He'd laughed, dubbed her an amateur shrink, but the words had once again been wise beyond her years, and made him wonder. Enough to ask her something else, wanting to hear her answer.
"How about the girls, then? Got an answer for them, too?"
She'd flushed a little, but held his gaze and answered. "It's the same thing. Only you're that taste of adventure they're too chicken to try."
He'd laughed again, thinking it absurd. It had been a long time before he realized that she'd been exactly right, that women were strangely attracted to the threat, the sense of danger they attached to him. They were drawn to the image, the only thing he showed them, as if it gave them some vicarious thrill. As if they were proving something by being seen with him. Or fulfilling a dare made with their rich friends.
They used him and cared less than nothing about him personally. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but one he remembered now, any time he caught those furtive glances from women who seemed intrigued by him.
Was there still some of that old aura clinging to him? Was that why they looked at him? Or was it just that he so obviously didn't belong in this town that had so thoroughly cast him out?
Maybe, he mused, it was some kind of cosmic quirk, that of all the towns he'd ever been in, this was the one where he stood out for some unknown reason, the one where heads turned when he walked down the street, where people he didn't even know gawked at him.
He didn't know and firmly decided he didn't care. He didn't care what anyone in San Remo thought of him, or if they thought of him at all. Except for Nicki. And he knew she thought of him; sometimes he'd swear he could feel it. He only wished that he could hang onto any belief that it wasn't always with hatred.
His steps slowed as he turned the corner he'd been headed for. He'd parked a couple of blocks away, not wanting to draw any attention to this pilgrimage he wasn't sure why he was making. He came to a halt, staring.
It was gone. In the place of the small, shabby, window-less wall that had been the front of Halloran's Tavern, was a bright, cheerful, glass-walled pub, chairs neatly placed upside-down atop the tables as someone swept the floor. It appeared spotless, a far cry from the dark, dingy hole he remembered, with several of the local drunks perched precariously on dilapidated bar stools, beginning even at this morning hour their daily drinking.
The sight of it then had made him shudder. Now it was merely a genial and apparently successful gathering place with an atmosphere of warmth and cheer that made his memories of the old place seem even bleaker.
The whole area was cleaner, several of the shops and businesses had been remodeled, and he had a sudden vision of the city council rejoicing as they began their renovating, now that they'd gotten rid of the last of the dreaded Hallorans.
He turned abruptly and started back the way he'd come. He'd been a fool to come here. He hadn't come back when his father had died, not even to make the arrangements to ship his body back to Minnesota for burial; he'd done it over the phone. So why now? And why had he come here, to the bar he'd hated so much?
He didn't know what he'd been looking for, anyway. He was glad to see it gone. He only wished this town would forget the name Halloran as easily as they had probably forgotten the saloon that had borne it.
He hurried back to his car before he could get swept up into that old folly of regret, of wondering if there hadn't been something he could have done, somehow, to change things. Something he could have said that would have made his father, or his mother, stop drinking before it had killed them both. He knew better now, and told himself so repeatedly, but here, in this place that was so familiar yet so changed, he was finding it hard to remember.
So much for memory lane, he thought as he unlocked the door of the Mercedes. He should have known it was a rotten idea. Never again, he told himself. Yet when he started the car and pulled away from the curb, it was to head toward the other place he'd sworn not to go.
"My God, Nicki, is it true?"
Nicki smiled wryly at the pretty blonde who had cornered her the moment she stepped out of Frank Hartford's office.
"Hi, Lisa. How are you? How was your trip?"
"Fine," the tall, lushly rounded woman said, not at all diverted. "Well?"
"How long have you been back?" Nicki's question was purely rhetorical; she knew any number of people who would have made certain her friend had heard the news the instant she set foot back in town.
"Never mind that," Lisa said impatiently. "Is it true? Did your mother really—"
"Yes."
