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“No.”
“That’s a wonder. Go on.”
“The reporter kept pressing Compton about us, our whereabouts and welfare. Rather tersely, she got across that she’d spoken to you by phone and that you’d assured her that you and I had escaped unharmed. That’s paraphrasing.”
“That was it?”
“No. Looking none too pleased, she admitted that our whereabouts were currently unknown and asked that anyone with information please call the sheriff’s office immediately. She expressed concern for our safety.”
“A little late for that.”
“True. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. Naturally, the reporter asked if investigators were linking the shooting at the safe house and the murder of Frank Whitley to the Fairground shooting. Compton tried to waltz around it but ultimately conjectured that upon learning the names of the five key witnesses, the Fairground shooter sought out Dawn Whitley at her home. Frank Whitley, who knew the location of the safe house, must’ve given it up under duress. That’s how the shooter knew where to find us.”
“How did Whitley know our location?” Then he winced. “Dawn told him when she called him.”
Elle smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t put it past her, Calder. She must’ve taken mental notes along her way there. She told me her husband was beside himself when she left with the deputies for a secret location. If she did indeed tell him, she’ll never forgive herself. She would have done it to reassure him, never expecting that it would get him killed. Weeks and Sims, too.”
“It wouldn’t have made a difference if her husband knew or not, Elle. If he told or not. The minute the shooter showed up at their house, Whitley was a dead man. The shooter wouldn’t have left behind someone who could identify him later.”
He glanced at the TV. A uniformed man was now being interviewed. “Who’s that guy? What am I missing?”
“A detective for the police department in the municipality where the Whitleys live. They have jurisdiction and will conduct that investigation. But in league with the sheriff’s office.”
“Maybe that crime scene will produce something useful to Compton and Perkins. The shooter left the weapon like before?”
“The same kind as the one used at the fairground.”
“He’s a confident son of a bitch,” Calder said. “He’s got gall, and he’s good.” His jaw tightened. “But not that good. He’ll mess up. He probably already has. Somebody’s just got to find that incriminating mistake.”
“I’ll keep the TV in my room on in case they break with something.” She made to get up from the bed, but Calder caught her by the hand.
“You’re sleeping here.”
“We’ve been through this.” She tried to wrest her hand free, but he held on.
“That was before. This guy is resourceful. Ruthless. Has balls of brass, and he’s growing more and more sure of himself. Taking greater risks.”
He rolled to his side and made certain the loaded pistol was still on the nightstand where he’d placed it before going to bed. Turning back to Elle, he said, “Hit the lamp. You’re sleeping within my reach.”
At Elle’s insistence, they’d been lying at least two feet apart when they went to sleep. But at some point in the few intervening hours, their legs had become entwined. Her hands were trapped between her chest and his, and her head tucked beneath his chin so closely that she came awake to the warmth of his breath wafting over her face and his fingertips strumming her spine beneath the pajama top on loan from Glenda.
She didn’t miss any aspects of her marriage to Jeff, God knew, but she had missed having a masculine presence around. Absent from her life now was that uniquely male essence that contrasted and complemented her femininity. She realized now how much she’d missed the intimacy of sharing a bed with… manliness.
Everything about this sleeping arrangement with Calder felt so good, she was reluctant to disrupt it. In no hurry to disengage, she moved only her head, drawing it from beneath his chin and tilting it back to look up at him. He was awake, watching her.
He stopped the idle caress of her backbone, pulled his hand out from under the pajama top, and laid his index finger vertically against her lips.
Without any preamble, he said, “I didn’t run out on you because I didn’t like it, Elle. I ran because I liked it too much.”
She pushed his finger off her lips. “Is this a prepared ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech?”
“I prepared a speech, but I doubt it’ll come out the way I want it to.” He paused, scrubbed his tousled hair with his knuckles. “I can’t explain it like a poet would. I don’t think in terms of abstracts and concepts. The work I do is about assets and liabilities, nothing quixotic. My brain deals in facts, figures, practicality. So forgive me if I stop trying to make it pretty and speak bluntly, okay?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“Good.” He hesitated before starting again. “After that warm hug we shared outside the bar, I talked myself into believing that fucking you wouldn’t be an experiment, that you weren’t just a curiosity, an anti-Shauna, a salve for the aftereffects of the shooting, an itch I had a hankering to scratch. That… that my wanting you went deeper than all that. That’s what I told myself.”
“That’s what you toldme.”
