Licensed for Trouble (16 page)

Perhaps she wasn't quite ready to give up trouble.

As if reading her mind, Boone came up behind her and slipped his hands onto her shoulders. “You sure you're okay?”

She couldn't help it; she leaned back against him, and his arms went around her shoulders, holding her tight, his chin balanced on the top of her head. He breathed with her a long moment.

She waited for him to say the words—
It doesn't have to be this way; we could get back together
. But he didn't. And she didn't know if she should be grateful or hurt.

Hooking her hands onto his strong arms, she sighed hard. “I'm sorry, Boone. I know you always thought of us together. I did too. I don't know why it doesn't work now.”

He loosened his arms. “Me neither. But I've had a lot of time to think since we broke up, and I think you're right. I always saw myself as the guy who got PJ into trouble. I'm not sure I'd know how to be anything else.”

The guy who got PJ into trouble. So he had his own haunting voice, his own brand from the past. PJ nodded. “Me neither.”

“Maybe it's time we both figured that out.”

PJ took his hand and stood beside him. He clutched hers as they watched the sunset dip finally into the horizon, leaving only the milky sheen of the emerging moon upon the waters.

“As a start . . . could you be my bodyguard while we go and talk to the Kellogg hobo?”
Please, Boone, don't pull away.

He didn't. And when she looked at him, she was surprised to see a smile.

“I think I could do that.”

* * *

“How does someone become homeless?” PJ let Boone take her hand as they walked through the short, October-crisp grass that edged the beach around the Maximilian Bay Bridge. They'd passed the mushroom house on the way, and from this vantage point, nearly across the bay, it appeared forlorn and miserable, its dark eyes peering out over the water.

“A lot of homeless people are mentally ill. And the ones who aren't . . . well, maybe they're victims of a moment in time when everything collapsed,” Boone answered.

“But where are their people? the ones they're supposed to turn to? What happened to them?”

“What happened to yours? I recall that up until two days ago, you were living on a sofa. Or worse, in your car.”

“I had people. But I had pride, too.”

“I think that might be a bigger part of the equation for a lot of people. No one likes to admit they're beat.”

“You should know, by the way, there was no camping out in the car. Although the Vic
has
come in handy.”

“I'm glad you have another Bug. I can't wrap my mind around my PJ in a cop car.”

My PJ.
The words lingered in the sounds of the night.

“I guess I'm going to have to get used to not saying that.”

She swallowed past the clog in her throat. “I can't wait to get it back from Sammy and give the Vic back to Boris. I love the car, especially the moonroof, although it's a bit sticky. Sammy's working on it, as well as replacing the air filter. It feels as though every time I drive down the road, another part dies.”

“What do you expect from an old Bug?”

“Vintage, Boone. Vintage.”

“Speaking of vintage, how is Gabby the dancing queen?” Boone sounded a smidge too enthusiastic at the change in topic.

“She's thinking about moving into an apartment for the elderly—although don't get any fast ideas. It's not assisted living. They hold Saturday night dances.”

Boone had met PJ's elderly former neighbor, dancer, and B-movie actress during her stint as Dally Morrison. A neighbor who had saved PJ's life with her quick thinking and savvy acting.

“She'll be the belle of the ball, no doubt, entertaining them with her monologues.”

The moon had risen into a perfect circle, a spotlight that limed down upon them, marking a beam through the grassy park toward the beach. The scent of smoke tinged the air, and next to Boone, she, too, wasn't immune to the fingers of time reaching out to pull her back. “Do you remember the time the hobo found us on Kellogg Beach?” She looked at Boone, recognized memory in his eyes.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “That was, uh . . . probably the best thing.”

“Scared me to death, though.”

“You nearly jumped through the windshield when he rapped on the window. He just wanted a couple bucks.”

“I think you gave him everything in your wallet.”

“I was seventeen. He scared me, too.”

“I remember his bike and his tangled beard. He had sad eyes; I remember that, too.”

