The Summer Bones (11 page)

“Okay.” Danny nodded, obviously relaxing a little himself. “I had witnesses who say they saw Hallie get into your truck. That was just two days before she disappeared.”

“Rest assured,” Damon said with marked civility, “that I delivered her home safe and sound. I haven't seen her since, if that's your next question, Danny.”

“It was.” Danny sighed and adjusted his glasses again. He moved restlessly, his car having gotten so hot from the blistering sun that it was apparently no longer comfortable to lean against. He said, “No offense intended, but at this point, you're the one link I have between Hallie Helms and Emily Sims. A few questions aren't an accusation.”

But a grim little punch in the solar plexus, just the same. Damon felt his tired muscles begin to ache with every pulse of his heart. “I understand. You have a job to do. Not one I'd want.”

“No?” Danny turned and looked out over the half-mown field, the bales of hay, the big truck with the old man leaning against the fender, patiently waiting. The shimmer of heat made the ground look like a mirage. “I sure as hell wouldn't want yours either, buddy. Not for love or money.”

“Yeah.” Damon followed his look. His face was as bare of expression as he could keep it.

“Well, thanks for your time. Sorry to bother you.” Danny put out his hand.

Damon shook his head in refusal, sticking out his hand and displaying the grime stuck to his skin. “No bother.”

“We'll be in touch.” The words were ominous, actually.

Damon made a small involuntary movement. “Danny, wait.”

“Yes?” Fair brows lifted above the frames of the sunglasses.

“You asked me how well I knew Hallie Helms. Past tense. Has something happened?”

“Did I say that?” Danny gave a small, cynical smile. “Sorry. No, no news. I'll see you later, Damon.”

He got into the car. The door slammed loudly. The engine started and the squad car pulled away, sending a plume of dust down the road. Danny Haase stuck his hand out the window in a wave.

Damon stood immobile. “See you later,” he said hollowly into the haze of powdery dirt.

The house was quiet. Way too quiet. It gave Danny a moment of painful pause in the doorway, hand on the door handle, feeling the air-conditioning wash over his damp skin. No drone of the television from the bedroom. No music flowing from the stereo in the den—just … silence.

He had to consciously unclamp his fingers from the knob, forcing himself to close the door with his normal bang. He tossed his sunglasses and keys on the table in the tiled hallway with a clatter, shoving his fingers roughly into his short hair and surveying the room, assessing what was there, and more so what was missing.

Blue carpeting stretched from wall to wall. A plaid couch and matching chair in gray, off-white, and blue sat against one wall. The pine coffee table had nothing but dust on the pale surface. Two blue lamps with ivory shades sat on plain end tables. It wasn't very personal, he had to admit. He'd done his best when picking out the furniture, but he wasn't an inspired decorator. The entire lot had been bought as a group in one afternoon from a store in New Castle.

It had looked great in the display window of the store. However, it looked just as impersonal here.

If Laura hadn't been so against moving to Mayville, he knew this room would look a lot different, more like their house in Indianapolis—pictures on the walls, small touches like plants, pillows, and bright rugs. Her fashion magazines scattered across the coffee table.

For a moment he felt a familiar pang of fierce regret for the decision he had made to move back to his hometown—regret for his wife's discontentment, for his own unhappiness in Indianapolis that had made him seek the change that had been a death knell to his marriage. Maybe some kind of regret for his entire upbringing, which had led him back to this path. Yet, he didn't want to go back to IPD. If that was the price, he wasn't willing to pay it.

“Laura?” he called softly, wondering if she was gone for good. The ominous silence felt heavy.

To his surprise, he heard a muffled response. “In here.”

He walked slowly toward the kitchen, not sure if what he felt was relief or something else. He stopped in the doorway, peering in at the plain room of white floors and white cabinets.

Laura sat at the table, chin on fist, a half-empty glass of wine on the dark blue place mat in front of her—Chardonnay, by the golden color, which she didn't like very much. It must have been the only thing in the refrigerator. She didn't look up.

