Authors: Stan Crowe
“Thank you. Miss L. Sullivan. Private Investigator.”
Clint slumped back against the wall.
Molly stepped up next to him and gently touched his shoulder. “You didn’t read the morning news, did you?” The understanding in her voice was surprising.
He leveled an even gaze at her, surprised to see she looked genuinely concerned. “What… was in the news?” Clint didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped quickly to the table and picked up the paper. The front page was about local politics; nothing to do with Sully. He started flipping pages, scanning quickly, but finding nothing that would indicate why she’d suddenly leave without saying goodbye.
“Try B-Six,” Molly said. “Bottom, right-hand corner.”
Clint complied, and saw a small blurb about a vehicle fire. He read it, but thought nothing of it until he glanced at the picture. He did a double take and felt his heart drop into his stomach. His dreams of freedom were wrapped in the black and white flames of a photograph. His only chance for a return to a normal life drifted upward in the thick, oily smoke rising from the conflagration that used to be Aunt Fey’s Roadside Wishouse. Clint sagged into his chair and slouched onto his elbows, unable to take his eyes off the picture.
“She’s… gone,” he muttered. “Gone. I am never going to lead a normal life again.
“And
she’s
gone, too! Sully.” Clint let his face hit the table, and groaned. “What am I going to do?”
Molly sat next to him, and put her hand on his back this time. “Clint,” she said quietly, “I read the article.” She pursed her lips in thought. “If Holly were here, I’m sure she’d say something sweet and comforting at this point. I don’t do sweet and comforting. I’m the ‘get over it and move on’ kind. But even I know when that’s the wrong thing to say.”
“Thanks. I think.” He stood suddenly. “I need a car. Will Jonathan take me?”
Molly looked up at him strangely. “You’re going after her?”
Clint hoped his face read “no duh” sufficiently that Molly wouldn’t miss it.
She shook her head. “Out of the question.”
He briskly started for his bedroom downstairs, and heard Molly’s footfall behind him. In his room, he grabbed basic personal effects, unlocked the phone Molly had given him, and dialed Lindsay’s number. His heart began to sprint as the phone rang. Maybe this time, Lindsay’s cell phone would actually be turned on.
“Clint,” Molly said from the doorway, “you’re a key witness in the prosecution against Jane. I can’t have you running off again. You
will
stay here.”
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he murmured. When her voicemail greeted him instead, he hit the “end call” button, and then quickly mashed the redial.
“Clint, you outgrew this kind of behavior in high school.”
He continued ignoring her, and pushed past her and back up into the kitchen where he began pacing as he waited for Lindsay to respond.
“She never loved you,” Molly said quietly from behind.
He stopped. The drone of the voicemail message played in the phone’s tiny speaker.
“She told me herself, Clint.”
“She… told you?”
Molly stepped up to him. “Not in so many words. You’re a man. You don’t get body language unless it involves something incredibly primal.”
“You’re real sweet, Mol.”
“How has she treated you for the last two days? The last week? And let’s not pretend it was a fluke, either.”
He thought about it. A ray of understanding began to dawn in his mind.
“I know how women think, Clint,” she added. “I’ve had a bit of practice. Maybe you didn’t catch the cold shoulder. I watched her, Clint. She was a side of beef in a meat freezer.
“Ask yourself,” she continued, “whether she ever did anything to hint that you were someone she’d willingly enter into a romantic relationship with. I’ve read her profile, Clint. When I found you’d been an idiot and left San Francisco, I spent the next several days sniffing out your trail. It led me to her. Her background isn’t quality resumé material. She was
desperate
for work. Any work. You just happened to be the first person to walk through her door.”
He remembered that first time he’d met Lindsay, sitting there in her cramped office, the air thick with hope.
“But… the other day, on the beach…”
Molly walked up to him, stopping a breath away. “You mean, me shooting Jane’s underlings? They drew first, Clint. I assure you I acted only in self-defense. What does that have to do with Miss Sullivan?”
That shocked him. “You mean, you
shot
them?”
“I do believe I just said that. I mentioned it that morning, too, after Sullivan stormed out of the room.”
“Oh. Right. No, the beach. I… I kissed her. Lindsay. I kissed Lindsay that morning.”
