Night Mist Page 6

  After working only a short while, and blinded by the sting of sweat running into his eyes, Jay turned away from the cloud of paint to draw fresh air into his lungs. For a few seconds it felt almost cool compared to what he’d been inhaling under the hood.

  How the hell did anyone do this for a living year in and year out? he wondered, using the rag in the back pocket of his jeans to wipe the streams of perspiration from his face. Was he doing an adequate job of convincing his boss that he knew the business? Like most men, he’d grown up enjoying messing around with cars. A few of his old man’s buddies had even taught him a thing or two about bodywork. But a pro he wasn’t, and since taking this job he’d been banking on the hunch that Mudcat wasn’t one, either.

  He glanced around, looking for the guy, and saw that he’d gone back into his air-conditioned office and parked his bulk behind his desk. His executive chair looked as though it had been salvaged from the local dump, Jay thought, watching him return to his favorite pastime, namely jabbering away on the phone. Now there was the one thing Mudcat was good for. The man’s love of gabbing kept him preoccupied most of the day. Of course, that also left Jay with most of the work.

  With a shake of his head, Jay shoved the rag back into his back pocket. He had to get a grip—his nerves were stretching way too thin. Maybe he’d be in better shape if he knew how much longer it would be before he finished here…and what the final outcome would be. A too-familiar scent of death seemed to be a constant presence these days, filling his nostrils with every breath. It was making him edgier. The Gentry woman was making things worse.

  He tried, but he couldn’t forget the way she’d stared at him. She’d looked as though she’d seen a ghost. It could mean only one thing: she had to be one of Garth’s people…which also meant he might have to get rid of her. The idea wasn’t pleasant to contemplate, but if it came down to making a choice between him or her, he knew what decision he would have to make.

  The bell sounding the arrival of a customer jerked him out of his dark brooding. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the late-model four-door pull up to the gas pumps. He set down the spray gun, about to tug his hood completely off his head because he knew Mudcat wasn’t likely to get off his butt and take care of the customer himself. Then he recognized the blond-haired guy sitting on the passenger side of the front seat. Instead of removing the hood, he dropped it back in place, snatched up the paint gun and turned back to the truck.

  Damn. He knew the guy with the burr haircut and was already thinking about what he could use as a weapon or how he could escape if he, in turn, was identified. No way he could go out the front way without being spotted.

  “Hey, J.B.? Customer!”

  Mudcat’s voice carried through the glass door so clearly, it might as well have been screen mesh. Jay grit his teeth and willed him to keep his big mouth shut.

  “J.B.!”

  The driver of the sedan sounded his horn, but Jay knew he had no choice; he had to ignore it. He pretended to inspect the portion of the cab he’d already painted, then started spraying again.

  When Mudcat burst from the office, Jay could feel his agitation across the garage. It took considerable concentration as the man stomped over and grabbed his shoulder, for Jay to not whip around and shove Mudcat’s nose up into his skull.

  Instead, he pretended to be dumbfounded, shut off the spray gun and maneuvered so that he had his back turned to the car. “What’s up?”

  “You gone deaf? Customer’s waiting!”

  “The compressor’s running and I’ve got this hood on. I didn’t know.”

  “Well, now you do. Go take care of them.”

  “Can’t. You’d better handle it.”

  Mudcat gave him a pained look. “I’m the boss, J.B. I’m the one who’s supposed to say who does what around here.”

  “You want this done right?” Jay asked, with a shrug of indifference. “I can’t do both. Not if you expect a smooth finish.”

  “But it ain’t the way it’s supposed to—” Again the horn sounded. “Aw, hell. All right. This time. But you’d better do a damned good job, hear?” Mudcat grumbled, already stomping toward the sedan.

  That had been a close one. As relief surged through him, Jay once again dropped the hood in place and turned back to the truck. That’s when he saw the stream of primer running down the side. He swore under his breath, hoping he could fix it before Mudcat saw it.

