Page 50 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

50.

Time Elapsed from Initial Collapse: 24 Hours

“If you were wondering,” she said.

Shaw was just floating out of sleep. The time, he noted, was 6 a.m.

Coyne, it seemed, was as wide awake as she had been before.

She had pulled up the gold chenille comforter, it just covering her breasts.

Shaw tugged it down.

Only an inch.

Made all the difference.

He kissed her once more. She kissed him back but it was of a different species. And he knew the moment last night—which had been about as perfect as moments like that could be—wouldn’t repeat itself. Not at this moment.

There was an agenda.

The “wondering” part.

He looked at her quizzically and opted for the comforter too. Nothing to do with modesty. The house was old and drafty.

She pointed to the corner of the room.

There sat two gym bags and a wheely suitcase. A man’s suit in a dry-cleaning wrapper was draped over the bags. And two pairs of shoes—running and oxfords, in a man’s size.

“I wasn’t wondering. I am now.”

“Danny and I were together a year. He works in Fort Pleasant. Teaches environmental science. Not a thing in the world wrong with him. Not. A. Hair. So I didn’t have a damn reason in the world to sit him down, take both his hands and tell him it wasn’t working.”

“And his reaction?”

She thought for a moment. “Perplexed first. Then hurt. Then problem-solving. His solutions didn’t take.”

Obviously. Given where she and Shaw presently were.

“His last stage of grief was gallantly backing away. If I ever need a friend…that playbook.”

Shaw was thinking of Fiona Lavelle, whose personal life he had also come to learn about. This was not uncommon in his job. There’s a certain intimacy in the act of posting a reward: offerors’ guards come down and they confess to failings and limitations and mistakes.

And express—sometimes desperately—hopes.

Coyne rolled toward him. Her hand was on his chest and she twirled a bit of his hair. He liked it that each of her nails was a different color. Her toes too? That was one of the few parts of her physique that he had not paid any attention to last night.

She repeated, “Not a flaw about him. But you know my real love?”

“Dirt.”

“Acres and acres of dirt.” She kissed his shoulder. “With him I was facing a life of faculty dinners, small talk, movie dates, playing charades.” She squinted. “You don’t strike me as a charade player, Colter.”

“Never tried.”

“You draw a card and act it out, see if your partner can guess it. I drew one that said ‘SpaceX . ’ Didn’t even know what it was.” A brief nod. “Then…there was the baby thing, but that’s a whole ’nother issue.”

“And yet…”

She noted he was looking at the clothing. “I’d say he’s eighty percent out.”

Shaw had to smile to himself at her choosing the numerical analysis. That was his forte.

“He said he’s coming back to collect them. But it’s been a month.”

Shaw looked over the pile. “Hm. Second-tier fashion. He doesn’t need them. Left them accidentally on purpose. An excuse to come back.”

“You think so?”

“Though maybe he’s just lazy or forgetful.”

She laughed. Another kiss.

“So what’s the story with you? A different damsel in every town you visit, Colter?”

“A lot of towns, not so many damsels.”

He thought instantly of Margot, though she resided in a past that, if it were a verb tense, would be called permanent perfect. Had he been forced to pick one soul whose path crossed his it would be Victoria Lessner. Their first interaction was a knife fight, and they’d grown close immediately after, though whether the relationship between the steel blade and their romance was causal or merely a coincidence, Shaw could not begin to say. They still saw each other some—though only if their respective jobs—she was a security consultant—happened to be contiguous. Neither had ever boarded an airplane for a visit and Shaw suspected they never would.

Coyne broke the ensuing silence with: “You know you can read the body language of crops?”

He didn’t. “So corn has been lying to me all along, and I don’t know it.”

“They still tell you what they hate and what they like and what they need—growing toward the sun, drooping from thirst or lack of nitrogen. I can read them better than people. Men, at least.”

“I’m an open book.” He moved to kiss her but stopped suddenly.

“What?”

“Vehicle.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

She probably had, on the periphery, but hadn’t paid attention to the subtle stimulus.

Colter Shaw was unable not to focus the senses.

“You expecting anyone?”

“No.”

Bear?

He rolled out of bed and dressed quickly. She did too. Her eyes grew wide as she saw him checking his gun—dropping the mag to make sure all six rounds remained and tugging the slide to confirm the chambered round.

No reason for the weapon not to be in order but you did this anyway. Always.

“Colter,” she whispered. “The bomber?”

“Don’t know. You have any weapons in the house?”

She nodded to a shadowy spot behind the bedroom door, where he saw a pump shotgun, twelve gauge. Short—an eighteen-inch barrel. The perfect home-defense weapon. Often all you needed to do to scare off a home invader was to work the pump. The metallic chuck-chuck was enough of a warning that an unwanted visitor was about to die a particularly unpleasant death to motivate them to flee.

“Should I get it?”

“Not yet.”

Staying low, he moved into the living room, and avoiding the lace curtained windows, he picked one with an opaque pull-down shade and peered through the crack between it and the frame.

Nothing.

But he now definitely heard an engine and tires on gravel behind the house.

“Colter!” Coyne pointed to the kitchen. A shadow was moving past the curtain.

He was gesturing for her to join him in the corner of the living room—her office, which had the fewest windows and was the most defensible spot in the room. He did consider having her get the scattergun, but he didn’t know her level of skill. Some farmers are good shots—those who raise livestock mostly, and have a need to kill predators—but others, crop farmers, rarely shoot as part of the job.

Just as she joined him, he got a text.

He read the screen.

It was from Debi Starr.

Colter. Don’t touch your weapon. I’m serious. Keep it holstered. Whatever happens. Don’t touch it.

He knew she wasn’t going to answer and so he didn’t bother to type the obvious query that came to mind.

“What is it?” Coyne asked, seeing his face.

He shook his head, hearing the crunch of gravel.

She looked toward the shotgun.

“No. Keep your hands out. In plain sight.”

“What are you—?”

The front and rear doors burst open simultaneously—Starr coming in through the kitchen, and Tolifson and TC McGuire from the front. Their guns were drawn. Shaw noticed that Tolifson held his awkwardly but that his finger was nowhere near the trigger.

It was a solid tactical assault, and Shaw wondered where they’d learned it. He suspected the choreography might have come from one of Starr’s podcasts.

The officer holstered her weapon and drew cuffs in a smooth gesture that told him she rehearsed often.

Then, in a voice laced with true regret, she said, “I’m sorry about this, Annie, but we’re placing you under arrest for the murder of Gerard Redding. And we’ve got some other charges we’re going to have to add too. But we can get to them later. Could I ask you to turn around please?”