Authors: Nancy Bush
Her impassioned speech sent him back into silence. After a few moments Jordanna said, “Tell me more about this arrangement you have with your wife. I don’t get it.”
He hesitated so long that she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he finally said, “Carmen brought me divorce papers about three months ago and I signed them, but she wanted me to stay on the premises with her for a while, until she was ready to come forward, tell her family and friends. I said okay. I was working on a story and I didn’t much care. Neither one of us really wanted to tell Max and Victor. I told her she could be the lead dog on that. Before she left for Europe, she said she was going to take care of things when she got back.”
“You think there’s any chance she doesn’t know about the bombing?”
“She might know, but it’s more likely that if she’s heard I’m alive and recovering, there’s no need for her to come back. She asked me to sign the papers. She wants it over, too. She said she was living with a ghost, that I wasn’t there for her, and that’s not something you do to Carmen Saldano.”
“Why did you marry her?”
“She was sexy and attractive and she was Max’s sister. We were together a lot. It seemed like the right fit.” He gave her a look and said, “I see you think that’s not enough. I’m guessing you’re single.”
“People get married for a lot of reasons,” she’d answered with asperity.
“Well, those are mine.”
“So, you don’t think we’ll have to worry about her?”
“Max is the one I have to worry about. He’s the one who’ll wonder where I am.”
“If that bomb was meant for you—”
“I’m not going to contact him. I’m off the grid. In your hands. I just need some time to put things back together in my mind.” He’d then closed his eyes, making it clear the conversation was over, or at least that’s what Jordanna had thought, but after another ten miles he’d asked, “How long were you watching the Saldanos?”
She’d thought about all the days and nights she’d kept tabs on Danziger’s whereabouts, how she’d dogged him, her idol, as she’d written her fluff pieces and dreamed of being a true investigative reporter. And a lot of that time had been because she wanted to be the one to break the story on the Saldanos. “A while.”
“That’s specific.”
“Long enough to know that you started out investigating them, but then you got sucked in.”
He shifted in the seat. “Sucked in?”
“Did you just start turning a blind eye to their corruption?”
“They’re not corrupt.”
“You’re the only one who seems to think that, and you damn near got yourself blown to kingdom come because of it.”
“If they wanted me out of the way, they wouldn’t bomb their own building.”
“It’s exactly what they would do. They’ve got more money than God, so they can afford to blow some stuff up when they need to misdirect the investigators.”
“They didn’t do this,” he’d insisted.
“They’re all guilty as hell,” she’d responded recklessly. “I’ve tracked them . . . and you . . . and whatever they’re selling, it’s not just benign import/export items. You were investigating them before you married into the family. What happened? Did you finally find them out?”
“You’re way off base.”
“You need to say that with more conviction.”
“It has to be a competitor,” he answered. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Are you talking to me? Or, are you trying to convince yourself?”
“They’re not murderers,” he’d flashed. “And they’re not drug dealers, either, no matter what fantasies you want to believe. They’re decent, hardworking people.”
“Who tried to kill you.”
“Someone bombed
them
,” he said. “I just got in the way.”
“Keep telling yourself that, but I can tell even you don’t believe it, not completely.”
“I don’t know what the hell the bombing was about,” he growled.
“There. That’s at least honest. If you trusted them like you’re trying to make me believe, you’d be with them right now, not some wannabe investigative reporter who’s taking you to parts unknown. You’re scared for your skin, Mr. Danziger, and I, for one, believe you have every right to be. . . .”
“It’s Dance,” he’d said through his teeth.
“What?”
“It’s what everyone who knows me, calls me.”
“Well, I don’t know how well we know each other . . . Dance, but okay.”
“You kissed me.”
“What?” she repeated, surprised.
“When we were getting off the elevator.”
“As Carmen! I wanted her to think I was Carmen. You know that.”
“We know each other okay. That’s what I’m saying.”
