16

IT WAS NEARLY ELEVEN-THIRTY by the time Mike and Sharon left the Crosker household and once again hit the icy roads. Sharon had been indispensable after Mike broke the awful news. She made three mugs of tea, handing one to the woman and then draping an afghan around her shoulders before sitting next to her, quietly holding her hand.

Mike filled her in on as few details as possible of the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the body, and then they made small talk while waiting for Sally’s sister and brother-in-law to make the drive across town. She seemed to have a need to tell stories about their life together: their honeymoon, the children they could never have, how they fought about Harvey always forgetting to put the toilet seat cover down, anything to avoid considering the awful future now staring her in the face.

When the two exhausted officers walked out the front door and into the night, they found the weather, incredibly, unbelievably, had worsened again. The rain slanted down at a severe angle, pelting the already icy ground and almost immediately freezing solid. It took ten minutes to scrape the windshield of the Explorer clear enough to drive.

“That was horrible,” Sharon said as they pulled out of the driveway, the SUV’s heater struggling to force lukewarm air through the vents and into the passenger compartment. “You’ve had to do that before?”

“Plenty of times,” Mike answered, rubbing his hands against the chill. “I have to say, you were great in there with Mrs. Crosker. Excellent people skills,” he said. “That’s rare in a cop. Hell, it’s rare in a person in any profession.”

Sharon smiled and her face lit up. Even tired, hungry and cold she was beautiful. “Yeah, well,” she said, “you can thank my Bureau training for most of that. They teach you how to be empathetic, if you can believe it, for use in situations where information can be extracted from suspects using a soft touch. What you saw with Mrs. Crosker back there was actually nothing more than your federal tax dollars hard at work.”

Mike laughed. It felt somehow foreign after such a strange day. “I think there’s a little more to it than that. You want to be accepted as a woman in the macho world of law enforcement, so most of the time you have to shut off your feelings and emotions. And it’s doubly hard for you, being so petite and beautiful. It’s too bad, really, because when you let the real you come through, like you did back there, it’s pretty special.”

Sharon was silent as the truck fought its way through the night on the deserted and treacherous roads. They reached the driveway of her home and the house sat dark and empty as Sharon pulled on her gloves and hat and prepared to step once again into the miserable night. She hesitated for a moment. “Care for a nightcap?”

Mike studied her face. It was radiant, with big, blue, searching eyes. “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” he finally answered.

“It’s just a drink. Just one. Please.”

“Ah, what the hell,” he said after another moment’s hesitation. “It’s been a long day. A drink sounds great.” He shut off the Explorer’s engine, and the two police officers sat side by side in the dark, the only sound the freezing rain pelting the roof of the truck. Mike wondered how long it would take to scrape the windshield this time when he came out to drive home.

They opened their car doors and hurried to the front entrance, slipping and sliding on the flagstone walkway which was coated, as Mrs. Crosker’s had been, with a thick slab of ice. The house had been deserted all day and the ice had continued building up until it was now so heavy Mike thought it might be spring before it melted completely away.

Sharon struggled with her key in the lock as the wind whipped the freezing rain sideways, soaking them both. Finally the door sprang open and they rushed out of the elements. They stood just inside the foyer in the dark as Sharon slammed the door and fumbled for the light switch.

Mike was intensely aware of Sharon’s presence next to him in the pitch-black hallway—her breathing, heavy and labored from the rush to get inside, the scent of her perfume, citrus-y and soft, still lingering on her after a sixteen hour day, the rustle of her clothing as she searched the wall next to the door for the light switch.

He reached into the darkness to pull her into his arms. He knew it was wrong, that he was making a mistake, that nothing good could come from an affair between a supervisor and his employee, but Mike didn’t care. He suspected she felt the same way as he did and needed to find out. He would just take her by the shoulders, pull her into his arms, and—

The wall switch clicked and the lights blazed on. Sharon looked up at Mike with her big, blue eyes locking on to his, her face flushed from the rush against the weather—or was it something else?—and he stopped himself. Another awkward silence descended on the pair until Sharon chuckled nervously and said, “Well. We were going to have a drink, weren’t we?”

