Exposure (22 page)

Elvis unlocked the door to his room and ushered Emma and Gracie inside. "Tell me what you need for the night and I'll go get it," he instructed, then locked them in when he left a few minutes later.

His deputy arose from a chair at the table when Elvis let himself into Emma's room. "How's the baby?"

"She's okay. A couple of stitches in her forehead but other than that it was mostly surface cuts." Elvis shook his head. "I haven't had a lot of experience with kids, admittedly, but even so I can't get over how fast she bounced back. Right now she's all pumped up about the suckers Doc Simms gave her."

George grinned. "Yeah, and chances are she probably won't even need more than an aspirin when the novocaine wears off."

"That's what Emma said the doctor told her. I guess you've learned that the hard way with your own kids, huh?"

"Yep. Stuff that would send an adult in search of heavy duty painkillers usually skims right past a child. It's amazing."

"Yeah, it's something, all right." Elvis allowed himself a moment to marvel before he got back down to business. "Thanks for sticking around, George," he said. "I'm putting Emma and Gracie up in my room tonight. Figured it beats the accommodations at the jail. Tomorrow I'll find them someplace safe. I really appreciate your staying here 'til I got back."

"No problem. It's bad policy to leave the room unsecured, and since I didn't have a key to lock it up . . ." George's shrug was explanation enough. "I bagged up the rock." He indicated the freezer bag on the table. "It's got a rough surface, though; I doubt we'll get much off it."

"Well, I appreciate the effort." Elvis considered his deputy. "Until tonight the stuff that's been happening to Emma has been pretty much your penny-ante, juvie-type harassment," he said. "But it's startin' to get rough, George, and I don't like that." He shrugged. "There's not much can be done about it tonight, though, I suppose. Go on back to the station. I'll just grab a few things to make their stay more comfortable before I lock up. Thanks again for waiting."

He helped Emma get Gracie ready for bed and then stood by the side of the bed and watched as the child crashed. One moment she was demanding stories and chatting wildly, the next she was sound asleep. A smile crooking his mouth, he turned back to Emma.

She was standing in the middle of the room, hugging herself and shivering as if it were twenty below.

"Hey," he murmured. He reached out and pulled her into his arms.

Emma clutched his waist, trying to absorb his heat. "I was irritated with her," she said, and her teeth began to chatter. "She was being obstinate and dragging her feet, and it was makin' me twitch like a cat on a hot tin roof." She shook harder. "Ah, Dieu, and then she was screamin' and screamin' and there was blood all over her, and—"

Elvis' arms tightened. "Shhh. It's okay, sweetheart. It's all over now, Em, and Gracie's okay."

"Why is this happenin' to us, Elvis? I can't believe that Grant would—" She shook her head impatiently. "But why would anyone want to hurt an innocent little girl? She's never done anythin' to merit this sort of abuse." She looked up at him, her brown eyes full of fear yet at the same time fierce. "She doesn't deserve this, dammit!"

Elvis brought his hand up to smooth back her hair. Lowering his head, he kissed her. Then he pulled back far enough to look into her eyes. "No, she doesn't, doll. And I'm gonna make it my mission in life to see that nothing like this ever happens to either one of you again."

Grant picked up the phone on the third ring. He identified himself crisply. "Woodard."

"Conroy here," said the voice on the other end of the line, and Grant straightened out of his indolent slouch, pointing the remote at the VCR to turn it off. Emma's image disappeared. Conroy was the man who had been sent to replace Hackett. He'd only been on Flannery Island a week.

"Well?" Grant barked when the man on the other end of the line hesitated. "What news have you got for me?"

"Something went wrong with an ... incident last night. The baby was hurt."

"Gracie?" Grant's feet hit the floor with a thump. "Gracie was hurt?"

"Yes, sir."

Grand Woodard swore low and fluently. But his voice was controlled, lethal, when next he spoke.

"I want to know exactly what happened last night, Conroy," he demanded icily. "And if you value your . . . position . . . you won't leave out a single detail."

