Head in a Haymow Read online

  She and Agent Wyatt were not friends. In fact, more often than not they seemed like adversaries. It was a constant game of one-up-man-ship that ran hot and cold. She admittedly enjoyed working with him and even enjoyed the challenge of working against him, but passion was a very shallow foundation with which to start a relationship.

  So, in the eight hours it took for her to finally make it back home, she convinced herself it was for the best. As for the ache of loss, it would subside quietly and painfully, as aspirations unfulfilled often do.

  Bernice was only slightly surprised to see Cameron with Darlene at the airport. They rode all the way back to the farm in Cameron's car. He didn't look to be in any hurry to leave.

  Cameron took her duffel bag out of the trunk. “I've been smoking a pork loin in the grill all day. Hope you're in the mood for barbeque.” With that mouthwatering statement he disappeared into the house.

  “Cameron's taking some vacation time,” Darlene felt compelled to explain, watching him walk in. “Thought you wouldn't mind an extra hand around the place for a while.” She bashfully watched Bernice's feet with a small smile on her face.

  Bernice couldn't help but smile back at the new love blossoming before her eyes. It made her heart ache with just a little jealousy though. “Well, as long as he pulls his own weight around here, I don't see any problem with that.” Her peripheral vision picked up the truck over by the barn. “I'm going to take a quick trip over to the Den.”

  Darlene's features twisted into disapproval. “But you just got here,” she whined.

  “I won't be long,” Bernice talked over her shoulder. “I just need to let Roger know I'm back.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Darlene remembered. “Your new friend Margie called while you were gone.”

  Bernice halted her progress at the news. She stood there, trying to figure out how to smooth that wrinkle. She waved it off for the moment. “I'll give her a call tomorrow.” She proceeded to the truck.

  The Den was starting to feel like home. Bernice smiled to herself when she walked in. Then she immediately scowled.

  Roger was on his way out the back door with a tall, barely dressed, bleach-blonde bitch. He had his hand at the small of her back and was coyly whispering in her ear.

  All she could do was watch and seethe. Her hands seemed to ball into tight fists all by themselves. But soon her anger immediately evaporated and was replaced by guilt.

  “He mooned around here for a couple of days after you ran off with that cop,” Paul observed unemotionally from his post near the door. “Looks like he's back to his old tricks now though.”

  Bernice swiveled her line of sight over to the counter just in time to catch a glimpse of hurtful betrayal from Brooke. Brooke completely ignored her and quietly tended the few regulars in front of her.

  Bernice finally realized to what extent she had made her bed. The Den was not her home after all. She dejectedly turned to leave. She was just close enough to catch Paul's parting comment as she left.

  “Don't let the door hit you in the ass.”

  She absorbed those words all the way home.

  It seemed like in the last 24 hours, Bernice had aged ten years. She felt completely worn out. She mindlessly ate the gorgeous plate of pulled pork and fresh coleslaw that was placed lovingly in front of her. The sense of taste barely registered in her consciousness. She chewed and stared at nothing in particular on the tabletop.

  "What I need is sleep and work," she told herself. She needed to get back to the basics of living. That's what always centered her in the past. It would work again now, but it would take time. She relished having no painful distractions for the foreseeable future.

  “I took your duffel bag up to your room,” Cameron admitted after a drink of ice cold milk. He wiped his mouth and gathered up creamy coleslaw onto his fork, bringing it to his mouth. “Hope you don't mind.”

  Bernice shook her head like a zombie. “That's fine,” she said, barely listening.

  “I noticed a box on your bed,” he continued, chewing. “Did you get a FedEx before you left?”

  “No,” Bernice grumbled, pushing food around her plate.

  Darlene and Cameron exchanged glances. Darlene spoke up. “FedEx never came while we were here,” she claimed, “so where'd it come from?”

  All scraping of silverware on plates ceased simultaneously. Confused looks were passed around the table for a few moments. Then everyone immediately got up.

