Frozen Stiff (24 page)

Chapter 37

“M
attie, come here.”

Reluctantly I step outside and make my way along the side wall of the cabin to the back. Hurley is standing there next to my abandoned wood carrier, shining a flashlight into the trees. “Look,” he says, gesturing in the direction of the light. “There’s your culprit.”

It takes me a moment to see what he wants me to because at first all I can see are trees. Then something moves and my eyes focus on a deer—a magnificent-looking buck sporting an eight-point rack. He stands there, staring into the beam of Hurley’s flashlight, making no attempt to run off.

“Wow,” I say. “He’s beautiful.”

“That he is, and he’s also probably scared out of his mind since we’re smack in the middle of deer hunting season.”

We stand there having our stare-down for a minute or two more before Hurley lowers the flashlight and focuses it on the log carrier. He returns his gun to its holster and then bends down to pick up a log. “I’ll take the carrier in but let’s load your arms up, too,” he says, holding the log out.

I extend my arms and Hurley stacks five logs onto them before I tell him, “I think that’s my limit.” As he grabs the carrier and we both turn to head back inside, we hear the sound of crashing branches behind us as the buck dashes off deeper into the woods.

We make three more trips to the woodpile before Hurley deems our inside stock sufficient. I stir up the fire in the fireplace and toss another couple of logs onto it while Hurley finishes setting up the woodstove. Once he’s done, he lights the wood inside it and then pours water from one of the gallon bottles we bought at the store into a saucepan that’s so dented it looks like it’s been used as a baseball bat.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

“Heating up some water for hot cocoa,” he says. Among the provisions we bought is a box of instant cocoa mix and he takes two envelopes out of it, stashing the rest in one of the overhead cupboards. In a different cupboard he finds a couple of mugs, which he examines and wipes with the tail of his shirt before emptying the contents of the envelopes into them. There is something oddly sexy about this little slice of domesticity and with the night’s sleeping arrangement still an elephant in the room, I decide to talk about it.

“So, Hurley, did you hear about the restructuring that’s coming because of budget cuts?”

“I’ve heard rumors,” he says, staring into the pot on the stove as if he has Superman’s X-ray vision and can make it heat faster. “But nothing definitive. Why? Have you heard something?”

“I have.” I then proceed to tell him about the police corruption suspicions and the recent problems that have occurred with evidence collection. “According to Izzy, the solution for now is to increase oversight of the investigative and evidentiary process by creating a tighter working alliance between the police departments, the evidence labs, and our office.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning you and I will be working together more closely in the future whenever there’s a suspicious death.”

He looks over at me and there’s a hint of a smile on his face.

“It means we will be working together as a team in the future, to ensure there are no improprieties going on,” I add.

His face falls and I sense he’s figured out the ramifications. “Improprieties,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

The water on the stove has begun to boil so he busies himself for a few minutes pouring it into the mugs and stirring them. Then he carries them over to the couch, hands me one of them, and settles in beside me. “I take it these improprieties include you and me—” He lets the implication hang there between us.

“Yes.”

He nods and sips his cocoa, staring into the fire. After a moment of silence he says, “So in order for us to continue working together, David will get his wish.”

“I guess that’s one way of looking at it, though I think David has finally moved on.”

“You’ve thought that before and it didn’t prove to be true.”

“I know, but there’s something different about him this time. Something has happened to make him change his mind.”

“We’ll see. Not that it matters, given the change in our job situation.”

“That’s assuming I still have a job.”

Hurley shoots me a troubled look. “I’m sorry I—”

“Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand to stop him. “As I said before, I walked into this knowing full well what the consequences might be. I did it willingly. You don’t need to apologize.”

We sit in companionable silence for a while, sipping our respective drinks and staring at the fire, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I keep reflecting back on what Izzy said to me about having unresolved feelings for David, and the unexpected urges I felt while he was staying at my house.

“Look, Hurley,” I say finally, after I’ve drained my mug. “I like my job. Oddly enough it suits me. I like working with Izzy. I like the puzzle aspects of figuring out what really happened, and I enjoy trying to gauge people to figure out what they’re really thinking.”

“You should enjoy your job,” Hurley says. “You’re good at it.”

“Thanks.” I lean forward and turn to face him. “I also like working with you. And while I can’t deny that I feel a certain . . . attraction to you, I’m pretty new at this singles stuff and I’m not sure I can trust my own emotions. I would hate to ruin a good working relationship by muddling it up with emotional baggage.”

