by Tami Hoag
“Why aren't you in Campion with the rest of the horde?”
“There's nothing much going on there. I mean, the search, but they haven't found the kid or anything. A bunch of people came back here for Anthony Costello's press conference, but then they went back to Campion for the prayer vigil. I thought I'd hang around, see if I could get a comment from you.”
“It's better than nothing, huh?”
“Yeah—I mean—it's something. I mean, what's your take on Dr. Wright bringing in a hired gun like Costello?” He pulled his notebook out of his coat pocket and stood with pen poised.
Ellen's breath rolled out in a transparent cloud and billowed up into the darkness. The sodium-vapor lights around the parking lot were on. One shone down on her Bonneville, spotlighting it as the only car for twenty yards in any direction. The sense of urgency deflated inside her.
“Garrett Wright is entitled to counsel,” she answered by rote. “Mr. Costello is very good at what he does.”
“Do you think it means Wright's guilty? That he feels like he's going to need a better lawyer than he could find in Deer Lake to get him off?”
“I'm not privy to his thoughts. I wish I were. That would make my job easier.” She bent and hefted her briefcase, balancing herself on her right toe to compensate for the missing heel. “I believe Garrett Wright is guilty. I will do everything in my power to prove that and to convict him. It makes no difference to me who his lawyer is.”
“Costello doesn't intimidate you?”
“Not in the least.”
“Even though he beat you about every two out of three times when you went up against him as a prosecutor in Hennepin County?”
“Where did you hear that?”
He shrugged. “My source in the system.”
“Cases are individual,” Ellen said, hobbling toward her car. “I'm confident in our case against Garrett Wright. I will also do everything I can to aid in the capture and prosecution of his accomplice.”
“Got any clues as to who that might be?” Adam Slater asked, shuffling beside her. “Got any clues about motive?”
“I'm not at liberty to comment.”
“I won't use your name,” he promised. “I'll call you ‘a highly placed source in the county attorney's office.' ”
“There are only five attorneys on staff, Mr. Slater. That wouldn't exactly ensure my anonymity.”
He rebounded with the undaunted resilience of youth and bounced on to the next question. “There's been no word on motive. What do you think this is all about? Crime is always about something—sex, power, money, drugs. Or in the existential, cosmic view, is it really just about good and evil?”
Ellen looked at him, at the avid light in his eyes as he waited for her answer, for a juicy, sensational tidbit his readers back in Grand Forks could scarf up with their breakfast cereal. She had seen degrees of good and evil all around throughout this ordeal: shades and shadows of darkness, small bright spots of hope for humankind. If Brooks was right about nothing else, he was right about one thing—that the drama being played out around them was, in many ways, a metaphor for the times. But Ellen had no desire to wax philosophical with a reporter who grew up on Brady Bunch reruns and was too young to remember the Beatles.
“I'm not an existentialist, Mr. Slater,” she said. “I'm a realist. I realistically believe I can win this case. I won't be spooked by an attorney who spends more on suits than I make in a year or by the preposterous notion that we're up against a malevolent entity whose evil genius is larger than all of us struggling against it. When you come right down to it, Garrett Wright is just another criminal. I won't give him any more credit than he deserves.”
It made for a good sound bite, she thought as she drove out of the parking lot. Too bad she didn't quite believe it.
CHAPTER 13
Hannah prowled the quiet house alone, soft music from the stereo her only company. Lily was asleep in her crib. Josh had fallen asleep on the couch watching Back to the Future.
Hannah had kept the VCR loaded since the night before. She didn't want Josh watching the news. She told herself she was afraid it might upset him, but the truth was that his reaction to the news bulletin about the Holloman kidnapping had upset her. She had tried to talk about it with him, but after his initial chilling comment he'd had nothing more to say.
“Josh, do you know who might have taken that boy away from his family?”
He shrugged, indifferent, and turned his attention to his box of markers, taking out each one and subjecting it to intense scrutiny.
“Honey, that little boy's family will be worried sick about him, just like we were worried about you. And he's probably scared, too, the way you must have been. If you could help find him, you would, wouldn't you?”
He pulled a purple marker from the box and held it at arm's length, slowly swooping it through the air as if he were pretending it was an airplane.
He had retreated once more into his imagination. Hannah was at a loss as to how to draw him out or even if she should try. Perhaps it was better to let him come to terms with it on his own, to simply offer him love and support and patience. Then she would think of Dustin Holloman's mother, knowing every fear the woman was experiencing, and she would think she should force the issue, that she should call Mitch and tell him what Josh had said, that she should have told Ellen North, that she should immediately drag Josh back to the child psychiatrist he had seen earlier in the day and relinquish her responsibility.
The arguments tumbled around and around in her mind, in her conscience. Ultimately, she felt she would do nothing, and she felt selfish and weak and wrong because of it. But in her heart she wanted first and foremost to protect Josh, to keep him safe with her, hoping all the ugliness would just go away.
She looked down at him, sleeping soundly, and every molecule of her being hurt. She had failed to protect him once. She didn't want to fail him again, but she was flying blind and she felt so alone. She felt as if she had been taken from the world she knew, where she was certain of her role and her skills, and thrust into an alien world, where she didn't understand the language or the customs.
