Sandra Brown - Ricochet

Believing it to be impossible, he asked, “Are you cold?”

“Do you mind turning on the heater?”

He was sweating, but he turned on the heater.

She laid her cheek against the headrest. He could feel her studying his profile while he kept his eyes resolutely on the road’s center stripe. The windshield wipers were fighting a noisy but losing battle against the volume of rain. She said, “You could get into a lot of trouble, couldn’t you?”

“I’m already in a lot of trouble. I was in trouble when I left the morgue, knowing it wasn’t you under that sheet.”

After a lengthy pause, she said, “You were in trouble long before that, Duncan.”

When he dared to look at her, she was asleep.

She was still sleeping when he brought the car to a stop. He extinguished the headlights and got out. The rain had decreased somewhat but was still falling steadily. His shoes crunched on the oyster-shell driveway as he rounded the hood of the car. She stirred when he opened the passenger door.

“We’re here.”

She sat up and blinked. “Where?”

“I’m getting wet.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She got out, a bit awkwardly because of her cuffed hands. “Whose house is this?”

“It belonged to my grandmother.”

The small house was built on stilts, a precaution that had kept it from flooding numerous times. He preceded Elise up a set of steep wood steps. “Careful, they’re slick.”

He found the key under the flowerpot where it was always left, then unlocked the door and held it open for her. “When my grandmother died it became my mom’s,” he said. “But Mom had a near-drowning experience when she was a kid and never gets near a body of water larger than her bathtub. Dad comes here to fish sometimes, but not that often. I’m free to use the place anytime I like, but I rarely do.”

“Why don’t you use it? It looks charming.”

“In the dark it does. In daylight you can see the wood rot, the peeling paint, rusty hinges. It’s practically surrounded by water, so it’s a pain in the ass to maintain.”

When he switched on a table lamp, he saw that she was smiling at him. “You love this house.”

Her small and perceptive smile, her tone of voice, made it a warm, fuzzy moment. This was definitely not the time for warm fuzzies. Brusquely he said, “I used to spend a lot of time here in the summers.”

She moved to the nearest window and parted the curtains to look out. “Where are we?”

“Lady’s Island. That’s Beaufort over there.”

For the most part, the town across the water was dark, but a few lights twinkled through the rain and on the rippling surface of the channel.

Turning away from the window, she took in the details of the room. “It’s small,” he said, sounding more defensive than he intended. He was thinking about the mansion she shared with Cato Laird. “Kitchen,” he said, pointing. Only a peninsula of cabinetry separated it from the living area. “It isn’t stocked. I’ll go out for food in the morning. Bedroom. Bath there.”

She moved toward the open door of the bedroom and peered inside. When she came back around, she nodded toward the piano, which was much too large for such a compact room, an indication of its importance. “Your grandmother’s?”

“She loved piano. The one at my town house belonged to her, too.”

“Do you play?”

He heard himself saying, “Sometimes,” and realized that was the first time he’d ever willingly admitted it.

She studied him for a moment, then asked, “Will anyone look for you here?”

He shook his head.

“Not even Detective Bowen?”

Again he shook his head.

“Have you ever brought anyone here before tonight?”

The answer was no, but he didn’t want her to know that. Already she was learning personal things about him, which, in their present circumstances, she didn’t need to know.

As though to convey that to himself as well as to her, he yanked the telephone cord out of the wall jack with more flourish than necessary, then wound it around the instrument. “Do you have a cell phone?”

“It was left behind in my handbag.”

“You’ve had days-”

“I’ve had no one to call, Duncan. Besides, if I had a phone, you would have felt it when you searched me.”

Reminded of touching her, he turned abruptly and went out, taking his grandmother’s telephone with him. He clumped down the steps to the car, where he locked the telephone inside the trunk and got his duffel bag from the backseat. When he returned, Elise was standing in the bathroom door. “I can’t use it…” She held up her hands.

He unlocked the handcuffs and removed them. She thanked him, then slipped into the bathroom and closed the door.

He set the duffel bag on the floor and opened it. After quickly loading the spare pistol, he placed it on top of a knickknack cabinet, far enough back where his guest couldn’t see it. She couldn’t get to it without standing on something.

When she emerged from the bathroom, he sailed a pair of boxer shorts and a T-shirt in her direction. She caught them against her chest. “Since you don’t have a change of clothes and yours are damp, you may be more comfortable sleeping in those.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He went into the bedroom and took a quilt and pillow from the closet, then carried them into the living room and threw them on the couch. He took off his shoes. “I’m beat.”

“If you want to take the bed, I’ll be fine on the sofa,” she said.

“And have Grandmother’s ghost haunt me forever?” He shook his head. She smiled, but as they gazed at each other across the short distance that separated them, her smile gradually faded. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Cato and Savich?”

“In the morning.”

“There’s a lot to tell.”

“In the morning.”

“All right. I’ll explain everything then. Good night.”

She turned into the bedroom, but he stopped her. “Elise?”

It was the first time he had ever addressed her by her first name, and it surprised them both.

“There is one thing I’ve got to know,” he said. “And I’ll know if you lie to me.”

“I won’t lie to you.”

“Have you slept with Savich?”

“No.” She replied immediately and without equivocation. His need to believe that one thing must have been telegraphed to her by his piercing gaze because she repeated it softly and emphatically, “No, Duncan.”

He felt as though a fist that had been squeezing his heart had relaxed its tenacious grip. “Sleep tight.”

At eight o’clock the following morning, Judge Cato Laird’s press conference was about to be televised on all the local stations. He was already in position on the podium, under the glare of lights, waiting for it to begin. With him was Chief of Police Taylor. Sound technicians were adjusting microphones. Reporters from print and broadcast media were milling about, chatting with one another while vying for the best vantage points.

Savich, watching on his silenced TV, dialed a telephone number. He saw the judge react to his vibrating cell phone, saw him reach for it and lift it to his ear, saw his lips form the word when he answered with a brusque, “Yes?”

“Good morning, Judge. I called to extend my condolences.”

Cato Laird recognized his voice instantly, of course. Savich watched as the judge’s expression changed from that of a bereaved husband to a man who’d just swallowed a raw egg. Savich imagined his sphincter clenching. The judge nervously glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. He moved away from the police chief, who was talking to a uniformed officer.

“Your upper lip is damp with perspiration, Judge,” Savich said. “You may want to dab some makeup on that before the press conference begins.”