Eyewitness. Part 8

He dropped his mail on the coffee table, checked his phone messages-all of which were from Jim-then headed straight for his bedroom, tugging on his tie as he went. The guest room door was closed. He hesitated beside it, then knocked softly and listened for a response. When he didn't hear anything, he opened the door several inches and stage whispered , "Joy? Everything okay?"

A silvery wraith streaked across the bed, struck the floor with a m.u.f.fled thud, and vanished under the dust ruffle. There was an incoherent murmur, then only the rhythmic whisper of breathing.

Doug pushed the door open farther, letting the light from the hallway fall across the sleeping woman's face. And then for some reason he just stood there and looked at her, and went on looking, as if she were a puzzle he couldn't crack. But at the same time, all the while he was gazing at her, his brain was refusing to work on the puzzle. It seemed to have stopped working entirely. He couldn't think of anything except how incredibly lovely she was, and how terribly vulnerable He couldn't think, but he could sure feel, more than he ever wanted to. He felt anger-a fine, white anger made up of equal parts frustration and some kind of priznitive instinct for protection and possession. There was an ache he recognized as loneliness, a certain longing that came upon him sometimes, such as holidays and his friends' anniversary barbecues and the arrival of a new niece or nephew. And there were other aches less familiar to him and far less identifiable, deep-down-inside aches that had nothing to do with desire-although, G.o.d knows, he felt that, too. It hadn't been that long since he'd held that long, supple body in his arms and felt the warm, firm weight of her thighs pressing excruciatingly against the most sensitive and responsive part of him. That was a night neither he nor his body were likely to forget for a long time. But this was something else, this new ache. Something gentler and much more subtle than the primitive urge to procreate-and infinitely more complex.

And he was much too tired to figure it out now. He closed the guest room door and went into his own room, pulling off his tie and shrugging out of his jacket on the way. He remembered sitting on the bed to take off his shoes. He awoke to find himself sitting full upright on the edge of the bed with his bare feet on the carpet and his hands pressed down on the mattress, ready to launch himself into. what? Flight or action? His conscious mind didn't know, and instinct didn't care; adrenaline would take care of either scenario. And he was awash with it, clammy and quaking, with his heart going ninety miles an hour.

What the h.e.l.l? he thought. His s.h.i.+rt was unb.u.t.toned, and both it and the T-s.h.i.+rt underneath it were soaked with sweat. He stripped them off and tossed them vaguely toward the foot of the bed, then lurched to his feet and groped his way to the bathroom. He had his shaking hand on the faucet and was about to turn the water on when he heard the sounds. Small, heart-rending sounds.

"Jeez-what the h.e.l.l..." He spun out of the bathroom, swearing under his breath. He was almost to the hallway when he heard the sound that turned his body cold and raised the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. an eerie, undulating howl straight out of a horror movie. sqvearing aloud and in earnest, he crossed the hallway in one bound and threw open the guest room door.

Chapter 8.

From the doorway, Doug could see the Siamese cat Moki crouched on the bed, his dilated eyes reflecting the light from the hall with a demon glow. The cat uttered another of those ghastly yowls and then vanished, and now, above the thunder of his own heartbeat, Doug could make out those other sounds again, smaller sounds. but infinitely more terrible to hear. Desperate, whimpering sounds, like a child pleading for mercy.

"No ... no ... no ... no..."

He could see her clearly. She was lying on her side, curled into a tight little ball with one arm covering her head, as if, he thought, she was s.h.i.+elding herself from blows-or from a sight too ghastly to bear. Oddly, she wasn't fighting it, striking out or thras.h.i.+ng around the way he thought people usually did during nightmares; later he wondered if it might have been that utter defenselessness that got to him the most.

Right then, though, he didn't think at all. He didn't consider whether it was a wise thing to do, going to a vulnerable woman's bedroom in the middle of the night, or for that matter, whether it was even all right to wake someone in the throes of a violent nightmare. He didn't wonder whether the nightmare had something to do with the secret he'd been trying so hard to get out of her, nor did it occur to him to use the moment of her vulnerability to accomplish his purpose. He simply reacted. He went to her and touched her, and felt her shrink away from him, instantly, instinctively, like a sea anemone he'd once found in a tide pool.

