He turned away from her, facing the coffeemaker. Though the contents were now four hours stale, the coffee was at least hot. He would need the caffeine.
"Joe?"
Dios, just say it. "Hernández did not call."
There, no lie. At least not an outright one. The man had texted him while she slept.
Evidently the precaution of averting his gaze had not been enough, for she pulled away from the counter so that she could touch his arm. "Is everything okay?"
Best to go with it. As much as he could.
He sighed as he turned back. "Concerning Hernández—I must ask you not to be alone with this man again. Also, you must promise to bring backup to his home. Even when others are present."
As expected, she stiffened. "Haven't we been through this?"
They had. She simply had refused to listen.
But she must. It was that important.
He reached for her. But she evaded his hand, deftly escaping to the opposite side of the kitchen. She turned her back on him, reaching into the cupboard beside the refrigerator to retrieve one of the blue-and-white speckled mugs.
"Please, you must—"
The mug slammed down onto the counter.
Fortunately, it was solid and did not shatter. However, that the hold on her temper had shattered was obvious as she spun about. "That's where you're wrong. I don't have to do squat. This is my case, Agent Cortez. Remember? Other than the border runs, it doesn't have a blessed thing to do with you, so give it up!"
"Teresa—"
"No. Damn it, I know you asked for time. But, frankly, I'm getting tired of giving it. What's gotten into you? You've been moody and dictatorial for weeks. But lately? Ever since Eddie's blasted file landed on my desk, you've gone completely Neanderthal." She whirled back to the refrigerator, wrenching the door open in order to grab the carton of cream from the uppermost shelf before she slammed it shut again. "I swear to God, Joe, it's almost as if—"
Nothing.
He waited for her to continue, but she did not. Her back to him, she simply stood. Silent.
Why?
He stepped forward, and promptly wished he had not—for she was staring. At the calendar. She did not turn, nor even move.
It mattered not.
For even in profile, he could see the shock and dismay as it slid swiftly into her gaze before consuming it. For a full ten seconds he prayed harder than he had ever prayed in his life—but when the horror entered her eyes, he ceased.
There was no longer any need.
She knew.
6
Tess counted off the numbered squares no one had bothered to mark through even through June was half over.
Father's Day.
Impossible. Surely, Joe would have said something? Anything. Given her some clue, some hint of what he was going through—and the cause.
Guilt knocked into her like the steel hammer on her backup Barretta. Why? Because Joe had said something. Hell, he'd been screaming it. Silently. Alone.
For weeks now.
He wasn't lying. He hadn't pulled away from her because of another woman, he'd simply pulled away. Now that she thought about it—now that the calendar had damn near slammed her face into it—it even made sense.
Joe had never hidden a woman from her before. If anything, he'd been almost perversely upfront about them, as well as his distinct preference for temporary, no-strings-attached, emotionless, marriage-will-never-ever-come-of-this sex.
His aunt, his uncle, his brothers. His hobbies. Their previous careers, their current ones. They'd discussed it all over the years. Anything and everything under the sun was up for grabs. Not a single part of the man's life had ever been off limits to her.
Except one.
His parents. Their murders.
Could it be? Was it even possible?
She struggled to recall the few facts Joe had shared about his previous life in Mexico City. The one before his aunt and uncle had taken Joe and his brothers in to live with them in Houston. The boys hadn't even spoken English. Their father had been a police officer, their mother a homemaker. The couple had been murdered because their father had refused to turn a blind eye to the recent influx of drugs in the city. The boys hadn't come to the States until after their parents' deaths, when Joe was—
When Joe was twelve.
Tess jerked her gaze to the year.
It wasn't necessary.
Her brain had already done the math—and in the process solidified her suspicions. Twelve. If Joe had been twelve when his parents were murdered, then sometime this year was the twentieth anniversary of their deaths. And if his recent behavior was any indicator, the date was coming soon.
She gathered her strength along with her prayers and turned, staring directly into his eyes. Into the pain.
"When?"
He flinched.
Oh, God, she was right. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile down, even as she tried pushing the air back into her voice. But it still came out a whisper. "When?"
He stiffened and took a step back, pulling away yet again.
Oddly enough, this time it didn't even hurt. She didn't hurt. Not for herself.
She hurt for him.
But somehow, that made this new ache stab in deeper. She ignored the wound, tracking Joe slowly, deliberately, somehow finding the ability to ignore the swift twist of the knife as she watched the shadow of fear spread into his eyes.
"Teresa, I…do not know what—"
She reached up and pressed her fingers to his lips. "Please. You've never lied to me. Don't start now. Just answer the question. When did your parents die?"
He closed his eyes—and the knife stabbed all the way through.
She drew down on her breath. It didn't matter. Damn it, she couldn't let it matter. As much as this hurt her, the agony had to be worse for him.
So she waited.
He finally met her gaze, and sighed. "This Thursday."
Her air bled out. She was right about the anniversary. But was she right about the rest? She swallowed the last vestiges of the fear, anger and hurt that had eaten at her these past few months and pushed it. Pushed him. "And this mood of yours, this recent need to be alone? This sudden, irrational fear that I can't handle my own case? That's what this has really been about, isn't it?"