“He's never caused trouble, never been arrested. Or rather, we've chosen not to arrest him. He seems like a man who's decided to live outside the system, more than anything.” Boone pulled her toward the bridge and pointed to a girl's bike, four plastic bags tied to the basket, leaning against the wall of the bridge. Under it, a campfire flickered.

Boone put PJ slightly behind him. She let him.

“Hello?” he called, and she recognized his cop's voice.

A form sat near the fire, and the man looked up as they approached. Years lined his face, embedded in his matted beard, his shoulder-length tangles. He wore a gray stocking cap and a knee-length Army jacket, grimy at the cuffs. A wary recognition sparked in his eyes when he saw Boone, and he climbed to his feet. “Officer—”

“It's okay. We just came to ask a few questions.” Boone still had a firm grip on PJ, even as the hobo ran his gaze over her as if not recognizing her.

“What can I do for you?” he finally said.

“You remember the night you pulled a man from the lake? four years ago?”

The hobo narrowed his eyes at him and finally, slowly, nodded.

“Can you tell us more about that?”

He seemed to consider them for a long moment. “I pulled him out from down by the lifeguard stand. He was floating there.” He turned to point. His voice emerged low, gravelly, as if not often exercised. “I figure he'd been in the water only a short bit, because it was cold out—he would have died if I hadn't seen him. He was naked as a newborn baby when I yanked him out of the drink.”

“Do you remember anyone driving by, maybe throwing him in?” Boone asked, pulling PJ along behind the hobo's trail.

He shook his head. “I was asleep. Although I do wonder what woke me up. I always thought it was another nightmare, but maybe I heard something.”

“Like what?”

He turned and stared, as if seeing beyond them into the past. “122mm rockets. You don't forget the sound of them coming in.”

“Like gunshots?”

“Like . . . a scream.” He took a breath, fear in his eyes.

PJ stared at the gnarled man. 122mm rockets. The kind a soldier might remember. She tried to peel back time, to see him as a soldier, eyes staring at the sky as artillery pounded him. Tried to hear the whistle of death in his ears and feel the explosions that shook him to his bones.

No wonder he just wanted to be left alone.

“Is there anything else you can remember from that night, Mr. . . . uh . . .” PJ looked at him, hoping he'd fill in his name.

“Murph. And no, there's nothing else.”

Boone still had a hold of her hand.

“Thank you for your help, Murph.”

Murph's gaze fixed on PJ, now looking at her as if he recognized her. He took a step closer, his hand moving from his side as if he meant to take her hand. “PJ?” His voice sounded young suddenly, seasoned with an unfamiliar hope.

PJ froze.

Boone put his hand out, a barrier.

“How do you know me?”

But Murph only continued to stare at her, tilting his head to one side. “I didn't mean it, you know. I . . .” His face clouded, his eyes darkening. “I didn't mean it!”

“I think we're done here.”

PJ put a hand on his arm. “He knows me.”

“He doesn't know you,” Boone said softly, his eyes on Murph. “Look at him.”

Indeed, Murph clutched his chest, backing away from her, almost afraid. “I didn't mean it.” His voice broke, and he turned, stumbling toward the beach.

“Boone—go after him!”

“Let's just back away. He'll be fine.”

“He's upset.”

“He's mentally ill, PJ. He's seeing something that isn't there.”

“It might be a memory. What if he's talking about the PJ from the past—what if he knew her?”

“What PJ?”

“The one—the one in my mother's yearbook.”

Boone stared at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I don't know. . . . I found this entry from a PJ in my mother's college yearbook.”

“How would he know someone from Wheaton?”

“My father's from Kellogg. Maybe he knew her.”

Boone had hooked one arm around her waist now. “I'm taking you back to the restaurant. I'll radio in a cruiser to swing by and check on him.”

PJ had no words, watching as Murph collapsed to the sand and covered his face with his hand. She thought his shoulders might be shaking.

Her eyes filled and she whisked the irrational tears away.

Boone drew her in close as they walked to the car. He drove PJ back to the restaurant in silence.

“What do you think was wrong with him?” she asked as they pulled up.

