Making Her Way Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  The leap of…not hope, something else, shook her. Was he asking for his own sake or hers? She almost opened her mouth to say again, “I’m fine alone,” but didn’t. Because she wasn’t. She remembered the modest epiphany when she’d understood that she didn’t have to be alone, that she was okay with caring about other people. So instead she said, “Of course you’re welcome if you’d really like to stay.”

  “Didn’t bring that warrant.”

  Despite everything, Beth gave a small laugh. “Next time.”

  “Do I have to wait until you have a nightmare before I get into your bed?”

  She stared at him in shock. “You know I can’t…” She stuttered, fumbled for words. “Sicily…”

  Mike shook his head, the already weary lines on his forehead deepening. “I didn’t mean that, Beth. I wouldn’t ask. God! I may have the sensitivity of a bull moose, but even I know better than to hit on a woman so scared for your child.”

  “She’s not mine.”

  “Sure she is, and you know it.”

  She couldn’t be more startled if he’d conjured flame on the palm of his hand. Mine? Is she? The notion settled in her stomach. Of course Sicily was hers. That’s what had been happening the last week. They hadn’t only been getting comfortable with each other, they’d been…accepting. Sicily believing that Beth wanted her, would keep her. Beth accepting that she could love this too-serious child her troubled sister had trusted her with.

  “I…didn’t exactly think of her that way,” she admitted.

  “You’ve been grieving as if you did.”

  “Yes. I have.” Grieving more than she had for Rachel, which was a sobering realization.

  Mike nodded, as if he’d settled something, and said, “I’d sleep better holding you. And I bet you will, too.”

  “Isn’t that a little out of the job description?”

  He smiled wryly. “You and my job description have been going head-to-head since I first set eyes on you. Haven’t you noticed?”

  With a blink, she thought, Hot and cold. That’s what she’d been seeing and not understood.

  “Um…no. I guess I didn’t.”

  “I’m not trying to push.” His expression had closed down. “In fact, I should have kept my mouth shut. Sicily’s bed is fine.”

  Her heart was drumming hard, but she found the courage to say, “If you aren’t, um, hitting on me, what are you trying to say?”

  He looked at her for a long time without answering. Finally, he rolled his shoulders as if to ease tension and said, “That I want to be here. That I’m hoping I’ll never need a warrant, that you’ll keep opening the door for me when this is all over. I guess I’m serving you a notice.” He paused. “I liked sleeping with you. I’m thinking I’d like to do it every night.”

  Oh, boy. Straightforward, intense and completely unexpected.

  “You spent the night in my bed and we haven’t even been on a date.”

  He grimaced. “We’ve spent a lot of time together this week, Beth. Adds up to more than a few dates.”

  A hysterical laugh bubbled in her chest. “While I was smashing my television set? Showing you the X-rays of my broken bones? And let’s not forget about you searching my house. Interrogating me.”

  That induced some wariness. He cleared his throat. “You have to admit, we got to know each other well.”

  Beth sank onto a chair and finally did laugh. She probably didn’t sound quite sane, but then when had she ever when he was around?

  He squatted beside the chair so that they were close to eye level. One hand squeezed her shoulder. “You okay, honey?”

  A hazy memory surfaced. His voice during the night, deep and kind. There’d been a few endearments in there. It was only a dream. I won’t let anyone hurt you. The dream had been trying all day to surface, too. Little niggles. Curled up tight. Dark, so dark, but she kept her mind shut, too, because she was afraid to look.

  You’re safe. Wake up.

  She gave a long, shaky exhalation. “Yes. I’m fine.” Once more she sought for courage, and found it. “I’ve spent a lot of years trying not to feel much of anything. You noticed.”

  He nodded.

  “Five weeks ago, my sister died. Sicily came to live with me.”

  He only waited, watchful.

  “I felt more the month with Sicily than I knew I could. And that was nothing compared to this week. This week has been like getting tossed in a blender. Or maybe a bread machine—I’ve been mixed, kneaded, stretched, I’ve risen and flattened again. I started as flour and I don’t know what I am anymore.”

