ing sunlight. She craved to feel his hard lips on hers again,
the rough, powerful mastery of his tongue inside her mouth.
She became dewy with desire and tearful with remorse for
what she desperately wanted and couldn't have.
Eyes locked, neither realized that they were being observed
from across the street. The sun was as good as a spotlight
on them.
Willing herself out of the dubious present and into the
disturbing past, she said, "Junior told me that you and Celina
were more than just childhood sweethearts." It was a bluff,
but she gambled on it working. "He told me everything about
your relationship with her, so it really doesn't matter whether
you admit it or not. When did you and she first . . .'" you
know?"
"Fuck?"
The vulgarity, spoken in a low, thrumming rasp, sent shafts
of heat through her. Never had that word sounded erotic to
her before. She swallowed and made an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment.
Suddenly, he hooked his hand around the back of her neck
and pulled her against him, placing her face directly beneath
his. His eyes bore into hers.
"Junior didn't tell you shit, Counselor," he whispered.
"Don't try your fancy, courtroom-lawyer bluffs on me. I've
got eighteen years on you, and I was born smart. The tricks
I've got up my sleeve, you've never even heard about. I'm
damn sure not ignorant enough to fall for yours."
His fist clenched tighter around the handful of her hair he
was holding. His breath felt hotter and came faster against
her face. "Don't ever try to come between Junior and me again, you hear? Fight us both or fuck us both, but don't
tamper with something outside your understanding."
His eyes narrowed with sinister intensity. "Your mama
had a bad habit of playing both ends against the middle, Alex.
Somebody got a bellyful of it and killed her before she learned
her lesson. You'd do well to learn it before something like
that happens to you."
The morning was a washout in terms of discovering new
clues. Nothing diverted her mind from the disturbing conversation
she had had with Reede. If a deputy hadn't knocked
on the office door and interrupted them, she didn't know
whether she would have clawed at Reede's eyes or yielded
to her stronger urge to press her body close to his and kiss
him.
At noon she stopped trying to concentrate and crossed the
street to have lunch at the B & B Cafe. Like most people
who worked downtown, that had become her habit. No longer
were conversations suspended when she went in. Every now
and then she even merited a greeting from Pete if he wasn't
too busy in the kitchen.
She dawdled over her meal as long as possible, scooting
the yellow ceramic armadillo ashtray back and forth across
her table and leafing through Pete's printed brochure on the
proper way to prepare rattlesnake.
She was killing time, loath to return to the dingy little
office in the basement of the courthouse and stare into space,
recounting unsettling thoughts and reviewing hypotheses that
seemed more farfetched by the hour. But one thought kept
haunting her. Was there any connection between Celina's
death and Junior's hasty marriage to Stacey Wallace?
Her mind was steeped in speculation when she left the
cafe. Ducking her head against the cold wind, she walked
toward the corner. The traffic light, one of the few downtown,
changed just as she reached the corner. She was about to step
off the cracked and buckled concrete curb when her arm was
caught from behind.
"Reverend Plummet," she stated in surprise. Subsequent
events had quickly dismissed him and his timid wife from
her mind.
"Miss Gaither," he said in a censorious tone, "I saw you
with the sheriff this morning." He could have tacked on any
number of deadly sins to account for the accusation smoldering
in his deep-set eyes. "You've disappointed me."
"I fail to see--"
"Furthermore," he interrupted with the rolling intonation
of a sidewalk evangelist, "you've disappointed the Almighty."
His eyes rounded largely, then closed to mere slits.
"I warn you, the Lord will not tolerate being mocked."
She nervously moistened her lips and glanced around, hoping
to see some avenue of escape, though she didn't know
what form it might take. "I haven't meant to offend you or
God," she said, feeling foolish for even making such a statement.
"You haven't locked the iniquitous behind bars yet."
"I haven't found any reason to. My investigation isn't
complete. And just to set the record straight, Reverend Plummet,
I didn't come here to lock anybody behind bars."
"You're being too soft on the ungodly."
"If by that you mean that I've approached this investigation
impartially, then yes, I have."
"I saw you this morning fraternizing with that son of the
devil."
His maniacal eyes were arresting, if repellent. She caught
herself staring into them. "You mean Reede?"
He made a hissing sound, as though the very name conjured
up an evil spirit that must be warded off. "Don't be taken
in by his wily devices."
"I assure you, I'm not."
He came a step closer. "The devil knows where women
are weak. He uses their soft, vulnerable bodies as channels
for his evil powers. They're tainted, and must be cleansed
by a regular outpouring of blood."
He isn't only nutty, he's sick, Alex thought in horror.
He slapped his hand upon his Bible, causing Alex to jump.
Raising his index finger into the air, he shouted, "Resist all
temptation, daughter! I command every lascivious impulse
to desert your heart and mind and body. Now," he bellowed.
He slumped, as though the exorcism had totally drained
him of energy. Alex stood transfixed by disbelief. Coming
to her senses, she glanced around uneasily, hoping that no
one had witnessed this madness and her unwitting involvement
in it.
"As far as I know, I have no lascivious impulses. Now,
I must go. I'm late." She stepped off the curb despite the
fact that the traffic light was flashing instructions not to walk.
"God is counting on you. He's impatient. If you betray
his trust--"
"Yes, well, I'll try harder. Goodbye."
He lunged off the curb and grabbed her by the shoulders.
"God bless you, daughter. God bless you and your holy
mission." Clasping her hand, he pressed a cheaply printed
pamphlet into it.