Until Josh's abduction, she had never faced real adversity in her personal life. She had never acquired the skills necessary to cope. Even now, as she acquired them unwillingly, she wielded them clumsily, uncertainly. She felt out of balance and knew what was missing was her husband's support. She and Paul had been a team for a long time before that balance had begun to shift. To be without him was to suddenly become an amputee.
Beyond the kitchen the door from the garage to the mudroom opened and closed. Hannah whirled around, automatically putting herself between the unseen intruder and her son. Then the kitchen door swung open and Paul stepped in.
“You could have called first,” Hannah said angrily as she stepped up into the kitchen.
“It's still my house,” Paul answered defensively.
Hannah drew breath for another attack, then stopped herself short. It had become habit—the thrust and parry of verbal warfare. They didn't even bother with greetings anymore. They had shared a decade of their lives, brought two children into the world, and had reduced themselves to this.
“You frightened me,” she admitted.
“I'm sorry.” He offered the apology grudgingly. “I guess I should have known better. I didn't think you'd get used to having me gone so quickly.”
“It isn't that.”
He arched a sardonic brow. “Oh, so you've decided maybe there's some reason to be afraid of me after all?”
“Oh, Christ.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes. “I'm trying to be civil, Paul. Can't you at least meet me halfway?”
“You're the one who threw me out.”
“You deserved it. There. Are you happy now? Have we been ugly enough to each other?”
He looked away, staring at the refrigerator and the notes and photos and drawings that cluttered the front of it. Evidence of their life as a fam
ily.
“I came to see Josh,” he said quietly.
“He's asleep.”
“I can't frighten him then, can I?”
Hannah bit her lip on a retort. She wasn't sure what he wanted her to make of it or what she should make of it. She didn't want to think Josh had any reason to be afraid of his father. Logic told her there was no reason, that Garrett Wright was the man to blame. Garrett Wright was in jail.
And another child had been taken.
And it was Paul who had caused Josh to react so violently.
“He fell asleep on the couch,” she said, and turned and walked down into the family room.
Paul followed her, hands in his pockets, feet seeming to drag across the Berber rug. He looked down at their son over the back of the sofa, some nameless emotion tightening his features.
“How's he doing?”
“I don't know.”
“Is he talking?”
She hesitated for a split second, wanting to confide, but realizing she didn't want to confide in Paul. “No. Not really.”
“When will he see the psychiatrist again?”
“Tomorrow. Ellen North and Cameron Reed from the county attorney's office came by today with a photo lineup for him to look at to see if he would pick out Garrett Wright.”
Anticipation sharpened his expression. “And?”
“And nothing. He looked at it and walked away. He seems to be blocking the whole thing out. Dr. Freeman says it could be a long time before he faces it. The trauma was too much for him. He was probably told not to talk about it. Threatened. God only knows.”
“God and Garrett Wright.”
Paul bent down and touched Josh's hair. One stray lock curled around his forefinger, and his eyes filled with tears. Hannah stood where she was, knowing that not long ago she would have gone to him and put her arms around him and shared his pain. That she would no longer do so brought a profound sadness. How could their love have gone so completely? What could they have done to stop it from leaving?
“I wish we could go back,” Paul whispered. “I wish . . . I wish . . .”
The chant was as familiar as her own heartbeat. Hannah couldn't count the empty wishes, the unanswered prayers. The most important one had come true—to get Josh back—but it had brought on a whole new set of needs and longings and questions she wasn't sure she wanted answers for.
“I wish we could go back . . .” to the time in their lives that seemed like a distant fairy tale. Once upon a time they had been so happy. Now there was only bitterness and pain. Happily ever after was as far beyond their reach as the stars.
“I'll carry him to bed,” Paul murmured.
Hannah started to say no, worried that Josh might awaken at the movement and panic at the sight of his father. But she held her breath instead and asked God for this one small favor. Whatever had gone wrong between the two of them, she didn't want to see Paul hurt that way. She didn't want to believe he deserved it.
She followed them up the short flight of stairs and stood in the doorway to Josh's room as Paul settled him into the lower bunk and tucked the covers around him. He kissed his fingertips and pressed them softly against Josh's cheek, then went across the hall and looked in on Lily.
“She asks about you,” Hannah admitted.
“What do you tell her?”
“That you're staying somewhere else for a while.”
“But it isn't just for a while, is it, Hannah?” he said with more accusation than hope. “You don't need me.”
“I don't need this,” she said sharply as they stepped down into the family room. “The constant sniping, the snide remarks, the feeling that I have to walk on eggshells around your ego. I would give anything for us to be able to set all that aside for Josh's sake, but you can't seem to manage that—”
“Me?” Paul thumped a fist against his chest. “Yeah, I'm to blame. Bullshit. You're the one who—”
“Stop right there!” Hannah demanded. “I will not listen to this again. Do you understand me, Paul? I'm tired of you blaming me. I blame myself enough for both of us. I'm doing the best I can. I can't speak for you; I don't know what you're doing. I don't even know who you are anymore. You're not the man I married. You're no one I want to be with.”
