Rick nodded. Vehicles were messy. Too easy to trace. Too hard to dispose of. “He never learned to drive.”
Tom’s excuse for not having a car had been the environment.
“Luckily I’m right on the bus route,” Mrs. Meadows said.
Luck had nothing to do with it.
“And he had his bike.”
“Yes. He loved that bike. Washed it like my Walt used to wash that old car of his. Shined it, too.” A sad smile spread across her face.
“What happened to Jack’s bike?”
“It was taken, same as the rest of his stuff.”
Every nerve in Rick’s body buzzed. “Taken? Where? By whom?”
“Jack’s uncle came for them. Funny, Jack never mentioned him. I didn’t even know he had an uncle. Or any family.”
The sergeant. Exactly as planned. Some of his tension abated. “They weren’t close,” Rick said, making it up. Then he steered attention away from Sarge, which he did as naturally as he breathed.
“Mrs. Meadows.” He sat forward. “I realize this is difficult, but I have to ask. You knew Jack pretty well.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“That’s what they say.”
“I know. And if he did, then I have to accept that. It’s just that…”
“You don’t believe it, either.” The softness of the woman’s words struck him.
“No, I don’t.”
“I wasn’t allowed near the room,” she said, her hands still in her lap. “At first…all I saw was a glimpse…of his body…and blood…and I hurried away and called 9-1-1. And after the police got there, they taped it off. By the time I could go in, Jack’s uncle had taken all his things. And paid to have the room professionally cleaned and painted. Even put in new carpet.”
Erasing all evidence of Jack’s existence. Routine. Just as it should be. Keeping them all safe.
“The police had located the uncle as next of kin, and he’d arrived that same day. Took care of all the funeral arrangements, too.”
So if there’d been foul play, any sign of it had come and gone within hours.
And that was what he would’ve expected, as well. According to the world they’d worked in. Lived in.
The world that had paid them well in exchange for their lives.
“I… You cared about him.” Jack’s landlady was peering at him with eyes that missed little.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I did.”
She stood then, as though coming to some decision. “I have something for you.”
Janet Meadows left the room and Rick positioned himself at the side of the archway with his back to the wall, hand on the pistol beneath his shirt.
Didn’t matter what town he was in, a guy like Rick always knew where to acquire a weapon.
And was always ready to use it.
“I have something for you” could mean anything.
Jack had died in this woman’s home. She could’ve been involved.
Maybe whoever had been after Jack had been assuming Rick would visit here—and planned to get him in the same way. Maybe if he’d done so earlier, Charles Cook would be alive. And maybe Rick would be dead.
Maybe Janet Meadows had put something in his tea. And was waiting for whatever it was to take effect.
Maybe he was being paranoid.
A good thing. Paranoia kept him alert. Alive.
“Here it is—where’d you go?” Mrs. Meadows stopped midway in the room and turned.
“I was stretching my legs,” Rick said, coming up behind her, his hand still inside his jacket, resting at the edge of his untucked shirt. “Long flight.”
The perusal she gave him wasn’t light, but Rick withstood it without a blink. He wasn’t sure he’d convinced her he was the least bit trustworthy.
“Jack left this for you,” she said, anyway, handing him a lunch-size brown paper bag, folded over on itself a couple of times.
Eyeing the small package, Rick asked, “How’d he do that if you didn’t see him before he died?”
“He brought it to me the last morning I saw him. Three weeks before his death. He told me that if anything happened to him, I was to hold on to this. I wasn’t to tell anyone he’d given it to me unless you showed up. And then I was to give it to you.”
Frowning, Rick stepped forward. With his gun hand on the bag, he didn’t take complete possession of it. His gaze met hers. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
She could be lying. Rick didn’t think so. He took the bag.
“You did the right thing,” he told the older woman. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Rick was pretty certain she didn’t entirely mean that. But he accepted her words with a nod and took his leave soon after. She didn’t invite him back.
It was only after he’d returned to Grand Rapids, and was by himself in his own truck, that Rick pulled the folded brown paper bag out of his pocket and looked inside.
He’d carefully transported—through airport security and onto the plane—a faded, half-used matchbook. From a bar called The Resting Place.
9
Running her fingers through the thick layers of hair kept short for convenience, Erin stared at the one light bobbing out in the darkness beyond her window. She was in the living room, having dropped into a chair on her way back to bed. But she’d seen the same light from the dining room, too, both times she’d passed through to get a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
Bottle uncapped, she took a sip of liquid she didn’t really need. The drink had only been an excuse to escape the torture she’d been experiencing in her losing battle with sleep.
The darkness beyond her wall of windows could have felt alarming. Frightening. Hiding all kinds of dangers. Instead, she listened to the waves hitting the rocks far below, taking comfort from their energy. Those waves, and that one light, were all the company she needed.
