Fifth Grave Past the Light: Number 5 in series (Charley Davidson) Page 5

  “Why haven’t you come to see me?” he asked as he stepped to an overstuffed sofa and sank into it, stretching his legs out in front of him. Like it was something he did every day, had done his entire life. I wondered what prison had been like for him. With no sofas and no marble fireplaces and no refrigerators he could raid whenever he wanted to. And I wondered what all of that would have been like, that kind of restriction, that kind of punishment, for someone who didn’t even commit the crime for which he had been sentenced. Would the lack of freedom be all the more difficult?

  I shook out of my thoughts and followed him. “I don’t know. The last time I saw you, you’d been shot with a fifty-caliber bullet because of me. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

  “So all the notes on your door didn’t clue you in?”

  I sat on a chair that catty-cornered his seat. “Fine, but you’d still been shot.”

  “And?”

  “And…” I wasn’t sure how much to tell him about how I felt. About what had happened and how I was choosing not to deal with it in classic Charley fashion. I pressed my lips together, then said, “I killed a man, Reyes. A man is dead because of me.”

  “A man who was trying to kill you.”

  And that was the truth of it. A man I’d turned in as a bank robber had been hell-bent on making sure I didn’t testify against him. Unfortunately, he’d been in training to be a sniper in the marines when he received a dishonorable discharge. The guy was a loon with a hair-trigger temper, so it was probably only a matter of time, but he’d learned enough to try to take me out from a rooftop a hundred yards away. His plan would have been successful had Reyes not stepped in front of me, let it rip through him before turning to catch it when it continued toward me on its path of destruction. He had literally taken a bullet for me. A huge one that should have ripped him apart.

  It was probably the blood spreading across Reyes’s torso that caused the spark of rage to burst within me. In an instant, I was in front of the guy. I reached inside his chest and stopped his heart before I took the time to consider the consequences. Then I looked back at myself, still standing beside Reyes, an expression of shock still evident on my features.

  I had left my body. I had killed a man and I’d done it incorporeally, a fact I still had a difficult time wrapping my head around. Accepting as truth.

  “I’m just not sure how much that should make a difference,” I said. “I still feel guilty. I took his life. He could have reformed, you know? He could have been the next Van Gogh or the next Shakespeare, but now we’ll never know because I didn’t give him the chance.”

  “Do you really think that a man like that would have been the next Shakespeare?”

  “Probably not, but again, we’ll never know. I’m not a judge and jury. I don’t have the right to take lives.” I studied him, then asked, “You’ve killed in self-defense in the past when you were in prison. How did that make you feel? What did it do to you?”

  “It didn’t do anything to me. They were coming at me. I fought back. In the end, they were dead and I was not. Don’t ever underestimate the fundamental need to survive, Dutch. It drives us all. If we are going to play at being human, then we have a basic human right to defend ourselves, and you did what was necessary.”

  Play at being human? Who was playing? I was human as far as I was concerned, but it was an odd statement. The fire crackled and I looked over because, no matter how real it looked, it was electric. “It even has sound effects?”

  He laughed softly. “They have everything nowadays. I had no idea.”

  The fact that he’d spent ten years in prison hit me again. And there I was, contemplating sending him back. Could I do it? Even if I were to discover he was the arsonist, could I send him back? Would they send him back? How would that work? Would he get a reduced sentence for time served?

  “You’re very serious tonight. Any particular reason?”

  “What were you doing at the bar?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I told you, I was passing by.”

  “Oh, right. But you weren’t following me or anything?”

  He ran a fingertip along the top of his glass. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. “Is that what you think? That I follow you around to keep your ass out of trouble?”

  “If so, you’re not very good at your job.”

  A huge smile spread across his face. “True enough. So what’s eating you? Because, sadly, it’s not me.”

  A sharp thrill spiked inside me with the thought of him doing that very thing, but I was there for a reason. Since I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask him if he was burning the city to the ground one dump at a time, I veered toward the subject for which I’d originally sought him out. “What’s hell like?”

  His fingertip stilled. “What do you mean?”

  “Hell,” I said with a shrug. “You know, home sweet home. You grew up there. What’s it like?”

  He sat back and stared into the fire. “It’s exactly like all the stories your mom told you when you were a kid.”

  “My stepmom didn’t tell me stories, so indulge me.”

  “The summers are hot. Winters are hot. Fall and spring are hot. Not a whole lot of climate change. We did get a scorching breeze every so often, though. It was almost refreshing.”

  Fine, he wasn’t going to answer. I’d move on to more pressing questions. “What would it do to a human who was sent there, then escaped?”

  His gaze darted toward me. “Escape is impossible. You know, in case you’re planning a trip.” Odd thing was, he seemed serious. Like a trip to the underbelly of the supernatural world was within the realm of possible vacation spots.

  “I’m not. I thought I might write an article. Or a book. I’ve always wanted a Pulitzer. Or I could get really lucky and score a Nobel Peace Prize. I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.”

  He’d gone back to staring into his wine, to running his finger along the rim of his glass. The movement mesmerized me. Without breaking his gaze, he said, “Come here.”