The shadow in his eyes darkened. "Not irrational. Eduardo Hernández is—"
"Not the man who murdered your parents. Joe, be reasonable. I realize this anniversary is hitting you hard. It has to be, because you've never reacted like this. But Eddie is nothing more than a common crook. We've dealt with his type before."
"I have dealt with his type. You have not."
"I beg your—"
"No. You wanted to know? Then you listen to me. Teresa, you work the white collar of the drug world. You know this. I do not say this to insult you, but to make you see reason. You arrest doctors, nurses, technicians—not the drug lords."
Despite the steel in his voice she succeeded in keeping hers calm, soothing. "Exactly. Listen to yourself. I arrest technicians. That's precisely what Eddie is. He might be Hispanic and, yes, he might even be running tar heroin across the border, but he isn't a Mexican drug lord. And he did not murder your parents."
Joe lurched forward—and this time, she stepped back. There was more than fear darkening his gaze now, more than pain. It was fury.
The edge of the counter bit into her back as he loomed over her, but she stood her ground. "You think I do not know this? I know full well this man did not murder my parents. Just as I know there is more to this Eddie than you seem willing to see. A mere technician? You think some medical ethic of his will stop him if he chooses to harm you? You yourself have heard the rumors of how he uses his strength, twists it to suit his vile intent. If you think that blade you carry can assure your safety against a man like that, you are being more than foolish. You are being arrogant."
"Damn it, Joe, I know how to take care of myself."
"
So did my father! Shall I tell you what happened to him? Shall I tell you how a man not that different from Señor Hernández came into my home while my father and my mother were dining? Shall I tell you how this man used my parents' own carving knife against them? Shall I tell you how he slashed my father's throat? Shall I tell you how wide and how deep the pool of blood that spilled around them spread? Shall I tell you how dark and sickly sweet it was? Will this convince you? Will it?"
Tess just stood there, rocked to her core.
She knew he expected a response, but she couldn't give it. Hell, she couldn't even move, let alone speak. It was all she could do to remain upright, trying to absorb the shock and the horror, the burning bile and the tears. Until somehow, she found the strength to swallow, to wipe her cheeks. And, eventually, to speak.
"My God, Joe. You were there."
This time, he didn't flinch. Nor did he retreat. He just stood there. Taut, unmoving. She wasn't even sure he was really seeing her. His eyes were too focused. On what, she didn't know.
Nor was she sure she wanted to.
And then, he sighed. A sigh so weary and heavy it seemed to have been bled from his soul. "Sí, I was there. I came home from school early that day. I had felt ill. A lot of good my presence served. My father was dead already and my m-mother—" His voice caught. Her heart nearly split in two as he closed his eyes and swallowed before trying to finish. But as his throat continued to work silently, it was obvious he couldn't.
The tears were back, blinding her.
She didn't bother wiping them.
She reached out and dried his instead. Then she was wrapping her arms around her friend, hauling him close and letting the fresh wave of hot salt bleed out over her skin as he buried his face into the curve of her neck. She clamped her arms about Joe's quaking chest as he anchored himself to her just as tightly. It seemed to help, because the sobs that racked him finally slowed, then eased altogether.
They both simply stood there, holding one another.
Eventually, he pulled back, cupped her cheek with fingers that still shook. "Tessa, I beg you. You must promise you will not seek out Hernández alone again. You know I speak the truth when I say I believe in my heart there is something else to this man that we do not yet know. And it is evil itself. I know—I have no proof. But why else would a man who believed me to be injecting you with drugs offer to triple my fee for just one crossing more?"
Joe was right. If anything, Eddie should have cut the fee. Addicts were notoriously unreliable. Yet he had raised it. Tripled it. Like a dealer in a high stakes poker game, he was taunting Joe with the prospect of even more money. Eddie knew they were supposedly desperate for cash—but what was his reason for keeping them on his hook? Unfortunately, the answer wouldn't change anything.
Least of all her decision, and Joe knew it.
His free hand came up too. He was cupping both of her cheeks now as he leaned down into her. "Your word. Please."
The husky plea tore another strip from her heart. She lost yet another as she felt his entire right hand tremble. She still shook her head. Slowly, regretfully. "I can't."
He nodded just as slowly, then straightened.
"Joe, it's my job. I have an obligation."
Another nod, this one stiff.
"Damn it, I took an oath. The same oath you took." Hell, he'd been right there beside her, swearing it along with her.
"I know this." Resignation and…something else. For the life of her, she couldn't place it. But whatever that was burning within those murky depths, it was frightening.
And then it was gone.
Had it been her imagination?
He glanced over her shoulder, toward the door to the apartment. "You should leave. Agent Daniels will be expecting you shortly."
"No, I'll just call him and—"
"Teresa, please. Go. I need…time. Alone."
He did. The horror lingered in his eyes, staining them black.
She reached out and took his hands in hers. "Are you sure? Because I can just—"
"I am certain."
