thought you’d been shot.”
“You screamed my name.” He positioned himself between her legs. “I always liked that.”
“I called out,” she corrected, but her lips twitched. “And I took off running. But I didn’t get far. I’m thinking it was ten, fifteen seconds between the shot and when the lights went out. So there had to be at least two of them. Our old pals Austin and Jimmy?”
“If it was, they’ve upped the ante.”
“I want to kick their asses.”
He touched his lips, very gently, to the unbroken skin beside the scrape. “Get in line.”
“I guess we call the cops.”
“Looks like.”
But they didn’t move, not yet, just continued to look at each other. “Scared me,” Callie said after a moment.
“Me too.”
She put her arms out, drew him in. Funny, she thought, how much shakier she felt now that she was holding on to him than she’d felt before. But she didn’t let go. “If anybody gets to shoot at you, it’s going to be me.”
“Only fair. And I’m, obviously, the only one entitled to knock you out cold.”
Oh yeah, she thought as she kept her cheek pressed to his. The irritating son of a bitch was the love of her life. Just her bad luck.
“Glad we agree on those points. Now let’s call the sheriff.”
“In just a minute.”
“You know, what you were talking about before we were so incredibly rudely interrupted? About how we never took the time to, like, romance each other? How you never seduced me? I never seduced you either.”
“Callie, you seduced me the minute I laid eyes on you.”
She let out a half laugh, nearly as shocked by the statement as everything that had come before. “I did not.”
“You never believed it.” He eased back, touched his lips to her cheek, then the other in a gesture that had her staring at him in equal parts surprise and suspicion. “I could never figure out why you didn’t. I’ll call the sheriff, then get you something for that headache.”
“I can get it.” She started to boost herself down, but he gripped her arm. There was frustration on his face now, something she’d rarely seen unless it was laced with anger.
“Why can’t you let me take care of you? Even now, when you’re hurting.”
Baffled, she gestured to the cupboard. “It’s just . . . right there.”
“Fine. Great.” He let her go, turned his back. “Get it yourself.”
She started to shrug it off, scoot down. Then stopped herself. She wasn’t sure of the steps of this new dance they seemed to have begun, but at least she could try to find the rhythm.
“Look, maybe you could give me a hand down. If I jar something, I think my head’ll fall off. And I guess I banged up my feet some, too.”
Saying nothing, he turned back, lifted her feet one at a time. He swore under his breath, then caught her at the waist, lifted her down to the floor. Gently, she noted. He’d been gentle several times that night—more in that single night than she could recall him being with her since they’d met.
His face was scratched, his hair was wild, and his eyes annoyed. Everything inside her softened. “I guess you carried me all the way inside.”
“It was either that or leave you out there.” He reached over her head, took the bottle of pills out of the cabinet. “Here.”
“Thanks. You know what, I think I need to sit down.” She did, right on the floor, as much to see how he’d react as for necessity.
She saw it, that quick concern that raced over his face before it closed down again. He turned on the faucet, poured her a glass of water, then crouched down to give it to her.
“You dizzy?”
“No. It just hurts like the wrath of God. I’ll just sit here, take drugs, wait for the cops.”
“I’ll call this in, then we’ll put some ice on that head. See how it does.”
“Okay.” Thoughtfully, she shook out pills as he went to the phone. She wasn’t sure what this new aspect of Jacob Graystone meant. But it was certainly interesting.
Fifteen
Callie didn’t trust herself to dig on three hours of spotty sleep. The knot on her forehead brought a dull, constant ache that made paperwork unappealing.
Napping was a skill she’d never developed, and was only one step below her least-honed ability. Doing nothing.
For twenty minutes, she indulged herself by experimenting with various ways to disguise the scrape and bruise. Swooping her hair down made her look like a low-rent copy of Veronica Lake. Tying on a bandanna resulted in a cross between a time-warped hippie and a girl pirate.
None of those were quite the effect she was looking for.
Though she knew she’d probably live to regret it, she snipped off some hair to form wispy bangs.
They’d drive her crazy as they grew out, but for now they met the basic demands of vanity. With her sunglasses and hat, she decided, you could hardly make out the sunburst of color and patch of raw skin.
If she was going out, and she was, she didn’t want the goose egg to be the focus of attention.
