OBLIGATION
By MeridyM
meridym@home.com
CHAPTER 4
The ruddy-faced man with the coppery hair smiled at the
elegant shrub in front of him. It was his wife's prize
rose bush, a vital and exquisite La Reine Victoria, its
classic pink blooms a lush contrast to its green leaves.
He'd learned over the last year how to prune it, though the
first time he'd stood over it with shears he'd been afraid
he'd kill the shrub and, with it, another part of his wife.
But the bush was forgiving, and it had thrived despite his
initial ineptitude. He shut his eyes and breathed in the
heady fragrance of the blossoms. The rose bush was a
thing of beauty in so many ways, he thought, and it helped
keep his wife alive for him. He felt the familiar angry
tightening in his gut as he thought of his wife, his Nora.
It was too bad that he wasn't as forgiving as the rose
bush.
The sound of a car moving slowly down the lane drew him
back to now. He stood up and turned away from the bush,
taking a deep breath. A dark late model sedan pulled up in
the lane and stopped in front of his little house. He
stood still where he was and watched and waited.
Strangers.
The car doors opened, and a man in shirtsleeves and a
willowy, dark-haired woman got out and walked over to him.
They looked like they had business with him, or thought
they did.
"Hugh Goodall?" the man asked. His voice was deep, his
presence no-nonsense. Goodall looked him over. He'd seen
men like this one before--he had "cop" written on him in
big letters.
"Yes," Goodall answered. "May I help you folks?"
John Doggett held up his credentials. The man's eyes
flicked quickly to them, then back to Doggett's face.
"Could we ask you a few questions?" Doggett asked.
"Yes, sure," Goodall said. "Come on inside." He turned
and opened the door for the two agents, noticing the quick
look the two exchanged before they moved to come inside.
They walked into the house's narrow front hallway. As
Doggett followed Goodall down the hall, he took unconscious
inventory, his eyes moving from a small mud room (boots, shoes,
a yellow rain slicker, an umbrella, a fishing rod) to a table
(keys, binoculars, a neat stack of white envelopes), to a hall
closet, its door ajar (too dark to assess). He felt Monica
close behind him. Goodall led them into his living room.
"Please, sit down. Can I get you anything to drink?"
Goodall asked. "I know how hot it is outside."
"No, thanks," Doggett said, sitting down carefully in a
delicate upholstered wing chair. He looked around. The
decor of the house was almost suffocatingly feminine. The
room was a hodgepodge of houseplants, chintz slipcovers,
embroidered pillows, knickknacks, and warring wallpaper
patterns. He glanced at Monica, who sat down on the
flowered sofa and raised her eyebrows at him, smiling just
slightly.
"Mr. Goodall," Monica said, after Goodall sat down in the
chair opposite Doggett, "we just have a few questions for
you. I know you've already given your statement to the
police."
"Yes," Goodall drawled. "I've talked to them twice now."
His gray eyes were intent on her face.
"Mr. Goodall," Doggett said, "how long have you been the
sexton at the Methodist Church here?"
Goodall turned to Doggett, frowning. "It was three years
in May, I think. Yes, three years."
"You were the one who reported the desecration at the
church last month, right?" Doggett asked.
"Yes," Goodall said with a nod. "I found the sanctuary
that way in the morning when I went over to check on the
church. I usually check in once or twice a day, sometimes
more often."
"You didn't hear anything in the night, see anything
unusual?" Monica put in.
"Well, I did tell that sheriff--the one from Gainesville?--
that I heard a vehicle pull through the lane late the night
before. It sounded like a truck, but I'm not sure. That's
about it, though. I didn't see anyone, or hear anything
odd." Mr. Goodall shook his head. "This is just all so
awful, all of it. I'm just glad my wife isn't here to see
any of it."
Doggett's eyes narrowed. "Your wife?"
"She passed away a little over a year ago," Goodall said,
quietly.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Goodall," Monica said gently. "I have just
one more question. To your knowledge, how has the
relationship been between the congregation here and the
local Santeria practitioners?"
"I've never seen any problems with anyone, he replied.
"There's a woman who takes care of the church, nice woman,
Deborah Boadu. She's Santeria. She's a fine lady."
Doggett stared at Goodall for a long moment. "Mr. Goodall,
could I use your facilities?"
"Of course--just down the hallway we came through, on the
right."
Monica watched Doggett walk out of the living room, her
face thoughtful.
Doggett walked directly to the hall closet and carefully
pulled the door open wider, thankful that it didn't make
any noise. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for,
or why the hell he was even looking in the closet, but
something was drawing him there. He pulled his little
Maglite out of his pants pocket and clicked it on, shone it
over the interior of the closet. A vacuum cleaner, a pair
of black shoes, a beige cardigan sweater, a blue work
shirt, a straw sun hat, puffy dust bunnies that skittered
away to the back of the closet when he opened the door.
And in the back of the closet, a pair of brown lace-up
boots, one laying on its side against the back wall of the
closet as if thrown inside in haste.
Doggett bent over and pulled the boots to the front of the
closet, playing the Maglite's beam over them. They were
both stained with something dark, dried now, cracked.
It was blood. He didn't know why, but he was as sure of it
as he'd been of anything in his life.
He pulled his pocket knife and a plastic evidence bag out
of his pocket, smiling slightly. You're just a regular
walkin' hardware store, aren't you, John? He knelt down
and scraped at the stained area of one boot, then the
other, catching the flakes of the dried substance in the little
bag. He closed the bag and tucked it and the knife back in
his pocket, along with the flashlight. He replaced the
boots at the back of the closet and stood up and closed the
door, leaving it a little ajar, the way it was when he'd
opened it. He crossed to the bathroom and flushed the
toilet, turned the sink tap on, and put his hands under the
cool water. He dried his hands on the towel there and left
the room, walked back down the hall to the living room.
Monica looked at him as he came into the room, questions in
her eyes.
He looked from her to Goodall. "Sorry," he said and sat
down again in the wing chair. "Mr. Goodall, are you an
outdoorsman?
Goodall looked a little blank.
"You know," Doggett persisted, "do you hunt? Fish?"
"Oh, yeah," Goodall replied. "I've been fishin' since I
was old enough to hold a rod, and my daddy took me hunting
for the first time when I was about 10." Goodall stared at
Doggett. "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious," Doggett said. "I noticed the rod in your
entryway, there." He held Goodall's stare with his own.
"I'll bet you're good with a knife," he added, pushing it
just a little. Go ahead, he thought. Try me. I'm in
just the right mood. "I mean, you need to be, to hunt and
fish, and all."
Goodall nodded. His breathing had changed, become a
little more shallow. "Well, sure, I can clean fish, skin
animals," he said.
"That all you can do?" Doggett watched as the other man
went white around the nostrils. **Careful. Not too far
now.**
"Are you implyin' somethin'?" Goodall's voice was very
still. " 'Cause if you are, you should just say it
outright."
"No," Doggett said, just as quietly. "I'm not implyin'
anything." A beat. "Not a thing."
Monica Reyes sat straight and motionless, looking from one
man to the other. She took a breath. "Mr. Goodall, I
think that's all we need from you right now. If we need to
talk to you again, we'll give you a call." She stood up,
eyeing Doggett pointedly. He arose from his chair, still
looking at Goodall.
Goodall got up out of his chair then, and the three stood,
awkward, for a moment. Then Monica held her hand out to
Goodall, who took it. "Thanks, Mr. Goodall," she said.
"We appreciate your time and attention."
"Yeah, thanks," Doggett said, with a half-smile.
They walked back down the hallway to the door, and Goodall
walked out with them, standing in front of his door. He
watched them get into the car. He rubbed his hand across
his mouth and wondered if he might have to do something he
hadn't planned.
* * *
Monica looked over at Doggett as he steered the car slowly
back down the lane.
"What was that all about, back there?" she asked.
He glanced at her.
