Hear No Evil (20 page)

“The bullet creased me here,” he said, showing her the flat white scar across his sternum. “If I hadn’t stopped and turned just then, I would have walked right into it. It would have hit me square in the chest, probably the heart.”

She gazed at the scar with a horrified fascination. He tapped his forefinger against it. “This made me a believer. How it happened, why it happened, I can’t explain.”

She raised her eyes to his. “You said you quit the police. Is that why?”

He rebuttoned the shirt. “My wife asked me to quit. And not go back. It scared her. I promised.”

She stared at him in bewilderment. She could not imagine giving up her career because someone asked her. She simply could not imagine loving someone that much.

He shrugged. “Jessie said it hadn’t been my time to die. That I had work to do. A year later, I found out what the work was. Taking care of my wife. She was dying.”

“I’m sorry,” Eden said so softly it was almost a whisper.

Owen felt he’d said too much, but it was as if he were impelled by a force he couldn’t understand, and the words kept coming. “Laurie felt close to Jessie after the shooting, like Jessie was a fairy godmother or something. When Laurie was sick, she’d talk to Jessie about death and dying. Like I told you, Jessie gave her comfort.”

“I—I see,” Eden repeated. “I can see why you feel protective toward her.”

“Then,” he said, a bitter twist to his mouth, “I moved out here. To remodel that farmhouse. Jessie was already renting this one. She and I were sort of thrown together. So I tried to watch out for her. She’s getting old.”

Eden made a helpless gesture. “I never meant to abandon her. Truly, I’m grateful to her. When my mother was killed, Jessie took us in. But she never could handle Mimi, and she tried to mold me into something I wasn’t. We’re both strong-willed, and we clashed. It was inevitable.”

“She loves you, you know.”

Eden shook her head. “She’s never forgiven me. Not really. She knows we can’t get along.”

“You don’t know her as well as you think,” Owen said. “You’ve seen this house. Haven’t you noticed anything strange about it?”

“It’s a fine house,” Eden said. “I’m delighted she finally got out of that ratty old trailer. This seems downright luxurious compared to where we grew up.”

“There were other places available, closer to town, more convenient, smaller, easier to keep. No. She wanted three bedrooms. Why does one woman want three bedrooms?”

She looked at him questioningly. “It—it never crossed my mind.”

Owen found himself wanting to touch her, a troubling urge. Restless, he rose, jamming his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pacing away from the couch. He said, “One bedroom for her office, one for her to sleep in.”

He turned to face Eden. “And one for you. And Mimi. Two beds for her two girls. She’s always wanted you to come back, at least for a visit. She’s always dreamed that Mimi would get her life straightened out and come home. She doesn’t talk about it. But it’s what she wants. I know.”

Eden’s lower lip quivered dangerously. “That’s hard to believe,” she said. “It’s like nothing I can do can ever please her.”

“You’ve pleased her a lot by just being here. She can’t tell you, that’s all. And she thinks Peyton hung the moon.”

“Peyton,” Eden said with a note of despair. “What am I supposed to do about Peyton? I’ve got to get back to California. Rehearsal starts soon.”

A sudden coldness gripped him, and he felt a wave of self-disgust.
Why’d I say all that to her? Spilling my guts. Why didn’t I shut the hell up?

“Ah, your career,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Excuse me. I forgot your career.”

Eden stood and moved to where he stood, his hands still jammed in the back pockets of his jeans. Fire sparked deep in her blue-green eyes. She said, “I have a job to do and a living to earn. Some women are happy to clean babies’ bottoms and wipe runny noses and bake cupcakes. I’m
not
one of those women.”

He looked her up and down coolly. “No. You’re not.”

He thought of Laurie, who had wanted desperately to be one of those women. She had died wanting to be one, betrayed by her own infertile and diseased womb.

Then Eden turned her face, shame written on her features. He thought he saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I had no right.”

Against his better judgment, almost against his will, he put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re tired. Go to bed.”

Her body tensed beneath his touch. He had meant for his gesture to be merely conciliatory, comradely even, but the feel of her was as powerful as a blaze, and a fiery shiver ran through his veins.

His hand tightened. “Get some sleep,” he said.

He remembered the tailored-looking sleep shirt she wore. He thought of her breasts free and unconfined beneath the shirt, her long legs bare. He thought of her body naked, warm and fragrant and opening to him.

He told himself to stop thinking that way. He could not stop. He bent, his face poised over hers, and the only thing stronger than his reluctance was desire.

Eden thought,
And now he’s going to kiss me, and I’m going to let him. And it can lead to nothing but trouble. All hell will break loose
.

She felt him bend nearer, and his hand slid from her
neck to her shoulder. Her nape suddenly felt cold, naked, and vulnerable. He pressed his warm mouth against the flesh where his hand had been, and she could not repress a shudder of response. God, but he had a nice mouth. A wonderful mouth. Oh, God. Oh, God.

Slowly she opened her eyes and turned her face toward his. Then both his hands were on her shoulders, and his lips moved to her jawline, then to her mouth.

Her body felt both weak and energized. Slowly, reluctantly, she let her hands rise to touch the sides of his face. It was firm and angular and vital beneath her fingers.

This time it was he who shivered, as if encountering some force too great to resist. His hands tightened possessively on her shoulders, and he kissed her so deeply she felt faint. Suddenly, she was frightened.

She tried to draw away and succeeded only in putting a few inches between them; it was as though some strange power held her in a field of magnetism. She stared up at him, feeling dazzled, yet resentful of her own dazzlement.

“We can’t do this,” she said, her heart beating too hard. “There’s a little girl in there.”

“I know,” he said and bent to kiss her again.

She turned her face away, closing her eyes to shut out her awareness of him. It only intensified that awareness.

