by Janet Dailey
Briefly she wondered if this was the room where serial killer Theodore Bundy had been questioned. But she couldn’t sustain a curiosity.
How long since the sergeant had left? Five minutes? Ten? Or had it been only two? She didn’t want this time alone, this privacy to think, to remember, to wonder. The protective shell of numbness was splintering. She wished Riley was with her. She longed for the steadying influence of his presence, the easy confidence and reassurance he could convey with a mere look.
She heard the rattle of the doorknob, the click of the latch releasing, and made herself turn to face it, slipping her hands into the pockets of her loose jacket, concealing the tight, tense curl of her fingers. The curly-haired sergeant gave the door a push, then stepped inside, saying to someone out of view, “She’s in here.”
When Riley walked in, relief soared through her—relief mixed with a kind of intense pleasure she couldn’t name. Her gaze locked with his, a lump rising in her throat. Three steps—that was all she had to take to have the comfort of his strong arms around her, but she didn’t take them. She felt brittle, so brittle that she might break at the slightest touch.
“You’re supposed to be with Lucas, you know,” she murmured, barely noticing the man with Riley. “Not here.”
His mouth quirked in a smile. “There are enough police cars and uniforms at the house to protect the Pope.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted as a different kind of tension laced through her nerves now that Riley was here.
With a half-turn, Riley included the man accompanying him. “’Laney, I want you to meet Tom Bannon. He’s a lawyer here in Pitkin County. He has agreed to act as legal counsel for you.”
“With your consent, of course,” Tom Bannon added in quick qualification.
At first glance, Tom Bannon reminded Delaney of a cowboy fresh off the mountain ranges. A black Stetson sat squarely on his head, a bit dusty and worn with use. Somewhere in his forties, he had the first wisps of gray showing in brown hair that was a bit on the shaggy side. His hands were buried in the pockets of his sheepskin-lined denim jacket, and the boots below his faded jeans were scarred and run-down at the heels.
“You’ll have to excuse my appearance, Ms. Wescott,” he said. “I have a ranch outside of town. I’d just finished up the evening chores when I got the call about you.”
“You’re a rancher.”
“A rancher, and a damned good lawyer.”
She smiled at his quiet statement of fact that held no hint of arrogance. “I believe that, Mr. Bannon.”
“My friends—and my clients—call me Bannon.” He paused, then extended his right hand. “Shall we make it official?”
“Yes.” She shook hands with her new lawyer.
“Your associate, Mr. Owens, tells me that you are a fellow member of the bar.”
“Not a practicing one, though,” she replied as Riley fished a cigarette out of his pack and snapped his lighter to it. He offered the cigarette to her, filter end first. She sent him a grateful look, murmuring, “I’ve been needing one.”
“I had a chance to talk with the boys outside,” Bannon said. “You’ll be glad to know they’ll be releasing you shortly. Naturally, the investigation will continue.”
“I expected that.” She took a quick puff of the cigarette, then blew out the smoke. But the new calm she felt came from Riley’s presence, not the cigarette. She drew strength from him. It had always been that way. “Do you know whether they found Susan’s gun yet?”
Riley answered, “As of thirty minutes ago, they hadn’t.”
Delaney made no comment, aware how very crucial it was that a weapon be found. She pulled another drag of smoke into her mouth and this time made herself savor the taste of the tobacco, seeking to distract herself.
As she turned to flick the build-up of ash from its tip, Riley said, “By the way, Jared is outside. He’ll be in—”
“Jared.” She swung around in surprise. “How—”
“I heard what happened.” Jared stood in the open doorway, his eyes shadowed by an aching gentleness.
What happened—for an instant Delaney was struck by the phrase. She knew what had happened; she just couldn’t understand why it had happened.
“It wasn’t necessary for you to come, Jared,” she heard herself say.
“Yes, it was,” he replied, then shifted his attention to the lawyer Tom Bannon. “If you want to talk privately with Delaney—”
“We’ve done our talking for tonight,” he said. “The rest can wait until tomorrow. We should have a clearer picture of the situation by then.”
