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  CHAPTER 4

  I WENT BACK TO MY MEAL, FEELING A LITTLE FOOLISH. A GRAY sedan with a burned-out taillight. It was odd that the gray sedan I spotted leaving the Harper Ranch this morning had the same problem, but there were hundreds of cars similar to Lin Snider’s. Probably a few of them had broken taillights. Why was I looking for something suspicious in a perfectly believable coincidence?

  My reputation as the police chief’s wife who seemed to constantly stumble into crime scenes was already carved in granite. My name was probably right at the top of the ballot for town eccentric. Much to Gabe’s relief, I had managed to maintain a crime-free profile for the last six months, and I was determined to keep it that way. Even if it had been Lin Snider out at the ranch, she said she’d been driving around the county. She found the old Harper Ranch accidentally, discovered an open door and decided to investigate. That’s all.

  I was finishing my meal, idly contemplating my busy day tomorrow, the Mexican hot chocolate I’d make for Gabe tonight, my interviews for Isaac’s book, when another person interrupted my reverie.

  “Hey, ranch girl,” said my friend and verbal sparring partner, Detective Ford “Hud” Hudson of the San Celina Sheriff’s Department. Our relationship consisted of a juvenile combination of harmless flirtation and smart-ass insults. But, in spite of our constant bickering, in the last few years a real friendship had developed between us. Actually, he was an upright guy and I’d trust him with my life . . . and had a few times. Even my husband was beginning to like Hud a little. Or at least tolerate his presence in my life without too much grumbling.

  “Hey, Clouseau,” I said, my nickname for him simply because he was as far from the loopy fictional detective as someone could be. “What’s cookin’?”

  “Just dodging sniper bullets and searching for justice for poor lost souls,” he said, sliding into the bench seat across from me.

  Hud wore a faded plaid flannel shirt, an olive green and blue Tulane University Green Wave baseball cap and dark blue Wranglers. His warm brown eyes and smooth-cheeked, country boy face looked every inch like a mother’s dream of the dependable L.L. Bean–clad boy next door who would tame and marry her wild daughter. In reality, he’d probably be the one buying her illegal moonshine and taking her skinny-dipping at midnight. My lost souls remark to him referred to his job at the sheriff’s department—investigating cold cases.

  “Yeah, that sniper thing stinks,” I said, looking down at my watch. “Shoot, I missed the six o’clock news. Did our lovely Miss Tiffany have any breaking news about the incident?”

  “Not much more than this afternoon. The four young men who live in the apartment were all cleared. Apparently they have handed out keys to their bachelor pad with gracious and unrestrained hospitality. Not to mention that they often leave it unlocked. So anyone and her brother could have simply walked in and out of the place. But I’m assuming you know this already.” He removed his hat and set it on the table. His short brown-blond hair stood up in funny little peaks.

  “Part I knew, part I assumed. I spoke to Gabe at three o’clock, and they were stymied. They’ve apparently got a brand-new crackerjack detective working on it. She’s from Louisiana.”

  “Yvette Arnaud. Yeah, we’ve met. She’s sharp, but no surprise there. She’s Cajun.” He grinned at me. He was half Cajun on his mother’s side. “Moved here from New Iberia.”

  “Dave Roubicheaux’s stomping grounds.” A love for James Lee Burke’s books was one of the things Gabe, Hud and I had in common.

  “Except she’s real as can be. Husband’s a photographer. Quite famous and in demand at one time, I hear.”

  “Believe it or not, her husband and I have met. Elvia took Sophie to Backdrops to have Easter photos taken. He works there.” I pushed my plate aside and sipped my ice water. “His name is Van Baxter.”

  “What’s your problem?” he asked, pointing at my water glass.

  “What?”

  “Water? Since when do you drink water? I thought you bathed in Coke, gargled with Pepsi and rinsed your hair in RC Cola.”

  “I drink water.”

  He twisted his lips into a smirk.

  “All the time.” I made a face. “Often.”

  He rolled his brown eyes skyward.