"And don't say 'what?', because you known perfectly well
what." There was nothing about her tone or expression that
wasn't serious.
"Oh, you mean me and Mr. Friendly?" Doggett said with the
hint of a smile.
"As if *you* were Mr. Congeniality. John, I'm serious.
What was going on?"
Doggett realized that Monica could do that tight-lipped
thing better than almost anyone but him. He decided to
play straight with her, knowing that when she got into this
mood, any other approach just made her dig in her heels.
"Something about that guy just didn't ring true to me. I
don't know what or why," he said. "I think I just wanted
to push him a little, see which way he'd jump."
"Well, he looked like he wanted to jump all right--straight
down your throat," Monica said. "But, you know, he did say
that he heard a vehicle the night the church was
vandalized--didn't he say he thought it might have been a
truck? And there's nothing in his statements to that
effect."
"There's just something about him. I don't know," Doggett
said again, realizing that he'd been saying "I don't know"
way too much lately. He glanced at Monica. "I don't know
about you, but I'm wondering what Hugh Goodall's been
watching through those binoculars of his. I didn't exactly
get the chance to ask him."
"Well, this may sound a little too obvious, but he could be
a bird watcher," Monica said. "There sure are plenty of
birds around."
Doggett laughed dryly. "Maybe so." He didn't sound as if
he believed it. "But those were mighty powerful
binoculars." He pulled the car back onto Highway 27,
heading southeast.
"Where are we going?" Monica looked at him.
"We have time, right? I'm going back to Alachua. I have
something for the lab."
* * *
Doggett pulled the Taurus sedan up in front of the old
Dannah house and shut off the engine. Squinting through
the dusty windshield, he took in the house, the front
porch, the woman sitting there in the old wooden swing, her
arm over its back and her bare feet on its armrest. He
could tell by the way she was looking at the car that she
had a pretty good idea who was behind the wheel.
He could feel Monica's eyes on him, and he glanced over at
her. She was sitting, very still, her dark-hazel eyes
calmly scrutinizing him--not judging, not questioning, just
watching. One thing could be said for Monica: For all her
out-there theories, you could count on her to be there with
you when you needed her. As for staying out of your
business when you *didn't*--well. . . At that thought, a
smile came, unbidden.
Doggett opened the car door and got out, walking slowly
over to the steps. Monica followed quietly. He watched the
woman on the porch, saw her straighten up in the swing, her
eyes on him. He and Monica walked up the steps to the
porch.
"You go on in. I'll be right there," Doggett said quietly
to Monica, who blinked once and then nodded. She knocked
at the screen door, opened it and, at the "Come on in"
shouted from inside, walked into the house.
Doggett crossed the porch and stood in front of Mo, who
smiled up at him tentatively. He looked at her for a
moment and then sat down next to her in the swing, saying
nothing. They sat together in a charged silence, neither
of them quite knowing how to act.
"My daddy grew up here, in this house," Mo said softly at
last. "I used to pick pecans from that tree, and I played
out in the lane--I used to use my grandmama's spoons to dig
holes in the sand." She smiled, looking away across the
field toward the little town. "There's wicked mean cactus
out in the lane, too." She looked down at their feet: hers
slender and bare, his in big black shoes. Then she glanced
over at him. "And I'm talking too much." She turned her
face away, a little abashed.
Doggett pushed his feet against the boards of the porch,
setting the swing into motion. She fell against him at the
unexpected movement, and he caught her arm to steady her.
The accidental touch inevitably reminded her of the strong
body that was underneath that white dress shirt, and she
felt a sudden shock to her middle that made her a little
dizzy. It was desire, pure and simple, and she felt an
embarrassed warmth creep up her neck.
He looked down at her. "How's Marian?" he asked.
"She's good. She asks about you."
"Does she still think I'm dangerous?" His mouth quirked up
in a half-smile.
Mo smiled back. "No. She wonders why I haven't gone back
to see you." She touched his hand. "I wonder that too,
sometimes. I've missed you, John." Her voice was low, and
he leaned closer to hear her. She lifted her face and
looked directly at him for the first time, and she caught
her breath. His eyes were such a startling blue. Could
she have forgotten? His grave face was already damp with
sweat, and she resisted the urge to reach up and wipe it
from his forehead.
"I gotta go inside, talk to some people," he said.
"I understand," she said. "You're working."
He stood up and looked back down at her.
"So how are we gonna play this, John?" she asked. "I met
you once?"
Fuck. He ran a finger over his upper lip, studying her.
Fuck. "I think it might be better to be discreet," he
finally said.
She saw his discomfort. "Okay. Discreet it is."
He reached out and smoothed her hair, his eyes intent on
her.
"Could I come see you later?" she asked. "Discreetly, of
course." She tried not to smile.
"If you don't," he said softly, "I'll come and get *you*."
She did smile then, looked down at her feet.
"I'm at the Ramada Inn," he added. "Room 18."
"It might be late," she said.
"It doesn't matter," he said. He turned and walked to the
door, knocked, and went inside. She leaned back in the
swing and closed her eyes. After a moment, she got up and
followed him into the house.
Just inside the living room, Doggett stopped and looked
around. The house was smaller than it looked from the
outside. The living room, painted a rich deep peach color
and full of plants, photos and paintings, stretched into a
dining room boasting a big dark-wood table and chairs and a
brass chandelier. A room, most likely the kitchen, opened
off the back of the dining room. There was a room off to
the right of the living room. He noticed that the house
still had its original doors, with old-fashioned keyholes
and ceramic doorknobs.
Monica was sitting on a comfortable-looking green sofa next
to a small auburn-haired woman, who looked over at him
questioningly. She got up and walked the few steps to him,
extending her hand. He took it, looking down into a pair
of intelligent brown eyes. There was something about this
woman that made him want to smile.
"Hello," she said to him. She sounded so much like Mo that
he must have looked surprised. At any rate, her smile
widened. "I'm Maeve Dannah. You're--?"
"John Doggett," he said. "I'm with the FBI."
"Ah, you must be here with Agent Reyes," Maeve said.
"That's right," Doggett said, nodding. He heard the door
open behind him, and turned to see Mo walk in.
"This is my sister Morgan, Agent Doggett," Maeve said.
"Mo, this is--"
"John Doggett," Mo said. "Yes, we've met before."
Maeve looked at Mo, her brows arched questioningly.
"He was one of the agents on my case, last winter," Mo
explained.
"Oh," Maeve said, drawing out the sound. She turned back
to Doggett. "What a coincidence that you'd turn up here,
Agent Doggett." She put her hand on his arm. "I can't
possibly begin to express my thanks to you for. . .helping
Mo."
This sort of thing--people thanking him for doing what he
got paid to do--had always made him uncomfortable, as a
soldier, as a cop. . .and even now, apparently. "Thanks,"
he finally said. "I was just doing my job." The words
sounded pretty lame even to him.
"I know," Maeve said quietly. "But Mo's my sister. And
from what she's told me, she would have died if you hadn't
been there. So I think you can see where I'm coming from."
"Yeah, I do--but I didn't do it alone," Doggett said.
"I know," Maeve said, "but that doesn't make my thanks to
you any less meaningful, does it?"
He could see that it would be harder than hell to get the
better of this woman, so he just nodded. He glanced over
at Monica and saw that she was watching him with a look of
gentle interest.
Doggett watched as a tall, dark-haired man walked into the
dining room. Who the hell was *this*?
Seeing the two agents in the living room, the man slowed
down some. "Sorry to interrupt," he said.
"Max, this is Agent John Doggett from the FBI. You
remember Agent Reyes," Maeve said. "This is Max
Somerville."
Doggett nodded to the tall man. He was a good-looking son
of a bitch, he'd give him that. Then he turned to Mo. "Am
I the only one in this house whose name doesn't start with
an M?"
