Home Everlasting (Holliday Book 3) Page 5

  He revved out of the parking lot, intent on getting home and taking a nap before taking a nightly patrol, and perhaps checking in with Judge Henrik on whether there was anything that he could do for Clark.

  The kid had been in lockup, minding his own business. He had even come willingly again, and the evidence they had was scarce. Holt's deputies were checking the bank records, statements, ATM withdrawals and deposits from all around the area, even getting access to his mobile deposit records. And through it all there was very little evidence Clark had cashed those checks. What was more curious was that the money was actually taken out of Ricky's account, but where it ended up was anyone's guess at this point. Someone had it. But who? Holt could feel Clark’s innocence and had even brought his truck to the office, so that he could see Clark drive away an innocent man.

  He rounded the corner, barely a block from home when his dispatch buzzed. "Sheriff, you around?" said Fink Carlson, probably doing his duty shift on the radio.

  "Yeah," Holt answered, swinging the microphone towards him and pressing the button.

  "I got patched through the system, couldn't get you on your cell, thought probably it was on silent for the school thing," said Fink, nervously.

  Holt rolled his eyes. Fink always had a way of being very literal about everything and anything he was feeling or thinking about. "What do you want deputy?" he answered, curtly.

  "I was in Clark's neighborhood, and I think you'd better get over here," said Fink, his voice wavering.

  "What's going on?" asked Holt, minding his rear view mirror in case there was anyone behind him.

  "I just think you'd better get over here," said Fink, and then hung up the phone.

  Holt cursed, popped his lights on, and made an illegal U turn, speeding up and letting his back tires squeal as he raced across town to give his deputy backup. He hoped it was important and not some trumped up broken fence or something. Fink had a record for that sorta nonsense.

  But when Holt pulled up to Clark's house, it was clear this was no false alarm. Fink stood outside, in his civilian clothes, his hair askew as his hands nervously ran through his curls over and over again. He just stared emptily up at the house, unsure what he was looking at. Holt joined him, but was quicker to snap out of the confusion.

  "Call some backup, we're going to do a full sweep," said Holt, putting his hand on his holster for comfort. He moved cautiously up the driveway. "You got your sidearm?"

  "No sir," said Fink, swallowing. "No sir, I do not."

  "You got a cigarette?" muttered Holt, looking at the house. Fink threw him a pack and Holt lit one. He stared up at the house as Fink rushed over to his car and called for backup. Far off in the distance the sound of sirens, bouncing off the mountains, lit up as his help raced to the scene.

  Clark's house was broken. Every window had been smashed, glass littered the walk, the window sills, and from what Holt could see, inside the house as well. The door was busted open. It laid precariously, still attached to the lower hinge, with the door jamb's pieces strewn around. He hadn't entered the house, but he had a feeling that the damage and mayhem continued throughout.

  Deputy Hanssen arrived, bounding out of his car and joining Holt and Fink. He handed Fink a pistol, and the three of them readied themselves to enter the house. "What's the point of the writing?" asked Hanssen, using his hands to draw something in the air. "I'm trying to see what it says."

  Holt shook his head, trying to see what Hanssen was saying. In looking at the details of the destruction, he realized that he had missed the biggest piece of the vandalism. Someone had scrawled HOLLIDAY in dull red paint. At this distance, it looked almost as if it had been drawn in blood. Bile gathered inside of Holt, small bits of vomit creeping up his throat, as he decided not to think of it as blood. It wasn't that he was queasy, especially not after all of his years in law enforcement, but because he didn't want to think of where the blood could have come from. Hopefully, he thought, no one was missing a cat or dog.

  The three of them carefully walked over the sidewalk and concrete path towards the house. Holt led the way, his hand on his pistol. He would have led with it, but it just wasn't his style. That's how some of his deputies, and even him in his earlier days, had gotten in trouble: an itchy trigger finger. He had been known to shoot through windows because birds scared him.

  The interior of the house was just as bad as the outside, except someone had decided to have a little campfire in the middle of the living room: with most of Clark's things.

