After Midnight (6 page)

“They say how he died?”

“No, only that he disappeared the day the storm hit. Jesus, what if they do an autopsy and don’t find water in his lungs?”

“Why wouldn’t they find water in his lungs? He drowned, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but what if…?”

“Shut up, for crissakes! You’re starting to sound as bad as Clark!”

His stomach roiling, Petrie swiped an arm across his forehead. First Delbert, then Ron Clark. Where would it end? Where could it end?

If he didn’t know the finish, he knew when it had started. Twenty-five years ago, on a night he’d wiped clear out of his head until Lieutenant Colonel Jessica Blackwell arrived at Eglin and stirred beasts best left slumbering.

“She keeps ragging me about one of my men,” he said hoarsely. “She wants to lay the blame for his troubles on me, I know she does. Between that and…”

“Shut up, I said! You’re making my head hurt worse than that bottle of Jim Beam I killed last night.”

“That’s another thing, dammit. You keep swilling a fifth or more every night and you’re going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I don’t know about you, but I sure as hell don’t want…”

With another snarl, his listener crashed down the phone. Billy Jack winced and hung up. His head pounded. The grits and sausage patties he’d downed for breakfast threatened to rise up and choke him. Swallowing, he forced the bile back down his throat and dragged his gaze to the crumpled newspaper.

Delbert McConnell smiled up at him from the front page of the Daily News.

Hunching over his desk, Billy Jack Petrie buried his face in his crossed arms and fought the urge to bawl like a baby.

Bill Petrie wasn’t the only one feeling the weight of Lieutenant Colonel Blackwell’s presence in Building 89. Sweat soaked Ed Babcock’s armpits and slicked his hands as he showed the colonel how to ground herself and reduce the static electricity in her clothing. Once inside the small, windowless lab, he pointed out the safety features.

“The exhaust vents will prevent the fumes from reaching noxious levels, but if you start to feel sick, either slip on an oxygen masks or go outside.”

Nodding, he indicated the oversized shower head suspended over the center of the room like a giant Kansas sunflower. “If something should spark and ignite the fumes, the shower will drench the entire lab in a half second.”

“You’ve actually timed it?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.”

With the tender care a mother might give her newborn, Babcock aligned the samples he’d drawn from the barges on a stainless steel worktable. The pale gold liquid looked so innocuous, yet Ed accorded the highly flammable fuel the respect it deserved.

“For safety purposes, the maximum amount of fuel we bring into the lab at any one time is ten gallons.”

Jess stood a few feet away, her green eyes curious while he measured various agents into five of the glass jars.

“What are those?”

“Chemicals to verify the presence of required additives. This one tests specifically for Biobor JF. It combats fungus and other microtive life in hydrocarbons. This…” He measured another agent. “…checks for diethylene glycol monomethyl ether, which is an anti-icing additive.”

The fuel fumes thickened, tainting the air. Ed could feel them seeping into his pores. Nervous as a cat in a yard full of stray dogs, he poured the samples through a series of filters to assess the sediment levels.

Was she watching his hands to see if he had the shakes? Did she think he couldn’t do his job? Resentment at being on probation like this percolated through his head. He was good at what he did, damned good, but his nerves were strung wire-tight when he readied for the final test. Centering a beaker of fuel in a special oven protected by a giant metal hood, he closed the glass door and set the temperature gauge.

“The military fuel package contains a special additive to increase its flash point to 100 degrees. This allows high performance jet aircraft to burn off most of the residue that builds up in the engines and, theoretically at least, prolongs engine life.”

The colonel nodded, her eyes riveted on the oven’s temperature gauge. The seconds ticked by, sliding slowly into minutes, while the needle inched from green, through white, toward red.

Ed had taken pride in his job, had loved knowing what he did contributed directly to the air force mission. So much he’d sweated through college courses at night to complete first a bachelor’s, then a master’s degree in chemistry. Over the years, he’d turned down lucrative offers from Exxon, from Texaco, from the American Petroleum Institute.

Until his marriage fell apart at the seams, he’d never seriously considered the offers. Until he started burying his ache for Eileen in a bottle, he wouldn’t have imagined that he’d trade a stripe, maybe even his right to wear an air force uniform, for a drink. But now, with the woman who had the power to destroy him standing just a foot or so away, he craved a slug of tequila so badly his entire body screamed with need.

