The Witness, Page 22

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ty dropped down on the bunk, putting his head in his hands. “I feel sick.”

  “You are sick. You think about it.” Brooks stepped back, secured the door to the cells.

  “You baited him.”

  “What’re you talking about, Ash?”

  “Come on, Chief, he can’t hear us out here. You baited him into the assault.”

  “Ash, I’m going to say this once. Sooner or later, it wasn’t just going to be Missy with a split lip or black eye. The neighbors, they’d get tired of calling us in. Maybe one of them would get it into his head to stop it himself. Or Missy would get tired of getting smacked and pick up one of the guns they’ve got in that house. Or he’d get tired of having her run out and hit her hard enough she couldn’t run anymore.”

  “He never broke up the place like he was doing tonight.”

  “No. He’s escalating. I don’t want to get called out there to deal with one—or both—of their bodies.”

  “Can you do like you said? Make him go to rehab and stuff?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to make sure of it. Officially? What you heard me say to him tonight was the same as you’ve heard me say before. Did he hit Missy, where was she, what was the problem, and so on. You got that?”

  “I got it.”

  “All right, then, I’m going to write it up, have Boyd go on out there to get those witness statements, and check to make sure Missy’s back home.”

  “She’ll come in tomorrow, like always.”

  Yeah, she would, Brooks thought. But this time she’d have to make a different choice. “And I’ll deal with her. You can go on home.”

  “No, sir. I’ll stay here tonight.”

  “You caught it last time.”

  “I’ll stay. You should ice down that jaw. You took a pretty good shot. In the morning, maybe you could bring in some of those sticky buns from the bakery.”

  “I can do that. Fancy coffee, too?”

  “They got that one with the chocolate in it and the whipped cream on top.”

  “I know the one. How’s that shoulder?”

  “It’s not bad. Probably bruise up some, but that’s more weight on it. Tybal’s okay when he’s not drinking. Maybe, if what you did sticks, he’ll be okay.”

  IT TOOK LONGER THAN HE’D HOPED, but Abigail’s lights were still on when he got back to her house. The four Motrin he’d swallowed took the throbbing in his jaw down to an annoying ache. That would’ve been good, but the lessening there made him aware of the few other spots Ty had landed a fist or a boot.

  Should just go home, he told himself as he eased out of the car. He should go home, take an hour-long hot shower, drink two fingers of whiskey and go to bed.

  The whole business with Ty had ruined his mood, anyway.

  He’d just ask her for a rain check, since he’d driven out here.

  She opened the door before he knocked, stood there in that braced and ready way of hers, studying his face.

  “What happened?”

  “Long story.”

  “You need an ice pack,” she said as she stepped back.

  The first time, he thought, she’d let him in without him asking or maneuvering. He went in.

  “It took a while. Sorry.”

  “I did some work.” She and the dog turned, walked back to the kitchen. She opened the freezer, got out an instant cold compress and offered it.

  “People usually go for the frozen peas.”

  “These are more efficient, and less wasteful.”

  He sat, laid it against his jaw. “Get punched in the face often?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “It’s been a while. I forgot how much it fucking hurts. You wouldn’t have any whiskey handy, would you?”

  Saying nothing, she turned to a cupboard. She took out a bottle of Jameson—and right there he wanted to kiss her feet—and poured him two fingers in a thick lowball glass.

  “Thanks.” The first slow sip eased the rawness in his mood. “Anything you don’t have handy?”

  “Things I don’t feel I have any use for.”

  “There you go.”

  “Do you want to tell me the long story?”

  “Honey, I’m from the Ozarks. Long stories are a way of life.”

  “All right.” She got out a second glass, poured more whiskey, and sat.

  “God, you’re a restful woman.”

  “Not really.”

  “Right now you are, and I sure need it.” He sat back, ignoring twinges, and took a slow sip of whiskey. “So, Tybal and Missy. Back in our high school days, they were the golden couple. You know what I’m saying?”

  “They were important in that culture.”

