Every Waking Moment

by Brenda Novak

  Stopping at a traffic light, she turned her attention to the city around her. At a population of 120,000, Cedar Rapids was a little bigger than the place she’d imagined living. But it had plenty of schools and businesses. She thought she’d be safer here and have a better chance of finding a job. And, despite her earlier feelings on the subject, she didn’t want to move anywhere else if Preston was going to be nearby.

  “Can we go back to the motel and go swimming again?” Max asked as she pulled into the post office and stopped at the drive-through mail drop.

  Emma decided she could watch him while reading the want ads. “In a little while,” she said, and struggled to roll down her window. She hadn’t seen a car with a hand crank for a number of years, and this one was jammed. Finally, when she couldn’t get the window to budge more than two inches, she gave up and simply opened her door.

  “What are you doing?” Max asked.

  “Mailing something.”

  “What?”

  “A letter.” Emma stared down at the address of the Drug Enforcement Agency, which she’d looked up on the Internet at the public library, then gazed from the envelope to Juanita’s list of names and numbers. Would the list be enough to put Manuel behind bars? She wasn’t sure. She’d put this errand off as long as possible because turning those names and numbers over to the authorities frightened her. To protect herself and Max, she’d made a copy and was sending the list anonymously, with a typed explanation that she’d also prepared at the library. But there were ways of tracking things she didn’t understand, which meant there could still be a severe backlash, one that could cost her years and years of running, her life, or even Max.

  Still, somebody had to stand up and take the risk. Somebody had to draw a line, or people like Manuel would always win.

  She must’ve sighed because Max leaned over the seat and touched her shoulder. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  Stuffing the list into the envelope she’d already stamped, she licked the seal. “Nothing baby. I’m okay,” she said, but she wasn’t thinking about her words. She was thinking about Manuel and his family, the clandestine meetings they had, the hushed conversations, the many extended trips to Mexico, the bagfuls of money Manuel sometimes brought home. All of this she’d typed out in perfect detail. The Rodriguez family was breaking the law. She knew she should be turning them in on principle alone. But she wasn’t doing this for principle. She was doing it for Juanita.

  “Thank you, my friend,” she whispered. Then she dropped the envelope in the box, slammed her creaky old door and drove away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  PRESTON FROWNED at the pack of cigarettes he’d tossed on Joanie’s table. He was tempted to smoke. Since he’d left Emma and Max early this morning, he’d nearly lit up at least a thousand different times. But the moment he put that cigarette between his fingers and started to strike a match, he remembered Max and threw it away. He didn’t want to do anything he wouldn’t want Max to copy, even though Max could no longer see him.

  “Are you ready?” Joanie asked.

  She sounded nervous. Preston felt sorry for her. The apartment she’d rented was a far cry from the home she’d owned in Half Moon Bay, and it was obvious she hadn’t felt well enough, physically or emotionally, to clean it. Dishes cluttered the counters. Clothes covered the floor. The kitchen smelled like rotten eggs.

  “Depression,” she’d muttered when she let him in.

  She’d also said her sister would move in with her soon to help get ready for the baby. Preston thought that was probably a good idea.

  “Go ahead,” he replied. He turned the tape recorder on, and she dialed Vince at his office.

  Once the receptionist answered, she signaled Preston to pick up the extension.

  Preston held his microphone to the receiver and listened around it as Joanie asked for Vince.

  The receptionist paused. “Is this Joanie?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Oh.” Another pause. “Hold on a second.”

  Music came through as Joanie made a face at the woman who’d just put them on hold. She’s the one, she mouthed to him.

  Preston gave her a sympathetic look. Maybe Joanie had her shortcomings, but he didn’t think anyone deserved to be married to Vince.

  “Is he ever going to answer?” he whispered after another five minutes.

  “He’s probably lifting her skirt first,” she whispered back. “But don’t worry. That never takes long.”

  Preston smiled at her sarcasm, then quickly sobered when Vince picked up. “Joanie?”

  “Hi, Vince. I take it you were busy diddling your receptionist.”

  “I’m busy seeing a patient.”

  “Well, I hope she isn’t married. Her husband might not take his marriage vows as lightly as you did.”

  “I mean, I’m seeing a patient who’s ill,” he snapped. “What do you need?”

  “Don’t you want to know how the baby’s doing?”

  “If you’re calling to—”

  “No, this isn’t about the baby. I know you don’t care about that.”

  When Vince didn’t contradict her, Preston winced at the disappointment and pain she had to be experiencing.

  “What is it, then?” he asked.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking.”

  “Turning over a new leaf?”

  Preston was shocked by how antagonistic their relationship had become.

  “I guess you could say that,” Joanie replied. “Considering I’ve never gone to the police before.”

  He fell silent, and she flipped her finger at him even though he couldn’t see her.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice suddenly filled with caution.

  “I’m talking about Billy and Dallas.”

  “Why?” He lowered his voice, and Preston guessed the receptionist who’d answered the phone, or someone else, was around. “I’ve told you before, I didn’t have anything to do with what happened.”

