Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

“Because I’m the state AG. Therefore, he thought I should know that Britt Shelley had told him there was a connection between Jay Burgess’s murder and the police station fire.”

George propped his elbow on the desk and dropped his head into his palm.

Fordyce went on. “I asked Mr. Alexander why his client, Ms. Shelley, would link the two tragedies. Was she merely surmising, or had Jay told her something before he died? Mr. Alexander explained that he didn’t have time to ask her these questions before their cell-phone conversation was cut off.

“I’m not sure how well you know Bill Alexander, George, but he is an excitable individual on his best day. When he called me tonight, he was near panic. He had promised Detective Clark that Ms. Shelley was due to arrive at her house within an hour of their conversation to turn herself in. She never showed. Once again, her whereabouts are unknown.”

“Huh. Why did Alexander call you with this news flash?”

“He’s wondering if he should give any credence to Ms. Shelley’s allegation that there’s a relationship between the fire and the murder of Jay Burgess. He asked my opinion on the matter. Did I think it warranted further investigation? Should it be made public? Or kept quiet? In short, he’s got a rattlesnake by the neck and doesn’t know where to pitch it.”

George wanted badly to throw up. “When Alexander called Detective Clark, told him that Britt Shelley was on her way home to surrender, do you know if he mentioned this business about the fire?”

“No, he didn’t. He thought he should consult me first.”

Well, George thought with relief, that was something. Not much. But something. Sensing movement, he looked up to see his father-in-law and Miranda standing side by side just inside the study door.

Cobb was saying, “I don’t like this harkening back to the fire, George. It could become very uncomfortable for all of us.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that.” He took a quick breath. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“We must talk, George.”

“Right. I’ll call you early.” He hung up before the AG could say anything further.

Miranda walked to a leather sofa and draped herself over the arm of it, stretching languorously, expanding those creamy breasts above the low neckline of her dress. “Who was that, darling?”

“Cobb Fordyce.”

Her eyebrows arched eloquently, but it was Les who asked, “What did our attorney general have to say for himself at this hour of the night?”

George divided a look between them. “He said we have a problem.”

BRITT OBJECTED TO THE OXYGEN. “I’M OKAY. HONESTLY.”

“Breathe it for five minutes. Long enough for me to shower.” She relented and positioned the cannula. “Just breathe normally.” She gave Raley a thumbs-up, but it was a feeble gesture.

Exhausted and emotionally shaken, they had exchanged only a few words on the long drive back to the cabin. There was much to discuss, but they had tacitly agreed that all of it could wait until they were physically restored.

Fearing bacteria that may have latched on to him in the Combahee, Raley showered vigorously. None of the cuts and scratches on his arms and hands looked serious, but he dabbed them with antiseptic before putting on a clean T-shirt and a pair of old jeans he’d cut off at the knees.

Britt was sitting exactly as he’d left her in one of the chairs at the dining table, her bare feet resting on the dowel between the front legs, toes curled under. He switched off the oxygen, and she removed the tubing from her nostrils. “Can I shower now?”

He motioned her toward the bedroom. “I left a fresh towel and some clothes in the bathroom.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head as she disappeared into the bedroom, moving like a sleepwalker.

He’d thought he was ravenous, but when he opened the refrigerator, nothing looked appetizing. Forgoing food, he returned to the bedroom. The shower was still running. His gaze drifted around the room, lighting on the sweet potato vine.

It was a nice, homey touch.

The shower went off. He stepped back into the living area and waited until he heard the bathroom door open, then went as far as the bedroom door. She had put on the T-shirt and boxer shorts he’d left out for her. They were huge on her, of course. The shorts rode low on her hips, and the shirtsleeves drooped past her elbows, but she was decent.

Her hair was still wet. Her eye sockets were dark, and her eyes themselves looked extraordinarily wide and vacant. He doubted anyone from her television audience would recognize this bedraggled waif as the with-it woman who brought them the latest news.

“Sit down on the bed,” he said. “I’ll put some stuff on those cuts. It stings, but that means it works.”

Without argument she went to the bed and sat down. He returned from the bathroom with a bottle of antiseptic and a roll of toilet paper. He didn’t have cotton balls.

He hunkered down in front of her and ripped off a wad of the tissue, dousing it with the strong-smelling liquid fire. He swabbed a scrape on her arm. Breath hissed through her clenched teeth. “Warned you,” he said.

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll be quick.” He moved to another cut, this one on her knee. “I had to pull you through the windshield.”

“I couldn’t break it.”

“I took a wrench down with me, hammered on it until it broke. You don’t remember that part?” She shook her head. “Probably just as well,” he said.

“I remember the car hitting the water. Hard. My air bag opened, then deflated. The car tipped down. My seat belt held me in. I remember thinking how sudden it all was. But it also seemed that everything went into slow motion, you know?”

He nodded as he ripped off several more sheets of tissue and dribbled the liquid onto them.

“The headlights and all those on the dash went out. It was dark. So dark.”

“You don’t have to talk about it, Britt.”

“The car filled with water.” She continued as though she hadn’t heard him. He didn’t think she had. “It closed over my head. I undid my seat belt and started banging on the window, but…” She turned her head from side to side. Tears filled her eyes. She was shivering. “I kept trying to break the glass, but I couldn’t. And I couldn’t hold my breath any longer.”

“Britt, are you cold?”

“No.”

But her teeth were chattering. He stood up and yanked the quilt off the bed, then pulled it around her. She clutched at the fabric, crossing her arms over her chest, huddling inside the quilt.

He knelt in front of her again and assessed a cut on her temple. “Bad enough, but not so deep that you need stitches. You might have a faint scar, at least for a while. With makeup on, you probably won’t be able to see it at all. Especially on camera.”

He was talking to keep her calm. Or maybe he was talking to keep himself calm. One of them had to hold it together, and she was the one who’d been the most traumatized and who now looked extremely fragile.

What she was experiencing was typical. Now that the imminent danger was over, the realization had set in-she’d had a near miss with death. He’d seen it happen dozens of times with people who’d been rescued from a burning building or some other perilous situation. When the adrenaline rush ebbed, and they fully grasped the mortal danger they had been in, they often became hysterical.

He heard a little hitch in her breathing, and it alarmed him. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

“No.”

He poured antiseptic onto a fresh pad of toilet paper and applied it to the jagged cut on her forehead. She made another hiccuping sound. The tears standing in her eyes spilled onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I know this medicine stings,” he said. “But only for a little while. I promise.”