did she know?” Jon asked.
Kilraven frowned. “I asked. She said she had a feeling. The caller hadn’t told her about the shotgun, just that her estranged husband had walked in and made threats.”
“Our father used to have those flashes of insight,” Jon reminded him. “It saved his life on more than one occasion. Restless feelings, he called them.”
“Like on the night my family died,” Kilraven said, sitting down heavily in an easy chair in front of the muted television. “He went to get gas in his car for the next day when he had a trip out of town for the Bureau. He could have gone anytime, but he went then. When he came back …”
“You and half the city police force were inside.” Jon winced. “I wish they could have spared you that.”
Kilraven’s eyes were terrible. “I can’t get it out of my mind. I live with it, night and day.”
“So did Dad. He drank himself to death. He thought maybe if he hadn’t gone to get gas, they’d have lived.”
“Or he’d have died.” He was recalling Alice Mayfield Jones’s lecture of the week before. “Alice Jones read me the riot act about that word if.” He smiled sadly. “I guess she’s right. We can’t change what happened.” He looked at Jon. “But I’d give ten years of my life to catch the guys who did it.”
“We’ll get them,” Jon said. “I promise you, we will. Had supper yet?” he added.
Kilraven shook his head. “No appetite.” He looked at the painting Winnie had done. “You remember how Melly used her crayons?” he asked softly. “Even at the age of three, she had great talent …” He stopped abruptly.
Jon’s dark eyes softened. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say her name in seven years, Mac,” he said gently.
Kilraven grimaced. “Don’t call me …!”
“Mac is a perfectly nice nickname for McKuen,” he said stubbornly. “You’re named for one of the most famous poets of the seventies, Rod McKuen. I’ve got a book of his poems around here somewhere. A lot of them were made into songs.”
Kilraven looked at the bulging bookcases. There were plastic bins of books stacked in the corner. “How do you ever read all those?” he asked, aghast.
Jon glared at him. “I could ask you the same question. You’ve got even more books than I have. The only things you have more of are gaming discs.”
“It makes up for a social life, I guess,” he confessed with a sheepish grin.
“I know.” Jon grimaced. “It affected us both. I got gun-shy about getting involved with women after it happened.”
“So did I,” Kilraven confessed. He studied the painting. “I was furious about that,” he said, indicating it. “The beadwork is just like what Melly drew.”
“She was a sweet, beautiful child,” Jon said quietly. “It isn’t fair to put her so far back in your memories that she’s lost forever.”
Kilraven drew a long breath. “I guess so. The guilt has eaten me alive. Maybe Alice is right. Maybe we only think we have control over life and death.”
“Maybe so.” Jon smiled. “I’ve got leftover pizza in the fridge, and soda. There’s a killer soccer match on. The World Cup comes around next summer.”
“Well, whoever I root for will lose, like always,” he replied. He sat down on the sofa. “So, who’s playing?” he asked, nodding toward the television.
WINNIE WAS SICK AT heart when she left after the party to go home. She’d made Kilraven furious, and just before he was due to leave Jacobsville. She probably wouldn’t ever see him again, especially now.
“What in the world happened to you?” her sister-in-law, Keely, asked when she came into the kitchen where the younger woman was making popcorn.
“What do you mean?” Winnie asked, trying to bluff it out.
“Don’t give me that.” Keely put her arms around her and hugged her. “Come on. Tell Keely all about it.”
Winnie burst into tears. “I gave Kilraven a painting. He wasn’t supposed to know it was me. But he did! He looked straight at me, like he hated me.” She sniffed. “I’ve ruined everything!”
“The painting of the raven?” Keely recalled. “It was gorgeous.”
“I thought it looked pretty good,” Winnie replied. “But he glared at me as if he wanted to tear a hole in me, and then he just walked out of the party and never came back.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like ravens,” the other woman suggested gently. “Some people are afraid of birds.”
Winnie laughed, nodding thankfully as Keely put a paper towel in her hands. She dried her eyes. “Kilraven’s not afraid of anything.”
“I suppose not. He does take chances, though.” She frowned. “Didn’t you send backup for him after some attempted shooting lately? They were talking about it at work. One of our girls is related to Shirley, who works with you at the 911 operations center,” she reminded her.
Winnie grimaced. She took her purse off her shoulder, tossed it onto the bar and sat down at the table. “Yes, I did. I don’t know why. I just had a terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen if I didn’t. The caller didn’t say anything about the perp having a gun. But he had a loaded shotgun and he was so drunk, he didn’t care if he killed his estranged wife and their little girl. Kilraven walked right into it.”
They were both remembering an earlier incident, when Winnie was a new dispatcher and she’d failed to mention a gun involved in a domestic dispute. Kilraven had been involved in that one, and he’d given her a lecture about it. She was much more careful now.
“How did you know?” Keely persisted.
“I really couldn’t say.” Winnie laughed. “I’ve had feelings like that all my life, known things that I had no reason to know. My grandmother used to set the table for company when we didn’t even know anybody was coming. They’d show up just when she thought they would. The second sight, she called it.”
“A gift. I’ve heard them say that Cash Grier’s wife, Tippy, has it.”
“So have I.” Winnie shrugged. “I don’t know, though. I just get feelings. Usually they’re bad ones.” She looked up at Keely. “I’ve had one all day. I can’t shake it. And I don’t think Kilraven’s reaction to my gift was the reason. I wonder …”
“Who’s that coming up the driveway?” Boone Sinclair asked, joining them. He brushed a kiss against Keely’s mouth. “Expecting someone?” he asked her, including Winnie in the question.
“No,” Winnie said.
“Me, either,” Winnie replied. “It isn’t Clark?”
He shook his head. “He flew up to Dallas this morning for a meeting with some cattle buyers for me.” He
