A Shadow on the Ground (5 page)

“But you’ve got to talk about it. If not with me, then somebody. Dr. Lloyd says you won’t talk to her either. What happened the night your mom died is eating you alive. If you’d just let me help you, and—”

“
No!
”

“Jeremy, please. I’d do anything for you. You know that, don’t you?”

Jeremy twisted around and glared at his father with so much revulsion, Gage’s blood ran cold.

What was Gage going to do now? What was left to do? Every time he talked to Jeremy, he made things worse. Jeremy was slipping away from him day by day, and he was helpless to stop it. He’d tried everything the psychologist had suggested, but nothing had worked. At some point, he was going to have to face the fact he might stumble through life never winning his son’s forgiveness. And that was one life he didn’t think he could endure.

Gage guided his ’95 Mustang up the long drive to his uncle’s winery. The guys at the agency had made fun of him for buying it. Especially his boss, Tyson, who drove a reliable Honda, and traded up every two years. But Gage didn’t care. The old Mustang had kept him sane. He’d spent six months working nights and weekends to bring it back to life. More work than he’d ever imagined. But he hadn’t given up. He’d replaced the split upholstery, put in new brakes, turbocharged the engine. He had refused to repair the scratches and dings on the black exterior, or have it painted. He liked the fact that it looked like it was ready for the trash heap. If he had to chase some bad guys, the expressions on their faces were priceless when the old beat-up car they were sure they could shake turned out to be hell on wheels.

He patted the dashboard, then glanced at his son. He wasn’t giving up on Jeremy either. The boy was wrapped in grief. Drowning in it. And everyone told Gage nothing could be done except wait for it to subside.

Well, that wasn’t good enough. There had to be something he could do. He just had to figure out what it was, then do it. He was in Jeremy’s life to stay, whether Jeremy wanted him there or not. If it took the rest of his days, he would never stop trying to make his son love him again.

The second Gage stopped the car, Jeremy flung off his seatbelt, swung the low door open, and bolted. He ran up the stone walk, then disappeared around the side of the winery.
Probably looking for Bert,
Gage thought, fending off a stab of jealousy. Gage wasn’t sure how Bert, scarcely the warmest human on the planet, had managed to forge such a special bond with Jeremy. Or why Jeremy worshiped the ground the old coot walked on.

Not nice
, Gage chided himself. Although,
old coot
was one of the more savory descriptions that came to mind. If Jeremy got wind of how Gage felt about Bert, the boy would hate Gage even more. Like it or not, Bert was Gage’s uncle. The same uncle he was forced to live with until he could climb out from under a mountain of debt. The same uncle who refused to help finance Jeremy’s psychotherapy after the insurance money ran out because he thought child psychologists were as useless as tits on a tomcat.

Gage lifted his foot off the brake and leaned over the steering wheel. The sun had begun its slow drop behind the mountains.

Inertia. Not knowing what to do, so doing nothing. Hadn’t that been his mantra for years? Hadn’t Suzanne threatened to have it printed on a T-shirt for him? Why had she never understood that feeling helpless around the people he loved terrified him worse than hiding in the shadows with his gun drawn and his heart hammering in his throat?

He tapped the top of the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. Then struck it harder, and harder. What in blazes could he do for Jeremy that he hadn’t already tried? If he could just think of one thing the kid liked, it would be a starting point. Something Jeremy wouldn’t be able to resist. Something Gage, and only Gage, could offer him. A bridge he could forge between darkness and light. Gage rubbed the smarting, fleshy part of his palm. Outside, the winery lights popped on, nestled in long swags of grapevines wrapped around a split rail fence. His mind drifted off then back again, until the image of Morgan’s face swam into view.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He snapped the cover open, read the caller’s name, and cursed softly.
Tyson
. He took a deep breath and tried to sound upbeat. “Hey, Ty. How’s it going?”

“I might ask you the same thing. What gives? I haven’t heard from you in days.”

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t been working. I’ve had to set things up, put things in motion. You know how important this case is. I don’t want to blow it.”

