Part 39 (2/2)

”Bill,” she whispered.

He didn't smile as she'd hoped he would. He looked not so much at her as through her, his vision trained on the hollow at her neck. Tara didn't move. She couldn't hear her breath. She waited for a cue, but there wasn't one before he reached for her. He lay his hand on her shoulder then slid it to her throat. In her peripheral vision Tara saw his fingers move spider-like across her body until she lost sight of them as they wound around her neck. Long, strong fingers spanned the back of her neck, his powerful thumb was up front on her pulse point. Tara's blood ran hot and scared through her veins, pumping against the softness of her skin flowing into his until they were joined in life and death. Pressure from him and she died. Simple. Straightforward. Madness.

”I'm so sorry,” he said finally and flatly.

Tara bolted, slipping out of his grasp, and she thanked her luck when he made no move to hold her. She flew down the stairs, unnoticed by Donna's inebriated guests. Her head snapped right and left, searching for any sign of Ben. She saw him but didn't run. Instead, she looked up, through the sweep of stairs. Bill stared down at her. Expressionless, he watched. She left, thinking only of herself and Ben and running away to leave Donna defenseless.

”We have to go,” she said quietly, leaning down so that her head rested on Ben's shoulder. The man Ben was talking to went away without question or a farewell.

”You're shaking.” His arms were around her, his lips burying themselves in her hair as he spoke.

Were people watching them? Did they wonder what was going on? Let them. She was going to be sick.

”We have to go. He found me upstairs looking through his things. Please, Ben, we have to go now.” She stood straight, her hand on Ben's back, and shook out her long hair. Ben took her hand and they went out the way they'd come.

He got into the van. Tara reached for the door handle, slipping before she could open it. She moved the heel of her shoe and bent down, curious about a glint she saw in the dirt. Plucking some bright things up, Tara held them in her palm, jingling them, rolling them back and forth in her palm. She heard the lock of the bolt that held Ben's chair in place, and pulled herself together, sliding in beside him, still looking at her treasure. She held out her hand, flipping on the overhead light. Together they looked at the sh.e.l.l casings.

”Target practice,” Ben mused.

”I didn't see a gun in there,” Tara said quietly.

”Give me a report, Ben. Give me what I need to go to Woodrow.”

”I need time. Vera's information, an affidavit from Paulette. I should have clinic time with him.

I want it to stand up for you. I don't want him released no matter where he ends up.” Ben touched her hair.

”Bill Hamilton is one weird guy.

He may be sicker than anyone can imagine, or as sane as you and me. I need him in my office. He's promised to come. I think he will if for no other reason than to show off.”

”I can't wait, Ben. This is terrifying. He's terrifying,” Tara insisted.

”Then go to Woodrow.” Ben put his hands on the steering wheel, thought for a moment, then started the car.

”Have him arrested for threatening you.”

”But it wasn't like that,” she answered softly.

”Not like that at all. I'm still bound to him.”

”No,” Ben said.

”You're obligated to him. You're bound to me and I'll help make it right. I promise.”

Tara lay her head back and closed her eyes, praying she could hold him to that.

”Let's go to your place.” She didn't open her eyes. He didn't answer, but she knew he would take her there.

The last place she wanted to go was home. The ghosts of the bread-baking women had fled; there were no specters of all those who had built the house brick by brick. Tara had lost the comfort of her father's phantom. All that was left were the places Bill Hamilton had been, the things he had touched: the guest house, the pump, the kitchen, the corral. He had sprayed his madness throughout, marking her place as his territory. He had driven her out of her home, claimed her best friend, put her at odds with the Webers, and made her question the sanct.i.ty of a law that bound her to silence. There was only Ben now. Without him, Bill Hamilton might have conquered her, too.

Nineteen a lawyer shall not knowingly use a confidence or a secret of his client to the disadvantage of his client or the advantage of himself or a third party, unless the client consents after full disclosure.

Canon 4 ABA Model Rules of Professional Conduct ”Do Ya Think I'm s.e.xy”? Rod Stewart. Nineteen seventy-nine? She couldn't remember the year, but the tune was clear. Ben had been playing it when she awoke. They made love to it, his magical hands leaving her wanting more. They showered to it and kissed goodbye to it. The tune pounded in her head as she drove home, sharing s.p.a.ce with all the things she and Ben didn't talk about. The party, Bill Hamilton, Donna Ecold were all off limits. For a few hours the only thing worth thinking about was what had happened between the sheets on Ben Crawford's bed.

Home again, Tara looked at her house for a long while, waiting for that feeling of tranquillity it once afforded. It was gone, eluding her like so much else these days. With a sigh, a dejected slam of the Jeep door, Tara gave up.

She stopped at the corral and gave s.h.i.+nin' a pat.

The horse whinnied, objecting to her offhanded attention. He danced off and back again, agitated as if he could force affection if he complained. He was worse than a child.

”s.h.i.+nin', give me a break. It was a long night.”

When he didn't settle down, Tara turned her back on him and walked through bl.u.s.tery wind to the house. Inside, the place was shadowy, bathed in winter grayness. Tara kicked off her shoes and lit a fire in the living room. She headed back down the hall, unb.u.t.toning her s.h.i.+rt as she went. Her head felt heavy, her chest scratchy, and she wanted to curl up in her robe, under a blanket. Ben would call when he had confirmed Bill's appointment.

She would read the material Ben had Xeroxed for her.

Tara stopped toying with the s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons. Suddenly the house vibrated with the odd hum of a noise she'd never heard before. Her hand lay immobile on her breast as she listened carefully, picking and discarding adjectives that might describe the sound. Dull. Thudding. Repet.i.tious. Then, silence.

Water heater?

She c.o.c.ked her head.

Hammering? Joseph? Not today. He didn't come today.

Silence still. Tara stepped ahead, one more b.u.t.ton coming slowly undone, the cold air p.r.i.c.king her almost bared chest just as the sound came at her again. A smothered noise. Electrical? No.

Plumbing? Perhaps. Cautiously Tara changed her course, instinctively hugging the wall. She peeked into the kitchen.

Quiet.

She looked down the hall.

Silence.

Thud.

Back to the kitchen, her eyes flicked to every appliance. Something was. .h.i.tting against*something else. There were no branches close enough to throw themselves against a wall. A gate wasn't loose, slamming shut. She looked left. Her office was in order. Tara looked toward the window. Outside was still gray, the wind was down. The trees didn't bend as they had earlier; there were no shutters to heave up and back.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

”Do ya think I'm s.e.xy?”

The words kept time with the noise, and the noise got louder as Tara inched farther down the hall to the guest room. She looked in. Nothing.

Thud. Rip.

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