Linda Howard - Kill and Tell Страница 13

Karen had even gone into nursing, taking on even more responsibility. It was telling that she had then become her mother's sole support, completing the role reversal. She had probably called her mother by her given name rather than "Mom," at least part of the time, for the little girl had become the mother, and the mother had become the dependent. It was obvious she had adored her mother and so had been that much more protective.

She had spent her life taking care of others, and now he wanted to take care of her, wanted it with a fierceness that shook him. He was normally protective of women, but he had never before felt like this. Something inside him had altered, shifted, and he couldn't regret the change. Did she have any idea how valiant she was? Her dry comment the day before about women being shallow for having trouble committing to a cop because of the danger factor had been amusing, but she had meant it. Karen Whitlaw wouldn't walk away from a commitment because she was scared; she would be there, through the bad times as well as the good.

Whenever he had been in a relationship, Marc had kept his work out of it. Being called away on a case was unavoidable, but he hadn't brought the details home. He had always shielded his lady friends from the ugliness he saw, partly because of his own protective nature but also because he had never thought they would understand or be able to accept the part of his nature that made it possible for him to deal with the things he did. Perhaps he had underestimated the ladies in his life, but he had seen a lot of relationships destroyed by the pressures of the job, and he hadn't wanted to take the chance. He knew Karen wouldn't flinch. She would brace her shoulders and lift her chin, as he had seen her do several times when the pain and stress would almost overwhelm her. Most people would have broken down under the emotional burden she was carrying, but she had faced the situation squarely and controlled her tears until she was alone.

He knew she had cried; her eyelids were swollen. She had cried, and he hadn't been there to hold her. He would be, he thought fiercely. From now on, he would be.

Chapter 9

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The day was overcast, with rain threatening any minute, and so muggy Karen felt as if she would melt. Sweat gathered in a pool between her breasts, trickled down her sides. Her dress was thin and short-sleeved but still black; she could feel the fabric absorbing the heat. She concentrated on her physical misery and on the distant sullen rumble of thunder. She thought about how lush the grass was,

listened to the birds singing, and let herself be annoyed because her heels kept sinking into the soft black dirt. She'd never before seen dirt so black, and she marveled at its richness. She looked at the massive trees, the flowers. This small country cemetery was prettier and more peaceful than the large, manicured "garden of rest" where Jeanette was buried. Perhaps she should move her mother down here, rather than have Dexter taken Her stomach clenched. She had tried so hard not to think about what was happening, but her wayward thoughts had led her to the funeral anyway. She didn't want to think about the man in the casket. Dexter Whitlaw. Her father. Whatever his failings, whatever devils had driven him, at this moment she admitted that her memories of him weren't all bad. There had been a few times when he sat on the floor and played dolls with her, folding his long legs as if he didn't even notice his cramped position, listening with apparent raptness as she spun elaborate stories about what the dolls were doing. Usually, they were sick, and she was taking care of them, an early manifestation of her nursing tendencies. And a couple of times, Dexter had taken her with him on walks in the woods and showed her how to hide in a bush and sit very still so that even the squirrels and the birds forgot they were there. Did those few bright moments outweigh a lifetime of darkness? Was she supposed to remember only them and forget the nights when her mother sobbed into her pillow, longing for a man who wasn't there?

What a waste of life, both Jeanette's and Dexter's. Regret swelled in her chest, suffocating her, or maybe it was just this damnable humidity making it impossible for her to breathe. It couldn't be regret; why should she cry for a man who had never given her a second thought, who bothered to call or visit only when he needed something? And yet he had kept his wedding ring, sewed it into his cuff to keep it safe. It had been important to him, as Detective Chastain had pointed out. Whether it was the life the ring represented, the normal life he had walked away from, or the people in that life, she couldn't begin to imagine.

She wouldn't cry for him. She refused to. But the outline of the casket was blurred, the minister's words were nothing more than background noise, and the pressure in her chest was so great she could barely contain it.

The trees stirred and rattled, breathing. A surprisingly cool gust of wind hit the backs of her legs, breathed down her neck. A chill rippled down her spine. The sensation was refreshing, though, and she sighed as the sweat evaporated on her body. She was grateful for the reprieve from the heat, even when a fine mist of rain closely followed the wind.

