Read Online Shadow Tag (The Ray Schiller Series - Book 2) by Marjorie Doering - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marjorie Doering
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wouldn’t be as slow a process.
The telephone was suddenly in his hand—eleven digits between him and home. He dialed, his stomach tightening as he waited, unsure what he would say if Gail answered. Three rings later, a babysitter answered. Gail was out. Laurie was at a sleep-over, and Krista was in the tub. He gave the sitter his new phone number, asking her to pass it along to Gail. “Tell Krista I sent a big hug and kiss, will you?” he said before hanging up.
He wondered where Gail had gone. One thing was for damn sure: she wasn’t with Mark Haney—wouldn’t be ever again. He and his Smith and Wesson had seen to that. His stomach knotted at thoughts of the accidental shooting. He pushed the remote control buttons for the TV without really seeing or hearing, let alone caring what each change produced. As his eyelids grew unbearably heavy, Ray’s body surrendered to sleep, but his subconscious gave him no rest.
In his mind’s eye, boxes were again piled in high stacks to his right, his left, all around. The obstructed lighting in Mark Haney’s hardware store basement cast shadows at cockeyed angles in all directions. Across Ray’s forehead and upper lip, a sheen of perspiration appeared as the nightmare mirrored the actual events.
Gun drawn, he moved with care through the maze of pathways amidst the disarray. He detected movement. Close. Too close. A pall of foreboding overcame him. “Police.” His repeated, unacknowledged warnings thundered in his subconscious. His skin prickled as if an electrical charge were dancing over his arms. The attack came—a murky silhouette, hurtling toward him in a downpour of heavy, tumbling cardboard towers. Pain. Momentary darkness.
A thunderclap of sound brought Ray painfully upright, his eyes wide open, his hand reaching for his absent gun. The room was no longer dim, his living room no longer a store basement. The sound proved to be nothing more than a knock on his apartment door, not the blast from his police revolver that killed his estranged wife’s lover. His confusion lifted as he tried to shake off the latest replay. He blotted the perspiration from his face with a forearm and headed for the door.
Another knock.
“Hang on, I’m coming.” As he swung the door open, the man on the other side extended a large, flat box in his direction. Across the white paper sleeve covering the pizza box, he saw the unlikely name “Bubba’s” in bold, scarlet script. A smaller form of the same script on the bottom left-hand corner announced, “Bubba sends his best.”
Ray reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“Don’t bother. It’s on me.”
“What?”
“It’s the least I can do for yanking your chain before.”
The man was softly handsome. Mid to late twenties, Ray guessed. Waves of thick chestnut-colored hair framed the intelligent face and wide-set hazel eyes. Behind the lips parted in a broad smile there were white, even teeth.
Ray shook off his sleep fog and studied the face more closely. “Patti?”
“Make it Patrick.” Patrick Gerrard handed the box to him. “I had the pizza delivered to my place so I could bring these over, too.” Reaching down, he grabbed a frozen gel pack and a heating pad lying at his feet. “For your back,” he said. “Cold for inflammation, heat for healing. Keep them as long as you like.”
“Um...thanks.” Ray moved aside. “Want to come in?”
Gerrard stepped inside and set the gel pack and heating pad down on the nearest unpacked box. He made no secret of checking out the room. “Single?” Gerrard laughed at Ray’s awkward pause. “Don’t worry; I’m not casting my net in your direction.” He looked around again. “It’s just that your décor suggests you’re—”
“Separated,” Ray said. “Recently.”
“Sorry to hear that. Listen, I can’t stay. I just wanted to apologize for that Patti thing before. Sometimes I get a kick out of messing with people.”
“Hey, whatever. Your lifestyle’s
The telephone was suddenly in his hand—eleven digits between him and home. He dialed, his stomach tightening as he waited, unsure what he would say if Gail answered. Three rings later, a babysitter answered. Gail was out. Laurie was at a sleep-over, and Krista was in the tub. He gave the sitter his new phone number, asking her to pass it along to Gail. “Tell Krista I sent a big hug and kiss, will you?” he said before hanging up.
He wondered where Gail had gone. One thing was for damn sure: she wasn’t with Mark Haney—wouldn’t be ever again. He and his Smith and Wesson had seen to that. His stomach knotted at thoughts of the accidental shooting. He pushed the remote control buttons for the TV without really seeing or hearing, let alone caring what each change produced. As his eyelids grew unbearably heavy, Ray’s body surrendered to sleep, but his subconscious gave him no rest.
In his mind’s eye, boxes were again piled in high stacks to his right, his left, all around. The obstructed lighting in Mark Haney’s hardware store basement cast shadows at cockeyed angles in all directions. Across Ray’s forehead and upper lip, a sheen of perspiration appeared as the nightmare mirrored the actual events.
Gun drawn, he moved with care through the maze of pathways amidst the disarray. He detected movement. Close. Too close. A pall of foreboding overcame him. “Police.” His repeated, unacknowledged warnings thundered in his subconscious. His skin prickled as if an electrical charge were dancing over his arms. The attack came—a murky silhouette, hurtling toward him in a downpour of heavy, tumbling cardboard towers. Pain. Momentary darkness.
A thunderclap of sound brought Ray painfully upright, his eyes wide open, his hand reaching for his absent gun. The room was no longer dim, his living room no longer a store basement. The sound proved to be nothing more than a knock on his apartment door, not the blast from his police revolver that killed his estranged wife’s lover. His confusion lifted as he tried to shake off the latest replay. He blotted the perspiration from his face with a forearm and headed for the door.
Another knock.
“Hang on, I’m coming.” As he swung the door open, the man on the other side extended a large, flat box in his direction. Across the white paper sleeve covering the pizza box, he saw the unlikely name “Bubba’s” in bold, scarlet script. A smaller form of the same script on the bottom left-hand corner announced, “Bubba sends his best.”
Ray reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“Don’t bother. It’s on me.”
“What?”
“It’s the least I can do for yanking your chain before.”
The man was softly handsome. Mid to late twenties, Ray guessed. Waves of thick chestnut-colored hair framed the intelligent face and wide-set hazel eyes. Behind the lips parted in a broad smile there were white, even teeth.
Ray shook off his sleep fog and studied the face more closely. “Patti?”
“Make it Patrick.” Patrick Gerrard handed the box to him. “I had the pizza delivered to my place so I could bring these over, too.” Reaching down, he grabbed a frozen gel pack and a heating pad lying at his feet. “For your back,” he said. “Cold for inflammation, heat for healing. Keep them as long as you like.”
“Um...thanks.” Ray moved aside. “Want to come in?”
Gerrard stepped inside and set the gel pack and heating pad down on the nearest unpacked box. He made no secret of checking out the room. “Single?” Gerrard laughed at Ray’s awkward pause. “Don’t worry; I’m not casting my net in your direction.” He looked around again. “It’s just that your décor suggests you’re—”
“Separated,” Ray said. “Recently.”
“Sorry to hear that. Listen, I can’t stay. I just wanted to apologize for that Patti thing before. Sometimes I get a kick out of messing with people.”
“Hey, whatever. Your lifestyle’s
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