“They like you even less.”
“We’ll see.” He laughed abruptly. “You know what’s really funny? I didn’t even have to bring about your downfall. You did that all by yourself. Fucking a paraplegic’s wife. That’s low, Burkett. Even for the likes of you. The only thing,” he said, pulling his face into a pucker of concentration. “What was that half mil for? Was he trying to buy you off?”
Griff just stood, glaring at him.
“Not going to tell me? Okay. Doesn’t matter anyway.” He leaned forward and casually picked the pistol off the ground, then turned and fired a bullet directly into Manuelo’s chest.
Without a sound, the Salvadoran fell backward into the makeshift grave.
G
RIFF GAVE A STRANGLED CRY AND LURCHED FORWARD.
“You killed him!”
“Not me, Burkett. You.” Rodarte pitched the pistol toward the open grave, where it landed in the dirt. “You ran the man down. By the way, remind me to ask Mrs. Speakman how you learned about this place. Anyway, you ran Ruiz down here, forced him to dig his own grave, then, using the weapon of a policeman you assaulted, you shot Ruiz in cold blood so he couldn’t testify against you at Foster Speakman’s murder trial.”
Griff was still staring at the empty spot where Manuelo had been standing seconds before. He looked at the pistol, much too far away to retrieve. His gaze coming back to Rodarte, he held up his clean hands. “They’ll know I didn’t fire the pistol.”
“Oh, you will. After you’re dead. Don’t worry. I’ll set it up to look convincing.”
“Laura knows the truth.”
Rodarte winked. “I have ways that’ll convince her otherwise.”
Forgetting every rule of self-preservation, Griff lunged.
Rodarte reacted, getting off two shots before Griff grabbed the wrist of his gun hand and wrenched it. Rodarte screamed in pain and dropped the pistol.
Payback time,
Griff thought as he slugged Rodarte hard in the mouth. He swung his left fist at the detective’s cheekbone and felt the skin split. But his satisfaction was short-lived because of the pain in his left shoulder, like a branding iron being gouged deep into the flesh. Only then did he realize that he’d been struck by one of Rodarte’s bullets. However, the pain only fueled his rage. He struck mercilessly.
Rodarte fought back with a vengeance. He landed a punch in Griff’s gut, and when Griff staggered back, Rodarte sidestepped and threw another at his kidney. The angle wasn’t good, so the blow didn’t have full impact, but it was enough to cause Griff’s knees to buckle.
He caught himself before he fell and, acting reflexively, kicked backward, connecting solidly with Rodarte’s shinbone. That slowed the detective down long enough for Griff to come around to face him again and catch a fist in his ribs rather than his kidney.
They hammered at each other until Griff lost all sense of time and place, till his hands hurt almost more than the bullet wound, more than any other bleeding part of him. Rodarte’s mouth was a ghoulish maw, from which he continually spat blood. His eyes were crazed with hatred. And Griff knew that Rodarte would fight till one of them was dead.
Not long ago, he would have thought,
Fine. I’ll kill the bastard, or he’ll kill me, and either way it won’t matter much.
But now he wanted to live. He wanted to live for a long time, and with Laura. That hope kept him fighting even after the fight had gone out of him and every effort was tremendous.
The sweetest sound he’d ever heard was the wail of sirens. They were coming from far away but rapidly approaching. While they were a relief to Griff, they seemed to madden Rodarte and renew his flagging strength and determination.
He bared his blood-covered teeth and charged. Griff feinted left, then right. Rodarte plunged forward headlong, tripped over a deep rut made by a tractor tire, and fell facefirst into a nest of coiled barbed wire.
He shrieked like a banshee, but later Griff wondered if it was from the pain caused by the vicious barbs, or from fury over being defeated.
Griff stood watching as Rodarte struggled to free himself, but his frantic attempts to escape the wire only increased its hold on him. The barbs became embedded in his clothing, his flesh.
The sirens were closer now. Griff shouted down at Rodarte. “Stop fighting it! It’s over!”
