Light the Hidden Things (32 page)

"And you think one of them wants to mess you up."

"Exactly. But you ruined my story. That was my punch line. My version was a tad more elegant."

"Pastor, I don't need stories. I've seen this sort of thing all over the country. Everybody talks nature and environment until money gets in the game."

"That's terribly cynical."

"I've watched it work. The bad guys aren't stupid and time's on their side. Progress whittles away the conditions a species needs to survive. Eventually it goes extinct. Once it's gone, there's nothing left to protect and you can go ahead and build. And there's pollution, a developer's best friend. It kills the things conservationists want to protect. Once they're dead and gone, there's no reason not to build a mall and more houses on that spot. Now you've got lawns and flower beds. That means chemicals that flow downstream and poison the next target area. Money always wins."

"Fighting the good fight's worth any cost, though, isn't it?"

Crow was wry. "How many times have I heard that one?"

"Bear with me. If I'm..." The older man struggled for words. "If my suspicions are right, I could be involved in some legal issues. Should it happen, I want you to help Lila."

Crow sneered, purposely offensive. "I thought I was pretty clear about dusting off this place and everybody in it just as soon as I can. Talk to Vanderkirk about helping her. They're already tight and he's got money. What they call a match made in heaven, right?"

The Pastor's reaction was startling. He pitched forward, furious. Red-faced, fists white-knuckled on the table, his voice trembled. "Don't you dare make jokes about her future. She's a wonderful woman and I love her. Loved her aunt and uncle. Your cynicism goes even deeper than I suspected. I misjudged you. You're a selfish, self-centered man."

Crow rose. Shockingly quick and strong, the Pastor leaned forward, gripped Crow's belt. He stopped Crow cold and practically hissed. "Listen."

Embarrassment influenced Crow's obedience as much as the Pastor's insistence. Diners stared. The Pastor gave them a moment to get back to themselves and for Crow to settle, then said, "Van's a bully. He wants Lila's land. He wants her. He takes what he wants, moves on. His kind desecrate beauty, desecrate creativity. They destroy for nothing more than personal gain."

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Help her. Make her dream work."

"You sell your Christian thoughtfulness at a high cost, Padre. Offer me a place to lick my wounds and next tell me I owe it to you to change my life - to benefit you." He leaned forward, inches from a suffering but unflinching Pastor. "I can't take a chance driving. Not until I'm sure the concussion's under control. I'll work on Lila's building. Nothing more. Until I can leave."

"She reached out to you, Crow. Yes, I expected some gratitude. I hoped to see a little of that Marine Corps loyalty I've heard about."

Crow backed off, leaned on his elbows. "Don't push me. I've talked to Van. Didn't like him. Yeah, he's strong on Lila. Not my business." It almost choked him. He told himself if it wasn't completely true. He vowed to make sure it became so.

The Pastor looked uncomfortable. "He had bad business deals with some people. I got involved. It cost him some business. And I knew his first wife. He's..." Discomfort turned to reluctance. "He's dangerous. He hurt her. Threatened worse, she said. I believe he's capable of it."

They stared off into space as Estelle cleared the table. She asked if they wanted anything else. Crow turned to face her with a cold look and dismissive head shake. She left without another word.

A silent void enveloped the men. Crow knew it could destroy the warmth that had grown between them. In spite of everything, he didn't want that. He tried not to think about it, and found thoughts and images chaotically arcing across his mind.

Patricia's face lingered. She sent him the confiding togetherness smile that was her way of telling him she loved him without saying it. The vision shimmered, transformed itself to the last picture he had of her. An ordinary snapshot. He looked at it at least once a week. Couldn't help himself. Every time he did it seemed like another piece of his heart broke off.

Joe took it with the self-timer. Mother and son stood on a cliff, overlooking the beach. Just them, sea, and sky. Eternity. Joe was expressionless. She was smiling the special smile, waving at the camera.

The next night she died.

Did she have an intimation? How many times have I agonized over whether that wave was her goodbye? She never understood why I couldn't know what she was thinking; I was always so clear to her. What would she tell me now?

Honor. Be true. Do what's right.

I'm afraid. I want to help this woman. I held her. I want to be with her. I destroy the people I love. Joe said it: Patricia died because of me. I saw his eyes when he said it. Whatever's inside him that used to be us - I killed that, too.

Honor.

Lila reached out to me. I want to take her hand. So much. She needs help.

She needs me.

The Pastor cleared his throat. "My concern got the best of me. I can honestly say I didn't mean the things I said. My temper... I've prayed too many times to be forgiven for it. Now I'm asking you. I know what I'm asking, son. I'm not trying to be sly. I don't have a choice."

Crow stood up. "Nothing to forgive. I understand. But you've got no idea what you're asking. Here's how it is. I'll live up to my agreement, but I'm not fighting anyone's battles. Period. I've got my own."

Nodding, the Pastor raised a hand as if to shake Crow's. He thought better, lowered it. Without rising, he said, "I'm grateful for whatever you can do. Thanks, son. God bless you."

Crow threw money on the table. He said, "Don't ever say that to me. Ever." He marched away.

Crow was barely back to the Airstream when tires rasped on the gravel fronting Lila's home. Even by tentative moonlight the lines of Van's Beamer were unmistakable. Zasu barked. Major responded once before Crow could silence him. He felt foolish, like a lurking schoolboy. Still it was better than being discovered. At best there'd be conversation he didn't want. What troubled him most - and he admitted it painfully - was the probability he'd learn things about Van and Lila he didn't want to know.

He ached to walk over and intrude.

He couldn't imagine how he'd handle it if he did. That thought took him back to the conversation with the Pastor. What was the old fool thinking? How could he ask a man to help a woman who didn't want help? She certainly didn't need it. Not with Van there as a fall-back.