She smiled. "Oh, that was always such a pain when Maeve
and I still lived together," she said. "Then when I
married Max it got ridiculous." She noticed the look on
Doggett's face, and realized that he'd just had his
question answered about who Max was. "Anyway," she went on,
"that's a good guess, but no. My mother's name is Ruth,
with an R. She's the one you came to see. I'll go get
her."
Doggett watched her escape to the kitchen, feeling a little
bit like he was down the proverbial rabbit hole.
"Max, Agent Doggett here is the FBI agent who helped find
Mo last year," Maeve said.
"No kidding?" Max walked over to Doggett, his hand
extended. Doggett shook it. "Damn," Max said. "You
probably don't have any idea how grateful we all are for
what you did."
"Thanks," Doggett said. "But I--"
"Agent Doggett is being modest," Maeve said to Max, who
nodded.
"Thanks," Doggett said simply, nodding back, and picked his
way over to the sofa and sat down next to Monica as Max
followed Mo into the kitchen.
She leaned over to him. "You're the man of the hour, John,"
she said quietly.
"Monica," he said, the tone of his voice a quiet warning.
It made her smile. "Aren't you glad I called you about
this case?" she asked him.
He just looked at her.
"Agent Doggett?" At the sound of the soft drawl, he looked
away from Monica and into the face of a small woman whose
auburn hair was mostly gray now. She was smiling at him,
her brown eyes warm. He realized that this was Mo's
mother, and he quickly stood up.
Ruth reached out and captured one of his big hands in both
of her small ones. "Agent Doggett," she said again. "I'm
Ruth Dannah, and I'm *very* happy to meet you."
"Thank you, ma'am," Doggett said. Damn, this was awkward.
And it was worse because Monica was witnessing it all.
"I'd been wanting to thank you for the longest time," Ruth
said. "I'm glad to finally meet someone who helped bring
Morgan back."
It was hard not to smile at this little woman who reminded
him so much of Mo, though Mo didn't look a lot like her,
except around the eyes. "I was just a part of the team
that brought her off the mountain," he said quietly.
"You're a diplomat, too, I see," Ruth said dryly. "You
just consider yourself at home here," she said, patting his
hand. "Let's sit. I understand you want to talk to me."
She waved Doggett back onto the sofa and sat down in the
chair pulled up opposite him and Monica. "Can we get y'all
something to drink? Are you hungry?"
Southern hospitality, Doggett thought. How many times had
he and Monica been offered drink, food, in one afternoon?
"No," he said to her. "But I appreciate it."
"Mrs. Dannah," Monica said, "I was wondering if you had any
idea at all why Enrique Boadu was murdered on your
property."
"Darlin', not a clue," Ruth said. "I knew Enrique some,
but Deborah better. They're wonderful people. Dr. Dannah
took care of the Boadus during some illnesses over the
years."
Monica smiled gently at the old-fashioned way Ruth referred
to her late husband.
"Deborah was always sweet to Morgan and Maeve, when they
would come down here to visit their grandparents. I think
Morgan was in college and Maeve was in high school when
Deborah and her little boy moved here. Her husband died a
long time ago, before they moved to the U.S."
"So the Boadus were known in the community? Respected?"
Doggett asked, leaning forward to look Ruth in the eye.
"Well, yes, I'd say so," Ruth said to him. "They used to
live not too far from here, in a little house just across
the river, by the graveyard. Enrique did groundskeeping
work there. But they moved out toward High Springs a number
of years ago now." She looked thoughtful. "Deborah works
at the Methodist church."
"Yes," Monica said, "the sexton there mentioned that today
when we spoke to him."
"Mrs. Dannah," Doggett said, "do you know anyone affiliated
with any of the churches that were vandalized? The
Methodist, Baptist, and--" He glanced at Monica.
"Lutheran," Monica inserted.
"Just the Methodist," Ruth Dannah replied. "It's just out
behind our house a ways, across the back field. The
minister there, Mr. Price, is a dear man. He's been here
since Hector was a pup. Seems like Mr. Goodall's been here
for a few years now, and I can't say I know him all that
well. He was always a little too 'Good Christian' for me,
if you know what I mean." Ruth's eyes sparkled wickedly.
At that, Monica glanced at Doggett, and he remembered her
words about how the murderer might be religious in some
way, something about why the victim had been murdered where
he was.
"His wife died last year," Mrs. Dannah was saying, and
Doggett refocused his attention on her. "That was awful--a
terrible illness and then complications."
"Did Dr. Dannah take care of her too?" Doggett asked. He
studied her carefully.
"Yes. It was meningitis. There was an outbreak, about a
year ago now. Dr. Dannah tended her, Enrique Boadu and
Deborah's son, Stephen." She saw Doggett glance at Monica.
"Do you think this is related to the. . .the killing?"
"Well," Monica said, "it could have some connection. We
always try to consider everything."
Ruth looked from Monica and back to Doggett, whose sober
blue eyes met hers. They didn't hold any answers.
Doggett stood up. "I think I'll take that water now. No,
don't trouble yourself," he said to Ruth as she started to
get up. "I'll go get it."
"All right. Morgan or Maeve should be out there in the
kitchen. They can help you."
"Thanks," he smiled down at her. He walked through the
dining room to the kitchen. He needed to clear his head a
little, to think. Were the illnesses really a connection
to the case, or was he forcing something into a pattern
because of the odd reaction he'd had to Hugh Goodall?
"John," Mo said, as he walked into the kitchen. She was
covering pies with aluminum foil. "What can I do for you?"
"A glass of water?" He walked closer to her, looking at
her bare, sunburned shoulders and arms. "You should put
something on that," he said softly.
"The sunburn?" She made a face. "I remembered the sun
block yesterday. Somehow I managed to forget it today."
She shrugged. "I'll be all right." She took a glass down
from a cupboard and pulled a half-gallon jar of water from
the refrigerator. She poured him a glass.
"Thanks," he said, taking it from her, his fingers brushing
hers.
"Come sit with me here on the porch for a minute," she
said. She led the way, and he followed her out the screen
door to the back porch. They sat together on the steps
while he drank the cold water. He looked around the yard,
at the shed, the clothesline, the path worn through the dry
grass.
"There usually so many birds around?" Doggett asked,
turning to look at her.
Mo smiled and threw him an ironic glance. "Are you making
small talk?" she asked.
He shook his head. "It's just odd." He looked at one bird
in particular that was perched on the clothesline just 10
feet or so away. It watched him with an unnerving
intensity.
"I really don't know," Mo admitted. "But there *are* a lot
of them around right now, especially crows. Noisy things."
Her shoulder brushed his, and she felt his body stiffen
slightly. "It's okay, darlin'," she said softly, amused.
"I won't bite you."
"I know," he said, smiling a little. He sipped the water,
looking out across the back field. His eyes narrowed. "Is
that the Methodist Church over there?" he asked her.
"Mmm, you can walk straight across the field to the back
lane. It's just up a ways." She looked up at him. He set
the glass down carefully on the step next to him, lifted
his hand to her face, and ran a gentle thumb across her
cheekbone.
~~~~
Hugh Goodall raised the binoculars to his eyes. There were
two people on the back porch of the Dannahs' house, sitting
close together on the steps. He focused the lenses.
There, now he could see them. A slow smile spread over his
face. It was Dr. Dannah's daughter--the older one, he
thought, the weird one. And look who was sitting with her.
That glorified policeman who had been at his house earlier.
As Goodall watched, the FBI man leaned over and kissed Dr.
Dannah's daughter right on her pretty lips. Goodall's
smile broadened. He rubbed his hand across his mouth and
kept watching.
~~~~
Doggett's fingertips slid from Mo's cheek to her neck, and
she turned her face away from him. He heard her sigh
quietly.
"John," she murmured, "someone's sure to see, and you
said--"
"I know," he said again, simply, returning his hand to his
knee. "I guess I just had to do that."
She smiled down at her lap.
"Look at me," he said softly.
