CLAY YEAGER'S REDEMPTION Read online

  But this time, he thought, shirting his gaze down to his hands, to the whiteness of his knuckles as he squeezed the unyielding porcelain of the sink as if he could crush it with his fingers, this time he would die in the effort. Because if he did fail, he was as good as dead anyway.

  He stood there for a long time before he dared to move. Though he'd spent years putting his life on the line, the thought of putting his heart on the line again terrified him.

  But he could no more abandon Casey now than he could bring his family back to life. And that he even thought of them in the same context scared him even more.

  At last he turned away from the sink. Casey had gone to her room, but he wasn't sure he would be welcome if he followed. Nor was he anywhere near being ready—or able—to sleep. Restless now, he left the kitchen, wandering through the living room he'd once found warm and welcoming. Now he simply felt out of place, as if the atmosphere had closed up, deciding it had been a mistake to let him in in the first place.

  He tried to laugh at his ridiculousness at giving a mere house thoughts and feelings, but it came out as more of a groan.

  He turned to leave, but the sight of the book Casey had brought home, sitting on the table next to her favorite over-stuffed chair, stopped him. He stood there looking at it, thinking about things and people long forgotten.

  And despite believing he'd completely cut his ties to Trinity West years ago, he couldn't stop the sudden burst of pride that surged in him.

  "Ryan," he said softly, "you done good."

  He crossed the room and stared down at the book for a while. And then, reluctantly, yet feeling driven, he picked it up. He looked at the cover. He looked at the back. He looked at the blurb on the inside flap. And finally he turned to the center section and looked at the photo of Ryan Buckhart. Slowly, reluctantly, he sat down.

  Three and a half hours later he was closing the book. It had been an incredibly odd sensation, reading the text, seeing familiar places and familiar names, both friend and adversary. Odder still to see his own name there, and bittersweet to read Ryan's quiet praise and transfer of credit.

  And he was surprised at the amount of pleasure he took in reading about the destruction of the gang that had been the bane of the existence of everybody at Trinity West for years. The pride he'd felt in Ryan, the wild, almost crazy kid he'd once arrested, only grew. He'd known the boy was just scared, afraid there was no place for him, with his size, ethnic looks and unknown heritage, in this world. Clay had seen a sharp, quick mind that was suffocating, and known it was only a short trip from that to destroying it with alcohol or worse.

  Surprisingly, the fact that he'd been so thoroughly proven right mattered to him. He'd seen Ryan become a good cop, but what he'd pulled off with the Pack went beyond that. And for an instant he wished Ryan was there, wished he could congratulate him personally, wished even harder that it would mean something to the man if he did.

  That idea rattled him so much he slapped the book shut.

  He'd never had any desire to go back, either to his one-time home or to Trinity West. Or at least, if he had, it had been stillborn. He couldn't have allowed it to flourish, to grow into need, not when he knew there was no way he could go back, no way he could face the people who knew what had happened, the people who felt sorry for him or, worse, those like Linda's parents, who had publicly and loudly blamed him for neglecting what they said were their daughter's obvious cries for help. The fact that he believed just that himself made it almost impossible to bear.

  Yet here he was, thinking about just that, going back. Thinking that he would like to see how Ryan had turned out. That he would like to see Lacey, see the baby they'd finally created after the tragic loss of their first. And Cruz, and his little girl, who probably wasn't at all little anymore. And how was Gage? Was he still driven to the edge of obsession by his work?

  And Kit… God, had she really done what Charlie had said, organized all of Trinity West into a relay search team, looking for him? Had the chief really sanctioned that?

  His mouth curved slightly at the thought of Miguel as the chief. Miguel de los Reyes was a fine cop, and Clay had always known he had the brains and the savvy to go far. That he was a good, decent, honest man would make it perhaps a little harder, but Clay had the feeling that if anybody could do it, Miguel could.

  Besides, having him as a boss must be driving Robards crazy.

