Early afternoon
Ed Dillon was hustling Nancy Durocher through the lobby of the Nashvillage Hotel just before two o’clock, when they were intercepted by crews from three of the four network affiliates which covered local news. He detested media ambushes—always disasters without intensively prepping his candidate. At the same moment that he cursed their sudden appearance, he wondered why the fourth news station wasn’t present.
Dillon tried waving them away and even attempted to steer Nancy in another direction, but they were trapped on one side by the fountain, centered in the main lobby area, and on the other by an entire team of beefy football players, in town to play one of the local colleges. In all that activity, Dillon missed the beginning of the shouted question.
Man from Channel 5: “... and your lack of a real public record... on issues of substance. In fact, a high percentage say they only know about you through the society news.”
When she was startled and decidedly ticked, Nancy’s face resembled that of a stone statue. “Is this patent lie from the Fitch camp?” Her voice was icy.
Channel 5: “No Ma’am, from a major poll in this morning’s Nashville paper, actually.”
Dillon started whispering into the candidate’s ear and she began talking before he’d finished. “We’ve already challenged those bogus poll results in a letter to the editor.” Her thin smile looked brittle. “Those supposed results are completely discredited since they only sampled voters known to be Fitch supporters.”
Woman from Channel 2: “Is your campaign braced for the type of mud-slinging which often accompanies rather close races... at the state level?”
“I abhor those kind of tactics, even if my opponent enjoys falling back on them.” Another grimace, with teeth this time. “But I can say, frankly, we’re prepared to fight fire with fire.”
Dillon squeezed Nancy’s elbow firmly, but either she didn’t notice or didn’t understand that he wanted her to shut up.
Channel 2: “Actually, another part of today’s poll dealt with the relative peacefulness…apparently…of this particular race. So far at least.” The reporter exchanged glances with her nearby colleague. “Do you anticipate any particular fire, Mizz Durocher?”
Dillon gripped his candidate’s arm even harder. Surely she understood that meant to cut and run.
But Nancy was not one to be cornered meekly. “There’s always fire... but some people disguise it inside phony polls or other under-handed dealings.” She nodded with assurance. “Entrenched incumbents are especially effective at re-routing their own smoke to make it appear elsewhere.”
Dillon whispered again, more urgently. “Don’t go there...”
Channel 2: “Most of the voters we’ve canvassed are expecting a surprise at some point. Especially since your public record is so... unknown. What kind of surprises can we expect to be brought forward about your candidacy, Mizz Durocher?”
Dillon waved one hand in front of Nancy’s face, as though that cancelled the question, and he interrupted loudly: “This race is about bringing life to an office that’s dead with satisfied incumbency. And our next senator already has a definite lead which grows every day with more grass-root voters.”
The man from Channel 17 started a new loud question, but Dillon had already steered Nancy so her back was to the cameras. That’s actually her better side anyway... especially with her face all pinched-up. Dillon turned for a final word. “I’m sorry—no more questions. Our future senator is late for a meeting with her new constituents. Please excuse us.” He continued to wave behind his back as they sprinted away, while trying to look like it was their normal gait.
“Don’t you ever try to shut me up again on camera!” She glared.
Somebody had to. But he kept quiet.
****
After Beth had stopped pondering the typescript of the Jones story, she resumed worrying about Ricks’s reappearance last evening. As she left the office slightly after five o’clock, she glanced in the rear view mirror and lightly touched the wound on her neck. “Once Shane gets here, Ricks won’t be a problem anymore.”
Then she remembered. Shane probably was here! And if he’d checked the voicemail she left, Shane was probably waiting in her driveway.
Suddenly she became extremely self-conscious. How do I look? She briefly wished she’d worn a skirt today. Then she figured: no, slacks were better. Her hands fiddled with her hair. She cupped her hand and exhaled. Ugh... need a breath mint!
“Well, too late now.” She clenched her jaw. “This is me, three years later. Shane can like it or lump it.”
And, when she reached the middle block of Netterville Street... there he was!
At least there was a Harley-Davidson—though definitely not Shane’s 1976 shovel head—parked close enough to the edge of the driveway that her Shadow could easily get by. But where was Shane’s Snickers Brown FXE Super Glide? And where was Shane?
