You Make Me Weak (The Blackwells of Crystal Lake 1)

Violet remained silent for a few seconds and then, with a shrug, scooped up her nearly empty glass. “Okay.” She lifted it into the air, motioning toward Rebecca’s water.

“It’s empty.”

“Doesn’t matter. Pick it up.”

Rebecca held up the glass and eyed her girlfriend warily.

Violet winked. “To you and Hudson and sex. May you have many orgasms and zero complications.”

Chapter 23

Hudson wasn’t a man to keep idle hands, especially when he had something on his mind. And man, did he ever have something on his mind. Among other things such as the ever-changing state of his father’s health, there was a certain five-foot-six-inch blonde who currently had him by the balls.

It was Friday, end of the week and nearly the end of October. The relatively warm fall had given way to a cold, nasty wind from the north. The rain had stopped—thank God—though the immediate forecast called for three inches of snow. Most of the folks in town had already hauled out their winter tires, bought up bags of salt, and the local hardware store was sold out of snow blowers. It had been a while, but he had memories of trick-or-treating in his snowsuit and boots and mittens. Nothing like trying to pull Superman tights over thick winter gear.

He’d spent the morning in meetings with Sam Waters and then had lunch with his father at the hospital. John Blackwell was something of an anomaly to his doctors and staff. A month before, he’d been on his deathbed. But now? Now he was eating, had even gained some weight, and a week earlier had been declared strong enough for the surgery needed to unblock his arteries. The surgery had been a success. He was still confined to Grandview, at least for the time being, but his doctors were impressed.

Hudson’s cell phone pinged, and he scooped it out of his jacket pocket while crossing the street to where he’d parked his truck. It was nearly four, and he’d agreed to meet Nash out at his place on the lake. Something about a fridge and stove that needed to be moved. He glanced down at the number and, with a frown, picked up while he climbed into his rig.

“Blackwell?” The Bluetooth kicked in, and Charlie Woodard’s voice sounded in his truck, a mix of Southern drawl and raw edge. FBI, the two men had worked together on a few projects in the past, but Hudson hadn’t heard from the man since the previous winter when they’d taken down a terrorist cell in the heart of their capital.

“What’s up?” Hudson eased his truck into traffic and headed across the bridge. He couldn’t see Rebecca’s place from here, but that didn’t stop him from craning his neck to have a look as he sped by.

“Just checking in. Wondering when you’re coming back. No one here seems to know shit.”

“I’m not sure,” he replied. “I’m on indefinite leave. Family thing.”

“You got an expiration date for that?”

“Not yet.” Hudson turned right and headed up River Road. “What’s this about, Woodard?” Outside of work, he and Charlie weren’t tight, so that meant the reason for the call was FBI related.

“Dartmouth is active again.”

Hudson pulled over, ignoring the loud honk from the car behind him. “You sure about that?” he asked harshly.

“Last night, we picked up chatter on the West Coast. We’re still verifying, but so far, the intel looks good.” There was a long pause as that information sank in. “I thought you’d want to know.”

Hudson’s jaw ached because his teeth were clenched so tight, and he cursed again, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. Dartmouth was the bastard that got away. It was the second case he’d worked on and the only one he hadn’t been able to close. There’d been a time when Dartmouth had consumed him. A time when he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing the faces of his victims. The case still haunted him, but he’d learned to move on.

“You still there?” Woodard’s voice jerked him back to reality.

“Yeah.” A snowflake drifted on the breeze and landed on his windshield. It glistened in the late afternoon sun and then slowly melted. Hudson cleared his throat and, after checking the road, headed back along the river. “Let me know when that intel pans out. If Dartmouth is planning something else, I want in.”

“Okay.” Woodard sounded pleased. “I’ll be in touch.”

By the time Hudson reached Nash’s place, he was in a foul mood. He parked his truck and sat in it, eyes on the lake and the dark water. Small whitecaps dotted the surface, moving quickly toward shore from the force of the wind. And in the distance, the once-vibrant shades of fall had given way to bare trees and a dull palette of gray and brown. There was something almost desperate about the scene, and yet it was one that had always invigorated Hudson.

Until now.

He scowled and hopped out of his truck, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the screen door on the porch. He spied an old fridge and stove shoved up against the wall and walked into the house, but Nash wasn’t inside. A quick look around told him the new appliances had already come and were in place, and he headed back outside, this time toward the boathouse.

He found Nash inside, cursing up a storm as he fiddled with some wiring, and when his friend glanced up, he could tell he was frustrated.

“Damn ou

tlets aren’t working,” Nash grumbled. “But hell if I can tell what the issue is.”

“I can’t help you there.”