Authors: Nora Roberts
Uh-oh.
That one quick thought slammed into her mind.
“It used to surprise me how often my mind wandered in your direction. You were only a kid, and bony with it,
from a prominent family on the right side of the tracks. And everyone knew there wasn't a guy in town who could get past first base with you.” When she brushed his hand away from her buckle, he only smiled. “I figured I was thinking about you because Blair and I had started hanging out.”
“When he was going through his hoodlum stage.”
“Right.” He wasn't sure how she managed to make her throaty voice prim, but he liked it. “So did you ever break out, Slim?”
“I've had my moments.” Irritated, she chomped down on her sandwich. “You know, people don't think about me as the skinny, well-behaved nerd from Dogpatch.”
He hadn't realized it would give him such a kick to see her riled. “How do people think about you, Slim?”
“As a successful artist with talent and vision. At my last show, the critics-” She caught herself and scowled at him. “Damn you, Rafferty, you're making me talk like a nerd.”
“That's okay. You're among friends.” He brushed some crumbs from her chin. “Is that how you think of yourself first, as an artist?”
“Don't you think of yourself as a cop first?”
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I guess I do.”
“So, is there much action in Emmitsboro these days?”
“Something crops up now and again.” Because the cemetery incident was still on his mind, he told her about it.
“That's sick.” She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill. “And it doesn't sound like something that would happen around here. Do you figure kids?”
“We haven't been able to prove otherwise, but no, I don't. It was too neat, too purposeful.”
She looked around, taking in the quiet trees, hearing the musical water. “Too grisly.”
He was sorry he'd brought it up and changed the subject to a do-you-remember-when mode.
He didn't think about his hurts and bruises. It was easy, maybe too easy, for his body to be distracted. He liked looking at her, the way her mussed cap of hair caught the sunlight. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed a decade before that her skin was so smooth, translucent, soft. It was her eyes he remembered most, the golden, almost witchlike glow of them.
Now he enjoyed listening to her voice, the rise and fall of it. Her laugh that rolled like fog. They talked the afternoon away, arguing over points of view, forging a friendship that had been tentative at best during childhood.
Though the stream played music, and sun and shade danced overhead, he sensed the timing was wrong for anything but friendship. When they climbed on the bike again, they were easy with each other.
The only mistake Cam figured he made that day was cutting through town on the way back. That gave Bud Hewitt the opportunity to flag him down as they rode past the sheriff's office.
“Hey, Sheriff.” Though dressed in civvies, Bud put on his official face as he nodded at Clare. “Nice to have you back.”
“Bud?” With a laugh, Clare hopped off the bike to give him a smacking kiss. “I spent last night eating pizza and getting sloppy drunk with Alice. She tells me you're the town deputy.”
“One of ′em.” He flushed with the pleasure of knowing his name had been mentioned. “You look real nice, Clare.” In fact, his Adam's apple was bobbing a bit while he looked at her. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind,
her eyes deep and gold. “Guess you two've been out riding.”
“That's right.” Cam wasn't as amused as he thought he should be by the puppy dog admiration in Bud's eyes. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, I figured you'd want to know-and since you weren't home when I called and I saw you passing through, I stopped you.”
Cam flicked a wrist and had the engine gunning impatiently. “I got that much, Bud.”
“It's about that runaway. The kid from Harrisburg?”
“Has she been located?”
“No, but we got a call this morning from the State boys. Somebody spotted a kid with her description a few miles out of town on Route Fifteen, the same afternoon she took off. Heading towards Emmitsboro. Thought you'd want to know,” he repeated.
“Did you get a name?”
“Got the name and phone number. Wrote them down inside.”
“I'll take Clare home first.”
“Can I wait?” She was already strapping her helmet to the back. “I haven't been in the sheriff's office since Parker used to sit behind the desk and belch.”
“It's not as colorful as it used to be,” Cam said, ushering her inside.
She recognized the man behind the desk as Mick Morgan. He'd been a fresh-faced deputy under Parker, and the years hadn't dealt kindly with him. He'd bloated and sagged, and the part in his dingy brown hair had widened as sadly as his waistline. He pushed a chaw in the side of his mouth and rose.