What a day it had been. The Fitzgeralds were the only family she had. Normally, their presence in her life was a godsend. A miracle. Until something happened that put the close-knit family at odds. Then it was like a person with a raging fever, a virus that caused every part of the body to ache.
Ron, who almost never asked anything of anyone, had asked Erin to talk Caylee into dropping “this Yale nonsense” before her mother found out.
The eldest Mrs. Fitzgerald had just been diagnosed with a liver disease that was exacerbated by stress. So far, and until more tests were done to determine severity, until more facts were known, Erin was the only one in the family, other than Ron, who knew about the diagnosis.
Although Erin had met Patricia Fitzgerald less than five years before, the woman was the only mother she’d really ever had. The reality that this petite and gentle woman could be facing a liver transplant or death was a crushing blow.
And now, more than ever, Erin believed Caylee should have her chance at a full and complete life of her own. The life her heart called her to follow, not the life her family wanted her to live.
Erin knew what it was like to lose a parent. To have to rely for your security—emotional as well as financial—solely on the life you’d created yourself.
But if stress was an escalator in Patricia’s disease, Erin could be killing her almost-mother-in-law by encouraging Caylee to set out on her own.
Yet how could the choice to sacrifice Caylee’s whole future be the right one?
“Caylee looks up to you, more than any of the others,” Ron had said earlier that day. “She idolized Noah. He was her favorite. The one she ran to any time she had a problem. And you were Noah’s choice. With him gone, Caylee has switched her loyalty to you.”
Ron hadn’t seemed displeased by his youngest daughter’s defection. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’d just wanted to make sure that Erin was fully aware of her role in the family.
And fully aware of the responsibilities that accompanied it.
That light out th
ere, shining in the darkness, seemed to be speaking to her. Or maybe she wished it would tell her what to do. She—
The ring of her cell phone pealed amid the comforting sound of crashing waves. She’d left it in her bedroom. Dressed in the thin white pajama pants and top she’d pulled on a couple of hours earlier, Erin hurried across the thick beige carpet to her room, wondering who was in trouble. And noticing that middle-of-the-night calls weren’t as alarming when you were awake as they were when they woke you from a deep sleep.
Please let it be someone she didn’t know, she half prayed, and then felt guilty for wishing misfortune on some unknown person as she reached for the phone.
She recognized the number. She shouldn’t answer it. That was best.
“Hello?”
“I didn’t wake you.”
The man was observant. But then, she’d already realized that and so much more about him. “No.”
“I apologize for calling so close to midnight.”
“I answered.” She’d had a choice. “I’ve reconsidered our arrangement. I don’t think I can represent you. If you need a lawyer tonight I can recommend someone who—”
“I don’t need a lawyer tonight.”
For a second, she just stood there, taken aback by his words in a way she didn’t understand.
“Then why are you calling me?”
“To ask a favor.”
The man had gall. She’d hand him that. “I don’t owe you any favors.”
“I’m asking, anyway.”
It was time to hang up. She positioned her thumb over the end-call button. “What?”
“I…found a matchbook cover that isn’t mine, nor is it one I’ve seen before. I think it should be checked for fingerprints, but because we have no idea who planted that knife in my bedroom, I don’t want anyone to know about this.”
“Where did you find it?”
“It’s right here.”
“Where’s here?”
“My home.”
“In Temple?”
“It’s the only home I have.”
So he’d come back. He wasn’t on the run. Slumping onto the edge of her bed, Erin stared at the red polish on her toes. And then slid backward, pulling her feet up as she leaned against the solid pecan headboard.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Tying up business. You intimated that I might not be a free man for much longer.”
“We’ll get you out on bail.”
“But I won’t be able to leave the state.”
“You left the state?”
“Yes.”
“What business did you have to tie up?” Her name was associated with this man. She had to know what he was into.
“I had a…woman…to see.”
“You said there were no significant relationships.”
“She’s not significant.”
With a second’s worth of compassion for the unknown female, Erin asked, “You going to see her again?”
“No.”
“Is she aware of that?”
“Yes.”
She caught herself just before asking if he’d left a broken heart behind. The state of his ex-lover’s heart was none of her concern.
But she did ask, “Were there any children involved?”
“No.”
“Drop the matchbook by my office in the morning and I’ll see what I can do.”
“What time?”
“I’ll be in at nine.”
“Can the test be done quietly?”
“Yes.” She had her sources. Any defense attorney worth her salt had to be able to get answers without alerting the world—or incriminating her client.
“And when Huey Johnson shows up here with his warrant, should I call you?”
When not if. And here. Rick wasn’t running. He wasn’t hiding.
Erin had to make a decision.
“Yes. And don’t say a word to anyone until I get there.”
Rick slept through the night and was still at home, uninterrupted, Monday morning. He celebrated with a bowl of sugared flakes and a pot of really strong Colombian coffee. Just the way he liked it.
And then he showered and headed out.