  "Jealous ex?" asked Fink, looking at the burned clothes, and the soot covering the walls and ceiling. Fire was Fink’s personal enemy and even the remnants of it sent chills down his spine. He clutched his pistol tighter.

  "I doubt it," muttered Holt, eyeing the doorways, expecting someone to still be in the house. "The rumor mill has been swung open, and people are talking about a current lady, but no former one."

  "Current?" asked Hanssen, moving towards the other rooms in the house. He kicked open the doorways, the closets, making as much noise as possible to assuage his own fears, rather than needing to use that much force. Every one of them was scared of something in this situation, but they had each other's backs and didn't tease too much about their antics.

  "Yeah," said Holt, examining the kitchen contents. Everything had been strewn on the kitchen floor. "I thought I overheard him say something about Lilith Holliday to Tad, I think yesterday, or maybe a few days ago. But I'm not supposed to know that."

  "Thin walls," said Hanssen, scowling. While Hanssen never personally had a thing for Lilith, he knew people who would be disappointed that she had gotten with the new guy. "So when you say 'rumor,' you mean you're the rumor monger around these parts?"

  "I think we're going to need to thoroughly question everyone in the neighborhood, figure out who knows what, someone had to have seen, or fucking heard something," said Fink, holstering his pistol.

  "Yeah, you boys get on that," said Holt, ignoring Hanssen's impertinent question. He was still kneeling in the kitchen, looking at a rag that had been thrown near the cabinets, but away from the mess. He took out a glove and carefully picked it up and brought it to his deputies. "You boys question the neighbors. I want suspects. I want what they saw. I want people. But this, this is also interesting."

  "What is it?" asked Fink, coming closer to look at the letters that seem to be stamped into the cloth several layers below the dirt and grime that covered the surface.

  "Dolmat Mechanics," whispered Hanssen, reading the words. "You don't think?"

  "I don't think anymore, I look for facts," said Holt, a weight lifting from his shoulders as he realized that he finally had another clue. It was time to cast the net for Ricky's killer a little wider. "I ain't discounting Clark, but the facts for him just don't line up."

  "Maybe he's being framed," muttered Fink.

  "No maybes. Let's get to work," said Holt with finality. He took out an evidence bag and put the rag into it.

