“I don’t know,” Tess said. She was straddling his lap, examining his arm. It looked even worse in the morning light. Now he couldn’t move his fingers at all.
“Think, Tess.”
“I have thought about it! I’m telling you, his family is dead, he never had friends, just associates, and now there’s no logical person for him to turn to. On the other hand, he picks up women like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Maybe he has a steady girl these days. I don’t know.”
“Where did he hide last time?”
“I don’t know.”
“He disappeared for six months and the cops still don’t know how?”
“I’m sorry, J.T., but once he was caught, he didn’t exactly volunteer all the information. That only happens in the movies.”
“Where did they search last time?”
“In the beginning, everyplace, just like they’re doing now. His picture was posted, a hotline established. They issued a warrant throughout New England. As time wore on, however, the task force grew smaller, the effort less intense. Police departments don’t have the budget to maintain that level of manpower and diligence for six months.”
“Which Jim knows. So he waited, the number of officers working the case slowly dwindled down, and soon there’s you, sitting in your old house with only a couple of cops working each watch shift.”
“We weren’t even sure he’d come back,” she whispered. “Quincy just thought it was probable.”
J.T. was silent. His skin was an unhealthy color. His forehead felt like he was running a fever. “He could do that again, you know.”
“He has Samantha.”
“Exactly. An even better reason for him to lie low. He has a place—maybe a person. Let’s just assume that for now. He used it last time he disappeared and he’s using it now. You’re right. He keeps a low profile, and six months from now the task force will be half the size. They’ll start thinking he slipped through the net unseen, men will get called onto more active cases. Yeah, if he can be patient, it can work.”
“Then we find him,” Tess said simply. “I’m not leaving Samantha in his possession for six months or a year.”
“I’m not arguing. But we have to have a starting point. We need information.”
Tess took a deep breath. “You’re absolutely right, J.T.”
The tone of her voice gave her away. He was immediately shaking his head. “You can lead a horse to water, Tess, but you can’t make him drink.”
“I’m not playing with a horse. I’m talking about you and your sister and my daughter, who needs you both!”
“Trying to play matchmaker?”
“I’m trying to do what’s best for Samantha.”
He stiffened, letting her know she’d struck deep. He rolled off the bed and stood, putting plenty of space between them. “Marion might not be willing to help. Not given the way she feels about me right now.”
“She doesn’t hate you any more than you hate her.”
“Get that out of your crystal ball?”
She walked up to him and placed her fingertips on his collarbone. She wasn’t willing to accept his distance, and she wasn’t willing to let him push her away. “You were just a little boy, J.T. She must understand that you couldn’t have saved her any more than you could have saved yourself.”
“Save her? Tess, she won’t even admit it happened.”
“I know. It’s not uncommon for incest survivors—”
He flinched at the word, his face shuttering.
“You can’t even say it, can you?” she whispered.
“I don’t . . . I don’t . . . It’s an ugly word.”
Her gaze remained on his face, her fingers rubbing his shoulders.
“I still see it all so clearly,” he muttered. His shifted beneath her touch, his body wired with tension. “She tells me it never happened, but I can still remember every detail of it. All the times he beat us. All the times she stood at the foot of my bed and begged me to save her—”
He pushed away from Tess.
“J.T.—”
“Stop it!” His right hand raked his hair. “It happened. We grew up in spite of him. And I hope he rots in hell.”
“But you still love your sister,” she said softly.
His hand balled into a fist. His jaw worked. “Yeah,” he said, staring out the window. “And she still thinks I’m a loon.”
“I don’t think so, J.T. I think she’s beginning to think you’re right, and that’s what scares her so much.”
She took a step toward him, reaching out. He flinched. “Don’t.”
She faltered, stung by the rejection. She forced her hand down to her side, her gaze never leaving his face. He hurt, she knew he hurt. She could see it in the remoteness of his expression. Let me in, let me help a little bit if I can.
But he remained unyielding. She didn’t know anyone who could be as hard as he could be hard.
She took a deep breath. Her eyes stung.
“All right,” she said quietly. “I’m going to shower. You do . . . you do what you think is best.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“You’re the professional.”
THE MINUTE THE bathroom door closed behind Tess, J.T. retrieved a cigarette. He paused long enough to open the window and get hit by the solid New England chill. Then he brought the cigarette to his lips, lit it clumsily, and inhaled gratefully.
The open air was cold, the sky gray but bright enough to hurt his eyes. He stood there anyway, squinting, exhaling out the window and smoking the first cigarette down to a nub. Then he lit a second.
And then he picked up the phone.
His finger shook when he punched the number. He told himself it was the nicotine. Marion picked up on the third ring. For a minute he couldn’t find his voice.
“Hello? Hello?” She already sounded angry and she didn’t even know it was him. He contemplated hanging up, but didn’t.
“Hello, Marion,” he said at last.
She was silent. He used the opportunity to drag deeply on his cigarette. On the other end of the line, was she doing the same? That was a pretty picture—a brother and sister who couldn’t carry on a thirty-second conversation, but boy could they smoke.
“Are you speaking to me or not?”
