Dangerous Game, page 9
“I know. She died two days after my ninth birthday.” That day would never be forgotten. She even recalled the way the afternoon sunlight had slanted in their kitchen window when Florence had hugged her and said, “Your mama is in heaven, Trish.” Trish moved the spoon, turning the ground beef, suddenly mute with remembered grief.
“What’s your point?”
She forced words over the swelling in her throat. “I finally realized years later that we not only lost our mother that day, we lost Daddy, too.” She blinked away the moisture gathering in her eyes.
Only the sound of the cooking meat filled the kitchen. Searching for a distraction, Trish’s mind went back to the feel of Grey’s hard, lean arm under her fingers. She hadn’t expected just touching his sleeve would exert such power over her. I can’t do anything like that again. He’s on parole. I’m a deputy sheriff for goodness’ sake.
Finally, Chaney said, “I hadn’t thought of it like that. But you’re right. Dad’s never been the same since she died. But what has that got to do with me and Rae-Jean?” he challenged her.
“Because Rae got into meth and abused Jake, she’s facing jail time and all kinds of court-ordered penances due to the child abuse. Your little boy has for all intents and purposes lost his mother as much as we lost ours.”
“She deserves it.”
That’s not for us to say, Chaney. But she merely replied, “Yes, you’re right, but does Young Jake deserve to lose his mom to drugs and then lose his loving, fun dad, too?”
“He wants to go see her!” Chaney protested.
“If we could have gone to visit Mom, wouldn’t we?”
“You’re not making sense. She was dead.” Chaney’s tense voice still revealed his deep hurt, frustration.
“You’re right, but…” Trish turned off the ground beef, drained it. She then opened the jar of spaghetti sauce, poured it over the meat and set the stove dial on simmer. The homey task calmed her. “Rae isn’t dead but she’ll probably lose any plea for custody. And her son still loves her and wants her. That’s not going to change. Don’t let this change you.”
“I’m not changing,” her brother muttered.
She turned to face him, leaning her back against the counter. Lord, help me make him get this. It’s too important to be misunderstood. “From what I remember and understand now, when Mom died, our father must have sunk into a deep depression. I don’t think he’s ever come out of it. I think being miserable and ill-tempered has become a way of life for him.”
“I think you’re right.”
The pot of water came to a rolling boil and Trish added the pasta and stirred it. Then she walked over to her brother and laid a hand on his broad shoulder. “Are you going to change into an angry, ill-tempered father or stay Jake’s loving daddy? It’s your choice, Chaney.”
Chaney buried his face in both hands.
Trish could tell by the shaking of his shoulders that he was crying. She’d been raised with four brothers and knew he wouldn’t want this noticed. Giving him a measure of privacy, she turned away and stirred the pasta and then the meat sauce—all the while praying.
Young Jake wandered into the kitchen. “The story is over.” He sounded worn-out. “I’m hungry.”
Trish smiled at him. “Supper’s almost ready and I’ve invited myself.”
“Come here, good buddy,” Chaney said to his son.
Jake moved slowly over to his dad. “Don’t cry, Daddy.”
Chaney lifted Jake onto his lap. “Sometimes things hurt and even a big man, even a daddy has to cry. Don’t worry, Jake. We’re going to be okay together.”
From the corner of her eye, Trish saw Jake chewing his lower lip. Please, Chaney, don’t get closed in by bitterness.
“And don’t worry,” Chaney continued, his voice picking up strength, “I’ll take you to see your mama as soon as they let us.”
The little boy threw his arms around his dad’s broad neck. Chaney hugged his son close and Trish rejoiced. Now if only she could reach her father. But that would take a miracle. A major miracle.
On Monday evening, he eased onto the driver’s seat of the musty-smelling gray sedan in the shed behind the hunting cabin. He felt around under the dash for the ignition wires. Fog, wonderful fog had begun gathering in the low areas just a few hours ago. It would be dark soon. Perfect conditions for his plan.
Two weeks had passed since the last of the two games of chicken. He’d hoped whoever was doing it would go on. Two incidents in two days and then nothing in two weeks. Someone had chickened out on him.
