Blind Faith (21 page)

JD hated this feeling. His body was tingling with the urge—no, the need—to touch Julia, his mouth was dry, and every time he tried to say anything it came out totally lame. They sat together on the blanket, watching for the mysterious lights, their jean-clad legs touching. She was so casual, sometimes leaning towards him, brushing his skin with her hair, touching him to emphasize a point as they talked about home, their parents with their hopeless, retro ways, school, their hopes and dreams.

God, what was he doing wrong here? He couldn't stop rubbing his sweaty palms along his pants legs when his fingers were itching to stroke her creamy, smooth skin. He wished it was colder, he could wrap his arms around her.

But the night was warm enough that Julia's jean jacket was plenty. They sat in silence for a few minutes, JD thinking of the way the guys would laugh at him not even able to make it to first base, when she turned to him, her neck arched back, exposing a lovely expanse of skin just waiting for him to—do what? Kiss her? What if he did it wrong? Or touch her—an image of her convulsing in laughter at his incompetent fumbling made him yank back the tentative hand he'd begun to stretch out toward her.

It wasn't like this in the movies. Or to hear the guys talk in the locker room. Why couldn't he just be normal? Know what he was supposed to do with a girl?

"Why is this so important to you?" Julia's voice slid through the silence like warm maple syrup, calming his jitters. "It's got to be more than just a chance to win that internship if you're giving up your entire summer to it. And why the lights? Why not make a film about something easier?"

He slid his gaze up to meet hers and sat up straight. She was looking at him with such an earnest expression—like she really cared, like what he said made a difference. To her.

His heart revved up and he licked his lips twice before he was able to answer. He needed to tell her the truth, not the lies he'd told everyone else. "I wanted to figure out what was going on with the lights because," he looked away, certain that he was probably making a fool out of himself, "I needed to make up for what happened two years ago. See, it was because of me that that guy Damian Wright got away."

Julia looked at him, her mouth open in surprise. JD hung his head, his face flushing with shame. He hadn't told anyone about what happened that night—and now here he was blurting it out to her of all people.

Smooth move, Casanova. Way to get the girl.

"Damian Wright?" she asked, her voice tight. "The guy who killed Mrs. Durandt's little boy?"

"And her husband. And those other kids after he left here." JD drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them. His body shook but he refused to give into his tears. Not in front of her. "It's all my fault."

To his surprise, Julia slid closer to him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling his head to rest on her shoulder. "No. JD, you can't think that. How could it possibly be your fault?"

JD's shoulders sagged with the weight of the burden he'd been carrying for two years. "I saw him. Damian Wright. I saw him that day. Me and Tommy Bowmaster were hanging out at the park, skateboarding, practicing some moves. Tommy fell and banged up his wrist, so he had to leave, but I stayed. I saw this guy, hanging around where the little kids play, taking pictures."

"You couldn't have known who he was or what he was going to do," she protested, defending JD better than he could himself.

"I saw him, Julia. I knew he was doing something creepy. I even saw the car he drove—a white Honda Accord. I watched him leave and I didn't tell anyone. Then he went and killed all those kids but I could have stopped him. I should have stopped him."

She held him tight as his shoulders heaved with the effort not to break down and cry. "All I can think about is the faces of those kids—it could have been my little brother. The police came by my house a few days later, said Kenny had been in the pictures they found. That creep was taking pictures of my kid brother. What if he'd gone after Kenny? All because I was too lazy to stop him."

"You were only thirteen then, the police probably wouldn't have listened to you anyway. Besides what would you have done? Followed him on your skateboard?" Julia's voice was calm, soothing. The voice of reason he'd been searching for for two years.

"I don't know," he admitted. "In my dreams, I clobber him with my board, pin him down, hold him until Hal Waverly or one of his men can come. People cheer and give me a big medal." Not to mention kisses from beautiful girls.

"In my nightmares," he continued, determined to tell her the whole truth, "I watch him drive off and too late I realize Kenny's in the back seat, pounding on the window, trapped. And I run and I run and I can never catch them."

"But those are just dreams. They don't mean anything. In real life, there's no way you could have known he was getting ready to hurt anyone. He was just a creepy grownup and you were glad to see him leave."

JD blew his breath out and relaxed in her embrace. She smelled so good—how did girls do that? Like fresh rain and vanilla. He raised his face, nuzzled her neck, drinking in her scent.

"So that's why you want to figure out what's making these lights? To make sure no one else gets hurt?" Julia's voice now held a trace of pride.

JD pulled away just far enough to look into her face, to confirm that she wasn't making fun of him. Far from it, she gazed at him with a wide smile accompanied by a look of admiration.

"Something like that," he mumbled, not sure what to make of this girl who didn't call him a fool like the rest of his world did.

"Wow. I mean, everyone else is just wondering about stuff like their music or clothes, stuff that means nothing but you—wow. JD, you're like a real hero. You think about what's really important."

Before JD's stunned brain could formulate an answer, Julia had her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips clamped over his, smothering him in a breathless embrace. She tasted just as good as she smelled. He returned her kiss and dared to part his lips against hers, inviting her.

Julia responded eagerly and soon he couldn't remember why he'd been so nervous.

Sam watched as Sarah stared down at him. She'd changed. Lost weight, but somehow it didn't make her look skinny or weak. Rather it had defined her muscles, made her look strong, capable of anything. He searched her face, saw the purple circles etched below her eyes, eyes that used to light up whenever they looked at him but now were narrowed with loathing.

As if the mere sight of him made her sick. "Don't look at me like that," he pleaded.

