Shakespeare's Champion (Lily Bard #2)

Shakespeare's Champion (Lily Bard #2) Page 19

He collapsed on top of me and I put both my arms around him for the first time. I ran my hands over his back and bottom, feeling skin and muscles, planes and curves. He nuzzled my neck gently for a minute, withdrew from me, and rolled onto his back. The white gauze was spotted with red.

"Your shoulder!" I raised up on an elbow to look. My bedroom was getting a little lighter; the dark and secret cave had opened to the world.

"I don't care," he said, shaking his head from side to side on the pillow. "Someone could come in here and shoot me again, and right this moment I wouldn't care. I tried to stay away from you, tried not to think about you ... if they hadn't been so close, I wouldn't have come here, but I can't be sorry. Jesus God, Lily, that was absolutely - wonderful. No other woman... God, that was sensational."

I was shattered myself. Even more than by the physical sensations Jack had given me, I was a little frightened by the urge I had to touch him, hold him, bathe myself in him. In self-defense, I thought of all the women he'd had.

"Who are you thinking about?" He opened his eyes and stared at me. "Oh, Karen." I was frightened that he knew so much about me that he would read my face that way. His own eyes lost their glow, flattened, when he said the name Karen.

Jack Leeds had become a household reference right about the time Lily Bard had, in the same state, Tennessee; and in the same city, Memphis. While my name became linked with that of the crime committed against me ("Lily Bard, victim of a brutal rape and mutilation"), Jack's was always followed by the trailer, "alleged lover of Karen Kingsland."

Karen Kingsland, from her newspaper photos a sweet-faced brunette, had been sleeping with Jack for four months when catastrophe wiped out three lives. She was twenty-six years old, earning her master's degree in education from the University of Memphis. She was also the wife of another cop.

One Thursday morning, Walter Kingsland, Karen's husband, got an anonymous letter at work. A uniformed officer for ten years, he was about to go on patrol. Opening the letter, laughing about receiving it, in front of many of his friends, Walter read that Karen and Jack were having sex, and having it often. The letter, which Walter dropped to the floor as he left, was quite detailed. A friend of Jack's called Jack instantly, but he was not as quick as Walter. No one called Karen.

Walter drove home like a maniac, arriving just as Karen was leaving for class. He barricaded himself and his wife in the bedroom of their east Memphis home. Jack came in through the front door moments later, hoping to end the situation quickly and privately somehow. He had not been thinking well. He stood at the door of the bedroom and listened to Walter plead with his wife to say Jack had raped her, or that it was all a malicious lie on the part of some enemy.

By that time, the modest Kingsland home was surrounded by cops. The phone rang and rang, and finally Jack picked it up in the living room and described the situation to his coworkers and superiors. There was not going to be any private or amicable solution, and it would be fortunate if all three involved made it through alive. Jack wanted to offer himself as hostage in exchange for Karen. His superiors, on the advice of the hostage negotiation team, turned him down. Then Jack revealed to them what Walter did not know yet, what Karen had only told Jack the day before: Karen Kingsland was pregnant.

At that point, it would have been hard to find anyone in the Memphis Police Department who wasn't, at the very least, disgusted with Jack Leeds.

From the living room, Jack could hear Karen scream in pain.

He yelled through the door that Walter should exchange his wife for Jack, since torturing a woman was nothing a real man would do.

This time Walter agreed to swap his wife for his wife's lover.

Without consulting anyone, Jack agreed.

Walter yelled that he'd bring Karen to the back door. Jack should be standing on the sundeck, weaponless. Walter would push Karen out and Jack would come in.

Detective Jack Leeds went outside, took off his jacket, his shoes and socks, his shirt, so Walter Kingsland could tell Jack wasn't carrying a concealed weapon. And sure enough, out of the bedroom came Walter and Karen. From inside the kitchen, Walter yelled to Jack to turn around, so Walter could make sure there wasn't a gun stuck in the back of Jack's slacks.

Then Walter appeared, framed in the open back door holding Karen by one of her arms, his gun to her head. Now there was tape over her mouth, and her eyes were crazed. She was missing the little finger of her right hand, and blood was pouring out of the wound.

