Tennessee Touch, Sisters of Spirit #6 (31 page)

"Well, I hope I'd—"

"I'd tell the team, no more jokes...my wife doesn't understand them. Then they'd pull twice as many on me and never tell you."

That was true, but—
“But it was so real, so believable. I fail to see how I should have guessed—"

The intense relief that had swept over her earlier was being knocked back down by his angry words. She tried to defend herself, but even to her it sounded weak.

"That doesn't matter. To be good, a practical joke must be believable or else people wouldn't fall for it. What you failed to do was show enough faith in me to disbelieve what you were seeing and find out what was really going on. You gave me no chance."

He was right. That was the whole point. Her distrust of men had made her fall for the joke and accept it at face value, never doubting that Logan was just like all the rest of the men she'd met.

 Her voice was as small as she felt. Biting back tears, she whispered, "I won't fall for anything...next time."

"That's right, you won't! There won't be a next time. I've been fooling myself into thinking you loved me." He snapped off each word, barely restraining himself as he paced around the room, back stiff, teeth clenching between sentences.

"I do...I just didn't—"

"Was that love, to refuse to talk to me when I called? Jake and I had been searching everywhere for you two. If I hadn't called your home in Granite Falls it would've been over two weeks before I knew if you were alive or dead."

"Leslie told you—"

"Not much. Enough to stop me hiring a detective."

"We didn't have your phone number with us."

"You knew the team's name. A call to them would've been relayed to me. You didn't want me, or Jake, to know—as punishment, I suppose— so you let us nearly kill ourselves trying to find what had happened to you. That's a pretty cruel kind of love you have."

He was destroying all her excuses and showing just how heartless she and Chantal had been. Yet they'd felt justified at the time, striking back in hurt and anger. It was all so mixed up. She hung her head in shame. From his side, he had been sorely used.

"But now that this is straightened up, couldn't we start—"

"No. I've got to have a wife who loves me so much she trusts me completely. I should've taken the hint when you Maced me. You've always thought the worse of me. I was a fool to try to change your mind." He stopped pacing, breathing out with a deep sigh, his manner regretful but decisive. "Good bye, Alison. It was quite a lesson knowing you."

"No," she cried out in desperation as he began to move. "Logan! Don't go. I love you!"

He dropped her apartment key on the table as he strode away, slamming the door behind him with a finality that shook her more than his words.

"Don't go," she whispered, as his footsteps went down the stairs.This time the tears would not be controlled, for this time the fault lay with her.

Logan emerged into the Seattle twilight and stomped toward his rental car.

“I love you.” Her last words. They rang in his mind as he approached the vehicle, fumbled for the keys.
What kind of love—

Tires screeched. A car behind him accelerated. He felt its presence, sensed the danger.

No time to dodge.

He sprinted three steps and vaulted upward, landing on top of the rental as the other car ripped along its side, spinning it crooked in the parking space. The impact threw Logan across the top and onto the grass on the other side, but not before he’d looked into the eyes of the driver.

He’d seen him before. Where? Those staring eyes.

It would come to him.

The car sped away, tires squealing, and Logan walked around the rental to view the damage. Both doors on the driver’s side were demolished. He didn’t even try to open them.

“Man, are you all right?” A young man, still dressed in jogging clothes, ran up to him.

“Yes. Did you see it?”

“Yes. He was trying to kill you. If you hadn’t jumped out of the way—”

“Can I get your name and number? For the insurance.”

“Yes.” He gave Logan the information and Logan wrote it down on paper that was in the glovebox, provided by the rental company for such things.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He looked closer at Logan and his face lit up. “Hey, aren’t you...uh...Logan. Green Bay?”

“Yes.” He took an empty piece of paper and autographed it, adding his “thank you” to it.

“Thanks!”

“Thank you. It makes it easier, having a witness. Did you get his license number or car make?”

“I was fairly close to it when it took off. A black four-door Mercury. An older model. Maybe 2008?”

“I’ll have the FBI contact you. This man is targeting NFL players and there’s an ongoing investigation on him.”

“I’ve noticed an unusual number of injuries.”

“Don’t talk about it to anyone else. We need to catch this lunatic as soon as possible.”

 He shook hands with the young man and entered his rental car from the passenger side. He drove down the road to Chantal’s house, watching for signs of the other car as he went along. A fine tremor in his limbs announced that the adrenaline that had helped him vault the car was slowly ebbing, and he pulled over for a few minutes to recover.

Where had he seen the killer before?
Those eyes?

So much for being smart. So much for distrusting men to keep herself from being hurt. Alison was like the dog, suspicious and wary, who bit the hand of its gentle master and was tied outside while the others stayed within, loved and comforted. Why had she jumped to conclusions in Miami?

