“What else?”
“Her walker, in the backseat. A set of jumper cables in the trunk.” He paused, shrugged again. “A statue on the floorboard, driver’s side.”
Winters sharply inhaled, every hair on his neck raising. “What?” The garage and all its sundry contents faded to the distant background as he focused on the old man who remained stubbornly silent. Winters took another step forward, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, the urge to throttle Vandalia almost too strong to resist. “What did you say?”
“A statue.” Vandalia regarded him warily. “About eight inches tall. One of those cheap statues you put in your garden—I’ve seen ’em for about fifteen bucks at Carolina Pottery. I’m not Catholic, so I can’t say for sure who it is. Maybe the Virgin Mary.”
“Where is it?” Winters asked, making his voice steady, impersonal. He didn’t want to make the old man suspicious. He needed to get a good look at that statue. He followed the direction Vandalia’s shoulder jerked, turning to a table next to the car. Unable to believe his own eyes, barely able to control the feral roar of murderous wrath that flooded him, Winters approached the table.
There it was. That damn statue. She’d given it to her. That mother-fucking nurse’s aide that couldn’t keep her nose out of everybody else’s business. The young one. The one that looked at him like he was pond scum, a bottom-feeder that didn’t deserve to live. The one that coddled Mary Grace like she was some kind of victim. Hah. The only kind of victim Mary Grace had been was of her own stupidity and disobedience. The very existence of that statue was stone proof.
Winters stared in disbelief at the cracks in the clay, vividly remembering the day he’d hauled her sorry ass home from the hospital. The head nurse, the old one, said his wife needed to stay another three months, maybe go to some fancy rehabilitation center. Bullshit. What Mary Grace needed was to be home. She’d been lazing in that hospital bed for three months while he did her chores at home. While he kept Robbie clean and fed. He was tired of ordering takeout from the Chink place down the street, tired of the macaroni-and-cheese Robbie made every single meal the boy cooked. Tired of dragging his clothes to the corner cleaners to be laundered. Tired of the sorry way Robbie picked up the floor and made the beds. Tired of his boy having to do women’s work.
She could move. Enough to do her chores. Mary Grace needed to be home. It was her place.
So he’d brought his wife home. She wanted to keep the statue, actually thought he would allow her to keep it, to remember that nosy home-wrecking nurse that treated him like he was a monster. The ugly Catholic idol had sat on that table next to her hospital bed for so long it left behind an area of clean outlined by the dust the nurses never bothered to wipe up. That hospital had been a pigsty.
The minute she dragged herself through the front door behind her walker, he grabbed her bag from Robbie’s hands and held the statue for her to see. He told her to forget everything she’d heard in the hospital. She was home. His home, where he was in charge. Where he, not some holier-than-thou doctor or do-gooder nurse, made the decisions. He’d expected a little resistance, but she’d surprised him. Her eyes had blazed with hate, so vivid and unexpected he’d been momentarily taken aback. But the back of his hand wiped her attitude away and by the time she’d dragged herself back to her feet, the damn statue was in pieces on the kitchen floor. He’d ordered Robbie to sweep the floor and Robbie obediently picked up the pieces and put them in the kitchen garbage can. And that had been that. He’d never had to look at that god-awful thing again.
Until today. The cracks in the clay were wide, the edges chipped. The statue had been reassembled, glued. His eyes narrowed. Kept. Mary Grace had secretly kept the statue against his strict orders. And now, there it sat, next to Robbie’s backpack and the other things Russell Vandalia found in the car.
He felt a rush of cold, cleansing fury. It could mean only one thing. She and Robbie hadn’t been abducted, as he’d feared all these years. The conniving, manipulative, lying bitch. She’d planned this. Mary Grace had deliberately run. Deliberately taken his boy. But how had the car ended up in Douglas Lake? Why she hadn’t taken the statue and her purse? Where had she gone? How had she lived? Supported his son? She was a cripple, a gimp. She wasn’t capable of any sustained physical effort. She’d never be able to hold a menial job. And she sure as hell wasn’t smart enough to get anything better than scrubbing floors.