  Clay couldn't help but grin at the thought. The snarly, bigoted, cigar-chewing dinosaur had been the curse of Trinity West for years before Clay had gone to work there. He hadn't changed in the years Clay had worn the Trinity West badge, and he doubted the man had changed much since he'd left.

  You want to remember, think about Robards, he told himself. Remember how he came up to you at Linda's funeral with that charming statement that was apparently supposed to make you feel better.

  Sorry, pal, but women are unstable anyway, so what do you expect? You'll be better off without her.

  Clay had wondered briefly how anybody who had Kit Walker working for him could possibly believe women were unstable or inferior, but he'd been too shell-shocked to take the man on. Too crushed by his guilt to flatten him as he should have when he'd added that kids were a nuisance, anyway, and he was lucky to be a free man now.

  Robards, and the few others like him who were still around, were more than enough reason to stay away from Trinity West, the place that had once been home.

  But until now, he hadn't thought of all the reasons to go back, all the people who had meant so much to him. He hadn't dared. He'd locked those memories away in a place where they couldn't torment him, where they couldn't remind him constantly of all he'd lost.

  And now they were back, brought vividly to life by the story of one young street kid who had matured into a tough, brilliant cop and triumphantly brought down one of the most vicious adult street gangs in the country.

  Clay found himself fighting off a wave of nostalgic longing unlike anything he'd felt before.

  He let his head loll back on the chair, his eyes closing wearily. He'd thought that part of his life was buried too deep to resurface. And he didn't understand why it was hitting him now, and so hard. Had staying here done it, giving him time to become used to his surroundings and thus free to think about other things? Or was it more complex than that? Had coming to care for Casey opened the door for other things?

  He should have followed his urge to run. When she'd yelled at him to just leave, to send her the money when he could if he was so set on paying her back, he should have gone. He'd known it the minute he'd seen the sheen of moisture in her eyes and known that he'd brought her to the verge of tears. Tough, brave Casey, about to cry, and over him.

  It should have driven him out of here like a shot. But instead he'd stayed.

  And now the idea of leaving hurt more than he'd thought himself capable of feeling.

  A sudden, prickly sensation at the back of his neck penetrated his sleepy fog. He shot upright, half-expecting to see a dark, threatening figure in the shadows, half-expecting that Nesbit had been here and he'd missed him, that he'd failed Casey while lost in his silly memories and wishes for things that couldn't be.

  But instead it was Casey herself, standing before him in the simple cotton robe he'd peeled off her countless times in the past days, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't fathom.

  Her eyes flicked to the book still in his lap, then back to his face.

  "You … read it?" she asked, her voice husky with sleep in a way that made the glowing embers that seemed to have taken up residence within him flicker to flaming life.

  He nodded, slowly, his gaze fastened on her with an intensity he couldn't fight, couldn't hide.

  "I hope you're as proud as you should be," she said, her voice soft with that hope.

  "Ryan … did a great job."

  "Just like you taught him."

  He blinked, then lowered his eyes, but after a moment he couldn't stop the slight smile
that curved his lips. "He was the best student I ever had."

  "If he were here, what would you say to him?"

  His gaze shot back to her face. "I … what you said. That I'm proud of him." He lowered his eyes once more and let out a long breath. "I'm just not sure it would mean anything to him anymore."

  "Then you didn't read very carefully," Casey said. "What he feels for you came through rather clearly, I thought."

  "Maybe," Clay admitted grudgingly.

  She just looked at him for a moment, as if pondering something she wanted to say but wasn't sure she should. At last it came out, in that unerring way she had of voicing thoughts he didn't dare acknowledge.

  "He still thinks of you, Clay. Worries. It comes through, even you can't deny that."

  He couldn't deny it, so didn't try. Wherever he is, I owe him more than I can ever say. Ryan's words held a certain poignancy, even in print, and caused a tightness in Clay's chest that he couldn't make go away.

  "And I'm sure your other friends there feel the same," Casey added. "They haven't forgotten you, haven't given up."

  Your old buddies. They pooled money and vacation time, and each one took a turn looking for you.