She’d put off going by Treasured Pages as Doug had asked, and it was time to stop procrastinating. She understood why he’d asked it of her, and she could admit to her own curiosity about another member of the Cullen family.
But what was she supposed to say to the old guy? she asked herself as she hunted up a parking spot on Main. Hey, Grandpa, how’s it going?
So far her time in Woodsboro had been just a little too interesting. Old family secrets, crude graffiti all over her Rover—which was why she was driving Rosie’s enormous Jeep Cherokee—murder, mystery and finally gunshots and mild concussions.
It was enough to drive a person back to the lecture circuit.
Now, she thought, she was forced to parallel park in an unfamiliar vehicle, on a narrow street that had, to spite her, suddenly filled with traffic.
She didn’t see how it could get much worse.
She muscled the car in and out, back and forth, dragging the wheel, cursing herself and the town’s predilection for high curbs until sweaty, frustrated and mildly embarrassed, she finessed the Jeep between a pickup and a hatchback.
She slid out, noted that now that she’d completed the task, traffic was down to three pokey cars and a Mennonite with a horse and carriage.
It just figured.
But the mental bitching kept her from being nervous as she walked down the block to the bookstore.
There was a woman at the counter when Callie walked in, and a man behind it with wild gray hair and a white shirt with pleats so sharp they could have cut bread. Callie saw the instant shock run over his face, heard him stop speaking in the middle of a sentence as if someone had plowed a fist into his throat.
The woman turned and glanced at Callie, frowned. “Mr. Grogan? Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Sorry, Terri, my mind wandered there. Be with you in just a minute,” he said to Callie.
“It’s okay. I’ll just look around.”
She scanned book titles, finding ones she’d read, others she wondered why anybody would read, and listened to the conversation behind her.
“These are very nice, Terri. You know Doug or I would have come to appraise them for you.”
“I thought I’d bring them in, let you make me an offer. Aunt Francie loved her books, but I’ve just got no place for them now that she’s gone. And if they’re worth anything, I could use the money.” She glanced back over her shoulder again, toward Callie. “What with work slowing down for Pete. This one here’s worth something, isn’t it? It’s leather and all.”
“It’s what we call half-bound,” he explained, and tried not to track Callie’s every movement. “See here, the leather’s over the spine, then about an inch over the front and back. The rest of the binding’s cloth.”
“Oh.”
The disappointment on her face had him reaching out to pat her hand. ??
?You’ve got some fine books here, Terri. Francie, she took care of them. And this Grapes of Wrath is a first edition.”
“I didn’t think that would go for much. Cover’s torn.”
“The dust jacket’s got some rubbing, a tear or two, but it’s still in very good condition. Why don’t you leave these with me for a few days, and I’ll call you with a price?”
“Okay. I’d sure appreciate that, Mr. Grogan. The sooner you can let me know, the better. Tell Doug my Nadine’s asked after him.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Nice to have him back in town. Maybe he’ll stay this time.”
“Could be.” Wanting her gone, he started around the counter, prepared to walk her to the door, but she wandered out of reach, toward Callie.
“You with those archaeologist people?”
Callie shifted. “That’s right.”
“You look sort of familiar to me.”
“I’ve been around for a few weeks.”
She looked at the bruising under the curtain of bangs, but couldn’t find a polite way to ask about it. “It was my brother-in-law dug up that skull that started things off.”
“No kidding? That must’ve been a real moment for him.”
“Cost him a lot of work. My husband, too.”
“Yes. It’s hard. I’m sorry.”
Terri frowned again, waited for some argument or debate. Then she shifted her feet. “Some people around think the place is cursed because you’re disturbing graves.”
“Some people watch too many old movies on Chiller Theater.”
Terri’s lips quirked before she controlled them. “Still and all, Ron Dolan’s dead. And that’s a terrible thing.”
“It is. It’s shaken us all up. I never knew anyone who was murdered before. Did you?”
There was just enough sympathy, just enough openness to gossip in Callie’s attitude to have Terri relaxing. “Can’t say I did. Except my grandson goes to preschool three days a week with the Campbell boy, and his daddy was shot dead in a convenience-store robbery up in Baltimore. Poor little thing. Makes you stop and think, doesn’t it? You just never know.”