  “Okay, some. I’m trying to limit myself to one Coke a day. I read somewhere that cola is bad for women’s kidneys.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

  I nodded miserably. “Yes, but, I’m turning forty this month. Gotta start living a little healthier.”

  “Forty? That’s old. Ancient. Someone call AARP, quick. Get the defibrillator ready.”

  I slapped the top of his hand. “Shut up. You’re older than me. How do you like being forty?”

  He leaned back in the booth, locking his fingers around his neck. “Forty is much more attractive on a man than a woman.”

  “On that sexist note, I’m outta here.” I feigned standing up.

  “Don’t go.” He leaned forward, flattening his hands on the table. “You know that you’ll always be my unattainable dream woman.”

  “That’s better,” I said, sitting back down. “So, are you working on any interesting cold cases?”

  “Nah, same ole rusty dusty bones.”

  I stuck three five-dollar bills under my plate and slid out of the booth. “See you tomorrow. I have to brave the dangerous, sniper-filled streets of San Celina and walk home.”

  “You’re walking?” A line of worry creased the space between his eyes.

  “I walked here. It’s only a few blocks.”

  He stood beside me, helping me slip on my jacket. “I’ll walk with you. My car’s parked downtown next to Blind Harry’s. Had to pick up a book on California missions I ordered for Maisie.”

  “Hud, there’s really no need. Go ahead and have your dinner.”

  “Already ate. I was at the end of the counter. You didn’t even see me when you came in.” He pointed a finger pistol and shot me. “If I’d’ve been a sniper . . .”

  I punched his arm lightly. “Oh, shut up.” I couldn’t believe I didn’t see him either. So much for my astute powers of observation.

  “Who was that lady you were talking to? The tall one with the silver hair. Haven’t seen her around before.”

  I busied myself with buttoning my jacket, tucking Gabe’s bag of cookies from Nadine in my pocket. For a moment, I was tempted to tell him about the car I saw at the Harper Ranch and Lin’s broken taillight. But I held back, not wanting to endure his teasing about my manufacturing a mystery where there was none. “She’s renting time on the potter’s wheel at the co-op. Just met her today. New friend of Amanda’s.”

  He stuck by my side the five blocks back to my house. I had to admit it made me feel a little better, though he pointed out halfway to my house that I was probably in more danger walking with him.

  “That is,” he said, when we arrived at my house, “if what everyone is speculating is true and the sniper has a thing about using law enforcement personnel for target practice. We don’t actually know that for sure yet.”

  “Except you’re not in uniform,” I pointed out. Scout was standing at the front window waiting for me in the soft yellow living room light. His tail wagged hesitantly, not quite certain it was me. “How would anyone know you’re a cop?”

  “By my confident demeanor and movie-star good looks?”

  I laughed, the sound obviously traveling through the closed window to Scout’s ears. His tail went into full windshield wiper mode. “I hope someday we can find you a woman who can admire you as much as you admire yourself. It would be the perfect match. Thanks for the police protection. You’re a pal.”

  He brought his hands up to his chest, feigning a shot to the heart. “Tell the chief hey for me and to pretty please catch the turkey shooter before he decides to go after the important law enforcement personnel in this town. You know, the ones with the badges shaped like stars.”


  “No comment.” I was up the steps and unlocking my door when he called out one last remark.

  “Ranch girl, you do know that you can tell me anything. You have any worries about . . . anyone, you come to me.”

  I turned around slowly. He stood at the bottom step, his face sober. He had obviously observed my dash through the café to check out Lin Snider’s car, but chose not to mention it.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, but brought my hand up in an assenting salute.

  Once inside, I went over to the front picture window and waved. He waved back and started up the street.

  Ten minutes later, when I was upstairs changing into my new favorite flannel cupcake-covered pj’s—an early birthday present from Elvia—the front door opened. Scout bounded out of the bedroom with a happy bark, running down the stairs.

  “Hey, Chief Ortiz,” I called. “Want some hot chocolate?”

  “Sounds great,” he said, appearing in the doorway a few seconds later. “It’s getting cold. A storm is coming.”

