“Just like he is right now,” she says. “He’s always got his eye on you. Don’t look. He’ll change his focus if you do. I know you’ve said before there’s nothing going on between you two, but I’m not sure he knows that.”
“There isn’t anything,” I say. “He’s just protective.”
“I’ve been around a while, honey,” Christine says, “and I know men. That man thinks a lot more of you than just someone to protect.”
“It’s a job to him,” I insist.
“He wants you, honey. That’s very cl
ear.” She dumps the last can of broth into the pot and tilts her head to look at me. “You want my advice? Let him have you. Knowing you’re his might be the only thing that keeps the rest of the guys away.”
I shake my head but don’t get the chance to respond. Chuck comes up behind Christine and wraps his arms around her waist.
“I know what you need!” he exclaims. “Hasenpfeffer!”
“I ain’t cooking a damn rabbit, and I sure as hell ain’t cleaning one!”
“It’s a delicacy, babe! And I’m gonna get you one!”
Chuck grabs his bow, calls to Sam to join him, and stalks off toward the trees with his head held high, humming the theme song for the Bugs Bunny cartoons. Christine shakes her head and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“They’re all about this, you know,” she tells me. “They’ve all gone primitive. The problem is, they don’t know which of them is the main dog of this pack.”
“So we’re all going to go back to cavemen hunting while the cavewomen cook?”
“Do you see any of the guys offering to help us?”
I can’t deny what she’s saying. Though it hadn’t really occurred to me, she and I do most of the traditional womanly tasks, while the guys go out for supplies and build things. We gather kindling while they chop down trees for larger pieces of wood. I’d even done most of the cleaning in Falk’s apartment though I assume he’d always taken care of that himself before I was in the picture.
How had I not noticed that before?
Brett and Caesar return just as dinner is ready, but they don’t seem to have any more information than they had when they left. The apartment definitely had signs of a struggle, and there was blood found on the corner of the coffee table, but Beck didn’t have any bloody wounds.
Caesar spends all of four minutes checking people for bloody wounds but soon discovers everyone has some kind of cut or scrape. Even I have one on my hand from where I went to place a can for target practice, slipped and scratched myself on the tree stump. We are outside more than inside, and the woods have a lot of thorny bushes.
I eat dinner in quiet contemplation, only half listening to Caesar and Brett as they discuss Caesar’s notes.
How well do I know any of the people here?
It has been roughly a month since I was supposed to be on a plane to Washington, D.C. I haven’t known anyone here for very long, but we’ve lived in such close quarters all that time, it feels like much longer. I can’t imagine any of them actually doing something violent without just cause, let alone wrapping their hands around Beck’s neck and choking the life out of him.
I shudder at the image that comes to my head.
Someone did it.
It has to be someone from outside, either those men Caesar encountered last week or someone we just haven’t seen. We don’t know how many people are out there. It could have been anyone.
But why?
What would some stranger have against Beck? He was annoying and definitely abrasive, but no one could have known that without being around him for a while. Logically, it has to be someone here.
I look around at the people in the chairs circling the fire. Marco and Sam are to my right, and I dismiss them immediately. They’re both shy, country boys. I can’t imagine them doing anything like that. I glance past Christine and Chuck as well—they’re far too focused on each other to get in anyone else’s business. Chuck would likely defend Christine to the death if he needed to, as she would for him, but Beck had never threatened either of them.
Next to the couple, I look at two of the newcomers—Wayne and Brian. As they had stated, they never even met Beck. I shake my head, annoyed that I’m not getting anywhere.
Turning my head to the left, Falk is sitting beside me. He’s leaning back in his chair with an unlit cigarette in his hand, staring at the fire. His skin glows with reddish light, and his eyes sparkle with the reflection of the fire.
No—it couldn’t have been Falk. Falk loves his guns. If he were going to kill Beck, he would have shot him.