Roan (8 page)

Allen was a good cop, Roan knew. He said in grim warning, “You will. Next time.”

“Right.”

Roan was satisfied. It was time to move on to other things. “So is the prisoner asleep?”

It was Cal who answered. “She wasn't last time I looked, but I could check if you want to know for sure.”

“Never mind. I'll see for myself. Meantime, do you have somebody to take over for Allen?”

“No, sir. Allen's fine, ready to finish his shift.” He glanced at the other deputy, who nodded dutifully.

Roan sighed. “You know how I feel about this, Cal, and you know the rule—any officer who has been fired upon is to stand down. You're the duty officer. It's your responsibility to arrange a replacement. Since you didn't, you'll have to take the rest of the shift.”

“Yes, sir. I'll check the perimeter again while you're still here, sir.” The deputy snapped a stiff and wholly unnecessary salute before he turned and strode away.

It was a shame Cal felt the need to buck him at every turn, Roan thought as he watched him go. He was young and gung ho, but most new officers were that way for the first year or two. Everything by the book, the newest book, of course. Rumor was that he might run for sheriff in the next election. He was well liked in a lot of quarters, went out of his way to curry favor in others; he might have a chance. If so, he'd have a race on his hands. Roan had served Tunica Parish as well as he knew how, putting long hours and all the heart and soul he had left into the job. If the voters would have him for another term, then he'd be around.

He'd had some conflict with the town council lately over this gambling boat business. Such things got around, and could be a factor. He was related to half the parish, however, and the Benedict clan was not only sizable but inclined to vote in a block to protect their interests. No, the real problem was that there were unwritten rules to elec
tions in Tunica Parish that went with the legal and honor system little changed since France had ruled Louisiana. It wasn't considered good form for the loser in the sheriff's election to remain in the employ of the winner. If Roan won again, Cal would likely resign. And losing Cal's fresh approach and his interest in the latest technology would be a shame.

Roan dismissed Allen, then turned in the direction of Donna's room. He'd taken only a couple of steps, however, when he was hailed from the opposite end of the hall. He turned to see the hospital administrator, Hilton Darkwater, waving at him.

Another problem; he knew it. He waited impatiently for the thin-lipped, bespectacled corporate type to catch up with him.

“I'm glad I saw you, Sheriff,” Darkwater said with a tight smile. “We need to talk.”

“Can't it wait?” The need to look in on his prisoner had been riding him since he'd left home. It was so strong now that he was half inclined to tell the administrator to wait and see him in his office.

“I don't think so. You've got to get that woman out of here.” He jerked his head toward Donna's door.

Roan put his thumb through a belt loop. “She's hardly in any shape to leave.”

“I'm aware of that, but I'd prefer that you transfer her to Baton Rouge or New Orleans. This is a small community hospital. We have no facilities for this kind of case.”

No restricted area with bars and locks, the administrator meant, Roan thought. “I realize there will be complaints, but…”

“You've no idea! I had to get out of bed to come down here and answer them. So many have come in that I had to turn off my phone.” The other man inhaled audibly
through his nose in agitation. “The hospital is barely breaking even now. If we lose patients because they're afraid they'll be assaulted in their expensive adjustable beds, then we'll hit red faster than a cheap thermometer in August. We might as well close the doors.”

Roan didn't have a lot of sympathy, given that his phone rang constantly. Besides, the administrator had his own ax to grind. He'd been in his position for less than a year, but managed to cut waste and increase the occupancy rate dramatically. The scuttlebutt was that he was determined to perform magic in Turn-Coupe, not because he cared about the community and wanted to be sure its local hospital was kept open, but because he was bucking for a bigger job elsewhere.

Keeping his tone pleasant with an effort, Roan said, “I can't move her out of the parish without just cause, you know that. If one of the staff or another patient had been injured or even threatened it would be different, but that didn't happen. All we had was a little scare.”

The other man's gaze held his for long, challenging seconds. Something he saw must have convinced him that arguing wouldn't help. His lips tightened again. “Could you at least post another guard at the hospital entrance?”

Roan inclined his head in acknowledgement of the reasonableness of the request. “I'll do that, though I doubt there'll be more trouble tonight.”

“Let's hope not,” the administrator returned with an almost visible shudder. Then as Roan turned away, he clutched at his arm. “There's also the damage to the emergency entrance. You bringing that woman in here caused it, you know. I don't see that the hospital should have to pay.”