  Mudcat did see it less than five minutes later. As the sedan pulled away, the stout man huffed and puffed over to him, complaining all the louder when he reached Jay. “We need to talk, man. This ain’t right. See, I was on the phone, and when I’m doing business, you’re supposed to—Holy dipstick. What’s that? I thought you said you were an expert. My old lady did a better job painting our house, and she was seven months pregnant!”

  Fed up with playing subordinate to the guy, Jay decided enough was enough. “I’m sorry, okay? I hit my bad hand and overcompensated.”

  “I’ll say you did.” Mudcat poked his finger into Jay’s arm. “You’d better be more careful, J.B., ’cause I ain’t—”

  Like a pit bull suddenly unleashed, Jay sprung into action. He grabbed the man’s wrist and bent it in a way that left nothing to the imagination as to what would happen next. “Don’t,” he warned with deceptive softness. “If you ever want to use this again, don’t touch me.”

  “H-hey, hold on, man.”

  “If it wasn’t for this dump falling down around me and my effort to bolt that siding back in place for you yesterday, I wouldn’t be working with one hand and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He leaned into Mudcat’s face. “So maybe you’ll want to be careful about how hard you push me. Agreed?”

  Mudcat turned slightly green around the gills, then a ruddy, rash red. Jay hoped the guy hadn’t been scared into having a stroke. Life was complicated enough at the moment.

  “Okay, man. Cool down. I hear you.” As soon as Jay released him, Mudcat raced for the safety of his office. At the door, he spun around. “But make sure you get it right next time!”

  Jay didn’t bother waiting for the door to slam. More interested in making sure the sedan had left, he stepped outside and searched for it. He spotted the vehicle just starting across the bridge. Apparently it had been slowed by traffic.

  Although the mist was at its thickest over Black Water Creek, he immediately noted the car wasn’t the only thing out there. Someone was walking, too. A woman.

  The sedan’s taillights flared and the car slowed. Stopped. Jay felt a tightening in his belly. Mist or no mist, he’d grown extremely familiar with that particular form and the casual grace with which it moved.

  Garth’s people had stopped for Miss Class Act herself…Dr. Rachel Gentry. Did he know his business, or what?

  She’d been concentrating so intently, wondering if she might be able to detect something, anything at this point, on the bridge, that Rachel didn’t notice the car until it had eased up beside her. It gave her a jolt, and her heart did a second plunge when she recognized the man rolling down the passenger window.

  Even if she couldn’t have remembered his name after their one meeting, she would never forget his sly, toothy grin. Just as the first time she’d been exposed to it, she again found it unnerving.

  “Morning, Rachel.”

  Wade Maddox’s quick familiarity had her feeling more uneasy. It reminded her of the night he brought in a so-called friend to the clinic, whom, he’d explained, had gotten into a fight. The friend had looked more like a victim of an intentional beating. Every bone in his right hand had been broken, and the tip of one finger had been severed. When she’d insisted they report the incident to the police, he’d stopped her. He’d been polite, even amused, but the look in his pale blue eyes had made it clear that she wasn’t going to make the call.

  “Hello,” she replied, careful to keep the tone of her voice neutral. She didn’t stop walking.

  “It’s dangerous weather for a casual str
oll, ma’am. Would you allow my, er, associate and I to give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks.” She barely spared him a glance, making sure she watched her step on the narrow and aging sidewalk. “I like the exercise. Besides, it’s not far to the clinic.”

  “True, but what a shame it would be if our pretty, new doctor was the victim of a hit-and-run accident.”

  She’d been aware of his interest in her from the moment he’d entered the clinic—Wade Maddox’s manners were as coarse as his features—but Rachel had experienced her share of trouble with his kind before. By no means would she make the mistake of underestimating him, but she knew his interest would run out all the faster if she bored him with the formal civility that all Gentrys were indoctrinated in from birth.

  “I stay on the sidewalk and close to the guardrail, Mr. Maddox, but thank you for your concern.”

