Eyes (6 page)

“Good luck.” Dr. Varney reached out to shake her hand. “Just stop at the desk on your way out and ask for the list. And if you don't mind a word of advice . . . you may go through several candidates before you find exactly the right person.”

Jill was amused as she turned to go back into Neil's room. Dr. Varney certainly had Neil pegged! But then a new worry surfaced in her mind. She had to come up with some incredibly tactful way to tell Neil that he needed a companion. He hated having people come into their home. He resented the intrusion so much, he'd even forced her to give up the weekly cleaning service. Jill knew if she failed to find exactly the right words to explain the situation to Neil, he'd reject the idea entirely. He might even get so angry, he'd demand that she give up her job and stay home as his personal slave!

Of course, she wouldn't do that. She wasn't about to give up her career. She just hoped the hospital would give her a very long list of names. If Neil's recovery was as slow and as difficult as Dr. Varney had implied, his companion would need the patience of a saint to cope with him.

CHAPTER 7

“I'm really happy for you, Jill. I'll pick you up for lunch tomorrow and we'll celebrate with a couple of greasy hamburgers.” Doug Lake hung up the phone, a smile on his face. It always gave him a lift to hear Jill's voice, and he was glad that her husband was going to be all right. Jill was . . . well . . . Jill was Jill. It was difficult for him to think of words to describe her, so he let his mind roam through all the best experiences in his life. Jill was like a cool mountain breeze on a muggy Texas afternoon, a deep swallow of icy well water at the end of a dusty trail, a crackling fire on a bitter winter night, a marshmallow toasted perfectly over a campfire, the outside all golden and crusty and the inside packed chock-full of melted sweetness.

Comparing Jill to a marshmallow made Doug grin. Marshmallows were fluffy, airy little things, and there was nothing fluffy or airy about Jill. She had substance. Furthermore she could be as tough as a linebacker with the Dallas Cowboys. He'd seen her tackle a couple of lying witnesses in court; she'd known exactly how to break them down. But even though Jill was tough, there was nothing remotely masculine about her. She was all woman, and that was what made her so appealing.

As he sat down at the table to eat his microwave dinner, Doug remembered the first time he'd met Jill. He'd been a rookie cop, outraged that someone had thrown a bottle at Tessie, the best horse in the entire police stable. Jill had been a pretty young prosecutor, an incredibly leggy blonde with straight, swinging hair and a figure that suggested she was no stranger to long-distance running. The first question she'd asked was whether Tessie was all right. When he'd told her Tessie's cut wasn't deep and it would heal just fine, her blue eyes had turned darker, the color of cobalt, and as hard and steely as the barrel of his service revolver. Then she'd said, “Good. Now let's make sure we really nail this guy!”

They'd nailed him, but not in the way Doug had expected. Since he hadn't been on his horse when the bottle had been thrown, the man had faced only a drunk and disorderly charge and an attempt to destroy city property. But when Jill had questioned him, Doug had admitted that he'd reached out to try to deflect the bottle and had received a small cut on his thumb.

Jill had then gone after the perp with both barrels blazing, and the defendant had been convicted of not two, but three offenses. She'd nailed him on drunk and disorderly, willful destruction of city property, and assault on a police officer, a much more serious charge.

When they'd left the courtroom, Jill had asked him to take her to the police stable. She'd fed Tessie an apple and then taken Tessie's picture. The next time he'd entered Jill's office, he'd seen Tessie's picture on the wall behind her desk, complete with a label on the frame that named the horse as Jill's first client.

Doug wished he hadn't been involved with someone at the time. If he'd been free, he would have asked Jill for a date. As it turned out, he'd been a fool. Less than a year later, the woman he'd been dating had decided she wasn't cut out to be a cop's wife. She'd married an accountant with a nine to five schedule, and the last Doug had heard, they had a little house in Elk River with a dog and two kids.

When he had finally worked up the nerve to call Jill's office, her secretary had told him she'd flown to Florida to meet her fiancé's brother. Doug had thanked the woman politely, but he'd put his fist through the pantry wall right after he'd hung up the phone. He'd waited too long—he'd blown it. Perfect women like Jill didn't stay single forever. Why hadn't he had the brains to realize she was the only one he'd ever really wanted to marry?