“Send me the bill.”

Roan shook off the other man's hand, then turned and
moved down the hall. He felt certain the hospital's insurance would cover the damage, but it wasn't worth the fight or the hard feelings that refusal would cause. He'd find funds in the budget somewhere for it. If not, he'd pay for it out of his own pocket.

At Donna's door, he gave a quick rap with his knuckles then pushed inside. He stopped abruptly as he saw her lying pale and still, with her eyes closed and her hair spread around her on the pillow. The door, pulled by its automatic hinge, closed behind him with a soft thud.

She flinched at the sound. Her long eyelashes lifted, and she turned her head on the pillow in slow motion. She seemed to focus on the star on his chest as it reflected the glare of the light above her bed. Then her gaze moved upward to his face with the warm strength of a laser burning through his uniform and tracking over his skin underneath. It focused on the Stetson that he hadn't yet removed. A drowsy smile curved the tender lines of her lips. Then it was replaced by a frown.

“Where've you been, cowboy? You left me here alone, and look what happened.”

He was an idiot. He had to be, because he suddenly felt tall in the saddle and ready to take on the world.

And Roan, watching the woman in the bed as she closed her eyes and drifted away again, knew exactly what he was going to do about Donna Doe.

“I
'd rather go to jail!”

The defiant words hung in the air. Tory searched the set planes of the sheriff's face, but could see no sign that she'd made the slightest impression. In fact, he didn't even look up as he answered.

“That's not an option.”

“You can't just take me home with you.” Her protest was instinctive. She hadn't seen Sheriff Roan Benedict since the attack four nights ago. To have him walk in and announce that she was being removed from the hospital and placed under house arrest—in his house—left her breathless and disoriented.

“I can. This is my jurisdiction. I make the rules here.”

“That's barbaric!”

“Isn't it?” He had the nerve to smile, as if the edge of panic in her voice amused him in some grim fashion.

“It can't be legal. I mean, you call it house arrest, if you want, but…”

“That's what it will be, and all it will be,” he answered. “If you doubt the legality, call a lawyer. But be sure you can give him a full legal name and show how you mean to pay his bill.”

That was unanswerable, at least while she kept to her present pose. It crossed Tory's mind to wonder if the sheriff knew it and was testing her, expecting her to confess to the charade. But why would he? She'd given him scant reason to think her amnesia wasn't genuine.

The effort to puzzle it out made her head hurt again. She'd refused the high-powered painkiller in the dispenser after the visit from Zits, opting for an occasional pill by mouth instead. It had been fine, until now.

“I don't believe I'm well enough to leave here,” she said with a querulous weariness that was not entirely feigned.

“Doc Watkins says otherwise. You're a fast healer, according to him, and you've already been up and around on your own. Besides, the hospital administrator wants you gone. It's been all I could do to keep you here this long.”

The daytime duty nurse, Johnnie, had told her much the same thing. Shifting ground, Tory said, “I suppose you take in all your injured prisoners as boarders?”

“By no means. But I think you'll find accommodations at Dog Trot a lot more comfortable.”

“Dog Trot?”

“My house.”

It sounded like a backwoods shanty. She had a momentary vision of a place crawling with hound dogs and with an actual “path to the bath” like some hillbilly movie. In tones edged with irony, she said, “I'm sure it's…lovely.”

“It may not be the Ritz, but it's a lot better than the jail. The town lockup was built on the top floor of the courthouse before the turn of the century, also before such niceties as central heat and air. We have two cells designed to hold four prisoners each. Five short-timers are in residence now, all men. I could double them up so that you'd be alone, but the cells are side by side. There'd be nothing
between you and the male prisoners except steel bars. And bathroom facilities are open to view for security purposes.”

“You mean they could see me…”

“All the time. Exactly.”

“Good grief!”

“And they'd talk to you twenty-four hours a day. It could be a fast course in the down and dirty instincts of the male animal.”

She digested that in silence for a long moment. Then she gave him an oblique glance and lowered her voice to a husky, suggestive timbre as she asked, “What about your instincts? What's to curb them when we're alone at this house of yours with no steel bars, no witnesses?”

Roan cocked a brow. “Let me guess. Mae West this time, all world-weary and sultry?”

“Lauren Bacall,” she said in irritation at being called on the role-playing. “Not that it matters.”