“Hello.” It was an effort for him to speak to her and not start shouting accusations.

“I haven't made dinner. It's too hot to cook.” She lifted the glass to her lips and took a small sip, face still averted. “Not that I've been cooking much lately anyway. I thought I'd have a drink instead. Want one?”

She hadn't made dinner for the two of them in weeks, that was true enough, but he let it go without comment, eyeing the bottle and saying instead, “False courage?”

It was a poor attempt at a joke. “Maybe,” she agreed without inflection. Soft blond hair fell smoothly over her shoulders. She was still wearing the shorts and blouse from earlier, and her profile shone clear in the slanting sunshine coming through the kitchen window.

He couldn't help but wonder if the scent of another man still clung to her skin. He shouldn't have thought about it. He swallowed and walked toward the refrigerator. Taking an ice tray from the freezer, he popped it with unsteady hands. Ice cubes went sprawling across the counter. He opened the cupboard, got out a glass, and scooped a couple of the cubes into it. The rest he shoved into the sink with the palm of his hand. Laura watched, not speaking, as he opened another cupboard and got out a bottle of scotch. He poured two fingers over the ice and smelled the soothing essence of smoke and oak.

“A little false courage for yourself?” his wife asked, her mouth quirking into a dark smile.

“It's been a long day,” he responded, leaning against the counter. The scotch tasted good, scorching his throat in downward descent, clearing his head. “But you know that, don't you. And I take it it's about to get even worse.”

She looked up, met his eyes. “Why did you follow me this afternoon? Why, Danny?”

“I don't know,” he said wearily. It was the truth.

Her mouth thinned. “Do you feel better now? Is that it? You didn't believe before, but now you do? Or was it just some sort of macho cop thing? Were you trying to make Dale nervous, sitting out there in the squad car with your gun and radio and uniform? You, of all people, know you can't touch him and you aren't like that anyway.”

“Who knows what a man will do when his wife is cheating on him.”

“Oh stop it. You weren't going to shoot him; you just wanted to make him twitch.”

He studied her face—heart shaped, with large gray eyes, a generous mouth, and a rounded chin, not beautiful, but infinitely memorable. The kind of woman that men noticed, which he'd never minded in the past. A sudden well of hopelessness lodged in his throat, so that he spoke hoarsely, “No. I wasn't trying to make anyone anything. I was simply looking for my wife.”

“Your wife,” she repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

“That's our problem, isn't it? I'm still your wife, in spite of how everything has changed. In spite of the fact that I hate this stupid little town, that I hate your job, that I hate our life here.” Her hand lifted to her temple and she rubbed her fingers at her hairline, closing her eyes. With the other hand she pushed her wineglass away.

“I was a cop before we got married, and you've never given this town or our life here a chance, Laura. You condemned it before we'd even moved in. Maybe, if we tried … I don't know, a little harder, we could work this out.” His voice was hollow.

“I like the city, Danny. You know that. You knew that when we met. I'm a city girl. I grew up there. I like the lights and the traffic and the crowded stores. I like to go out to nice restaurants, visit nightclubs, have a drink with friends who have more to talk about than the weather and how it affects their damned crops.” She opened her eyes and he caught the sheen of tears. “I feel suffocated here. Useless.”

“You worked back in Indy. Maybe if you got a job—”

“Doing what?” she asked contemptuously. “As a clerk at Hollman's hardware store? Checking at the IGA? Or maybe I could scoop ice cream and flip hamburgers at the Dairy Twist? Quite a selection of choices, isn't it? I used to be an executive assistant at a top advertising firm. Now, I'm nothing.” Bitterness twisted her mouth into an ugly line.

The edge of the counter pressed into his back.
Thanks to you
, her tone accused.
Thanks to you, I'm nothing
.

Never mind that two years ago he had been beginning to break under the stress of being a police officer in a city where the murder rate was making new records each year. Never mind that he worked appalling hours for appalling pay. Never mind that he had developed a bleeding ulcer from watching criminals he had taken off the street being released the next day. He was happier now, at least professionally. He did a service to the community, he was back among people he understood and liked, and most of all, he felt at home.