  The butterflies attacked again. His arm corded and released as his finger tested the edge of the glass. His mouth, full and sensual, parted as he concentrated on the burgundy liquid.

  “I should probably go.”

  What if he were the arsonist? What would I do? On one hand, I had Uncle Bob to consider. He’d done so much for me, was always there for me, but so was Reyes. He could be an ass, but he’d saved my life more times than I could count. Could I really accuse him of arson and turn him over?

  Maybe I should just ask him. Maybe he would be honest with me and we could figure out what to do, where to go from here, together. And maybe they would get air-conditioning in hell.

  I set my glass on the coffee table and rose to leave. “Thank you for tonight, though. Thank you for everything.”

  “That sounds ominous,” he said without rising. He arched a brow in question. “Planning on never coming back?”

  “No, just… I don’t know. I need to check on a few things.” And get the image of him in a prison uniform out of my head. Earl Walker had done a number on him growing up. Torture. Abuse beyond imagining. Was he trying to erase his past? To remove any evidence that it had really happened by burning down the places in which he’d lived? My chest tightened.

  I walked to the door and pulled it open. Then Reyes was there. Behind me. He didn’t just close the door. He slammed it, the handle jerking out of my hand. Then he pressed in to me.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, and he sounded hurt. Confused.

  I laid my head against the door. “I’m just going to check on a few things. I have some research to do for a case.”

  “Why is every breath you release filled with pity? Why in damnation would you feel sorry for me when you know what I am? What I’ve done?”

  Of course he would be able to feel my compassion. My sympathy. I turned to face him even though he gave me no margin. His arms were braced on the door above my head. His crystalline
gaze hard. But just as he felt my compassion, I felt the cut it left, the wound.

  “I don’t feel sorry for you,” I said.

  He scoffed and pushed off the door to head back to his kitchen. “And once again she lies.”

  Regret consumed me. I didn’t want to fight with him. “I’m not so much lying as trying to keep the peace.”

  “Then you should probably walk away.”

  4

  I’m a virgin. But this is an old shirt.

  —T-SHIRT

  I glanced over at a message board he had on the wall. It had dark cork on it and silver pushpins, but only one note had been tacked onto it. I walked closer and recognized the handwriting. It was the bill I’d presented him a couple of weeks ago. The one I’d written on a Macho Taco receipt. The one that stated one Mr. Reyes Farrow owed Davidson Investigations a cool million. With interest. He’d kept it. That ridiculous bill.

  And a new realization dawned. We were fighting. Well, we always fought, but we were fighting like real couples did. In an apartment with him flesh and blood and me flesh and blood and him so adorably sexy, he could melt the polar ice caps.

  We were almost kind of sort of like a real couple. And he’d kept my bill.

  The noise level rose in the kitchen as Reyes banged dishes. Slammed doors. Quite possibly threw a pan. It was enough to make my heart burst with joy. Walk away from him now? I would rather swim through broken glass.

  He stopped what he was doing and though I couldn’t see him from my vantage point, he called out, “What?”

  Could he feel my abrupt change of emotion? Did I give a crap? Not so much.

  Whatever tomorrow brought, tonight he was mine. Sure he might be burning down half of Albuquerque, but he’d targeted condemned buildings and shoddily constructed cubbyholes that were eyesores anyway. Nobody missed the shacks he torched, and the owners were collecting a heap of nice coin from the insurance companies for their piles of rubble.

  He was doing Albuquerque a favor.

  He was a hero!

  Okay, that might have been stretching it a bit, but still…

  “Double or nothing!” I called out to him.

  After a moment, he stepped around a wall, his forehead crinkled in mild interest.

  “Double or nothing,” I repeated.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ll make you a bet. You can win your money back. Every cent. But if you lose, I get double.”

  “And what money would that be?”

  “The million you owe me.”

  “Ah.” He thought for a minute, then asked, “And just how do I manage to do that?”

  “Uh-uh-uh,” I said, stepping closer. “You’re going to owe me two million if you lose. Are you sure you don’t want to think about it? Perhaps put it on the back burner, let it simmer?”

  His gaze took a leisurely tour of my body, pausing on my girls, Danger and Will Robinson, before continuing. “I’m pretty sure I’m up for whatever you throw at me.”

  “It’s your funeral, buddy.” I looked around his apartment and found just the thing. After retrieving a tieback off his curtains, I walked back to him and explained the rules. “Okay, you have to trust me. Stand here and put your hands behind your back.”

  He pushed off the wall and walked over to me, his expression wary but intrigued. “Is this going to hurt?”

  “Only your bank account.”

  He did as instructed, putting his hands behind his back.

  “Do you trust me?” I asked.

  “As far as I can throw you.”

  “Good enough.” He was strong. He could probably toss me a goodly distance.

  I tied his wrists together behind his back, and while I knew his history, knew all the horrible memories that could surface with that one act, I also hoped this would begin to form a bond of trust between us. A thread of peace. He had to know that I would not hurt him. True, I couldn’t hurt him physically if I wanted to, but he had to know that sentiment applied to our emotional relationship as well.

