Where There's Smoke (16 page)

"You went to her?"
 
she exclaimed.
 
"Have you lost your freaking mind?

I thought you'd have the good sense to go to the hospital, where you'd be known, but at least it's out of town."

"I was looking for Doc Patton.
 
Nobody told me that he'd retired."

"Or that your brother set up his ex-mistress in business here?"

"No.
 
Nobody told me that either."

He tried to keep his voice free of telltale inflection, but Darcy wouldn't have noticed anyway.
 
He could tell the wheels of her scheming brain were in full gear.

"She could report the gunshot wound to the sheriff," she said worriedly.

"She could, but I doubt she will."
 
He glanced toward the exit.

"She's got enough to worry about.
 
Besides, she couldn't prove anything.
 
No bullet.
 
It tore off a chunk of flesh on its way through."

He leaned down and spoke softly so they wouldn't be overheard by those loitering about.
 
"I ought to skin you alive for shooting at me.

You could have killed me, you dumb bitch."

"Don't talk to me like that," she hissed, which was hard to do while keeping her deceptively friendly smile in place.
 
"If I hadn't acted quickly, Fergus would have caught us mother-nekkid and screwing like rabbits.
 
He could have killed us, and no jury in this state would have convicted him."

"Sugarplum?"

She spun around at the sound of her husband's voice.
 
Key hitched his chin at him.
 
"Hey, Fergus.
 
It's been a long "How're you doin', Key?"

"Can't" Years ago there had been a rift between Fergus and Jody.
 
It had something to do with the Tackett oil lease adjacent to Fergus's motel property.
 
The details were murky, and Key had never wanted to know them badly enough to ferret them out.
 
He figured that Jody, in her lust for oil and the power and money that went with it, had somehow cheated Fergus.

Their dispute was none of his business, except that Fergus had always looked at him like he was lower than buzzard shit, but that might have had more to do with how he had conducted himself during his youth.

More than once he and Possum and their crowd had nursed their hangovers in the coffeeshop of Fergus's motel.
 
He vaguely remembered puking up pints of sour mash in the rosebushes in front of The Green Pine after a particularly wild bacchanal.

Anyway, Fergus Winston didn't like him, but Key had never lost sleep over it.

"I'm not real excited about this committee job your wife just roped me into.
 
By the way," he said to Darcy, "I'm resigning.
 
Effective immediately."

"You can't resign.
 
You haven't even started."

"All the more reason.
 
I didn't ask to be part of any Crime Watch committee.
 
I don't want to be.
 
Find yourself another co-chairman."

She flashed him her most dazzling smile.
 
"Obviously he wants to be begged, Fergus.
 
Why don't you bring the car around to the front door?

I'll meet you there.
 
In the meantime, I'll do my best to change Key's ornery mind."

Key watched Fergus amble into the wings of the stage, calling good night to the custodian who was patiently waiting for everybody to leave so he could secure the building.

Darcy waited until her husband was out of earshot before turning back to Key.
 
Keeping her voice low, she said, "Can't you see an opportunity when it all but bites you in the ass?"

"What do you mean, sugarplum?"
 
he asked with mock innocence.

"1 mean," she stressed, "that if we're on the same committee, people won't think anything about our being seen together."
 
His stare remained opaque.
 
Exasperated, she spelled it out.
 
"We could get together anytime we wanted and wouldn't have to sneak around in order to do it' He waited about three beats before bursting into laughter.

"You think I'd sleep with you again?"
 
As suddenly as it had started, his laughter ceased, and his face became taut with anger.
 
"I'm royally pissed at you, Mrs. Winston.
 
You could have killed me with that damn handgun of yours.
 
As it is, I can barely climb into a cockpit with this bum ankle."

She gazed at him through eyes gone smoky.
 
"Small price to pay for the fun we had, wouldn't you say?"

"Not even close, sugarplum.
 
You act like that's the golden fleece," he said, glancing pointedly at her crotch, "but I've had better.
 
Lots better.
 
Anyway, if you think I'd touch it again after this stunt you've pulled, then you're as crazy as you are easy.

The smoke in her eyes cleared.
 
He saw fire.
 
"I wouldn't fuck you again, either!"

"Then from what I hear, I'm in a minority of one."

Darcy was livid.
 
"You're a son of a bitch and always have been, Key Tackett."

"You're right on the money there," he said with a terse nod.
 
"In the most literal sense of the words."

"Go to hell."

Since there were still people milling about and visiting in the aisles of the auditorium, there was nothing more she could do except conceal her wrath, turn on her heel, and flounce away.
 
She gave clipped replies to those who bade her good night as she stormed up the aisle.

Key followed at a more leisurely pace, feeling amused, pleased, and vaguely dissatisfied all at the same time.
 
