Peppermint Creek Inn (22 page)

She cocked the gun.

The sound pierced through the quiet morning like a gunshot and she jumped at the harsh noise. Just a matter of seconds and it would all be over.

She would join them soon. They’d be the big happy family just like they’d always planned.

She wondered if she would have the guts to do it. She sat there looking out the window. Everything was covered in sparkling white snow. The trees, the buildings, the parking lot. It looked as if someone had dumped icing sugar on everything. She knew it should look pretty but it didn’t. Nothing did.

She imagined Jack, rolling a giant snowball through the drifts. Their two-year-old twins following him. Both bundled up in winter gear to ward off the winter weather, their faces red from the cold, eagerly watching what their dad was up to. And when Jack put the smaller snowball on top of the two other giant snowballs and placed his own hat and scarf around the makeshift snowman, the children laughed. The sweet sound like crystal chimes.

She could hear her children’s laughter so clearly.

She wanted to join them. To be happy with them. Jack’s laughter boomed with her children’s.

I’m coming, my darlings. I’m coming.

She lifted the gun, oh so slowly.

Jack’s laughter boomed outside. The children giggled excitedly.

Her family was waiting for her. She pressed the cold smooth barrel of the gun until it kissed her left temple.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Suddenly Jack’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “You promised me, Sara. You promised.”

“Jack?”

Sara swung around, her eyes wide fully expecting to see her husband standing in the open bedroom doorway.

No one was there.

For a moment, she thought she’d pulled the trigger and had been reunited with her family.

But she was alone. Desperately alone.

And then she realized it wasn’t true. She wasn’t alone. Jack had been here for her. She’d heard his voice. He’d been here all the time. She should have felt relieved at the realization, but she wasn’t. He’d made her feel guilty, guilty for not honoring her promise to him.

Then she knew. It wasn’t time to go to them. Something waited for her. It could be around the next corner. The next day. Or further down the line. Something was out there.

A burning curiosity began to take hold. She wondered what Jack had in store for her. Why else had he come into her life at such a bleak period, but to offer hope?

“The promise you made to him to find someone else.” Tom’s hushed voice cut through her memory.

Sara closed her eyes and bit her lower lip to prevent herself from crying. His arms tightened around her, comforting her.

“And from then on you were on the run. Trying to escape the promise you’d made to him. Keeping the pain of his loss from grabbing hold of you. Trying not to remember how your family died. And when you finally allowed them into your heart, you saw them, experienced your children’s laughter, heard Jack’s voice. Is it any wonder Jack, the man who loved you so dearly, who probably loved you more than his own life would want nothing more than for you to live? Would want your happiness?”

His words found their way into her heart and Sara felt her spirits lifting. She cocked an inquiring eyebrow at him.

“Are you sure you’re not a psychiatrist?”

Tom laughed. “I still may not know who or what I am, but I’m definitely not a shrink.” His voice suddenly grew serious. “I guess it’s what I learned from my mom. She tried to teach us. To prepare us a little on how to deal with death and life. Take it as it comes, the good with the bad.”

“Us?”

“No names. But I know I have two younger brothers. A dad. I can’t see their faces, but I know they’re out there. It’s just feelings I have. Just like things I remember Mom teaching us. About healing rituals. Something that might be able to help you.”

Sara frowned. “Rituals?”

“Remember the old saying something old, something new. Something borrowed, something blue.”

Sara nodded. “A wedding ritual, a symbol of transition. When a woman gets married, she wears something old, to remind her of her past, of what she’s leaving behind. And she also wears something new, a symbol for her future. So you’re saying I should find something to symbolize my past, my losses. Create a reminder of what I’ve lost.”

Tom nodded. “Then you have a healing ritual. When you enact a ritual of your loss—bury it, destroy it, give it away or show some way it is no longer a part of your life.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

He frowned and squeezed her tighter against him. “Believe me. It isn’t.”

Suddenly she felt better. Better than she’d felt in a long time. Realization and understanding wrapped around her like a newfound, long-lost friend. “And that’s why people attend memorial services and visit gravesites of their loved ones. To obtain some sort of closure.”

