Clifford didn’t answer. It was easy to see why: there was a neat round bullet hole in his forehead.
Damn. Why hadn’t the man left last week? Dean knew he had twin five-year-old sons and another child on the way. Telling the story was important, he thoroughly believed that, but not at the expense of leaving your own children fatherless.
As he closed his friend’s eyes, he noticed his own hands were covered with blood. The hot poker remained in his neck. A quick glance at the floor confirmed the blood was indeed his own; a puddle had begun to form beneath his chin. It was a big puddle. Rapid blood loss.
Shit.
There was no one else in the hall, no one else left living on this floor. It could take at least an hour for a floor-by-floor search to reach him. His blood was coming fast. He’d have to get to the lobby if he was going to find help in time. He put pressure on the wound in his neck, but had no idea if he was doing any good. There was already so much blood; there was no way to gauge if he’d staunched the flow.
His head spun as he struggled to his feet. The walls appeared to undulate before him. The floor felt as if it tilted with the shift in his weight. He stumbled down the hallway, supporting himself against the wall. The warm trickle of blood slid down his chest.
Grayness forced its way into his vision. He had to keep moving.
Where were the stairs? He should have reached the stairs by now. Looking around, he couldn’t focus his eyes, couldn’t get his bearings.
I’m fucked.
It was his last thought before his knees buckled and he fell facedown on the floor.
Molly listened as the newscaster explained that Sarah had been murdered in an execution-style killing. Her body had been found on the banks of the Fort Point Channel under the Summer Street Bridge. No robbery. No sexual assault. No witnesses. No suspects. She’d been identified by her Massachusetts driver’s license—which the police reported to have been forged. They asked for anyone who could verify this person’s identification to please contact the police.
Sarah’s ID photo filled the screen. She wasn’t smiling; she looked small and delicate—and afraid.
A strangled sob escaped Molly’s throat. She would have cried out, but she couldn’t draw a breath. With a heart that continued to accelerate, she stared blankly at the television. Then she began to tremble.
The baby started to cry, almost as if he’d heard and understood the news.
In an effort to calm Nicholas, Molly got up and paced the room, heart pounding, tears streaming, hugging him tightly to her chest.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” she muttered.
You make it sound like he’ll kill you.
He will. Sarah’s chilling words echoed in Molly’s brain.
The Summer Street Bridge was in the vicinity of both the Amtrak and the Greyhound terminals. Had Sarah been trying to get out of town?
Molly had to go to the police.
She had her clothes on, the baby wrapped up, and her keys in her hand before she realized the full impact of what she was about to do. She stopped cold halfway out the door.
What could she tell them that would help? With the forged license, Sarah Morgan most likely wasn’t even her real name. Her suspicion that Nicholas’s father had killed Sarah would be worthless; she had absolutely no idea who the man was. The only thing she could tell them was that she thought he had red hair.
The only certainty in that course of action was that Nicholas would be endangered. She couldn’t go to the police and hide the fact that he was Sarah’s baby. Nicholas would instantly become a ward of the state. Once his existence became public knowledge, the father would know. If he came forward, there would be no keeping the child from him.
Sarah’s only concern had been for her child’s safety. No matter whoever had actually put the bullet in Sarah’s brain, Molly had no doubt the father had been behind it. The man was every bit the monster that Sarah had said he was.
Molly had made a promise.
For the briefest moment, she wished she had not; that she could grieve for Sarah as a friend and not have to assume the awesome responsibility of protecting this child.
But as she felt the baby’s gentle breath on her neck, she realized, promise or not, she could not let this innocent child suffer more than the loss of its mother. She could not turn him over to a state agency—or worse, to the cold-blooded killer who had fathered him.
How would she protect him? Her mind began to frantically search for the answer. Panic started to take hold, creating a helter-skelter of thoughts. She stopped in mid-motion, closed her eyes and ordered herself to think. She was a smart and resourceful person, she told herself. Slow down and think.
