Money To Burn (28 page)

“Who did this to us?” I wondered out loud, staring at the fire. “And what the hell is going on?”

“I’m being purified,” Burly answered. “That’s what’s going on.” He stretched his arms out wide, as if the heat of the night were not enough and he needed the warmth of the fire. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

“If the killer can’t get you, then I guess I must,” I added, poking his ribs.

“Come and get me anytime,” he agreed with a grin.

“Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” a voice boomed out behind us. “And if the two of you are okay.”

I’d never met the Franklin County sheriff before and, under other circumstances, might have considered him a fine specimen of Homo sapiens, preferably erectus. He was middle-aged, with thick dark hair going gray at the temples and a very nice body beneath a clean-pressed uniform. But that night, I wouldn’t have cared if he had looked like Gregory Peck and Antonio Banderas all rolled into one. I was grateful, however, that he was treating us as victims instead of suspects. It may have had something to do with the upcoming election and the fact that Burly did live, vote and pay taxes in his county.

It took half an hour to go through our story and the sheriff listened carefully without interrupting. I got to hear Burly’s version of events, from start to finish: he’d been sitting quietly, reading with Zee Zee at his feet, when the hang-up calls began. Then, the old dog had grown restless. Burly let him outdoors for a quick break, but the hound refused to come back inside. He kept standing at attention near the front door, occasionally letting out a soft growl. This was enough unlike Zee Zee to make Burly start to get nervous. He’d watched out a window for a while, noticing only that more birds than usual were taking off from their roosts among the trees and that the usual forest sounds had given way to disturbed rustlings and warning cries. At first he’d thought it might be a black bear passing through; they were not unheard of it in the Piedmont area of North Carolina. They sometimes wandered in from the east, despite all the real estate development of recent years. He doubted it was a bear, however, since he couldn’t smell one and since Zee Zee was not exacdy the type to hang around when one was headed his way. Then Burly began to hear the crackle of twigs being stepped on in the woods and grew alarmed, thinking poachers might be on his land—or worse. When the electricity went off, he decided to call me. He was too embarrassed to phone the cops right away, he explained. He thought maybe he was overreacting.

I thought maybe he was looking for an excuse to call me.

But then a shotgun blast shattered the first window and the phone line was cut in the middle of our conversation. That was when he’d known he was in real trouble. He’d
hit the ground, gotten his gun and extra ammo out of the wheelchair’s storage box and held on until I arrived.

The sheriff looked at me like he couldn’t understand why anyone in his right mind would call me for help. That was when I remembered I was wearing a strapless jade dress torn to the waist and covered with soot and grime. I looked like a cross-dressing chimney sweep.

“I don’t usually dress like this,” I explained. “I was at a debutante ball.”

This only made the sheriff stare even harder. I had the urge to whip out my Colt and nail a few trees just to prove my self-worth, but wisely contained myself. He’d already examined my S ex

“Where can I reach you in case I have more questions?” he asked. I gave him my home and office numbers, then he turned to Burly. “What about you?”

We looked at each other and Burly shrugged.

“Just call me,” I told the sheriff. “I’ll find him.”

“I just bet you will,” the sheriff said, smiling enigmatically. He closed up his notebook and stared at the fire, then pushed his hat back and scratched his forehead. “You two both look pretty bad off. Want a lift to Wake Med?”

We assured him that, under no circumstances, were we headed that way. Neither one of us relished a night spent watching drunks and drug addicts stagger off the streets and into our view. Nor were we in the mood to answer more questions.

“He can go home with me. I’ll take good care of him,” I volunteered, wheeling Burly toward his van.

“I just bet you will,” the sheriff answered with the same maddening smile.

“What is with that guy?” I complained as I climbed in the passenger seat and waited for Burly to maneuver his way on board. I knew better than to help him.

“He’s got your number,” Burly said cheerfully. “Like I said, Casey, you can run, but you cannot hide.”

A prickle of annoyance rippled through me, but at the very same time, I felt like throwing back my head and

laughing. Something about Burly got under my skin but when it did, it burrowed straight for all the right parts.

It took a while to inch the van through the crowded yard and out the narrow lane, but Burly was content to take his time. He was whistling, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his house was now a burning pile of rubble behind us.

“Jesus,” I complained. “You’re about the most cheerful person I’ve ever seen in the face of disaster.”

“Disaster?” he said, smiling at me. “This is the best thing that has happened to me in years. Did you see how we blew out that kitchen window together? Man, we were incredible. I could tell what you were thinking the second you thought it. We make a great team.”

We said little after that. I didn’t even ask why he stopped the van at Wake Med after all, then disappeared inside for half an hour and returned with a large plastic bag full of strangely shaped objects that my nosy inner child longed to snoop through. No such luck.

“Mind your own business,” he said when he caught me looking. He stored the bag under his seat. “Take it from me, you don’t want to know.”

“Who cleaned you up?” I asked, noticing that his face had been wiped free of soot and grime, his cuts cleaned and his hair washed.

“Debbie,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and wiggling them. “Night nurse in the ER. I know her from my checkup visits here.”

I stared at him for a moment without speaking, taking in his satisfied smile. “They just love you, don’t they?” I finally said, disgusted. “All those nurses. They wait on you hand and foot, swab you down with wet washcloths and eat you up with a spoon. I am sitting next to the poster boy for paraplegics.”

He shrugged. “I can’t help it if the nurses love me. You gotta admit it, I’m kind of cute when you get right down to it.” He was teasing me, but I was too irritated by the thought of some overripe blonde in a tight white dress lathering up his torso to be a good sport about it.

“What is it with nurses?” I complained irritably. “Stick a white dress on a woman and the men go gaga, never mind if she has a face like a baboon’s butt and a build like Jabba the Hut.”