She lifted her face to his. Her cheeks were flushed.
"Come to me later," he said, his voice a little hoarser
than usual.
She nodded, not trusting her voice at all.
He stood up, and she leaned against his legs for a moment.
He smoothed her hair tenderly, and then turned and went
back into the house.
~~~~
Goodall watched as the FBI man walked into the house,
leaving the woman sitting by herself. She combed her
fingers back through her hair and sat there alone for a few
minutes. Then she too went back inside. Goodall lowered
the binoculars.
Well, this was quite the new development. He'd have to
figure out what it might mean.
~~~~
Doggett walked back into the living room, where Monica was
still sitting talking quietly with Ruth Dannah. As he
walked toward them, Monica glanced at him and raised her
brows.
"John," Monica said, "Mrs. Dannah was just telling me
something else she remembered."
Doggett sat down again next to Monica and looked at Ruth
Dannah. "Mrs. Dannah?" he prompted.
"Well, Agent Doggett, there was another woman, Peggy
Bonfils, who was also seriously ill last year with
meningitis at the same time as the others. I don't know
why I forgot her. I don't know if it's even important."
"And she recovered?" Doggett asked.
"Oh, yes. She's fine. She was just here last week to
visit my husband."
Monica looked at Doggett, her eyes serious. "John, Mrs.
Bonfils is Santeria."
Doggett frowned, but didn't say anything. He didn't
necessarily think Ruth Dannah needed to hear what he was
thinking.
Ruth watched him, then looked to Monica. "You know, we'll
be havin' supper before too long. Y'all are welcome to
stay if you can," she said gently.
Doggett blinked, shaking himself away from his thoughts.
"Mrs. Dannah, I appreciate the offer, but I think we'd
better be going." He stood up and looked to Monica.
"Yes, thank you," Monica said to Ruth, standing and
extending her hand.
Ruth took Monica's hand and squeezed it. "I hope I was
some help to you. And you're welcome to come back any
time." She looked at Doggett. "And you, of course. I
feel I owe you my daughter's life."
Christ, Doggett thought. If you only knew. I wonder what
you'd think of me then.
They walked together to the car, having made a quiet escape
from the Dannahs' house.
"John," Monica said, "you think there's something there,
don't you? The death of Hugh Goodall's wife, the
illnesses? The Lucumi connection?"
"Well, it's sure as hell motive of a sort. Not that
there's any evidence," he said. "Yet." He looked at his
watch. "It's getting late. Let's call the cops and see if
we can get a rush on the lab work on that sample. Then we
might need to go see our Mr. Goodall again once forensics
gets the lay of the land." He smiled grimly. "Assuming
there's any land worth worryin' about."
"There's more to this than a man with a grudge," Monica
said. "I just feel it so strongly, John."
Doggett looked at her across the roof of the car. "And
what would that be?"
"I'm not sure. But I saw what I saw, and it wasn't just
your average crime scene," Monica replied.
"So what's the paranormal element, then, Monica? I can
tell you this: There was no para-anything about how
Enrique Boadu died."
"No, I don't think there was, either. It's not the
murder--or the murderer--that I'm thinking about." Monica
got into the car and shut the door, leaving Doggett
standing there. He sighed, and got behind the wheel.
* * *
Jacob Owdeye had always loved gardening, even back long ago
when he'd lived on a farm outside of Lagos. Tending
flowers was balm to the soul--at least that's what his
mother had always told him. And she had been, if nothing
else, a wise woman.
He used the sharp end of his hoe to break up some hard
earth around the roots of his favorite rhododendron bushes.
Then he shoveled earth, compost, bone meal, and cow manure
from his wheelbarrow into the loosened area and worked it
into the soil around the base of the plants, blessing it as
he went, soil, plant, manure and all.
Working with your hands in the soil was a good thing, Old
Owdeye thought. It was life. It was growth. It was magic
in its quiet way. It always brought him back to what was
real: sun, earth, water, air--those four forces that were
a constant no matter how mankind mucked things up.
He sat back on his heels, wiping the sweat from his
forehead with the back of his forearm. Owdeye, you're
getting older and skinnier all the time, he thought. It is
hard to believe you've been nearly eight decades on this
earth. Life is surely sweet and fleeting, but his had been
good.
He settled his sun hat more firmly on his head and looked
up, over at the little house next door, where Deborah
lived. It had been terribly quiet there these past few
days. He had stayed alert, extending his own senses that
way more than a few times a day since Rique was murdered.
He knew that Deborah was a strong woman of many talents,
but it had been hard on her. She had been frightened and
angered by the brutal murder and its implications.
Owdeye's eyes narrowed. Speaking of Deborah's talents, he
thought, the birds were everywhere right now. It was odd.
Because of the drought, there hadn't been as much food
available for the birds as there usually was. They should
have been migrating elsewhere, but instead there were more
than usual these last days. He watched as several dozen
birds banked and turned and weaved about in the air and
slowly came to a landing in the tree in the Boadus' back
yard. He stood up and walked over to the property line and
looked up into the tree.
He didn't see the large, glossy crow fly directly into an
open window of the house.
~~~~
Nude and shaken, Deborah Boadu stood up and grasped the
footboard of her bed, afraid she might fall. She picked
her way around the black feathers strewn about the linoleum
floor and collapsed onto the bed. She curled onto her side
and rested, breathing slowly and deeply.
After a while, she was less dizzy. She sat up slowly and
pressed her fingers gently to her eyes. Changing most
always gave her a headache. It usually went away quickly,
but it was inconvenient. She slid off the bed and slipped
on the shift and the panties that she'd left at the foot of
the bed and walked into the bathroom. She ran some warm
water in the sink and splashed it gently on her face. She
sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. What are you
doing, Deborah, spying on people? Are you trying to
protect them, or yourself? But she knew that only time
could give her that answer.
The sudden knock on the back screen door startled her, and
she quickly dried her face and hands and walked out of the
bathroom. She unconsciously patted her braids as she went
to the door, her head throbbing. It was Old Owdeye.
"Come in," she said. She was glad to see him. They
needed to talk.
The old man came inside and stood in the doorway, silent,
his deep-brown eyes sparkling in his immobile face.
"Come, sit," she said, pulling out a kitchen chair for him.
The little man sat, and folded his hands in his lap.
"Deborah, I wanted to come by and see how you were doing
after today's ceremony."
They'd sanctified and buried Rique that afternoon. The sky
was darkening now with approaching dusk, and Deborah was
still a bit numb. This little man was her iworo, her
priest, the man who had trained and consecrated Enrique,
and she loved and respected him more than almost anyone
she'd ever known. But he was wrong about this matter, and
she was going to have to tell him so.
"Old Owdeye, I'm fine," she said. "Thanks for checking on
me. But we do need to talk, about--everything."
"Yes," the old man agreed. "If this man is doing what you
think he is doing, he will kill again. I will take care of
it, Deborah."
"My deepest respect, babalawo, but how will you take care
of this crazy man without making things worse?" she asked.
"It's time to talk to the police, tell them the truth."
The old man shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair. On
some level, she spoke sense, but he had a deep-seated
distrust of the white policemen, who had never been friends
of the black man, and especially the black Lucumi. It was
simply the way it was and the way it had always been,
though no one ever seemed to want to admit it.
"Deborah, you must let me do what I need to do," he said.
"Babalawo, I saw what this man did in the church. I should
have known then that he would do something horrible. I
should have exposed him to the police when I saw what he'd
done at the church. Maybe Rique would still be alive."
Owdeye could see that she was close to tears. "I followed
your wishes and did nothing. But now I am afraid. I'm
afraid he'll come after Stephen." She put her hand on his.
"Please let me go to the police, or to the FBI agents who
were here this morning. They were at Dr. Dannah's house
today. I. . .I believe others may be in danger too."
Old Owdeye's dark, dark eyes seemed to grow larger. "Why
do you say that?"