“Right. What's the famous line about whistling if I need you? It's a thought, but not something to keep you up nights. For one thing, it wouldn't be a good example for my son Jake. For another, I don't operate that way. No one at Dog Trot is going to molest you. Least of all, me.”

“And I'm supposed to accept that.” Curiosity laced the annoyance in her tone.

“You have my word.”

He meant exactly that, she thought. The pledge was in the depth of his voice and the unwavering intensity of his gray gaze. The shocker was that she believed him. Not that she'd give him the satisfaction of knowing it.

To stay out of sight somewhere deep in the boonies had a certain appeal, on second thought. Roan Benedict would make a competent and extremely convenient protective shield against Zits and Big Ears, or even Harrell. She would have more freedom of movement in a less structured en
vironment like a private home, more opportunity to arrange things so she could skip out if the going got too rough. In the meantime, it would be best if the sheriff didn't realize how cooperative she was suddenly prepared to be since he was smart enough to wonder why.

“I still don't like it,” she said finally.

Roan Benedict gave her a level look. “You're a prisoner of the Tunica Parish Sheriff's Department. What you like or don't like isn't a priority.”

“Or even a concern?”

“You could put it that way.”

She didn't care for the inflexibility in his tone, but could see little way to change it. “Suppose I file a complaint?”

He chuckled, a soft sound of real amusement. “By all means, if you can figure out where to send it or and who might pay attention.”

“You have it all figured out, don't you?” She stared at him, the perfect picture, she hoped, of frustrated reluctance.

“Maybe,” he said in laconic agreement. “Get your things together. We're out of here in an hour.”

He didn't wait for a reply, but turned and left the room with the free-swinging strides of unconscious athletic grace. He didn't look back.

Tory watched his broad shoulders and narrow flanks until the door closed behind him. It had never occurred to the man that she would do anything except exactly as he'd ordered, she thought. And he was right. For now.

She pushed up in the bed, supporting herself on one elbow while she punched the nurse call button. The door opened then and the deputy from outside, Cal Riggs, stuck his head through the opening. “Roan says you're being discharged. If you need Johnnie, it'll be a second. She and the other gal at the nurse's station had to go down the hall
to help with some kind of emergency. I'll tell her you need her when she comes back by.”

She thanked the deputy with a smile. The men stationed outside her door had bothered her at first. She'd developed a distinct appreciation for them, however, since the attack. The two who showed up most often, Cal and Allen, had become friendly after a fashion. They hailed a nurse when she needed one, brought coffee, juice and soft drinks, and loaned her their newspapers. She thought sheer boredom played a big part in their helpfulness, but the rest seemed to be small-town friendliness. At least, she couldn't imagine such bending of regulations in a larger place.

“Anything I can do?” Cal asked as he edged a bit farther into the room.

“Not really. I don't have that much to get ready.” She waved in the direction of the few toiletries provided by the hospital and robe and slippers the sheriff had brought from the local discount store. “But you might tell me if Sheriff Benedict has the right to detain me at a location other than the jail.”

The deputy's thick brows drew together above his hazel eyes. “Like where?”

“Dog Trot, I think he called it.”

The deputy gave a low whistle. “That's a first.”

“But is it legal?”

“It's not exactly by the book,” he drawled, “but Roan does pretty much what he pleases. He
is
the law in Tunica Parish.”

Cal's voice carried a shading of envy with, possibly, a touch of rancor. The comment was also fairly indiscreet. He'd been gradually thawing over the last few days. It was a good thing, since his stiff manner had been tiresome in the extreme.

She tilted her head as she asked, “How long can he hold
me there, do you think? I mean, shouldn't I appear in court or something?”

“The circuit judge comes through every Tuesday, but court has recessed for two weeks while everybody goes on vacation.” Cal shrugged. “It'll be a while before Roan can get an arraignment, even if he wanted one.”

“Circuit judge?” Shades of the Old West, Tory thought, where a single judge handled an entire territory and the hangings had to wait until he was in town. Not that she had any intention of complaining.

“We don't have a whole lot of crime in the parish.” Cal's tone was almost apologetic. “Half the folks are related, one way or another, and the Benedicts keep their fights to themselves out around the lake and its swamp waters. Roan goes out and takes care of it, usually without bringing in anybody. I think sometimes that's why they elected him sheriff.”

“Has he been in office long?” Since she had Cal going her way this morning, she might as well make the most of it.

