Indelible (4 page)

Watching her take the call, he’d thought the rescue failed, that they lost the child after all. Not that bad, but bad enough. He said, “Think you could eat?”

She tilted her head. “It’s … not dinnertime.”

“It helps, though. Ask any cop.” Carbohydrates were natural tranquilizers.

“Were you a cop?”

“My brother is.”

She stared out the window. “Saving people runs in the family?”

“His work is mostly making people pay.”

Thunder cracked as another afternoon storm moved in, sudden, sharp rain, driving into the windshield.

“Is it just the two of you?”

“Five—” He swallowed. “Four boys.”

She didn’t ask him to clarify.

He headed toward Old Town. “Are you all settled in?”

“We set up my studio before anything else.” She rubbed the fingers of
one hand with the thumb of the other. “Then Paige wanted to get the house unpacked, but Aaron suggested a hike. He told her I needed the big picture, to get outside so I didn’t hyperfocus.”

Not sure what she meant, he said, “You’re set up at the gallery, but not at home?”

“I haven’t been home since Cody …”

“Where’d you spend the night?”

“My studio.”

He hoped she meant sleeping, but the bruised look of her eyes argued otherwise. He parked as close as he could get to the bakery bistro, turned off the engine, and eyed the rain. “You want to go in, or should I grab sandwiches to go?”

She blinked. “What?”

He said, “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the low-key Ratatat CD on and locked the doors. He jogged beneath the awnings as much as possible, then ducked inside, bought each of them a turkey with Brie on sourdough ciabatta, and hustled back. Stashing the bag between them, he said, “Show me where you live.”

She directed him to a dark red, single-story house overgrown with aspen, the sidewalk buckling from the interconnected roots. Her front room was stacked with boxes, a few pieces of furniture in place, others waiting to be assembled. In the kitchen, an open packing box had released only a single plate, glass, and mug. The only other thing on the counter was a Bible.

As he pulled another plate from the box, she filled two glasses with ice and water. Her visual avoidance was making him feel like a ghost she might sense but couldn’t see.

He unwrapped the sandwiches, releasing a rich aroma as he put them on the plates, and said, “Where should we start?”

“Start?”

“Unpacking.”

“No, don’t.” She pressed her hand to her eyes. “It’s too risky.”

“Risky?”

“Paige said all this happened because Aaron wanted to help. There must be some karmic—”

“You don’t believe that. There’s a Bible on your counter.”

“She’s pretty convinced.”

“She’s reacting.” He nudged the plate, saying, “Try the sandwich. It has orange and fig chutney.” He took a bite of his. She wasn’t multitasking in her condition.

“I’m reeling. I won’t pretend I’m not. But I’ll get through.”

“Not without eating.”

She took a bite, chewed slowly, and swallowed. It occurred to him she’d been alone, dealing with this since the attack. No wonder she looked shell-shocked at the trailhead and acted strange when they met. Emotional shock had probably drained what energy she had, and today’s news was another blow.

He couldn’t stop seeing the little arm hanging by a thread.

Gripping the back of her neck, she said, “I thought it was going to be okay.”

He’d hoped it would.

She took another bite. “I mean … you guys were there.”

“Keep that in mind, okay? There’s good here.”

“I know.” She nodded. “I do.”

“So eat your sandwich and let’s get to work.” With his plate empty, he drained the water glass and brought them to the sink. She finished her food and thanked him with a quick glance aimed at his chin. She had yet to look at him directly.

He scanned her home. If the bedroom matched the rest, she didn’t have anything to sleep on. “Let’s get the furniture assembled.” Bending one hand and then the other, he cracked his knuckles. “Rain canceled the bouldering I had scheduled, so I have plenty of time.”

“Okay.” Following him into the bedroom, she asked, “What’s bouldering?”

“Climbing without equipment.”

“No ropes?”

“You’re only three to five meters off the ground. Over seven, you’re free-soloing or you have a highball problem.”

“Like an alcoholic.”

Her deadpan made him laugh. Nice to see a sense of humor, but it
was short-lived. Pain and worry crept back like the flu, draining the animation from her face.

Moving to the windowsill, she handed him the hardware for the bed that leaned in parts against the wall and said, “Do you also climb with ropes?”

“Of course. But bouldering’s the best way to get a feel for the rock. You should try it.”

“Oh no.”

“Fifteen feet max, and you’d have a crash pad and spotter.” He positioned the side rail to the headboard, and she held it while he tightened the bolt.

“You think you can catch me from fifteen feet up?”

“It’s not catching. It’s directing your fall.”

“That’s so much better.”

He grinned. “We wouldn’t start you higher than I could handle.”

She shook her head. “I’m no monkey.”

“Your hands are strong. They’d have to be for sculpting.”

“Yes, but—”

He moved on to the other side rail and said, “I’ll teach you to crimp and flag and smear—what do you say, unpack today, boulder tomorrow?” Distraction was the best way he knew to deal with stuff. And she had stuff.

She pulled a clip from her pocket and pinched it into her hair. “I’ll think about it.”

With her hair up, she seemed like the little sister he never had. Or like Sara. Yeah. Now he could fit what he was doing into a comfortable place.

They connected the footboard, placed the box spring and mattress, and moved on.

The rain had stopped, the sunset burning the ragged remains of cloud when she stopped and surveyed her home. “Wow. It’s done.”

“A few boxes to unload. But not bad.” He checked his watch. “Uh-oh. Whit’s expecting me.”