Slipping into the darkened trailer, he sat at the table. The bourbon in the cabinet called to him. He only considered it for a moment. The struggle to escape that demon taught him forever the wisdom of his father's dictum: "Whiskey's the devil's own gift. There'll be a time when you need a drink, bad. Never take that one."

Patricia tried to hide behind whiskey, believed its gift was strength. He wished he could turn a on a light and write to her now, maybe get some idea of what to do.

They'd
see it.
They'd
think he was watching.

He couldn't stand it any longer, sitting in the dark wondering what they were doing. He jerked upright so violently it tumbled the chair backward. Major scrambled to his feet, casting about, wondering what he'd missed. Crow patted him, simultaneously picking up the chair. "Nothing to get excited about. Just me having a fit." He led the dog outside and headed, more or less furtively, for the road. "I need to walk," he explained in a whisper, although there was little chance his voice would carry to the car, much less inside the house.

The silent, unlit house. Beyond the silent, unlit car.
Them.
In the dark.
Together.

The touch of moonlight was enough to allow surefooted progress. Glimmering stars insisted his problems, however disturbing, were small stuff. He looked down at his dog shuffling beside him, checking the night air, happy just being with his man. This was how things were supposed to be. Contentment was a function of solitude. It never failed. He looked back over his shoulder at the barely visible building.

Without warning, something hard and cruel gripped him, as shocking as any roadside bomb. Half his mind screamed at him to dive for cover while the other half struggled to find a reason for something akin to terror on a peaceful country road. Truth, when it came, was bullet-brutal.

He cared for her. He wanted her to care for him. He was lonely.

*          *          *          *         *

Soft music from the car's cd blended with the enclosed warmth. Lila's thinking drifted aimlessly, this subject, that one. She thought of the small sailboat dodging the massive carrier as it breached the fogbank.

Dinner was excellent, his conversation amusing, the cheerful activity of the restaurant crowd distracting - there couldn't have been a better way to get over disappointment. Still, she questioned the wisdom of the cognac Van insisted they needed to close out the evening. Perhaps he'd been right; it certainly conspired to create a welcome, wobbly forgetfulness.

Unfortunately, distraction worked in fits and starts. Her mind kept flicking back to the sympathetic face of the loan officer. So kind. So rejecting. How did someone combine those things? Who looked another person in the eye, expressed sympathy, and unhesitatingly torched a dream?

Van was bedrock. Unfailingly thoughtful all evening, when she felt herself giving way to depression he always had a story, a quip, that brought at least a smile and occasionally a solid laugh. The latter did her far more good than the expensive wine he kept pouring. It surprised her when she said she was tired and ready to go home and he made no argument at all, save for the post-dinner drink. Even then, he'd told the waitress to make it light.

Light, perhaps, but it weighed heavily. They spoke little all the way back from Seattle. When they did talk, Lila had the peculiar sensation she was listening in on two people she didn't know all that well.

Now, sitting in front of her home, Van was reviewing the evening, telling her what fun she'd been. She heard the words. She was more involved with his presence. His face was in three-quarter profile, the luminescence of the dashboard and the moon creating complex shadows on his features. They shifted at his slightest movement and she thought of mercury. Perverse stuff; a metal, but one that flowed, almost too swift to capture.

Was it in her heart to capture Van? Was that any way to think about a man?

As if aware of her thoughts had taken, he reached out to lay a casual hand on her thigh. Just as casually, she took it in hers. He said, "I'd ask to come in for a cup of coffee, but I'm afraid you'd think I might be trying to take advantage of you or something. That cognac seems to have been one too many."

"Are you saying I'm drunk?" She detected a stink of masculine condescension in his tone. He was dangerously close to ruining everything. She tried to make her reaction light banter. It came out with a sizzle.

"You had a rough day. Sometimes the stuff gets to you when you're depressed."

Why couldn't he just leave it alone?

"I'm not drunk, I'm not depressed, and I'm not worried about being taken advantage of. That's insulting. I'm way beyond the age of consent. I don't do anything I don't consent to. They don't make that much cognac. You can be a real chauvinist when you want to."

He laughed softly. "Well, forgive me all to hell. I'm trying to tell you, in my chauvinist way, when we finally come to an understanding I don't want any doubts before or regrets after." Disengaging his hand, he raised it to head level, cradled the back of her neck.

The pressure drawing her closer was so slight, so subtle, she wasn't sure if it were intentional, or simply the weight of his arm. She didn't object. She didn't want him thinking she was some skittish girl. Anyhow, it was nice.

It was silly to get angry over such a small thing. He meant well.

For someone whose brain seemed to have turned to smoke, her head felt strangely heavy.

The blunt male-ness of the man. She'd been aware of it from the first. This was the first time she'd actually let herself experience it. She liked it. Her body stirred. Parts of her warmed, her knees had an uncertain, failing feeling. She watched his other hand leave the steering wheel, felt the movement of his body as he turned. He leaned closer, his left hand a pale swath across her vision. The right increased pressure and turned her head his way. When his reaching hand settled against her cheek she wanted that additional pull, wanted him to want her, wanted to feel the heat coursing her body turn to fever.

He kissed her. The second time today. This one nothing like the first. This was passion.

Again, he shifted his weight. The armrest between them creaked. His left hand slipped across her cheek, downward. Heavy fingers coursed her neck, the warmth of that touch setting off yearning as the hand moved onto the fabric of her blouse. The hand at the back of her neck was suddenly fierce, closing like a metal band. It drew her closer.

Alarm clanged. What was happening was conquest. The kiss had no more romance in it than the planting of a flag. She had no idea how she knew, but she knew. There would be no giving, no sharing here, not tonight. This was a taking.