Mean Streak(65)

He was taking a huge gamble by returning to town. She could have given the authorities the make and model of his truck. Maybe she had even memorized the license plate number and handed it over.

But he didn’t think she’d give him away, not particularly because she wanted to protect him, but to protect herself from scandal and embarrassment. The more she told about him, the more she would have to reveal about herself and their time together, and he didn’t believe she would publically divulge that.

But he wondered how much she would tell her husband in private.

The potbellied deputy who’d helped her alight was joined by another who’d been riding shotgun in the SUV. They flanked her, protecting her as they made shuffling progress through the throng toward the entrance to the ER. She kept her head down, her face averted from cameras. She didn’t even glance his way.

If she did happen to see him, would she point him out and accuse him of being her captor? Or would she pretend that he was just another face in the crowd, a face she didn’t know, one she hadn’t kissed, clasped to her breasts, pressed between her thighs as she came?

He would never know because she didn’t look his way before being ushered through the automatic double doors and out of sight. He continued to stare at the empty space where he’d caught his final glimpse of her until the crowd of onlookers began to disperse, eddying around him as he stood rooted to the spot.

News teams began ambling back toward their vans. Then a shout went up. “Mr. Charbonneau! Mr. Charbonneau!” And suddenly he was being buffeted by reporters and cameramen as they rushed past him back toward the SUV.

Climbing from the backseat was Emory’s husband, easily recognizable from pictures of him on the Internet. Having been identified, Jeff Surrey was now surrounded by media. A sound bite from him was the next best thing to one from Emory.

Jeff ran slender fingers through his fine, fair hair as though preparing himself to appear on camera. He was dressed in dark slacks, a turtleneck, and a black quilted puffer jacket more suited to a ritzy ski resort than to a rural town in the foothills.

“It’s Surrey,” he said into the first of many microphones thrust at him. “My name is Jeff Surrey.”

“Is your wife okay?”

“Has she told you what happened?”

“Where has she been, Mr. Charbonneau?” asked one, who’d missed or ignored his corrective disclaimer.

Jeff held up his hand for quiet. “Presently, I know little more than you do. A short while ago, Emory called me from a service station on the edge of town. As it so happened, I was with personnel from the sheriff’s office when I got the call. I, along with Sergeant Detectives Knight and Grange, rushed to the site immediately.”

Questions were hurled at him, but the one he addressed was why Emory had been brought to the hospital. “She has suffered a concussion. Self-diagnosed. Other than that, she appears not to have any serious injuries, but I insisted that she be brought here and examined to make certain of her condition.”

In response to the next barrage of questions, he said, “It’s my understanding that a representative from the sheriff’s office will conduct a press conference at the appropriate time, after officers have had a chance to talk to Emory at length. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He began pushing his way through them.

As Jeff Surrey neared the hospital entrance, he came within ten feet of the tall man in the watch cap, who felt nothing but contempt for the one in the slick ski jacket. He’d quickly formed an opinion of Emory’s husband. He was a vain, smug bastard, full of self-importance. What had she ever seen in him?

Trying to find an answer, he closely scrutinized Jeff from head to—

His heart clutched, then went stone cold. Inside his head a clamor began. Fuck me, f*ck me, f*ck me!

But he remained silent and dead still and let Jeff Surrey walk past, never guessing the avalanche he’d incited. Arrogance intact, Emory’s husband strode into the ER. The glass doors slid closed behind him.

In them, the reflection of a man appeared. He saw himself, gloved hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw granite, his stance combative, a stag eager to butt heads, a gunslinger itching to draw. He looked fearsome even to his own eyes.

And he realized how conspicuous that would make him if he lingered.

He hovered on the brink of indecision for a few seconds more, then turned away from the building. He hunched his wide shoulders inside his coat and merged with a group of volunteers who were discussing the miracle of Emory’s survival, the fortunate outcome that just as easily could have been disastrous, and the relief her husband must be feeling to have her back safe and sound.

He peeled off from the group without ever being noticed and walked the several blocks to where he’d left his pickup in a busy supermarket parking lot. He got in but sat behind the steering wheel, banging it with his fists and swearing.

He’d thought that when he’d said good-bye to her, he had cut himself free, that he could move on, adrift and unhappy, but at peace for knowing that he’d done the right thing.

Hardly.

*





Jack Connell awakened hopeful that morning. But one glance out his hotel room window, and he knew he wouldn’t be completely drying out anytime soon. The rain continued. In torrents. He couldn’t even see the marina across the street through the downpour.

It took him ten minutes to shower, shave, and dress. Twenty more, and he was back on the street where Rebecca Watson lived. He parked at the opposite end of the block from where he’d been yesterday.