Maggie's Man: A Family Secrets Novel

  He picked up a small bag and shook out more napkins. She heard the clink of glass.

  “Beer?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended, her hand pressed unconsciously against her stomach. What if he was an alcoholic or something? What then?

  He glanced back at her, already shaking his head. “Iced tea. I don’t drink.”

  “Oh,” she said with perfect stupidity. She gave up and shook her head. She just didn’t get him. He was definitely intelligent and honorable in his own way. He could be perfectly charming when he chose and he didn’t seem slovenly or drunken or even mean. In fact, he was better behaved than most men she knew. What did that say about the freed male population when they were put to shame by a convicted murderer?

  She gave up on understanding life and attacked her pizza instead.

  Halfway through the second piece, her fingers smeared with grease, her face beaming with a satisfied smile, she mumbled through a mouthful of cheese, “Hey! This is your first meal as a free man. Or at least, a pseudo-free man.”

  He paused with his mouth poised around the end of his third piece of pizza. “I guess it is.” He ravaged the end.

  “Is there good pizza in prison?”

  He shrugged. “Ever eat cafeteria food?”

  She nodded, though it had been in a private school with its own in-house chef.

  “Take that, make it three times worse, and that’s prison food.”

  “Wow,” she said, clearly impressed. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to stop for food first thing.”

  His lips twisted dryly. “I had other things on my mind.” His hands wrapped around the big glass bottle of iced tea and raised it to his lips. He drank gustily, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow, and Maggie stared, completely mesmerized by the act. He lowered the bottle, empty at last, and sighed. Belatedly, he became aware of her rapt attention.

  “Did I spill something?” he asked immediately, gazing down at his shirtfront.

  “No,” she said and dropped her gaze hastily, focusing it on the carpet instead. Her stomach was all tight again. She took several deep breaths and searched for something normal to say. “Umm, going to have more pizza?” Oh, she was definitely a brilliant conversationalist.

  Cain shook his head, already rising to his feet. “Eating too much makes you slow.”

  Maggie gazed at her hand already reaching for a third piece and promptly snatched it back. “Of course.”

  “We can take the rest with us.”

  “With us?”

  He turned and from halfway across the room, his hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans, he said steadily, “We’ll sleep for four hours. That’s it. Then I want to be on the road again.”

  “Four hours? But . . . but you look so tired.”

  He smiled wryly. “Worried about me, Maggie?”

  She flushed instantly, flustered and not knowing what to say. She was, but she shouldn’t be. He did look tired, but she shouldn’t care . . . oh, darn! She just wasn’t cut out for this hostage business.

  “Why don’t you go wash your hands, Maggie, and get ready for bed?”

  She blanched immediately. He shook his head at her response, and for a minute looked genuinely haggard.

  “Don’t worry. Sex makes a man sluggish, too, and as we’ve already established, I can’t afford to be slow. I did give you my word.”

  “I . . . well, I . . . I’m going to go wash my hands,” she announced at last.

  “What a good idea.”

  • • •

  She came out five minutes later, twisting her hands in front of her and looking more nervous than a sixteen-year-old on her first date. Cain had already closed the curtains and the room was swathed in darkness.

  Dimly, her eyes made out his form. He was already in the other bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. She passed by the end of the bed with legs that trembled. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t try anything.

  She felt as if her stomach had turned inside out and left her with nothing but a gaping hole. With her hands, she felt her way to her bed.

  She pulled back the covers; she crawled in. She pulled the covers up to her shoulders, then lay perfectly still in the darkness. She could hear his breathing now. In and out, but not relaxed.

  He was aware of her, she thought. As aware of her as she was aware of him. He still didn’t move.

  Finally, she whispered in the dark, “Did you love her a great deal?”

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend. Did you love her that much, and that’s why her betrayal drove you to murder?”

  A ponderous moment passed. Finally, his voice cut through the darkness. “How much can I blame her, Maggie? I introduced her to Ham. I helped bring them together.”

  “But—”

  “Good night, Maggie.”

