Through the Sheriff's Eyes Read online

  The water was cold enough to discourage any sane person from wanting to plunge in. Inch by inch, was her plan—one Faith ruined by splashing her. Of course she splashed back, and pretty soon they were both immersed to the neck and squealing as they waited for their bodies to grow numb.

  “See? Isn’t it better this way?” Faith finally claimed.

  “Yeah, right.”

  Faith rolled onto her back to float. After a minute, sounding a little guilty, she said, “You still don’t have a dress.”

  Charlotte steadfastly refused to go shopping for a wedding dress without her sister, but Faith never seemed to have a minute to spare.

  “Not this weekend.” Faith was still floating, her fat, wet braid drifting beside her like kelp. “But maybe next weekend.”

  “Okay,” Charlotte said softly, knowing Faith probably couldn’t hear her with her ears beneath the water.

  The wedding she and Gray were planning would be simple. She had no intention of spending thousands of dollars on a dress, and she wasn’t the type for flounces or pearl-encrusted fabric, anyway. How hard could it be to find something simple and ready-made? Not that she would dare say that aloud. Faith was more interested in the details of the occasion than Charlotte was. She had always enjoyed planning all the details of parties. Faith cared about things like flowers and a cake. Thank goodness she hadn’t offered her own wedding dress, assuming she’d kept it. Charlotte found herself hoping Faith had trashed it, hateful symbol that it must seem to her.

  Eventually they got out of the water and lay in the sun, talking idly. Faith told her sister about this year’s crop of kindergarteners, which included the requisite couple of hellions, a few kids who, in her opinion, shouldn’t have started for another year and two girls who were already reading at a first-grade level or beyond. Charlotte was still feeling her way around in her new job; she’d been working on computer-security projects before, but was now helping enhance already successful management software with on-demand customization capabilities. Mostly she told Faith about the personalities in the office.

  Faith asked lazily, “Do you and Gray want to come to dinner this weekend? Sunday, maybe? Dad likes Gray, you know.”

  Charlotte laughed. “I know. But then, everyone likes Gray. How else do you think he got elected to office?”

  Faith laughed, too. “You’re right. I like Gray.”

  Actually, she and Gray had gone out a couple of times, some months before Charlotte had come home. They’d liked each other; there just wasn’t anything else there. And yet, according to Gray, the minute he set eyes on Charlotte, he wanted her. Had maybe even fallen in love with her, although he hadn’t called it love for a few weeks. He hadn’t even realized Faith and Charlotte were identical twins, maybe because he’d seen through Charlotte’s facade from the beginning to who she was beneath. She hadn’t yet quit marveling at the knowledge that he loved her—she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to. It was a miracle that he did, and that she’d been able to let herself love him in return.

  “Have you seen Ben lately?” Charlotte asked.

  As if by chance, Faith turned her head away, pillowing it on her arms. “Um. He came by a couple days ago. No news. He seemed annoyed that I don’t carry my gun in a holster at all times.”

  “Oh, sure.” Charlotte eyed the back of her sister’s head. “You don’t have it with you now, do you?”

  There was a moment of silence. “In my beach bag.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Faith rolled over then sat up, her gaze level. “Nope. I carry it everywhere. Except school, of course. Then I lock it in the car, in the glove compartment.”

  Charlotte looked at the lemon-yellow-and-white bag, repelled at the idea of a handgun nestled inside it alongside the suntan lotion. “Wow. I didn’t realize.”

  “We’re all alone here,” Faith said, her voice cool and expressionless. “What if Rory showed up right now? Even if we screamed, nobody could get to us in time to help.”

  Charlotte shifted uneasily and stole a look over her shoulder.

  “I’m ready,” her sister said with remarkable calm. “I told you that.”

  Charlotte looked back at her sister’s face in awe and disquiet. Had Faith really changed so much? Or was the armor she wore no more than a thin crust disguising the vulnerability and fear beneath?

  Anger surged through Charlotte. Why couldn’t the police find Rory? Was it too much to ask that Faith be able to feel safe?