Her cries came even more desperately, harsh and shrill. "No! No!" G.o.d-he couldn't bear the sound!

Filled with a sense of terrible urgency, he threw back the covers, sat on the bed beside her and began stroking her back, her shoulder, her hair, talking to her, calling her name. He tried to get her to relax her body, to uncurl enough so he could pull her into his arms, but she was stiff and unresponsive as a hedgehog, all knees and elbows and cold bare feet. Then all at once she was fighting him, as if he was even a greater threat than her nightmare, as if she was more afraid of him than of whatever unspeakable horron populated her dreams.

"Mary," he cried hoa.r.s.ely, "for G.o.d's sake, it's me, Doug. Wake up. Jeez, honey, wake up-it's all right, it's over now. Joy... "

He heard a small, sharp gasp, and realized that her eyes were wide open and staring at him. Then suddenly she was clinging to him as if she were drowning, her arms wrapping around his neck and her face burrowing frantically into the hollow below his chin, while shudders claimed her body in wave after uncontrollable wave.

Doug heard himself murmuring, " " Easy. easy, honey. It's okay, it's okay. : He felt dazed and sh.e.l.l-shocked.

She didn't cry. Never uttered a sound, in fact, beyond that first cognizant gasp. Little by little, though, the tremors diminished and her body began to relax, to grow warm and pliant.

He became aware of her warmth at about the same time he realized she was wearing absolutely nothing but panties and a soft cotton T-s.h.i.+rt, but he still wasn't allowing himself to think, much less a.n.a.lyze the position he was in and the consequences of staying there. If he had, he wasn't sure it would have made any difference. She needed him. It was as simple as that. She needed his arms and his body, his warmth, his strength, his comfort. And every functioning part of him commanded that he give her what she needed.

With a strong feeling of deja vu he lifted and resettled her, making her position and his more comfortable, and felt her snuggle and mold herself around him. He stroked the long, supple lines of her back and felt the soft press of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest, felt their heat melt like warm oil through the thin fabric of her s.h.i.+rt and into his skin. He felt her hands ease their death grip on his neck, and their touch become a sensory exploration instead, see lang out the varied textures of his hair and skin.

Even then he didn't stop. He closed his eyes and let his chin, then his cheek, come to rest on the top of her head. He felt his own arms tightening, drawing her still closer, while in the hollow of his neck her lips moved, tasting, searching. He turned his head slightly and felt the silky tickle of her hair on his lips, then the velvety warmth of a temple, the damp coolness of a cheek. She tipped her face upward, blindly, unerringly. and that was when Doug found that the need wasn't only hers.

Her lips were so soft, and like her cheek, bore the slight salt-tang of tears. When they lightly brushed his, a little s.h.i.+ver took him, like the riffling of a breeze across the mirrored surface of a pond. For a moment his heart stopped beating; he forgot to breathe. Oh, G.o.d, he thought, this feels so good. And instantly he felt tears spring into his eyes at the sheer inadequacy of the thought.

He'd have sworn it wasn't what he wanted, and certainly not what he meant to do; kissing Joy simply wasn't right, and doing so promised complications he didn't even want to think about. And he knew that in all his life he'd never wanted anything so much.

He opened his mouth, only a little at first, because he was still fighting his own scruples and desperately hanging on to a measure of self-control. And there was still a tentativeness about it, too, a kind of quivering, breathless suspense, a sense of miraculous discovery. His awareness seemed heightened. He was acutely conscious of everything-the warm, winy flow of her breath across his lips, the soft sounds she made, tiny, inarticulate whimpers of wonder.

Then all at once there was simply the two of them, and he didn't know anything at all, not even where he left off and she began.

