Too Close to Home (6 page)

At daybreak, the forest was once again transformed into a safe and familiar place, and Gran could see well enough to drive. I hiked back to the intersection where she had promised to pick me up with Aunt Lucy’s car.

I climbed into the car, settled wearily into the passenger seat, and no doubt looked as exhausted as I felt. But the emotions I saw on my grandmother’s face—emotions that tightened her lips and narrowed her pale blue eyes—had little to do with my disheveled condition. Mostly, I suspected, her expression reflected frustration and anxiety. Her night blindness had forced her to rely on me to hide a murder that, if revealed, would expose the Underground and destroy the secret network that Gran had protected all her life.

But I knew, even then, that the Black Slough would not easily give up its dead.

“Don’t worry,” I said before she could ask. “It’s all taken care of. No one will ever find her. The Underground is safe.”

My eyes opened to the familiar darkness of my bedroom. For a moment, I lay very still, staring at the luminous numbers on my clock. Afraid, but not sure why. The memory of Missy’s murder was so familiar that it no longer produced fear. Only sadness and regret.

Three-twenty in the morning.

For another few heartbeats, I continued to wonder what had awakened me. Then the out-of-place noises registered above the hum of the window air conditioner. The scrunch of tires on the gravel driveway. The sound of an approaching car.

I rolled over, suddenly alert. The view out the bedroom window was of the side yard and woods, so I didn’t bother
peering outside. Instead, I slipped my hand beneath the bed, immediately locating the locked box that held my SIG-Sauer P239. As I listened to the engine turn off and a car door slam, I twisted the key that remained in the lock unless I had company in the house and slipped my hand around the security of the compact pistol’s rubber grip.

I listened as Possum briefly woofed a greeting. A moment later, the back door opened, then closed softly. Highball didn’t raise an alert, which meant that either the noise hadn’t roused him from his deep sleep or he, too, recognized my visitor.

“It’s just me,” a familiar male voice said. The announcement was loud enough that, if someone in the house was awake, it would be heard and quiet enough that it was unlikely to awaken a sleeper.

By the time I heard Chad’s footsteps across the kitchen floor, my gun was under lock and key and my heart rate was back to nearly normal. Though I was tempted, I didn’t leave my bed.

The hallway light was switched on and, as Chad walked past my room, his shadow broke up the sliver of illumination that peeked beneath the bedroom door. A moment later, I heard the bathroom door close and the shower running.

Ignoring the thrust of pure lust that accompanied the image of Chad naked in my shower, I rolled over, thumped my pillow and tried to go back to sleep.

A few minutes later, the shower stopped running.

My renegade mind offered images of Chad stepping from the shower and me there with him. How long had it been since I’d used my tongue to catch the droplets that caressed his muscular, golden body? How long since his lips had followed some rivulet’s errant path down my breasts and along my curves?

Too long. Far too long.

I turned my head as I heard footsteps in the hallway, this time the sound of bare feet on a hardwood floor. Once again, Chad’s shadow blocked the light flowing from the hallway. He stood there for a time, on the other side of my bedroom door.

My breath caught in my throat as I waited in the bed we’d often shared. Wanting him. Determined not to want him. If there had a been a future for us—if the two of us had married—I already had Gran’s permission to reveal the secret of the Underground’s existence to him.
That
secret, I knew he would willingly protect. But he was too good a cop—too good a man—to condone murder. And a cover-up. I’d always known I could never reveal the secret of Missy’s fate. It had taken longer to realize that I couldn’t build a happy life on such a horrific deception.

“Brooke?”

It was Chad’s voice on the other side of the bedroom door. He spoke only that single word and it was not much more than a hoarse whisper. But in it I was certain I heard the echo of my own longing.

Don’t be stupid, I told myself. He probably just wants to talk.

I was in no mood for talk.

I couldn’t trust myself just to talk.

So I buried my face in the pillow, gritted my teeth as I willed away an ache I couldn’t ignore but would not give in to. For many months, lust had happily coexisted with my lies. But then came love. And love deserved better than lies. Chad deserved better than me.

Eventually, he walked away.

Eventually, I slept.

