The Perfect Husband (26 page)

“Christ, you're greedy.”

His fingers slipped up her shorts, dipped into her panties, and thrust into her.

She cried out again, shocked in spite of herself. Unprepared, in spite of him. He slowed. His head come up. He looked at her with glittering eyes.

“You really don't know anything, do you?” he whispered thickly.

“No,” she confessed. “No.”

“You're too late,” he muttered. “You're too late.”

“I know, I know.”

His finger slid deeper, penetrating, stretching, seeking. His palm pressed against her, rubbing rhythmically, giving her a tempo she instinctively understood.

She felt the mysteries press against her. She closed her eyes and saw unspeakable colors building behind her lids.

“J.T.” she groaned. “J.T.”

“Open your eyes. Look at me. I want to see it. I want to see everything.”

Her eyes cracked open, glazed and vulnerable. His finger moved faster and faster. There was no tenderness, just raw, primitive need.

She bit her lip.

And he whispered hoarsely, “Now.”

She climaxed, screaming and shuddering and melting from the inside out.

She was barely aware of being dragged to the floor. He tore off their clothes, then he was on her, his hands impatiently parting her legs. He rubbed against her, one last second of tantalizing pressure, then he whispered, “Hold on to me, Tess. This is gonna be rough.”

He thrust inside her, and she was filled. She was annihilated.

She grabbed his shoulders and hung on for dear life.

He pulled back, his arms trembling with the strain. He flirted with her again, rubbing against her, making her squirm. Her legs wrapped around him tightly, and she stopped simply receiving, instead arching to meet each demanding blow.

The climax slammed into them both, screeching through their blood for a long, suspended moment when they could not breathe, could not move, could not feel even the pounding of their pulse.

He pulled away abruptly, the way she knew he would. He rose quickly, as she'd expected. He looked down at her, his face an unreadable mask.

“You don't have to say anything,” she told him. She felt bruised and battered, used and abused. And unbelievably satiated. Wise with the power of the mysteries and sense of her own self.

He strode away from her, already heading for the pool.

“I guess I don't have to ask if it was good for you,” she called out proudly.

He paused, his hand on the sliding glass door. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“I was rough.”

“I wasn't complaining.”

“Maybe you should have.”

“Already blaming yourself, J.T.? Adding me to the long list of things you beat yourself over the head with late at night? I know you better than you think. I believe in you more than you do. So don't bother hating yourself for showing me the wonders of animal sex. Really, I accept full responsibility for my actions.”

“Tess—”

“J.T., if you apologize now, I'll never forgive you.”

He stiffened. “Fine.” He walked out the sliding glass door and jumped into his pool.

“Remember, Tess,” she whispered to herself, “you are strong. You are very, very strong.”

IT WAS A seedy place. Beat-up old trucks and battered blue Chevrolets dotted the parking lot. There might have been painted yellow lines once, but now they were obscured by dust and tumbleweeds. Removed from the nicely paved streets of central Nogales and the all-American McDonald's, the bar sat back in the desert, framed by a distant hill covered with run-down shanties. No smooth adobe walls or cheery red roof. This was wood, gray, beaten wood haphazardly stuck together with gnarled nails and sheer determination. Rusted tin formed a brown-spotted roof. When it rained, the place sounded like a bongo drum.

Now faint sounds of salsa leapt from the cracks, as if even the music was desperate to escape the dreariness. Smoke wafted out, ghostly tendrils curling up to the sky.

A flickering red neon sign pronounced the joint MANNY'S. Just Manny's.

Tired. Dusty. Forgotten.

Marion thought it was perfect.

Her sleek blue rental car looked out of place, but then, so did she. She pushed open the door without apology, entering the joint like the proverbial new gun in town. The music didn't stop for her, but the patrons did. Two men to her left, hunched over a threadbare pool table, looked up from their game. Behind the bar, a short, bald man in a sleeveless denim vest that showed off his serpent tattoos stopped pouring beer from the tap. To her right, small clusters of men and a few women glanced up once, then did a double take.

Marion pushed her way to the bar. “I want a whiskey. Straight up.”