“Cam. Didn't think you were coming by.” He focused
on Clare and managed what passed for a smile. There was tobacco juice on his teeth. “Heard you were back.”
“Hi, Mr. Morgan.” She tried not to remember that he had been the first on the scene after her father's death. Or to blame him for being the one who had pried her away from the body.
“Guess you're rich and famous now.” There was a crash and a curse from the back. Morgan cocked a brow, then spit expertly into the brass bucket in the corner. “Old Biff's been causing a ruckus most of the day. Got one god-awful hangover.”
“I'll deal with it.” Cam glanced toward the back as a new wave of obscenities erupted. “Bud, why don't you run Clare home?”
She started to bow out graciously, then noticed the tension in Cam's face, his neck, his arms. “I'm fine.” With a casual shrug, she began to study the papers stuck to the bulletin board. “I'll just hang around. Take your time.”
Morgan patted the belly over his belt. “Since you're here, Cam, I'll take my dinner break.”
With a curt nod, Cam strode over to the heavy door separating the cells from the office. The cursing went on after he shut the door behind him.
“Tough on him,” Morgan said and spit again. “Come on, Bud, buy you a cup of coffee down to Martha's.”
“Ah…see you, Clare.”
“Sure, Bud.”
When they left, she wandered to the window to look out at the town. It was quiet as a portrait on a Sunday. A few kids were riding bikes down the Main Street slope. A couple of teenagers were sitting on the hood of an old Buick and flirting. Inside the houses, she imagined, people were sitting down to Sunday suppers of pot roast or baked ham.
From the room behind her, she could hear the vicious-tempered
shouts of Biff, bullying and threatening his stepson. She couldn't hear Cam at all and wondered if he spoke or merely listened.
He spoke-in a low, controlled voice that held more power than all of Biff's ragings. Through the bars that separated them, he studied the man who had made his life hell for almost as long as he could remember. Doc Cramp-ton had bandaged Biff up, but one eye was swollen closed, and his nose was a bruised mess against the white adhesive.
And he was old, Cam realized all at once. The man was old, used up, and pathetic.
“You'll stay in until bail's set tomorrow,” Cam told him.
“You let me out of here now, or when I get out, I'll come for you. You understand me, boy?”
Cam looked at the battered face, realizing he'd done that with his own hands. Yet he couldn't remember it clearly. Every blow had been rammed through a blinding haze of hate. “I understand you. Stay out of my town, old man.”
“Your town?” Biff's thick fingers wrapped around the bars and shook. “You're nothing but a pissant punk in this town, and you'll never be any different. Pin a fucking badge on your shirt and think you're big time. You're worthless, just like your old man was worthless.”
Cam's hand snaked through the bars so quickly, Biff had no chance to evade. There was the sound of material ripping where Cam gripped Biff's shirt. “Just who do you think would give a shit if I found you dead in this cell?” He pulled, hard, and had Biff's face rapping into the bars. “Think about that, you bastard, and stay clear of me. And if I find out you went home and took out your little frustrations on my mother, I'll kill you. You understand me?”
“You ain't got the guts. You never did.” Biff yanked himself away and swiped a hand under his freshly bleeding nose. “You think you know all there is to know, but you don't know shit. You don't run this town. You're going to pay for putting me in here. I know people who can make you pay.”
Disgusted, Cam moved to the door. “You want to eat, then you watch your mouth. I'm leaving orders for Mick to hold back your dinner until you quiet down.”
“I'll see you in hell, boy,” Biff shouted through the bars, bashing them with his fists when Cam shut the door again. “If it's the last thing I do, I'll see you in hell.”
Alone in the cell, he mopped at his face. And began to chant.
Clare waited until she heard the door close before she turned. One look at Cam's face had her heart going out to him, but she offered a casual smile instead.
“And I thought you had a boring job.”
He avoided her by going to his desk. He wanted to touch her, hold on to her, but a part of him felt stained with filth. “You should have gone home.”
She sat on the corner of his desk. “I'll wait until you take me.”