Hurley looks wounded for a second, but then he sighs and says, “Fair enough.” He gets up from the couch and takes my empty mug, carrying it and his out to the kitchen. “Tell you what,” he says. “Let’s get some sleep. It’s been a hard day for both of us. Tomorrow we can tackle this case again, reanalyze what we know, and try to figure out where to go from here.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say. I look around the cabin and raise the next obvious question. “How do we work out the sleeping arrangements?”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Hurley says. “You can have the couch.”

I frown at that, knowing the floor won’t be very comfortable and worried about the occasional scurrying sounds I keep hearing in the darkened corners of the cabin. “You don’t have to do that,” I tell him. “We can share the bed.”

Hurley looks at me, his eyes dark and dangerous. “I don’t know if that’s a wise idea,” he says, arching a brow at me.

“We can put a roll of blankets or something between us in the bed,” I suggest. “It will be fine. We can leave our clothes on. And frankly, I’m too tired and sore from working out at the gym to consider doing anything anyway. Not to mention that I haven’t had a shower.”

Hurley considers this and gives in. “Okay, we’ll give it a try.”

He goes to one of the cupboards and digs out a stack of pillows and blankets. After a few minutes we have the couch opened and the bed made up with a rolled-up quilt serving as a line of demarcation down the center.

When we’re done, we stand on either side of the couch, eyeing the bed between us. “You okay with that side?” Hurley asks.

“I’m fine.” I climb in and pull the blankets over me to prove it.

After adding a few more logs to the fire and stirring it up, Hurley climbs in on the other side. I catch a whiff of him as he adjusts the blankets—that clean, faintly spicy smell that seems to send my hormones into overdrive. I turn on my side facing away from him, wondering if this was such a smart idea after all, and doubtful that I’ll ever be able to fall asleep with a fabulous-smelling, handsome-as-hell hunk of man meat next to me.

Chapter 38

A
pparently I was more tired than I realized because the next thing I know, I’m waking up feeling warm and cozy, still lying on my side, staring at sunlight beaming in through the window across from me. Memories of the night before come flooding back to me, and when I become aware of something along the length of my backside, at first I think it’s the barrier quilt. But as my mind clears its cobwebs, I realize it’s too warm to be the quilt. Then I become aware of a weight on my chest and when I lift the covers and look down, I see an extra arm there.

That’s when I realize that it’s Hurley along my backside, spooning himself against me, his arm draped over my side. We fit together disturbingly well and a part of me wants to close my eyes and stay snuggled up against him this way forever. But I know how dangerous our situation could be and besides, my bladder is throbbing with urgency. I carefully lift Hurley’s arm and slide out of the bed. It isn’t easy; my body is stiffer than ever and the left side of my neck hurts like hell where the Taser bit me.

The cabin is freezing cold and I see that the fire has gone out and the woodpile is depleted. Clearly Hurley got up during the night to tend to it and the thought of him being awake and watching me while I slept is titillating . . . until I remember how David used to tell me I tend to fart in my sleep.

Hurley rolls onto his back and starts to snore lightly. I stand there a moment, admiring the outline of his body beneath the blankets and imagining the could-have-beens. But I realize it’s a slippery slope and after a minute I shake it off and head for the outhouse.

The spiders don’t seem quite as intimidating by the light of day and after relieving myself, I head around to the back of the house and grab a bunch of logs. When I come back inside, Hurley is still sleeping so I busy myself stacking the wood in the fireplace. A few minutes later I light one of the little starter packets and the wood starts to burn.

When I turn back toward the rest of the cabin, I’m startled to see Hurley awake and watching me.

“Good morning,” I say. “How did you sleep?”

“Amazingly well,” he says with a stretch and a smile. “You?”

“Like a baby.”

Hurley flings back the covers and gets out of bed, and my eyes are irresistibly drawn to the front of his jeans, where his morning erection is obvious. Flushing hot from more than the fire, I quickly look away and busy myself removing the bed linens from the couch.

Hurley walks over to the door and grabs the toilet paper. “Be right back,” he says.

By the time he returns, I have the bed stripped and folded back into the couch. A surreptitious glance at Hurley’s jeans lets me know that things are back to normal and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Hurley heads for the woodstove, where he lights a fire and puts a pan of water on to boil. A few minutes later, he has taken the package of bacon we bought last night out of the tiny fridge and several strips are frying in a pan. I join him in the kitchen and measure out spoonfuls of instant coffee into a couple of mugs.

Since Hurley seems to have a handle on the cooking duties, I lean against the counter and watch him for a few minutes. The sight of him being so domestic triggers an emotional response in me, followed by sadness and a sense of loss when I recall our discussion from the night before.

“So I’ve been thinking about your situation,” I say, hoping to redirect my thoughts. “And I keep coming back to Mike Ackerman. I think it would be worthwhile for me to meet and speak with his wife.”

