Page 77

The room was still dark, but it was a softer, diffused darkness. Beau, fully dressed in his uniform, sat on the edge of the bed.

“What time is it?”

“A little after four. It’s not going to be a good look if the police chief is seen skulking out of the prime suspect’s house at the crack of dawn.”

“God.” No. Definitely not. That prime suspect comment wasn’t entirely a joke.

“I’ll call you today.”

“Okay.”

Beau kissed him—and then kissed him again. “Thank you for last night.”

Now that was funny. Archie spluttered, “You’re setting the bar for tonight pretty low.”

Beau laughed. “Don’t be so sure.” The mattress squeaked as he rose. “Take it easy today, okay?”

“Sure,” Archie said.

Beau sighed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. I’ll call you later.”

Archie sat up, grabbed his hand, drawing Beau down for another kiss. “Same goes for you. You be safe out there.”

“It’s Twinkleton.” Beau got to his feet again.

Archie said, “Exactly.”

Chapter Nineteen

Archie was not particularly political.

He voted, of course, but his decisions were based on the character of the candidate and the issues of concern to him. Though he was a federal employee, he did not want the government (for obvious reasons) sticking its nose in his private life. He suspected most people felt the same. But the hostility and hatred Breland and his comrades felt for the federal government—and federal agents—was something he’d never encountered before. Off the charts didn’t describe it. More like, stuck orbiting Mars. Over the past year he’d heard a lot, in nauseating detail, about torturing and murdering federal agents. Not just federal agents. Law enforcement in general. Oh, and the military as well. Play soldiers cheerfully discussing murdering real soldiers. That had been Breland’s plan. But basically, the True Sons of Alliance wanted to kill anyone who told them no. Archie had come to the conclusion that politics, for these assholes, were just a rationale for acting out their antisocial, possibly sociopathic, urges.

It had been exhausting and frequently nerve-wracking living on that knife’s edge of discovery for nearly two years.

So to wake up and not find himself in a paramilitary encampment, not hear muted voices and cursing from a bunch of hungover guys, the buzz of generators, static crackle of radios; to not smell gunpowder and oil and wet canvas and the unsavory odors of too many bodies in close quarters; to wake up instead to sunshine, the fragrance of coffee, the placid hum of a vacuum cleaner downstairs, and the spiraling flute-like notes of a thrush singing outside his window, made tears of gratitude prickle beneath his eyelids.

He lay perfectly still, breathing softly, steadily, letting go of the familiar instant surge of adrenaline and hyperawareness that had helped keep him alive for so many months. Jesus. The simple joy of clean sheets and a comfortable bed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and that was as much to John as to God.

He was a bit less joyful when he tried to get out of bed and realized his bruised muscles had locked up overnight, but he popped a couple of pain pills with the rest of his meds, and a long, steaming hot shower helped a lot. Even better, the ringing in his ears that had supplied the soundtrack to his life for the last few weeks had finally faded into silence.

He dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt and went downstairs.

Mrs. Simms had finished vacuuming and was in the kitchen frying bacon and eggs. The dishwasher was sloshing soothingly and the trash scattered across the table had been cleared away. The table was now neatly set for breakfast.

She glanced at Archie, smiled, and said, “Someone’s feeling better.”

Better than he deserved, probably. Archie said, “I’m sorry. I meant to clean all that up before you got here.” Archie glanced at the stove. “Simmy, really, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” she said. “Dr. Perry gave me the gift of security, and I’ll always be grateful. But I don’t want to sit at home reorganizing my canned goods shelf.”

“Sure, but you could volunteer, you could travel, you could…just go to lunch with your friends.”

“I can do all that later. What I’d like to do,” Mrs. Simms said, “is look after you while you’re here. I feel that’s the best way to show my gratitude to Dr. Perry.”

Why did that kind of thing close his throat? Mrs. Simms was a good and kind person. It shouldn’t be a surprise that she felt a sense of responsibility toward him.