“Give me one reason why I should.”
“It’s about Beckett.”
“Beckett?” She sounded suspicious. “What do you want, J.T.?”
“I’m not asking for me, Marion, I know better. Tess is asking. And let’s not forget that this is the kind of case that could build a career.” He couldn’t keep the edge out of his voice.
“You have two minutes to state what you need, or I hang up.”
“Information.”
“Information?”
“Beckett returned to Mass. He killed the cop who was watching Tess’s daughter and kidnapped her.”
“Oh, shit.” For a change, Marion’s voice was soft. Her shock sounded genuine.
“I think he has Sam stashed with some friend,” J.T. said quietly, “but Tess can’t think of anyone. The FBI are the ones who’ve been tapping phones and handling surveillance. Maybe there’s something there that will tell us where he’s gone, who might be helping him.”
“Maybe.” She was silent for a moment. “Why come to me, J.T.? Why not just contact the special agent in charge? I could get you a name if you want.”
“Is that what you want me to do, Marion? Contact the SAC?”
This time the period of silence was long. He forgot about his cigarette until it burned down far enough to singe his fingers.
“I’ll come,” she said abruptly. “Where are you?”
“Outside of Springfield in a motel.” He rattled off the phone number, careful to keep his voice neutral.
He wasn’t sure how to feel yet. Or if he should feel anything. “Ah . . . give us a call when you land at Logan. I’ll give you directions from there.”
“The shuttle flight
s are steady. I imagine I can be there by midday.”
“All right.”
He waited for her to say good-bye and hang up the phone. Or say she remembered something, maybe the good times. The hot summers they’d spent perfecting cannonballs into the swimming pool, or early evenings when he would watch her ride, thinking she must be the most graceful girl in the world to sit so perfectly on that huge horse.
She said abruptly, “Daddy’s dead.”
“Okay.”
“The funeral will be next Friday. He’s being laid to rest in Arlington with full military honors.”
“Huh.”
“Will you come, J.T.?”
“No.”
“You’re hatred is that pure, then?”
“Isn’t yours, Merry Berry?”
She hung up the phone and dial tone filled his ear.
HE INTERRUPTED HER shower. She halted, her hands shampooing her hair, her gaze questioning. He took in the sight of her body covered delicately with soapsuds. Her arms had freshly defined muscles, her legs too. He couldn’t really remember what she’d looked like that first day anymore. He just saw her now and she was beautiful to him.
His gaze rested on the harsh red line encircling her neck. The ligature line from the plastic bag.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was husky, uncertain.
“Looking for someone to scrub my back.”
“What makes you think I’d do a thing like that?”
“I’m an invalid. You’ll help me.” He pulled the shower curtain all the way back, unmindful of the hot water that sprinkled his chest. He placed his right hand on his fly and rapidly undid the buttons.
She remained standing beneath the shower spray, openmouthed and watching as he stripped. He joined her in the tub, his legs cradling hers.
Without asking, he took the soap from her hands. He ran it over her breasts, her flat belly. He felt her skin quiver beneath his touch. Wordlessly he brought the soap up and slid it over the red welt encircling her neck, as if he could erase it. As if any man had that kind of power. Christ, he wanted it. He wanted to make the world better for her, he wanted to give her everything he hadn’t been able to give Marion, everything he hadn’t been able to give Rachel and Teddy. He’d failed so many times. It scared him to death to try, and scared him even more to leave Tess alone at the mercy of a man like Jim Beckett.
His fingers massaged the red line again. He thought that when he saw Jim Beckett next, Beckett’s death would be painful and a long time coming.
Goddammit, let me keep one person safe. Let me help Tess, let me help Samantha. Let me stand up at the plate and finally be a man.
She said quietly, “You called her, didn’t you?”
His thumb brushed again, slow, his silence answering for him.
“J.T., I’m proud of you.”
“I don’t need you to be proud of me.” He let the soap go. He looked into her eyes, searching for something he was too afraid to put into words. Her eyes were so large and so clear. Trusting. God help him. God help her.
His fingers slid into the brown thistledown of her curls and found her. She was moist, hot, ready. She arched into him, her hands digging into his shoulders. She whispered his name; the sound alone toppled his control.
She gave him hope. And maybe something more.
She pressed her forehead against his chest as his fingers started to move. “I know,” she whispered against his skin, “but I’m proud of you anyway.”
“I WANT MOMMY.”
“I know.” He touched her blond hair lightly where it pooled over the plain white pillowcase. She sank deeper into the pillow, not quite cringing but not quite wanting the contact. After the first big shock of seeing him, she had become worried and anxious. She didn’t fight him, but she didn’t cling to his hand the way she used to. He accepted that. It had been two years since she’d last seen him, and he hardly looked like his old self.
He continued smoothly. “As I told you, Mommy’s not coming back.”
Sam’s lower lip jutted out. Blue eyes became liquid. “But she promised!”
He didn’t respond to the whine in her voice. If you reward such behavior with attention, the child never learns. Instead, he said bluntly, “Theresa lied to you, Sam.”
“Mommy wouldn’t do that!”
