Trial by Fire (27 page)

As though Kat didn’t have a brain in her head and couldn’t possibly take care of herself.

Yeah, the big picture was idyllic. Who wouldn’t want a handsome giant of a man taking care of her every need?

The real problem? He never
asked
.

Howard was used to issuing orders and having everyone around him jump to carry them out. Kat didn’t take orders well at all, especially when they took over her life. No matter his good intentions and worry for her safety, the friction between them on the issue had congealed into a hard knot of stress.

To top that off, for all his wonderful qualities, Howard was a serial bachelor. Private in his thoughts, if not in regard to his space. Unused to explaining himself or having a meaningful conversation that didn’t lead swiftly away from the topic of their future.

Their roadblocks might’ve been easier to handle if she didn’t suspect the root of his emotional distance was much more serious than it appeared. He was afraid to open himself to hurt and betrayal.

Howard was afraid to love.

Worse, he simply didn’t seem to realize he was trying to fit her into his existing lifestyle, rather than discovering a new, mutually satisfying one. Together. Depending on his mood, she felt like a temporary lover or a scolded child, not a true partner. A classic, easy-to-identify downer—not so easy to fix.

“Are we having fun yet?” Scowling, she dug in Howard’s fridge for the stuff she’d bought at the store to make hoagie sandwiches. Tossing the deli ham and other ingredients onto the counter, she couldn’t help but overhear Howard’s side of the phone call from Detective Ford.

“I’m telling you, I’ve never seen the thing before,” he said, sounding puzzled. “I’m positive. Why did her parents wait so long to clue you in?”

What on earth was he talking about? She sliced the hoagie rolls with a bread knife as Howard listened to Ford’s answer, then went on.

“Beats me. Motives are your specialty, not mine.” Pause. “Yeah, except for the standard calls, almost eerie. Why do you think that is?”

Listening intently, she spread mustard over the rolls and began to layer the sandwiches with ham, lettuce, cheese, and tomato.

“Ah. Makes sense. Well, we can always pray he gets tired of playing and moves on, huh?” Pause. “Sure. I’m back on shift Tuesday. If anything new happens, you’ll be the first—correction, make that second or third—to know.”

And that’s what she was so damned afraid of, she couldn’t breathe. What was the killer waiting for? A convenient target? An opportunity to strike after he’d stretched Howard’s nerves to the breaking point? What?

And of all men, why
Howard
?

The awful questions bounced around in her frightened brain, demanding answers that remained elusive. Placing the hoagies on paper plates, she garnished them with potato chips and carried the plates to the dining table. And suddenly, indoors seemed far too stifling to enjoy a simple meal. Maybe eating on the deck would cheer them both.

“Do you want to eat in here or—” She broke off at the sight of her big guy sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands. “Oh, honey. What did Ford say?”

“Not much.”

The ensuing tense silence was like a drawbridge being raised on an impenetrable castle made of twenty-foot thick stone walls.

Lunch forgotten, she approached him cautiously. “Sounded pretty significant to me.”

“Nothing wrong with your hearing, I see.” Scrubbing his face, he looked at her, brown gaze flat.

O-kay.
Bristling, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “I couldn’t help but hear, Lieutenant. This isn’t a very big house, and you don’t exactly have a soft voice.” Cocking one hip, she studied his miserable expression, his grim mouth set in an unyielding line. No, she wasn’t going to get sidetracked by tender emotions again.

“Furthermore, I’m involved up to my neck, as evidenced by your he-man-protects-woman routine. For over two weeks, I’ve barely seen the inside of my apartment!”

“Funny, I haven’t heard any complaints until now. Especially when we make human fruit salad—”

“I’m not complaining about the sex, you jackass. I want to know what’s going on with you, and not just with Ford’s case. I need you to talk to me.”

“Oh, boy. Here we go.”

No kidding.
Looks like we’re heading for our first melt-down, folks.
And she didn’t know how to avert it, other than giving in and letting him crawl back into his shell. Which she wasn’t about to do. Her stomach started to hurt.