He knew it was irrational, knew he was transferring his frustration and pain over his failed marriage and rapidly disintegrating career. But at that moment he hated Colonel Blackwell for stringing him out like this with passion as hot as the flames that suddenly erupted inside the oven.

Once a year the commanders on base threw a huge, formal bash for the local dignitaries and their wives. Eglin’s Christmas Ball, the Logistics Group commander informed Jess the last steamy Monday morning in June, was the social event of the year and Eglin’s way of saying thank you for the surrounding communities’ support.

The locals reciprocated, Colonel Hamilton advised, with a number of must-attend events. One was the City of Fort Walton Beach’s answer to Mardi Gras, the Billy Bowlegs Parade and Pirate Ball. Another, the Niceville Mullet Festival. The Oklaloosa County Chamber of Commerce’s by-invitation-only dove hunt and poker night at a private hunting lodge had traditionally been an all-male gathering until a previous female commander had broken through the barriers. Jess could expect an invitation to that event come dove season.

The black-tie affair that culminated the Chautauqua Summer Arts Festival, traditionally held over the 4th of July weekend, constituted another mandatory function. The party was held up in DeFuniak Springs and gave the Eglin folks a chance to mix and mingle with the Walton County big-wigs on their own turf.

Ignoring his key staff’s groans at the prospect of getting all gussied up in formal dress uniforms on one of the hottest nights of the year, Hamilton informed them they would all show, and they would all have a good time.

Somewhat to her surprise, Jess did have a good time, at least at first. The only military woman present, she stood out among the bejeweled and gowned flock. Luckily, the severe lines of her midnight blue formal mess dress uniform flattered her. The straight, floor-length skirt was slit to the knee on one side to allow movement. The tuxedo-style jacket in the same dark blue was paired with a snow-white blouse and satin cummerbund. Embroidered silver epaulets announced her rank, while the two rows of miniature medals decorating her jacket gave her instant status. In a concession to the occasion, she’d piled her honey-brown hair on top of her head and attacked the rambunctious strands with a curling iron. The feathery crown of curls added an unexpectedly feminine touch to the otherwise starkly military ensemble.

Reserved at first, Jess soon relaxed. The eclectic mix of military, local businessmen, and artists made for lively conversation. What’s more, the setting for the lavish cocktail party proved magical. The turn-of-the-century Victorian home of the party’s host was a gem, with fanciful mansards, a three-story turret, and encircling verandahs overlooking the small lake fed by the springs that gave the town its name.

After an hour or so of the required mingling, Jess slipped through the tall French doors to the verandah. Old-fashioned wooden paddle fans churned the evening air, while very modern humidifiers discreetly hidden behind banks of ferns sprayed just enough chilled moisture into the night to make it bearable. Clutching a dew-streaked glass of perfectly chilled reisling from the local Chautauqua Winery, Jess leaned a hip against the railing and gazed at the stately mansions and elaborate cottages encircling the lake. They were all illuminated in honor of the occasion, with additional white lights strung through the trees to add to the festive occasion.

The sight stirred a long-forgotten memory. Vaguely, Jess remembered taking quick swipes at a melting chocolate ice cream cone while she and her mother completed a walking tour of Circle Drive one Sunday afternoon. Helen had read about each house from a printed brochure. A little later a band had set up in the gingerbread bandstand beside the lake, and mother and daughter had stretched out on a grassy bank to listen to the songs of a by-gone era. The concert had ended with a rousing rendition of Dixie enthusiastically chorused by all listeners.

That was the last Sunday Helen and her daughter had spent in Florida, or in the South. Blanking the humiliating events that followed from her mind, Jess lifted her glass and sipped the fruity white wine.

“Enjoyin’ the view, cuh-nul.”

The curvaceous blonde who joined her wore a cheerful smile and a nametag that identified her as Maggie Calhoun, wife of State Senator Dub Calhoun.

“Yes, I am.”

Jess had met her in the receiving line earlier and couldn’t quite decide whether the woman’s effervescence was a factor of her own personality or her husband’s political ambitions. Jess had already heard the rumors that smooth, handsome Dub Calhoun intended to follow in the footsteps of his father, once one of Florida’s most colorful and powerful U.S. Representatives. Jess didn’t doubt for a moment that this stunning blonde draped in a sheath of flame-colored silk would prove a decided asset to Dubba’s career.

