Hero for Hire

by Marie Ferrarella

  "I know. I… I just don't want to be alone tonight." She ran her hand along the doorjamb, trying to still the nerves that had been jumping around these past two days. "Maybe this sounds foolish to you, but I feel better when you're around. I feel that this nightmare will be over soon."

  No one had ever said that to him before. He tried not to make too much of it. She was under stress and he was a realist. Optimism came at a high premium, one that he usually wasn't up to paying.

  But he found himself agreeing to her request. "I suppose I can be your rabbit's foot for the night. I just need to stop by my place and get a few things after I drop off the tape."

  She nodded, placing her hand on the door to close it. He was halfway down the walk when she called after him. "Chad." When he turned, she seemed to flush ruefully. The softest smile he'd ever seen graced her lips. "Thank you."

  "Don't mention it."

  He was a man comprised of instincts, of hunches and gut feelings, and right now, all three were warning him that he was venturing into dangerous territory. Territory that was completely unfamiliar to him. If he had any sense, he'd back away and stick with what he knew. Finding kids, getting the job done. Not holding someone's hand through the night. He wasn't good at that, wasn't meant for that. Relationships, any kind of relationships, meant opening yourself up. Making yourself vulnerable. Waiting to be disappointed. He sighed.

  He was making something out of nothing. The woman was afraid and with good reason. If staying the night with her, if talking and figuratively holding her hand helped her through it, then he would stay the night. She was going through hell, and it was the least he could do for her. He figured that was the end of it.

  Chapter 11

  He was being watched.

  It wasn't anything Chad had detected out of the corner of his eye or in his rearview mirror. No suspicious vehicle tailing him, no glimpse of someone hiding in a doorway to set him off. But it was still there, that feeling. A strange prickling at the back of his neck, a tension in his spine that experience had taught him was his sixth sense.

  Someone was watching him. The question was who and why.

  He doubted it had been for very long. The feeling had kicked in just a few seconds ago. He was pretty sure whoever it was hadn't followed him from Veronica's. After all, he hadn't gone directly home. Stopping at the agency, he'd found that Savannah had gone home for the night. She'd left a note addressed to him saying she'd get in touch the moment there was anything to report. But Rusty was still there. The tape he'd left with his younger brother was as yet a work in progress, but Rusty had managed to uncover the faint sound of children laughing in the background.

  "Might just be a TV on in the room," Rusty told him.

  "Or the kids we saw playing in the park," Chad had speculated out loud.

  Rusty nodded, getting back to the program he was painstakingly employing. "Or maybe something else," he threw in.

  It was the "something else" that nagged at Chad as he drove to his apartment.

  Just as the feeling of being watched nagged at him now. The stairs leading to his third-floor loft were out in the open with a view of the carport where he'd parked his vehicle. Chad took the steps slowly, thumbing through the flyers he'd gotten out of his mailbox as if they rabidly held his attention. Giving whoever was watching him the impression he was preoccupied.

  When he reached the landing, Chad abruptly turned around.

  And saw someone he'd just as soon forget standing at the base of the cement steps.

  The figure was thinner, the shoulders slightly stooped now, instead of thrown back in arrogant pride. The face bore the mark of every one of the twenty years that separated then from now.

  His father stood looking up at him.

  Chad swallowed an oath. His first thought was that Rusty had given their father his address, but he knew Rusty wouldn't have, knowing how he felt. Neither would Megan. It didn't matter how Jerome Andreini had found out where Chad lived, he was here. And Chad didn't want him to be.

  "What are you doing here?" The question with its dangerous edge was spoken barely above a whisper.

  The older man flinched at the coldness that encircled each word. He licked his lips nervously, climbing a couple of steps. Still gripping the handrail, he stopped and looked up again.

  "I came to see you. I thought maybe Russell didn't tell you I was looking for you."

