A/N: Stormclouds.

Big Swamp

Chapter Ten: Risk

No risk, no faith.

I feel the risk this morning as I wake up.

Last night, the pond, Sarah. Serious kissing that never led to anything more serious — other than an occasional moment of contact, an occasional caress over damp cloth.

We walked hand-in-hand from the pond. I put on my jeans in the bathroom and, after one last lingering kiss, I left Noble Hall.

I wake to the sound of a storm, pelting rain, and rumbling thunder. I would like to just stay in bed and relive last night and enjoy the warmth of my blanket in my air-conditioned bedroom, but Ellie won't have it. She knocks on my door.

"Chuck!"

"El, what?"

"It's here; it's in my kitchen; and, it's alive!"

Shit, Morgan. I texted him before I went to sleep, told him to come over so we could drive out to Briggs and Stratton.

Ellie's not a fan. It doesn't help that Morgan used to spend hours spying on her each summer, memorizing each bikini she wore when sunbathing behind the house. He once showed Ellie The Bikini Diary as he called it, fully illustrated and colored — with colored pencils — and each picture surrounding by lavish commentary. I suppose he thought it was a compliment. I warned him, seriously warned him. Ellie erupted like Vesuvius — Morgan was nearly vaporized.

Ellie's never forgiven Morgan. She normally pretends he is not my friend, that he does not work for me, that he does not exist. When she is forced to admit his existence, she calls him 'it'.

"Be down in a minute."

I roll out of bed and dash to the bathroom. I run under and out of the shower water, soap makes a brief appearance in the middle, and then I towel off, brush my teeth, and dash back to my room. I throw on clothes and am downstairs in under five minutes.

Morgan sits at the small kitchen table, trying not to fidget — and failing. No doubt Ellie told him she'd kill him if he moved. Ellie stands scowling by the gas stove, her beloved frying pan stuffed with scrambled eggs and maple sausage links. She holds the spatula like a weapon of war. The kitchen smells wonderful despite the atmosphere portending bloodshed. Morgan and Ellie both sigh in audible relief when I come in.

Thunder rumbles.

Ellie places scrambled eggs and a couple of links on each of three plates.

She sits down with hers and leaves me to get my own and give the last to Morgan. Morgan glances at Ellie and thanks her, but she does not acknowledge him or his cautious thanks. Ellie glares at me and takes her plate from the kitchen table into the dining room.

"So, Morgan," I say to cover her retreat, "do you still have that list of items missing at Briggs and Stratton?"

He stares at me while chewing, not understanding the question for a minute. Then, he holds up a hand, his index finger. He puts down his fork and pulls his rounded notebook out of his rear pocket. He flips the yellow cover open and reads while he hunts for his fork with his other hand.

"Evidently, the following items went missing, reported over a period of months. A pair of Maui Jim sunglasses and case; a corduroy jacket, olive drab, large; a Cabela's cap, black, plain, five-panel; a pair of work boots, size eleven, an old Timex digital watch; a pair of leather work gloves; an open package of Q-Tips; a small bag of Red Delicious apples, a couple of cans of tuna; and a paperback copy of the first Harry Potter book."

I eat my sausage as he reads. He finishes and flips the cover closed. He resumes eating, but he's got one eye on me. "What do you think, Chuck. It's like a weird Mensa test, huh? Which of The Following Does Not Belong?"

I nod, finishing a bite of sausage. "Yeah, that's a bizarre list." Pondering it, I ask: "How many different lockers?"

He flips the cover open. "All different, except the tuna and the Harry Potter — they were taken from the same locker the same day."

"Ruining someone's quasi-literate, pescatarian lunch break, I'm guessing. — Nothing on that list is worth more than a few dollars except the sunglasses."

"I know," Morgan says around a bite of egg, a yellow, scrambled I know. "And no wallets are missing, no money, no credit cards, no jewelry — except the Timex, if that counts."

"Don't know what to say to that. — So, Morg, I have reasons to go out there today, reasons connected to the case I took from Langston Graham." I quickly relate the substance of Graham's visit. "I need to find out about an employee. It'd be easier for me if you asked Big Jim about it."

"Okay, who is it?" He fishes a pencil from his front pocket.