Once before he'd felt like that when he was eight years old, coasting down Suicide Hill with his best friend Roger in their Radio Flyers. One minute, he remembered, he'd been in complete control, full of himself, whooping and hollering with the wind in his face and the rumble of the wheels in his ears-and the next minute he was hanging on out of pure gut instinct, his mind a blank. Only when the wagon fm ally dumped him on Dead Dog Curve had reason returned, along with the exhilarating realization that he was still alive.

But this time there wasn't any Dead Dog Curve to put an end to the ride. He was on his own, with nothing but his own willpower standing between himself and disaster.

He had to stop this. He had to. What he was doing was unconscionable. But she felt so good, and she fit him so well, and he knew it was going to hurt like h.e.l.l to separate himself from her. He could feel it already, like a dull throbbing in his belly. He wanted to postpone it, just a little longer. Please, he thought, just a little longer. Her mouth was incredible-so soft, so sweet, so responsive And she seemed so right in his arms, her head cradled in his hand as if one had been custom-made for the other. Meanwhile, his other hand had found its way under her T-s.h.i.+rt and was lightly brus.h.i.+ng her back, riding slowly up and down along the gentle undulations of her spine, savoring the velvety texture of her skin. So smooth. broken randomly by the roughness of healing scratches.

Scratches. It was that small thing, reminding him so tangibly of past events and present circ.u.mstances, that brought him finally back to reason and responsibility. But it wasn't easy. He managed to turn his mouth aside from hers long enough to draw a gasping breath, and to groan, from deep in his chest, from the bottom of his soul, "Joy.. "

As soon as he said that he felt a stillness in her body, and then the warm sigh of an exhalation along his cheek. He began to stroke her hair in a way that was meant to soothe him more than her, and this time when he spoke, he remembered to say, " " Mary. : '

Then he gave it up and tucked her face into the hollow under his jaw, and for a while just held her like that, smoothing her T-s.h.i.+rt down where it belonged while he waited for his runaway vital signs to coast back to some semblance of normalcy.

When he was pretty sure he had control of himself again , he nudged her head with his chin, patted her back and said gruffly, "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, sure," said Mary. "Fine."

But she didn't feel at all fine. She knew she should move , get off MacDougal's lap. She knew he wanted her to. She could tell by the way his body felt now-like rock, as if he'd hardened himself against her. But what she wanted more than anything in the world was just to go back to the way they'd been a few minutes ago, when his arms had surrounded her and his whole body had seemed to open up and welcome her like a harbor along-lost s.h.i.+p. If she moved away from him now, she thought, she would only be cast adrift again, to be once more cold and lost and alone.

"This is getting to be kind of a habit," she said, testing her voice, laughing a little to cover the shake in it.

"You were having a nightmare," MacDougal said. She could hear the gravel in his chest, feel the rumble of it under her cheek. "I was, uh I didn't mean-look, I'm sorry. I don't want you to think-"

"Think what, MacDougal?" She sniffed and pulled her face from the warm place near the base of his neck, and with one palm pressed flat against his chest, managed to ease herself more or less to a sitting position. "" That you were how did you put it-trying to ravish my body? " " " Something like that: '

She'd been trying to laugh it off, lighten things up, as much for her own sake as for his, but he didn't sound at all amused. His voice was thick with emotion, almost surely that embarra.s.sment she'd found so fascinating before. In spite of it, though, he didn't avoid her eyes. Instead, he held them with a gaze that was determinedly steady, like a little kid, she thought, a good, honest kid who'd just hit a baseball through a window and was all set to face the music.

But there was something else in that look, too, something she couldn't put a name to. She thought he seemed almost puzzled, as if he were searching for something but didn't know quite what it was. Whatever it was, the look made Mary feel confused herself, and her heart began to beat with a slow, heavy tread.

She said dryly, "

" That'd be hard to do with your pants on, MacDougal. " Yes, he was wearing pants. But he wasn't wearing a s.h.i.+rt. Her fingers had made that discovery already , and had begun to curl on his chest, it seemed of their own volition.