“I’m spinning my wheels here, Howard. I get the feeling I’m about a day shy of my Flavor of the Month pass expiring.”

He gaped at her in disbelief. “That’s so not true. I enjoy having you here, and I don’t want you to go anywhere. ”

Enjoy? Well, wasn’t that frickin’ nice. “You can get the same loyalty out of a golden retriever, buddy.” She snapped her fingers. “But no sex. Unless you’re one sick puppy, no pun intended.”

Howard rose from the sofa. “Are you
trying
to pick a fight?”

Oh, he was getting good and pissed. And six-and-a-half-feet of solid, angry man was enough to make her take a step backward before she could check herself. “No. I want you to tell me about your nightmares. You don’t sleep much, and when you do . . .” Spreading her hands, she struggled to make him understand. “Do you honestly think I wouldn’t try to help? To be there for you when you need me?”

A muscle in his jaw clenched. “You can’t help. Not with this.”

“Dammit, Howard! It’s fine for you to order me around for my own good, but you can’t meet me halfway?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

Blowing out a deep breath, she studied her tennis shoes. Counted to ten. She’d have to find another way to crack this nut, but it wasn’t going to happen now. “Why don’t you at least tell me about Ford’s call while we eat? You
did
promise not to leave me out of the loop.”

Eying her warily, he nodded. “All right. Like I said, not much to tell.” He trailed her to the table. “Sandwiches look great.”

“Thanks. Go on.” Taking a bite of her hoagie, she waited.

“Ford says the killer has gone quiet since the party because he’s probably having trouble finding another good target in Station Five’s sector. He either doesn’t know he could carry out his deed in a nearby sector and we’d still have to respond, or he does and just wants to be sure I arrive first.”

“That’s what I thought, too. He’s got a pretty limited area to work with, but he’ll wait because he’s getting off by putting you and the guys through hell.”

“And doing a slam-bang job.” He sighed, picking at his potato chips. “I’m not sure I mentioned this before, but when the killer left Lorna Miller’s cell phone on my bunk, there was a lady’s ring with it.”

Her stomach pitched even more, and her sandwich didn’t want to go down. “No, you didn’t say anything about a ring. What kind?”

“An engagement or wedding ring with a solitaire diamond setting. Not too fancy. There was dried blood on it.”

“But the jewelry didn’t belong to either of the victims, ” she surmised, putting together his conversation with Ford.

“Right.”

“That’s . . . weird.”

“Yeah. Tell me.”

“What about the dried blood?” Ick. What a topic to discuss over food. Now that she had him talking, however, she wasn’t going to let her chance slip.

“Wasn’t theirs, either. Wrong type.”

“A previous victim, then,” she mused. “One we don’t know about. But what does this mean to you?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Ford thinks the ring is significant.” Howard shrugged, gazing at his plate, stiff posture and lines bracketing his mouth giving evidence to his distress and exhaustion.

“What do you believe?”

He barked a humorless laugh. “That a one-way ticket to Tahiti sounds great.”

Again, the wall, posted with signs shouting NO TRESPASSING. The subtle rebuff hurt, and she had to work hard not to let her disappointment show. “Why didn’t Miller’s parents realize sooner that the ring wasn’t hers?”

“They didn’t have it; Homicide did. The cell phone was Miller’s, so the police had no reason to think the ring wasn’t. Yesterday morning, Ford released the items to her parents and they said they’ve never seen it before. So Ford showed it around to the friends and family of both victims. Nothing.”

“It was left for you. Are you sure you’ve never seen it?” He shook his head no, and she took another bite of her sandwich, chewing on both the food and the mystery. Howard didn’t seem inclined to do either. “You’re not eating.”

“Sorry.” Contrite, he took a huge bite. He’d barely started chowing down when his eyes rounded and he gagged. Clapping a hand over his mouth, he shot to his feet so fast his chair toppled backward.

“Howard, what—”

But he was already bolting toward his bedroom. The door at the end of the hallway slammed, making her flinch. Alarmed, she sat staring at his abandoned food, unsure what had just happened. Was the meat bad?