“I don’t want you to blow it either. But I expect you to check in.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“So, what’s the problem? This case is a piece of cake.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before. From you, as a matter of fact. Right before a 9mm bullet plowed its way through my shoulder.”

“This recovery job should go by the book. Get in, grab the thing, and get out. You’ve done it before. You’re the best I’ve got. Or had, until you quit two months ago.”

“You know I don’t like recovery work. It feels too much like stealing.”

Tyson laughed. “Aw, hell, Gage. It ain’t stealing if it’s already stolen. The client’s got proof of purchase. It’s an open and shut case. And it’s worth a bundle, that’s why the recovery fee is so high. Hell, if I had time, I’d go after it myself. I only asked you because I knew you needed the money, and you live less than six miles from the client’s daughter-in-law.”

“Ex-daughter-in-law.”

Dennis P. Quillen
. Gage had wondered why that name sounded so familiar. Tyson said he was a high-powered politician moving through the ranks of public office, being groomed to be the next senator. Gage had never paid much attention to local politics. He didn’t have the stomach for it. He made sure he voted in the presidential election, and maybe a primary or two, but that was as far as his patriotic duty took him. Apparently, Quillen’s estranged son, Denny, had stolen a rare artifact from him. But before Quillen could get it back, Denny’s ex-wife stole it from Denny. Gage got a chuckle out of that one. He could only imagine what Thanksgiving dinners at the Quillen house had been like.

Dennis P. Quillen couldn’t afford to allow anything on his record that might tarnish his good name. Discretion was paramount, and going with a larger, more well-known firm might risk a media leak. If Gage recovered the artifact, and Quillen was satisfied with the outcome, chances were he’d recommend Ty’s agency to other high-powered politicians in need of discretion. Tyson had definitely hit the big time with this client.

“Was she hard to track down?” Tyson asked. “I’m assuming you’ve found her.”

“Morgan Maguire? Yeah, I found her.”

“I downloaded a picture of her after you left. She sure is a looker.”

“Well, you know what they say, ‘Doesn’t matter how good-looking a woman is, somewhere, somebody is tired of putting up with her shit.’”

Tyson laughed.

“Don’t worry,” Gage said. “I’m on it.”

Gage had felt ill at ease accepting the job. After Suzanne died, he’d promised Jeremy he would quit the agency and stop running around like Magnum, PI on steroids craving the next big adrenaline rush. Then Tyson played the money card—a very large money card—and Gage had caved. That much cash could get Jeremy the help he needed to cope with his mother’s death. It could pull Gage out from under his uncle’s suffocating thumb. One week’s work could free them both, give them a fresh start in a sweet little Tennessee town with a crime rate so low, the sheriff only worked part-time. The money could heal his son, make his child whole again. And that was the only thing he wanted.

The fact that the client’s ex-daughter-in-law was the same woman who had disturbed his dreams for the last twelve years didn’t enter into it at all. Running into Morgan Maguire again was one of those strange “small world” coincidences people amuse each other with at cocktail parties. An unexpected bone the universe had decided to toss his way. He didn’t expect anything to come of it. The universe could be fickle as hell. One day Jupiter was aligning with Mars, and the next day, all the cards had been reshuffled and moved out of his reach.

“Anything else?” Gage asked. “Or is my lecture over for the day?”

“I called to warn you. Word on the street is Quillen’s son Denny has gotten wind of his old man’s intentions and is on his way up there. Denny is a loose cannon. And a doper. He got arrested for possession a few years ago, but Quillen pulled some strings and got his record expunged. If he’s a pill head needing cash, and a good ol’ boy from north Georgia with Daddy’s pistol strapped to the back of his bike, I’d consider him armed and dangerous.”

Gage’s ears went on lockdown. Air roared through his head like he’d jumped off a cliff. Was Morgan in danger from this man? Would her ex hurt her in order to get his hands on a Civil War flag worth a fortune? Gage wasn’t one to brag, but he was Morgan’s best protection. He tried to stay cool. If Tyson suspected he had known Morgan, and was willing to muddy the waters with a lot of personal clutter, he might as well kiss the job goodbye.

For her sake, and his son’s sake, he couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m sending Denny’s picture to your phone,” Tyson said. “How’s the cell service?”