  "He told me." Chad made no move to unlock the door, wanting nothing to be misconstrued as a silent invitation. "And his name's Rusty. Everyone calls him that." His eyes narrowed in contempt. "But you wouldn't know that, would you? You didn't stay around long enough to learn anything about him."

  Jerome licked his lips again, his breathing growing more shallow. "The divorce—"

  "The kidnapping," Chad corrected coldly. "Whatever you didn't find out about your other kids was because of the kidnapping, not the divorce.'' The anger he was trying to keep in check simmered close to the surface. "Can't exactly stick around and be a father to them after kidnapping the oldest, now can you?"

  Bending even further under the contempt he sensed, the elder Andreini climbed the remainder of the steps, coming to stand before his son. Almost as tall, he gave the impression of being smaller. The years had not been kind. He began to reach out for Chad, then seemed to think better of it.

  "The state's said I paid my debt."

  No, he wasn't going to be taken in, Chad swore. In his day, Jerome Andreini had been considered a charmer. Able to get what he wanted by his gift of gab and his attractive packaging. There was no evidence of that man now, but Chad had no doubt that, given the opportunity, the silver tongue would at least partially return.

  He could go practice on someone else. There were no feelings worth saving between them.

  "Well, the state's a little more forgiving than I am." His father opened his mouth to say something, but Chad didn't want to hear it. "The state didn't lose two years of their life, didn't accidentally come back to the 'scene of the crime' without knowing it to see their mother so messed up she was on the verge of being institutionalized, now did they?"

  The once bright blue eyes, so like his own, darted toward the door behind him. "Chad, please, can't we go inside?"

  Chad hesitated. Then, biting off a curse, knowing he should just walk in and slam the door on this stranger with the same last name as his, Chad unlocked his door and left it open as he stormed inside.

  He told himself he didn't want the neighbors listening to their private conversation.

  Pushing the door shut again, Chad glared at the man who had both given him life and then destroyed a good part of it by what he'd done, not only to him but to the rest of his family. "Well?"

  Jerome's breathing became more rapid, more labored. Perspiration popped out on his brow. Chad was moved by none of it.

  "I never meant to hurt you, Chad. I…" Lost for words, for coherent thought, the man searched for both. "Divorce is an ugly thing. Your mother should never have left me. Never taken all of you away from me. I was trying to change, but she wouldn't stand by me." The excuses fell lamely from his lips, lips that had once been able to spin fanciful stories, trapping the listener. "It was your mother I was trying to get back at."

  "Well, congratulations, you succeeded. And got two for one along with it. Quite a bargain." Chad shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly seized with the desire to throttle the man who had caused everyone such grief. "Not hurt me?" he repeated incredulously, staring at his father in utter wonder. "Not hurt me? What the hell did you think telling me that my mother, my little brother and sister had been killed in a car accident was going to do to me? Make me snap my fingers and say, 'Oh well, we can always get another family any time we want one'? Your little fantasy ripped the heart out of me!" he shouted.

  Chad wrestled with the desire to throw his father out. Frustrated, he dragged his hand through his hair. He had some things to throw together if he was going to keep his promise to Veronica. "What the hell are
you doing here, anyway?"

  Jerome's voice quavered slightly, then grew stronger as he made his request. "I came to ask you to forgive me."

  Chad stared at him. The man had to be kidding. After what he'd done? Crossing to the door, he opened it again. "Okay, you asked. The answer's no. Now get the hell out of my apartment."

  Jerome made no move to leave. "Chad, I need to have you forgive me." In a desperate gesture he grabbed Chad's arm. "Please."

  Disgusted, wanting to feel nothing but contempt, instead of the beginnings of pity, Chad yanked his arm away. His father stumbled backward, clutching his chest. A gurgling sound came out of his mouth as he stared at Chad, wide-eyed. (Chad glared at him. He wasn't about to be taken in by any theatrics. He'd seen and heard too many of them in the two and a half years he'd been separated from the rest of his family. Promises made by his father as he swore off alcohol. Promises made to turn into something other than a weekend drunk who became mean at the first buzz. Promises as empty as the cans of beer that piled up on the living-room floor.