He torqued his body to one side and leaned down under the steering wheel. He had to hand it to whoever it was that had thought of playing chicken on Bear Paw Road in the first place. It was a perfect way to force Lawson to leave Winfield.
Every time he saw Grey it was like grit rubbing in his eye. It brought everything back as if the accident had just happened. It made him sick seeing Grey walking free.
Tonight, he’d take over playing chicken. He’d read all about the first two accidents in the paper and had decided he wouldn’t do it at the same spot on Bear Paw. The sheriff might be watching that particular stretch of road.
Besides, he had a certain person in mind as a victim and knew just where this person would be driving. He had to make a point of whom he targeted tonight. In order for this third game of chicken to do the job, it had to put Grey under suspicion. Tonight was perfect because he also knew that Grey would be on the road alone tonight with no alibi.
Just last week, he’d heard through the grapevine that Grey always attended the A.A. meeting in Ashford on Monday and Friday nights. And on his way here to the shed tonight, he’d driven past Elsie’s and made sure the Chrysler was gone.
But he’d be very careful how he did this. He didn’t want to hurt the person. If all went the way he’d planned it, no one would get hurt except Grey Lawson.
Finally under the dash, he found the wires that he would soon use to hot-wire the car. His hands shook but he’d do this. He had to. He had to get Grey Lawson out of his face.
SEVEN
The next evening Trish wore her new ivory slacks and a brown sweater the color of steeped orange pekoe tea that the saleslady in Hurley had said matched her eyes. She’d even swept her hair back on one side with a long rhinestone-encrusted tortoiseshell barrette that Andy’s wife had given her for Christmas. She had dressed with care because she needed “armor” tonight as she went into the “arena.” Or that’s what it felt like.
Trish inched down step-by-step to the fellowship hall in the church basement, usually a welcoming place. But tonight was the bridal shower for Audra Blair, who was scheduled to marry Sheriff Keir Harding the Saturday before Thanksgiving. And any wedding shower seemed to bring out the matchmaking compulsion in all wives and widows. As an unmarried woman, Trish would be one of their “targets” tonight.
Cradling her gift in one arm, a French pastry cookbook, Trish paused on the lowest step. From below, the laughter of women and their high-pitched chatter enveloped her. Yet dissatisfaction filled her to the brim. Even if this had been a normal month, a bridal shower would have been a trial. But recent events, especially the visit she and the sheriff had made to Elsie’s house last night after the third hit-and-run, had soured her. Attending a bridal shower was exactly what she was not in the mood for tonight. But I have to stay. I work with Keir and this is for his bride.
Grey suddenly appeared in front of her, eye to eye.
Her heart pounded like a blacksmith’s beating hot metal. Sparks from the molten metal flickered through her nerves, drawing her toward him. “Grey,” she whispered. The image from last night of Grey’s face—darkened with shock and then anger—leaped into Trish’s mind.
“Hi. I just dropped off my aunt,” he muttered, skirting around her, and escaping up the stairs.
She gripped the railing, steadying herself. How could just seeing him affect her so?
“Trish, come on!” Florence hailed her from the open entryway to the fellowship hall. “I saved a chair for you!”
Trish walked into the brightly lit fellowship hall and let Sylvie Patterson, a fellow single woman, add her silver-and-white-beribboned gift to a table already piled high with presents. Trish leaned over and whispered, “Let me guess. We will be playing games first?”
Sylvie nodded. She and Sylvie, a tall platinum blonde who walked with a limp, shared a commiserating glance.
Before the opening of the presents and the cutting of the white sheet cake, Trish would indeed have to suffer through the bridal shower games. She’d rarely felt less like playing games in her life. Leaving Sylvie to preside over the gifts, Trish perched on the chair beside Florence. On her other side sat Uncle Jake’s widow, her Aunt Harriet. Great.
“I heard there was another game of chicken last night,” Florence said, once again revealing her talent for saying just what Trish did not want to discuss. “That’s the third, isn’t it?”
