Detroit Combat by Randy Wayne White Page B

I decided to stop by.”
    Hawker pulled the towel from around his neck and wiped the sweat/ice off his face. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
    She held up the glass. “I hope you don’t mind my helping myself? The door was unlocked, so I just came in—” She seemed to see him for the first time, and her eyes grew wide. “What in the world happened to you?”
    Hawker looked down. His sweat pants were not only soaking wet but ripped, and his knee was bleeding. He realized his face must be flecked with sand. “I was out running.”
    â€œYou looked better the other night after almost being killed. Maybe it’s because your eye wasn’t so black.”
    â€œIt was an exciting run.” Hawker went into the kitchen and opened a beer. “I must have just missed you.”
    â€œWhat?”
    He returned to the living room, half the beer gone. “Your call—I must have just missed it.”
    â€œOh.” She shrugged, now visibly embarrassed at having tracked him down.
    Hawker smiled and gave her an understanding pat. “I’m glad you’re here. I mean it.” She looked at the floor when he touched her, but didn’t pull away. Once again Hawker felt the stomach wrench of physical wanting for her—the desire to see the lithe, woman’s body stripped naked; to wrap his hands in her soft hair and kiss the full lips. He touched her arm again, but this time she flinched ever so slightly. Hawker motioned toward the chair. “Have a seat, finish your drink while I take a shower—” And because that small bit of body language told him the visit was business, he added, “—Detective Riddock.”
    Hawker got another beer, then steamed himself longer than good manners allow. As he dressed himself in soft jeans and a sweater, the woman called out, “Can I make you something to eat?”
    â€œNaw, that’s okay. I’ll make a sandwich later.”
    â€œCan any of this wood go on the fire?”
    â€œI’ll take care of the fire. Just relax.”
    Her tone was humorous. “Well, let me do something, damn it. I feel like I’m spoiling your whole evening.”
    â€œThen fix the fire.”
    When he came out of the bathroom, she was. Hawker sat on the throwrug beside her, his third beer in hand. “You’re a great little firetender.”
    She sighed, laughing. “I feel like an absolute ass.”
    â€œYou mean I’m not the only one who feels that way?”
    â€œNow you’re being patronizing. You don’t have to try to make me feel better. You’ve already saved my life. Leave me with some dignity.”
    â€œI didn’t know you’d lost your dignity. If you did, it isn’t because you came into my house uninvited. And it sure as hell isn’t because that guy had you in the backseat. You handled yourself pretty well. You don’t have anything to feel ashamed about.”
    She put a final log on the fire and slapped the soot off her hands. “It’s not that—it’s what I said to you and Paul in the restaurant that night. I was so damn sure I was right. That grand little speech I made about protecting the rights of the accused. About how criminals are just plain, simple folks who’ve made mistakes—God, what a naive idiot I was.”
    Hawker smiled. “A little naive, maybe, but not an idiot. You were right. The rights of the accused do have to be protected. If they weren’t, this country would be in one hell of a mess—just ask the people in Cuba or Poland. But protecting the rights of criminals while disregarding the rights of citizens is even worse. Unfortunately, Claramae, there are people on the streets who should be chained to a wall and fed with a stick.”
    The woman shuddered. “I know that now. That man who tried to kill us … I can still smell the stink of him on me. I feel dirty . He was nothing but