“I’ve lived here most all my life,” the politician’s wife confided, “and never do get tired of seein’ the Circle lit up like this. It’s quite a sight. Oh, my stars,” she murmured, her glance snagging on something just over Jess’s shoulder. “So is that.”

Jess angled around to follow the woman’s admiring gaze. The sight of a tall, tanned figure in a full dress uniform had her breath hissing out.

It was the first time she’d seen Paxton wearing the accoutrements of his trade. He didn’t wear them often, she guessed. Probably only on formal occasions – weddings, funerals, command performances like this one. The forest green jacket and gray trousers with their green stripe down the sides were tailored with military precision. A black leather Sam Browne belt polished to a glassy sheen crossed one shoulder and circled his waist. But it was the silver eagles on the collar points of his white shirt that grabbed her attention.

She was well aware that most civilian law enforcement agencies employed the same rank structure as the military. Lieutenants headed flights, captains ran branches, majors managed departments. County sheriffs and chiefs of police in large cities were the equivalent of full colonels and wore the silver eagles denoting their exalted status.

Although she was forced to respect the responsibility that went with those eagles, the visual reminder that Paxton outranked her set Jess’s teeth on edge.

Maggie Calhoun’s admiring gaze lingered on the sheriff for some moments before she lifted her glass and sipped the chilled wine through lips glossed a pale pink. “I swear, sometimes there are distinct disadvantages to being a married woman.”

Jess made no comment as the politician’s wife took another delicate, cat-like sip.

“I gather from what I read in your bio that you’re not similarly afflicted.”

“No, I’m not married.”

“Have you met our handsome sheriff yet? I’d be happy to introduce you.

“Yes, I have.”

Something in her reply must have alerted Ms. Calhoun to the fact that Jess harbored no desire to join the ranks of Steve Paxton’s admirers. The blonde indulged in a few more moments of small talk before drifting over to join the sheriff. Tilting her head back, she laughed at whatever he said in greeting and tucked a casual hand into the crook of his elbow.

They made a striking pair, Jess decided objectively. Both tanned and tawny gold, they could have been carved from the same gleaming marble. More to the point, the senator’s wife obviously enjoyed Paxton’s company. So Jess wasn’t the only one he surprised when he disengaged a few moments later and headed across the porch. For a second or two, Maggie Calhoun looked almost waspish.

“I’ve been working my way through the crowd to you,” he said when he reached her side.

“Have you?” she replied with a credible show of nonchalance. “Why?”

“I reeled in a twelve-pound this redfish afternoon. It’s all fileted and ready to grill. I thought you might want come over to my place tomorrow and compare my culinary skills to Pampano Joe’s.”

“To your place?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His mouth curving at her obvious surprise, he conducted a leisurely inspection of her curls. “I like your hair like that, by the way.”

“Thank you.” Jess pasted on a smile. “I appreciate the invitation, sheriff, but…”

“Steve. The name’s Steve.”

“I appreciate the invitation, sheriff, but I’m still learning my job. Aside from official functions like this, I don’t have time for socializing.”

“Don’t think of it as socializing,” he said, his eyes glinting. “Think of it as Sunday dinner.”

So much for polite pretenses.

“Let me put it another way, then. I’m not interested. In you or in Sunday dinner.”

“Sure you are. You just aren’t ready to admit it yet.”

She didn’t bother to dignify that with a reply. With a small nod, Jess walked away.

Shoving one hand in his pocket, Steve held his drink with the other and treated himself to the pleasure of watching her walk. The swish of her long blue skirt and accompanying flash of leg put a kink in his groin that stopped just short of painful.

Correction. It hurt like hell. He might as well be honest. He’d had a hard on for the colonel since the first night she’d opened her door to him wearing those skimpy cut-offs and half a T-shirt. The woman fascinated him, almost as much as the mystery of her link to the dead realtor. He was chewing over that link again when a ripple of throaty laughter brought his head around.

“My stars, darling.” Maggie Calhoun sauntered over, her eyes bright and brittle. “I couldn’t help overhearing. The colonel certainly put you in your place.”

“It happens every once in a while,” Steve admitted with a careless shrug.

“Oh, well, that’s how it is with these Yankees. They just don’t appreciate our native charm.”

“This one should. She lived down in Choctaw Beach for a few years in the late eighties.”