She didn't want to talk about it, but she knew her friend well enough to know she wasn't going to drop it. When Lisa stayed close on her heels as she walked to her car, she knew she was right. Her mouth twisted wryly again.
"It's true, she did it, and I don't know why."
Lisa's eyes flicked to the door of the office Nicki had just left.
"Is that why you're here? You're fighting it?"
"We're trying. Frank doesn't hold out much hope. Everything appears watertight."
"I heard your mother went to some other lawyer to do it. Why?"
"It seems you heard everything." Nicki sighed. "I don't know why. Neither does Frank, except that he would have tried to talk her out of it, no matter what her reasons were. He didn't know anything about it. We were all surprised when the will showed up."
"But I don't understand. I mean, my God, he killed your father. Why on earth would she do it?"
Nicki unlocked her car door, then paused to look at Lisa again, recognizing her perplexed look as one she'd seen quite often in her own mirror lately. She gave a soft, rueful laugh.
"I don't know," she repeated. "I wish I did. Can we please drop it now? How was Hawaii?"
Lisa hesitated, as if loathe to let the subject go, but something in Nicki's flat tone got through to her. "Oh, it was wonderful." Her eyes began to sparkle. "I met the most marvelous man."
"You always do."
"Oh, quit. You've let that dirty cement plant take over your life. It's all you think about. You don't even have a social life."
I haven't been married and divorced twice, either, Nicki thought, but she kept the thought to herself. Despite her sometimes flighty actions around men, and the shallow image she presented, Lisa was her friend and she would never hurt her feelings.
"I don't have time." She opened the door of her car and tossed her purse inside. "I'd love to hear all about your Hawaiian fling, but I have to get to that other dirty place, the gravel pit, before I go to the plant."
"Good," Lisa said, dimpling as she grinned, "You can take me home in between, since it's on the way. I need a ride."
"Where's your car?"
"Oh, I traded it in. My new one's not here yet. Wait till you see it, it's the cutest little red convertible. So what are we waiting for?"
"I may have to spend an hour or so at the pit," Nicki warned.
"No problem," Lisa said blithely. "We can catch up."
Had she ever had that much energy? Nicki wondered as she wheeled her rather staid, dark blue coupe into the flow of traffic. If she ever had, she couldn't remember when. It seemed as if she'd been tired forever.
"Are you all right?" Lisa asked, concern taking all the buoyancy out of her voice.
"Fine. Just tired."
"I should have stayed here," the blonde fretted. "You needed me to talk to."
The cloudy look of an ever-present grief shadowed Nicki's bright blue eyes. Then it faded, and she reassured her friend.
"I told you to go ahead and go. You'd been planning on it for weeks. It was enough that you cut it short to stay for the funeral."
"But your mother—"
"We knew it was coming."
"Still, I know it was hard on you. You must miss her terribly."
"Yes. I do."
It was true. Her mother had been an austere woman, not the friendly, cozy mother she'd sometimes longed for, but she had never doubted her love, had always had her support, and wished daily that sh
e was here to offer some of her discerning common sense. And to explain why she had done this thing that had thrown her life into chaos.
"I'm sorry, Nicki. And then this on top of it."
"It's been … an interesting two weeks."
Lisa eyed her speculatively. "Have you… Has he…"
Nicki smiled wryly again. It wasn't like Lisa not to just blurt out whatever she was thinking.
"I mean, I saw him at the funeral, I know he's still gorgeous, but he looked … different."
"He is. And isn't." She shrugged. "It's been years. We've all changed."
"Not like that. I mean, he was always a little tough looking, but not so … hard."
"He spent two long years in jail, Lisa. What do you expect?"
Lisa raised a brow. "You used to say that wasn't enough for what he'd done. Now you sound like you feel sorry for him."
Nicki gritted her teeth, concentrating on her driving a little more than she truly needed to. "Nicki?"
"Whatever I feel for Travis Halloran, it's not pity."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know." She hadn't meant to say it, but the words had slipped out before she could stop them.