  Chad waved a dismissive hand at his father. "Save the dramatics. They don't work on me anymore."

  But when he looked, his father was still holding his chest, what little color there'd been in his pasty face draining. The next moment Jerome Andreini crumpled to the floor.

  Now what?

  Chad bent over his father, instinctively inhaling, checking for the smell of alcohol. There was none, but that didn't mean he wasn't intoxicated. Chad shook his father's shoulder impatiently.

  "Get up, old man."

  But the watery eyes didn't open. The breathing continued to be labored. With his forefinger and thumb, Chad opened one eye and saw the pupil was unfocused. His father had lost consciousness.

  "Damn."

  On his knees beside his father now, Chad felt for a pulse at the side of the man's neck. It was barely perceptible. Working quickly, he tried to remember the correct order of things from the CPR class he'd taken more years ago than he could recall. Hands on top of one another on his father's chest, Chad counted out the beats, pressing on each one. On five, he blew into his father's mouth. Nothing happened.

  Annoyed at the edge of fear that began to scrape along his nerves, Chad repeated the procedure. Still nothing. "C'mon, old man, open your eyes. You're not doing this. You're not dying on my floor tonight."

  Five minutes ticked by before his father came around and opened his eyes. His breathing still labored, he tried to apologize. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

  "Save your breath." It astonished Chad how easily he could pick his father up and place the man on the sofa. Taking his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed 911.

  Finished, he tucked away the phone, then looked at his father, discomfort pushing its way forward. "I think you might have had a minor heart attack."

  The older man seemed to be fading into the sofa's cushions, the very personification of exhaustion. A spidery hand that had once been so powerful covered his chest as if the gesture was entirely new to him.

  "The old ticker don't work as well as it used to. That's why they let me out earlier." An ironic smile moved the corners of his mouth. "That, and good behavior." He tried to raise himself on his elbow to look at Chad, but failed. "I'm dying, Chad."

  He'd just about had it with the tricks, the deceit. "What are you talking about?"

  Jerome seemed to struggle to get his thoughts together. "Docs gave me six months. Maybe eight for good behavior." He smiled thinly. "That's why I've got to make amends." He reached for his son again, not making contact. "Make you forgive me."

  It was a trick, another ploy by a man who was the master of deceit. Chad wasn't about to be taken in by it. There might be a sucker born every minute, but he'd done his time.

  "Lie still. The ambulance'll be here in a few minutes," was all Chad could make himself say. Absolution wasn't within his power to give. Not with all the anger that was still in the way.

  Because he called her, Megan came quickly, alerted by the tone of her older brother's voice before he'd even explained the reason for his call. She arrived at Harris Memorial Hospital ahead of Rusty. Her husband, Garrett, had wanted to come with her, but instinct told her this was something best kept simple for the time being. Chad was the one she was worried about, and she knew he would want the number of witnesses until this was sorted out kept to a minimum.

  "They say it's his heart," Chad told her by way of a greeting.

  "I know."

  Their eyes met for a minute. She'd been his best friend when they were children, though he wouldn't have admitted it then. He'd taken her "death" particularly hard. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Megan touched his face, wishing she could somehow press peace into his soul. "I figured he would once he found you. I didn't want you having extra baggage getting in your way. You've still got enough."

  He saw Rusty walking toward them. "Look, I'm on that case…"

  Megan understood. She nodded, her smile encouraging. "Take off. Rusty and I can hold down the fort, do whatever needs doing. No sense in you taking up space here." She touched his arm. "Go take up space somewhere else. I'll call you if there's a reason."

  He should have left then, but he lingered a moment longer until Rusty joined them. "Call me to let me know," he instructed.

  Megan nodded.

  "You look terrible."

