Strange Country (21 page)

“The world’s weather, anyway. Do you know how it was destroyed? The Weber house?” Boyd asked.

“In the tornado, I’m assuming, when Jasper was destroyed. Are you hungry?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, but got up and opened the refrigerator.

“I don’t think so,” Boyd said. “It burned.”

Hallie looked at him. “Really?” She took a plate of cold cuts, bread, cheese, and milk out of the refrigerator and a bag of chips off a shelf. She brought everything over to the table and grabbed plates and silverware and glasses.

“Besides, the stone was buried after the house was destroyed,” Boyd added. “At least according to the photographs I found.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Hallie said. She went back to the refrigerator and got mustard and sliced tomatoes and lettuce.

“It makes sense,” Boyd said. “It has to make sense. We just don’t know what kind of sense it makes.”

“Well, who?” Hallie asked. “Who wanted Prue dead? Who are your suspects?”

“Same as before. Laddie Kennedy. Tel Sigurdson. That’s a long shot. But there’s some connection there, I think. Random unknown killer. Someone we don’t suspect and have no evidence for.”

“So, not much progress,” Hallie said. “Haven’t you heard anything new from DCI?”

“No, they’ve had this other thing in Rapid City, which shouldn’t involve them since Rapid City has its own detectives, but apparently does.”

His cell phone rang and he answered it. Hallie got up while he was talking and went upstairs, having pretty much just that minute realized that she was cold, her jeans still damp from the rain and walking out into the field earlier in the day.

When she returned in an old pair of jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, Boyd was putting his phone back in his pocket. “That was Gerson,” he said. “She heard about the explosion and wanted to know if it was related to the investigation.”

Hallie laughed. “What did you tell her?”

“Maybe? She’s going to be in town tomorrow, says they think they’ve identified the body.”

Hallie was putting together a sandwich, and she stopped with a piece of bread in her hand. “Who?”

“William Packer.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Boyd rubbed his eyes. “She’s bringing more information tomorrow.”

“Eat something,” Hallie said.

Boyd laid a hand on Hallie’s arm. “Tell me what’s been going on here. Are you okay?” There was an underlying urgency in his voice that made Hallie lay down the sandwich she’d just finished making and face him.

“I’m fine,” Hallie said. Better, at least. At least she thought she was better.

Boyd took a breath. “I had a dream about you. I dreamed that you died.”

Hallie put her hand over his. “I did die,” she said. “You’ve had that dream before.”

He shook his head. “This was different. This was now. It was new.”

“I’m not going to die,” she said. “It’s not going to happen.”

She hoped like hell that it was true.

20

Hallie woke while it was still dark. She could feel Boyd beside her, hear him breathing. She liked that, liked that he was there. She shifted onto her elbow and looked at him. He still looked too young, too pretty—not handsome, not exactly, more like the lead singer in a boy band or the teenaged son on a bad sitcom.

“Are you looking at me?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“Yes.” She kissed him.

He put a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her closer. The kiss deepened. She slipped the tip of her tongue into his mouth and moved so she was above him. There was time; for once there was time enough. Wind rattled against the window.

Hallie had always preferred her sex athletic and sweaty, but with Boyd she liked it slow, like holding back time, like if they were just tender and patient and slow enough, they would live forever in the moment they created.

Moonlight filtered through the uncurtained window. And Hallie thought that Boyd in the silver light of the moon looked amazing, his face not just planes and angles, but exactly the right planes and angles, the perfect definition of a man’s face. It actually made her heart hurt to look at him. Like, what would happen if she lost him, if she didn’t know that she could call him, could see him sitting across the table at the end of a long day. She touched his face, ran a finger down his cheekbone; he turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand.

“Jesus, Boyd,” she breathed.

In a cool smooth movement, he switched places so he was above her, one arm underneath her. He kissed her and she could feel him hard against her and she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything. This—this—was why she would stay, wanted to stay, would do anything to stay forever, but not just this, not just sex. Sex was just the feeling, a way to express what everything else, the quiet moments, the companionship, the conversations, and even the arguments meant. It meant “I want you.” It meant “I love you.” It meant … Oh God, it meant everything.

