Facing It (8 page)

He needed to call Jennifer.

Why the hell was that so damn hard? Talking to her face to face had been difficult enough earlier. Hell, he hadn’t been able to look at her, afraid he’d give in, tell her he’d do whatever she wanted, be whatever she wanted if she’d just give him a chance—

A nauseous shudder worked its way over him, and a cold lump settled in his gut. Where had he heard all of that before? Oh yeah, she wanted him now, wanted him physically, that was for damn sure. But what about later, when her lust and attraction to him wore off?

His mother hadn’t raised a fool. He knew from cold, hard experience how that worked.

I want you, and I’m not willing to give you up without a fight.

Jennifer’s earnest words sent another tremor over him. Once upon a time, Gina had wanted him too. But that’s all it had been—wanting.

He straightened, stiffened his backbone, physically and metaphorically. Let Jennifer find a new partner. Damn if he’d beg. He keyed in the speed dial for her number.

Four rings passed before she answered, her voice weary and a little choked. “Yes?”

“It’s her.” He glanced back at the tall hospital behind him, its rows of windows a random pattern of light and dim and dark. “Calvert’s in with her now.”

“So was it Chason? Did she say?” The words seemed torn from duty, holding none of Jennifer’s usual case-related blend of excitement and enthusiasm.

“She doesn’t remember anything. Doctor says that’s pretty normal following a head injury or traumatic event. Not to mention someone gave her an overdose of scopolamine.”

“So she can’t help us with Chason.” Jennifer’s frustrated groan carried over the line. “Great. Just fabulous.”

“Chason doesn’t have to know that,” Harrell pointed out. “When you and Weston—”

“He wants you there.” The bald statement dropped between them.

Harrell blinked. “What?”

“Weston wants you in Charleston. The flight I’d booked was full, so I rescheduled. We fly out of Albany at nine.”

“Okay.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I’m not sure how long we’ll be here tonight, but I’ll see you in the morning. How about if I meet you at that diner down from the sheriff’s department?”

“Fine.” She disconnected without further words. Harrell stared at the slim black device in his hand. No goodbye. Yeah, that was familiar too.

“Mama?” The nearly inaudible whisper slid past Tick’s lips as he leaned over his mother on the narrow bed. Her eyes closed, her face pale beneath the dark salt-and-pepper of her hair, the lines of her features smooth, younger looking in sleep. A smudge of dust darkened one cheekbone and below that, a scrape and bruise marred her chin. A bandage at her hairline hid the stitched wound. He took her hand, her fingers hot and limp in his. A convulsive shiver moved over him. Lord, this could have been so much worse.

Cloth rustled as Del joined him at the bedside, opposite, taking their mother’s other hand. Tick flicked a glance at him, his own relief and bottled rage mirrored in Del’s eyes. Tick clenched his jaw until it ached. “The son of a bitch will pay for this. And Ruthie.”

Wordlessly, Del nodded. He rubbed his thumb across the back of their mother’s frail-looking knuckles.

Her eyelids flickered, lashes lifting to reveal brown eyes clouded with pain and confusion. She blinked once, twice, and a tremulous smile curved her lips. Her fingers tightened around Tick’s; he was sure she held Del with equal firmness. “My boys.”

“Hey, Mama.” Del leaned forward to brush a kiss over her uninjured cheek.

She blinked, her eyes glittering with a sudden wash of tears as she focused on Tick. She shook her head, disheveled hair rustling on the starched pillowcase. “I don’t remember anything. Why don’t I remember what happened?”

“It’s all right, Mama,” Tick murmured, stroking her wrist in a soothing rhythmic caress. “You’re safe and everything’s okay. No one’s going to hurt you again.”

He forced the hard notes of anger and hatred out of his voice. Those emotions didn’t belong here, in this room, with her. He smoothed his thumb over the soft crepe-like skin of her arm. “I’m going to take care of it, Mama, I promise.”

Del darted a look at him, a narrow-eyed, watchful expression, before he bent down, caressing her hair not covered by the bandage. “You need to rest. I’ll be right here, down the hall.”

