No Sanctuary. Helen Myers R.
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business.
Before she knew it, the eastern sky went from indigo to fuchsia. Eager to see what Elvin had accomplished out in the shop, she washed up, slipped on sneakers and, with a third mug of coffee in hand, set off.
A foul smell greeted her as she slid open the shop’s door, the mix of humidity, old oil, dead rodents and who knew what else. But once she turned on the fluorescent lights, all Bay saw was the welding machine. It stood precisely in the position that Glenn’s machine had stood the night he was killed.
She turned away from the troubling coincidence and studied the rest of the shop. Nothing else triggered the same revulsion in her, not the bottles of argon, oxygen and acetylene that stood just inside the door, probably where the delivery truck had left them, and it was simple practicality for the leads to be on the worktable. That table stood six-by-ten feet, larger than the ones they’d used in the old shop, and the red gang box, every bit her height, was a far more modern model than she could afford before.
As she grew more relaxed, she inspected the rest of the building. On the far side in a portable rack lay a modest inventory of stainless sheet metal; beside that was another rack with pipe, a fair quantity. Bay knew it was for Madeleine’s gate.
She glanced back at the welder and decided it was an accident, that’s all. Where else would Elvin put the thing?
Energized, she opened the shop doors the rest of the way, snatching up the notepad and pencil from the scarred desk that would serve as her office and began a more serious test of her memory of the design.
It was nearing noon before she stopped working. By then she was soaked with sweat and starving, and yet she felt better than she had in years. Not only did she have the initial cuts for the gate completed, she’d had her first walk-in customer, a man desperate to repair a broken headache rack on his truck. The small job earned her a fast seventy bucks—to be immediately spent on renewing her driver’s license and buying paint for a sign, she decided. Pleased, she locked up and returned to the house.
After devouring a turkey sandwich and a glass of milk, she showered and tugged on clean jeans and a white T-shirt, this time over a bra. Then she drove into town to get her license renewed.
By the time she reached the DMV some of her anxiety returned. She fully expected them to know her on sight, but having her prison record lingering on their computers would be as bad. To her surprise and relief, though, the clerk reacted like someone who didn’t watch TV, let alone subscribe to a newspaper, and when she brought up Bay’s file on the monitor, the woman’s expression remained passive.
“Okay. Uh…it’s been over four years since you were a Texas resident, you’ll have to take the written test again. Do you want to try it now or take a book home to study?”
Bay thought that was like asking how many shots you’d like at your execution. “I’ll give it a try,” she told the young woman.
She made only one error and after the eye test, the clerk instructed her to step behind the strip of yellow tape on the floor for a photo. Done, Bay signed the computerized form, paid the fee and pocketed her temporary license.
Thanking the clerk, she turned to leave…and looked straight into the eyes of Jack Burke. Jack Burke, the detective who’d arrested her for Glenn’s murder. Jack Burke who had grilled her for hours upon hours with relentless and redundant precision. Jack Burke who, when she was sentenced, had the nerve to say, “I’m sorry.”
Ducking her head and wishing for a pair of sunglasses to hide behind, Bay cut a sharper right. Time hadn’t affected his reflexes, though, and he countered her move, knocking her off balance.
“Whoa.”
At least he had no problem keeping her from cracking her jaw on the tile floor. Six years might have taken their toll other ways, but physically he remained as she remembered him, big enough to make her feel like a dry twig on a sapling and outweighing her by a good eighty-plus pounds.
“Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” Keeping her head low, she tried to move on.
His hold tightened. “It is you.”
She could feel his recognition by the tension in his hands. Hadn’t he heard she was getting out? Not caring one way or the other, she tugged harder and scrambled for the exit.
Ignoring the “Wait a minute!” he called after her, she pushed through the double glass doors and once outside broke into a dead run. Weak-kneed and sick to her stomach, she shoved the key into the truck’s door lock.
She didn’t bother turning on the air conditioner or taking time to roll down the window. The seat belt had to wait, too. Jamming the key into the ignition, she turned over the engine and drove. The need for escape had never been stronger—and grew worse when she spotted him in the rearview mirror running after her. Afraid he was about to grab on to the tailgate, she burned rubber merging into traffic, almost hitting a Brinks armored truck.
She was free, but that was temporary. Weighed with a new gloom, she drove in a mindless, circuitous route and after a good half hour of haphazard turns she located a familiar street. In order to delay her return home a little longer, she stopped at a discount store for the paint. Another encounter was inevitable, though. Detective Jack Burke had been in the right place to obtain her new address.
It happened sooner than she expected. She hadn’t yet reached the front door when the white pickup truck pulled into her driveway.
5
Doubt and worry buzzed like deer flies in her head as Bay waited for the worst. If only Madeleine would call now. She’d phoned early on to see how Bay made it through the night and once hearing Bay’s plans to go for her license, promised to check in later. Sparing the busy woman a recap of her neurotic first hours here was easy—Bay would like to forget her foolish reaction herself—but she would feel better if Madeleine knew he had arrived, her worst analogy of a bad penny.
He stopped at the far end of the house and killed the engine, all the while watching her with the same intensity she used on him. When he climbed out, she saw he’d taken off his tan suit jacket and loosened his tie, but that just made the gun on his belt obvious. She was no less resentful of his size and how capable and trustworthy he looked. Sure, she thought, trust him to ruin your life. One thing, she had to admit time hadn’t been all that kind to Jack Burke. Thanks in part to him, though, she didn’t have enough generosity of spirit to feel sorry for him.
He still possessed the kind of face movie directors chose for a big brother, strong, the features defined without being craggy. But his probing brown eyes looked sunken and the shadows beneath them suggested whatever was ailing him had become chronic. Then there was that faint scar running down from his lower lip to his chin, which had her wondering who else he’d ticked off since he’d helped put her away.
He moved with a smooth grace like someone used to physical work that involved the whole body. Rolled-up sleeves exposed tanned and well-toned arms indicating that whatever he did to keep fit, it wasn’t at an indoor gym. That healthy quality was offset by a slight slump to his broad shoulders, and the line bisecting those dark eyebrows cut deep enough to tell her that he frowned more often than he smiled.
He stopped a spare two yards away from her, his hands loose at his sides. She couldn’t keep from folding her arms across her chest and resented him for that, too.
“You didn’t have to run.”
“Then why are you here?”
“For the moment, I guess only to make sure you’re okay.”
Right, Bay thought, and on top of her already huge generosity, Madeleine had convinced the mayor to throw a parade in her honor and give her the key to the city. At least he hadn’t driven up in one of those unmarked cars. Regardless, the guy had cop written all over him and she wished they were standing farther back from the road than they were.
“I guess it’s a bit much