Chandler rose and went into the living room, purposely leaving his own gun behind. He sat down in a recliner that matched his bulky proportions. The room was dark and he did not move to turn on a light. He had too many lights around him at work. Lights in his office beating down on him every day. Harsher lights in the autopsy room, that made every piece of flesh enormous, ominously raw, memorable to the point of Chandler’s excusing himself every once in a great while to go to the men’s room, where his stomach showed its appreciation for the polished skill of official dismemberment. The popping lights of the photographers at a crime scene or a courthouse. Too many damn lights. Darkness was quiet, darkness was soothing. Darkness was how he wanted his retirement to be. Cool and dark. Like his fountain in the backyard.
Warren McKenna’s words had disturbed Chandler, though he had tried hard not to show it. He couldn’t bring himself to accept that John Fiske could murder his own brother. But, truth be known, wouldn’t that be exactly what Fiske wanted Chandler to believe? But then he had something else to think about. Michael Fiske’s phone calls to Fort Jackson. And now Rufus Harms’s escape. Were they connected? Fiske was covering for Sara Evans, that was clear. Chandler shook his head. He would have to sleep on it, because his old brain was running on empty.
He started to get up and then stopped abruptly. The arms suddenly encircled his neck, startling him. His hands gripped the person’s forearms as his eyes popped huge. His gun — where the hell was his gun?
“Working hard or hardly working?”
He immediately relaxed and looked up into Juanita’s face. The edges of her mouth were crinkled into the beginnings of a smile. Her face always held that same look, as though she were about to tell a joke or laugh at one. That look never failed to cheer him up no matter how lousy his day had been, no matter how many bodies he had poked and probed.
He put a hand on his heaving chest. “Damn, woman, you sneak up on me like that again, the only thing I’m going to be working is my angel wings.”
She sat down on his lap. She was wearing a long white robe, bare feet showing. “Come on, now, a big, strong fella like yourself? And aren’t you being a bit presumptuous about those angel wings?”
He slid an arm around her waist, which, after three children, wasn’t as small as on their wedding night, but then neither was his. They had grown together, he often liked to say. Balance was essential in life. One fatty and one skinny was just heading for disaster.
There was no one alive who knew him better than Juanita. Maybe that was really the one important product of a successful marriage: the knowledge that there was one other soul out there who had your number, all the way down to the last possible decimal place, out there with pi, maybe more; if that was possible, Juanita had his.
He smiled back at her. “Sure, I’m one big, strong guy, but sensitive, baby. Us sensitive types, you just never know what might knock us over. And after a life spent fighting crime, I thought the Lord would be up there right now sewing together a nice fancy pair of angel wings for me, size extra-large, of course. He’s all-knowing, so He’ll be aware of the fact that I’ve spread some in my old age.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and they held hands. She swept her fingers through his disappearing hair. She could sense that his humor was forced.
“Buford, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you so we can talk about it and then you can come to bed? It’s getting pretty late. Tomorrow’s always another day.”
Chandler smiled at her remark. “Hey, what happened to my poker face? As I look a culprit in the eye and wear him down without ever revealing what I’m really thinking.”
“You stink at poker. So talk to me, baby.”
She rubbed at his kinked-up neck and he reciprocated by massaging her long feet.