“To what end?” Hurley asks, turning the bacon.

“To get a better feel for what she knows. If Ackerman was having an affair with Callie, she might know about it. Even if she doesn’t, if we can put a seed of doubt in her mind and make her look at her husband a little more closely, it might put more pressure on him and make him do something desperate. Hell hath no fury and all that.”

“Maybe,” Hurley says, sounding unconvinced. “But it could be dangerous. I don’t want to involve you any more than I already have. If we do it, I should be the one to talk to her.”

I shake my head. “You need to lay low. There are too many people looking for you. Besides, I think Ackerman’s wife will be more likely to open up to another woman.”

“Let me think about it,” he says.

Half an hour later we are seated at the small folding table finishing up a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, and toast that Hurley made by placing slices of bread inside a foldable grill with a long handle on it and holding the whole thing over the fire. The toast is unevenly browned and still soft in spots, but a little strawberry jam covers it up nicely. I discover I’m ravenously hungry and make quick work of the food, which tastes surprisingly good.

Feeling sated and full, I lean back in my chair and sip my coffee.

“How does a person shower around here?” I ask, worried I might be getting a bit ripe.

“There’s soap, washcloths, and towels in the cabinet over there,” Hurley says, gesturing over his shoulder. “Heat up some water on the stove and then do the best you can. You’re a nurse, so I’m sure you know how to do a sponge bath. I’ve got some spare clothes in my bag you can wear if you want.”

I look around the cabin with a skeptical eye. “And where, exactly, am I supposed to give myself this bath? The outhouse?”

“I’ll go outside for a bit and you can have the cabin to yourself.”

“You won’t peek in the windows?”

“Tempting,” Hurley says with a wink. “But I promise to be a good boy. I’ll knock before I come back in.”

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I’m going to go outside and get ready for our hunting expedition.”

“Hunting expedition?”

“Yep, since tomorrow is Thanksgiving, you and I are going to shoot us a turkey.”

An hour later I am as clean as I’m going to get. I’ve used soap and water to wash out my undies, which are hanging from the mantel to dry, and I’m wearing a long-sleeved pullover shirt with a mock turtleneck and a pair of sweatpants from Hurley’s bag. The shirt collar covers the Taser mark on my neck and the ribbing in it rubs against the spot, making it sting. But it’s the only shirt Hurley had in his bag so it will have to do. After debating on how to brush my teeth, I borrow some of Hurley’s toothpaste and scrub them with a washcloth, following it up with a mouthwash gargle.

I’d like to wash my hair, too, but I decide I can let it slide for another day. I’m curious about what Hurley’s up to since he headed outside with a hammer, a couple of nails, some paper, and a Magic Marker. I’m not a hunter and have no desire to become one, but I know enough about it to know that the supplies Hurley took aren’t the usual tools of the trade.

I put on my jacket and my Frankenstein shoe and hobble outside. The day has dawned cool but sunny and I take a moment to close my eyes and tip my face toward the sky. I can hear the sounds of the woods around me: tree limbs knocking together in the breeze, birds chirping, the occasional rustle of ground leaves . . . and hammering.

This last sound makes me look around in confusion. I follow it toward the back of the house until I see the source of the noise. There is a small clearing behind the house and along the edge of the woods on the other side of it, about fifteen feet from the house, I see Hurley hammering something onto a tree. When he steps away I see that it’s the piece of paper he took from the cabin and he’s drawn a turkey in the center of it.

He comes back to me and says, “Ever shoot a gun?”

“Nope, never. I don’t much like guns. As a nurse I’ve seen what they do to people.”

“Well, you’re going to learn how to shoot one today.”

I shake my head and back away from him. “I don’t think so.”

“You dislike guns because you don’t understand them. I’m going to teach you what you need to know to handle them safely.”

“Why?”

“Because you may need to know it someday,” he says, handing me a gun. “And because
I
may need you to know it someday.”

“I don’t know, Hurley,” I say, looking at the gun he’s offering. I realize it’s a second one because he’s wearing his usual gun in his shoulder holster. “I think I’d rather just leave the gun stuff up to you.”

“Trust me on this, Mattie, would you? Please?”

Damn it.
The man sure knows how to get past my best defenses: those big blue eyes, that sexy, pleading voice, and as a final touch, a hand set gently on my shoulder. “Fine,” I say in a way that lets him know how annoyed I am. “But don’t expect me to shoot at anything other than that tree.”

“Hopefully you’ll never have to.”

For the next half hour, Hurley goes over the basics of the handgun, which I learn is a Glock 9mm. First he tells me that every gun is assumed to be loaded until proven otherwise and should be handled based on that assumption.

