One Deadly Sin (12 page)

E
die picked Holt up in front of the municipal building. For the ride to Nashville, she’d worn a pair of jeans but her concert clothes were packed in her saddlebags. When Holt had told her to pick him up downtown she had a quick thought that he’d show up in his uniform, but he wore a pair of khakis and a white shirt open at his throat. Not exactly Metallica costume, but then they weren’t going to hear Metallica. Of course he didn’t know that.

“Ready?” she asked when she pulled up to the building. He was waiting for her at the curb.

“For what?”

“For whatever.”

“I didn’t bring my asp with me. Or a can of mace.”

Her mouth twisted. “I think we’ll be safe.”

He eyed the portable seat behind her. “Where’d that come from?”

“Lick ’em and stick ’ems. Suction cups. Come on, get on, they’ll hold you.”

He looked like he didn’t believe her, but he swung a leg over. “Okay. I’m trusting you, now.”

Well bravo for him. She zoomed away, glad the noise made conversation impossible. She’d tried to work herself up for this, but couldn’t quite make it. They jogged along, bouncing with the ride, and her insides shook and pounded, which only fit her mood. As if she’d been poured into an industrial mixer and the motor set to an endless “on.”

She still hadn’t absorbed the shock of Dennis Runkle’s death. Surely it had nothing to do with her. It had to be exactly as it seemed—a terrible, awful accident.

And if it wasn’t?

What if she’d set something in motion? Or rather, someone? And how did she tell them this wasn’t what she intended? Her head hurt thinking about that. Because if Runkle’s death wasn’t a giant coincidence that meant there was one more body out there. Two if you counted all the names on her list. And who knew if her list was the master? Maybe whoever was out there had a bigger list. With more names on it. Maybe even… she shuddered. Hers.

Because if her angels were connected with the deaths she’d be implicated, wouldn’t she?

She set her face into the wind. What the holy fuck had she started?

The ride to Nashville was about an hour. Normally, she would have taken the back roads and given Holt a real spin, but now she just wanted to get there and get the whole night over with.

But she could never resist the magic of the road for long. Fifteen minutes into the freeway, the rhythm of the engine took over like it always did. The standing world sped by and blurred into nonexistence. Angels and death faded away. Wheels and speed were the only things left. As she breathed in the warm summer evening, she relaxed against the body behind her. Holt’s chest walled her in, his strong arms wrapped around her waist, long fingers pressed into her belly. How could she feel nothing?

She couldn’t. Not with his mouth at her neck, his heart at her shoulder.

She found herself breathing hard, and not only from the thrill of the ride. And once she pulled off into the downtown exit and parked, she saw he was affected the same way. His eyes shone under the city street lights, and she sensed he was in the same jacked-up mood that hit her every time she got on the bike.

She grabbed one of her saddlebags, slung it over her shoulder. “Enjoy the ride?”

He laughed. Full-throated and excited. “Are you kidding? God, I forgot what that felt like.” He shook his head, marveling. “That was fantastic. You’ve got to let me take her home.”

She eyed him, curious. “You don’t strike me as much of an adrenaline junkie.”

Something crossed his face. A kind of melancholy look, briefly there and gone. “Used to be. I had a bike. Not a Harley, but it was a pretty decent Yamaha.”

“Yeah? What happened?”

“Drove Cindy nuts. I finally got rid of it.”

“Cindy?”

“My wife.”

She’d wondered when he’d tell her about Miranda’s mother. “Divorced?”

“Dead.”

She almost tripped, that was so unexpected. Ten thousand questions flooded her head, but Holt tensed. Looked as if he’d rather choke than talk about his wife. So she continued walking up Broadway, past the honkytonks and then south down Fourth Street. How had she ever thought he didn’t know what loss was? That the teasing gleam she liked so much was all there was to him? She felt a rush of shame for misjudging him. Still, the questions, silent and unasked, continued to linger between them.

“Look, we all have our sob stories,” Holt said at last. “Just to get mine over with, leukemia, five years ago, Memphis. Moved back here because I needed help with Miranda. You?”

She paused, debating what to say, how to say it, whether to say anything at all. “Can’t compete with that,” she said at last.

His mouth curved into an ironic smile. “Yeah. I usually win the prize.” He gazed down at her. Exhaled. “So… now we’ve got that over with, when are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

She turned the corner and led him toward the huge neoclassical style building. Nodded toward it.

“I thought you said we were going to a concert.”

“We are.”

“At the courthouse? Or is it a very, very, very big bank?”

She laughed. Flourished an arm in the direction of the building. “May I introduce you to the new Schermerhorn Center.”

He looked at the massive building dubiously. “And they do rock concerts there?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He paused when they got closer. Hard not to. The Apollo fountain fired the plaza, its beautiful spray gleaming. Lights around the imposing entrance with its impressive set of steps made the limestone glow. He stared at the pediment over the building.

“Hades dragging Eurydice out of Orpheus’s arms and back to the underworld,” she told him.

“Who’s the other woman?”

At Orpheus’s back a woman sat on her knees, crumpled, devastated, reaching out in anguish. “Grief,” she said.

They climbed the steps, joining other concertgoers. Once inside, he turned around, taking in the Spanish marble, the mammoth columns, the chandeliers with their round, fat bulbs. Edie smiled to herself, happy that Holt was as affected as she was the first time she’d been here.

