The Perfect Husband (33 page)

“Oh, shit.” For a change, Marion's voice was soft. Her shock sounded genuine.

“I think he has Sam stashed with some friend,” J.T. said quietly, “but Tess can't think of anyone. The FBI are the ones who've been tapping phones and handling surveillance. Maybe there's something there that will tell us where he's gone, who might be helping him.”

“Maybe.” She was silent for a moment. “Why come to me, J.T.? Why not just contact the special agent in charge? I could get you a name if you want.”

“Is that what you want me to do, Marion? Contact the SAC?”

This time the period of silence was long. He forgot about his cigarette until it burned down far enough to singe his fingers.

“I'll come,” she said abruptly. “Where are you?”

“Outside of Springfield in a motel.” He rattled off the phone number, careful to keep his voice neutral.

He wasn't sure how to feel yet. Or if he should feel anything. “Ah… give us a call when you land at Logan. I'll give you directions from there.”

“The shuttle flights are steady. I imagine I can be there by midday.”

“All right.”

He waited for her to say good-bye and hang up the phone. Or say she remembered something, maybe the good times. The hot summers they'd spent perfecting cannonballs into the swimming pool, or early evenings when he would watch her ride, thinking she must be the most graceful girl in the world to sit so perfectly on that huge horse.

She said abruptly, “Daddy's dead.”

“Okay.”

“The funeral will be next Friday. He's being laid to rest in Arlington with full military honors.”

“Huh.”

“Will you come, J.T.?”

“No.”

“You're hatred is that pure, then?”

“Isn't yours, Merry Berry?”

She hung up the phone and dial tone filled his ear.

HE INTERRUPTED HER shower. She halted, her hands shampooing her hair, her gaze questioning. He took in the sight of her body covered delicately with soapsuds. Her arms had freshly defined muscles, her legs too. He couldn't really remember what she'd looked like that first day anymore. He just saw her now and she was beautiful to him.

His gaze rested on the harsh red line encircling her neck. The ligature line from the plastic bag.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was husky, uncertain.

“Looking for someone to scrub my back.”

“What makes you think I'd do a thing like that?”

“I'm an invalid. You'll help me.” He pulled the shower curtain all the way back, unmindful of the hot water that sprinkled his chest. He placed his right hand on his fly and rapidly undid the buttons.

She remained standing beneath the shower spray, openmouthed and watching as he stripped. He joined her in the tub, his legs cradling hers.

Without asking, he took the soap from her hands. He ran it over her breasts, her flat belly. He felt her skin quiver beneath his touch. Wordlessly he brought the soap up and slid it over the red welt encircling her neck, as if he could erase it. As if any man had that kind of power. Christ, he wanted it. He wanted to make the world better for her, he wanted to give her everything he hadn't been able to give Marion, everything he hadn't been able to give Rachel and Teddy. He'd failed so many times. It scared him to death to try, and scared him even more to leave Tess alone at the mercy of a man like Jim Beckett.

His fingers massaged the red line again. He thought that when he saw Jim Beckett next, Beckett's death would be painful and a long time coming.

Goddammit, let me keep one person safe. Let me help Tess, let me help Samantha. Let me stand up at the plate and finally be a man.

She said quietly, “You called her, didn't you?”

His thumb brushed again, slow, his silence answering for him.

“J.T., I'm proud of you.”

“I don't need you to be proud of me.” He let the soap go. He looked into her eyes, searching for something he was too afraid to put into words. Her eyes were so large and so clear. Trusting. God help him. God help her.

His fingers slid into the brown thistledown of her curls and found her. She was moist, hot, ready. She arched into him, her hands digging into his shoulders. She whispered his name; the sound alone toppled his control.

She gave him hope. And maybe something more.

She pressed her forehead against his chest as his fingers started to move. “I know,” she whispered against his skin, “but I'm proud of you anyway.”

“I WANT MOMMY.”

“I know.” He touched her blond hair lightly where it pooled over the plain white pillowcase. She sank deeper into the pillow, not quite cringing but not quite wanting the contact. After the first big shock of seeing him, she had become worried and anxious. She didn't fight him, but she didn't cling to his hand the way she used to. He accepted that. It had been two years since she'd last seen him, and he hardly looked like his old self.