  And minutes later, she could tell from his breathing that he’d fallen asleep.

  Chapter 7

  “Maggie. Maggie, wake up.”

  From deep within the dark, comforting cocoon of sleep, she heard the voice calling to her. Wake up? The voice was nuts. She’d just fallen asleep.

  “Maggie,” it persisted.

  She batted at it with her hand. “Go away. Tired.”

  “Maggie.”

  Her hand beat more emphatically. “Tired!”

  The voice backed off. She snuggled back into the warm abyss.

  “Meow.”

  Huh?

  “Meow,” the voice tried again, sounding like a cat with laryngitis. “I’m a three-legged cat,” it insisted. “And I want to be fed.”

  One eye reluctantly cracked open, letting the light flood in. “Whuh?”

  Cain smiled down at her, his expression wry. “Rise and shine.”

  Her other eye managed to crack open; then she blinked owlishly, blinded by the bedside light. A couple more blinks and Cain came into focus. “What time is—ah!” She bolted upright in the bed. “What did you do to your hair?”

  He grimaced immediately. “I had a feeling it didn’t come out right.”

  She could only stare at him. “Come out right? What were you even attempting?”

  His shoulders hunched, he definitely looked chagrined now. “I thought I would shave it off.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “Hair dye seemed very complicated . . . and obvious.”

  “I see. And a Mohawk isn’t?”

  “It’s not a Mohawk.” He sat a little straighter. “It’s just not . . . anything.”

  “Cain, you shaved off the sides like . . . like bald laurels. Why don’t you just shave off the rest?”

  He looked very uncomfortable now. Finally, he squared his shoulders and peered at her steadily. He said quietly, “I forgot about my birthmark.”

  “Oh. Too distinguishing?”

  “You could say that.” He abruptly raised his hands and pulled back the golden locks still waving over his forehead, imitating baldness. “Who do I look like now?”

  She couldn’t help herself. She started to giggle. Then she just had to laugh. Then she held her belly and howled on the bed.

  “It’s not that funny!”

  “But you’re right. It’s so true. You look just like Gorbachev!” She collapsed on the bed and laughed harder. He stood with an obvious sigh of disgust.

  “Get ready. We leave in ten minutes. I’m sticking to baseball caps.”

  “You’re going to go out in public like that?” She was still giggling over his haircut. She’d actually seen similar styles on teenage boys, the shorn sides leading up to longer, fuller hair on top. It suited a young surfer dude a bit more than a thirty-year-old man.

  Cain shook his head, and clearly having had enough of the subject, turned on the TV.

  For a moment, Maggie was too stunned to move. Then she whispered, “My God. Brandon . . .”

  And it was. Brandon stood before the cameras, looking very serious and composed in a striking charcoal-gray suit. His face was lean, his eyes harder t
han she remembered, as if the past two years had erased even the memory of how to smile. Oh, Brandon . . .

  “Turn it up, turn it up.” She was on her knees immediately in front of the TV, though it wasn’t necessary. With a concerned frown, Cain was cranking the volume.

  “—a reward of one hundred thousand dollars,” Brandon had just finished stating. “Of course, I am willing to work with you, Mr. Cannon, and act as a liaison between yourself and the authorities. I will even hire legal counsel to represent you if you desire. All I ask is for the safe return of my sister, Maggie. She’s a gentle woman who’s never harmed a soul, a warm, caring sister, daughter and granddaughter—”

  Maggie scowled unconsciously. As someone with a psychology background, she understood what Brandon was doing—humanizing her so that the psychotic would stop seeing her as just an object. Still, Brandon made her sound as interesting as Betty Crocker. It couldn’t be any worse if they flashed her baby picture across the screen.

  Or could it? As if reading her mind, the TV screen abruptly filled with an eight-year-old photo of Maggie sitting on the back of one of the Tillamook County Dairy Parade floats, a bamboo fishing rod dangling from her hands. C.J. and Brandon sat on either side of her, all of them wearing straw hats, rolled-up jeans and old T-shirts. Maggie was the centerpiece of the picture, however, her red hair in Pippi Longstocking pigtails and her face just plain ridiculous with its huge, delirious smile.