“Not great. Depends on which side of the mountain you’re on.”

“Call me tomorrow. Let me know what’s happening.”

“Sure thing, Tyson.”

“Oh, and Gage? There’s something you should know. The agency hasn’t been doing so well since you left. Expenses are high. The client list is shrinking. Unless you come through for me on this, I might have to close the agency’s doors in the next couple of months.”

“Sorry, man. I didn’t know things were so grim.”

“Just get the job done, Gage. Make me proud. I’m counting on you. We all are.”

Gage closed the phone and waited until Denny’s image came through. He held it up and stared at it. So this was the man Morgan had married? Jeez Louise. She must have loved him at one time, although looking at the creep, Gage wondered how that was even remotely possible. Denny stood beside a black motorcycle, hippie-length hair pulled back into a thin ponytail, unfocused watery gray eyes resting on the backside of a hangover. He wore a faded work shirt and brown corduroy house shoes. House shoes? Who wore house shoes out in public, for Christ’s sake? An escapee from the local asylum? Who would even be friends with the bum, much less marry him?

Gage sighed. Who the hell ever knew why a woman was attracted to a man? It could be something as simple as looking into her eyes instead of at her chest. Or listening to her as if she had something to say. Or letting it drop that he was the owner of a hedge fund portfolio and a fat, fluid bank account. Whatever the reasons—and there were a million of them—Gage had learned long ago that where women were concerned, there was no accounting for taste.

****

Morgan left her bloody jeans in the sink to soak. Thank God she had remembered to extricate Harlan’s cell phone from the pocket before dunking them in the soapy water. She had meant to give it to the sheriff, but once the ambulance arrived, all hell had broken loose.

She lowered herself into the deep claw foot tub and let the warm scented water pool around her neck. The moment she relaxed, the tears she'd held at bay for the past two hours rolled off her cheeks and splashed into the water. Her thoughts scuttled from Harlan to Gage to Sean and back again. If the old people in town were right, and bad things came in threes, then it was time to crawl in bed and pull the covers over her head.

She rinsed a washcloth cold and pressed it against her swollen eyes. “Stop it,” she said. “Just stop it.”

It was no use crying about the choices she'd made. Or the ones that had been made for her. All that mattered was getting through the next few days with her pride and sanity intact. She dried her hands then punched in Sean’s number on her cell phone. Still no signal. Phone service on the Riverbirch side of the mountain was about as reliable as a sundial at midnight. Hard to believe, since cell towers had sprung up everywhere, dotting the landscape like the metal structures in Sean’s old erector set, spoiling perfect mountain views.

She leaned back and closed her eyes.

Let it go
, she told herself. Even though the past seemed intent on hunting her down like a fugitive.
Don't look back. What's done is done. Spilt milk. Water under the bridge
. She wished she could take those words to heart. But the trouble with platitudes was they always seemed so soul strengthening in the morning, and so damned improbable in the wee hours of a long, lonely night.

Shake off the past and focus.
How was that for a platitude? Her top priority was Sean. When he found out about Harlan’s death, he would be devastated. He’d need all the strength she could muster, and even then, it might not be enough. She glanced at the clock above the pedestal sink.
7:43.
Where was he?

No telling how far he’d had to drive to find pickers. Maybe as far as Sevier County or the south side of Knoxville. Morgan wanted to be the one to break the news to him about Harlan, but if he had stopped at Bad Moon for a couple of tall ones before heading home across the valley, someone would have already told him.

If her grandpa were still alive he would have said,
“Harlan’s number was up, child. And there ain't nothing you can do when your number is up.”

Morgan didn't agree. When somebody’s number was up, there was a lot they could do. They could stay away from trees when lightning cut across the sky. They could run for the parking lot when a drunk started throwing punches at the bar. They could leave their strung-out husband in an Atlanta ER, sneak out the side door, and drive to Tennessee with fourteen bucks in their pocket. When somebody’s number was up, they could fight like hell to get it deferred. Some people just didn't try hard enough.

Morgan pulled herself out of the tub and reached for a towel.

A loud thump sounded from the next room.