The sergeant paused in the doorway. His glance made a casual sweep of the three men before coming to light on Delaney. “You’re free to leave, Ms. Wescott. But we may have some more questions for you later.”
“Anytime you want to talk to my client, just contact me, Mike,” Bannon said in a smooth show of cooperation.
“Right.” He hesitated, then glanced at Delaney. “Please don’t leave town without informing us of your intentions first.”
“I won’t.”
The officer nodded and left without another word. Delaney turned and stabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray’s blackened bottom.
“You’ll need a place to stay—” Riley began.
Jared broke in, “She can stay with me.”
Bannon shook his head. “That’s not a good idea, Jared,” he advised. “It would be better if she came out to my ranch for a few days.”
“Thanks for the offer, Bannon, but—”
Riley interrupted her, “The press is swarming all over this story, Delaney. Two television crews have coptered in from Denver already. By tomorrow, they will have the condo snooped out. Your best hope is Bannon’s ranch.”
“Maybe you’re right.” She offered a wan smile of apology. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’ve had a few other things on your mind, I believe,” Riley offered.
“Are the reporters outside now?” She had run their gauntlet countless times in the past, but always as a shield for someone else, never as the target.
“Two or three.” A smile ghosted across Riley’s mouth. “But I wouldn’t worry about them. They heard a Delaney Wescott was brought in for questioning. They’re hanging around hoping for a glimpse of him. We should be able to walk out the front door without anyone giving you a second look.”
“It might help if you created a minor diversion, Jared,” Bannon suggested, then indicated the door with a lift of his hand. “Do you want to go first?”
Hesitating, Jared sent a quick glance at Delaney, then headed out the door. Bannon waited until he was down the hall, then signaled to Delaney. She needed no second urging to leave. She walked out of the room with both Riley and Bannon at her side.
As they approached the front entrance, she spotted Jared surrounded by a half-dozen reporters and photographers. She caught snatches of the questions thrown at him.
“Jared, is it true they called you in—”
“When did you find out—”
“Have the police told you—”
Then she was outside in the sharpness of the mountain night, the door closing on the rush of voices from inside. Bannon’s black pickup was parked around the corner from the police station, not far from Riley’s car. Riley walked her to the sedan. Delaney climbed into the passenger side. When Riley slid behind the wheel, she felt his gaze rest briefly on her, but he didn’t say anything—and she didn’t volunteer anything.
Within minutes they were on the highway out of town, following the taillights of Bannon’s truck. The clock on the dash indicated it was almost one in the morning—over four hours since the shooting. It seemed an eternity ago—it seemed a minute ago. She rested her head against the seat back and turned her face to the window, staring into the encapsulating darkness.
Sounds became magnified by the stillness—the sibilant rush of the wind, the low whine of the tire on the pavement, the steady dron
e of the engine, the dull thudding of her heart, and the silent cry of why in her head.
How long or how far they drove before they turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road, Delaney didn’t notice. She merely observed the change—the slowing of speed and the roughening of the ride.
“I think we’re almost there,” Riley told her.
She nodded, watching the headlight beams of the vehicle in front of them as they dug a tunnel into the night, revealing the march of fenceposts on either side of the road. Soon their lights swept across a tidy collection of outbuildings, then centered on a large, sprawling house built of hand-hewn logs. Idly Delaney noted the sharp pitch of its roofline, the wraparound porch, and the light that shone above the front door.
Riley opened her door, his hand raised in a silent offer of assistance. She avoided both it and his searching gaze as she stepped out. A horse nickered and the light breeze carried the bitter, strong odors of earth and animal to her.
Bannon waited by the steps to the porch. When they joined him, he turned without a word and led the way to the door. It opened before they reached it. A woman in a blue summer robe stepped out to welcome them, a baby cradled deftly in the crook of one arm and honey-blonde hair tumbling loose about her shoulders.
