Read Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5) Online
Authors: Rebecca Forster
Eyewitness (Thriller/Legal Thriller - #5 The Witness Series) (The Witness Series #5) (32 page)
Tears came to her eyes. It was not like her to cry and it was not like her to beg. It was also not like Archer to be cruel, so she asked why knowing his answer would be reasonable. More the pity. She could debate a flawed premise.
“Look at me, Jo. Please.”
Archer pushed Max down and put one big hand around the back of Josie’s neck. The other one he rested on her cheek. She resisted, but finally she turned toward him. Archer’s eyes roamed over her amazing face. There were tears beneath her lowered lashes; there were unspoken words on her trembling lips.
“I have to find Hannah first,” he said softly. “We can’t get married without a witness.”
Archer kissed her brow and each of her eyes. When Josie’s arms came around him, when she whispered ‘thank you’, and when her tears began to fall in earnest, Archer pulled her close and smiled even though no one could see.
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Prologue
He hung his head out the window like a dog on a Sunday drive. The whipping wind roared in his ears and slicked back his long hair, baring a wide high forehead. His eyes narrowed, squinting against the force of hot air hittin
g his face at 75 miles an hour.
Sinister. That's how he looked. Like he could take anyone down.
Women could fall at his feet and he wouldn't give two cents even if they were naked. That's the kind of man he was. But if they were naked, he'd give 'em a grin for sure.
"Hah!" he laughed once, but it was more of a shout, just to make sure he was still alive and kickin'.
He was feeling neither here nor there. He had a woman. She didn't make him happy. Thinking about her, he stepped on the gas and the ribbon of road blurred, turning molten under his wheels. The asphalt was hot as hell; still steaming though the day had been done for hours.
Hot! Hot! Good when you’re with a woman, bad when you're in the desert.
Lord, that was funny. True things were the biggest kick of all.
But damn if this wasn't the most lonesome strip of land in all New Mexico and him a lonesome cowboy ridin' it on the back of some hunkin' old steed. Cowboys were the good guys. Had a code to live by guns to carry. And cows and horses, they just needed a stick in the ribs, a kick in the rear to get 'em going. No need to talk. No questions. No answers.
Do you feel happy? Sad? What are you feeling now? Good. Good. You'll be going home soon. Do you feel anxious? You're so quiet. Do you feel? Good. Good.
He was hot like a stovetop. Hot like a pot about to boil and damn if he wasn't sitting right on the burner, all these thoughts in his head making his lid start to dance. He'd blow the top of his head right off and out would tumble all those good jokes, and lines that would make women weep. Hot damn. Make 'em weep.
He shook his head hard and wrapped one hand tighter around the steering wheel while he pushed farther out the window, head and shoulders now. The old car swerved but he got it back on track, straight on that dotted line.
He loved those dotted lines. Man perforating the world. Tear here. Send the part with him on it back for a refund.
He shook his head like the dog he was pretending to be. His lips went slack and he heard them flapping, even over the noise of the wind. What an ugly sound and he wasn't an ugly guy. So he turned into the wind and it blew his head empty. When he turned it back, the hot air ran straight at him and made his eyes tear.
Life was wonderful again. Television was a blessing. Doctors cured themselves of cancer with a thought. Smart and fancy women could be had with a smile and a wink.
Damn, life was good.
It had taken a while but he was cookin'. He was the most scrumptious thing on the menu.
"Whoeee!" he hollered, and the wind lashed that sound around and threw it right back at him as he hung his head out the window. He pulled it back inside just a snail's trail before the semi whizzed by.
He thought about that close call and making love and a cigarette all at the same time. The close call was past so he tossed aside the image of his head rolling around on the asphalt. His lady was a pain in the ass; thinking about her was idiotic. The cigarette, though, he could do something about that.
Two fingers burrowed into his shirt pocket. He was already tasting that first good drag and swore he could feel that swirly smoke deep in his lungs. But the pack was empty and crinkled under his fingers. His smile was gone. He didn't feel like hollerin' anymore.
Two hands slapped atop the steering wheel and he drove with his eyes straightforward on the lonely road. He just wanted one lousy cigarette.
