The Perfect Husband (3 page)

“Little girl, don't you have enough to worry about without picking fights with me?”

“Probably,” she said gamely, “but I have to start somewhere.”

She lashed out with her foot. He shifted and stopped the blow in time. Just as he began to grin smugly, she sank her teeth into his forearm.

He paled. His neck corded and pain shot through him, sharp and deep, as her tiny white teeth found a nerve.

Rage, primal and ugly, rose up inside him. The need to lash back. The need to return the pain inflicted upon him. He felt the jungle drums in his veins and suddenly he was hearing his father's boots rapping against the hardwood floors. His grip on her left wrist tightened. She whimpered.

“Fuck!” He yanked his arm from her mouth. Blood dewed the dark hairs and made him even angrier. With a heave he was on his feet, fists clenched, eyes black, anger barely in check.
Control, control
. He hated men who took it out on women.
Control, control
.

The silver Walther .22 semiautomatic that had been in her purse now lay just six inches from his feet. He kicked it into the pool. It wasn't enough. Once he got good and pissed off, nothing was ever enough.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he roared. She was still lying on the patio, her skirt hiked up around her thighs and revealing slender legs badly in need of muscle tone. She held her wrist against her chest. It obviously hurt, but she didn't make a sound.

He swore again and contemplated leaping into the pool. He needed a drink.

“You don't draw down on a marine,” he muttered fiercely. “What kind of idiot draws down on a trained professional?”

“You were going to attack me,” she whispered at last. She clutched her wrist closer, the harsh red imprint of his hand staining her pale skin. It shamed him.

“I was going to carry you out of here!”

She didn't say anything.

He thrust a finger at her. “This is my home! You shouldn't go barging into homes uninvited, unwanted and… and…”

“Untrained?” she supplied.

“Exactly!”

She didn't argue. She merely worked on getting to her feet. She swayed slightly when she stood. She didn't seem to be aware of it, smoothing down her skirt and clutching her jacket shut as if that would somehow protect her.

“I know you don't want me here. Vincent's been trying to call you, and you were never home. And I… I couldn't afford to wait, so I got your address and I just… well, I just came here.

“Train me,” she said abruptly. “Just train me, that's all I want. One month of your time. I'll give you one hundred thousand dollars and you teach me everything you know.”

“What the hell?”

“One month, that's all I'm asking. You never have to leave the villa, you don't have to do anything other than lounge around and tell me what to do. I'm stronger than I look. I learn fast. I don't whine.”

“
Who
are you?”

She hesitated. “Te — Umm… Angela.”

“Te-um-Angela? Uh-huh. Well, just for the sake of argument, why does a happy homemaker like you need training, Te-um-Angela?”

“I… I'm being stalked.”

“Of course. Who?”

“Who's what?”

“Who is stalking you?”

She fell silent. He shook his head. “You don't need a mercenary, you need a shrink.”

“A man,” she whispered.

“No kidding.”

“My…” She seemed to debate how much to admit. “My husband. Ex-husband. You know how it goes.”

She spoke too quickly. She glanced at him to see if he believed her or not.

He shook his head again, this time in disgust. “You came all the way here just because of a domestic disturbance? Lady, you track a man like me down and the least you could do was have half the Medellin cartel after your hide. Jesus Christ. Go get a restraining order and leave me alone.”

She smiled wanly. “Do you really think a piece of paper scares away a monster?”

“It beats hiring a professional. What did you do, run into Vince at a Tupperware party? You're looking at stay-fresh seals, he's hawking his connections with retired reprobates—”

“We were introduced. By a mutual friend who understands that I need real help.”

“Real help?” he snorted. “You've seen too many Sunday night TV movies. Go to the Nogales police. I'll draw you a map.”

“The police are the ones who lost him,” she said quietly. “Now, I'm turning to you.”

He shook his head. He tried his best scowl. She remained standing there, somehow dignified in her ugly white suit, somehow regal with her bruised wrist held against her stomach. And for once in his life, J.T. couldn't think of what to say.