T
he smell of frying bacon awakened me.

I opened my eyes, glanced first at the window—still dark outside—and then at the clock. It was 5:00 a.m. I shut off the alarm, which wasn’t due to ring for another thirty minutes, stretched, then slid from my bed. When I opened the bedroom door, the aroma of hickory smoke was joined by mellow undertones of coffee and a hint of sweet vanilla. Pancakes or French toast, I guessed, as much from experience as from an intimate knowledge of the groceries I had on hand. Though I couldn’t smell them, I knew that there would be scrambled eggs, too. Chad enjoyed a big breakfast and was an enthusiastic cook. Something I’d never complained about.

Lack of barking from the kennel and the kitchen meant that he’d already fed the dogs, too. No doubt he’d doubled Possum’s morning ration because Possum would have greeted Chad—and the sight of the food dish—with a brown-eyed,
starved-puppy look and tail-wagging enthusiasm. Highball was far from being a puppy of any kind and definitely more dignified. But he would undoubtedly have received a double ration, too, because Chad took pride in being a fair man and, besides, loved the old dog almost as much as I did. As I got dressed, I thought about the canine ability to manipulate mere humans. Especially soft-hearted guys like Chad.

As a distraction from my too-sentimental thoughts, I concentrated on washing my face, brushing my teeth and getting dressed. Before leaving the bathroom, I checked my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted behind the door.

Unfortunately, my uniform didn’t look nearly as good on me as Chad’s did on him. His muscular body filled out his uniform, made him look buff and young-cop tough. Add dark glasses and a frown and he could be positively intimidating. The best I could hope for was not to look like a pudgy teenager. The color wasn’t bad—the light tan shirt and darker tan slacks were so neutral that they’d look fine on anyone. But despite the small size, the uniform was cut with a man’s body in mind—a flat-chested look that was only enhanced by my bulletproof vest. My arms seemed particularly scrawny hanging out from beneath the short sleeves.

Cute, Chad had judged the outfit the first time he’d seen it. Especially the way my curls tumbled out from beneath the uniform’s matching ball cap. And then, because I’d been modeling for him in our bedroom and he’d always said I was irresistible when I pouted, he’d demonstrated how quickly the entire uniform and everything beneath it could be removed. After that, he’d spent a little more time—

I shook my head, briefly scowled at my reflection and then went to stand unnoticed in the kitchen doorway.

Chad was standing at the stove, singing a Tim McGraw
tune off-key. Something about being a real bad boy, but a real good man. He was wearing my red-and-white-gingham chef’s apron over a clean uniform and was keeping time by moving his hips. He should have looked silly. In fact, he looked so sexy it made my body ache.

Briefly, I questioned the wisdom of our open-door policy. But Chad very rarely took advantage of it. Each time, he’d been dangerously exhausted. Or briefly overwhelmed by some horror he’d encountered on the job. Offering each other a safe place to sleep and a sympathetic ear were acts of friendship. A favor that Chad willingly returned.

I’d lost so much already. I didn’t want to lose the precious little bit of our relationship that still remained. That had been ours from childhood.

So maybe it’s time you got your hormones under control, I scolded myself. Obviously,
he’s
managed it.

I crossed the kitchen and tucked in next to him.

“G’morning,” I murmured.

On the stove, the percolator was chugging away, producing coffee that was stronger and hotter than any mere automatic drip coffeemaker could produce. But before lifting the pot from the burner, I touched Chad’s face, made him hold still long enough for me to get a good look at his injured cheek.

“Good. You changed the bandage.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he retorted, flipping me a quick salute. “Got it wet in the shower, and I didn’t want to get into trouble.”

I reached for the percolator and concentrated on pouring scalding-hot coffee into my mug. Trying not to burn my tongue, I slurped the first sip and kept sipping steadily as I made my way to the round oak table that was tucked into a corner opposite the stove.

“Good coffee,” I said, sighing dramatically. “Thank you.”

Chad laughed, but kept his eyes on the bowlful of eggs he was beating.

“You might be a cop if—” he paused for a beat, then went on “—you wish caffeine was available as an IV drip.”