Serpent man stared at her. She stared back. He still didn't move. “You got a problem with dollars?” she asked coolly.

“No.”

“Then I think we can be friends.” She pulled out a crisp twenty and slapped it on the counter.

The bartender fetched a bottle of whiskey. As if it had been a signal, the crowd returned to its business.

Marion didn't turn. She didn't look. She sat alone at the bar, listening to the murmurs. She couldn't speak Spanish, but she understood it well enough.

When the bartender gave her her drink, she thanked him with a mocking toast. She raised the glass. She parted her pink lips. And she tossed back the whiskey in one gulp.

She slammed the glass down. She swallowed through the pain in her gut. Then delicately she touched the corner of her mouth with a single French-manicured nail.

“Give me another.”

“Sí, señorita.”

“Exactly.”

“I WANT THE Apple Jacks.”

“Okay, okay,” Difford muttered, pushing open the door with his foot and balancing four grocery bags with his arms, fingers, and hips. Samantha went barreling in, unmindful of his precarious juggling act. Decked out in her pink winter coat with the hood pulled tightly around her face, she looked like a strawberry version of Frosty the Snowman. Her blond hair peered out around the white furry trim of her hood. Her cheeks were a healthy, happy red. It was probably still too warm for full winter gear, but Difford had never dressed a kid before, so he liked to err on the side of caution.

“Apple Jacks, Apple Jacks,” Samantha sang at the top of her lungs.

Difford grunted, wondered how mothers ever learned how to cope with children, and managed to kick the door shut with his foot. A bit more juggling, and he made it all the way to the tiny brown kitchen, dropping only two oranges.

Samantha chased the fruit down the hall, then came trotting back with the oranges clutched in her mittened hands like trophies. She beamed at him triumphantly. At that moment, despite his best intentions, his chest tightened and he did understand exactly why mothers coped with children.

“Thank you,” he said with somber politeness, and accepted the oranges.

“Okay, the cereal now!” Her smile grew. She was perfectly delighted with herself and her persistent efforts that had finally yielded the sugar-coated cereal. He'd been so careful to buy only healthy things. Tess had given him a list of appropriate grocery items and he'd been plugging Samantha with bowl after bowl of Raisin Bran. But today at the store she'd noticed the Apple Jacks on special display at the end of the aisle and that had been that. She wanted Apple Jacks! Difford discovered he could command a whole police department but not one determined four-year-old. They bought the Apple Jacks. Two boxes. Buy one get one free. He was such a sucker.

“Lunch first,” he insisted. Her face fell, her lower lip jutting out suspiciously. He suffered an immediate burst of panic. “Oh, no, you don't,” he said, shaking his head. “Nutrition is important. We have turkey or ham.”

Samantha looked at him, her bright blue eyes keenly intelligent. Her head cocked to the side, and by now he could read the signs. She was determining how hard to push him. This was his own fault; the first few days, he'd given her heaven and earth every time she cried. Samantha had quickly internalized that lesson and become hell on wheels.

He forced himself to stand firm. Think of her as a new recruit, he reminded himself. A cadet who needed a strong guiding hand.

After a minute he won the battle of wills. “Turkey,” she decided.

Difford grinned, feeling ridiculously proud of himself. He didn't win often. Tess hadn't warned him of a small child's capacity for deviousness.

“Okay,” he said, and put away the groceries. He then laid out the bread, mustard, and mayonnaise. Samantha was in charge of adding the turkey, which she did with true flourish. They sat at the simple wood table and ate in silence.

He figured they'd play dominoes afterward. The kid still kicked his butt, but he was getting better.

He sent her to go get the game while he finished cleaning up. Minutes later he wandered into the living room, where they generally played, sitting cross-legged on the floor. His knees were getting sore.

He was about to push back his reclining chair, when he noticed the pillows. Yesterday he'd tucked them behind his back for comfort as he'd leaned against the sofa. He wasn't much of a pick-up guy. He'd thought he'd left them on the floor.

Now one sat neatly in each corner of the couch.

Samantha walked into the room, carrying the box of dominoes.

Difford said in as calm a voice as he could manage, “Sam, I want you to go to your room.”