Jill had sent him a wedding invitation, but Doug hadn't had the heart to go. He'd told her he had to work, and he'd sent something that the clerk at Dayton's Department Store had recommended. He'd left instructions to wrap the silver ice bucket in wedding paper, and it had been delivered to Jill's family's home, where the reception had been held.

Doug was sure Jill didn't know how he felt about her. He'd been very careful to keep their relationship friendly and professional. She was his friend, but other, deeper feelings lurked just beneath the surface, like a granddaddy catfish that hid under the mirrored face of a lake, poised and ready to leap up from the depths at precisely the right moment.

Jill rarely talked about her husband. Doug had been surprised when he'd learned that Neil had written a book. He'd picked it up at a discount bookstore and had read it on his vacation. It had been a well-written mystery with a fairly interesting plot, but it hadn't impressed Doug all that much. The lead character was a police detective, but it was obvious that Jill's husband didn't know anything about real police work. If Doug had tried any of the stunts Neil's detective pulled in the book, he would have been up before the disciplinary review board before he'd had time to fill out the paperwork.

So why hadn't Jill caught the obvious errors in her husband's book when she worked with police detectives every day? Doug hadn't wanted to ask her, but one day she'd volunteered the information. Neil had worked alone, sequestered in his office with his computer and his printer. He hadn't wanted Jill to read his book until it was published.

At the time, Doug had wondered what kind of marriage they had. If he wrote a book, he'd want his wife to be the first to read it. It would be something they could share, and he'd certainly value his wife's advice. As far as Doug was concerned, Neil had shot himself in the foot. If he'd asked for Jill's advice, his police detective would have been more believable.

Although there was still some food on his tray, Doug dumped the remainder down the garbage disposal. He hated microwave dinners. The vegetables were mushy, the potatoes were watery, and the meat was so tasteless he felt like retrieving the box from the trash to find out what he'd eaten. But popping a frozen dinner in the microwave was efficient. It seemed like a waste of time to cook from scratch for himself.

Doug had learned how to cook from his grandmother. There were some things he prepared very well, like Tex-Mex tamales that would make your eyes water, fried chicken that was crispy on the outside and juicy on the inside, and mouthwatering barbecued ribs on the grill. Doug enjoyed cooking if he had a guest, but that didn't happen very often. He could count the guests who'd come for dinner on the fingers of one hand.

The night stretched out before him, and he wasn't sure what he wanted to do. There was nothing on television that interested him. There were no movies he wanted to rent. He was always welcome at the cop bar near the precinct, but he didn't feel like lifting a brew with burned-out colleagues who had no life beyond the force. He'd been there, done that, and it was boring, listening to the same old stories again and again. The older guys talked about the big cases they'd had, the cases nobody else had been able to solve. They were desperate to find some pleasure in recalling a time when they were sharp and smart and useful.

The younger guys were even more pathetic, delaying that moment when they'd have to go home to an empty apartment or a marriage that was heading for the rocks. It took a special type of woman to marry a cop, to live with the fear and uncertainty that went with the job. The wives never knew if their husbands would come home injured, or come home at all. It was almost like being a single parent; they could never count on that romantic anniversary dinner or the baby's first birthday party. Telephones and pagers became their enemies. Because nothing took precedence over work, the wives had to take on the responsibilities of both mother and father; it wasn't surprising so many of them bailed out.

Jill could be a cop's wife. She was strong, and she knew how the system worked. She would understand when he was on call, or if he had to work overtime. But she was married, and he really shouldn't be thinking about her. Her husband was a very lucky man; Doug hoped he appreciated how special Jill was.

He walked to the bookcase and took down Neil's book. There was a color portrait on the back cover, and he sat down on the couch to stare at the man who'd married Jill. Neil was handsome, and he looked sophisticated. If Doug had been a movie director, he would have cast Neil Bradley as a distinguished college professor complete with tweed jacket, intense brown eyes, and a pipe that would have cost Doug a week's paycheck. But Neil had money, now that his book was such a success. Jill had married a real winner. Still, it was odd that she never really talked about her husband.

Doug had always been intrigued by puzzles, and he tried to put all the pieces he'd gathered into place. Jill hadn't seen her husband's book before it had been published. That meant they led separate lives; there were things they didn't share. And Jill never mentioned her husband. It wasn't that she kept her private and her professional lives totally separate. She had spoken of her parents on many occasions, and she'd told him stories about the friends she'd had in college. But she never talked about Neil unless someone asked her a direct question.

