The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10)

The Last Kind Word (Mac McKenzie #10) Page 21

“You’re a violent man.”

“On the contrary. There are few people as laid-back as I am. I just happen to live in a world where violence is always an option, sometimes the only option. You live in that world now, too, whether you care to admit it or not. You’re carrying guns into the grocery store tomorrow, aren’t you? Tell me, JoEllen, if it all goes bad, if someone gets between you and the door, will you shoot him? Will you take his life just so you can pay your bills? Will you become a killer?”

“Would you?”

“I don’t have to make that decision. I’m not the one going into the grocery store, you are.”

Josie stared into the darkness for a long time without speaking. The moon continued its slow arch across the sky. There were crickets and frogs and the rustling of leaves in the wind, and when she shifted her weight I heard the moan of wooden planks beneath her feet. Finally she turned and moved toward the door of the cabin.

“Good night,” she said.

“Sweet dreams.” I didn’t mean anything by it, yet the words made her pause just the same.

“This is only temporary,” Josie said. “Just until things get better.”

I didn’t know if she was speaking to me or to herself. A moment later she disappeared inside the cabin.

I slept surprisingly well. When I woke, the cabin was filled with activity. Someone said, “Where the fuck is Dyson?” Skarda and the old man stepped out onto the deck. “There you are,” Skarda said. I was sitting in a lounge chair; the blanket I had retrieved after Josie went to bed was wrapped around me.

The old man shook his head like he was embarrassed for me. “You afraid we were gonna jump you in your sleep?” he asked.

I pulled the blanket away with one hand, giving him a good look at the Glock that I held in the other. “The thought never occurred to me,” I said.

I made my way into the cabin. Roy and Jimmy were talking in hushed tones inside one of the bedrooms. Josie was in the kitchen. She was wearing boots, baggy coveralls, and a sweatshirt; her auburn hair was tucked beneath a baseball cap. She said “Good morning” in a quiet voice and offered coffee when I approached. I took a sip. It was strong enough to bring a dinosaur to its knees.

“Mmmm,” I hummed.

“Most people don’t like my coffee,” Josie said.

“Wimps,” I said. “Tell me, what are you made up for?”

“I don’t want witnesses to know I’m a woman.”

“Sweetie, I could tell you’re a woman from a thousand yards, and it wouldn’t matter how you’re dressed.”

She smiled slightly at the remark and nodded, also slightly, as if she appreciated the compliment but thought it was in questionable taste.

I sat at the kitchen table. It wobbled again, and I automatically looked down to see which of its flimsy legs was the culprit. Jill was already sitting there and staring wistfully out the window. There was a mug of coffee in front of her along with an untouched plate of eggs, bacon, and hash browns.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning,” she replied in a soft, middle-C voice.

I gestured at her food. “Not hungry?”

Jill smiled weakly and shook her head in response, and I had to fight the urge to cup her smooth, cool face in my hands, kiss her forehead, and promise her only laughter and love. I was a lifelong bachelor—not necessarily by choice—and the truth of it is, no matter how much we claim that we prize our independence above all else, bachelors tend to fall in love quite easily. I hadn’t heard this beautiful, unhappy young woman speak more than a half dozen words, yet I was prepared to do just about anything to protect her. I suspect Nina would have understood. She had a sense of me that I didn’t comprehend myself. She knew, for example, that I was going to help Harry and Bullert even while I was telling her that it was never going to happen. Maybe that’s why she had yet to give me a definitive answer even though I had proposed to her three times over the past three years. She knew something I didn’t.

“What do you think?” Jimmy asked. He wasn’t speaking to me, yet I turned in my chair to examine him just the same. He was wearing a nylon jacket with an elastic waistband; the jacket zipped to a couple of inches below his throat. There was a discernible bulge above his left hip.

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” I said.

“You can see it?”

“Unzip your jacket, let it hang loose. Let your arms hang at your sides.” He did. The bulge disappeared. “Do you have anything a little more appropriate for the weather? A light windbreaker?” He shook his head. I stepped next to him and pulled the hem of the jacket away to reveal a 9 mm Browning stuck in his belt. “Are you left-handed?” I asked.

“No, right-handed.”