Infamous (22 page)

“I don’t know,” A.J. said.

“Whoops, shit, I gotta go,” Lutz said. “Look, I’ll call you later and let you know if I can organize the equipment and manpower we’d need to re-create your gunfight out there in What-the-Fuck, Arizona. I’m pretty sure I can—either way, though, I’d love to come out. You know, just to get Winter Baxter’s autograph. If that’s okay with you.”

“It would be great, actually,” A.J. said. “I’d like to see you.”

“Hey, Gallagher, I’m really glad you called me,” Lutz said.

“Yeah,” A.J. agreed, and even though he still didn’t know what he was going to do about Alison, he found that he meant it. “Me, too.”

The wind was already starting to kick up when A.J. walked with Alison back to her office trailer.

They were both carrying dinner trays, which a very cheerful man named Rob had recommended they cover with Saran wrap before venturing out of the catering tent.

A spray of dust and dirt now bounced off that plastic, and A.J. closed his eyes to a squint, wishing he had the sunglasses that he’d left on the dashboard of his truck.

He’d dressed carefully in a clean pair of jeans and a shirt that Bev had bought him because she said it matched his eyes. He didn’t see it, but who was he to argue with an older sister who, more often than not,
did
know best?

Alison, too, had gone to some effort to look nice. She was not only wearing gracefully flowing pants with her usual sandals, but a colorful scoop-necked top that wasn’t particularly daring, unless he could somehow engage her in a post-dinner game of Twister.

She’d taken some pains with her hair, too—although the wind now blew it around her face. A face to which she’d applied more than her usual amount of makeup. Not that she needed it.

But A.J. liked the extra eyeliner because of the message it sent.
I want to look good for you. You’re special
.

“They canceled tonight’s shoot,” Alison told him as she wrestled her key into the door’s lock. “We’re supposed to get
some weather—although out here it could just be wind and dust. No rain.”

Canceled? “Does that mean you have the whole evening free?” he asked as he held out his hand to take her tray. She handed it to him, along with a smile of thanks as she used both hands to pull the door open.

“I do,” she said. “An actual evening off. Imagine that.”

“Except here I am, making you work,” he pointed out, now holding the door with his hip. “I got it. Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” She took her tray back from him. “To be honest, this doesn’t feel like work,” she said, and went up the stairs first, leaving him standing there, smiling like a damn fool.

The lights were already on inside, the AC chugging away.

The cooler air felt good as A.J. latched the door behind him and followed her.

She’d done as she’d promised and cleared off her desk, pulling up a chair on the far side for A.J. It was radically different from the last time he’d been in here. All of the stacks of papers and piles of books were gone.

“Wow,” A.J. said and she smiled again.

“I actually filed,” she told him as she set her tray down.

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

“Hey, kids.” Jamie was already there, sprawled out on the leather couch, feet up, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and tie loosened.

So much for his mother’s theory that calling and talking to Lutz would make Jamie vanish. And so much for A.J.’s hopes that he could spend a few hours with Alison and pretend he was just another guy, like any other guy whose great-grandfather
wasn’t
the American West’s notorious and most often slandered outlaw.

“And how was
your
day, dear?” Jamie asked. “Mine was a bitch. Lotta spiders. Hey, I know this isn’t on the official agenda, but would you do me a favor and see what Alison’s heard—if anything—about the dead guy that was found forty-five miles north of town?”

“Please,” Alison said, “sit.”

And A.J. realized he was standing there, holding that tray, probably looking both disappointed and dismayed. And a little relieved. Which was understandable. During his early childhood, going back as far as he could remember, Jamie had been his rock, his lifeline, his primary caregiver. For most of that time, A.J.’s mother had either been emotionally unavailable or working her butt off to get her degree.

And as much as A.J. complained, as frustrating as it was, as much as he feared for his sanity … Truth was, he enjoyed Jamie’s company.

And maybe that’s why the ghost was still here. Maybe he’d stay until A.J. truly wanted him to go.

But as far as what he wanted right now? That wasn’t hard to figure out. He definitely didn’t want Jamie sitting in on this, his first real date with Alison.

He’d made up his mind—that he was going to tell her the truth, that he saw and heard and spoke to Jamie, before moving their relationship, as she’d put it, to the naked level. He had to. And if, as Lutz had warned, that meant they didn’t move to that level? So be it.

But he didn’t want to do any of it tonight. He’d just wanted to sit across a dinner table—or desk as the case was—and look into her eyes as they talked.

A.J. put his tray on Alison’s desk and looked hard at Jamie before he said, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this. Just the two of us.” Hint, hint. “A chance to talk privately, without interruption …”

“I’ve been looking forward to it, too,” Alison told him with a smile. “Except the part where you break my heart by trash-talking my homeboy, Silas Quinn.”