“Yes, she would. She told you I would never come back, correct?” Samantha nodded miserably. “She lied, Sam. She lied, but it’s okay, because I’m here for you now.”
She cried a little, as if that would refute his words. He remained sitting there patiently. Finally she wiped the moisture from her face, then sighed with a little girl’s broken heart. He didn’t console her or hold her. He just waited. Within a few weeks Theresa’s image would begin to fade in Sam’s mind, within a few months her mother would seem like a distant shadow, and within a few years Theresa wouldn’t be recalled at all. Starting over again tabula rasa was the glory—the privilege—of youth.
When Samantha was tearless and composed once more, he tucked the covers beneath her chin and patted her shoulder. “I have a surprise for you,” he said lightly, giving her a reward for handling her new circumstances so well.
“A surprise?” She mused over the matter for a bit. “Is it Toy Story?”
Her eyes were so bright, he felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t thought to buy her the movie. He didn’t have time to attend to such things now. Last night’s unfortunate rendezvous with Theresa had already added days he couldn’t afford to his master plan. Also, beneath his long-sleeved black turtleneck, his shoulder throbbed from the bullet wound. He moved stiffly and resented it fiercely.
“It’s not Toy Story,” he said, his voice tighter.
Samantha cringed and he forced himself to smile. He’d forgotten just how sensitive children could be. The minute he relaxed, so did she. Her eyes grew contemplative once more.
“Did . . . did . . .” Her face grew very bright. “Did you get me a new brother or sister?”
In spite of himself, Jim blinked his eyes in shock. “No,” he said slowly. “Has Mommy talked about getting you a new brother or sister?”
Sam shook her head glumly. “No, but I’ve always wanted one.”
He smiled, and for a change the gesture was genuine on his face. From the moment he’d first seen Samantha nestled against Theresa’s breast, he’d been enraptured by his daughter. She was half him, half his genes. He could see himself in her bright blue eyes. Already she showed promise of great intelligence and great resilience. Even as a baby she hadn’t cried as much as other babies cried. She was better than all that. Sweet, genuine, and strong. She was the better part of him.
“Daddy,” she demanded, impatient now.
That made his smile grow. He was pleased that she’d called him Daddy. “It’s better than a brother or sister. I got you a new grandma.”
“Grandma? You mean Grandma Matthews is here?” She looked very puzzled.
“No, a new grandma. Now you have two.”
She slowly nodded. “Two grandmas. When do I get her?”
“In the morning.” He brushed back her hair. “I have to go away for a while, but you’ll meet your grandma when you wake up. She’s tall and heavy, and speaks with a light accent I’m sure you’ll find funny. Do what she says, Sam. She’ll take good care of you.”
Sam didn’t look convinced.
His thumb brushed her cheek. “Do you trust me, Sammy?”
More slowly this time, she nodded.
“Good. I’ll take care of everything. In just a few days I’ll be back. And then we’re going to leave. I think we’ll go someplace very warm, what do you think of that?”
“Will Mommy come with us?” she whispered.
“No.”
“Grandma and Grandpa Matthews?”
“No.”
“The . . . the new grandma?”
His eyes grew unreadable. “Maybe,” he said at last. “I haven’t decided yet.”
EDITH HAD JUST sat down
on her patio with her morning cup of tea and a wool blanket, when Martha’s front door opened. For a moment Edith was startled. It was still dark out; Edith had always been an early riser, and these days her insomnia had her up before even the sun. In the first hours of dawn the air in the community was almost normal again, almost peaceful.
But the door opened, and the air was shattered. Edith felt goose bumps rise on the back of her neck. She clutched her warm mug tighter.
Martha stepped out and looked at her from across the way.
There was tension between them. It had been growing ever since Martha’s return, taking shape and substance from the myriad small lies that had inexplicably fallen from their lips. It had gained permanence yesterday, when Martha had simply disappeared. Edith had gone over for their nightly cigar and found the house empty. Just empty. Martha didn’t owe her an explanation, of course. The woman was responsible for her own life, but the mysterious absence, the undefined disappearance, had dealt the final blow to the fragile friendship between them.
It made Edith think of just how little she knew Martha, just how little the woman spoke of herself. She’d moved into the neighborhood two years earlier, been around for a bit, then hightailed it to Florida with barely a by-your-leave. The phone calls in between had made the absence less conspicuous, but Edith was paying attention now. She was realizing she really didn’t know her neighbor at all.
Martha stepped off her patio and crossed to Edith’s yard.
Abruptly the hair rose on Edith’s arms. The air howled around her ears. She knew without turning that the visions were back, the poor, tortured girls hovering around her patio as if there was something important they had to tell her but death had robbed them of their voices.
The tea mug trembled violently in her grasp, splashing her hands with scalding hot liquid.
“Edith,” Martha said, coming to a halt at the bottom of the steps.
Edith didn’t say anything. She just looked at her neighbor.
This close, she could see the subtle changes. Martha’s eyes were now dulled by exhaustion and strain. She moved differently too. She walked stiffly, as if her age had caught up to her suddenly and now weighed on her heavily.