  “King and queen. He was the all-star athlete. Quarterback with magic hands. Center fielder with a bullet arm. She was head cheerleader, pretty as a strawberry parfait. He went to Arkansas State, mostly on an athletic scholarship, and she went along. From what I hear, they sparkled pretty good there, too. Up until junior year, when he messed up his knee on a play. All the talk of him going pro, that blew up. Ended up coming back home. They broke up, got back together, broke up, that sort of thing. Then they got married.”

  He sipped more whiskey. Between that, the Motrin and the restfulness of the woman, he felt better.

  “He coached high school football awhile, but it didn’t go well. He didn’t have the wiring for it, I guess. So he went to work in construction. Missy, she tried some modeling, but that didn’t work out. She works at the Flower Pot. They never prepared, I’m thinking, for things not to keep on sparkling, so dealing with the dull took a toll. Ty, he started paying that toll with Rebel Yell.”

  “He yells?”

  “No, honey, it’s a whiskey not nearly as nice as what you poured me. My predecessor in this job let me know about the problem. The DUIs, the bar fights, and the D-and-Ds—that’s—”

  “Domestic disputes. He becomes violent and abusive when he drinks.”

  “That’s right. The last year or so, it’s been worse.”

  “Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

  “He has been, then he ends up with a warning or community service. Missy won’t press charges when he smacks her around, and denies it ever happened. She fell, she slipped, she walked into a door.”

  “She enables him.”

  “That she does. And the fact is people gave them a blind eye on the trouble. The kind of shine they had lasts a long time in a small town like this. But I spent some time away, so maybe I see it—them—differently. Since repeated attempts at getting them into therapy, rehab, counseling have failed, I went another way.”

  “That resulted in your injury.”

  “You could say. When my deputy called to report they were at it—which means Ty came home drunk, hit her, she ran out—I got Ty to come out on his stoop, in full view of the fourteen people outside to watch the show. He had music blasting to accompany his wrecking of every breakable in the house he could get his hands on. This was a plus, as nobody but Ty and my deputy could hear me incite this drunken asshole to violence by questioning the size and virility of his penis. If that hadn’t worked, I was prepared to suggest that his long-suffering and idiotic wife might find the size and virility of my penis more to her liking.”

  On a long breath, he shook his head. “I’m glad it didn’t come to that. He punched me in the face in front of witnesses, and is now contemplating serving time for a felony or two.”

  “That was very good strategy. Men are sensitive about their genitalia.”

  He choked a little on the whiskey, then rubbed his hand over his face on a laugh. “God knows we are.” Then he sobered, took a small sip. “God knows we are that.”

  “Your method wasn’t conventional, but the result was good. But you feel sorry and a little sad. Why?”

  “He was a friend once. Not best, not close to best, but a friend of mine. I liked them, and I guess I liked seeing that sparkle, too. I’m sorry to see them
brought low like this. I’m sorry to be a part of bringing them low.”

  “You’re wrong. It’ll be up to them to address and seek help for their problems, but as long as they were both unable to do that, they’d never resolve those problems. What you did gives him only two choices. Jail or help. It’s more likely that, when sober and faced with those choices and consequences, he’ll choose help. As she appears to be codependent, so will she. I would think your actions fall well within the function and spirit of your job description. As well as within the parameters of friendship.”

  He set the whiskey he hadn’t finished aside. “I was telling myself I should just go home with my mood and my aches and annoyances. I’m awfully glad I didn’t.”

  He reached out, took her hands. “Let me take you to bed, Abigail.”

  She kept her eyes on his. “All right.”

  13

  ALL RIGHT.

  He wondered that he should find it so sweet, so disarming, she kept it just that simple.

  All right.

  He rose, drew her to her feet. “Maybe you could show me the way.”

  “You mean to the bedroom.”

  “Yeah. I know my way around what we’ll be doing there.”

  The smile flickered in her eyes, around her mouth. “I’d be disappointed if that wasn’t true.”

  He kept her hand as they walked back to the living room, up the stairs. “Considering what we’ll be doing, and I hope you don’t question my size and virility for the question, but how does Bert handle the process?”

  “He’s very well trained, so theoretically he won’t interfere.”

  Brooks glanced back at the dog. “Theoretically’s a tricky word. And by interfere, do you mean he won’t rip my throat out?”