Two negatives, but that didn't necessarily spell trouble. Was there a third? Doug thought for a moment, and then he remembered that Jill kept a picture of her mother and father on her desk. There was also a picture of a family reunion, with aunts and uncles and cousins. But the last time Doug had been in her office, almost three years after she'd married Neil, he'd noticed that there was no picture of her husband.

There was a fourth negative. Doug sighed as it came to him. Jill's wonderful smile, the smile that had lit up a room in the past, had been missing for the better part of a year. Was her marriage in trouble? Or was he just grasping at straws, hoping that someday she'd be free to start a new life with him?

* * *

It was dark and they were in bed. Connie snuggled up to Alan's back and sighed. Her stomach was queasy and her head felt weightless, like a balloon filled with helium on a string. Was she getting another of her headaches?

She hadn't had a migraine since she'd moved in with Alan. In the past they'd been horrible, keeping her flat on her back in bed for days, unable to eat or even open her eyes. This one seemed coiled, at the very top of her skull, like a rattlesnake ready to strike.

She'd gone to the doctor several years ago, and he'd given her medication. There were warning signs for migraines—Connie knew them all. The doctor had told her to take a pill the moment she started to see the bright patterns of yellow and red start to swirl behind her eyelids.

But the patterns weren't swirling; they were flashing. And they were flashing in a regular rhythm. On, off. On, off. Keeping time like a metronome. Was this really a migraine? Or was it something else?

Cautiously, Connie opened her eyes, but she didn't experience the familiar flash of pain. And then she saw what was making the pattern, a red neon sign that was blinking on and off.

Dew Drop Inn. Connie mouthed the words, but she didn't say them aloud. Alan was a light sleeper and she didn't want to wake him. But there was no place called the Dew Drop Inn near their condo. Where were they?

On a trip. They'd taken a trip and they were in a hotel. But where had they gone? And why? Connie wished she could remember, but she felt completely disoriented, and her stomach was churning alarmingly. She took a deep breath, that seemed to help, and then she moved very slowly to the edge of the bed. Her mouth was dry. She was terribly thirsty. A glass of water might help.

She reached for the light. There were always lamps on both sides of the bed in hotels. But she stopped as she touched the bedside table. A light would wake Alan, and he had trouble getting back to sleep if she woke him in the middle of the night.

Connie's bare feet touched the floor. She was surprised to feel the linoleum, not carpet. Alan didn't like to stay in cheap hotels, but perhaps he'd been tired after driving all day and this had been the only place he could find.

As she stood up, Connie's head began to whirl. Uncomfortably woozy, she reached out for the wall to steady herself, realizing the source of her problem. This wasn't a migraine. It was a hangover. She'd had too much wine with dinner. Alan must have decided to stop here because she was too sick to go any farther.

Heat rose to Connie's cheeks, and she knew she was blushing. How embarrassing! She hoped Alan wouldn't tease her about this when he woke up. But perhaps he would have a hangover, too. She could hear him snoring; he only snored when he'd had too much to drink. It was a good thing they'd stopped here for the night and not attempted to drive any farther.

As she thought about it, Connie became less embarrassed. At least she wasn't the only one who'd gotten drunk. They'd have a good laugh about this in the morning, and they'd make a pact never to drink too much in the future. Connie knew she'd keep her promise. The way her stomach was rolling and lurching, she didn't think she'd ever be tempted to drink again!

She moved slowly, inching her way across the unfamiliar room. She didn't want to stumble over any furniture and wake Alan. There had to be a bathroom. Every hotel room had a bathroom. All she had to do was find it and she could drink some water and take some aspirin.

As her hand found a doorknob, she resisted the urge to giggle. She hoped it wasn't the outside door! She didn't have on a stitch of clothing, and she didn't want to wander out into the hallway and have the door lock behind her!

Connie pulled the door open and gave a huge sigh of relief as her fingers touched the inside wall. It was tiled.

 

Definitely a bathroom. She stepped in, pulling the door closed behind her, and flicked on the light.

The bright beam hurt her eyes, and she blinked several times. This was a perfectly nice bathroom, small but clean, with two plastic-wrapped glasses on the counter. Connie unwrapped one, ran some water, and found the complimentary basket of toiletries. It contained a small bottle of hand lotion, a matching bottle of shampoo, a new bar of soap, and a purse-size tin of aspirin.