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“He was with you outside of Wannamaker Lewis's house,” he said calmly. He stood up and folded his arms, an immovable force.

“All right, I'll bite. How did you know that?”

The smile was back, peeking out from under the mustache. “A source.”

I almost went for it. I almost asked, “Nailor?” but that would've been walking into a trap or giving him information he didn't have. Instead I bit the inside of my lip.

“Why don't you guys let up off Roy Dell? He's a gnat on your windshield. You know he didn't kill Ruby. Why don't you focus on finding her real killer?”

Wheeling hadn't moved. He was less than a foot away from me, staring me down. “I don't know that,” he said. “Frank Collins puts him away from his crew and near the scene at just the right time. The rest of the crew all verified that Parks was late for the call to drive the car up to the starting line.”

“That's enough for a murder warrant?”

“It is if a witness also heard your friend Ruby tell Parks to back off. Apparently, that made him angry.”

“That's not what I told you!”

“Your story didn't altogether hang, now did it? You thought my partner was someplace he obviously wasn't.”

What a smart ass he was! Still didn't believe me.

“Frank's lying,” I said. “You and I both know he was fooling around with Roy Dell's wife. There's motive for lying right there.”

“Then why'd Roy Dell run?”

I pushed past him and started walking back toward the car. He was right beside me, reaching out and grabbing my arm to stop me.

“Wait a minute!”

I spun to a stop, ready to take his head off, but he started first.

“Sierra, I'm not your enemy. I'm trying to apprehend the man who killed your friend.”

“You do that by calling me a liar?”

“Who do you think I'm going to believe? My partner or you?”

I shrugged. “You gotta do what you gotta do.” I started walking again, but slower, letting him keep up.

“I think you were mistaken,” he said. “That's not the same as lying.”

“Whatever.” I looked over at him. “Wannamaker Lewis was Ruby Lee's biological father. Did you know that?”

“Yes, but Wannamaker Lewis died in that fire,” he said. “You were there. Roy Dell Parks was there. Should I be making something out of that? You're damn right I should. I don't need to go looking for anything other than the obvious explanation.” He hadn't waited for my confirmation.

“You think Roy Dell set the fire?”

“Don't you?” he asked.

I didn't answer him. I wanted to respond, to explain everything, but I just couldn't be sure, and with John's life on the line, I wasn't going to take a chance. If John had wanted to take his partner into his confidence, then he would've done so already.

We'd reached the parking garage, our footsteps the only sound in the orange-lit deck. He didn't say a word until I stopped by my car.

“If you see him,” he said, his voice pitched low, “tell him I could help him if he'd let me. Tell him I'd know what to do. Tell him he ought to know that about me by now.”

All of a sudden, I didn't think we were talking about a murder suspect.

“Roy Dell?” I asked.

“Anybody you think could use that message,” he said, his face grim. “I don't leave people hanging out to dry, even when it looks like that's what they're doing to me. Situations can always be rectified. You tell Mr. Parks, or whomever, that I said that.”

I reached out my hand and touched his arm. “I'll tell whomever what you said. Maybe you should think on the fact that things aren't always like they seem.”

His eyes were hard. “I know that. I got more time invested in the relationship than you do. Trust is all you got to give in this world. Trust and your word. I gave my word, Sierra, and that means everything. You tell the son of a bitch I said that.”

He walked away then, mad, hurt, and confused. He knew his partner was lying to him.

When Nailor recovered enough to answer questions, he was going to have to deal with me and Wheeling. What would make him lie to his own partner? Why would he be doing something undercover that his own department didn't know about? Something at the racetrack. Something that maybe had to do with Ruby's death.

I backed the car out of its parking space and started driving toward home. I didn't have a job. I was no closer to finding Ruby's murderer. And the man I'd figured was my best shot at a healthy relationship lay waiting for me in my own bed, too weak to move, and too stubborn to let me help him.

*   *   *

When I slipped into the trailer, it was just after midnight. Al was the only one up. He was sitting at the kitchen table, working a crossword and frowning.

“How's he doing?” I asked.

