Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(30)

Joe paused within the doorframe. “Now we know what?” he asked.

“That this is a courthouse thing,” she said. “Someone is going after the prosecutor and the judge. At least that narrows it down from all the other speculation out there. And it also means the shooter is still in the area.”

Joe agreed. “He’s missed his target twice now. I doubt he’ll miss again.”





PART TWO


In tragic life, God wot,

No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:

We are betray’d by what is false within.

—George Meredith, “Love’s Grave”





EIGHT


EARLY THE SAME MORNING, CANDY CROSWELL STIRRED in bed when she heard a sound from down the hallway in the dark. She was on her side and she flattened the side of her down pillow to get a look at the clock that glowed dull blue across the room. Four-ten in the morning. She sighed and dropped her head back down.

He was as considerate as he could be when he came home so late. Tom never turned a light on when he came into the bedroom, and he didn’t talk. Often, he’d use one of the hall bathrooms to change out of his clothes so the rustling wouldn’t disturb her. Then he’d slip into the huge soft bed like an alligator entering the bayou—without a ripple.

She was a light sleeper, and she always woke up despite his efforts not to disturb her. But she didn’t hold it against him. He tried. She’d been with men who wouldn’t even think of being so considerate.

Some nights Tom wouldn’t come straight to bed. He’d tell her later that he was too wound up, that his shift had been stressful and chaotic, and that it took him an hour or so and a couple of strong drinks at his wet bar to relax. When she heard the clink of ice in a glass, she knew it had been one of those nights.

She sighed again, but softly, so there would be no way he could possibly hear it.

Because after a single-malt scotch or two, Tom often became amorous. She thought of it as a stress reliever for him, like the drinks. She doubted he thought of it the same way.

Sometimes, he’d inadvertently bang his knee into the bed frame as he got close. Or when he threw the sheets back, he’d bend back the comforter only and climb in between it and the top sheet where he couldn’t touch her. Which meant he’d have to climb out clumsily, sort out the covers, and come back to bed.

Then he’d start nuzzling her, pressing his erection against her thigh. He’d tell her she was sexy and warm and that he needed her.

If he insisted, she’d comply. It wasn’t romantic, but it was necessary. Like most of the men she’d been with, Tom had simple needs. In fact, despite his advanced education, his responsibilities, and his position within the community, it was very simple to keep him happy.

Which, for Candy, was a very small price to pay to live in a five-bedroom country house on fifteen acres with horses to ride and no incentive or need to work outside the home herself. They’d gone on fifteen-and twenty-one-day boutique river cruises in Europe and she’d seen Broadway shows in New York City. When they hosted a party, they hired a caterer. And the cleaning crew showed up twice a week to make sure the home was a showplace.

He’d told her more than once that he enjoyed spending money on her and there was plenty more where that came from. She didn’t object, of course.

Of course.

*

SHE HEARD THE SOUND of ice again just as she started to doze back to sleep. Then his footfalls in the hallway to the bathroom. Then a flush of the toilet and the sound of him washing his hands.

He was naked when he snuggled up to her. Her back was to him and he threw a leg over hers and burrowed into her. His left hand cupped her left breast, and she moved her arm so he’d have better access. She feigned a happy, sleepy moan and turned over to him. Although he’d brushed his teeth, she could taste single-malt scotch on his tongue.

Tom was more energetic and aggressive than usual, if clumsier. It took him longer than she was used to and she chalked it up to the alcohol, which had likely dulled his nerve endings. More than once she got the impression that he was exorcising something from his system, as if transferring it to her, where it would dissipate. Which wasn’t a very nice thing to think about, actually.

Finally, he shivered and rolled to his back. Within minutes, he was snoring.

She lay still, wide-awake. She waited for his breath to become rhythmic.

Then, with the grace of a cat, she slid out of bed. There was no going back to sleep for Candy; she knew she wasn’t wired for it. Once she was up, she was up. And she could always take a long nap in the late afternoon after he’d dressed and gone back to work. Two glasses of wine followed by a long, leisurely nap.

It was such a small price to pay.

*

CANDY CROSWELL PADDED across the bedroom and closed the door to her walk-in closet behind her. She turned on the light and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Her nightgown was gone, balled up somewhere near the foot of the bed.

She was redheaded, lithe, long-legged, and in good shape for her age. There was a constellation of freckles on her shoulders and back, but Tom said he liked them. Everybody told her she looked hot, but the one whose opinion mattered the most was Tom.

He was the reason she didn’t eat carbohydrates, though she loved bread and pasta. He liked to run his hands over her body as if checking for fat pockets or other anomalies. She purred as he did it and acted as though she didn’t realize what he was doing.