Under Cover Of Darkness

by Elizabeth White

  “Oh, man! Daddy’s gonna croak. He wants me to get rid of this thing and get a new SUV.”

  “No way!” Jack said, horrified. “This is a great car. Just call a tow company, and I’ll take you home.”

  She leaned around her car to peer at the motorcycle. “On that?”

  “You’ll be safe. I’ve even got an extra helmet.”

  “Well…okay.” She shrugged. “We’re not far from my dad’s office. If you can get me that far he’ll take me home.” She reached into the car and extracted her cell phone.

  Jack enjoyed watching Meg’s gray-green eyes widen as she walked around the antique bike. The black-and-silver console was scratched, but he’d recently had the seat recovered. He didn’t know many women who understood the appeal of a bike.

  “My brother’s drooling over Harleys,” Meg said, running her hand over the long, butter-soft black leather seat, “but his wife won’t let him have one.”

  “Exactly why I don’t have a wife.” Jack put on his helmet and unstrapped a second, smaller one from the back.

  Meg allowed him to settle it on her head. “But you have two helmets.”

  “Ah, the lady can count.” He slung his leg across the seat, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “Hop on.”

  She hesitated, then placed a warm hand on his shoulder. He could feel it through the cotton of his T-shirt, all the way to the skin. He tensed at an unexpected jolt of pleasure as she settled behind him. She smelled faintly of vanilla and honeysuckle. With a slight hint of sunflower pollen.

  Chapter Four

  Torres pulled into the parking lot of her dad’s pediatric clinic, and Meg relaxed her awkward hold on his midriff. Good thing a residue of chivalry existed somewhere in all that grungy masculinity. When he cut the motor and removed his helmet, she slid off the seat. She studied him as he strapped her helmet back in place. He seemed to have quickly become a presence in her life, whether she wanted him to or not. Bad boys, she thought, watching the tattoo on his arm flex.

  “Thanks for the ride, Torres—you’re a lifesaver.” She stepped back onto the sidewalk.

  “I couldn’t leave you on the side of the road, could I?” He hesitated. “By the way, how’s your head?”

  She lifted her hand to the small bump, which was sore to the touch. “I’ve got a pretty hard head.” His concerned expression threw her off-kilter. “Do you think my sunflower will be okay?”

  He grinned. “I’m pretty sure it’ll be dead by tomorrow. Don’t worry, though, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “That’s true.” There was an awkward pause. “Would you like to come in and say hello to my dad?” she blurted.

  My dad? she mentally echoed in horror. What was she, ten? Could a knock on the head make your tongue take off without you? Maybe she had a concussion after all.

  His face blanked. “Uh, no. No, I have to get going.”

  “No, right, of course you do. Well…thanks again for the ride.” Meg hurried into the office building without looking back.

  She went straight to the ladies’ room, locked the door and stood staring at her pink face in the mirror. Whatever possessed you to do that? Torres probably thinks you’re pathetic.

  But she couldn’t help wondering where he had to go that was so all-fired important. What did he do with himself when he wasn’t watching cartoons and rescuing damsels in distress?

  She turned on the cold water and splashed her face.

  “Get a grip, Meg,” she told herself. “You do not care what Torres thinks, and it’s none of your business how he spends his free time.”

  And it was a good thing he’d had better sense than to come in with her. Her dad would have had a stroke.

  “I’m sorry,” mumbled Dr. George St. John to Meg as he scribbled a prescription. “I thought I heard you say you left your car on the interstate.” He smiled vaguely at his daughter, then wandered toward the exam room across the hall.

  “I did.” Perched atop a gleaming stainless steel table that held a baby scale and a clutter of thermometers and other medical paraphernalia, Meg sheepishly bumped the soles of her feet together.

  Peering over the top of his reading glasses, Dr. St. John paused with the sliding door half open. “Don’t go anywhere, Sweet Pea, I’ll be right back.”

