Keeping Watch: Heart of the Night\Accidental Bodyguard (8 page)

He was reassuring her, she realized, trying to make her feel less afraid. Only he wasn’t making her feel any better. He was only reinforcing the conclusion she’d already reached.

“I
did
have enough presence of mind to realize that Jack doesn’t fool around with confetti, Kahler. The only thing my package had in common with the others was they all blew up.” She paused, again fighting her anger against the man who had sent the package. “And that son of a bitch knows exactly how it feels,” she added. “That’s the one thing I can’t get over. He knows, better than anyone, how I felt this morning.”

“You think it was
Barrington?
” Kahler asked, his voice expressing his surprise.

“Who else could it have been? He had motive—to get back at me for what I’d said to him, for coming into his house. The timing seems a little too coincidental
not
to implicate him. Who else would get his jollies scaring me spitless?”

“Nothing I know about Barrington would lead me to believe that he would do something like that.”

“Nothing you know?” she repeated, letting her sarcasm show. “Like the fact that he never leaves his house, not even to attend his father’s funeral. That he lives in the dark like some kind of—” She stopped abruptly, remembering all she had said to the man they were discussing.
Like some kind of vampire.
She remembered, too, Barrington sitting alone in the darkened room, the faint music floating out into the night like smoke. “Like some kind of creep,” she finished instead. “Face it, Kahler.
He’s
the one who’s gone off the deep end.” Her tone was bitter, but Kahler wouldn’t understand. He didn’t know about the folder with the pictures of the man she’d admired so long.

“Look, I know you’re angry at Barrington for having you hauled off the other night, but there are…explanations for some of those things,” Kahler said, his voice reasonable.

“He just sits there in the dark. What kind of explanation is there for that? What kind of explanation for the crap he pulled with the package? What
kind
of explanation?” she demanded angrily.

“We don’t know he sent the package, Kate.”

She laughed, a small, tight derision of sound. “Right,” she agreed sarcastically. “
You
may not know. If not His Honor, then who? Who else
could
it be?”

“Someone who doesn’t like your writing style? Hell, maybe somebody thinks you misused a semicolon,” Kahler suggested. The hazel eyes were carefully controlled, but his tone had lightened. “There are a lot of crazies out there, August.”

He was certainly right about that, Kate thought. Several of the letters she’d received about the series had contained graphic illustrations of bomb blasts, dismemberments and the like—crudely drawn but effective. As a matter of course, she had pitched them into the round file, but now she wondered if she should have saved them, turned them over to whoever in the police department was in charge of checking out the crazies.

“Lucky for us,” Kahler went on, “not all of them want to kill people. Some of them just like sending stuff through the mail. Dead rats or birds. Voodoo dolls complete with pins. All kinds of crap. Maybe even red confetti. This wasn’t Jack, but that doesn’t mean it has to be Barrington.”

“Why send it to me?” she asked. “Seriously.”

“Maybe someone’s been following the series. Maybe they didn’t like what you wrote. Who knows what sets people off.”

“You admire him, don’t you?” she asked. His eyes widened slightly at the comment, and she realized that her thoughts had outpaced the conversation. “Barrington,” she explained.

“What makes you think I
admire
Barrington?”

“You tell me to leave him alone. That he’s been through hell. You reject the obvious about the package—that Barrington was the crazy who sent it. You even defend the way he lives.”

“I’m not defending him, and you seem to have forgotten who we’re talking about. Barrington doesn’t need me to defend him. He’s got all the marbles. If he wants defending, he can afford to hire the best. That’s something you might want to remember before you start accusing him of this morning’s prank. That accusation would probably be grounds for some kind of suit.”

“So you’re telling me to ignore what happened today?”

“I’m telling you not to go off half-cocked. At least wait until the lab results come back. They might tell us something.”

“And they might not,” she said. She knew that the materials used in Jack’s packages had been frustratingly unrevealing.