She’d need assistance. Public Assistance. Welfare. The thought of his son on welfare was enough to make him sick to his stomach. But that’s what she must have done, or they would’ve starved. But to get assistance she’d need her license, her social security card. Some identification. She’d need those things. So why had she left them behind? Unless …
A notion took root.
Unbelievable.
Impossible.
Unless she’d planned to disappear. To become someone else.
Stunned, the thought rocked him. Mary Grace wasn’t smart enough to stage such an elaborate plan. She wasn’t strong enough to carry a laundry basket more than six feet at a time. She couldn’t have pulled this off alone. She must have had help. It was the only explanation for how she’d completely disappeared. The fury banked as a tiny ember glowed, fanned to life.
Hope. If Mary Grace had run away, truly run away from him, she’d taken the boy. She never would have left without the boy.
His son was out there. Somewhere.
He’d find him. And he’d bring him home.
And God help Mary Grace, because when he was through with her, only God could.
He’d find her. Wherever, whoever she was. And then, goddamn it, he’d finally finish the job he should have finished years before.
Chapter Four
Chicago
Monday, March 5
6 P.M.
“So how did it go?” Dana asked.
Caroline looked over her shoulder as she hung her coat in the closet. Dana lay sprawled on the lame excuse for a sofa Caroline hoped to replace someday. Tom lounged on the floor below her, sharing a fast-dwindling bowl of popcorn.
How had it gone? Up until two-thirty everything had gone … like heaven. And at two-thirty, after Monika Shaw got one look at Max Hunter? Well, everything went south in a big-time hurry.
She was hurt. Humiliated. And she didn’t want to talk about it.
“You’re still here?” Caroline narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you sick? Are you coming down with that little boy’s strep?”
“No, Mommy. I’m not sick. See?” Dana stuck her tongue out. “Aaah.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Gross, Dana. Next time swallow the popcorn first.”
Tom chuckled and held up a hand blindly to be high-fived. “Good one, Dana.”
“I thought so.” Dana smacked Tom’s hand. “No, I’m not ‘still’ here. I ate your porridge, broke a few chairs, slept in your bed, then I used your shower and your toothbrush before I went down to city hall to try to solicit some more operating funds. Then I came by afterwards to give you unconditional support in case your new boss is intolerable. Is he?”
Caroline glared as she passed the sofa on her way to the kitchen. From the smell of the room, Tom had shoved a frozen pizza in the oven. “You used my toothbrush? Tom, I want to see your math homework. Anything under a B and your camping trip is cancelled, young man.”
“I got a B-plus, Mom,” Tom answered quietly, the laughter gone from his voice.
“Well, good. I’m glad.” She sniffed the air again. “Did you take the plastic off that pizza before you put it in the oven?”
Tom winced and jumped to his feet in a graceful movement that seemed at odds with his gangly height. “Um, I think so. I’ll check.”
“Do that.” Caroline shook her head and pushed Tom’s stack of schoolbooks to one side of the dinette with more force than necessary. “And when you’re done, can you move these books to your room?”
Tom gave her a quizzical look. “Sure, Mom. What’s wro
ng?”
Caroline sat down at the table, tired and angry. And hurt. And jealous? Yes, that too, she was forced to admit. Which made her even angrier. “Nothing.”
“Uh-oh.”
She turned her head to one side, skewering him with another glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just uh-oh.” Tom grinned engagingly as he shut the oven door. “That burning smell was just cheese that fell on the electrical element. No plastic.”
His grin met its mark, extinguishing at least a portion of the anger that had been bubbling all afternoon. A bit of guilt set in. She hated to snap at Tom. He was a good kid. “That’s good. What did you mean by uh-oh?”
Tom sighed and looked to Dana for assistance. When it appeared none was forthcoming he squared his shoulders, prepared to face his mother like a man. “When you come in all mad, push my books out of the way, don’t say ‘How wuz yo-ah day, hunny?’” his voice sing-songed in a passable imitation of Caroline’s drawl. “And when I ask what’s wrong you say ‘Nuthin,’” he ground it out in grouchy tones and shrugged. “It’s bad news for me. Either something’s really wrong, in which case I’m about to get worried, or it’s”—he cleared his throat delicately—“time to be running to the corner store for cheap chocolate in the jumbo size.”