He made a sound deep in his throat and captured her hand, halting the tentative forays her fingertips were making into the springy thicket of his chest hair. Then, in that same low growl, he said, "With or without my pants-that's not something you ever need to worry about. Believe me, in spite of" "Hey-I'm not worried." Oh, but she was, sick with it.

Because she could hear in his voice that the cop was back, and she was afraid to the bottom of her soul that those moments in his arms were never going to happen again, that he was never going to kiss her again. That she was never going to feel that wonderful again.

"Oh, yeah? Why not?" He sounded surprised, a little curious, and maybe even a bit wary. "It seems to me you should be, I mean-under the circ.u.mstances.. : She shook her head and forced a teasing note into her voice q while inside she was trembling and hollow with longing You know, MacDougal, for a smart cop, you really are dense." She'd startled him. He jerked back slightly, and i she touched his lips with a light, playful finger. Her throat ached; she wanted to swallow, but couldn't, so her words j came out thick and just a little slurred. "Maybe you diqn't notice, but I was kissing you as much as you were kissing me."

He frowned. "Yeah, but you were upset. I don't think you knew what you were doing. Anyway, I shouldn't have let it happen. I'm sorry-it was inexcusable."

"Why?" Her lips twisted painfully. "Because you're a For a moment or two he didn't answer. Then he said quietly , "Yeah. Because I'm a cop. And you're.. "

She stood abruptly and moved away from him, not even caring that she was wearing only skimpy panties and a T-s.h.i.+rt. let him look, d.a.m.n it. I. et him eat his heart out. Oh, G.o.d, how she hated cops. " " Look. " His voice came softly, almost as if he'd read her thoughts. " I know you don't think much of me right now, but I really am one of the good guys. I just want to keep it that way. Understand? "

Carefully keeping her back to him, Mary lifted her arms and scrubbed her fingers through her hair. "Sure, I understand You're a regular Boy Scout. Well, listen-since I'm all okay now.. no more bad dreams.. why don't you just, um, go on back to whatever it is you were doing, okay? I'll be fine. Terrific."

"You're sure?" She heard the rustling noises he made as he stood. "You want me to-"

"Yeah, I'm sure." She'd begun to s.h.i.+ver. She foldeq her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and jerked her head toward the door. "Go on-beat it: " "That nightmare.. : She held her breath; gooseflesh p.r.i.c.kled across the back of her neck. " Sure you don't want to talk about it? "

She heard more faint sounds of movement. Was he coming closer? If he touched her now. if he put his arms around her. "No." She turned, arms covering her hard-pebbled nipples , to find him standing by the door with one hand on the k.n.o.b. "It's gone now. I don't even remember what it was about. Swear to G.o.d. I'm fine."

" You're sure? "

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Well, if you need anything..."

"I will-I'll holler." Go-please, just. go. q'All right, then. Good night. : '

"G'night. Oh-MacDougal?" He leaned around the half-closed door, eyebrows questioning. She cleared her throat. "Thanks. Forum "

"Sure. Anytime." The door closed softly.

For along time Mary went on standing just as he'd left her, folded arms pulled tight against her ribs as if she didn't quite trust them to contain her wildly pulsing heart. She heard MacDougal's footsteps go down the hall toward the kitchen, heard b.u.mps and thumps, the sound of water running , then the footsteps returning, and the click of a closing door. Only then did she let herself go, draw along, shuddering breath and grope her way to her own door, feeling wobbly-legged, as if it was her first time out of bed after a bad case of flu.

She went down the hallway to the bathroom, washed her face, got a drink of water, then crept back to her room and into bed, cringing at the clammy feel of the sheets, still damp with her sweat. She lay there s.h.i.+vering, thinking of warmth-of strong arms around her, a wonderfully solid body pillowing her cheek, gentle hands stroking her, a mouth like. like nothing she'd ever known.

Oh, G.o.d, she thought, why did you do this to me? She felt as if she'd been given a piece of heaven, only to have it s.n.a.t.c.hed away again.

Oh, how I hate cops.

