Starks' Reality (3 page)

Too bad it had all been too late.

Christ
.

He seemed to have lost his tight rein on the past when he left Dallas. Emotions
and memories attacked from dark corners when he least expected them. Maybe the anticipation of seeing Tucker again was making him nuts.

Whatever it was, it annoyed the hell out of him. He suddenly craved a good, stiff drink.

Jake drained the water glass, placed it on the floor, and dropped his head to the back of the chair. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of the Gulf, barely audible over the old Frigidaire’s hum.

He needed to not think about the past. Or Heather Cooper.

~~**~~**~~

As the last customers staggered out, Heather locked the door behind them. Skeet poked his head through the doorway from the kitchen, looked around, and ducked back inside.

They’d had a good night—served up every one of the oysters and emptied a vat of gumbo. She’d also sold several fried fish dinners and a roast beef sandwich.

Heather walked the length of the bar inspecting bottles. Jack Black and J&B were empty, Kahlua was nearly gone, both red and white house wines were low. She headed for the storage room, anxious to get the bar stocked so she could get off her aching feet.

Turning left on the dark wooden porch that ran the length of the building, Heather let the screen door slam behind her, took two steps, and tripped.

She stumbled forward but caught herself before she landed on her hands and knees. “What the—?”

Spinning around, she glared at the unexpected obstacle, finally recognizing it as her father lying motionless in a heap. Her heart jumped into her throat as she knelt. “Coop?”

She pulled him onto his back and he groaned. A bottle rolled across the porch and fell off, clinking on the ground.

“
Jeez
, Coop.”

He groaned again as she helped him
sit up. His breath nearly knocked her over.

She couldn't move him by herself, and she certainly couldn’t leave him where he was. After propping him against the wall and waiting to be sure he wouldn’t topple, Heather returned to the kitchen.

Skeet glanced over his shoulder as she leaned in.

“I need some help,” she said. “Coop’s plowed.”

Skeet washed his hands, removed the rubber apron, and followed her out to the porch. With almost no effort, he eased Coop over his shoulder fireman style and walked the path to the house.

Leading the way and k
icking hazards out of the way, Heather switched on lights until they got to Coop’s bedroom. Skeet deposited her father gently on the narrow bed, and then straightened his legs and arms.

Heather pulled off Coop’s sandals and put them on the floor beside a pile of dirty clothes, noting the garbage and empty beer bottles scattered around the room
. He’d trashed it since she’d cleaned a week earlier.

“He’s got demons,” Skeet said with startling kindness, looking first at Coop and then at her, his eyes widening as if embarrassed by his own words.

Heather studied her father’s face, weathered by the coastal sun and wind, the deep lines smoothed into pale streaks in his current state of unconsciousness. Why did he do this to himself?

A particular evening popped into her head
. She’d been in second grade. Betty Ann, the coolest girl in town, had invited her over after school. With Betty Ann waiting outside on a bike, she’d dashed into the house and found Coop sitting on the sofa. He’d tried to wipe away the tears when he saw her, but she’d realized right away he’d been crying. Even then she knew not to ask why. After sending Betty Ann off alone, she’d made them both peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and stretched out beside Coop on the sofa. She’d watched TV with her head on his chest while he slept. Listening to him snore, she’d wept because she didn’t know how to keep him from being sad.

After all these years, she still didn’t know.

Heather followed Skeet from the house and back to the bar. “Thank you for the help,” she said at the door.

He glanced back as he stepped inside. “It’s nothin’.”

She gazed out at the dark emptiness of the Gulf. Maybe her father really did fight demons. He’d spent two years of his life in Vietnam, and he never spoke of it in front of her. She’d always wanted to ask him about the war. Unfortunately, she didn’t know how to do that, either.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she glanced to her right and noticed a light at the old Miller place. There hadn’t been
anyone there in the five years since Mrs. Miller had died. Was Starks living in the old house? She hadn’t heard a car pull up before he arrived for dinner, so he must have come from somewhere close.

