Part 19 (2/2)
”No, I've just been stupid, haven't I?”
He looked at me with those intriguing, disillusioned eyes. ”Yes. Very.”
We took our beverages back to the living room and waited some more. Eight-fifteen came, and eight-thirty Eventually Graham loosened up a little, and even asked me about life in my floating home.
”I love it. It's a nuisance in a lot of ways, but I swear, regular houses seem landlocked to me now. I always want to get back on the lake.”
”Is this where you met Lily James? On her houseboat?”
”No, Lily's got a house near Woodland Park. It's a great location for her kids.”
We chatted on aimlessly, about kids in general and Lily's in particular, then fell silent. Nine o'clock. No sound. Nineten. Nine-thirty. I had picked up a book at random, and as I turned the pages, that same sense of unreality settled over me again, of idling in the shallows while a deadly, invisible undertow slides silently past. The wine didn't help.
I noticed Graham glancing at the photographs on a side table. ”That's Lily with Ethan and Marcus, on a camping trip we did to Deception Pa.s.s.”
”And who's this?”
”My mother, back in Idaho.”
”I can see the resemblance,” he said. ”Your eyes-”
A double knock, so sudden that I bit my lip and let the book fall in my lap. Another knock, faint and somehow furtive. It was past ten o'clock. Graham motioned me to keep still and stepped silently to the front door, pulling out a gun as he went. It looked huge in his hand. I waited a moment, then tagged along behind him. I couldn't help it. I had put this thing in motion. What if something went wrong and he needed me? I couldn't catch my breath, and a pulse was thudding in my ears.
Graham leveled the gun at the door, then stretched his hand slowly for the k.n.o.b. He wrenched the door open, sidestepping quickly as he did, and aimed the gun straight at the chest of the man standing in my doorway.
”What the h.e.l.l?” said Aaron Gold.
Chapter Twenty-Six.
”AARON, WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL CALL?”
After an exchange of explanations and apologies, Lieutenant Graham left us to keep watch in the parking lot for another hour before heading home. Not that he thought Lester Foy would show up this long past the appointed time, and after all the commotion at the front door.
So now Aaron was standing in my living room with his arms crossed and his shoulders hunched, looking haggard and disgruntled. He wore rain-spattered khaki slacks and jacket, and there was a Rorschach blot of airplane coffee on his yellow oxford cloth s.h.i.+rt. Zorro was having a bad night.
I should have been grateful for his arrival-he had caught the first flight north when Paul called his Portland hotel room with the news about Angela-but my nerves were flayed by hours of tension, and the near-disaster in the doorway was the last straw. All I felt now was unreasoning resentment, and Aaron was the only target within range.
”Why didn't you call me from the airport, or from your place?”
He threw up his hands. ”I didn't stop at my place. Why are women so fixated on the telephone, anyway? 'When are you going to call me?' 'Why didn't you call me?' It's like a hobby, nagging men to call.”
”But Graham could have shot you!”
”You think I don't know that?” He closed his eyes and kneaded the back of his neck with one hand. ”I felt like an idiot, charging in here to protect you and getting scared out of my wits. Can't you at least offer me a drink?”
”Of course.” I looked doubtfully back toward the kitchen. ”I think the Pinot Noir is gone, but there's some white wine I could open?...”
Aaron rolled his eyes. ”I mean a drink. As in Scotch?”
”Sorry.” I almost laughed at his woebegone expression, but caught myself in time. I really should be grateful, having Zorro gallop into the hacienda to rescue me. ”Please, sit down. You look exhausted. Was it a hard trip?”
”No, I just stayed up late with some friends, and did an interview early this morning. It's no big deal.” Still, he slumped onto the couch and let his head fall heavily back against the cus.h.i.+ons.
”Have you eaten? I could make you an omelet.”
”Scotch would be better,” he said to the ceiling, more in sorrow than in anger. ”But an omelet would be nice.”
I bustled into the kitchen, wondering belatedly if I had any eggs. There were just two left, small ones at that, but I searched further and exhumed a weary half of an onion and a stub of cheddar. It took only minutes to saute the one and grate the other, and slice the last of the French bread. I even arranged the omelet and toast on a tray, and added a gla.s.s of Chardonnay in case Aaron changed his mind. I finger-combed my hair, put on a gracious smile, and carried my handiwork into the living room.
Zorro was deep asleep.
I stood irresolute, listening to the whisper of rain on the lake, wondering whether to wake him. Aaron was always so animated, hectoring me with questions and wisecracks, that I rarely just looked-really looked-at his face.
His lips were parted slightly now, showing neat white teeth, and his hair, s.h.i.+ny-straight and almost blue in its blackness, tumbled across the high forehead and nearly touched the smooth, arched eyelids. His exposed throat made him seem young and vulnerable.
But only briefly. With a gasp and a snort, my handsome houseguest began to snore, which pretty much killed the mood. I shook my head, smiling, and bore the tray back to the kitchen. The omelet smelled wonderful, so I ate it, and tossed off the wine as well. Then I covered Zorro with a blanket and went to bed.
I was a long time drifting off. Questions kept marching through my mind, relentless ranks of soldiers on parade. Was Skull ever going to show up, or would I have to look over my shoulder for days on end? Or more than days? What if my call stampeded him into attacking one of the other women? Would Tommy Barry pull through, and would he be safe if he did? What if the guard at the hospital slept at his post... slept...
I slept at last, fitfully, plagued by dreams. In the midst of one nonsensical nightmare-something about a thunderstorm, and being clawed by a cat-somebody slid a hand up my leg, from ankle to knee. I gave a little screech and sat up, clutching the comforter around my bare shoulders.
”Leave me alone!”
”I've been trying to, Sleeping Beauty.”
It was Tuesday morning, and Aaron was sitting on the edge of my bed with a Ches.h.i.+re-cat grin. His jaw showed a heavy stubble and his clothes were a crumpled mess, but aside from that, he was repellently brisk and bright-eyed. ”I gave it my best shot, but I can't stand it any longer.”
”Stand what?”
”Starvation. There's nothing in your kitchen but Zack's pineapple and a bottle of cheap white wine, and they both smell rotten. I'm peris.h.i.+ng out here! Get your clothes on and we'll go out for breakfast.”
I sank deeper under the covers, whining. ”It's too early for breakfast. I'm not hungry.”
But the issue wasn't hunger, it was hangover. Unconsciousness, I was sure, would be infinitely preferable to this all-too-familiar combination of flannel mouth, sledgehammer head, and remorse. Did I really drink a whole bottle of Pinot Noir?
”I'm going back to sleep. Go away.”
”No deal, Stretch. Come on, up and at 'em. Or would you rather I joined you under there?” The hand slid under the comforter, higher this time.
”Cut it out, Aaron! Can't you wait a while?”
”You're awfully crabby for a damsel in distress, you know that? Here I came all this way for a false alarm, and you-”
”What false alarm? Skull is after us! He killed Angela.”
<script>