“But I didn't do anything wrong!”

“I know, sweetheart.” His eyes darted around the room as he reached beneath his jacket for his gun. “We're playing a new game, honey. I just want you to go to your room for a few minutes, okay? I'm… I'm preparing a surprise for you in the living room.”

She looked troubled. “I don't like this game!” she cried, dropped the dominoes on the floor, and ran sniffling for her room.

Difford didn't waste any time. Looking across the street, he could see an old green car parked at the corner. He raised his hand. Both of the officers waved back. Okay, his cover car was still present and it was broad daylight. If someone had tried to approach the safe house, the officers would have noticed.

He searched the house anyway, gun drawn and eyes sharp as he went from room to room. Living room was clear. Bathroom, including the shower, was clear. He entered his bedroom slowly, sweeping the space with a steady, level arm, pointing his gun in all corners. Then he pressed himself against a wall and slid the closet door open with his foot. Quick step and pivot, and he faced off against his clothes. Nothing moved, nothing stirred. He brushed his gun through the hangers. Empty.

He started to breathe a little easier. Nerves, he told himself, just nerves. The news of Shelly Zane's murder had gotten to him. The knowledge that Beckett was out there somewhere, gunning for Theresa, was definitely keeping him up at night.

But Beckett was just a man. Tess had stood up to him before. Lieutenant Houlihan and Special Agent Quincy were doing their best to make sure she would never have to again. A lot of good people were working this case. Sooner or later they'd get Beckett.

He finished the sweep of the house, telling Sam it was part of the game as he checked her room, her closet, beneath her bed. He could tell she didn't believe him.

But the house was clear. All was still well. Maybe he'd just forgotten about picking up the pillows. Maybe Sam had done it.

He replaced his gun in his holster. He offered Samantha his hand. She took it without question.

“Dominoes?” he tried.

“I want my mommy.”

“I… I know.”

“Do you know where my mommy is?” Her lower lip had begun to tremble.

“Yeah, honey, I do.”

“Make her come home.”

Difford squatted down. “She wants to come home, Sam, she really does. No one loves you like your mommy does. But she has to take care of some things first. She's, uh, making everything safe, you know? And once it's all safe, she'll come get you and you'll always be together.”

“I want her now,” Sam whispered.

“I know, Sam. I know. Come on, kid, let's play dominoes.” He led her into the living room, not knowing what else to do.

Samantha didn't sit across from him as she usually did. Instead, she sat right beside him, her little shoulder against his side. After a moment he put his big arm around her and patted her awkwardly.

She braved a tremulous smile and opened the domino box.

“My mommy will come home soon?”

“Right.”

“And then we'll always be together?”

“Yeah, honey. Everything will be all right.”

“Can we watch
Jurassic Park
again tonight?”

“Okay,” he said, but couldn't quite stop the sinking feeling in his chest. He patted her shoulder again.

“Okay.”

TESS WENT TO find J.T. The patio was empty, the pool flat. She felt the pinprick of unease.

Gravel crunched. She whirled toward the sound with her hands already fisted.

J.T. emerged from the side of the house, buck naked and wielding his gun. He didn't even glance in her direction. He disappeared around the left side, his gun leading him forward.

She was still standing there stupidly.

J.T. rematerialized on the patio, his gun down by his naked thigh.

“I thought I heard somethin',” he muttered.

“I — I didn't see anything.”

“Yeah, well, you were staring at my butt.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson. “Just admiring the view.”

“Huh.”

He took two steps forward, one step back, and finally stood still. “Guess I'm just edgy.”

She contemplated him silently for a moment. “Did you really drink last night?”

“Yeah. One shot. Tequila. Lord have mercy on my soul.”

“I think it's a little late for that.” She contemplated berating him. She contemplated calling him a fool. She decided in the end that neither was necessary. No one had ever been harder on J. T. Dillon than J. T. Dillon.

She said, “I need you.”

“Don't.”

“Too late. You know what I'm up against, J.T. Marion's told you enough about Jim. He's going to come after me, and I have to be ready. We've done so well this last week. I can swim farther, I have some muscle tone. I can shoot a gun—”