Mike unwrapped four thick porterhouse steaks from their pristine butcher paper and positioned them over the low flames between foil-wrapped potatoes. “Ancient ritual,” he said.
“Ah, yes. The Burning of the Steak. I know it well.”
They clanked beer bottles as Gemma and Mary Kate came out of the house. Mike cleared his throat. “Slainte.”
Mike and Mary Kate had built a strong marriage. The kind he’d like for himself, someday. They seemed happy, well-matched, but then, he wasn’t the best judge. His own relationship history had been less than great. It was hard to build anything lasting with the kind of gift he had. Women tended to end things once they learned what he could do, even if he’d never used it with them.
His gaze slid to Gemma. Would things be different with her? Would having something extra of her own make it easier for her to accept his difference? And if she ever got pissed at him, what would happen? Just how big an object could she zap away, anyhow? Now, that was worth putting some thought into.
This was getting ridiculous. Gemma Cavanagh was taking up way too much of his brain. Brain? a sardonic little voice questioned. Okay, he conceded. Brain, too. She was a puzzle. He had to admit he’d been half in love with her since he’d touched the stuff in her office. Maybe her talent would make a difference. He knew that was an absurd hope, but it was one he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, keep locked away any more.
He’d accepted long ago that he’d never be able to have a real relationship because he saw too much—expected too much. His rare forays into the world of romance had left him seriously soured on the whole idea of pair bonds. It was hard to touch a woman and feel her sincerity or lack of it. Harder still when she knew it was happening. He’d learned to shield himself to some degree, like putting on a psychic condom. But blocking his touch meant also blocking the kinds of connections that built and enriched intimacy. He didn’t want that to happen with Gemma.
He never had figured out how to break the news. Telling his partners, not telling them—it didn’t seem to matter. Once a woman learned he could touch her and know what she really felt, it was basically over. As unrealistic as it was, he hoped Gemma would be different. Not just making things disappear when that temper blew. He needed—he wasn’t sure what, exactly. Her mind sparkled and had an order he could recognize and relate to. But could she love him? Trust him?
He couldn’t think about it.
Mike took a sip of beer as Mary Kate started taking plates and napkin-wrapped utensils out of a flat basket. “We need to make it kind of an early evening,” he said. “M-K has her first class tomorrow.”
Brady and Gemma turned toward Mary Kate.
“I’m renewing my teaching certificate,” Mary Kate said. “First step toward going back for the master’s degree I’ve always wanted. And now that Tim’s in school, there’s no time like the present.”
Gemma hugged her. “That’s great, M-K.”
Brady noticed Mary Kate didn’t respond, or warm to the hug.
“Especially since it’s something you’ve wanted to do for so long,” Gemma continued.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Mary Kate figured it was time. You never know when a propeller will fall on your head—”
“And you’ll go straight to hell!” the Cavanaghs chorused.
Brady didn’t get the joke, but he smiled, anyway.
Mike explained. “Whenever Sister Adela got pissed off—”
“—Which was at least once a week,” Gemma interjected.
Mike nodded at her and went on. “She’d say that, whipping that big pointer in the direction of whoever was the culprit of the moment. It sort of stuck.”
“I guess so,” Brady chuckled.
* * *
He set the black reinforced fiberglass trunk on two sawhorses and went to work with the lock picks he’d scored, at an outrageous price, from an associate. He was actually getting pretty good with them. Practice makes perfect. He smiled as the lock popped open.
So far, his examination of the things from Ned’s house had netted an absolute zero. If the stupid prick really had kept a record, he hadn’t been able to find it.
He opened the lid and felt an immediate rush of temper. What the hell was all this?
A Coleman lantern, citronella candles, a plastic tablecloth, a tent rolled neatly into its stuff sack. Blue granite plates, cups, bowls and even a percolator, barely used, as far as he could tell. He dug deeper. Kitchen utensils, long campfire roasting forks. The percolator flew through the air from a vicious kick and slammed against the near wall. The top came off with a clatter, and out fell a piece of paper folded in half three or four times, until it was only a couple of inches on each side.
His hands trembled a he unfolded it, held it to the light. A file name and path. Ned had put them into some sort of code, but all he needed was the document list to find possible matches and eliminate them, one by one. He smiled. Of course. Simple. Elegant, really. Ned had never been this interesting and surprising when he was alive.
And there was the computer, right where he needed it. Relief nearly knocked him to his knees. Maybe it was over. Once and for all.
He plugged in the connections as quickly as he could, drummed his fingers while Windows took its merry time to load and open, and spent the next four hours in a series of vain attempts to extract the data.
He wasn’t surprised that Ned’s old password didn’t work anymore. He’d half expected that. The ugly shock was that Ned’s entire presence had been wiped. Gone.
How had she done it, he wondered, and why? He wasn’t the fucking NSA, and he was convinced that’s who it would take to resurrect the fucking file he needed.
In frustration he pulled the monitor loose from its tangling cables and hurled it to the cement floor where it shattered into dozens of pieces. Someone was going to pay. And if he didn’t find that information soon, it was going to be him.
