But Rob was shaking his head. “Don’t you worry, Mary Grace. If she ever comes to, she’ll say it was a man with curly brown hair, a mustache and blue eyes.” He lifted his dark brows, blinked his brown eyes. “Which I clearly am not. She’ll say it was a man named Mike Flanders.” He pushed his lips together in a pout. “Shame that. I guess I won’t be using that name again. Damn but if that wasn’t my easiest getup.”
Caroline let her eyes slide closed. He’d dabbled in it, years ago. The art of disguise. He’d obviously … honed his craft. Dear God, poor Evie.
Rob backed up a step and she followed, still on her toes. She heard the soft thud of his gun on her little dinette table, the rustle of fabric as he dug in his pocket. “Open your eyes, Mary Grace. Let me see those pretty baby blues of yours.” His fingers grabbed her neck and she gasped. “I said open your eyes. Now. Or I’ll forget you’re the mother of my boy and treat you like the goddamn whore you are.”
Resolutely she kept her eyes closed tight and barely managed to swallow the cry when his knuckles crashed against her cheek. “So you plan to make this difficult, huh? Not a problem, Gracie. No problem at all. In fact, it just might—”
Caroline gasped again as she felt the bite of the twine against her own wrists.
“—make it a little more fun,” he grunted, pulling the twine tight, imprisoning her wrist behind her back. He shoved her into the chair and she took a breath, mentally preparing for the very worst, but all she could think of was Tom or Max finding her, tied. Dead. He’d kill her. He had very little to lose. “Where is my son?” he demanded from behind her. He pulled her wrists behind the chair and tied them to the chair’s frame, tugging as he finished.
She was silent until he hit her again, knocking her to the floor, chair and all. This time she couldn’t contain the small cry of pain. She spat out the blood that filled her mouth. She lay there, unable to right herself, as helpless as she’d been all those years before.
No, not helpless. She’d never really been helpless. She’d survived then. She’d survive this time, too. Someone would find her. Max would come. All she had to do was hang on. And block out the sound of him breathing over her.
The phone rang again. She braced herself for Max’s voice, knowing it would hurt as much as give her something to hold onto. Again Eli’s voice. Again the beep. But this time it was a woman’s voice she’d never heard before.
“This message is for Caroline Stewart. My name is Lieutenant Antoinette Ross with the Asheville, North Carolina Police Department.”
“Goddamn it,” Rob hissed and Caroline opened her eyes to find him staring at the phone, rage in every line of his body.
“I’m looking for a woman named Mary Grace Winters and have reason to believe she may be with you,” Lieu-tenant Ross’s voice went on. “The Chicago PD has also been trying to reach you since yesterday. We believe you’re in a great deal of danger from Rob Winters, Mary Grace’s husband. He’s armed and very dangerous, Ms. Stewart. Please contact Lieutenant Spinnelli in Chicago immediately, even if you don’t know the woman we’re looking for. Your life is in danger. The Chicago police will help you. Please don’t be afraid of them.” She rattled off a few phone numbers and hung up.
Rob continued to stand and stare at the phone for a long minute, his chest rising and falling with the great breaths he drew. “Sonofabitch,” he growled and yanked her chair upwards. “I can’t believe this. Get up,” he commanded harshly. “I said, get up!”
Caroline just looked at him. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. He’d made a mistake somewhere. They were on to him. It was just a matter of time before someone came for her.
Rob grabbed the front of her sweater and dragged her to her feet.
“We can’t stay here.” He cut the twine binding her wrists and roughly shoved her toward the door. “Get your coat.”
Chicago
Sunday, March 18
6 P.M.
“Bid or fold, Max,” Peter said mildly.
Max looked up from the cards he held, searching the worried expressions around the table. “I’m sorry, Peter. I’m lousy company tonight.” He dug deep and found a tired smile. David had made a few calls and immediately his family had dropped all their plans to come to support him. “You guys just play this hand without me.” With an effort, he pulled himself to his feet, accepted his cane from a sober Ma and made his way into the darkened living room where he and Caroline had made love for the first time less than forty-eight hours before. It simply didn’t seem possible.