  No, they hadn't forgotten, hadn't given up.

  "And it's quite clear they don't blame you," Casey went on, gently relentless. "Only you do that."

  "Casey," he whispered pleadingly, not sure what he was asking her for, except perhaps mercy. But Casey, the kindest, most giving woman he'd ever known, suddenly didn't have an ounce of mercy in her.

  "Did they deserve that, Clay? Did they deserve you vanishing, leaving them wondering, worrying, afraid for you?"

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked, horrified at the broken sound of his own voice.

  "What I want has nothing to do with this. It's what you know you should do. What you have to do. This will be hanging over you forever until you face it."

  Hearing her say it, hearing her put words to the knowledge he'd secretly carried for so long sliced through him like a hot blade. He tried desperately to bury it again.

  "I can't … go back. It's been too long, they won't…"

  "Won't what? Care? Welcome you? Even remember you?" She gestured at the book in his lap. "Even I know that's not true. And even if it were true, it wouldn't matter. You need to do it for yourself, Clay."

  "I…" He stopped, staring at his own white-knuckled hands, grasping the book as if it were a lifeline, knowing that without it to hang on to he would be shaking. Casey dropped to her knees before him, put her hands over his, hanging on as if she could absorb his anguish. The action nearly shattered his already precarious composure.

  "It's killing you by inches," she said, her voice now as shaky as he felt. "I know you feel like that's no more than you deserve, but it's not true. Damn it, Clay, it's not."

  He shuddered helplessly. And suddenly Casey seemed to rediscover her sense of mercy. She stood up, pulling his hands with her. He looked up at her, knowing he must be staring at her like some wounded animal, eyes wide with a pain he'd never really faced, the pain of having lost his family in a larger sense than his wife and child.

  "That's enough, it's late," Casey said softly. "Come to bed."

  He was powerless to resist her gentle urging. And when he crawled into bed beside her, when she took him in her arms and simply held him, stroking his hair, his cheek, his back, when she did nothing more than offer a pure, sweet comfort he'd never known before, Clay felt himself letting go, felt himself clinging to her with something that wasn't quite desperation, something that was need but not needy, desire but not sexual. And after a while, something quietly broke inside him, flooding him with a warmth that was unlike anything he could remember. A warmth so powerful that the pain ebbed at last, leaving him feeling emptied. Not hollow, but scoured somehow, and waiting, not painfully but expectantly, as if for the first time he thought that perhaps he could be filled again, could be alive again.

  And the warmth was so strong that the thought didn't scare him, merely held him tenderly until he drifted into the most peaceful sleep he'd known in years.

  * * *

  He was so deeply asleep that it took a moment for him to realize what had awakened him. But Mud let out another round of raucous, angry barks, and he snapped into alertness. The dog was outside, he thought. Had he found something on his nightly rounds? Or had he heard something and gone to investigate?

  Clay sat up. Casey was stirring beside him, rubbing at her eyes. He looked at her. And then it hit him, every instinct coming awake with a clamor, every nerve suddenly drawn and taut.

  The showdown had come.

  He wasn't sure how he knew, only that he did. It had taken him years, as a young cop, to learn to trust that instinct. But now it only took seconds for him to rediscover that trust.

  "What's wrong with Mud?" Casey asked sleepily.

  He kept his voice level and as detached as he could. He'd waited too long to tell her, and now it was too late. He had to move fast. "I don't know. I'll go look."

  With an effort, he managed not to hurry. He swung out of her warm bed and pulled on his jeans as if he thought Mud had done nothing more than corner a rampaging raccoon. But he skipped his boots, hoping Casey would assume it was because he expected to be right back rather than from urgency.

  "Be right back," he said, stopping short of ordering her to stay put, knowing too well that nothing would be more likely to send her after him. He only hoped she was sleepy enough to slow her reactions, giving him enough time to get this done before he had to worry about her.