The night grew hushed, just the sound of the water lapping against the edge of his pool and the lonely cry of the crickets. The mesquite tree fluttered with a teasing breeze behind her, while white rocks at her feet glittered in the porch light. The night was warm and purple-black, deceptive in its softness.

“J.T.,” she whispered, “did you save the orphans in Guatemala?”

“What?” His heart began to beat too fast.

“Vincent told me about the orphans. Did you do that? Did you really do that?”

“No, no. You can't blame that one on me.” But his denial was too sharply spoken, and they both knew it.

“One month,” she repeated. “One month of intensive training. Self-defense, shooting, evasion, stalking—”

“Population control, intelligence gathering. Ambushing and counterambushing. Sniping and counter-sniping. Evac and evade, infiltration and penetration. All SpecWar goodies—”

“Yes.”

“No! You don't get it. Do you think killing machines are made overnight? Do you think Rambo rose up out of the ground? It takes
years
to learn that kind of focus. It takes decades more to learn not to care, to site a human being in a scope and pull the trigger as if the target really is nothing but the watermelon you used in practice.”

Her face paled. She looked ill.

“Yeah, you're just a lean, mean killing machine. Get outta here and don't come back.”

“I… I… I'll give you me.”

“What?”

“I'll give you my body, for the month.”

“
Chiquita
, you were better off sticking with the money.”

She smiled, her expression apologetic, resigned, knowing. Before he could stop her, she dropped to her knees. “I'll beg,” she said, and raised imploring hands.

“Oh, for God's sake!” He crossed the patio and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her as if that would rattle some sense into her head.

“Please,” she said simply. “Please.”

He opened his mouth. He tried to yell and he tried to snarl. Hell, at this point he'd settle for gnashing his teeth. But the words wouldn't come out. So many years of dirty living, and still he could be thwarted by such a simple thing as the word
please
.

“Goddammit, it's September thirteenth and I'm sober. Would someone please get me a drink!”

She took a step to comply, but then she swayed like a laundry sheet, her knees beginning to buckle.

“That's it. To bed,” he commanded, furious as hell. “Just pick a room, any room with a bed, and lie down in it. I have a couple of hours of tequila left, and I don't want to see you again until the fourteenth unless you're bringing me a bottle and have a lime in your navel and salt on your breasts.” He pointed toward the sliding glass door. “Out of my sight!”

She took an obedient step forward and tottered dangerously.

He had no choice. With a muttered oath he swung her up in his arms. She went rigid, her hands balling as if she would fight him, but her run-down state defeated her before he did. She sank into his arms like a balloon that had just had all the air let out. He could feel her rib cage clearly, as tiny as a bird's. He could smell her, the clear scents of exhaustion and fear and a warmer, mysterious odor. Then he pinpointed it — baby powder. She carried the scent of baby powder.

He almost dropped her.

He didn't want to know. He refused to know.

The closest bedroom was neat and tidy, thanks to Freddie. J.T. dumped her unceremoniously onto the double bed. “Got any stuff?”

“One bag.”

“Where?”

“The living room.”

“Freddie will bring it in. Car out front?”

“Took a taxi.”

“Used a fake name,
Angela
?”

“Yes. And I paid cash.”

He grunted. “Not bad.”

“I'm learning,” she told him honestly. “I'm learning.”

“Well, learn how to sleep. It's as good a skill as any.”

She nodded, but her brown eyes didn't close. “Are you an alcoholic?”

“Sometimes.”

“What are you the other times?”

“A Baptist. Go to sleep.”

She murmured, “I know why you saved the children.”

“Yeah, right. Good night.”

“Because you missed your family.”

He jolted to a stop in the middle of the room and shuddered.
Rachel and Teddy and the golden days of white picket fences and four-door sedans
.

She was wrong, of course, his family had come after the orphans. And yet her words cut close. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“I have to.” She sighed and her eyes drifted shut. “My daughter and I need you. You're the only hope we have left.”

“Shit,” J.T. said again, and made a beeline for the margarita mix.

MIDNIGHT. IN DOWNTOWN Nogales, some bars were just opening. It wouldn't be uncommon for J.T. to be heading out the door at this hour, dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt, pocket full of money and hands desperate for a beer. He'd stumble home at three or four, a couple of six-packs beneath his belt and a woman in his arms. The nights ran together.

