An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide (13 page)

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

59

And a very good musician. He had a way of playing that clarinet.” He shook his head. “There was a song they used to do, him and the girl. 'Every Time We Say Goodbye.' You know that song?”

“I know that song. Cole Porter.”

His smile was twisted. “It's a shame it ended up the way it did. I wish he
had
skipped town.”

That was it. He rose, asking if we wanted to see the puppies. I thought that was a very bad idea. Jake did the socially correct thing and said yes. We walked out behind the house, and there were several German shepherd puppies in a pen in the shade, rolling over and playing with each other.

“How old are they?”

“Seven weeks. Old enough. I've started giving them away.”

“They're pretty cute,” I admitted.

“I don't have the papers on them, but they're purebred. The sire is a black sable from down the road. Ex-bomb-detection dog. Son of a bitch got hold of Gerda one night.”

A fat, sleek puppy with a black and reddish coat finished beating up his sisters and waddled over to look up at me with shiny button eyes, pink tongue lolling like he was laughing.

“Yeah, you're a little reprobate.”

He jumped up and put his paws—big paws—on the chicken-wire fence.

“He likes you,” Argyle remarked.

“You say that to all the suckers.”

“Sure,” he agreed genially, adding, “You can pick him up.”

“That would be a very bad idea.”

Argyle laughed.

I said to Jake, catching a peculiar expression on his face, “We ought to get going.”

He nodded. We thanked Argyle again. As we walked away, the puppy barked a high-pitched, stuffed-toy bark after us.

“That was informative,” Jake commented with satisfaction as the ranch grew small in the distance of the rearview mirror.

“Yes.”

“I meant to ask if he had an address on Hale. I'll follow up with him this evening.”

I stared out at the sea swell of gold weeds rippling in the summer wind. It looked like wheat. What was it called? Tare? Darnel? Proverbs, was it? Some lesson about learning to tell the real thing from the false, separating the chaff.

“Tired?” he asked at last.

“I didn't realize you were thinking of moving.”

He said neutrally, “Nothing's decided, but I either have to buy out Kate's share of the house or sell, and at this point, selling is the more realistic option.”

“If you do sell…?”

He didn't answer right away, and I knew I was not going to like what he had to say. “I've got a job offer back East.”

60

Josh Lanyon

“Back East where? What kind of job?”

“Vermont. Sheriff.” He added deprecatingly, “It's a very small town.”

When I could speak, I said, “What happened to Sam Spade? I thought you were going into the PI business?”

“Business isn't exactly booming. It's a tough time to try to start a new business. I don't have the financial resources to float for long.”

“You only got your license. It's only been a couple of weeks.”

“I realize that.”

“You could…you could join someone else's agency.”

“Yes. That is one option.”

“But you're not considering it.” Why was I so angry? What was I giving Jake at this point?

What support had I offered him at what was probably the toughest time of his life? If he had a better offer, why the hell wouldn't he take it?

“I'm considering all the options.”

I went back to staring out the window. “So…”

He said with that rare gentleness, “Just ask, Adrien. Whatever it is on your mind, just go ahead and ask.”

What about us?
That's what I wanted to ask. But what kind of a question was that when I couldn't seem to make up my mind whether I wanted there to be an
us
or not? How fair was that?

But how fair was it to spring this on me? I resented like hell the feeling that I was being rushed into making a decision.

“My observation is, when a guy comes out, the next few months—years—even, are spent at the all-you-can-eat sexual smorgasbord.”

“Speaking from your own experience?” Jake inquired gravely.

“Excluding myself and Mel.”

I don't know exactly why I dragged Mel's name into it, because Mel had pretty much feasted at the table after we broke up, and I'd known plenty of other guys who
hadn't
gone hog wild, except I'd never known anyone as closeted as Jake who hadn't glutted himself on sexual freedom once he finally threw open the closet door.

Then again, I'd never known
anyone
as closeted as Jake.

“Good old Mel,” Jake drawled. “The guy who walked out for fear he might get saddled with a cardiac cripple.”