I'm one of the good guys.

"One of the good guys..." Those words began to play over and over in her mind like a s.n.a.t.c.h of song, perhaps a lullaby.

As quiet settled in once more, Moki came creeping ug across the rumpled covers to find his usual nest on her pillow , and shortly was adding his own rhythmic accompaniment And before she knew it her body's own heat had driven the chill from the sheets, and she lay relaxed, hovering , incredibly, on the edges of sleep. Normally she wouldn't have expected to sleep at all, after such a nightmare wouldn 't even have dared to try. But tonight, for some reason , she felt none of the lingering effects of the dream, neither the icy-cold horror nor the throbbing sickness in the pit of her stomach. There was even a puzzling sense of relief, almost of contentment. I'm one of the good guys.

And suddenly she believed it. Suddenly she knew, beyond any doubt, that Detective J. T. MacDougal was one of the good guys. She could trust this one. Everything was going to be all right. He was a good guy, and somehow, that made everything all right.

Even the way she was starting to feel about him.

Doug woke with a sense of having overslept. He had a pretty good awareness of time, which ordinarily, along with a prmiitive wake-up response to daylight, made it unnecessary for him to rely on alarms. But this morning his inner clock seemed to be off; he thought maybe it had something to do with the fact that the weather had turned dark and cloudy during the night. The house was quiet, so at least it looked as if Joy was sleeping in. He felt relieved about that; he wasn't sure he'd have been able to face her this morning. As it was, he showered, shaved and dressed with a kind of edgy awareness of her presence in the house that he found extremely annoying. It was a complication he hadn't counted on.

While the coffee was brewing he turned on the TV, remembering to keep the sound low, and caught a morning weather report that said that a winter storm front from the Gulf of Alaska was working its way down the coast and was currently due to arrive in L. A. just in time to threaten cancellation of the second game of the League Champions.h.i.+p Series, scheduled to be played that evening in Dodger Stadium The morning sports news that followed reported that the Dodgers had won the first game in a thriller, 3-2, which came as a real shock to Doug. G.o.d-was it possible that he'd completely forgotten about it? Something was definitely wrong with him.

For one thing, he reflected as he sipped his coffee, he hadn't gotten much sleep after the interruption last night, for reasons that put him ruefully in mind of certain episodes in his adolesoence involving his unresolved pa.s.sion for a blond cheerleader named Monica Stiller. He was sure those same reasons were what was making him so achy and stiff this morning. He found the state he was in annoying in the extreme; it had been along, long time since he'd felt a s.e.xual need strong enough to cause him physical discomfort , much less any lingering side effects.

One of the down sides of being a cop was that he got to see everything that was lousy and wrong with the world. Every day he got reminded how dangerous it had become these days for a single person just to seek a little human companions.h.i.+p. On the up side, it also gave him the knowledge and the contacts that made it possible for him to find safe and reliable female company when he needed it. He had along-standing arrangement with a woman named Carmen over in Silverlake, no emotional strings attached, just a comfortable little business a.s.sociation that suited them both perfectly. Over the yean they'd even become friends, in a casual sort of way. In fact, lately he'd found himself going to her more just out of loneliness than from any compelling physical need. Maybe, he thought, that's all it is. Time to give Carmen a call.

Except he knew d.a.m.n well it wasn't Carmen he wanted. Or any other woman, for that matter. Just. one particular woman.

Her picture was there on the coffee table, buried under yesterday's junk mail. Joy Donnelly's eight-by-ten glossy head shot, with the cascade of hair and the million-dollar smile. He pulled it out and looked at it, and was instantly engulfed in total recall, an avalanche of sensory memories -the strawberry scent of her hair, the slippery dampness of it in his palm, the salty taste of the moisture on her cheek, the silky-smooth texture of her skin. And her mouth. the taste, the warmth, the full, firm feel of her lips, the soft, whimpering sounds she made, the first tentative, fluttery response of her tongue.