  The hand that had been kneading her arm went still. “You telling me you can’t deal with anything else, including me?” he asked.

  “I’m telling you I’m scared,” she said honestly. “Scared for Sicily, scared for me. A little scared of you.”

  “Because I’ve been such a jackass.” He rose to his feet and let go of her.

  Beth shook her head, then offered a wobbly attempt at a smile. “Because you’ve been nicer to me than anyone ever has. Because… Okay, I haven’t known whether I could trust that, because you can also turn icy faster than the street on a subzero night. Because…you make me feel things, all right?” That burst out without her knowing she was going to say it.

  It brought emotion storming into his eyes, darkening them. He stared down at her. “Good,” he said, in a voice that was rougher than usual. “We’re on the same page, then.”

  Were they?

  “I’m a patient man,” he began, but she interrupted him with another laugh. A little more sane, she hoped.

  “You’re so patient, you somehow managed to spend the night in my bed despite not having an invitation. You’re doing your best to spend the night there again, even though we’ve barely kissed. Once.”

  His grin was sheepish. “I can be patient,” he corrected himself.

  “You’re welcome to Sicily’s bed,” she told him. “I’m…” Her voice cracked, surprising her. She tried again. “I’m not ready for anything else, Mike. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” he murmured, then bent and kissed her. It was gentle, sweet, coaxing—and lasted long enough to stir heat in her. When he ended the kiss, he nuzzled her cheek before straightening. “Two kisses.”

  “What?”

  “Actually, three. I kissed you when I walked in the door. Not to mention the top of your head during the night.”

  The heat in her belly was warming her cheeks, too. “Sneaky,” she accused.

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “And maybe not as patient as I pretend to be.”

  They gazed at each other. Beth acknowledged something she’d been able to push out of sight for the past few minutes: fear for Sicily.

  “I wish there was something we could do,” she whispered. “I’d go spend all night at the park with my flashlight if that would do any good.”

  “I’d be right beside you.” He held out a big hand to her and boosted her to her feet. “Maybe it’s too early for you, sweetheart, but I need to get some sleep. I’m beat, and I have to be on my way by five.”

  “You’re going to talk to the man at the flower market yourself?” she said with relief.

  “Of course I am.”

  She swallowed. “Thank you.”

  “Sure you won’t change your mind?”

  She started to ask what he was talking about, then knew. “I’m sure,” she lied. “Shall I wash your clothes again?”

  He looked down at them in distaste. “I hate to ask, but…yeah, if you don’t mind. Give me a minute. I stopped and bought a package of shorts this morning. Let me grab some clean ones.”

  He disappeared outside and returned quickly. He locked her front door and went to the bathroom, shortly handing over everything he’d been we
aring including his socks. No matter what else was going on inside her she couldn’t help noticing that he had a truly beautiful chest—broad, muscular but not bulging, enough hair to be interesting without having a heavy pelt. The view was even better than it had been when she’d awakened to find her head on his shoulder.

  She averted her eyes, wished him good-night and went to start the load of laundry. After trying to read for half an hour, she moved the load to the dryer and decided to give up and go to bed herself. She couldn’t imagine that she’d sleep—but if she were going to worry she could do it in the dark in bed as well as anywhere else. And she wanted to get up in the morning with Mike.

  Sometime during the night, the familiar nightmare began. This time, she was behind the armoire in her parents’ bedroom. Her mother had never even looked behind it because the crack that allowed Beth to squeeze in was so narrow. It was her least favorite hidey-hole, but sometimes it was the only one she could reach. Scared, so scared. Have to make myself so small, like a mouse. And quiet, not even a squeak. But, oh, it was hard not to let a terrified moan escape.

  Only, suddenly she wasn’t alone. Strong arms held her, and a deep, tender voice told her he would keep her safe, she didn’t have to be afraid. The voice called her “love,” and she frowned in puzzlement but was astonished to find she did feel safe, and so warm, and she wasn’t hiding and couldn’t remember why she had been.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “THINGS WERE MOVING, AND there was this weird music all around me. And yeah, I was drunk, but I’m telling you, it was a creepy place.”

