Impulse (19 page)

37

“
W
ell,” Sal said, fiv
e minutes later,
“
this reunion started out with a bang.”

They were seated across from one another at a corner table of the lodge bar.

He’d invited her back to his room to talk, but while Faith might have gotten reckless the past twenty-four hours (which she'd decided to blame on the damn lack of wind), she hadn’t turned stupid overnight.

Telling herself yet again that he’d never try anything with so many cops here at the lodge, there was still no way she was willing to be alone with him. Which was why she was holding her bag on her lap, her right hand just inside it.

“What are you doing here, Sal?”

“I don’t suppose you’d buy that I’ve missed my wife?”

He didn’t seem nearly as frightening as she remembered. Maybe that was because she’d blown up the memory in her mind, like a child creating a bogeyman
who lived beneath the bed. Of course in the case of Faith’s childhood, the bogeymen had been all too real.

Or, she thought, maybe because that aura of violence that had surrounded him like a noxious cloud was gone, leaving behind the single-minded cop who’d vowed to protect her.

“I don’t know why you would’ve missed me. Excuse me if I don’t understand all the nuances of marriage, but it seems to me that if a man hits a woman, holds a gun to her head, and threatens to kill her, he’s not all that fond of her.”

He had the grace to flush a deep, dark red at that. “You deserve to take your best shot,” he said. “Believe me, baby, there’s nothing you can say to me that I
haven’t already said to myself a million times over.”

Demonstrating lousy timing, a waitress in a short denim skirt, red-and-white-checked blouse, and white-fringed cowgirl boots stopped by the table.
“Can I get you som
ething?” she asked with a blind
ingly white flash of cover-girl teeth. The smile, Faith noticed, was directed straight at Sal.

“Coffee, please. With cream.” Her nerves were starting to settle, but unable to trust him completely, there was no way she was going to risk alcohol slowing down her reflexes.

“I’ll have coffee, too,” Sal ordered. “But make mine black.” The smile he gave the waitress reminded Faith of the way he’d once smiled at her. Before things had gotten ugly.

“I’ve been sober for six months,” he said after the woman had taken their orders over to the bartender.

“I’m glad to hear that.” She really was. Her fingers loosened their hold, just a little, on the bag.

“I wanted to talk with you sooner, but I needed to make sure I was really going to stay on the wagon. I know six months might not seem all that much—”

"But it’s a start,” she said. “You’re a strong man, Sal. One of the strongest I know. I can’t believe you can’t do anything you put your mind to.” He’d certainly found her.

“Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself. I’ve been doing a twelve-step program.”

“I hear they can be very effective.”

“Yeah. Of course everyone, including me, smokes like fuckin’ chimneys at the meetings, but I figure I can tackle that down the road.”

"One thing at a time,” she agreed, glancing out the window.

The ambulances were leaving. One with siren and lights flashing, the other, she guessed, headed to the Jackson morgue. She’d been stunned when, while they’d all been standi
ng together outside, Sal had in
formed her that Erin Gallagher’s mother had been killed and Erin’s coach had been found unconscious in his room.

“
’
Course, not getting drunk or stoned has left me with a lot of spare time.”

“I can see how that could be a problem.”

Two of the police vehicles had driven away as well, which left the black Cherokee. Faith figured Will had probably been forced to stay behind to give a statement to all the reporters who’d taken over the parking lot.

She wished she could care what Will was saying, but after all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, her desire to get back into hard news didn’t seem nearly as important as the way Will had looked at her when he’d learned she was married.

“Which is why I decided to take up a life of crime,” Sal said. “Nothing like becoming a serial killer to jazz up a guy’s life.”

“Mmm.”

Would Will come looking for her? From the black ice in his eyes and the chill in his voice when he’d informed her he had a crime scene to get back to, she suspected not.

Sal’s words belatedly sank in.

“What did you say?” Surely not what she thought she’d heard.

“Hey!” He held up h
is hands. “Just kidding about
that serial killer thing.”

“It’s not exactly a joking matter.”

“No.” He frowned. “It’s not. But your sheriff’s probably up to handling it. Given his background.”

“How did you know about Will’s background?”

“I looked him up after I realized I was coming here. Just to get a feel for who all the players were in case you tried to get me arrested. That’s how I found you. I was
checking out radio broadcasts online, and damned if your sexy voice didn’t come up number one hundred and twelve.”

She'd worried about that, when the station had started simulcasting on the internet last month, but had then decided the odds were against Sal ever hearing her.

“So, I guess you neglected to tell him about me.”

“Tell who?” Faith hedged. She was never so relieved to see anyone in her life as she was the waitress who’d arrived with their coffees. She poured in cream from the small stainless steel pitcher, added sugar, and took a drink of hers as the young woman, seeming to sense a serious discussion taking place, left them alone again.

“Faith, baby.” Sal clucked his tongue. “Did you forget that I used to have the best confession rate on the force?” He reached across the table, then frowned when she flinched.

He leaned back and studied her silently. His expression was not in any way threatening, but it was steady and had her understanding how he’d gotten all those criminals to confess.

“You’re not going to come back to Nevada with me, are you?”

He’d never been anything but direct. There d been a time when she’d liked that about him. Which is why she knew she owed it to him to be equally forthright.

“No.”
Faith had spent the past eighteen months afraid Sal
would catch up with her. Now that he had, she was surprised it was proving so emotionally painful.

“I sorta figured that.” He sighed heavily. His broad shoulders sagged. “I guess I really fucked things up.”