He had a couple of hours before he could deliver Brady’s last offering and wanted to ensure that he was free to do so. He wanted to live, and so had no choice but to play this thing to the end—to learn who was out to get him and get them first. But that didn’t mean he was going to be waiting.
Waiting would put him on the defensive.
He’d preferred to play offense. In his type of work that was how to stay alive.
And so, in jeans, a flannel shirt and a black leather jacket, he donned work boots, grabbed his gun, loaded it, stowed it and went for a drive. A long drive. He kept moving.
Until he passed through a town with a gas station that advertised prepaid cell phones. Rick stopped then. Paid cash for a phone.
Back in the truck, he dialed a Laundromat in Kansas City. And when a woman answered he told her Tom was calling to say he wanted his shirts starched. She told him she’d be happy to take care of that for him and hung up.
Rick stopped a second time. Dropped the phone behind his tire, backed over it, picked up the remains and tossed them in the next roadside Dumpster he passed.
Assuming he was still a free man, and Sarge was able to get to Michigan, he should be meeting him out on the lake sometime after midnight. That was the plan. One Rick had hoped never to need.
And if Sarge didn’t show Monday night, Rick would return on Tuesday, renting boats from marinas that he didn’t frequent. Different boats. Different sizes. For unspecified periods of time.
Paying cash.
Using fake IDs.
No pattern. Nothing to trace.
In his life as Tom, that was how it had to be.
Erin was in her office by eight. The navy slacks and jacket, the silk blouse and matching pumps, the pearls in her ears and at her throat, the carefully applied make-up and the extra time she’d taken to ensure that her hair maintained the casually windblown look, were all for her court appearance on Clyde’s behalf. Not to impress her newest client—the one who’d be dropping by with a small package.
She did her hair and makeup every day. Hadn’t been seen without eyeliner by anyone but her reflection in the mirror—and maybe her cat—since Noah died. Today the application had taken longer because of a sleepless night that had left her hand a little shaky.
She didn’t need to attract attention to herself. She had no one to convince that she was on top of her game.
By eight forty-five she’d confirmed final arrangements for a settlement conference with Clyde and his wife, Laura Jane, that afternoon. If all went well the man would be protected by nightfall. The restraining order against Laura Jane wasn’t going to do it. The one against Clyde would. If he stayed away from the woman, she wouldn’t be able to manipulate him.
He loved her too much to keep his distance when she reached out to him, which she did each and every time he tried to free himself from her abusiveness. Erin hoped a court order would be enough incentive for him to hold out against her pleas.
Her stomach jumped when the outer door of her office jangled at eight fifty-five. The receptionist she shared with a family court attorney on the opposite side of the building wasn’t due in until nine.
“Mr. Thomas?” she called as she went out to the deserted lobby.
“Rick.” With that deep, assertive voice, he put more into one syllable than most people managed to cram into a paragraph.
Not that she was open to anything from him other than the facts that were going to help her win his case.
If there was one.
There’d been no message from the sheriff that morning.
Without another word, Rick handed her a folded brown bag. And, as she took it with a tissue between it and her hand, Rick Thomas nodded and turned to go.
“Wait.” He couldn’t just walk out on her like that.
He was watching her.
“I… Where will you be?”
A raised eyebrow was the only answer she received.
“You aren’t leaving town again, are you? I’d advise against it.”
“I’m going to work.” The hand he slid into his pocket stretched his jeans taut. “Until I’m told otherwise, I still have a job.”
She had to figure this man out. Now.
“And if I get there and find out I don’t, I’m going fishing.”
“Locally?”
“For now.” And then, “I’m not guilty, Erin.” She’d given him permission to use her name. She hadn’t expected it to sound so…so…deep. So— “If they indict me, I’ll be here.”
“Okay.”
“I’m counting on you to do the rest.”
“I’ll need your help.”
“Of course.”
“We need to talk. There are things I need to know.”
“If I’m indicted, we’ll talk.”
If this morning. Not when.
The man wasn’t giving her anything he didn’t have to.
“And when I get an answer on the prints?”
“Call my cell.”
“Should I leave a message?”
His eyes narrowed and she was left feeling as though she’d just gained something, though with him it wouldn’t be much. Or change much.
“No.”
She nodded and didn’t try to stop him a second time when he turned to walk out her door.
10
Chandler, Ohio
Monday, October 18, 2010
I’d seen David Abrams—the attorney I used to consider one of the good guys—at the local discount department store on Saturday. I’m not sure whether Maggie saw him or not. She didn’t seem to. But I didn’t take comfort in that. Maggie was skilled beyond her years at looking peaceful while tempests raged inside.
The man who’d had sex, multiple times in one day, with my fourteen-year-old foster daughter saw us. And immediately exited the premises—as was mandated by the strongly issued warning Samantha Jones had given him to stay away from Maggie. But I caught a glimpse of a certain something on his face as he saw Maggie—longing, maybe, or ownership—and I hadn’t been able to relax since.
The Third Secret Page 7