Atonement (8 page)

Walker squirmed. “What are you talkin' 'bout?”

O'Hanlon leaned over Walker's ear and spoke so only he and Nic could hear. “You know there's a reason why the sheriff had her take that shot. Right now, she's loaded for bear. I just saved you the agony of having to visit the ER tonight with a bullet in your leg and being out of work for weeks.”

Nic heard Walker swallow above the sound of the music.

With a final shove, O'Hanlon released Nic's coworker. Quickly, the other man thrust himself upright. His eyes darted to Nic then back to O'Hanlon. Adjusting his clothing, Walker backed away, about-faced, and exited the pub.

“Fun's over, folks. Enjoy your specials.”

Everyone returned to their food.

Nic had a few seconds to relax before O'Hanlon pointed at her and then a backroom door to her left where he headed. Gathering her drink glass, she slid off the stool and followed him inside the pub office. O'Hanlon shut the door behind her.

Being hyper-vigilant was a curse. She was too aware of every movement he made as he shifted around her to sit on the corner of the desk and the musky scent of male and fried food that clung to him. Nic tossed back the rest of the ginger ale. She wasn't drunk this time, and her body was reacting to him the same way it had last night. Being a sex-deprived female was another damn curse.

“What are you doing, Nic?”

“Walker was the one—”

“I ain't talking about Doug. We all know he's a horse's arse. What are you doing here? I believe you were told to lay low until this thing blows over.”

She rolled the glass in her hand, staring at the bottom and wishing it had something stronger in it. Suddenly, it disappeared from her grasp. O'Hanlon set the glass down on the desk with a clunk and resumed his spot on the corner. “Are you asking to have your career cut short because you can't follow a few direct orders?”

“I never asked to be the one to shoot Dusty. Damn it, O'Hanlon, he killed his wife. What the hell was I supposed to do? Let him kill the kids, too?” She pointed at the door. “None of these backwoods rednecks gives a damn about that li'l piece of information.”

“And why do you let it bother you that they don't?”

She staggered at his question. Why did she care? She didn't. Deflect.

“It makes my job easier if they aren't hanging around like vultures, waiting for me to give them a reason to tear into my flesh.”

The penetrating stare he gave her warned he wasn't buying her line.

“How long have you lived here, O'Hanlon?”

He crossed his arms over his thick chest, straining the sleeves of his brown T-shirt. Nic's mouth went dry at the sight. She ground her molars together to squelch the desire burning a path through her body.

“Long enough to know that these people are good folks and they haven't dealt with the kinds of things you have. When they want answers, they're used to getting it straight. What happened yesterday with Dusty bothers them.”

“So, they take it out on me?”

His features tightened for nearly ten seconds. Slowly, the lines around his mouth smoothed. “Nic, how do you think the residents of a big city, say, like Chicago, would react to what you did?”

She sighed. Cupping the back of her neck, she massaged the tense muscles. “Somewhat the same way, but the likelihood of them personally knowing the victim would be exceptionally lower.”

“True. And the incident would blow over in a few days. That's not true here.” He lowered his arms and braced his hands on his knees. “Folks here remember things their grandparents told them about as if it happened to them personally. But they're a forgiving lot, if you don't make matters worse.”

She wanted to roll her eyes. She'd done nothing wrong in coming here tonight. Walker was the one pushing for a fight.

“What do you want from me, O'Hanlon?”

The way he stared at her gave Nic the strong impression he had something on his mind that involved using their mouths for something other than chatting. Bumps covered her exposed skin at the thought of his hard lips pressed to hers.

“Go home.” His command jolted her. O'Hanlon stood, moving closer to her. “Stay away from any place that sells liquor. Hell, stay out of town. Just go home.”

Like earlier today, having him so close unnerved her. Backing to the door for a hasty escape, she paused. “What about my tab?”

“It was one ginger ale. I'm sure I can handle it.”

“And if Walker is waiting for me in the lot?”

“I already sent Patrick to check. If Doug's waiting, he'll let me know.”

“You just think of everything, don't you, O'Hanlon?”

He smiled. “Better to be prepared than sorry.”