Chapter Nine
Gemma was convinced she’d fallen into a nightmare. Doug had made all the arrangements as he’d promised, politely ignoring or overriding her few suggestions. The church he’d chosen for the memorial service seemed cold and bare to Gemma’s Catholic eye. Alien in its severity, with no comforting clutter of holy images, no Stations of the Cross—everything spare and rigid and formal. She shuddered. Even the windows were only patternless mosaics of stained glass. A naked Cross hung stark against the back wall where she would expect the altar to be.
When had this been Ned’s church? Not in the time she’d known him.
Stylized sprays of purple and white gladiolus screened the base of a polished lectern with a poster-sized picture of him she’d never seen before. He was posed with what she’d always thought of as his Don’t you think I look more like a model than an attorney? smile. Ned hadn’t worn his hair that way in years. The photo had to have been taken right around the time they were married. He looked slick and shallow. Had it been so obvious, even then? Or was she just seeing him through wiser eyes? Not that it made any difference now.
From the choir behind the rostrum a single cello spun unfamiliar music as spare as the sanctuary itself, although she recognized one piece by Satie. An odd choice, she thought.
There had been no wake. If she had still cared about Ned, she would have wanted the comfort of familiar surroundings, familiar ritual. She should have accepted Doug’s offer of a couple of Valiums so she could just drift through it all in a floaty haze. As it was, she sat, an alien in a strange landscape, in this cold, sterile barn of a place.
Nice turnout, though. The barn was packed with people, most of whom she’d never met, or met only once at one or another of the firm’s social functions. In spite of the occasion, it was like a fashion event for power suits in somber
colors, tastefully enlivened by the dull gleam of silk ties, women in severe pantsuits and coatdresses in shades of gray and dark purple. The smell of new fabric reminded Gemma eerily of the first day of school. Gemma half expected to see them sneaking looks at their watches—they were all far too elegant to fidget.
The police were there, too, watching the mourners, looking for anomalies. They kept a polite distance, although she saw them talking to Sam Dawkins, Ned’s divorce attorney.
Outside, the press swarmed like gnats, waiting to pounce on the unwary. So far, she’d managed to avoid them, thanks to Mike’s impressive glare and broad shoulders.
Surreal. That was the word she was looking for. Mike sat next to her, warm and solid, an anchor in all the chaos. Her family claimed the right front pew, Mike, Mary Kate, Timmy between them with his red thatch subdued for once, swinging his feet but otherwise on his best behavior.
Julia sat across the aisle, swathed in black veils despite the heat, rigid with hostility and exuding waves of gin and perfume. She hadn’t spoken a word to Gemma, had completely ignored her.
Probably just as well. Julia’s chin thrust so far forward her front teeth had to be edge-to-edge, and her eyes squinted half-shut in furious resentment.
Julia couldn’t get enough of Doug, though. Lapped him up like cream, clung to his side, hanging on his arm. He didn’t seem too pleased, but for once Gemma was grateful to Julia for keeping him occupied.
Doug had called at ten last night, harried and perplexed. He’d followed Gemma’s suggestions and reserved a room for Julia at the Four Seasons, and he was appalled at the older woman’s reaction. Julia had thrown a huge tantrum when Doug told her she would be staying in a hotel. He’d tried to explain about the break-ins and the vandalism, but couldn’t get through Julia’s torrent of melodrama. Gemma could picture him running frustrated fingers through his hair. That famous composure of his seemed to have abandoned the field completely the last few days. “I tried everything,” he said, his voice edgy, “but I could have been speaking Greek for all the impact it had on Julia.”
“How did you leave her?” Gemma had asked.
“Securely tucked into the Four Seasons with her resentments and two bottles of Bombay Sapphire,” Doug said.
Gemma had talked to Doug for nearly a half hour about Julia, explaining that not once in the five years of Gemma’s marriage had the old witch set foot inside her son’s home. “It wouldn’t have mattered one bit what you said tonight, or offered,” she told him. “It would have been wrong. Just trust me on this one, and let it go.”
Ned had said something very similar to her, the night she and Julia first met.
I still don’t know why she hates me so much. Whenever she’d brought it up, Ned made some caustic or sardonic comment and changed the subject. Or maybe Julia didn’t hate her, really. Gemma had never seen her sober, so how could she be sure? When Ned was alive, the decrepit old woman wouldn’t even speak to her on the phone. Since his death, she’d called Gemma a dozen times. And now here we are. I wish I knew what stunt she has planned. Holy Mother, I wish this were over.
Mike slipped his arm around her waist, and she managed a small smile. Memorial service. Time to remember. To pull all the tattered dreams out of the holes she’d stuck them into, and take a long, honest look at what she’d done.