Trish opened her mouth to give her reply, but was ignored.
“Whoever did it picked on Hank Valliere,” Florence plowed on. “I hear the nutcase nearly forced Hank off the road. What’s up with the investigation?”
“All three of the incidents are being investigated,” Trish mouthed in a colorless, resigned voice. She glanced around at the circle of women all sitting on folding chairs. Audra, a very pretty blonde dressed in pale blue, sat across from Trish. Her little girl Evie wore a matching outfit and in her exuberance bounced on her chair. I don’t want to discuss this now, Florence.
“Does Grey have an alibi for this one, too?” Florence persisted. “I know Hank has been in Grey’s face more than once and even in this very room not long ago.”
Trish had heard of hearts sinking and now she knew what that felt like. Just before midnight last night, Trish and Keir had questioned Grey a third time about these incidents. Again, the image of Grey’s hardening face flashed in her mind. Emotions swirled inside Trish, spinning too fast to identify. Only one longing resonated clearly—she yearned to wrap her arms around Grey and hold on tight.
I can’t do that.
“I can’t believe that Grey would do something so obviously stupid,” Audra, the bride-to-be, commented a little louder than she needed to. “I’m sure Keir and his deputies will sort this all out soon.” Sylvie was now passing around sheets of paper for the first game.
“And this isn’t the time or place to talk about such things,” Shirley scolded, taking one and passing the rest of the papers to Florence.
“Well, it looks fishy,” Jake’s widow, Aunt Harriet, piped up. “Who else has it in for Hank? I saw Hank confront Lawson right here in this room. Was Grey getting back at him for that? Or is Grey Lawson one of those sickos who goes around repeating their crimes?”
“Grey is not a sicko,” Trish snapped, before she could stop herself.
Aunt Harriet raised both thin, penciled eyebrows at her.
“My nephew has come home to take care of me,” Elsie announced to the gathering. She sat across from Trish near Audra. She looked and sounded fierce. “And I don’t appreciate whoever it is who’s playing these nasty stunts. Or anyone who thinks that Grey would repeat the horrible accident that sent him to prison. Can’t you see, Harriet Franklin, that someone’s doing this out of spite?”
Silence.
Harriet flushed as red as her lipstick. “Who’s doing it then if it isn’t your nephew?” she demanded, but her lips trembled.
This has to stop now. “If we knew that,” Trish declared in her professional law officer voice, “we wouldn’t be discussing this. The sheriff would have arrested the person. Now let’s not ruin Audra’s shower.” She sent her aunt a pointed look.
Harriet looked disgruntled but accepted the sheaf of paper from Trish, took one and passed on the rest.
Sylvie began to explain the game.
Trish stayed in her chair, hearing but not listening. These dangerous stunts have to be stopped. And I must steer clear of Grey Lawson. I can’t let him know that I can’t get him out of my mind. I’m right in the middle of an investigation that appears to be in some twisted way connected to him.
But of course, she was scheduled to go collect food for the pantry with Grey on her day off.
The next day, after being patted down and searched, Grey entered the small interrogation room with Harold, a member of the local Narcotics Anonymous at his side. Grey hadn’t been able to get Rae-Jean out of his mind. Memories of his own first lost days and weeks—after he’d left the hospital and faced jail, his body racked with withdrawal—made it impossible for him to ignore Rae-Jean. At Grey’s request, Bill from A.A. had contacted N.A. and Harold had volunteered to come and try to help Rae-Jean. But he’d insisted that Grey accompany him. So Grey had called Sheriff Harding who had contacted the Winfield County Jail in Ashford. And here they were.
Grey and Harold eased down on the straight wooden chairs around the small, scarred square table in the absolutely plain room. Within a few minutes, the door opened and Rae-Jean, in an orange jumpsuit, shuffled in with a deputy gripping her arm. The deputy nudged her onto a wooden chair and handcuffed her to the chair arm. When he left, he closed and locked the door behind him.
Looking wilted and crushed, Rae-Jean gazed up into Grey’s eyes. “I hear you found my boy.” Then, in spite of clamping her eyes and lips shut, she began weeping.