After that, the conversation had pretty much ended until they’d gotten to the house. Now, Jordanna trudged back a last time from the car, carrying the microwave into the dusty kitchen and placing it on the counter. She thought about kissing him on the cheek and it made her gut tighten a bit. She’d done it so naturally.
Oh, sure
, the voice inside her head told her.
You wanted to. You’ve wanted to do something like that for ages, following him around like a lovesick dog.
“Shut up,” she said aloud.
“What?” she heard him call from the other room.
“Nothing,” she yelled back.
Pushing thoughts of him and the kiss aside, she silently vowed to head into town as soon as possible for more cleaning supplies, as what she’d brought wasn’t going to fill the bill by any means. She plugged the microwave in even though there was no electricity. She could feel the chill deepen and with a sigh went out to the woodshed and hauled in chunks of oak and maple. There was a stack of old newspapers, a rusted can of lighter fluid, and a box of long wooden matches near the back door. How long any of it had been there was a question she didn’t ask herself as she carried the wood to the stove in the living room, where Dance was asleep still in his sitting position, his head thrown back against the cushions. She returned for the other items, then knelt on the floor in front of the stove and loaded it with wood, newspapers, and a spurt of lighter fluid, then touched a lighted match to the whole thing. The lighter fluid would smell for a bit, but she wanted the fire up and running as fast as possible because the nights were still cold.
Dance had surfaced as if pricked by a pin when she brought in the first pile of wood and his face had darkened. “What’s wrong?” Jordanna threw over her shoulder as she headed back toward the woodshed.
“We didn’t refill my prescriptions,” his voice called after her.
“I’ll do it tomorrow. Okay?” she yelled back.
“Yep” was the faint reply.
When she finished with the wood, she brought him a blanket, which he ignored, then set about putting the fire together. Once it was going strong, Jordanna carried the blow-up bed into the only downstairs bedroom, the one-time sitting room that had been converted for her mother at the end of her life. Out of habit Jordanna sniffed the air as she had when she was a little girl. She hadn’t liked the medicinal scent overlaid with floral aromas that hadn’t fooled anyone, least of all her. But apart from a dusty, unused smell, the room was fine. There was no bed any longer; that had been removed years earlier. Now, she pushed back the occasional chairs and a couple of rickety tables that her father hadn’t taken with him when he’d remarried, apparently, and laid the mattress on the floor. She plugged in the battery-operated inflation device and waited while the mattress filled. Then she returned for the bag with the bedding, dragging out the mattress pad and sheets, and made up the bed.
It was slightly warmer by the time she returned to the living room. “I’ve got your bed ready,” she said to him, his face all shadows and planes in the orange glow from the woodstove. “The furniture here is only what my father left, so it’s a blow-up mattress.”
“I heard,” he said.
“I know it’s going to be hard to get up and down from the floor, but otherwise the bedrooms are upstairs and I haven’t looked to even see if there are any beds up there. I’m guessing not.”
“Where are you going to sleep?” he asked.
She looked from him to the couch he was sitting on. It wasn’t much more than a love seat and its worn velveteen surface was covered with dust. She slid by that and said, “We have well water. The pump’s attached to a back-up generator, so I’m hoping for the best. If not, I can call Clancy. He should get us going.”
“Who’s Clancy?”
“Mike Clancy’s a friend.” That was reaching a little, as the Clancys had been friends with the Winterses as a family. Jordanna had burned more than a few bridges, and she wasn’t certain Mike was in her camp any longer or if he would help her. “His family does all kinds of service repair work and he can figure out how to put things right around here.”
“Who’s Dayton?” he asked again.
“Dayton’s . . . the owner of this house.”
“A relative,” he guessed.
Jordanna rubbed her nose, getting dirt on its tip. She sensed it immediately but thought,
To hell with it.
“My father,” she admitted.
“You’re not a close family.”
“Not since I shot at him with a .22 rifle.”
She could see him straighten to attention. “Did you hit him?” he asked after a tense moment.
“Yep.”
“But he’s still alive.”