  She’d hoped it would be enough to send him on his way. She was wrong. To her dismay, after a short exchange between the men inside, the car continued to keep pace beside her.

  “Okay, I’ve got another idea. How about if we stop by the café and you let me buy you a cup of coffee—or better yet, a late breakfast?”

  The mention of food made Rachel’s normally healthy appetite resurface for the first time since she’d fled Jewel’s disconcerting presence, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite if Wade Maddox sat staring across the table at her.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have the time right now.”

  “Why not? I thought you said you worked the evening shift?”

  “I do, but I have to…consult with Dr. Voss over a case. It’s quite important.”

  “Sounds like a person needs to be sick or something to get near you.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I stay very busy, Mr. Maddox.”

  “The least you can do is call me Wade.”

  She would rather deal with nightmares about Jay Barnes for the rest of her life and brood over Joe Becket. “How’s your…how’s Mr. Lawson doing?” she asked, thinking that changing the subject might give him a subtle hint.

  “Uh…as a matter of fact, I don’t rightly know. Last I saw him, he was, um, moving on and thinking about seeking another form of employment.”

  Something about his sly reply, along with the driver’s muffled guffaw, grated on Rachel. “I see. And just what is it that you do?”

  “Oh, you might say I’m a…consultant. Yeah, that’s it. I’m a consultant for a…a pest control firm.”

  This time the driver burst into outright laughter and hit the accelerator. As the car sped away, Rachel saw Wade Maddox punch the driver in the arm, then he stuck his head out the window and sent her a jaunty salute.

  Feeling a chill that contradicted the sultry weather, Rachel stopped. She wanted to do everything she could to help the car get out of sight as fast as possible.

  Rubbing her bare arms, she looked around. Right now, she mused, Joe Becket’s presence would almost be a point of sanity in a very disturbing world. But there was no sign of him, nothing except the depressing mantle of fog.

  With a sigh, she continued across the bridge.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The clinic was quiet when she entered through the reception area. Because she rarely came in at this hour, the quiet surprised her, but she found it a relief, too. It should, she reasoned, make it easier to ask Sammy for a few minutes of his time.

  She was immediately glad she’d come. From the day she’d first arrived in Nooton, she’d felt as though she belonged here, as though she’d stepped into a safe zone. However, before she could enjoy the reassuring vibes too much, Cassie, the day receptionist, returned to her desk.

  The can of diet soda the young woman had been in the process of popping open made an anticlimactic fizz as she gave Rachel a perplexed smile. “Hi. What are you doing here? You’re not due in for—” she checked her watch “—good grief, hours. What’s wrong?”

  “Does something have to be wrong for me to come by early?” Rachel replied, affecting an incredulous laugh.

  Cassie shrugged. “To each his own, I guess. You do look a bit strung out, though. You’re not coming down with a bug, are you?” She was one of those unlucky souls who caught everything that came through the office, and had the faded-photograph type of face to prove it. It didn’t surprise Rachel to see her put down her soft drink and cross her index fingers as though warding off a hex. “Please don’t breathe on me. This is my first day back from a forty-eight-hour virus. I can’t afford any more sick leave.”

  “Relax. I don’t have anything contagious. Is Dr. Voss with a patient?” Rachel added, circling the desk to get to the hallway where their offices and the examination rooms were.

  “He’s finishing up with the last two that were scheduled for the morning. Unless we get an emergency, he should be available if you need to speak with him.”

  “I’ll go wait in our office.”

  Rachel passed the file room and the children’s examination room, remembering the first time she’d been escorted through the cramped but cozy building. The file cabinets were secondhand and no doubt had shown their wear even before Sammy purchased them, the decorations adorning the children’s room were handmade by past and present staff, and the bulletin board outside the combination delivery-outpatient surgery room was growing crowded with photos of babies Sammy had assisted into the world. It all created an environment that managed to avoid the usual antiseptic, impersonal atmosphere other health-care facilities exuded. In fact, this one felt more like home than her room at Adorabella’s, which made it much easier for Rachel to maintain her challenging schedule.

