The Crush Part 32

"I don't mind. I agree. I think raunchy would be a mild adjective for Lozada."

"Wasn't talking about just him. That Threadgill was kicked off the police force, you know."

"He took a leave of absence."

Toby's shrug said Same thing. "Well, anyhow, me and Corinne have been worried about you."

"Needlessly, Toby, I a.s.sure you. I haven't been mixing with these people voluntarily. My path crossed with Lozada's by happenstance. My a.s.sociation with Mr.

Threadgill is purely professional. His profession as well as mine. That's all."

His expression was skeptical.

"I've been protecting myself for a long time, Toby," she added softly. "Since I was sixteen."

He nodded, looking embarra.s.sed for having resurrected bad memories. "It's just sort of a habit, you know, for me and Corinne to look out for you."

"And I can't tell you how much your concern means to me. Has always meant to me."

"Well," he said, replacing his hat, "I'm off. If you need anything give us a holler."

"I will. Thanks again for repairing the gate."

"Take care, Rennie."

She sipped a gla.s.s of wine as she cooked herself a meal of pasta and marinara. As she ate, she watched the sun sink into the western horizon. Afterward she carried her bags upstairs to unpack. Here in the country she wasn't persnickety.

She tossed undies into drawers without folding them. She hung clothes in the closet w.i.l.l.y-nilly, in no particular order. Out here she yielded to a rebellious streak-- against her structured self.

These tasks completed, she went from room to room looking for something to do. Now that she had the desired free time, she didn't know how to fill it. TV had nothing interesting to offer. She wasn't inspired to watch a movie from her library of DVDs. She tried to read a new biograph), but found the subject dull and the writing pretentious.

She wandered into the kitchen, looking more for something to occupy her than for something to eat. Nothing looked appetizing, but because she was there she opened a box of cookies and nibbled on one.

A benefit of being in the country, far removed from city lights, was the panoply of stars. She ventured outside to gaze at the nighttime sky. She located the familiar constellations, then spotted a satellite and tracked its arc until she could no longer see it.

She crossed her yard and entered the corral through the gate Toby had repaired. Although she knew his intentions had been good, and that his concern was sincere, his caution had left her feeling restless and even a little jittery as she went into the dark barn.

Usually the familiar smells of hay and horseflesh comforted her. T. Dan had put her astride a pony about the time she had learned to walk. Ever since, horses had played

an important role in her life. She had never experienced any fear of them and loved being in their environment.

Tonight, however, the cavernous barn seemed ominous.

The shadows were abnormally dark and impenetrable.

As she moved from stall to stall, the horses nickered and stamped skittishly. They had been groomed and fed.

They were dry. There was no approaching storm. She spoke to them in a low and soothing voice, but it sounded counterfeit to her own ears and must have conveyed to them her own disquiet. Like her, they were unsettled for no apparent reason.

Rather than being comforted by the animals, they increased her uneasiness because they seemed to share it.

Upon returning to the house, she did something she had never done before. She locked all the doors and windows, then double-checked to make certain she hadn't overlooked any. Upstairs, she showered, but she realized she was rushing through it.

She, who had waded through snake-and croc-infested African rivers, was now afraid to shower in her own tub?

Annoyed with herself for buying into the spookiness, she turned out the light with a decisive click and got into bed.

She slept lightly, as though expecting the noises that eventually awakened her.

"What the . . . ?"

Wick gripped the steering wheel of his pickup. He acknowledged that his mind was sluggish from exhaustion.

There were probably a few grains of pain medication still swimming around in his bloodstream, gumming up his thought processes. He was a little slow on the uptake, but it sure seemed to him that the steering wheel had frozen up in his hands.

For several seconds he was stumped. Then he looked at the gas gauge.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

He was out of gas. In the middle of frigging nowhere.

In the freaking wee hours of the morning. He was out of

gas. It had never occurred to him to check the gauge before leaving Fort Worth. Once he'd left Trinity Tower reasonably certain that Rennie wasn't shacked up in the penthouse with Lozada, once he'd left the concierge with the envelope and a ten-dollar bill guaranteeing its speedy delivery, he'd wanted only to get clear of the city before Oren saw that his driveway was minus one pickup truck or a nurse discovered that the hospital bed was shy one patient. During the drive he'd had a h.e.l.l of a time keeping his eyes open. Usually he was an aggressive driver who cursed slowpokes. He thought radar traps were a violation of the Const.i.tution. But tonight he had stayed in the outside lane, yielding the faster lanes to long-haul truckers and motorists who hadn't experienced a life-threatening a.s.sault barely a week ago. It was a broad a.s.sumption that Rennie had gone to her ranch. She could be on her way to anywhere in the world, but if she was taking only a few days of vacation, the ranch would be his first guess, so that was where he was headed. He didn't know exactly what he was going to say to her when he got there, but he would figure it out as he went along. Nor could he predict what her reaction would be to his unannounced arrival. She had saved his hide on the operating table, but she might still be inclined to flay it off him for his lying and spying.