“Dale Hanson is from Mayville, Laura.” The words were painful, difficult to control. “You can't hope for anything different with him. He's the track coach at the high school, tied to this town as much as I am. So … why? Explain to me, why?”

The kitchen smelled slightly rank, evidence of Laura's indifference. The white counters were carelessly wiped off, leaving a scattering of crumbs and unidentified streaks. The floor hadn't been mopped in a week, which he knew because he'd done it himself. Even the oak table where Laura sat, staring dispiritedly at her wineglass, was piled with a week of unopened mail. She didn't answer his question at first, but sat there, unmoving, a statue etched in dying sunlight and apathy.

“It's just sex,” she said eventually. “I don't want anything from him, and he understands he can't have anything from me.”

Just sex.
Danny lifted the glass of scotch unsteadily to his mouth and drank.
Just sex. Yeah, that explanation helps a lot.

She tilted her face and looked at him. Her eyes reflected regret, but no real remorse. She blamed him, that was obvious, even if he hadn't known it already.

He said the only thing he could think of to say. “I still love you.” His voice sounded shamefully desperate, even to his own ears. “I would be willing to forget this, I think, if you would try to move on.”

“I know.”

“We haven't slept together in months.” His fingers tightened on the glass.

“Don't do this, Danny. Don't.”

“I want you. You're my wife. The thought of you with someone else is …” He took a breath. “Unbearable. But I'd try to get past it.”

She swallowed, the muscles jumping in her throat. “It isn't just sex with you. You ask for more, you want more. I can't give it, knowing that we've grown apart like we have.” The gray eyes had gone soft, like a November sky. Her mouth trembled. She got up so abruptly that her glass wobbled and almost fell over. “I just can't.”

He couldn't argue. Trying to find words to refute the truth was difficult, especially as he felt the growing numbness inside. If it was indeed over between them, what was the point of continued intimacy?

So he said nothing as she grabbed her purse, swiping at the tears on her cheeks with a frantic hand. A few minutes later he heard the slam of the front door.

She was gone.

* * * *

Victoria rinsed the last dish and put it in the rack. Her aunt gave the table a final wipe and sighed, the sound ebbing outward in evidence of fatigue that was more emotional than physical.

“Will this heat never break?” Kate plucked at her blouse and pushed a wet tendril of hair off her neck. “I'm getting sick of it. We're setting temperature records right and left. It's unbearable.”

“Chicago is worse, I think. It's Lake Michigan. It makes everything so humid.” Victoria absently rubbed her hands on a towel, then carefully hung it on a peg by the sink. The kitchen was bathed in orange and violet from the sunset, and the lingering smell of burned butter and wine hung in the air. She felt the usual palpable relief at her father's departure some minutes before. Uncle Jim had left, too, citing rounds at the hospital in Rushville. Her grandfather was tinkering somewhere in the barn, her grandmother watching a television program, and Damon had gone off to keep his date with Andrea Martin. She and Kate were pretty much alone.

“I wish we would hear something,” her aunt said softly, coming to deposit the sponge in the sink. “This waiting is terribly hard on everyone.”

No need to tell me that
, Victoria thought grimly. Her mother had called the house at least three times that day, hysterically demanding to know what was happening. Her father was more remote than ever, her grandfather more shaky and weary. And Victoria couldn't help but wonder how much of her grandmother's current abstraction was due to the confusion of the situation. Even in her distant state, she had to sense how high everyone's emotions were running.

“I saw Ronald today and I don't know what to think,” she told Kate impulsively, blinking. Outside, the dusk was swirling downward in a spectacular burst of colors, infusing the sky with a kaleidoscope effect. “He made no secret of the fact he thinks Em left him for another man.”

With one hip against the counter, Kate tilted her head, looking interested. “Does he say whom Emily was supposed to have run off with?”

“No.” With a shake of her head, Victoria denied knowledge.

“He has no idea?” Patent disbelief colored Kate's tone. “Oh come on.”