Dark Places (21 page)

Randy and Jamie's two boys and little girl were watching Dr. Phil on Harve's gigantic television set in the next room. Dr. Phil was telling some guy that he was a big jerk. The kids hooted with laughter.

“I really can't stay, Harve. I just wanted to bring by your Christmas presents.”

“Okay, I got you something, too.”

He led me to the tree we'd put up last week, which looked really good. There was tinsel now, and more ornaments and icicles. An angel on top.

“Tree looks great.”

“Jamie and the kids finished decorating it last night. Here you go, Claire. Merry Christmas. I'm glad we're both here to celebrate it, know what I mean?”

“Oh, yeah.” I took a rectangular box wrapped in red foil and a large red bow. It looked like a pair of shoes. Some new Nikes, I hoped. I handed him my gift bag and felt embarrassed. Why was I always so silly about exchanging presents? I guess I hadn't done it enough in my life. The series of foster parents I lived with weren't exactly Kris Kringles. I realized that I was dwelling on my past all of a sudden, due to my sessions with Black, no doubt. Only thing was, I didn't like thinking about it, wasn't used to it, and wasn't going to let it ruin the first Christmas I'd had in a long time with even a shot of having a good time.

Harve, on the other hand, always loved giving presents and was enjoying opening the one I'd given him. He tore into the bag. “Well, now, what'd you know? A boxed set of
The Sopranos
! Awesome.”

“I got you all the seasons, too, and there's commentary from the writers and cast members.”

Harve found the camouflage clothes in the bottom of the sack. “And insulated camo. All right!”

“I got Bud some, too. Can't have my two best friends freezing out on the lake.”

He laughed. “You're coming with us, aren't you?”

“I'm not sitting around in the dead of winter just to kill some poor duck. But Bud said his blind's all built and ready to go.”

Harve was beaming. “I cannot wait. When we get back, you and Nick can come over for duck a l'orange.”

“Duck a l'orange?”

“Nick said he'd get me the recipe from the Five Cedars' chef. When's he due back?”

“Yesterday, but he didn't make it. Haven't heard from him today. I suspect he got caught up with a patient and delayed his flight. It happens. I'm used to it.” But I wasn't used to it. I felt disappointed, and I didn't like the feeling, not one bit.

“Then stay here awhile. No need going down there and sitting around by yourself. At least have something to eat before you go.”

“Actually, I stopped and picked up a Kroger's Deluxe, you know, turkey and dressing and all that stuff, just in case Black drags in before midnight.”

“Save it for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Harve, really, but I have some gifts to wrap.” That was a bald-faced lie. I never wrapped anything, not with those little bags they sold now. Just dump the present inside, and bingo, you were good to go.

“Go ahead. Open yours.”

I tore off the wrapper but I already knew I'd like it. The wrapping paper hailed from the Bass Pro Shop in nearby Springfield, Missouri, my favorite store in the whole wide world. They had everything a sportsman/hunter/athlete could ever want, plus a bunch of waterfalls and stuffed bears and foxes to look at.

“Oh my gosh, Harve. What a beauty.” I slid the snub-nosed .38 pistol out of the well-oiled, soft brown leather holster.

“After what happened last summer, I thought you might like to carry number two. Got myself one, too. Just in case.”

I sat down on the sofa and pulled up my pant leg. I strapped the weapon on just above my ankle. “Man, Harve, it feels good.” I strode back and forth a few times, getting used to the weight. “You can't see a bulge, either.” I beamed. Now this was a gift worth getting. Harve knew me better than anybody.

“Let's sight it in a couple of days and see how it shoots.”

I hugged the guy. He had made my day. “I really appreciate this, Harve.”

“Waddaya expect? You're my best friend.”

Something in the way he said it got to me, the way his voice cracked slightly. I hugged him. “Okay, I'm gonna get out of here and let you enjoy your family.”

“Wish you'd stay.”

“I'll be back in a few days to eat the leftovers.”

