Atonement (3 page)

With a nod, he moved to the dry goods cabinet and retrieved a box of crackers. Hunger consumed him most of the day, but his obligations overrode the need for food. With his obligations completed, he could feed his body.

Later he would feed his soul.

• • •

The nightmare always came after a particularly bad day. The dream hadn't come to her in a while, but this time around it seemed worse than before.

It started the same, the figures of men moving farther away from Nic, through a curtain of sand. The more she yelled, the more grit filled her mouth, choking her words. Suddenly the rattle of gunfire exploded. Nic screamed, begging them to listen to her. They finally turned, but their bodies became wisps of smoke. Dazed and unable to move, she watched as the men drifted away.

But this time, the dream took a bloodier turn. This time, the men reappeared in a tunnel burrowed in rock. They stood before her, eyes glazed and faces bloodied. One by one they grabbed their hair with one hand, then a sword appeared in the other and each one whacked his head off. Their lifeless faces gaped at her.

Nic bolted upright, screaming and kicking at the sheets tangled around her ankles. Breathing like an untrained marathon runner, her eyes jerked from one darkened corner of the room to the other. Home. Her home. Not the dank, far away hellhole in some godforsaken, Middle East country.

Her stomach lurched. Scrambling from the bed, she stumbled into the bathroom and barely reached the toilet before her gut made its final heave. She vomited repeatedly until all that remained were the dry heaves.

Flushing the toilet, Nic leaned against the cool porcelain bowl and sobbed.

Con jarred awake at the shrill song coming from his cell. Cursing the holy saints, he flung the blankets aside, which caused a low growl from his bed companion. “I'm not the one calling me at ... ” Con snatched the phone from his bedside table and squinted at the time on his alarm clock—three in the morning. “Sweet mother.”

The German Shepherd humphed and buried his nose under the blankets. Con turned his back to the dog as the phone rang in his hand. He peered at the number.

Rivers? Shock coursed through him. She still had his number. As a precautionary measure and a neighborly gesture, he'd given it to her a couple of years ago to contact him if she needed assistance at home after a bad summer storm had torn through the area. He'd also hoped she'd eventually break down and give him a shot at getting to know her, but the lass was fiercely stubborn in that department. After she'd stood him up, Con thought for sure she'd trashed his contact info. This was a surprise.

Tapping the green phone icon on the screen, Con placed the cell to his ear; unsure what to call her, he played it safe. “Deputy Rivers, do you realize it's three blessed a.m.?”

An unladylike snort vibrated over the connection. “I ain't on duty. It's Nic.”

Okay, time for a different approach. He flopped onto the pillows. “What can I help you with, Nic?”

She choked out a laugh. “Con, do you … know how it feels … to kill som'body?” The slosh of liquid interrupted her. She smacked her lips. “Feels like shit.”

Not good. Con slid off the bed and pounded the wall for the light switch. “How much have you had to drink?”

She mumbled something then coughed.

His fingers brushed the switch, and he flipped it. Light burned his eyes, and he peered through slits to search for his clothes. “Listen to me, Nic. I'm on my way over. Don't you hang up on me.”

Cadno lifted his head, and his black and brown eyes followed Con around the bedroom.

Nic burst into laughter. The bitter edge echoed in Con's head. She better not have her sidearm out when he got there. With his phone braced between his shoulder and ear, he grabbed his jeans off the floor and rammed his legs into them, tugged on a T-shirt, and slipped his bare feet into his shoes.

“Hey, Con.” Nic giggled. “Got a good … one fer ya.”

Palming the keys to his truck, he snapped to Cadno and gave him the forward hand command. “What's that?”

The former military working dog jumped off the bed and darted for the door ahead of Con.

“Didja know …” She hiccupped. “I got this damn job … 'cause I could shoot?”

Cadno slipped through the crack before Con could fully open the door, ran over to the truck, and sat, waiting. Con let the door slap shut behind him and hurried to the Ford.

“Yeah, Nic. I know you did.”