She nodded, squeezing her eyes closed, but a couple of tears escaped, trickling down into the wrinkles near her eyes. Tick caught one on his fingers, taking it away. The anger sizzled in him, made stronger by her distress.

A nurse appeared at the door, tapping her wristwatch, and Tick brushed a kiss over his mother’s brow. “Our time’s up, Mama, but we’ll be close by.”

Outside, in the hallway, Del caught his arm. “I want to know everything you know. And I want you to swear to me you’re not going to go off half-cocked and do something stupid.”

Tick grimaced. “Like what? Kill the bastard? Don’t worry, Del, I’ll let the system work.”

Del jerked his chin toward the room where their mother lay. “Does Ruthie know about this?”

With a harsh exhale, Tick ran a hand through his hair. “No.”

Del closed his eyes on a sharp curse. “Don’t you think she needs to?”

“I don’t know what to do anymore. Don’t know whether to tell her, not tell her.” He couldn’t figure out exactly what Chason was up to—taking their mother, abandoning her, returning to South Carolina to report Ruthie missing, swearing Ruthie had taken the children to get back at him. He obviously wanted to flush Ruthie out of hiding. Was this the psychological warfare she’d lived with the last few years? “I want her safe from him, Del. I hate that she was going through this and she didn’t feel like she could come to me—”

“To us,” Del said, his voice quiet. “Any of us. I guess on some level, we all failed her. But I think not telling her now is a way of failing her again. She has a right to know what’s going on, so she can make her own decisions about what to do, don’t you think, Tick?”

Tick fixed his brother, younger by little more than a year, with a steady look. “You think we should tell her.”

Del nodded. “I do. Wouldn’t you want to know?”

“She’s going to want to come back here.”

“Yes, she is.”

“That’s what Chason wants, I think.”

“Probably.” Del’s expression hardened. “I believe between you, me and Chuck, we can keep her safe. We won’t let the son of a bitch hurt her anymore. I promise you that.”

Jennifer settled into a booth at the small storefront diner and reached for a laminated menu, her eyes gritty and bleary from lack of sleep. She hadn’t gone to bed until almost four and once there, she’d tossed around, unable to get her mind to slow down long enough for sleep to take her.

A waitress, her blonde hair piled in a loose knot, approached with a broad smile. “Can I get you some coffee or juice while you decide, hon?”

Jennifer smoothed a finger over the menu. “Coffee would be great. The stronger the better.”

“You got it. Be back in a sec.”

Perusing the breakfast offerings—what the heck was “breakfast in a cup” anyway?—Jennifer wished she could focus on the case facts, on what needed to be done. She’d never struggled with that before. In the past, putting the job before all else had been so easy.

Damn Harrell Beecham.

“Good morning, Agent Settles.” Caitlin Falconetti’s husky voice pulled her from the reverie of recriminations. Jennifer glanced up to find the woman standing by the table, clad in impeccable tweed slacks and a wrap-front blouse. The dark-haired baby on her hip made a grab for the stylish beads at her throat. Catching his hand in hers, Falconetti graced Jennifer with a small, polished smile. “May we join you?”

“Of course.” Jennifer indicated the booth opposite with a negligent gesture. Why did Falconetti want to join her?

“Here you go.” The waitress arrived with Jennifer’s coffee in one hand and a wooden high chair in the other. The smile she directed at Falconetti was more of a feral bearing of teeth. “Mornin’, Miz
Calvert
.” The expression turned more genuine as she shifted her attention to the baby Falconetti settled in the high chair. “Looks more like his daddy every day, doesn’t he?”

“Good morning, Shanna.” Humor lurked in Falconetti’s husky voice. “That he does.”

Shanna straightened. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee and a glass of milk, please.” Falconetti slid into the booth opposite Jennifer and watched Shanna walk away. “I’ll get the grounds. Just watch.”

Jennifer lifted an eyebrow at the droll resignation. She cast a quick look at the waitress, who’d stopped at a table full of farmers. “She doesn’t like you?”

“Not very much.”

“Why?”

“I took Tick off the market when she was interested in him. Then I had the nerve not to take his last name, which somehow compounded the sin of marrying him. Small towns are strange places. Lee, chew on this instead.”

