Lawman. Part 9

"Exactly. And how well do you think that behavior is going to go over in a small conservative town?"

"She's out of place here," Garon said. "But so am I. I hate small town politics."

Cash smiled. "I love it, warts and all. It's the first place I've ever belonged."

"Your wife seems to like it here, too."

He nodded. "The baby has opened even more doors for us, locally," he said, smiling dreamily. "I never thought I'd end up a family man."

Garon took a step away. "I hope it's not contagious," he muttered darkly. "I'm married to my job."

"Where have I heard that before?" Cash wondered.

The Coltrains walked in with their son, Joshua. His father was carrying him, although he looked to be about two years old. Copper was tall and redheaded. His wife, Lou, was blond. Their little boy had blond hair with red lights, and he favored his father most.

They made a beeline for Grace. Lou hugged her warmly. So did Copper.

"What is it with Miss Carver and the Coltrains?" Garon asked curiously. "He takes an unusual interest in her well-being, although he seems to be in love with his wife."

"Copper has a special place for his long-time patients," Cash said. "I've heard that Grace was one of the first people who went to him when he opened his practice here. She was just a kid at the time."

"Oh."

"Do you automatically put the worst possible interpretation on peoples' relations.h.i.+ps?" Cash asked.

"I work in law enforcement."

"So do I," Cash reminded him, "but I try to give people the benefit of the doubt."

"Yes, I remember you giving it to our stepmother."

Cash closed up and his eyes glittered dangerously.

Garon let out a long breath. "h.e.l.l, I didn't mean that." he averted his face. "The little girl was ten. She was raped and sodomized and cut to pieces. Ten years old!"

Cash laid a big hand on the other man's shoulder. "Listen, I've seen my share of grisly murders, in the military and in police work. I know what it's like. But you have to keep some emotional distance. You know that."

Garon swallowed, hard. He had a history that he'd never shared with his family. He'd lived away from them back East for years, during which they'd all but lost touch. He was keeping secrets that were too painful to share, even now. The child's death had affected him in unexpected ways, and he wasn't coping well.

"I've never had to work a child killing before," Garon said shortly. "I've done hostage rescue and SWAT, I've even worked a serial murder. But I've never had to work a crime scene where a child was literally butchered. I wasn't prepared."

"n.o.body's ever prepared," Cash replied. "I worked in covert areas for years. Some of the things I had to do involved children."

Garon glanced at him. "Children carrying AK-47s, if memory serves."

"Yeah," Cash replied. "That didn't make it any easier to pull the trigger."

"At least it was a clean kill. This is messy. It's messy and deliberate and depraved," he said harshly. "I don't like sharing the planet with a human being who could do something like that to a little girl."

"So catch him and make sure he gets Death Road," Cash replied.

Garon glanced at his brother and managed a smile. "You're an optimist. We don't even have a suspect yet."

"Ask enough people, and somebody will have seen something," came the reply. "I guarantee it."

Garon nodded. He stared at Grace without actually seeing her. "Thanks," he said curtly.

"What are brothers for?" Cash chuckled.

THE WAKE was only two hours, but Grace felt exhausted, physically and emotionally, when it was all over. She climbed into the car with Garon and Miss Turner without a word.

She went into her house to fix the cake and some of the food for Garon to take home with him while Miss Turner waited in the car.

"I really appreciate you and Miss Turner going with me tonight," she said in a subdued tone. "I didn't realize how lonely it would be."

"Lonely?" he murmured, watching her put food in sealed plastic containers. "Half the town was there."

She turned, staring at him. "You can be alone in a city."

"I suppose so. Save some of that for yourself," he told her.

"I'll still have plenty. I'll freeze what I don't eat right away."

"Don't bother with that apple pie," he stopped her when she began to unwrap it.

"But you like apple cake," she replied, perplexed.

"I like your apple cake," he corrected.

She flushed and laughed a little nervously. "Oh. Thanks."

"Compliments embarra.s.s you," he noted.

She shrugged. "I'm not used to them."

But she should have been, he thought, watching her. From what he'd heard, she was a good little cook. And she seemed never to get tired of listening to other people talk. So few people could listen.

She put the plastic containers in a big plastic bag and handed them to him. "Thanks again," she said shyly.

"Thank you." He hesitated. "What time is the funeral tomorrow?"

"It's at eleven," she said. "But please don't feel obliged to-"

"I can't make it," he interrupted. "I have to help interview neighbors around the child's home. I'm sorry."

"You've done so much already," she began.

"Miss Turner will go with you," he continued. He held up a hand. "She volunteered."

"All right, then. Thank her for me."

He nodded. "She'll pick you up a few minutes past ten in the morning."

"All right."

She looked sad and lonely and lost. Impulsively he reached out and touched a lock of her blond hair that had escaped from its bun. She caught her breath and moved back a step instinctively.

That irritated him. His dark eyes flashed. "Good night, then," he said curtly, took the bag and turned to leave.

She bit her lower lip almost through. He was being kind, but she couldn't help her own reactions.

He paused at the front door. "Keep this locked," he told her as he opened it. "Even out here in the country, there are dangerous people."

"I will."

She was like a stick figure. Her posture spoke volumes. Her large gray eyes were glittery with fear. He turned and moved toward her, noticing how much more she tensed as he approached her. He scowled down at her. "Why are you afraid of me?" he asked very softly.

She stumbled for words and couldn't find any that would suit the occasion. She grimaced, avoiding his penetrating gaze. He saw too much.

"Never mind," he said when she didn't reply. "It isn't as if I'm interested in you that way," he added almost as an afterthought, and with a cold, faint smile. "Good night."

