Read Online Kiss of the Sun by R.K. Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R.K. Jackson
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Someone who wanted to fuck around with us.”
“Do you think we should call the police?” Martha asked.
Jarrell stared at the rain rolling down the windshield of the Monte Carlo. “I don’t know.”
“We could call that police lieutenant, now that I have his direct number.”
Jarrell grabbed the door handle. “Yeah, I think Somis is all right. Let’s go inside and make the call.”
Upstairs, after they’d dried off with a couple of white towels that said BEST WESTERN in beige letters across the center, Jarrell dialed the number from the police lieutenant’s card. “May I speak to Lieutenant Somis?” he said into his iPhone. He looked up at Martha. “They’re putting me through to voicemail.”
Jarrell left a callback number, then tucked the business card into his pocket. He took the amulet from the shoebox and placed it on the room’s small desk. He lifted it by the thong, careful to avoid touching the amulet itself.
“What are you doing?” Martha asked.
“I’m going to send him a photo.”
Jarrell took the picture with his phone, typed in the email from the business card, attached the photo, and sent it. Then he put the phone on the desk, tore a sheet of paper from the notepad, and folded the amulet inside it. He turned and looked at Martha. The rain had made his tank top nearly see-through.
“Jarrell, I’m scared. I’m worried about what I might have stirred up.”
She fought back a selfish impulse to put her arms around him, just to hold him for a moment and try to reassure herself that everything was going to be all right. Jarrell must have read her mind or her expression, because he stepped closer and gave her a hug. “Everything’s going to be cool,” he said. “This could be a good thing. I don’t see how they can help but reopen the case now and take a closer look.”
With their bodies pressed together, she could feel both of them responding. Martha looked up at him, and his eyes were like dark eddies, swirling, questioning. Then her hands were exploring his back and shoulders, the slightly damp, lovely contours, and he began to gently caress her back. Martha closed her eyes, and for a moment the hotel room was gone, her fear was gone.
The iPhone buzzed on the desk across from the bed. “I better get that,” Jarrell said, releasing her. “Maybe it’s him.” Martha nodded, stepped back, adjusted her hair.
“Yes,” Jarrell said, holding the phone to his ear. “Thanks for calling back.” Then his eyes narrowed as he listened. “No, no one else here. Just Martha and me. We’re in her hotel room.” Jarrell glanced at his wristwatch. “Sure, we can make it.” He ended the call.
“Was it the lieutenant?” Martha asked.
“Yeah. He said he wants us to meet him at Panola Mountain State Park at six P.M. ”
—
As they pulled into the visitor center of the park, eighteen miles south of Atlanta, the rain had stopped, but a ceiling of clouds hung just above the pines and sycamores lining the roadside, making the hour seem later than it was. The visitor center was closing, and a couple of stragglers were getting into their cars and leaving.
Jarrell pulled into a spot and looked at his watch. “Not quite six,” he said, and rolled down his window with the hand crank. Martha followed suit, letting in the cool night air. She looked to her right, out the open car window, and saw a black Lexus parked one space over. The driver’s side window was down, and Martha could see a man sitting in the driver’s seat. The man was bald and unusually pale. His skin looked like the sheath of fat on a frozen rib roast. He turned his head directly toward her. He wore reflective aviator sunglasses, even though the sky was sunless.
“Jarrell,” Martha whispered, touching him on the knee. “Jarrell, look.”
“What is it?”
When she turned back to look at the man again, the tinted window on the Lexus was rising. “That man parked next to us, he…” The window closed and she heard
“Do you think we should call the police?” Martha asked.
Jarrell stared at the rain rolling down the windshield of the Monte Carlo. “I don’t know.”
“We could call that police lieutenant, now that I have his direct number.”
Jarrell grabbed the door handle. “Yeah, I think Somis is all right. Let’s go inside and make the call.”
Upstairs, after they’d dried off with a couple of white towels that said BEST WESTERN in beige letters across the center, Jarrell dialed the number from the police lieutenant’s card. “May I speak to Lieutenant Somis?” he said into his iPhone. He looked up at Martha. “They’re putting me through to voicemail.”
Jarrell left a callback number, then tucked the business card into his pocket. He took the amulet from the shoebox and placed it on the room’s small desk. He lifted it by the thong, careful to avoid touching the amulet itself.
“What are you doing?” Martha asked.
“I’m going to send him a photo.”
Jarrell took the picture with his phone, typed in the email from the business card, attached the photo, and sent it. Then he put the phone on the desk, tore a sheet of paper from the notepad, and folded the amulet inside it. He turned and looked at Martha. The rain had made his tank top nearly see-through.
“Jarrell, I’m scared. I’m worried about what I might have stirred up.”
She fought back a selfish impulse to put her arms around him, just to hold him for a moment and try to reassure herself that everything was going to be all right. Jarrell must have read her mind or her expression, because he stepped closer and gave her a hug. “Everything’s going to be cool,” he said. “This could be a good thing. I don’t see how they can help but reopen the case now and take a closer look.”
With their bodies pressed together, she could feel both of them responding. Martha looked up at him, and his eyes were like dark eddies, swirling, questioning. Then her hands were exploring his back and shoulders, the slightly damp, lovely contours, and he began to gently caress her back. Martha closed her eyes, and for a moment the hotel room was gone, her fear was gone.
The iPhone buzzed on the desk across from the bed. “I better get that,” Jarrell said, releasing her. “Maybe it’s him.” Martha nodded, stepped back, adjusted her hair.
“Yes,” Jarrell said, holding the phone to his ear. “Thanks for calling back.” Then his eyes narrowed as he listened. “No, no one else here. Just Martha and me. We’re in her hotel room.” Jarrell glanced at his wristwatch. “Sure, we can make it.” He ended the call.
“Was it the lieutenant?” Martha asked.
“Yeah. He said he wants us to meet him at Panola Mountain State Park at six P.M. ”
—
As they pulled into the visitor center of the park, eighteen miles south of Atlanta, the rain had stopped, but a ceiling of clouds hung just above the pines and sycamores lining the roadside, making the hour seem later than it was. The visitor center was closing, and a couple of stragglers were getting into their cars and leaving.
Jarrell pulled into a spot and looked at his watch. “Not quite six,” he said, and rolled down his window with the hand crank. Martha followed suit, letting in the cool night air. She looked to her right, out the open car window, and saw a black Lexus parked one space over. The driver’s side window was down, and Martha could see a man sitting in the driver’s seat. The man was bald and unusually pale. His skin looked like the sheath of fat on a frozen rib roast. He turned his head directly toward her. He wore reflective aviator sunglasses, even though the sky was sunless.
“Jarrell,” Martha whispered, touching him on the knee. “Jarrell, look.”
“What is it?”
When she turned back to look at the man again, the tinted window on the Lexus was rising. “That man parked next to us, he…” The window closed and she heard
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