Carrie Weaver - The Road To Echo Point

When the blow didn’t come, she cautiously opened her eyes and saw him standing before her, defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders.

Relief washed over her. She’d stared down fear. Something she couldn’t have done five years ago. He wouldn’t destroy her. Couldn’t make her cower. No matter how big or how strong he was.

Step by step, she forced her feet forward until she stood toe to toe with the hulk. Craning her neck, she made sure she didn’t lose eye contact.

“I think I’ll just call a few of my attorney friends. Find out a little about Judge Tanner,” she challenged.

Green, clear and steady. Ian held her gaze. The seconds ticked by, neither of them moving.

When he leaned one elbow back against the breakfast bar, she exhaled slowly. He was giving her room to breathe. Or enough rope to hang herself.

“Go ahead.” He nodded toward the phone on the kitchen counter. “I’m sure your legal beagles will get a hoot out of this one.”

Vi reached for the phone, then stopped, her hand suspended midair.

She studied his expression, searching for a weakness, an inconsistency. He didn’t blink, just gave her a cocky half grin.

Damn.

He set down his coffee cup, the one that proclaimed Ruggers Do It Down And Dirty, and retrieved the phone. Shoving the receiver in her hand, he said, “Here you go. Need privacy?”

“Nooo…that won’t be necessary.”

It was necessary to keep this whole fiasco as quiet as possible. He might be bluffing. But what if he weren’t? It was bad enough she had been banished to this godforsaken place for a month. A month where she was seriously out of the loop. A month for that weasel in the Scottsdale office to suck up to the big boss without any competition. No, she didn’t need to compound the problem by making a laughingstock of herself.

Or worse, find her butt parked at a desk in Underwriting. That’s exactly where eight points on her driver’s license would get her. The big boys upstairs took a dim view of impulsive behavior, especially if it opened up the company to liability. The boss would cover for her to a point. But if it became common knowledge around the legal community…

This little episode had to be erased. Like it never happened. No points on her license, no reminders.

“I—I believe you. I’ll stay.”

For now.

Ian eyed her suspiciously. Maybe she’d capitulated too fast.

Shrugging, she spread her hands wide. “Hey, you’ve got me over a barrel.”

The taut line of his shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’m a pretty mellow guy. Just be good to Daisy and we’ll get along fine.”

“Sure. Fine.” She flashed him a smile, an earnest, kid sister kind of smile. If she couldn’t beat him, she’d join him. Their goals were the same, after all. Get the dog back on its feet ASAP. “And since it looks like I’ll be here a while, why don’t I get dressed and you can tell me exactly what I can do to help Daisy and her four-legged friend.”

He still looked at her warily, but didn’t respond. Just frowned.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’ll meet in the den in, say, about half an hour? The den is down the hall, to the right.”

VI EASED INTO the battered old wingback chair. The torn leather armrest scratched the tender skin on the underside of her forearm. It reminded her of home. Only their furniture hadn’t started out as nice as this.

She suppressed a shudder. Someone needed to tape some holes, or better yet, scrap the chair entirely.

“Okay, shoot,” Vi prodded, notebook open, pen handy.

Ian sat behind his desk, in an equally worn leather executive chair, that one hunter green. The burgundy and green theme continued throughout the den. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, distressed wood of course. In the corner stood an adobe beehive fireplace, the inside smoke-blackened, but bare. Cozy.

Indian rugs, hand woven and old, judging by the muted colors and workmanship, were scattered on the floor, warming the brown ceramic tile. Here and there were a few knickknacks, something missing in the rest of the house. Hand-carved kachinas, outfitted in flamboyant turquoise and red, jockeyed for space between tan woven baskets and some sort of odd sculpture. Made out of a horseshoe and barbed wire, it looked like a cowboy twirling a lasso.

She cocked her head to the side, checking it out from another angle. Maybe it was a cowboy doing some sort of funky dance….

Her gaze slid to the wall behind Ian’s head. No more western stuff there. No, it was pure modern sports memorabilia. Photos of Randy Johnson and Jake “The Snake” Plummer and some guy in a hockey uniform. All were autographed, all personalized to Ian.

“You’ll watch Daisy from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m.”

She waited for him to continue.

He didn’t.

“And…”

“That’s it. Watch Daisy. If she so much as steps out of bed, you follow her. Help her find the bathroom if she gets lost. Wait for her, make sure she goes back to her room.”

“You said she’d calm down. Now that she’s used to me.”

He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Yeah. She’ll calm down.”

“Sounds simple enough if there’s no wrestling or windows involved.” Vi snapped closed the notebook. “That’s all the dog does?”

“Originally, Annabelle was trained to watch Daisy only at night, and come get me if she got out of bed. But she gradually extended her shift, so lately she’s spent most of her time with Daisy. There are only three other certified Alzheimer’s dogs in the world, so no one really knows what she can do.”

It was amazing. How they could train a dog to do stuff like that. How the dog seemed to understand almost on a human level.

Vi was intrigued, but didn’t want to give the guy any false hopes. So she suppressed all the questions whirling around in her head and attempted to look disinterested. “Cool,” she commented.

Ian raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll think it’s pretty damn cool, after about a week with Daisy. Last night was just a small sample. When I told you about the witching hour, it was to prepare you, not scare you. The technical term for it is ‘sundowning.’ A lot of people with Alzheimer’s get restless when the sun goes down. At night, their sleep patterns are disturbed and they frequently roam.”

“They childproof homes for kids. Can’t you do something like that for her? Special locks on the doors?”

“Daisy’s figured out every obstacle I can put in her way. The last time she roamed, she ended up two miles away, and it took Search and Rescue nearly six hours to find her. It was June—she was severely dehydrated and almost died.”

“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.

“Most people don’t.” He sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. The bags under his eyes made him look like one of those sad old hound dogs that never moved from the porch. “Hell, I had no idea. Nobody does, until you’ve been there.”

She almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. There was no way she intended to get drawn into his problems. She had enough of her own.

“So I’m off duty during the day?”

He nodded slowly. “If I were you, I’d sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

“I’m sure I can handle it. You a sports nut or something?” She gestured toward the pictures on the wall.

“I guess you could call me that. I was a sports writer.”

A writer. Interesting.

“Was?”

“Until two years ago. When Vince—I mean—Sheriff Moreno, called.” His gaze was focused on the wall behind her left ear. Like he was there, but wasn’t there.

“Asked if I’d noticed Daisy getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town. Said she’d seemed disoriented, didn’t know where she was or how she got there.”