Memories of Us (11 page)

The heavy, putrid odor of chicken barns came in through the air vents, permeating the interior. Celia wrinkled her nose. “I hate that smell.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Tom downshifted as the minivan in front of him slowed to take the hairpin “S” curves before Stocks Dairy Road.

She rubbed at the end of her nose. “I wonder if the chicken farmers get used to it?”

The ping of her cell phone forestalled his reply. She pulled it from her waist. “St. John.”

A long pause, and she darted a glance at him. “On my way to Cader County with McMillian. Sure. I can do that. Do me a favor, would you? Call over to Moultrie and check on our fingerprints again. Remind Whitlock that he owes me. Thanks.”

She folded the phone. Tom gripped the wheel tighter. “Let me guess who that was.”

“Why do you dislike him so much?”

He hadn’t, not until this case. Thinking about the motive behind his sudden aversion to Mark Cook wasn’t something he really wanted to do. He rolled tense shoulders. “Maybe I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

She laughed. “How would that be?”

“The guy’s a sleaze.”

“He’s a damn good cop.”

“And that makes everything okay? What he does personally doesn’t matter, as long as he’s good on the job? God, I hate the way you compartmentalize your lives.”

She fixed a cool look on him. “Kathleen Harding really did a number on you, didn’t she?”

His stomach folded as if she’d punched him. “We are not talking about my ex-wife.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She tapped a slender finger against her temple, her tone sharp. “We’re not going to have that kind of relationship. Talking about our pasts is unimportant.”

“Cut it out, Celia.” The minivan drifted across the centerline. The driver, just visible through tinted windows, glanced over her shoulder, perhaps seeking something on the back seat. “Anything that happened with me and Kathleen has nothing to do with us.”

“That’s right. Because we’re all about the sex. That means there is no ‘us’.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you hate her career that much?”

“I don’t give a good damn about her career.” He lifted his foot from the gas as the minivan slowed once more, approaching the crossroads ahead. “Can we drop this?”

Celia lifted a hand. “Consider it gone.”

He blew out a long breath. “Damn it, I should have stayed in the office.”

Her eyes narrowed further, thinning to glittering slits. “It’s not too late to turn around.”

He didn’t miss her double meaning. Frustrated, he jerked his gaze back to the road. From the right, an unloaded chicken truck rumbled toward the crossroads. Tom frowned. The guy was taking his sweet time about slowing for the stop sign.

“McMillian.” Celia’s hand fluttered over his biceps. His gut tensed.

“Shit.” He grabbed for the gearshift, hit the brakes.

“Oh God.” Her panicked voice filled his ears.

The truck blew by the stop sign, barreled into the intersection.

Celia screamed.

Adrenaline pulsed under Celia’s skin, an uncomfortable wave that quickened her pulse and shortened her breath.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, fumbling with her seatbelt, her gaze trained on the crumpled minivan, its front end crushed against a small stand of trees. Finally free of the restraint, she pushed the door open, barely waiting for McMillian to get the Mercedes to a complete stop on the shoulder. “Call 911.”

He unfolded from the driver’s seat, already punching in numbers on his cell. She paused at the edge of the blacktop, assessing the scene, letting her training settle the tension and lingering sense of panic. The trailer lay across the road, bent cages scattered in every direction. Steam and smoke drifted lazily from the metal accordion of the van. Gas and diesel fumes mixed with the acrid smell of electrical circuits shorting.

She glanced over her shoulder at McMillian, phone at his ear. “If you have hazard cones, put them out. And stay here. I’m going to check the victims.”

“Celia, wait.” He caught her arm, his gaze sweeping over the van and the thickening smoke. “It’s dangerous. Wait for the police.”

“Don’t you get it, McMillian? I am the police.”

His hand dropped away and he spoke quickly into the phone, relaying details. She turned to the carnage, but not before catching the expression tightening his face. She jogged across the road and picked her way down the steep incline to the ditch where the van and semi lay.

Coughing from the fumes hanging in the air, she crouched by the van first and peered through the shattered windshield. Blood spattered the interior, and although she didn’t have to touch the female driver to know she was dead, she shifted to check the woman’s pulse anyway. An infant car seat was wedged behind the front seat, but no cries rose from the wreckage.

She closed her eyes.
No. Please.

Dark tint and trees kept her from seeing clearly inside the rear of the van. Unable to reach into the backseat, she rose. She had no way of knowing if the van was stable and having it roll over on her, posing a further risk to any child in the car, wasn’t an option. The distant cry of sirens filled the air and relief pulsed in her. She stepped over pieces of metal and fiberglass, shattered glass sparkling among the weeds in the ditch. The sirens grew closer, louder.

She looked through the windshield of the semi. The driver, blood trickling from a cut at his temple, slumped over the wheel, but she could see his shoulders moved with regular breaths. Vehicles stopped above her on the road, doors slamming, voices calling instructions and questions.

“Hey, St. John, you okay?” Cook skidded down the incline, a swarm of emergency personnel—firefighters, EMTs, fellow deputies—with him.

“I’m fine.” She swiped a loose hank of hair away from her face. Her nerves jumped, a trembling setting into her limbs. She stiffened her spine, rubbed her clammy palms down her hips. “Busted down to traffic detail?”

He shrugged, his gaze moving toward the van. “I was just a couple miles away, en route from Albany.”

A pair of EMTs half-jogged, half-slid down the embankment. “What have we got?”

“The van’s driver has no pulse. There’s an infant seat in the backseat, but I couldn’t tell if there was a child. The truck’s driver is unconscious, but breathing.”

Firefighters assessed the scene, tied the van off with rope secured to nearby trees and opened the semi so an EMT could reach the driver. Another man draped a tarp over the van, hollering that they’d have to cut the driver out.

