Where There's Smoke (39 page)

The younger man nodded.
 
"Thanks, Key.
 
You're the best."
 
Key kissed the tip of his finger and pressed it to Helen's temple, then left the room.

He found Lara in the living room, seated on the sofa, hugging her elbows.
 
She looked at him with cold reproach.
 
"You could have told me.

"And spoiled your fun?
 
Think of the hours of pleasure you've had despising me."

"I'm sorry.

Suddenly he was very tired and didn't feel like dragging this out.

Every time they were together, they were at each other's throats.

The emotional events of tonight had left him feeling drained; the fight had gone out of him.
 
"Forget it."

She stood and reached for her bag.
 
He handed it over to her.
 
It weighed down her arm like an anchor.
 
"You okay?"
 
he asked.
 
"You don't look so hot."
 
She too appeared tired, bone-weary, and dispirited.
 
"You're pale."

"No wonder.
 
You woke me out of a deep sleep, and I didn't take time to use my blusher."
 
She moved to the front door.
 
"Can I get out of here without being mauled by coon dogs?"

Key secured the front door and they left the house together.
 
The dogs were roused, but Key gruffly ordered them to stay where they were.

Once Lara was in the driver's seat of her car, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Just tired."
 
She raised her head and reached for the door.
 
He moved aside and let her close it, then watched as she drove away.

He kept her in sight as he climbed into the pimp-mobile.
 
She drove slowly, as if it were a newly acquired skill.

At the crossroads, he debated over whether to return to The Palm.

It was late.
 
Only the drunkest of the drunks would still be there.
 
He didn't feel like carousing.
 
But he wasn't ready to go home, where he always felt claustrophobic.

In the opposite direction, the taillights of Lara's car disappeared behind a rise in the road.
 
"What the hell," he muttered as he turned the Lincoln around.

In spite of her protests, she hadn't looked too chipper.
 
He was responsible for getting her out at this time of night.
 
The least he could do was follow her to see that she got home safely.

Lara didn't notice his headlights in her rearview mirror, so it came as an unpleasant surprise when the Lincoln pulled into her driveway as she was unlocking the clinic's back door.

"I'm closed!"
 
she called.
 
Undeterred, Key joined her on the back steps.
 
"What do you want now?
 
Why can't you leave me in peace?"

Her voice was beginning to fray.
 
If she noticed the weakness, he was certain to hear it too.
 
The tears she had managed to hold back during the drive home filled her eyes, making his image watery.

Turning her back to him, she inserted the key into the lock.
 
At least she attempted to, but her vision was blurry and her hands were unsteady.

Key reached around her.
 
"Let me."

"Go away!"

He took the key from her, pushed it easily into the lock, and opened the door.
 
The alarm began its delay buzzing.
 
He went in ahead of her and moved to the panel.

"What's the code?"

She wanted to tell him to go to hell, wanted to forcibly remove him, but didn't have the strength for either.
 
"Four-o-four-five."
 
He punched in the code and the buzzing ceased.
 
"It won't do you any good to know the code," she told him peevishly.
 
"I'll change it tomorrow.

"Where's your coffeepot?"

"In the kitchen.
 
Why?"

"Because you look like shit, like you could keel over any second now.

A cup of strong black coffee would probably be good for whatever 5 ailing you."

"You're what's ailing me.
 
Leave me alone, and I'll be fine.
 
Can't you do that?
 
Please?
 
It's so simple!
 
Just go!"

She didn't want to fall apart in front of him, but the choice was no longer left to her.
 
Her voice cracked on the last two words.
 
She raised her hand to indicate the back door, but it moved to her mouth instead and covered a sob as her knees buckled.
 
She sank into the nearest chair.
 
Tears overflowed her eyes.
 
Her shoulders began to shake.
 
Despite her best intentions, she couldn't contain the racking sobs.

Propping her arm on the back of the chair, she laid her head on the crook of her elbow and surrendered to the emotional outburst.

Pride deserted her.
 
Grief, bitterness, and pain had clawed their way to the surface and, having been tamped down for so long, would not be restrained.

To his credit, Key didn't interfere by asking questions or offering banalities.
 
The light remained off; the concealment of darkness lent some comfort.
 
She cried until her head ached.
 
Then, for several minutes, she kept her face buried in her sleeve and suffered the aftershocks of the violent catharsis.
 
The tremors came in waves, significant but not sufficient to produce another tidal wave of emotion.

Eventually she raised her head, expecting to see him standing there gloating.
 
She was alone but noticed that a dim light from the kitchen spilled out into the hallway.
 
