The Collective (28 page)

Nizam would want her to be happy. That was what people said to her all the time—Sean, Auntie Jane, Jordan … even the woman who cut her hair—and Cait knew it was true. She had always been astounded by the kindness in his eyes, and she knew that he would want her to fall in love again, to find
someone to be the husband and father he had planned to be for her. Someday, perhaps, she would.

As she studied the photo of Nizam, Miranda wore a sad expression so open and contemplative that Cait thought it might be the most genuine emotion she had ever seen her friend display.

“Sorry,” Cait said. “I told him I had company, but he wanted to make sure I was really all right.”

Miranda smiled curiously. “But you’re not all right.”

“No. And he knows that. I guess there are levels of all right, aren’t there? He wanted to know I was safe and reasonably sane. He lives in Hartford, but he was willing to drive up here, which is sweet.”

“This is Ronnie, right? The guy from your troop?” Miranda asked.

Cait smiled. “My unit, yes. And before you ask, no, there’s nothing going on there. He’s just a stand-up guy who had my back when I needed it most. Without him and my friend Jordan, I don’t think I’d ever have made it out of Baghdad.”

Miranda pushed a lock of auburn hair behind her ear and glanced back down at the photo before carefully resettling it on the mantel.

“I wasn’t going to ask,” she said softly, turning dark eyes toward Cait. “I know you’re still in love with Nizam.”

Cait stared at her, oddly bemused. The war in Iraq had stripped away all of her pretension and given her new eyes with which to view the world. Miranda lived a life steeped in privilege and presumption, and her concerns were far removed from the things that Cait would normally have worried about. But maybe the girl with whom she had once been so close still lived inside of her after all.

“I am,” Cait agreed, sitting on the sofa and picking up her wineglass. “I can’t imagine a time when I won’t love him. But you build rooms in your heart, you know?”

Miranda picked up her own glass from the mantel and moved over to join Cait on the sofa. “I guess I don’t.”

Cait took a sip of wine, then shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s silly.”

“What is? Come on. It’s just us,” Miranda said.

The words took Cait back to another time, when the two of them had had sleepovers almost every weekend and shared all of the secret wishes they would never have dared tell anyone else. Miranda used to come into Sweet Somethings all the time when they were in junior high and high school, and Cait would always sneak her a few caramels—her favorite. Auntie Jane had known and never complained. When Cait got a little older, she’d often shared secrets with her friend Nick, too, but not in the same way. With Miranda there had never been any embarrassment, no shyness, just a kind of wonder.

“I just think you make space in your heart for people,” Cait said. “I’ll always love Nizam, and I miss him so much—especially right now. But when Leyla was born … I never knew how much love existed in one person until I had her. So, yeah, I think it’s possible to fall in love with someone else someday without giving up loving Nizam.”

Miranda clinked glasses with her in a quiet toast. “I’m really glad to hear you say that.” She sipped her wine. “So, Ronnie?”

Cait laughed. She felt guilty, like she shouldn’t be able to laugh. Then she thought of Sean and shrouds of grief wrapped tightly around her again, her smile slipping away.

“Not Ronnie,” she said. “And not Jordan.” She thought about that a moment and smiled. “Though he’s really sweet, and those eyes …” She sighed theatrically. “Seriously, it’s nice to know that they’re looking out for me, even now.”

Miranda grinned. “Jordan, huh?”

“Nah. We work together. He got me the job at Channel Seven.”

“But …”

Cait gave a tiny nod. “He
is
a pretty amazing guy. I’d hate to ruin the friendship we have, but I guess I wouldn’t say no if he wanted to take me out to dinner some night.”

“And by dinner you mean …?”

“Food!” Cait said, rolling her eyes and chuckling softly.

Miranda obviously wanted to lighten her spirits. Maybe allowing her to do it wasn’t something she should be feeling guilty about. Whatever she could do to ease her mind had to be a good thing. Tomorrow, when Leyla was awake—or at
least mobile—she could act. Tonight, she realized, she would have been driven mad with grief and frustration if not for Miranda’s visit and Ronnie’s phone call.

There had been loads of other calls, but Cait had continued to screen. A lot of them were hang-ups, which made her glad she hadn’t answered. Some were acquaintances or co-workers or long-ago friends calling to offer words of comfort, and she felt bad for not picking up, but after the interview, and now talking with Miranda, she really didn’t want to have to go through it all again. Then there were the media people looking for an update or a comment or an interview, and those she ignored for now. Someone had tried to beep in while she’d been talking to Ronnie, but she’d let it go straight to voice mail.

Now the phone rang again. Cait rolled her eyes.

“I can’t believe Leyla is sleeping through all of these calls,” Miranda said.

“She usually sleeps great for the first half of the night,” Cait replied. “It’s only in the wee hours of the morning that she sometimes has trouble. Anyway, I’ve got her door halfway closed, so it shouldn’t be too loud in her room.”

The answering machine clicked on and the two women paused to listen, but the caller hung up without leaving a message.

“God, give it a rest, people,” Miranda said.

Cait sipped her wine. “I don’t mind, really. If that many people watched my interview and want to talk to me, there’s that much better chance someone saw something that could help.”

“I’d jump out of my chair every time the phone rang.”

“I kind of was, earlier,” Cait admitted. “But then a friend brought wine over.”

She smiled and raised her glass in a silent toast and Miranda clinked her glass against Cait’s.

“Have you talked to Nick through all of this?” Miranda asked.

“He left a message, but I haven’t talked to him. Honestly, I was pretty numb when you called. Doing that interview and dealing with the police … Nick called because of the thing
last night, but after today that seems like it happened a thousand years ago.”

