The Blue Hour (Merci Rayborn Novels) by T. Jefferson Parker

Author:T. Jefferson Parker [Parker, T. Jefferson]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

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She picked up an ankle holster for her .40 cal derringer, got some takeout food and brought it home. Home was a rambling house that used to belong to the owner of the large orange grove that surrounded it. But most of the grove was dozed years ago for housing tracts, all but a couple of acres around the house, which was now owned by a friend of her father and rented cheap. It was old and the faucets groaned and the fuses blew in heat waves and the garage was full of black widows. It sat back at the end of a long dirt drive that filled with potholes in winter and bred dust in summer.

The land was flat and you wouldn’t even know the housing tracts surrounded the grove because the trees were healthy and high. It was like living inside a wall of green. Merci liked the cheap rent and the smell of the orange trees and blossoms and the fact that she had no neighbors to consider. She thought little of strolling around in nothing but her underwear, behind open windows and screen doors, stereo and Sheriff’s band short wave turned up loud while the orange grove cats lounged in the sunshine on her porch, licking themselves incessantly, alert to the sound of the food bag. Once in a while she’d walk out through the rows and look at things. Not much to see, really, because the big citrus company that worked these acres did a meticulous job. The workers were quiet Mexicans who hid their cheerfulness when she was around.

She stared back at one of the cats as she unlocked the door, then picked up the fast food and holster and went inside. She loved many things about cats without loving any one cat in the least. The place got hot during the day so she opened all the windows and doors, then went to her bedroom and stripped down to undies and her sport shirt with the sleeves rolled up, working off her bra and tossing it on the floor. She set her holster and automatic beside the bed, which is where it stayed when it wasn’t on her. She strapped on the new ankle rig and slid in the derringer—lots of play, but the strap was good and taut. Skivvies or not, it was good to have a gun on, or at least one in each room, positioned where she could get it quick if she needed to. One of her father’s habits. She had no fear at home. This was more or less a game she played to keep her life interesting.

Again she pictured her partner’s face that morning. In the same way that something was taken out of Hess, something was taken out of her, too, and this reminded her that nothing they did would make a difference in the long run. The short run was their stage, collar the creeps and maybe save a life or even two.

But

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