Weakly coming to her feet, she smoothed back her hair and went to the kitchen.

He was leaning back against the range.
 
Only the night light above the cook surface had been turned on.
 
It cast dark shadows onto his face as he sipped from a steaming cup of coffee.
 
He'd found her bottle of brandy.
 
It was standing open on the counter.
 
She could smell its pungent bouquet, enticingly mingled with fresh coffee.

As soon as he noticed her, he nodded toward the coffeemaker.

"Want me to pour?"

"No, thanks.
 
I can."
 
Her voice sounded rusty from so many tears.

It disturbed her that he was on her turf, making himself at home in her kitchen in the hours just before dawn.
 
Key Tackett, her selfproclaimed adversary, had been rummaging through her pantry, handling her things, and was now offering to pour her coffee in her own kitchen.

"Feel better?"

She listened for sarcasm behind his seemingly innocent question but heard none.
 
Nodding, she carried her cup to the kitchen table and sat down.
 
She took a sip.
 
The coffee was scalding and potent, the way a man would brew it.
 
"You can go now.
 
You don't have to stay.
 
I'm not self-destructive."

Ignoring what she'd said, he pushed himself away from the stove and, bringing the bottle of brandy with him, sat down across from her.
 
He added a dollop of the liquor to her cup.

His eyes were steady and disconcertingly watchful.
 
His fingertips moved up and down the glassy surface of the coffee mug cupped between his strong, tanned hands.
 
She feared that if she watched them too long, they would have a hypnotic effect on her.

"What was that all about?"

Self-consciously, she hooked her hair behind her ear, "That's really none of your business, is it?"

His head dropped forward, and he cursed as he exhaled.

His hair grew in a swirling pattern around the crown of his head.

Even in the dim light she could see the cowlicks.
 
The most gifted barber would be challenged by them.
 
Perhaps that's why he wore his hair long and loose and in no particular style.

When he raised his head, his eyes were angry.
 
"You refuse to let me be a nice guy, don't you?"

"You're not a nice guy."

"Maybe I'm trying to change."
 
She gave him a retiring look, which only heightened his anger.
 
"Bury the hatchet for once, okay?

And bury it someplace besides my skull.
 
Can't you forget my last name?

Even temporarily?
 
I'll try to forget yours.
 
Deal?"
 
He held her stare until she lowered her gaze.

Taking that as concession, he said, "Thanks for what you did tonight.

I was out of my element and knew it the minute I saw the condition Helen was in, physically and emotionally.
 
It was a scene out of hell, and you handled it like a real pro.
 
You.
 
. . were terrific."

Again Lara listened for sarcasm, but there was none.
 
Those words, she knew, were difficult for him to say.
 
It would be churlish of her not to accept the compliment.
 
"Thank you."
 
Then, with a selfdeprecating laugh, she added, "Actually I'm great during emergencies.
 
I never crack under pressure.
 
Only afterward.
 
Then I collapse."

It seemed a long time before he spoke again.
 
When he did, it was in a hushed voice that invited confidence.
 
"What was the crying hinge about, Lara?"

She felt herself respond not only to his tone but to his speaking her name.
 
Still she hesitated, unwilling to bare her soul to him.

Although what did it matter now?
 
He'd already witnessed her loss of self-control.

Her throat ached from so much crying.
 
She cleared it before speaking.

"My daughter.
 
It was about my daughter."

"I guessed as much.
 
Go on."

She threw back her head, then rolled it around her shoulders.

"Sometimes when a case involves a child, it conjures up the nightmare.

Ashley dies all over again."
 
She sniffed and blotted her nose with a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table.

"There've been two in the last few days.
 
First Letty Leonard.
 
Now Helen's fetus.
 
Knowing that a small, helpless, innocent life was needlessly lost .
 
. ."
 
She shrugged eloquently.
 
"It still affects me.

Deeply."
 
She sipped from her coffee mug, which felt very heavy in her trembling hand.
 
The brandy had been a good idea.
 
It warmed and soothed all the way down.

"Tell me about her."

"Who, Ashley?"

"Pretty name.

"She was pretty."
 
She laughed softly, with embarrassment.
 
"Every mother thinks that about her child, I know, but Ashley was pretty.

From the day she was born.
 
Blond and blue-eyed, cherubic-looking.

She had a perfectly round face and rosy cheeks.
 
Truly a beautiful child.
 
And she was a good baby.
 
Content.
 
She didn't cry much, even during the early months.
 
She had an unusually happy disposition.
 
Her smile was like sunshine.
 
Even strangers commented on it.