  Darlene and Cameron followed Bernice up the stairs, speculating.

  “Maybe it went to one of the neighbors by mistake, and they dropped it off.”

  “Why would they go all the way into my bedroom?” Bernice asked.

  “It might have had your name on it, and they didn't want to leave it out to get stolen.”

  “Did you order something for the farm?”

  “No.” Bernice answered.

  “Maybe your parents sent you a care package.”

  “Highly unlikely,” Bernice remarked.

  “Would Agent Wyatt have sent something to you?”

  “Absolutely not,” Bernice corrected.

  The guesses came to an abrupt end when she walked into her bedroom. In the middle of Bernice's bed on her favorite chenille spread sat a nondescript, craft colored box. It was slightly larger than a shoebox but had no shipping stickers on it. It had no names on it either. Whoever put it on her bed did so in person.

  She lifted it carefully. It was relatively light. She shook it.

  Darlene gasped and leaned back. “Are you crazy? You don't know what's in there!”

  Bernice grimaced at Darlene, but calmly pointed out, “If someone wanted to blow me up, there's plenty of fertilizer and gasoline out in the shed that would do a much better job.”

  She shook it again. Whatever was inside was packed tight. Light and dense was the description. She set it back on the bed and picked at an edge of the packing tape with her fingernails.

  “Oh for Christ's sake,” Darlene exclaimed, “I'll get my sewing scissors.” She took off down the hall.

  Cameron watched, quietly asking, “You think this has to do with the murder?”

  Bernice responded, crestfallen. “At this point, I'm hoping with all of my might that it doesn't.”

  Darlene rushed back in, very impolitely running with scissors. She held them out excitedly.

  Bernice flipped them wide open, took a deep breath and plunged a blade into the seam. Nothing screamed out at her in pain, so she sliced open the top of the box. After handing back the scissors she grasped each ear of the box and ripped them open. She stared down at the final two inner flaps, concealing the contents inside.

  She looked up at her spectators, breathing, “Here goes nothin'.” Having seen too many scary movies, she shut her eyes and turned her head away before quickly popping open the flaps.

  Darlene's gasp was not helping. Neither was Cameron's, “Sweet Jesus.” At least there was no bad smell, so Bernice would have to look.

  She found herself face to face with a box plum full of hundred dollar bills.

  “You think they're real?” Darlene rubbed a bill in her hand, fascinated.

  “Go grab that marker we got from the bank.” Bernice pulled out the loose cash from the box, piling it in a mound in the middle of the kitchen table.

  The door was locked, and the curtains were pulled. They weren't expecting visitors, but you never knew who might drop in on such a pleasant evening. No point getting caught with a load of Benjamins on the table and no proper answer for their existence.

  Darlene handed Bernice the marker. There had been a story in the local paper about recent circulation of bogus fifties making their way around the area. As a result the bank had given them a marking pen to test the large bills they received at the farmers' market.

  Bernice applied a dash across the bill in her hands. It turned just slightly darker than yellow, indicating authenticity. “Well this one's good.”

  They all just sat fo
r a moment staring at that money. Finally Bernice sighed. She pulled the pile in front of her ordering, “I'll mark. You two count, Darlene first then Cameron.”

  They both nodded their heads. So began the two hour process of marking, counting, and recounting. They all recounted one last time because the total seemed odd.

  “Still the same,” Cameron confirmed, “Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred.”

  “Still a hundred short?” Bernice commented. “Seems kind of weird, don't it?”

  Darlene looked down at the discarded box on the floor. “Maybe the last one got wedged into the bottom.” She picked up the box and pulled at the glued in flaps. She smiled then. “I see somethin' in here.” In her excitement, she rendered the glued joints noisily apart. A small green envelope flitted onto her lap. She picked it up and looked at Bernice with excitement and foreboding.

  “It's for you.” Her eyes were wide with the thrill of it all.

