Nighthawk & The Return of Luke McGuire (28 page)

“All right,” he agreed at last, and David yelped happily. It was fairly close so they walked, although Luke guessed David was itching to ask for a ride on the bike. Later, he thought; that would be just about right to send the old lady—Lord, she had always hated being called that—over the edge.

David was so excited he couldn’t just walk; he ran ahead, heedless of the people dodging out of his way. Luke watched his not so little brother—the wiry David was only about four inches short of his own six feet—with a wry amusement. Once he’d been the same way, in a hurry in a slowed-down place. And if people had stared at him, or yelled at him, so much the better.

Nobody yelled at him today. No reason to; he was strolling along at the same snail’s pace as everyone else. But they still stared. About half of them, anyway. He’d shed his riding gear for an unobtrusive pair of jeans and a blue T-shirt, so he knew it wasn’t his clothes. And he didn’t recognize them all, the gapers, although some of them brought back flashes of unwelcome memory. But then, he supposed a lot more people in Santiago Beach had known him—or of him—than he’d known himself. It had been one of his missions in life back then, to make sure of that.

“C’mon, Luke! Hurry up!”

He watched as David waved him on, trying to get him to pick up his pace. He did, slightly, but these days he got most of his need for speed taken care of elsewhere.

He’d caught up to David when they reached the bookstore. He noticed the display in the front window: a beach scene with real sand, a surfboard propped in one corner, a towel, a bottle of suntan lotion, sunglasses and, of course, a book open beneath a small umbrella, with others stacked beside it. As if the reader had just paused for a cooling dip in the ocean.

He barely had time to admire the cleverness of it before David yanked the door open, and before even stepping inside, he was yelling.

“Amelia! He’s here! I told you he’d come, I told you!”

The woman behind the counter turned just as Luke stepped inside. It was her. The frightened rabbit of a woman who had been so intimidated by his mere presence last night.

Several things registered at once.

She wasn’t old.

She was average height, maybe five-five.

Her hair was an unremarkable medium brown, cut short and tucked tidily behind her ears.

She was dressed plainly, in black slacks and a white blouse with black piping, with a simple gold chain at her throat.

She had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen, the same medium brown as her hair.

And those eyes were staring at him as if he were some kind of apparition.

“It
was
you,” she whispered, in a voice so soft he was sure he wasn’t supposed to have heard it.

She’d known who he was last night? How?

Before he could ask, David had. “Whaddya mean?”

“I saw…him last night. On a…motorcycle.”

“Isn’t it cool?” David enthused.

“I suppose,” the woman said cautiously.

“I want to ride on it,” David said with a sideways glance at Luke.

“I’ll think about it,” Luke said, never taking his eyes off the woman who was looking at him with such…trepidation. There was something familiar about her expression, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “If you remember why we’re here and introduce me.”

“Oh! Sorry. This is Amelia. Amelia, my brother, Luke.” Then he looked at Luke, puzzled. “Why’d I have to do that if she already knew who you were?”

“Because it’s good manners,” Amelia said. David grimaced.

“Because,” Luke said, “it shows you’re an adult, not a kid.”

“Oh.” That explanation clearly appealed to him. “Okay.”

“Amelia Blair, I presume,” Luke said, turning his attention back to her.

“I…yes.”

She lowered her eyes, sneaked another glance at him from beneath her lashes, then looked away. And suddenly he had it; she was looking at him like the good girls used to in high school, half-scared, half-fascinated. They had seemed to fall into two categories back then: those who were both frightened and intrigued in varying ratios, and those who simply looked down on him from the lofty height of their uprightness.

He’d tried to avoid all of them, although those who were intrigued had been, on occasion, persistent. But even then, he’d known they were after him for all the wrong reasons. He’d had his own battles to fight and had no interest in being a pawn in someone else’s.

Not, he thought as she stole another sideways look at him, that that would be a problem with the quiet Ms. Blair. She looked more likely to run
from
him than
after
him. Once he’d taken a twisted pleasure in the effect he had on good girls. Now he wasn’t sure how he felt. It was hard, he realized suddenly, to think that way again. To put himself back in the place he’d once lived, in the mind-set he’d once developed to survive. Maybe he’d come further than he’d thought.

Ms. Blair was too tense and far too serious. But she got points from him for caring about David and for thinking David needed more attention to his grief than he was getting.

“David’s been…telling me a lot about you,” she said, sounding more than a little awkward.

“Has he?” Luke said, wondering what the boy could possibly have said, after eight years with no contact at all between them.

“He told me you taught him to like to read.”

Startled, Luke looked at his brother. “You did,” David said. “When you used to come in and read to me. I read every night now.”