“I don't know. All right, I guess. He lost a lot of blood, Sierra. I'd sure feel better if he'd let us take him to the hospital.”

“I don't think he feels a hospital's safe,” I said. “I don't know what's going on, but I don't want to put him at risk. I trust him to know what's safe.”

Al looked at me and shook his head. “Why you gotta always fall for the wrong guy, Sierra? Why you can't have a straight-up relationship?”

I reached for the Chianti bottle and Al's empty glass. “Beats me, Al. He's a good guy. I think we know that. He's just in trouble.”

Al laughed softly. “And what guy gets involved with you ain't in trouble? It's like that ‘chicken or the egg' thing. Which came first, trouble or you?”

“Good night, Al,” I said wryly, taking my tumbler and heading for the back room. “I'll take the night shift.”

“Don't do nothing to raise the boy's blood pressure,” he called after me. “We finally got the bleeding to stop!”

I ignored him and tiptoed past the room where Ma lay fully clothed on her bed, snoring. I softly pushed open my bedroom door and stepped into the room. Fluffy, who hadn't come out to greet me, sat up by Nailor's shoulder, on guard.

Her tail started wagging and she pranced to the edge of the bed.

“How's he doin', girl?” I whispered. “Did he give you any trouble?” I looked down at him. He slept with a frown on his face, as if he hurt. He was still very, very pale.

I took my wine and wandered into the bathroom. It was just too early to go to bed.

“A nice long bubble bath,” I whispered to myself, and started the water. As it ran, I lit candles, dripped a little lavender oil into the water, and dug out a nightgown. I had to dig deep on account of being used to sleeping naked under my satin sheets most nights. But eventually I found a white cotton number with little satin ribbon ties. Tasteful. Chaste. A “company” nightgown that said, “Glad you're here, but don't go getting ideas.” At least that's what I hoped it said.

I soaked until the water turned lukewarm and the wine was gone. Sleep was actually seeming like a possibility. I wandered into the dimly lit bedroom. Nailor was sleeping on “my side” and didn't move when I turned out the light and slipped gently under the comforter.

I lay there for a second, a foot away from a man who, under different circumstances, would have reduced me to a mass of trembling expectations. I moved a little closer and became aware that his breathing had changed, lightened. He moaned and rolled toward me, his arm falling gently around my waist. I was trapped.

“Thought you promised naked,” he whispered.

My heart started racing and I felt my nipples harden as his hand brushed lightly against them.

“Didn't wanna take advantage of a wounded man,” I said softly.

He nuzzled the back of my neck, another soft moan escaping his lips. He was in pain and still trying to go for the gold. That's a man for you.

“Go to sleep,” I hissed. “I like my men healthy.”

“I could take you with one arm tied behind my back.” He chuckled softly.

“I doubt that, Nailor. And besides, I want both your hands in action. I won't settle for half your best.”

He moved a little closer, his body molding to mine. “It's a deal,” he said. “But once this arm's working, you'd better be ready, 'cause I'll be coming after you.”

“I'm terrified,” I whispered.

His fingers brushed my nipples again. “Yeah, I can tell.”

I leaned back against him, a sigh escaping my lips. It was all I could do not to roll over and administer CPR, but I knew better. Instead I lay there, waiting for him to drift off to sleep. I listened to his regular, even breathing for hours before I joined him.

Twenty-nine

I woke up because I was on fire. Sun was streaming through the window of my bedroom. Coffee was brewing in the kitchen. And something was very wrong with Nailor. He was almost too hot too touch.

I sat up and looked at him. He was red and tossing restlessly in his sleep, moaning softly.

“Ma!” I ran to the door and yelled out for her. “Ma! There's something wrong!”

Ma came flying down the hallway. Raydean, her hair in yellow curlers, was right behind her.

“What is it?” Ma said, pushing past me and sitting down by John's side. “Oh Lord,” she breathed. “He's burning up!”

John opened his eyes and looked at us. His eyes were bloodshot and watery.