“Really? That wasn’t in her bio.” Maggie tapped her lower lip with a pointed, pink-tinted nail. “We’re the same age, give or take a year or two. We must have gone to school together, but I sure don’t remember any Jessica Blackwell.”

“Her mother’s name was Yount. Helen Yount.”

“Yount! That’s Jessie Yount?”

His companion swung around to shoot an incredulous glance at the woman in uniform, slopping her champagne over the sides of the flute in the process. With a muttered, un-Maggie like curse, she dabbed her napkin at the spot on her silk sheath.

“You knew her?” Steve asked when she tossed the crumpled napkin onto a near-by tray.

“Not really. She was a couple years behind me in school and everyone pretty much steered clear of her. Not just because she was an outside. Truth is, she was the skinniest, scrappiest kid you ever saw. Seemed like she was always getting into fights.”

“Why?”

“Probably because of her mother.” Maggie’s nose wrinkled delicately. “Much as I loathe to put people in boxes, Helen Yount really fit the definition of trailer trash. There were all kinds of rumors about what she served the customers out at the Blue Crab.”

“The Blue Crab?”

“Oh, that’s right. You wouldn’t know it. The place burned down years ago, long before you moved here from Atlanta.”

Steve didn’t correct her. He knew the place, all right. He’d tramped past its vine-covered remains just last week.

His gaze slid past Maggie and found a tumble of warm brown curls. No doubt it was only a coincidence that Reverend McConnell’s body had tangled in the weeds of Harry’s Bayou, just a few dozen yards from the ruins of the roadhouse dive where Jess Blackwell’s mother once worked. And it might have been mere coincidence that Jess’s name was the last thing Ron Clark said before he killed himself.

The problem was, Steve had been a cop for too long to believe in coincidence. More intrigued than ever, he pulled on a lazy smile and pumped Maggie Calhoun for more information.

Jess wasn’t sure when she first noticed the sideways glances. Right after the fireworks display that lit up the night sky and poured showers of green and red and blue stars into the pond, she thought afterward. Certainly well before the lavish cocktail party began to break up.

She didn’t have any doubt as to the source of the murmured rumors that whispered through the crowd like a hot, dry wind through a wheat field. She’d turned her back on the sheriff’s tete-a-tete with Maggie Calhoun, but hadn’t missed the glances the blonde sent her way shortly when she drifted back inside and sidled up to her husband. After a brief exchange, Dub Calhoun’s smile had slipped and he’d pinned Jess with a long, hard stare.

She’d expected the stares, Jess reminded herself grimly during the long drive home. Sooner or later, she’d expected the rumors to begin. What she hadn’t expected was the little sting that accompanied each intercepted glance and murmured aside. Or the familiar anger that ignited little fires just under her skin.

Her bunched fist hit the Mustang’s steering wheel. She was so sure she’d put the anger behind her, dammit. She hadn’t allowed herself to get all tight and raw like this in decades. Not since the night Steve Paxton’s pauncy predecessor had pounded on the door to Helen Yount’s trailer, suggested she pack herself, her belongings, and her kid into their rattletrap of a car, and escorted them out of town.

As Jess pulled into the garage attached to her condo, the memories of that humiliation rushed at her like demons of the night. Letting herself in through the kitchen door, she by-passed the living room and went straight down the hall. Her clutch purse hit the seafoam-green chair tucked in the alcove off her bedroom. Her high heels thudded into the gray carpet, one after another, as she kicked them away.

With each uniform item she yanked off and tossed on the bed, the images grew sharper. She could almost see the sheriff’s jowls, hanging loose and flabby like a bloodhound’s dewlaps. Hear again his genial warning that Helen had best put a long stretch of miles between herself and the Blue Crab.

She could hear, too, the taunts she’d endured from the older kids at the regional elementary school she’d attended. They’d called Helen trailer trash, had jeered and quoted their daddies as saying the waitress served up sex along with the Blue Crab’s watered down whiskey. Jess had never heard the term whore until the day she took two boys down into the schoolyard’s dirt playground.

The sheriff had come to their trailer that night, too, she remembered, and suggested Helen put a check-rein on her kid before she got into a fight she couldn’t get out of. Jess had never told her mother what sparked that particular brawl, just as she’d never asked why Helen often dragged home only short hours before dawn some nights.