  “Healthy kids don’t normally die of the flu, Vince. Left to himself, Dallas would have recovered.”

  “Dallas didn’t have the flu. He had meningococcal septicemia.”

  “Question is, how’d he get it?”

  “You’ve asked me this before, Joanie.”

  “I’m asking again.”

  “One in ten people carry the bacteria that causes meningitis and septicemia. It’s passed on by close contact. In a very few people, the bacteria gets into the blood stream and cause meningitis and/or septicemia. Anyone can get it. Anyone can die from it. You can accuse me all you want, but you’ll never be able to prove a thing. Now I’m going to hang up—”

  “You do, and I’ll tell the police how you cried for hours after Billy died, asking me over and over again, ‘You don’t think they’ll blame me, do you?’ I don’t know about you, but that sounds a little suspicious to me.”

  “It’s been five years since Billy died!”

  “And only two years since Dallas did.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “I think you’ll do it again.”

  “No, I won’t!”

  Joanie turned to stare, wide-eyed, at Preston. “Are you admitting you did it before?”

  “N-no, I’m n-not,” he said. Preston hadn’t known Vince to possess any kind of speech impairment until Dallas died. Then he’d stuttered his way through every explanation about what had happened for the next twenty-four hours.

  Joanie glanced down at the notes Preston had given her earlier. “I’ve been doing a little research, Vince,” she said. “Less than five percent of people with meningococcal meningitis die of the disease. So far, you’ve lost sixty-six percent. Two out of three.”

  “For your information, m-m-morbidity among people who come down with s-s-septicemia, who also show no symptoms of m-meningitis, is around twenty percent, not f-five. I’ve done my research, too, Joanie. No one’s going to pin those boys’ d-deaths on me. Septicemia c-can stri
ke within hours.”

  “Is that why you chose it?” she asked softly.

  He paused for a long time. Preston waited, counting his own galloping heartbeat, pressing the microphone closer. Come on, you son of a bitch. Say something we can use.

  Finally, Vince laughed. “You’ll n-never be able to outsmart m-me, Joanie. D-don’t even try,” he said and hung up.

  Preston snapped off the recorder and sank onto the couch.

  “He’s feeling arrogant,” Joanie said. “He thinks he’s in love with that stupid little receptionist. Says, ‘She makes me feel like a man again.’”

  Preston didn’t respond. He’d thought having Joanie on his side would be the break he’d been looking for. But Joanie had done her best and they’d netted nothing except a little flustered stuttering.

  A NOISE WOKE Emma late in the night. Someone was moving around. Was it Max?

  She listened carefully, waiting.

  There it was again. Movement. A rustling sound. But it wasn’t coming from Max’s room.

  Getting up, she hurried to her son’s bedside, just in case she was wrong. She lived in constant fear that he’d need her in the night and she wouldn’t hear him. But she found him sleeping peacefully.

  So what had disturbed her?

  She returned to her own bedroom to check the time on the radio alarm. It was after midnight. And she and Max were supposed to be alone in the motel.

  Drawing on the robe Preston had bought her, she shoved her tousled hair out of her eyes and tiptoed into the living room. From her kitchen window, she could see the moon reflecting off the pool a few feet away. The water looked like ice.

  Chills ran down her spine as she thought she saw someone sitting in the Jacuzzi where she and Preston had made love last night. But it was only the reflection of a lounge chair. The pool area was empty. From her vantage point, she couldn’t see anyone lurking around the buildings.

  A noise at the front door caused her pulse to jump into overdrive. Leaning closer to the window, she strained to see the stoop—then jumped back when she spotted the shape of a man. There was someone outside! Her first thought was to grab the phone, but she didn’t have service.

  The door handle began to turn. Click, click…Click, click.

  Pressing a hand to her chest, she moved silently toward it. She tried to peer through the peephole, but it was completely dark. Someone had covered it—probably with a thumb or a finger.

  Oh, God…was it Manuel? She’d already mailed the list to the DEA. If he got in, he’d kill her, just like Juanita. And poor Max would probably see it all.

  She grabbed Max’s bat, which she’d propped against the wall before going to bed. “Hello?” she said, the terror she was feeling evident in the breathless quality of her voice.

  “It’s me.”

  Emma’s knees nearly gave out on her. It wasn’t Manuel; it was Preston.

  She put the bat back, removed the chain and opened the door to find him leaning against the side of the building. He had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t lit.

  “You scared me,” she breathed. A quick glance at the peephole told her he hadn’t covered it at all. The workmen who were putting the finishing touches on the place had taped over it so they could paint the doors.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you, but my key wouldn’t work. I must’ve demagnetized it somehow, probably by keeping it too close to my cell phone.”

  She focused on his unlit cigarette. “Looks like you need a match.”

  He took the cigarette out of his mouth and slipped it inside his shirt pocket. “No. I quit.”

  The first two buttons of his denim shirt were undone, revealing part of the tanned, muscular chest she admired so much. She remembered the smooth texture of that chest beneath her hands as she’d straddled him in the Jacuzzi, and ached to feel his arms around her again.