What was it about the man that she found so intriguing? He was sure of himself, but not in the swaggering, braggart way that Red was, or old Chief Boudreaux had been. Starks knew he could handle whatever was thrown at him, just as he’d handled the Johnson boys.

He also seemed to be aware of everything around him. She’d watched the way he registered movement behind him even as he spoke to her, as if he were a wild animal disguised as a man. She wondered what kind of animal he could be. Maybe a tiger. One of those white tigers with blue eyes, attractive but dangerous. Or was he more like a cobra that would try to hypnotize her into complacency before striking?

Heather started
once again for the storage room. She wanted to be done with the evening so she could go home and climb into a warm shower. She couldn’t wait to wash away the residue of cigarette smoke and stale beer.

~~**~~**~~

A lone screaming siren destroyed Saturday morning’s peace.

Jake sat up, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and rubbed his face. The siren’s volume grew steadily as it approached.

CHAPTER 2

B
y the time the ambulance passed in front of his house, Jake was running to his car, his thirty-eight, phone, and keys in hand. He caught up to the emergency vehicle shortly after it turned off the paved road less than a quarter mile from his driveway.

Patrolman Kenny Rhodes,
a young man as skinny as Red Daily was big, stood beside the squad car in front of a pale pink house illuminated by halogen lights. Jake recognized the elderly woman hovering near the door as the patron of Coop’s who had driven past him on his walk home. She wore badly applied red lipstick, a crooked wig, and a huge pink bathrobe. “Hurry,” she yelled at the ambulance driver. “
Hurry!
”

EMTs jumped out of the vehicle and ran into the
house.

Jake clipped his weapon to his belt as he approached Kenny. “What’s up?”

The young patrolman pushed his glasses up on his nose with his index finger and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Taylor called me at two-fifteen this morning complaining that her husband was sick and couldn’t get out of bed. I proceeded over here and arrived at two twenty-eight. I ascertained that Mr. Taylor was gravely ill, and called Callaway County Medical. They arrived at, uh,” he glanced at his watch, angling it toward the light, “two fifty-two.”

Jake raked his fingers through his hair. “What’s wrong with him? Heart attack?”

“I’m not sure, but he, uh,
soiled
himself.”

One of the EMTs ran out, opened the back of the ambulance, and motioned for help as he pulled out a gurney. Jake trotted over with Kenny behind him.

“You stay with the wife,” Jake said over his shoulder. “I’ll help with this.”

Kenny didn’t protest.

The smell hit just inside the door, so Jake switched to mouth breathing. He and the medic maneuvered the cart through an overly-furnished living room, down a narrow hallway, and into a bedroom with two single beds. Mr. Taylor had definitely soiled himself, and also thrown up all over the place.

The older attendant
, leaning over the unconscious man, straightened as they arrived with the gurney.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Starks, police chief.”

The
attendant nodded. “Keep the cart steady, we’ll put him on it.”

Jake did as instructed and the two EMTs lifted the elderly man from the filthy bed. Then they snaked their way back through the house as quickly as possible.

“He isn’t the only one who’s sick,” Mrs. Taylor said. “I’ve been in the bathroom since ten-thirty.”

Jake took the woman’s arm and led her toward the ambulance. “You should ride in with him and get checked out.”

“Yes,” she said, “I’ll ride in. I’ve been sick all night. We were poisoned, you know. Someone is trying to kill us. My husband was an important government official, that’s why.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jake said, “I’ll check into it.”

As soon as she settled into the back of the ambulance, Mrs. Taylor began explaining to the younger attendant the details of the communist underground on the Texas coast.

Jake closed the doors and slapped the back of the vehicle twice. The ambulance pulled away, siren wailing again.

Kenny had relaxed a bit in all the excitement, but quickly straightened as Jake approached.

“You don’t have to stand at attention.”

The young man's face reddened. “I should follow them to the hospital.”