  I gazed up at the ceiling. “Please, Lord, six hours of sun on Saturday, that’s all I’m asking. Eight hours if you’re feeling generous.” The Memory Festival ran from ten a.m. to four p.m. Eight hours of sunshine would cover setup and takedown.

  He walked over and hugged me. His suit jacket was cold and slightly damp. “Am I glad to be home.”

  “How was your dinner with Sally and the warden?”

  He let me go and pulled off his jacket. “Good. Stan, the new warden, and Sally have a mutual admiration society going on.”

  “Corgi love?”

  He laughed, pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned his white dress shirt. “Something like that. I do know quite a bit more about the breed than I did three hours ago. It’s helpful they have something in common since they have to work together. I was invited more as a courtesy.” In seconds he had his work clothes off, standing there in pale blue boxer shorts looking very sexy . . . and very cold.

  I handed him a sweatshirt and some sweatpants. “I’ll go down and start the cocoa. Also, I have a message and some snickerdoodles from Nadine. She misses you.”

  Gabe’s dark eyebrows raised in anticipation. “Snickerdoodles?” “I hope you’re planning on sharing. There are only two.”

  He winked at me, giving me a look I knew well. “Maybe. If you’re real nice to me.”

  I laughed, watching him pull on navy sweatpants. For a moment, my eyes lingered on the baseball-size, spider-shaped scar on his thigh, a souvenir from a Bouncing Betty explosive in Vietnam. He’d been lucky. Many soldiers had lost limbs or their lives to Bouncing Bettys.

  “You couldn’t possibly be sexually attracted to me right now,” I said, twirling around in my baggy pajamas. The man-style pajamas covered with pink and mint green cupcakes were very comfortable and as cute as, well, a cupcake. But on a sensuality scale of one to ten, they were a minus three.

  He crossed the room and grabbed me in a bear hug. “The thing is, I happen to know very well what’s under those cupcakes.”

  The salty male scent of his bare chest soft with black hair never ceased to intoxicate me. “You sweet-talker. Give me one of your cookies, and maybe later tonight I’ll show you my cupcakes.”

  “Sounds like I’m coming out on the better end of the deal.”

  I kissed his chest. “You, sir, are a very wise man.”

  We spent the rest of the chilly evening on the front room sofa watching mindless television sitcoms, surrounded by cookie crumbs, quilts and warm dog. The sniper situation only came up once.

  “No other leads?” I asked when a clip advertising the late evening news came before a State Farm Insurance commercial.

  “Not a thing.” He sat at the other end of the sofa, his feet in my lap. I massaged them through his thick wool socks. “Let’s just hope it was a random act.” He pulled at one end of his thick black mustache, sprinkled now with bits of silver. He rarely touched his mustache except when he was worried or agitated.

  I squeezed his foot. “We can hope.”

  We went to bed before the eleven p.m. news, knowing that if there’d been any progress on the case, he would have been notified. We both had busy days tomorrow and though we kissed for a few minutes, I pulled away first. “I’d really love to go further,” I said, yawning. “But, if we continue, I’m afraid you’d have to do all the work.”

  He yawned in sympathy. “I was kind of hoping you’d be on top tonight.”

  I slipped my hand under the covers and stroked his chest. “Rain check?”

  He grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me long and deep. “I find having a sensitive and understanding wife incredibly sexy.”

  We kissed again, then turned out the light. A light rain started, and the trickle of the water running through our gutters, the musical taptapping on the roof made it easy for me to drop off to sleep. I awoke in what felt like only moments later to the rain thrumming louder on the roof and the sound of Scout whining. Seconds later, Gabe started thrashing in his sleep, muttering phrases familiar to me now after five years. I waited, holding my breath. Sometimes it was just a word or two and then he moved out of the dream and went back into a deeper sleep. The dreams seemed to have become less frequent the last few years. When I tried to talk to him about them, he was dismissive.

  “It’s just old crap from ’Nam,” he’d say. “Nothing to talk about.”

  He groaned, and an arm flew out from under the comforter, hand clenched in a fist. “No,” he murmured. Then louder. “No!”

  Then he exploded. “Nada, nada! To the left! Take him!” His voice sounded young, terrified. His fist pounded the mattress.

