Latimer's Law. Mel Sterling
own, the truck keys dangling from her left. Her own terror and guilt made her babble.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to—”
“Shut up. Turn around. Drop the keys. Down on your knees.”
“You ought to be down on your knees to me, Abigail. It isn’t every man who’ll take on his brother’s widow and his business and make it all work.”
“I know. I know. It’s just that...it’s the checking account. It’s the last thing with his name on it. It’s so hard to let go.”
“It’s been six months. Gary’s not walking through that door ever again.”
“Stop it! Just...stop.”
“Ah...I didn’t mean to make you cry. I don’t want to hurt you. Why do you make me say these things, Abby? Why?”
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t mean to...”
“Come here. Dry your eyes. It won’t look good at the bank when we change the names on the account if your face is puffy.”
Abby stared. With one hand the man reached out to open the tailgate while the other held the gun pointed at her. “I said on your knees, woman!”
Some final anchoring cord of rationality snapped inside Abby. “You can’t speak to me like that!”
His unbelieving laugh was deep and rich as he slid off the tailgate and stood. “This, from the nutjob who stole my truck with me inside it? Mort, fass.” At the single command, the dog leaped out of the truck and put his nose against Abby’s thigh, growling. “Turn around. On your knees. Do it now.”
Abby’s heart pounded. In her head she saw herself at dog-level, her bare throat torn and bloodied by the teeth of the menacing shepherd. Or her brains splattered on the sand of the campsite by a single shot from that beast of a gun. She turned slowly away from the tall, blue-eyed man, dropped the keys in the sand and went to her knees. The dog’s nose shifted to her shoulder and the growling continued.
“Hands on your head.”
She obeyed, lacing her fingers. “Please don’t let him bite me.” She could hear the trembling in her own voice. Fear spiked sharp and bitter in her mouth and she thought the orange juice might make a reappearance. She had the same feeling of horrible dread when Marsh was displeased.
“I’ll tell you when you can talk.” His foot nudged her ankles apart and then the sole of his work boot settled lightly on her calf.
The man grasped Abby’s left forearm and brought her hand behind her back, then joined the right to it with a grating ratchet. He had shackled her—not with handcuffs, but something else. Her heart pounded even harder and then the juice did force its way out of her throat, spraying the earth before her. With her hands behind her back, there was no way to wipe the sick from her mouth. Judgment upon her for her crime. Even while she wept from fear and dread, some freakishly alert portion of her brain noted that the man’s grasp, while firm, was not angry or brutal, and he didn’t wrench her arms painfully when he pulled them behind her.
A shameful part of her felt she deserved harsh treatment, expected it—perhaps would even have welcomed retribution. But the rest of her was pathetically grateful for small mercies. With a snuffling sob she tried to clear her nose. She turned her mouth against the shoulder of her shirt.
“Oh, for crying out loud.” He took his weight from her leg and grabbed her arm just beneath her biceps to help her rise. “Get up.” Abby could not hide her gasp, nor the wince that contorted her face when he gripped where Marsh had bruised her arm. “There’s a picnic table. Sit on the bench, and keep your mouth shut.” He hustled her over to the table constructed of concrete posts and bolted-on planks. “Stop that crying, too. You’re well and truly busted, lady. Tears won’t make me go easier on you. Now turn around and face the table.” The man grasped her shoulder to balance her as Abby obeyed—the black mouth of the gun was pointed her way again, though the dog had backed off a few paces—and swung her legs over the bench. There would be no leaping up and running into the scrubby woods. He knew what he was doing, impeding her without physically restraining her beyond the cuffs.
He stood back from the table, lowering the gun at last. “What’s your name?”
Abby gulped and shook her head. She stared at the man. He wasn’t someone she knew from town. He didn’t recognize her, she could tell. She tried to think, but a moment later he spoke again.
“Mort, fass.” The dog bristled forward and pressed his nose against her again. Abby couldn’t stifle a fresh gasping sob.
“Your name.”
“I can explain—”
“I don’t want explanations. I want facts. Your name.”
Abby’s gaze dropped from the scar to the glinting barrel of the gun held at his side. Its latent menace dried her mouth, and try as she might, she could not summon enough moisture or breath to speak.
“Fine. We’ll do this your way.” He glowered at her and stepped forward. Abby flinched back instinctively, and then froze when the dog growled and breathed hot, moist air over her arm. She felt the prickle of his whiskers.
“I—I—” Fresh tears started. Abby feared they would only aggravate this man. “Please don’t make him bite me.”
“Then don’t push me.” He moved behind her and she craned her neck to watch him. “It’ll be best if you stay still and don’t give him a reason to attack. I’m going to take your wallet out of your pocket.”
How odd. He’s courteous, even when he’s demanding information. His hand went smoothly into her pocket and withdrew the thin bifold wallet—Gary’s, which she’d used since his funeral, a way to keep his memory alive.
The man put the table between them again. He laid the wallet on the plank surface and pulled out the contents one-handed. Her driver’s license, the solitary credit card, photos, cash. Abby stared up at him, noting that the blood on his face was dried and smeared, but the cut in his hairline was still moist and fresh. It needed attention. She supposed her wild driving was the cause of his injury, and bit her lip. He’d been hurt because of her. He had close-cropped straw-colored hair and the tan of an outdoorsman. He was muscled and fit, and he handled the gun and the dog with familiar ease.
“Abigail McMurray. 302 Carson Street, Wildwood.” His gaze flicked up and caught her own. “Well, now, Abigail, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Abby swallowed hard and faced her own crime. “There isn’t much to say, I guess. I stole your truck.”
To her everlasting astonishment, the man threw back his head and laughed. She could tell it wasn’t forced. He was honestly amused, and it startled her to see such confidence and poise in a man whose truck had been stolen, and who had the thief sitting right in front of him. She half expected the Phantom of the Opera to emerge from that awful visage, something rough-voiced and vengeful. The juxtaposition of the terrible scarring and his careful demeanor kept her off balance. “No kidding. I’d never have guessed if you hadn’t told me. No, Abigail...what I want to know is why. What makes a soccer mom like you jump in a truck at a quickie mart and drive off? Where’s your minivan, your Beemer? Start talking.”
“I’m not a soccer mom. I’m a...” Abby’s voice trailed off as she realized she’d just risen to his bait. She flushed. “Just call the cops and get it over with. I know I’m a felon.”
He gestured around them. “Nice of you to confess, Abigail, but just where might there be a phone in these parts? I’ve checked my cell—there’s no coverage here.” He straightened, reached to tuck the gun into the back of his jeans, and then bent forward, knuckles on the table. “And if there’s no cell coverage, that means we’re pretty remote, doesn’t it? No one to hear you scream when I make you tell me the truth. I’m more interested in the truth than in calling the cops.”
No