by Metsy Hingle
“Good thing the perp didn’t know that or you’d have a lot more than that gash on your head.”
“Let me guess. He’s a cop-hater.”
The trooper nodded. “Word is he did a real number on the two prison guards he escaped from last month. According to the reports, one of them may lose an eye and the other one is still in a body cast.”
Michael had no trouble believing it. As a fourth-generation cop, he’d heard plenty of stories about cop-haters and had encountered his fair share of them during his years with the Houston P.D. One look at the monster-size guy with the gold teeth and the ugly scar down one side of his face would have been enough to set off alarms in most cops. But it had been the lack of emotion in the man’s dark eyes that should have told the fools at the prison just how dangerous the guy was. He’d seen that look before. And each time he had, he’d been faced with a cold-blooded killer without a conscience, without a soul.
A long black sedan pulled into the busy parking lot. A tall man in a dark suit with a cap of silver hair exited the vehicle and sought out the officer in charge.
“Wonder who that is?” the trooper remarked.
“His name’s Hennessey, he’s a federal agent,” Michael told him.
“You know him?”
“Our paths have crossed a time or two,” Michael replied. But even if he hadn’t known Hennessey, he’d have pegged him as a fed right off. The nondescript car, the somber suit, the steely look and calm demeanor. There had even been a time when he’d actually wanted to leave the Houston P.D. and join his brother Travis at the Bureau. So had Pete. Only Pete had flunked the tests. And when his friend had accused him of breaking their childhood pact to be partners, Michael had passed on the Bureau’s offer. Later that same year, after Pete had been killed, he’d abandoned any thoughts of becoming a federal agent. He’d walked away from his badge, too.
“The feds must want this guy pretty bad if they sent an agent out here this quickly.”
“It’s more a question of covering their asses before the press gets wind of what went down here,” Michael said. At the trooper’s puzzled look, he explained, “The Bureau takes a lot of heat in the media. Bringing in a killer like Dozier will play well in the headlines.”
“But the feds had nothing to do with this. You’re the one who caught him,” the trooper pointed out.
Michael shook his head. “That won’t play as well as saying that I assisted the FBI in taking him down. Look, here comes Hennessey now to try to sell me on the idea on what happened here tonight.”
And after dispatching the trooper, the federal agent did his best to convince Michael about the official story that the Bureau wanted to give the press. “Since you’ve worked with the Bureau before, we’d like to say you were working in conjunction with us to track down Dozier and that you followed him to the convenience store where you apprehended him during the assault on the woman. You okay with that, Sullivan?”
“Would it make any difference if I wasn’t?”
“No.”
“Then why bother asking for permission?”
“Don’t be such a hard-ass, Sullivan.
“You did a good thing saving that girl tonight. Taking that animal down couldn’t have been easy. You did a hell of a job.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a shame that a man with your talents is wasting his time chasing cheating husbands when he could be doing something worthwhile.”
“I like what I’m doing.”
“Bullshit. I’ve told you before, you’d make a damn good federal agent, Sullivan.”
“No thanks. I know what you guys earn, and it’s not enough.”
Hennessey made a dismissive sound. “You expect me to believe that money is all that motivates you?”
“You should, because it’s the truth.”
“That’s a load of crap. You were a cop. A man doesn’t become a cop or an agent for the money. You do it for times like tonight—because you want to be able to help people. You can’t make me believe that saving that woman tonight wasn’t a lot more gratifying than tracking down some deadbeat,” Hennessey pointed out.
“I don’t give a damn what you believe. As for gratification, I got a hell of a lot of gratification when the last jerk I tracked down was thrown in jail for fraud after he bilked an old lady out of her life savings. And I got paid a fat fee for doing it.”
“You can cut the act, Sullivan. You and I both know that if you really liked hiring yourself out as a P.I. you wouldn’t have offered your services to the Bureau pro bono when they were hunting that serial killer a few months ago. And from what I heard, it wasn’t the first time you’ve done that.”
Michael shrugged. “Just trying to be civic-minded,” he said, not wanting to admit that while the money was good and some of his cases left him with a feeling of accomplishment, many of them didn’t. He did it for the money. Money for Janie and Pete’s boys.
As for the work he occasionally did for the feds, in a roundabout way, he did it for his brother Travis. After all, Travis was a federal agent. Besides, it was also a way for him to keep his skills sharp and his contacts strong. And if that sounded a bit too pat, he could live with it. What he didn’t want to do—refused to do despite his brother’s prodding—was examine his motivations too closely. He couldn’t afford to—not with Janie and Pete’s boys depending on him.
“That’s a line of bull, and you know it,” Hennessey told him.
“Listen, believe whatever you want,” Michael said. “But if we’re through here, I’d like to wrap this up so I get on my way.”
“Hot date?”
“No, a hot client. One who’s offering me a big fat fee to find his runaway wife.” Or at least Michael hoped Webster would still be offering him that fat fee—if he hadn’t already hired someone else.
“All right. But you’ll need to come into headquarters and make a statement about what happened here tonight, and you’ll need to be available to testify at Dozier’s trial.”
“All right.”
