(LB1) Shakespeare's Champion (17 page)

The assorted minor bruises on my face and arms had faded to a dusty eggplant shade, and the worst ones on my back were at least less painful. My leg felt much better. The cut on my scalp was almost healed and the notch in my ear was somewhat less disgusting.

I had no appetite for lunch, so after eating a piece of fruit at home I decided to go make a necessary purchase, one I’d been putting off for a few days. My workout gloves were falling apart at the seams, literally. Maybe if I got new gloves, I would go back to Body Time. I hadn’t worked out or been to karate since the explosion. I knew I was hardly up to my former routine, but I could be doing abdominal crunches or some biceps work. All my energy seemed to be absorbed in just making my body get through the movements of life, and sometimes I swear I had to remind myself to breathe, it felt like so much trouble. New gloves, a little treat, might set me back on my former track.

Since my street is the bottom stroke of a U-shaped dead end, I had to take a circuitous route to Winthrop Sporting Goods. If I’d wanted to walk up the hill and cross the railroad tracks behind my house, I’d have reached the chain-link fence enclosing the huge back lot of Winthrop Lumber and Supply, which abutted directly onto the equally huge fenced back lot of the sporting goods store. But the fences and the rough ground made walking impractical, especially in my weakened state, so I had to make a ten-minute drive that routed me through a portion of downtown Shakespeare, then off to the right on Finley.

I had too much time to think as I drove, and was scowling when I walked in the front door of Winthrop Sporting Goods. Darcy Orchard looked up, flushed nearly the color of the red store sweatshirt, and flinched in exaggerated terror as I came in.

“You better smile, girl!” he called. “You gonna crack any mirror if you walk by.”

I looked around me. I was always staggered by the sheer size and complexity of Winthrop’s. The building had been remodeled inside any number of times, until now it consisted of a huge central cavern with specialty rooms lining the walls on either side of the store. There was a room for rifles, and one for bows—bow hunting is very popular in Shakespeare. There was a room over on the left wall just for fishing paraphernalia, and another for camping accessories. There was at least an acre of open yard out back for Jet Skis, boats, deer stands, and four-wheelers.

But the main room was full of everything else. There were high racks of camouflage gear in every conceivable shade of green and brown, in sizes down to infant sleepers. There were hunting caps, and insulated socks, and special gloves, and thermoses, and coolers. Life vests screamed in neon orange, deer corn was piled in fifty-pound bags, and oars were arranged in upright racks. There was a display of bottles containing fluids that made you smell like raccoon pee or a doe in heat or a skunk.

There were other clothes for every sport, even a small section for skiing outfits, since the wealthy of Shakespeare went to Colorado when the snow was deep. Every time I came to Winthrop’s, it was to be amazed all over again that a place this size could thrive in a town as small as Shakespeare. But the surrounding area was known for its hunting, and sportsmen came from all over the region to the numerous hunting camps in the deep woods. Engaged couples were known to keep a list of desirable gifts hanging behind the counter. Whole families came from Little Rock to shop at Winthrop Sporting Goods, and there had been a rumor Howell Jr. was going to start sending out a catalog.

I realized as I looked around that the Winthrops must be incredibly rich, on paper at least. I’d seen the evidence in the size of the houses the family lived in, their clothes and jewelry and toys: But seeing the vastness of the store, thinking of the huge lumber and home supply store right next to this place, remembering all the fences I’d seen across areas containing working oil wells marked
WINTHROP OIL, NO ENTRANCE
, the amount of money the family must have in the bank just winded me.

Well, I didn’t want it. All I wanted was gloves.

I would have to safari into the camouflage jungle to reach the little area I wanted, a far hike to the rear if I remembered the store layout correctly. Darcy Orchard seemed to feel I wanted his company, and when he found out what I needed he led me down the narrow middle aisle and veered to the left. I lifted a hand to Jim Box, who was explaining to a teenager why he needed a gun case that would float. The young woman who worked in boating accessories came up and gave me a half-hug and asked about my leg, and one of the men who’d worked in the store for over twenty years—his sweatshirt said so—patted me on the back in the friendliest way, though I hadn’t a clue who he was. These were nice people, and their kindness and their courtesy in not asking questions reminded me of why I’d liked Shakespeare in the first place.