She started to press the remote garage door opener and drive inside, but that would have had her going through the house and greeting Shane at her front door. Somehow that didn’t feel right. Like he was a vacuum cleaner salesman. And where was Shane anyhow?
She exited her car and walked around to the unfamiliar Harley... a Road King she’d never seen before. Her fingers trailed over the handlebars and then traced the seat. The tank was warm from the sun. She leaned over and sniffed the two-cylinder engine. Didn’t smell hot from running so it must have been there for a while. Bike was present... but where was its rider?
Then Beth saw a heavy leather boot on the shady side of the oak tree. Has to be Shane. She moved quietly around the other side and spotted him, leaning against the rugged trunk. Sound asleep... snoring.
What a welcome, after three long years.
Her chest had been tight with apprehension on the way home and she’d been nervous when she hadn’t spotted him right away. But now that Beth saw him sleeping against her tree, she was reminded of the teddy bear again. Her throat swelled and she thought she was about to cry... but instead, she just breathed shallowly and looked him over.
Shane might have added a few pounds... hard to tell in that position. His hair was shorter and he’d dropped the Fu Manchu. Instead, he had about three days of uniform stubble. It was a good look for him. He truly did resemble the actor Sam Elliott, but a beefier version. His leather jacket was folded behind his back and long shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. The deep tan on his muscled arms had lightened a bit. Maybe he didn’t ride as much anymore. There was a new-looking helmet beside him.
When Beth leaned closer to listen to his snore, it stopped suddenly.
“Bethany... hi.” His grin looked crooked. “Must’ve dozed off. Sorry.” He struggled to get up. Not being fully awake, he stumbled a bit.
Beth hurried to his side to steady him and Shane’s heavy arm draped over her shoulders. “Welcome to Verdeville.”
His face moved closer as though he might kiss her.
Beth wasn’t sure that was a good idea, so she ducked under his arm and walked toward her front door. “When did you get in?”
Shane was obviously confused. He collected his jacket and helmet from the base of the tree and followed her. His eyes took in the Dodge. “Your car still looks real good.”
She just nodded. Her Shadow got the compliment, which meant she must look like last week’s garbage.
Shane stepped off the short walkway and examined the vehicle. His fingertips lightly stroked its front fender. Beth remembered that touch. And more. She was slightly jealous of her coupe.
“By the way, where’s your shovel head?”
“Still have it.” He looked toward the Road King. “But it doesn’t get out of town much. Too much hassle—tighten tank bolts and exhaust bolts... have to carry a hundred pounds of tools. Too slow and too iffy. This bike rides like a dream... eighty miles an hour on cruise. A lot kinder on my butt, too. It’s all good.”
“When did you start wearing protection?” She turned to unlock the front door with her key.
“Huh?” Then he grinned. “Oh, you mean this.” He held up the helmet. “About three years ago, I guess.”
“Right after—”
He nodded and looked down. He probably only kept his helmet for states which required it. Otherwise, it was usually goggles on the highway and sunglasses in town.
“Come on in. Not as spacious as your place in Long Beach, but it suits me.” She waved her arm slowly around the perimeter of the living space. “Like a drink... or something?”
He draped his jacket over the rocker and laid the helmet in the seat. “Nah. Well, maybe a sip of water.”
“Nothing but tap water, but I have sweet tea.”
“Sure. Thanks.” His eyes were on Beth now. “Nice place.” But he wasn’t looking at the room. “I’ve heard real estate’s cheaper here.” He seemed to be struggling for a comfortable topic. “You renting or buying?”
“Rent. It’s reasonable here.”
Shane spotted the bookcase and rubbed his hand over the chestnut wood. The wormholes gave it character.
Beth again remembered the touch of his hands and suddenly felt tingly. She tried to shake it off.
“What happened to your neck?” He pointed.
When she started telling him about last night’s assault, Beth cried again.
Shane moved closer and tried to comfort her. He’d never looked this self-conscious before. Never so clumsy, and never this tentative. First, an arm around her shoulder and then both arms around her.
But they felt odd... synthetic. These weren’t Shane’s real arms. They were the limbs of a stranger who felt uncomfortable because he didn’t know which scene this was in a movie he’d never viewed before. Beth understood because that was exactly how she felt: uneasy, uncertain. She wanted the comfort, needed it desperately, but she pushed him away... gently and slowly, but firmly.