They trooped into the kitchen, trailing water down the short hallway as they went. It felt to Mike like they had been doing that a lot lately. “Have a seat,” Sharon said with a smile. “What’s your beverage of choice? I have beer, scotch, vodka, rum. It’s a regular alcoholic’s paradise in here. My father always insisted the liquor cabinet stay well-stocked.” She laughed uneasily.

“A beer sounds great,” Mike volunteered, and Sharon pulled one out of the fridge, grabbing a frosted mug from the freezer and pouring the beer into it like a pro.

She handed the drink to Mike and then moved across the kitchen to her coffeemaker and dumped some ground beans directly from the can into the basket, then filled the water reservoir and punched the “start” button.

“You’re not joining me?” he asked, surprised. It had been Sharon’s idea to stop for a drink in the first place.

“I, uh, I can’t.”

“Well, as you’ve already mentioned, I’ve seen your personnel file so I know you’re over twenty-one,” Mike answered. “What gives?”

“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. “It’s one of the reasons I invited you in.”

Mike sipped his drink, savoring the taste as it worked its way down his throat and wondering what the other reason might have been. “Okay.”

“Remember yesterday, when we stopped Earl Manning for speeding and it turned out he had been drinking, so we took him in?”

“Was that just yesterday? It seems like about a month ago.”

“Yeah I know,” Sharon answered and stopped talking. She distractedly twirled a lock of her short hair behind one ear. Mike waited patiently as she seemed to be searching for the right words to continue. Silence didn’t bother him. He was used to it.

“You asked me why I didn’t get in Earl’s face when he was harassing me.”

“I remember.”

“Well,” Sharon said, taking a deep breath. “There’s more to the story.”

“There always is,” he said. The aroma of fresh coffee began wafting through the kitchen. The smell was homey and reassuring, evoking a feeling of normalcy. It was almost possible to forget for a moment that someone was apparently running around Paskagankee brutally killing people and animals, tearing their bodies apart.

The coffeemaker burbled and hissed and steam rose into the air. “Why don’t you grab a cup and join me,” Mike suggested. As Sharon set to work preparing her coffee, he asked, “Why didn‘t you tell me the rest of the story yesterday?”

“It’s not an easy story to tell,” she admitted, blowing on the steam rising out of her coffee mug. Mike suspected she did it so she could avoid looking at him.

“I don’t want to pry, Shari. If it’s not job related, you’re under no obligation to tell me anything.”

“I’m a recovering alcoholic,” she blurted out forcefully. Her face was red with shame.

“And I’m a Presbyterian,” he said immediately. “So?”

Sharon burst out laughing. Mike decided it made her look even more beautiful than before, and he hadn’t thought that possible. “I’m not sure what reaction I expected,” she said, stifling another round of laughter, “but that definitely wasn’t it.”

“Well, really,” he said. “You’re an alcoholic; so what? Have you been drinking at work?”

“Of course not,” she answered, her face flushing again, this time from anger.

“Then don’t worry about it. Nobody’s perfect, right? The last perfect person to walk the earth died a couple of thousand years ago. Maybe you remember the story. And they hung him on a cross, so if you think about it, things weren’t that great for him, either.”

Sharon scuffled her foot and looked down at the kitchen floor. She still seemed uncomfortable. “Thank you for saying that; you have no idea how nervous I was to tell you. I quit drinking when I left town to go to the FBI Academy. It was the right time to do it. New job, new life, new me. Perfect.”

Mike nodded. It was obvious there was still more to the story. “But . . .”

“But then my dad got sick and had no one to care for him. He was able to live in his home for a while before being moved into a hospice facility in Orono, but only if there was someone here twenty-four hours a day to look after him since he couldn’t care for himself. So I came back. I had to return to the place I thought I had left behind forever, to all the people I knew when I was drinking, all the pettiness and foolishness and crap I thought I had left behind for good.”