Grey held back and let Harold move to the chair across from Rae-Jean. “Grey asked me to come and talk to you about Narcotics Anonymous. You’ve been having a rough time, I hear.”
Rae-Jean nodded, still weeping. “I was so tired of working. I just wanted to have some fun. I didn’t know it would turn out like this.”
Harold began going over the material provided by N.A. Grey rose and stood by the door, trying to melt into the background. Harold was nearly finished when the door opened and Trish appeared.
Grey stepped back as if she’d cursed him. His heart thudded. Why is she everywhere I turn? Did she follow me here? He noticed that Chaney and Young Jake were on either side of her. As the guard led them inside, Grey fell back from the door.
“Hello, Grey,” Trish greeted him, not meeting his gaze. “When I called this morning to arrange for Chaney and Young Jake to visit Rae-Jean, they told me you’d be here with someone from N.A. So I rode along with Chaney. We can leave here together in your car and get a jump on picking up those donations.”
He nodded, unable to speak. What else could he do?
Young Jake pulled away from his father and ran to Rae-Jean. “Mama, Daddy brought me to see you!” He threw himself into his mother’s arms.
Rae-Jean crushed him to her though hampered by the handcuff.
Before the guard relocked the door, Grey slipped outside and Trish followed him. They walked side by side following the guard out to the main area and then they were buzzed outside. The experience brought back bleak memories Grey was still trying to forget. He led her to the Chrysler where he opened the door for her and wondered how he could broach the fact that this would be the last time they’d make the food pantry rounds together. Grey didn’t care what Tom thought about it.
Pausing there, she said, “I’m so glad it worked out this way.”
What? He questioned her with a lifted eyebrow.
“Having the stranger from N.A. there will probably keep Chaney from venting his anger at Rae-Jean.”
“We can only hope.” Chaney hadn’t appeared very pleased as he watched Young Jake with his mother.
Trish read more from Grey’s expression than his words. He isn’t happy to have me pop up here. She slipped inside the older sedan and hooked her seat belt. She knew what she had to accomplish today. She had to tell him that she couldn’t do these rounds with him anymore.
Then why didn’t you just call him and tell him that? Her conscience probed and found her weak point.
Because I wanted to see him again, be with him again, of course. This hefty admission rumbled through her emotions, shaking her. She never blinked in the face of truth. And she wouldn’t now. I want him to hold me again like he did when we found Young Jake.
She’d dated on and off through the years, but had never formed a serious attachment to any man. Always, she’d wondered when or if she’d ever find the man that made her feel something more than mild interest. Now she’d met him. Yet the man was so unsuitable that it boggled her mind.
“Why don’t I just drive you home now?” Grey suggested, backing out of the parking place. “We both know that this pantry job doesn’t really need both of us to do it.”
He was making it easy for her. All she had to do is agree with him. “No,” her double-crossing lips pronounced.
“What? Why not?” Disbelief tinged his words as he headed out of the parking lot toward the highway out of town.
She stared straight ahead, pondering his question. Why not indeed? He’d put into words what she’d intended to voice. And she’d contradicted him, contradicted herself really.
“Why not?” he repeated.
Trish closed her eyes, letting her attraction to this man roll through her. His strength, his endurance drew her. She’d witnessed him taking everything that her family dished out and he still didn’t give back evil for evil. Instead, for Noah’s hate and distrust, Grey returned love in finding Young Jake and now by reaching out a compassionate hand toward Jake’s mom. Grey’s feet were planted on solid ground, on the solid truth of God’s love.
Even more compelling, his masculinity made her feel fully a woman—not a girl, not a tomboy.
“I don’t want to care for you,” she said low in her throat. “But I do.” Her words seemed to demand and occupy tangible space and vibrate in the air between them.
There was a very long, active silence.
He accelerated on the highway. “I’m going to forget you said that. I don’t have to tell you why. You know why.”
His tone of dark resignation spurred irritation through her veins. “Why is this happening?” Her voice whipped out waspish, cutting.