  Bernice had had enough of the thrill of it all. She snatched the envelope, crabbing, “No shit, Sherlock,” and used her index finger as a letter-opener. She pulled out the last one hundred dollar bill and a plain sheet of paper with a single sentence typed on the surface:

  “Enough now. -J”

  Darlene went to grab the note, but Bernice pulled it away. “This is evidence. Bad enough my prints are on it.”

  Darlene looked disappointed. “We can't keep it,” she concluded.

  “No,” Bernice confirmed. She looked at Cameron. He was watching her with a familiar, wary expression. “What do we do?” she asked.

  “Well, it's got to go to the police,” Darlene pointed out with obvious consternation.

  “I don't think Bernice is questioning that.” Cameron laid a hand on Darlene's arm. “It's to which police she brings it to?”

  Darlene stared at the money with understanding creeping into her expression. “Not in this county?” she asked.

  Bernice shook her head. “We don't know who to trust here, not with this much money and no way to trace it. If it were to disappear, it'd be my word against theirs.”

  Bernice gazed at Cameron. He nodded gravely and passed over his keys. “Head toward the Cities first. After you cross the border type up the address on my GPS and head South. I'll stay here and keep an eye on things.”

  Bernice rose slowly from her chair. “I'll go get my bag.” she said and walked stoically up the stairs.

  Darlene looked to Cameron with concern. “Where's she going?”

  He rubbed her back affectionately, presenting a wry smirk. “The only place she can go.”

  Agent Wyatt carefully poked at the ugly stitches residing over his shaved temple, wincing and testing their progress. The poking only provoked the tail end of the nagging headache he'd been carrying with him since he had left the hospital. He opened his medicine cabinet and popped out an aspirin. Swallowing it dry, he walked out of his bathroom.

  He had stayed awake on the plane, refusing to take anything until he was safely in his own bed. He thought it was a sign of strength on his part. After the first hour he silently acknowledged it was also a sign of stupidity. Being lucid forced him to think about his actions. He wasn't particularly comfortable with that.

  “I've hurt Bernice.” That fact caused pain that had nothing to do with the assault. By the time he got home he was so disgusted with himself that he downed one more Oxycontin than was required and prayed for sweet oblivion. He received it with twelve comatose hours of sleep.

  But staying unconscious was not an option. Eventually, his hunger woke him up. He ordered a pizza. When he answered the door, he was greeted by the UPS guy with an overnight delivery from Nassau.

  Several hours later, the pizza was all but gone. Going over every piece of his attacker's property brought him no closer to answers than when he started. His headache had subsided, but his stomach began to protest his choice of nourishment at the ungodly hour. He got up to get an antacid.

  His progress was halted by an indignant fist pounding on his door. He looked quickly at his clock and realized it was almost midnight. Spying through the peephole, he felt the mixed emotions of elation and dread. They were the result of a very pissed off visitor.

  “Open up, Asshole!” Bernice yelled from his threshold.

  Agent Wyatt yanked the door open. “Anyone ever tell you, your greeting technique's a tad bit coarse.”

  He spied a quick glimmer of concern that flashed across Bernice's features when she saw the stitches. It was immediately masked with anger as she forced herself past him, exclaiming, “Cops don't tend to appreciate manners.” She tossed her familiar duffel bag upon the couch.

  Bernice took in Agent Wyatt's apartment with efficient observation. She thought it oddly cold in its stiff, traditional furnishings. Expensive but cold, which was a little unexpected for her. The man exuded heat. “Nice place,” she lied.

  “Why are you here?” he growled, shutting the door. He immediately started putting his evidence back in its box.

  Bernice bounced into a side chair and watched his actions saying nothing at first. She grabbed the last piece of luke warm pizza and idly munched on it. “You owe me an explanation.” She mocked his usual crisp tone, chewing.

  This caused Agent Wyatt to chuckle bitterly. He shook head as he continued his task. “You just don't know when to quit, do you?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. “But that's no excuse for what you did.”

