ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  Shea shook her head. Quisto wasn't sure if it was in denial or pain.

  "He'd been dead inside for so long, Shea. Then you made him come alive again. He hated what he was doing to you. Using you. But he had to come back, Shea. For your sake."

  She drew back sharply. "You keep saying that."

  "Because it's true. The federal agent who followed your brother here from Miami … he wouldn't believe that you were innocent. He swore he'd take you down with your brother, and then we'd know he'd been right."

  She took in a harsh, quick breath, shaking her head.

  "Chance came back because he was the only thing between you and Eaton. It was tearing him apart, but he knew he had to be there, to protect you. He could have turned it over to somebody else, but he didn't trust anybody with you, not even me. He knew no one else felt the way he did, both about your innocence, and about you personally. Nobody else would go as far as he would to protect you. So he went on with it."

  "And so well," she said bitterly, "I never guessed."

  "He may have kept up a good front with you, but he spilled his guts to me, because not telling you was eating him alive. He knew you would hate him for it, but he had to do it. Eaton was crazy. There was no other way to make sure you weren't hurt."

  "Why didn't he tell me?" Her voice quivered, but she seemed unaware.

  "Because he didn't want you to have to choose, Shea. He felt like he'd betrayed you just as your brother had. You would have had to turn on one or the other, choose one or the other to trust. He didn't want you to have to face that."

  She wouldn't meet his eyes, but he saw her shiver, and knew what she was thinking.

  "He put his career on the line for his belief in you. And in the end, his life. But Eaton took it out of his hands. He tipped, your brother that Chance was a cop, and that we were on the way. And you had to choose after all."

  A strangled little sound came from her. "Yes," she whispered, "I did. And how do I live with that?"

  "Ask Chance. He's had a lot of practice living with it."

  Her head came up then. "What?"

  Quisto paused. He was betraying a confidence, but this was his last hand and there was no point in saving any cards.

  "About five years ago, Chance busted a crack house. A gang had set it up, trying to get a foothold in town. He stopped them before they even got started. They swore they'd pay him back." He hesitated, then went on. "They planted a bomb in his car. Only Chance wasn't in it when it went off. His wife was. And she was seven months pregnant. It blew up the moment she turned the key. She died instantly, right in front of him. On Christmas Eve."

  "Oh, God."

  Shea could feel the memories begin to pound in her head, to demand to be let out and be seen. Chance's face when he talked about Christmas. His words as he left her dressing room that horrible morning. "One woman dies for me, and one woman kills for me." She tried to fight them down.

  "So every year he leaves," Quisto said quietly, "and every year we wonder if he'll come back, or just become another statistic."

  "Statistic?"

  "Another cop who bites the bullet, swallows his gun, or any of the stupid clichés. Like his partner did."

  "His partner? It was his partner who…?"

  "Marty Thompson. Less than a year after Sarah died." Quisto's voice dropped even lower. "Chance said at Marty's funeral that if he had the guts, he'd do exactly what Marty did."

  She made a tiny sound that made his stomach jump. He knew he was playing dirty, but he had to give it his best, hardest shot. If he couldn't get her to admit she loved Chance, maybe he could shake her into being scared for him.

  "Who knows. Maybe this time he'll find the guts." He got up and stared steadily down at her. "You might just be enough to put him over the edge."

  * * *

  Shea knew she was much too tired to be driving, but she didn't dare stop. She'd waited until almost too late, and now that the decision was made, she had to hurry.

  She'd spent three hellish days, the walls she'd so carefully built to hold back her memories ruptured by Quisto's words. The memories had engulfed her one after the other, so rapidly, so powerfully, that she had sat staring blankly for hours under their force. So much made sense now. His odd silences, the moments when she had surprised that quiet pain in his eyes. The night at the pool, the night he had hung on to her as if she were his last hope for life…

  "Have you ever had to do something that made you hate yourself?"