  “Don’t look at that!” she cried and flattened her hands over the incriminating photo. The picture was already vanishing, though. Now Brandon filled the screen once more, strong, dignified and powerful.

  “As I have said,” he repeated steadily into the camera, “return Maggie to us and no questions will be asked. I will do everything in my power to help you. My family will do everything to help you. We are well connected and well-to-do. Just give us back Maggie, safe and sound. One hundred thousand dollars, Mr. Cannon. One hundred thousand dollars.”

  The camera faded back to the newscaster, who recapped that Maggie had been missing since morning and was believed to be a prisoner of the escaped convict Cain Cannon. Cain’s black-and-white prison photo was flashed across the screen, his face grim and appropriately dangerous looking.

  Maggie glanced at him surreptitiously. His green eyes remained riveted on the TV, sharp and wary. He turned at her gaze, his face perfectly expressionless.

  “Well connected, well-to-do?” he quizzed.

  She smiled weakly. “Maxmillian had a policy about only marrying rich women. He loved a poor one, but he only married the rich ones. My mother . . . Brandon’s mother, too.”

  “Define rich, Maggie.”

  Her hands twisted on her lap. She didn’t want to give away too much, but she wasn’t a match for his hard green gaze either. “Well, my mother’s family is remotely connected to the Duponts. Her father had a real gift for the stock market, too, I gather. My mom is an artist, a sculptor. She doesn’t make a whole lot, but the trust fund is generous and well, so are her ‘benefactors.’”

  “And this Brandon? He could pay a hundred thousand dollars?”

  Maggie nodded even more miserably. “His family had money as well, but then they fell into hard times. And the divorce—it was expensive to divorce Max. Brandon took what was left and went to New York . . . He’s a bit of a Wall Street wizard,” she confessed in a rush. “He worked so hard, building the capital into enough to buy back the estate for his mother, though it left him still wiped out. He figured no problem, he’d just work a little harder. Two weeks later, his wife died and the insurance policy paid him a million dollars. It did something to him. Now, he does everything he can to lose that money. Honest. But he has the Midas touch. Every sure loss turns into a sure win and now . . . he has a lot of money, the poor man.”

  Cain shook his head like a man trying to cast off a spell. “Maggie, conversations with you start defying all reason.”

  She shrugged. “You asked.”

  “So I did,” he muttered.

  A new face filled the screen, a young man with a pale face, wayward brown hair and dark, burning eyes. “Joel,” Cain said softly and instantly stiffened.

  “We’re willing to pay fifty thousand dollars for any information leading to the capture of Cain Cannon,” the young man announced squarely, his dark eyes blazing. “The reward is simply for information. As a police officer, I must remind you that this man is armed and dangerous—do not attempt to approach him on your own. And, ladies, please understand he can be very charming. Certainly my sister . . .” The man’s voice broke slightly. “My sister thought he was very charming. But he is a cold-blooded killer who committed an unspeakable act—”

  Cain’s lips twisted. “I knew him when he was just sixteen,” he murmured, talking over the young man’s laundry list of Cain’s sins. Maggie could only stare at him in wordless horror. “Good kid, wanted to be a saxophone player, much to his father’s chagrin. He was good, though. Kathy and I used to go listen to him downtown at some of the jazz clubs. I thought he should pursue it, and once as a surprise he took one of the Knight’s Tour formulas I had written and translated it to music. Math really is music, or music math, of course. Bright, bright kid.” He stopped, the pictures filling his mind all at once. The trial. Kathy’s family sitting at the front pew, Ham right beside them. Joel, standing at the end during sentencing, those dark eyes so filled with fury. How could you, how could you, how could you?

  Cain reached out, placing a hand on the top of the TV to steady himself. He was dizzy all of a sudden, and his heart beat fast and almost painfully against his ribs. “I understand he became a police officer in the end. He’s sworn to rid the world of all the scumbags like myself.”

