The Return(9)

“When did you move in?”

“End of February.”

She digested that, her eyes flashing to the back door.

“You believe someone did break in, don’t you?” I finally asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Usually, when something like that occurs, things are broken and there’s trash strewn about. Bottles, food wrappers, detritus. And vagrants don’t usually make the bed before they leave.” She thrummed her fingers on the rocker. “Are you sure nothing was missing? Guns? Electronics? Did your grandfather keep cash around?”

“My grandfather didn’t have much in the way of electronics or cash, as far as I know. And his gun was in the closet when I moved in. It’s still there, by the way. It’s a small shotgun to keep the varmints away.”

“That makes it even stranger because usually, guns are the first things stolen.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Either no one was there or you were visited by the tidiest and most honest vagrant in history.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Have you seen or heard anyone creeping around the property since you’ve moved in?”

“No. And I’m frequently awake during the night.”

“Insomnia?”

“Some. But it’s getting better.”

“Good,” she said, adding nothing more. She smoothed the pants of her uniform. “But I’ve taken enough of your time. That’s all I can really tell you.”

“I appreciate you swinging by and telling me about all this. And for fixing the door.”

“It wasn’t much of a fix.”

“It did the job,” I said. “It was still boarded up when I got here. How much longer is your shift?”

She glanced at her watch. “Actually, believe it or not, it’s over now.”

“Then are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. I still have to drive home.”

“Fair enough,” I said, “but before you go—and since you’re off, and I’m new in town—tell me what I need to know about New Bern these days. I haven’t been here in a while.”

She paused, arching an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

“Aren’t you supposed to protect and serve? Think of this as the serve part. Like fixing my door.” I tried out my most winning smile.

“I don’t think that being a welcoming committee is part of my job description,” she deadpanned.

Maybe not, I thought, but you haven’t left yet.

“All right,” I said. “Tell me what made you want to become a sheriff.”

With my question, she looked at me. Maybe, truly, for the first time, and again I found myself transfixed by the color of her eyes. They were like the waters of the Caribbean in an upscale travel magazine.

“I’m not the sheriff. That’s an elected position. I’m a deputy.”

“Are you avoiding my question?”

“I’m wondering why you want to know.”

“I’m a curious person. And since you helped me out, I feel like I should know at least a little about the person who did the helping.”

“Why do I get the impression you have an ulterior motive?”

Because you’re not only pretty, you’re obviously smart as well, I thought. I shrugged, feigning innocence.

She studied me before finally responding. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself first.”

“Fair enough. Ask away.”

“I’m guessing that the mortar round is the reason you’re no longer in the Navy or a doctor?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was hit by a mortar just as I was leaving the hospital where I worked. Lucky shot. Or, for me, unlucky. Fairly serious injuries. In the end, the Navy put me on disability and let me go.”

“Tough break.”

“It was,” I admitted.

“And you’re in New Bern because…?”

“It’s only a temporary stay,” I said. “I’m moving to Baltimore this summer. I’m starting a new residency in psychiatry.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Is there something wrong with psychiatry?”

“Not at all. It’s just not what I expected you to say.”

“I can be a good listener.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “I’m sure you are. But why psychiatry?”

“I want to work with veterans with PTSD,” I said. “I think there’s a need for it these days, especially with soldiers and marines doing four or five rotations. As I mentioned, it can stay with a person after they’re back.”

She seemed to be attempting to read me. “Is that what happened with you?”

“Yes.”

She hesitated and I had the sense she continued to really see me. “Was it bad?”

“No question,” I said. “Terrible. And it still is, every now and then. But that’s probably a story for another time.”

“Fair enough,” she offered. “But now that I know, I’ll admit that I was wrong. It sounds like it’s exactly what you should do. How long is a psychiatric residency?”