The Territory (Josie Gray Mysteries #1)(55)
At five o’clock in the morning, the situation resolved itself when the Mexican contingent pulled back and left the explosives and trailer, apparently resolved to the fact that there was no chance of crossing into the U.S. in front of, by that point, eight police cars from five different police agencies and a helicopter guarding the trailer of explosives. By 5:30 A.M., officers from ATF were dismantling the truck, inventorying, and removing everything inside. Crime scene technicians from the Department of Public Safety were going over the area, and after preliminary paperwork was started, local law enforcement was dismissed. Marta drove home to her daughter, prayers answered yet again.
*
An hour later, Josie pulled onto Tower Road and saw Dillon’s car parked in her driveway. He met her at the front door and pulled her into his chest when she walked inside.
She pulled back slightly and saw the exhaustion in his face. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers. “Josie. I’ve been worried sick about you. Artemis has been all over the local news.”
“Have you been up all night?” she asked. Invariably it caught her by surprise to find someone emotionally affected by her well-being. She wasn’t sure if she should apologize for being an inconvenience.
“I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got up and turned the radio on. The DJ was talking about the standoff in Artemis along the river. I called your house and then gave up and came over here to wait on you.”
“Guess I should have called to check in.”
“You had bigger worries. I’m not mad. I’m just glad to see you. Are you upset I came over?”
“No, of course not. I’m just exhausted. Let me take a shower and we can talk.” She kissed him on the cheek and left him sitting on the couch in the living room. He looked as tired as she felt.
Standing in the shower, she let the hot water beat against her back and replayed the conversation with Dillon in her head. Second-guessing her actions and wondering if she had said or done the wrong thing; the frustrations she had wrestled with throughout their last involvement were coming back to her. Her body ached and eyes stung and she wanted nothing more than to slip between the sheets and give in to sleep. She did not want to worry about another human being’s feelings.
She slipped on a light nightshirt, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and found Dillon standing at her bedroom window, tucking a comforter over the curtain rod. Although it was daylight, close to eight in the morning, the room was the color of dusk.
He pointed to the bed, his expression kind. “Take your nightshirt off, climb in, and lie on your stomach.”
Dillon turned from her and she pulled her nightshirt over her head, pushed the cover and pillows away, then pulled the sheet over her bottom and lay flat on her stomach, her arms to her side. She closed her eyes and felt Dillon’s weight settle onto the bed, his knees straddling her hips. She listened to his hands rub together and knew he was warming lotion between his palms, a treat she’d missed since he’d been gone. He laid his hands flat on the center of her back, applying slight pressure. He let the warmth of his hands settle into her body before moving them slowly up and down her spine, gently pushing the heels of his palms into the tauter muscles. He dug his thumbs into her neck and shoulders until she sighed with relief.
“Let me feel your skin,” she whispered. “Lie beside me and hold me. I’ll be asleep in minutes.”
Dillon curled in behind her, slid an arm under her pillow to hold one hand, and found her other hand to hold against her chest. He pulled her into his body and tucked his bent knees into her own. He kissed her shoulder and rested his head above hers on the pillow. Her body melted into his, her attention fading with the knowledge that she was happy and safe and content.
ELEVEN
By noon, the temperature was triple digits. The two-day reprieve had made life more tolerable, but the heat was back like a furnace on full tilt. The Bishop watched the waves of heat radiating up from the desert floor and let the sun bake his skin. He stood on the back veranda of his home and listened to his elderly uncle drone on. Familial obligation dictated that he allow his uncle a place to live out his remaining days with family. His uncle had moved into his home a month ago and begun telling the Bishop how to run the family business.
“If you do not gain control of this now, the future of this family is as sure as tomorrow’s sunrise. We cannot show this weakness. The Americans have slapped us into submission. Your father would never have allowed this.”
The Bishop turned to face his father’s older brother. He sat in a wheelchair under the awning with a light blanket covering his emaciated legs. His body tilted to one side, like a knickknack askew on a shelf, and the Bishop found himself torn between pity and revulsion. Once king of the world, his uncle was now relegated to drool and impotence and a colostomy bag. The Bishop paid little attention to his uncle, but had already come to the same conclusion regarding the Americans. He needed no guidance. The small-town police had made a mockery of his organization.
“It is taken care of,” he said.
His uncle laughed, a wet gurgle from deep in his lungs. “You lost a trailer of explosives. How is that taken care of?”
“I’ve sent two men to the police chief. She will pay the price for her arrogance. She will learn what happens when you don’t play by our rules.”