She leaned closer to him. "I'm afraid this man's hatred
will find more targets. I'm afraid you won't be able to
protect everyone," she said quietly. She bent down and put
her face close to his, and he focused his sharp eyes on
her. "Babalawo, you know how much I love you. You have
been everything to my family. I will let you do what you
must, but I am afraid he might hurt Dr. Dannah's family,
his daughters. I will not let them be hurt," Deborah said
emphatically. "I owe their father a life." She
straightened up. "And I can't let him hurt my loved ones."
Old Owdeye stood up and looked down at her. "Let it be,
Deborah," he said in a voice that was hard to contradict.
He put his hand on her head gently. "I will make sure he is
not able to hurt anyone else," he added softly.
* * *
CHAPTER 5
Could she possibly be more restless?
Mo had the keys to her father's old car in the pocket of
her blue denim shorts. When she'd asked her mother if she
could borrow the car to go to Alachua to visit Doggett and
Reyes later that evening, her mother hadn't asked why. Her
sister hadn't asked, either, but she'd gotten that look on
her face that Mo had learned to dread: the I-Know-What-
You're-Up-To look. It wasn't a lot of fun to realize that
she disliked that look now just as much as she had when
they were growing up together.
Now it was just a matter of waiting until it was a little
later, until everyone was ready for bed, so she wouldn't be
skipping out on her family. She sighed. It wasn't a lot
of fun to realize that she still didn't deal with guilt
very well, either.
Mo looked at her face in the mirror over her mother's sink
vanity. Her skin was pink from the sun and felt hot and
tight, as if the flesh were pulled tauter than usual over
the bones. She ran her fingers back through her black
hair, trying to coax it into some semblance of order. She
dug around in her shoulder bag for a lipstick and finally
found it, opened it and slid it across her mouth, slowly,
watching it as it dragged its soft, creamy color across her
lower lip. She ran her finger across her mouth sensuously,
and a sudden shiver ran through her body.
If she'd been a cat, the toms would have been yowling under
the window by now. How could a touch, a kiss, produce such
intense yearning in her? Apparently she hadn't realized
just how lonely she was, how much she missed being touched-
-yes, touched *that* way.
She put the lipstick away and ran the cold water in the
sink. She washed her hands and splashed her face lightly
with the cool water, then dried her hands and face with her
mother's soft-pink hand towel. She replaced the towel on
the ring and left the bathroom.
She walked through the living room and pushed the screen
door open quietly and went out onto the porch. Maybe
walking for a while would take care of some of the
restlessness. She could walk uptown and back in 20 minutes.
It'd do her good.
"Mo, hey," the deep Carolina voice came from the still form
sitting in the semidarkness at the top of the steps.
"Max," she said softly, trying to keep the disappointment
out of her voice. She really hadn't wanted to run into him
this evening, though it was hard to avoid someone when they
were sleeping in the next room of a small house.
"Sit down," Max said, patting the step next to him. "I
haven't had two minutes with you since I got here."
She smiled to herself. And there was a good reason for
that, she thought, and then pushed the thought away. Max
had flown all the way from Japan to attend her father's
funeral. She might not be married to him anymore, but he
truly had loved her father and was crazy about her mother,
and for that, she loved him. She sat down next to him and
looked up at him. The sprinkle of silver in his hair was
nice. As he got older, he was actually getting better
looking--if that was even possible. He was such a
beautiful man. . .
**Stop it, Mo!**
"Max, I'm glad you came. It's made Mama really happy."
"It wouldn't have been right to miss it, Mo," he replied.
He looked down at her soberly. "How're you handlin' all
this?"
"Okay so far. The funeral and the wake will be the test, I
think."
"And how've you been these last months? Are you feeling
better?"
Of course, he had to ask. It had been quite a while since
she'd spoken to him, but she remembered the concern in his
voice when he'd called her back in the winter, some weeks
after she'd left the hospital. "I'm doing okay now. I
really am. But thanks for asking."
"Your-- The way you walk. . .it hardly shows."
He'd been about to say "limp." He seemed to realize how it
sounded almost as soon as the words came out of his mouth.
Mo laughed gently. "Thanks. You should have seen me six or
eight months ago."
"Mo, I didn't--" He sighed. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I always
manage to fuck up when I'm just tryin' to talk to you,
don't I?"
Mo looked at his face. He was genuinely embarrassed. "It's
okay, Max. It really is." She touched his arm. "It was
awful for a while. But I'm better now."
"That guy, that FBI agent--he really saved your life?" Max
asked softly.
"Yeah, he and his partner and a lot of cops. So I'm told."
Max shook his head. "Then I owe him, big time." He slowly
leaned closer to her, looking into her face. Fascinated by
what was happening, Mo sat very still as his face came
closer to hers.
Her lips were already parted by the time his mouth touched
hers. The kiss was gentle, sweet. Sensing that what he was
doing wasn't unwelcome, he took her face between his hands
and kissed her in earnest.
Mo closed her eyes and just let herself feel it. His kiss
was knowing and insistent, and as he explored her mouth his
hands moved sensuously on her neck, in her hair. Max had
always been able to generate tremendous heat in his languid
way--and he still could. Almost in spite of herself, she
put her arms around his neck, and he pulled her close,
trailing kisses down her neck and softly, lightly across
her collar bones. She was so tense, so incredibly aroused.
Her body felt weightless and electrified. She heard a quiet
moaning from somewhere and realized it was her own voice.
She felt his hand under her shirt, on her breast, a sure
but delicate caress. At the sudden intense shock of
pleasure, she gasped like a swimmer coming up for air and
pulled away from him as if she'd been stung. "Max, I
can't. . ."
He was breathing hard. "Jesus, Mo!"
"I can't do this with you again," she whispered to him.
"Honey, why not? It sure seemed like you--"
"Yeah." She took a deep breath and let it out, shaky. "You
always did know how to make me feel good, darlin.' "
"Then let me." Max took her hand and rubbed it with his
thumb. "Let me make you feel good." He moved his hand up
her arm, soothing her skin. It did feel good. He could be
so irresistible. Just ask all the women, over all the
years. . .
She shook her head. "No. I can't. It'd just drive me crazy
in the end." She forced him to meet her eyes. "You know as
well as I do that you don't really want to be with me--I
mean, *be* with me, not just make love to me here, tonight.
You left me years ago, Max. And even when you were with me,
you weren't really with me."
He knew perfectly well what she meant, and he couldn't
answer it.
"So you see," she said, "I just can't do this."
He took her hand and held it in his lap. "Mo, I'm sorry."
"Max, it's okay," she said. "We were together for a long
time. We've been apart for a long time."
"Mo, I still love you," Max said softly, "in my own way, I
guess." He touched her cheek, smoothed her hair behind her
ear.
"I know. But it's better this way," she said. "I'm not
miserable all the time, wondering why I wasn't enough for
you."
"God, Mo." He pulled her back into his arms and held her
tightly. He smoothed her hair with heartbreaking
gentleness. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I know I've said that
before, but I want you to believe that it's true."
"I do," she said simply. She pulled away from him and
looked at his face. "I do believe you. It's just better
this way," she said again. "That's all." She stood up and
extended her hand to him. "I need a walk. Do you wanna come
with?"
He rubbed his cheek, studying her. Then he stood up and
took her hand. They slowly walked down the steps, down the
sandy lane toward the little town, quiet together.
* * *
Mo steered the old Escort down the rutted path to the back
lane. It was well past 11, and the sky was dark and
overcast, with no moon. It was still, only the thrumming
of the crickets breaking the silence. She turned onto the
back lane and drove slowly down its rutted length to the
macadam road that led to Highway 27. She didn't notice the
car that pulled out of the lane to follow her, its
headlights off, leaving just enough distance between the
two vehicles.
~~~~
Mo pulled into the parking lot of the Alachua Ramada Inn,
peering at the numbers on the doors. Catching sight of
the door she was looking for, she pulled into a space a few
slots down and killed the engine.