"You are a stupid, stupid woman," she said aloud, her voice sounding strange and empty while the tears gathered to come in a fresh flood. "A very stupid woman." She had driven him away instead of giving him a chance. She hadn't wanted to act like that; she had wanted to run to him; but being overly careful, she had held back, demanding a solid explanation.

The fragile relationship they had been building had been destroyed by her lack of trust. If only she'd given him a chance to explain instead of being so self-righteously suspicious.

After twenty minutes the phone rang, interrupting her tears...Logan? Could it be him? But no, it was Chantal. Jake had been there, explaining, when Logan drove up and honked the horn, insistently, until Jake joined him.

She wanted to know what had gone wrong and Alison told her, as well as she could between bouts of weeping. Jake had promised to call Chantal later on that evening and Alison got Chantal to promise—several times—that she would try to get Jake to speak to Logan for her.

That was all Alison could do for now. That and cherish all the memories of him. Walk the floors in sleepless nights. Cry over everything. Go over the moments in her apartment, thinking of the things she should have said.

Ache.

Want him so badly her insides felt twisted into knots.

Logan. Now that she knew she was in the wrong and not he, the fire of remorse burned deeper each day. It's intensity grew, not lessened, as she read about the Green Bay team. About Logan and Jake and how they'd helped bring the Skippers from the bottom to the top.

Every time she read the papers, turned on the television news, walked past a newsstand, Logan was there. And every time she looked at her small pile of shells, saw a small jet, heard a football game, listened to country-western music, saw a man standing a certain way or drawl his vowels...and looked at the metal sculptured clock, Logan was there.

The Skippers had won the play-offs and were preparing for the NFC championship game. The next day Chantal called saying she was going to the championship game that Sunday, the second week of January, as a guest of Jake; and did Alison want her to ask him for a second ticket? Unable to give an answer at the moment, Alison hung up, asking Chantal for more time.

She needed to see Logan desperately; yet if he didn't want her around, who was she to chase after him and make a nuisance of herself? And if she saw him while she was all red-eyed and haggard-looking from lack of sleep, he'd for sure want no more to do with her. Finally she decided she was in no shape to make a logical choice; the safest thing to do was not to go, then formulate a plan for later.

Later that evening Chantal called back, demanding an answer before Jake called. "I can watch from home," Alison told her. "You go on and enjoy yourself. I'm afraid I'd spoil the whole trip for you."

The only way to keep from shriveling into a wreck of remorse and self-incrimination was by working every moment until exhaustion brought relief. Alison loaded her schedule deliberately to keep herself occupied but after three days was beginning to wonder if she could keep her mind intact. She'd better not call and ask for anymore extra work.

Then it was Friday again. Thankfully the job she had done that morning had involved a short conference only, but the language was highly technical and she had felt like yelling for help. Next time that group got together she would insist upon two interpreters so they could spell each other.

Continuous interpretation was exhausting to do since sign language often demanded a different word order than that which was spoken. Sometimes it was like playing a continuous game of Charades. When it was over her hands ached and her brain was fuzzy. If she didn't do something she would collapse in the middle of Saturday's session.

Ah, to just lie back and relax on a warm tropical cruise ship. And cry over Logan—the thought flashed in unbidden and she forced it out. Instead she drove over to where her favorite masseuse worked and let her work out the knots for forty minutes. By the time she was finished, Alison was almost asleep and gladly agreed to the suggestion that she doze on the table for another half-hour before leaving.

The cost cut into Alison's wages, but was the penalty she paid for sleepless nights on top of overbooking herself. She drove slowly home, still tired, but now able to relax.

Tomorrow she had agreed to interpret for a deaf and blind man. Signing for a blind woman didn't bother her, but she didn't think she'd ever get used to signing for a blind man. The blind had to cover her hands with theirs, reading her fingers as she signed, following them to her face and chest.

Since the location of the hands to the signer's body was significant, it was the only way a blind person could follow her meaning. She always felt uncomfortable bringing a strange man's hands to her face and body. It bothered her enough to slow down her translating, which wasn’t good. It was hard enough to keep up with some speakers.

There it was again...that private reserve that Logan had talked about. It stood so often in her way. Yet it was fundamental to her nature; how could she change the way she was? He hadn't tried to change her, she remembered, just asked if she would let him inside. That shouldn't have been too hard to do...when she loved him.

When she thought that Logan had been unfaithful to her, she had felt nothing but a righteous indignation coupled with a deep hurt. Perhaps she had subconsciously thought she could get him back by just forgiving him... when she felt he'd been "punished" enough. Now her hurt conscience was joined with a sense of loss that threatened her very existence.

To bring him back was out of her control. She had obtained Logan's new address from Jake through Chantal and written a long letter, telling him how much she had come to love him and how sorry she was. Into it she had poured out the feelings she had been too confused to express while he was here. There had been no answer. Had he even bothered to read it?

Please...please read it, Logan; please understand how it was. And when you do, please remember that I love you.