  But he made no move to come any closer.

  “Did you buy a car?” he asked.

  She toyed with the belt of her robe. The air around them felt heavy with the things they needed to say. But Preston was the one holding back, and she knew better than to press him. At least he’d come to her tonight. That was a victory of sorts. As of last night, he hadn’t been planning on it.

  “Didn’t you see that beautiful maroon Monte Carlo in the parking lot?” she teased.

  His teeth flashed in a grin. “Now do you miss your Jaguar?”

  “No.” She let her eyes caress the face she loved so much. There were lines of fatigue around his mouth, making her worry about what might have happened to him today. What was he going through? And why wouldn’t he share it with her? “All I miss is you,” she said softly.

  He looked torn, but he still didn’t move toward her. He pushed away from the wall. “Emma, I can’t stay. I only came to check on you.”

  “Well, I’m fine. Besides buying the car today, I learned about a teaching job. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find a position.”

  “Are you going to use your real name?”

  “No, I’m Emma Wright now.”

  “What about housing?” he asked.

  “There’re a few houses for rent in the paper, but I want to make sure I can get work first.”

  “A good plan.” He frowned at the baseball bat. “How’s Max?”

  “Lonely without you.”

  “He’s a great kid.” He glanced reluctantly behind him. “I guess I’d better go.” Bending his head, he gave her a light kiss and started to move away. But Emma had no intention of letting him leave so easily. She wasn’t sure what was keeping them apart, but she wasn’t going to let it beat her without a fight. Catching his hand, she guided it inside her robe and beneath her T-shirt.

  “Are you sure you want to go?” she asked.

  “I have to,” he said, but he hesitated only briefly before his fingers curved around her breast.

  “Will a few hours really make any difference, Preston?”

  He opened her robe to take her nipple in his mouth. When he raised his head, his breath was coming quicker, but he was still fighting his instincts. “It’ll make a difference,” he said. “Every time I make love to you, I—”

  “What?”

  “Lose a little more of me,” he said, his heavy-lidded eyes fastened to where his mouth had been.

  She looked at him from beneath her lashes, then leaned in to kiss his neck, to feel his heartbeat at the base of his throat. “Is that so bad?” she whispered, sliding her hands under his shirt to rake her fingernails along his back.

  Finally, his desire overcame his restraint. He groaned as his mouth crushed hers in an eager, passionate kiss. “I guess there are worse ways to go,” he said, and lifted her in his arms.

  LONG AFTER EMMA FELL ASLEEP, Preston lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He’d contacted the police again today, as well as the closest FBI field office. But the effort hadn’t done him any good. They’d heard from him before and weren’t interested in any new information. When he talked about Melanie and Billy, they talked about coincidence. When he mentioned the mysterious shot Melanie Deets had received, they said Vince might have forgotten to write it down. When he told them what Joanie had to say about Vince’s reaction to Billy’s death, they interpreted it as sour grapes. Nothing had changed. Dallas was dead. Preston was seen as the grieving father looking for someone to blame. And Vince was still free to hurt another child.

  Emma shifted in her sleep and curled closer to him. Preston gave her a soft peck on the lips before carefully extricating himself. He hated to leave her, but all his hopes had been whittled down to one—a direct confrontation. Joanie had given him Vince’s home address. If he could get Vince to confess, it would all be over and he could live a normal life again.

  But he knew the chances of that were next to nil. Which was why he’d be taking his gun.

  “Preston?” she murmured as he pulled on his jeans.

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you leaving?”

  H
e knelt beside her, his pants still unbuttoned. “I have to.”

  “Will you be coming back?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. That would depend on whether or not he ended up killing a man.

  “HERE HE COMES,” Manuel said, and shoved Hector back behind the building.

  “We didn’t really see his face,” Hector whispered. “Are you sure we have the right guy?”

  “Positive.” Who else could it be? Manuel had known he’d found Vanessa’s lover the moment he saw that beat-up brown van passing through town. It was just like the one that had torn out of the parking lot at the Gas-N-Go in Ely, and it fit the description Dominick had given him over the phone, as well. Fortunately, it wasn’t difficult to follow. They’d trailed Preston to this motel, one they hadn’t checked earlier because a sign posted on the front-office window said the grand opening wasn’t for another week.

  None of that mattered, though. Manuel had seen Vanessa open the door.

  He ground his teeth as he remembered her slipping Preston’s hand inside her robe. She’d welcomed his touch, responded to it eagerly. Slut.

  But he’d take care of Preston. The way Vanessa and Preston had held each other, the way they’d kissed, left little doubt as to what they’d been doing once they went inside. Thinking about it had nearly driven Manuel mad. He’d longed to barge into the room and kill Preston right there, in front of Vanessa, as he’d dreamed of doing. But he didn’t want Dominick to see him kill anyone. And he didn’t want his son accidentally hurt.

  Fortunately, his patience was paying off. For a while there, he thought he’d have to bide his time until morning. But Preston was leaving already, only two hours after he’d arrived. “Follow him,” he told Hector as Preston climbed into the van.