Chill Factor (36 page)

He relaxed his posture. His expression softened. "You're right
to
trust me, Lilly."

"I don't trust you at all. But you saved my life."

"I guess that counts for something."

"At the very least it keeps you out of handcuffs."

"But it didn't get us back to where we were that day on the
river.
What do I have to do? What will it take to get us there, Lilly?"

He didn't move. Nor did she. And yet it seemed the distance
between
them narrowed, and continued to until a log on the grate shifted,
sending a shower of sparks up the chimney and dispelling the mood.

He inclined his head toward the door. "It's easier when you
hold the
door for me."

She operated the door while he made several more trips onto
the
porch for firewood. On his last trip out, he took a metal bucket with
him, one which they had filled with drinking water but which now was
empty.

When he returned, the bucket was packed full of snow. "I need
a
shower." He scraped several hot coals from beneath the grate onto the
hearth, then set the bucket on top of them. Rapidly the snow began to
melt. "Unfortunately, a sponge bath will have to do."

"Sponge bath?" she said.

"You've never heard that expression?"

"Not since my grandmother died."

"I learned it from my grandmother, too. My grandfather told me
it
was a whore's bath. Grandma lit into him. She didn't like him saying
anything that even smacked of dirty when I was within earshot."

"And how often was that?"

"Every day," he replied. "They raised me."

While she was assimilating that, he disappeared into the
bedroom and
returned with washcloths and towels. "There are only two towels left
without blood on them."

"How does your head feel?"

"Better now. The concussion gave me several bad moments when I
was
out there," he said, nodding toward the door. He dipped his finger into
the bucket of water. "I don't think it'll get much warmer than that.
Can you stand it?"

"I thought it was for you."

"You get this first bucketful."

"No thanks."

Her curt refusal exasperated him. "I'll wait in the bedroom
until
you give me the all clear. Will that make you feel safe from
ravishment?" Then he took a deep breath, lowered his head, and shaking
it, expelled his breath along with his anger. "I thought you would
enjoy washing. That's all."

Feeling chastened, Lilly reached for her handbag. Among the
contents
was a small plastic bottle of liquid hand soap. She held it out, a
gesture of conciliation. "Southern Magnolia. I'll share."

"I accept. Southern Magnolia will be a vast improvement over
what I
smell like now." He stepped into the bedroom. "Take your time." He
closed the door.

She removed all her clothes and washed hastily. Her wet skin
broke
out with gooseflesh even though she was practically standing in the
fireplace. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably. Nevertheless, she put
the tepid water, washcloth, and soap to good use, dried herself
briskly, then put her clothes on and opened the bedroom door. "All
done, and it felt wonderful."

He was wrapped in a blanket he'd taken from the bed, but he
was
still shivering. He pulled the bedroom door closed. "It's too cold for
you in there. Breathing that air could bring on another attack."

"I've taken my meds."

"You're not going in there," he said stubbornly. "Seeing you
near
death once was enough, thanks."

"I hate for you to miss your bath."

"I won't. I'm not modest."

He carried her bathwater outside and discarded it, refilling
the
bucket with snow. While he was waiting for it to melt, then heat, Lilly
rummaged in the kitchen. "We've got pots and pans. Do you think we
could heat a can of soup in the fireplace?"

"Sure."

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him peeling his
sweater
over his head in the inexplicable way a man does it, making his hair
stand on end, and only then pulling his arms from the sleeves.

Not wanting to think of him with that tolerant fondness her
sex has
for the peculiarities of the other, she crossed to the living room
window and pushed aside the drape. "Maybe it's my imagination," she
said, "but the snow seems to have let up a little."

"I guess the forecasters were right."

"I guess."

She heard the clank of his belt buckle striking the rock
hearth when
he dropped his jeans. The whispery rasp of fabric against skin. The
soft splash of water as he dipped the washcloth into the bucket.

She placed the tip of her index finger against the cold
window-pane,
then drew a vertical line in the frost. "I don't believe any of my
calls to Dutch got through."

She sensed that he'd ceased all movement and was standing
perfectly
still, staring at her back. After several tense moments, she heard the
ripple of water and knew that he was resuming his bath.

"Which means that Dutch didn't hear from me that you're Blue.
So if
Dutch didn't identify you to the FBI, they were seeking you on their
own. Why, Tierney?"

"You can ask them when they get here."

"I would rather you tell me."

He didn't say anything for such a long time she thought he was
going
to ignore her. But eventually he spoke. "That girl, Millicent Gunn. I
know her from the sporting goods store where she clerks. I was in there
buying socks within days—maybe the very day—of when
she was reported
missing. I'm sure they're checking out everyone who had any contact
with her."

"Is that what they said on the radio, that they were checking
out
everyone? Or was your name the only one mentioned?"

"I may be the only one they haven't got around to."

That was a reasonable explanation, but if that was all there
was to
it, why had he become so upset about it? Also, she doubted his name
would have been broadcast if the FBI wanted him only for a routine
interview.

"If I hadn't been able to etch your name into the cabinet, I
suppose
I could have written it in the frost on the window."

Suddenly she realized that was precisely what she had done.
Like a
schoolgirl writing the name of her beau on her book cover, without even
being aware she was doing it, she had printed his name in the frost.

Embarrassed and impatient with herself, she swiped the name
off the
glass… only to see, in the watery smear left by her hand, a
reflection
of him. Naked, backlit by the fire, his wet skin glistening.

Her lips parted on a swift intake of air. Desire, embedded
deep
within her center, unfurled and expanded. Unaware of her watching him,
he leaned down to dip the cloth in the bucket. He wrung water from it
before applying it to his chest, moving it gingerly over his bruised
ribs, down his flat belly, then into the shadowy lushness between his
thighs.