He continued smoothly. “As I told you, Mommy's not coming back.”

Sam's lower lip jutted out. Blue eyes became liquid. “But she
promised
!”

He didn't respond to the whine in her voice. If you reward such behavior with attention, the child never learns. Instead, he said bluntly, “Theresa lied to you, Sam.”

“Mommy wouldn't do that!”

“Yes, she would. She told you I would never come back, correct?” Samantha nodded miserably. “She lied, Sam. She lied, but it's okay, because I'm here for you now.”

She cried a little, as if that would refute his words. He remained sitting there patiently. Finally she wiped the moisture from her face, then sighed with a little girl's broken heart. He didn't console her or hold her. He just waited. Within a few weeks Theresa's image would begin to fade in Sam's mind, within a few months her mother would seem like a distant shadow, and within a few years Theresa wouldn't be recalled at all. Starting over again tabula rasa was the glory — the privilege — of youth.

When Samantha was tearless and composed once more, he tucked the covers beneath her chin and patted her shoulder. “I have a surprise for you,” he said lightly, giving her a reward for handling her new circumstances so well.

“A surprise?” She mused over the matter for a bit. “Is it
Toy Story
?”

Her eyes were so bright, he felt a pang of regret that he hadn't thought to buy her the movie. He didn't have time to attend to such things now. Last night's unfortunate rendezvous with Theresa had already added days he couldn't afford to his master plan. Also, beneath his long-sleeved black turtleneck, his shoulder throbbed from the bullet wound. He moved stiffly and resented it fiercely.

“It's not
Toy Story
,” he said, his voice tighter.

Samantha cringed and he forced himself to smile. He'd forgotten just how sensitive children could be. The minute he relaxed, so did she. Her eyes grew contemplative once more.

“Did… did…” Her face grew very bright. “Did you get me a new brother or sister?”

In spite of himself, Jim blinked his eyes in shock. “No,” he said slowly. “Has Mommy talked about getting you a new brother or sister?”

Sam shook her head glumly. “No, but I've always wanted one.”

He smiled, and for a change the gesture was genuine on his face. From the moment he'd first seen Samantha nestled against Theresa's breast, he'd been enraptured by his daughter. She was half him, half his genes. He could see himself in her bright blue eyes. Already she showed promise of great intelligence and great resilience. Even as a baby she hadn't cried as much as other babies cried. She was better than all that. Sweet, genuine, and strong. She was the better part of him.

“Daddy,” she demanded, impatient now.

That made his smile grow. He was pleased that she'd called him Daddy. “It's better than a brother or sister. I got you a new grandma.”

“Grandma? You mean Grandma Matthews is here?” She looked very puzzled.

“No, a new grandma. Now you have two.”

She slowly nodded. “
Two
grandmas. When do I get her?”

“In the morning.” He brushed back her hair. “I have to go away for a while, but you'll meet your grandma when you wake up. She's tall and heavy, and speaks with a light accent I'm sure you'll find funny. Do what she says, Sam. She'll take good care of you.”

Sam didn't look convinced.

His thumb brushed her cheek. “Do you trust me, Sammy?”

More slowly this time, she nodded.

“Good. I'll take care of everything. In just a few days I'll be back. And then we're going to leave. I think we'll go someplace very warm, what do you think of that?”

“Will Mommy come with us?” she whispered.

“No.”

“Grandma and Grandpa Matthews?”

“No.”

“The… the new grandma?”

His eyes grew unreadable. “Maybe,” he said at last. “I haven't decided yet.”

EDITH HAD JUST sat down on her patio with her morning cup of tea and a wool blanket, when Martha's front door opened. For a moment Edith was startled. It was still dark out; Edith had always been an early riser, and these days her insomnia had her up before even the sun. In the first hours of dawn the air in the community was almost normal again, almost peaceful.

But the door opened, and the air was shattered. Edith felt goose bumps rise on the back of her neck. She clutched her warm mug tighter.