  His voice trailed off. He couldn’t breathe anymore and he had to blink three times to get his eyes to focus. He could feel Maggie’s gaze on him, wide-eyed and shocked and of course, filled once more with fear.

  The newscaster reappeared on the TV screen. “The police have set up a special hotline number for any information you may have.” The 1-800 number flashed across the screen. “Again, Cain Cannon was convicted six years ago for the brutal slaying of his girlfriend, Katherine Epstein. The man is considered extremely dangerous and is armed. He has an extensive background in weapons and survival training, is rumored to be well connected with various militia movements and should not be approached. Please contact the police immediately with any information you might have.”

  The news broke to a commercial. Maggie sat perfectly immobile on the floor. Cain’s hands were still braced on the TV and his body felt slightly disjointed, as if it no longer belonged to him.

  “Get ready,” he said, his voice faint. He swallowed and forced himself to sound firmer, in control. “We’re leaving now.”

  Maggie’s mouth opened, then closed. Five minutes ago, she would have had something smart to say. Five minutes ago, she’d been laughing at his resemblance to a former world leader. Now, she was terrified of him. Ladies, the man can be charming . . . but remember who he is.

  Oh God, oh God, she had forgotten. She looked at him and she just saw a man, a stoic, desperate man ready to take on the world and her heart bled for him and she wanted to help him.

  He had her exactly where he wanted her. Ready to aid and abet a felon.

  “Maggie, move.”

  “You can’t outrun an entire state,” she whispered abruptly. Her gaze lifted to his face. Her eyes pleaded with him.

  “It will be a challenge.”

  “You could still turn yourself in. My brother is a man of his word. He’ll help you. He’ll hire you the best lawyer—”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” The question was abrupt, his voice louder, harsh.

  Helplessly, she shook her head.

  He took a deep breath. She saw for the first time that his hands were gripping the edge of the dresser so tightly his knuckles had gone white. Tension corded his neck and rippled down his back. He looked very, very, dangerously on edge.

/>   He spoke, the words carefully enunciated. “For six years, Maggie, I’ve been using the legal system. I’ve reviewed my case, the trial transcripts. I’ve gone over similar cases with a fine-tooth comb. I’ve filed motion after motion, seeking some flaw in the testimonies, the evidence, police procedure, trial procedure, anything. There is none. I had a decent attorney, I had due process, and a jury of my peers found me guilty—all according to the book. There is nothing a lawyer can do for me.”

  “You could try to plead insanity,” she suggested weakly.

  “Do I look insane to you? Do I?”

  Of course she shook her head. He didn’t foam at the mouth; he didn’t rant and rave. He was a computer programmer, a mathematician at heart, and he couldn’t stop acting like one any more than he could stop breathing.

  He picked up the backpack he’d purchased earlier and started stuffing all the supplies in it. Tentatively, hesitantly, Maggie rose.

  “How does Brandon know you were kidnapped?” he asked abruptly.

  She froze. “I . . . I imagine C.J. contacted him.”

  “So he is around as well?”

  Wordlessly, she nodded.

  “Do you think offering a reward is all that they will do?”

  Her gaze fell. Miserably, she shook her head.

  “They’ll come after me,” he stated. “I bet Joel will as well. As well as the rest of the police and any bounty hunter or get-rich-quick schemer who likes the sound of fifty thousand dollars. Then there’s Ham. This state is getting very crowded, Maggie.”

  “Well, what did you expect?” she fired back abruptly. “You murdered someone! Even if it was a rash act of passion, you’re still planning on killing your own brother. You knocked out a guard. You took a hostage. You’ve . . . you’ve done bad things!”

  He opened his mouth, and for a moment she saw something work in his eyes. He looked on the verge of protest, then he just looked disgusted. He shook his head, his eyes suddenly flat.

  “Get ready to go. Now.”

  Maggie couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t know this man. She didn’t know herself. She leaped to her feet and did as she was told. She didn’t know what else to do.