Paint It Black (30 page)

Louis smiled. “I guess. Thank you.”

She pulled open the door. “Now get out of here. I got a shitload of stuff to get out on those shelves out there.”

He followed her out, toward the front, putting the check in his pocket. She moved to a box of canned peas and he paused to watch her. She bent to rip open the box and started stacking the cans on the shelf. If she knew he was still there, she wasn't going to say anything. Life was moving forward, he was now a part of her past.

“Excuse me, please.”

He turned to see a woman standing behind him. Her round body was draped in a bright muumuu, her eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. Silver bracelets tinkled on her wrists like the bell above the door.

“I just want to get to those,” she said, pointing.

Louis moved so she could get to the shelf of plastic trinkets.

“What do you think about this?” the woman said, holding out an ugly bird made out of shells.

“Very nice,” Louis said.

“I want to get a souvenir of this place,” the woman said. “I've enjoyed it so. It's so nice and peaceful here.”

She put the bird back and plucked out a conch shell instead. She stared at it, heaving a heavy sigh.

“It's so hard to go back to Wisconsin. All that snow and everything.” She looked up at him. “You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said.

He left the car in the deli's lot and walked down the street to the beach. The cloud cover had broken and shards of pink sun cut through the gray, but the beach was empty, the shell seekers abandoning the sand, the tourists retreating to the bars. Only a few hardy souls were walking along the surf, waiting to see if there might yet be a sunset worth witnessing.

Louis paused on the crest of the small dune. He hadn't been back here since the day he and Emily had talked. He was remembering what she had said about being alone, about having to build a family if you didn't have one. It occurred to him that he had never done that. As much as he cared for Phillip and Frances, he had always kept them at arm's length, as if he didn't quite trust himself to love them. They had put locks on his doors, always afraid he would run away. But he had anyway, even without leaving.

The storm had left the water green and churning, and the surf crashed and foamed on the hard, wet sand.

Down the beach, a little to the south, he could see the place where Harold Childers's body had been found. He went to it and looked down. The sand was washed of footprints. It looked clean, pristine, untouched, and new.

He sat down among the swaying sea oats. He watched a group of sandpipers play tag with the surf and then turned his gaze out to the gulf.

So what will you do, Louis?

Go home.

To what? The rented cabin in Loon Lake? Another empty apartment in Detroit or some other city where he knew no one? The hope that, in ten or fifteen years, he might have a gold shield to hang on his shirt?

Twenty grand . . .

A cop didn't take rewards. But he wasn't a cop.
Well, what the hell am I then?

“Excuse me.”

Louis turned. A man was standing on the dune behind him, hands on hips. He was wearing shorts, a bulky white sweater, and a plaid tam on his head. It took Louis a moment to recognize him. It was the Frenchman who had come down to the beach the morning they had found Harold Childers's body.

“You can't be here,” the Frenchman said. “This is
propriété privée.”

“Can I sit down there?” Louis asked, pointing down toward the water.

“If you want,” the Frenchman said with a shrug. He paused, peering at Louis.

“I know you,” he said. “You were here with the dead man. You are
le flic
.”

“Yeah, I'm the flic,” Louis said.

“Things are better now, no?”

“Things are better now, yes.”

“
Bon
.”

Louis started to get up.

“No,” the Frenchman said. “You stay here.”

Louis nodded, easing himself back down to the sand. He looked back out at the churning green gulf. The wind was picking up and he zipped his jacket up to his chin. The pink streaks that had promised a sunset had faded, leaving only the gray bank of clouds low over the water.

“I don't think there's going to be a sunset,” Louis said.

The Frenchman shrugged. “There will be another tomorrow.” He turned and trudged back up toward the cabins.

Louis watched him go. He looked back out at the water.

Okay. All right. Maybe . . .

Maybe it was time to stop running away.

He glanced at his watch. Margaret would be waiting dinner on him. He could make it if he hurried.

He rose, dusting the sand from his jeans. He took one more look out at the water. The sun had slipped below the gray cloud bank. Maybe there would be a real sunset tomorrow.

He would come back and see.

P.J. Parrish has worked as a newspaper reporter and editor, arts reviewer, blackjack dealer, and personnel director in a Mississippi casino. The author currently resides in Southaven, Mississippi, and Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and is married with three children, three grandchildren, and five cats. P.J. Parrish is currently at work on the next Louis Kincaid thriller, which will be published in 2003. Please visit the author's Web site at
www.pjparrish.com
.

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