In only moments, she went from overheated to downright chilly, as the wind picked up and the rain began to pelt down. Detective Chastain opened an umbrella and held it over their heads, moving closer so they were both sheltered. She didn't know what she would have done without his assistance these past two days, she thought numbly. He had done more than walk her through the necessary procedures, much more; he had stepped in and taken care of arrangements, cut through red tape, smoothed over glitches before they became real obstacles. He had even remembered the flowers for the casket and helped her arrange for them.

She couldn't think why he had done it. She was a commonsense person, but she was beginning to think she had imagined his dislike the first time they met, because not even a glimmer of hostility had shown since then. Maybe fatigue and shock had made her hallucinate. Still, Chastain had gone above and beyond duty, even if she had been mistaken in her initial impression of him. Maybe this was an example of the courtesy toward women for which Southern men were so famous, but he had gone a great deal farther than opening doors for her or standing when she entered the room.

Yes, that was it. Think about the detective, or about regional differences in general; think about anything but the fact that the minister was pressing her hand and murmuring condolences, and the funeral director was waiting for her to leave so they could lower the casket into the grave and begin shoveling dirt over it. The grave was even disguised by a green felt carpet, as if the sight of it would be too much for the bereaved.

But she couldn't leave. She couldn't walk away from Dexter now, not in his last moment above ground. He deserved to have someone there for him, someone whose memory would record these details, so that he wouldn't vanish without a trace. Whatever his failings, he was her father, forever linked to her through shared genes.

"Go ahead," she said hoarsely. It was an effort to speak. Her arms roughened with chill bumps, and she hugged them against the bite of the wind, wondering where the heat had gone. The rain drummed down on the umbrella, spattered her legs and her back, and a shiver seized her. She saw the funeral director glance at Detective Chastain, as if the final decision was his. Perhaps it was. If he chose to drag her away from the graveside, she didn't know if she would be able to protest, or to resist. If she tried to argue, the tenuous control she was maintaining would shatter, and she would collapse into a sobbing heap. A sobbing heap was not a good position from which to assert authority. But he gave a brief nod, and she tried to tell him with her eyes how grateful she was, not just for this but for everything. The funeral director turned aside with a quiet word to the waiting men. Chains creaked, and the casket was slowly lowered into the grave.

Karen shivered again and found she couldn't stop. Was she shivering or trembling? She couldn't tell, didn't care. All she knew was that she was shaking from the inside out, her teeth clenched hard to hold back the sob that was choking her.

Silently, Chastain stepped behind her, blocking the wind and rain from her with his body. She stood stiffly, locked rigid with the effort of control, but he moved closer, so close that he pressed against her, strong and solid and warm. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, he opened his jacket and enfolded her inside the sheltering wings. The cloth draped over her shoulders, her bare arms, wrapping her in warmth. He still held the umbrella in his left hand, but his right arm slid around her and held her anchored to him, tight against his hard chest.

The gesture stunned her. Except for her mother, no one had ever put themselves between her and the world. Chastain's action was so unexpected and intimate… and protective. The protectiveness was what destroyed her, even while it supported her.

Hot tears blurred her vision once more, washing out the images of the men bending and digging their shovels into the mound of dirt, but she heard the sound of dirt spilling into metal. They worked methodically, despite the pouring rain, as if the job was too somber to be hurried. She stood until they were finished, and all the while Chastain stood at her back, warming her, lending her his strength so she could continue to stand upright.

Karen was accustomed to standing alone. Even as a child, she had tried not to bother her mother with her problems, because she had always sensed Jeanette carried enough burdens. Nursing school had only enhanced her independence by giving her even greater responsibilities. She hadn't leaned on anyone in years, and she was shattered to find herself doing so both emotionally and physically with a man who had been a total stranger a mere two days before. She tried to blink away the tears that kept burning her eyes. She tried to say something and found the pressure in her chest was too great to allow the words to

escape. She straightened, though something in her cried out at the sudden cold, the loss of contact. She turned to face him, but his face swam before her eyes, and suddenly she couldn't bear it any longer. The sob that tore out of her throat sounded like the wail of a wounded animal. She didn't know if she collapsed against him or if he reached for her, but abruptly she was in his arms, her face buried in the curve of his shoulder. She wept convulsively, her entire body shuddering as she clung to him, her fingers digging into his back.