She hadn’t known that, Callie realized with a jolt. She’d spoken with Lana about intimate details of her own life, but she hadn’t known how she’d been widowed. “No, you don’t.”
“Well, I got to get on. Maybe I’ll bring our Petey out to see that place y’all are digging up. Some of the other kids’ve gone by.”
“Do that. We’re always happy to show the site, to explain what we’re doing and how we do it.”
“You sure do look familiar,” Terri said again. “Nice talking to you anyway. Bye, Mr. Grogan. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“A day or two, Terri. Best to Pete now.”
Roger waited until the door shut. “You handled her very well,” he said.
“Maintaining friendly relations with locals is part of the job description. So.” She gestured to the cardboard box, and the books spread on the counter. “Does she have anything spectacular?”
“This Steinbeck is going to make her happy. It’ll take me a while to go through the rest. I’m going to put the Closed sign up, if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure.”
She slid her hands into her back pockets as Roger walked to the door, flipped the sign, turned the locks. “Ah, Doug asked me if I’d come by. I’ve been pretty busy.”
“This is awkward for you.”
“I guess it is.”
“Would you like to come into the back? Have some coffee?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
He didn’t touch her, or make any move to take her hand. He didn’t stare or fumble. And his ease put Callie at hers as they stepped into his back room.
“This is a nice place. Comfortable. I’ve always thought of bibliophiles as stuffy fanatics who keep their books behind locked glass.”
“I’ve always thought of archaeologists as strapping young men who wear pith helmets and explore pyramids.”
“Who says I don’t have a pith helmet,” she countered and made him laugh.
“I wanted to come out to the site, to see your work. To see you. But I didn’t want to . . . push. It’s so much for you to deal with all at once. I thought an extra grandfather could wait.”
“Doug said I’d like you. I think he’s right.”
He poured coffee and brought it to the tiny table. “Milk, sugar?”
“Why mess with a good thing?”
“How did you hurt your head?”
She tugged at her new bangs. “I guess these aren’t doing the job after all.” She started to tell him something light, something foolish, then found herself telling him the exact truth.
“My God. This is madness. What did the sheriff say?”
“Hewitt?” She shrugged. “What cops always say. They’ll look into it. He’s going to talk to a couple of guys who hassled me and Jake when we first got here, and decorated my car with creative obscenities and red spray paint.”
“Who would that be?”
“Some morons named Austin and Jimmy. Big guy, little guy. A redneck version of Laurel and Hardy.”
“Austin Seldon and Jimmy Dukes?” He shook his head, nudged his glasses back up the bridge of his nose when they took a slide. “No, I can’t imagine it. They’re not the brightest bulbs in the chandelier, but neither of them would shoot at a man or manhandle a woman, for that matter. I’ve known them all their lives.”
“They want us off the project. And they’re not alone.”
“The development is no longer an issue. Kathy Dolan contacted me last night. That’s Ron’s widow. She wants to sell the land to the Preservation Society. It’ll take some doing for us to meet the asking price, but we’re going to meet it. There will be no development at Antietam Creek.”
“That’s not going to make you preservation guys popular either.”
“Not with some.” His smile was quiet, smug and very appealing. “And very popular with others.”
“Just speculation, but could someone have killed Dolan so his wife would be pressured into selling?”
“Again, I can’t imagine. Then again, I don’t want to imagine. I know this town, its people. It’s not the way we do things here.”
He rose to get the pot to top off their coffee. Out in the shop, the phone rang, but he let it go. “There were a lot of people who thought highly of Ron, and a lot who didn’t. But I don’t know one of them who’d crack his head open and dump him in Simon’s Hole.”
“I could say the same thing about my team. I don’t know some of them as well as you know your neighbors, but diggers don’t make a habit of knocking off towners because of a site disagreement.”
“You love your work.”
“Yeah. Everything about it.”
“When you do, every day’s an adventure.”
“Some a little more adventurous than others. I should get back to it.” But she didn’t rise. “Can I ask you a question first? On the personal front?”
“Of course you can.”
“Suzanne and Jay. What happened between them?”
He let out a long breath, sat back. “I think, too often, tragedy begets tragedy. We were wild when you were taken. Terrified