He glanced down to read Bud's careful, grammar school handwriting. “I need to make this call.” “I'm in no hurry.”
He pressed his thumb and forefinger on the bridge of his nose, then picked up the phone. At least Biff had shut up, he thought.
“This is Sheriff Rafferty in Emmitsboro, I'd like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Smithfield. Yes, Mrs. Smithfield. This is concerning the call you made to the state police regarding Carly Jamison.” He listened for a moment, then began taking notes. “Do you remember what she was
wearing? Yes, yes, I know that spot. What time of day was it? No, ma'am, I don't blame you for not picking up a hitchhiker. Yes, it can be dangerous. I really couldn't say. No, you and your husband did the right thing. We appreciate your cooperation. Thank you, yes, if I need anything else, I'll be sure to call.”
When he hung up, Clare tilted her head down and smiled. “You sounded real official and diplomatic.”
“Thanks a lot.” Rising, he took her arm. “Let's get the hell out of here.”
“So how old was the runaway?” she asked casually when they slipped back onto the bike.
“About fifteen-female from Harrisburg. Carrying a red knapsack and pissed at the world because her parents wouldn't let her go to Florida for spring break.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“Too long.” He gunned the motor and took off.
The sun was setting when she convinced him to relax on the porch swing for a few minutes with a glass of wine. She'd poured the twenty-dollar French chardonnay into jelly glasses.
“My dad and I used to sit out on evenings like this and wait for the crickets to start.” She stretched out her long legs and sighed. “You know, Cam, coming back home means coming back to a load of problems. That doesn't mean it was the wrong decision.”
He sipped, wondering if the glasses made the wine taste jazzier, or the company. “Are we talking about you or me?”
She slanted him a look. “Word around town is that you're a pretty good sheriff.”
“Since most people only have Parker for a yardstick, that isn't saying much.” He touched a curl that lay against her neck. “Thanks. If I'd gone straight home, I'd have smashed a wall or something.”
“Glad I could help. I also heard you have a nifty house.” She watched him as she sipped. “Of course, I haven't been invited to see it.”
“Looks like I owe you a tour.”
“Looks like.”
They drank in companionable silence, watching a car drive by, listening to a dog bark, breathing in the scent of hyacinths her father had planted years before.
The sun dropped lower, and the breeze shifted shadows over the lawn.
It seemed natural, almost familiar, when he touched a hand to her face, turned it toward his. His lips brushed over hers, sampling. With their eyes open, they leaned closer, soothed by the gentle movement of the swing. When he deepened the kiss, was compelled to deepen it, he tasted the quick release of her breath.
One glass of wine shouldn't make the head spin, she thought as she put a hand to his chest. Neither should one kiss, especially from a man she'd known most of her life.
Shaken, she drew away. “Cam, I think-”
“Think later,” he muttered and pulled her against him again.
Exotic. It was strange that the shy, skinny girl from his childhood should taste so exotic. Feel so erotic. He knew his mouth was impatient, but he couldn't help it. He'd had no idea that one touch, one taste, would lead to a grinding need for more.
When she could breathe again, she shifted back an inch, then two, until her dazed eyes could focus on his face. The restless desire in his eyes had her heart racing.
“Oh,” she managed, and he smiled.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Just-oh.” With an unsteady hand she brought her glass to her lips. Wine helped cool the heat he had licked
into her mouth. “I thought I was coming back for some quiet and relaxation.” “It's real quiet tonight.”
“Yeah.” And if he kissed her again, she was damn sure she'd go off like a rocket. “Cam, I've always thought in a place like this, things should move slow. Very slow.”
“Okay.” He brought her back, settling her head on his shoulder. He'd waited more than ten years to find out what it was like, he thought, as he set the swing back in motion. He figured that was slow enough.
As the crickets began to sing, neither of them realized they were caught in the lens of a telescope.
T
HOUGH ERNIE BUTTS FIGURED
school was, at best, a waste of time, he liked his advanced chemistry class. There was something fascinating about the Bunsen burners, the test tubes, and petri dishes. Memorizing the periodic chart of elements was a bore, but he'd never had any problem with retention. Nor did he have any trouble identifying unknowns in a mixture. Unknowns never failed to interest him.