She removed the metal spoon from Lee’s death grip and replaced it with a little stuffed octopus with various chewy textures at the ends of its tentacles. Jennifer studied the raven-haired, chocolate-eyed little boy. He gave her a charming grin around the teething toy, his eyes sparkling. “He does look like Calvert, though. She’s right about that.”

“From day one.” An affectionate smile, completely removed from the cool Bureau one she’d given Jennifer earlier, curved Falconetti’s lips. “Acts like him too. Stubborn as hell. I figure his terrible twos will be really fun.”

Shanna returned with coffee and milk, and they ordered quickly. Falconetti poured the milk into a sipper cup emblazoned with sailboats and handed it to Lee. “Tick and Beecham should be here soon. I wanted Lee to see his daddy before I dropped him at daycare.”

Lee lowered the cup with a gurgled “dada” and something that sounded like “here”. Falconetti nodded at him and reached over to smooth his bangs with her fingertips. “That’s right. Daddy. He’s coming soon.”

Jennifer eyed the light sparkling off Falconetti’s wedding rings. So Beecham could believe in forever for her and Calvert, but not for Jennifer and himself. What was up with that?

She pinned on a bright, interested smile. “Were you and Calvert partners when he was with the Bureau?”

With a reminiscent grin, Falconetti shook her head. “I’m a Behavioral Science Unit agent. He was Organized Crime.” She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “We were at Quantico together. Beecham was too.”

Jennifer sipped at her coffee, grimacing a little at the bite. Definitely strong. “So how did you two end up together?”

Falconetti’s open expression closed. “It’s a long story. I helped prep him for an undercover assignment. Later, we worked a case here that brought us back together.”

Not meeting Falconetti’s astute gaze, Jennifer rubbed a finger around the rim of her mug. “So you’ve known Beecham a long time, then.”

“Thirteen years. He’s a good friend.”

Jennifer remained silent. Who knew what answers Falconetti could provide? But asking her seemed like an act of weakness, although Jennifer couldn’t say why.

“Agent Settles?”

With a sigh, Jennifer looked up. She laughed, a short, self-deprecating release of hurt tension. “I don’t understand him.”

“He can be a difficult puzzle to figure out.” Genuine affection filled Falconetti’s soft voice. “A puzzle with more layers than you’d ever expect.”

“Were you two ever…?” The idea made her uncomfortable, but with the memory of Beecham sweeping the other agent into a kiss pricking her with insecure jealousy, Jennifer gestured between them.

“No. Definitely not.” A tiny spasm of grief contorted Falconetti’s face. “He was—”

“Hey, Leebo.” Calvert’s deep drawl cut between them and Jennifer closed her eyes for a split second. Calvert lifted his son into a hug, his face drawn and weary. “How’s my boy?”

The baby gave an excited squeal and wrapped his tiny, pudgy arms around his father’s neck. Calvert held him close, eyes shut, as though being soothed by the warm contact. After a moment, he returned the little boy to the high chair and bent to brush his mouth over Falconetti’s upturned lips. “Hey, precious. Lord, I’m glad to see you.”

Falconetti stroked his arm and slid over to make room for him. “How’s your mother?”

“She seems to be okay.” He lifted their joined hands to his mouth, feathering a kiss over her knuckles. “Still doesn’t remember anything. The doctor wanted to keep her a little while longer today; Del’s going to rent a car and bring her home.”

Bothered by the feeling she was spying on an intimate exchange, Jennifer looked away. Her gaze collided with Beecham’s and she realized he’d been with Calvert the whole time, standing behind him, watching her.

Oh God, how much of her conversation with Falconetti had he been privy to?

She lifted her chin as she eased to the inside of the booth, giving him space to sit if he chose to do so. Before last night, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Neither would he.

The imperceptible pause before he slipped in beside her spoke volumes.

She ignored the heat of him beside her, the way a lingering scent of soap and damp air clung to him. Shanna returned, bearing plates and fawning a little over Calvert, asking after his mother before taking his and Beecham’s orders, coming back with fresh coffee for both men.