“Make sure you give my people a number where they can reach you.”
“Will do,” Michael said, and started toward the state troopers in order to finish with them before heading to police headquarters.
“Sullivan?”
Michael stopped, turned and looked over at Hennessey. “Yeah?”
“When you get tired of playing bloodhound for the rich and overprivileged, give me a call.”
“I keep telling you, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Hennessey. I like being my own boss—and I like making a lot of money.”
“Money isn’t what made you tackle that gorilla in that store tonight and risk getting your brains beaten out. You did it because at your core, you’re still a cop. You believe in protecting the weak and fighting for justice.”
Michael scowled at him. “I hate to rain on this parade of yours, but I did what anyone would have done if they’d walked in on that monster and seen what he was doing to that girl.”
“Most people would have called for help—not taken on a guy who was armed and outweighed them by at least a hundred pounds.”
“That’s because most people have more sense than I do.” Not at all happy with the tenor of the conversation, Michael added, “I’m no hero, Hennessey. Don’t make me out to be one. I acted on instinct. Taking down Dozier was part stupidity, part dumb luck. If I’d failed, he might have killed that girl.”
“And if you hadn’t stepped in, he would have killed her for sure.”
Michael let out an exasperated breath. “Is there a point here?”
“Yeah. The point is that when you stop running from whatever demons are chasing you, let me know.” He stuffed a card in the pocket of Michael’s chambray shirt. “You could make a difference.”
Michael removed the card from his shirt pocket, crumpled it in his fist, and walked away. Regardless of what Hennessey thought, saving that girl tonight had been dumb luck, just as he’d claimed. He’d gotten out of the h
ero business when he’d turned in his badge. From now on, he was in it for the bucks.
Two
“No,” Lily murmured as she tossed and turned in her sleep. “No,” she repeated, her heart beating faster and faster, her head moving from side to side in denial. “Adam, no!”
Suddenly she jerked upright in the bed. Breath heaving, she scrambled back up against the headboard and pulled her knees up to her chest. Still shaken by the nightmare, she buried her face against her knees and waited for the trembling to stop. But try as she might, she couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
She repeated the words like a litany in her head until the worst of the terror had passed. Despite the coolness of the room, sweat beaded her forehead. Fumbling for the lamp on the bedside table, she switched it on. A whimper slipped past her lips when light spilled across the room, chasing away the shadows and darkness to reveal her surroundings.
She wasn’t in the massive king-size bed with the ornate mahogany scrolls. She was in the small, plain bed with a simple pewter headboard. There was no damask duvet stretched across the foot of her bed, only a colorful comforter with a bright rose pattern. Following the familiar ritual that enabled her to shake off the paralyzing fear that always followed the nightmare, she curled her fingers into the sheets. White, bargain-priced cotton sheets, she assured herself. No colored satin, no rare eight-hundred-count Egyptian blend that was softer than a sigh against the skin, but had cost more than it would take to feed a family of four for a month.
Clutching one of those plain sheets in her fist, Lily closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She and Timmy were safe. They were in New Orleans—not Miami. They were in the rented shotgun house they’d lived in for more than two months now—not in the palatial prison that had been their home. And she was no longer Elisabeth Webster, wife of wealthy Florida nightclub owner/businessman and philanthropist Adam Webster. She was now Lily Tremont, a widow with an almost-three-year-old son who worked as a waitress at the River Bend Diner. They were safe, she reminded herself. She and Timmy were safe. Adam didn’t know where they were.
Finally, when her heartbeat and breathing were almost normal again, Lily opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. She sighed. Dawn was more than four hours away, but she knew from experience that she wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore tonight. Not when the memories remained so close to the surface.
And just as she always did whenever the nightmares came, she slipped out of bed and went to check on Timmy. Easing open the door to his bedroom, she tiptoed over to his bed and looked down at the sandy-haired little boy who was her life. Clad in his favorite Spider-Man pajamas, Timmy lay curled on his side, clutching his ever-present teddy bear in his arms. Satisfied that he was safe, Lily adjusted the covers he’d kicked off with hands that were still unsteady. Annoyed with herself for the weakness, she pressed a kiss to the top of Timmy’s head and exited the room.
Now that she knew Timmy was safe, the worst of the panic was over. But not the memories that always came flooding back whenever she had the dream. Retreating to the bathroom, she closed the door and turned on the shower. When the water was as hot as she could stand it, Lily stripped off her nightgown and stepped under the steaming spray. And in the shower where she had no fear that Timmy would hear her sobs, she allowed herself to cry as she relived the events of that terrible night six months ago…
Elisabeth sat up in bed, unsure what had awakened her. Then she heard it—the sound of rain slapping against the windowpanes. Must have been the rain, she decided as she pushed the hair out of her eyes and switched on the lamp. Glancing around the elegantly appointed bedroom, it took her a moment to orient herself.
And then she remembered. She’d had a monster headache all day, and after she’d put Timmy down for the night and complained of not feeling well, Adam had given her something to take for her head. To her surprise, he’d suggested she go to bed without him and told her not to wait up because he had a business meeting that would run late.