That got them off on a tangent, talking about old times and old friends, childhood adventures and teenage romances. Most of an hour passed as they swapped stories, sometimes finishing each other’s sentences, and drank more wine. Only two more calls came in, one another hang-up and the other from a reporter at the
Boston Herald
. But, like Leyla’s sleep, their reminiscing could not be disrupted by the ringing of the phone.

Eventually, Miranda stood up, taking her glass with her. “I’m going to get a refill. Want me to top you off?”

Cait hesitated, but only for a second. She would pay for it with a headache in the morning, but right now the wine helped to untie the knots in her neck and shoulders, and the one in her heart.

“Yes, please,” she said, offering her glass. “You’re going to end up crashing on the sofa tonight, though. No way am I letting you drive home.”

“A sleepover?” Miranda chirped. “I’d love to! Fair warning, though. That might mean a pillow fight later.”

Cait shook her head, amused once again.

The apartment was small, rooms flanking a corridor that ran down the center, dining room, Cait’s bedroom, and Leyla’s bedroom at the rear on one side, and the living room with its two entryways on the other, plus the bathroom at the back. The only way into the kitchen was through the living room.

As Miranda went into the kitchen, Cait went through into the hall and peeked into Leyla’s room. The baby still slept soundly, her exhalations softly audible there in the dark. The light from the living room cast a strange geometrical shape on the carpet and just reached the corner of the bed. Leyla looked peaceful in her crib, and that did more to soothe Cait than anything else could have.

Then the phone rang, causing her to flinch. She pulled the door almost all the way shut and hurried back, passing the doors to the bathroom and her own bedroom and then ducking into the living room.

Miranda stood just outside the kitchen entryway. “Unbelievable,” she said. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”

Cait thought this was probably nothing, that she would get more calls after the eleven o’clock news. She didn’t dare unplug the phone in case the police called with news, but she could damn well turn off the ringer. She walked past Miranda into the kitchen, intending to do just that, when the phone ceased, mid-ring.

“Not bothering to leave a message?” Miranda said. “Someone’s unmotivated.”

“They didn’t even wait for the machine.” Cait frowned at the phone, then walked into the kitchen, picked it up, and checked caller ID for the most recent incoming number.

She smiled and turned to look at Miranda. “It was Nick,” she said. “Jackass. Should have left a message.”

She thumbed
TALK
, but got no dial tone. Just to be sure, she pushed the button again, then just stood there a moment and stared at the phone in her hand.

“What’s wrong?” Miranda asked.

“The phone’s dead,” Cait said.

Her thoughts, though muddled by wine, began to race. Nick had not hung up. Her phone service had cut out right in the middle of an incoming call. The night was neither stormy nor especially windy, providing no convenient excuse.

“But Nick just called,” Miranda said.

Cait barely heard her. “Come with me,” she said, her voice low.

She grabbed Miranda by the wrist and hauled her through the living room and into the short hallway. Cait felt the change in herself, a chill that had come over her. The sweet nostalgia that Miranda had managed to summon had departed now.

Only one thing mattered—Leyla. Maybe she was paranoid, but she thought she had reason to be.

“Cait, what the hell?” Miranda asked, her protest tinged with fear.

Without answering, Cait hustled her into Leyla’s room. She put a finger to her lips to forestall any argument.

“Stay here. Watch Leyla.”

Miranda looked frightened but gave a single nod, and then Cait raced from Leyla’s room into her own, sneakers quiet on the carpet. She pulled out her keys, chose the small copper one, and dropped to her knees, hauling the lockbox out of the bottom of her closet. Her heart beat strongly in her chest, but she felt strangely calm. The key turned and she flipped open the box, snatched up her gun, and relocked the box so that she could withdraw the key.

Shoving her keys into her pocket, she ran to her nightstand, rattled open the sock drawer, and pulled out the box of ammunition. It caught on the edge of the drawer, spilling bullets onto the carpet, and she went to her knees again. Ejecting the clip, she loaded it quickly, her fingers having remembered the exercise all too well.

As she rose, she slammed the clip home and raced out of the room.

Cait had made it as far as the short hallway, face-to-face with Miranda—who stood in the open door to Leyla’s room—when the first knock came at the door.

Jarman waited until he was a safe distance away from the front door of Sparky’s to issue the mighty belch that had been building up for the last few minutes. He glanced around to confirm he was alone on the sidewalk, but felt embarrassed just the same. He’d grown up with a mother who frowned upon such things.

Sated and content, more than ready to go home, he piled himself into his car and started the engine. A quick pass by Caitlin McCandless’s house and he could be reunited with the reclining chair in his living room.

Before he could pull away from the curb, his cell phone
buzzed. Grumbling, he managed to extract it from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID screen, which read
Private Caller
. A blocked number.

Jarman frowned, hesitated a second, then tossed the phone on the passenger seat without answering it. If Monteforte—or anyone else from Medford P.D.—had called him, he would have answered. But an anonymous call, hours after he’d gone off duty? If they wanted him, they’d call back or leave a message.

He had a date with his recliner.

On the passenger seat, the phone stopped buzzing.

Josh stood on the tarmac beside their charter plane. Voss came down the steps he’d just descended, looking around at the planes and terminals of Logan Airport like she had forgotten where they were.

“Start the day in Florida, finish it in Boston,” she muttered.

Josh nodded, but didn’t reply. He was listening to the electronic ring on the other end of his phone call, his cell pressed to his ear.

“This is Bill Jarman,” said the Medford detective’s recorded voice. “I can’t take your call at the moment, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is a police emergency, please call 911, or call the Medford Police Department’s main number at—”

Josh ended the call, frowning. He didn’t want to leave a message. What would he say?

“No luck?” Voss asked.