Maggie Shayne - Darker Than Midnight

“Hey there, fella,” Jax said softly. “You don’t have to be afraid. It’s all right.” She held out a hand, figuring it might be more appealing if there was a steak clutched in her grip, but tried anyway. “Come on. Come say hello.”

The dog stared at her, even took a single step forward. But then he lunged past her and loped away, out of sight.

Jax shrugged, put her things in the car and popped the trunk. Then she went back to get the dish—the dog had eaten every last crumb—and refilled it with fresh dog food.

“At least he’s getting fed,” she muttered, and thought briefly how malnourished her stranger from last night had looked, sitting naked in front of the fire. That “naked in front of the fire” image just wasn’t going to quit, was it? she wondered with a smile. What the hell. She was human and straight, and he…he was something. Even though she could see his ribs, his shoulder blades, he was something.

She pushed the thought from her mind and took the dog’s bowl back to the porch, only this time, instead of putting it underneath, she set it on the porch itself, hoping to lure the animal closer.

Then she took one last look around, unsure which stray she sought. Seeing no sign of either one of them, she got into her car and drove to her parents’ place.

River had awakened groggy, to find himself warm as toast in a bundle of blankets on the floor, in front of a dying fire. As he sat up, searching his memory for clues what he was doing there, his gaze fell on the woman in the corner. She leaned back against the wall, a pillow cushioning her, her head cocked at an angle that would probably result in her having a stiff neck all day. The red-orange rays of the rising sun painted her face in brushstrokes of light and shadow. Long blond hair framed her face. She had a small nose, round high cheekbones, and the neck of a swan. Deceptive, her fragile looks. She’d knocked him flat on his ass last night. As his gaze slid over her small form, it stopped on the place where her hand rested atop her folded legs, because it held a gun. A .45.

He closed his eyes slowly, and his memory of the night before returned. He examined that memory thoroughly, in search of gaps. He remembered taking refuge here, in his former home. He’d thought it was empty. He remembered waking to find her standing in the bedroom shining a flashlight in his face, demanding to know who he was. And he remembered, vividly, the way she’d taken him out when he’d tried to lunge past her.

He’d escaped into the cold, snowy night, only to hunch in the woods, wondering where the hell he was going to go. And then he’d seen her, creeping out of the house, looking for him, shining that damn light around.

He’d backed off, got out of her range and started to walk away. He still hadn’t known where he would go—he only knew he needed to put some distance between himself and the curious woman. But then he’d made the mistake of glancing back, just once more, and he’d seen her walking out across the frozen pond as if she didn’t even know what it was. And then he realized she probably didn’t.

When she went through the ice, every instinct he’d ever possessed kicked into high gear. He didn’t think, he simply reacted, the way any veteran cop would. By the time he stopped to think, he was already on his belly, arms plunging into the icy water in search of the woman.

God, when he thought about how close it had been…He got her out, only to go through himself. And she’d refused to leave him—pulled him out, her tiny body showing its hidden strength and power. Then she’d insisted he come into the house with her to get warm, even brought him dry clothes to put on.

He’d looked down at himself as he remembered, noting the too-small sweatpants he wore. Then he looked again at the woman, and another memory came. The rush of emotion that had swamped him in his drugged, overwrought state, probably aggravated by nearly freezing to death, and by exhaustion and by hunger, and by being there in that house again. He’d clung to the woman. He might even have wept.

He remembered her hesitation and then slow acceptance. The way her hands had moved through his hair and her voice, deep and comforting somehow, had told him it was okay.

It wasn’t, of course. It never would be. But it had been nice to be in a woman’s arms. Human contact, physical touch had vanished from his life. It had been limited to being manhandled by orderlies or injected by nurses. No one touched mental patients any more than was absolutely necessary. He hadn’t been aware how much he’d missed that, being touched, touching back.

Even now, something in him whispered that he could touch her again. That if he sat there beside her, and wrapped her in his arms, she might not turn away. Amazing, to think she wouldn’t—that she hadn’t. He was a stranger to her, and she wasn’t gullible or naive enough to trust a stranger just because he’d pulled her from the icy jaws of certain death. The gun she held was proof enough of that.

He slid slowly out of the bundle of blankets and took his own clothing from the fireplace screen. It was dry. The knife he’d taken from the orderly was still tucked deep in the pocket of the thin pants. She hadn’t found it. His brain was functioning at a better level than it had been last night, and it occurred to him that he ought to stash that blade somewhere, in case it still had the dead orderly’s prints on it. It would be the only proof, beyond his word, that he’d killed the man in self-defense. The longer he carried the blade around, the more likely the prints would get rubbed off.

He left it where it was, for the moment, in the pocket of the pants as he removed his borrowed ones and put them on. He took off the hooded sweatshirt and the nightshirt she’d loaned him. Put on his own T-shirt, then the uniform shirt over it, and after a moment’s hesitation, pulled the hood back on over them both. The shoes were dry, so he put them on, as well. He added two blocks of wood to the fire and set the screen in place. Then he took the blanket she’d left wrapped around him, walked across the room to where she lay, and bent low to spread it gently over her.

For a long moment he knelt there, looking at her. She’d given him something last night. A couple of things. A chance to call up the cop that still lived deep inside him—the man he’d believed was long dead. A chance to prove to himself that he was still a human being, and maybe not an entirely bad one.

And her touch. Her embrace. Her warmth and her soothing voice.

He wondered if she would ever know how much those things had meant.

Finally, he turned away from her and crept out of the house. He had work to do. A long-buried truth to uncover. And he was damned if he even knew where to begin, but he supposed the first thing was to find a hideaway. A place to live, to sleep, to heal. And food. Damn, he needed food. And clothes to wear. Those would be today’s missions, he thought. Today, he would work on covering his basic human needs while the drugs worked their way out of his system.

After that, he’d begin digging into the secrets of his past.

So he walked—walked for hours over back roads, in search of an empty barn or hovel he where he could hole up—but he didn’t find anything. Giving that up, he walked to the very edge of town, thought about lingering in the laundromat until someone left some clothes unattended, and maybe snatching a pair of jeans or an outing shirt that would fit him. But he didn’t dare get any closer to town than that. He didn’t know if they were looking for him yet. And there was nowhere he’d be able to go where people in this town wouldn’t recognize him. His story had been a big one almost two years ago. God, had it really been that long? Retired NYPD cop goes bad. Everyone in town must have been talking about it.