Picking up his hoagie, she lifted the bread and sniffed. Smelled fresh, but she pinched off a bit of ham to be certain, and tasted. No, the food was fine. Then why . . .

“Oh, no.”

Tomato. She’d put tomatoes on his sandwich!

Crap, he’d told her tomatoes made him sick. In her defense, he’d said that weeks ago, and she hadn’t thought of it since.

An apology on her lips, Kat hurried to his bedroom door. No greeting met her knock, and she debated whether to go back to the table and wait or enter uninvited.

No, she couldn’t just leave him without knowing whether he was all right. Lord, what if he was allergic or something? Turning the knob, she pushed open the door and peered inside. He wasn’t in the room, but she noticed the bathroom door was closed. As she crept closer, she heard the distinct sound of retching.

Feeling terrible, she hovered, torn between going to his aid and giving him privacy. Just then, the awful noises ceased. She waited, anxious to tell him how sorry she was that her forgetfulness made him ill.

One full minute passed, then two, but Howard didn’t emerge. Steeling herself, she rapped softly on the door. “Howard? Can I come in?”

Faint, muffled sounds reached her ears. Telltale noises she’d heard in the dead of night as he lay in the grip of his nightmares, but never in broad daylight. Not like this.

Slowly, she pushed open the door. . . . And her heart sank into her stomach.

Howard sat on the tile floor with his back against the porcelain tub, arms wrapped tight around his middle. Eyes screwed shut, he was gasping in harsh, sobbing breaths. His knees were drawn up, head bent as though to ward off invisible blows.

“Oh, God!” Rushing to his side, she knelt and cupped his smooth cheek. His skin was cool, clammy. “Honey, I’m so sorry! I totally forgot about the tomatoes! Are you having a reaction of some kind? Do you need a doctor?”

“No.” He jerked from her touch.

All right. Perhaps he simply didn’t like her seeing him sick. She laid a hand on his shoulder instead. “What can I get you? Some water?” Sure. Like water was going to fix whatever was wrong. But she had to do
something.

“Don’t,” he pleaded in a broken voice, hugging his belly tighter. Drawing his body inward. “Please . . . I won’t tell. . . .”

Kat froze. Realization leached the blood from her face, shot novocaine through her veins. Howard wasn’t speaking to her at all, but to someone else entirely. God, he didn’t even know she was here!

He was ensnared in terror, begging an unseen tormentor for mercy. Was this post-traumatic stress syndrome? If so, what had triggered the episode?

A slice of freaking
tomato
?

“Shhh, sweetie,” she soothed, stroking his bicep. “It’s me, Kat. Come back to me, big guy.”

He groaned something unintelligible, but didn’t withdraw farther. Encouraged, she continued to whisper comforting phrases as the tension gradually seeped from his muscles. His breathing slowed to normal and he shuddered, lifting his head.

“Kat?” He turned his head and gazed into her face, his pupils huge. “What . . . what are you doing in here?”

“Making sure you’re all right,” she said carefully. “How do you feel?”

“Queasy.” Glancing around the bathroom, he appeared confused. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

His voice emerged as a croak. “Not really. I ate some tomato and I got sick. Ran back here. Must’ve passed out for a minute.”

Sweet Lord, he really didn’t know! “Howard, you didn’t lose consciousness.”

“I must have. I woke up—”

“Honey, you weren’t out.” She hesitated, wondering how to break this to him when she didn’t know the right term to use. “You were having some sort of . . . flashback. You were afraid, pleading with someone and saying you wouldn’t tell.”

Howard stared at her. Swallowed hard. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m just relating what I saw. You were terrified, and I think the tomato triggered this—this episode somehow. Hear me out,” she said when he started to interrupt.

“You have nightmares every time you fall into a deep sleep. I don’t know how this ties in with what just happened, or whether it does. Maybe this is all due to the stress you’re under with this maniac hounding you. But, sweetie, I think you ought to consider seeing someone. A good counselor—”