“Anything I can do for that?” I asked her.
“Always wanting to play doctor,” she said, closing her eyes.
I bent her head forward and examined the rifle wound, which looked scaly and horrible. That probably meant it was healing. “And some people call me a shit magnet,” I said.
“You’ve just learned to duck faster,” she said.
I took her other hand, and she opened her eyes again. “You found out what you wanted to know,” I said. “We’ve failed every time we’ve tried to get our hands around the Grinny Creigh problem. Both sheriffs involved are headed for the cold, cold ground. Is it maybe time to let the big boys do their thing?”
“They’ll cap it off,” she said. “There’s no way in hell they’re going to find Grinny and her crew in those mountains. And the Bureau will not want a reprise of their Rudolph debacle. They’ll ride in, take over the case, announce they broke up a ring of child peddlers and the two principals are dead. Victory.”
“But we’ve both told them there are six kids in her clutches.”
“We’ve told them lots of things,” she said. “And they’ve done squat.”
“I want to go back out there when all the cops are gone,” I said. “We’re missing something.”
She sighed and closed her eyes again. “My hand feels like a bus ran over it,” she said drowsily. “Let’s sleep on it instead.”
I hadn’t let go of her hand and she hadn’t let go of mine, so I lay down beside her. I gathered her in and she snuggled willingly, warm and sweet.
“You are beginning to affect my better judgment,” I said to the back of her neck.
“Like you have any choice in the matter,” she murmured.
I laughed. Even with all the coffee onboard, we both went out like that proverbial light.
18
We slept in until almost six o’clock, and both of us awoke feeling logy. The cell phones had been silent all afternoon, but neither one of us could quite wake up. I was suddenly conscious of this warm female in my arms.
“Hey, girl,” I said. “Wanna fool around?”
“I have to go potty,” she said.
I started laughing. So did I. Reality intruding.
“How’s the mitt?”
“Aches, but it’s better. Those medics were generous with their drugs.”
“I can almost get my eyes open,” I said.
“I think I saw a swimming pool,” she said, a few minutes later.
It being the end of the summer season, the motel wasn’t full, and, as the sun set, most of the guests were downtown going to dinner. We took turns changing in the bathroom. Carrie came out in a reasonably modest two-piece, while I wore my khaki running shorts, having failed to pack a real bathing suit. I wouldn’t have done that on a beach, but the pool was situated behind the motel and out of view of any windows or walkways. There was a six-seater hot tub in one corner of the pool enclosure with its own privacy fence to deter demon spawn from playing in it.
The pool’s water was downright cold, but we both started to wake up after a few minutes of pretending that the pool’s temperature was “refreshing.” I decided to see if that hot tub was working. It was, and the water was still warm from the last occupants. I fired up the jets and submerged my aching body in the swirling waters, trying not to breathe in too much chlorine.
Carrie came over and sat down on the side of the hot tub. She’d taken off the bandage. Her hand was swollen and reddish. Her black hair was wet and hung down in a sleek, sculptured mat, nicely framing her pretty face. She extended her legs out over the water and looked them over. So did I. She caught me looking and gave me a teasing smile.
“You a leg man, there, Mr. ex-lieutenant Richter?”
“Actually, I’m a whole-foods kind of guy,” I replied, wondering how far she might take this. Naturally, I was hoping for the best.
She raised one leg and then the other like a dancer, still appraising. Then she glanced down at her front. As slender as she was, she had a small if pleasing superstructure. She clicked her lips as if disappointed in what she was looking at.
“Don’t tell me,” I said.
“Tell you what?”
“That you have small breasts.”
“Afraid so,” she said, putting on a sad face.
“Well, that does it,” I said. “I mean-small breasts? That’s a total disqualification. You can hardly be a woman in America if you have small breasts. Everyone knows that. My goodness, what a total disaster.”
She propped her feet close together on the edge of the tub and eyed me over her knees, which she began to bump gently together. Since I was directly in front of her in the water, the motion did interesting things to those slick wheels of hers.
“Everyone knows?” she said. “Really?” Bump. Bump.
“Totally,” I said, wanting to clear my throat.
“What a shame,” she said. “And just when I was thinking I needed-something.”
“Something?”
“Don’t squeak like that.”
“Um.”
“I had it a moment ago,” she said with a dramatic sigh.
Bump.
“I know I did. Right there on the tips of my toes.” Lift. Look. Down. “But that disqualification business-well, I didn’t know that. But I do appreciate your telling me.”
Bump. Bump.
“Um.”
“Um? That the best you can do?” She reached forward and scooped up some warm water, and then began wetting her legs and thighs. I couldn’t see her face anymore, probably because I wasn’t looking at her face. An achingly familiar physiological short circuit between my brain and my nether parts had been firmly established.
“Well, really,” she said. “How ‘bout it there, Mr. Um? Are you up for a little nonintrusive massage work or not? Girl with a problem here. Got a groove in my head and a paddle for a hand. And, I almost forgot, small breasts. But, well…”
Finally, clarification. I submerged and resurfaced with my head and shoulders between her knees. I rose to lean over her disqualifying breasts. Her thighs were tense, and I began rubbing my face on the front of her bathing suit, just below her breasts. When I felt her start to relax, I put my hands on her hips, eased her halter top aside with my chin, and then went to work on her qualification problems to see if anything could be done.
Anything could be done, as it turned out. But all my plans for a leisurely exploration evaporated when I lifted first one knee and then the other onto my shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed her on the mouth. The next moment she was in the water with me, sans top and bottom, and telling me to go fast.
Go fast? No problem. For once, we went up the mountain and didn’t bounce off. She clung to me like hot, wet silk, and this time it was the two of us taking care of business.
We relaxed into the foaming, hissing water, holding each other close, soaking up the heat, both inside and out, for several lovely minutes. She had her head on my chest, and I got a close look at what was going to be a very interesting scar.
Then we heard the unmistakable sounds of teenaged girls in the passageway between the motel and the pool enclosure. We moved apart. I helped put her suit together and then hiked my own trunks back up.
“You’re supposed to say something,” I said.
She thought for a moment and then said, “Thanks, I needed that.”
“It was all that peek-a-booty that did it.”
She giggled. “A hard man is good to find,” she said softly. “You seemed to get the message quick enough.”
“Hard to miss,” I said, and she gave me a mock glare. “The message, that is.”
Three preteens emerged onto the pool deck and immediately jumped in, followed by lots of brightly squealed oh-my-Gods. They happily ignored the two ancient adults huddled up in the hot tub.
“Like, I mean, it’s time to, like, you know, go?” I said.