Once Cadno hopped inside the cab and settled in his seat, Con followed suit. Ignoring his seat belt, he turned over the Ford's engine. “Ya know that ain't the single reason the sheriff hired you.” Con peeled out of the gravel drive. His place was a few miles from hers. Resisting the urge to smack the steering wheel, he navigated the lane.
Keep her talking.
Maybe—let it be so—she didn't have her sidearm out. “You're a good cop.”

She snorted, and it sounded like she tipped the bottle again. Clearing her throat, she breathed into the phone. “I was a good l'il marine, too.”

The lane ended at a T, and he squealed onto the paved road. “What happened today was bad—”

“Shit, Con, I killed someone. Blew his brains all over a wall!” Her labored breathing made his heart race. “Bad … bad is … getting shot. Now tha's bad.”

Con took a curve like Jimmie Johnson at Bristol. “What choice did you have? He was going to kill his kids.”

“He killed his wife.” The slosh of liquor came over the line again. “I shoulda stopped him before.”

Damn it! How much liquor could the woman handle? He turned on the road leading to Nic's house. The truck's headlights slashed over the sign warning of the narrow bridge crossing ahead. “Why are you beating yourself up? You did the right thing.”

She swore again and gulped.

Rumbling over the bridge, Con steered the truck up to the house. A lone light shone on the first floor.

“Open up, Rivers. I'm here.” The truck cruised into the drive, and he parked behind her Jeep. He bailed from the cab with Cadno hot on his heels as they marched up the walk.

Nic didn't answer the door when he knocked. He tried the handle—it was unlocked. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, ending the call. Cadno weaved around his legs, darting into the house. Con shoved his phone in his jeans pocket and closed the door.

“Nic?”

The lone light came from above the sink in the kitchen. Cadno's nails clicked on the wood floors as he headed down the hall. Con checked the living area—empty—then, bypassing the bathroom, followed his dog to elbow his way into her bedroom. Settling on his haunches, Cadno riveted his gaze on the woman in a black T-shirt and black shorts with the Marine Corps logo on the left leg.

Nic sat on the corner of her messy bed, cradling a half-empty bottle of whiskey and her cell phone, staring at her Glock on the floor between her bare feet. She lifted her head and peered at Con between the straggly black curtain of hair.

He eased into the room, gave Cadno the command for down, then moved around Nic to crouch in front of her as he cautiously slid the Glock between his feet. “This isn't what we discussed about decompressing after today.”

The shadows covered any facial reaction she had to his comment. Con being witness to her drinking, with her weapon out, after she'd killed someone on duty—especially if he was the investigator in this whole ordeal—had bad written all over it. This kind of reaction would warrant him suggesting a psych evaluation before she could return to duty. But her comment on the phone about being a good marine and the bitterness that laced her words spoke of something deeper, older at play here.

Nic brought the bottle to her lips, and Con caught her arm. She tried to resist him, but the liquor's effects had taken a toll on her strength, and gradually he brought her arm back down.

“Why are you here?” she hissed.

“You called me.” His fingers slid down the length of her arm until they curled around the bottle's neck. “Don't you remember?”

Nic relinquished the bottle and dropped her face into her hands. “Why'd he make me do it? Why didn't he just back down? I could have saved them. All of them. Damn him! Damn him to hell!” She pounded her fists against the side of her head.

Confused by Nic's drunken ramblings, Con grabbed her wrists and restrained her before she could actually hurt herself. With a whimper so unlike her, she sagged, her head flopping onto his shoulder.

Cadno whined. The dog wanted to help but wouldn't break command.

Con pushed against Nic's shoulders until she sat upright. “Nic, look at me.” Despite the dark, he saw her open her eyes, blink, and try to focus on him. “It's not your fault,” he said firmly. “I don't know why he made you do it, but you can't blame yourself for what happened.”

Shrugging free of his hold, she staggered to her feet and wobbled to the door. “Why'd ya come?”

He stood to his full height, tucking Nic's gun in his waistline behind his back, and grabbed the whiskey bottle. “To make sure you're okay.”

“I'm fine.”

Placing the bottle on the dresser next to the door, Con inched closer. His muscles were taut and loaded, ready for anything she might throw at him. “No, you're not.”