“Debbie has neither,” he said smugly.

“Shut up about Debbie,” I ordered him. “Take me home and swab me down. I’m the one who did all the work back there.”

“That’s cute,” he said, pulling out onto New Bern Avenue. “You’re jealous. I didn’t know you cared.”

“Actually, I’m too tired to care,” I said, leaning my head back against the seat and yawning as a wave of weariness overtook me. “And I am so damn tired of wearing this dress.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it,” he agreed. “That is one mangled, ugly dress.” He paused for the punch line. “But it looks good on you.”

“Fuck off.” For an all-purpose expression, it was hard to beat.

“You can take it off right now, if you want,” he offered. “Or the second we get to your apartment. I think a hot bath is in order, don’t you?”
S/sppulling

I glanced at him, wondering what he was up to. “Burly…” my voice trailed off. “Don’t go getting any ideas, now. I’m too tired to move.”

He sighed contentedly. “I’m not planning to climb in the tub with you, Casey. All I’m asking from you is to borrow your bathroom for fifteen minutes, all by my little old self, along with a washcloth, towel and a sinkful of warm water. Followed by the loan of half your bed tonight. I wouldn’t dream of asking for more.”

That was annoying. Wasn’t he even going to try?

“Then why are you so cheerful?” I asked.

“Because,” he explained, “it has taken me only forty- eight hours to not only get into your bed, but also get inside your head.” He looked over at me and grinned. “Considering what a hard head you have, I consider that quite an accomplishment.”

I woke late the next morning and lay contentedly in bed beside Burly, my head resting on his chest. His face looked different when it was still; it seemed softer and lacked the hard lines that his leanness lent him when he was awake. His eyelashes fluttered and his eyes twitched beneath the lids. I wondered if he was dreaming of running—or maybe of what it had been like when he was still able to make love.

I thought about that for a moment until my curiosity got the best of me. Moving slowly so as not to waken him, I lifted the sheet and peered beneath it at his legs, wondering what it was like to feel no life in them. He was wearing a pair of plaid boxer shorts I’d lent him and he had wrapped a hand towel around his colostomy bag, which was fine with me. Even my curiosity has its limits. His legs didn’t look all that shriveled, like I thought they might, though they were on the skinny side and nowhere near as developed as his torso and arms.

He caught me peeking. “Casey, honey,” he drawled sleepily. “The South is going to rise again before that thing does.”

I dropped the covers, embarrassed. “Sorry, I was just being nosy.”

“No problem, but I’m going to have to claim my right to look in return.” He lifted the sheets and peered down at my legs. I was wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt—hey, I gotta air it out sometime—and it had bunched around my waist in the middle of the night.

“My God,” he said in a soft voice. “But that is a beautiful sight.”

The lower part of my body melted in a puddle, but my head took flight. “It’s late,” I said, rolling for the safety of the bedroom floor. I stood up and stretched, which was stupid, since it only provided Burly with another peek.

“Quit looking at me,” I complained.

His laughter made the whole bed shake. “I feel pretty good right now, Casey. I’m going to sit here and watch you get dressed. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Look away,” I agreed. “But in return, I want a shoulder massage. It’s killing me. I busted down about three doors and hit the ground twice last night. It’s a wonder I didn’t dislocate it.”

“Sit here,” he ordered, patting the bed beside him.

I crawled up on the bed and sat Indian-style beside Burly while he massaged the muscles in my back. I let out a groan of contentment. “You have incredible hands,” I admitted, then froze as an unbidden and graphic image unfolded in my mind, a pornographic preview of exactly what those hands could do. A wave of heat washed over me.

“You okay?” Burly asked gently. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“No, no,” I managed to murmur. “I’m okay.” I was floating on a wave of contentment, wondering what had brought the two of us together.

“I’m so sorry about your brother,” I said suddenly, my words a surprise to us both. “But I’m glad we met each other.”

His hands encircled my body as he pulled me close and held me there. “That’s one reason I like you so much, Casey. You never really knew my brother, but you sure have taken his death personally. Everyone else says how sorry they are and blah, blah, bah. But you’re not going to quit until you find out who did it, are you?”

“Nope,” I promised. “I’m not.”

“He was a good guy,” Burly said, his voice breaking. “I can’t think of anyone who would want him to die.”

“Maybe they didn’t want to get your brother,” I told him. “Maybe they really wanted to get Randolph Talbot. To ruin his reputation.”

He was still, thinking about it and, when he spoke, I heard the anger in his voice. “My brother better have died for a more important reason than that. Find out for me, Casey. Please? I need you to do that for me.”

“I will,” I promised, overcome with a sudden urge to make him smile. I wiggled out of his embrace, got too close to the edge of the bed and tumbled to the floor. “Want some coffee?” I asked from my spot on the carpet.

“Sure,” he agreed, laughing. “But better make it ice water if you plan to flash me like that again.”

I struggled to my feet and primly tugged on my night shirt. “Milk or sugar?”

“Both. I guess that means I get to sit here and let you wait on me hand and foot. Got a white dress and stethoscope you can squeeze into?”

I ignored him. He leaned against the headboard, watching, as I raced around my tiny apartment doing things that would keep me away from the bed. For a man who couldn’t walk, he always seemed to be one step ahead of me. The fact that he was calm only made me more nervous. I had this awful feeling that I was in a fight being fought with weapons I had never seen before. He was winning, and I was still trying to figure out the best way to approach the battle.

“You have a million phone messages,” he pointed out helpfully when I brought him a cup of Carolina latte (that’s when you shake the milk carton really, really hard before you pour the froth on top of strong coffee).