“You aren’t as late as I thought you might be.” Her smile, like her voice, was warm as she lifted her head expectantly. Bannon dropped a kiss on her cheek and murmured something to her. To which, she replied, “Little Clint decided that he needed changing.” Then to Delaney and Riley she said, “Come in.”
When Delaney hesitated, Riley took her arm and guided her into the house and its brightly lit living room. Like the house itself, the room was rustic and solid, lodgelike in its vastness.
“This is my wife, Kit, and the baby in her arms is our son, Clint.” Bannon completed the introductions as he shrugged out of his denim jacket and hooked it on a wall peg by the door.
“I’m sorry to be intruding on your privacy this way, Mrs. Bannon,” Delaney managed to say, stiffly composed. Too stiffly.
“Call me Kit,” she insisted with an engaging smile. “And the ranch is the best place for you right now. Believe me, I know how the press can be when they smell a story that smacks of the sensational. Sometimes they are worse than a flock of vultures, swooping down and picking things apart.”
“They were circling when we left town,” Riley said when Delaney offered no comment.
“That’s what Bannon said when he called.” The baby fussed sleepily in her arms. Smiling down, Kit Bannon smoothed the mass of black hair on the baby’s head. “I think this little guy is ready to stretch out in his crib again. Have a seat while I put him to bed.” As she moved away, she added over her shoulder, “There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen if you want some.”
Bannon turned a questioning glance on them. “Would you like a cup?”
“Sounds good to me,” Riley answered. Delaney simply nodded.
“I’ll be right back.” Bannon moved off.
Riley hesitated, his glance lingering on her. “I think I’ll give him a hand. Will you be okay?”
She nodded again and crossed the hard pine floor to the woven rug in front of an old fireplace of river stone. Inside, blackened andirons held a stack of split wood and kindling, ready to blaze into flame at the first touch of a match. She caught herself wishing for the cheery warmth of a fire and turned back to the room, seeking the distraction it could give. But she was more conscious of the screaming of her nerves than of the old brick-red armchair by the hearth.
She drifted over to the sofa and absently trailed a hand over the homemade afghan draped over the back of it. She fingered the thickness of its entwined brown, rust, and ochre yarns, unable to wonder who had crocheted it as she caught the sound of footsteps approaching the living room.
Riley appeared, carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. He gave one of them to her. “Bannon’s on the phone. He’ll be here shortly.”
“Sure.” She smelled the whiskey in the coffee before she took the first cautious sip. She felt the thawing burn of it all the way down, leaving not a fragment of numbness to protect her.
Suddenly she needed to sit down. The sofa was the closest. Delaney sat on the edge of it, her knees pressed tightly together, both hands wrapped around the mug.
“Do you feel like talking?” Riley asked. “I’m a good listener.”
She shook her head, then pushed the hair away from her face with a rake of her fingers, simultaneously recognizing the agitation revealed by the gesture but unable to check it.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
She tilted her head a little higher than necessary, pride insisting that she declare she was fine. But the lie wouldn’t come, so Delaney admitted instead, “I’m…tired, I guess.”
The shooting and the long ordeal at the police station had screwed her nerves up tight. Now, the stillness and the whiskey were loosening them. Her composure was close to cracking, and she knew it.
“Maybe if you could find out what room they want me to have…” She let her voice trail off, the confusion, fear, and guilt suddenly hammering at her.
Riley’s glance flicked over her in quick assessment. “I’ll go ask.” As he set his mug down, Kit Bannon appeared at the top of the timbered staircase leading to the second floor. “Delaney’s ready to call it a night—”
“Of course,” she broke in before he could finish. “I have a guest room all ready for her. It’s right down the hall. If you’ll just follow me.”
The minute Delaney stood up, everything inside recoiled from the thought of being alone. She looked at Riley. Some of her panic must have shown in her expression. His mouth quirked in a near smile, his sharp eyes turning gentle.
“How about I come along and make sure you’re settled in?”