  She sat there listening to the familiar sounds of the clinic: carts rattling, a baby screaming, cartoons from the waiting room TV. From the X-ray room at the end of the hall she could hear Elliot Fairchild’s booming bass voice. She hoped he wouldn’t come out and discover her here. She liked her father’s young partner, but she wasn’t in the mood for pediatric jokes.

  To her relief, Elliot stayed out of sight, and her father returned. “Last patient for the day.” George waved at the pre-schooler trotting down the hall, licking a blue sugar-free sucker. He turned back to Meg, frowning. “Why do you look like you’ve been rolling around in chalk dust?” He pulled off the stuffed koala bear clutching his tie and tossed it onto the table.

  Meg sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’m meeting your mom at the Hong Kong Kitchen for supper. Why don’t you join us, and you can fill us both in.”

  Thirty minutes later they occupied a booth in the family’s favorite restaurant on the Bluebonnet Circle. While waiting for her mother to arrive, Meg gave her father a rundown of her adventures since Friday.

  Sipping his sweet tea, George regarded his daughter with raised brows. “Boy, it doesn’t pay to go out of town for the weekend. Look what I missed.”

  “It’s been interesting. But the good news is, the Silver Hill project is my chance to move into the office.”

  “And the bad news is, nobody in their right mind would take it on.” George scratched the back of his silver head. “Honey, I’ve seen that place. These people are taking advantage of you by making the conditions so tight.”

  Meg folded her arms. “Well, you know what? I’m pretty sure you’re right.”

  Her father gave her a quizzical look. “Then why did you agree to do it?”

  “Dad, when you were in residency, who got all the long, stinky shifts and peanuts for pay?”

  He had to laugh. “That’s different. Residents expect to be treated like the lowest of life-forms.”

  “And why should I be any different? Concert pianists don’t get paid to practice.” She grinned. “You know I like a challenge.” As alarm built in her father’s expression, she added quickly, “And you have to admit it’s the best opportunity I’ve had so far.”

  He shook his head. “What you really ought to do is start your own company.”

  “I want to do that someday, but I’ve still got a lot to learn. Besides, I can’t afford it right now.”

  He smiled like a pirate. “Want an investor?”

  “Now, Daddy—”

  “No, think about it. You’d have to have some capital to start up, and I’ve been looking for a promising company to invest in.”

  “That would be…nepotism, or something.”

  “It’s been done since the beginning of time. My parents gave me a loan when your mom and I decided to go to med school.”

  Meg shook her head. “You already paid for my education. This is business. I want to do it myself—or not at all.”

  “How many times have I heard that one? ‘I do it myself, Daddy!’” George mimicked, rolling his eyes. “All right, if you won’t take my money, will you at least take my advice?”

  Meg gave her father a wary look. “Free advice is always a good deal, because you get what you pay for.”

  “Move back home, Sweet Pea. You’d be safe, and you could save up for that business.”

  Meg could hardly bear the gentle pressure of her father’s deep gray eyes. “We’ve had this discussion a million times, Dad.”

  “Listen to me. I appreciate your independent streak, but that neighborhood you and Benny live in is atrocious. Your mom and I worry about you every day.”

  “It’s close
to the seminary where Benny’s classes are, and it’s close to our church. Neither one of us is the least bit scared.” Meg’s eyes pleaded with her father to understand. “You’re the one who taught me to get out of my comfort zone and look for where the Lord’s working. For me that’s southwest Fort Worth.”

  “Yeah, but I never thought—” The tips of George’s ears reddened. “Bernadette is the one training for the mission field. I know you two are like sisters, but—”

  “Daddy, don’t worry so much.” Meg touched her father’s hand and repeated something her mother said often. “The Lord takes care of the sparrows and we’re—”

  “Worth a boatload of sparrows.” George blew out a breath. “I know, you’re right. The landscaping itself is fine, but it scares me when you go off on these…these tangents.” His smile was gentle and rueful. “We just want what’s best for you.”