She should never have married Ned. Everyone had told her it was too soon after Trevor’s death. Ned had swept her off her feet, while she was still broken and reeling. She’d known she couldn’t love anyone, ever, the way she’d loved Trevor. That part of her heart and life was gone, burned away in sorrow and rage, drowned in despair. She had told Ned so, but he’d said it didn’t matter, and she had believed him. Besides, he was different enough from Trev in every possible way there would be no inadvertent reminders.
Ned had seemed like such a nice guy, and he’d wanted her so badly. At least, she’d thought then, she could make somebody happy. Even if she couldn’t love him, that should be enough.
She’d really tried to make it work. Somehow she’d never been able to please him. He’d started after the wedding, making little criticisms, small corrections and changes. Trivial things, at first, easy enough to comply with. Toward the end, nothing pleased him: her walk, her voice, the color of her hair.
She’d stayed with him, tried to exorcise her guilt for marrying a man she didn’t love by being a good wife and keeping the marriage together, hoping she could pull it off and he’d never know. She closed her eyes and swallowed.
She heard Doug’s voice reading a poem she recognized but couldn’t follow. She’d spaced off nearly the entire service, and it was almost over.
The cello sobbed out a threnody as she and Julia rose simultaneously and started down the aisle side by side. Mike, right behind her, kept his hand lightly at Gemma’s waist for moral support. Somehow she made it all the way to the back of the church, to stand inside the opened doors in a kind of informal receiving line. Julia took up station across the entrance. She hadn’t so much as acknowledged Gemma’s presence in all this time, but now she lifted her head to glare.
“Well, I hope you’re happy, now that you’ve killed my son,” she said in a voice that carried throughout the church, and probably out to the street. She cut her eyes over to the crowd, as if to make sure her words were reaching an audience.
Gemma’s mouth dropped open in shock. What was Julia doing? Then she saw the reporters encroaching on the church steps, microphones and cameras stretching up toward the doors. They had to be eating this up.
“All your men and your gold digging couldn’t get you what you wanted, could they?” Julia yelled at her, sneaking another look, this time at the detectives who were trying to make their way to the door. “He was too smart for you. And too good.”
The first mourners had reached the apse, and stood milling just beyond the doorway. A confused buzz of chatter grew behind them.
Doug tried to calm Julia, but she jerked away. “You’re just another one of them,” she shrilled at him. “I’ve seen the way you look at that woman. I thought you’d be different, but you’re no smarter than my poor son. And look how he ended up. I don’t even have anything of him to bury. That’s what she’ll do to you, too. Oh, let me go, you fool!” She pulled away and started down the church steps.
Once she let go of Doug’s supporting arm, it became obvious just how seriously drunk she still was, even after more than an hour without a drink. Grasping the banister with both hands, she still swayed as she tried to descend the steep marble stairs. Doug hurried to support her, as embarrassed mourners ducked quickly past their little tableau and escaped to the outdoors.
Gemma refused to give way to the hysteria building in her chest as she watched Julia swaying and ranting all the way to the waiting town car. She took a deep breath, and stood quietly, pulling in all her reserves, as two hundred strangers expressed their profound sorrow for her loss.
Finally, it was over. Brady came toward them, face grim. “I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a drink.”
Mary Kate glanced down at Timmy, then back to Brady. “I promised Tim a chocolate shake and pizza if he’d be on his best behavior through this. He’s done a terrific job...”
“You bet, he has,” Brady responded, and mussed the boy’s neat hair.
“...so that’s what happens next.”
“Gemma?” Mike asked.
“You guys go ahead. I couldn’t eat with reporters and han
gers-on watching every forkful. Why don’t you just bring me something?”
Chapter Ten
Gemma looked around her new home, and the delighted bubble under her solar plexus burst out into joyous laughter. So perfect. It was smaller than the Kirkland house, and she’d even worried about finding storage until she could get to St. Vincent, but thanks to the hoodlums, there was much less to have to fit in. It had taken the cleaners longer to repack what was salvageable than it had taken the movers to load, transport and unload what was left.
Well, she’d wanted a new start. There were some things she would have kept, given the choice—the carved box Trevor had made in woodshop their junior year; his class ring, and hers; a set of antique jewel-toned Rhine wine glasses; a tea cozy Mom had embroidered. Grandma Eileen’s clock. There wasn’t much else that couldn’t be replaced. Her yearbooks had disappeared when they moved to the Kirkland house, along with her “memory box” of photos, letters—a girl’s memorabilia. Ned swore it was just lost in transit. She hadn’t believed him, but there was no proof either way. It was easier to give him the benefit of the doubt. And who really knew? She chose a stack of boxes nearest the far corner of the living room and started to make some order out of the house.
She blew her bangs out of her eyes. “I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to spend the rest of my life surrounded by an ocean of cardboard.”
The movers had managed to recover a surprising amount of furniture, books, kitchenware, and linens and had done a good job of setting the uniform stacks of anonymous boxes approximately where they should go, but the bar-coded tags gave no clues to what was inside
She glanced around, trying to get her bearings in the sea of boxes. “Brady, do you see the toolbox anywhere?”
“Yeah. What do you need?” he asked as he opened the lid.
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