“Oh fuck you, Riordan. You've got a hell of a lot of nerve talking about someone walking away.”

Like that, I was furious. I'd used to be such an even-tempered guy, too.

Jake pulled over to the side of the road, tires bumping as he left the highway for the dirt turnoff to a small, deserted picnic site. Dust flew in a golden cloud over the Honda's pristine hood. The car jerked to a halt, and he turned off the engine. “Let's get out here. You should stretch your legs, and I'm not going to try to argue while I'm driving.”

He got out of the car and slammed the door, and after a fuming instant, I did too. He was already striding down over to a picnic table, and I followed, heart slamming, preparing for An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

61

anything from a shouting match to maybe a knock-down, drag-out brawl—stranger things had happened between us.

Halfway down the path he stopped to wait for me, and as I reached him, he moved into step beside me, his hand brushing my elbow in a half-courtly gesture. Against my will, I was disarmed, because I was braced for his full rage—something equal to the rage I'd been holding in for…way too long.

As we walked, shoulders and arms occasionally brushing on the narrow path, I found my anger was dwindling. More than anything, I felt saddened. I suspected he had already made his choice—as had I, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

We walked down the trail till it gave way to hills and rocks and scrub oaks, and then we walked back and stopped at the picnic tables beneath a rough wood covering. I propped a hip on a tabletop, and Jake leaned against the brick barbecue, facing me.

“So assuming there was a question in there somewhere, what are you asking? Can I be faithful to you?”

“That's part of it.”

He seemed to weigh his words. “Here's the part you seem to forget. I haven't had many what you'd call
relationships
with guys. But I've had a lot of sex. I've had sex with women and men, all the sex anyone could ask for. And since you seem to want to know this, the sex with men was the kind of thing you would consider kinky. The sex with women was, for the most part, as…wholesome as June and Ward Cleaver.”

“I don't want to know.” I couldn't help adding, “Didn't the Cleavers have twin beds?”

“The point is, I don't need to reserve a seat at In-N-Out or wherever you imagine sexual smorgasbord is served. I've had it. I've been there and done everyone. Okay?”

The words burst out of me; I didn't even feel them coming. “I can't
take
it,” I cried. “I can't go through it again.”

An owl, nesting in the corner of the patio roof, startled and took wing. We both ducked as it swooped down under the edge of the roof and flew away. I was reminded of the owl Jake had hit when we were driving back to Pine Shadow Ranch three springtimes ago. Bad omens, owls.

Jake said quietly, “Now we're getting down to it.”

“I'm not blaming you for anything,” I said, and there was no holding it back now.

“Nothing. Not the…not wanting to acknowledge we were friends or that you even
knew
me, not walking out on me when you decided you wanted to marry, not…any of it. Not really. But…” I hardened my voice. “I can't go through it again. You changing your mind. Because I think you will, Jake. You've spent your entire life wanting to be Ward Cleaver, and I can't see you giving that up this easily.”

“
Easily
?”

There was disbelief and anger both in that. I forced myself on, forced myself to say the simple truth. “You know what I mean. Maybe it is gutless. I don't want to be hurt again. I don't think I could survive it this time.” My voice cracked, and I turned away and leaned on the table, glaring out at the tall pine trees.

Into that naked and humiliating pause, he said mildly, “I think you're tougher than you give yourself credit for.”

“You're not helping your case.”

62

Josh Lanyon

A pause. “I can't promise that I'll never hurt you again. I never deliberately hurt you. I wouldn't deliberately hurt you. But…”

“Yes,” I clipped out, “I know. Hurt happens.”

I heard that long, weary exhalation. “It does. That's life. It's the good and the bad, the ugly and the beautiful, the wins and the losses. I never thought you'd be too afraid to try. I thought you were stronger than that.”

I hoped to hell they'd never used him in trying to talk potential suicides down from ledges.

I turned back to face him. “I'm strong enough to face facts. I'm not afraid to say good-bye to a dream that I wanted too much for too long. I'm tough enough to say no. Even to you. Even to this, whatever the hell it was going to be, and as much as I love you. And I do. Love you. More than…” I shook my head.

