Lost

“Who knows? And from now on, I refuse to care. She’s about to graduate, she turns twenty-one in two months, and, so help me, the minute that happens, I’m washing my hands of her.”

“Sure you are.”

Blue eyes clearer than any dream and sharper than any laser sliced into him. “Watch me,” she said.

“Caretakers don’t know how to shut off, honey. Even the ones trapped in dysfunctional families.”

She kicked the lift’s power unit out of her way, and reached for the clipboard on the nearby workstation. “‘Dysfunctional’ doesn’t begin to cover my zoo. Why don’t you cheer me up and tell me you shot a bad guy today and saved us taxpayers a bunch of money on a trial?”

“My, you are in a bloodthirsty mood. Let’s see…I wrote two speeding tickets this morning, spent lunch listening to the mayor worry about another store for rent on his block, moved a small mountain of paperwork off my desk. Nope, didn’t empty so much as one chamber. Wait! I did run over a water moccasin, driving in this morning. Does that count?”

“Knowing you, it was probably an accident.”

He liked that she sometimes saw through him better than others did. Because of his military background and his hard line regarding certain types of legal infractions, some in town considered him a hard-ass. To be accurate, he had his calluses and edges, even an unhealed wound or two; but as long as people didn’t probe those too much, he considered himself one heck of an amiable guy—and patient. Particularly where one diminutive career cynic was concerned.

As Michaele finished filling out the invoice for his car, he reached out to wipe at a streak of grease along her jaw. Like the rest of her, that chin was finely contoured, in total contrast to her personality and occupation. Barely tall enough to reach his Adam’s apple, and easily a hundred pounds lighter than him, she made most people around her feel huge. But most knew she was as physically tough as she was psychologically resilient. Heaven help her, she had to be.

Not surprisingly, she stepped out of his reach, but kept writing. “Get it over with,” she said, sighing.

“What?” He waited for her to look up so he could feel the kick that always came when their gazes connected. To define her eyes as blue was as insulting as saying that short mop of hair, mostly hid under her cap, was black. The media could fuss all they wanted about Liz Taylor, but to him nothing struck the heart like Michaele’s gem-clear eyes.

“Ask me out so I can say no, and you can be on your way.”

“Not tonight.”

As she handed him a copy of the bill, there was an instant when concern broke through her cool reserve. “What’s wrong?”

“Did I say anything was wrong?”

“You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face. Come to think of it, you look as though you were served bad oysters at lunch.”

“Maybe I’m worrying that nothing’s ever going to change between us.”

She quickly lowered her thick lashes. “Knock it off, Morgan. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re wasting your time toying with me?”

“Until it sinks into that pretty but thick head of yours that I’m not playing a game.”

“There is no us.”

“Right. Keep trying to convince yourself of that.” Fighting a stronger frustration than usual, Jared shoved the receipt into his shirt pocket.

Michaele slapped the clipboard back onto the workbench. “What’s gotten into you? We go through the same song-and-dance every time you come over, then you go on your merry way. Why get bent out of shape today?”

“Because, believe it or not, you’re not the only one who’s had a long day, and maybe I’m a little tired of you insisting this is all a joke, when you know damn well it’s not.”

Her laugh was brief, but confirmed her confusion and growing unease. “Of course it’s a joke. That’s why you mess with me. You know I’m not interested in a relationship with anyone. And I sure as hell wouldn’t start anything with someone who drinks!”

Jared knew that, all right, and thought her reasoning reeked worse than their creeks’ stagnant water during a dry spell. “Damn it, not everyone who has a beer once in a while is going to turn into the alcoholic your old man is!”

“Didn’t say they were. But I’m not planning to test the theory, either.”

He didn’t want to analyze it, but something that wouldn’t stay contained got the best of him. “Then start dressing like you mean it.”

“Excuse me?” Arms akimbo, she stared down at her stained denim shirt and jeans.

“Getting as dirty as a man doesn’t make you one. You know full well that my office window faces here. In the future, try wearing a bra once in a while and jeans that don’t look sprayed on, if you find my attention so offensive.”

As he headed for his patrol car, Michaele followed like a rabid terrier on the heels of a postman. “What I wear is my business, Chief Morgan, have you got that?”

Jared didn’t answer. Instead he all but threw himself into the patrol car and slammed the door shut. Tight-lipped, he gunned the engine and drove the hell out of there.

Son of a bitch. He groaned as he headed toward Split Creek High School. Of all the stupid blunders…

He’d met Michaele Ramey when she’d been a runt of sixteen, and she’d already known more about cars than most men learned in a lifetime. Even then she was going through seven kinds of hell with her family. Her inner strength, that incredible determination not to crumble, had quickly won his respect, just as her apparent disregard for—or more accurately, her obliviousness to—her exotic beauty had won his admiration. But, of course, she’d only been a kid…and he had met Sandy. Sandy, who, after his parents’ death, brought a calm and sweetness to his life—until that awful day six years ago when he’d kissed her good-night, not realizing it was goodbye.

Jared rubbed his stubble-rough jaw, disgusted with himself. This was the wrong time to think about that, just as he’d chosen the wrong moment to push Michaele. She still wasn’t ready.

Fool, she probably never will be.

Damn Garth’s phone call. Who needed old ghosts resurrected?

He owed Michaele an apology—and she would get it, right after he dealt with whatever was going on at the school. Watch that not be anywhere near as bad as Garth had insinuated, too, he thought grimacing. But then, nothing could be that bad again. Not ever.

Split Creek Jr.–Sr. High School was located right after the bridge over Big Blackberry Creek, a half-mile before the eastern perimeter of town. Jared pulled into the sprawling school’s curved driveway, eyed the near-empty parking lot, and stopped before the canopied entryway. Hurrying inside, he found Garth Powers waiting for him in the main hallway.

At 42, the six-foot-seven-inch former basketball star had served as trail master to herds of high school kids for several years longer than Jared had been a cop, and had the trim build of a man several years younger. His open-minded sense of humor had helped him sustain a more youthful attitude than many his age, so he’d proven himself to be a big favorite among students, faculty and parents. Now Jared grew uneasy as he noted Garth’s spooked countenance and the way the grim-faced man kept glancing nervously over his shoulder.

“Thanks for coming,” Garth said. “By chance did you see anyone hanging around outside?”

“No. Are we waiting for someone else?”

“I’d say he’s already been here and gone. The question is, for how long?” Garth pushed open the door to the men’s rest room, and Jared entered.

He stopped only a step beyond the threshold.

Up on the tiled wall were scrawled large letters painted in a bright red that ran the entire length of the tiled urinal wall. Garth illuminated them even more by turning on the rest of the overhead fluorescent lights. That made the message look even more insane.

I’m back! 666

3

Although every instinct told him to turn around and walk out, to climb back into his car and keep going until he ran out of gas, Jared forced himself to stay put.

“Tell me it’s not blood,” Garth said, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“It sure as hell looks it.”

“But surely not…?”