No one knew she had Nicholas.
Sooner or later there would be an autopsy that would show Sarah had recently given birth. But there was no birth record—Molly, as physician attending the birth, had yet to fill one out. There was no way to trace where the baby was, or even if he was alive. Perhaps the police would assume whoever killed Sarah had taken the baby. With no grieving family to pressure them, this case would quickly slide down the priority ladder. Chances were there would be little effort made to locate the child.
A plan began to form. It seemed ridiculously simple—but, she thought, that could be the key to its success. The simpler she kept it, the less likely it was that she’d draw unwanted attention.
First she called Boston General and asked for an extended leave—a family emergency, starting immediately. She was certain her voice sounded upset enough to be convincing. Besides, several people knew her father had had episodes of heart trouble. No one would question her. Quitting her job outright would rouse suspicion; plus she wasn’t certain where her life was going to go from here. For now she was living minute to minute. Best to keep all of her bridges intact.
As the free clinic was closing permanently on Saturday at five P.M., she had already worked her last shift there.
She attended to all of the things a person normally does when leaving town, careful to make her departure appear logical. She had the mail held, stopped her newspaper, turned down the thermostat. She packed a suitcase and shut off the water. An hour and a half later, she was ready to go.
She had her suitcase in hand, ready to leave, when she took one last glance around her apartment. There wasn’t much she was leaving behind. She’d never accumulated much beyond medical books; they were her most valuable possessions. As she took a cursory glance over them, realizing she’d have to leave them behind or spend half the day loading her car, a flash of turquoise caught her eye. Sitting on top of a stack of books on the shelf was the only thing she’d carried with her from childhood; a small, glass-domed clock with Tinkerbell in flight on its pendulum.
It had been a gift from her father—who really wasn’t very good at picking out gifts, but this one had thrilled Molly the moment she’d opened it. She’d been five the Christmas he’d given it to her. He’d been nearly as excited to give it as she’d been when she opened it. Inexpensive, probably from the dime store on the square, but it held a place in her heart that couldn’t have been equaled if it had been a Fabergé egg.
Pausing for only the briefest moment, she threw down her suitcase and opened it back up. Carefully, she wrapped the clock in a sweater, then closed the case again.
After she shuttled her suitcases to the car, she brought Nicholas, snuggled in a blanket inside an open cardboard box lined with towels. She put him on the floor of the back seat of her Volkswagen Jetta, wedging the box securely between the front and back seats. She drove to the closest discount store and paid cash for a car seat.
By the time she had it installed in the car, it was time to feed Nicholas again. She did it right there in the parking lot, constantly anticipating trouble, continually scanning for approaching danger. She assured herself it was ridiculous. They looked like any mother and baby on a morning shopping errand. No one knew she had Sarah’s child. The clinic was the only real link between her and Sarah, and no
one could have made that discovery yet. Still, the fear built with each second she remained stationary. Over and over in her mind, a redheaded giant crept up beside the car, tore open the door and yanked Nicholas from her arms.
My God, what am I doing?
Even as she asked herself this question, a fierce protectiveness welled in her soul. She’d coaxed this child’s first breath. She’d been given a mother’s trust. How could she do any less than keep him safe?
It seemed to take forever for Nicholas to take the three ounces of formula. Once he was burped and changed, she strapped him in the new car seat, then drove through a McDonald’s for a Coke. There was no way she could eat anything; her stomach felt like it was in a paint shaker.
Merging onto the interstate, she looked at the clock: ten o’clock. It normally took fifteen hours to drive to Glens Crossing. With the baby, she’d be lucky to make it in twenty. Going home made the most sense, she reassured herself. Where else could she go with a newborn baby and limited resources? As it was, if anyone from the hospital tried to contact her, that’s where she’d said she would be. Simplicity was the key.