He stared at the fireplace, smelling the stale ashes, hearing the muted murmurs coming from the kitchen. His family had come without hesitation, without question. Without any explanation from him. He knew they wondered. He knew David would say nothing. What was divulged to his family was up to him.
What he’d divulged was only that he and Caroline had fought and that he’d been far too hasty.
He’d realized he’d been too hasty a scant fifteen minutes after Dana had pulled out of his driveway, throwing a look of regret over her shoulder. Apparently Caroline hadn’t yet reached the same conclusion. He hadn’t changed his mind, not by a long shot. He would still accept nothing less than marriage. He loved the woman for God’s sake. She said she loved him. They should lawfully be together, husband and wife. He should lawfully be able to smile at her across the dinner table. In his bed. Any babies they had together should lawfully bear his name. His name, dammit, not the name of some stranger she happened to find on a St. Louis gravestone.
He hadn’t been wrong. Just hasty. Caroline didn’t want to not marry him. She just didn’t see an answer to a problem she’d been living with for seven long years. Fifteen minutes after she’d driven away his mind began to clear, the hurt dissipating as logic began to set in. Logic in the form of David, of course. His brother had waited until Dana’s clunker had disappeared before turning to him, sadness in his gray eyes. And within fifteen minutes his brother had cut through his hurt. Max had seen past his own selfishness, his own self-pity and seen the courage Caroline had mustered every day of her life. But not only the courage. He’d seen the fear and the terror that made her afraid seven years later. She thought there was no way out. She thought there was no way to legally escape the bastard that had brutalized her during her entire adult life.
He knew they needed to find a way to finally free her from her husband, together. Anything less would not allow her to marry him. And anything less than marriage would be untenable. He sighed. Because in his heart he’d discerned the real reason behind his hurt. If Caroline considered her marriage to the bastard legally binding, it meant in her heart she was still married. Still bound. Still a part of him. Not me, he thought, feeling the same pang he’d endured all day. If she held her marriage vows sacrosanct, it meant anything between the two of them would be sullied. Dirty. He’d be living with a married woman, and Max found that realization most shattering of all. He’d never slept with a married woman, not even in his wilder days in pro ball.
He had now. His shoulders sagged.
Max found he had integrity of his own. Married women were off limits. Strictly so.
The overhead light flicked on and the familiar scent his mother had worn since he was a boy tickled his nose. The leather on the sofa squeaked as she sat. He didn’t move from where he stood, even when Elizabeth gripped his upper arm and pulled herself tall enough to place a kiss on his unshaven cheek. From the rustling behind him, the party had moved into the living room. Finally he turned and found them sitting in a row, five pairs of eyes fixed on his face.
“We have a right to know what happened,” Cathy began without preamble.
“And don’t even consider saying no,” Peter warned.
Elizabeth shrugged her slender shoulders. “It would be impolite, Maxie.”
“We need to support you, Max,” Peter added quietly. “This time we need to be behind you.”
Max looked over at David who just nodded.
“You can trust
us, Max,” his mother said softly. “We love you. We always have.”
Max drew a deep breath and slowly let it out. “If it were my secret, I’d tell you without hesitation. Because it’s Caroline’s I have to ask each of you to give me your word that nothing I tell you will leave this room.” Each nodded, expressions serious. “Well, then. If David will get me a chair from the kitchen, I have a story to tell.” He managed a slight smile. “Please be thinking of ways I can make it right with Caroline and get the two of us out of this mess.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Chicago
Sunday, March 18
6:30 P.M.
“Next time, Tom,” Barry promised as his father’s van pulled up in front of Tom’s apartment.
Tom threw a punch to his best friend’s shoulder, determined not to let his disappointment at their premature return show. “Sure. Do you think your dad will be okay?”