She wiped the sweat off her forehead and neck. It was
sweltering, and leave it to her sweet, mechanically
challenged daddy to never get around to fixing the Escort's
broken air conditioning. She opened the door and slid out
of the car.
The air was redolent of diesel fuel and greasy fast food,
and the semis on I-75 kept up their unrelenting hum and
whine. There wasn't even a promise of a breeze. Mo caught
sight of her reflection in the car window, and smiled at
what used to be perfectly normal hair. She took a deep
breath and walked over to the motel room door bearing the
brass numeral "18."
It was a new motel, and the metal door was still proudly
pristine. She knew that would change before too many more
months went by. She raised her hand to knock, hesitating
for a moment, wondering why she always hesitated when it
came to this man. She shook her head and knocked.
She paused, then knocked again, and Doggett opened the
door. He smiled at her and stood aside so that she could
come in.
~~~
Hugh Goodall raised the binoculars to his eyes and watched
her at the motel room door, watched the FBI man open the
door for her and let her inside. Goodall smiled and
settled in to wait.
~~~
Inside the room, Mo looked around, noticing the clothes
hanging in the little closet area, the service weapon in
its holster on the desk, the shoes neatly aligned under it.
The TV was on, Jay Leno's monologue a soft murmur in the
background. The queen-sized bed was rumpled, sections of
newspaper strewn across it. He'd been waiting for her.
He shut the door behind her and turned to her, dressed in a
pair of soft old jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, his feet
bare. He studied her--her translucent skin, her crystal-
green eyes, her glossy black hair that had frizzed around
her face in the Florida humidity. He studied her as if he
were trying to commit her to memory--as if he hadn't
already memorized her face, her soft curves.
As a cop, he'd been trained to observe and analyze, but
he'd never had much luck figuring out this woman. He
wondered if it was because she'd learned at an early age to
shield herself from other people's thoughts and feelings.
It sometimes seemed to work pretty effectively in the
reverse too, making her harder than hell to read.
Tonight her expression and her very posture awoke every
instinct he'd ever developed. She was on edge, more
emotional than he'd ever seen her--naturally enough; she'd
just lost her father. Her face was flushed, her eyes were
bright, and her breathing was quick and shallow, the way it
got when she was aroused. He wanted to think that it was
all because of him, but it seemed as if there was something
else going on too, and he wasn't sure what it was. Monica
would probably tell him to use his inner sight or
something. . .whatever the hell that even meant.
But Mo was right there, in front of him, whether it made
sense or not, whether he could figure her out or not, and
he wanted to touch her. For Chrissake, Doggett--be honest.
You want to do a whole lot more than touch her. You want
to take her to bed. You've been wanting nothing else since
you saw her weeding that damn flower bed at her mother's
house.
Instead, he waited to see what she would do.
"Hi," she said softly. "I can't believe we're really here
together."
"I was just thinking the same thing," he said. A smile
played at the corner of his mouth. "You sure it's okay for
you to be here?" he asked.
"It's okay. My mother's asleep." She moved close to him.
"Not that she hasn't figured out that something's up." She
lifted her hands and ran her fingers across his smooth
cheeks, the chiseled planes of his face. He'd shaved for
her, and she was inexplicably touched. "Oh, sweet
darlin'," she said, smiling into his eyes, "it's so good to
see you."
"You too," he said quietly, putting his arms around her.
She draped her arms over his shoulders, and he pulled her
tight against his body. "Where's Agent Reyes?" she asked
softly.
"She was just here a while ago, but she went to bed--she's
in the next room," he said, his eyes on her soft mouth, her
white neck where a pulse beat in time with her heart.
"Then it's a good thing I'm quiet," she said wryly.
"We can always work on that," he said, smiling then.
She pressed herself against him, his hard muscles, his
sturdy reliability. She breathed him in. He smelled
clean, like soap, like freshly laundered clothing. She
rubbed her cheek against his, slowly, wanting to melt into
him, to become a part of him.
A shudder ran through him. He was a little afraid he might
make a fool of himself, do something Neanderthal--grab her
and throw her on the bed, with no preliminaries.
"Oh, I love it when I make you shiver," she whispered, her
lips against his ear. The tip of her tongue flicked out to
lick his earlobe. That was too much for him, and he put a
hand to the back of her head and kissed her mouth with a
fierce longing that surprised them both.
If he hadn't been holding her so tightly, Mo would have
fallen. His kiss was so direct, so straightforward, so
totally different from Max's smoldering insinuation. It
was the kind of kiss that would have given her over to him
on the spot, if she hadn't already been given that way.
His hands moved, awkward, down the front of her thin cotton
shirt, unbuttoning it, then opening it so he could look at
her. She was trembling, and he looked up again, into her
eyes. He could hear his own ragged breathing. He put his
hands on her bare breasts, his fingers spanning their soft
roundness, and felt the nipples tighten at his touch. He
found her lips again, gently now. She put her hands on the
back of his neck, teasing the soft short hair there, and he
moved his open mouth across her cheek to her ear. His lips
and breath and hands were so hot on her skin, and she was
almost faint from wanting him.
He pulled her over to the disheveled bed, and they fell
onto it together, kissing, pushing newspapers out of the
way, fumbling at each other's clothes.
And then she was naked and soft and warm beneath him, and
he was kissing her and being kissed, touching her and being
touched. It was almost sensory overload--skin against skin,
mouth against mouth. It had been a long time for both of
them, and they were hungry for each other.
He slowly moved his lips down her neck and her chest to her
breast. His tongue lingered just at the edge of the soft
pink areola, teasing her, and she moaned and pulled his
hair just hard enough to get his attention.
"Don't play with me, you horrible man," she breathed, and
he laughed softly, slowly moving his tongue ever closer to
her nipple. When he finally covered it with his mouth, she
gasped and raked her nails slowly up the soft skin of his
back.
She pulled him between her thighs and wrapped her arms
tight around him. "You can take your time later," she
whispered into his hair and lifted his face to hers to kiss
him.
~~~~
He held her close underneath his heart, watching her in
wonder as she trembled and sighed and shattered in his arms
and came back whole and beautiful and his. As he soothed
away her quiet tears, it dawned on him in a kind of
epiphany that she was his if he wanted her, and the
realization filled him with something like awe. He lay his
head against her breasts and sighed, content, wondering how
he could be alone for so long and not know how alone he
was.
They lay together under the crisp motel sheets, touching
each other gently, not speaking. As they became
reacquainted with each other's bodies, they communicated
less by words than by touch, by caress, the meeting of skin
and skin. She slowly moved her hand down his strong arm to
his hand, and laced her fingers in his. He held her hand
for a moment and then circled her wrist with his fingers,
struck, as always, by its smallness in his hand. He traced
the sweet curve of rib, waist, and hip with his fingertips.
Everything about her was a paradox of delicate and strong
. . .like silk, he thought.
At length he pulled her close, cradling her against his
chest, and they lay that way for a time. She was roused
from half-sleep by the deep rumble of his voice in her ear.
"Are you gonna be all right, Mo?" he asked her quietly. "Is
there anything I can do?"
She reached up and touched his cheek. "Just let me rest
here with you for a while. There's really not much else
either of us can do." She was quiet for a moment. "I wish
you could've met my father."
"I do too," Doggett said. "What was he like?"
"He was such a wonderful guy, John," she said. "He was
tall, and he was dark-haired like me. He was funny and
smart." She smiled, remembering. "He could make you laugh
*and* make you think." She put her hand to her mouth for
a moment, telling herself not to cry. Doggett took her
hand and kissed the palm soothingly. "I can't believe he's
gone," she added.
He smoothed her hair gently, and she sighed. His arms were
heavy and warm around her, and she realized that, despite
everything, she was happy to be there with him.