“Yeah, kid,” Jamie said, “I don’t think so. You definitely need a chaperone. Look at the way she’s looking at you. If I leave you alone with her, you’ll be toast.”

“I’m glad we could do this tonight,” Alison continued as she used a pair of scissors to cut the plastic from her tray. “Because tomorrow’s going to be crazy. Hugh and I are actually going out location scouting. Henry wants us to find a relatively
flat, completely desolate part of the desert, where he can set up a camera and do a three-sixty pan. It’s supposed to be Quinn’s point of view, during the scene where he’s gone after Gallagher and Melody? He didn’t bring enough food or water, and he realizes that trying to rescue his wife could kill him—but he pushes on anyway.”

She smiled at A.J. as she leaned forward to cut the wrap from his tray, too, and he made note of the fact that her bra was black. And almost nonexistent. And her body, beneath it, was very nice. He had to look away, down at the chili and rice that he’d chosen for his dinner. It smelled great, but not as great as Alison.

“Even you have to admit that that was heroic,” she said. “To cross that particularly treacherous part of the desert, at the hottest time of the year …?”

“Thanks,” A.J. said as she sat back down.

“Except he didn’t do it,” Jamie said from the couch as they started to eat. “The lying sack. He got that far, realized he wasn’t going to catch us, knew that he didn’t have enough water, so he turned back. I’m pretty sure it was then, too, that he realized he could rob the Jubilation Bank and Trust and blame it on me. He went back, killed Bert Perry, the night guard at the bank, took and hid the money, and didn’t cross the desert until a day later. Not until he was completely outfitted for it.”

“Where are you going to be scouting tomorrow?” A.J. asked Alison.

“Henry wants us to head north, because that’s the direction Quinn actually took,” she said between mouthfuls. She, too, had picked the chili. “Oh, my God, this is delicious.”

It
was
good. The dull aqua tray gave it a middle school cafeteria feel, but the food was four star, and they
did
provide linen napkins and real silverware.

Jamie sat forward. “You better tell her about dead Wayne. Well, don’t call him Wayne, but—”

“I heard there was some kind of trouble up to the north,” A.J. interrupted him. “A police investigation, someone found a body …?”

“You’re right,” she said. “I did hear something about
that—some hiker wandered off the trail, but they still need to make sure it wasn’t foul play.”

“Is that really the story they’re putting out there?” Jamie said. “Because there are at least two FBI agents working undercover in the catering tent.”

“Seriously?” A.J. slipped and said, but thankfully it worked equally well in his conversation with Alison.

“I’m sure it’s just standard procedure,” Alison said.

Jamie nodded and said, “Rob and Charlotte. I saw them checking out the pay phone where you called in the murder.”

Rob
was an FBI agent? Happy Rob with the Saran wrap? Go figure.

“Or was your
seriously
about the fact that a hiker could just die out there?” Alison asked. “If you’re caught without water in the desert, you really don’t last long. People die all the time. Didn’t you get one of those packets when you filled out your employment information forms?
Do’s and Don’ts in the Desert
 …?”

“No,” A.J. said, “but … I’m aware.”

“That’s right,” she said. “The First Gulf War.”

He nodded.

She ate in silence for a moment, just watching him. It was clearly an invitation to tell her something—anything—about his time overseas, but A.J. just kept eating, too.

In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the wind whistled past the trailer.

“Well, thanks for the reminder,” Alison finally spoke. “About the investigation. All we need are police helicopters on the horizon in a scene that’s supposed to be 1898. We’ll definitely want to keep our distance.”

“That’s probably a good plan,” A.J. said. He put down his fork. “Can I …” He stopped. “May I ask you something?”

She opened the bottle of water that had come with her dinner and took a sip. “Of course.”

“What’s next for you?” A.J. said. “After the movie’s finished?”

She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Wrap party?” she said, but then acknowledged that she was kidding. “No, I
know what you mean. I’m on sabbatical until the January semester, so … I’m probably going to use that time to write most of my next book. Provided Penny Eversfield’s letters ever arrive.” She smiled. “Of course, I can do it without the letters, and I will, but I’m hoping for some really candid information that will make the four hundred and thirty history buffs who buy my books swoon with delight.”

He had to smile at that. “After this movie comes out, you’re going to sell more books than that.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe not.”

“What if you write Jamie’s book?” A.J. asked. “Jamie’s story?”

“Ooh,” Jamie said from the sofa, “I like that idea.”

Alison held A.J.’s gaze. “In order to write it, I’d have to believe it,” she told him. “Completely.”