  His words echoed in her mind over and over, making such painful sense now. And his tears, the tears that had so frightened her, coming from that strong, proud man. For her. For what he was doing to her.

  Remember I love you more than I've ever loved anyone or anything. Remember that, Shea, no matter what.

  Involuntarily her foot pressed on the accelerator as she did as he'd asked, and remembered. He'd known how she would react, how she'd feel, still he'd had no choice but to do what he did. Yet even in the end he'd come to her, to get her out, though it had very nearly cost him his life.

  The pictures shimmered in her mind, one floating to the surface with vivid clarity. That crazy, courageous moment when, fighting Paul's grasp, he had looked up and given her that crooked grin, that broad, teasing wink. Knowing he was going to die in seconds, his last thought had been to try to make it a little less horrible for her. It had been that one gallant act that had sent her over the edge, scrambling for the gun that had skidded into the corner. She gripped the wheel tighter as she drove, the tears beginning again.

  When at last she left the city of San Luis Obispo behind her, she barely had time to realize it before the tiny community of Avila Beach, nestled in a protected little cove, appeared to her right. She nearly missed the single off ramp, so stunned was she that she was here at last.

  She hadn't thought much beyond this point. Getting here had seemed the most important thing in her life. She glanced at the clock on the dash, realizing with a little shock that there were only three hours left in this Christmas Eve. Quisto's words haunted her, and the weariness she'd been feeling faded. She had to find Chance, she just had to. It didn't matter that all she knew was that the house was on the beach here, she would go to every door in town if she had to.

  In the end, it was easier than she'd expected. There were only two Buckners in the thin phone book that covered the local area, and only one in Avila Beach itself. With a tiny prayer of thanks for the Thanksgiving morning when Chance had told her of this place, she scribbled down the address. Them she left the phone booth and walked to the gas station building she'd found. It was closed on this holiday evening, but a map posted in the window told her what she needed to know.

  From the road the small house was dark, as were most of the houses here, many of them being vacation homes for people spending Christmas with their families elsewhere. But when she peeked through a window into the garage, she saw the shadowy outline of his Jeep. She went to the door facing the road, then stood there for a moment. He was probably asleep, but she couldn't wait any longer. She had to see him.

  There was no answer to her knock, and the doorbell didn't seem to work. She tried again, listening to the crash of the surf on the other side of the house. Still nothing. She remembered what a light sleeper he was, how he would awaken alert and aware while she was still fighting off the fog of sleep, and a chill feathered up her spine. Her shoulders tensed as she fought it off. She knocked again. Nothing.

  She left the porch to look through one of the windows. Between the slats of shutters she could see only variations of shadows, and no sign of life. That chill, stronger this time, rippled up her spine again.

  She noticed a narrow walkway that ran along the side of the house, dimly lit by the light of a winter quarter moon. She started down it tentatively, then more certainly as she saw stronger light ahead where the thin moon's glow reflected off the rolling water and the sand.

  A rectangle of golden light shot out from the sliding glass door on the b
each side of the house, but its reach ended where the wooden deck's stairs led down to the beach, deserted on this holiday. She was about to start up the half-dozen steps when something caught her eye. She turned her head to look at the dark huddled shape lying on the beach a few yards away. A seal? she wondered, knowing little about what kind of sea mammals populated this particular area.

  Then, as she instinctively moved to get a better look, the faint light of the moon caught and gleamed on tousled hair, blond streaks glinting oddly silver. She started toward him, the chill she'd felt creeping around to encircle her heart. He was lying so oddly, twisted sideways in the sand, as if— She stopped dead. Her eyes were fixed on the small black shape that lay a few inches from his outflung hand. For a moment a self-protective instinct refused to let her comprehend the implication of what she was seeing. All her stunned brain could think was how odd it was that she who had so little to do with guns had suddenly become so aware of them. And then the reality broke through the protective barrier, along with the devastating thought that she had waited too long. She cried out.