Boone lifted a shoulder. “I don't know. Memory? Regret? Maybe he's caught inside his own grief, unable to move forward. That happens sometimes—people get so tied up in the past, they can't see the future or even the present. They only see what they did or who they were, and it paralyzes them. They can't break free.”

Can't break free.
Was that what Boone was doing with her? breaking free?

Which meant what—that she was his prison?

“The screaming could have been tires, brakes on the pavement.”

PJ found her voice, hating that it shook a little. She probably put too much tease into it. “See, you're curious, too.”

“I'm a detective; I'm supposed to be.”

“Maybe that's what got us into so much trouble. The combined forces of curiosity.”

Boone glanced at her, a smile on his face that resembled affection more than chagrin. “That's one theory.”

PJ held out her hand. “Good night, Boone. Thanks for dinner.”

Boone took it and, probably out of habit, ran his thumb over the top. “Take care of yourself, PJ.”

She wasn't sure why the door closing on the Mustang, the sight of him disappearing into the night, left a pinging sound in her heart.

The mushroom house slumbered as she drove up. Max had left after they'd returned from the tattoo parlor. Now she flicked on the entry light, and then the hall light, letting the glow seep into the main room as she padded through the house and out onto the terrace. She'd have to get the heat working soon; the bite of winter was on the edge of the breeze.

She stood for a moment, arms wrapped around her body, then continued down to the lake. It rolled onto the shore, reaching for her toes, as if hoping to entice her in. She found a stick, wished Dog were here to fetch it. Then she threw it underhand into the water, watching it arch against the inky night. It splashed into the water, the waves already gulping it.

Barking from across the yard jolted her. Dog loped toward her.

“Hey, Skip.”

Dog licked her hands, then bounded out to the water.

Max nearly materialized, silent, almost lethal, from the shadows. PJ would have stepped away if it weren't for the expression on his face. As if he'd been hollowed out, left on the street to perish. He stared at her a long time.

“You okay?”

As he moved toward the beach, he patted Dog, who came up, hoping for a stick.

Across the bay, in the lighted picture windows of the magnificent houses facing the lake, she spotted families moving around, getting ready for bed, reading.

Max held out his hands, staring at the scars in the moonlight. PJ tried not to look, but the chipped, leathery skin drew her eyes.

“How'd I get these?” He didn't seem to be talking to her, really. “Was I tortured?”

PJ winced. “I don't know.”

Max shoved his hands into his pockets. “Where have I been? What have I done? Who am I, PJ?”

“You have a name, Max.”

“Really?”

PJ stiffened at the edge in his voice.

“What if it's a name I can't live with? a past I can't bear?”

PJ dug her foot into the sand. “We all have a past we can't bear. I think the important part is how we move on.”

Across the lake, in the darkness against the bridge, she made out the flicker of a campfire. A man stood before it as if in effigy. Legs planted, arms outstretched to the streak of the Milky Way and the pinprink of stars, he held his hands wide as if trying to catch the universe and hold on.

Chapter Ten

“PJ!” The voice sliced through the shadows, cutting away Davy's face as he splashed through the waves.

PJ kicked through the folds of sleep and opened her eyes.

“PJ, are you here?”

As she sat up, she blinked against the filmy darkness of her room, grasping for her bearings. Oh, the blue room, not Jeremy's couch or even Connie's beautiful eyelet-lace bedroom. Moonlight slanted through her side window, striping the carpet, and a nip in the air prickled the skin on her arms.

The bedroom door slammed open.

PJ screamed. She launched from her bed to the floor, crouched behind it, groping for anything—a ball, a bat . . . a shoe! Her hand closed on her discarded Converse tennis shoe and she let it fly.

“Ow!”

Then the light slapped on, blinding her. She held up a hand, blinking. Through the blotches, she made out Jeremy filling the frame, holding his face.

But he hadn't finished his invasion. “Where are you?”

His eyes found her, and in them boiled a sort of wild-eyed panic that made her lurch to her feet.