Where had she heard that line of bullshit before? Oh, yeah, The General.

Scowling at the reminder, Nic turned and exited the office, all sexual thoughts of O'Hanlon and her together systematically locked down.

She left the Killdeer Pub without a backward glance and stalked to her vehicle. Another face-off with Cassy waited for her back at the house.

Oh, goodie.

Despite her best attempt, the next morning Nic didn't rise early enough to beat her sister out of bed. Fresh coffee and something Nic hadn't smelled in ages—chocolate-chip pancakes—filled her bedroom with their tantalizing aromas. She lifted her face from the pillows, and, turning to rest her cheek on one, she inhaled the scents, letting the few good memories from her youth flow forward.

Emma, Cassy's mother and Nic's stepmother, always made chocolate-chip pancakes the first Sunday of the month and on the girls' birthdays, or if Nic had an especially difficult time with The General. Toward the end, before Nic joined the Marine Corps, there had been many difficult days. She'd given up on ever eating her sole comfort food again.

Until now.

Pushing her body up and off the bed, Nic pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She snagged a ponytail holder off her dresser and padded out into the kitchen, wrapping her hair in a messy bun.

Judging by her sister's shorts and sweat-stained, gray T-shirt, Cassy must have taken a run this morning. She turned from the stove and froze, a plate of pancakes in her hand.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“What are you doing?”

Cassy set the plate on the island counter. “Making breakfast.”

Nic's irritation increased by a notch. “No, this isn't just making breakfast. You're trying to butter me up for something.”

“Oh, for the love of God.” Cassy's arms went up in the air in surrender. “For once, would you can the suspicious act and just accept that not everyone is out to get something from you?”

“Who told you? Who told you what happened? And how the hell did you find me?” With each question, Nic stalked closer to the island until she was squaring off with Cassy.

A dark expression masked Cassy's features as her eyes narrowed. She looked so much like Emma until she got mad, and then The General's genes poured through.

“When are you going to accept that you need help? You don't have to live with whatever is eating away at your mind, Nic.”

“You're too old and too jaded to be that naïve, sister.” Nic about-faced and headed for her room.

“And you're too damn bullheaded. Just like Pop.”

Skidding to a halt, Nic whipped around and rushed the counter. “Don't ever”—she slammed her hands on the top—“compare me to that man.”

The lone reaction she got out of her sister was raised eyebrows. Snarling, Nic vacated the kitchen. To hell with Cassy. If she wanted to waste her time around here, fine. Nic yanked a clean uniform out of the closet and quickly dressed. With her duty belt settled in place around her waist, she slipped into the bathroom to scrub her teeth. She'd grab something to eat at the diner or the bakery down the street from the department, if they didn't turn her out for being a “trigger-happy killer.”

She left the house without a backward glance at her sister and climbed into the Jeep. Sunglasses in place to ward off the rising sun, she turned to back out of the drive, catching a glimpse of Cassy in the living-room window. Gunning the engine, Nic sped around the turnabout and then rammed the shift into drive. Gravel spewed from under the tires as she left.

To hell with her.

• • •

Con removed his sunglasses upon entering the sheriff's department and hooked them by an earpiece in his front shirt pocket. Nic's desk was unoccupied. Disappointment coiled through him, only to be quickly banished by relief. If she wasn't here it made his pending conversation with Shane about her less awkward.

On the other hand, Doug Walker's desk was occupied. There was a bruise on the right side of Walker's face.

Satisfaction made Con grin; then it was gone. He headed straight for Shane's office and, giving the door a quick rap, entered. “Hey.”

“Con.” Shane rocked back in his chair. “Do I owe the pleasure of your visit as an explanation to what happened to my deputy last night?”

“Partly.” Con nodded at the door. “May I?” Given the go-ahead, he closed it and took a chair across from the man he'd known since high school. Relaxed, Con interlocked his fingers and cradled his head. “My explanation for Deputy Walker: He was warned to behave in my mam's place of business. He chose to ignore that warning, and I had to deal with him accordingly.”

Shane's mouth twitched. He sighed and bobbed his head. “Didn't know Maura hired you to be her bouncer.”

