Falling Hard and Fast (9 page)

“You're not even going to check it out?”

He walked toward her, propped his palms on the table in front of her and leaned forward. “Zoey.” His voice was gentle. “You stick to writing the mysteries, and let me concentrate on solving this one, okay?”

She lifted her chin to a regal angle. “Fine. Who's stopping you?”

“You are.” He watched awareness flash into her eyes, followed by wariness. Good. She'd be wise to feel both. “I've got to tell you my concentration hasn't been the same since you came to Charity.”

There was a smart retort on the tip of her tongue. Her gaze met his and the words slid back down her throat. Gray eyes should be cold, impersonal. They shouldn't be capable of such warmth, such promise.

“'Course,” he mused, his gaze tracing her brows, her lips, “it didn't help my concentration any to lie next to you all night. Listening to the soft sound of your breathing. Watching your face while you slept.”

She stared at him, transfixed, as if hypnotized by that low voice.

“All that in-your-face toughness of yours disappears when you're sleeping, did you know that?” His voice was husky; the finger he trailed down her cheek was featherlight. “I'm not the kind of man to spend a lot of time thinking about any one woman, but damned if I can figure a way to get you out of my mind.

“If you want a mystery to solve, Zoey, maybe you can start with that one.”

“C
hief Runnels to see you, Sheriff.” Patsy, the dispatcher going off duty, gave Cage a sympathetic look before opening the door wide enough to allow Charity's chief of police to enter.

He closed the file he'd been studying. “Boyd.” It was more difficult than usual to work up an agreeable tone. It would have been easier, he imagined, after a decent night's sleep. But he hadn't gotten one of those since a pair of serious green eyes had started haunting his every moment.

Twirling his chair around to greet the visitor, Cage crossed one foot over his knee. “Sure is a pretty day today, isn't it?”

“Heat index is over one hundred and fifty already,” the chief corrected him. Cage mused that one would never know it to look at Boyd Runnels. The man never seemed to sweat. Nothing so human would be allowed to mar the uniform he wore with rigid pride. A couple of decades older than Cage, he'd come home from Vietnam a decorated war hero, and
had exchanged his army uniform for his current one. Two years ago he'd tried to trade in his badge for that of sheriff.

Cage always wondered which fact ate at Runnels more—that he'd lost the election or that he'd lost it to him. He'd never made any secret of what he thought of the hometown boy who had quit the NOPD with a folderful of commendations and a citation for bravery in the line of duty. A record like that might impress some, but not Runnels—not when, to his mind, he had a record to match it.

Cage didn't hold Boyd's feelings against the man. Only those closest to Cage knew how he felt about that shiny medal they'd hung around his neck over two years ago. He'd spent a fair amount of time trying to forget just how he'd earned it.

He focused on the man before him. There wasn't a spare inch of flesh on Runnels's tall, lean frame. His uniform was crisply fresh, his boots polished to a glossy sheen. He wore his gray hair cut short and combed severely back from his narrow face. Whenever Cage spent any time at all with the man, he invariably envisioned him at home with the missus and his troop of kids, all wearing starched uniforms and saluting each other before meals.

Boyd roamed the office, ignoring Cage's offer of a seat, studying the pictures hanging on his bulletin board and the mass of files opened across the desk. “You got yourself a real mess here, don't you, Sheriff?”

Deliberately misunderstanding, Cage said, “Don't you worry about it, Boyd. The janitor will clear away these coffee cups and such after hours.”

Runnels shot him a humorless look. “I mean in the parish. First a drug lab, then a murder, and now random shootings.” He failed to conceal the satisfaction in his voice. “Yep, I'd say the parish is in a fine mess with this shocking increase in criminal activity.”

Cage reached for the slim cigar in his pocket and ran his fingers over it consideringly. “Well, I guess that all depends on your perspective. Some folks might consider the fact that
a meth operation was busted up as evidence that our office is tough on crime. Helps that we have charges pending against one of the operators. And there was nothing random about those shootings. The suspects were just released on bail this morning.”

“That still leaves one unsolved murder.”

Though his thoughts had darkened, his tone remained even. “Give me time, Boyd. Give me time.”

“Well, son, I hope you have time. I surely do.” Runnels kept his spine too straight to actually do a good job of leaning, so when he propped one shoulder against the wall he looked like a department-store mannequin, tipped off-kilter. “I'd hate to see you get in over your head on this thing.”

