Nowhere to Run (13 page)

With Christmas coming and budget cutbacks making overtime scarce, Edgar could use all the extra hours he could get. His sister had two young kids and a husband who was on the lam, leaving Edgar as the male figure in his nephews’ lives. He relished playing Santa Claus, determined that the boys would have as good a holiday as possible despite the fact that their father was a miserable lowlife. But that dream cost money, and when someone from the night shift called in sick, Edgar dutifully volunteered to do a double.

The cafeteria was normally fairly quiet during the evenings, night-shift staffers preferring to order take-out dinners from the pizza joints and Chinese restaurants in the area. Tonight, there was more activity than usual as the last
KTA
staffers straggled through on their way to get their noses swabbed. Edgar got in line himself. He’d spent a lot of time on the
KTA
floor and, after all, the tests were free. Why take any chances?

By nine o’clock the health workers had packed up their testing paraphernalia and gone. The grill was turned off at ten and the cook went home, leaving Edgar to empty the coffee urns, wipe the counters, and lock everything up for the night.

As he went to switch off the lights in the kitchen, he noticed an industrial-size pot soaking in the large sink. He didn’t want the guy who opened up in the morning to be greeted by that. Edgar rolled up his sleeves.

A turn of the faucet sent the hot water rushing into the stainless-steel sink. The noise of the pounding liquid and of the pot hitting the sink’s sides as Edgar scrubbed blocked out any warning sounds.

He was rinsing away the soap when he felt the piercing pain between his shoulder blades.

After Annabelle had tucked the kids into their beds for the night and cleaned up the kitchen, she looked forward to a good long soak in the bathtub. She wished she had some exotic, luxurious concoction to pour beneath the spigot, but Mr. Bubble and Epsom salts would have to do.

As she slipped off her bathrobe, Annabelle winced. Her shoulder was aching. The tote bag had been pulled away from her with great force, yanking her arm along with it. Thank goodness, at least whoever it was hadn’t gotten her purse as well. Alerting all the credit card companies and getting a new driver’s license was a headache she was glad to avoid.

The thief was probably cursing his choice of target. Perhaps the bag had already been tossed in a trash can. There were only papers in it, nothing of any apparent value to someone else, only things that mattered to Annabelle and Jerome. Annabelle closed her eyes and sank down beneath the hot water as she thought of Jerome’s precious manuscript lying exposed in a garbage can on some dark city street.

Well, she wouldn’t have to explain the theft to him now.

There was a soft tapping at the bathroom door.

“Come in,” she called, fully expecting to see Thomas or Tara up for a glass of water or to tell her that a bad dream had woken them. Instead, the door opened and Mike stood before her. She looked at him inquisitively.

“Just checking to see if you’re all right.”

“A little sore, but otherwise I’m fine.”

He lowered his tall frame to sit on the edge of the tub.

“I don’t know what we’d do, what I’d do, if anything happened to you, Annabelle.” His eyes welled up as he reached down and brushed her face with the back of his hand.

This was the first sign of affection he had shown her in such a long time. He’d been so enmeshed in his dark thoughts, incapable of focusing on what was going on outside his tortured inner world. What she and the children needed was beyond his concentration. They had been living in parallel worlds: Annabelle’s rooted in the reality of young children’s schedules, keeping a house, going to work, paying the bills; Mike’s twisted with the memories of carnage and death and helplessness.

“Nothing is going to happen to me, sweetheart. I’m right here, and you can’t get rid of me.” She brought his hand to her lips.

Maybe this was a good sign. Maybe he was starting to come around. Maybe, please God, the old Mike was coming back to her. She missed him so.

“Some guys from the firehouse came over today,” he offered.

Annabelle’s face brightened. “Really? Great.”

Mike frowned. “No, it’s not so great. There’s talk that the mayor wants to close our firehouse to balance the budget. They want me to help them fight it.”

“What did you say?” Annabelle held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“I told them I’d think about it.”

At least he didn’t outright refuse. Another good sign. Maybe that medicine was beginning to work.

It was after midnight as Linus poured himself another glass of vodka. He wasn’t the least bit tired. There was no use going to bed, where he would only toss and turn.