"Oh, Nicki, no! He's not getting to you?"
"No!"
Lisa's brow rose once more at her emphatic tone. "Are you sure? You sound awfully tense about it."
"I'm sure. Now tell me about this wonderful man of yours."
After a moment, Lisa accepted the red herring gracefully and began to talk of her trip. She chattered on cheerfully as Nicki listened in amusement; Lisa's adventures all started to sound alike after a while.
"Are you sure this one isn't married?" Nicki asked as she made the turn off of the main street onto the older road that led to the pit.
"Of course. I learned my lesson about that. He's absolutely charming, Nicki. He's handsome, dresses like the cover of GQ, and drives a gorgeous Mercedes."
"Of course."
"Well, I know that kind of thing doesn't mean anything to you, but I— There," she cried suddenly, "a Mercedes just like that one."
Nicki glanced in the direction her friend was pointing, and nearly drove off the road.
"What on earth is that car doing parked at a dump like that?" Lisa asked.
Nicki jerked her gaze back to the narrow, winding road. She knew the answer to Lisa's question, but if the blonde hadn't seen the lean, dark-haired figure sitting on the steps of the ramshackle house, she wasn't about to point him out and bring on another rash of unwelcome questions and speculation.
She hadn't seen him for nearly a week, not since that day Richard had virtually accused him of being behind the acid spill. She'd wondered, with the feeling of a person waiting for the other shoe to drop, where he'd gone to, and what he would do now. While she had never thought that he'd given up and gone, she had never expected that he would be here.
She'd grown used to driving past the house every time she went to the pit. She'd gotten very good at ignoring it, although it had taken a long time to break the habit of glancing at it as she went by. It had been standing empty, amid a scraggly lawn of mostly weeds, for nearly five years now, ever since Jim Halloran had finally succumbed to the ravages of years of heavy drinking.
Not, she thought, that it had looked much better when he'd been alive. Or even when Travis had been there, although she knew he'd tried now and then to clean the place up. She wondered why he'd gone back; he couldn't have many happy memories of the place. She'd never seen him as withdrawn as the one time she'd been there.
He'd given her a ride home from school one day when Richard had, as he was often wont to do, forgotten her. He'd had to go by his house to pick up his uniform before going to the part-time job he had at a gas station in San Clemente, just down the freeway a few miles.
The job, she had realized, that no one else knew he had, and had had for over a year. Even the rather rowdy, scruffy bunch of his friends, kids who got themselves talked about nearly as much as he did, didn't know. They all thought he was out somewhere, up to no good, and he let them think it. Along with everyone else in town.
"I don't care what they think," he told her, "so don't go spreading it around, all right?"
She didn't understand, it seemed so unfair, but as she sat in the car waiting for him, she knew that she wouldn't go against his bidding.
He'd looked at her rather oddly, almost defiantly when they pulled up in front of the small, old house. She didn't understand until he said tightly, "Sure you want to be seen in this neighborhood?"
It hit her then, and she made a face at him. "Are you calling me a snob?"
He'd looked a little taken aback, then sheepish. "I guess I was. Sorry, Miss Lockwood."
"You're the one who's so touchy about it. Maybe you're the snob."
He chuckled. "Maybe you're right," he agreed, and got out of the car.
She remembered the moment when she suddenly realized he'd been gone a very long time, especially since he'd been in a hurry to get going so he could drop her off and not be late. She waited a little longer, then got out of the car and started up to the house.
She stopped in the doorway, stunned. Never in her young, protected life had she encountered anything like this. The odor of an unwashed body combined with the unmistakable stench of the regurgitated contents of a rebellious, alcohol-drenched stomach almost overwhelmed her. She fought back a wave of nausea.
After the bright sunlight she couldn't see much in the dim room, but she could hear. And she heard Travis, his voice soft, coaxing, yet incredibly weary.
"Come on, Dad. Just a couple of more steps. You can do it. Then you can sleep."