Barry winced as he looked at his father sitting in the front passenger seat, his face ashen. “Sure. Mom will take care of him and he’ll be as good as new by”—he winced again—“maybe next week. I’m glad we didn’t eat those hot dogs.”
Tom nodded. “Yeah, and I’m glad your mom managed to find our campsite. Next time we bring flares and an emergency radio.”
Barry grinned. “Next time we check the ex-date on the hot dogs,” he whispered.
“I heard that,” his father moaned from the front seat.
“I thought those things were good forever, Mr. Grant,” Tom said sympathetically. “I hope you feel better soon.” He slid open the van’s side door. “Thanks for coming to get us, Mrs. Grant.”
Tom shouldered his duffelbag and with a backward wave took the landing steps in a single leap. “Hi, Mr. A—” He stopped and frowned. Saying hello to Sy Adelman was automatic as breathing. It was the first time he could remember the old man being absent from his place on the bottom step. He’d check on him when he’d dumped his stuff, he decided. Old people sometimes fell and couldn’t get up, although Mr. Adelman never seemed like a typical old man.
Tom frowned when his key failed to unlock the deadbolt. It was already unlocked. He’d have to have a talk with his mom. Her brain wasn’t firing with all cylinders since Max Hunter had come into their lives. By forgetting to deadbolt the door she was just asking the neighborhood gang punks to rip them off.
His apartment was quiet, eerily so. Mom must be out with Max, he thought, still not certain he trusted the man. But his mom said she loved him and that would have to be good enough for now. At least he could be fairly certain his mom would be safe with Max Hunter. Even when the man got angry, he didn’t raise his fists. Mom said so and Dana believed it, too. Dana’s opinion meant a lot. Letting his duffel slide to the floor, he made his way to the kitchen. Four hours in the car with a retching Mr. Grant had kept both his and Barry’s appetites pretty KO’d. He demolished two chicken legs while still standing at the counter before reaching for the cookie jar.
Tom frowned at the flash of silver and jingle of keys when he moved the jar. His mom’s keys. She’d never leave the house without her keys. The short hairs on the back of his neck rose and he looked around warily, as if the bogeyman was right behind him. Quietly he retrieved his baseball bat from the hall closet and crept up the hall.
Bathroom … He glanced inside before pushing the shower curtain aside. Empty.
His mom’s bedroom … He peeked inside. Empty. He’d taken a step back when he saw the fragments of his mother’s St. Joseph on the floor. Years rolled back, vaporizing into so much mist.
“Oh, God,” he whispered, his heart thundering in his chest. “No, God, please.” Making his feet move, he picked up one of the pieces lying on the bed. “Mom?” he called, cautiously. “Mom, are you here?” He stepped to the side of her closet door before flinging it open. It was empty. He was scarcely aware of the breath he let out.
The last room was his bedroom. His blood pounded in his ears. The palms of his hands were slick. He wiped one, then the other on the seat of his jeans, then tightened his grip on the bat. Gingerly he opened the door and stopped short. His bed was made, the spread so tight he could bounce a quarter on it. He never made his bed. Never. Not since the day they’d run because he’d made such a big deal of it. It was just one way Tom had thumbed it at him. Seeing his bed made with such military precision took him back to a little house far away and his heart pounded harder in his ears. Feeling a sick rolling in his stomach, Tom slowly looked around his room. The old trophies on top of his chest of drawers caught his eye. He took a single step forward as the hand that gripped the bat fell limply to his side. The trophies had been arranged. By date. They’d been cleaned and polished. They caught the light and shone like silver.
“Oh, God.” He heard himself whimper and closed his eyes, wishing it was all a nightmare. Wishing his room would be back to its normal messy state when he opened his eyes.
It wasn’t.
He’d been here. Here in the place that his mother had been so sure was safe.
Mom.
“I shouldn’t have left her,” he whispered, running to the dinette table. He stopped abruptly. The lid of a mayonnaise jar sat on the little table under the window. His mother used the table to sun her potted petunias. The petunias lay in a pile on the floor, the clay pot in pieces. He didn’t need to look inside the jar lid to know what he’d find there.
