Even Steven (37 page)

Bobby Martin never was any good at being alone. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay, I won't take Steven away from you." "Give me your word." "I just did." "Say it."

Part of him wanted to laugh. What was next, a pinky swear? But she was dead serious. He nodded. "Okay," he whispered. "I swear I won't take Steven away." "Ever."

He hesitated. He could lie. He could tell her anything that she wanted to hear just to get past this crisis, but if he did that, what would they have left? If he betrayed her in the hour when she needed him most, the trust would all be gone. And without trust, there was no such thing as marriage. He loved her too much to lie to her. "I can't say that, Susan." "Then we have nothing to talk about." She turned away and headed for the bathroom.

"Goddammit, Susan, will you please wait and listen to me?" If there was anger in his voice, he didn't mean for it to be there. He was just tired. And confused. And scared to death.

Susan turned.

"I promised I wouldn't give him away, okay? Not tonight, anyway. That I can swear. Not tonight. But I can't vouch for ever. I mean, think about it. You have your faith that it will all turn out, but I just don't have that. I've already talked with the FBI today. I heard what he had to say, and I'm telling you that they're getting close enough to smell what we did. Sooner or later, they're going to come back. Don't make me swear now to what might happen then, okay? That's just not fair. I can't do that."

Susan's eyes narrowed as she considered his words; weighed them. After a long moment, she finally nodded. "Fair enough," she whispered. "But for tonight, we're a family, right?"

Bobby took a deep, deep breath. Certainly, this was no time to argue the finer points of what defined a family. This was a time simply to nod and smile. "Okay. Tonight, we're a family."

One look at the jailer's face told April that something was terribly wrong.

She sat among a dozen other women, any one of whom could have broken her in half at a whim. April had no idea what they'd been charged with, but most of them seemed to know each other, and as a group they'd made it perfectly clear that she was not welcome in their little club.

The place stank of sweat and urine, and the filthy concrete walls reflected and magnified the room's conversations into a swirling, meaningless din. She had nothing to prove to these women, and no desire to learn from them. She sat where they told her to sit; moved elsewhere when instructed to do so. She just didn't care.

All she could think of was Justin. When would Carlos make good on his promise to bring him home? And once home, where would he stay? Certainly not with her. Not for a long time. Twenty to life was what they told her.

But these were concerns for later. First, she had to get Justin to a sale place. When that was taken care of, everything else would rise above the distant third-place slots they occupied in her mind.

All the prisoners turned as the jailer approached with her keys, but the cop looked only at April, quickly looking away as April met her gaze. "April Simpson, front and center," the guard called, as if she didn't know which prisoner was which.

April stood, knowing instinctively that something terrible had happened. "I'm April Simpson. What's wrong?"

"You need to come with me." Another guard stood at a distance behind the first as she pulled the door open, a radio in one hand and a nightstick in the other, ready to move in fast if the prisoners decided to rush.

April stepped through the door, and the guard slammed it shut behind her. "Is there something wrong?" April asked again.

"All I know is Detective Stipton asked to speak with you again. Now, I need to cuff you, so please turn around and put your hands behind your back."

April did as she was told, facing the wall of bars, but seeing none of the faces behind them. "Just tell me if something is wrong."

With the cuffs locked in place, and her prisoners hands secured behind her back, the guard grasped April's elbow, firmly but not harshly. "The detective will tell you everything you need to know upstairs."

This was about Justin. She could feel it. Something terrible had happened to him. Maybe they'd found his body somewhere. What else could it be? These jail officers were hard as granite, yet their expressions showed something balanced between dread and compassion. What else could it possibly be?

Detective Stipton was waiting for her when she arrived in the interview room, his back turned to the door, staring out at the parking lot through the steel-grated window. When he turned, his face looked even more grave than the guards. Stipton communicated something with his eyes to the officer, who in turn unlocked April's handcuffs and then slipped out the door, closing it behind her.

"Can I get you some coffee, April? A soda?"

"What's wrong?"

Stipton inhaled deeply through his nose and gestured to the seat he'd occupied during their last session together. "Please have a seat."

The politeness rang warning bells throughout April's body. Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God . . .

She sat. So did Stipton, directly across from her.

"April, I wish there were an easy way to tell you this, but there just isn't."

She felt her guts tense as tears rushed to her eyes. Poor Justin. Oh, please, God, take good care of my boy . . .

"I'm afraid your husband's been shot. He's dead."

April scowled as her brain struggled with the words. Did he say my husband? William? For some reason, the words didn't compute for a moment, but down deep in her gut, she felt as if her heart had started beating again.

"Apparently, he was walking out of your apartment and someone was waiting for him. They shot him three times and he died on the spot. I'm terribly, terribly sorry for your loss."

April had to work hard to suppress her smile. She wanted to shout, Is that all? On a different day, under different circumstances, this might have been terrible news-and judging from the look on Detective Stipton's face, it should have been terrible news-but for the moment, all she wanted to do was let out a war whoop of joy.

Justin was still okay!

ST. IGGY'S AUDITORIUM erupted in applause. As one, the audience rose to their feet, cheering with the kind of enthusiasm that only a group of proud parents can generate. After directing the orchestra to bow as a whole, Mrs. Vonder then presented their star soloist with a flourish of her open palm.

Christa Ortega stepped forward and the thunder swelled even louder. Just as she'd practiced a hundred times in the mirror, she acknowledged her public first with a nod to the left, then to her right, and then a demure curtsy for all.