  Veronica stepped back, opening the door wider. The man she had first seen at ChildFinders had been austere, formidable in his bearing and his presence. While still that, the man on her doorstep now looked drawn and just the slightest bit shaken.

  "Bad evening," was all Chad said as he walked in.

  He still wasn't entirely certain what he was doing here, even if she had asked him to come. Part of him felt it wasn't a good idea. Still, something inside him was glad he had promised to come by. He wasn't sure if he could handle being alone with his thoughts right now. Or even what his thoughts were.

  By all rights, he knew he should hate his father, hate what the man had done without regard to the repercussions. But the image of the man, old beyond his years, lying on his sofa clutching his chest, had taken the bite out of his hatred, leaving him with feelings he needed to sort out.

  But not now, not tonight.

  Closing the door behind him, Veronica tried to make sense out of his expression. She was almost afraid to ask, but she'd never been one who didn't face up to things, no matter what they were.

  She caught his arm as he passed her. Chad looked at her questioningly. "Is it about Casey?" she asked.

  Realizing belatedly how she would take his tense comment about his evening, he cursed himself for frightening her. "No. Nothing new. Rusty still has some cleaning up to do on the tape we got of your conversation with the kidnapper, but he thinks there might be kids in the background."

  "Kids?" She tried to process the information, making sense of it. "You mean Casey might not be the only child that was kidnapped?"

  With so much going on, that angle hadn't occurred to him. But now that she mentioned it, he doubted it. "No. Rusty played it for me. It sounds like kids laughing in the background."

  She looked at him, remembering. "The park." Did that mean that Casey had been there, close by, all the time? She stopped before she could torture herself any further.

  "Maybe, but I don't think so. We'll know more in the morning." Maybe, he added silently. If Rusty had time to get back to the office. If something didn't happen to their father between now and then.

  She showed him to the guest room. He set down the change of clothing he'd shoved into a gym bag before following the ambulance.

  Veronica glanced down at the gym bag and wondered if he was just Bohemian or if he didn't own a suitcase.

  "Are you hungry?" It took him a minute to process her question. "Angela made a pot roast. She said you looked like the meat-and-potatoes type."

  Meat and potatoes. No frills. What you saw was what you got. But not what there was, he thought. Because there were
rivers of pain that could never be reached, never banked down. Seeing his father tonight had only reinforced that.

  He shrugged carelessly at the assessment. "I guess maybe I am."

  Veronica led the way down the stairs again, into the kitchen.

  "No, I don't think you are," she said, taking the roast out of the oven where the housekeeper had left it warming. To her surprise, Chad took the roast from her. She indicated the dining room. Chad placed it on the table, set for two. "I think that's far too uncomplicated an observation." She paused to smile at him as he held her chair out for her, impressed again by manners that society had all but mandated out of existence. "I think you're a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle."

  Chad picked up the carving knife left on the table and began to slice the roast. He offered the first slices to Veronica. "With some of the pieces missing?"

  She pushed her plate toward him for easier access. "Not permanently, just long enough to defy labeling." There was a bottle of red wine standing between them. Angela apparently had second-guessed everything to perfection. "Wine?" Veronica glanced at the writing on the label. "They say this was a good year."

  Having served himself some roast, he uncorked the bottle of wine and poured a glass for her. "Any year's a good one if you survive it," he said philosophically.

  She watched him set the bottle down. "Aren't you going to have any?"

  He shook his head. "No, I want a clear head in case our kidnapper decides he misses us and wants to chat." He didn't add that he almost never drank because his father had.

  She knew she shouldn't have any, either. But the tension that gripped her body despite her attempts to relax threatened to snap it in two.

  Because she seemed to want to talk, he let her dominate the conversation at dinner, commenting only when it was absolutely necessary. It was all small talk, and he understood that she needed to fill the air with it, to keep her thoughts at bay.

  She surprised him by doing the dishes. After they were washed and put away, she moved to the living room. He followed, bringing her unfinished glass of wine and placing it on the coffee table.