  He patted his sidearm, glad he didn't need to use it, and walked out of Clark's house with renewed energy and vigor to find who exactly killed Ricky, and why they would want to frame Clark.

  ~~~

  Pistol had decided to actually go to work that day, in fact he even wanted to work, but when lunchtime arrived he was struck with a phantom fever and talked to the foreman to let him go early. He had walked back to his car, his arms across his stomach, but God had granted him mercy as soon as he hopped into his truck. He was cured!

  He smiled to himself in the rear view mirror, hoping that his trick wouldn't get him fired. The mining and agricultural staff for the former Kent property were thinning out as time went by, either because of the level of work, or as Pistol hoped, because everyone was disgusted that the Kents were gone and the land was owned by an emotionless agribusiness corporation.

  He had messaged Kelsey a few hours earlier, to see if she had any time for him. He had wanted to plan a big evening to give her the promise ring he had fo
und, but the anxiety was getting to him. He either had to just do it, or he would never do it.

  Mrs. Neederlander had given him a simple gold band, a little thin, but a nice symbol to present to Kelsey and say that he wanted to move forward, maybe make the entire thing just a little more romantic. He had kept it in his jeans pocket since he had paid for it.

  He tapped the steering wheel several times with his index finger, making himself remember that he hadn't paid for it exactly. It felt like a debt. Ms. Neederlander had decided to give to him as a present, since she hadn't given him anything for his father's passing. Mr. Neederlander had been his father's lawyer, and usually she was insistent in giving all his grieving clients some kind of present. Unfortunately, this meant that he couldn't return it either. The next time he saw Mrs. Neederlander, he was fully expecting her to ask if Kelsey had liked it. He hoped that the answer would be an affirmative.

  He pulled in front of his father's house to find that Kelsey was already sitting on the ground near the door. Her brown hair flew away from her face in the gentle breeze, covering her eyes, and he took a moment to watch her paw at the strands. He honked twice to catch her attention and pulled to an abrupt stop.

  "Hey!" he said, hopping out of his truck and jogging up to her.

  "Hey you," she replied, getting up and giving him a hug. "You called, and I had some free time, so I thought hey why not, he's a nice guy after all."

  He smiled, noticing the way the sides of her lips curled upwards, and fished in his pockets for his keys. He cursed and ran back to his truck. "Just a minute!" he yelled, feeling foolish.

  When they finally got inside, he put on a pot of coffee and turned to her. "So, how are you?"

  "Well," she said as she twisted a strand of hair in her fingers. He loved the way she did that. "Ya know, actually, I was wondering, if you were paying me just to hang out, or if you ever wanted to actually, ya know, do it."

  "Do it?" he asked, trying to hide his excitement. Of course he wanted to do it, but, that sounded so simple. Romance, relationships, were so much more than simple. They had to be. So they could last.

  "Yeah, I mean. We've been hanging out a bit and stuff. And I've been charging you regular rates, and you're a great guy. And maybe," she said, moving closer and putting her arms around his waist. "Maybe, Pistol, maybe I wanna have sex with you, and get paid for it. Whaddya think?"

  He blushed and put his hand in his pocket, and fished out the ring box. "Maybe, I got you something," he whispered, holding it up in front of her face.

  She backed away nervously. "What's in that?" she asked, trying to keep a smile.

  "Just a little something," he said, feeling the mood in the room shift perceptibly. "I just wanted to change our...stuff, a little bit. Maybe I wanna take this more seriously. Maybe I like you! And I just, wanna show that." He opened the box and revealed the promise ring: a slight gold band, with no ornamentation. He hoped it would fit her.

  She looked at it nervously, standing on her tiptoes and peering over as if it was going to explode. "It's not an engagement ring," she said, surprised. "I've been. Ya know. I've been in situations, where there's a wedding ring involved."

  "No, no. I didn't want that. I just sorta wanted to give you a nice ring, and say that if you're into it. If you wanna make this a thing, then I'd promise that we could work it all out." It had sounded way better in his head.

  She stared at him for a moment, unsure what to say. She had, had many clients over the years that had said similar things, but she hadn't felt anything for them, especially not some urge to actually want them in bed. But the way that Pistol had treated her, it had spurred something inside of her, enough that she actually wanted to have sex with him. She chuckled to herself, thinking about a prostitute that actually wanted to have sex with a client. Was it unheard of? No. But it was damn rare.

  None of that meant that she wanted to be in a relationship with Pistol. Besides the client and personal divide, she doubted her boyfriend would like her actually dating a client anyway. Although, she reminded herself, he didn't really know about her professional life. He wouldn’t like her being a sex worker. And she didn’t want to lose Pistol as a client either. She was proud she hadn’t lost a single client to a silly thing like love.

  "Look, Pistol," she said finally. "I just don't know. It's not that this is coming on fast. It's that, well, things are really complicated in my life right now. Ya know?"

  His face fell, his hands drooped, and he slowly closed the ring box and put it back in his pocket. He should have known this was going to be the response. Who was he, after all? Just a schmuck living in a shitty trailer, living a shitty life with nothing to offer her. "Yeah, I understand," he muttered. He felt like crying.

  "Look, Pistol," she said, reaching up and grabbing his chin in her hands. "I like you, but it's too early to make any romantic gestures. Plus, there's a whole lot of other personal stuff that's going to be in your way in all this. It's going to be a challenge."

  "So that's not a no," he whispered, his eyes clearing.

  "It's not a yes, either," she replied. "In fact, it's more like a wait and see. Maybe things will improve. Maybe things will work." She looked into his eyes, trying to convince him of her lies as she took his hands and helped him unbutton her jeans. She slipped his hand inside her underwear, so he could feel how wet she had become. Even if she didn't accept the gesture, it was damn sexy. Being loved by a client was always damn sexy.

  "Wow," he muttered. "Did I do that?"

  She nodded, glad that he was still her client, as she took his hands and led him towards the bed, letting him undress her. They fell in bed together, and eventually she let him inside.