"Come closer," Kingsland said. "Then I'll let her go."

Jack had stepped closer, his eyes on his lover.

Walter Kingsland shot Karen through the head and shoved her out on top of Jack.

And this part, media hounds, was on videotape. Jack's yell of horror, Walter Kingsland's screaming, "You want her so bad, you got her!" Walter's taking aim at Jack, now covered with Karen's blood and brains, trying to rise: a dozen bullets cutting Walter down, bullets fired unwillingly by men that knew him, men that knew Walter Kingsland for high-strung, hot-tempered, possessive; but also as brave, good-natured, and resourceful.

Jack had been a plainclothes detective, often working undercover. He had a stellar work record. He had a rotten personal life. He drank, he smoked, he'd already been divorced twice. He was envied, but not liked; decorated, but not altogether trusted. And after that day in the Kingslands' backyard, he was no longer a Memphis cop. Like me, he sank to the bottom to avoid the light of the public eye.

This was the chronicle of the man I was in bed with.

"I guess we'll have to talk about that sometime," he said with a sigh, and his face looked immeasurably older than it had been. "And what happened to you." His finger traced the worst scar, the one circling my right breast.

I lay close to him, put my arm over his chest. "No," I said. "We don't have to."

"The funny thing is," he said quietly, "Karen wrote that letter herself."

"Oh, no."

"She did." After all this time, there was still pained wonder in his voice. "It was from her typewriter. She wanted Walter to know. I'll never understand why. Maybe she wanted more attention from him. Maybe she wanted him to initiate a divorce. Maybe she wanted us to fight over her. I thought I knew her, thought I loved her. But I won't ever know why she did that."

I thought of things I could say, even things I wanted to say, but none of them could repair the damage I'd recalled to his mind. Nothing could ever make up for what Karen Kingsland had done to Jack, what he had done to himself. Nothing could ever get back Jack's job, his reputation. And I knew nothing would ever erase the memory of Karen's head exploding in front of his eyes.

And nothing could ever erase what had happened to me a couple of months afterward: the abduction, the rape, the cutting, the man I'd shot. I felt the urge to make some good memories.

I swung my leg over him, straddled him, bent to kiss him, smoothed his long black hair against the white lace-trimmed pillowcase. I was not ashamed of my scars with Jack Leeds. He had a full set of his own. I told him, close to his ear, that I was about to take him inside me again. I told him how it would feel. I could hear him draw his breath, and soon I could feel his excitement. My own heart was pounding.

It was even better this time.

"Why housecleaning?" he asked later.

"I knew how to do it, and I could do it by myself." That was the short answer, and true enough, as far as it went. "Why detective? What kind are you, anyway?"

"Private. Based in Little Rock. I knew how to do it, and I could do it by myself." He smiled at me, a small smile, but there. "After a two-year apprenticeship with another detective, that is. There was another ex-cop from Memphis working there. I knew him a little."

So Jack must be working for the Winthrops.

"I have to get dressed. I have an appointment," I said, trying not to sound sad or regretful. So my departure wouldn't seem too abrupt - cold, as Marshall would have said - I gave Jack a kiss before I swung out of bed. Somehow, the further away from him I moved, the more I became conscious of my scars. I saw his eyes on them, seeing them for the first time in one frame, so to speak. I stood still, letting him look. But it was very hard, and my fists clenched.

"I'd kill them all for you if I could," he said.

"At least I killed one," I said. Our eyes met. He nodded.

I took a wonderful hot shower and shaved my legs and washed my hair and put on my makeup, restraining an urge to laugh out loud.

And I thought: Nothing. I will ask for nothing.

Jack had found his surviving clothes in the dryer and pulled them on. I eyed him thoughtfully, and rummaged in my drawers for one of those promotional T-shirts that are all one size. I'd gotten it when I'd donated blood. It had swallowed me, but it fit him, rather snugly; but it covered the bandage and his goose bumps. He winced as he maneuvered his left arm into its sleeve. I had the old jacket the hospital had pulled from its rummage closet, the one I'd worn home the day after the explosion. It fit, too.