She flung her arm around, grazing his face with a fingernail. “Go away. I don't want you here.”

Backing up a step, he caught her flailing arm. Nic stiffened and tried to jerk free of his grasp, but only succeeded in losing her balance and stumbling against him. Con hooked his arms under hers and hoisted her body upright.

“All right, I think that's enough.” He maneuvered her toward the bed. “Some sleep will help you burn off the liquor. You'll feel like your old self again in the morning.”

Nic's hands crawled up his chest and snaked around his neck. She hung there, staring at him drunkenly. “You still want me … dontcha?” The tip of her nose brushed against his bristled chin.

Ah, bloody hell. Con untangled himself from her, but she pressed her body against him and swayed seductively.

“Come on, Con-boy. You know you wanna.”

Extracting her tentacle-like limbs, Con danced her around until her back was to the bed. “Actually, Nic, I'd prefer it if you were sober and knew what the hell you were doing.”

She frowned, and her arms dropped to her sides. Con gave her a little shove and, with her defenses down, she toppled onto the bed. She lay there, her bare legs dangling over the edge, and moaned.

“Go to sleep.” Con swung her limbs onto the bed and dragged the blankets over her.

She burrowed into the pillows, muttering for him to go eff himself.

Smoothing back her hair, he caressed her cheek. The silken feel of her skin against his roughened fingers … she was still all woman. For three years, they'd lived a few miles apart, occasionally bumped into each other in town, and worked for different law enforcement agencies, and other than the first time he'd seen her, Con hadn't grasped her vulnerability. If she realized he was fawning over her right now, she'd probably slug him.

Snatching his hand away, Con straightened. “I'll camp out on your couch.”

Nic mumbled something then snored. Oh, she would turn a bright shade of red if she knew he heard that. Grabbing the bottle off the dresser, Con beckoned Cadno to follow, and they slipped out of the bedroom. The door closed with a soft click. Con paused outside the room to finger-comb his tousled hair to release the pent-up tension. That was too close. Too close to finding Nic dead by her own hand. Liquor and firearms never mixed. Her strange ramblings confused him. It was like she hadn't been talking about the Walker incident but something else.

Cadno gave a soft grunt. With a flick of his wrist, Con shooed the German Shepherd down the hall then followed his dog.

Back in the kitchen, Con poured the rest of the whiskey down the drain and placed the bottle in a recycling bin. Before lying down on the couch, he slid Nic's sidearm underneath the couch, then flopped onto his back. Cadno settled on the floor next to the sofa and nudged Con's hand. Absentmindedly, he stroked his dog's head as he stared at the ceiling, listening. Nothing came from Nic's room.

Easing his cell phone out of his Levi's pocket, Con scrolled through the list of numbers until he found the one. His thumb hovered over the call button. Should he do it? If Nic knew what he was about to bring down on her, she'd probably kick his arse, and then stick him in a hole and bury him alive for good measure. Saints alive, she was in a bad way. This classified as an emergency. What did he have to lose?

He tapped the button and pressed it to his ear. Three rings later, it connected.

“You told me to call if there was any trouble.” He scrubbed his face. “There's trouble.”

Nicolette eased her department-issued Jeep into the roundabout gravel drive and parked behind the sheriff's Dodge and an Eider city squad car. What was a police officer doing outside of town limits? Or rather, on the edge of city limits. This property was considered rural, but it butted up against the municipal lines, which meant Sheriff Hamilton could ask for assistance.

Cutting the Jeep's engine, Nic grabbed her McIntire deputy cap and slid her long ponytail through the back. She popped a stick of cinnamon gum in her mouth as she exited. Through the tan tint of her sunglasses, she examined the renovated 150-year-old two-story farmhouse. Recently purchased by some wannabe farmer, the place boasted a brand-spanking new red Morton barn with a white roof and a four-stall garage of the same coloring. The owner had bulldozed all of the original outbuildings, except for the house. She'd heard that the man planned to start some kind of organic farm and was threatening to sue other farmers in the area to stop using pesticides, contaminated manure, and other chemicals, to prevent any run-off into his fields.