Relieved not to have him make love to her that night, she’d taken the pill he’d given her and gone to bed alone. A check of the silver-framed clock with diamond and onyx numerals revealed it was after three o’clock in the morning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to bed without her husband and been able to sleep for a six-hour stretch without Adam waking her to make love. Even when she’d been in the final stages of her pregnancy, with her belly swollen and her back aching, Adam’s desire for her had never lagged. He had refused to be denied access to her body, reminding her of the many women who would gladly service his needs, but how it was only her that he wanted.
She should be grateful, Elisabeth told herself. After all, how many women had a husband like Adam who remained passionate about his wife even after seven years of marriage and a child. But she didn’t feel grateful, Elisabeth admitted. She felt trapped.
Irritated with herself, she reached for the flimsy robe of the expensive black peignoir—one of dozens that Adam had bought her and insisted she wear for him. And as she slid her arms into the whisper-sheer fabric, she wondered why she’d even bothered to put it on since it provided little in the way of covering or warmth. After she slipped on the matching high-heel slippers, she walked over to the huge windows that looked out over the gardens.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Elisabeth stared out at the rain. A movement in the tree caught her eye, and she looked closer, smiled as she saw the little wren flap its wings and bravely fly through the raindrops to the neighboring tree. Pressing her fingers against the cool panes of glass, she wished she were that wren. Wished she had the courage to break free of this beautiful cage where Adam kept her—wished she could escape with Timmy.
Immediately ashamed of her thoughts, Elisabeth silently chastised herself. She had no reason to be so unhappy. Adam was a good husband. He adored her, lavished her with jewels and expensive clothes. He provided her with everything a woman could possibly want.
And, because of Adam, she had a beautiful little boy, she reminded herself. Her eyes misted as she thought of her son, still unable to believe that something as perfect and wonderful as Timmy had actually come from her. From her and Adam, she amended, realizing she had to stop thinking of Timmy as only being her son. He was Adam’s child, too. While Adam may have been unhappy about her pregnancy and had been angry with her for hiding it from him until she was well into her second trimester, he was becoming more accustomed to them being a family now, she assured herself. He just hadn’t been prepared to become a father. But now that Timmy had turned two and was becoming more of a person, Adam would begin to enjoy his son more. Surely he would learn to love Timmy as she did.
A father shouldn’t have to learn to love his child.
Elisabeth tried to shut off the nagging voice in her head, told herself that Adam hadn’t planned on them having a family. Learning to share her had been a big adjustment for him. But he would come around.
And what about those accidents Timmy keeps having? What would have happened last month if you hadn’t come out to the pool when you did and saw Timmy floating facedown in the water?
Elisabeth shivered at the memory of coming out to the pool to surprise her two fellows with a pitcher of lemonade only to discover Adam on his cell phone and Timmy’s unmoving body floating in the pool. Clutching her throat, she could feel the terror clawing inside her as she recalled dropping the tray and diving into the water—even though she couldn’t swim.
Would Adam have saved Timmy if you hadn’t been in danger of drowning, too?
Elisabeth put her hands over her ears, tried to block out the questions that had been plaguing her for weeks now. She had to stop doing this to herself. She had to stop suspecting her husband of such horrible things. Even more restless now than she’d been before, she knew there was little chance of her going back to sleep and decided to go check on Timmy.
As she made her way down the massive staircase, Elisabeth tri
ed to make as little noise as possible. Adam hated that she was so protective of Timmy, she reminded herself. It was one of the reasons he had insisted Timmy’s room be downstairs and away from their suite. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she listened carefully, trying to determine whether Adam was still at work in his study or if perhaps he’d gone out. She’d learned early in their marriage not to question him about his late-night trips to the office or to the clubs he owned.
As she passed his study, she noted the light from under the door and hurried in the opposite direction toward Timmy’s room. When Elisabeth reached the door to Timmy’s room, a smile was already forming on her lips. She eased it open and saw Adam standing over Timmy’s crib with a pillow poised over the little boy’s face.
“What are you doing?” she screamed.
He swung around. “Elisabeth!”
She lunged at him. “Get away from my baby!”
“What in the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded, gripping her wrists so tightly she thought the bones would snap.
“My baby! You were going to smother my baby!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just picking up his pillow.”
“You’re lying,” she accused him as she fought to free herself from his ironlike grip. Adam was lying and she knew it. Just as she’d known he’d lied to her when he’d told her Timmy must have fallen into the pool when he’d gone to answer his phone. Just as she’d known deep in her heart that all those little accidents Timmy had had since he was an infant hadn’t been accidents at all. She just hadn’t wanted to believe Adam was capable of trying to kill his own son.
“You’re hysterical,” Adam told her.
“No, I’m not. I’m not,” she fired back and continued to struggle.
“Mommy! Mommy,” Timmy cried, awakened by their shouting. He stood up in his crib, held his arms out to her.
“Adam, please let me go. He needs me,” she pleaded.
“Shut up,” he yelled at Timmy who huddled down into the corner of his crib against the bed railings, his brown eyes wide and terrified as deep hiccuping sobs escaped his lips.