Page 36 of His Virgin Vessel

"I'm not blaming you," I hastened to add. "I'm just saying, it's a shame things went the way they did. But they did, so let's try to fix them now."

I imagined I could hear Dugas grinding his teeth. For the second time this week he was forced to make a deal with a man he despised. Tough times for Sheriff Brian Dugas.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing, Sheriff."

"Nothing?" His incredulity was plain to hear.

"Nothing for myself, that is," I amended. "I know you can't just let me get off scot-free. I'm not asking for immunity or for you to give up the chase. Come get me, if you can. All I want is a guarantee that Corinne won't suffer for what she did in choosing me over you."

"Suffer?" Dugas sounded as if he wanted to reach out of the phone and beat my head against the wall. "What in the hell do you think I am?! You actually think I'd harm her?!"

"No," I said. "But I wanted to be sure. And, also, there's more than one way in which a father can make his daughter suffer. Sometimes without even knowing he's doing it. She's not the girl you think she is, Sheriff. She's fragile and vulnerable. Cut her some slack, let her be herself, and stop looking at her and seeing her mother. They're not the same."

I could only imagine how Brian Dugas felt getting a parenting lecture from a member of War Cry. But I think he knew that there was some truth in what I was saying.

"I don't know what assurances you want from me, Mr. Covert," he said. "But I swear to you on the Bible, on my daughters’ lives, on everything I hold sacred, that I won't do anything to harm Corinne. And I'll try to be a more understanding father to her in the future. I'll take care of her."

There would be arguments and recriminations of course, because that's what families did. And daughters needed to know when they've overstepped the mark, even twenty-three-year-old daughters who really ought to have known better. But I was happy enough with Dugas's word.

"You know the Outland Motel?"

"You took my daughter to that place?!"

He might be ready to forgive Corinne, but Brian Dugas wasn't going to be forgiving me anytime soon. "It's a safe place."

"Safe for who?!"

"It's not about who it's safe for, Sheriff Dugas," I said. "It's about who it's safe from."

Dugas considered this. "Okay. That's where she is."

"That's where she'll be. Room 21."

"And do you expect me to give you time to clear out?"

"I could ask you for it, but I don't think I'd get it."

"You'd be right," replied Dugas grimly.

"I'll be gone by the time you get here."

There was another pause before Dugas spoke again. "I don't want there to be some misunderstanding between us, Mr. Cyrpian. You do know that I'm still coming for you."

"I know," I said. "Like I told you, I'm not part of the deal."

"I'm going to nail you."

"No. You're never going to see me again."

Another pause. "Under the circumstances, I can see that as a win."

He hung up.

Assuming Dugas got straight into his car and drove out here—and I couldn't imagine him waiting—I had about an hour to clear out. Maybe less, since he'd be using the siren all the way and stopping for nothing. There was a vending machine in reception, and I went to get snacks from it. I could eat properly when I had put some serious miles between myself and Brian Dugas. And Corinne too, of course. She would hate me for what I had done, but deep down she would realize that it was the way things had to be. I hoped.

But as I was getting the snacks from the machine, I glanced across to the TV, which the woman behind reception was now watching, the magazine apparently having lost its appeal. The news was on, and I recognized Dan's Steak House, one of the places that got protection from War Cry. The place had burned to the ground. That was no great surprise. The way Dan treated Health and Safety regulations, it was a wonder that it didn't happen more often. But then the picture changed to Shades, a club we protected, then Bar None, then Jay Jones' Place. All of them were protected by War Cry, and all had been attacked in the last twelve hours.

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