“Never, ever point a gun at anyone unless you want to shoot them,” he says. “And for heaven’s sake, ignore all that crap you see on TV when it comes to holding a gun. You hold it in front of you with the barrel pointed down to the ground or straight ahead if there’s nothing there. Never hold it with the barrel pointed up.” He holds it in both hands under his chin, fairly close to his chest with the barrel pointed toward the sky. “Hold it like this and you run the risk of turning yourself into a jack-o’-lantern.”

Having seen someone who did just that, I shudder and freeze the image in my mind to remind me.

Next he points out the various parts of the gun and tells me what they’re called: the sights, the barrel, the slide, the hammer, the tang, the magazine release button, the slide stop, the trigger and trigger guard, and the disassembly latch. As he does this, he shows me how to remove the ammo clip, how to open the slide, and how to check to see if there is a bullet in the chamber.

Then he takes the gun apart, removing the slide, the recoil spring, and the barrel. Once he has it all put back together with the exception of the clip, he hands it to me with the slide open and helps me position my hand properly, with my palm on the grip and my index finger down the side of the barrel, taking care not to touch the trigger. Though I’m reluctant to take ahold of the gun, once I have it in hand it feels heavier than I thought it would, but also strangely reassuring.

Or maybe it’s Hurley’s hand touching mine that I find reassuring.

He lectures me on barrel and bullet sizes and the importance of using the right size bullet for any gun. “This number here,” he says, pointing to the side of the barrel, “tells you the size of the gun. And bullets all have their size stamped on the rim around the primer here.” He pops a bullet out of the clip and shows me the stamped number on the rim surrounding the primer. Then he proceeds to remove all the other bullets.

“Now I’m going to show you how to load the clip,” he says. “You slide the bullets in this way, one at a time.” He demonstrates by doing the first one, and then he hands me the clip and a bullet. “You try it.”

I do so, and manage to drop the bullet four times before I finally get it in place. Several bullets and drops later, I finally load the last one in on the first try.

“Okay,” Hurley says. “Hang on to that a second.”

I hold the clip while he removes his other gun from his shoulder holster. “Watch closely,” he says, “because there will be a test.”

He drops the clip out, opens the slide, and checks to see if there is a bullet in the chamber. There is one, and he shows me how to pump the slide to eject it.

“Now I want you to follow me. Pick up the gun the way I showed you.”

I do as instructed, holding it in my right hand with the grip in my palm and my index finger down the length of the barrel.

“Next I want you to pop the clip in.” He inserts his and I mimic his actions on my gun. “Now I want you to grab the slide, pull it back, and let it go so it snaps into position like this.”

Again I follow his lead, startling when the slide snaps into place with a rapid, loud
snick
.

“Okay,” he says, “your gun is now ready to shoot. Normally you should wear eye and ear protection but since I don’t have anything, we’ll have to do without.”

Hurley then shows me how to line up my sights and take a proper stance with my feet spread apart and my arms extended. “Now breathe in, then out and squeeze the trigger when you exhale.”

“But what if I miss and the bullet goes flying off into the woods, hitting something . . . or someone else?”

“Don’t worry. This is private land and there’s about forty acres of it. Plus there’s a high ridge back behind these trees that will stop any strays.”

Dubious, I close one eye and line the sights up with the turkey target, breathe the way he told me, and pull the trigger. The loud explosion nearly deafens me and it startles me so much that I yelp. I hear the bullet
thunk
as it hits a tree and just when I’m starting to feel pleased, thinking I might have hit the target, I see bark disintegrate two trees over.

“Okay, not a bad start,” Hurley lies. “Let’s try it again.”

“I suck.”

Hurley laughs. “Most people suck the first time. You’ll get better with practice.”

For the next hour we aim and shoot, aim and shoot, aim and shoot. Hurley takes a turn at it to show me how it’s supposed to be done and obliterates the turkey’s head with a series of six shots.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

He smiles and says, “I know you’re competitive by nature. So beat me.”

“You mean with a stick?”

He gives me a warning look but there’s amusement behind it.

“Okay,” I say, resigned to my humiliation. And humiliating it is. Over the course of the hour I slaughter every tree surrounding the one with the target but manage to miss the tree with the paper on it every time. My shots go left, right, high, and low. By the time we’re done, my shoulders ache, my ears are ringing, and the woods are begging for mercy.

“I guess I need more practice,” I say, unloading the clip. I then open the slide, check to make sure the chamber is empty, and set the gun down. I may not be able to hit the broad side of a barn but I am much more comfortable just handling the gun.