Chapter Four

Brody

"I was at work yesterday when an old school chum dropped by," I began. "He's a drug dealer."

I felt Lindsey stiffen beside me, her hands white-knuckled around her mug, though surely holding it like that burned her. Both Carlson and McAdams hiked their brows and motioned for me to continue.

"It seems that my former football team member thinks I'd stolen ten kilos of fentanyl from him."

"Ah, er, did you?" Carlson inquired politely.

"Really?" I sipped my coffee. "Let's be smart here, guys. I didn't steal it, I wouldn't steal it, didn't know it was there to be stolen in the first place. Wherever he had it."

I rubbed my forehead, the terrible headache I'd woken up with pounding at my temples. Nor was the coffee settling well in my stomach. "I haven't seen him since graduation." I set the mug on the table. "That's it. He sent that cocktail through my window as either a warning or he tried to kill me."

"So just who is this guy?" McAdams asked, opening a small notebook.

"Austin Rivers. I know, sounds like a place in Texas."

"Why does he think you took it?" Carlson asked.

"He claims the cameras picked me up," I replied. "In my old letterman's jacket. I lost that jacket years ago. Stolen, most likely."

"We'll run this Rivers person through the narco division," McAdams said. "Have a chat with him."

"You know that if you do," Lindsey snapped, "this asshole will be all over Brody like white on rice."

I eyed her sidelong, surprised at her vehemence. Carlson nodded slowly, his lips puckered.

"You may be right," he said. "We'll ask around about him, see what the word is. We may have a print off the bottle thrown through the window."

While I wanted to tell them to bust Austin wide open, arrest him, take his business selling fentanyl and flush it down the john, I couldn't make the words work. The Vicodin had started to kick in, its effects making me feel sick, my head swim. I wasn't in much of a condition to fight Austin if he came looking for me.

The cops left cards on the table, swallowed their coffee. "We'll be in touch. Call if you think of anything else."

Lindsey saw them out, and I lay back on her very comfortable sofa. My arm over my eyes, shutting out the daylight, I wished to have Austin on his knees while squealing for mercy. Dream on, buckwheat. He probably has an army ready to cut you to pieces.

I must have drifted off, for Lindsey's tucking the blanket around me startled me into waking. I lowered my arm. "Hey."

"Hey."

She sat on the coffee table, her elbows on her knees. Her silken black hair slid forward over her face, half-hiding it.

"How bad is it?" I murmured. "My house."

"Could be worse." She smiled slightly. "Carpet has to go, so do the curtains. The furniture is mostly okay, but your stereo cabinet is toast. The water damage is mostly in the front room. The rest of the house seems okay."

"All easily replaced."

"Your insurance will cover it."

"Maybe."

"You might, er, be able to live there," she murmured. "I wouldn't recommend it, though."

"I'll go to a hotel. When I'm feeling better."

Lindsey merely nodded, avoiding my gaze. "Look, you need to rest. Get some sleep."

I rested my hand atop hers. "I'm a pain in your ass."

"No." She tossed her hair back. "Yes. But it's nothing I can't handle."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Just go to sleep. I'll be here if you need me."

***

I slept through most of the day. When I woke, groggy, the late afternoon sunlight stabbing my eyes, I'd sweated through my shirt, and my jeans were damp. Lindsey's house wasn't exactly hot, but sleeping under a blanket on a leather couch tended to make a body sweat profusely.

I sat up, rubbing my face, feeling both the pain of my burned feet and the sweet pleasure of a breeze cooling my hot body. The house was silent, making me think Lindsey had gone out. I stood uncertainly, her carpet harsh on my feet, then limped to her bathroom. After I'd emptied my bladder, I limped to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Breathing in the scent of hot charcoal, I saw Lindsey on her rear deck, watching the sunset. After I satisfied my thirst, I joined her, sitting near the big barbeque grill. The light breeze blew the heat and smoke away from me, fortunately, as I needed the cooling wind to dry my sweat.

"How are you feeling?" Lindsey asked.

"Weak, shivery." I lifted my right foot. "Hurting, but obviously I can walk."

Her hand rested on my brow. "Your fever is down. But you'll keep taking those antibiotics."

"Yes, ma'am."

In silence, we sat side by side, looking at her backyard, and into the backyards of her neighbors. Our neighbors. From here, Lindsey had a decent view of mine, and I now knew I needed to mow my lawn. It needs a good watering.

"How about you?" I asked. "You okay?"

"Sure." Lindsey didn't look at me. "As right as rain."

"Pardon me, but you aren't a very good liar."

Her glance flicked in my direction, then away. She raised a glass of wine I hadn't noticed and sipped. "I'm fine."

"Is it me?"

"Don't worry about it."

"I don't suppose you have more of that?"

Rising, Lindsey went into the house while I stared over her shaggy lawn, the picnic table, the small rose garden in the yard's center. I absently considered helping her with dinner, then returning to my house. It might not be habitable, but if I got used to the smell of smoke, I might be okay.

Lindsey returned with a glass of wine.

"Thanks."