Dawn had barely broken when Elvis let himself out of the room. Emma and Gracie were still asleep in his bed. He had hoped to be back before they awoke, but his business took longer to conclude than he'd anticipated and he was growing a little frantic about Emma's emotional state by the time he finally got back to the boarding house. He'd grown familiar with the way her mind worked in any situation that threatened her daughter.

Parking the Suburban in the rear lot was a task accomplished with more speed than accuracy, and he took the back stairs up to then* floor two risers at a time. Bursting through the door to his room, he skidded to a halt at the sight that greeted him. "Goddamn son of a bitch," he growled under his breath.

"Hi, Elbis!" Gracie abandoned the hand game she'd been playing with Mrs. Mackey and raced across the room to throw herself at Elvis' legs.

He bent down to scoop her up. Straightening to his full height, he took a minute to examine her carefully. "How you feeling today, Gracie girl?"

"I feel okeydokey. Look, Shewiff Elbis, I have spidoo legs stickin' outta my fo'head." She tilted her chin down slightly to give him a clearer view of the stitches bristling black against her pale skin. "That's what Maman calls 'em—spidoo legs." Big brown eyes peered up at him to assess his reaction.

"Pretty darn tricky, kid."

"Uh-huh. Pwetry dawn twicky."

"So," he said casually. "Where is your momma?"

"I dunno." Gracie shrugged. "Haffa go out fo' a while." She angled her head to blow a raspberry against the side of his strong tanned neck. Giggling, pleased with herself for catching him off guard, she wriggled to be let down and ran off the instant her feet touched the floor, her attention already diverted to the window sill where her bucket of shells resided.

Grateful for her preoccupation, Elvis crossed over to Clare, who had slowly pushed up from the floor where she'd been kneeling to play hand-clapping games with Gracie.

His eyes, when they met hers, were accusatory. "All right," he demanded in a low voice. "Where the hell is she? And don't screw around with me here, Clare. I'm in no mood."

"She's in her room."

Elvis whispered something truly foul. "Packing again, I suppose?"

"Ummm," Clare replied unhappily. "I really couldn't say, Elvis. She didn't tell me her plans." But it didn't exactly take a card-packing member of Mensa to figure it out.

"Well, that cuts it. That just bloody cuts it. I'm putting a stop to this crap once and for all." He turned on his heel without another word and stormed from the room. Remembering Gracie at the very last moment, he just managed to catch the door with his hook to prevent it from slamming shut behind him. He pulled it closed with exaggerated care.

He didn't execute the same caution when he entered the room down the hall. The door banged against the interior wall when he barged through it.

Emma whirled from stacking Gracie's folded T-shirts in a suitcase. Her heart thumped up against the wall of her chest until she saw it was Elvis.

Then she caught a glimpse of the look in his eyes and it commenced to pound. He was clearly furious.

He strode right up to the bed, reached around her to snag the suitcase, and hurled it across the room. The clothes that didn't scatter during its flight exploded out of it as it hit the wall and tumbled to the floor. He turned back to loom over her. When his nose was practically touching hers, he demanded in a low, contemptuous voice, "Don't you ever have one friggin' response that doesn't begin and end with running away?"

Emma's chin shot up. Hand to his chest, she shoved him back a step, knowing, by the inflexible cast of the muscles beneath her fingertips, that he was humoring her by allowing himself to be moved. There was a warm breeze blowing through the hole the rock had made in the window, and the feel of it wafting feather-light against her bare arms hardened her resolve. "I don't owe you any explanations," she said with stiff coolness.

His temper heated up several degrees in response. "Why the hell don't you?" he demanded. "Because you never wanted anything from me in the first place except a little servicing? Well, that's great." He rammed his fingers through his hair, blue eyes blazing down at her. "That's just great. Exactly what is my position in your life, Em? Summer stud?"

"No, of course not!"

"I think it is. I think my sole appeal is availability of a big dick, in exchange for which you'll overlook my less than ideal face and body."

Her chin rose to an even more pugnacious level. "Don't flatter yourself, Donnelly. It's not that big." Oh, Emma, Emma, you're such a liar.