  Officially, from four in the afternooon—although she often came in at two or three—until two in the morning, the clinic served as the center of her life. Maybe that was the other reason she’d come here this morning, she mused, pausing by the photos. Maybe she’d wanted a reassurance that her world wasn’t being completely shifted off its axis.

  Marion, one of the two day nurses, came out of an examination room, spotted her and quickly shut the door behind herself. “I’m not sure you want to be here,” she whispered to Rachel, tucking a pencil into her casual, more salt than pepper topknot.

  Immediately sensing the tenseness in the tall woman, Rachel grew more wary. “What’s up?”

  “Cleo phoned earlier. She said she’d been up all night wrestling with her decision, but decided she had to go with her conscience. She reported that you closed the clinic early last night.”

  Rachel felt a lead weight descend on her chest. “I thought she might.”

  “She said you’ve been acting bookoo weird,” the ex-triage nurse added, as usual peppering her dialogue with Vietnamese slang.

  “I assume Sammy’s vital signs are shaky?”

  “You can say that again. Prepare yourself to hear the Gospel according to Voss. What in the world possessed you, hon?”

  “Oddly enough, ‘possessed’ is quite appropriate phrasing, Marion, but I can’t go into any explanations yet.”

  “Whatever it was, I hope it was worth it.” She patted Rachel’s shoulder. “Does it still look like doom and gloom outside?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Marion shuddered. “Creepy stuff. You know what was on TV last night? The Fog. Naturally, my kid had to watch. Have you seen it? Whenever the stuff rolls in, these phantom pirates come back to a modern town to exact revenge for some treasure that was stolen from them.”

  “I remember,” Rachel replied, attempting an amused smile, although not quite succeeding. “One of my college roommates was addicted to stuff like that.” She herself wouldn’t have made the connection between the weather and the film, but now that Marion had brought it up, the parallel made her imagination kick into gear again.

  Preoccupied, she didn’t realize the nurse was frowning and reaching for her forehead until it was too late. Belatedly, she backed away.

  “You’re a little warm, Doctor. Maybe you’d better sit down,” Marion said, tilting
her head toward the office Rachel shared with Sammy. “Put your feet up and I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Rather than argue that she was fine, Rachel did as Marion suggested. She needed to think about what Cleo had done, anyway.

  She understood, of course, and bore no resentment toward the nurse. In fact, if their situations were reversed, she would probably have reacted the same way. Nevertheless, it complicated things; she just wouldn’t be able to tell how much until she saw Sammy.

  Their office was as cramped as the rest of the place, due to the two desks that were scrunched together along the far wall; the two steel-and-vinyl guest conference chairs for patient consultations were placed beside them, and the rest of the space was taken up by the inevitable file cabinets.

  Rachel perched on the edge of her cleared desk and managed a crooked smile at the disaster scattered across Sammy’s, which reflected the lively, emotional bachelor and pack rat behind the professional. Every afternoon when she came in, Rachel had to spend the first few minutes sweeping the overflow of material spilling onto her desk back over to his side. Here it was, barely 10:00 a.m., and already several pieces of mail and a stack of files were shoving her pen and pencil set across her blotter. She needed to sic Helga on him.

  Helga was Sammy’s live-in German housekeeper, who also cared for his elderly father. Originally hired over a year ago as a private nurse after Mr. Voss’s stroke, she’d broadened her duties by her own choice because she couldn’t believe anyone as unorganized as Sammy could function for long without help.

  Rachel had a hunch Sammy was infatuated with the young woman, but saw himself as too old or too staid for her. Or maybe he was afraid that if he did lower the employer-employee barrier between them and things didn’t work out, he would lose a trusted and valued helper.

  The problem with the world, she concluded, comparing his situation with her own rather empty private life, was that there wasn’t enough romance in it. Small wonder that the first man to have roused her curiosity in ages happened to be a ghost.