detectives instead of one.
Bonny was surprised that Pat actually appreciated Tess McCrae’s help. Even a year ago, that would not have been the case. Although Pat was pugnacious as ever, Bonny had a strong feeling that his mind wasn’t on business anymore. Bonny thought he knew why. Pat’s priorities had changed.
Bonny, himself a widower, knew plenty of friends who’d lost their wives. Most of them wanted to get married again, and usually did so within a year. They liked being married so much they wanted to repeat the experience. In Pat’s case, his wife didn’t hadn’t died. She’d left him. But damned if old Pat wasn’t desperate to get himself back into holy matrimony as soon as possible. He’d courted just about every woman in town, including the new deputy.
Tess McCrae had put paid to that in a hurry. Rare ability, to shoot a guy down and be able to work with him the next day.
Ed whined, then lay down on the floor, inconvenienced but patient.
“In a minute,” Bonny said to the old dog. He punched in the home number for Harry McCrae, a sergeant with Las Cruces PD in New Mexico. Harry answered on the first ring.
“How’s my niece working out?” Harry McCrae asked.
“Oh, she’s fine,” Bonny said. “Remind me again what happened in Albuquerque?”
“Not much to tell. She found her husband in bed with a young woman and got mad, is all.”
“Way I heard it she trained her gun on them.”
“That’s what she testified to.”
Bonny was silent.
“She’s not like that,” Harry said.
“I know.” “Hair-trigger” wasn’t a term Bonny would use for his star deputy. He didn’t even know why he was bringing it up. He and Harry’d had the selfsame conversation when he’d thought about hiring her eight months ago. “She threw the gun out the window?”
“It hit the window and cracked the glass.”
“Misfired, as I recall.”
“Nobody was hurt.”
“Still.”
“What is it you’re getting at, Bonny? You regretting bringing her on board?”
“No, that’s not it.” Might as well give it voice. “I’m thinking of making her detective tomorrow. Am I doing the right thing?”
No hesitation at all: “If you have the good sense God gave a goose, you’ll do it.”
Chapter Eleven
M AX AWOKE IN the middle of a conversation. It took him a moment to realize the conversation was not in his head, but nearby.
His head ached. He wanted to sit up but was afraid if he did, he’d vomit. So he lay there like an aching tooth, eyes squeezed shut. The conversation went on in his head, or around his head, or a few feet away.
“Look, Corey, I said we’d split it three ways. What more do you want?”
Max recognized the voice. Luther, the motel clerk. His host.
“Just sayin’, it don’t work out, who’s gonna be takin’ out the trash?”
“There’s no risk. It’s not like he’s some bum we picked up off the street. They’ll pay through the nose to get him back.”
“I’m the one’d be taking the risk. More risk, more remuneration is all. I can’t see you doin’ it. I’m the guy who risked my ass in Tikrit.”
“And I appreciate that, I really do. But we’re splitting it three ways. That’s only fair. Wait a minute.”
Max heard a scrape, the sound of boots on concrete. The air stirred above him, vile breath in his face. “You awake, Max?”
“He’s waking up ?”
“Max, you awake, buddy?”
Play dead.
“You’re not fooling me,” Luther said. He dashed some cold water on Max’s face.
Max opened his eyes. It hurt to open them. Luther’s face loomed like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon, and his breath smelled like the lining of a birdcage.
Max squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. Dizziness followed. He was in a vortex, spiraling down inside the blackness.
After what might have been minutes—or it might have been hours—he was awake again.
“Maxie, oh, Max ie! Wakey up py.”
Max opened one eye.
“That Coca-Cola has one hell of a kick,
Bonny was surprised that Pat actually appreciated Tess McCrae’s help. Even a year ago, that would not have been the case. Although Pat was pugnacious as ever, Bonny had a strong feeling that his mind wasn’t on business anymore. Bonny thought he knew why. Pat’s priorities had changed.
Bonny, himself a widower, knew plenty of friends who’d lost their wives. Most of them wanted to get married again, and usually did so within a year. They liked being married so much they wanted to repeat the experience. In Pat’s case, his wife didn’t hadn’t died. She’d left him. But damned if old Pat wasn’t desperate to get himself back into holy matrimony as soon as possible. He’d courted just about every woman in town, including the new deputy.
Tess McCrae had put paid to that in a hurry. Rare ability, to shoot a guy down and be able to work with him the next day.
Ed whined, then lay down on the floor, inconvenienced but patient.
“In a minute,” Bonny said to the old dog. He punched in the home number for Harry McCrae, a sergeant with Las Cruces PD in New Mexico. Harry answered on the first ring.
“How’s my niece working out?” Harry McCrae asked.
“Oh, she’s fine,” Bonny said. “Remind me again what happened in Albuquerque?”
“Not much to tell. She found her husband in bed with a young woman and got mad, is all.”
“Way I heard it she trained her gun on them.”
“That’s what she testified to.”
Bonny was silent.
“She’s not like that,” Harry said.
“I know.” “Hair-trigger” wasn’t a term Bonny would use for his star deputy. He didn’t even know why he was bringing it up. He and Harry’d had the selfsame conversation when he’d thought about hiring her eight months ago. “She threw the gun out the window?”
“It hit the window and cracked the glass.”
“Misfired, as I recall.”
“Nobody was hurt.”
“Still.”
“What is it you’re getting at, Bonny? You regretting bringing her on board?”
“No, that’s not it.” Might as well give it voice. “I’m thinking of making her detective tomorrow. Am I doing the right thing?”
No hesitation at all: “If you have the good sense God gave a goose, you’ll do it.”
Chapter Eleven
M AX AWOKE IN the middle of a conversation. It took him a moment to realize the conversation was not in his head, but nearby.
His head ached. He wanted to sit up but was afraid if he did, he’d vomit. So he lay there like an aching tooth, eyes squeezed shut. The conversation went on in his head, or around his head, or a few feet away.
“Look, Corey, I said we’d split it three ways. What more do you want?”
Max recognized the voice. Luther, the motel clerk. His host.
“Just sayin’, it don’t work out, who’s gonna be takin’ out the trash?”
“There’s no risk. It’s not like he’s some bum we picked up off the street. They’ll pay through the nose to get him back.”
“I’m the one’d be taking the risk. More risk, more remuneration is all. I can’t see you doin’ it. I’m the guy who risked my ass in Tikrit.”
“And I appreciate that, I really do. But we’re splitting it three ways. That’s only fair. Wait a minute.”
Max heard a scrape, the sound of boots on concrete. The air stirred above him, vile breath in his face. “You awake, Max?”
“He’s waking up ?”
“Max, you awake, buddy?”
Play dead.
“You’re not fooling me,” Luther said. He dashed some cold water on Max’s face.
Max opened his eyes. It hurt to open them. Luther’s face loomed like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon, and his breath smelled like the lining of a birdcage.
Max squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. Dizziness followed. He was in a vortex, spiraling down inside the blackness.
After what might have been minutes—or it might have been hours—he was awake again.
“Maxie, oh, Max ie! Wakey up py.”
Max opened one eye.
“That Coca-Cola has one hell of a kick,
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