“What did he say?” Irene asked.
“He told me that in the end it doesn’t matter who your father is. He said sooner or later, every man ha o take responsibility for inventing himself, has to decide just what kind of man he wants to be. A week later he offered me a job with the department on the condition that I never came to work drunk an ever drank on duty. I promised him I wouldn’t. I know it doesn’t mean much to you, Irene, but I kept my word to him all these years.”
“It does mean something.” Irene reached across the desk and touched his hand. “It would have been important to Dad, so it’s important to me.” She rose and looped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “You know, I have a very clear memory of the evening that Dad told Mom over dinner tha e had given you the job. He said you had what it took to be a good cop.”
Sam frowned. “Hugh Stenson said that?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “You know, my father was an excellent judge of character.”
Sam looked at her the way a man looks at the doctor who has just told him the lab tests came back benign.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice very husky. “Thanks.”
* * *
He sat at his desk for a long time after they had left. It was as if he had been living inside a cage all of
p. his life, Sam thought. But Irene had just opened the door. All he had to do was walk through it.
Still, like any creature faced with a sudden twist of fortune, he hesitated, giving himself time to adjus o the idea of moving into a slightly altered universe.
When he thought he was ready, he opened a drawer, removed the slender volume that was the Dunsley phone book and flipped through the pages until he found the listing.
He punched in the number with short, stabbing motions.
She answered on the first ring.
“This is Sam,” he said. “Sam McPherson.”
“Oh, hello, Sam.” She sounded surprised but not displeased.
“I was just wondering if you would like to have dinner with me some night this week,” he said, bracing himself for rejection. “Maybe go over to Kirbyville. If you can get away, that is. If you’re not doing something else. I mean, I realize that you’re really busy these days.”
“Why, Sam, I’d love to have dinner with you,” Maxine said.
Fifty
“I heard that bastard Victor Webb died from complications following surgery,”
Hackett said.
“No loss, as far as I’m concerned.” Luke sat sprawled in a chair in Hackett’s office, elbows proppe n the arms, fingertips together. “The man murdered in cold blood at least five people that we kno f. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was another victim, too.”
“Who?”
“Bob Thornhill, the man who took Irene’s father’s place as chief of police for a few months. The circumstances of his death are more than a little suspicious. Got a hunch Webb killed him after h as sure all of the evidence and records relating to the deaths of the Stensons had been destroyed.”
“Used him and then got rid of him.” Hackett shook his head. “Victor Webb must have been a complete sociopath.”
“I’m just thanking my lucky stars he didn’t realize that Irene would be a problem until it was too late.
It was still one damn close call. If she hadn’t told Maxine and Tucker Mills where she was going that afternoon when Webb cornered her at the house on Pine Lane—”
“But she did tell them,” Hackett interrupted evenly. “And you saved her. Don’t waste your time thinking about possibilities that didn’t happen.”
Luke smiled. “Hey, you know, that’s good advice. I believe I’ll take it. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now what’s this I hear about selling the lodge?”
“I’m signing the papers tomorrow.”
Hackett’s brows knitted together in a troubled frown. “Why? Don’t get me wrong, no one in the family figured you’d last long in the hospitality industry, but this seems like a rather sudden decision.”
“Another one of my unpredictable little turns, you mean?” Luke nodded. “Guess it looks that way. But truth is, the lodge was never meant to be more than a temporary arrangement. I just needed a quie lace where I could work on my book for a few months.”
Hackett looked bewildered. “You’re writing a book?”
“Been working on it for a while. Another month and it will be finished.”
Hackett flattened both hands on the desk. “Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone?”
“Well, I did mention to the Old Man that I was doing a little writing.”
“‘Doing a little writing’ is not the same as writing a book, for crying out loud.”
“Cut me some slack, here. Everyone in the family assumes that I’m having problems adjusting to th eal world. No offense, but I didn’t think it would be smart to give you all more ammunition for thinkin was becoming downright eccentric.” Luke shrugged. “Besides, I didn’t know if I was going to be abl o finish the damned thing. Got the end in sight now, though.”
Hackett turned abruptly curious. “Have you sold it?”
“Not yet. But I’ve got an agent who likes the first few chapters and thinks she can peddle it if the res f the book holds up.”
Hackett pondered that for a while. “So, why are you moving away from Dunsley?”
“Among other things, it turns out the place wasn’t quite as quiet as I had anticipated.
Thought I’d try another town.”
“What other town?”
“Glaston Cove.”
Understanding lit Hackett’s eyes. He started to smile. “This is about Irene, isn’t it?”
“It is all about Irene.”
“You know something? I think she’s going to be very good for you. Maybe just what you need.”
“That’s sort of how I’m looking at it,” Luke said. “By the way, while we’re on the subject of my little idiosyncrasies, I would like to clarify what appears to be a serious misunderstanding of what, exactly, happened the weekend that Katy and I went away together.”
Hackett stopped smiling. “I heard that nothing happened because of, uh, your problem.”
“That’s half true.”
“Only half?” Hackett looked wary.
“Nothing happened. But the real reason nothing happened was that Katy and I came to our senses and realized that, although we will always be very fond of each other, we are never going to be in love.”