Cage contemplated the cigar and gave some hard thought to lighting it. “This isn't the first homicide investigation I've run, Boyd.” He let the words hang in the air between them, noting the way the other man stiffened at the reference to his experience.

“You've got a suspect, then?”

His voice noncommittal, Cage replied, “We're following up on some leads.”

“My office is at your disposal. Anything you need help with, just let me know.”

The offer was perfunctory, and both men realized it. “I appreciate it. Maybe I'll take you up on that.”

Civilities over, Runnels added, “Of course, with only two officers, I don't have the manpower to offer you much assistance in the actual investigation.”

“I think my men can handle the job. Thanks for the offer.” Cage stood, in an effort to hasten the man on his way. Runnels peered over his shoulder at the open file on his desk.

“Pretty grisly stuff.” His gaze met Cage's. “I expect the man who found the killer would be something of a hero in these parts.”

With great care, Cage replaced the cigar in his pocket and wished unwelcome memories could be tucked away as eas
ily.
Hero.
It was a term society used too freely, applied too generously. It seemed ironic to herald as a hero a man who did nothing more than react to a crime. And when that reaction came a split second too late, the word could ring with its own resounding mockery.

“It's been my experience, Boyd, that when these things are over, the only heroes are the survivors.”

 

Two hours later Cage's car was crawling down the road to his house. Despite the long days and sleepless nights he'd had recently, the peace of his home failed to beckon. Usually he looked forward to his evening routine of warming up the meal Ila—the housekeeper for as long as he could remember—had prepared and relaxing after dinner for a much-deserved nap in the hammock. He'd always done his best thinking sprawled out in that hammock strung between two giant cypress trees. A little relaxation with an icy beer in his hand and a hat tipped over his eyes did wonders for a man's ability to reflect. That the image failed to tempt him now was serious indeed.

He laid the blame for that firmly on Zoey's creamy white shoulders. Never before had he allowed the pesky thought of a woman to worm its way into his mind and make it churn in a way that was downright exhausting. Sexual attraction was pleasant and uncomplicated. It didn't cause the brain to fog and the senses to slow. At least, he thought with a hint of a scowl, it never had before.

On impulse, he eased the car off the road and up a badly rutted lane lined with overgrown grass and brush. The house that sat in the clearing had probably known paint once. There was still evidence of the original white coat clinging to cracks and hollows in its siding. But Cage didn't remember a time when the McIntire house had looked other than it did right now—like a structure doing a gradual slide into complete deterioration.

The porch still listed badly to one side. But the corner post that had been missing for decades had been replaced
recently, and judging by the neat pile of lumber on the ground, it looked as though the steps were the next to be repaired. Cage took the improvements as a positive sign. Billy must be going through a good spell.

As he was getting out of the car, the front door opened. Billy McIntire stared silently at him for several moments. Cage crossed his arms on top of the open car door and greeted him.

“Hey, Billy.” He nodded at the porch. “Looks like you've been keeping busy lately. Hot work in this weather.”

“Sheriff.” The big man lumbered down the sagging steps and stopped just shy of the car. Billy had to be close to Boyd Runnels's age. They'd gone off to fight in the same southeast Asian jungles within five years of each other, but it was the way they'd come home that had differed. There had been no medals pinned to Billy's chest, no tales of glory surrounding his return; just a quiet discharge for a young man deemed unfit for duty, a man whose mind had been unable to adjust to the killing and carnage he'd been immersed in.

Cage couldn't be sure what kind of changes Billy's experience had wrought in the man. But he knew for certain that no one could look upon what one human being did to another and remain unaltered. When the flashbacks that still lingered became too intolerable, Billy took to the woods, retreating farther from civilization until the ghosts that haunted were under control. Cage didn't fault him for his methods. He knew for a fact that if a man didn't find a way to conquer his personal demons, they would swallow him whole.

“Place is going to look some different when you're done,” Cage remarked. He let his gaze shift to the house once again. “You're a good hand with a hammer and nail. Always have been.”

Billy reached up a crooked finger to push back the straw hat he wore over his fading red hair. “It ain't so much.” He hitched up the strap of his denim overalls with a shrug
and scratched at a heavily muscled bare shoulder. He wasn't comfortable with company and small talk, but he could tolerate Cage Gauthier more than he could most folks. Cage was at ease with words and manners in a way that Billy could barely remember ever being; but he didn't use them to judge and condemn a man whose ways weren't his own. There was a look in his eyes sometimes that made Billy wonder if Cage didn't have his own ghosts that brought him screaming out of sleep.

