Point Blank

give Madonna any grief?”
    “Nah,” Rafer said, taking a bit longer than his older brother to pull himself together. “She made cocoa and we told her the story about old man Steeter’s house, how he used to steal little kids and hold them prisoner. She said she couldn’t tell us any stories because she doesn’t remember any.”
    Dix raised his eyebrows. “That story would certainly make her feel better tonight, made her wish she’d made up a story for you.”
    Rob said, “Madonna wants to see the house, see if there are any secret passageways.”
    Dix said to her, “Old Mr. Steeter died some ten years ago, left his big old Victorian house to a nephew who never came to claim it, lots of legalities preventing anyone from buying it and fixing it up. The kids around here make a big deal out of it.”
    Madonna said, “It would be fun to explore if you swear no kid-ghosts would come out after us. You want a cup of cocoa, Sheriff?”
    “That’d be great.” Dix stripped off his coat and gloves, excused himself to wash the blood off his face in the downstairs bathroom. When he came into the kitchen, he sprawled down in one of the kitchen chairs, Rob and Rafe closed in beside him.
    “You’re going to tell us all about it, Dad?”
    “Did you get those guys who shot at Madonna? Where’d the blood come from?”
    “It was pretty hairy, Rafe. We had a car chase on the interstate. Penny must have hit their gas tank because their truck blew up. The bad guys didn’t make it. That was Deputy Penny’s blood on my face. She took a head wound, she’s in the hospital, resting comfortably. She’s going to be all right. The fire department is bringing in the remains of the truck.”
    He’d given the boys enough to satisfy their blood lust, Madonna thought, but not enough to make it too real for them. But still, even those bare facts were terrifying.
    “Did those guys get burned up?” Rafe asked.
    “Yes, Rafe, they did.” Blown up and burned up, Dix thought, can’t get more gone than that. Rob said, “Did Penny have to get stitches in her head?”
    “Yeah, about ten, all set real pretty by Dr. Oliphant.” Dix shook his head at Rafe, who looked disappointed, then yawned real big.
    Dix said, “It’s going to be light in a couple of hours. Let’s see if we can’t get some sleep, okay?”
    “Rob and I could stay up all night and not be tired, Dad.”
    Somewhere inside Madonna there was laughter and it bubbled out. “Since I’m old, a little sleep sounds good to me.” She let herself be herded upstairs by the sheriff along with his two boys. She thought about lying on her back in Rob’s bed again, staring into the darkness, terrified of who she was and who she might turn out to be. She hoped that in the morning he’d tell her everything that had happened, not just the bare bones of it, that he’d know, most important, who the men were and why they tried to kill her. She hadn’t been about to ask him in front of the boys.
    DIX WOKE UP at ten o’clock Sunday morning, felt a spurt of panic, and drew a deep breath. It was over, and they were all right. He found Rafe and Rob both still asleep together in Rafe’s bed in the boneless way of teenagers, and he smiled. He checked on Madonna in Rob’s room and saw that the bed was not only empty, it was nicely made. The bed hadn’t been made that nicely since Christie—No, he wasn’t going to think about her. Even with the broken window frame, the room wasn’t cold since she’d kept the curtains drawn tightly over the window.
    When he walked into the kitchen twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, she was pulling biscuits out of the oven.
    “Hi, I heard you coming. Coffee’s fresh, on the counter.”
    “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said, eyeing the biscuits.
    “It’s Sunday morning, the only day of the week your arteries are immune to cholesterol. You like scrambled eggs and bacon?”
    “I’ll make breakfast. Come on, sit down and—”
    “Sheriff,” she said patiently, “I feel fine. I’m bored. Let me do something for my keep, all right?”
    She fed him a decadent breakfast, butter and strawberry jam dripping off hot biscuits, and he thought this was exactly what a Sunday morning breakfast should be. He had to admit her biscuits were as good as his blueberry muffins.
    Dix took the last bite of his third biscuit, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “You remember anything more today?”
    She shook her head, drank down more