She headed southwest, looking frequently in the rearview mirror, alert for anyone who could possibly be following. Just to ensure no one was, she pulled off at each rest stop, mindful of those cars that followed her in. She was all the way to the Pennsylvania state line before she’d convinced herself she hadn’t been tailed out of Boston.
Fortunately, Molly was accustomed to functioning with little sleep. The drive was broken up frequently enough with feedings and diaper changes to maintain her alertness. The final miles were on a two-lane highway that had enough curves and hills to keep anyone on their toes, exhausted or not. She pulled into Glens Crossing just as the eastern sky was showing signs of dawn.
Slowing as she drove into downtown, she realized that this was the first time since she’d started med school that she’d come to town and the square wasn’t decorated for Christmas. Over the past few years, there hadn’t been a lot of money, or time, for trips back home. Somehow it looked unnaturally bare without the colored lights, giant red bows, and evergreen roping.
The sun edged over the horizon, igniting the brilliant fall colors of the maples on the courthouse lawn. For a moment she sat at the stoplight, ignoring the fact that it had turned green, reacquainting herself with the once familiar downtown.
Duckwall’s Hardware looked just like it had when she was in grade school, including the rip in the screen door. Molly always thought the ripped screen was poor advertising for the store, especially since it offered screen and glass pane replacement as one of its services. Hayman’s Drug had a new dark red awning. Its windows were painted with spirit slogans in royal blue and gold for the high school’s homecoming. The courthouse itself and the square upon which it sat never changed. The ancient cannons, monuments to wars past, sat sentinel. The hands on the clock in the tower were frozen at eleven-fifteen, just as they’d been for the past three years. Dad had said the county couldn’t find funds in the budget for something as unnecessary as a clock. But Molly thought it was sad. Throughout her childhood, she’d heard that clock strike every hour. To this day, a chiming clock always made her think of home. Now the kids were growing up without it—one less link to anchor them to this place.
Her gaze moved to the Dew Drop Inn, the little café on the square. It was much too early to knock on her father’s door, as he normally worked into the morning hours at his bar. Today was Friday; he would be working very late tonight, so she didn’t want to interrupt his sleep. She considered heading straight to her sister’s, but wasn’t up to explaining the past four days to Lily on an empty stomach. She’d spent the past twenty hours in a panic. She needed a bit to gather herself. So she pulled into a parking place in front of the Dew Drop.
This was where she’d shared her last late-Sunday breakfast with her dad before she’d left for college. Dad had been his usual good-humored self that morning. Yet Molly had seen the sadness and longing in the depths of his dark eyes. She was his baby. And since Lily had married and moved to Chicago when Molly was in eighth grade, it had been just her and her dad.
Her mother had been gone so long, Molly only remembered what she looked like from pictures. The last lingering hope that she would return had finally disappeared on high school graduation day. Until then, Molly had held the secret dream that she’d look out from under her mortarboard to see her mother’s proud face among the crowd in Glens Crossing High’s gymnasium. Of course, her mother wasn’t there, just as she hadn’t been for any other important occasion in Molly’s life. By the time she was packed and ready to leave for Boston, she’d vanquished all fanciful ideas concerning her mother.
Benny Boudreau had raised all three of his children to be independent and self-reliant—and yet that last morning, Molly had seen a part of him reach out and try to clasp her close to his heart, keep her here, keep her safe.
She had ignored it then, fearing that if she acknowledged it, she’d be too afraid to leave.
She remembered the look in his eyes as she’d driven away from the Crossing House, where they lived in a small apartment over the bar. Her car had been packed to the gills with clothes, bedding, and the new mini-fridge he’d bought for her dorm room. It was that image of him she held close when she was homesick—knowing he would be there, in that same place, whenever she returned.
Now, unlikely as it had seemed only weeks ago, she was returning. And she hoped that loving look would still be in her dad’s eyes after he heard what she’d done.
Behind her in the back seat, the baby made a soft sound in his sleep. She was beginning to develop an understanding of that protectiveness she’d always seen in her dad—that need to do what was right, what was best for his children.