  "No!"

  She ran, stumbling in the sliding sand, the icy cold tightening around her heart like a ruthless hand.

  "Chance, no!" She dropped to her knees beside his sprawled body. "No!"

  With a violently shaking hand she reached for his shoulder, terrified of what she would see when she moved him. She pulled him over, tugging on his shoulders to bring his head onto her lap. She wasn't even aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks until they began to drop on his face.

  "Oh, God, please," she moaned, searching for any sign of a wound. The sweatshirt he wore was dark, and she could see nothing. His jeans were worn and ragged, and his feet were bare, dusted with sand. His head lolled in her lap, frighteningly slack. And then her heart seemed to lodge in her throat as she stared down at him—his eyes had fluttered open.

  "Mmph," he mumbled.

  "Chance!"

  He seemed to focus on her, and a smile curved his mouth. A smile that was oddly rueful. Then he muttered something she had to bend over him to hear. It was then that the message her nose had been sending got through, and she recoiled. The gleam of moonlight on glass caught the edge of her vision, and she spotted the nearly empty bottle that lay discarded in the sand.

  "You're drunk!" Her voice rang out with a relief that left her trembling.

  "You bet," he agreed. His brow furrowed as his befuddled brain tried to function. "If I'd known you'd be so real, woulda done it sooner."

  "You idiot," she said shakily, "I thought you'd … killed yourself."

  "Tried," he said simply, trying a shrug that was beyond his fogged brain to command. He lifted a wobbly hand as if expecting the weapon to still be there. When he saw it was empty, he looked up at her in puzzlement. "Tried," he said again. "Don' know how Marty did it." He grinned suddenly, sillily. "Shot the water instead."

  "Oh, Chance."

  "Couldn' do it, songbird," he whispered suddenly, the grin vanishing. "Woulda made what you did for nothin'."

  With a choking little sound she bent over him, her arms around his shoulders, hugging him to her.

  "God, you feel real," he muttered, and she drew back to look at him in surprise.

  "What?"

  "Hey," he said, the look of utter puzzlement creasing his forehead again, "you're talkin'."

  "I … what?"

  "How come you're talkin' to me? You always jus' sit there, lookin' at me … so beautiful … then I wake up 'n' remember you hate me…"

  Shea thought her heart was going to break all over again at his words and the change in his expression, from wistful to a deep, shuddering pain. She realized then that no matter how hurt she had been by his actions, and by the betrayal of her brother, it was nothing compared to the hell he'd been through.

  "Come on," she said softly, slipping his arm over her shoulders. "It's cold out here. Let's go inside."

  "Kay," he said agreeably, and struggled to his feet. Then the deeply ingrained instinct of the cop kicked in, and he looked around the sand at their feet. "Gun," he muttered. "Can't leave it. Could hurt somebody."

  Shea didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He'd been on the verge of suicide, yet he was worried about somebody else getting hurt with his gun. "I'll get it," she assured him.

  He seemed to accept it, his inebriated brain seeming to forget that a moment ago he was convinced she was nothing more than a recurring vision.

  She got him inside, unable to spare more than a glance for the inside of the small house. He muttered something as she tried a door that turned out to be a bathroom. She went to another and found a bedroom strewn with discarded clothes, and drapes pulled tight against the view of the water. The bed was in the center of the room, sheets and blankets in a tangle at the foot. She led him to it.

  "Can you help me with your clothes?"

  "Could. Won't."

  She looked at him. "Why?"

  "'S when I always wake up. Don't want to wake up."

  "Oh, Chance," she whispered, her heart still aching for what she'd put him through. She began with trembling fingers to pull at his clothes, having to stop when she pulled off his shirt, just to stare at him in pained shock. His ribs stood out as if he hadn't eaten at all in the past month. Living on coffee, she thought as she remembered the countless cups scattered all over.