Dana laughed as she unfolded her long legs from the sofa. “He’s got you pegged to a lousy T, Caro.” Her eyes danced. “Hunny.”
Caroline’s lips twitched, then she let out a laugh, her first since two-thirty that afternoon when Shaw-claw sashayed in to meet Max Hunter. “You guys ought to be happy I love you.”
Tom sighed in overly dramatic mock relief. “Then I don’t need to get the two-pound bag of M&Ms? It’s almost Easter—they should have the almond ones in pretty colors now.”
“You’re cruisin’, young man.” Caroline shook her finger at him. “Come here.” He complied and gave her a crushing hug.
“You’re okay now?” he murmured, concern showing through his spotty bravado.
“Right as rain. How long before the pizza’s done?”
“Fifteen minutes.” Astute beyond his years, he nodded. “Yes’m, I’ll take my books to my room so you can tell Dana why you’re really mad.”
Dana delivered a fake punch to his shoulder. “And don’t come back ’till I ring the dinner bell.”
“We don’t have a dinner bell.”
Dana shrugged. “There y’go.” She smiled at his back, then took the chair next to Caroline’s. “For the record I did not use your toothbrush. I stole a new one from your closet.” She folded her arms on the table. “So how wuz yo-ah day, hunny?”
Caroline rolled her eyes again. “Fine.”
“So, is he five hundred years old and a grouchy old sour-puss?”
Caroline glared at her. “No.”
“Okaaay,” Dana responded. “Ninety-five and takes his teeth out at inopportune moments?”
Caroline bit her twitching lip. “No.” She tugged the band from the end of her braid and slowly worked it loose. “He’s …” She shook her head, taking a small pleasure from the way her hair felt falling free. “He’s something else.”
“An axe murderer?” “
No!”
“Then tell me for God’s sake. I’m sitting on needles here.”
Caroline rolled her eyes heavenward. “Do you remember that Diet Coke commercial?”
Dana sat back in her chair, stunned. “No way.”
“Way. Dr. Maximillian Alexander Hunter is a cross between that Diet Coke guy and Jack Lord from Hawaii Five-O.”
“Ooh, I always thought he was sexy with the way his hair fell down on his forehead and how he wore those black suits without breaking a sweat even though it was four hundred degrees outside in Hawaii. Proved he was a real man with a capital M. Book ’em, Dano. So if your new boss is eye candy, why the long face?”
Caroline narrowed her eyes, feeling petulant and just a little evil. “I’m not sure.”
Dana pushed her mouth into a sympathetic pout that was all but ruined by the laughter in her brown eyes. “Poor, poor Caroline. Does he make your heart go pitter-pat?”
Caroline shook her head. “I wish.”
“Jack-hammer? Oh, boy,” she whistled when Caroline nodded. “That can’t sit well with you.”
“Why would you say that?”
Dana tapped her chin with her forefinger. “Let’s see. Caroline Stewart, who has successfully avoided any entanglement with a man for as long as I’ve known her. Suddenly she’s face-to-face with potent sex appeal. I bet he liked you, too. That would make it worse.”
Caroline sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t avoid men,” she protested.
“Yeah, you and the senior group at the Rotary Club. Wade? Eli? Dr. Lee? They don’t count, Caro. They’re safe. Father figures. Too old to be any threat. You’ve surrounded yourself with non-threatening men from day one. Not that anyone blames you, of course.”
“Of course,” Caroline muttered.
“And now, a very sexy man is thrust into your safe little world. Your heart goes pitter-pat—”
“Thunk, thunk, thunk,” Caroline corrected darkly. It was pounding again, just remembering the intensity of his expression when he looked her up and down. The way her own body had responded.
“Fine then. Thunk, thunk. Now you are tempted. You don’t want to be tempted because you’re scared. Caroline, that’s just foolish, you know. Not all men are bad.”
If only it were that simple. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re annoying when you meddle?”
