Never Say Spy (16 page)

I crept miserably out of bed the next morning at five A.M.  I hadn’t slept well, and I wasn’t looking forward to waiting for the bus in the frigid darkness.  A glance at the thermometer compounded my self-pity.  God, minus 30.  It was March, for chrissake.  We were supposed to be done with this crap.

I pulled on long johns under my jeans and layered a T-shirt under my sweatshirt.  My truck started easily after its warm night in the garage, but I knew it would be different story when I came to pick it up later.

When I parked at the gas station and coffee shop that doubled as the bus pickup point, an opaque mist of exhaust from the idling vehicles rose in the dark air.  I scooted into the building and bought a one-way ticket to Calgary.

The bus arrived promptly at six A.M., and I climbed aboard carrying my small backpack.  As usual, the overnight passengers sprawled across the pairs of seats, heads and limbs protruding into the aisle.  I threaded my way through the maze as carefully as possible to find a vacant seat.

The Silverside-to-Calgary route was a milk run, stopping in every little town along the way.  I tried to doze, but failed.  Every time the door opened, a blast of arctic air blew across my ankles and the smell of diesel coiled my stomach into a queasy ball.

At nine-thirty, I levered myself out of the uncomfortable seat and limped into the Calgary bus depot, trying to stretch out my cramped muscles.  My car wouldn’t be released until after four, so I bought a transit day pass and took the bus downtown.

I treated myself to a toasted bagel with cream cheese and a cup of herbal tea at the downtown mall’s food fair before heading for the bookstore.  Happily ensconced in the Mystery section, I browsed through the shelves, reading the first couple of chapters of each potential purchase.

The day dragged, and I did my best to fill it by dawdling over lunch and planning the convoluted bus route that would carry me to the impound lot.  The weather had warmed marginally, so I wasn’t too chilled by the time I finally arrived at my destination.

I was glad to get my little car back, and at least they’d cleaned off the blood spatters.  I mourned the bullet hole in the trunk, though.  When I started to drive, I discovered to my chagrin that a second bullet hole on the driver’s side below the dash created an unpleasant draft on my leg.

Creeping along bumper to bumper through rush-hour traffic, I reflected that this was why I had such a potty mouth.  The snarled-up mess was enough to make a saint blaspheme.  Maybe I’d manage to swear less once I’d lived in the country for a while.

By the time I finally parked in my driveway just before six o’clock, I was starving and if I’d had to choose between air to breathe or beer to drink, it would have been a toss-up.

I growled aloud in sheer irritation.  I never drank and drove.  I’d developed a permanent allergy to impaired drivers.  But I really, really wanted a beer.

I locked up the car and left it in the driveway.  What the hell, I was warmly dressed and it was only a short walk to Kelly’s.

I dropped my backpack on the floor between my feet and sank gratefully into my usual spot on the broken-down sofa, my back to the wall.  Alanna, the waitress, stopped at my table.

“What’s this?” she asked.  “It’s not Saturday, is it?  You’re totally messing me up by coming in on a Tuesday night!”

I grinned back at her.  “You’re right, I’m just messing with you.  Can you grab me some hot wings and a Corona, please?”

“Where’s the rest of the gang?  You want to wait for them before you order the rest of your meal?”

I shook my head.  “Just me tonight.”

“And you’re having a beer?  I’m shocked!”

“I left the car at home.”

She smiled and made an ‘Aha’ face before heading for the bar to put in my order.  She returned in seconds with my beer, and I savoured the first few crisp, delicious swallows while I scanned the room, seeing none of the Saturday regulars.

I relaxed into the couch and stretched out my legs while I sipped, trying not to overdo it when my stomach was so empty.  Nevertheless, I was a bit buzzed by the time my wings arrived.  I set the beer aside and switched to water while I finished the wings, giving them my full attention.

When I came up for air to survey the patrons again, I hid my sudden pang as a man wearing an outback hat sat down at the other side of the room.  Robert used to wear a hat just like that.  This man’s heavy build didn’t look anything like my husband, but I felt melancholy all the same.