“That does it,” Ma said. “He has got to go to the hospital!” She pulled the bandage away from his arm and winced. “Look at that. It's infected.” I leaned close and looked. The wound was an angry red, puffy and streaked.

“All right. I don't know what else to do. He's gonna die like this, isn't he, Ma?”

Al stood in the doorway, his face mirroring my concern. “We gotta take him,” he said.

“I … can't … go!” Nailor said, every word an effort. “I … can't … risk … it! Too … dangerous.”

Raydean stood at the foot of the bed, staring at John and nodding. She edged a little closer to Ma. Finally she pushed Ma away and slid down onto the bed in her place.

“Let me see, honey,” she whispered, her gnarled fingers reaching for the dressing that covered his arm.

“Raydean…” I started, but let it drop. Stopping Raydean was always worse than letting her have her way.

With a gentle movement, Raydean pulled away the gauze and stared at the wound, biting down on her lower lip.

“Sepsis,” she muttered. “Okay.” She looked up at me, as if confirming her thoughts. “I'm callin' Arlen,” she said, and reached for the phone.

“Whoa! Raydean, wait! What're you doing?”

“I can't treat him without antibiotics,” she said, her voice clear and strong. This wasn't an alien watch, it was Raydean in for a landing, sane.

“Raydean,” I said, “what do you mean treat him?”

“Lt. Raydean Charles, W.A.C, R.N., W.W. Two, at your service, sir!”

What I saw was a gray-haired old lady in curlers and bunny slippers, but in her eyes was something else. Hallucination or whatever, I was in no position not to ride with it.

“Who's Arlen?” I asked.

“My superior,” she answered. “We did time together.” She reached for the phone and started dialing.

“In the service?”

Raydean shook her head as if I was slow. “No, honey, in the Big House. State Hospital. Nineteen sixty-four.” Someone answered on the other end and Raydean cupped her hand around the receiver. “Got a patient, sir,” she said. Then: “My house.” She leaned around to look at the clock on the bedside table. “Oh-nine-hundred hours, sir. Yes, sir!” There was a pause. “Oh, and, sir? Bring them horse-pill antibiotics you got. He's a sick'un!”

Raydean hung up and smiled down at Nailor. “Baby, you ain't got a care in the world. The best vet what ever birthed a cow is on his way! We'll have you crowing with the roosters by this time tomorrow.”

In his sleep, Nailor smiled.

Al could stand it no longer. “I gotta tell you,” he said, the words bursting from him like a balloon losing air, “this ain't working for me.”

“Shut up, Al!” Me and Ma said in unison.

Raydean stood up, her cheeks pink, her hands flying to her head. “Mercy me,” she sputtered. “I've gotta run. I cain't have Arlen seeing me like this!” She started shuffling toward the door. “He'll be here in less than fifteen minutes. I'll be back.” She reached over and patted my arm. “Don't worry, sugar, I'll have him on his feet and ready to howl at the moon. Just make sure you have your track shoes on when I do. That boy'll give you a run for your money!”

I was dressing when I heard him call my name. I crossed the room and perched on the bed again.

“You called?”

He opened his eyes and for a moment he just stared. It scared me. I'd never seen anybody, let alone him, like this. I didn't know if he was dying. I certainly wasn't sure that we were all doing the right thing by keeping him here.

“Sierra,” he said, “give me some water. My throat hurts.”

I propped his head up and held the glass to his lips while he drank. He took two sips and leaned back. “That's better. Sierra, you have to do something. Dial a number for me.” He slumped back against the pillow, exhausted with the effort it took to talk.

I picked up the phone and waited as he slowly called out a long-distance number. Maybe it was the area code for Tallahassee? I held the receiver to his ear, waiting.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a near whisper. The person on the other end obviously had questions because there was a long silence from John and then a sigh. “Wait. I can't … not now. Listen … the mouse … is on … the move! You hear me? Tonight.” When the voice acknowledged the message, Nailor slumped back.

The person on the other end wasn't finished. I could hear a woman's voice yelling, “John! John! Answer me!”

John wasn't going to be doing any more talking, that much I could tell from looking at him.