  ~~~

  Lilith sat in the Sheriff's Office's conference room, with her arms between her thighs, and her face towards the floor. She was trying very hard not to vomit. Her anxiety was nearly getting the best of her, but if she sat still it got better. She had tried rocking back and forth, but that just made things worse. She evened out her breathing and tried to concentrate on the fibers in the carpet, but that just ended up weaving her brain into knots about wanting to have Clark's hair in her hands as he was on top of her.

  She had strong armed her way into the meeting, essentially pulling rank as the owner of Holliday Ranch, now that her father was in the hospital, and how it was imperative she speak to her employee. One of the deputies, not Fink or Carlson, they would have helped her seeing as she grew up with them, but a new one, told her she could speak to Clark through the bars. She then slammed her fist into the desk and demanded a private conversation with her employee. The deputy, at this point scared for his life, had called Holt, just in case it was against protocol.

  When Holt acquiesced, she was led into the conference room and told to wait. And wait. And wait some more. At this point, she thought they had forgotten about her and all her bluster was for nothing. Her mind roiled with the possibility of being alone with Clark for even a moment, but was it even going to happen? She looked up at the clock on the wall for the hundredth time, watching the minute hand turn, and then finally the hour hand.

  But as soon as she got up to leave, the door swung open dramatically and Sheriff Holt swaggered in and placed his hat on the table. She couldn't remember the last time he actually had it on his head. And when he sidled over and sat in a chair, Clark came inside, still wearing the same clothes from the morning after they had sex.

  Their eyes met and she hated that Holt was still in the room because all she wanted, all her loins urged her to do, was kiss him, jump on him, and hold his head in her arms, to feel his hot breath against her breasts. His burly bronzed arms were at his sides, his hands bound by the handcuffs, and while it would have been kinky, it just accentuated their barrier. He didn't smile, just nodded, but his eyes were expressive as they crinkled as when his locked with hers.

  "Sit down, ya love struck idiot," muttered Holt, grabbing his keys from his belt and unlocking the handcuffs. "I just need to set some grou
nd rules in here for you two. Keep it professional. My office is next door. If you talk about the crime, if you talk about anything that happened at Clark's house, I will remove him from this room."

  "What happened at the house?" asked Lilith.

  "Goddammit," muttered Holt. "Vandalized. If you drive by, you'll see it. Doesn't matter. We're investigating it. I can't comment on an ongoing investigation, yadda yadda yadda." He got up from his chair, nodded at them both, grabbed his hat, and left.

  Silence rained down on the room as they stared at each other, not sure what to do next. Their hands were free, but there was still a table in between them. Lilith slowly reached her hand out until Clark held it. The roughness of his hands, his husky smell of dirt and horse and sweat, it all made him real again even as he sat in front of her. All she wanted was to be across that table.

  She let go and with one swift move, clambered on top and let her mouth meet his, her hair dangling in his lap, her hands around his scruffy face, clasping behind her ears, as their tongues finally intertwined. He kissed her like he hadn't seen her in ages. The scruff tickled her nose, but all she wanted was more, to feel more of him, to feel him inside her, around her, and just merely with her.

  But this wasn't the time or the place. She pulled away from him and his eyes that dug into her heart, making her cry, making her wet, making her never want to stop touching him. She wiped her mouth, adjusted her shirt and crawled back to her chair and sat down with a thump.

  "Did he say you were lovestruck?" asked Lilith, laughing not only at the situation, but the abruptness of the conversation. "Are you lovestruck?"

  He laughed, the first good laugh he'd had in days, and scratched his scruff. "Yeah, I'd say I am. Love struck. Love lost. In love. Into love. Wanting to continue loving. You name it, I think I'm in it," he replied.