Hit and The Marksman Read Free Page B

conversations where neither of us could meet the other’s eyes. “Darling,” she had said, “I wish we could have kept it casual, the way you wanted it, but I’m not made that way. It’s my fault—I know you didn’t want it to get too intense.”
    I had tried to persuade her to change her mind. She had lashed out (afterward I understood why): “Simon, you’re hiding away up here, you just can’t commit yourself to anything or anyone. You tried to fight city hall and you lost, so you quit. You haven’t got room left in you for me or anything else outside yourself. I’ve already had that with Mike, more than I could take. I haven’t the strength left.”
    The Jeep had been packed with my rock chisels and canteen. I had acted tougher than I felt, because I couldn’t fathom my own contradictory feelings. I had climbed into the Jeep and she had walked over to me and said, “I won’t be here when you get back.” I had driven on down the hill without looking back to see if she was watching. It turned into a rotten day—I wanted to call her but wasn’t sure whether she wanted me to. Sometimes it was hard to be sure of Joanne’s meanings; she was changeable: sometimes she told you only part of the truth because she thought the whole truth would hurt.
    I had seen her only once after that—a week later, an accidental meeting. She had let it slip; I never knew whether it was deliberate or an honest slip—She’d said something that had given me a foothold and I had pried the rest out of her, questioning her roughly like an interrogating cop, and finally there it was: Aiello. I was an ex-cop—an ex-honest cop—and Aiello had told her to stay away from me. She hadn’t told me before because she knew my temper; she didn’t want me to go gunning for Aiello because I wouldn’t have a chance against the organization.
    I knew better than to ask her to quit working for Aiello. I had never even asked her how she’d got mixed up with the organization in the first place. Those were questions you just didn’t ask. It went without saying they had some hold over her. They always do.
    I had told myself, angrily, it was her choice and I had to honor it. We had to avoid each other for however long it might take to blunt the edges of dangerous emotions. I had to acquiesce because I could not compromise her with the organization; Aiello was not an understanding or forgiving type and his organization played rough.

    Now I saw the dust of her car coming up the dirt-road from the county highway. I felt ill at ease, betrayed; I had steeled myself against her absence but now she was coming back, not for the reason I would have wanted.
    It was impossible to ignore my anticipation—I wanted to see her.
    I waited in the shade until she drove the beige convertible into the yard and parked beside my Jeep. She had the top down; she turned and watched through her sunglasses as I walked out of the shade to open the car door. She didn’t smile. “Thanks for letting me come.”
    Very gravely, I said, “Is it bad?”
    â€œAs bad as it can get.” She swung her legs out, stood and smoothed down the tight skirt—it was white poplin; she wore a green sleeveless blouse that clung to the curved undersides of her breasts and showed off her smooth brown arms. She had a dancer’s hard little body, superb legs; her face was small, heart-shaped and lovely.
    The wind had roughed up her hair; there was a thread of moisture on her upper lip. She looked heat-flushed and scared. I couldn’t really make out her eyes through the big sunglasses. She looked faint. “I feel like such a fool. Nothing can happen on a beautiful day like this, can it?” Her smile was quick and nervous. She kept looking down the road, as if somebody were chasing her. “Can’t we talk inside?”
    â€œSure.”
    She had a