As she glided back to join the rest of her friends, she paused just a moment more to blow a kiss to her father.

Carlos could barely see through his tears. He didn't know that he'd ever been so proud. He felt Consuela's arm slip around his waist and draped his own over her shoulder. This was a night they'd remember for a long, long time.

"She's beautiful," Father Eugene said, leaning in close enough to be heard. "Just beautiful."

Carlos acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a smile, knowing full well that it would be a moment before his voice would work.

The Canon was the final piece of the concert, and as the applause finally withered to a rumble of countless conversations, the musicians remained standing, awaiting their turn to file out as their parents gathered coats and purses in preparation to leave.

The children's route of retreat would take them out the backstage door and down a side hallway that would lead them to the music room. Having worked closely with the architect, Carlos knew the way as well as anyone and didn't hesitate to climb the short stairway leading up from the audience to stage right, and from there to join the parade of children on their way to pick up their coats and music cases. Some parents followed, but most did not, preferring to wait in the lobby of the auditorium for their cellists and violinists to join them.

The mood of the children raised Carlos's spirits to their highest point in days. They knew that they'd done a terrific job, and they could not contain their enthusiasm. Was there anything better in the world than the sound of happy children? Carlos didn't think so. He walked hand in hand with Consuela, just listening, trying his best not to let his presence as an adult dampen any spirits. As always, Pena remained just a step or two behind, continually scanning the crowd. Even he sensed that this was a happy time, and he did his best to keep his lips bent into a smile that just didn't seem to fit him well.

Total bedlam reigned in the music room, as half the kids made an earnest effort to recover their belongings and the other half ran around out of control, playing tag, or violin keep-away. Above the din, Mrs. Vonder tried to keep some semblance of control.

"Children!" she yelled. "Children, your parents are waiting for you, so please don't waste time. You had a wonderful concert; you should all be very proud. Now please hurry along and collect your belongings ..."

For the contingent who were not already busy doing those very things, she might as well have been reading from the phone book.

"I bet I could get their attention," Pena whispered to his boss, who couldn't help but chuckle.

The laughter disappeared, however, when Carlos caught the glare from Consuela. The silent reprimand registered instantly with Pena, too, and he took a step backward.

"Relax, Consuela," Carlos whispered. "He meant no harm."

"You know how I feel about such things." She resented even the slightest mention of violence, even in its most oblique form.

"Just don't be angry."

A flash of black off to the left briefly caught Carlos's eye, and he turned to see a priest entering the music room. Carlos noted casually that it might well be the largest priest he'd ever seen, but when Christa asked for help with her cello case, he never gave the priest a second thought.

You'd have thought that it was Carnegie Fucking Hall the way everyone jumped to their feet. They actually cheered! Like you'd expect to hear at a football game. And it went on and on and on.

Logan joined them, of course, if only to blend in, but he felt foolish for doing it. It was a kids' strings concert for God's sake, and all they played was elevator music. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Was it possible that what seemed so endless could have been only ninety minutes?

He thought he'd spotted Ortega early on, recognizing his helmet of jet-black hair, but he couldn't be sure until the ovation started and everyone stood. Were it not for Pena's unmistakable silhouette and glistening pate, he might still not have known beyond doubt, but that pit bull's presence always and forever meant that Ortega was within arm's reach. Logan didn't recognize the woman who stood between them, but he could only assume that she was Ortega's wife. Funny how he'd never thought of the asshole's being married. Not that he should be surprised. After all, they were here at a school, weren't they? It only made sense that where there was a father and a daughter, there'd naturally be a mother. He'd just never thought about it before.

Logan followed his target's gaze up to the stage and picked out which child belonged to him. The fucking star of the show, of course. Logan kept applauding with the rest as the conceited little bitch took her bows, and when she blew her father a kiss-as if she were some fucking movie star-it was all he could do to keep from throwing up.

The houselights came up as the children filed out, and Logan suddenly felt terribly self-conscious of his gloved hands. He shoved them into the pockets of his black overcoat and stepped out into the aisle, fighting against the flow of the exiting crowd to make his way closer to the front, near the stage. He wanted to get it over with here, while they were all still in the auditorium and his targets had no place to go, but as he half-stepped and excuse-me'd through the crowd, Ortega disappeared.

Where the hell could he be?

Logan's head whipped to the left, taking in every face in the crowd that jammed the opposite aisle, but none of them was Ortega.

There! Up by the stage. Wasn't that Pena disappearing behind the heavy velvet curtain? Of course it was. Who else could it be?

The thought flashed through Logan's head that his target might get away, but then he noticed the kids filing out in the same direction, and he put it all together. This was okay, he told himself. He still had plenty of time. Ricky Timmons's speeches echoed in his brain. Take your time, he told himself. He's got no place to go.

The crowd had thinned to practically nothing down near the stage as the audience bottlenecked at the rear exits. Logan walked purposefully across the front row and up the four steps to the stage. From there, he joined the tail end of the musician parade as it made its way down the long beige and white hallway.

He could see Ortega, but was still too far away. Besides, until he dropped Pena, Ortega remained number two on his target list.

Logan found himself smiling as he passed a few straggling violinists to close the distance. Up ahead, he noted the red exit sign and nearly laughed out loud. Easy hit and easy escape. What more could he have asked for?

He wondered about the kids, though. When they panicked, what would they do? Would they cram the exits, just as they crammed the entrance now? He hoped not. He only had but so many bullets.