Whatever, he would deal with it. The important thing was that he was almost there. Or so he'd thought until he ran out of gas. He twisted the wheel as hard as his diminished strength would let him and steered the truck onto the narrow shoulder. He let it roll to a complete stop. Without the air conditioner it was already getting uncomfortably warm in the cab. He rolled down the window for ventilation, but that only let in more hot air. The interstate was at least eight miles behind him. He estimated he still had a good ten miles to go before he reached the cutoff to Rennie's place. If he could run, he could cover that much distance in an hour, say an hour and ten minutes max. But he couldn't run. He could barely walk. Hobbling, it would take him hours to go that far, if he didn't collapse first, which he surely would. He supposed he could use his cell phone to call a service station on the interstate. But service stations on the interstate usually didn't provide roadside a.s.sistance, much less deliver gasoline. Getting a wrecker here would take forever. Besides, he had no money or credit cards because Oren had his wallet in a safe place inside his house. The road wasn't going to be well traveled until daybreak, and that was still a few hours away. Basically, he was stuck. As soon as the sun came up, he could start walking to Rennie's ranch and hope that a Good Samaritan would come along and give him a lift. It was too dark to see his reflection in the rearview mirror, but if he looked anywhere near as bad as he felt, he looked like someone in dire need of mercy. He could use the hours until dawn to rest. With that blessed thought in mind, he leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. But it didn't take long for him to realize that until he got horizontal, his back was going to continue throbbing so badly he wouldn't even be able to doze. He cursed himself for choosing bucket seats over a bench seat. Wearily he unlatched his door. Pushing it open required all his strength. He took several deep breaths before stepping out, unsure that his legs would support him. They did, but they were shaky. Leaning heavily against the side of the truck, he made his way to the rear of it and lowered the tailgate, which seemed to weigh a million pounds. Besides being a heavy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, it was as hard as a slab of concrete. Try getting comfortable on that, he thought. "s.h.i.t." If he didn't lie down he was going to fall down. He looked at his surroundings. Not a light to be seen in any direction. Across the road and beyond a barbed-wire fence was a cl.u.s.ter of trees. Ground was softer than metal, right? Definitely. And ground beneath trees might be softer than open ground because it would retain more moisture, right? h.e.l.l if he knew, but it sounded good. Before leaving his truck he retrieved his duffel bag, another heavy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and dragged it along behind him as he trudged across the road. He lay down on the ground and scooted beneath the bottom strand of barbed wire. He could never have bent double and stepped through it. The darkness had been deceptive. The grove was farther away than it had appeared. The silence was total except for his own labored breathing, but if breaking a sweat were noise-producing, he would've been making a terrible racket. He was drenched. And he was afraid that the blackness advancing from his peripheral vision had nothing to do with it being nighttime. When he finally reached the trees, he dropped the duffel bag against the trunk of one and sank to his knees be side it. Then he went down on all fours and hung his head between his shoulders. Sweat dripped off his nose, off his earlobes. He didn't care, he didn't care if he melted, he didn't care about anything except getting p.r.o.ne. He lay down in the dry gra.s.s. It p.r.i.c.ked him through his shirt, but he could live with that as long as he could close his eyes.

He turned his cheek into the stiff canvas duffel and imagined that it was a woman's breast. Cool and soft and fragrant with good-smelling talc. Goldleaf and Hydrangea maybe.

He was sleeping dreamlessly. Only something really startling could have pulled him out of a sleep that deep.

Something really startling, like "Move and you're a dead man."

He moved anyway, of course. First he opened his eyes, then he rolled onto his back to orient himself and locate the source of the warning.

Rennie was standing about twenty yards from him holding a rifle to her shoulder, looking into the scope. He sat bolt upright.

"I told you not to move."

Then she fired.

Chapter 23.

The bobcat fell dead from the tree.

It missed falling on Wick only by a couple of feet. Its hard landing sent up puffs of dust. There was a b.l.o.o.d.y hole in the center of its chest. Inside Wick's, his heart was thundering.

He swallowed with difficulty. "Nice shot."

Rennie came and knelt beside the carca.s.s. "He was so pretty." Except for the lethal incisors, the animal did indeed look like an overgrown house cat with a beautiful pelt. Rennie stroked the soft tuft of white fur at the base of its ear. "I hated to shoot him, but he looked about to pounce. For months he's been killing lambs and pets. This morning he got into my stable."

"I didn't know he'd prey on something as large as a horse."

"He wouldn't. He was probably looking for something small, like mice, or a rabbit. But he spooked the horses and got as scared as they were, wound up scratching one.

I heard the ruckus and reached the barn in time to see him scamper out. For the past hour I've been tracking him."

"And he tracked me."