Still, doing lab work was the best. There was something powerful about mixing chemicals, testing reactions. He always felt in control. He liked to measure and pour and create, and toyed with the idea of making a bomb. Not a stupid stink bomb like Denny Moyers had put together and set off during third period in the girls′ locker room. That was kid stuff. Ernie wanted something that would flash and boom, busting out windows and setting off some real old-fashioned hysteria.
He could do it; school, and the books his parents had bought him, had given him the knowledge. He was certain he had the capability. And if he decided to do it, he
wouldn't get caught like that jerk-off Moyers. Real power wasn't in bragging about what you did, but in having people wonder.
Doodling in his notebook, Ernie glanced up as James Atherton repeated his instructions. As far as Ernie was concerned, Atherton was a bigger asshole than most adults. He repeated everything in his quiet, tutorial voice, occasionally stretching and turning his long, skinny neck or polishing his glasses as he droned on and on.
Like a four-eyed giraffe, Ernie thought maliciously.
Everybody knew he'd made a nice little pile of money in real estate and didn't even have to teach. But here he was, semester after semester, in his dopey suits and ties, trying to teach chemical reactions to kids who mostly didn't give a fuck.
People said he was dedicated; Ernie figured he was just a dick.
The fact that he was mayor of Emmitsboro only added to Ernie's bitter amusement. What did the mayor of Hick-town have to do anyway? Decide what color the benches in the park should be painted?
“This chemical bonding lab will count for one-quarter of your grade in this last marking period,” Atherton continued, scanning the faces of his students with a little inward sigh. After nearly thirty years as a teacher, he had no trouble reading the outcome of this final experiment of the school year. At least ten percent of the class would fail and too many would barely skim by.
“Miss Simmons, perhaps you could put your compact down for a moment.”
There was a ripple of giggles as Sally Simmons hastily stuffed her compact in her bag.
“You will be working in teams,” Atherton continued, meticulously straightening a pile of papers before picking
it up to distribute the sheets. “Lab partners are listed on this work sheet. I suggest you familiarize yourselves with the stages of the experiment. Written work will be due in two weeks.”
As the papers made their way around the class, there were groans and grunts and whispered comments. Ernie noted, with little interest, that Sally Simmons was his lab partner.
“It will be up to each team to distribute the workload,” Atherton said over the din. In his unassuming way, he studied each student. He knew each of them better than they would have guessed. “Remember, you are partners, and the grade, good or bad, will belong to both of you. You may go to your assigned stations and begin your planning.” He held up a bony finger. “Quietly.”
Atherton glanced at the clock and was as relieved as his students that only ten minutes remained in the period.
“I guess we're partners.” Sally tried a bright smile. Though she'd known Ernie for years, from a distance, she still wasn't sure what to make of him. He was by turns wild and moody, and that appealed to her sympathy for rebels.
“Yeah.” Ernie gave her a long, unnerving look that had her licking her lips.
“Well, I guess we could study and work on the written part after school some days. We can use my house if you want.”
“I work after school.”
“Well… after that, then. I could come over to your place if that's better.”
He continued to look at her in a way that had her fussing with her hair, then the buttons of her shirt. Beneath the lacy black bra she'd swiped from her older sister, her heart pounded pleasantly.
“I'm usually finished about nine,” Ernie told her. “We
can use my place, nobody'll be around to bother us.” He smiled then, letting his lips spread slowly away from his teeth. “Unless you figure Josh'll get pissed.”
She smiled again, more comfortable on familiar ground. “We sort of broke up. Josh is cute and all, but he can really be a pain.”
“Yeah? You two have been pretty tight the last few weeks.”
She tossed back her rich fall of dark hair. “We just hung around some. People started putting us together after we found that empty grave. If you want, I can come by tonight, and we can get started.”
He smiled a little. “Yeah, we'll get started.” He wondered if she was a virgin.