“It wasn’t just you.” Her eyes were burning behind her lids. “I shouldn’t have ever let things get so out of hand. It was just that no one had ever taken such good care of me. Never.”

“I liked taking care of you. And, if I hadn’t been so head over heels, I would’ve realized that you’d confused gratitude with love.”

She bit her lip. Was about to lie. Then reminded herself that it was time—past time—for honesty. “I wasn’t confused.”

“But you didn’t love me.”

This was the hardest conversation she’d ever had. Yet. She glanced out the window again, hoping that Will would even give her an opportunity to try to explain. “No.” It was barely a whisper.

“I figured as much. To tell the truth, I think I knew it all along. But I wanted you so damn bad, I wanted to rush you into that chapel before you wised up. And before I had to face reality.”

She tried a smile, which wobbled slightly. “That’s very insightful.”

“This anger-management therapist I’m going to suggested it.”

“You’re seeing a therapist?” That idea actually did make her smile.

“Hell, it wasn’t my idea.”

Faith was relieved to see a bit of the old Sal bluster. While clean and sober was a good thing, she would’ve hated to see this man emotionally castrated. “The police union worked out a deal with the department. If I get counseling, and work my way through all the steps and stay sober for six months, I can go back on the job.”

“I'm glad.’’

“Yeah. Me, too.” He drew in a deep breath. Blew it out. “You're numbers eight and nine.”

“What?”

“Step number eight is to make a list of everyone I’ve harmed,” he explained. “Nine is to make amends.”

“
That’s what you’re doing here?”

“Yeah. I know I can’t make things up to you for what happened, a lot of which I can’t even remember, if you want to know the absolute truth, but at least I can let you know how damn bad I feel about having hurt you.” He eyed her curiously over the rim of the thick, white mug emblazoned with the red wolf logo. “What did you think?”

She took another drink of her coffee. It seemed foolish now. Almost embarrassing.

“Shit.” He dragged a hand across the top of his short, stiff brown hair. “You thought I was going to hurt you?”

“
You said you would,” she reminded him. “Actually, you said you were going to shoot me if you ever so much as caught me talking to another man.”

“I was drunk out of my friggin' mind.”

“You scared me, Sal. I trusted you, and you—”

“I turned out to be no better than any of those bastards who used to beat up on your mother.”

“You weren’t like them.” He’d had problems. But this much she wanted to make clear. “I should have told you,” she repeated what she’d said earlier. “I would have, if I’d had any idea my past would come out in the trial.”

“Blame the victim,” he said grimly. “That’s what those scumbag defense attorneys always do. If I’d known about your juvenile record, I could’ve protected you.”

Faith knew he would have tried. “Where the hell were you when I was twelve years old?”

He did the math. “In a black-and-white keeping the streets of Vegas safe from crime.”

She smiled at the idea of a young, idealistic Sal Sasone. He had probably looked great in uniform. “I’ll just bet you did, too.”

“I sure as hell tried.”
He took another drink of coffee and glanced out the window as the TV lights turned off, casting the outdoors back into night. A pair of red taillights disappeared down the long, circular driveway.
“So, if you didn’t tell the sheriff about me, can I suppose you haven’t exactly filled him in on past events in your life?”

“No. I was going to. But things got complicated.”

“Yeah. He told me about the poet slasher.”

“Shhh.” She leaned forward. “He doesn’t want that to get out.”

“It’s not like I’m going to call a press conference, Faith.”

No. As low as Will’s opinion of the press was, Sal’s had always been lower. He’d made an exception in her case. Just as she’d made one in his.

“A cop and a former hooker turned reporter,” she murmured. “Who’d have thunk it?”

“Dammit, I hate it when you call yourself that. You were just a kid, Faith.”

More of the old Sal she remembered, the cop who’d tracked down her stalker and saved her from ending up dead in some horrid basement cage her crazed stalker had built for her, had returned.

“An abused kid whose mother, may the bitch rot in hell, sold you for a goddamn fix,” he continued, his voice rough with anger on her behalf, “and even when social services finally got around to taking you out of that piss-poor excuse for a home, without anyone watching out for you, taking care of you like any kid deserves to be taken care of, you fell through the damn cracks of the system!”

Realizing he’d raised his voice, he looked around, then leaned across the table until their faces were inches apart.

“You did what you did to survive,” he said through gritted teeth. ‘You think I didn’t see stories like that every day on the street? You think I couldn't understand?”

When her eyes began to fill, she dragged her gaze toward the stone fireplace where a couple clad in
après
-ski clothes seemed to be enthralled with each other.

Faith felt a little twinge of something she reluctantly recognized as envy. Although she’d been married, she’d never had anything resembling the romantic relationship that couple seemed to share.

She’d hoped she might be on the brink of one with Will. But then she’d screwed it up.

“I was ashamed,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“
Well, yeah. That makes two of us, because I’m goddamn ashamed of the way I reacted. Christ, I’d never hit a woman before in my life. I’ve always thought the guys who mistreated women were lower than scum.”

"I should have told you. Warned you, so you wouldn't have to find out so publicly.”

If only she’d had an inkling of what would happen, she could have prepared both of them. As it was, the wealthy stalker’s dream team of defense lawyers had somehow unearthed her supposedly sealed juvenile court records.

“That would’ve probably been a good thing to do,” he agreed. “And maybe I should’ve acted like an adult when I did find out. Blaming you the way I did was worse than what that damn lawyer did. Because you deserved a whole lot better from your husband. So, maybe we’re even. And maybe you ought to pay a visit to my therapist.”