  “I had no choice,” he ground out, picking up the box and walking it to his dining room table.

  “Bullshit!” Bernice barked, following him. “Sending me home like that was mean. Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?”

  The quickness of his movements astonished Bernice. Agent Wyatt grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his voice dropping and breaking. “I almost got you killed, you stupid woman! Do you have any idea how worried I was about you?”

  Their anger sputtered out in the physical contact. Bernice's eyes filled with pain, looking at his injuries from her intimate perspective. She reached up and carefully ran her fingertips over the stitches, cringing. “Do they hurt?” she asked.

  “A little,” he answered huskily. He reduced the pressure on her shoulders and watched her face in fascination. His body felt like warm milk was being poured into his veins.

  Her feather light massage moved to the bruised flesh around his cheek bone and eye socket. “Watching them haul you onto that chopper bleeding and unconscious drove me out of my mind.” Her fingers glided down to rest with her palm against his jaw. “I feared the worst, and it would have been all my fault.”

  He caught her hand. “That's not true.”

  “I distracted you in that parking lot. You would have saw him coming.”

  “You protected me in that parking lot, and I should have been protecting you.”

  Their mutual admissions erased all the hurt and misunderstanding in a bare heartbeat. He pulled her to him, sighing in desperate satisfaction. He claimed her mouth in a kiss of complete, heavenly gratitude.

  Bernice returned the affection with the slightest bit of reluctance. Agent Wyatt sensed it immediately and confronted her, concerned. “You're still mad.”

  “No,” she denied, “I'm just worried about you. You're recovering from having your head smacked with a chunk of cement. You should be resting.”

  Her consideration for his well being filled Agent Wyatt with more affection than he knew what to do with. It only made him want her more. He pulled Bernice by the arm. “Come on,” he ordered. “I refuse to waste one more blessed minute having you coddle me.”

  Again and again Bernice wondered at the exquisite revenge being taken out on her quivering body in every small intentional action. The methodical movements, so attentively implemented with the ultimate goal of inciting ecstasy, and they hadn't even had sex yet.

  Not that she didn't have plans of her own. This carnal onslaught would not go unanswered, but at the moment she was content to be the object of sensu
al affection.

  “You know, sometimes a man gets so worked up in his need to drive the point home, he forgets the whole purpose of the conversation.” Agent Wyatt delivered his philosophy in a low whisper as nuzzled Bernice's neck from behind and felt his way around her front. He worked his hands over her clothes in a very naughty version of frisking.

  Bernice gathered the waist band of his well-worn jeans into her clenched fists. “You keep this up, I'm not going to remember what we're talking about.”

  His hands migrated under her shirt and glided with smooth finesse over her belly, fanning her ribs and testing the under-wire of her bra. “Don't worry,” he teased as he slid his hands down into the front of her cargo shorts. “I'll make sure you never forget.” He played with the elastic of her panties and massaged the soft skin above her pelvis, gently pulling her against him and using their delicious friction to feed his growing erection.

  Bernice craned her head to capture his mouth in a needy kiss while they performed their erotic dance in front of the bed. She felt him move to the button and zipper. He pulled the flaps of her fly apart, exposing her panties to the open air. He rotated his fingers over the cotton fabric just gently enough to make her want more. She whined a little as a result.

  Agent Wyatt groaned deep in his throat with a need of his own. He gave her enough space to drop the shorts and gathered the hem of her t-shirt in his hands before carefully pulling it over her head.

  She twirled in one smooth motion, placing her hands on his chest and pulling at his tucked in t-shirt, anxious to touch skin and hair. He lifted his arms. His shirt went sailing, and they were torso to torso.

  Bernice snatched at his mouth, tasting in little nips while reaching behind and undoing the hooks on her bra. He pulled it from her chest, tossing it to the floor and pulling her against him. He reveled in the silkiness of her soft breasts against his skin. He molded her to him, rubbing his hands up her back and gripping her shoulders from behind.