  Christmas Eve, she thought inanely as she finished undressing him, cringing at his gauntness. A night that was so joyous to most but only a grim, ugly anniversary for him. The thought kept her from feeling anything but a tender concern as she looked at him. He was out before she got the tangle of covers undone enough to tuck them gently around his naked form.

  For a long time she just sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He looked unutterably weary, dark circles beneath the semicircles of lowered, gold-tipped lashes. Weary, and more vulnerable even than the night he had clung to her so desperately.

  She should be tired, she thought. Too tired to be so wakeful. But now that she was here, and knew that he was all right—she shuddered yet again at how close he'd come—she couldn't seem to unwind. She'd had to postpone what she'd come here for, and her body seemed loath to give up the need for movement that had propelled her here.

  At last she got up, driven to restore some order to the chaos he'd been living in. Knowing that he was normally neat, if not fanatically tidy, it told her much about his state of mind. He had reached the bottom tonight and survived. She didn't want to take any chances of him sliding back into the yawning pit that had sent him outside with a gun he'd meant to use on himself.

  The gun. She'd completely forgotten. She raced outside and grabbed it from the sand. This one was larger, and she stifled a shudder as she picked it up and carried it gingerly inside. She stuffed it out of sight in the first drawer she came to. Then she started on the house, sorting, stacking.

  She paused in front of a photo that hung over the desk on the wall opposite the windows. Taken on the deck of this house, it was of a smiling, contented couple, each with an arm around the central figure in the picture—a younger, short-haired Chance. He too was smiling, his blue eyes vivid and clear and unshadowed, dramatically and painfully different than the tormented eyes of the man in the next room. Different, in fact, from the man she'd first met. Only now did she realize how much he'd changed just in the time she'd known him. She'd begun to see glimpses of the man in this picture, or at least she had until things had begun to unravel.

  Sighing, she began to shift the papers on the desk. She meant only to straighten them, not to pry, but when her own name leaped out at her from one of the sheets of paper, she couldn't resist looking at it.

  "Shea sounds wonderful," it said in a flowing, feminine hand across a sheet of linen-finish stationary, "and we hope to meet her soon. I can't tell you how much it means to us that you've found someone you care enough about to let into your heart, son. We were so afraid you would shut the world out forever. She must be as special as you say
to have worked such a miracle. Whatever the problems are that you mentioned, I'm sure you can work them out."

  The letter went on to another page, but reading any more would have left her feeling too guilty of snooping. Besides, her eyes were too blurry anyway. She set the pages down carefully, her heart aching poignantly in her chest at this final proof that what he'd felt for her was genuine, and had been all along. The letter was dated the week after he'd come back from those days away from her.

  She went back to the bedroom after that, taking a moment to look at him through eyes that wouldn't stop brimming. They were different tears now, not the acid tears of fear and desperation that had been her only companion on her frantic journey, but tears of love and hope, hope that she hadn't hurt him irreparably, that she hadn't destroyed his love for her. She was frantic to know, but she knew she had no choice in the matter. She picked out a spot far enough away so as not to disturb him and sat down to wait.

  Shea watched him through the night. He slept unmoving for a long time, and she dozed, but in the hour just after dawn he became restless, tossing, muttering under his breath as if in the grip of some malevolent dream. She knew all too well about that kind of dream, and reached to shake him out of it. But then it subsided and he slept on. Until it began again, the same cycle, the agitation, then the quiet again.

  Shea had at last decided, as she sat cross-legged on the bed, that she was grateful he'd drunk so much. If he'd been sober, in cold control as he usually was, perhaps he would have gone through with it. She knew now that living with that would have been the hardest thing she would have ever faced.

  He'd been asleep ten hours when he began to show some signs of rousing. His back was to her as he lay on his side, but she heard him let out an odd breath. Then she saw him move, lifting his head slightly. When she heard a low, heartfelt groan, she knew he'd truly awakened, and no doubt to a head that felt the size of the house.