A hint of a smile entered his voice. “And why societies build memorials in an effort to heal from social traumas—whether it’s for thousands of people lost in a war or for one person who meant so much. Remember though,” he cautioned. “You can’t fix everything in a split second. It’s sort of an experience in the larger process of recovery. You have to examine and process your trauma, mourn your losses, deal with the symptoms, then rebuild your damaged self and finally rejoin society.”

“Are you sure you’re not a shrink?”

Tom chuckled. “I don’t think so. But you know what?”

“What?”

“Looks like the headache is gone. What do you say we go in, sit by the fire and have our tea and cake?”

“You’re on.”

Before Sara could make a move, Tom’s entire body coiled with tension, his hand tightened painfully around her waist and suddenly Sara became aware of everything around her.

The cool breeze bristling against her face. The sweet smell of the oncoming rain. The unmistakable feeling they were being watched.

Before she could voice her suspicion, he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her. Hard. She crashed stomach first onto the wooden planked floor, her breath escaping in a wild rush, his weight crushing her against the veranda as he flew on top of her. Much the same way as the first night they’d met.

A split second later she screamed as a gunshot disintegrated the overhead porch light, showering glass over both of them.

“Sweetness?” Tom hissed anxiously.

“I’m fine. Who do you think it is?” Sara shook violently as she peered through the veranda slats.

“Stay down!” Came his harsh reply as he rolled off her. “Get inside. Lock all the doors.”

Before she could stop him from blindly taking off and stumbling recklessly into extreme danger, he’d slipped into the heavy cloak of darkness.

—

Though Tom’s eyes were still unaccustomed to the sudden darkness, he dashed headlong through the night. Crouching low, legs and arms pumping viciously, he bolted in the general direction of where he figured the shot had come from. The road.

Someone had shot out the porch light. On purpose? Or had someone been aiming too high and missed. The gunshot had triggered the unwelcome headache and more visions. He’d lain on the veranda for a few precious seconds. Totally useless. Not knowing where he was. Engulfed by memories.

He’d snapped out of it long enough to make sure Sara was safe. And now he ran through the night like a madman. Visions sucker punching him all the way.

One by one, the blows fell.

Crimson.

Blood seeping.

Shouting.

Glass breaking.

A gunshot.

It sure as hell made concentrating on being careful pretty difficult.

Up ahead he could hear someone running along the road. Tom’s legs pumped harder. Adrenaline rushed like wildfire through his veins. Around the next bend lightning flashed and he spotted the intruder attempting to climb into a pickup truck.

Instantly Tom was airborne. He crashed into the tall, chubby figure. A surprised gasp escaped the assailant’s lips as they both slammed against the open truck door with violent force. Tom grabbed the man’s shoulders and spun him around, the overpowering smell of whiskey made him wince.

Raising his arm, he was quite ready to smash his fist into the man’s face when he halted midair. He’d been expecting Justin Jeffries. This was a man he’d never seen before. A somewhat rumpled looking fellow about Tom’s own age who scrunched up his face like a prune, waiting for Tom’s fist to hit.

Instead, Tom grabbed the man by his shirt collar with both hands. “Why are you shooting at us? Who hired you?”

“Hired me?” There was genuine surprise in his slurred voice. “Are you kidding? C’mon. Quit rough housing me, you’re gonna ruin my threads.”

Tom’s grip tightened and he shook the man hard. “I’m going to ruin more than your threads if you don’t answer me!”

“I thought you were Jeffries!” he blurted fearfully.

Tom was suddenly taken aback at the man’s confession. “Jeffries?”

“The cop. I was trying to scare him off.”

“Why?”

“Keep him away from you and—Sara.”

Tom didn’t know why, but he believed this drunkard. There were two types of people who always told the truth. Kids and drunks. And by golly this man was sauced.

Tom let him go and the drunk immediately reached out to grab the truck door in an effort to keep standing. He figured it was more from the booze than from Tom’s surprise attack on him.

“Who are you anyway?” the drunk asked curiously.

“Never mind who I am. Who are you?”