Molly’s eyes widened slightly. “I never took you for the suicidal type, Clint.”
He waved it away. “Yes, yes, it was stupid. She tried taking me, not unlike Jane did. I’m sure she would have if she’d been untied at the time.”
“Did you like it?” Molly queried softly.
“I loved it. That’s why it hurt when I woke up and realized I’d hosed myself once again. I’m lucky Sully didn’t chain me while I was asleep.”
“Based on what you’ve told me,” Molly mused, “that is unusual. Do you think she might be immune to your… issue?”
Clint shook his head. “Oh, believe me, she had it
bad
. Not ‘psychotic Jane’ bad, but she sure tried. No, you’re the only qualifying woman I know who seems immune.
“Still,” he said, and he sat again, heavily.
“Clint, let me help you move past this.” Molly pulled a chair next to him. “Don’t forget I’ve watched you pine over girls before. Marcia Sanderson, Autumn Taylor, Hillary Wells.”
“How’d you know about Hillary?”
“Holly talks.”
“Right.”
Molly leaned forward. “You need help, Clint, and heartbreak is low on the list of stakes. Keeping you safe until Jane is put away is priority number one. I’m assigned to you until after you testify. We’re hoping for open and shut; Jane’s father isn’t exactly on the list of people in line for sainthood. Still, you know the legal system.”
Clint didn’t move.
“We’ll place you in the Witness Protection Program,” she continued. “You’ll be secure, you’ll have your needs covered, and you’ll have a chance to take this all in. You’re going to be fine. I’ll be with you the entire time. And I
will
help you past even the heartbreak. It might not mean anything to the FBI, but,” and she pressed her face into his neck, “it means everything to you. And to me.”
He shook his head and looked up. “But she’s gone, Molly. Sullivan’s not coming back, is she?”
She looked directly into his eyes. “You really wanted her, didn’t you?”
Clint turned his head.
Molly snuggled into him and wrapped her arm around his waist. Instinctively, Clint rested his head on hers. It felt good in its own way, but he’d much rather be doing this with Lindsay. He clung to the thought of her like a lifeline against the sucking void of Fey’s untimely demise and all its implications.
As if sensing his remorse, Molly kissed his cheek. “It’s going to be fine, Clint. You’ve got me now.”
TWENTY-THREE
Three years later…
The dark wood paneling of the courtroom seemed to almost glow with the victory. A man with an equine face and raven hair coated in enough gel to style an entire yak stepped up to Lindsay and proffered a hand. “Congratulations, Counselor,” he said. “Those were some of the finest prosecuting arguments I’ve heard in my time. How long have you been doing this?”
Lindsay shook the hand and nodded politely. “Not quite three years, but thank you. And you, Mister Reaves. You’ve earned your reputation. Frankly, I wasn’t sure that we’d be able to sway the jury after you got done speaking with them, notwithstanding the body of convicting evidence we had.”
Reaves smiled. “You’re too kind. But honestly, it was excellent work.”
Lindsay thanked him again, and began organizing a stack of documents before filing them carefully in her briefcase.
“I was thinking,” Reaves added, sitting sideways on her table, “that our firm could use a sharp, new prosecuting attorney. Mister Kinsler is set to retire at the end of next month. He’s old hat, but I think you’d be able to fill his shoes in no time.” He scooted closer and leaned in. “I’d be willing to give you a little personal training, even.”
Lindsay smiled, but didn’t look at him. “Thank you, Mister Reaves.”
“We could talk about it over drinks. My treat. What do you say?”
Lindsay pasted on her best “Aren’t you cute?” grin and straightened. “I appreciate your offer, Counselor, but I’d be rather ungrateful to abandon Fuller, Winston and Silverman so abruptly. They’ve been most helpful. I feel I’m in their debt.
“If nothing else,” she added, turning back to close her briefcase, “I’m not certain how your firm would feel about you
courting
the ‘enemy.’” She gave him a killer smile.
Reaves looked around nervously. “Uh, of course, of course. I… apologize if I came across as anything less than professional.”
“Not at all, Mister Reaves. You were looking out for the best interests of your firm. I am unavailable, but I suspect that the stenographer may not be. Good day.”