“Fuck you!”
Miraculously, the detective managed to roll onto his back, but he was wrapped in wire. Strands of it were stretched taut across his face, the barbs digging deeply into his contorted features. Still his arms and legs thrashed. He managed to get a knee up, although his shoe was trapped in a snare of wire.
“Give it up, Rodarte,” Griff gasped as he wiped his bleeding nose. “For God’s sake.”
The sirens couldn’t have been more than half a mile away. Griff scanned the road for the approaching police cars. Across the flat, fallow fields, he saw the flash of colored lights. One minute, two at the outside and—
“Kiss your ass good-bye, Number Ten.”
Rodarte was aiming a small pistol up at him; only now Griff could see the ankle holster beneath his pants leg. The detective was bleeding from countless puncture wounds, but he seemed unaware of them. The hand holding the pistol was scraped and bleeding. But the finger around the trigger was steady, and so was his aim. The wire across his face made his ugliness even more grotesque. Although it had pinned down one side of his mouth, he still managed a distorted smile.
Griff registered all this in a millisecond. He knew this was his last heartbeat. His final thought was of Laura.
And then Rodarte’s smile went slack. He gave a short cry at the same instant Griff was knocked to the ground. Manuelo Ruiz was a blur moving past him, and so was the edge of the shovel as it arced down from high above the Salvadoran’s head directly into Rodarte’s cranium, cleaving it in two.
After talking almost nonstop for an hour, Griff settled tiredly against the hospital pillow and stared at the acoustical ceiling tiles. His new lawyer, who’d come recommended by Glen Hunnicutt, spoke from across the room. “Gentlemen, my client has answered all your questions. I suggest you leave now and let him get some rest.”
The two Dallas detectives ignored the lawyer and remained where they were. Griff supposed they were waiting to see if he had anything to add. One of them was gray haired, taciturn, and weary looking, a veteran. The other was younger than Griff. More aggressive and edgy than his partner, he’d done most of the talking.
Griff couldn’t remember their names. He wasn’t real sure about the attorney’s. Hunnicutt had made arrangements with him while Griff was still in surgery to repair the bullet wound in his shoulder, which had been nasty and painful but not too damaging, certainly not life threatening.
After a lengthy silence, he asked, “Is Ruiz gonna make it?”
“Seems so,” the younger detective replied. “He’s a tough customer, I’ll say that for him.”
“He is that.” Griff could remember how it had felt having the life squeezed out of him. “He won’t be charged for killing Rodarte, will he?”
The detectives shook their heads in unison. The younger said, “If he hadn’t, Rodarte would have shot you.”
Griff acknowledged that with a small nod.
“That old barn is used as sort of a halfway house for aliens coming in. When he entered the country, Ruiz was directed there, told he could obtain false documents from a guy who’d meet him there. The papers cost him all the money he had, but with them he could get work immediately. Immigration officials are looking for the guys who run that operation.” He paused, then added, “Through the interpreter, Ruiz also admitted to killing Foster Speakman.”
“It was an accident,” Griff said.
“That’s what he claims.”
“It’s the truth.”
“He said you and he were fighting. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Since Griff and McAlister—that was his name, Jim McAlister—hadn’t had time to confer privately before this interrogation, the lawyer cautioned him now with a soft clearing of his throat. Not that Griff would have blurted out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
The younger detective continued. “Ruiz was a bit sketchy about the cause of that altercation.”
Manuelo was being loyal to his late boss. He wouldn’t incriminate Speakman by telling the police that he had been ordered by him to kill Griff. Griff saw no point in telling them, either. He kept his poker face.
“You want to shed any light on that, Mr. Burkett?” the younger detective prodded.
“I can’t.”
“Was there some kind of
thing
between you and Speakman?”
“Before that night, I’d met him only once, and it was a friendly meeting.”
“You had no cross words that night?”
“No.”
“Did you provoke Ruiz?”
“No. Not intentionally anyway. He attacked me from behind.”