"His name is Bill — William, I assume — Peppers." I give Morgan a brief description of the man. "He drives a Ford pickup, older, red. Ask, but don't be obvious about it. Treat it as tied to your investigation. I'll wait in the car."

Morgan nods. "Big Jim still hates you?" Outside, the rain stops.

"Evidently."

No risk, no faith.

I'm sitting in the car in the Briggs and Stratton lot. We arrived late. Morgan took forever to eat. I expected to be here at around the time for the dayshift to begin, but we're here closer to lunch than breakfast.

I was lucky and found a patch of shade off on the edge of the otherwise sun-hammered lot. The morning storm's gone — it cleared off during breakfast — and now the rainwater has migrated to the air. Sitting feels like bathing. I've rolled down a window and am listening again to that Matt Pond PA album, letting myself drift, eyes shut, on the aftereffects of last night, the aftertaste of kisses.

I hear a car door shut and I open my eyes, lean forward. Wylie Stroud has just gotten out of his Mercedes. So has Sarah Walker. She scans the lot and I'm tempted to duck but don't. She doesn't notice my Camry — too far away. They walk together into the door to the Briggs and Stratton office. He opens the door and holds it for her; she nods at him and walks in. He follows her, releasing the door and allowing it to swing slowly shut behind them.

Wylie was wearing a seersucker suit jacket over jeans. Sarah was wearing a pastel orange sundress.

What the hell? My chest feels tight. Now I can't sit without fidgeting. A moment later, a massive shiny yellow Cadillac pulls into the lot and into the empty spot beside Wylie's Mercedes. Double hell!

I watch but no one gets out of the Caddy. It sits like some giant, beached Beatle's submarine, engine running, oily exhaust puffing outward. A moment later, Wylie and Sarah come out of the office. Wylie sees the Caddy and points it out to Sarah. They walk to it and stand beside the driver's window. A moment later I know the window is down because I see an elbow sticking out of it.

I try to make out what is happening, but before I can, a delivery truck pulls in and stops, cutting off my line of sight.

"Goddamn it!" I hiss and smack the steering wheel. A minute passes, two. And then Wylie's Mercedes comes into view. He and Sarah are in it, I can see both silhouettes.

I do drop down in my seat, even though neither seemed to be looking in my direction. I count to forty then I sit up. The Mercedes is gone. The truck has moved. The Caddy is still parked in the lot. The elbow has disappeared.

Morgan comes out of the office. He stands there, in view of the Caddy, and waves at me, holding up his notebook in victory.

"Shit, Morg, stop!" I command though he cannot possibly hear me at this distance. The Caddy pulls forward just after Morgan goes by and I see Wade Peterson staring at my car as he leaves the lot. Shit, shit.

Morgan gets to the car and jumps in, oblivious to anything that's just happened. "Got some info on Peppers."

"Did you see Sarah Walker and her uncle in the office?"

Morgan looks confused. "No, but I wasn't really in there. I left through it, but I was back on the factory floor, talking to Big Jim. Why would they be here — they were here?"

"Yes, they left just before you did."

"Really?"

"Yes, after they talked to Wade Peterson, the guy driving the massive yellow Cadillac."

"What Cadillac?" Morgan asks. I start the car to keep from throttling him.

Calmer, later, at the office, in the front, I sit down with Morgan and explain it all — what Graham asked me to do, the suspicions about Jane Peterson, about following Peppers to a meeting with Wade Peterson. I told him what I saw while he was in Briggs and Stratton. He listens carefully; his face reddens, his crests fall.

He digs out his notebook and stands, holds it out toward me, head down. "If you wanna fire me, drum me out, go ahead. I deserve it. Dishonorable discharge."

I shake my head although I admit I'm half-tempted. "It's okay, I should've told you all this before. But you have got to keep it to yourself. And you've got to think, Morgan."

He gives me a sober, earnest look. "I'll do better." He quickly tells me what he found out about Peppers from Big Jim Sutton.

The phone rings. I set my cell to redirect calls to the office phone, the old cordless one Morgan starts to pick it up and I do too. He stops, yields it to me.

I shake my head and let him answer it.

"Bartowski's office," he says. He listens then says. "Yes, just a minute."

He mutes the phone, shows me he has. "It's Sarah Walker, Chuck."