Lilly closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the
win-dowpane. Her blood was pumping thick and hot. The roaring in her
ears was so loud she could barely hear him when he said, "You could
have done that. The oil from our skin leaves marks on the glass that
last until the window is washed."

What was he talking about? She couldn't even remember. She
raised
her head and, to prevent herself from looking at him again, let the
drape fall back over the window before she opened her eyes.

"Just about finished," he said. She heard the jingle of his
belt
buckle when he picked up his jeans. A few seconds later, he said, "You
can turn around now."

When she came around, she didn't look directly at him, but out
of
the corner of her eye she could see him pulling his head through the
neck of his sweater. She moved into the kitchen. "I'll get the soup
ready." Miraculously her voice sounded normal.

"Good. I'm hungry."

He went outside to empty the bucket. By the time he joined her
in
the kitchen, she had emptied a can of condensed soup into a pan and
added some of their drinking water to it.

"Thanks for the Southern Magnolia," he said.

"You're welcome."

"I hate asking you to do this again, but would you check that
gash
on my head?"

She had to touch him? Right now? "Of course."

As before, he straddled one of the bar stools. Moving behind
him,
she parted his wet hair. Wet? His hair was wet? He must have dunked his
head in the bucket of water, but to her mortifying shame, she realized
she hadn't noticed anything above his neck.

"No fresh bleeding," she said, "but I probably should replace
the
Band-Aid strips."

She cleaned the wound with one of the antiseptic pads, then
they
went through the same painstaking ritual as the night before, cutting
the adhesive part of the bandage into strips with her manicure
scissors, then placing them crosswise over the wound. She tried to
perform the task with as much detachment as possible, but her motions
were clumsy. Several times she felt him flinch and had to apologize for
hurting him.

They heated the pan of soup in the fireplace and ate it
sitting
cross-legged on the mattress. Discovering they were ravenous, they
heated another can.

Midway through the second helping, he said, "Lilly, are you
all
right?"

She raised her head, startled. "Why?"

"You're being awfully quiet."

"I'm just tired," she lied, then went back to eating her soup.

They prolonged the meal for as long as possible, but after
they had
finished, they still faced hours of nighttime with nothing to do.

After several minutes of silence, broken only by the crackle
of the
fire, he said, "Feel free to go to sleep whenever you want."

"I'm not sleepy."

"You said you were tired."

"Tired but not sleepy."

"That's how I feel, too. Weary, but wide awake."

"That long nap…"

"Hmm."

Another silence ensued. Finally she looked over at him. "Why
were
you reared by your grandparents?"

"My mom and dad were killed in a car wreck. The driver of a
semi was
going too fast, didn't heed the warning signs of road construction,
couldn't slow down in time, literally ran up over them. Pancaked their
car. It was hours before they could cut all the body parts out of the
wreckage."

His matter-of-fact tone didn't fool her. He couldn't conceal
the
bitterness underlying it.

"The details were kept from me when it happened," he said.

"But years later, when I was old enough to ask about it, my
granddad
let me read the newspaper write-up about the accident. My grandparents
lost their daughter. I was orphaned. The careless truck driver walked
away without a scratch."

"How old were you?"

"When it happened? Eight. Mom and Dad had gone away for a long
weekend to celebrate their tenth anniversary and left me with my
grandparents." He reached for the poker and stirred the fire.

"After their funerals, when I realized that it wasn't a bad
dream,
that they really were dead, I refused to go back into our house. My
grandparents took me home to pack up my things, but I pitched a billy
fit in the yard and wouldn't go inside. I just couldn't go into those
rooms again, knowing that Mom and Dad weren't there, and never would
be."

"You loved them," she said quietly.

He gave a self-conscious shrug. "I was a kid. Took everything
they
did for me for granted, but… yeah, I loved them. My
grandparents were
all right, too. Even though I must have been a huge inconvenience
thrust upon them, they never made me feel that way. In fact, I never
doubted they loved me."

"Did you ever return to your house?"

"No."

She propped her chin on her raised knees and pondered his
profile.
"You stay away from home now, too. You have a career which keeps you
away for long periods of time."

He shot her a wry grin. "Bet the shrinks would have a field
day with
that."

"Was that a subconscious career choice? Or deliberate?"

"My wife thought it was deliberate."

"Wife?"

"Past tense. We were married for all of thirteen months."

"When was this?"

"Long time ago. I was barely old enough to vote, much less get
married. I shouldn't have. I was selfish and self-absorbed. Not ready
to settle down, certainly not ready to account to anybody. My
wanderlust was her main complaint. Among many. All deserved," he said
with a rueful smile.

The loss of his parents had continued to have an effect on him
even
into his adulthood, influencing decisions, impacting his marriage. What
other emotional and psychological scars had that tragic event left on
eight-year-old Ben? Had it warped and deformed his soul? He no longer
pitched billy fits, but his pent-up anger might have sought other
outlets.

Was he Blue?

The ribbon, the handcuffs, his inconsistencies and evasions
were too
significant to dismiss. If it had been reported on the radio that
Cleary police were looking for him, she could assume that one of her
calls to Dutch had gone through. But the FBI? There were essential
pieces missing from his explanation of their interest in him.

Yet looking at him, she asked herself for the thousandth time
how he
could possibly be a man who kidnapped women and in all probability
killed them. Surely she would know if a psychopath lived behind his
eyes. There was an intensity there, yes. Often they sparked with anger
or irritation. But they didn't gleam with the fanatic, fiery madness of
a serial killer.

Most convincing of all the arguments was that he hadn't harmed
her.
Indeed, he had risked his own life today to save hers. It had been his
voice, raw with emotion and fear, that she had heard calling her out of
that void. Then for hours, heedless of his own discomfort, he had held
her in his arms, touched her with such tenderness and—