“He admitted that,” the older detective grumbled. He was frowning, as though confused. Or highly skeptical. “Still doesn’t explain why he attacked you.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Come on, Burkett,” the younger detective said. “Of course you know. What were you doing there?”
The lawyer cut in. “I’d like a private word with my client before he answers that.”
“No, it’s okay, Mr. McAlister. I can answer.” Griff was betting that the police didn’t know about his relationship with Laura. He was gambling that Rodarte had kept that like an ace tucked inside his sleeve, waiting to play it when it would be most advantageous to him and most detrimental to Griff and Laura. He said, “The meeting that night was a second job interview.”
“Job?”
“To do endorsements for SunSouth.” It was an implausible claim but also impossible for them to disprove.
“What about all that money?”
“Beats me,” Griff lied, speaking before McAlister could stop him. “The box was sitting on the desk in plain sight. Speakman told me to open it and look inside. I did. About that time is when Ruiz attacked me. Maybe he thought I was about to steal the cash from his boss. As I said, I don’t know what set him off. Whatever it was, he’ll regret it for the rest of his life. He worshiped Speakman.”
Clearly the detectives believed there was more to it, but that was all they were going to get from him.
Grudgingly, the younger detective said that Ruiz had told them the same story. “He admitted to killing his boss accidentally during his struggle with you, and said that when he ran from the house, you were trying to save Speakman’s life. All of which clears you.”
Jim McAlister sat back in the vinyl chair, looking complacent.
“Did he also corroborate everything I told you about Rodarte?”
The younger detective nodded. “He didn’t understand what the beef was between you and Rodarte, but everything else he told us matches what you said went down at the old farm.”
“What about Bill Bandy’s murder?” McAlister asked.
“What about it?” asked the older detective.
“For five years suspicion has been cast on my client. He has steadfastly denied any involvement beyond discovering the body.”
The detectives glanced at each other in silent consultation over how much they should tell. Finally the younger detective said, “We’re inclined to believe Mr. Burkett’s allegation against Rodarte. He’s been under investigation by Internal Affairs for a while. Many complaints have been filed against him and some of his pals within the department. Too many to ignore. Serious stuff, like harassment, brutality, corruption. One woman suspect claimed Rodarte fondled her while she was in his custody and then got rough with her when she protested.”
“Sounds like him,” Griff growled. He had hoped to keep Marcia’s encounter with Rodarte out of the fray and was now glad to know she could be left in peace.
The younger detective was saying, “Anyhow, Bandy’s murder case will be reopened and investigated from a different perspective.”
“Am I under arrest?” Griff nodded toward the door of his hospital room, where a uniformed policeman had been posted.
“For the assault on the three police officers in the hotel, as well as for impersonating an officer.”
“There were mitigating circumstances,” McAlister said.
“Save ’em for the judge at his arraignment,” the older officer said. He seemed to hold defense attorneys in no higher esteem than he did the lawbreakers they represented.
“Just be glad you’re not being charged with kidnapping,” the younger detective chimed in. “According to Mrs. Speakman, when you explained to her that Rodarte was impeding justice, she went willingly to help you locate Ruiz.”
Three pairs of eyes were fixed on Griff, waiting to see how he would respond. He said, “Without Mrs. Speakman I would never have found him, and without him I would have been falsely charged with murdering her husband. I’ll never be able to repay her trust in me.” He paused, then asked what was in store for Manuelo Ruiz.
“Soon as we clear things up with him, and he’s well enough to travel, he’ll be sent back to El Salvador. He faces charges there. Killed a guy who’d allegedly raped his sister. We figure, let the authorities down there have him. They’ve got first dibs.”
“I wish him well,” Griff said, almost to himself.
“Generous of you,” the older cop said. “If he hadn’t attacked you, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“He also saved my life.” Taking a deep breath, Griff closed his eyes and asked tiredly, “Is that it?”
H
IS NEW LAWYER TOOK IT FROM THERE. MCALISTER USHERED
the detectives out. He instructed Griff to stay in contact and not to answer any further questions without him present, told him to rest, and then he too left.