After school Ernie drove to Clare's. He didn't mind the idea of having sex with Sally, but the hot, sweaty dreams he'd been having had centered on his new neighbor. He wondered how it would be to have both of them at once, the way he'd seen in the porno tape he'd copped from Less Gladhill at the gas station.
His hands were sweaty as he thought of it. He liked the idea of control, domination, power. Doing both of them would prove something. Would make him somebody.
He pulled into Clare's drive and shut off the engine. From there, he watched her work with hammer and snips. It was warmer today, and she was wearing shorts, snug ones frayed at the hem, and a big T-shirt that slipped over one shoulder.
What would it be like to walk in, to rip that shirt away? Right there, right now, in broad daylight. Her eyes would widen, the pupils dilating with fear and shock. He'd pull
her down to the concrete. She'd whimper. But then… then she would be hot and wet and ready.
He didn't like the idea that Sheriff Rafferty was moving in on her, but he wasn't overly disturbed. Ernie figured he could take care of Rafferty if he had to.
He climbed out of the truck and walked toward her.
Intent on shaping the metal in her vise, Clare didn't notice him until he was almost beside her. She straightened, pressed a hand on her lower back, and smiled.
“Hi.”
As she arched her back, her small, unencumbered breasts strained against the cotton T-shirt. He imagined squeezing them.
“You said I should come by after school sometime.”
“So I did.” She set the hammer aside. “I'm glad you decided to help me out.” She took a moment to pull herself out of the project at hand and into a new one. “Listen, there's a chair inside the kitchen. Why don't you drag it out here? You can grab yourself a Pepsi if you want.”
“Okay.”
When he came back, she had cleared off a space on a worktable. “Just set it over there. You might want to rest your arm on that bench from time to time. Don't be afraid to tell me if you're getting tired.” She hoisted herself up on the worktable, turned down the volume of the old Moody Blues number on her stereo, and gestured for him to sit. “I'm just going to do some sketches. I think if you set your elbow on that bench and make a fist…yeah.” She smiled at him. “So how's school?”
“Okay.”
“I guess you've only got a few weeks left.” She was sketching on a pad as she spoke, and tried to put him at ease.
“Yeah.”
A man of few words, she thought, and tried again. “You into sports or anything?” “Not into sports.” “Got a girl?”
His gaze slid up her legs. “Not one in particular.”
“Ah, a wise man. So, what do your folks do?”
He grimaced, from habit. “Run the pizza parlor.”
“No kidding?” She stopped sketching. “I had some the other night. It's terrific. I have to tell you, the idea of leaving New York pizza behind made the decision to come back here tough. Rocco's made up for it.”
He shrugged, embarrassed to be pleased. “It's no big deal.”
“Easy to say when you've grown up with it. Open your fist once and spread your fingers. Mmmm.” With a frown of concentration, she continued to sketch. “So, where'd you live before here?”
“New Jersey.”
“Oh, yeah? Why did you move here?” The sulky look came back in his eyes. “Don't ask me. They didn't.”
Sympathetic, she smiled at him. “It's not such a bad place.”
“It's dead. I hate it. People sit around and watch the grass grow.”
Three sentences in a row, she thought. He must have strong feelings. “I guess it's hard to believe there'd ever come a time when you'd actually appreciate watching the grass grow.”
“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, mimicking her. “You can go back to New York whenever you want.”
“That's true.” And children, she thought, no matter how hard they strained for independence, were stuck. “It
won't be long before you can decide for yourself. L.A., right?”
“Yeah. I'm getting the hell out of here.” He was staring at her legs again, at the way the frayed hem of her shorts cut high on her thighs. “Have you been there?”
“Yeah, once or twice. It's not really my style. You'll have to let me know what you think of it once you get there. Make a fist again.” She turned a page in the sketchpad, then shook her head. “You know, what I think I want is from the shoulder up, kind of like a tree shooting up from the roots. You want to take your shirt off? It's warm enough.”
He looked at her, secrets playing in his eyes as he slowly pulled the T-shirt over his head. She wanted him. He knew it.
What Clare saw was a slim, angry boy on the teetering brink of manhood. More, she saw a subject, a slender arm, surprisingly roped with muscle, its power still untapped.