  He tilted his head. “Seems promising.”

  “If you can hold this position without moving for —” I looked toward the ceiling and thought about it. “— for five minutes, you win. But if you even so much as flinch,” I added, shadowboxing to warm up, “then I win.”

  “I can’t flinch?”

  “No flinching. This is a flinchless game of concentration and control. I learned it in the air force.”

  “You were never in the air force.”

  “No, but the guys who taught it to me were.” I danced around, showing off my mad skill, probably intimidating the holy macaroni out of him. Poor guy. “These are fists of fury. They will get close. You’ll feel the air as they swoosh by you. You’ll stand in awe of their speed and accuracy. But if you move, you lose. You still up for this? Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  The lopsided grin he wore was a ploy, a ruse to get me to lower my guard. He cleared his throat and nodded. “I’m good.”

  “Are you sure?” I threw a few punches in quick succession just to let him know what he was up against. He had to be at least a little nervous. “We’re talking a lot of money here. No one would blame you if you begged off now.”

  “Have you ever boxed?”

  “Took some lessons. Didn’t want to be anybody’s bitch in detention.” He didn’t look convinced, so I explained. “I went to a rough high school. Our mascot was a hit man named Vinnie.”

  “I thought you went to La Cueva.”

  “I did. I went to a subdivision of La Cueva called La Bettawatchyaass, Girlfriend. It was a portable building a little south of the main school. We didn’t get invited to many events.”

  He acted as though he were fighting a grin, but I knew better. The only thing he was fighting was the paralyzing fear rushing through his body. He tried not to let it surface, to let it ruin this majestic image I had of him. Too late.

  “In case you are unaware of this fact, my nickname in high school was Uppercut Davidson.” I threw one in to demonstrate.

  “I thought your nickname was Charley.”

  “Only to those who had nothing to fear from me.” I totally needed a tattoo on my neck.

  “Has the clock started?” he asked, a dimple appearing on his left cheek.

  I let my arms fall to my sides, and gave him one last chance with a challenging quirk of my brow I saw in a movie once. When he held fast, I couldn’t help but be just a little impressed.

  “You are a worthy opponent, Reyes Farrow.” I took a deep breath, raised my fists to first position as it was called in ballet, and said, “Time to pay the piper.”

  He watched, waiting for me to throw a punch to see if he would flinch. His eyes smiled behind his mask of concentration. I almost felt sorry for him. Especially when I dropped my arms again and gazed at him from beneath hooded lids.

  “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  He sobered and regarded me a bit more warily now.

  I stepped to him, leaving only inches between us. Without releasing his gaze, I said, “Ever since the first time I saw you, when Earl was hitting you that awful, unforgettable night, your image has been burned into my mind. You were so unimaginably beautiful. And noble. And strong.”

  He watched as I raised my hands and began unbuttoning his shirt. His mouth parted and he started to bend down to me, but I held up an index finger and wagged it.

  “No moving, mister. Those are the rules.”

  He narrowed his lids and straightened.

  I unfastened the last button and pushed his shirt over his shoulders. The tattoos that ran across his chest, back, and shoulders were darker than most. Then again, they weren’t made of ink, but something supernatural, something otherworldly. Their lines interlocked like a maze with dead ends and traps that would keep a soul locked in the oblivion of space that existed between dimensions, lost for an eternity.

  Scars
from the abuse he’d endured growing up still marred his perfect skin, but only a bit. And then I found what I was looking for. The point of entry for the .50-caliber bullet that had torn through his body only days earlier. What would have ripped a normal man to shreds merely wounded Reyes. It entered through his rib cage and punctured a lung, exiting out his back. But all that remained as evidence of that night was a small scrape on his skin. I pushed his shirt down his arms farther and walked around to check his back. The scrape was better, but he healed even faster than I did.

  “That’s not pity I feel, is it?” he asked, his voice suddenly hard.

  I walked around to face him and crossed my arms over my chest. “What if it is?”

  “I wouldn’t suggest it.”

  “You can’t stop me from feeling sympathy for what you’ve been through, Reyes.”

  “Would you care to test that theory?”

  “Yes.” I raised my chin. “I would.” I put my hand on his chest, his skin scorching against my palm. “You are everything to me. How can I not empathize with you for what you’ve endured?”

  The heat in the room magnified with his anger. “Stop.”

  I shook my head and stepped closer. “No. I am in agony every time I think about what happened to you, and that’s not something you can change just because it makes you mad.”

  And there it was. That blistering heat that burst from him when his temper got the better of him. “Would you like to know what true agony is?” he asked, his voice a husky shell, fragile, in danger of crumbling at any moment.

  I stepped into the flames that engulfed him. Though I couldn’t see a fire, I could feel it, blazing across my skin, lapping over my nerve endings. I wrapped an arm around his waist, his hands still behind his back, his expression murderous. Then I reached up and touched his face. “If it meant I would know more of what you went through, then yes. If it would bring me closer to you, to understanding how you think, how I can best help you, then a thousand times yes.”