Griff closed his eyes, but rest eluded him. Although his body was battered and he was exhausted, his mind wouldn’t shut down. Yesterday, he, along with Manuelo, had been transported by helicopter to the trauma center at Parkland Hospital, where both had undergone surgery.
He had vague recollections of being prepped and a few drug-blurred memories of the recovery room. This morning he had awakened in this private room, a little more than twenty-four hours after he saw Rodarte’s skull split open with the sharp edge of a shovel.
James McAlister, attorney-at-law, had shown up only minutes ahead of the Dallas detectives. He’d barely had time to introduce himself and tell Griff that as soon as Glen Hunnicutt had heard about the events in Itasca, he’d called him on Griff’s behalf.
Now Griff was relieved to have the interrogation behind him. But it had left him more exhausted than before. His body ached from his fight with Rodarte. His shoulder throbbed. But his mind was unsettled over Laura.
As Foster Speakman’s widow, she would once again be in the spotlight while the police and media sorted through the legal detritus left by Burkett, Ruiz, and Rodarte. The speculation that would swirl around her was inevitable. He could only hope for a bigger story to come along that would supplant them as the lead on the nightly news.
But in the meantime, how was she bearing up? Was she well? Beyond the obvious, had she suffered from the miscarriage?
He blamed himself for whatever suffering she had to endure. Things might have turned out differently, her heartbreak might have been avoided entirely, if not for their last afternoon together. If he hadn’t stopped her from leaving, as she’d been about to, could everything that had happened since have been prevented?
But—and now was the time for brutal honesty—if he’d had it to do over, would he have let her leave? Or, acting on her hesitation, would he have reached around her and closed the door as he’d done? Thinking back on it, he wondered, would he have let her go? Even knowing what he did now, would he?
He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to that afternoon, to the sick disappointment he’d felt when she told him she was leaving and never coming back. He hadn’t tried to persuade her otherwise. How could he? He had no rights to her. None.
He’d had to stand by helplessly, hopelessly, and watch as she pulled open the door and said, “Depending on circumstances, this could be the last time I’ll see you.”
“Could be.”
“I can’t think of anything to say that seems appropriate.”
“Small talk seems smaller.” Her smile told him she remembered when she’d said those same words to him. “You don’t have to say anything, Laura.”
“Then, good-bye.”
They’d shaken hands, and he’d got the sense that she was as reluctant to let go of his as he was of hers. But she did let go and turned toward the door. When she made no move to go through it, he reached past her and pushed it shut.
He left his hand there for several seconds, giving her time to protest, giving her time to say,
What the hell do you think you’re doing? Open the door. I’m leaving.
When she didn’t, he drew his hand back and placed it beneath her chin. With the merest pressure, he brought her around to face him. He looked deeply into her eyes and saw in them the same unspoken, desperate longing he felt, and when he did, he fell on her hungrily, pressing his open mouth against her neck, pinning her to the door with his body. She gave a low moan and reached for him. They kissed wildly, recklessly, with abandon and without finesse.
They brought one month of mental foreplay to this moment.
Her skirt was tight fitting, but he managed to work it up over her hips. He pulled down her panties as far as her knees; then she took over and got rid of them while he dealt with his belt and fly. Cupping her bottom in his hands, he lifted her and positioned her open thighs over his. He touched her. She was ready. In one fluid thrust, he was buried in her completely.
She wrapped her arms around his head and held fast as he fucked her, as much with his mind as with his body. Because of their position, it was impossible to move much, but he rocked against her, pressing as high and hard as he could.
Thinking about
what they were doing,
knowing
that he was at last inside her again, made him burn. And the angle was perfect for her. With each stroke, he grazed the erogenous spot. When he came, so did she. And it was crashing.
For what seemed endless minutes, they clung to each other, their breathing loud in the empty house, their bodies giving off incredible heat. Finally he withdrew and gently set her on her feet. Her arms remained wound around his head, his mouth on her neck. Slowly he kissed his way up to her chin and then let his lips hover above hers for agonizing seconds before settling against them. Her lips parted, accepting his tongue.