Reading had been his favorite—and sometimes his only—escape when he’d been under his mother’s roof. He’d tried to pass that along to David, but he’d had no idea it had worked so well. “I…that’s good,” he said, not sure what else to say.

“Amelia gets me the best books,” David said, smiling at her. “Sometimes she even loans her own to me, if I can’t buy them.”

“Speaking of which,” Amelia said, sounding glad to be back in familiar waters, “the newest in your science fiction series came in. I just put them up.”

“Cool!” David raced toward the back of the store without another word.

“So,” Luke said when David was out of earshot, “has David been the only one telling you about me?”

“I… What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “I’m disappointed, Ms. Blair. You mean I’m no longer the hot topic in Santiago Beach?”

She seemed to consider that. Then she surprised him, a tiny grin lurking at the corners of her mouth as she said, “I’m afraid you’ve lost a bit in the gossip standings after eight years.”

So the mouse had a sense of humor, he thought. But before he could comment, David was back, his book clutched in one hand, a crumpled five-dollar bill in the other. Amelia gave him his change and offered a bag, which David declined, stuffing the book in a pocket of his baggy pants.

“Come on, Luke, I want my friends to meet you.”

Luke, who was still looking at Amelia, noticed something change in her expression, saw two worry lines appear between her brows. Afraid he would be a bad influence on David’s friends? he wondered. If she was, she was also no doubt too polite to say so.

As David dragged him away, Luke found himself wondering just what his brother had told her about him that made her look so relieved as they began to leave. There had been a time when he had reveled in rattling the cages of people like the quiet, reserved Amelia Blair; now her wariness simply bothered him. He’d gotten out of the habit of dealing with it, and he didn’t like the idea of having to relearn how.

David kept up a steady stream of chatter as they walked down the street. Luke tried to pay attention, but it was hard, back here in the place where so much of the history he’d thought was well behind him lay in wait to ambush him around every turn.

But when they encountered a group of five boys who looked about David’s age, maybe a little older, he gave himself a mental slap; there was something about this group that warned him to be alert. Not that there was anything particularly different about their looks—the haircuts, the pants like David’s and the reversed baseball caps were omnipresent these days—but there was something about the way they walked, the way they whispered among themselves, the way they looked him up and down so assessingly, that made him watchful. And also made him wonder again just what David had been saying about him.

Somehow he doubted it was that he’d taught his little brother to love to read.

A
melia shelved four copies of the latest courtroom thriller, the last books in the box. That left her only two boxes to go, she thought as she stretched her back.

The door buzzer announced a customer, and she stepped out from behind the rack of books. Her heart leapt, then stilled, and for a moment she didn’t know why. When she realized it was because the man who had come in was dressed all in black, she blushed in embarrassment. When she saw that it was eighty-year-old, silver-haired Mr. Hodges, her color deepened. Thankful she could pass it off as exertion, she went to great him, wondering how on earth one sighting and one brief encounter with a man could have such an effect. This just wasn’t like her; she’d gotten over her fascination with bad boys long ago. She had taken her mother’s warnings to heart and had thought herself the better for it.

She got the autobiography Mr. Hodges had ordered from her office, where she’d set it aside when it had come in.

“Looks like a good one,” she said as she rang it up. “But I still think you should write your own, Mr. H. Nobody could top your adventures.”

She meant it, too. The man had been a bona fide World War II hero, medals and all, and after the war had become a stunt pilot of some renown. She’d seen photographs of him in his younger days, and he’d been quite the looker, in his flying jumpsuit, boots and a daredevil grin that still appeared on occasion.

“Ah, nobody’s interested in the ramblings of an old man like me.”

“That’s not true!” she protested. “I would be. Lots of folks would. I bet even Hollywood would be interested.”

Mr. Hodges chuckled. “You’re a sweetheart, Amelia. And named after one of my childhood heroes. If I were twenty years younger…”

She laughed, as the ongoing joke between them required. But there was, as always, that tug of…not sadness, but a sort of wistfulness that she had been named after the adventurous, if reckless, Amelia Earhart, yet had none of her nerve or courage.

It wasn’t until after he’d gone that Amelia wondered if it had been something more than the black clothing that had put her in mind of Luke McGuire. If perhaps that daredevil grin, and the reckless glint in the eye that went with it, hadn’t been part of it, since Luke had his own lethal version of both.

And his eyes, while blue, weren’t at all like his mother’s. Where hers were a pale, icy color, Luke’s were deep and rich and vivid, the color of water reflecting the sky on a crystal clear day. And the scar beside his left eye only added to his daring appeal. As did the earring he wore. He was—

She cut off her own thoughts, stifling a tiny shiver, irritated with herself for feeling it. David’s brother was simply a man who rode a motorcycle. He’d been dressed perfectly normally when they’d come in yesterday.