His stomach churned audibly, prompting Maurice's hopeful carol from under his cage cover, " " It's a brand new car! "

Doug dropped the photo as if it had suddenly burst into flames. "Shut up, Maurice," he muttered as he went to rinse out his cup and put it in the dishwasher. The d.a.m.n bird was going to wake up Joy, which was the last thing he needed right now. Or possibly just what he did need-he was d.a.m.ned if he knew which.

That was the worst thing about the way he felt-realizing that his discomforts weren't only physical. Maybe he was lonely. He hadn't thought much about it, up to now. He'd made the decision never to marry along time ago, and he still believed it was the right one. He'd watched the torment his mother'd had to put up with, married her whole life to a cop. He remembered cops' funerals, and the anguish on the faces of their widows, and he remembered sitting with Carol Shannon in the hospital through that long, long night after Jim had gotten shot. And he'd made up his mind right then and there that he was never going to put somebody he cared about through that kind of h.e.l.l.

Plus, of course, it was a statistical fact that cops' marriages didn't last, Doug's parents and the Shannons being the exceptions that proved it. He thought it probably had something to do with the way cops had to bury their emotions when they were on the job It could get to be a habit that was hard for a man to put aside when he walked through the door of his own home. In any event, as far as Doug was conceroed, cops made lousy husbands, and he'd decided as long as he was the one, he wasn't going to be the other.

Of course, he'd also had to acqept the fact that that pretty much nixed any kind of committed relations.h.i.+p, since in his experienoe women tended to give up pretty quickly on a man who wasn't ever going to allow himself to love them.

But he had accepted it, d.a.m.n it. So maybe he got a little bit lonely now and then-so what? On the whole, he liked his life the way it was. He liked being a cop. He had great friends, a great house, a great car, when it was running right-h.e.l.l, he thought as he pulled the cover off Maurice's cage and got his usual " " good morning" in the form of a jubilant invitation to go and commit a physically impossible act with himself-he even had a great pet.

Life was great. He was a happy man. Or he had been.

What he didn't understand was how he could have been brought to such a state of confusion and discontent by a witness, of all people. Worse-technically, he supposed, she was even still a suspect in a homicide investigation, one he was involved in. He was responsible for keeping her alive. At the very least he needed information out of her, and by G.o.d, he was determined to get it.

Bad enough to think he might be falling for the woman, but to even consider following up on his caro al urges-G.o.d help him, it went against every moral scruple he'd ever had.

No doubt about it. What he had to do was stop p.u.s.s.yfooting around with Joy-or Mary, rather-and get her to tell him what she knew. The quicker he got to the bottom of this thing, the quicker she could go back to San Diego and her buddies at Saint Vincent's, and he could go back to being a happy man again. She had the answers, he was sure of it.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his jacket and car keys, then paused and looked grimly toward the silent hallway and the closed guest room door. So near, he thought. And yet, so far. Tonight, he promised himself, clenching his teeth so hard a muscle in his jaw twitched in protest. He'd been patient long enough.

Mary heard the front door close and felt the tensions in her body relax, then melt away. She didn't know whether to be glad or sorry that MacDougal had gone off without a word to her, and that she was alone again-exoept for Moki, of course, and that silly Maurice. He really was the most amazing creature, that mynah bird. He was funny, in spite of such an awful vocabulary. He made her laugh.

On the heels of that thought came another: she felt like laughing now, at this very moment. It was true-in spite of the fact that she didn't much care for mornings, especially those that were dismal and dark, like this one, she could feel laughter only a careless breath away, lurking somewhere inside her like a child crouched in hiding, stifling giggles of delicious suspense. How was it possible, she wondered, when the world outside was so cloudy and gray, to feel as if the sun was s.h.i.+ning? She felt warm and good, as if the sun had come out after a cold spell, and she wanted to bask in it. She felt light, as if a burden she'd been carrying around for along, long time had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders.

The lightness prompted her to get out of bed with considerably more than her usual enthusiasm, to the disgust of Moki, who shot out one sinuous paw in protest before curling himself back into the shape of a large tawny doughnut and going instantly back to sleep.