Walking into the library, he played with the idea of giving Lauren a call but thought better of it. Her boyfriend was coming in from Chicago this weekend. Lauren and Linus had an unspoken rule. During the week they could flirt their little brains out, but when the investment banker beau came to town, Linus was not to interrupt. Besides, he would look lonely and pathetic if he called this late.

Lauren was a shrewd one. She had sized up the situation with Linus from the start. He was married to his work, and everything else was merely a distraction. His widower’s status made him the treasured extra man at dinner parties, but matchmakers had tried repeatedly and unsuccessfully to make him part of a long-lasting couple. He enjoyed the cat-and-mouse games of flirting and dating, but another marriage was the last thing on his mind.

Why would he ever want to marry again, he wondered, as he popped a cassette into the video deck and settled back on the bloodred leather sofa. He had gotten everything he wanted the first time around. Suzanne had been attractive, energetic, and smart, although too sensitive. Her family had vaults of money; her father was heavily invested in Manhattan real estate. Here he still sat in the gift Suzanne’s dad had given them, to get them out of the suburbs afterward, to make them forget. A three-floor apartment in the Majestic, facing out over Central Park. The old man had been generous when he died as well, leaving them enough money to take care of his beloved grandson for the rest of his life, at home, not in some impersonal, uncontrollable institution.

The beginning years had been good ones. The twins were born just a year after they were married. Suzanne was content with double motherhood and playing Susie Homemaker in the suburbs while Linus worked on his television career. That he was constantly on call and traveling all the time didn’t seem to bother her. The kids were her world.

And when the world came crashing down, Suzanne never really got over it, he thought, as he leaned down to stroke the thick fur of the Irish setter who sat at his feet. She went through the motions, continuing to raise Wayne and tend to Seth, getting involved in the parental activities at school, trying to make birthdays and holidays festive occasions. But Linus couldn’t remember ever seeing her laugh again. Smiles, yes, but full, hearty laughter, never.

It was as if she had held on just as long as she could. After Wayne went off to college that first time, Suzanne had given up. The quiet apartment left her too much time to think. She’d stare out the picture windows, not seeing the glorious riot of color in Central Park that autumn. By Thanksgiving she was dead.

The medical examiner’s report had listed coronary failure. How appropriate. Her heart had finally just given up.

Nine years ago now.

Linus took a long swallow of his vodka and forced himself to concentrate on the giant screen as Lee’s anthrax segment replayed. Watching Lee hold up the test tube, Linus felt himself growing as angry as he had when he first heard that the powder was sugar instead of anthrax. Lee was a fool. A stupid, arrogant fool.

No one got away with making Linus Nazareth look like an ass.

Linus shook his head groggily, awakened by the noise coming from the hallway.

“Wayne?”

“Yeah, Dad. It’s me.”

“Come on in here, son.”

Wayne stood in the library doorway, still wearing his overcoat, his hair tousled from the cutting wind outside. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“Have a good time?”

Wayne shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“What’d you do?”

“Went out with some friends.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so.” His son wasn’t giving up much.

“Well, I’m glad you went out and had some fun. You should do more of that, Wayne. You’re young and free. You should be enjoying yourself.”

“Okay, Dad. I’m going to bed now.”

Linus listened to the sound of the footsteps going down the spiral staircase. He waited a few minutes before following, the dog shuffling behind him. He passed Wayne’s closed bedroom door before stopping at the other.

As Linus entered the dimly lit room, the night-duty nurse switched off the pencil light trained on the book she was reading.

“How’s it going?” Linus asked, peering toward the single bed at the other side of the room. Tucked secure beneath the warm blankets, the thin form was barely visible.

“Fine, Mr. Nazareth.”

What did he expect her to say? Nothing ever changed. There was never any good news to report. Seth slept here, in the room beside his brother’s, day after day, month after month, year after year.

It was always the same.

What would this son have been?
Linus asked himself the question that he had been asking for over two decades now. Would Seth have been a concert pianist or a football star? A writer or a doctor? A clergyman or a cop?

Would they have had a good relationship, closer than the one Linus had with Wayne? Would they have shared the same interests and passions? Would Seth have been a son Linus could be proud of?

He tried to shake away the wistful sadness. There was no use going over it again. Seth was what Seth was. Wayne was the only egg in Linus’s basket.

November 22