“Yes. Uh… right.”
With that, Lindsay closed her briefcase and fairly skipped out of the courthouse.
That evening, after her usual jog and exercise routine, Lindsay showered, made a light dinner which she ate on her balcony, and laid down on her couch with her case notes and a bottle of spring water. She reviewed the notes thoroughly, amended them as necessary, and filed them away for an after-action report to be presented in the morning. She made some business calls, wrote at least a dozen e-mails, and called it a day.
Before lying down for the night, she pulled out her diary and flipped to the first blank page. Walking out onto her balcony, she gazed toward the glow of downtown Phoenix. Arizona had sunshine in spades, gorgeous desert scenery (especially when the monsoons rolled in), and was perfect for her active, outdoor lifestyle. And yet, desert sand was not the beach; the scent of dusty rain wasn’t the smell of the ocean; and nothing here replaced the morning fog over the bay. Arizona wasn’t home; it was merely far enough away that Mom and Dad couldn’t be bothered to actually visit her and fret about how Lindsay had been “kidnapped,” and how “that hoodlum would drown in litigation and then rot in prison.” Even Uncle Tom had been a bit over the top in response to her unexpected road trip to Washington. But that was in the past—a past she kept tucked away in this little book.
She slid the pen from its elastic holder, and jotted what few words tickled her fancy. It was unsatisfying drivel, really. She’d tried cute; she’d tried memoir-style; she’d tried poetic. All flat. Every night she’d tell herself that someday, this little diary would be worth it. Someday.
And so she wrote, and occasionally even took a peek back at the whirlwind of her life since moving away from home for the first time. Her parents had been livid upon her return to San Francisco. It took just one week of her mom stopping by every night to scream at her before Lindsay relocated without notification. After decidedly rejecting the offer from Stearns finally (Dad was furious when she told him she’d turned the man down because of his unflagging chauvinism), a series of events led her to a law firm in Phoenix, where she climbed the career ladder in record time. She found fulfillment in caging criminals like the dangerous animals they were. She’d also joined local civic groups that conducted regular community service, and signed up for a gym membership. Her apartment had been carefully selected to provide both a view of the city and a view of the night sky, inasmuch as anyone could see the stars in the greater Phoenix area. She didn’t mind the commute in exchange for a darker evening. Everything was as it should be.
So why did she still feel so empty?
Lindsay looked up into the pale, purple haze that radiated out from downtown, and locked on to the first star she could see. “Star light, star bright,” she began. She laughed to herself, and shook her head.
This is silly.
And yet…
“First star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might…”
She finished the rhyme in her head, closed her eyes tightly, and wished with all her might. She opened her eyes to the same scene as before. No surprise. She laughed again at her own foolishness, and went to bed.
In case the ancient motor hadn’t been enough to ruin her sleep, the shotgun-blast backfire of the engine would do it. Lindsay bolted upright in her bed with a gasp. She glanced at her clock: 1:30 a.m. After a few moments to orient herself and realize she wasn’t under attack, she stomped to the window to see who she needed to turn her wrath upon for violating noise ordinances, to say nothing of her sleep. Shoving aside her curtain, Lindsay froze.
“No… possible… way.”
Without wasting another moment, she threw on her shoes, grabbed her keys, and flew down three flights of stairs. She raced across the groomed desert landscaping, heedless of whatever creatures might be out at night, and hurried to where the noise was coming from. The derelict vehicle had stopped and (mercifully) shut off its engine. A dim, crimson glow was the only thing that differentiated the windows from the darkness of the night, though even without daylight Lindsay could clearly make out the mad paint job splayed all over the bus. Lindsay stopped to stare at the thing for a long moment, all the while wondering whether she was actually in some strange dream. At last, she squared her shoulders, and marched up to the side door to knock. Even as she raised her fist, the door burst open, and a small, speckled goat leapt out, nearly knocking her over in the process. The goat galloped off into her apartment complex, leaving a stunned attorney in its wake.
“Get back here, Altimus!” The scratchy, accented voice matched perfectly with the image of the aged woman who scrambled out the door of the RV in pursuit of the animal.