  The words played over and over again in his ears, and Mike wondered what in the hell he was looking for.

  Maybe this was useless, but he was too stubborn to believe it. The roommate had been surprised to be cornered by a cop, but he’d talked readily enough. Sure, he’d been to Chad Marks’s apartment a couple weeks ago. He hadn’t paid that much attention to where it was because Chad was driving. And they were drunk. It was a basement apartment between Aurora and Greenwood Avenue, the guy was sure of that. Pretty sure. Eventually Chad had passed out, and the guy—Luis Hernandez—had decided to catch a bus. He’d walked uphill to Greenwood instead of down to Aurora, which suggested the house was closer to Greenwood.

  “Somewhere between Sixty-fifth and Eighty-fifth,” he said. “Uh, I think it was Greenwood before it turns into Phinney.”

  Carol Trenor was less than optimistic about their chances of finding Chad Marks’s apartment in the next two and a half hours, based on a vague description that placed it in the basement of a house somewhere within a square that was twenty city blocks by four—and that was if Hernandez’s drunken memory wasn’t off. Their best hope was spotting the car—assuming it wasn’t garaged, parked behind another one, or that Marks hadn’t already taken off in preparation for his planned morning pickup.

  No, Luis Hernandez had no idea what color the house was. He knew the basement apartment was entered from a back alley that ran uphill and downhill. His face had brightened at that, and Mike had to admit this particular memory did suggest the house was on an east-west street, not one of the north-south ones. Good. Great.

  The only other thing Hernandez remembered was that he’d stumbled around toward the front of the house thinking he’d walk up the sidewalk of the street instead of the alley in back. But he’d gotten freaked because something bumped into him and when he whirled around things were moving all around him and there was this weird music that sounded extraterrestrial. He swore it was coming from the ground or the trees or something, not from one of the nearby houses. Spooked, he’d broken and run, back to the alley.

  Carol had asked if Mike thought he could drive those blocks himself and he had agreed. With the clock ticking, he wanted to request bodies to help, but without more to go on… Hell, he couldn’t blame her for the skepticism. There was time, he told himself. Nothing else useful he could do. He’d drive slowly, looking for possible basement apartments. For anything weird. For a rusting, blue Ford Fairmont.

  He had asked if the music could have been wind chimes, and Hernandez said doubtfully, “It was kind of like that, but times a hundred. Like, cranked up. You know?”

  Wind chimes on steroids.

  Likely someone had been playing some kind of music. Gregorian chants, Peruvian flutes or who the hell knew. Weird music didn’t rise from the soil.

  But Mike kept thinking it might mean something. And he was afraid if any other cops joined him, they’d concentrate on spotting the car and discount anything “weird.”

  He’d been to Taproot Theatre on Northwest Eighty-fifth once, eaten at restaurants on Greenwood Avenue maybe a couple of times, but this neighborhood just west of Green Lake certainly wasn’t familiar to him. He quickly discovered that the houses had been built in the same era, and many of them, if not most, appeared to have basements. The streets were typical for residential Seattle neighborhoods, narrow and clogged with parked cars that allowed only one lane traffic in many stretches.

  By seven-thirty he was driving a grid pattern, sometimes having to tuck the Tahoe to the curb to let another car pass as residents left for work.

  Sicily, he thought, are you here?

  * * *

  “YOU’VE GOT A BUCKET,” HE snapped. “What’s the big deal?”

  Sicily’s heart banged against her rib cage. If he was going to collect the money from her grandfather today, this might be her last chance. And…she might not have a chance at all, but she knew she wouldn’t if she couldn’t talk him into letting her out of the bedroom.

  “Please?” she begged. “I have to go. You know. Number two. And it’ll be really gross and smell all day.”

  Last chance.

  She fixed a pleading expression on her face, all big eyes. It had worked with Mom sometimes.