  “He shouldn’t.”

  At the door to the bedroom, Brooks turned her around, narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re being funny.”

  “Humor can smooth over awkwardness, if there is any. I can’t tell. But if Bert thought you hurt me, or tried to, his first response would be to protect me—to stop you. He’s seen you touch me, and I’ve instructed him you’re a friend, and to stand down. He sees I’ve brought you up here without duress, that I touch you.”

  She laid a hand on Brooks’s chest, then glanced at the dog, gave him an order.

  “What language was that?” Brooks asked when the dog walked over to a generous dog bed, circled three times and laid down with a windy sigh.

  “Farsi.”

  “Seriously? You and Bert speak Farsi?”

  “Not very well, but I’m working on it. I told him to rest. I don’t want to put him out of the room. He wouldn’t understand.”

  “Okay. Is that a stuffed bear in his bed?”

  “Dogs are pack animals.”

  “Uh-huh, and a stuffed teddy bear is Bert’s pack?”

  “It comforts him. I’d like to turn down the bed.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  “No. I have my—”

  “Own way. Fine.” He wandered over, studied the computer station set up very like the one on the first floor.

  “It makes you wonder.” She folded the simple duvet onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed. “I’m in the business. I believe strongly in security, and feel a separate obligation to use and test products and systems.”

  “I think that’s true. But that’s not all.” He turned around, watched with appreciation when she took a condom from the nightstand drawer and set it on the table by the bed. “And we don’t need to talk about it now. Is it okay if I put my weapon on the desk here?”

  “Yes. Should I undress?”

  “No. I have my own way.”

  After he took off his gun, set it down, he crossed to her, trailed a hand down her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. “I like finding out for myself what’s under there.”

  He kissed her, testing, teasing, his fingers still skimming, over her face, down her side, up her back. Light and easy as he could feel her holding back, holding in.

  “You have good hands.”

  “I haven’t put them to much use where you’re concerned yet.”

  “But you will. I’d like to see,” she said as she began to unbutton his shirt. “You don’t wear a uniform like your deputies.”

  “I got out of the habit. Didn’t much feel like picking it up again.”

  “I like that you don’t. You wear your authority in a different way.” She parted his shirt, spread her hands over his chest. “You’re in very good shape.”

  “Thanks.”

  And lifted her eyes to his. “So am I.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “I’m very strong for my build, and have exceptional endurance.”

  “You’re the sexiest thing, in the strangest ways.” He peeled her shirt up and away.

  “I—”

  “Ssh.” He laid his lips on hers as he boosted her onto the bed.

  The dog didn’t make a sound, but Brooks could feel the guarded stare boring into his back as he lowered himself to Abigail.

  Her skin was soft, warm and smooth, the muscles of her arms, her shoulders taut. And though her mouth met and answered his avidly, those eyes stayed as watchful as her dog’s.

  “Close your eyes,” he murmured, nibbling his way to her throat and back.

  “I like to see,” she repeated.

  “Close your eyes for a minute, and just feel.”

  He waited until she did, then closed his own. Then let himself sink, just a little deeper.

  She felt. Nerve endings, pressure points, textures, all the more erotic with her eyes closed. A kind of trade-off for control.

  She was safe, she reminded herself. She was capable. And she needed.

  “Don’t think.” He skimmed his teeth over her jaw. “Just feel.”

  She wasn’t sure she knew how not to think. But she kept her silence since he seemed to prefer it, tried to let her mind relax.

  Different, everything was different here, with him. She wanted to analyze why, but it was so pleasant to only experience.

  Just this once, she told herself.

  She softened under him, just a little. Just enough. He glided his lips along the subtle swell of her breast over the simple line of her bra, slid his tongue under the cotton, heard her breath catch. So he lingered there, stirring her while his hands roamed.

  She’d opened one of the windows partway so the night breeze fluttered through, carrying the scent of the woods, the steady music of the creek.

  Moonshine shimmered in hazy beams.

  He flipped open the button of her pants, eased them down a few inches and felt the ridge of a tiny scar high on the blade of her hip.