by Tami Hoag
“Megan?” he called, pounding on the heavy old door. “Megan, it's Mitch! Let me in!”
Nothing.
If her car is here and she isn't, then where the hell is she?
“Megan?” He knocked again, tried the knob, found it locked. “Shit,” he muttered, stepping back. “You're too damn old for this, Holt.”
He took a deep breath and did it anyway. Thank God she hadn't thrown the deadbolt. The door gave up on the third kick and swung inward.
“Megan?” Mitch called, his gaze scanning the dark apartment.
The shades were drawn. What sun they had had in the morning had retreated behind a thick shroud of gray in the afternoon, leaving the apartment dimmer than twilight. The room was cold, as if the heat had been off for some time. His heart thumping, Mitch eased his Smith & Wesson out of his parka and pointed it at the ceiling. He moved slowly, silently, through the maze of boxes, walking on the balls of his feet, ready to jump.
His toe kicked a boot that had been abandoned. “Megan?”
Megan thought it was a hallucination. The banging, the voice. She was fading in and out of consciousness, in and out of reality. She wasn't certain the pounding wasn't inside her head—the pain. The pain took on dimensions beyond physical feeling. It became sound and light, an entity unlike any other, beyond description.
“Megan?”
But it never called her name. She was sure of that. The word ripped through her brain and she whimpered and tried to press her hands over her ears.
“Megan? Jesus!”
Mitch dodged a stack of boxes and dropped to his knees on the floor beside her. His hands shook violently as he reached for her.
“Honey, what happened? Who hurt you? Was it Fletcher?”
Megan tried to turn away from him. But he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her onto her back. The lamp at the end of the couch went on and she cried out.
“What is it?” Mitch demanded, leaning over her, pulling her hands aside as she tried to cover her eyes. “Where are you hurt, honey?”
“Migraine,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. “Turn off the fucking light and go away.”
The light went out, allowing her to breathe again. Weakness trembling through her, she turned onto her side again and pulled her knees up to her chest.
Mitch had never seen anyone in this much agony who wasn't bleeding profusely from a bullet hole or knife wound. He would never have imagined a headache severe enough to knock someone to the ground.
“Should I take you to the hospital?”
“No.”
“What can I do, honey?” he murmured, bending close.
“Stop calling me honey and go away.” Her pride didn't want him to see her like this—weak, vulnerable.
“The hell I'll leave,” Mitch growled.
He scooped her up in his arms and stood. Megan curled against his chest, clenching a handful of his parka, willing herself to not throw up as he carried her out of the living room and down the hall.
He eased her down onto the bed and she sat there shaking, doubled over. He took off her coat, her cardigan and her shoulder holster, her turtleneck and her bra. Then he dressed her in an oversize flannel shirt that lay across the foot of the bed. She lay down and he set about stripping off her slacks and the .380 A.M.T. Back-Up she wore in a custom-made holster around her right ankle.
“Do you have medication to take?” he asked.
“In the medicine cabinet,” she whispered, trying to burrow into her pillow. “Imitrex. Don't talk so loud.”
He left and returned with the needle cartridge, then argued that he should take her to the hospital when she coached him on how to administer the injection.
“Megan, I can't give you a shot; I'm a cop, not a doctor.”
“You're a wimp. Shut up and do it.”
“What if I screw up?”
“It's subcutaneous; you can't screw up,” she said, swallowing back the nausea. “I'd do it myself, but my hands are shaking.”
Scowling ferociously, he pressed the cartridge against her bare arm, depressed the trigger button and counted to ten. Megan looked up at him from beneath half-lowered lids. He tossed the used cartridge in the wastebasket and gazed down at her.
“You're being nice to me again,” she muttered.
“Yeah, well, don't get used to it.” The words held no sting and the only thing in his touch as he brushed her hair back from her face was tenderness.
“Don't worry, I know better,” she whispered.
Mitch didn't know whether she was referring to her job or their relationship. He wasn't certain what they had could be called a relationship, but now was not the time to discuss it.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said softly. “I thought our nut case du jour had gotten ahold of you.”
“Who?” Megan asked, thoughts tipping and tumbling in her mind again.
“Fletcher flipped out and cracked Father Tom's head open with a candlestick. But then, you probably know how that feels.”
“Piece o' cake,” she mumbled. “Did you get him?”
“We will.” Mitch decided to save the rest of the Fletcher story for later. She was in no condition to hear about the case, especially when she had been taken off it. “Don't worry about it, O'Malley. You'll give yourself a headache.”
Megan thought she smiled a little, but she wasn't sure. Her brain kept shorting out as pain flashed like fire behind her eyes.
“You need to rest,” Mitch told her. “Is there anything more I can do?”
Strange that she should be stricken with shyness, she thought. What she wanted to ask wasn't intimate in the least. Just a service. But she felt so vulnerable. . . .
“Let my hair down?” She turned her face away from him, giving him access to her ponytail, at the same time avoiding his eyes.