I take the phone and walk into my office, shutting the door.

No risk, no faith.

"Hi, Sarah; it's Chuck."

She laughs. "I've been looking forward to talking to you all morning." Her breathy voice steals mine for a moment. "Chuck, are you still there?"

"Yes. Yeah, I'm still here. Sorry. Just...um…"

She laughs again and her voice sinks to a whisper. "Me, too. I don't think I slept at all last night." She pauses. "I preferred that raft with you to my bed without you." She pauses again. "I tossed and turned all night. At about 3 am, I walked back to the pond with a blanket and I finally went to sleep out there."

"On the pier?" I ask, my body responding to her intimate whisper, but my mind featuring pictures of her in the pastel orange sundress. "You'll fall in."

Her whisper continues. "Too late, Chuck. I fell in out there earlier, underneath the fireflies. I went out to the pier because I had. The fireflies were gone but you felt close."

Part of me wants to shout for joy. I want to believe her. I saw nothing this morning that makes anything she's so far said false.

"Last night was..." I say to her, searching for the right word.

"Yeah," she agrees despite my not supplying the adjective. "Yeah. Thanks, Chuck. I felt...last night was...special."

I don't try to find a better word. Her inflection of that one makes it the mot juste.

She stops whispering abruptly. "Say, it's late for lunch, but, by any chance…?"

"I haven't eaten, actually."

"Oh! Well, let's eat together, okay?"

"Sure. Any place in particular?"

"You choose."

I mention the first place that comes to mind after Ed's. "There's a place right near here. Chuck's BBQ."

"That sounds great, just exactly what I'm hungering for…Chuck's."

Is this banter? Because that definitely felt like banter. The pictures of her this morning are jettisoned by memories of her against me last night. I offer banter in return. "They say it's delicious."

"Oh, they do, do they? Is it offered to just anyone? Who might this they be?"

I stifle a laugh and put on a TV announcer's voice. "Obviously, women of taste who enjoy a delicious situation."

She chuckles, low, and it kills me. "I see. And your detective life is no doubt full of such women, vamps?"

"I'm afraid it would be ungentlemanly of me to answer that question, and for more than one reason."

"Will you explain those reasons to me while I enjoy my Chuck's?"

"If you are capable of speech at such a moment, of anything more than rapturous noises."

"We'll see how it goes. I can be there in thirty minutes. I've lazed around the house all morning but I did manage a shower."

I had been laughing but now my laughter sticks in my throat. All morning? My mind begins to whirl. My chest tightens again.

"Chuck, are you still there? Chuck? Still want to?"

"Yes, yes. —Sorry. Yes. Meet me here and we can walk over together?"

"Sounds good." Her whisper returns. "Can't wait to see you."

She ends the call.

No risk, no faith.

I'm standing with my phone and heart in hand when Morgan knocks on the door.

"Chuck, Langston Graham to see you."

"Send him in, Morgan."

I stare at the Judas phone and hang it up.

Morgan opens the door and Langston strides in. "Hey, Bartowski."

"Hey, Langston. What can I do for you?" He sits as I ask.

"Two things, it turns out. First, do you think that you and Ellie could meet with me tonight? I have something I need to discuss with you, but I'd like to do it with the two of you at once. Say, at your house?"

"Let's see. It's Wednesday, right?" Langston nods. "We should have time after dinner. Say, 8 pm?" He nods again. "I'll call if there's a problem, but there shouldn't be."

"Good. Second, any news on the case I hired you for?"

"I have a lead, I think, maybe more than one. Does the name Bill Peppers mean anything to you?"

Langston stares at the Blade Runner poster, thinking. "You know, I think Jane had a handyman who worked for her a year or two ago named Peppers. She fired him for something or other — she could never keep help. But I've seen check stubs made out to that name."

"You don't know why she fired him?"

He stares at the poster again. "No, I don't think she told me. She was funny about it, now that I recall."

"Mmmhmm. Did Jane have any ties — financial ties — to Briggs and Stratton?"

Langston takes a moment, deliberating. "I'm trusting you with this, Bartowski. Yes, she did. A healthy portion of the stock."

"And now Wade has it?"

He nods.

"What happened to her cats?"

Langston jerks a little in the chair. "Huh? Cats?"