Chastain let the umbrella drop to the soggy ground. He bent his head over hers, murmuring soft, consoling sounds that didn't seem to be words at all, but just the sound was enough. She tried to burrow closer, vaguely appalled at her own neediness yet helpless to stop herself. One big hand closed over the nape of her neck, massaging, cradling, hot on her tender bare skin.

The pain was almost more than she could bear, grief and regret and a piercing sense of loneliness tearing at her. Despite her deep resentment, while Dexter lived, there had always been the possibility that one day he would work out whatever problems he had, get rid of the demons that rode his shoulder, and want to forge a relationship with her. That couldn't happen now. He had died still largely unknown to her, all the bright possibilities at an end. She mourned that loss of hope as much as she mourned him, a father she had never really known but whose absence had shaped her life. Now she would never be able to tell him how angry she was, how hurt, never reach out to him and feel the connection of family. She wept for that, and for her mother, and for him.

But such extreme emotion was exhausting, and gradually she quieted, still held securely in Detective Chastain's arms, her wet face still buried in his shoulder. She heard him speaking quietly over her head to someone, perhaps the minister, and a few moments later, she heard footsteps moving away, squishing on the wet ground. They were alone, and now she was grateful to him for yet one more thing; she needed privacy and he had provided it.

The rain had stopped beating down, dwindling to nothing more than a lukewarm mist as the storm moved on. The wind had died, and already she could feel the heat of the day rebuilding, steam forming on the ground. His heart thumped steadily under her ear, his chest rose and fell with the cadence of his breathing, and the warm, musky odor of his body mingled with the faint, fresh, lemony fragrance of his aftershave. He smelled delicious, she thought dimly, just the way a man should smell. Her mind drifted. She tried to think of the last time she had been this close to a man, but the memory eluded her, and somehow she didn't think she had ever before been so close. Other men had held her, of course, but not like this. She had never accepted comfort from a man, never let any of her few boyfriends see her weep. She had never let herself need them, but somehow, in this moment, she needed Chastain. She needed to feel his arms around her, just for now. She needed the physical strength so evident in his tall, muscular body, a strength that effortlessly supported her weight, and she needed to be held as tightly as he was holding her. She needed to hear his dark-honey voice murmuring to her, needed the reassurance that right now, just for a few minutes, she wasn't alone. The emotional storm had left her drained, exhausted, oddly detached. "I'm sorry," she said in a sodden voice, muffled against his shoulder.

"You're entitled." He shifted a bit, holding her with one arm while he reached into his pocket. "Here's a handkerchief."

She groped for it without lifting her head, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, and then wondered in acute embarrassment how she could possibly give it back to him after blowing her nose on it. She

crushed the cloth in her hand. "I'll wash it," she mumbled. He gave a quiet chuckle, then wrapped his arms around her again. She resettled her head on his shoulder, sighing, feeling the dampness of his coat under her cheek. In the trees overhead, birds began to twitter and sing again with the passing of the rain.

"I never really knew him," she whispered, feeling compelled to talk. "He'd drift back into our lives every other year or so, and Mom would start hoping this time he would stay, but then he'd leave again, and she would cry for days. I hated him for that."

Those strong, comforting arms tightened, squeezing. "Did you want him to stay?"

"At first. Every time he came back, I ran to my room and prayed as hard as I could that he wouldn't leave again, and that Mom would be happy and not cry anymore. That never worked for long. Then I started making wishes. I wished on falling stars, on wishbones, I tossed pennies into any pool of water I could find. I didn't know any officially designated wishing wells, but I figured any water would do." He chuckled again, and she found herself somehow smiling into his coat. The smile was wavery, but it was there. He rocked her back and forth a little, as if she were a child. "Feeling better?" She nodded. "Crying causes endorphins to be released into the body, automatically lifting the mood."