He was motionless for what seemed like a long time. He said, “I see.”

That was it.
I see.

I see, said the blind man
. Who was the real blind man here? Obviously not worth fighting for, was it? Not worth—

“Can we go back to the car?” I grated.

He seemed to come to, like someone in a dream. He nodded. I walked ahead of him on the path, and as tired as I was, I kept a brisk pace all the way back to the car. We climbed inside. He turned on the engine.

The CD player filled the blank silence between us.

Marc Cohn. “Strangers in a Car.”

I put my seat back, staring out the window at the blue cloudless sky rushing by, an empty blue highway.

What was that line from
The Long Goodbye?
Chandler had it right. “There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself.”

An Adrien English Mystery: The Dark Tide

63

Chapter Seven

Baby?
A delicate brush of lips worked itself into my dreams.
Adrien?

“Adrien?” a voice asked outside the dream.

I started. Opened my eyes. I was reclining in a car in broad daylight on the busy street in front of Cloak and Dagger Books. Pedestrians strolled by, talking and laughing. Jake sat back behind the steering wheel, watching me.

“See? Home again, safe and sound.”

I uncricked my neck, arched my back. “Mmmhmm, thanks.” I levered the seat up and scrubbed my face, trying to wake up. I'd been really zonked. The dream had been a nice one. Too bad about reality.

“Good news. You're open for business again.”

I looked over and saw that he was right. Customers were walking in and out of the bookstore, those exiting carrying the familiar green and white bags that always made my spirits lift. The construction side still looked closed, but I'd take what I could get.

I risked another look at Jake's unrevealing features. “Thanks for letting me come along today.”

“Sure.”

Earlier in the afternoon I'd thought we might stop and get something to eat on the way back—or get takeout once we got home. But the day trip was over. A lot of things were over.

I said, “Well—”

He said at the same time, “Do you—”

We both stopped, and I said, “You first.”

“Do you want me to keep looking for Henry Harrison? Or do you know all you need to?”

Was there a double meaning to that? I said, “Yes, I want you to keep looking. We still don't know what my burglar is looking for, and we don't know what happened to Jay Stevens.”

“You didn't hire me to find out what happened to Stevens.”

“It's all part of the same puzzle.”

“Not necessarily.”

“So the case is more complex than you expected. You need the money, right?”

His eyes met mine. He said evenly, “Yeah, I need the money.”

“Then what do you care? I'd like to know what happened. The whole story.”

“You're the boss.”

I didn't care for the cool edge to his tone, but I was fairly pissed myself—about a number of things.

64

Josh Lanyon

“Great. Thank you.”

He nodded in cursory and clear farewell.

I climbed out of the car and walked across the sidewalk. As I opened the door to the bookstore, I saw the reflection of the Honda pulling away from the curb and merging into the flow of end-of-workday traffic. One more fish in the sea.

I nearly collided with two customers pushing through the glass door. The woman nearest said, “Yes, very nice selection, but they need to hire enough staff. That wait was
ridiculous
.”

“I'm thinking of writing a letter!”

Fabulous. Fan mail.

“Well, it's about time.” Natalie exclaimed as I appeared in front of the tall wooden desk that had once served as the hotel's check-in counter. “Do you realize it's nearly five o'clock? I was afraid something had happened to you.”

“Nothing worse than a stiff neck.” I rubbed the back of the neck in question. “I told you we were driving up to Ojai.” I noticed Warren ensconced in his usual place in one of the leather club chairs near the counter. Ideally situated to distract Natalie and inconvenience customers.

“Warren,” I said politely.

He stood up: tall, thin, sandy hair, and scraggy goatee. “Mr. English.”

Warren usually didn't bother addressing me at all, let alone wasting breath on courtesy titles. And his rising to his feet was cause for concern. I spared a closer look than usual. He was not wearing a suit; however, the khaki Dockers and tweed jacket—in July—were probably the closest things he had to it.