"The twenty cats you said she had. I assume they were gone before Wylie moved in?"

"Yes, of course. They were caught and taken to the Lee County Animal Shelter. I don't know what happened to them after that. I hope they found homes, but most of them were feral, or nearly so, at least for anyone other than Jane."

"Okay. I'm going to go see Wade Peterson tomorrow, and check on a few other things."

"Good. Well, I'll see you tonight, Chuck. Call me if that's a problem."

He gets up and we shake hands. I walk him out of my office and close the door. I hear the outer door close a moment later. I go and sit down in my chair.

My head is so full of Sarah and Wylie and Bill Peppers and Wade Preston that it takes me several minutes to wonder why Langston's coming to the house.

I hear a knock on my door again and I assume Sarah has arrived.

"Chuck, Father Casey's here."

That's a surprise. I get up and open the door. I had forgotten that Wednesday was his day off, his Sabbath, as he likes to call it. But I remember when I see him in the straw hat, electric blue golf shirt, and khaki pants he's wearing.

"Hey, kid. I was just over this way playing golf and thought I'd stop by and see how you were doing."

"How I'm doing?" I ask as I walk back behind my desk.

He closes the door and sits down, and takes off the hat. He pulls a handkerchief from a rear pocket and mops his forehead.

"Courses down here are sure gorgeous, but they're better from the Club with a beer in hand than from the green with a club in hand."

I shrug. Other than watching the occasional major on slow Sunday afternoons, I have no truck with golf. Not a Club member, remember. I wait for him to answer my question.

"I had a chat with Diana last night, Chuck. It...worried me a little bit. She told me to keep my big nose out of it, but…"

"What is it, Casey?"

"It's the Walker woman. I just have a bad feeling."

"Father, I know we're friends…"

"News to me," he says with a frown. He waits for my reaction — then laughs. "Yes, we're friends, Bartowski."

"I know we're friends but this is my business. Don't be a women's committee busybody, Father."

He grimaces. "I deserve that, Bartowski, but listen. We're friends and I'm worried and I just want you to know. One white-dressed rehearsal with a choir does not an angel make."

"Song of Solomon?" I deadpan.

He laughs. "Not exactly. But I'd want you to do the same for me if our roles were reversed. Friends are honest, right."

I can't argue with that. "Okay, say your piece."

"I've actually just said it. Look, Bartowski, if Samson had a friend, and the friend had gotten a bad feeling about Delilah, wouldn't a heads-up have been a help?"

"No scriptural pun intended?"

He looks at me, replays his own words. "Ha! No, none intended." He stands. "I'll leave this alone now, Chuck. But I didn't want to hold my peace when I was worried about yours."

"Thanks, Father."

"See you, Bartowski. I can show myself out."

He leaves the office and says goodbye to Morgan.

I stand and take a deep breath. Sarah's supposed to be here soon.

No risk, no faith.

Despite the wet heat, I go outside to wait for Sarah.

The office felt like it was shrinking.

Sarah lied to me. It might have been a white lie — its color remains to be determined. So much does. But she did not laze about all morning. She was up and about — and pastel orange and at Briggs and Stratton and talking with Wade Peterson. That's a lot of conjunctions for a lazy morning at Noble Hall.

I want so desperately for the phone conversation to be real because if it was, if there was only the one, isolated white lie, then last night was real and maybe Sarah's a cardiac patient too.

It's time to start asking questions, finding explanations.

Sarah's Porsche crunches damp gravel in the parking lot. Sarah gets out.

I expect the orange pastel dress but she's wearing a Southern Cal t-shirt, cardinal with gold lettering, white shorts, and white leather tennis shoes. With her blond hair hanging loose, she looks like a photograph from a USC campus brochure. She'd single-handedly double enrollment.

She hurries from the car to me and I can't tell if she's jogging or skipping or both. She grabs me, her breath coming in gasps, and she kisses me quickly.

"I'm ready for my Chuck's!" Her wide smile's contagious. I smile too.

No risk, no faith.

Double hell.

A/N: Lunch at Chuck's and more next time in Big Swamp. It'll probably be a few days. I'm going to see if I can finish Jeux.

(To the Guest who asked a question: No, not my MO, not what's happening here.)