Joe sat down at his desk and stared at the computer.
He would never forget the drive that afternoon back to Quantico, where he got his ass chewed for being late for class. He smelled her on his hands the rest of the day. He wondered if she smelled him. He wondered who was on that Northwest flight she was meeting at National Airport but now suspected it was Kurt Tasker.
Had she ever told her husband what happened that day? He doubted it. The file said they’d gotten married about six months later, and he guessed Charlotte kept her mouth shut and her eye on the altar.
So what did that make him? A last-minute fling? Just one more wild boink for the road?
But she’d been so tight. And he remembered how shocked he’d been to look down and see his fingers stippled with bright red blood. He should probably march right over there now, pound on her door, and demand to know if he’d taken her virginity that day.
He had every right—
Crash!
The unmistakable sound of shattering glass was followed by a soft thud. The silent alarm system triggered and the flash of a red strobe light filled the room.
He grabbed his semiautomatic Glock from the desk drawer and ran down the hall, crouching his way down the steps, low and tight and fast, his mind on fire with all the possible threats that awaited him.
Could they really have found him this fast? How many men had Guzman sent? Every nerve ending in his body jolted with the knowledge that it was about four in the afternoon—and Charlotte’s kids were home from school.
The worst possible scenario.
He pressed his back against the foyer wall, steadied himself, then spun around the doorjamb to the living room, knees bent, weapon thrust straight in front of his body—only to be greeted by the sight of a baseball at his feet. Shards of window glass were scattered over the couch and coffee table.
Joe felt his body sag in relief. He took in a deep breath and let it out. He tucked the gun in the back waistband of his jeans and pulled down the loose hem of his T-shirt to cover it.
The adrenaline began to recede, leaving in its wake a wicked headache that struck the instant he bent down for the baseball. Joe examined the ball in his hand, realizing the alarm didn’t trigger before he heard the glass break because the ball tripped the motion sensors around the perimeter of the house an instant before it hit the window.
Joe grinned. A broken window was a big pain in the ass, to be sure, but a whole lot better than finding several highly motivated, heavily armed Mexican drug dealers standing in his living room.
He’d take anything over that.
He was heading toward the back of the house, where he figured he’d trot out to the pool area and throw the ball back over the pine trees and all would be forgiven. But before he could take three steps, the doorbell rang.
At least he assumed it was the doorbell, since he’d never actually heard it before.
There was only one possibility….
The instant he opened the door, he was struck by the widely varied expressions of the three people who stood before him.
The girl named Henrietta looked up at him with the most devilish blue eyes he’d ever seen. She was certainly a colorful child—flaming red hair, lots of brown freckles on pale skin, and a checkerboard smile of missing or in-process teeth.
Her brother stared up at Joe with a look he’d never seen on a kid’s face—not that he’d been around kids much. But it was the kind of look Steve used to get when he had something up his sleeve. Matt Tasker gave him a slow once-over, then peered inside his house and raised a single eyebrow in surprise.
Joe took a step outside and closed the door behind him.
And right there, not a foot away, with her hands on her children’s shoulders, was Honeysuckle Mama herself. Her face was as red as her hair. Her big gray eyes stared at him with embarrassment. She was clearly horrified to be standing on his stoop.
About as horrified as he was to have her.
Then he noticed she was dressed in those jeans he liked, worn and thin and clinging to every one of her petite curves, and a nice little white button-down shirt.
“My daughter… she—” Joe watched Charlotte struggle with the words and gloried in the sound of her voice. He wanted her to keep talking. About anything.
“Hi,” the girl said.
“We came to apologize for—”
“I smashed your window, and my mom just said, ‘Oh, shit,’ and she never, ever cusses.” Hank smiled proudly. “Can I go inside your house and look for the ball? Can I use your bathroom? The Connors used to let me use their bathroom whenever I wanted.”
“She’s out of control,” Matt offered as explanation, rolling his eyes.
“My dad said I’m a power hitter,” Hank added.
Joe was struck by the absurdity of the scene. There was so much that he wanted to do. Run inside and hide was at the top of the list, followed closely by grabbing Charlotte around that nice little waist of hers and getting his mouth back on those pretty pink lips—
“I will pay for the repairs of course,” Honeysuckle Mama was saying. “Garson’s Glass on Main Street repairs windows. Have Mr. Garson send me the bill.”
The object of his fantasy was slowly pulling her children back, as if to protect them.
He held out his hand to return the ball, and Charlotte gasped. What? Did she think he was going to shoot them, for God’s sake? But he had pulled a gun on the woman only two nights ago, hadn’t he? And he was armed at the present moment as well.
He uncurled his fingers and held the baseball in his open palm, smiling down at the power hitter.
“Nice swing for a girl, Henrietta.”
She grinned and grabbed the ball with a chubby, dirty hand. “Thanks, Mr. Mills. But call me that again and I’ll have to bop you one.”
Joe stepped back in surprise, laughing, and looked to Charlotte for guidance. Then he realized that Mommy must have mentioned his name to the kids. So she’d been talking about him. This was an interesting development.
“Hank. She prefers to be called Hank.” Charlotte backed away further, avoiding his eyes.