“Eight years, give or take, though he was on the force quite a while before that.”

Cal made it sound as if he considered Roan ancient. That was almost funny, since the sheriff appeared to be in his midthirties and more fit than average. It was just as well that Cal, possibly ten years his junior, didn't realize how young and inexperienced he seemed by comparison.

“Roan must have started when he was a kid,” she suggested.

“Not long after he got out of high school, around the same time he got married. He was hand-groomed for the job by the man before him, Sheriff Johnson. They say he ran the department for nearly two years after Johnson had a heart attack, helping him stay on long enough to draw
his pension. Next election, Roan won by a landslide. No one's had the nerve to run against him since.”

It sounded much as she expected. Entrenched in his office, Roan answered only to the voters. There'd been countless movies and television shows about his kind, lawmen in small communities who bent the rules when it suited them.

“A law unto himself,” she murmured, more intrigued than she wanted to be.

“Could be he's overstepping his place.” Cal threw back his thin shoulders as he spoke.

“You mean by taking me home with him?”

“And whatever he does when he gets you there.”

“What do you mean?” The last thing she needed was more trouble.

“People keep an eye on their public officials. They like them to be upstanding, God-fearing citizens who have the good sense to carry on in private.”

“Thank you,” she said in glacial displeasure, “but I'd like to point out that it takes two to ‘carry on,' as you put it. If you think I'd cooperate in any funny business, you're mistaken.”

“Right, sorry,” the deputy said, flushing to his hairline. “Forget it, will you? Hey, I think I hear Johnnie out in the hall…”

It was a blatant excuse to get out of the room, Tory thought. No doubt Cal was afraid he'd said too much. But she was sure he really wasn't sorry for any problem Roan might be creating for himself.

She lay staring at the door for long moments after it had closed behind him. She was bothered, more than she could remember in a long time, by the idea that she might cause trouble for Roan. It had seemed so easy to pretend she didn't remember, to let herself drift while he took care of
things, took care of her. After all, she'd been taking the easy way for years.

Dutiful stepdaughter and hostess, empty-headed party girl, cosmopolitan socialite: she could trade quips in three languages and kiss air with the best of them. She fooled everyone, even herself, into believing the many masks that she wore were real. Still a certain emptiness always remained, one she'd thought to fill with a husband and family.

Harrell had breezed into her life at the right time. He could be charming, when he put his mind to it, and very good at blending in with whatever crowd he joined. He was also salesman enough to draw out the image in the minds of those he met and make the product he was selling fit it. With her, it was himself as a prospective bridegroom.

It had been a while before Tory realized that his true tastes were not the more subdued choices of Old Money, but ran instead to red Ferraris, flashy gold jewelry, and neon midnights. If she hadn't been so determined not to be a snob, she might have dropped him then. Instead, she'd thought she could change him. She should have known better, and might have if she'd bothered to really look at the commercials that he ran for his business. The Cheap Furniture King of South Florida, he'd named himself, complete with jeweled crown and curvaceous queen perched on his lap as he ruled from one of his own easy chairs. Typical.

Where was Harrell now? Probably with her stepfather on the golf course at The Sanctuary or playing beer tennis at The Dunes, winner to buy the first round of imported brew. He would be offhand and unconcerned about her absence. Prenuptial jitters, he'd say with a shrug. The coming wedding was too much for her to handle, so she'd run off to visit one of her boarding school friends. She'd be back in a week or two, when her nerves settled down.

Paul Vandergraff would understand completely. Tory's habit of running away had begun after he became her stepfather. She had watched him manipulate her mother with chill disapproval and ready access to prescription drugs until an exclusive rest home was the only resort. Afterward, he'd made it clear to Tory that her normal teenage mood fluctuations could well be taken as a sign of the same instability. Flight had become safer, always, than confrontation. Small wonder that she'd followed the same pattern with Harrell.

Of course, Harrell might not be so calm, after all, if Zits and Big Ears had worked up the nerve to call him. He was probably wondering why he hadn't been visited already by the Florida police. How long would it be before he discovered that she wasn't talking, and what would he do then?

For a brief instant, Tory felt a strong urge to tell Roan everything so he would know what he might be up against with Harrell. It wasn't fair, or safe, to keep him in the dark. But no, she couldn't take that chance. The second he learned who she was, he'd wash his hands of her. That was the last thing she wanted.