It was their first real kiss. It was a perfect kiss. Silky and wet and sweet. Intense. Very sexy. When finally they drew apart, he placed his palms on the door on either side of her head, and rested his fevered forehead against hers. “The past thirty days have been the longest of my life,” he said, his voice raspy. “I lived in fear of you calling and saying we wouldn’t need to meet again. I was afraid I would never get to kiss you.”
She placed her fingers lengthwise over his lips. “If we talk, I have to go,” she whispered. “You can’t say anything. I can’t hear anything.”
He pulled back, about to argue, but her expression begged him to understand. And he did. They had to pretend this wasn’t personal. Each knew better. They weren’t fooling themselves. What had just happened had nothing to do with making a baby or anything else except raw desire. But they could not acknowledge it out loud. The only way she could stay was to pretend that she was doing this because her husband demanded it.
Saying nothing more, they went into the bedroom and began removing their clothes. By the time she got out of her shoes and had taken off her top, he was down to his skin. Unwilling to wait another moment to lie down with her, he stretched out on the bed and pulled her down beside him. Gathering her against him, he held the back of her head in his palm and kissed her until they were breathless.
He undid the front fastener of her lacy bra. Her breasts were lovely, soft, natural. He took the weight of one in his palm, brushed his thumb across the nipple until it was very stiff, then caressed it with his tongue. When he drew it into his mouth, she arched her back and whimpered with pleasure.
Blindly he sought her hand and guided it down. He sighed raggedly when her fingers closed around him, then her thumb, discovering a drop of moisture in the slit, spread it around the glans in slow, mind-blowing circles that were nearly his undoing.
Reaching around her, he unfastened her skirt and pushed it past her hips and down her legs. Naked now, she modestly lay back with her thighs closed, forming a perfect, enchanting V. He leaned down and gently blew on her, then pressed a kiss into the damp curls, teasing, teasing until her thighs relaxed. He moved between them and made slow love to her with his mouth.
It was she who drew her knees back and tugged on his hair until he was lying on top of her and his sex was deep inside her again. This time it was unhurried, more emotional than passionate. He savored each sensation and made certain she did. When he felt himself getting close, he took her face between his hands and looked down into her eyes, wanting there to be no question that it was he, only he, making love to her, and for only one reason.
He lost count of the number of times they made love that afternoon, because it was one long act, one erotic exchange melding into the next. Though they weren’t free to speak, they allowed each other unlimited access.
His lips touched each feature of her beautiful face again and again. He was at liberty to stroke every inch of her skin, to kiss the backs of her knees. He slid his thumb down the groove of her spine all the way to the cleft of her hips, then lay with his cheek resting in the small of her back.
Equally curious, she examined his large hands, tracing the heavy veins on the backs of them, sucking his crooked little finger into her mouth. She seemed to like his chest hair. A lot. She nuzzled it frequently. He loved the feel of her breath ruffling through it, loved feeling her fingertips exploring his navel and her knee tucked snugly under his balls, loved feeling her mouth’s wet tug until he thought he would die of pleasure.
They were lying quietly, fondling and kissing idly, as satiated lovers do, when she looked at him sadly and pulled away. And he’d had to let her go. There was so much he wanted to say, but he was forbidden to. He wanted to tell her that, for the first time in his whole, misbegotten life, he was in love. He loved, period. He loved her.
“God help me,” he whispered now to the walls of his hospital room, “I did from the start.”
He must have slept. A slight shift of air roused him. He opened his eyes. Coach was standing just inside the door. He said, “Were you asleep?”
“Just resting my eyes.”
He hesitated, then walked to the side of the bed and looked Griff over, his gaze settling on his bandaged shoulder. “How is it?”
“I’ll live. Hurts like hell.”
“They don’t have any pain medication in this hospital?”
“I’m getting it.” He raised his hand with the IV port. “It still hurts.”