“And the acoustics ain’t bad, either.” She winked and left him to gawk. Disappearing into the ladies room, she changed into the clothes in the saddlebag, packed her jeans and bike boots inside. Then she checked the bag and rejoined Holt in the lobby.

His eyes widened when he saw her. The black dress was made of a silky material that never wrinkled. It had a knife-pleated skirt that swayed against her hips and legs as she walked, a smoothly tight bodice that showed off her breasts, and a narrow belt that shone at her waist. The sleeveless shoulders were cut so deep they revealed her collarbone on each side. It was her favorite dress. Elegant but sexy. Not to mention the spikes she had on her feet. A far cry from the jeans and leather he’d mostly seen her in.

She burst out laughing at the look on his face. He tucked her hand firmly on his arm. “We’re not going to a rock concert, are we?”

“Ever hear of Brahms?”

He gave her a sardonic look. “Once or twice. I think.”

She took out their tickets, handed them to an usher, who led them to their seats. “His Fourth Symphony is one of my favorites.”

He gawped at her. “You weren’t listening to Metallica, were you?”

“Beethoven. 1812 Overture.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What?” she said in mock innocence. “Overturning your assumptions?”

“Surprising people.”

She put a hand over her heart. “I confess.”

“So… this Brahms guy.” He returned her mock innocence with false ignorance. “What’s so great about him?”

The lights dimmed. She nodded toward the raised stage in front of them where the musicians were taking their places. “You tell me.”

Edie had heard Brahms’s Fourth many times, but she always forgot the way it struck until the lush, passionate waves of the first movement swelled up and over, drowning her in a sensation that was as physical as it was emotional. Enveloped in sound, she forgot about Holt, forgot everything, the same way she forgot on the Harley, immersed, wet, flooded with something unearthly, something she could only grasp when she was deep inside the music or flying down the road.

And in the midst of this otherworldly haze, as the thick notes seized her chest and belly and made her body shimmer, she felt someone grab her hand. Hold on as if clinging to life.

Holt.

And if she didn’t know instantly that he understood, it was there in his glittering eyes, the breathless rise and fall of his chest, the crazed fervor with which he squeezed her fingers.

And later, much later, after the music had ended and she had her breath back in her lungs and her jeans on, and they were walking back to the bike, she knew he’d been moved beyond speech. From the minute the last note sounded he hadn’t said a word. Didn’t seem capable of speaking.

But just outside the parking garage, he stopped, turned to her, and with a slow, deliberate pull, drew her close. And closer still. He searched her face, a look deep and profound. And slowly, oh so slowly, he kissed her.

It was like no kiss she’d ever had. Quiet and raging. Hungry and yet, oddly, humble. He took her mouth as if he was taking her soul. Tenderly. Knowing how precious it was. She was.

Like the music, it made her want to cry. Or to roar with joy. Or both or neither. Only let it never end.

And when it did and he pulled away, unhurried, lingering, he cupped her face with his slim fingers and strong hands. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Thank you.”

15

I
t wasn’t natural to have a piece of music change one’s life, but Holt woke the day after the concert as if something overpowering and important had happened. The universe had shifted on its axis. The moon had switched places with the sun. Things were no longer as they were, and it was jolting to discover that despite these strange and monumental alterations the world went plodding on. And Sam, straight, by-the-book Sam, was as unaware of it as everyone else, calling him on his day off as if everything was the same.

“About those black angels,” she said.

Holt needed a minute to come down out of the stratosphere and tune in to Sam’s channel. Oh, yeah. Black angels. Right. She was supposed to be researching possible retailers. “What’ve you got?”

“Nothing. Not in Corley County at least.”

“Okay.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. Could still feel prickles there. “Spread a wider net. Forget the county, go for the bigger markets. Nashville, Knoxville, Chattanooga, Memphis. Hell, try Jackson even. Murfreesboro. Johnson City.”

“I’ll be dead before I finish all that.”

“Keep notes and I’ll pick up where you leave off.”

“Then we’ll both be dead.”

Sam told him she’d leave her progress on his desk and signed off. Stared at the computer screen but made no move to keep searching. Something in Holt’s voice made her uneasy. She had seen him leaving on that bartender’s bike the night before. Didn’t like the idea of him hanging around her. Talk about messy. That woman always looked like she didn’t own a comb
or
a brush. Holt deserved better. Not to mention poor motherless Miranda. Sam didn’t like to think of herself as a snob, but that child deserved more than a bartender for a momma.

She sighed. Well, hell. None of her beeswax. Won’t last anyway. Holt’s got a head on his shoulders. That romance was bound to go sour. Just don’t ask her to clean up when it did.

Soon as he was done talking with Sam, Holt heard from Andy Burkett down at Myer’s. Nothing wrong with the brakes on Runkle’s car. No one had tampered with the transmission, the fuel line, or the steering mechanism. Mechanically, the car was in great shape.

Unfortunately.

Holt had been hoping for an easy explanation, and now he was left to fall back on natural causes—a heart attack or a stroke. But Doc Ferguson was taking his time.

A shower, clothes, breakfast. Miranda was glued to the TV, but she made sure he remembered his promise to take her to the park. By that time the old rhythms had reestablished themselves, and he was no longer sure he’d gone to a concert last night let alone been enchanted by the music and the woman who’d conjured the spell. But the morning was bright and if the sky seemed bluer or the babies in the park more endearing it was only the final trick left over from the night before.