Funny it should seem such a personal thing, Mitch thought as he slipped the bedraggled velvet bow from her dark hair and undid the rubber band. He had done the same for Jessie more times than he could count. Maybe that was part of it—that she seemed as defenseless as a child. That he was taking the role of protector. She had to hate it. She was so fiercely independent, so proud, and pain had reduced her to asking for help with something as simple as taking her hair down. An ironic cycle—that her vulnerability brought out a strength in him that ultimately made him vulnerable as well.
He sifted his fingers through the mahogany silk, spreading it out on the flower-sprigged pillow. His touch as light as a whisper, he massaged the back of her head and the tightly corded muscles in the back of her neck. Tears seeped between her lashes and she cried softly, but she didn't tell him to stop.
“You know, I never did this for Leo,” he said quietly, bending to kiss her cheek. “Try to get some sleep, sweetheart—can I call you sweetheart?”
“No.”
“Okay, hard case. I'll be in the next room if you need me.”
If you need me . . . Megan said nothing as he pulled the covers up around her shoulders, straightened, and turned to go. To leave her alone. Just her and her pain alone in a room that would never be home because she had blown her chance. Already it seemed colder, emptier, as if the place somehow knew she would be leaving.
. . . if you need me . . .
“Mitch?” She hated the weakness in her voice, the echoes from a long, lonely past, but God help her, she didn't want to be alone with those ghosts tonight.
He hunkered down beside the bed and squinted at her in the dusky light. She closed her eyes against the tears, ashamed to have him see them. “Hold me. Please.”
Mitch tightened his lips against the sudden wave of emotion. He touched a fingertip to the tip of her nose and forced words around the rock in his throat.
“Jeez, O'Malley,” he said teasingly. “I thought you'd never ask.”
He toed off his boots and settled in behind her, the old bed creaking and groaning beneath their combined weight. He tucked her back against him spoon-style. He slipped her hand
into his, and kissed her hair so softly she might not have felt it. And he listened to her breathing as she surrendered at last to sleep.
CHAPTER 33
* * *
DAY 10
7:24 P.M. -22° WINDCHILL FACTOR: -42°
Hannah, beyond fear, what are you feeling throughout this ordeal?”
Hannah breathed deeply, thought carefully, the same steps she had taken for each of the previous questions. She tried to block out the presence of the cameras and lights and focus completely on the concerned face of the woman seated across from her. That was how she thought of Katie Couric—as a woman, as a mother, not as a celebrity or a reporter.
“Confusion. Frustration,” she said. “I can't understand why this happened to us. I can't begin to comprehend it, and that's frustrating.”
“Do you feel this is some kind of personal attack or vendetta?”
Hannah looked down at her hands in her lap and the handkerchief she had twisted into a knot. “I don't want to think anyone I know could be capable of this kind of cruelty.”
Couric leaned ahead slightly in the small rose damask armchair. The NBC news crew had taken over the better part of the top floor of the Fontaine. An elegantly restored Victorian hotel in downtown Deer Lake, the Fontaine was furnished with antiques and reproductions. The crew had chosen the Rose Suite for the interview, partly for its size, partly for its beauty.
“Hannah, you were involved in an incident this morning at St. Elysius Catholic Church,” Katie Couric said carefully. “Father Tom McCoy was attacked by Albert Fletcher, the man who taught Josh in catechism and supervised him as an altar boy. Later this morning the police made a bizarre discovery at Mr. Fletcher's home—finding what they believe to be the body of his wife, who passed away several years ago. The authorities are now conducting an extensive manhunt for Albert Fletcher. Do you think he could have been involved with Josh's disappearance?”
“I was so stunned when it happened—the attack,” Hannah replied. “I'm still stunned. I would never have thought he could be violent, or we would never have trusted him with our son. That's part of the frustration. I saw this town as being safe. I saw the people in our lives as good people. Now all of that is shattered and it makes me angry and it makes me feel like I was naïve.”
“Does it make you more angry that you've been singled out when, as a physician, you've done so much for the people in Deer Lake?”
Deep breath, deep thought. She had been raised to do service for and give to people with no expectations for personal gain. The answer that came automatically brought guilt, but it was the honest answer and she gave it in a strained whisper. “Yes.”
Paul watched the interview on a portable television in his office and seethed with a jealousy he would never admit. Local stations weren't good enough for Hannah. She had to hold out for a network interview. She was probably breaking hearts across America with her tear-filled blue eyes and quiet voice. The camera loved her. She looked like an actress with her wavy golden hair pulled back loosely. Darryl Hannah as Hannah Garrison, devastated mother.
He poured himself a shot of scotch from the bottle he had taken out of his partner's office and sipped at it, grimacing. They said scotch was an acquired taste. Paul had every intention of acquiring it as quickly as possible. The burden of his life these days was just too much to deal with. Hannah was certainly no help. Christ, she had all but accused him of taking Josh! After everything he had done to aid in the search. So much for faith. So much for trust. So much for undying love.
So much for undying love.
He had called Karen to come and console him and she had told him no. Paul had gotten the impression Garrett had been within earshot, but the rejection still stung. He took another face-twisting swallow of scotch and scowled at the television screen.