For the first time, she looked across at him. "You were

easy prey." "The walking wounded." "The nearly dead. What the h.e.l.l are you doing here, Wick?" "Sleeping. Or was." He nodded toward the rifle propped on her knee. "Do you ever miss?" "Never. Are you going to answer me?" "What am I doing here? It's a long story. But the punch line is that my truck ran out of gas. I hope you're not afoot." She stood up and gave a shrill whistle. He was impressed. He'd never known a woman who could whistle worth a d.a.m.n. But that wasn't the extent of her talents. A few seconds later, a mare trotted toward the grove. "Wow, just like in the movies," he said. The horse stopped a cautious distance away from the dead bobcat and stamped nervously. "I'm not sure I can get on her without a saddle." "You're not getting on her at all. I am." Rennie turned and started walking away toward the horse. "You're going to abandon me here? With this animal carca.s.s?" "I didn't invite you." Poetry in motion. That's what it was to see her sink her fingers into the mare's thick mane and pull herself up far enough to throw her right leg over. She accomplished this in one fluid motion, without dropping the twenty-two. She nudged the horse with her heels and the mare danced a dainty circle, head and tail held high. "You're coming back for me, right?" He thought he saw Rennie smile, but the sun wasn't fully up yet, so he might have imagined it. With a movement of her knees that was almost undetectable, she nudged the mare into a gallop. So sure was he that she would come back for him that he was asleep before horse and rider disappeared over the horizon.

He didn't know how long he slept. It could have been fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. When he opened his eyes, Rennie was beside him again. She was wrapping the bobcat in a thick, quilted furniture pad. When she noticed him watching her, she said, "I'm not going to leave him for them to pick apart." He looked up through the branches of the tree. Buzzards were circling overhead. "They might be waiting for me to croak." "They might be." She picked up the bundle and carried it to a pickup he'd never seen her drive. He figured it must be restricted to ranch usage because it showed signs of wear and tear. By the time she had placed the bobcat in the bed and closed the tailgate, he had managed to stand up, using the tree trunk for support. He leaned down to pick up his duffel.

"I'll get that," she said, and started back for it. "You get in the truck."

As they pa.s.sed one another he thought of saluting her, but at the last second he thought better of it.

Of course, her getup offset her military bearing. She had on a red tank top, the kind she slept in, a pair of b.u.t.t-snug blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Her hair was loose and

tangled. He guessed that the disturbance in her stable had caused her to jump from bed and pull on the jeans and boots before racing outside. Whatever, it was a fashion statement that won his approval.

Sliding beneath the barbed-wire fence was only slightly easier to do in daylight than in darkness. By the time he reached the pickup and had managed to climb into the cab, he had broken out in a cold sweat and was trembling.

Rennie returned with his duffel and unceremoniously threw it into the bed of the truck with the dead bobcat.

She climbed in and cranked the ignition. She noticed him looking through the rear window into the bed of the pickup.

"Something wrong?"

"No. I'm just glad you didn't toss me back there too."

"I thought about it."

"What about my truck?"

"I've got a gas can."

She didn't outline her plan of how and when they were going to get the gas from her gas can into his truck, but he didn't ask. She pulled out onto the road and drove for at least a mile before saying, "I know Dr. Sugarman didn't release you from the hospital."

"Where did he buy all those teeth?"

"Did you just walk out?"

"Hmm."

"What about the guards?"

"I wouldn't want to be in their shoes when Oren discovers I'm gone."

"He doesn't know?"

"He might by now."

"He'll be upset?"

'Volcanic."

"Because he knows you need another couple days in the hospital."

"Because he knows I'm going after Lozada on my own."

She looked at him sharply. "Then why'd you come here?" "Find you, find him. He'll come after you, Rennie, and, like me, this is the first place he'll look." "He doesn't know about this place." "He will. Eventually. He'll find you. He won't stop until he does. He's got too much of himself, of his ego, invested in you. He'll come." They said no more. When they reached the house, she parked the pickup close to the front steps. She came around and a.s.sisted Wick out of the truck and onto the porch, then opened the door and motioned him inside. They stepped directly into a s.p.a.cious living room that was furnished and decorated in Texas chic. Lots of leather and suede, all very tasteful and expensive. Thick rugs on the hardwood floors. Fringed throw pillows. The pieces were large and comfy, inviting one to sit and relax for hours in front of the fireplace, reading the magazines that were scattered--scattered?--on accent tables. A Mexican saddle of black tooled leather with lots of silver detailing stood in one corner, displayed and spotlighted as a sculpture might be. A boldly striped horse blanket served as a wall hanging. Wick loved it. "This is nice." "Thank you." "It doesn't look like you." She met his gaze. "It looks exactly like me. Are you hungry?" "I thought about starting on the bobcat." "This way."

She led him into the kitchen, which held even more surprises. In the center was a work island with open shelving underneath. On the surface was a small copper sink where red and green apples had been left to drain after being rinsed. Cooking pots hung from an iron rack overhead. An opened box of cookies had been left on the counter. "Soup or oatmeal?" Painfully, he lowered himself into a chair at the round wood table. "Those're my choices?" "Unless you were serious about the bobcat. Then you're on your own." "What kind of soup?" It was cream of potato and might have been the best food he'd ever eaten in his life. Rennie had started with canned condensed, but she added half and half, b.u.t.ter, and seasonings, then topped off the crockery bowl with grated cheddar and put it in the microwave long enough for the cheese to melt. Her motions were economic and skilled. Like a surgeon's.