And he’d still set her pulse off on a mad race, she admitted ruefully. As if the normal clothes were a disguise, one that she could see through, down to the leather-clad biker he really was.

She wondered if Jackie Hiller had known something David didn’t when she’d told her son his brother was probably in jail.

He shouldn’t have come.

He’d suspected he would regret it before he’d even left River Park, but he hadn’t thought it would happen quite this soon.

Now that he was here, David had apparently broadcast it to the entire town. He couldn’t get angry with his brother, he hadn’t told him not to say anything, simply because he hadn’t thought of it. He was too long out of that kind of thinking.

But he was learning again fast. Every time he ventured out, he was the focus of far too many eyes. He’d dodged his mother so far, didn’t know if she even knew he was here yet—but he was sure someone would tell her soon enough, if they hadn’t already.

Heck, Mrs. Clancy had probably been on the phone immediately after this morning, he thought as he sipped at his coffee.

Just down the block from the single motel in town, where he’d taken a room, was a doughnut shop. He’d never been in there as a kid—candy had been his sugar hit of choice—so he’d hoped it might be a reputation-free zone. And it had been; the owner didn’t seem to recognize him when he ordered a simple black coffee.

And then Mrs. Clancy had arrived. Of all people.

It had taken her a moment, but he knew the instant she put it together by the way her brows lowered sharply and she pulled down her glasses to peer at him over the frames.

“You!”

He thought about trying to deny it, but it seemed pointless with David telling the world he was here.

“Good morning, Mrs. Clancy. Nice day.”

“Don’t you nice day me, you…you hooligan!”

That’s me, Luke-the-hooligan-McGuire,
he thought wryly.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He kept himself from making a comment about it being a free country, knowing it would only aggravate her. Funny, once that would have been his highest goal, to aggravate this particular woman.

“Getting coffee,” he said instead.

It seemed to aggravate her just as much. “Don’t be flippant, you know perfectly well what I meant.”

“I came to see David.”

The brows lowered even farther, and the glasses went back on her nose. “Does his mother know you’re here?”

Interesting phrasing, Luke thought. And he said with intentional emphasis, “I have no idea if
my
mother has any idea I’m here.”

“She isn’t going to like this.”

“That’s her problem. If she stays out of my way, I’ll stay out of hers.”

The woman’s mouth tightened, although he’d thought it was already about as sealed as her mind. “So where are you causing your trouble now? Or have you been in jail where you belong?”

Startled, he nearly splashed hot coffee on his hand. Seconds later he told himself he shouldn’t be surprised at all; what else would they think, this town that had been so damn glad to see him leave?

“I think it would take prison to satisfy you,” he said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “You buying doughnuts, or just entertaining the staff?”

Only then did she seem to notice the shop owner and his assistant watching them with great interest. Flustered, she gave her order and told them rather sharply to step on it, she didn’t approve of who they allowed in here. Luke turned to make his escape but stopped at the door and looked back at her. He wasn’t quite sure why he said it, but it was out before he could stop it.

“You know, you’re one of the few people in this town who has real reason to hate me, and I’m sorry for that.”

For an instant she looked taken aback, but the frown reappeared quickly. “Just leave,” she said. And with a shrug, he did; he hadn’t expected anything else.

He started down Main Street, and by the time he’d finished his coffee, it was clear that anybody who recognized him was of the same mind as Mrs. Clancy; they remembered only the worst about the kid he’d been and assumed that he’d either ended up in jail, or should have.

At first he laughed it off, but when he finally tossed his empty cup in one of the plentiful trash containers that were new since he’d lived here, he was feeling a bit beleaguered.

So let them think what they want,
he told himself.
They will anyway. What do you care? It’s not like you give a damn about any of them.

And the next person he came across, he would just let them think the worst. Maybe he would even help them along, fulfill their grim expectations. It was probably the nicest thing he could do for them, let them be so utterly smug about how right they’d always been about that McGuire kid, how they’d always known he would come to no good.

He heard distant chimes and reflexively checked his watch. The clock on the tower at the community center and library had been chiming the hours away for as long as he could remember. It was just after nine, and he wasn’t supposed to meet David until ten, so he continued his stroll down the street he had admittedly terrorized on occasion. He’d raced his old, beat-up Chevy up and down, radio blasting, just to see the heads turn. He’d set off cherry bombs to watch people scatter and done his share of spray-painting graffiti here and there. It all seemed pretty tame now, but fifteen years ago it had been rowdy stuff.

By Santiago Beach standards, it probably still was,
he thought. What would blend into the bigger picture in a big city stood out glaringly here in the sleepy seaside village the Chamber of Commerce kept touting.