“You can meet the new guy, if you haven’t already. He’s ’bout as mean as you,” Darcy said in that jocular tone some men reserve for insults they don’t want you to take them up on. I suddenly remembered who the new man was, suddenly and for the first time realized…Just as a jolt of alarm went through me, I made myself pay attention to Darcy.

Darcy’s voice had been offhand, but something in his tone had made the hair on my neck stand up. “You sure turn up in funny places,” he said now. “You in the Winthrop house when it’s not your day to work, you in the church when everyone going to that meeting is black.”

“Did your wife tell you everything she was going to do, Darcy?”

I recalled he been married for six years or so, though he’d been divorced as long as I’d known him.

“My wife had more plans than the Pentagon,” Darcy said grimly, but he seemed to relax.

We rounded a corner consisting of men’s jumpsuits (very popular in Shakespeare) which led us into the small open area devoted to workout equipment and workout clothes.

Reading the instructions for an abdominal exerciser gadget, with a skeptical sideways pull to his lips, was the detective, Black Ponytail. I’d just figured out who I was going to see, but he didn’t have any warning. I admired the calm with which he took me in. His hands tightened on the brochure, but that was the only outward sign that we weren’t seeing each other for the first time.

“Lily, this is Jared Fletcher,” Darcy said. “He’s got those abs of steel, don’t you, Jared?”

His name wasn’t Jared. I knew him now. He’d had the same skeptical look in the newspaper photos. I could feel my breath shorten.

“Jared, this is Lily, the toughest woman in Shakespeare.” Darcy completed the introduction with relish. “You two ought to hit it off great.”

Even Darcy seemed to realize there was something tense in the ensuing silence.

“You two already know each other?” he asked, his beige head turning from me to “Jared” and back again.

“I’ve seen Lily at the gym,” the new man said easily. “But we’ve never actually met.”

“Oh, sure.” Darcy’s face cleared. “I’ll leave you two to it, then. Jared, Miss Lily here needs herself some new gloves. Might oughta sell her some body armor, too, since she seems to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What size?” the dark man asked as Darcy reluctantly went back to his work area.

I held out my hand. “What do you think?” I asked, meeting his eyes.

He took my hand with his right and stepped closer to me. This area of the store seemed isolated and silent, suddenly, though I knew there were people just through the dense racks of clothes. His other hand reached up to touch the bruise on my forehead. Among my other injuries, the place he’d bopped me had paled into insignificance.

“Sorry,” he said. He was so close I was afraid he could hear my pulse. I laid my finger on his wrist. I felt his blood leap. The apathy that had lain on my shoulders like a fog seemed to be lifting.

“Gloves,” I reminded him. My voice was scratchy.

“Right,” he said, stepping away. He looked around him like the new employee he was. “Jared” hadn’t had much time to get acclimated.

“There,” I pointed. “Women’s mediums?”

“We have some in black,” he said.

“Black is okay.”

He pulled down a plastic container and popped it open. “You better try them on.”

Again I held out my hand, and he wriggled the glove over my fingers, wrapping the strap around my wrist and Velcroing it snugly. I flexed my fingers, made a fist, looked at him. He smiled, and deep arcs appeared on each side of his mouth. The smile changed him totally, threw me off balance.

“Don’t hit me here. Save it for later,” he murmured. “You’re quite a fighter.” I remembered I’d bitten him on the ear. I looked at it. It looked better than mine.

It had been a long time since I’d met someone new. It had been even longer since I’d met someone who apparently didn’t know who I was.

“Lived here long?” he asked, as if we’d just seen each other for the first time and he was introducing a standard conversational gambit. I looked down at the glove on my right hand, considered the fit.

“Over four years,” I said, holding out my left hand.

“And you have your own maid service?”

“I clean houses and run errands,” I said a little sharply. “I work by myself.”

His fingers stroked my hand as he pulled the other glove on.

“Do you think they’re too tight?” I asked, pantomiming a
seiken zuki
strike to get the feel of the glove. I was able to curl my fingers more easily than I’d thought. I practiced a hammer fist strike. I’d looked at the price tag. The gloves were very expensive, and I’d better be sure they suited me. I picked up one of the twenty-pound barbells, gripped it, raised it over my head. It was a very unpleasant surprise to find it felt heavy.

“They’ll loosen a little. Lily is a pretty name.”

I shot him a look.