“Well, I can see you have your hands full out here.” Cage leaned against the car door and admired the job that had been done on the porch. “I was just on my way home and started thinking about the work you did for me last summer. The yard sure did look fine when you got done with it. Don't think it's looked better since my daddy died. I can't seem to find the energy or will to mow these days. Ila's been chewing my ear off about it. I suppose you're too busy to consider taking the yard work over for me again this summer.”

Billy swatted at an insect that had settled on his forearm and mulled over the offer. “That riding mower of yours still working?” His voice was rusty, as if from disuse.

“Should be. Had it up to Carson's garage for a tune-up and I don't know what all else. Got those pruning shears sharpened, too. I'd sure appreciate you taking the yard off my hands for me again this year, if you're feeling up to it.”

It was a roundabout way of asking Billy if he had a good grip on the ghosts that still rose to haunt at times—the ones wearing dying Asian faces. But Cage would never say so in words, and Billy appreciated the courtesy.

“I reckon I can take that yard work off your hands.”

“I'd be obliged. Be willing to pay you a dollar more an hour than last year, if that sounds fair to you.”

“Sounds okay to me.” Billy's hunting dog came around the corner of the house then, ambling toward the men with a long-suffering maternal air. Around the dog's feet three
puppies gamboled, tripping and tumbling over each other in youthful frolic.

Cage's face creased in a delighted grin. “Well, looks like you've got pups on your hands again, Billy. Nice-looking litter, too.”

“I'm thinking to keep a couple this time. Ol' Lucy is getting up in years. She's been slowing down some.”

One of the pups made a beeline for Cage, its tail wagging so hard it set its whole hind end swaying. He bent to scratch behind one long floppy ear, and soulful puppy-dog eyes turned up to meet his. A part of his heart that remembered the twelve-year-old boy he'd been turned to mush.

“Well, shoot. He's a cute little thing, isn't he? Reminds me of the dog I had when I was a kid.”

“He's yours, if you want him.” Billy removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “The pups are weaned already. You can take him with you.”

Cage eyed the dog, which was busily chewing at his bootlace. It was stupid to even consider it. He was gone most of the day, and having a rambunctious pup around the house would just be another headache for Ila. The animal picked that moment to flip on its back, growling in imaginary combat as it wrestled with the lace, and succeeding in tangling two of its paws in it. The puppy gave a startled yelp, and emotion abruptly triumphed over logic.

Cage bent to scoop up the animal. “I'm much obliged, Billy. I guess I'll take this little guy home with me after all.”

Driving with the mutt in the car proved to be a distraction. The dog paced the width of the front seat and decided that Cage's lap was the best place to ride. No amount of coaxing or demanding could convince him otherwise.

“Don't get used to it, pooch. You won't be calling the shots when I get you home.” The pup yawned, clearly unimpressed by the warning. After another few miles it was fast asleep.

“Yeah, you're going to be in for a real eye-opener,”
Cage continued, stroking the dog with a gentle hand while he drove. “You're not going to find me one of those permissive masters. As for Ila… If you're brighter than you look, you'll steer clear of her. She's not the type to be taken in by big brown eyes and long droopy ears.”

When he got close to Zoey's house, the car slowed without his conscious permission. He told himself that it was just difficult to keep a steady pressure on the accelerator with the mutt using him as a cushion. Lord knew, the smartest thing to do would be to keep his distance from her until he got these unfamiliar emotions leashed again. The car pulled off the road and into her driveway.

He'd always had the damnedest time doing the smartest thing.

The car idled in the drive as he tried to talk himself into reversing and heading home where he was less likely to get himself into trouble.

The decision was made for him when Zoey strolled around the corner of the house, her fingertips tucked in the front pockets of her white shorts and wearing a skimpy blue top the color of Caribbean waters. Before she looked up and saw his car he had a moment to observe her, to note the solitary air she always seemed surrounded by. She looked like a woman used to being alone. If he made the mistake of asking, he was sure she'd say she liked it that way. But he wasn't sure he'd believe her.

Turning off the ignition, he hoisted up the pup in one arm and opened the car door, calling out, “Why, if it isn't Z. L. Prescott. All through plotting murder and mayhem for the day, ma'am?”