In a terse whisper she said, “This is wrong. If she wakes up—I can’t do this. Everything is wrong.”

“I know,” he said and kissed her ear. “We hardly know each other. Not really.”

He kissed the tender skin beneath her ear. “Stop,” she insisted, her breath shallow.

“I thought about you all day,” he said in a low voice.
His lips trailed down the side of her throat, lingered over her hammering pulse.

Realization of her own desire flooded through her, feared, dizzying, and unwelcome.
I thought about you, too. I didn’t want to. But I did
.

Desire felt too much like weakness, so she could not admit to it. “I don’t have—flings. You and I have no future. None.”

“I don’t want a future. Do you? I just want now.” He gathered her to him more hungrily, but she went cold and stiff in his arms, turned her face farther away.

If she let him kiss her again, there would be no turning back, she knew. Her body thrummed and burned and hungered with the knowledge, but her mind recoiled. She did not easily yield intimacy.

“I have no ‘now’ to give you,” she said. “My ‘now’ is overcrowded, thank you. You and I would just be using each other—that’s all. That’s not how I operate.”

For a moment, she thought he would ignore her protest and kiss her again; she half hoped he would. But he drew back. She saw something odd, a mixture of anger and sorrow cross his face. It seemed to briefly mix with disgust—for her? Or for himself?—then disappear.

He gave her a cynical little smile. “I do,” he said. “Operate that way, I mean. Sorry. For a minute there you didn’t seem to mind.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for us. But I think you’d better go.”

“Yes. But don’t bother being grateful. I did it for Jessie.”

She hesitated, torn between wanting him and fearing her own want.

His hands dropped away from her, he stepped away from her, his expression almost bored.

She stood.
This is the right thing to do
, she told herself.
This is the only thing to do
.

“Good night,” she said. He made no reply. He gave her the small, ironic smile again. He left her standing alone, her heart beating too wildly, her mind full of confusion, and her body vibrating with too much loneliness and need.

M
IMI CAME OUT OF THE
P
RESTONS
’ F
AMILY
T
HEATER IN
a dreamy haze, almost happy.

The five Preston Brothers had appeared on television since they were children, and Mimi had had a girlish crush on the youngest, Marlowe Preston, who had always been the most handsome. He was still the most handsome, for the other brothers had gotten middle-aged and stout, and their gleaming black hair looked suspiciously as if it were dyed.

But they could still sing, and their tunes echoed, ghostly and sweet, in her head. She tried to hum their theme song, but her ruined throat would not hum; it made only a cracked, feeble growling noise, and she hated it.

Her frail euphoria died, and her mood plummeted.
The starless night suddenly seemed chill to her, and she drew her denim jacket more tightly around her.

I miss my voice
, she thought.

But her voice had been only one more thing given to her that she’d wasted. She’d had talent—but not the drive or the single-mindedness to use it. She’d sneered at Eden’s lessons and hours of practice, mocked her dedication. And now whatever talent she herself had once had was ravaged and gone.

She touched the scar on her throat, hating it, hating the coarse, wracked ruin that was left of her voice, wanting to punish it, destroy it.

She thought of Peyton, and worry shadowed her mind like a cloud. She rubbed at the scar as if she could scour it away. Peyton must be talking to Jessie about things she should not—how else would Jessie know about Raylene? A woman with fire in her hand and a flag burning in her heart?

And Mimi herself, in shock, had carelessly blurted out the word “Miami.” How much more did Jessie know about Drace, Raylene, Miami?

Nothing, Mimi tried to tell herself, yet she was profoundly uneasy. She must call Jessie one more time, tell her she mustn’t listen to anything Peyton might let slip.

One more time
, thought Mimi.
It’s all right to call her one last time. I’ll be careful what I say. I’ll say exactly the right thing
.

She had tickets for two more days’ worth of shows, and then it was over. It was like that movie she’d seen once,
Leaving Las Vegas
. Only Mimi was leaving Branson.

Her steps quickened. She wanted to be back in the safety of her room. And she wanted a drink. She wanted a lot of drinks.

She hurried across a street, ignoring the red light. A
car turned the corner and screeched to a stop to avoid hitting her. The driver struck his horn, and leaned out the window. “Watch where you’re going, you dumb bitch!”

Mimi glared at him. She clenched her hand into a fist and brought it down with all her force on the hood of his car.

“Hey!” he cried in surprised outrage. “Hey!”

She hit the hood again.

“Hey!” He stared at her as if she were crazy.

“Fuck you,” she snarled. Then she gave him the finger, tossed her hair, and walked on, defiant, into the darkness.

The night turned cold, and Owen could have used a blanket; there was an old quilt in the closet, but he went without it, a penance, a voluntary mortification of the flesh.

He rose early, put the leash on the arthritic old dog, and walked it twice around the yard. The morning was gray and misty, edged with an autumnal chill. The old spaniel moved more slowly than usual, his limp more pronounced. Owen took a deep breath of the cold air.
Your dog is dying
.

He went back in the house, took a shower so cold it was icy. He shaved and dressed in clean jeans, a blue work shirt, his black cowboy boots. He told himself that he didn’t need to be encumbered by a woman, especially one with a kid on her hands. He should be out in the woods with the bow, hunting.

You don’t need her
, he thought.
She just looked good because she was close. A week or so of really fine screwing, and then good-bye, that’s all you wanted
.

The phone rang, and he glanced at his watch. It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. He frowned when the caller identified himself; it was Mulcahy, the dour state policeman from Sedonia.

“Charteris,” he said, “I may have something for you. About the kid. Louise Brodnik’s younger daughter got in early this morning from Maine. She talked to her mother by phone last week. Brodnik said she had a strange job coming up—baby-sitting.”