She got out and put a quarter in the parking meter. After she unfastened the pumpkin seat from the car seat base, she carried it and the diaper bag with her.
It was a chilly morning; the windows and glass door of the Dew Drop were steamed over on the inside, reducing what she could see beyond the glass to a warm, yellow glow. Inviting.
She was struggling to open the door while managing the car seat when a hand shot from behind her and grabbed the door, opening it for her.
She smiled and said “Thanks,” to a lanky middle-aged man who looked familiar, yet his name eluded her.
“Hey, aren’t you Benny’s little girl?” He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I used to fix that old Ford of yours.”
His identity clicked into place. Hank Brown, owner of the garage on Maple. “Brownie! Hello.” She shifted the unfamiliar weight of baby carrier to her other hand.
“Still driving the old Purple Dragon?” he asked with a wink.
She’d nearly forgotten the nickname she’d given that beastly car—which was mostly purple like a grape Popsicle, except for the passenger door and half of the rear quarter panel, which made a distinctive style statement in gray primer. How on earth had he remembered? “No,” she smiled. “It was slain by a white knight in Boston during my junior year in college.” The days when she’d had the time and energy to do whimsical things like name cars seemed long, long ago.
He looked pointedly at the baby carrier. “So, who’s this?”
Molly’s mouth went dry. How little could she get away with telling? “This is Nicholas.”
“Can I have a peek?” Brownie’s kind eyes twinkled and he leaned down.
Molly wanted to refuse. How irrational would that appear? Babies drew attention. She could hardly walk around town and act like she didn’t have Nicholas with her. She removed the blanket that she’d put over the top of the seat to ward off the damp morning air.
“Why, he’s a dandy. Got your dark hair, I see.” He tilted his head to the side, considering for a moment. “I think he looks a little like Benny! The chin.”
Like Dad! Really? Molly made a noncommittal noise in her throat and moved toward a booth that had just opened up. “It was good to see
you again.”
She hung her coat on the tall chrome hook mounted between the booths, then slid in next to the baby. She was just unbundling him when the waitress arrived. Looking up, she saw it was Mildred, who didn’t look a day older than she had when Molly was five: same gray hair, same shade of red lipstick, same oversized glasses.
“Why, Molly Boudreau!” She leaned a little closer and cocked her head. “Or should I call you Doctor Boudreau?” She chuckled warmly.
“Don’t be silly, I’ll always be Molly around here. How are you, Mildred?”
She waved her pencil in the air. “Oh, couldn’t be better.” She looked at Nicholas. “And you’ve got a baby!” Her smile broadened. “What a little heartbreaker. I didn’t even know you’d gotten married.”
Molly reminded herself: simplicity. The fewer lies, the less likely to be tripped up by them. She maintained a bland expression and said, “I didn’t.”
“Oh.” Mildred’s smile slipped slightly. She quickly recovered. “I guess it doesn’t matter these days. Don’t know why I assumed. . . .” Her gaze drifted away as her voice trailed off.
Molly changed the subject. “I’ll have two eggs, over easy, and wheat toast, please.”
Mildred seemed glad to be freed of the uncomfortable turn in their meeting. “Coffee?”
“Please. Cream.” She turned back to adjust the baby in his seat and heard Mildred’s rubber-soled shoes squeak slightly as she turned and walked away. No matter how much time she had spent thinking about what she’d do once she got here during the drive, she now recognized she was ill-prepared to deal with even the simplest of situations. She should not have come to a public place first. She should have gone to talk to her dad and devised a clearheaded plan before exposing herself to others.
God, she realized belatedly, her thinking had been fuzzy over the past hours. Fatigue. Fear. Uncertainty. She had to get herself together. Everyone assumed Nicholas was her child—and she wasn’t sure what she should do about it.
Molly kept her head down as she quickly ate her breakfast. She didn’t need any more conversations with people she hadn’t seen in nine years. Not yet.
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