“Sure. Hey Claire, wait, I've got that info you wanted printed out. About that Academy for the Gifted. I also got some hits on fatalities due to spider and snakebites. There's a heck of a lot more than I figured on.”

“Yeah, I'll look through that stuff tonight. It'll give me something to do until Black gets here.”

I waited while he went into his office and brought out a thick manila file. Dr. Phil was now berating some poor man who liked the Dallas Cowboys more than he liked his wife. I thought for a minute he was going to throttle him. That'd be a headline.
DR. PHIL COUNSELS HIMSELF FOR RAGE MANAGEMENT AFTER KILLING GUEST WITH BARE HANDS
.

Jamie stepped out of the kitchen holding a pie wrapped in green cellophane and tied with a silver ribbon. “Happy Christmas, Claire. Hope you like homemade pecan pie. We owe a lot to you, you know.”

“That's just about my favorite thing in the world.”

I left amid a flurry of good-byes and Merry Christmases and after the door shut behind me, I stopped on the back porch and breathed in the bracing, cold air. All around the beautiful, snow-covered cedars and pines brought back other Christmases, when I wasn't so alone. When I had a little boy to buy race cars and fire trucks for and build snowmen with. I remembered how excited Zach had been about Santa Claus coming, and then I saw him lying limply in my arms, big blue eyes staring at me until the light in them died away forever. My mind shut down. Don't. Don't think about him. Don't think about the past. I cannot dwell on him, not now, not ever, it's too painful.

I drove three quarters of a mile to my house, lonely there beside the lake. Even with Black's new addition. I should've put up some Christmas lights that I could click on from my car so it'd look more inviting when I dragged in. There was no sight of Nick, Saint or Black.

My garage door whirred efficiently, and I pulled the Explorer inside and lowered the door behind me. I gathered the boxes of food I purchased for our first Christmas Eve dinner together. If he made it in time. And if he didn't, hell, I had a new .38 now that I could shoot him with. The house was cold and gloomy, so I snapped on the fireplace. That warmed things up considerably. I stared at my little tree standing on the coffee table, looking all naked and forlorn. I'd bought some blinking lights and stuff but thought at the time it'd be fun to wait for Black and decorate it together. You know, start a little mini-Christmas tradition. But maybe it was too early to start up with the sappy traditions. Maybe it was scary, too.

I shoved all the food in the fridge and left the pecan pie on the counter. I sat on a bar stool, looking at it, hungry and bored, and decided a little slice before Black got there wouldn't hurt a thing. It was still warm and tasted great, so I helped myself to a second little sliver. If Black didn't show up soon, I'd eat the whole damn thing just for spite.

The evening progressed, and I tried to get interested in something on the giant television. I found that I didn't like watching television, not even
It's a Wonderful Life
. It wasn't such a wonderful life at the moment, and I couldn't quite relate to Jimmy Stewart's character. More often than not, I'd gotten people killed instead of saving their lives. I found
A Christmas Story
a little more to my liking and ate a third piece of pie.

Black had not called. I finally gave in to the temptation and tried his cell but didn't get an answer. He could be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. He could be asleep. He could be having the time of his life at a French and/or English Christmas party. But he better not be. I was just itching to use that new .38.

At one point I was so bored that I actually picked up the freebie copy of Johnstone's book bestowed on us by June Green. I stared at his picture on the front cover and the word jerk kept repeating itself in my mind. Go figure. I thumbed through the pages, examining the old black-and-white pictures. Apparently the academy had been in existence around twenty years, originally built on land donated by some old man named Walter Proctor, who no doubt needed a quick tax break. The academy's stupid name had come from some caves in the surrounding hills, which didn't exactly explain the dome part. Say what you may, it's still an asinine name. Hell, Johnstone probably had to use legal-size paper to accommodate his letterhead alone.

There were lots of grainy pictures of the white clapboard church that now stood in the middle of the academy's quadrangle. Old Proctor had apparently designated that the church not be torn down but kept on campus as a symbol of God's good graces toward the sainted men and women who would give troubled youngsters a new lease on life. Yeah, make me laugh some more. It was a good thing Proctor never met Jesus Johnstone and Company, or he'd be spinning in his grave.