  “Maybe I’ll stay at the house tonight,” she decided.

  Faith only shook her head. “I’m ready,” she repeated. “You couldn’t do anything.”

  “I can keep the baseball bat next to the bed.”

  Faith’s mouth curved faintly. She’d been the one ready to swing the bat at Rory’s head last time, except that he’d run before she could. “We’ve changed the locks,” Faith said, “and Dad should hear if Rory breaks a window.” He was still sleeping downstairs, in the hospital bed they had rented when he came home after he was hurt. He could probably manage the stairs now with his crutches, but why should he?

  “Maybe,” Charlotte said doubtfully. “The way he snores, how can he hear anything else?”

  They both giggled. As long as they could remember, Dad had been insisting that he didn’t snore. Mom always said she’d tape him some night, but she never had, and somehow teasing him about it didn’t feel right without Mom here. Some nights this past summer Charlotte had even taken comfort from the familiar sound drifting upstairs.

  “Maybe you and Dad should come stay at Gray’s, just until Ben finds Rory,” she suggested. She’d tentatively talked to Gray and he was willing, even though the two of them loved the time they had together, without anyone else.

  “I let him terrorize me for three years,” Faith said, sounding completely inflexible. “I won’t let him make me go into hiding, Char. Anyway… How long would we have to stay with you and Gray? Two weeks? Two months? What if Rory never comes back? Or if he waits until Daddy and I go home again? No. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary.”

  Charlotte found her eyes resting on the tote bag, with its sunny colors and a semiautomatic pistol tucked inside. Faith followed her gaze, as if understanding what she was thinking. Her expression stayed resolute, almost stony. It was as if her weight loss was a manifestation of what was happening to her—Faith’s soft, gentle nature had hardened, as though baked in a kiln, the process altering her very substance.

  Uneasily, Charlotte thought about how little it took to shatter kiln-fired stoneware.

  Suppressing a shiver, she said, “If you change your mind, you’re always welcome. Even in the middle of the night. Okay?”

  Faith reached out and hugged Charlotte, pressing her cheek to her sister’s. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you, Char.”

  “And I love you,” Charlotte whispered, too, thankful that the words came so readily these days, a balm to soothe the hurt of ten years of estrangement.

  Cold prickles walked up her spine as she thought about how precious their restored bond was. She could lose her sister so quickly if Rory stole into the farmhouse some night and slipped into Faith’s bedroom without waking her. A gun would do no good at all, if she didn’t have time to reach for it.

  FAITH SHOWERED before bedtime to cool down, even though she had been swimming in the river only a few short hours ago. The day’s heat had risen in the house, found no escape. Despite the fan in her bedroom and the fact that she’d wrestled her sash window up, she was toying with the idea of taking a pillow and sheet downstairs and sleeping on the sofa in the living room with Dad.

  If only he didn’t snore…

  She had always enjoyed hot weather; she’d even thought that if it weren’t for Daddy and the farm she might have liked living in southern California or the Southwest. The idea was one she played with while waiting for sleep some nights. Starting anew where no one knew her both appalled and intrigued her. It would be so lonely, but also—s
he had thought a long time about the right word to describe the shimmer of excitement she felt, and settled on one—liberating. When she was younger, that kind of freedom had held no appeal. After the years of her marriage, though, she’d begun to imagine what it would be like to stand entirely, selfishly alone. To be the quintessential island.

  It was only a fantasy, of course. She had a feeling she would wither and die if she truly found herself plunked down in Phoenix, say, knowing no one, unfettered by any ties.

  And yet, sometimes she was so very tired.

  She had gradually turned the water temperature colder and colder, and now it rained down on her, nearly icy. With a sigh, Faith turned the shower off and stepped out shivering. She towel-dried, then brushed her hair and plaited it with practiced hands. She knew from experience it would still be damp come morning, and help keep her cool.