The game was a familiar one, begun during the months when bed and breakfast were a shared activity. Chad had posted a list he’d found on the Internet to the refrigerator. You Might Be a Cop If… Within a week, the original list became so familiar that we’d begun offering variations. And that, like so many things we shared, evolved into good-natured competition. Unofficial rules dictated that a game period lasted for twenty-four hours and that quips—from the list or our own—had to be situation-appropriate.

“I heard you come in,” I said as I settled down into one of the bentwood chairs. “You must have been exhausted.”

Chad shredded some cheddar cheese into the eggs.

“
Exhausted
is an understatement,” he said. “When the call from the Fishers came in, I was just minutes away from going off duty for the day.” He grinned suddenly. “You might be a cop if your idea of a good time is a murder at shift change.”

I stuck my tongue out at him, then laughed. Now he was two up on me.

“Yesterday, even before the little girl went missing, the day’d already gone to hell. First thing in the morning, I dealt with a shitload of vandalism complaints.”

As he spoke, Chad threw a handful of finely chopped chives into the bowl. They grew wild in the sunny field that lay between the back of the house and the forest, and Chad was fond enough of their mild, oniony flavor to pick them fresh.

“Some kids in a pickup truck apparently took out most of the mailboxes along Route 3 near Iron Furnace. Probably with a baseball bat. I also got to spend some quality time at
the county courthouse, testifying against a shade-tree mechanic who likes fixin’ folks’ cars with stolen parts. His way of keeping the prices down for his customers, he said.”

Chad paused as he dumped the eggs into a pan, then began pushing them around with a wooden spatula as he continued speaking.

“After that, I made some traffic stops, arrested a guy for shoplifting cigarettes at Huck’s and helped out a couple of women who’d locked their keys in their car. So, business as usual. Until the Fishers called. And after that…” His shrug covered territory that didn’t need recapping. “Anyhow, when I finally left the scene and headed toward Maryville, I still figured I could make it back to my apartment, no problem. But I started drifting, closing my eyes just for a second or two, jerking awake, braking for deer that weren’t there…. You know the drill.”

I knew it only too well.

“You might be a cop if,” I said, “your favorite hallucinogen is exhaustion.”

“Good one. I’d say the caffeine is kicking in.”

“Speaking of, do you need a warm-up?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

In the midst of cooking, he’d parked his mug in an odd but momentarily convenient spot and forgotten about it. It was a habit that I’d always found entertaining. Now I suppressed my smile as he glanced away from the frying pan, his eyes darting around the room in a futile attempt to locate a mug that I’d spotted the moment I’d come into the kitchen.

I didn’t want to risk his burning the eggs, so I waited only another moment before laughing.

“Top of the fridge,” I said. “I’ll get it for you.”

I crossed the room, rescued his mug and poured us both a
refill, then sat back down at the table and reminded him where we’d left our conversation.

“So you realized that, as tired as you were, the next accident scene you were going to visit was likely to be your own.”

“That’s about it,” Chad said as flipped off the gas flame beneath the skillet. “Your place was just down the road. I was going to call, but I realized what time it was and figured you’d be sound asleep. So I let myself in.”

He was in the process of splitting the eggs between two plates and paused, pan held midair, to turn his head and search my expression.

“I hope you don’t mind—”

I lifted my hand to stop the flow of his words. Now—away from my bed, stoked by caffeine, with the pale beginnings of dawn peeking through the yellow café curtains over the sink—I didn’t mind at all. In the morning light, a platonic relationship between ex-lovers seemed entirely possible.

“If I ever have a problem with it, I’ll let you know. Deal?”

“Deal.”

We’d had breakfast together often enough that the only question Chad needed to ask before filling our plates was how many pieces of French toast I wanted. Everything smelled wonderful and, though I hadn’t awakened with much of an appetite, my mouth was watering by the time he brought the food to the table. After a quick detour back to the counter for syrup and more coffee, he settled into the chair opposite me. For a time, we ate in companionable silence.

“So, did the state’s crime-scene techs tell you anything interesting about our victim?” I said finally. Then I grinned, suddenly realizing that I could tie the game. “You might be a cop if discussing skeletal remains over breakfast seems perfectly normal to you.”