Shane looked wounded. Similar to the look on his face the day she’d left. And he was obviously very confused.
So was she. Her heart pounded and she tried to swallow the lump in her throat.
He backed away awkwardly, inattentively sipped his tea, and sat at the kitchen table. Shane looked quite weary. “Where were you when Ricks, uh, accosted you?”
“I’d just left the grocery and needed gas... down by the Interstate.”
“Wonder how he found you there.”
“From something he said last night, I got the idea he’s been following me for days.” Beth shivered briefly and then sat at the table. “He still smells like garbage, too.”
Shane took another swallow.
“I didn’t know exactly when you’d hit town... so I have friends coming over this evening.” Beth wondered if he could discern which part was a fib. “I guess you could stick around if you want to...”
“No, I’m trying to find Ricks and I think he moves at night. Did he give you any hints about where he was staying?”
“Not a clue.”
“Did you happen to get a look at his vehicle last night?”
“Dark sedan... probably the same one from the mall. Maybe deep blue.” Beth shook her head and her eyes filled. “I didn’t even know anybody had driven up until he grabbed hold of me.”
Shane’s large hand covered her forearm.
She could feel heat from his touch. Beth wanted to look into his eyes, but was afraid of what she might find there. She struggled for a new topic. “Shane, did you remember that the Jones story was unfinished?”
“The hanging and the riverboat? What do you mean unfinished? I thought I’d read the whole thing.”
“Yeah, I know. I thought that was the end too... until I saw it typed out. But my friend Jeff has studied it carefully and he’s certain there’s at least one page missing. Maybe more.”
“Jeff... again?”
“Already told you, Shane... he’s married.”
Shane was silent for several moments. “Hmm. Guess I don’t remember enough details from the story.”
“Jeff typed it up and sent it as an e-mail attachment. I could forward it to you.”
“I didn’t exactly have room in my saddle bags to bring a computer.”
“You could log on to your e-mail at the library.”
Shane frowned, but didn’t reply.
Beth felt ashamed that she was treating Shane like a stranger, but he was... in a sense. “Well, I could clear off a spot and let you read it here.”
He seemed relieved.
At the couch, Shane read her laptop text, but didn’t have his glasses so he squinted a lot and struggled to find the right distance from the screen.
Meanwhile, Beth busied herself in the kitchen and monitored him occasionally. More conflicting perceptions: Shane looked like he might belong here, but also seemed like a stranger she hadn’t seen in years.
After he finished reading, Shane joined her in the kitchen. He stood so close behind her that she couldn’t believe they weren’t already touching. If she turned in either direction, she would be in his arms. Beth felt that tightness in her chest again. After so long apart, her emotions were engaged in battle. Part of her wanted to jump his bones, but a portion warned her to remain aloof. She wanted to ask that governing portion, “Why?” But how could she make such a query with Shane hovering so near?
Beth already felt safer, from Ricks and whoever else, but somehow she also felt extremely vulnerable... to Shane’s presence. He had a way of melting her and she’d convinced herself she needed to remain frozen. Maybe Beth could have thawed if Shane had ridden those two thousand miles during the first year. But now? After all this time? No! Not until she was certain this visit was about more than protection, and more than Shane’s innate aggression. As she often did in moments of uneasiness, Beth steered back to a recent topic. “Do you think that hanging story is true?”
Shane shrugged. “The best stories are usually made up but there’s a kernel of truth somewhere. But sometimes true stories can be even stranger than fake ones.”
“My friends and I... we’re trying to figure out if it’s connected to Lynette.”
Shane looked directly into her eyes. “I don’t know if it’s the story…or something else about that old actress—but somebody wants something from that suitcase... and that’s the reason for all this hullabaloo.”
“That’s pretty much what Ricks said last night. But what could they possibly want?”
Shane just shook his head.
“And who are they? I mean, besides Ricks.”
“Ricks hasn’t got the brains of a caged laying hen.” Shane flexed his fist. “So this has to involve somebody who knows what they’re doing.”
“But who?”
“We likely won’t find out ‘til they’re ready to let us know.”