This was the first time the man could recall a woman sleeping in the guest room with her own suitcase. The first time he knew a woman was in the house but not in J.T.'s bed. Instead, J.T. was facedown in the living room, the iguana keeping him company.

The house was still, quiet, almost stagnant. And yet the man knew that everything had changed. After three years, the pattern had been broken. His instructions on this point were clear.

He crept through the darkened hall. Moonbeams bathed the living room in silvery light. In one corner a small, yellow-glowing heat lamp illuminated the iguana and J.T.'s bare feet. Neither creature stirred.

The man turned away and moved carefully down the hall to the study. He picked up the telephone, years of practice making the motion soundless. He dialed from memory, already cupping his hand over his mouth to muffle his voice.

“There's a woman,” he said the moment the other end picked up.

“A woman?”

“Vincent sent her.”

“Damn.” A long pause. “Her name?”

“Angela, that's all. Not her real name.”

“Obviously. Vital statistics?”

“Mid-twenties, five feet two inches, one hundred pounds, brown eyes, fair complexion, originally a blonde.”

“Armed?”

“A .22 Walther semiautomatic.”

“Huh. Child's toy. ID?”

“Nothing.”

“She must have something.”

“There was nothing,” he insisted. “I checked her suitcase — the lining, hair-spray canister, hairbrush, shoe soles, everything. Plenty of cash but no ID. She has an accent. I can't quite place it. Northern maybe. Boston.”

“A professional?”

“I don't think so. She doesn't seem to know much.”

“Given the company J.T. generally keeps, she's probably an ax murderer who hacked up her husband and children.”

“What should I do?”

A frustrated sigh. “He's back in business?”

“She's here, isn't she?”

“Damn him. Never mind, I'll take care of it. You just hold tight.”

“All right.”

“You did the right thing by calling.”

“Thank you. How… how is he?”

The silence stretched out. “He's dying. He's in a lot of pain. He wants to know why his son isn't here.”

“Does he ask for me?”

“No, but don't worry. He doesn't ask for me either. All he's ever cared about was J.T.”

“Of course.” His voice was appropriately apologetic. He'd given his loyalty to a hard man a long time ago. His loyalty had never wavered; over the years he'd simply grown accustomed to his place. “I'll call you if anything changes.”

“You do that.”

“Good night.”

“Yeah. Good night.”

He cradled the phone carefully. It didn't matter. The overhead light snapped on.

He turned slowly. J.T. lounged against the doorjamb. His arms were crossed over his bare chest. His eyes were bloodshot, but they were also intent.

“Freddie, I believe it's time we talked.”

TESS WILLIAMS AWOKE as she'd learned to awaken — slowly, degree by degree, so that she reached consciousness without ever giving herself away. First her ears woke up, seeking out the sound of another person breathing. Next her skin prickled to life, searching for the burning length of her husband's body pressed against her back. Finally, when her ears registered no sound and her skin found her alone in her bed, her eyes opened, going automatically to the closet and checking the small wooden chair she'd jammed beneath the doorknob in the middle of the night.

The chair was still in place. She released the breath she'd been holding and sat up. The empty room was already bright with midmorning sun, the adobe walls golden and cheery. The air was hot. Her T-shirt stuck to her back, but maybe the sweat came from nightmares that never quite went away. She'd once liked mornings. They were difficult for her now, but not as difficult as night, when she would lie there and try to force her eyes to give up their vigilant search of shadows in favor of sleep.

You made it
, she told herself.
You actually made it
.

For the last two years she'd been running, clutching her four-year-old daughter's hand and trying to convince Samantha that everything would be all right. She'd picked up aliases like decorative accessories and new addresses like spare parts. But she'd never really escaped. Late at night she would sit at the edge of her daughter's bed, stroking Samantha's golden hair, and stare at the closet with fatalistic eyes.

She knew what kind of monsters hid in the closet. She had seen the crime scene photos of what they could do. Three weeks ago her personal monster had broken out of a maximum security prison by beating two guards to death in under two minutes.