I turned another page and looked at a group congregation picture that resembled the cast of
The Village
having a picnic. I frowned when I saw a photo of a teenager in a white T-shirt and jeans painting church pews. He was waving at the camera with his brush and looked a whole lot like Joe McKay, before he got muscled up and decided he had ESP. There was a smaller boy with him who was looking away from the camera. I was almost positive it was McKay but the caption didn't give names. Another picture looked a lot like Director Jesus as a youth with long hair and cheesy smile, standing beside a minister and holding a Bible, but I couldn't be sure. He wasn't wearing white sandals so it probably wasn't him.

I tossed the book aside and watched Scrooge getting his for a while, then finally clicked off the tube and lay down on the couch and wondered how I'd made it so long without getting killed. So many others had. I thought of Simon Classon. And Christie Foxworthy. I thought of my mother and my aunt and uncle, and all the others who'd died because of me. By that time I was getting very, very depressed. If Black were here, he'd say my survival guilt was kicking in, but, hey, it was all true. He'd say to get up and run a mile or think about work or make love with him, but he wasn't here, so there you go.

I dozed off about eight o'clock and heard in my dreams the roar of Black's boat. I sat up and kicked off the blue quilt. Then I heard the motor whine down and die. It was him. I smiled all over, like a silly goof. But man, was I glad he was back. I went to the door, and there he was climbing out of his boat, carrying a bunch of shopping bags. He looked up at me and waved. He was smiling, looking very happy to be back, and I was so glad to see him that it was downright humiliating. I walked down the steps to meet him and when he was in earshot, I said, “Well, it's about time, Black. I don't like to be kept waiting like this. I could've been at the firing range, practicing my marksmanship.”

“I missed you, too.”

Then he dropped the sacks and had me in his arms and I felt myself actually clinging to him like some kind of big, needy baby. Our mouths met, hot and breathless, and had a grand old time getting reacquainted. He was holding me off the ground and I clamped my legs around his waist. He broke off the kiss, long enough to mutter, “I'm going to Europe more often if I get a welcome like this.”

I smiled and renewed the kissing. He knew how to kiss, he sure did, and I was learning fast under his expert tutelage.

“I missed the hell out of you,” he said.

“Me, too,” I said.

When he finally put me down, I picked up one of his bags and it yelped. I dropped it and went for my weapon.

“I brought you a puppy. Don't shoot it.”

“A what?”

“A puppy. See.”

He reached in and brought out a tiny wiggling bundle of white fur. “This, my dear, is a genuine toy French poodle, registered in Paris.”

I looked at the little creature. I frowned. “The guys will laugh me out of the department if they see me with a sissy little dog like this.”

“He's not a sissy, are you, pup?”

When he shoved the wriggling bundle of fur into my arms, I took it and held it up to the porch light. I couldn't believe it. My heart melted. “It's cute, I have to admit.”

“Okay, let's go inside. And don't worry, he's already housebroken.”

“What the hell am I going to do with him while I'm at work?”

“He'll be okay inside alone. Or you can keep him in the garage if you want. It's heated, and I got you everything you'll need to take care of him.”

I put the wriggling puppy down and it ran around sniffing everything in sight. It yapped nonstop, high pitched and annoying. “Did you have a good flight?”

He nodded. “I slept most of it. So I'm rested up and ready for you.”

“Good. You're going to need your strength.”

“That sounds excellent.”

We ignored the dog, dropped to the couch, and went into our wrestling maneuvers again, about as breathless and turned on as you can get fully clothed. “Now that's what I missed the most about you,” he said at length. “But I can't help but notice there's a new gun strapped to your ankle.”

I disentangled, sat up, and pulled up my pant leg. I unbuckled the holster. “Harve's Christmas present. He's always so thoughtful.”

He looked it over, handling it expertly, I noticed, then set it aside. He pulled me into his arms. “God, it's good to be back home.”