Jake wondered how Kenny managed to look so neatly pressed at three in the morning. “I’ll go to the hospital. You go home and get some rest. If anything else comes up, you can reach me
on my cell.”

Kenny nodded as if acknowledging order
s for a secret mission, and hurried to his car. As soon as he was gone, Jake slid behind the wheel of the Trans Am and headed home. At least he could put on clean clothes and shave.

Thirty
minutes later, more or less presentable, he drove into Port O’Donald and followed blue signs to the hospital.

The
facility was larger than he’d imagined, probably the only one for miles. Jake strode through a side door to the emergency room and to the counter where a young nurse sat, covering a yawn. She looked up, grinning sheepishly.

“Long night?” he asked.

She nodded. “Always. May I help you?”

“I’m Chief Starks from Port Boyer. The Taylors were brought in about a half hour ago. I’m here to check on them.”

The woman consulted a clipboard. “Yes, here they are. Dr. Anderson is with them.”

“I’d like to
speak to Dr. Anderson, when he’s available.”

The nurse raised one eyebrow. “I’ll see if
the doctor has
finished with the exam yet.”

She
disappeared through double doors, and reappeared several minutes later with Dr. Emily Anderson, a nice-looking, middle-aged woman who wore a white coat and an amused grin. Obviously, the nurse had told her of Jake’s blunder. His face warmed.

“Chief Starks,” she said, shaking his hand. “I understand you’re here to check on the Taylors.”

“Yes. Any idea what’s wrong with them?”

“I can’t be sure until we get all the tests back, but my guess is food poisoning. We had another person from Port Boyer call in about an hour ago with similar symptoms. His case didn’t sound quite as serious as Ed Taylor’s, however.”

“Food poisoning, huh?”

“
It could be the water, but my guess is it was something they ate for dinner. We’ll be more certain in a few hours.”

Jake nodded. “Thanks. I’ll call a little later.”

As he returned to his car, he thought about the Taylors. He knew where they’d eaten dinner.

~~**~~**~~

Heather glanced out the kitchen window at the crunch of footsteps on the driveway. Chief Starks approached, eyes hidden by the brim of a straw cowboy hat. When he looked up, he stared right at her and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Why did he have to be so good-looking? In spite of herself, she felt an urge to smile back.

As soon as she looked away, a more reasonable thought hit. Why was he in her front yard at seven-thirty in the morning? Carrying her coffee cup, she opened the screen door and waited in the doorway.

“Good morning, Ms. Cooper.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps, hat in hand.

“It was.” She stepped out and let the screen door close behind her.

Because the house had been built on pilings, she stood several feet above Starks’ head. He looked up at her, and the morning sun turned his eyes an unearthly shade of bluish silver. He studied her face for a long, uncomfortable moment.

“I don’t suppose you have an extra cup of coffee?” he asked.

Chief Starks certainly had a lot of gall coming to
her
house and asking for coffee. She knew better than to trust any of the Port Boyer police, and she wasn’t about to let him in. She would not be lulled into a false sense of security—or lewd thoughts—by broad shoulders.

“I haven’t had a chance to go to the store yet,” he continued, climbing the stairs, “so I don’t have any groceries.”

When he got to the top, he stood less than two feet from her, examining her with the same intensity he’d used the day before.

Her face warmed and her lungs lost the ability to take in air. Unable to think of an alternative, she opened the screen door and led the way into the kitchen, struggling to catch her breath.

He strolled across the linoleum floor and eased into one of the wooden chairs. Heather filled a coffee mug as she listened to his movements. He was staring at her again, she could feel it, and her hands shook.

Most of her teenage years, she’d been too busy to pay much attention to
boys. Not that she hadn’t noticed them. She just hadn’t gone out of her way to attract their attention. And the guys she’d dated in college hadn’t overly impressed her with their gender in general. She’d thought Matt was different, but in the end she’d been wrong. It didn’t matter; she had more important things to worry about, like her future and her father. So why did she find Jake Starks so interesting, in spite of her best efforts not to?