Mike studied Shari’s face, her exhaustion outlined in dark circles under her pretty eyes. “But why bother coming back here at all? You said your father basically left you on your own after your mother died. Why not just leave him like he left you?”

She shook her head emphatically, her black hair flying. “I couldn’t do that. I was an only child and he didn’t have any brothers or sisters. I couldn’t stand the thought of him dying all alone. He did the best he could after my mom died; he just wasn’t equipped to be responsible for a child, especially a teenage girl. Hell, he could barely take care of himself, and I didn’t make things easy for him, either. I guess you could say I was a handful for a long time after my mom died, drinking and partying and staying out all night.”

“I guess I can understand you feeling like you had to come back,” Mike said. “You have a strong sense of responsibility and family obligation, and that’s a good thing. But I still don’t see what the relevance is to right now, to tonight, why you feel you need to tell me all this.”

“Because,” Sharon answered, looking miserable. “This is where I grew up, where I did all my drinking before I quit. It’s where I was a wild child, and people like Earl Manning remember me that way; it’s the only way they’ve ever known me. There were plenty of nights I closed the Ridge Runner sitting right next to Earl, each holding the other up as we stumbled out to our cars. I’m sure that’s why he felt so comfortable mouthing off to me.”

“I thought you handled that jackass just fine,” Mike told her, “especially when he climbed out of his truck. I got in his face because I could see he was getting to you, but I’m confident you could have put him in his place with no problem whatsoever.”

Sharon smiled. It was obvious she was grateful for the compliment, as well as the fact Mike was trying to make this as easy as possible. “Thanks. But the problem is, now that I’m back in town, and for who knows how long, I don’t know if I can resist the temptations this place holds. It’s just a little hick town to you, but to me, it’s where I learned all the bad habits I’ve worked so hard to escape.”

She paused, clearly trying to figure out how to continue. Mike sat motionless, letting her work through her issues. She took another deep shaky breath, then exhaled and continued. “I wanted a drink so bad tonight when we were standing in the forest looking at Mr. Crosker’s head in a tree, I could hardly stand it. It’s all I could think about.” She looked Mike in the eyes, shamefaced and nearly in tears. “That’s really why I wanted to go to Mrs. Crosker’s house with you. I didn’t trust myself to be alone.”

“Is that why I’m sitting here now?”

“Partly,” she admitted. “I won’t lie to you, I still want a drink. But after you opened up to me in the car about what happened to you with that little girl . . .”

“Sarah,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“Her name was Sarah. Sarah Melendez. I’ll never forget it, or her.”

“Sarah, then,” she said, nodding. “After you told me about what happened to Sarah, I just felt I had to be honest with you and let you know what was going on. I’ve needed to open up to someone, to confide in someone about how hard it is, but who the hell could I talk to around here?”

Mike stood without a word, walked to the sink, and dumped the remainder of his beer into the ceramic basin. It foamed and hissed as it circled the drain. He stood at the sink until it gurgled out of sight, then reached into the cupboard, grabbed a big mug, and filled it with steaming coffee. Returning to the table, he sat down and took a sip. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he said.

Sharon smiled, intrigued and amused. “What?”

“A toast. You know, where we raise our glasses and I say something corny and stupid. I want to make a toast.”

“I know what a toast is, silly, but what are we toasting?”

“Here’s to keeping the past in the past where it belongs and to making fresh starts.”

“Wouldn’t that be two toasts?”

“By God, I guess you’re right,” he said, clinking his mug into hers twice. Their fingers grazed lightly on each pass, and after the second one, Mike left his cup next to hers, the contact between them electric. Sharon slowly raised her gaze to meet his, her blue eyes impossibly large, her moist lips parted and inviting. Neither one said a word as Mike stood and pulled her into his arms and kissed her, hard and passionate and filled with need.

She tasted like cinnamon and they melted together.