"Okay." She squeezed his hands, the weight in her heart lifting slightly as he squeezed hers back. But when he tugged them to his mouth to brush his lips across her fingers, she frowned. "It's back."
He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Your allergy." She smoothed her fingers over the underside of his right forearm. The skin had already begun to chap and redden. If he was lucky, she'd caught the sporadic rash before it could spread. "I left a tube of cortisone cream in the medicine chest the last time I stayed here. I saw it earlier. I'll get it."
He sighed.
"It'll just take a second."
He shook his head, this scold much clearer than the last.
He was right. She was stalling.
"All right. But you promise you'll apply it when I leave?"
This time he didn't bother toning down his exasperation as he pulled his hands from hers, settling them over her shoulders as he turned her firmly about and nudged her across the kitchen. "Very well, I promise. Now, go. Meet your source, Agent Rowan; solve your case. And try to have a good time while you are doing it, sí?"
She nodded as they reached the door.
As did he.
So why did she have the feeling he wasn't going to listen to her any more than she was going to listen to him?
Joe closed the door to the apartment behind Teresa and sighed as he headed for the bathroom. He might as well apply the cream before he left. Perhaps acceding to Teresa's wishes would ease his guilt over sending her on her way—and out of his.
Unfortunately, the path to the apartment's sole bathroom took him to the bedroom door. He opened it quickly, careful to ignore the rumpled sheets upon the bed and the perilous thoughts they conjured. He breathed his relief as he escaped successfully into the bath, only to question the wisdom of his decision as he opened the medicine chest mounted beside the sink and faced the contents.
Birth control pills.
Though other female agents used the apartment, they were hers. He had seen the case in her own bath often enough. It did not help to know she took them not for prevention, but to regulate her cycle. The result was the same. Yet another reminder of what could not be. And worse, of where and to whom he had just sent her.
Gray Daniels.
As usual, he had not been able to resist the temptation to investigate the man. The results had been conclusive. Daniels was honest and well-respected.
This should please him, no? At the very least, make the interest Daniels had expressed in Teresa easier to bear?
Why then, did it not?
But he knew.
What if she fell in love with this one?
Joe reached for the tube of cortisone, determined to suppress the fear that always accompanied the releasing of Teresa to another man. The fear that, one day, she would not return. He removed the cap and squirted a portion of the medicated cream into each of his palms before smoothing it over the reddened skin at the back of his hands and forearms. As usual, the cortisone eased the sting.
Would that it could soothe his heart as easily.
Cease. To think of what could never be would only cause the ache to worsen.
He returned the tube to the medicine cabinet and closed the door, shaking his head as he spied the nightshirt Teresa had slept in, as well as the dress she had worn to the technician's house earlier in the day. Both were draped carelessly over the towel rod.
And she made light of his housekeeping skills?
He tugged the clothing from the rod, intending to slip them into the laundry hamper on his way out. But when he opened the lid to the hamper just inside the bedroom and spied the blue T-shirt already within, he froze.
Surely, that was not—
Drawn more by dread than curiosity, he dropped the nightshirt and dress on the floor, and reached inside in the hamper, the remainder of the white letters emblazoned across the cotton shirt unfurling as he shook it out.
> Paramedic.
He blinked, but the word remained…as did the shirt.
He had thought it lost, had even hoped. Evidently, this was not meant to be. He must have left the shirt, sweat-soaked once too often, at the base of Teresa's shower following his evening run, for here it was, returned to haunt him this week of all weeks. Left over from his days as a paramedic in Houston, the shirt was a souvenir of a time when he believed there to be an end to the memory and the nightmares…as well as the pain. He knew now, there was no end.
Indeed, the memory had not even begun to fade.
Twenty years later, almost to the day, in an American city nearly two thousand miles from where it had happened, he could see it with crystal clarity. His mother, his father. Lying there, not moving. And the blood. So very much blood.
Everywhere.
He flinched and, mercifully, the memory disappeared.
It took a moment before he realized why. Until he heard it again. The phone. His phone. Joe blessed the shrill that had severed the ghastly image from his mind as he retrieved it from his pocket with his free hand.
The number on the screen belonged to his brother, Miguel. Finally. "Hola. Did you receive my message?"
"I did. But I do not think your coming here is wise."
"Then you have an answer? Proof." Joe locked his right hand to the phone, to the hope. His grip eased, as did the hope, at his brother's sigh.
"I do not."
"Then I should be there. See him in person. Who better than me to know whether this is the man or not?"
"Joaquín—"
"Enough." Once again, he tightened his grip on his phone, this time to keep his patience in check. "Must I remind you that I was the one to see the man? You did not."
Miguel's frustration spilled into his ear. "Exactamente. You saw him—and then you saw our parents, lying there how he left them. Tell me, mi hermano, if this is the man, and you come down here and see him again, will you be able to control your fury? Can you guarantee me this? Can you swear to me on our mother's and our father's graves that you will not seek retribution and avenge their murders on the spot?"
Silence, taut and unyielding, filled the line.
Just Beyond Reach Page 10