He heard his gulp echo in the quiet of the apartment.
The lid was filled with cigarette butts.
And the carpet next to the petunias was covered in blood.
Chicago
Sunday, March 18
7 P.M.
The silence was absolute as his family worked to absorb the truths Max still hadn’t completely accepted himself. Cathy sat with her head back against the sofa, her eyes closed, her throat working ferociously. Elizabeth openly wept, unashamed. David sat on the end of the sofa, his chin resting on the knee he’d pulled close to his chest, his gaze silently proclaiming his unwavering support.
Ma was the first to speak. “Oh, Max,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears. “That poor girl. How terrified she must have been.”
Peter cleared his throat. “We’ll get a lawyer. I know one we can trust.”
That pronouncement started the comments flying and Max swallowed, feeling his own eyes sting. The unconditional support of his family was an unexpected treasure in the midst of this living hell. Regret for the years he’d wasted clutched at his heart, certainly not for the first time.
He held up a hand and the voices stilled. “Caroline needs to agree to this.”
“Well, call her, Max,” his mother commanded.
“She’s not answering his phone calls, Ma,” David said quietly.
Their mother stood, her hands on her hips. “Then what are you doing here?” she demanded. “Get in your fancy German car and go get her and bring her back here.”
Max felt a smile tug at his lips. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Phoebe Hunter rolled her eyes. “And I don’t even have a single initial after my name. You tell her to pack her bag and get back here, son. Tell her she’s welcome in my family.” She stepped forward to the chair in which he sat and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Tell her she’s welcome to my boy,” she added, her voice a husky whisper. The caress, so gentle, broke down the last barrier of resistance and he turned his cheek into her palm, needing the comfort only a mother could provide. Not caring that his whole family saw the tears rolling down his face.
“He hurt her, Ma,” he whispered, his voice tortured. “She has scars …” He shuddered and surrendered to the gentle pressure of his mother’s hands as she pulled him close to her breast. “God, Ma. I’m so ashamed.”
“Why, Max?” she murmured against the top of his head.
“I accused her of not wanting to marry me because of my scars. Then she showed me hers.”
She stroked his head. “It’s called a reality check, Max. I’d say it
’s about time.”
Unbelievably, a chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest. “No quarter, Ma?”
She tilted his face up and wiped the moisture from his cheeks with the cuff of her blouse and Max wondered how many times she’d done that same thing over the years of his life. “Do you want one, son?”
Max shook his head. “No.” He closed his eyes against the wave of emotion that threatened his composure once more. “No quarter, Ma.”
She smoothed his hair back from his forehead again and he remembered nights when she smoothed his hair the same way before tucking him into bed. Suddenly calm inside, he waited, knowing what was coming next.
“I love you, Max,” she declared without compunction.
“I love you, too, Ma.”
She tugged him to his feet and put his cane in his hand. “Go get her, Max. Bring her home.”
Peter brought him his coat and David stood at the door, tossing his keys back and forth.
“I’m going with you,” David declared. “Maybe that friend of hers will be there.” He grinned at Max’s raised brows. “I didn’t see a ring on her hand and you can’t have them both.” David winked at Peter. “She had legs up to her chin.”
Peter laughed and opened the door just as the phone began to ring. “Just go. I’ll take care of the phone.”
They’d gotten to the driveway when Peter appeared on the front porch, the cordless phone in one hand, waving frantically, a frown on his face. “Max, wait! I think you need to take this call. It’s from Caroline’s son. He’s pretty upset.”
Chicago
Sunday, March 18
8 P.M.
Max closed his eyes, his mind numb.
“It’s not your fault, Max,” David said, keeping his eyes on the road, his foot putting the acceleration of the Mercedes to the test. “This is not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have let her go like that. I should have made sure she got home safely.”
“That’s absurd. Caroline doesn’t need you to be torturing yourself now. She needs you to keep your wits about you so you can take care of Tom.”