He looked back steadily. “I know you live next to my apartment building. But if I wanted to call you, how are you listed in the phone book?”

As if he couldn’t ask Howell. Or anyone else in town, for that matter. I put down the barbell very gently. I’d enjoyed a few minutes of feeling normal.

“Bard,” I said. “My name is Lily Bard.” I knew he would remember.

Because I didn’t want to see the look on his face, I took the package the gloves had come in from his suddenly still hands, walked out of the area stripping off the gloves. I paid for them at the front counter, exchanging a few idle words with Al Ferrar, a big, friendly redheaded man whose fingers seemed too large to punch the cash register keys. The hunting bows were behind him, and I stared at them as he rang up the purchase. The arrowheads hung in bubble containers on the wall behind him some so wickedly sharp, like four razors joined together, that I could hardly believe the user wouldn’t be frightened to fit them on the shafts. When Al handed me the plastic bag with the gloves in it, I stared at him blankly for a minute and then left the store.

I stood looking up into the sky when I’d reached my car, lost in the gray emptiness of an overcast November day. Wet leaves had piled up in the lower parts of the parking lot. It was going to rain again that evening, the weatherman had predicted. I heard footsteps behind me. The apathy washed back over me, a wave that pulled me under. I was so tired I could scarcely move. I wished the coming scene to be over and done with, wished I could go somewhere else while it was accomplished.

“Why’d you run out like that?”

“You’d better go back to your area, or you’ll blow your cover.”

“I’m working,” he said harshly.

“Night and day. At the store and elsewhere, Jack.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Look at me, dammit.”

It would have seemed too affected not to, so I stopped looking at the bleak sky and looked instead at Jack Leeds’s bleak face.

“I get a hard-on every time I see you,” he said.

“Try sending me roses. It’s a little more subtle.”

He gazed off at a corner of the asphalt. He’d come out without a jacket. I was meanly glad to see him shiver.

“OK. I’ll start over,” he said through gritted teeth. “You know I’m working, and you know what I am.”

He waited for me to nod. To get it over with, I did.

“I am not seeing anyone right now. I’ve been divorced twice, but you may remember that from the papers.”

I leaned against my car, feeling far away, glad to be there.

With the speed of a snake, he ran his hand under my jacket and T-shirt, placing it flat on my ribs. I gasped and flinched, but his hand stayed there, warm and firm.

“Move your hand,” I said, my voice ragged.

“Got your attention. Listen to me. This job in Shakespeare will come to an end. I want to see you then.”

I shivered, standing stock-still, rigid, taken by surprise. His fingers moved against my skin, touching the scars gently. A silver pickup pulled into the space two vehicles away and the driver gave us a curious look. I chopped down on Jack Leeds’s wrist, knocking his hand from its intimate lodgment.

“I have to go to work, Jared,” I said numbly, and got in my car and backed up, avoiding looking at him again.

CARRIE WAS COMING
to supper tonight and I thought about what I’d fix, not one of my usual frozen-ahead dishes that I prepared on Sundays to carry me through the week. Maybe fettuccine with ham…or chili would be good, on such a chilly gray day, but I didn’t have enough time to let it simmer.

Keeping my thoughts to a simple minimum, I managed my afternoon well. It was a relief to go home, to allow myself ten minutes in my favorite chair reading a news magazine. Then I set to work, tossing a salad, preparing the fettuccine, heating some garlic bread, chopping the ham. When Carrie knocked on the front door, I was ready.

“Those morons at the hospital!” she said, sliding out of her coat, tossing her gloves on the table.

“Hello to you, too.”

“You’d think they could see the handwriting on the wall. Everyone else can.” The tiny Shakespeare Hospital was in perpetual crisis trying to maintain its accreditation, with no adequate budget to supply its lacks, which were legion.

I let Carrie bear the brunt of the conversation, which she seemed quite willing to do. There were few people Carrie could talk to, as a woman and a doctor and an outlander from northern Arkansas. I knew from previous talks with Carrie that she had gotten a loan to attend medical school. The terms of the loan stipulated that she had to go to somewhere other doctors didn’t want to go and stay there for four years; and other doctors didn’t want to go to Shakespeare. Carrie was one of four local GPs, who all made a decent living, but for more specialized medical care Shakespeareans had to travel to Montrose, or in dire need, Little Rock.