“Well, that's fine,” he sneered. “I'm out of here.”
And so the vicious circle completed itself again, Hannah thought as the doors slammed. They had danced the dance so many times, just the thought of it made her dizzy. Exhausted, she sank down onto a wing chair and reached for the portable phone on the end table. She needed an anchor, a friend, someone she could feel safe loving even if he could never love her back.
The phone on the other end rang once, twice.
“God Squad. Free deliverance.”
A smile trembled across Hannah's mouth.
“We've got a special on penance tonight—three rosaries for the price of two.”
“What about shoulders to cry on?” she asked.
The silence was warm and full. “Buy one, get one free,” Father Tom said softly.
“Can I put it on my tab?”
“Anytime, Hannah,” he whispered. “Anytime.”
Paul picked his way along the edge of the woods that bordered Quarry Hills Park. The moonlight was intermittent, blinking on and off as dark clouds scraped across its path like chunks of soot in the night sky. He knew the way well enough. The path meant for cross-country skiers had been trampled by countless boots in the last few days as the police had combed the hillside for evidence. Tattered ribbons of yellow plastic crime-scene tape clung to tree trunks like synthetic kudzu.
He tried to ignore it and not think about the reason it was there. He needed a break from the nightmare. He needed comfort. He needed love. He deserved something better than Hannah's running him down. She should have been able to see the strain he was under. If she had been a true wife to him, he would have been sleeping in his own bed tonight. Instead, he wanted to seek out another man's wife.
That the man was sitting in jail tonight, accused of stealing Josh, brought on a complex matrix of emotions. None of them made him turn back.
The kitchen light was on in the Wrights' house. From the woods his views of the interior were abstract—a rectangle of kitchen, a square of bathroom wall and ceiling, a triangle of bedroom through the inverted V created between the tied-back curtains.
Karen was home. He had called her from a pay phone and hung up when she'd answered, afraid that her telephone might be bugged. There were no cars in her driveway, no evidence of visitors.
Caution and cowardice and guilt held him there at the edge of the woods. Need finally drove him forward.
He tracked across the backyard to the door that led into the garage and let himself in as he had many times before. Garrett's Saab had been impounded by the police and taken away, leaving Karen's Honda to take up only a fraction of the floor space. This was where Mitch Holt had arrested Garrett Wright. For a second Paul could almost hear the sounds of the scuffle, the low pitch of Holt's voice as he recited the Miranda warning.
Paul barely knew Garrett Wright. They were neighbors, but not the sort who shared summer evenings and backyard barbecues. Wright held himself apart, superior. He gave his life to his work at the college and regarded the people around him as if they were specimens to be studied and picked apart. It brought a certain bitter pleasure to think of him sitting in jail. How superior was he now?
“Paul?”
Karen stood behind the storm door looking fragile and startled. Her fine ash-blond hair framed her face. A pink rose bloomed across the front of her oversize ivory sweater. Feminine. Delicate. Everything he wanted in a woman.
“Paul, what are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you,” he said, pulling the door open. “Can I come in?”
“You shouldn't.” But she stepped back into the laundry room anyway.
“I had to see how you're doing. I haven't seen you since Garrett—”
&nbs
p; “That was a mistake.” She shook her head, not quite looking at him. “Garrett should never have been arrested. He's never been arrested.”
“He took Josh, Karen.”
“That's a mistake,” she mumbled, twisting a finger into her hair. “He would never . . . hurt me like that.”
“He doesn't love you, Karen. Garrett doesn't love you. I love you. Remember that.”
“I don't like what's happening.” The words came on a trembling whine. “I think you should leave, Paul.”
“But I need to see you,” he said urgently. “You can't imagine what I've been going through, wondering about you—wondering if you're all right, wondering if the police have been interrogating you. I've been worried sick.”
He lifted a hand to touch her cheek. “I've missed you,” he whispered. Soft. She was so soft. Need ached through him. He needed comfort. He deserved comfort. “Every night I lay awake, wishing you were with me. I think about us being together—really together. It can happen now. Hannah and I are finished. Garrett will go to jail.”
“I don't think so,” she murmured.
“Yes. You don't love him, anyway, Karen. He can't give you what you need. You love me. Say you love me, Karen.”
She hitched a breath, tears spilling over her lashes. “I love you, Paul.”
He lowered his mouth to kiss her, but she turned her face away. She pushed at him, her small hands spread across the front of his coat.
“Karen?” he whispered, confused, crushed. “I need you.”
She shook her head, tears tumbling down her cheeks, her lower lip trembling. “I'm so sorry. It was all a mistake.” She slowly sank down along the front of the dryer to sit on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her legs, rested her cheek on her knees and cried softly. “. . . A terrible mistake.”
I made a mistake. The line blinked on and off in Denny Enberg's head like a neon sign. On and off, on and off, the relentless beat like Chinese water torture.
“You should be happy, Denny,” he mumbled, pouring himself another shot of Cuervo. “You're out of it. You're off the hook.”