“Hallie?”

She realized that while she’d been thinking of the world and their place in it, he’d reached across, retrieved a condom, and put it on.

“Yes,” she said. And, “Yes, oh yes.”

He entered her and it was perfect, the way sex ought to be but often wasn’t. Like this was where the witching hour came from, where magic came from, when they matched up and the world matched up and just, right then, when she came and he did, time actually stopped. It stopped. Until they had to breathe or die and both of them, at the same time, chose breath.

An hour later, the sun was up and the world and everything in it was back.

There were outside chores to do and more to talk about, things that they had been too tired to figure out the night before. Boyd was heading into town to meet with a contractor and possibly Agent Gerson, and Hallie planned to join him, at least for the contractor part, figured she could help throw and sort and make the temporary repairs from last night a little more permanent. She was heading upstairs to change out of her chore clothes when her cell phone rang.

“Beth?”

“It’s Laddie. I heard about what happened. At Davies’s house.”

“Do you know what happened?” Hallie asked, standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. Boyd had gone outside to load an old tarp and some tools into his SUV. “Not the explosion, but how? The stones caused it. Somehow.”

“Yeah. I had an idea,” Laddie said. “From what people were saying.”

“Did you know something like that would happen?
Could
happen?”

“We should talk,” Laddie said. There was something in his voice, both sad and—Hallie couldn’t quite identify it. Angry? Frightened? Hopeless. “There’s something I haven’t told you about the stones and Prue and all that back then.”

“All right,” Hallie said. “I’m on my way to town. I can come over.”

“Nah,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Can you meet me … You know where’d be good? If you could meet me at that old church, you remember the one. St. Mary’s. It’s good and open.”

“I know where it is,” Hallie said. It was where Lorie Bixby had died back in the fall, where Martin Weber had killed her. Laddie was right, you could see a long way from there in every direction, though she wasn’t sure why that was important. And she didn’t like most of the reasons, from back when she was a soldier, why it had been important in the past.

She went outside to find Boyd and told him she’d meet him later. It was drier and colder than it had been. The thin layer of ice that had coated things the night before was gone, no match for a dry north wind.

“I’ll come,” Boyd said.

“Don’t you have a contractor to meet?” Hallie asked.

“I’ll call,” he said.

“All right.” Truthfully, she didn’t mind. Prue’s death was, after all, an official police investigation, so if Boyd wanted to come, well, it was probably a good idea.

It took them ten minutes from the time Laddie called to get on the road, Boyd driving because his car had a better heater than Hallie’s old pickup, and they were five miles from the ranch, so maybe fifteen minutes altogether when Hallie’s cell phone rang again. She pulled off one of her gloves and answered.

“Hallie…” The sound like a single breath puffed into the thinness of the dry, cold day.

“Who is this?”

“I need … listen…”

“Laddie?”

“I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have—”

Hallie could feel the SUV slow, could feel Boyd’s hand on her arm, though it felt like something distant, like someone else’s hand or someone else’s arm. “Laddie, where are you?” Hallie asked. “Are you at St. Mary’s? We’re coming, Laddie. Hang on. What’s happened? Tell me what’s happened.”

The car stopped. Hallie felt more than saw Boyd reach for his own cell phone, heard his voice a soft murmur as he called the central dispatch. Laddie lived on the outskirts of Templeton, which had its own police force, though their calls went through the county dispatch anyway. If Laddie was at St. Mary’s already or between there and his house, then it was Taylor County, the sheriff’s office, who’d respond. The important thing, though, was to get someone.

“I made mistakes, you know, but … I never,” Laddie said after a long pause, his voice so soft, Hallie could barely hear him. “Just … a guy’s got to get by. Everybody’s got to get by.”

“Laddie, tell me where you are,” Hallie said.

She was vaguely aware that Boyd had stopped talking, that the SUV was moving again—even if they didn’t yet know exactly where they were moving to.

“It don’t…” This time the pause was so long that Hallie wasn’t sure Laddie was going to speak again. “It’s cold,” he finally said.

“St. Mary’s or his house,” Hallie said quietly to Boyd. “Or somewhere in between.” Jesus.

