Page 16 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

Nothing happened.

“Sometimes it’s a little stubborn,” he said, trying again.

“Aren’t we all,” she muttered, still watching intently.

On the third try the flame sprang to life, giving off an instant glow of heat. It was so cheerful and inviting, Celeste was tempted to leave it. But it was probably better to conserve, so she didn’t object when Elliot turned it off and stood, brushing his hands together.

“Thank you so much,” Celeste said, hating that she had to. In the army, everyone had been equal. Some might say Celeste had the advantage because the places she went viewed her as non-threatening, usually to their regret. Misogyny had given her an advantage. But now that advantage was gone. She had returned to a time when brute strength counted for more. Her plan to get the kerosene heater upstairs had been to locate a dolly and tie the heater to it. And at that it would have been a painstaking process, bumping up each step one at a time. Sam was certainly incapable of helping her. And now Elliot, almost seven feet of him, had done in two minutes what it would have taken her half a day to accomplish. And she couldn’t resent him because he’d helped her so much. What did country people do to show appreciation? Send baby hogs? Bake pies? She had no idea. In her defense, she also had no idea what city people did to show appreciation. Really, she had no idea how normal humans functioned in day-to-day society. All she knew was taking orders and killing people, two skills that wouldn’t help her survive her new life at all.

“It was no problem,” Elliot said and probably meant it. All the things he took for granted—brute strength, survival skills, country living—were completely foreign to her. “Take care with this storm. I’m thankful you got supplies in time. That’s one worry off all our minds.”

Whose minds? His and his father’s? The entire town of Paradise? It was unfathomable to Celeste that strangers should care about her wellbeing. Perhaps it was something country people said. If only there were a translation guide for this sort of thing. A State Department manual on safely dealing with rubes and ranchers.

She walked him to the door and that was when he dropped the bomb. He turned and, with forced casualness, asked, “By the way, have you seen anyone suspicious?”

Without missing a beat she replied, “I’m from the city. Absolutely everyone I’ve met so far in Paradise seems suspicious,” and was rewarded when he laughed out loud.

Tipping his hat to her, he laughed all the way to his truck.

Celeste waited until he was gone, leaning on the door, heart pounding. “You can come out now.”

When no one emerged, she went to the closet where she’d stashed Sam and opened it up. He lay curled on his side, staring dazedly out. “Is he gone?” His voice sounded weak, a thready wheeze.

“Yes, are you?”

“I’m in fighting form,” he assured her, groaning a little as he tipped forward onto his hands and knees and began crawling toward the couch.

“Come on,” Celeste encouraged, patting her leg as she walked slowly beside him.

“I feel suddenly like your kitten,” Sam said.

“I wouldn’t know; I’ve never had one.”

“Never?” He reached the couch and paused, taking a bracing breath before slowly climbing aboard.

“Nope.”

“Dog?”

“No.”

“Hamster.”

“Nada.”

“Goldfish?”

“Does it count if they come in a bag from Pepperidge Farm?” she asked. He shook his head. “Then no.”

“Do you hate animals?”

“No, I’m ambivalent toward animals,” she said, but the truth was a bit more complex. Pets had always been something for other people. People with families and life skills. Every time Celeste considered a pet, she talked herself out of it, certain shewould kill it by either neglect or ignorance. And though she had killed more people than she cared to number, somehow it felt worse to accidentally kill a living being who depended on her for survival. It was a level of failure she wasn’t willing to risk. Speaking of dependence on her… “Are you hungry? I bought food when I was in town.”

Was it her imagination or did he perk slightly? “What sort of food?”

“Some cans of soup and some cans of stew and some frozen lasagna and mac and cheese.”

“Oh,” he said, sitting back. Was it her imagination again or did he sound disappointed. If so, why?

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