  I bolted up, my heart swelling in my chest. When I touched his arm, he jerked like he’d been burned with a cigarette. I instinctively jumped back.

  “There, in the bush! He’s hit. God, no, no . . . go, go, go! Madre de Dios!”

  “Gabe,” I yelled, trying to grab his arms again. They moved like snakes on speed.

  “He’s hit,” he screamed, his whole body flailing.

  Scout lunged forward with a growl, the hair on his back stiff as wheat stalks.

  “Scout, back! Back!” I yelled.

  Gabe screamed, “Shoot, you mother—” A sob choked his garbled words.

  I tried again to grab his thrashing arms, calling out his name, attempting to break through his nightmare. “Gabe! Friday!”

  Next to the bed Scout barked a continuous staccato.

  A wail came from his gut that sounded like every man that had ever been hurt on a battlefield. “He’s gone, he’s gone . . . shit, no mas, no mas . . .”

  I tried to maneuver through his flailing arms, to touch his face, try to wake him. He thrust his fist out, striking my breastbone with a loud thump. Pain shot through me, bouncing up against my spine. It felt like I’d been hit with a steel hammer. I gasped, fell halfway out of bed.

  Scout jumped on the bed, baring his teeth at Gabe.

  “Scout!” I screamed. “No! Off!”

  Scout hesitated, looked at me over his shoulder, his body trembling, torn between my words and his instinct to protect.

  “Off,” I said, forcing a calm voice. “It’s okay. Come here.”

  He jumped back down and came to my side, his warm ribs against my bare leg, a growl still rumbling in his throat.

  On the bed, Gabe moaned, murmuring a name: “Carlos, Carlos.”

  “Gabe,” I pleaded from the foot of the bed. “It’s me, Benni.” I moved around the bed to his side, reaching out to touch his damp forearm. He pushed my hand away, his eyes open wide in the semidarkness, not awake, not asleep, caught in a horrible in-between world, reliving a moment long buried in his mind.

  I inhaled deeply and yelled as loud as I could, “Gabe!”

  Gabe bolted up, his expression wild.

  I lowered my voice and just started talking, praying that my voice would seep through the reel of memories that had taken his mind captive. “Gabe . . . Frid
ay . . . please. It’s okay. You’re here. Everything’s okay.” I crawled up on the bed, touched his thigh, felt him tense beneath my hand. My chest throbbed, the spot right above my heart, the place where he’d struck me.

  That stupid, stupid war. Thirty years later and still he dreamed of it. Still it haunted him.

  “Gabe, Gabe, Gabe . . .” I whispered, the monotone I used to calm a frightened animal, a horse who scented a coyote or a hysterical cow who had lost sight of her new calf. “It’s me, Benni. It’s me.”

  He stared at my face, his eyes glazed and uncomprehending. I reached up and touched his cheek. He jerked, fists clenched. I fought the urge to move backward, brought my hand to his lips, their fullness dry and chapped under my fingertips.

  “Gabe, you’re okay. You’re home. You’re home.” I moved my hand down his neck to his chest, placing it over his racing heart. The organ pulsed like a drumbeat under my palm, feeling like it would beat right out of his chest, dripping and bloody, dropping into my open hand.

  I talked and talked, nonsense words, words of comfort, snatches of songs and his name over and over, a Niagara of words. Gradually, his body began to relax, like life coming back into something that had been dead. A memory from my childhood flashed like an electric shock—a Sunday school story told by the pastor’s wife, a woman with hair the color of merlot wine.

  Mary and Martha were crying because their beloved brother, Lazarus, had died. They called out to Jesus when they finally saw him walking the dusty road toward their house—Lord, Lord, come and see. Mary fell at his feet—if only you had been here, she wailed, my brother would not have died. Jesus, overcome by grief for his friend, wept. Then a miracle from his mouth—“Lazarus, come forth.”

  He was dead, but now he lives.

  And the sisters rejoiced.

  Gabe turned his head to look at me. His eyes opened wider, back in the present now, aware of where he was, what had happened again.