Katie Couric was managing to look grave and perky at once. She tilted her head and squinted. “Different people react differently to this kind of trauma. Some find strength they never knew they had. Some find that while someone vital is gone from their lives, their relationships with the people around them deepen. Others find it difficult and painful to maintain those relationships. How would you say Josh's abduction has affected your personal relationships, Hannah? How has it affected your marriage?”
Hannah was silent for a moment. Her mouth pulled down at the corners. “It's been a terrible strain.”
“Do you think your husband blames you for that night?”
The blue eyes filled with glittering tears. “Yes.”
Couric's eyes glistened as well. Her voice softened. “You blame yourself, don't you?”
“Yes.” The camera held the close-up as Hannah fought for control. “I made a mistake that seemed so small—”
“But did you make a mistake at all, Hannah? You had someone call the rink to let them know you'd be late. What could you have done differently?”
“I could have had a back-up plan in place, an arrangement with someone I know and trust to pick Josh up if I couldn't. I could have coached Josh more on how to be safe. I could have helped the youth hockey program organize a formal plan to make sure all the children got home safely. I didn't do any of those things and now my son is gone. It never occurred to me I would need to take any of those measures. I was naïve. I could never have imagined the price I would have to pay for that.
“That's what I want other people to get out of this interview: that it took only one mistake at the wrong moment to change our lives forever. I don't want anyone else to have to go through what we're going through. If something I say can prevent that from happening, then I'll say it.”
“And yesterday, when your husband was asked to submit to being fingerprinted by the Deer Lake police, what did you think about that? Is there any question in your mind about your husband's involvement?”
Hannah lowered her eyes. “I can't believe Paul would do anything to harm our son.”
She said it stiffly, as if it were a rule she had been forced to adopt whether she believed it or not. The bitch. Paul took another hit of scotch and fought the urge to belch it back up.
“Hannah, your husband has charged the law enforcement agencies involved with mishandling the case. Do you share his point of view?”
“No. I know they've done everything in their power. Some of the questions they've had to ask have been difficult, sometimes painful, but I've known Mitch Holt since the day he moved here with his daughter, and I know everything he's done on this case has been with one objective: to find Josh and bring his kidnapper to justice.”
Thank you, Hannah,” Mitch murmured.
He sat on Megan's couch, watching the nineteen-inch color set with rabbit ears that sat on a box across the living room. Beside him, the black and white cat lay like a lion, watching the television, too. The little gray cat was curled in his lap, asleep.
He had been on the phone every fifteen minutes, keeping in contact with his men. There was still no sign of Fletcher, and with the exception of patrol cars, the ground search was being pulled in because of the extreme cold. If the deacon was hiding where searchers could find him without a warrant, they wouldn't need to worry about his going anywhere—he would be as stiff and cold as old Doris by morning. Hourly calls to the state patrol kept Mitch informed of the lack of progress on their end of things. If Fletcher had somehow managed to escape Deer Lake in a car, no one had seen him on the Minnesota highways.
Not being out in the field beating the bushes for Fletcher himself ate at him. He knew he wouldn't be able to do anything more than what was already being done. But the inactivity went against his street-cop nature. And now that the old instincts had been reawakened, he could feel that old restless edginess coming back to life.
He had left Megan sleeping deeply, and he hoped for her sake she would sleep through the night. It still shook him to think of the pain she had been in . . . and the way it had affected him. He had wanted to care for her, to soothe her, to protect her. He wanted to fight for her, for her job—
the thing that meant so much to her, more than him, more than anything. Those individual components added up to something he didn't feel prepared for.
He stared down at his hand on the back of the gray cat, at the ring. He could still hear the bitter hurt in Megan's voice—“My God, you didn't even bother to take off your wedding ring when you took me to bed!” And he could still feel the guilt, and knew that in a twisted way he had welcomed it.
God, was that really what he had reduced himself to? Emotional purgatory. And he had dragged Megan there with him. Whatever she wanted out of their relationship, she didn't deserve that.
Allison was gone. Forever. He might have prevented her death, but he couldn't resurrect her from it. How long did he go on paying? How long did he want to pay?
Life could change so quickly. In a snap. In the blink of an eye. In a heartbeat.
. . . it took only one mistake at the wrong moment to change our lives forever. Hannah's words echoed what he had known since that day in Miami, when he had been too tired to stop for milk on his way home. One second, one offhand decision, and the world spun off its axis like a top gone berserk.
So was it better to live a half-life and never again run the risk of that kind of pain, or better to grab what came along and live it to its fullest for as long as the fates allowed? He knew which was safer, which hurt less yet punished him more.
He looked at Hannah on the television screen, doing her best to be strong, to atone in her own way for the imagined mistake that had cost her so much. The pain had painted dark circles beneath her eyes and carved hollows beneath her elegant cheekbones. The stress had fractured her marriage. If she could, would she choose to avoid it all by never having had Josh in her life? Mitch thought he knew what her answer would be. He knew he wouldn't have traded his time with Allison and Kyle for anything. Not even peace.