God, how he wanted to tilt up that perfect little chin of Charlotte’s and explain everything to her. Tell her how he’d looked for her. How he’d kicked himself for letting her go that day. How he much he wanted her—how much he’d always wanted her. And why he had to leave and never speak to her again.
“Why are there red lights flashing in your house?”
Matt’s question startled Joe. How long had he been staring at Charlotte?
“You got some sort of fancy alarm system or something? Are you a spy?”
Charlotte pulled Matt by the elbow. “My apologies for the window and the invasion of your privacy. It will not happen again.”
Joe watched her practically drag the kids down the diagonal stone walkway that led to the sidewalk. He was sad to see them go but relieved they were leaving. He also had to admit he enjoyed the view of Charlotte in retreat, the sway in her walk, even in a pair of sneakers. She had the nicest little compact butt.
Hank turned around and waved at him. “Wanna toss with us sometime?” she called.
Joe couldn’t stop the smile now spreading across his face.
Charlotte scooped up Hank and hustled her along, not bothering to look his way. Matt did, however, and shot him a deadly scowl he wouldn’t soon forget.
About an hour later, Joe had the glass cleaned up, the window measured and taped off in plastic, and a replacement ordered from Garson’s when the alarm went off again.
“Some safe house,” he muttered.
That’s when he saw the real estate agent, LoriSue Bettmyer, standing at his front door wearing a tight neon orange suit and holding what he thought for sure was a big straw basket full of… of… food and crap. What the hell?
He’d made this mistake once before and wasn’t making it again. He was supposed to be a reclusive mystery writer, right? Well, the recluse part was about to start.
“How many fingers am I holding up, Mama?”
Charlotte glanced in the rearview mirror as she turned the van onto Hayden Circle. “I can’t see right now, Hank. I’m driving.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Matt said. “She’s holding up her whole hand.”
Charlotte grinned to herself. “Okay, guys. Five fingers.”
“WRONG!” they both yelled from the back, and Matt quickly added, “The answer is four fingers! The thumb doesn’t have a middle joint, so it can’t be called a finger!”
Charlotte laughed. “You got me there.”
“So, how come Mr. Mills can’t toss ball with me?” It was the third time that evening that Hank had mentioned him.
“I just don’t want you going over there. He… uh… may be a little unstable is all.”
“What’s ‘unstable’?” she asked.
“I don’t want you bothering him.”
“But I think he’s nice.” Hank’s voice was suddenly garbled.
“Yeah, but what were all those red lights flashing in his house? What was up with that?” Matt asked. “I have no idea.”
“I thought they were cool,” Hank mumbled.
Charlotte turned her head to see her daughter chewing on a Cow Tail candy.
“Where’d you get that, Hank?”
“She always gets them,” Matt said. “Nuh-uh,” Hank said.
“Yeah-huh,” Matt replied. “She gets them whenever Justin’s dad works the concession stand. He gives them to her for free.”
“So? He gave you a box of Hot Tamales tonight. I saw him!”
“Did not.”
“Did so.”
“Did not!” Matt yelled.
“Tattler,” Hank snapped.
“Porker,” Matt said.
Charlotte just hated it when the kids chose to work out the challenges of interpersonal relations on each other after 8:00 p.m., when everyone’s tempers were short. And she hated to hear her own words come out in the universal boring, whiny, singsong of mothers everywhere, but what choice did she have?
“That is enough. Both of you.”
Hank started sniffling, and Charlotte reached around behind the front passenger seat and held out her hand. “Give it to me, please.” A sticky, half-eaten chocolate chew landed in her palm. “Now apologize to your sister, Matt.”
Matt sighed loudly, temporarily drowning out the sound of sniffles. “Sorry I called you a porker,” he said.
“Am I fat?” Hank asked in a soft voice.
Charlotte pulled into the drive, feeling tired to her bones. She got out of the car and tossed the candy into the trash can just inside the garage. Then she took Hank’s hand.
“You’re not fat, sweetie.” Charlotte reached down and wiped the tears from Hank’s face, leaving two pink clean streaks across her cheeks. “Let’s get you in the tub, young lady. Matt, you can take a shower in my bathroom.”
“People say I’m fat, Mama.”
Charlotte gripped her daughter’s hand tighter as they walked up the stairs to the porch. “People come in all shapes and sizes, Hank, and what you are is healthy and beautiful and athletic and I would ignore what other people say. Just focus on liking yourself and treating others the way you would like to be treated and it will all work out, sweetie.”
They were in the kids’ bathroom now and Charlotte tested the water pouring from the spout, then pushed the bathtub stopper into place. She turned around to see Hank standing before her nude except for her bright yellow ball cap, her round, firm, wide little girl body flushed from exercise and fresh air. Charlotte sat on the edge of the tub, held out her arms, and Hank fell against her.
“Daddy said I was perfect and graceful and the best ballerina in the world.”
Charlotte pulled off the baseball cap and breathed deep from Hank’s sweaty head and the crook of her neck. “I know he did.”
“But some of the girls say I’m too big to be a ballerina.”