"Don't look at you?" Her voice took on a brittle edge ready to splinter into a thousand pieces. "I don't even know who you are. I gave you six years of my life, I gave you a son—"

Her voice broke and so did something inside of him. It was as if a sliver of glass had pierced through his scar, stabbing and twisting in his gut, leaving wickedly sharp shards in its wake.

Sarah stood, head bowed, arms wide open in surrender—or defeat. Sam couldn't bear to look at her. That wasn't his wife, his Sarah. She never gave up. Never.

Moonlight reflected from her tear-stained face, giving her a ghostly glow. She swiped at her eyes with the arm of her fleece jacket. But the tears didn't stop.

Spears of pain spiraled into his heart, making it hard for him to breathe. He'd done this to save her, to save Josh, but his actions had killed the woman he loved. Or at least part of her. He pulled his knees to his chest and looked away.

"Tell me, Sam," she commanded, her voice a strangled whisper barely able to penetrate the empty night air between them. "Tell me everything."

He took a breath, surprised himself by not exploding with the pain that sliced through his body, then took another. Still alive. Couldn't get out of it that easily. That was Stan, always looking for the easy way out.

Not this time.

"My name's not Sam," he started, talking to the shadows before him.

"It's not—" Her exhalation of frustration circled through the clearing. "Then who the hell are you?"

"My real name is Stan Diamontes. I was—I am—a lot of things. I liked to surf, I liked to write songs, I picked up girls on the beach when the waves were slow. I didn't like to work, but my dad wouldn't pay for college unless I majored in something marketable so I have a degree in accounting."

Her footsteps scuffed through the dirt as she spun around. "You're an accountant? You can't even balance our checkbook."

"I didn't say I enjoyed it. But actually I was—am—pretty good at it. Not the adding machine bookkeeping stuff, but the computer stuff. Moving money around, making it work for you, hiding it." He almost smiled, remembering his "perfect" crime. A victimless crime since he replaced all the money he borrowed from Korsakov's accounts, just not the interest he earned from it. Well, all but that last few million—the money that had allowed Alan to track him.

He almost choked on his frustration. All he'd wanted was to protect his future—and now all that he wanted for his future was in danger because of that one decision. An image of what Korsakov would do to Josh and Sarah if he ever got near them swamped his vision. Fire lanced along his scar. Turning his head away, he took shallow breaths through his mouth, swallowing bile.

"So who did you make all this money work for?" Sarah asked, her voice closer now.

Sam swallowed once more before he could trust his voice. "A guy named Korsakov. He wanted to break into the film biz, bad. Was determined to be the next Tarantino. He had money but he needed it—ah—legitimized before he could use it for his production company."

"Legitimized? You mean laundered. So this guy Korsakov, what was he really? A drug dealer?" She paced across the clearing, her head swinging, scanning the woods surrounding them, a caged animal searching for an escape.

Sam couldn't keep his eyes off her, watching as she regrouped. Her head was high now, there was no air of defeat around her. Instead she seemed to radiate a heat, white hot fury.

"Drugs, prostitutes, smuggling, gambling." He shrugged. "Any and all of the above."

With a sudden, quick movement, she spun in her tracks and came to a halt a few feet in front of him. Her glare blazed through him like a flash of lightning.

"You worked for a drug dealer and a pimp?"

"No. I worked for a guy whose family happens to be part of the Russian Mafia. They're the drug dealers and pimps. Although Korsakov is the most dangerous of the bunch. I didn't know it at first. By the time I did, it was too late. I was in too deep."

She leaned forward, impaling him with her gaze. "Excuse me, but it seems you found a way to get in deeper. And to take your son and me down with you."

He flinched at her words. Not because of her sharp tone, a tone he'd never heard from her before, but because of the truth it carried. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"It? What it?"

"My life, you, Josh—none of it was meant to happen this way. I had a plan."

"You had a plan?" Her laughter was shrill, a hairbreadth away from hysteria. Sam watched her with concern. She stood rigid, hands curled into white knuckled fists, her mouth tight with anger. "And just what was this grand plan of yours,
Stan
?"

He hated hearing his old name, hated even more the way she spat it out as if it had a bad taste. Hated that she of all people would ever know the truth about his life.

Kneading his side, fingers probing his scar as if seeking answers from an oracle, he tried to find the words to answer her.

"It all began eight years ago. I was twenty-seven and still living like a kid. No worries, no responsibilities, no plan—no need to plan. And then I watched a man die."

Most of the people aboard United flight 803 from LAX to JFK slept. Not Grigory Korsakov. He'd had more than enough time to sleep during the past seven years. He wasn't about to waste another second to dreamland.

Not when he was about to make all his dreams come true.

"You know what really kills people in prison, Dawson?" he asked the grey-suited lawyer sitting beside him. The babysitter his uncle had sent along. As if even his own family no longer trusted Grigory to play by the rules.

Dawson didn't bother to cover his yawn as he pried his bleary eyes open and focused on Grigory. "Fights?"

"No. Boredom. Sheer boredom."

"Sure. Boredom starts the fights." Typical lawyer, Dawson always had to have the last word.

Korsakov looked out his window into a black emptiness. "Know how I fought the boredom?"

"Directing plays for the prison drama society?" There was no mistaking Dawson's tone of disgust. Evidently, word of Grigory's "entertainments" had made it back to the family.

Even those diversions had grown weary after a while. Nothing to compare with the dramas played out in his mind. Intimate explorations of the human psyche. All starring Stan Diamontes.

Grigory had almost wet his pants when Logan told him Stan had a wife and kid. Too bad Stan and the kid were gone. But that still left the wife…