She heard a sound that could have been a snarl or a moan, and an odd thumping noise.
"Don't pass out yet, Dad. I can't carry you."
Yet he nearly was carrying him, Nicki realized as her eyes adjusted and she could make out the shadowy shapes across the room. Travis's tall, lean body bent with the effort of keeping the older, much heavier man upright. Half dragging him by the arm that was pulled over his shoulders, Travis worked his way toward the darker shadow of a hallway entrance.
"Leggoame!"
The angry shout came suddenly, as did the wild swipe of a beefy arm. Travis dodged agilely, away from the blow that was clearly meant for the side of his head.
"Sonovabitch! Useless, jus' like your mother was."
The drunken man swung again, fist clenched this time, and Travis had to duck quickly to avoid what surely would have been another split lip. The movement turned him toward the door, and he saw Nicki standing there.
He went rigid, and even in the gloom she saw the color flood his face. He swore, low and strained.
"I told you to wait outside!"
The words were sharp, harsh, but Nicki heard only the humiliation that laced through them.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and turned to run back to the car.
Several minutes passed before Travis came out, carrying the dark blue gas station uniform. He climbed into the car and started it without looking at her. His face was so set and rigid it frightened her. He said nothing, and she was too dismayed to speak. She just sat in silence, the ugly scene replaying over and over in her mind.
This was what he lived with, this was what he came home to. So many things made sense now, his attitude, the bitterness, the rough edges. She suppressed a shudder, knowing that although he wasn't looking at her, he was tautly aware of her every move.
He drove slowly, with intense concentration; he always slowed his usual reckless pace whenever she was in the car with him. She didn't know why she'd thought of that now, except that maybe it kept her from thinking about what she'd just seen.
He pulled the battered but smooth-running Mustang to a halt in front of her house. He sat silently for a long moment, staring at the steering wheel. Nicki wanted to get out, to spare him from having to say anything, but she couldn't seem to move. She could only watch as he picked at a thread from the rip in the knee of
his jeans. At last he spoke, his voice low and taut.
"I'm sorry you … had to see that."
"Trav…" She trailed off, unable to think of a thing to say.
"He's … not usually that bad … this early."
Nicki winced. What must it feel like, to have to apologize for your own father?
"I try to get him to stop … so did my mother…"
"And that's when he hits you," Nicki said in sudden understanding.
He lifted one shoulder in dismissal. "He just gets … mad at me sometimes. He wants me to help him at the bar instead of working at the station."
"But you … don't want to?"
"I can't!"
It burst from him in a rush, and she turned in her seat so she could see his face. "Why, Travis? Why does it make you sound like that?"
"I can't work there, for him. Don't you see? He's a drunk, my mother was a drunk, half his customers are drunks, too, and I—"
He broke off, the thread he'd been tugging on giving way under the sudden increase in tension. He looked away from her, but not before she'd seen the fear in his eyes. It took her a moment to put it together with his words and make sense of it.
"You think if you work there, it will happen to you? No, Trav, you wouldn't, not you."
"It could." There was a small, ripping sound as the already torn denim gave a little more under the pressure of his rigid fingers. "Maybe it's … hereditary or something. Maybe…"
"Travis, no. Don't think that."
"I don't want to end up like that! Like … him."
"Then you won't," she said with all the confidence of her faith in him. "You won't let it happen. You're stronger than he is, I know you are."
He looked at her then, that strange expression she saw so often lighting his eyes. Then he said softly, "When you look at me like that, I can almost believe it."
"Believe it," she'd told him earnestly, "You have to believe it."
She'd never gone back to that house. Even later, when it shouldn't have mattered anymore, she had driven out of her way to take the back road so she wouldn't have to go past it and face the way it made her feel. Telling herself she hated him, and that what happened there didn't matter anymore, that nothing could ameliorate what he'd done, she'd made herself go back to the direct route.
SUSPICION'S GATE Page 8