He'd perked some coffee while I was showering, and he'd made an effort to pull the bedding straight.

"Normally I do better, but with my shoulder..." He apologized as I came into the bedroom to get my socks and sneakers.

"It's all right," I said briefly, and sat on the little chair in the corner to pull my socks on. I'd put on two T-shirts, which works better for me in cold weather than a sweatshirt - long sleeves are just a nuisance with housework. The edge of the pink tee peeked from under the sky blue of my outer shirt; happy colors. I'd picked pink socks, too. And my favorite pink and white high-tops. I was the brightest maid in Shakespeare. To hell with the cold and rain.

"Aren't you going to ask me? About what I was doing last night?" he said. He was sitting on the end of the bed, looking braced for an attack.

I finished tying one bow, put my right foot on the floor, lifted my left. "I guess not," I said. "I'm reckoning it has something to do with guns, the Winthrop clan, and maybe Del Packard's murder. But I don't know. Better not tell me, unless you need someplace to run to when the bad guys are chasing you."

I'd meant that lightly, but Jack thought I was telling him he should explain his business to me since he'd taken shelter in my home; that he owed me, since he'd "used" me. I could see his face harden, see the distance opening.

"I mean that literally," I told him. "Better not tell me, unless they're after you."

"What will you do, Lily," he asked, putting his arms around me as I stood, "what will you do, when they come after me?"

I smiled. "I'll fight," I said.

Chapter Seven

Getting Jack to his apartment, though it was just a few yards away, was quite a challenge. At least it was his day off, and his shoulder would have a chance to rest before he had to show up at Winthrop Sporting Goods. It would have looked better if he could have worked out at Body Time this morning, but it was beyond even someone as determined as Jack Leeds. He was hurting.

I gave him my last hoarded pain pill to take when he got home. He stowed it in his pocket. Then, when nothing was passing on Track Street, he ducked out my kitchen door and into my car. I backed out and drove out of my driveway and into the Garden Apartments driveway, going all the way to the rear parking area. When I was closest to the door, so close it would be hard to see from the rear windows of the top apartments, Jack jumped out and went inside. I pulled into Marcus Jefferson's former space and followed him in, to provide myself with a reason for entering the apartment parking lot. Even to me, this seemed a bit overly careful, but Jack had just given me a look to reinforce his admonishment that "these people" were very dangerous.

So I climbed the stairs to work in Deedra's apartment, which was absolutely normal and gave me a bona fide reason to enter the building at this hour. I carried my caddy of cleaning materials up the stairs, expecting Jack would already be in his apartment and trying to get his clothes off to bathe, without upsetting his wound. I'd offered to help, but he wanted my day to run absolutely normally.

Far from being empty, the landing was full of men and suspicion. Darcy and the bullish Cleve Ragland were waiting in front of Jack's door. They were having a face-off with Jack, who was standing with his keys in his hand.

"... don't have to tell anyone where I spend the night," Jack was saying, and there was a cold edge to his voice that meant business.

He hadn't wanted us to be publicly associated. For that matter, neither had I. I should unlock Deedra's apartment and trot back downstairs to get my mop, leaving Jack to stonewall his way through this. That was what he'd want me to do.

"Hey again, Lily," Darcy said, surprise evident in his voice. He looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but Cleve was showing signs of wear and tear. He hadn't shaved, and maybe had slept in his clothes.

"You keep long hours, Darcy," I replied, depositing my caddy at Deedra's door and joining the little group. Jack glared at me.

"We just come by here to see if Jared was all right," Darcy said, and his flat blue eyes swung back to Jack. "We rung him last night after the robbery and got no answer."

"And I was telling you," Jack said just as coldly, "that what I do on my time off is my business."

I approached Jack from his left, put my arm around him, blocking the wounded side in case they tried clapping him on the shoulder.

"Our business," I corrected him, looking steadily at Darcy.

"Whoo-ee," Darcy said, sticking his hands in his own jean pockets as if he didn't know what to do with them. His heavy coat bulged up in semicircles around his tucked hands.