  He glared at her. “Damn it, will you hurry?”

  Sicily nodded vigorously.

  He swore and then said, “Okay, you win. Come on.”

  She had to do something. But what? she wondered frantically.

  Nothing had changed in the apartment. He hadn’t left a gun lying out, or a big knife, or a baseball bat or… Could she stab someone—him—if she had the chance? Sicily didn’t know.

  Her eyes fastened longingly on the big door at the end of the hall that led out of here.

  Last chance.

  But he walked so close behind her he was practically bumping her. “Hurry it up,” he growled, and she nodded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She had to go into the bathroom. What else could she do? Really she only had to pee, but she’d stay in here as long as she could get away with. If she could block the door so he couldn’t get in, he’d have to leave eventually, wouldn’t he? But that was a dumb thing to think, because there was no way to do it. Nothing in here could be wedged against the door to keep it from swinging in. And it was kind of flimsy anyway. He could probably crash through it if he wanted.

  She didn’t flush but instead stood with her ear practically pressed to the door, listening. He was pacing. She could feel his tension in here. Or maybe it was hers.

  The lid from the tank of the toilet. It was heavy. She could swing it at him. If she could hit him in the head… But he was way bigger than she was. He’d probably be able to grab it out of her hands, and then…

  Sicily shuddered.

  Last chance.

  * * *

  MIKE HAD STARTED THE GRID BY driving west on Eighty-fifth, then turning south on Greenwood when nothing caught his eye. They were screwed if Hernandez’s memory was off—if the apartment were a block or two on the other side of Greenwood Ave.

  Sicily was screwed.

  Go with the odds, he told himself.

  Up and down, his gaze raking the parked cars, the yards, the hint of a window here and there that suggested a basem
ent. When an alley ran east-west, he drove that, too. Some of the houses had six-foot-high fences around their backyards, a few with gates and detached garages. Buildings designed to hide a car.

  He saw some weird stuff, but nothing that jibed. One place had a fountain that looked like an old-fashioned well: water leaped up into the bucket, which tipped when it was full spilling the water out to start over. He rolled down his window and heard the water, but it was more a pleasant splish-splash than wind chimes on steroids. Another yard was shiny white gravel decorated with plastic garden gnomes. Not a single living thing.

  His tension rose. He had to drive very slowly to be sure he didn’t miss anything. The minutes were racing by. Every so often he got out to check a car tucked behind others, to peek into a garage when he could. He reached Eightieth, went slowly east on it, downhill. Right on quiet Linden Avenue instead of going all the way to busy Aurora. Right on an alley, left on Greenwood, left down Seventy-ninth. Damn, damn, damn.

  * * *

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?” the man yelled.

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Sicily yelled back.

  He was wired this morning. His eyes had had a wild look. What if her grandparents didn’t give him the money? What if they did?

  Was he still standing there on the other side of the door? Please, she thought. Please, please, please, please.

  “Yeah, well, hurry it up,” he grumbled, but his voice came from farther away. Back toward the kitchen or living room.

  Sicily strained to hear the slightest sound. Then it came—a thump. Her heart sank. He’d bumped into the wall or something, not that far away.

  How long could she get away with staying in here?

  If she went back into the bedroom and let him lock the door, she had this really awful feeling she’d never get out again.

  * * *

  WHEN MIKE SAW THE YARD, HE could hardly believe his eyes. His first thought was, Now there’s weird. The owner gardened, sure, but it wasn’t the flowers that caught his eye. It was the ornaments. At first sight, the trees seemed to be decorated for Christmas, only not with Christmas colors. Then he realized that what he was looking at was glass balls—big ones. Probably hand-blown glass. Witch’s balls. He didn’t remember where he’d heard that term, or even whether it was accurate, but it seemed to fit. There were balls as small as a few inches in diameter, some as big as eight or ten inches. Every color in the rainbow swirled together. They hung from the branches of trees, the leggy arms of big old rhododendrons, the thorny canes of rambler roses—even the eaves of the house and the railing of the porch.