Martha stepped out and looked at her from across the way.

There was tension between them. It had been growing ever since Martha's return, taking shape and substance from the myriad small lies that had inexplicably fallen from their lips. It had gained permanence yesterday, when Martha had simply disappeared. Edith had gone over for their nightly cigar and found the house empty. Just empty. Martha didn't owe her an explanation, of course. The woman was responsible for her own life, but the mysterious absence, the undefined disappearance, had dealt the final blow to the fragile friendship between them.

It made Edith think of just how little she knew Martha, just how little the woman spoke of herself. She'd moved into the neighborhood two years earlier, been around for a bit, then hightailed it to Florida with barely a by-your-leave. The phone calls in between had made the absence less conspicuous, but Edith was paying attention now. She was realizing she really didn't know her neighbor at all.

Martha stepped off her patio and crossed to Edith's yard.

Abruptly the hair rose on Edith's arms. The air howled around her ears. She knew without turning that the visions were back, the poor, tortured girls hovering around her patio as if there was something important they had to tell her but death had robbed them of their voices.

The tea mug trembled violently in her grasp, splashing her hands with scalding hot liquid.

“Edith,” Martha said, coming to a halt at the bottom of the steps.

Edith didn't say anything. She just looked at her neighbor.

This close, she could see the subtle changes. Martha's eyes were now dulled by exhaustion and strain. She moved differently too. She walked stiffly, as if her age had caught up to her suddenly and now weighed on her heavily.

“Martha,” Edith acknowledged at last.

“I apologize for intruding.”

“No need.”

Martha squared her shoulders. “I have a visitor,” she announced. Her gaze met Edith's. It was a touch defiant.

“A visitor?” The hair still danced up Edith's arms with wild electricity. Her chest was beginning to tighten with a familiar pain.

“My granddaughter.”

“You have a granddaughter?”

“From the boy. The salesman who travels.”

“I see.”

“I had to meet him, unexpectedly. Something came up; he needs me to watch my granddaughter.”

“Uh-huh.”

Martha looked at her again. In this dark moment before dawn, her gaze appeared flat, as if she were dead. “Will you meet her this morning?”

Edith wasn't certain. Finally she nodded. “If you'd like.”

“If… if something should happen to me, will you take care of her, Edith? I would trust you with her.”

Again there was that stare. That only-half-alive gaze. There was no pleading in Martha's voice, not even fear. It was strangely matter-of-fact, and that scared Edith more.

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “I suppose. But I'll need the address and phone number of your son.”

Martha shrugged. She said, “Don't worry. He'll find you.”

THEY MET AT a small diner, one of those places where people bring their children because the ice cream sundaes are better than the hamburgers, and senior citizens laid claim to corner booths to enjoy the “two eggs, two strips of bacon, two pieces of toast for $2.22 special.”

Against an unlikely backdrop of a swirling sea of red and blue floral carpet, Marion perched on the edge of a brown vinyl booth and waited impatiently for her brother and Tess to arrive.

One long, slim leg was carefully crossed over the other. Her back was ramrod straight. She hadn't dressed for her surroundings, but had donned a navy blue pants suit trimmed with gold braid around the cuffs and collar. The outfit inspired enough awe to halt a two-year-old, who stared up at her icy, perfect posture as if maybe he should salute. Even her hair was obedient, pulled back harshly into its usual French twist with not a single strand escaping to curl delicately around her cheeks.

She glanced down at the toddler, her blue eyes cold and impenetrable. With a startled squeal he bolted on stubby legs. Marion simply raised her cigarette to her pale pink lips and inhaled.

“Scaring off another admirer, I see,” J.T. drawled, walking across the restaurant to her with Tess in tow. A moment later he leaned against the booth, hip thrust out. A homemade sling decorated his arm.

She exhaled into his face. “It's a gift.” She looked at him steadily, waiting to see who would draw first blood.

Tess positioned herself between brother and sister. Marion flicked her a cold glance. “And you're playing ref?”

“Apparently,” Tess said, but didn't sound happy about it. She had just started sliding into the booth, when Marion shook her head.

“Not here. Too public.”