Chad muttered, “Tie,” then shook his head. “They never showed up. One of them radioed and—after sounding surprised that we’d been competent enough to secure the scene—announced that they’d been rerouted to a murder-homicide in Effingham. They finished processing
that
scene, but decided to check in to a motel and get some sleep. They promised they’d be out our way sometime this morning.”

I sighed.

“I suppose old dry bones aren’t a priority compared to a couple of nice, juicy bodies.”

Chad agreed.

“The surprise, really, is that they are responding so quickly. A few more murders up north, and it could have been days.”

“Maybe it’s a blessing,” I said. “I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t looking forward to another long trek from the Fishers’ place. You want to take an early-morning hike with me? It shouldn’t take us long to find our way from Camp Cadiz to the scene. It’s relatively cool now, but the heat index is supposed to climb into the triple digits again. By noon, I’m sure we’ll all appreciate a more direct route.”

“I’ll take care of it, Brooke,” he said. “Alone. Okay?”

Odd, I thought. Not that Chad wasn’t capable of making his way safely to the scene now that it was daylight. But he’d always been an enthusiastic advocate of hiking with a partner, especially if you planned on straying from marked trails. Too easy to get hurt. Or simply disoriented. It was the kind of precaution that Chad and I often wished aloud that all backpackers would take. If they did, Possum and I would spend considerably less time hunting through the forest.

My expression must have reflected my thoughts.

Chad offered an explanation. A poor one.

“No point in both of us wasting our time,” he said a little
too quickly. “You’ve got work to do. So do I. But I have backup, and you’re the only cop that Maryville has. It just makes sense. I can mark the trail myself, then run my usual patrol. Dispatch can contact us both when the state guys arrive. We can meet them at the scene.”

Though I was still puzzled, I was willing to accommodate him.

“Okay. As long as—”

He cut in, reading my expression again and half laughing.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

For a time, we went back to our food and relative silence. I was down to a strip of bacon and a bit of French toast when I noticed that Chad had abandoned the last of his eggs and was staring into his coffee cup, apparently fascinated by whatever was in the bottom. And he was busily and unconsciously rasping his fingers along his jaw. Another habit, one that made the long scar that paralleled his jawbone stand out vividly white against irritated, reddened skin.

He rubbed his face like that whenever he was upset. Which wasn’t often. Chad was no stereotypical redhead given to outbursts of emotion or temper. In fact, he usually held his feelings close and guarded them carefully. But early on, I’d learned to pick up on the clues.

Back when we were still kids, he’d walk up the hill to the Cherokee Rose and sit on the porch steps beside me, rubbing his cheek and making small talk. Or not talking at all. Eventually he’d tell me what was on his mind, worrying aloud about missing an easy pass during a football game or getting a bad grade in math or breaking up with whichever girl he’d fallen in love with that month.

I used the side of my fork to cut off a corner of my remaining piece of toast and slipped it across the plate to pick up a
little more syrup. Then I put it in my mouth, chewed carefully and waited for him to spit out whatever it was he had to say.

After a while, Chad’s fingers slowed. But they didn’t relax as I expected them to. Instead, his right hand shifted until his palm cupped the angle of his jaw and his fingertips dug into the ridge just beneath his right eye. That gesture, I hadn’t seen for years. But it was something he used to do all the time, back when people around town were still talking about how he’d come to get that scar, back when most of him had been trying to forget how it had happened.

What’s dragging you back to the worst moments of your childhood? I wondered. But, even as I asked myself the question, I began to suspect that yesterday’s discovery had resurrected a piece of Chad’s past, too. And I thought that I had, in fact, been right about the reason for Chad’s late-night knock at my bedroom door. Not lust, but an urgent need to talk.

I had finished the last bit of food on my plate before he stopped punishing his face. He gave his head a quick shake, then lifted his mug right-handed and tossed back the last of his coffee as if it were a shot of whiskey. Finally, he met my eyes, and his, I noticed, were intensely green. Then he began talking right in the middle of his thought, as if I knew him well enough that I would understand without being told what had brought him to that point. Within a sentence or two, I usually did. This time was no exception.