Page 24 of Backtrack

“I suppose you got your fugitive bad man.”

“Badmen,” Cutter said. “And sadly, they are still in the wind.”

“It’s not like you to give up on a hunt.” She took off her glasses and rubbed tired eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “I hope you didn’t come home just because you’re worried over me.”

Of course I’m worried over you, he thought. He said, “One of the armored car guards is still alive. It was a long surgery. Docs won’t let me talk to him until tomorrow. Not much else we can do tonight.”

Cutter resisted the urge to collapse into his chair. “Have you had anything to eat?”

Lucy nodded, engrossed in her yarn again. “I had a glass of corn bread and sweet milk.”

“Let me fix you some chicken and dumplings.”

“Sit down before you fall down,” Lucy said. “I put on a pot of pinto beans this morning. I’ll get you a bowl.” She tried to push herself to her feet but fell into a coughing fit that turned her face a deep red and caused the veins in the side of her neck to bulge. Cutter crouched beside her, handing her a glass of Dr Pepper from the table beside the couch. Her shoulders were so incredibly frail, she felt like she might blow away in a light breeze.

“I’m … f … fine.” She dabbed away the blood on her lips. “I do believe this illness robs a person of dignity long before it kills them.”

Cutter looked away toward the kitchen to hide his welling tears.

He had to do something, anything. Watching lung cancer eat his wife alive was like being tied to a chair while someone beat the hell out of her.

Lucy coughed again, quieter now, more subdued. “I suppose I’ll let you get your own beans.” She patted the couch. “Then come back and tell me about your day. I want to hear all of it.”

Cutter returned to the living room a moment later with corn bread and a glass of milk. He’d taken off his gun belt and unbuttoned his shirt. A steel chain around his neck carried his wedding ring and a silver medallion with the image of a compass rose. Another gift from Lucy, the inscription on the back read:Watch your heading.

Lucy moved the popcorn tin of yarn to the floor and touched the cushion close to her. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the glass in his hand.

“You need a proper meal.”

“I like corn bread and milk just fine,” he said. “The beans will keep.”

He’d telephoned earlier from the Sheriff’s Office to let her know he was okay after the events on the highway. News traveled fast in a small town, and he didn’t want her to hear from someone else that he’d had to kill a man.

“Oh, my dear Grouchy Bear,” she whispered. She’d called him her Grouchy Bear since before they were married. “I hope you’re not too troubled by the shooting. Those ladies in that Pontiac are lucky you were there.”

“I’m fine,” he said, meaning it. Vince Millner wasn’t the first man he’d killed. Cutter doubted he’d be the last.

Lucy rested a hand on his thigh. “You know what my daddy said to me the night before you and I got married?”

Cutter had heard the story dozens of times over the years, but he smiled pensively and shook his head, as if it was all new to him. She enjoyed telling it so much.

“My daddy said,Lucy, dear, that Cutter boy is a peacefulgunman—and the world could use a few more of those. You know how Daddy liked to talk philosophy.” She stifled a cough, patting ashen lips with the crumpled tissue, and then curled up against his shoulder.

Cutter fished the last of the corn bread out of the glass with his spoon and then nestled deeper into the tired cushions. He’d wanted to buy her a new couch. Now there was no point. …

Lucy opened her eyes and looked sideways at him without raising her head.

“So,” she whispered. “Bad day.”

“Bad day to be an armored truck guard,” Cutter said. “And that’s a fact. The bastards shot them all in cold blood.”

Lucy closed her eyes again. “People,” she said, disgusted. “Why in God’s name …” She raised a hand as if to ward off what he was about to say. “I know, I know. You tell me over and over not to ask why.”

“Istill ask why,” Cutter said. “I just don’t expect a good answer.”

“I suppose people have killed for far less than five million dollars in diamonds,” Lucy said, as if to herself.

Cutter gave a slow nod. “That kind of money would pay off your medical bills.”