Darcy deserved his digs, but he hadn't derived as much pleasure from insulting her as he had anticipated.

Like a dutiful servant, Fergus was waiting for her beside their El Dorado, holding the passenger door open.
 
As Darcy slid into the seat, Key overheard her say, "Hurry up and get me home, Fergus.

I've got a splitting headache."

Key felt sorry for Fergus, but not because he'd slept with his wife; hell, just about everybody in pants had at one time or another.

But even though his motel made money, he would never be an entrepreneur.
 
That required a certain attitude that was clearly lacking in his long, thin face, his bad posture, and in his conservative approach to business.
 
There were the Jody Tacketts of the world, and there were the Fergus Winstons.
 
The aggressors and the vanquished.

Some steamrollered their way through life while others either moved aside for them or got rolled over.
 
In life and in love, Fergus fell into the latter category.

Such passivity was beyond Key's understanding.
 
Why would Fergus ignore Darcy's unfaithfulness?
 
Why was he willing to be an object of scorn?

Why did he accept and forgive her infidelity?

Love?

Like hell, Key scoffed.
 
Love was a word that poets and songwriters used.
 
They vested the emotion with tremendous powers over the human heart and mind, but they were wrong.
 
It didn't transform lives like the saccharine lyrics claimed it could.
 
Key had never seen any evidence of its magic, unless it was black magic.

Love had caused his young heart to break when his father was killed, leaving him without an ally in a hostile environment.
 
Love had kept his sister emotionally and psychologically chained to their mother.

Love had cost Clark his promising career as a statesman.

Had love also compelled Randall Porter to stay with his whoring wife?

Not for me, Key averred as he crossed the parking lot, his stride as long as his injured ankle would allow.
 
Love, forgiveness, and turning the other cheek were concepts that belonged in Sunday school lessons.

They didn't apply in real life.
 
Not in his life, anyway.

If, during a mental lapse, he ever got married, and if he ever found his wife in the arms of another man, he'd kill them both.

Reaching his car, he jammed the key into the lock.

"Good evening, Mr.
 
Tackett."

He turned, stunned to find Lara Mallory standing beside him.
 
A breeze was gently tugging at her clothing and hair.
 
Her face was partially in shadow, the remainder bathed in moonlight.
 
Although she was the last person he wanted to see at the moment, she looked damned gorgeous and for a moment he felt as though he'd been poleaxed.

His reaction was irritated, as was evident in his voice.
 
"Did you follow me out here?"

"Actually I've been waiting for you."

"I'm touched.
 
How'd you know where to find me?"

"I've seen you driving around town in this car.
 
It's distinctive, to say the very least."

"It was my daddy's."

The Lincoln was a mile-long gas-guzzler almost two decades old, but Key had left instructions at Bo's Garage and Body Shop that it always was to be kept in showroom condition.
 
He drove it whenever he was home and by doing so felt connected to the father he had lost.

The car had mirrored Clark Junior's flamboyant personality.
 
Yellow inside and out, it sported gaudy gold accents on the grille and hubcaps.
 
Key affectionately referred to it as the "pimp-mobile."
 
Jody frowned on the car's nickname, possibly because she knew it to be fairly accurate.

"You're still limping," Lara said.
 
"You should be using your crutches."

"Screw that.
 
They're a pain in the ass."

"You could do your ankle irreparable damage."

"I'll take my chances."

"How's your side?
 
You didn't come back to the clinic."

"No shit."

"That drain should be removed."

"I pulled it out myself."

"Oh, I see.
 
A tough guy.
 
Well, at least you've shaved .
 
. . with a butter knife, I suppose."

He said nothing because he had the uncomfortable impression that she was mocking him.

"Are you changing the dressing regularly?
 
If not, it could still become infected.
 
Is the wound healing properly?"

"It's fine.
 
Look," he said, propping his elbow on the roof of the car, should I consider this a house call?
 
Are you going to bill me for a consultation?"

"Not this time."

"Gee, Doc, thanks.
 
Good night."

"Actually," she said, taking a step toward him, "I have something else to speak to you about and thought you would rather I do it here where we can't be overheard."

"Guess again.
 
Whatever you want to talk about, I'm in no mood to hear.

In fact, my mood tonight is what you might call fractious.

Do yourself a favor and make yourself scarce."

He was about to duck into the driver's seat when she surprised him further by grabbing his arm.
 
"You've got gall, Mr. Tackett.
 
I give you credit for that.
 
Or was it Mrs. Winston's idea to fake a break-in rather than get caught in adultery?"

Key was taken aback, but only momentarily.
 
She was gazing at him solemnly, so solemnly that he smiled.
 
"Well I'll be damned.