“Cran Simcoe. You gonna turn me in?”

“Only if you don’t answer my questions.”

The man visibly shrunk. “What do you want to know?”

“For one, why do you want to shoot at Jeffries?”

“Because—” The drunkard hesitated. “You sure you won’t turn me in?”

“Just answer my questions,” Tom replied firmly.

“Sara’s had enough trouble lately, she don’t need his kind around her.”

“What kind is that?”

“Trouble is all. Heaps of it.”

“Why do you think he’s trouble?”

The drunk shrugged. “He just is.”

“C’mon. You must have a reason. You didn’t shoot at me thinking it was him without a reason. So spill your guts.”

The man remained silent as he studied Tom, probably wondering if he could trust him. He decided to try another approach to get an answer out of him.

“Do you smoke?”

“I don’t have any cigs if you’re trying to bum one off me.”

“Answer me.” Tom growled. He made a threatening step toward Cran Simcoe.

“Sure I smoke. Cigarettes. Cigars. Pipe. Anything I can bum off someone.”

“You’ve been here before. You were the one smoking.” It was a statement not a question. The man had the same short dumpy profile as the one he’d seen in the window the other day when he’d woken up.

The man didn’t answer, but Tom could tell by the way his face grimaced he realized Tom knew the truth.

“You saw me in Sara’s bedroom that one day. So why’d you think I was Jeffries tonight? Wouldn’t it be logical I’d be with her on the porch?”

“Heard talk,” Cran said simply.

Tom sighed quietly. Now he was finally getting somewhere.

“Talk?”

“I was in jail a few days ago on a disturbance charge. Heard Jeffries talking on the phone. Said he was keeping an eye on Sara’s place for this person on the phone as best he could. But the guy this person was looking for hadn’t showed up yet. I’m figuring you’re the guy Jeffries is talking about.”

“Why didn’t you tell Jeffries about me?”

The man got edgy, angry. “Why the hell should I? Like I said—”

Tom chuckled and gave the man a settling pat on the shoulder.

“I know you don’t like him.” He was getting the feeling he had an ally in this drunk. Somehow, it felt rather comforting.

“Are you the one who’s been lurking around here the past couple of years vandalizing Sara’s place?”

Lightning flashed at that moment and Tom saw the look of horror on the man’s face.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on the place not wrecking it.” The man was truly insulted.

“So you’ve taken it upon yourself to be her protector.”

“Her husband was a good buddy of mine. Got the booze out from under me.” His voice grew hard. “Then his old partner shows up and Jack didn’t help me out anymore. He kind of got sidetracked with his old buddy.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What old partner?”

“Jeffries of course. Don’t you know anything?”

Apparently not. It was something Sara had neglected to tell him.

The drunk’s voice grew angrier and louder as it sliced through the damp night air. “Then some low-life scum of the earth murdered Jack. I figured I owed him for helping me out. Figured I could repay him by looking out for his widow. Drop in once in a while, since the cops aren’t doing their job, letting the hooligans getting away with bothering Sara all the time.”

“You ever see who’s doing all the damage?”

Cran shook his head. “Na. Whoever’s doing it is good.”

“What makes you think that?”

“They always do it when she’s not around. But me? I’m not privy to when she’s not around. Me and her don’t get along much. She doesn’t like it when I’ve been drinking.”

“I find it hard to believe Sara can’t get along with anyone.”

The man merely shrugged in answer. “The way I figure, someone’s got the inside scoop as to where she’s going to be and then comes in, does the job and gets out.”

“So Jeffries and Sara’s husband had been partners in the NYPD?” Tom mulled over this new bit of information. Partners depended on each other. Shared a deep bond. Trusted each other. Saved each other’s lives. Killed for each other. Maybe even killed each other.

The man weaved dangerously. “That’s what I just said isn’t it?”

A crack of thunder ripped through the air and thick drops of rain began to fall, forcing Tom to think about getting to shelter soon.

“You’re welcome to spend the night, Simcoe. Wait out the storm. Maybe dry out. After all you owe it to Jack and yourself to stay on the wagon.”