Well, so be it. He'd goaded her into the remark by the interpretation he'd put on her need to vacate Port Flannery. It was strictly for Gracie's sake that she was leaving.

Made miserable by the necessity, defensive as a mother bear with a threatened cub, she charged into the attack. "And I can't tell you how sick I am of having this same damn conversation with you either, Elvis, over these so-called 'deformities' of yours. It reminds me of that thing Groucho Marx said about never joining a club that would have him as a member. With you, it always seems to be if I chose to make love with you, it must have been for some obscure but surely nefarious reason, and the nastier or more nefarious the reason you can imagine, the better. It couldn't be that I simply wanted you," she concluded sarcastically. "Just you."

She blew out an exasperated breath. "Well, believe what you want, Elvis," she said. "I'm tired of defendin' myself."

"What is it you'd have me believe then, Em?" He stared at her flushed cheeks, at her eyes, so dark and brilliant, glaring back up at him. "Am I supposed to believe I'm the love of your life?"

Yes. Yes. But she couldn't admit that to him. She didn't dare; it would change everything. She'd have to stop running and take a stand. She'd have to place her trust, once and for all, in someone other than herself. Bottom lip securely tucked under her front teeth, she blinked up at him.

"Yeah, that's pretty much what I thought." He stepped back. "And if I said I loved you it wouldn't mean jack shit to you, either, would it?"

Emma's heart rolled over in her chest like a trick poodle. "Are you sayin' that?"

Elvis shrugged. "Why bother? You don't believe in my abilities as a sheriff; you don't need me as a man. Hell, you can hardly wait to shake the dust of this town from your heels."

Her hand had fisted in the material of his khaki shirt as he spoke and she gave it a yank. "Are you sayin' that? "

"What do you care?" He glared down at her. "You're leaving as soon as you can—"

"Damn you, Elvis Donnelly, tell me if you're sayin' that!"

"Yes," he roared, "I'm saying that, okay? I love you." He gave a bitter bark of laughter. "Is that a hoot, or what? I hope you get a great big chuckle out of it."

"Ah, Dieu, Elvis. Oh, mon Dieu." She broke into a spate of French. Her tone, her eyes, were packed full of emotion, but none of it seemed to be amusement at his expense.

He looked down at her warily. "English, Em. Dammit, speak English. If you're saying screw you and the horse you rode in on, I'd just as soon know about it up front."

"I love you, Elvis." Her fingers clenched in the material over his chest, and she laughed briefly. If it was edged with hysteria, she felt that was only fair. Oh, God, she was going to do it; she was going to place her faith and the safety of her daughter in Elvis Donnelly's hands, and the thought of it scared her to death. Nevertheless, she quickly got herself back under control. Releasing the fabric, slapping her palms against the unyielding wall of his chest, she looked up into his eyes. "God knows why, since most of the time you're such a stubborn, knuckleheaded—" She gave her head an impatient shake to rid it of that conversational digression and averred almost primly, "Nevertheless, I love you so much it scares the bejesus out of me."

She didn't know what sort of response she expected, exactly, but it certainly wasn't that he would take a step back from her and snap, "Bullshit."

She took a step forward. He took another step back. "What do you mean, bullsh—"

Elvis stopped dead. "I mean don't patronize me!"

"Patronize?" She was incredulous. Puzzlement clouded her eyes as she looked up at him. "Where on earth did that come from?"

"I asked you flat-out just a minute ago if I was the love of your life, and I didn't hear you jumping in to claim that I was."

"Well, no. But that was because—"

"So don't go thinking my ego's so fragile," he snapped, rolling right over her incipient explanation, "that just because I said I love you, you have to build it up by claiming to love me, too."

She smacked him in the chest. "Mon Dieu, you are the biggest dumbest clodhopper it's ever been my misfortune to meet! I shouldn't love you, Elvis Donnelly, and that's the truth! You're stubborn, and wrongheaded, and, and—" She growled in frustration, then blew out her breath and looked up at him. "But I do, okay? I love you so much. Now you can believe that or not. But let me tell you somethin', mon ami. On May twenty-third I had my whole world cave in on me. Everything, which up to that point I'd believed to be good and true, turned out to be so many Tinkertoys built on a foundation of lies."