Usually I enjoyed my solitude, but I suddenly felt very alone.  I couldn’t tell anyone the truth about what had happened to me, and I couldn’t think of any plausible lies.  The good guys thought I was a spy, and as far as I knew, the bad guys, whoever they were, were still looking for me.  And I really didn’t want to stay at my house alone again.  I frowned and pitched the last chicken bone into the basket.

Alanna hurried over to remove the plate.  “Is everything okay?”

“Fine.  I’m just struggling with the momentous decision of what to have for supper.  How about a Monte Cristo?”

“Good choice.  Do you want another beer yet?”

“No, thanks, but you could bring me a fresh one when my sandwich is up.”

I slouched back on the couch and finished off my bottle.  The man in the hat talked busily on his cell phone.  I pulled a book out of my backpack and started to turn pages, but the story didn’t draw me in and I put it away without regret when my food and beer arrived.

I ate the delicious sandwich without giving it the attention it deserved.  Even my beer didn’t seem as tasty as before.

Alanna cleared away my empty plate, and I nursed the last of my drink.  I didn’t want to go out into the cold and darkness, and I didn’t want to go back to my house.  I pulled out the book again with a sigh.

A shadow fell across the pages.  The man in the outback hat stood in front of me, silhouetted against the lights behind him.  “What’s a pretty lady like you doin’ drinkin’ alone?” inquired a gravelly voice.

“Hellhound?” I asked in surprise, shading my eyes against the glare.

“None other, darlin’.  But I’m just Arnie tonight.  It’s too cold for Hellhound.”

I grinned up at him, feeling ridiculously cheered by a familiar face, ugly as it was.  “Actually, I’m eating alone.  The drinking is incidental.  What are you up to?  I didn’t know you came here.”

“I’m workin’ tonight,” he said.  “Mind if I sit down?  I’m watchin’ somebody, an’ it’d be less obvious.”

“Well, sure, pull up a couch,” I invited.  I didn’t ask who he was watching, and he didn’t volunteer the information.

He sat down on the sofa beside me, his back to the wall.  “Best seat in the house.  Now, darlin’, am I interruptin’ anything?  Are ya meetin’ somebody?”

“Nosy, aren’t you?” I teased.  “No, I’m by myself.  Just sitting here with all my friends tonight.”

He smiled back at me, flashing those even white teeth.  “I can’t believe ya got no friends.”

“No, I have friends.  Just none I can talk to at the moment.”

“Talk to me, then, darlin’.  I got time to kill.”

I sighed.  “Things have gotten... complicated... since the weekend.”

“What could be more complicated than gettin’ chased across hell’s half-acre by some fuckin’ nutjob?”

I sighed again.  “I can’t tell you.  Like I said, it’s complicated.”  We sat in silence for a few moments.  Then I turned to him.  “Arnie, have you ever done something where you didn’t even know you were doing it, but you found out later it was really, really bad?”

“Darlin’, that’s the story a’ my life,” he chuckled.  “What’d ya do that was so bad?”

“I can’t tell you.  But it was really, really bad.  Kane arrested me.”  My voice trembled a bit on the ‘arrested’ part and I slugged back a swallow of beer, not looking at him.

His voice was cautious when he spoke again.  “Kane arrested ya?  When?  What charge?”

“On Sunday.”

“How long were ya held?  Are ya out on bail?”

“No, he didn’t take me to jail.  Yet,” I said uncertainly.

“Then ya ain’t been arrested, darlin’.  Ya hafta go in an’ get processed, fingerprints an’ photographs.  Did that happen?”

“No, but he said what I did was a crime.  And he said I could call a lawyer.  But I didn’t mean to do what he said I did.  I didn’t even know I was doing it.  I’m not making any sense, am I?”

I dropped my head into my hands.  “This is why I didn’t want to talk to anybody.  And I’m not allowed to talk to anybody, anyway.”

His tone was still cautious.  “I got a friend, hadta sign a non-disclosure agreement ‘cause a’ somethin’ he got involved in with Kane.  But he can’t even talk about the agreement, let alone the stuff he got mixed up with.”