"Thank you."
Alex worked her hand free and jogged across the street,
quickly putting two lanes of traffic between her and the
preacher. She trotted up the steps and barreled through the
courthouse doors.
Glancing over her shoulder to see if Plummet had followed
her, she ran right into Reede.
He caught her against his chest. "What the hell's the matter
with you? Where have you been?"
She wanted to lean against him, feel his protective strength,
until her heart stopped racing, but didn't allow herself the
luxury. "Nowhere. I mean, I went out. To lunch. At the,
uh, the B & B. I walked."
He studied her, taking in her windblown hair and ruddy
cheeks. "What's that?" He nodded down at the pamphlet
she was clutching in her white-knuckled hand.
' 'Nothing.'' She tried to stuff it into the pocket of her coat.
Reede snatched it out of her hand. He scanned the cover,
flipped it open, and read the message heralding doomsday.
"You into this?"
"Of course not. A sidewalk preacher handed it to me. You
really should devote some attention to clearing the panhandlers
off your city's streets, Sheriff," she said haughtily.
"They're a nuisance."
She stepped around him and continued downstairs.
Twenty-two
Nora Gail sat up and retrieved the filmy garment she'd worn
into the room.
"Thanks," Reede said to her.
She gave him a reproving glance over her milky-white
shoulder. Drolly she replied, "How romantic." After shoving
her arms through the ruffled sleeves of the peignoir, she left
the bed and moved toward the door. "I've got to go check
on things, but I'll be back, and we can talk." Patting her
beehive hairdo, she left the room.
Reede watched her go. Her body was compact now, but in a
few years it would go to fat. The large breasts would sag. Her
oversized nipples would look grotesque without any muscle
tone supporting them. Her smooth, slightly convex belly
would become spongy. Her thighs and ass would dimple.
Even though they were friends, he hated her at the moment.
He hated himself more. He hated the physical necessity that
propelled him through this travesty of intimacy with a woman.
They rutted, probably more mindlessly and heartlessly than
some species of animals. The release should have been cleansing
and cathartic. It should have felt great. It didn't. It rarely
did anymore, certainly not recently.
"Shit," he muttered. He would probably go on sleeping
with her through their old age. It was convenient and uncomplicated.
Each knew what the other was able to give and
demanded nothing more. As far as Reede was concerned.
passion was based on need, not desire, and sure as hell not
on love.
He got off. So did she. She had often told him he was one
of the few men who could make her come. He wasn't particularly
flattered because that might be, and probably was,
a lie.
Disgusted, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. There
was a pack of cigarettes on the bedside table, courtesy of the
house. The carefully rolled joints you had to pay for. He lit
one of the cigarettes, something he rarely did anymore, and
drew the tobacco deep into his lungs. He missed the postcoital
cigarettes more than any others, maybe because the tobacco
punished and polluted the body that continually betrayed him
with a healthy sex drive.
He poured himself a drink from the bottle on the
nightstand--that would be added to his bill, even if he did
fuck the madam herself--and tossed it down in one swallow.
Rebeling, his esophagus contracted. His eyes teared. The
whiskey spread a slow, languid heat through his belly and
groin. He began to feel marginally better.
He lay back down and stared at the ceiling, wishing he
could sleep, but welcoming this coveted time of relaxation
when he wasn't called on to speak, move, or think.
His eyes closed. An image of a face, bathed in sunlight
and wreathed by loose, dark-auburn hair, was projected on
the backs of his eyelids. His cock, which should have been
limp with exhaustion, swelled and stretched with more pleasure
than it had felt earlier tonight.
Reede didn't whisk the image away, as he usually did.
This time he let it stay, evolve. The fantasy was welcomed
and indulged. He watched her blue eyes blink with surprise
at her own eroticism, watched her tongue nervously flick over
her lower lip.
He felt her against him, her heart beating in time with his,
her hair tangled in his fingers.
He tasted her mouth again, felt her tongue shyly flirting
with his.
He didn't realize that he made a low moan or that his penis
twitched reflexively. A drop of moisture pearled the tip.
Yearning pressed down on him suffocatingly.
"Reede!"
The door to the room was flung open and the madam rushed
back in, no longer looking cool and elegant.
"Reede," she repeated breathlessly.
"What the hell?" He swung his feet to the floor again and
stood up in one economical motion. He didn't think to be
embarrassed by his evident arousal. Something was desperately
wrong.
As long as he'd known her, he'd never seen her rattled,
but now, her eyes were wide with alarm. He was stepping
into his briefs before she even started speaking.
"They just called."
"Who?"
"Your office. There's an emergency."
"Where?" Already standing in jeans and an unbuttoned
shirt, he crammed his feet into his boots.
"The ranch."
He froze and swiveled his head toward her. "The Minton ranch?" She nodded. "What kind of emergency?"
"The deputy didn't say. Swear to God he didn't," she
added hurriedly when she could see that Reede was about to
question that.
"Personal or professional emergency?"
"I don't know, Reede. I got the impression that it's a
combination of both. He just said you're wanted out there
pronto. Is there anything I can do?"
"Call back and tell them I'm on my way." Grabbing his
coat and hat, he pushed her aside and ran into the hallway.
"Thanks."
"Let me know what happened," she called down to him,
leaning over the banister, watching his hasty descent.
"When I can." Seconds later he slammed the door behind
him, leaped over the porch rail, and hit the ground
running.