“Most customers know better. She gets the occasional unruly visitor who doesn't care, and I deal with it. I'd rather it be me than dragging in your crew to break it up.”

“Makes sense. What's the other part?”

After sending Nic home last night, Con spent the rest of his time in the Killdeer Pub mulling over what to do about her decline into a dark hole. His brief conversation with Cassy after she arrived confirmed what he feared: Nic was suffering from PTSD, and no one knew what was causing it. He still didn't have a solid plan when he left the pub last night. He slept on it—if two hours of uninterrupted sleep laced with dreams of Nic counted—and decided it was time to let the cat out of the bag. At least to Shane. Throw the ball in her boss's court and let him decide what to do next.

But now that he sat here, Con wasn't sure this was the best course, either.

He scratched his head then dropped his hands in his lap. “Did Doug tell you why I had to bang some sense into him?”

“Something about Rivers. He wasn't too clear on that reason. Seems he and his cousin were drunk enough to ‘forget' pieces of what happened.”

That gave Con some wiggle room. He'd take this conversation as far as he could without ruining Nic's career.

“Doug was picking a fight he couldn't win. Sounds like he's none too happy that Deputy Rivers had to put a stop to his cousin's murderous tirade. And, honestly, Shane, there are people in this town who are asking why you allowed her to do it.”

“They're asking because the big city media put a rotten spin on what happened. I heard what Dusty was saying. I know what he wanted to do. Rivers was our best shot at stopping him before he killed his kids.”

Con narrowed his eyes. He'd been so focused on Nic and her situation that he never stopped to read Shane's account on the incident. “Does she know what he said?”

With a shake of his head, Shane bent forward and rested his arms on his desktop. “Con, something wasn't right with what Dusty was spouting. I asked Doc Drummond to run a tox screen on Dusty and Seth Moore, too. He's got to send the panels to DCI. It could take a while for the results to come back.”

Iowa's Department of Criminal Investigation could get backed up, even for a small agency. Places like Eider and McIntire County didn't have the resources that DCI had to do the forensic testing, and for Shane to send something to the lab in Ankeny meant he suspected foul play.

“What are you not saying?”

“After you found Moore's suicide note, I knew something was up. All that talk about atoning for sin and such was the same BS Dusty was spewing. He was so drunk I couldn't fully make out what he was saying, though I did record each conversation until he had enough. Dusty said he had to cleanse his family of sin. I don't know what the hell that was supposed to mean.”

“Did you tell him you had a sniper ready to shoot him?” Con asked.

“Yes, and he didn't give a damn. Con,” Shane said in his serious sheriff's voice, “I discussed this development with your chief, and he agreed to let you work with my department on these. Officially, I'm handing over the lead to you; I'll handle the public side of it.”

“You sure your deputies are going to agree to this?”

“Last time I checked, I was the sheriff. They got an issue with it, they can run against me in the next election.”

Shane rocked back in his chair; intertwining his fingers, he settled his hands on his chest. His expression dared Con to turn down the offer.

True, he'd be a bloody fool to back out of this. For as long as he and his family had lived in Eider, there had never been any crimes worse than a robbery here and there, and most of those were fueled by drugs. The community hadn't been without a few suicides, but Seth Moore's wasn't the run-of-the-mill type. Con had become a cop because he wanted to protect people. After what his da' did and how Seamus had died, Con didn't want to feel that helpless or that guilty for not doing the right thing.

He stroked his freshly shaven chin. He'd have to read those reports. Now that Shane had voiced his suspicions, Con, too, wanted to know why these two random men were spouting off the same thing.

“I'm in.”

• • •

Nic managed to grab a decent meal at the diner. Betty Lamar, the owner, had never taken to idle gossip or ostracizing customers because of some infraction. She liked Nic, or so she said. While Nic downed a full plate of sausage gravy and fluffy biscuits with a side of fruit and two cups of dark coffee, Patrick Keegan had arrived and sat with her. They shot the breeze—more like Patrick did all the talking as Nic ate—but she didn't mind. He had a pleasant voice, soothing at times, and he entertained her with funny stories about his childhood. By the time she finished her breakfast, Nic's mood had mellowed.