  “I know you do, Dad.” Meg felt her throat tighten with tears. He did want the best for her. Even if he was a little overprotective.

  Then she saw her mother coming through the door of the restaurant, followed by a hulking, curly-haired young man with a white lab coat over his arm.

  Meg leaned over the table. “Daddy,” she hissed, “you didn’t tell me you’d invited Elliot.”

  “It was your mother’s idea,” he said, looking guilty.

  “Sure it was.” She smiled at him. “But don’t be surprised if that Enya CD Mom ‘lost’ suddenly turns up.”

  He sat up straight. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, sir, this place is a dump,” Jack told Carmichael, “but there’s a big community of seasonal workers here. At least I’m close to the action.” With the phone receiver hooked between his shoulder and ear, he threw a tennis shoe at the third cockroach he’d seen in an hour. He missed.

  “All right, son,” Carmichael’s measured drawl rolled across the line. “Sounds like you got it under control. Just keep me posted, all right?”

  “I will.” Jack hung up.

  Under control. That was a laugh. He rubbed his forehead, trying to pretend the air-conditioner window unit was putting out more than a lot of noise and a steady drip onto the carpet. The Starlight Inn, which ranked just one notch above Folsom Prison in terms of comfort and amenities, was infested with dope peddlers, hookers and petty thieves. He’d parked the Harley inside the room so it wouldn’t be carted off and fenced while he slept.

  Sighing, Jack elbowed his feather pillow, one of his few personal possessions, into a more comfortable position. He refused to sleep on the brown-stained item he’d relegated to the underside of the bed.

  He wished he could as easily discard the dissatisfied and achy feeling that had settled in his gut when he left Meg standing on the sidewalk in front of her father’s clinic.

  A doctor’s daughter. College graduate, probably a master’s degree, if her vocabulary and job level were any indication. What would she say if she knew he had a college degree of his own, that he spoke four languages and had been invited to dinner with the governor of Texas?

  Those big sea-green eyes had held a message difficult to interpret. Clearly she’d regretted her awkward invitation to come inside to meet her father the minute it was spoken. As things stood, there wasn’t a chance in the world of taking her out for dinner or a movie or any of the other mundane things nice women were fond of doing.

  You’ve got a job to do, Torres. Don’t get distracted.

  He rattled the phone in its cradle. Maybe he should call and make sure she’d gotten home all right. This morning he’d entered Warner’s office before anybody else got there. He’d only had time to examine a few personnel files, but he’d memorized Meg’s phone number.

  Call her.

  Don’t call her.

  Grimacing, Jack released the phone and picked up the German Bible he’d bought in an antique store about a month ago. He loved languages and had met Christ while reading a Spanish New Testament given to him by his late partner.

  “Here, amigo,” Rico had said one night, handing Jack the little book as they stood in a convenience store drinking coffee. “Put this in your pocket and see if it’ll answer some of the dumb questions you been asking me.”

  “Dumb questions—?” Jack had spluttered.

  Rico laughed. “I know you aren’t looking for real answers. You just want to give me a hard time. But read it anyway and tell me what you think. Start with John.”

  Because his baptismal name was John, that struck Jack as funny, and he took Rico’s instruction literally. That night—really the wee hours of the next morning—he began with “En el principio era la Palabra…” “In the beginning was the Word…”

  Somewhere along the line he’d come across John 3:16. But reading the familiar words in the language of the barrio he’d grown up in gave them a new freshness. He finally “got” the idea that God loved him personally.

  Now, in spite of everything, he still believed that.

  What he couldn’t believe was that God intended for His children to sit around whining about what happened to them.

  Choices. You always made choices that set you up for further choices. A year ago, on a muggy summer night on the border, one of Jack’s choices had blown his life apart.

  You reap what you sow. How many times had his first border patrol mentor drummed the phrase into his brain? People who made excuses were delusional.

  And John W. Torres was nothing if not rational and realistic.