“Thanks.” A small tremor shook her voice. Together they climbed the stairs to the second floor and followed Kit Bannon down the hall. She opened a door on the right, reached inside, and flipped on a wall switch, turning on the lamp by the bed. Then she stepped back to let Delaney enter.
“The bathroom is through that far door on the left,” Kit told her. “You’ll find more clean towels and washcloths under the sink if you need them. I left a nightgown and a robe on the chair for you.”
“Thanks.” Delaney walked over to the bedroom window and opened it to let in the night breeze.
Unable to fight off the waves of weariness anymore, she closed her eyes. This was the moment she had been dreading—when her head would become crowded with the aftermath of dark thoughts and black speculations, when her mind would start feeding her flashes of the shooting, making her relive it again and again—the muzzle flash, the weight of the gun in her hand, the vague blonde-haired figure on the path, the kick of the gun when she fired it, the aching dryness of her mouth, that instinctive bracing for a bullet to slam into her, the grotesque jerking of the body, the pounding of blood in her ears, the acrid smell of powder smoke, the stillness—and the sightless, staring eyes.
Then came the doubts and the questions—Had she fired too quickly? If she had known it was Susan instead of Rina, would it have made a difference? How could it? Susan had shot first. But why? Why would Susan want Lucas dead? What had been her motive? Had Lucas threatened to expose her blackmail attempt? Which bullet had killed her? The first? Or the fourth?
Shuddering, Delaney hugged her arms around her middle and tried to work her way through the pain and the anger, the guilt and the remorse—and the sick feeling that came from having taken a life. They were normal reactions, all of them, Delaney knew that. In time they would fade, but they would never go away. It was something she would always have to live with.
“’Laney?” Riley’s questioning voice intruded.
Belatedly she realized it wasn’t the first time he had called her name. She pivoted from the window and discovered he was standing before her, his eyes narrowed and searching, his expression troubled.
“Sorry, I didn�
��t hear you.” She tasted the wetness of tears on her lips and realized she was crying. Before she could wipe them from her cheeks, his hand was there, cupping the side of her face, his thumb stroking away the damp trail. She stiffened at his touch, protesting thickly, “I’m all right. Really, I—”
He pressed a thumb against her lips, cutting off her words. “Crying isn’t a sign of weakness, ’Laney.”
“I know that.” She looked up, suddenly sick and confused, needing answers. “What did I do wrong, Riley? How could this have happened? There were shots. I swear I only returned fire.”
“I know.” Without another word, he gathered her to him. She resisted his offer of comfort for only an instant, then rested her head against his shoulder and rubbed her cheek against it.
“I never thought anything like this could happen.” She ached so; it was an ache that the stroke of his hand couldn’t soothe away. “I always thought I was too careful, too cautious. And now—?”
“Sssh.” His arms tightened around her, the point of his chin burying itself in her hair.
“Every time I think about it I get confused,” she murmured, conscious of his breath against her hair and the binding strength of his arms. She pressed closer, needing the warmth that came from him. “Susan is dead and I killed her. I don’t see where I had a choice, but—dear God, I feel so awful.”
“’Laney, don’t.”
“I can’t help it.” The instant she closed her eyes, her mind flashed images of the shooting. “I can’t stop thinking about it…remembering.” She dug her fingers into his shirt. “How could it have happened? I don’t understand.”
“None of it makes sense, I agree. Maybe tomorrow there will be some answers.” But it was tonight Delaney was trying to get through; Riley knew that. He struggled to find a way to help her, to absorb some of her ache and uncertainty, as he pressed a kiss against her hair.
“Tomorrow.” She grabbed at the thought, lifting her head slightly, bringing his mouth in contact with the salty wetness of tears on her cheek. “It seems so far away right now.”
A small sound of distress slipped from her lips. Riley moved to stop it, knowing better than she did how much she hated to lose control, to let her emotions rule. When his mouth brushed over hers, she turned into it, her lips soft, seeking.