“This is going to work.” She scooted down from the table. “Let me pose it. I won't ask you to hold it long. It'll get uncomfortable.”
She took his arm, cupping a hand under his elbow as she lifted it, bent it. Then she closed her fingers over his to make a fist again.
“Now, if you can hold it out at this angle…. Good, now put some tension into it. Terrific. You're a natural.” As she stepped back, she glanced down to the pendant he wore. It was silver, in an odd geometric shape. Like a pentagram, she thought, and looked up at him. “What's this? A good luck charm?”
His free hand closed over it protectively. “Sort of.”
Afraid she'd embarrassed him, she picked up her pad again and began to sketch.
She worked for an hour, letting him take frequent
breaks to rest his arm. A time or two she caught him watching her speculatively, with a much too adult gleam in his eyes. She passed it off, a little amused, a little flattered that he might have developed a small crush on her.
“That's great, Ernie, really. I'd like to start working in clay whenever you've got another couple of hours to spare.”
“Okay.”
“I'll get you some money.”
Alone, he flexed his arm and wandered around the garage. When he spotted the sculpture in the corner, he stopped short. Once again, his fingers closed around the inverted pentagram as he studied the half man, half beast she had created out of metal and nightmares.
It was a sign, he thought, his breath coming quickly. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached out to stroke it worshipfully. She had been brought here for him. The rituals, the offerings had met with favor. The Dark Lord had delivered her to him. Now he had only to wait for the right time and place to take her.
“What do you think of it?”
Cautiously, Ernie dragged on his shirt before he turned. Clare was standing behind him. She was staring, as he had been, at the sculpture. He could smell her, soap and sweat.
“It has power.”
She was surprised to hear the opinion from a seventeen-year-old. Intrigued, she turned her head and stared at him. “Ever thought about becoming an art critic?”
“Why did you make this?”
“I couldn't seem to help myself.”
The answer was perfect. “You'll do more.”
She glanced back at the heap of metal on her welding table. “Yes, it seems that I will.” Shaking herself, she held out some bills. “I really appreciate your posing for me.”
“I liked it. I like you.”
“Good. I like you, too.” When the phone rang, she turned to the kitchen doorway. “Gotta go. See you soon, Ernie.”
“Yeah.” He wiped his damp palms on the thighs of his jeans. “I'll see you real soon.”
Clare opened the refrigerator and picked up the phone simultaneously. “Hello.”
As she rooted out a hot dog, mustard, pickles, and a soft drink, wet, heavy breathing sounded in her ear. She grinned, stuck the hot dog in the microwave, and began to breathe back, occasionally adding a husky “yes” or “oh yes!” After setting the timer, she popped open the bottle. “Oh, my God, don't stop.” She finished with a long, wavering moan.
“Was it good for you?” the low, masculine voice asked.
“Wonderful. Incredible. The best.” She took a long swallow of Pepsi. “Jean-Paul, you give great phone.” She took the hot dog out of the microwave, then wrapped it in a piece of Wonder bread, and began to slather on mustard. “If Angie ever finds out-”
“I'm on the extention, you idiot.”
Chuckling, Clare added a row of dill pickle slices. “Oh, well, all is discovered. So what's up?”
“After that,” Jean-Paul said, “I am.”
“Behave yourself,” Angie said mildly. “We wanted to see how you are.”
“I'm good.” Satisfied, Clare picked up the dripping sandwich and bit in. “Really good,” she mumbled with a full mouth. “In fact, I just finished some sketches with a new model. The kid's got great arms.”
“Oh, really?”
Amused by Angie's intonation, Clare shook her head. “I meant kid literally. He's sixteen, seventeen. I also took
some sketches of this friend of mine who's a waitress. Competent poetry in motion. And I've got my eye on a fabulous set of hands.” She thought of Cam and chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe the face, too. Or the whole damn body.” Just how would he react if she suggested he pose nude? she wondered.
“You sound busy,
chèrie. ”
Jean-Paul picked up a chunk of amethyst from his desk.