for the hot sauce and dousing the contents of her plate with it. My eyebrows inched up with surprise and approval. The tangy aroma of Tabasco hovered between us.