"You know, I had a hard time thinking about anything other
than this all evening," she said at last, almost shyly.
"Yeah, I get that," he said. "I'd been thinking about it
since I caught sight of you this afternoon."
She laughed softly.
"We didn't waste any time, did we?" He smiled into the
darkness.
"We never *have* the time to waste," she murmured into his
shoulder.
"That's true enough," he said, feeling a stab of
conscience. He ran his fingers down her jaw line, across
her cheek. "We could go out, do something, get something to
eat."
She smiled at that. "You don't know much about the night
life in Alachua, do you?"
He smiled too. "We'd probably end up drinkin' shots in some
roadhouse."
"Oh, and *that's* one of my favorite things!" She laughed.
"I didn't really come here dressed to go out, anyway, but
it was a nice thought."
"Actually, I'd say you came dressed to be undressed,"
Doggett said with an ironic smile.
She sat up and looked at him. "And how do you know that?"
"I just know you like pretty underwear, and I didn't see
you wearin' any--pretty or otherwise," he said wryly. He
pulled her back down onto the bed.
She looked at him for a second, speechless, and then she
laughed. "You have me all figured out, don't you?"
He was quiet for a moment, studying her face. What was it
about her that touched him so? She could hardly be more
different from him. "I only wish I did," he said softly.
He leaned over her and wove his fingers through her hair.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he covered her
face with kiss after slow kiss, finally lingering at her
mouth. He left a soft trail of kisses from her lips to
her cheek to that spot he knew, the one between her jaw
and her ear. Feeling the tension coiling again in her
belly, she held him tight, arching her pelvis up against
him. He drew his breath in with a hiss and slipped his
hand between their bodies, brushing the edge of his thumb
gently across her sensitive nipple. He parted her legs
with his thigh and slid his hand lower, to the tight black
curls between her legs, and stroked her slowly.
"Ah, God," she whispered. She raised her face to him, her
hands moving across the small of his back, down his smooth
backside, around his lean hips. She lingered at the
sensitive skin of his inner thighs, softly tracing her
fingers across the warm flesh there. She took him in her
hand and returned the stroking, and he closed his eyes and
sighed with pleasure, his body responding to her touch.
He kissed her again, running his tongue along her lower
lip, softly, slowly. She put her head back and moaned
quietly as he continued stroking her, his mouth moving down
her neck.
"Should I take my time?" he whispered, smiling at the chant
he'd invoked. He trailed kisses down between her breasts,
down past her belly to where all her heat was coalescing,
his tongue drawing a line of fire on her skin.
"Mmmm. . ." It was all she had voice for. He was pretty
sure it meant yes.
~~~~
"Can you spend the night?" he murmured into her ear. He
kissed her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin and hair.
"Oh, I'd love that," she said. "I'd love to wake up with
you in the morning. But I don't think I-- I really
shouldn't." She looked up at him. "You're working--you
need to sleep. There's Agent Reyes to think about. . .and
I should be there with my mom." She got very still.
"I'm sorry about your dad, Mo," he said quietly. "It's
tough. I remember--when my dad died."
She propped herself up on an elbow and looked at him, her
face soft. He put his hand on her neck, rubbing her cheek
with his thumb. She wondered as she always did about this
difficult, complicated man, who she knew could be so hard
with other people. He was always careful with her, almost
always gentle, even in his most passionate moments. She
bent her head down to kiss him, once, then again, with a
tender yearning. He put his hand on the back of her neck
and held the second kiss a little longer. Then she rested
her head on his chest with a sigh, and he smoothed his hand
down her curly hair, twisting a lock of it around a finger.
"It's so good to be with you," she said. "How odd to run
into each other this way."
"Yeah," he said softly. "Weird coincidence. A nice one."
He ran his hand down her ribs to her hip. "You're
thinner," he added. His big hand spanned her back at the
waist.
She nodded her head against his chest.
"You need to eat," he said. "You need to take care of
yourself." He realized that he sounded an awful lot like
an uncle--or a husband--and he felt his face grow warm.
"This sort of thing--the stress has a way of creepin' up on
you," he explained.
"I know." She yawned.
"Look," he said, "you should sleep here for a while. You're
tired--and you've got a lot to handle right now. I can set
an alarm for a couple hours."
"All right," she whispered. "Thanks, darlin'." She
touched his cheek and then rolled over onto her side with a
tired sigh, reaching for him.
He hadn't seen her in almost four months, but it was as if
no time had elapsed since their last morning together, at
his house, when he'd made love to her in his own bed. He
set the alarm on his watch to go off in two hours and slid
back up against her warm back. He wrapped an arm over her,
resting his hand on her drawn-up thigh, and felt her arm
curve around to rest over his. He closed his eyes, feeling
oddly at home in this strange motel room, in this strange
town.
~~~~
It seemed just minutes later that the incessant beeping of
the watch on the nightstand woke him again. He reached
over and fumbled around in the darkness, finally finding it
and silencing the alarm.
Mo rolled over and touched his arm. "What time is it?" she
asked softly through a yawn.
"It's a little past 3." He put the watch back on the
nightstand, yawning himself.
She sighed and slowly sat up and stretched. She pulled her
legs up in front of her and wrapped her arms around her
knees. "I need to shower. I smell like--" She hesitated,
suddenly embarrassed.
"You smell good." She heard the smile in his voice. He sat
up behind her and buried his face in her hair.
She leaned back against him and closed her eyes. Depending
on your point of view, he was right. She smelled like skin
lotion and sweat and sex. God, she was a wanton, and she
didn't care.
He couldn't stop touching her, pressing his lips to her
neck, tracing patterns over her collar bones and down
across her breasts with his fingertips. She sighed.
"I've missed you so," she whispered.
"You have," he said. It wasn't quite a question, wasn't
quite a statement.
"Every day." She turned to look at him. "Does that bother
you?"
He studied her face for a moment. "No," he said softly.
"It doesn't bother me. I missed you too."
"I thought of you so often." She was silent for a moment.
"Even though I didn't call you much."
He looked at her soberly. "We don't stay in touch too
well, do we?"
"No," she said quietly. "I wonder why, John. It's
interesting that we turned up together here," she said
thoughtfully. "I'm not sure I believe in coincidences. I
guess I tend to believe that people always pretty much end
up where they're supposed to be."
"You sound like Monica," he muttered, pulling her against
his chest and wrapping his arms around her.
"In that case, maybe you should listen to her," she said to
him with a smile.
"Maybe so," he said. She kissed his cheek and slipped out
of his arms and went into the bathroom to shower.
She came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Lying on
the bed in his boxers, he watched her as she rubbed her
hair to just-dampness and dried off her body, ran her fingers
back through her hair.
There was a simple, aching beauty to her comfortable
nudity. Looking at her, he was a little surprised to
realize that she'd become familiar to him. He knew her:
the softness of her skin, the warmth of her kiss, the
kindness of her heart, her odd way of looking at the world.
He caught himself wondering what it would be like to wake up
next to her every morning, to be the one who kept her safe, who
made her smile. He looked away, shaking the thought off as if
it were something forbidden.
She slid her shorts and shirt on and sat down on the bed
next to him, buttoning the shirt. He pulled her close against
his chest and kissed her, and she held him tight.
At length she sat up again. "I need to go," she said
quietly. "And you need to go back to sleep." She smiled
at him. "Maybe I'll see you again before you have to go
back?"
He nodded. "Let's see how everything works out. I'd like
to take you out, maybe have dinner."
"That'd be nice. If we can sneak away without Agent Reyes
knowing," she said, teasing him, and was grateful to see
him smile. She leaned over and kissed him gently, then
stood up.
"Be careful going back," he said, getting up from the bed.
He walked her to the door.
"I will," she said. "Sleep well, darlin'." She looked at
him one more time, and then went out the door, closing it
behind her silently.