She stroked her daughter’s hair as the bathroom filled with warm steam. Charlotte wondered if her words would ever have the same impact as Kurt’s had and wished once more that he was still with them.
“You love to dance, sweetie, and that’s all that matters. I think you are a wonderful ballerina, too.”
Hank sniffed. “I wish Daddy could see me dance in my recital.”
“He’ll see you.”
“I want him to see me play in the majors, too.”
“He sees you, baby.”
Hank stood straight and looked into Charlotte’s face. She was grinning once more, seemingly recovered from her brief moment of insecurity.
“I look like Daddy, don’t I?”
Charlotte smiled gently at her daughter, seeing the need for confirmation in her eyes. “You sure do, Hank. And you’ve got his spirit, too—his kind heart and his way with people. You should be very proud of that.”
Hank nodded. “So when you look at me, it’ll help you to not forget Daddy, right?”
Charlotte pulled back, the air emptying from her lungs in surprise, and she shook her head. “Honey, I will never forget Daddy. What in the world made you say that?”
Hank chewed on her lip and briefly looked away from her mother. Then in a soft voice she said, “Don’t be mad, Mama. I just wanted to make sure you won’t forget him, even when you start to love Mr. Mills.”
He was just finishing another report for the U.S. attorney when Joe noticed that his cut had bled through the plastic bandage again. That sliver of window glass must have sliced him deeper than he realized. He saved the file he was working on and walked to the bathroom medicine cabinet, pressing a new strip onto the left index finger.
That familiar twinge of nausea hit him, and he told himself that it was only a tiny drop of blood and it was his own blood, not Steve’s. But then he caught sight of his face in the mirror and knew he wasn’t going to be able to fight it tonight.
He flopped down on the bed and closed his eyes, knowing that there was no way to change the ending to the scene that was about to replay in his mind. Steve Simmons would always end up lying with his left cheek slapped down in a puddle of blood in the Denny’s parking lot, his car keys in his hands, his eyes wide with the shock of his own death. And Joe was always going to be on his belly on the asphalt beside him, gun drawn an instant too late, still breathing despite the spray of bullets, watching the four-door silver Lexus speed away.
The coroner’s report later indicated that Steve died within minutes of his wife and son, a sign that Guzman had dispatched two separate crews to two locations that night. And Joe had wondered if maybe that wasn’t a blessing, because Reba and Daniel never had to hear that Steve was dead and Steve never had to know that his job had gotten his family murdered.
Joe had been glad that there was no one at home waiting for him that night. Because they’d be dead now, too.
He turned on his side, figuring he was in for another restless night. How was a man supposed to sleep? It had been two months since that night. Since then, he’d heard plenty of reassurances that it hadn’t been his fault, from the DEA-appointed shrink, from Roger, from his coworkers. An informant had ratted out him and Steve under torture. There was nothing that could have been done. Risk was part of the job and Steve knew it. They all knew it.
Joe shot up off the bed and paced in the darkness. He had choices to make. Maybe all this free time in the middle of nowhere was just what he needed—time to think.
He could retire. Or go on to something else. God knew what, but something else.
Roger had suggested he move into a first-line supervisor position. The higher-ups had dangled a few choice posts in his face: San Diego. San Francisco. Seattle. And Roger had pointed out the obvious so many times that it made Joe’s head spin: he’d put in twelve years with the Administration and had a GS 13 ranking. He had wide-ranging field experience as a case agent. He’d seen most of what the immoral, violent world of drug
dealing had to offer and it was his duty to share that knowledge with other agents. A supervisory job was the next logical step.
Logical? Sure. Appealing? Not so sure.
Joe spread his palm flat against the bedroom wall, leaned forward, and hung his head. He took a few deep breaths, feeling a strange stillness descend upon him, starting at his shoulders, spreading down to his legs, then settling in the soles of his feet, firmly planted in the plush carpet of this strange house.
It seemed he’d slowed down so much in the last week that he was now standing still, and the problem with standing still is that you become an easy mark for your own emotions. And right at that moment, he felt like a sitting duck for everything he’d not allowed himself to feel, from not only the past two months but his entire life.
No wonder he never used his vacation time.
Joe let his neck relax further, and there was so much sensation rushing into his head that he felt it would burst. And the tears felt so foreign, because he really didn’t know he could cry. The last time he did, he was fourteen years old, at Nick’s funeral, and they were tears of rage.
His big brother—his idol—had OD’d on cocaine at a college frat party. His parents never rebounded from the pointless loss. And Joe vowed to spend his life making up for it.
He let his head hang, thankful for the dark, the stillness. It made it easier for him to label what was bubbling to the surface.
He was almost thirty-eight and felt every single day of it. He loved his job but knew it had sucked him dry. He felt alone. Empty. And if he looked really close, he’d have to admit that for a while now he’d known that a one-bedroom apartment and a string of short-lived relationships was no longer cutting it. For a while now, he’d wanted what Steve had—a place that anchored him, people who needed him, a woman who loved him.
Joe didn’t miss the irony—he was coming clean to himself about what he really wanted in life just when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it! He was supposed to be invisible, not going around looking for connections, for home—for a woman.
Susan Donovan Page 10