She stared up at him, one hand plowing through her bangs to scrape her hair back off her forehead.

Only slowly did it filter through her fingers until all the wavy strands fell back into place. Then her hand dropped to her side. "I spent too many nights worrying it to death in too many strange motel rooms, and it got to be pretty much fixed in my head that I'm the only person in this world I can count on to keep my bebe safe. That's a mind-set you don't just change with the snap of your fingers, cher. Not even if you're moon-faced in love with a great big, stubborn, overbearing—"

Elvis kissed her. His good hand clenched in her hair, and his left arm went around her waist to pull her in close to his body. Lifting his head moments later, he grinned down at her. "You gotta quit sweet-talkin' me this way, doll. You're gonna embarrass me with all these endearments."

Emma used the tips of her fingers to trace the ridges of his eyebrows and the prominent bones in his cheeks. She trailed them softly to his scar and then to his full mouth. I love you. Elvis Donnelly," she said seriously. "Me "n" Gracie are in a real perilous position here, and I'm tellin' you straight out, it scares me right down to the marrow of my bones to be placin' all my faith in you. But you've got it, cher. You do."

"And about damn time, too," he said. Then, with a smack of his palm against her butt, he set her loose. "Pack your bags, Emma."

She stared at him in confusion. "What?" Not that she hadn't heard exactly what he'd said. It was just ... she didn't understand it.

"Pack up. I found a safe house this morning, and you, me, and Baby Beans are moving in as soon as we can gather up our stuff. No one's gonna know where to find us." He gave her another hard, swift kiss and then straightened, and turning her toward the bed, left her staring blankly at its neatly made expanse while he crossed the room, quick and graceful as a cat, to scoop up the suitcase he'd flung away earlier. Shaking it free of minute bits of broken glass, he brought it back and tossed it on the mattress in front of her. "How long will it take you to get ready?"

"We're movin'?"

"You didn't think I'd just ignore the fact that Gracie was injured here last night, did you? I'm afraid the two of you are no longer safe here."

Emma opened her mouth to speak and then closed it. Opened it once again—and once again shut it, completely speechless. Then she burst into tears.

"Heeeey." Elvis pulled her into his arms and offered awkward comfort. His good hand patted her, his jaw rubbed her hair away from her eyes, his prosthesis rubbed up and down her back. "Hey, don't cry, now. It's gonna be okay, Em, I promise you. It's not like I expect you to isolate yourself from everybody. Sam and Clare can know where we are, and so can Ruby, if you want. Okay? I just don't think it's a good idea for anybody else—"

Her sobs escalated.

"Oh, Em, baby, don't cry."

She clutched his shirtfront in both fists and bawled her eyes out. She honest-to-God wasn't alone anymore—only now was it fully sinking in. There had been times recently when sheer nerve alone had kept her going, but she had Elvis now to help her keep Gracie safe. Really had Elvis, not just as an upholder of the law but as a man who, because he loved both her and Grace Melina, had a stake in seeing that no harm came to them. The realization flooded her with such relief, her emotions had simply given way. "I love you, cher," she sobbed and banged her forehead on his chest. "I love you so much."

"Yeah, I can see that you're all kinds of happy."

A little laugh sputtered out of her, and Emma reached up to take an inelegant swipe at her nose with the back of her hand. Fighting her emotions to a standstill, she peered up at him. "I am, Elvis; God, I am. Only it's just sort of like"—she dashed away tears with the sides of her fingers—"you know those things you hear about hostages? About how they stay so strong under all sorts of adverse conditions . . . and then some random kindness breaks 'em? You made arrangements to get Gracie out of here and into some place safe. It pushed all my buttons."

Elvis shook his head. "I can see I'm probably never going to understand you, Emma, even if I live to be an old, old man," he said. Reluctantly turning her loose, he stepped back and gave her face a thorough inspection, paying particular attention to her eyes. "Listen, are you going to be all right if I leave you alone here to get your stuff together? Just for a little while?"