He walked down the steps as nonchalantly as if he'd forgotten her existence. She knew he'd been mentally comparing her with that flashy niece of Mrs. Tabor's and it made her furious. She wished that she were a whole woman, a beautiful woman, who could drive him mad with her good looks and make him forget that flashy newcomer. But it was a forlorn hope. She dressed as she lived-behind barriers of s.e.xlessness. It was a prison from which there would never be an escape for her. Despite the attractions of her s.e.xy next-door neighbor.

6.

THE FUNERAL was brief, and only a few people attended it. Grace wept for her grandmother at the graveside service and then dried her eyes. She had to learn to take care of herself, to live alone and work alone, with n.o.body to talk to. It was going to be a hard existence, until she got the hang of it. She was aware, and surprised, that Garon had shown up just in time for the graveside service. He stood apart, frowning curiously at one of the other people attending the ceremony.

After the minister offered his condolences, she got up, turned and almost plowed right into Richard Marquez, standing beside Barbara.

"Thank you both for coming," she said, smiling. "I wasn't expecting you."

Barbara hugged her warmly. "You're family. Of course we came."

Marquez nodded, and smiled. Garon noticed that Marquez made no move to touch Grace or even approach her. Why was he here? How well did the man know his mysterious next-door neighbor? He hadn't mentioned Mrs. Collier's funeral to Garon when the task force met.

Grace looked toward Garon a little uneasily. He joined the small group, with Miss Turner beside him.

"I didn't know you'd be here," Marquez said, shaking hands. "Did you know Mrs. Collier?"

"He and Miss Turner have been kind enough to watch out for me in the past few days," Grace said without looking at Garon.

Marquez seemed curious, but he didn't press it. "I have to get back to work," he told Grace. "Mom wanted to come, and I didn't want her to have to come alone."

"Worrywart," Barbara chided the young man. "I'll outlive you."

"See you around," Marquez told Garon.

He nodded, including Barbara in the gesture. She smiled secretively at Grace and followed Marquez out of the cemetery.

"I didn't know you were acquainted with Marquez," Garon remarked as they walked back toward their cars with Miss Turner. Miss Turner had ridden in with Grace, and she went a little ahead of them to wait at the Expedition for her.

"We grew up together," she replied to Garon. "Sort of," she amended. "He was six years older than me."

He didn't say anything else, but he was curious.

GRACE WENT BACK HOME and started cleaning out her grandmother's bedroom. It gave her something to do, kept her busy. It was a sad task. In the closet, the old lady had kept some gowns that had belonged to Grace's mother. There were photographs, too, of her parents and both sets of her grandparents. She sat in her grandmother's chair, looking through the photo alb.u.m, and crying a little as it grew later. Death wasn't exactly an option in life-everyone had to face it sooner or later. But she wasn't ready. As unpleasant as her grandmother could be, it was lonely without the old lady.

She didn't have to go to work the next morning, so she slept late. It was just as well; the nightmare had come back again in the early hours before dawn. She'd sat up in bed, sobbing wildly. She recalled Garon's strong hands on her shoulders, lifting her, the night when she'd been afraid. She felt drawn to him, but she had an irrational fear of men when they got too close. It was a shame that she was imprisoned in her own memory. He seemed a very decent sort of man, and he had a kind heart.

She had a light lunch and spent the afternoon hard at work on her project, in the sewing room that her grandmother had once used. She was pleased with her progress and hopeful that it might one day provide a new source of income, if she were lucky.

The afternoon was cold and the wind was bl.u.s.tery. It was slowly growing dark and her old tomcat, Wilbur, hadn't come up for his evening meal.

She walked out into the yard, looking for him. There was a faint cry on the wind. She heard it without realizing what it was until the pitch escalated. It was Wilbur, and he was squalling.

She turned and ran toward the sound, at the back of the house, calling him at the top of her lungs.

He squalled again. She ran faster, pausing just a minute to catch her breath before she forced her body back into speed. As she approached the beginning of the plowed field, she saw a flash of orange with a big, reddish brown form gaining on it.

Instinctively she picked up a fallen limb from the pecan tree and hefted it. "Wilbur!" she yelled.

The old cat veered, quickly for an animal of his years, and moved toward her. As the animal behind it came closer, she realized that it was a coyote. She'd heard neighbors talk about them eating cats and killing dogs. She got a firmer hold on the limb. He wasn't eating Wilbur!

She moved toward the animal, no thought of the danger she could be in, and slammed the limb down at his head. He stopped abruptly and let out a cry. Then he looked at her, crouched and growled.

"You get out of my yard! You're not hurting my cat!" she yelled, swinging the limb again. This time it connected with his hind quarters and he let out a yowl. She was too angry to feel fear. She went toward him again, yelling as she swung the limb. He started backing up, growling, but retreating.

"Git!" she yelled.

He shook himself, gave her a last indignant look and trotted back off into the field.

She leaned on the limb. Her ankle was throbbing. She'd run right over a bush chasing the coyote. She hadn't fallen, but she'd tripped uncomfortably hard. She groaned as she bent to wrap her fingers around it. "Wilbur?" she called.

The old cat came trotting up, looking as if he hadn't a care in the world. He rubbed up against her leg, twirling around it affectionately. She could hear him purring in the stillness of late afternoon.

"You horror," she muttered. "Look what you made me do!"

He purred louder.

She started to turn and fell heavily to the ground. Holding her ankle, with the cat now in her lap and rubbing against her furiously, she couldn't get up. This was a fine way to end the day, she thought miserably. She'd probably be out here all night, unless she could drag herself to the front porch. Well, at least the coyote was gone...