“Does your father live with you?”

She placed the coffee mug in front of him. “Why are you here?”

Starks raised the mug and sipped. He
closed his eyes for a moment and then smiled. “This is exactly what I needed. Thank you.” He motioned toward the chair across the small table from him. “Please, sit with me.”

She suddenly remembered what had wakened her from a deep sleep in the middle of the night. It wasn’t unusual to hear sirens in downtown Austin, but they almost never disturbed the quiet in Port Boyer, except during tourist season when Red Daily
was chasing down young women to threaten with speeding tickets.

“Does this have something to do with the siren last night?”

He nodded, and then took another sip of coffee. “You know Mr. Taylor?”

“Ed Taylor?”

“Yes.”

Heather eased into the chair as she nodded.

“He’s very sick.”

“Heart attack?” she asked.

“No, the doctors think it’s food poisoning. His wife is ill, too.”

“Food poisoning? But
they ate dinner here last…night.” She stood as realization hit her. “You think we poisoned them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they had something for dessert at home. Has anyone checked on that?” Her heart raced as the scenario played out. If something at Coop’s had made the Taylors sick, the Health Department would probably shut them down. They wouldn’t be able to make the loan payments, and she only had enough money in the bank to pay tuition or pay off the loan for a month or two. With her funds depleted, she wouldn’t be able to afford the last semester of engineering school, so she’d have to work behind a counter or wait tables forever. Coop would lose his bar and his house, and end up as one of the homeless guys you step around on a filthy downtown sidewalk. Both of their lives would be ruined.

“How do you know for sure it’s
food poisoning? Maybe they have a virus or something. We’ve never had any problems with people getting sick.” Her voice rose in pitch with her growing anxiety, but she couldn’t help it. “Why are they accusing us?”

Starks didn’t react to her
panic, but remained seated, sipping. When he spoke, his voice was calm and controlled. “No one has accused you of anything. We think it’s food poisoning, and if it is, we don’t know for sure where they got it. The Taylors were taken to the hospital, one person from town called in shortly before that, and another called in this morning. I don’t have their names yet.” He finished his coffee and leaned back in the chair. “Please, sit down.”

His composure
was a salve to her frazzled nerves. Embarrassed by her outburst, Heather returned to her chair.

“Do you remember what the Taylors ate last night?”

She nodded. “Their usual, a half-dozen oysters and a bowl of gumbo each. Mr. Taylor had two whiskey sours and Mrs. Taylor had a Coke.”

“Was there more than one batch of gumbo?”

“No.”

“Well,” he said, “I had the gumbo and I
’m okay. That leaves the oysters. Aren’t they sometimes dangerous?”

“
Tran’s very careful. No one has ever gotten sick on his oysters.”

“Careful
? About what?”

“Closures and warnings.”

“Closures?”

She
took a deep breath and blew it out. “The state closes areas if the water’s polluted. The back part of the bay’s permanently closed.”

“Why
?”

“
Coliform levels are too high during runoff.”

His brow furrowed.

“Too much sewage seeping in,” she explained.

They both turned at the sound of a car in the driveway. Heather rose and glanced out the window. “You have a visitor.”

She followed Starks outside and watched from the porch as he talked to Kenny Rhodes. Kenny looked more nervous than usual, but she couldn’t hear their conversation.

As soon as it ended, Kenny drove off and Starks returned to the steps.

“The hospital notified the Health Department,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if it turns out to be food poisoning, they’ll send someone out to investigate.”

“
How are they going to know if the oysters were bad? We sold them all.”

He shrugged. “They’ll probably err on the side of public safety.”

“You mean, shut us down.”

He nodded.

“They can’t do that,” she said, panic rising again as bile in her throat. “Coop will be ruined.”

He glanced away for a moment,
and then he looked up at her. “What do you do with the oyster shells?”

“Wash them and put them on the driveway, or pile them in back. Locals haul them off.”