I looked up at him.  “How close is this friend?”

“Close.”

“I have a friend like that, too,” I said, and hung my head again.

Hellhound reached over to lift my chin with gentle fingertips.  “Darlin’,” he said gravely, “You’re right, it sounds complicated.  But if Kane didn’t take ya to jail, then ya ain’t been arrested, and if ya ain’t been arrested, then he doesn’t think you’re guilty.”

“He knows I’m guilty,” I burst out.  “My guilt has been observed and recorded and replayed repeatedly in front of an audience!  The only question is whether he believes I really meant to do it or not.”

“Did ya kill somebody?” Hellhound asked.

“No!”

“Then anythin’ else can be fixed.”

“I don’t think this can,” I whispered.

 “Trust me, darlin’.  Kane’s the best.  He’ll find out what really happened, an’ you’ll be fine.”

I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to wipe away the despair.  “I hope so, Arnie.”

Alanna arrived at the table and appropriated my empty bottle.  She turned to Arnie.  “Would you like a drink?”

“Just coffee,” he replied.  “I’m drivin’.”

Alanna turned to me.  “Do you want another?”

I summoned up a smile.  “Yeah.  One more for the road.  Thanks.”

Arnie turned to me, frowning.  “Ya ain’t drivin’, are ya?”

“Hell, no, it’s a joke.  Alanna knows I never even have one if I’m going to drive.  I walked tonight.”

“Ya walked?  In this weather?”

I shrugged.  “I wanted beer more than I feared frostbite.”  Alanna arrived with our drinks and I took a long swig.  “Ahhh, liquid courage.”  I toasted Arnie with the bottle.

“Don’t think ya need any more courage, darlin’,” he observed.  “Ya ain’t afraid of much that I can see.”

“Are you kidding?  I’m afraid of lots of things.  I’m afraid of carjackers with guns.  I’m afraid of wacko home invaders.  I’m afraid of politicians.  I’m afraid of music played by 80’s boy bands.”

Hellhound chuckled.  “Well, that ain’t anythin’ to be ashamed of.  All sane people’re afraid a’ those things.”

“Well, there you go.  It’s nice to know I’m sane.  That was in question for a while this weekend, too.”  I gulped more beer.

Two was usually my limit.  The third was probably a bad idea, but what the hell.  Maybe it would help me sleep.

God, I was tired.

I slouched down on the couch and stretched my legs out, and we sat in silence for a while.  I drank more beer and laid my head back.

“Don’t pass out on me, now,” Hellhound teased.

“That’ll never happen.  I’ve never been that drunk, and I never will be.  Just in case I have to run for my life again.”

His coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.  “Why would ya have to do that?”

“I’m kidding.  I hope.”

He frowned.  “Where’re ya stayin’ tonight?”

“At my house.”

“Did they catch the guy that busted in yet?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Darlin’, I know you’re strong, an’ you’re brave, but that really ain’t a very smart idea,” he said gently.

I sat up.  “Well, I can’t just go running away and staying at a hotel every time I feel nervous.  I don’t know how long it’ll take for them to catch this guy, if they ever catch him.  And I’m not going to go snivelling to my friends every time something goes bump in the night, either.”

“Ya ain’t snivellin’.  Somebody broke into your house an’ ya barely got away.  That was what, two days ago, for chrissakes?  It’s okay to be nervous, darlin’.”

I blew out a breath of frustration.  “I’m not saying it’s not normal to be nervous.  I’m just saying, I can’t let it rule my life.  I live alone.  Yeah, I’m nervous.  The best way to stop being nervous is to go and sleep in the damn house and get over it.”

“An’ I’m sayin’ it ain’t a smart idea.  Let Kane find out what’s goin’ on.  What if ya sleep there tonight an’ some fuckin’ dirtbag breaks in again?”

I threw up my hands in irritation, rapidly adjusting the gesture when my beer sloshed.  “What if?” I demanded.  “What if I get hit by a bus walking home?  What if a chunk of frozen shit falls off an airplane toilet from 40,000 feet and lands on my head?  You can’t live your life constantly worrying.”