Our comfortable silences with one another were gone. I sensed Lindsey's tension, observed the tension in the fine lines of her face. Suspecting I'd become the burden I'd hoped I wasn't, I considered exiting stage left and go home.

"I'm sorry," I murmured.

Lindsey sipped her wine. "Don't be. It's not your fault."

"I'll help with dinner," I went on lamely. "I mean, if that's your plan."

She glanced at my burned feet. "I can cook. Just hamburgers, chips. I hope that's okay?"

"Well, duh. It's your house. You're helping me."

"Do you think Austin Rivers really tried to burn your house?"

I shrugged. "It's the only possibility I can think of. He thinks I stole his dope. I didn't. I truly don't have any enemies."

"Will he try again?" she asked, meeting my gaze. "To hurt you?"

"He has to," I replied. "He's accused me. If he backs down now, he'll lose face and that means losing respect. I'm in the shitter because my letterman's jacket showed up at the wrong place and the wrong time."

"What a clusterfuck," she murmured.

"I quite agree."

The tension between us eased a fraction, and the smells of grilling hamburger made my mouth water. I hadn't eaten since the chili the night before. Over the burgers with pickles, onions and mustard, chips, tea and wine, we speculated what Austin might try next. And how I might try talking to him again and make him realize I wasn't his thief.

"He wants his dope more than he wants me dead," I commented around a mouthful. "He may be reluctant to kill me, as he'll hope I'll give it back."

"Meanwhile, he sets your feet on fire to make you tell him what you did with it." Lindsey sipped her wine. "Not a good option. Don't try to talk to him. Let the cops arrest him for arson."

"Let's hope his prints are on that bottle."

Lindsey refused to let me help her clean up. I sat at her table, drinking her wine, and admired the way her ass moved under her tight jeans. I nearly whistled when her shirt rode up enough to expose her flat belly, then longed to have her in my arms. Why? I didn't know. We barely knew each other.

Yet, I felt a powerful pull toward her that I resisted and blamed on the mix of wine and Vicodin. Should I wrap my arms around her firm waist and pull her hair back to kiss her throat, she'd slam her elbow into my diaphragm.

I hobbled my way toward her front door. "Thank you for every –"

"Where are you going?" Lindsey demanded, scowling.

"Er, home. You've done enough for me that I can't repay."

"Get your ass onto that couch in there and chill out," she snapped. "Your house isn't habitable."

"But –"

Pointing, she snapped her finger imperiously. Nor was she kidding this time. Obeying her command, I slunk into the TV room and to her sofa, and gratefully got off my pain-wracked feet. Lindsey soon arrived with more penicillin, a glass of water, and ordered me to lie down.

"I thought I'd watch TV," I protested.

"You can. From a horizontal position."

Uncomfortable with her anger, fearing I'd brought it on, I lay on my side and watched some dumb movie while worrying. Lindsey said little, drank wine, her body language screaming her tension. Did I do this to her? Is she upset because of me? Was it something else? I didn't know her well enough to try to guess what went on inside her head.

I shut my eyes, feeling the need for sleep. My healing body craved it. Lindsey rose occasionally to refresh her glass in the kitchen, her footsteps graduating to shuffles. The wine is kicking in. When she came back, she shut the TV off and dimmed the room's lights. Yet, I didn't hear her head for her bedroom.

I dozed for a time, then woke suddenly. The house had cooled enough that I needed the blanket, so I pulled it up to my neck. Settling back down, I tried to find slumber again and almost managed it. Sensing Lindsey's presence, I twisted my neck to look.

She sat at the picture window, staring out. Wide awake. On guard.

For what? Is she afraid Austin will come looking for me? Is she protecting me?

I almost asked her why she sat there, staring out at the dark and quiet neighborhood. I didn't. Instead, I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. Her presence at the window worried me enough that I failed to drop into slumber. Only when Lindsey shuffled past me and down the hall to her bedroom did I relax.

Sleep came slowly. I heard the ticking of the clock on the wall, saw the headlights of a passing car through my closed eyelids. I shifted on the couch to get comfortable, longed for the creaks and cracking of my own house settling. Maybe I can sleep if I just go home. In my own bed despite the stink.

I drifted to sleep at last and dreamed of flames burning all around me. Helpless, I screamed in terror, fought to escape the heat, the burning. Maybe I yelled out loud, I don't know. But Lindsey gripped my shoulders, staring down at me, with her eyes wide in fear. Like a part of my dream, I heard sirens approaching, dim with distance.

"Brody," Lindsey gasped. "It's happened again."

"What?" I choked, snarled in the blanket, trying to get up, seeing the faint pink of dawn through the cracks in her window curtains.

And the flickering of flames.

I lunged upward, heedless of my bare and burned feet. Lindsey's hands tried to stop me, but they fell away. Still, she ran across her house behind me and stood at my side as I yanked open her front door. The neighbors also gathered at their doors, on their driveways, garbed in robes, in slippers. Staring. Always staring toward my house.

Brilliant flames scorched my eyes. The stench of burning gasoline, of hot metal, crisped my nostrils. My classic truck, which I'd worked for years restoring, burned merrily in my driveway.

Austin had struck again.