“You, and daily. Doesn’t matter. I’m right on this. Is he nice?”
Glumly, Caroline nodded.
“Did he notice you, too?”
Caroline shrugged. “He looked at me.”
Dana leaned back in her chair, her brown eyes alive with speculation. “How?”
Caroline closed her eyes. Like I was the only woman in the world, she thought. Like I was … desirable. Pretty. Like he wanted me. Little Miss Naïve. Like you could tempt a man like Max Hunter. Right.
Dana whistled. “Wow. Did you blush like that when he looked at you?”
Caroline felt her stomach turn over. “Probably.”
“So what’s wrong with that? Some men like the Pollyanna, gee-golly-whiz, will-you-take-me-to-the-sock-hop look.”
Caroline swallowed. She would not, under any circumstances allow Maximillian Hunter to upset her. It just wasn’t going to happen.
“Oh. So then what happened?” Dana asked, her voice rife with understanding.
“Shaw.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Caro.”
“No, I’m serious. You should have seen her, Dana. She walked in, demanding to see him before her scheduled appointment. He was still in with Wade. So I knock to see if he’s finishing with Wade soon and she pushes by me, all regal-like. Dismisses me like I’m the servant of the house. Then gives Max the eye.”
“The evil eye?” Dana had leaned forward, elbows on the table, her chin propped on one fist.
“No, the sexual eye.” Caroline demonstrated, then slumped in her chair. It had been so humiliating. Her heart hadn’t even slowed down from those surface-of-the-sun stares in his office when Monika came in and taught her a thing or two about what men really want. One look at Max Hunter and Monika went into chase mode, fluffing her platinum blond hair and pulling her shoulders back in her tight-fitting silk suit, jutting her breasts out for Max’s fullest appreciation. And as always when faced with Monika Shaw’s natural elegance, her own self-esteem plunged.
Dana winced. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So did your Dr. Hunter take the bait?”
“How could he not? He’s a man after all.” That was the understatement of the century. Max Hunter was the quintessential man.
“Caroline, you are not being fair, to him or to yourself. Not all men are suckers for a pretty face, and Shaw’s isn’t even that pretty.”
“She’s gorgeous, Dana, and you know it.”
“She has bad skin and hides it with fifty-dollar-a-bottle concealer.”
Caroline smiled, glad for Dana’s loyalty, however skewed and managed to pull the entire situation back into perspective. “Doesn’t matter anyway.”
This time Dana narrowed her eyes. “Why the hell not?”
“Because I’m not in the market for a man. Not now, not ever.” It was the truth. It would have to be.
“Caroline—”
Caroline held up one hand to silence Dana while rubbing her forehead with the other. A headache was brewing. “We’ve had this conversation before. It would be wrong for me to start a relationship with someone knowing I’m unavailable. Bigamy is still against the law.”
Dana pursed her lips. “So is beating your wife within an inch of her life.”
“So two wrongs don’t make—”
“A right,” Dana finished impatiently. “Do I have to throttle you to make you listen to reason? Just because a man’s interested in you doesn’t mean you have to marry him. Go on a date, have a good time. Kiss a little. Pet a little. A little sex isn’t bad either. Jeeze, Caroline—”
Caroline smacked her hand on the table, cutting Dana off in mid-argument. Cutting off the mental images that had sprung to life simply by the words, “a little sex.” There would be no such thing as “a little sex” with a man like Max Hunter. “Enough. I will not challenge Monika’s staked claim or anyone else’s for that matter. I will not be interested in Max Hunter.” She drew a breath, held it, then let it out. “I stopped by Hanover House at lunch and you’ll be happy to know Cody’s fever broke this morning after you left. Dr. Lee says he’s going to be just fine. But I’m not so sure about his mother. She looks to me like she just might go back to her husband.”
Dana locked her arms across her chest, her jaw stubbornly jutting to one side. “You’re changing the subject, Caro. And like it or not, it’s not your business if she stays or goes back to her husband.”
Caroline frowned. They had this argument every time a woman left the safety of Hanover House to return to her abusive partner. “Are you staying for dinner or not?”