"Lazybones," she murmured fondly, indulging in a few bone-cracking stretches herself. Then she stood looking around her, at the room that held so much of MacDougal, with a curiosity that was suddenly as sharp and demanding as physical hunger.

Yesterday she'd felt like both a prisoner and an intruder in this room. She'd felt strange about touching anything, or even looking too closely at the private pieces of a man she'd had no wish to get better acquainted with. She'd resented him and the decisions he'd forced upon her, feared the changes in her life those decisions would inevitably bring. She hadn't wanted to know him-certainly she'd never wanted to like him, much less ever dreamed she'd find herself kissing him, and wis.h.i.+ng with every part of her being that she might do it again sometime soon.

But she had. Oh, she had, and now she seemed to have an insatiable desire to lqow all there was to lqow about the man who had held her and chased away her night terrors, then kissed her until her bones turned to b.u.t.ter. Who was this man, this J. T. MacDougal? How was it that a cop could make her feel so wonderful? How could he have such gentle hands?

He had exercise equipment-a weight bench, a rowing machine, a stationary bicycle. Did he worry about gaining weight, keeping in shape? He'd played football in high school, in a place called Ferndale, Michigan, and been awarded trophies, for Defensive Player of the Year and Most Valuable Player. Had he been one of those popular jocks, the ones who went out with the Homecoming Queen? G.o.d, she really hoped not-she'd always thought those guys were such meatheads.

He dressed like a jock, around the house, anyway-lots of old sweats and holey baseball jerseys and athletic socks. But. his taste in music ran to cla.s.sical, judging from the pile of tapes she found in the bottom drawer of a dresser, which didn't sound much like a meathead.

The stuff on the walls was mostly framed certificates, diplomas and things-he'd graduated from the police academy right here in L. A. , was a great shot with a pistol and had been awarded a couple of service citations. Hmm. impressive, she thought, but wasn't really surprised. He did have that way about him. The few photographs seemed to be group shots-a black and-white of a football team, several color photos of Little League teams, along with plaques expressing appreciation for "Coach Doug MacDougal " That made Mary smile. All right-it made something extremely warm and squishy happen deep down inside her, she wasn't going to deny it. She wondered if it was possible to fall in love with someone, just going through his stuff.

She wondered if he'd ever been married. He was definitely a bachelor now, and if he had been married, she hadn't seen any signs that there were children involved-no indication that this room had ever been used for weekend visits, for instance. No family photographs. Of course, she reminded herself, pictures of his family would probably be in his room, and. she wasn't that nosy. But she did wonder whether he had a mom and a dad back in Ferndale, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews. What kind of a child he'd been. Then she noticed another group picture, also black and white, this one of a troop of-incredulously, she leaned closer to get a better look, and gave forth a little spurt of delighted laughter. "Well, I'll be darned," she gulped, "he really is a Boy Scout"

That was when she knew what the lightness inside her was all about. Sometime between last night and this morning, without even knowing it, she'd made a decision. She was going to tell MacDougal everything. She could trust this man. She knew it. He'd take care of everything-take care of her, protect her. Everything was finally going to be all right. That knowledge, that certainty, was suns.h.i.+ne and champagne to her. She felt warm and giddy, light and young and free. For the first time in so very long, the terrible burden of knowledge she'd carried like an albatross was gone. For the first time in a very long time, she felt like singing.

Doug had barely settled into his chair when the phone rang. A familiar voice barked, "My office, Sergeant." That was followed by a click and a dead line. He sighed and pushed himself away from his desk; it looked as if the scrambled-egg burrito and coffee he'd picked up on his way to work were going to have to wait.

"I've been doing some rqeading," Lieutenant Mabry said without preamble before he'd even closed her office door. She picked up the file in front of her and shoved it in his direction Doug nodded. "The Landon case." He didn't have to pick it up to know which one it was.

Mabry nodded. "Reads like a horror story. What in the h.e.l.l happened to that case? "