Of course, he’d taken the blame for a lot of things he hadn’t done, too, but nobody believed that. Even his mother. Especially his mother. He’d finally given up on proclaiming his innocence to her when he realized it didn’t matter what he said, that he was guilty before he even knew what he was accused of.

He shook his head sharply, trying to rid himself of the unwanted memories. He hadn’t come here for this, to wallow in old misery. He’d given that up long ago. He was here to help David, if he could. And that was what he should be concentrating on.

He just wasn’t sure how to go about it. There was no point in trying to talk to his mother; she’d never listened to him in her life. But he had to know just how bad things were for his brother.

He saw the bookstore up ahead and wondered if he’d subconsciously been heading there all along. It did make sense, he thought; the tidy Ms. Blair seemed to be the adult whom David was closest to.

Except that the store wasn’t open yet. The lights were on, but he couldn’t see anyone inside, and the sign said ten o’clock. Right when he was supposed to meet David.

He turned to look out at the street where it curved to head down to the beach and the pier, thinking. He should have asked her yesterday, except that David had never been far away. Maybe he should have set up a time to talk. Assuming she would be willing, he amended; just because she hadn’t lived here when he had didn’t mean she was immune to the horror stories that apparently were still being told about him. She might not want to—

“Luke?”

He spun around on his heel, startled. Amelia stood in the doorway, looking at him questioningly. And with only the barest trace of the apprehension he’d seen yesterday.

“You’re here,” he said, rather lamely.

“I come in about an hour before opening to get set up,” she explained. “Did you…want something?”

“Yes,” he said, oddly disconcerted. “You.”

She drew back slightly, her eyes widening. They weren’t just medium brown, he saw now in the morning light, they were a sort of golden brown, rimmed strikingly with darker brown. And he realized suddenly what had rattled him; she was wearing black and white again, as if it were some kind of uniform, but this time the pants were snug black leggings, and the white was in the form of a lightweight cotton sweater that clung gently to curves he hadn’t noticed in the tailored blouse of yesterday.

“Me?”

Her voice had a hint of a gulp in it, and he registered what he’d said. “I mean, I wanted to talk to you,” he said hastily.

“Oh,” she said, still looking and sounding a bit wary.

“About David.”

“Oh.” There was understanding in her tone this time, and he could almost see her relax slightly. “Come in, then.”

He did, noticing that she didn’t change the sign to Open but also that she didn’t lock the door behind him. He wasn’t sure if she just hadn’t thought about it, or it had been intentional. The latter, no doubt, he thought wryly. It probably meant she wanted to be able to get out, or wanted somebody else to be able to get in. In case the terror of Santiago Beach went postal on her or something, he supposed.

“I have coffee in my office,” she said as she led the way.

“Thanks,” he said, ready for the jolt of a second cup; it had been a rough morning so far. “Black,” he added as he stepped in after her.

She fussed a bit with the coffeemaker on a table in the small, windowless office, which gave him a chance to look around. The place was as tidy as he would have expected, not an easy task in a small space that had to serve various functions, he guessed. The desk was small, and after placing the phone, some in and out trays, and a computer on it, there was barely room for a writing space. There were two file cabinets behind the desk, leaving the wheeled chair a bit cramped for turning room.

But the decor was a little surprising, bright with color from various prints and posters on the walls. He would have expected book-related things, and there were a couple, but there were many more adventurous themes—skiing, mountain climbing, hang gliding—all presented in a very adrenaline-inducing way.

When she turned and handed him a mug of steaming coffee, he indicated the posters with a nod. “What you do in your spare time?”

She looked startled. “Me? Oh, no. Never.”

“Then why the wallpaper?”

“To remind me that other people do those things. I admire courage.” She said it, he realized, as if it were something to be found only in those others.

“Some would say foolhardiness,” he said; he’d heard it often enough aimed at himself.

“Yes. And I suppose sometimes it’s true. But the exhilaration must be worth it.”

“Until something goes wrong,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered simply, and glanced at the wall behind him. He turned and saw, in a direct line of sight from her desk chair, a large photograph of Amelia Earhart.

“So,” he said, turning back to her, “you’re a namesake?”

“Yes. She was a heroine of my mother’s. The name hardly fits, but it gave her pleasure to honor a woman she admired. Now, about David,” she ended briskly, clearly changing the subject. “Why don’t you sit down?”

He took the chair she indicated, an antique-looking wood affair of the kind it made him nervous to sit on. But it was surprisingly comfortable, and had a spot to set down his coffee mug on the wide, wooden arms.

“I know David wrote to you,” she said, forgoing any niceties.

He appreciated the leap, since he hadn’t known quite what to ask. “I didn’t even know he knew where I was.”

“He told me you sent him birthday cards.”