The Inn(48)

“The people here can take care of themselves,” she said. “It was actually Mr. Ives who dealt the finishing blow.”

I didn’t know what to make of that. The man with no past who dwelled in the room next to Marni’s was emerging, and I had to admit I was feeling a shift in my perception of him. He’d always made me uneasy, like a monster that lives under the stairs, a shadow I crept past like a child. But I was starting to appreciate the guy who lingered in the dark, who could take out a fleeing suspect with a rickety old door and go back to sleep like nothing had happened.

Clay was in his usual position, leaning into the refrigerator, loading a plate in one hand with sandwich fixings. I saw in the gold light that at the back of his head, a patch the size of a playing card had been shaved and a mean-looking gash stitched closed. When he turned to us, I could see the beginning of two black eyes. He limped to the table and sat down, eased a heavy ice pack onto his crotch.

“Look at this, would you?” He sighed, gestured to his face. “I have to have a meeting with the school-district woman this morning. I’m gonna look like a panda.”

“Christ.” I sat down, put my head in my hands as he made his sandwich. “What happened?”

Clay explained about the abduction, the fight in the woods, half his story muffled by bites of an enormous sandwich and slurps of Miller Lite. Despite everything, a smile played on Susan’s lips as she listened.

“So let me get this straight,” she said. “Two days ago, a housewife nails you in the face with an encyclopedia, and tonight you fight off two guys with your hands cuffed behind your back?”

“It was a dictionary.” Clay held the cool beer bottle to his forehead. “And I wasn’t ready for her. These guys at least gave me a second to get my bearings.”

“He’s the definition of surprise.” I elbowed Susan in the ribs but she just rolled her eyes. “See what I did there?”

“Any permanent damage, Clay?” Susan asked.

“No, they did all the scans at the hospital,” Clay said. “I got to see pictures of my own brain. I’ve never seen it before. It looked good, I thought. The nurse said she had never seen a skull as thick as mine. Said it was like a coconut.”

“You’re amazing.” Susan reached up and slicked down a cowlick on the side of Clay’s big head like she was patting the ear of a St. Bernard. “I’m just so glad you’re home. I can’t imagine dealing with …”

She was going to say “another death.” I could see it in her eyes, the way she lowered them, almost with guilt. We’d lost Marni, and the loss of Siobhan lingered everywhere in the house, like the walls were painted with it. Clay let the pickle-chaser for his beer linger on his tongue a couple of seconds before he swallowed, savoring it like wine.

“So what’s with the ice pack?” I jutted my chin toward the ice the sheriff was shifting carefully between his thighs.

“Weren’t you listening?” Clay winced. “I kicked a knife out of a guy’s hand. Must have been four foot off the ground. My body ain’t built to move that way. I think I’ve strained something in”—he glanced at Susan—“in a man’s most tender region.” I smiled when something passed over his features as he went back to his meal, relief or perhaps some long-awaited, well-earned pride.

Though I might have sat forever watching Clay and Susan reveling in the triumphs of the night, I couldn’t share their feelings of security. As soon as I turned away from them, I heard my phone pealing in the basement and I went to get it. Though the number was blocked, I knew exactly who it was.





CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE





WHEN CLINE SPOKE, there was a new edge in his voice. Though he tried to maintain his usual cool, smooth tone, I could hear the razor in his words.

“I bet you’re celebrating,” he said. “I bet you think you’ve done the right thing.”

“I’ll celebrate when you’re exactly where you belong—behind bars or in the ground.” I did not try to disguise the hatred in my voice. “You know, I met a few people like you when I was a cop. One of them told me that anyone who’s killed will see their victims in their dreams. People who say they don’t are lying. I hope Marni gives you everything she’s got. I hope you wake up screaming for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll let you know.” He laughed.

“You tried to come at my house and my people, and hopefully you realize now that you can’t fuck with us. This is not your town, Cline.”

“What should I do?” he wondered. “Shuffle on to the next little seaside shithole? Shall I tell them who sent me? I’m sure they’d be very grateful.”

Cline had hit me right where it hurt. He knew that an enemy in plain sight was far less frightening than an enemy who suddenly disappeared, maybe taking his evil elsewhere or maybe waiting and biding his time nearby. The people who lived in whatever town Cline went to next wouldn’t be ready for him. I had the measure of him. Or so I thought.

“You don’t want me to go anywhere,” Cline continued. “Face it, Robinson. This is the most alive you’ve felt since someone painted the road with your wife’s entrails. I’m your purpose now.”

I steeled myself against the guilty thoughts. No, Cline was not my purpose. My people, my house, my town—they were my purpose, and Cline was threatening them.