  Mud was still outside, and still barking furiously, so Clay went through the house hastily, giving only a cursory check to rooms as he passed. He paused on the screen porch, listening to pinpoint the dog's location. The barn, he thought. And inside. After a moment spent scanning the yard and seeing nothing, he headed that way in a running crouch.

  He pressed himself against the wall, listening. With a last yelp Mud went quiet except for a muffled whine, as if he'd sensed Clay's presence. For a long moment that seemed to last forever, Clay strained to hear any movement inside, but he could hear only the small rustling, scratching movements of the collie. Maybe Mud really had just cornered some night creature; maybe it wasn't Nesbit at all.

  He edged around the corner, intending to slip through the sliding doorway. And then he stopped in his tracks.

  The door was closed. The scratching was Mud trying to claw open the heavy door. The door they always left open for him. The door he never could have closed behind him. The door that could not have slid closed on its own. Which meant somebody had closed it, trapping the dog in the barn.

  Somebody who wanted the dog out of the way.

  Somebody who wanted Clay outside.

  His heart began to hammer in his chest. He reached out with a foot and nudged the door open. Mud bolted through, barely sparing his master a glance. Head down, ears flat to his head, teeth bared, the dog raced for the house. And as his heart sank and his stomach knotted violently, Clay knew he'd made a very bad mistake. His instincts were rustier than he'd thought.

  Nesbit was here.

  And now he had Casey.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Casey knew, the minute she heard the footsteps in the hall, that it wasn't Clay coming back. He never made noise like that; he moved quietly, gracefully. She scrambled out of bed, searching for something, anything, she could use as a weapon. The only thing she could see was the heavy brass lamp she'd just turned on, and the moment of hesitation while she decided which was more important, light or a weapon, cost her; he was in the room by the time she grabbed it.

  She knew it was Jon. In some primitive level of her brain, she would swear she could smell him. Her lip curled, and she felt herself baring her teeth like some cornered animal as the gut-level fear swept her. The sensation sickened her; she'd sworn she would never be that afraid again. Anger, both at him and at herself, flooded through her,
carrying the fear away like the river carried the leaves in the fall.

  She spun around, ripping the shade off the lamp and reversing the base in her hold, freeing the heavy end for a blow as she moved.

  "You're mine now, Casey," Jon said, his voice still oddly raspy, as it had been on the phone. "Now you'll pay."

  "Like hell," Casey said, heartened by the sound of her own voice so low and steady. And working on an impulse she didn't quite understand, she didn't wait for him to come after her. She went for him instead, jabbing fiercely with the heavy lamp. Startled, Jon jumped back. She jabbed again. He fell back again.

  "You bitch!" he yelled. His hand went to his waist, and Casey guessed instantly that he was armed; he wasn't brave enough to come after even a woman without help. Acting instinctively, she swung the lamp this time, bringing the heavy base down on his arm before he could reach the gun butt she could now see above his belt.

  He howled and grabbed his arm with his other hand. The sound was oddly echoed by a canine howl, and Mud burst into the room. He went for Jon without hesitation, snapping, growling with clear and deadly intent. Jon yelled again and backed up against the wall as the Border collie latched onto his right leg. Mud withstood the rain of blows, never loosening his grip, never letting go as Jon wailed and swung at him.

  Then Jon had the gun out and was turning it on the dog.

  "No!" Casey yelled. She lifted the lamp again, ready to swing, even knowing it could get her shot. But a movement at the bedroom window distracted her.

  An instant later a dark figure exploded through the window into the room. Jon's head jerked around, but he had no time to react. Clay was on him, low and hard. Jon's arms flew up as Clay took him down to the floor. Casey saw something go flying. Heard the clatter of the gun hitting the floor. Sliding.

  She had never seen anything like this, this brutal, vicious, hand-to-hand fighting. The sounds were hideously fascinating. The impact of fists on flesh. The grunts of both pain and grim satisfaction. The thud of bodies rolling on the wooden floor. The crash as something else was knocked over in the fray. Mud's angry barks as he snapped and bit whenever he could.