  Momentarily, head tilted as she gazed at herself in the mirror, Faith wondered what she’d look like if she cut her hair boyishly short, like Char’s. She laughed at herself. Silly—she’d look exactly like Char! Except different, really. She had become aware these past two months that they might be identical twins, but they didn’t move alike or laugh alike or even make the same gestures. Passing as each other wouldn’t be easy, as it had been when they were mischievous children.

  Rory wouldn’t like it if I cut my hair.

  Faith went still, looking at herself in the steam-misted mirror. Her eyes had widened, the shade of blue deepening, as she did battle with the tight knot of fear that had ruled her for too long.

  “I should cut it,” she whispered. “Because.”

  No. She shouldn’t do anything at all because Rory liked it or didn’t. If she cut her hair in defiance of him, she would be giving him more weight than he deserved. And she liked her hair long. She always had, resisting haircuts while Char had experimented with every length when they were teenagers.

  Faith began to breathe again. She wouldn’t give Rory any power at all. She’d think about him only as a threat, the reason she would be target shooting tomorrow again.

  She went back to her bedroom and found it considerably cooler after the cold shower and with her hair wet and the braid heavy down her back.

  Dad had long since fallen asleep. She’d heard the rumble of his snoring as she’d crossed the hall from the bathroom. A farmer his entire life, he rarely stayed awake much past nine o’clock, but he no longer awakened with dawn, and he napped in the afternoons, too. She worried a little about how much he was sleeping, although the doctor insisted that was normal, part of the healing process. She still thought some of it might be depression.

  Faith turned off her light and stood for a minute looking out her bedroom window at the cornfield. She could see the highway from here, too, and on the other side of it a glint of river between stands of trees. The moon was nearly full and low in the sky, a buttery yellow that looked mystical but was probably, unromantically, caused by smog in the atmosphere. A month from now, on All Hallow’s Eve, it would be a sullen orange, the harvest moon.

  She left the curtains open and lay in bed, the covers pushed aside, enjoying the wash of air over her skin as the fan rotated. The faint hum was mesmerizing, a kind of white noise that soothed her. Faith fell asleep to the sound of it.

  She never slept soundly anymore. Waking suddenly wasn’t unusual. Old houses made noises, and sometimes Daddy got up at night to go to the bathroom. Faith thought it was a creak that she’d heard. She always left her door open now, in case her father needed her. The rectangle was dark, inpenetrable. She lay staring toward it, holding herself very still as she listened intently for the thump of his crutches, or the quiet groan of the hundred-year-old house settling.

  Nothing. For the longest time, there was no repetition. Her instinctive tension eased. She began to relax, let the weight of her eyelids sink. She was always so tired….

  This creak was closer. On the stairs, or in the hall. Faith went rigid. There was another whisper of sound—something brushing the wall, perhaps.

  Her pulse raced and her blood seemed to roar in her ears. Was it Rory? How had he gotten into the house without her hearing glass break? The front and back doors both had dead-bolt locks now.

  One hand crept for the cell phone on her bedside table. Before she could touch it, her eyes made out the deeper shadow within the dark rectangle that was the doorway.

  It was too late for the phone. Faith eased her hand back, then shoved it beneath the pillow beside her and found the hard, textured grip of the gun.

  I’m not ready for this.

  She heard breathing now. Her own, but someone else’s, too. He had stepped inside the bedroom, almost—but not quite—soundlessly. Not Daddy, no thump or scrape of crutches. The shape took form in moonlight. He was only a few steps from her bed.

  Something snapped in Faith, and with a scream of terror and rage she lunged for the lamp switch even as she lifted the gun.

  In the flood of light, he threw himself forward, his face contorted and a deadly knife lifted to stab.

  Faith went cold. As if she were outside her body, she saw her second hand come up to brace the first, her thumb folding just as it ought to.

  Rory was almost on top of her when she squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE RING OF THE PHONE WOKE Ben with all the subtlety of a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. Cursing, he groped on his bedside table for the damn phone.

  “Wheeler,” he growled into it.