“Templeton’s sending a car to his house. A sheriff’s car and the ambulance are going to St. Mary’s,” Boyd said equally quietly. “They’ll call.”

“Okay.” She didn’t even look at him, like all her concentration had to be on Laddie, like it was the only thing that might save him. To Laddie, she said, “Help is coming. Can you hold on?”

“I never hurt no one,” Laddie said. His voice was softer, but seemed more steady. Or maybe Hallie just wanted it to be. “I mean, I wasn’t always smart. I wasn’t…”

“Laddie.” Hallie gripped the phone so tightly, the edges bit into her hand. “What happened?” Not that she wouldn’t know soon enough, but talking was good, right? If he kept talking, that would be good.

“I don’t even know,” he said.

Hallie was vaguely aware that Boyd had to be traveling at least eighty miles an hour, and she was glad it was daytime and the roads were dry. He was the most careful driver she knew and there was never much traffic, but—

“Deer.” Spotted the almost invisible movement of brown coat against brown grass.

Boyd hit the brakes hard so that Hallie had to put her hand out quick, though she was wearing her seat belt. He slowed to under forty, but didn’t stop, and they passed half a dozen deer right at the edge of the road; then he sped up again. In the outside rearview mirror, Hallie saw the deer step lightly onto the highway, then take off again, like hounds were chasing them.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Yeah,” Hallie said. It was something she did automatically, all the time, because deer and cars on roads that weren’t heavily traveled were a tricky combination, even in the daytime, even if you were paying attention. Laddie had continued to talk, but Hallie had heard only a little bit.

“You need to know,” he was saying now. “The stones. They don’t just happen. It takes big magic. Big. You understand?”

“Yeah, Laddie, I understand,” she said, though she didn’t.

“Big magic,” he repeated, like it was important. “Like…” His voice faded. “… Could have done it. But I been looking. Maybe because of the iron or the blood or the way it happened. I think it’s all right.”

“Okay,” Hallie said. “Good. It’s okay.”

Silence. Then,

“All the trouble I’ve ever had,” Laddie said. “That stone.”

Hallie was pretty sure that wasn’t actually true, but it probably wasn’t a good time to say so.

“Lost the ranch. Lost my wife. Lost—”

“Laddie?”

Silence. Shit. Then—“Lost the best dog I ever had.”

Hallie could hear a siren. Thank God. “Can you hear that, Laddie?” she said. “Help’s coming. You hang on.” Said the last like it was a command, like one of her soldiers.

There was no reply. “Laddie. Laddie!” Nothing. “Shit.”

Hallie heard the siren again, louder now, then really loud, a final whoop, and silence.

Boyd slowed again for deer, two of them this time on his side of the road. There’d been a lot of deer lately, a lot of animals in roads. Half a mile later, Boyd turned onto the gravel road to St. Mary’s church.

“Hello? Still there?” A new voice on Hallie’s phone.

“How is he?” Hallie asked.

The voice, a man and sounding very young, hesitated. “We’ll do what we can,” he said.

“Tell me.” It wasn’t a question. It even felt like she was back in Afghanistan. It was cold, thin sun in the sky, someone was injured, and she didn’t know who the enemy was or where they were.

“He’s been shot. He’s lost a lot of blood. Thanks for getting us to him—now shut up and let me do my job.”

Okay.

Hallie could appreciate someone who got on with things.

She disconnected.

Boyd slowed further. They could see the lights of the ambulance now, another mile, maybe two, farther up. The road they were on was narrow and badly maintained over the winter. The SUV jounced heavily along the rutted surface.

The EMTs were already loading Laddie into the ambulance when Boyd pulled in behind Laddie’s old Malibu. Maker lay on the ground a few feet away. Hallie wanted to stand right between Maker and Laddie, wanted to tell the dog to get out of here. Go away. It couldn’t have Laddie. She wouldn’t let it have him.

“You the one who called?” one of the EMTs asked when Hallie reached the ambulance. He looked like he was no older than eighteen, which he probably wasn’t. When she nodded, he said, “Thanks,” slammed the back door shut and banged on it, then headed to the front of the ambulance.

Hallie paced him. “How is he?”