One corner of Kahler’s mouth quirked, acknowledging that possibility. “It depends on how much the sender knows about how mail bombers are caught. They’ll at least let us see whether we’re dealing with an amateur. Until that time, I don’t think you’re in any real danger, Kate.” He smiled, and she thought how rare an occurrence that was. “Not if you get yourself a new lock. A dead bolt. A good heavy one.”

Kahler stood up, putting the magazine he’d been holding down on the coffee table between them. “Don’t worry,” he offered. “The last time I checked the statistics, nobody had ever been killed by confetti.”

She laughed, feeling better for his sardonic reassurance. It
had
helped to have Kahler here. She was even willing to forgive him for letting himself in. His eyes held a moment, and she found his rough masculinity more appealing than it had ever been before. He was a good friend, and he’d shown up at a time when she’d really needed one.

She walked him to the door. There was a brief, awkward moment when they reached it. It felt a little like saying good-night after a first date, unsure what the next move should be and who should make it.

“Thanks,” she said, trying to put an end to the awkwardness.

“I’ll let you know what the lab finds out,” he said.

She nodded, and he turned to go. “What kind of explanation?” she asked. The words had slipped out, not even in her consciousness before they were on her lips.

“What?” Kahler asked.

“You said there were explanations for some of the things Barrington does. I just wondered what you meant.”

“Off the record?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Just between you and me.” She felt free to accept his condition. This wasn’t information she wanted for the series. It was personal. What could possibly explain the change in Barrington from the assured, charismatic man in those pictures into the cold recluse she had met today?

“If you use any of this, August, if any of it ever gets into print…” Kahler paused.

“Off the record,” she said. “I swear. I just need to understand why.”

Again the hazel eyes studied her face, trying to read, maybe, the reason she needed to know. Feeling the intensity of that assessment, her own eyes dropped momentarily, and she forced them back up to meet his.

“Personal?” he asked.

She hesitated, and finally she nodded. The muscles around Kahler’s mouth tightened, and then, with an effort she could see, he deliberately wiped the sudden tension from his face.

“Since the bombing, Barrington has suffered from migraines.”

“Migraines?” Kate repeated. “Headaches? What does that have to do with—”

“Apparently they’re…extremely severe, and they’re triggered by exposure to light.”

“Light?” she echoed, remembering the satisfying whir of the rising shades, the sudden blaze of summer sunshine she’d sent into the darkened parlor.

“I don’t understand all the mechanics,” Kahler went on, shrugging his shoulders. “From what I was told, they’re probably not related to his eye injuries, but to head trauma. Maybe damaged nerves or scar tissue. Maybe the speed at which his pupils react to sudden light. Maybe they’re even psychogenic. Nobody seemed willing to pin down a definitive cause, but nobody would deny the kind of trauma Barrington suffered could cause all sorts of problems. The headaches began as soon as the bandages came off, and they haven’t lessened in severity.”

“How severe?”

“The usual treatment for headaches as intense as the ones Barrington has is an injection of something powerful enough to knock the sufferer out until the migraine’s over. That’s what they did for the judge while he was in the hospital.”

“How long do they last?”

“For some people migraines can last several days. Given his situation, it makes some sense out of Barrington’s decision not to expose himself to that risk.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Kate asked. “We talked about Barrington. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Damn Kahler and his reticence.

“The information came from a friend, somebody at the hospital where the judge was treated after the bombing. Not Barrington’s physician, but somebody who knew about the case and owed me a favor. None of this is for public consumption, August. I told you. The guy’s been through enough.”

“I just wish you’d told me,” she said again, regret tightening her throat, regret for things she’d said and done that she certainly couldn’t share with Kahler.

“I only told you now because you seemed convinced he’d sent the package, that the way he lives makes him more suspect. I wanted you to understand that there are some valid reasons for Barrington’s seclusion. Maybe the headaches aren’t reason enough for everything, but they help to explain the way he lives.”

She nodded.

“What’s the fascination, August?” he asked. His voice had changed. No longer a clinical assessment, but deeper, more intimate.
Personal.

