Dark Sky (13 page)

He didn't bother asking more questions, raising more possibilities, just kicked Juliet and Ethan out of his office and told them to stay in touch.

Juliet nearly ripped the door off its hinges climbing into her truck. She stabbed the key into the ignition. “I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt and concluding that the concussion you got in August when you fell into Ravenkill Creek affected your brain. That's why you slept with me
before
telling me you'd figured out the doorman was involved in this mess.”

“I'm not that complicated, Juliet.” Ethan pulled his door shut as the engine started. “Mostly I was just thinking about sleeping with you.”

“There's more.” She jammed the truck into gear. “There's a
lot
more you're not telling us.”

“I think that's clear.”

“This rescue mission was a black op. Off the radar.” She jammed into Reverse and hit the gas too hard, screeching out of her space, then braking hard, glaring at him. “It's
my
niece who was terrorized yesterday,
my
apartment that was ransacked,
my
fish that are dead and put up for adoption—”

“Juliet.”

She ignored him, shifted into second gear. “And I'm the one you just screwed.”

“Maybe that was a mistake,” he said quietly.

Her eyes burned with fatigue, frustration, unreasonable anger. “Maybe it was.”

She wondered if Char Brooker had known even half of what her husband had done in the line of duty. An army intelligence officer herself, she still wouldn't necessarily be privy to his missions. Even with the post-9/11 intelligence reforms, operational security would still prevent him from giving her details she didn't need to have.

Juliet realized just how little she knew about the man sitting next to her.

Ethan said nothing on the drive back to the Upper West Side. Once in her apartment, he washed up and got his stuff together. Juliet looked at her rumpled sheets—the fitted sheet was half off—and tried to find it in herself to regret last night. But she couldn't, and she didn't.

She stood in her bedroom doorway, arms crossed on her chest as Ethan walked past her into the hall. “Wendy said Tatro's eyes were stone-cold with hatred. She'd never seen anything like them.”

Ethan stopped and tucked a short curl, one of about a thousand sticking out, behind her ear. “You need a chance to clear your head.” His voice was steady, without even a hint of an edgy undertone. “Take a shower, get something to eat.”

“I'm making a pot of coffee.”

She didn't ask him to stay. He didn't offer.

When he was gone, Juliet latched the dead bolt behind him. Fatigue overwhelmed her. She pictured Wendy, alone, sneaking back for her dead dog's ashes and ending up in a fight for her life.

“Hell.”

Juliet headed for the kitchen and the coffeepot. If making love to Ethan last night had been an act of madness, she thought, then so be it. She was entitled.

S
paceshot trundled behind Wendy to the apple orchard on the hill above the house, making her feel better because usually he would stay flopped down on the driveway in the sun. He seemed to sense that she needed company. He was uncritical, uncomplaining. And he didn't hover. Her grandmother, her father—they'd been hovering since she got back yesterday and barfed up her guts.

Her grandfather, who'd been shot when she was still a baby, told his wife and eldest son to give her some space. Wendy had never felt such a sense of solidarity with him. Usually he was all about Longstreet landscaping, drainage and plantings and what trucks and bulldozers were on the fritz, or about talking cop stuff—but he hadn't asked her to take him through what'd happened in New York yesterday. He had the story from her dad. That was enough.

Wendy set her half-bushel basket under a tree laden with fat, ripe apples. Cortland, perfect for applesauce and pies. The air was crisp, the morning sun sparkling on the bright leaves on the hills around her. Her father had taken the day off and said he was there if she needed him for anything. But she didn't want to think about yesterday. She wanted to pick apples.

She patted Spaceshot's head. “Why don't you go find a rabbit to chase? The exercise will do you good.” She made a face. “Just don't catch it and eat it.”

But the dog dropped into the tall grass and stretched out, summoning just enough energy to wag his tail.

Wendy started collecting the apples she could reach by standing on tiptoe. She picked one, then another, then stopped, taking a deep breath. Tears formed in her eyes. She blamed the cool temperature and the breeze. Her hands shook slightly—she'd had oatmeal with chopped nuts and apples for breakfast. Her grandmother had offered to scramble her some eggs.