“What happened?”

Celia dragged her gaze away from the scene. “The semi blew off the stop sign.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied the semi. “That’s Nate Holton’s truck. Son of a bitch was probably drunk. You’ve got blood on your face.”

She swiped at her chin, a tinge of red on her fingers. Pain stung her skin. “I must have cut myself.”

“Come on. They’re gonna have to pull a wrecker in here and Parker has this under control.” Cook held out a hand as they neared the top of the incline. Her gaze immediately tracked to McMillian, despite the chaos. He stood by the Mercedes, talking to a young deputy who scribbled in a notebook. McMillian looked up, his glacial gaze clashing with hers. He focused on her chin, his posture tightening, and she brushed at the trickle of blood there once more.

Hooking his thumbs in his belt loops as they approached the Mercedes, Cook jerked his chin toward McMillian. “I know you were taking him to Cader County, but I’d like to be there.”

She glanced at him, not wanting to deal with the tension between the two men. “McMillian and I can handle it.”

“It
is
my case, St. John.”

She looked at McMillian once more. He pointed toward the intersection, his face taut. Her stomach flipped. Right now, the last thing she needed was to get back in that car with him and wrangle with more of the mess they’d managed to create between them.

Between them?

Oh hell, who was she kidding? The only thing between them was one sexual interlude and an asinine agreement to explore their attraction. Hadn’t their argument before the accident proved that? Sleeping with him hadn’t given her entrance into his life on any level.

She’d lost her ever-loving mind. It didn’t matter how good it had been or how much she’d enjoyed dinner, seeing him away from the office, the glimpses of the real man she’d gotten. None of it mattered, because it wasn’t
real
. It meant nothing. She meant nothing.

Her throat aching, she met Cook’s sharp gray eyes. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s your case. I’ll tell McMillian you and I will handle the interview.”

Cook nodded. “Sounds good. I think Troy Lee and Parker can deal with this and we can head out for Cader County.”

Ignoring the shakiness in her legs, she walked away from him and crossed the road to where McMillian and the deputy stood. Her skin crawled with the aftereffects of adrenaline and she wrapped her arms over her midriff, avoiding catching McMillian’s gaze. She didn’t want him to see how shaky she felt, how badly the scene in the van had gotten under her skin. She waited until he’d finished his statement before giving her own. Finally, the young officer strode over to talk with the state patrol’s accident-reconstruction specialist, who’d just arrived.

McMillian shot a glance at the ditch, where firefighters were using the Jaws of Life to cut away the top of the van. “How are they?”

“Not good.” She looked over her shoulder, following his line of sight. Her stomach pitched, images of blood on a shattered windshield stark in her memory. “The driver of the van didn’t have a pulse. The truck driver was breathing, but out cold. Cook thinks it’s Nate Holton.”

His mouth drew into a grim line. “Son of a bitch. Alton Baker should have pulled his license when he got that last DUI instead of slapping his wrist with community service.”

She ran her thumb over her necklace. “Cook wants to handle the Cader County interview. I’m going with him, so you’re free to head back to town.”

If anything, his expression tightened further, into a glower. “I want to see you when you return.”

Fury burned her. She was tired of his habit of giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed without question. Fine, he was her boss, but she wasn’t a rookie who needed to constantly be told what to do. Hell, right now, she was tired of his ass completely.

Except her throat hurt from a sudden press of tears, and if she relaxed at all, she’d be a shaking mess. A ridiculous urge to throw herself into his arms and hold on to his solid frame, the strength of which she’d experienced the night before, wound through her. The weakness pissed her off even more. He wasn’t someone she could depend on. That wasn’t part of their deal.

Arms crossed, she tilted her chin. “You have a county-commission meeting and I don’t know how long this will take. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“I have some things to finish up in the office.” His voice hardened. “I’ll wait for you.”

So he could suck her back into a meaningless sexual tryst? So she could toss her self-respect away again? Jesus above, and she’d agreed to it, agreed to his crazy idea of a no-strings affair. Clearly, she’d tossed away her good sense as well.

At least Turello had put a diamond on her finger, prettied up what they were doing with words of love. At least he’d pretended she was worth something to him, even if it had been nothing but lies.

Where McMillian was concerned, she was a warm body, an easy lay, a quick fuck.

A conquest.

Her stomach turned. She glared at him, determined not to show the tears scratching at her eyes. “Don’t bother.”

She spun and walked away from him.

Damn.
Tom took a step forward, anger spurting through him, mixing with the wreck-inspired tension, leaving him jittery and off-kilter. The bright smear of blood on her face had jolted him, made him want to tug her close, run his hands over her, make sure she was all right.

Considering her current mood, good thing he hadn’t.

She was pissed at him, but hell if he could figure out why. Because he wouldn’t talk about Kathleen with her? She needn’t hold her breath, waiting for that. He didn’t discuss that particular failure with anyone. Celia’s withdrawal, the way she just walked off instead of letting him have it, made him angrier. He wanted to go after her, have her look at him, make her tell him just what the problem was.

He opened his mouth, her name at the tip of his tongue, and closed it with a snap. He’d been here before.
Kathleen, baby, talk to me. Let me hold you. Kathleen, damn it, don’t shut me out. Kath, don’t go. Don’t leave like this. Kathleen, come back to me. Give me another chance. Give
us
another chance.

The litany rolled through his brain. He’d opened himself to Kathleen, pleaded with her, begged her, and none of it had made a difference in the end. She’d left him long before she’d divorced him, had basically disappeared from his life the day their son died. The eight years she’d slept in his bed, lived in his house, kept him at arm’s length afterwards had meant shit. She’d been his wife and opening himself up, trying to maintain their connection after Everett’s death, hadn’t been worth anything in the long run.