“I don’t even understand it myself. It’s just there. It’s been there from the beginning.”

“I guess all that money would be appealing. I can’t speak for Barrington’s supposed sex appeal,” he said. “I never saw any of that.” His lips had moved into a slight smile, but there was no matching amusement in his voice. “You know he may no longer even look the way he once did.”

She almost denied that Barrington had changed—physically changed. She almost revealed that she’d seen him much more clearly since that first night when she’d acted on impulse and entered his darkened house.

“I know,” she said. “For some reason, he just…interests me. Maybe it’s seeing the effect Jack had on the one man who survived, and it’s not the money, Kahler, no matter what you think. I can’t explain what I feel. I know it’s unprofessional. More than that, it’s a little…weird,” she admitted. “I know all that. I almost asked Lew to take me off the story because of it, but…I just can’t seem to leave it alone.”

“I think you ought to back off. For a lot of reasons. Let the series die a natural death. Maybe that’s what the package this morning was intended to do—to tell you to back off.”

“Is that what you really think, Kahler? Is that a professional assessment?”

Again the hazel gaze held hers. “Personal,” he said. “I don’t want you hurt, Kate.”

She smiled at him. “Trust me, I don’t want to be hurt. That crap this morning made me very aware of how easy it is to get someone if you really want to. All you need is an address. I found out I’m not nearly as brave as I thought I was.”

“Good,” Kahler said, his tone ordinary again. “A little less brave is a lot safer. Get a dead bolt, August, and think about the other—about dropping the series.”

“I will,” she promised.

He stepped through the door, pulling it closed behind him. The apartment seemed suddenly very empty. She walked back into the living room where they’d been sitting. She stopped before the table beside the couch. She hesitated, trying to resist, but finally she opened the drawer and looked down at the folder containing the pictures of Thorne Barrington.

She put her hand down on top of the file, but she didn’t take it out. Instead she stood, touching it, the tips of her fingers whitened against the manila surface, remembering the cruelly exposing slashes of sunlight and the stillness of the man who had never turned to face the windows she’d uncovered.

“Y
OU OKAY
?” Lew asked the next day. He pitched his question low enough that their conversation would remain private.

She glanced up from the words on her screen. “Better than yesterday. Thanks for sending Kahler. Talking to him helped.”

“I don’t think I can accept responsibility for that,” Lew said, smiling at her. “He seemed worried about you. I think he just wanted to see for himself you were all right. He didn’t seem to think your package had anything to do with Jack.”

“I know. He promised to let me know what the lab finds.”

“Kahler also thought it might be a good idea if you back off the series. You want me to get someone else to do the feature on the guy in Tucson, or you want to just let it stand with the articles you’ve done? It’s your story, Kate. It has been from the beginning, so it’s your decision.”

“You think Kahler’s right? About the package not being from Jack?”

“He gathered up the remains, and he’s seen all the others.”

“He told me everything was different. The mechanics. Everything. But the return address was the same on this one and the Tucson bomb, and that information hadn’t been released. How could someone know about that?”

Lew shrugged. “There are always leaks. Any information gets out, if enough people know about it. Maybe not to the general public, but out just the same. The fact that Barrington’s address was on the Tucson bomb would be interesting to anyone with Atlanta connections.”

“I thought he’d sent it,” Kate said.

“I guess that’s natural, considering that you’ve been working on the bombings, but Kahler said—”

“Not Jack,” she corrected. “Barrington. I thought Barrington had sent it.”

“Judge Barrington?” Lew said, the disbelief in his voice reminding Kate of Barrington’s reputation.

“I know. Kahler thought it was ridiculous, too. It’s just that we have some…background.” She glanced up in time to catch the surprise in Lew’s brown eyes.

“I didn’t know you knew Barrington,” he said.

“We’ve met,” she hedged. It was the truth, but it didn’t explain why those meetings would make her suspect him. She wished that she hadn’t started this. “I just keep coming back to Thorne Barrington as the sender, despite what everyone else seems to believe about him.”