  By five o’clock Wednesday afternoon when the crew pulled in, Jack’s new uniform shirt was soaked with sweat. He parked the equipment truck and got out, his face stiff with dirt and a gritty coating of Texas clay covering his forearms. He’d spent the day tramping around behind Meg, tying orange flagging tape around the trees she wanted to save. Her excitement was contagious. She really thought she could finish in less than three months. But he couldn’t help wondering what was going to happen to her when her bosses went to jail.

  Before starting to unload, Jack took time to stretch, involuntarily looking around for Meg. He frowned when he saw her in the parking lot, towing young Tomás along by the sleeve. The boy backed up against her truck with both hands behind his back, his usual quick smile replaced by flat-lipped apprehension.

  Jack watched Meg put out a hand, palm up. “Let me see it, Tomás. I promise I won’t hurt you.” When the boy jerked his head back, Meg said more gently, “Come on, give me your hand.”

  Moving closer, Jack saw brown splotches all down the front of the boy’s shirt and pants. Blood.

  Tomás glanced up and saw Jack. “Lo siento,” he said. “No quería hacerlo.” I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.

  Meg looked around. “Torres! Tomás cut his hand with the machete whacking down those sunflowers this afternoon. Would you ask him why he won’t let me look at it?”

  “He thinks you’re mad at him,” Jack explained.

  “Why would he think a crazy thing like that?”

  “Because you look like a boss who’s just had some equipment bled all over.”

  “I do not!” she exclaimed, then blinked. “I do? Okay, then would you please tell him what I said?”

  Jack approached Tomás, explaining that the señorita wasn’t angry; she was simply concerned about his cut. “Let’s see it, kid,” Jack added, holding out a friendly hand.

  Tomás reluctantly held up his grubby paw for Jack’s inspection. There was a ragged gash in the web between the thumb and forefinger. It was deep, angry and dirty.

  Jack held the boy’s bony wrist with a matter-of-fact, impersonal touch. “Why didn’t you say something?” he continued in Spanish.

  Tomás shook his head, looking pasty-faced. “I can’t afford to go home early.”

  Jack turned to Meg. “St. John, where’s the first-aid kit?”

  “In the truck. That’s why I brought him over here. But we’ve got to wash it off first.”

  “A little peroxide’ll do the job.”

  In short order Jack was leaning against th
e cab, arms folded, watching the operation. Tomás sat on the running board of the truck, letting Meg doctor his hand, wincing as the hydrogen peroxide fizzed over the wound.

  Crouched beside him, she wrapped the hand in sterile gauze, then taped it neatly. “When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

  The boy looked at Jack. Jack translated, laughing when Tomás’s brown eyes widened.

  “No shot!” said Tomás. “Tell her I said thank-you. She is a nice lady. I’d better see if Manny needs me.” He jumped up and hightailed it.

  Jack extended a hand to pull Meg to her feet. “That is one hardworking kid.”

  Meg replaced the peroxide and gauze in the first-aid kit. “They’re a great family. I wish I could do more for them.”

  He could see she meant it. “I don’t know what else you could do. They work hard, seem to have clothes and food and a place to stay.”

  Meg bit her lip. “Did you know the rest of their family is in Tijuana?”

  Jack shrugged. “That’s pretty typical.”

  “I know, but can you imagine being on your own at sixteen?”

  Jack had last seen his own mother lying lifeless on a metal stretcher, being hauled out of their apartment by a bored paramedic. He’d been about eight at the time. “At least he’s got his brother and his uncle.”

  “He hardly ever eats a decent breakfast.”

  “I grant you he’s skinny, but he seems healthy as a horse.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “St. John, you’re not his mother. Give it a rest.”

  She sighed and leaned into the truck to put away the first-aid kit. “Okay, but I’m keeping an eye on that hand.”

  “You do that.” He started to walk off, but he caught her looking at him in that intent, past-the-surface way she had.

  “What’s the matter now?” he asked, goaded. She’d kept her distance since Monday afternoon, staring at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

  “I was just wondering if you’ve got things to do tonight.”