* * *
Mo parked the Escort in the back field and walked through
the dry grass toward the back of the house. The only light
was from the streetlamp off across the field, in front of
the old Methodist Church. She glanced that way and
shivered a little at the thought of what had been done
there so recently. She had almost asked John about the case
he was working on, though she suspected he wouldn't have
told her much anyway. But she really wasn't sure she
wanted to know much about it, if what had been in the
newspaper about the murder was any indication. She knew
that what the newspapers reported was usually only a small
percentage of the true horror of a crime.
Not for the first time, she wondered how John could do his
job, how he could hold up under the endless horrors, how
he'd been able to make it through the very personal horror
of his own son's violent death at the hand of a criminal.
She wondered how his heart had survived even in its wounded
state, and what a younger John Doggett must have been like,
before his work and his own tragedy had made him the man he
was now, whose heart was weathered beyond his years. She
could picture him as a happy man, with a wife and son he'd
loved, and the vision, all that had been lost, broke her
heart, made her taste salt tears.
As Mo approached the wooden steps to the back porch, a
small sound made her stop walking and listen. A quiet tik-
tik, like fingernails against metal. She looked up and saw
a large black bird walking back and forth on the gutter of
the porch roof. It stopped, cocked its head, and looked at
her out of its inky eye. She realized that she'd stopped
breathing. The bird cocked its head the other way and
continued to stare at her. She moved one pace closer to
the steps and nodded to the bird, showing respect. It
skittered away from her down the gutter and flew off.
Mo started breathing again and realized that her heart was
beating fast. She climbed the porch steps slowly,
painstakingly, trying her hardest to be quiet. It was a
quarter to four in the morning, and no one sleeping in the
house needed to be awakened just because *she* was stupid
enough to have stayed out all night. She knew that her
mother would have locked up, and she gingerly felt above
the back door for the skeleton key. She found the key and
quickly got the door open. Something about the still night
air and the odd encounter with the crow was giving her a
uneasy feeling, and she just wanted to get inside.
She walked into the old kitchen silently, and stopped in
the middle of the room. It still smelled the same after so
many years, like cooking and mineral-rich water and old wood
and linoleum. She sighed, relaxing a little.
"Morgan, honey, is that you?" The voice came from the back
bedroom.
Mo shut her eyes. Busted. "Yeah, mama, it's me."
"Are you just now gettin' home, darlin'? It's almost 4 in
the mornin'."
"I slept for a while, mama. I was so tired." She walked
into her mother's bedroom. The familiar furniture and
curtains, the old smells of fabric and sachet, the
paintings and knickknacks were all the more poignant in the
painful absence of her tall, funny father, and she felt the
tears start to come. The last thing she wanted to do right
now was cry. Her mother didn't need to take care of her at
a time like this.
But her emotions were raw, on the surface, and every nerve
in her body was excited. If she closed her eyes, she could
still feel his hands on her thighs, his breath on her
cheek, his lips on her throat, and warmth suffused her body
until her skin felt like fire.
Maybe Ruth could feel it. But she recognized that her
daughter needed something. "Morgan," she said, patting the
bed, "come on over here."
She walked over to her mother and father's old bed and sat
down on the edge. Her mother took her hands and held them.
"What's the matter, honey?"
"It's nothing," she said. She shook her head. "It's
everything."
"I know, sweetie. I know what you mean," her mother said,
squeezing Mo's hands gently.
"Mama, sometimes when I think about how you and daddy--you
were married for so long, and you were happy. I just
wonder if I'll ever--" She took a deep breath. "I was
married, and it didn't work out."
"And you're wonderin' if you'll ever be happy that way
again?" Ruth reached up and stroked her daughter's hair
gently, concern in her face.
Mo swallowed the tears that kept threatening. "Mmm." She
nodded, not sure she could speak.
"Darlin', you will. I know you will. It'll happen for
you." Ruth pulled Mo into her arms and hugged her tightly.
"Oh, honey, I just can't believe I'm gonna wake up
tomorrow and your daddy's not gonna be here with me."
Mo looked at her mother and watched as her face, and the
rest of the room, blurred behind her tears. And she put
her head on her mother's shoulder and cried, for her
mother's lonely heart, for her own desperate feeling of
loss, for her own confused yearning.
* * *
Mo stripped off the shirt and the denim shorts and left
them in a pile on the floor. She pulled her nightgown out
of her suitcase and slid into it, exhausted in every bone.
She crawled into the big brass bed with her sister,
gratefully pulled the sheet up, and rolled over and closed
her eyes.
She felt her sister's hand touch her rapidly drying hair.
"You slept with him, didn't you?" Maeve asked.
"Maeve!" Mo turned around and peered at her younger sister
through the darkness.
"And then you took a shower." Maeve was impressed with her
own deductive abilities. "So how long have you been
involved with this guy, anyway?" She propped herself up
on an elbow and looked over at Mo.
Mo laid her head back on her pillow and covered her face
with her hands. "Mother of God," she muttered, her Irish
Catholic childhood coming through.
"So?" Maeve prompted. "It's obvious you have a history
with him that's a lot more than professional," she said,
sounding like the attorney she was.
"Maeve, don't cross-examine me, okay?"
"How long?" Maeve insisted.
"Since the day I met him," Mo finally admitted.
Maeve sat up and looked down at her sister, incredulous.
"*You*? The ultimate Good Girl? You're actually admitting
that you slept with this guy the day you met him?"
"Maeve, don't--"
"I had a feeling there was something going on when I first
heard him call you 'Mo.' Damn! He's the policeman you
were telling me about yesterday!" Maeve slapped Mo
playfully on the behind. "Ha! I knew you weren't telling
me everything when you were talking about him before." She
grinned, inordinately pleased with herself.
"You're amazing, Mevvie. You've got me all figured out."
She laughed gently. "Everyone thinks they have me figured
out." She sighed. "I don't even have myself figured out."
"My God, Mo," Maeve said suddenly, "do you know how happy
Mama would be if she knew about this? She has that man on
a pedestal as it is."
"Don't you dare tell her!" Mo hissed.
"Oh, don't be dumb," Maeve said. "I wouldn't tell her
anything." She was quiet for a moment. Do you love him?"
Maeve asked then, her voice soft.
Mo didn't know what to say to the sudden blunt question.
"I--I'm not sure," she finally said. "We live so far
apart, I almost never see him. We're so different." She
heard herself repeating all the excuses she'd made to
herself over the months, and she took a deep breath and let
it out, slowly. "I think maybe I started to love him a
little when he came back out to Boulder, a couple months
after I met him."
"He did that?" Maeve asked. "Hmm."
"Yeah," Mo said. "He could have just forgotten about me,
gone on with his life." She smiled into the dark,
embarrassed.
"Well, he's not bad-looking. It's not like he had to fly
halfway across the country to get laid," Maeve put in
thoughtfully.
"Maeve," Mo said with a resigned sigh.
"I'm kidding," Maeve replied. "But you see my point. Have
you told him?"
Mo didn't say anything.
"You haven't told him anything?" Maeve touched Mo's
shoulder. "You are *such* a nimrod." She sounded
exasperated. "Does he love you?"
"I don't know." She looked over at Maeve. "He's never
said anything."
"I saw the way he looks at you," Maeve said, "for what
that's worth. Mo, I know how reserved you can be. But you
should tell him how you feel. If he doesn't feel the same
way, at least you've told him, and you can get on with
things. Like the rest of your life."
"You're probably right," Mo said.
"Well, it's better than being afraid, and ending up pushing
him away because he *doesn't* know how you feel," her
sister replied.
Mo took Maeve's hand and squeezed it. "You know me pretty
well," she said softly.
"You're such a nimrod," Maeve said again, but she smiled.
"You need to get some sleep," she added. "We have to get
up early."
"I know," Mo said. "G'night, sweetie." She rolled over
and buried her face in the soft pillow. As when they were
little girls together, she felt Maeve's small hand on her
back, soothing her into sleep.
last part