But anger wasn't right. He plastered a grin on his face. The new him. New and improved. He accelerated down the four-lane, singing at the top of his lungs in a voice that he was almost sure didn't belong to him. It was too smooth.
Smooth like the turn of the wheel, the slide of the stop he made four miles down. He was still singing when he palmed the keys and unwound his long legs, and stood like a rock 'n' roll god in a pool of fluorescent light at the Circle K convenience store.
He took a minute to admire himself in the side mirror. He didn't like the way his dirty ice eyes looked, so he admired the night sky. Nothing like these black New Mexico nights. Stars as plentiful as rice at a weddin'. He tucked in his shirt so he looked really good. Handsome.
Damn, life was fine.
Whistling softly, he moved on. Pushing open the glass door, he stepped inside, surprised at how vibrant everything seemed now that he was straight. Michelle Pfeiffer looked like she could just walk right off the cover of People and give him a little hug. The Slurpee machine's neon blue and pink letters quivered as if overjoyed to be colored pink and blue.
He ambled over to the register. Little Fourth of July flags were taped all over the place: flags next to the Smokey Joe Hot Salami Sticks, flags wavin' over the stale donuts under the Plexiglas counter box, flags pokin' out of the almost-hidden condom place on the shelf behind the counter.
Hot damn! Independence Day. He almost forgot. Good day for him. He did what he liked, when he liked. There weren’t nobody around to tell him anything. Only his cowboy conscience, only his roamin' man code, to keep him in line.
The smokes were neatly stacked on a metal thing above the counter. He looked for the Camels. Left, third row down. Filters one row lower than that. It was the same at every Circle K. What a mind! He could remember everything.
He wandered toward the counter, laid his hands atop it, and peered over; half expecting a pimply-faced clerk to pop up like a stupid kid's toy. Nobody. Just worn linoleum, a wad of gum stuck to it turning black. Great. He could take a pack. Just reach up and be on his way.
But he knew right from wrong. He wanted to follow the rules and felt bad when he didn’t. It took a while sometimes for that feeling to happen, but it always did.
Then he saw her.
She was fixing coffee at the big urn right next to the two-for-ninety-nine-cent burgers in those shiny gold and silver wrappers behind the glass, under the red lights that never kept the damn things hot. Whooeee, he loved those burgers.
The woman was another matter. He could tell what kind of woman she was right off: fat and fussy. She was wearing a stupid little Uncle Sam hat that didn't fit. The store manager probably made her wear it, but he still hated it. She should have some pride. He hated her. She didn't even care he'd come in. She was supposed to care.
Hop to it. A little service here.
With that thought, the heat caught up with him. Just exploded his head like a potato too long in the fire. This time it wasn't funny. This time he felt sick. The lights were too bright. Too much pain inside his head. Hand out, he found the door and pushed it hard, his other hand held tight to his temple.
The heat smacked him good when he walked out of the white light and frigid air of the store and back into the desert night. He pressed his temple harder as he walked to the car and got in.
He checked himself in the rearview mirror. His hair was a mess. He'd feel better if he looked better. Get the comb. He leaned over to the glove compartment thinking his head would split wide open, and laced his hands around the first thing he found. It was cool and it was metal and he held it to his head.
No comb. He needed a comb. Maybe that damn clerk would notice the second time he walked into her store and sell him some smokes and a comb. Then he'd feel better.
He looked through the window of that Circle K again. She was still making coffee. Ignoring him. He needed a cigarette bad, he needed a comb, and now he needed some aspirin. He hurt so bad he could cry, and she was just standing there making coffee.
Inside again he turned right, and walked up to the woman who was putting the big lid on top of the huge steel urn that would brew coffee for whoever it was that might come to a godforsaken place like this in the middle of the night. He walked right up to her, and she felt him coming because she turned around. Her eyes were hazel and real clear and he saw himself in those eyes, reflected back the way people saw him.
Hot damn, he was a good lookin' cowboy.
And when he smiled at his reflection, she smiled right back. She did
n't have a clue. They never did.
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