“I hit his shoulder. Not for lack of trying. I’m just a so-so shot.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Because he deserved it,” she snapped. Now that she’d opened the door, she wanted to close it.
He chuckled and she squinted at him through the darkness.
“What’s so funny?”
He shook his head.
“You’re amused that I shot my father? That’s why you’re laughing?”
“Maybe you’re cut out for another line of work.”
“Okay, fine,” she bit out. “Think what you will.”
“What’d your father do?”
“NOTHING.”
“I just want to make sure you’re not going to try to shoot me later,” he said, a note of faint amusement in his voice that made her want to throttle him.
“I’m trying to help you. That’s all. That’s all there is. If there’s a story in it for me, great. If not, fine. This’ll be over soon enough.”
“That sounds kind of ominous,” he said slowly.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to go all Kathy Bates on you. Tie you to the bed and smash your ankles. What I want is to bring down the Saldanos with your help. But first we’ve got to get you on your feet, and if that means a lovely four-day, three-night stay in Rock Springs, or whatever it takes, so be it.”
With that, she left him for a trip to the pump house with her phone flashlight to see if she could get the water flowing.
Dance felt weary all over. He’d tried very hard not to let Jordanna know how tired he was. He didn’t want her to see how weak he truly felt, which made no sense really, since she knew the extent of his injuries, but it seemed important anyway. Now, while she was away and he was sitting in the dark with just the woodstove throwing out faint orange light, he wondered why he was fighting so hard.
He was cold, despite the fire, so he picked up the blanket and pulled it around his shoulders.
The hell of it was she was right. In his hazy memories, he saw the audiotape and the look of surprise on Max’s face. Surprise because of guilt? Or surprise that he’d been duped by his father because Victor Saldano maybe knew about the smuggling? The tape was from an old-school recorder that one of the employees had hidden in his pocket, and on it were three voices chronicling a deal with someone in Mexico. The informant was one of those guys that were on the hustle, so Dance had initially dismissed the tape. But he needed to be sure, so he’d made a copy, put the copy in a safe deposit box, then brought the tape to Max.
“Where did you get this?” his friend had asked him before he even listened to it.
“A source.”
Max had looked at him with disappointment. “You’re gonna pull that source shit on
your family?
”
“Listen to the tape,” Dance had answered.
“Is this the only copy?”
“Yes.” The lie had come out automatically, and then he and Max had stared each other down.
That was the only time they’d talked about it, but it had been understood that decisions would be made at the golf game.
He expelled his breath on a long sigh, thinking about his friend. Behind the couch was a window with wispy, once-white lacy curtains. Beneath the light of a three-quarter moon, he could see a portion of the rutted driveway rising to the south before the lane curved around the side of the old house. When they’d approached, he’d stared at the two-story wooden structure, noting its clapboard siding, also once white, and the faded blue shutters that looked gray in the fading light. The house had to be from the turn of the last century, built more farmhouse style than Victorian, and even before Jordanna had helped him inside, he’d known that it was abandoned.
He wanted to ask her about it, but there was something prickly about her that had cropped up during the drive. He’d been so immersed in his own dull world of pain and exhaustion that it had taken him a while to notice. When he had, he’d picked up the way her words grew clipped, seen her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and the set expression on her face—all of which had deepened as they’d neared the town of Rock Springs.
“You grow up here?” he’d asked her as they drove down Rock Spring’s main street, and he’d glanced at the buildings on both sides of the road. The town was nestled up against the foothills of the Cascade Mountains and there was a small stream running behind the last row of businesses. As they reached the southern end of the district, Dance could see a rushing waterfall that spilled from a plateau high above, poured down a jagged cliff and splashed into a pool below, raising a cloud of mist above the river. The river itself ran behind the buildings on the eastern side of the main street before curving away from town. F
OOL
’
S
F
ALLS
,
he’d read on the sign posted nearby.
“No one would want to grow up here,” she’d answered after a long pause.
“What happened?”