“Go.” She motioned him toward the door, then said, “Wait.”

He turned.

“Unless you want to pick me up in the morning, I need my car.”

“Oh. Right. Let’s go.”

Whit was waiting in the narrow delivery lot behind their businesses with Sara wearing Braden in a sling. “Dude, where’d you go?”

“Gave Natalie a hand moving in.” He turned to her. “Natalie, Paul Whitman.”

“Whit,” he said and shook her hand. “Only my granny calls me Paul.”

“No, that’s Paulie.” Laughing, Sara said, “Nice to meet you, Natalie. I’m Sara. This is Braden.”

The baby had one fist pressed into his cheek, the other under his chin. Natalie’s tears welled up. “He’s perfect.”

He’d done a good job of distracting her, but he could see it rushing back in. “Her nephew lost his arm. They couldn’t save it.” He would gnaw that all night, wondering what more he could have done.

Whit and Sara offered sympathetic responses.

Looking at neither, Natalie said, “I should go. Thanks again.”

“Bouldering tomorrow. Twelve o’clock.”

She hurried toward her business. As soon as she’d gone inside, he told them, “Her brother and his wife think blaming her makes it better. They don’t want her at the hospital, which is what she needs.”

“That’s messed up.”

Sara shifted the baby. “How is it her fault?”

“They were here to help her move in.”

“And?”

“And nothing. They took a hike and that lion changed their lives.”

“That’s cold,” Whit said.

“Yeah. So I figured I could help her unpack the house.”

“That was nice.” Sara cocked her head.

“I’m a nice guy. Up for bouldering? It might take her mind off things.”

Sara’s gaze intensified.

“She’s in a rough spot.”

“So it’s a rescue.”

He shrugged.

“I can read you like a book.” She gave him her Sara smile, then made mommy eyes at her waking infant.

If thou beest he—but O how fallen! how changed
From him who, in the happy realms of light
Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine
Myriads, though bright!

N
o strife exists but what pits good and evil, brothers of one cloth, one light, the other dark, seeking his opposite. Running fingers over the spiraled ridges and furrows of his flesh, he pictured the other face, unmarred, untested. Awe quickened. A purpose as old as time. Spurned and Chosen vying.

Was it fate that made one cursed, another blessed; that fickle hand sowing fertile ground and also barren stones? For two seeds fall and one grows strong, but the other is snatched by greedy beak, cracked open and devoured.

As water finds the path of least resistance, so misfortune finds the weak. But the feeble, broken, can be tempered, snapping chains of inhibition. The weak can become the strong.

Gathering what little he had—hoods and capes, tape, and, most importantly, the tome—he prepared himself as a warrior for battle. Everything had led to this, every dark and tortured moment, every fear, rage, and fury. The hunger. The need. He felt them all inside, coursing like blood through his veins.

He had not slept since the idea formed, had no need to slumber. Energy coursed through him, electrified, as he sought what he needed and there—lock freed—wires touched. Engine roars! Nimble fingers, crafty mind. Invincible.

He slipped inside the rusted shell—newer cars too complicated for a simple hot-wire, but not this. He revved the engine, a great silent laugh
inside him. He felt himself an arrow drawn back to the taut, quivering point of release.

In the passenger seat, a duffel bag became his unspeaking companion. From its neck he took the book, set it between them, then fixed his gaze forward. Those behind heard nothing of his leaving. Those approached sensed nothing of his coming. Stealth and cunning bore him, as the breath of plague seeping over sleeping souls.

Three

T
apping her stick against the sun-warmed walls and sidewalk, Fleur moved down the street. The commotion had quieted since the rescue put Redford in the news, and she was glad for that. Not that she minded excitement, but lots of strangers and extra traffic complicated her routines.

With a clack, she found the metal plate at the base of the door and entered the bakery bistro. Scents surrounded her. Cinnamon, butter, and yeast. Fig, orange, and pine nuts. Also fontina cheese and capocollo. Rosemary—no, basil.

Voices chattered around her, the sounds of crockery and sipping, and then Piper said, “Hi, roomie.”

Her posting for a roommate had hardly been on the coffeehouse board an hour before Piper had called, hoping to share the tiny two-bedroom house at the edge of Old Town. One conversation had clinched it for both of them.

“It smells like you have a lunch selection ready.”

“Fontina, capocollo, and basil croissants.”

Fleur smiled. “Yum.”

“They’re fresh out of the oven, so watch the heat.”

“I’ll take it to go, if you don’t mind. I want to finish one last canvas to show the new gallery owner. I really hope she’ll carry my work.”

“She’d be crazy not to.”

She loved Piper’s optimism. With her own tendency toward melancholy, she collected positive people. After taking the warm bag in one hand and her stick in the other, she headed for the door, pausing when it opened. “Hello, Jonah.”

He said, “I need you on the force, Fleur. You’re the best detective in town.”

It was hard to miss the chief of police—his woodsy scent, the winter-green Tic Tacs he chewed, his confident, yet courteous stride. Remembering his rakish good looks, she mentally aged him fifteen years and still imagined greatness. “How’s Tia?”

His fingernails scratched over his jaw.

“Uh-oh,” she said.

“No, she’s good. It’s just … I guess people will know soon enough. Especially if the crying and vomiting keep up.”

Behind Fleur, Piper squealed. “She’s pregnant?”

“Yeah, well, I’m dead now that she didn’t get to tell you.”