“Any permanent damage?”
“The surgeon says there shouldn’t be. If I do my physical therapy.”
“Yeah, well, I wish him luck. You always shirked on that.”
“She.”
“Huh?”
“The orthopedic surgeon is a she.”
“Oh.” Coach looked around the room, took note of the TV suspended from the ceiling, the wide window. “Nice room.”
“Can’t complain.”
“Food okay?”
“All I’ve had is beef broth and lime Jell-O.”
“You hungry?”
“Not really.”
Having run out of small talk, they were quiet for a time. Then Griff said, “Thank you for not calling the cops on me the other night.”
“I did.”
Griff looked at him with surprise.
“Despite Ellie’s yammering, I put in a call. But not to Rodarte. After being passed around to several detectives, I finally landed one who sounded like he had some sense. I told him what was what, where you were headed, and that the situation had all the makings for becoming dangerous, possibly lethal to somebody. He got in touch with the police department in Itasca and mobilized them immediately.”
“So you believed me.”
“I believed her.”
“Laura.”
“I believed every word out of her mouth. You, I still know to be a liar.”
“I was not lying! I did not—”
“Hell, I know you didn’t kill Foster Speakman or that Bandy lowlife. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then give me a hint.”
“You lied about that game against Washington.”
Griff’s heart skipped a beat or two. He hadn’t seen that coming. He stared at Coach for a moment, then averted his head and mumbled, “What are you talking about?”
“You know goddamn well what I’m talking about.” His face red with anger, Coach bent over him until Griff was forced to look him in the eye. “That pass to Whitethorn. That game-throwing pass that got you sent to prison.” Coach jabbed the edge of the hospital bed with his index finger. “I know the truth, Griff, but I want to hear you say it, and then I want to know why.”
“Say what? Why what?”
Coach fumed. “I’ve looked at the video of that play till I’m cross-eyed. From every possible angle. In slow motion and fast forward. Time after time after time. A thousand times.”
“So has everybody and his grandmother.”
“But everybody and his grandmother don’t know the game like I do. And not everybody knows
you
like I do. Nobody taught you and coached you like I did. Griff.” His voice had turned husky, and if Griff hadn’t known better, he would have thought he saw tears starting to form in the older man’s eyes. “You couldn’t have thrown a better, more accurate pass. You practically walked the football to the two-yard line and laid it in Whitethorn’s hands. You put it right between the numbers on his jersey.”
He straightened and turned away for a moment, and when he came back around, he said simply, “He didn’t catch it.”
Griff remained silent.
Coach said, “Whitethorn didn’t catch it, but not because you threw a bad pass. He simply dropped the damn ball.”
Griff, feeling the pressure of his own emotions, nodded. “He dropped the damn ball.”
Breath streamed out of Coach’s mouth, sounding like a plug had been pulled on an inflatable toy. It even seemed to Griff that he deflated. “So why in God’s name did you lie about throwing that game? Why did you admit to a crime you didn’t commit?”
“Because I was guilty. I was guilty as hell. I had every intention of screwing up and losing that game for my own profit. For two million dollars, I was gonna see to it that we lost. But…”
He broke off, unable to continue for several moments. When he did, his voice was gravelly. “But when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. I wanted to win that game. I had to.” His hand formed a fist as though trying to grasp the unattainable. “The only hope I had of saving myself was to win that game.”
He lay back and closed his eyes, placing himself there on the field. He heard the roar of the crowd, smelled the sweaty jerseys of his teammates as they huddled, felt the tension compressed into a stadium of seventy thousand screaming spectators.
“We’re down by four. A field goal won’t do. The clock is running out. No time-outs remaining. It’s the worst-case scenario, and if that isn’t enough, the Super Bowl is riding on this game. We’ve got time for one more play.
“To cash in from Vista, all I really had to do was let the clock run out, and Washington would have had it. But, coming out of that last huddle, I thought, Fuck those Vista bastards. Fuck their dollars. They may break both my legs, but I’m going to win this championship.