A cluster of perfect apples teased her, just beyond her reach. Determined to stick to her task—to not weaken and succumb to her fears—Wendy hoisted herself onto a rough-barked branch, working her way out to the alluring apples. The branch hardly even moved under her weight. There were tools she could have used to reach the apples high in the tree, but she wanted to use her hands.

Spaceshot stirred. “Easy, boy,” a man's voice said.

Peeking through the leaves of her branch, Wendy saw Matt Kelleher stepping around the dog, who hadn't troubled himself to get up.

Kelleher, in jeans and a sports sweatshirt, squinted up at her in the tree. “Need some help?”

“Not really, but thanks.”

He raised both hands toward her. “Here. I can take those apples and put them in your basket.”

Sprawled out on her branch, her legs hooked around it for balance, Wendy lowered the two apples she'd picked down to him.

“These are beauties,” he said.

“Aren't they? There are a couple more—”

“I can get them.”

But any help took the fun out of her adventure. She didn't say anything as he reached up and plucked the two remaining apples from her elusive cluster, then dropped them into her basket. He was tall enough that he didn't need to climb up into the tree.

“I'm sorry about what happened yesterday,” Matt said. “I hope you didn't go to New York because of something I said.”

“No, I'd been wanting to do it for a while.”

He didn't seem convinced. “Your grandmother asked me to check on you,” he said.

“I haven't been gone thirty minutes—”

“She says it's been an hour. She can't help but worry.”

Wendy sat up on her branch and sighed. “I suppose not. Is my dad back?”

“Just pulled into the driveway when I left.”

Great,
she thought without enthusiasm. Although she did want to see him. She couldn't explain it. He'd slept on the couch in the living room last night—he wouldn't go home and leave her there alone. But this morning, early, he'd gone to the state police barracks. He didn't say why, but Wendy figured he wanted to check if there was anything new on Bobby Tatro and Juan's murder. Her father wouldn't say so to her, but Wendy knew he questioned whether Tatro had worked alone—she'd overheard him and her grandfather and uncle Paul talking last night. They were all irritated Juliet hadn't told them the man who'd threatened her had just gotten out of prison. On the other hand, they also understood her reticence; law enforcement officers got threats all the time.

Reaching up over her head, Wendy grabbed another branch with both hands and swung herself to the ground, landing in a rut. She went flying toward the ground, but Matt caught her by the arm, steadying her before she could end up flat on her face.

Wendy brushed back her hair. “Thanks. I'm fine.”

“I can see that.”

He had a nice manner, and she liked talking to him. He wasn't bad-looking, except she didn't like his shaved head, and he was in good shape. A lot of the guys who dropped in from nowhere to do seasonal work tended to look more down-and-out. “I just want to pick a few more apples,” she said. “Then I'll head back to the house. Tell Gram not to worry, okay? My dad, too.”

“Sure, kid.”

“Thanks.”

But he didn't move.

She tilted her head back, wishing she were taller. Her arm and leg muscles ached from carting her backpack and tote bag all over New York and pushing Juliet's bureau in front of her bedroom door yesterday—and from the tension of fighting off that awful man. She couldn't get his pale gray eyes out of her mind.

A killer's eyes.

“Wendy,” Kelleher said quietly, gently.

“What?”

“You okay?”

“Oh.” Suddenly she thought she'd be sick, but she made herself nod. “Yes.”

“You've gone a little white there, miss. Are you thinking about what happened yesterday?”

“I didn't mean to,” she whispered.

“Sometimes bad memories will pop up out of nowhere and won't let go. It's normal. Give yourself some time. Be patient.”

She nodded at his understanding, the urge to vomit subsiding. She squinted at him. “I know I was lucky.”

He seemed taken aback. “Lucky?”

“Not to be hurt.”

“A guy you knew was murdered. Another guy tried to kill you—”

She shivered, suddenly cold. She could hear the fish tanks breaking, the water rushing out of them—it'd seemed like such a huge amount, more than she'd expected. Fish squirming. Glass everywhere. That man—Tatro—cursing her.