  “Chief, this is Ron Meagher.” One of his young officers, greener than baby peas fresh from the pod. “You said to let you know, day or night, if anything comes in about the Russells.”

  “Yes.” He stifled an obscenity and swung his legs to the floor, then turned on the lamp, blinking painfully in the flood of light. “What’s happened?”

  “We just had a call from Faith Russell. She says she shot her ex-husband.”

  Damn it, damn it, damn it. Ben grabbed the jeans he’d left draped over a chair and yanked them on.

  “Is he dead?”

  “She seemed to think so. Dispatch said she sounded real cool.”

  Cool? Faith? Maybe, but beneath the surface she would be dissolving.

  “I’m on my way.” He dropped the phone and tugged yesterday’s T-shirt over his head. Not bothering with socks, he shoved his feet into athletic shoes. Weapon at the small of his back, he snatched his wallet and keys up, then was out the door at a run.

  He drove faster than was legal, faster than was safe. The moon was high and silver now, an improvement over the sickly yellow it had been earlier, hanging on the horizon.

  Don’t let the son of a bitch be dead, he prayed, with scant hope any prayer from him would be answered. He and God weren’t on cordial terms. He tried anyway. Faith can’t handle it. Shouldn’t have to handle it. Don’t let him be dead.

  He didn’t pass a single car on the city streets or the highway. Long before he reached the farm, he saw the multicolored, rotating lights of police cars and ambulance.

  He tore into the farmyard, heedless of potholes, and came to a skidding stop behind Faith’s SUV. The scene was nightmarishly similar to the other time he’d been called out here in the middle of the night, when Charlotte had been battered and slashed.

  Please, not Faith, he thought. She was so fragile. Strong, too—more than he’d credited her with on first meeting. But gentle, not made for what she’d suffered.

  If she’d really killed Rory Hardesty, that would be much worse for her than being hurt would have been.

  Burgess was in the kitchen, along with two EMTs.

  “Dead?” Ben asked, and got nods all around.

  Burgess kept talking. Ben didn’t hear. He walked straight through the dining room to the living room, where he heard voices.

  Faith was there, sitting on the sofa beside her father. Meagher, looking about eighteen in his blue uniform, had just asked if she had a license for her gun.

  “Yes,” Ben said h
oarsely. “She has a license.”

  She looked up at him, but not as if she were glad to see him. Not as if she felt anything at all. He had seen eyes like that, too often in his years in law enforcement. Utterly and completely empty, as if tonight she had lost her soul. He wanted nothing so much as to sit down and cradle her in his arms, but he had a feeling that if he did he’d be holding a mannequin, not a living breathing woman.

  Her father was watching her, his face drawn. He wasn’t touching her, and Ben suspected she’d rejected his embrace. She sat with her back straight, her hands quiet on her lap, as if she were a guest not quite comfortable in this home but determined to hide it.

  Brushing by his young officer, Ben laid his hand against her cheek, marble cool, and took an icy hand in his. He felt his lips pull back in a snarl. “She’s in shock, damn it! Meagher, get her a cup of tea or cocoa or something hot. Now.” He turned and, not seeing an afghan, wrenched the comforter from the hospital bed. Her father reached for it and helped him settle it around her shoulders.

  “I told you I’m all right,” Faith said, words belied immediately when a shiver rattled her body.

  “Sure you are,” Ben said. He decided he didn’t give a damn how stiff she would be in his embrace. He sat next to her and lifted her onto his lap, tucking the comforter around her.

  She began to fight him.

  “Don’t,” he said, and tightened his arms.

  She struggled for another minute, then subsided when he simply held her close. She shivered again, and her teeth began to chatter. Her father looked on helplessly.

  What the hell was Meagher doing? Ben wondered in raw fury. How long did it take to heat water in the microwave?

  Waiting, Ben pressed her face into his shoulder and pressed his cheek to her hair. It was damp, he realized, and when he groped under the comforter for her braid he found it to be wet. That wasn’t helping. Cheek against the top of her head, he murmured, “I’m sorry, Faith. God, so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to face this. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”