Bogeyman. Gayle Wilson

in intensity while the highway crews had worked to clean up the mess, had complicated things, dragging out the final all-clear for several hours.

      As a result, Cade was cold and tired and hungry. And right now he wasn’t sure which of those pressing needs should take precedence.

      Shower first, he decided, standing again to slip out of his yellow slicker. The hotter the better. To be followed by a couple of packets of aspirin powder to put a dent in the headache that had developed as he’d squinted through the driving rain at the oncoming headlights. Once those two things were accomplished, then he could think about taking something from freezer to microwave and out again in a matter of minutes.

      He walked into the kitchen, fingers working over the buttons on his shirt. The light on the answering machine that sat on the counter was blinking.

      Whatever this was, given the night he’d had, it couldn’t be good. Still, delaying wouldn’t make the news any better. Blowing out a breath, he stabbed Play.

      While he waited for the message to begin, he pulled his shirt out of his pants to undo the last of its buttons. He was in the act of shrugging out of the damp garment when Teresa Payne’s voice, with its distinctive nasal drawl, came through the speaker.

      “Hey, Cade. Just touching base. When you get in, give me a call about tomorrow night.”

      Returning this particular call was way down on his list of priorities. He had run out of excuses to avoid Teresa’s invitations. And he wasn’t up to coming up with anything creative tonight.

      So tell her the truth. Tell her you aren’t interested. And that you aren’t ever going to be.

      There was enough of his good-ol’-boy upbringing left that he knew he was incapable of being that blunt. At least at this point. If Teresa didn’t figure it out pretty soon, he wouldn’t have much choice. As for tonight…

      Carrying the balled-up shirt in his hand, he walked down the hall, not bothering to turn on a light. He’d grown up in this house. He knew every crack and crevice of it. Every squeak of the cross-sawn oak floorboards.

      He flipped on the overhead in the bathroom. Dropping the shirt onto the floor, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his uniform pants. He stepped out of those, leaving them on the tile beside the discarded shirt.

      With one hand, he reached back and gripped the fabric between his shoulders to pull his T-shirt over his head. He pitched it to lie on top of the pants and shirt. Seconds later, his boxers had joined the growing pile.

      He shivered a little in the cold. He should have turned up the thermostat, he realized. If he had, by the time he’d finished his shower, the house would be habitable.

      Nude, he stepped out into the hall and pushed the lever up with his thumb. The furnace in the basement came to life with a whoosh, sending heated air through the vents.

      He went back into the bathroom, reaching into the shower to turn on the hot water. Given the location of the heater, it would take longer for that to get warm.

      Since Maria had come today, the racks had all been stripped bare for the washing machine. As he reached for a clean towel from the stack above the john, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

      Dampness from the rain had spiked his hair. It glistened like jet in the light of the fluorescent. Even the twin swatches of gray at his temples were darkened by the moisture.

      He had shaved around five this morning, but the ever-present afternoon stubble now made him look slightly sinister. And the shadows under his eyes made him look old.

      Hell, you are old. Thirty-seven going on a hundred. Especially on nights like this.

      As he turned away from the image in the mirror, exhaustion in every aching muscle, he wondered if he could be coming down with something. Probably not that lucky, he decided. The luxury of a couple of days off, spent inside a warm house, would work wonders. Both the cold and the rain were supposed to continue well into next week, and he would have no choice but to be out in them.

      He slid back the glass door and stepped in, turning his back to the water. For several seconds he didn’t move, letting the force of the spray pound the bunched muscles between his shoulders. After a couple of minutes, he leaned his head back, eyes closed, to let the shower slough the cold moisture of the rain from his hair.

      As his body began to lose the bone-deep chill, his tiredness, too, seemed to ease. He scrubbed every inch of his skin, literally trying to wash a way the day’s tensions.

      It seemed to work. When he stepped out of the shower, the bathroom was at least ten degrees warmer than it had been when he’d entered. He grabbed the towel he’d taken from the shelf, using it first to dry his hair and then his body.

      When he was finished, he wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door. Steam wafted out into the cooler hall as he headed toward his bedroom.

      Left hand on the top of the chest, he fished a pair of clean pajama bottoms out of the second drawer. He sat down on the end of the bed, which was made—the last time it would be until Maria showed up again next week—and put them on.

      He stood, pulling the pajamas up to his waist. He went back to the chest of drawers for a clean T-shirt. Now all he needed were the aspirin and something to eat.

      

      Two packets of powdered aspirin, a product everyone in the department swore by, had begun to make inroads on his headache by the time the microwave sounded. Ignoring the baleful light of the answering machine, he carried his dinner, still in its black plastic tray, along with a fork into the den.

      He sat down on the couch, putting his food on the coffee table in front of him. Despite the tempting aromas of meat loaf, potatoes and gravy, he used the remote to turn on the TV.

      He wolfed down the contents of the plastic tray, almost without looking at them, while he watched a rain-fogged video of the wreck his men had worked. When the local news cut to commercials, he glanced back into the kitchen.

      The unanswered phone call would nag at him until he’d returned it. When he had, and had made a final check-in with the department’s dispatcher, he could crawl into bed and forget about the needs of the citizens of Davis County until the phone—or better yet, the alarm—woke him.

      He pushed up from the deep cushions of the couch and made his way back to the kitchen counter. He listened to the message again, before he glanced down at his watch.

      Decision made, he called up the number on caller ID and then pushed Talk. He listened to the electronic beeps, trying to decide what he was going to say this time.

      “Hey, Cade,” Teresa said. “I was afraid you were still out working that mess on 65.”

      “Got in about half an hour ago. The state finally decided that whatever the guy was hauling, it wasn’t a public threat.”

      “That’s good to know. Hope you all don’t catch pneumonia from standing out in this rain.”

      “Yeah, me, too.” He leaned against the cabinet, allowing the silence to lengthen.

      Nothing was going to change. He was only delaying the inevitable. He might as well get this over with so he could go to bed.

      “About tomorrow night…” he began and then hesitated.

      This whole thing was his fault, and he knew it. He should never have opened the door even the crack he’d allowed. When it had started, he hadn’t seen the harm in their friendship. By the time he did, it was too late.

      Teresa laughed. The sound was soft, but its bitterness apparent. “I can hear it coming.”

      “Hear what coming?”

      “Whatever you’ve got on. You’re either working. Or you’ve promised somebody you’ll do something for them. Or help them do something.”

      “Teresa—”

      “And that isn’t ever