Matt Kelleher touched her elbow. “Wendy?”

“I'm okay.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to remind you. But ‘lucky' is going to New York to visit your aunt and coming back with bags from Saks Fifth Avenue. I know what you're trying to say, but you don't have to pretend nothing happened just because you walked away.”

“You're right.” She brightened, focusing on her basket of apples, then scooping one up and shining it on her flannel shirt. “You'll tell Gram and my dad I'm okay? I'll be down soon. I'm making applesauce and apple crisp later.”

Matt smiled. “Apple crisp is one of my favorites.”

“Really? I'll make sure I save you some. Gram puts ice cream on hers, but I don't eat dairy products. But it's okay if you do. I mean, I'm not going to make a big thing about it.”

“No wonder you're so skinny.” He winked at her in a reassuring way. “Sure you're okay?”

She nodded.

“See you around, then.”

After he left, Wendy realized her teeth were chattering. She touched her lips. Cold. It wasn't just the October weather, she decided. It was nerves.
Psychological trauma.
Even when she was trying not to think about yesterday, all of a sudden she'd remember Bobby Tatro whispering awful things to her through Juliet's bedroom door.

She stared at her apple and tightened her jaw muscles to keep her teeth from chattering.

His words were like a physical wound. Hadn't her father told her that, as a way to help her understand what she might go through in the next few days, even weeks?

An amputation, she thought, not of an arm or a leg—of her innocence. Her faith in people. Her belief in her ability to navigate a big city—to navigate life.

She plopped under the apple tree, tucking her feet against Spaceshot's chunky frame, wishing she'd brought her journal with her. Her mother had told her that writing poetry when bad things happened—when she was just feeling bad—was therapeutic.

Maybe later, after she'd finished picking apples and had made her applesauce and apple crisp, she'd forget about her college essays for a while and write a poem.

“The Amputation of Innocence.”

She said the title out loud and nodded, liking it. It would be a private poem. She didn't need to show it to anyone.

Feeling better, not so alone and out of control and
crazy,
Wendy carried her basket to another tree and reached for a misshapen but otherwise perfectly good apple.

She had four lines of her poem set in her head when she saw her father walking up the lane. Spaceshot actually got up and stretched, then wobbled toward him.

Wendy could tell something had happened. Something new.

He put out his hand, and Spaceshot pushed his head under it, wanting to be petted. But her dad's eyes were on her. “I just talked to your aunt in New York,” he said. “There's been a development. Something you should know.”

“I'm picking apples.”

“Wendy—”

“I don't want to know anything.”

“All right,” he said. “It can wait. Need some help?”

“Not really.” But she saw the hurt and worry in his eyes, felt tears brim in her own eyes, and changed her mind. “Actually, yes. I'd like it if you could help. I was—remember when you used to put me on your shoulders so I could reach the apples?”

“You remember that?”

She nodded, relieved at the spark in his eyes. “It was such fun.”

They filled the half-bushel basket to overflowing, and Wendy didn't protest when her father picked it up to carry it down to the house. She was tired, her eyelids heavy—she hadn't slept well.

As they walked slowly back to the house, the wind picking up, rustling in the tall grass and the bright leaves, he told her that Juan, the doorman, wasn't who he said he was. That it was unlikely he'd been killed because he was trying to protect Wendy.

“Then who was he?” she asked.

“We don't know.”

“Why was he killed?”

Her father shook his head. “We don't know that, either.”

“Are you working on the investigation?”

“No. I'm here for you, Wendy. That's it. You're my only concern.”

“Aunt Juliet—”

“I'm not worried about her.”

But he was—Wendy could see it in his eyes.

She thought up another line to her poem. When they reached the house, she left him in the kitchen with the apples and ran up to her room, wanting to start her poem while it was still fresh in her mind.

She grabbed a pencil and paper and sat in her window seat, but no words came. She stared at the hills, the brightly colored leaves, unaware she was crying until a fat, hot tear dripped onto her hand.