The Perfect Husband (12 page)

“She is in protective custody with her own guards. None of you need to concern yourself with that.”

Even more grumbles. Cops hated to be left in the dark.

“What about the pattern Beckett mentioned?”

“We're working on that. Any other questions?”

Some people shook their heads. Others exchanged dubious glances. To a person, they already looked stressed.

Lieutenant Houlihan tapped the podium with his fist. “People, that's a wrap.”

THE FRONT DOORS released a small flood of blue-uniformed officers. They poured into the bright fall sunlight, blinking their eyes and readjusting to daylight. Some walked in pairs, others in small groups. All walked fast, men and women with a lot of work to do.

At the end of the block, one man peeled off from the group, casually waved good-bye, and disappeared down a side street as if his cruiser was parked there.

He didn't get into a car.

He walked down that block, then another, then another. He doubled back, then finally, when it was clear no one was following him, he disappeared into the woods. He stripped off his uniform, revealing the orange construction uniform beneath it. From behind a boulder he produced the hard hat he'd hidden earlier. Shelly had been in charge of securing uniforms, following his instructions, of course. She'd done that part of her job well.

He tucked the police uniform into a paper bag and reentered civilization. His face was already expertly made up — a bit of padding here, the skin tucked there — to give himself a whole new look. After a fifteen-minute walk he arrived at the motel where Lola Gavitz had a room.

“Honey, I'm home.”

Whistling, he locked the door behind himself, then checked the curtains. He didn't bother turning on a light. He tossed the paper bag onto the single queen-size bed and walked through the gloom to the bathroom.

Shelly hung naked in the shower.

Duct tape covered her mouth. More tape bound her wrists and ankles. A small hand towel protected the tender skin of her neck from the clothesline he'd wrapped around it. The other end of the clothesline was attached to the shower head, suspending Shelly three inches off the ground. Classic autoerotic asphyxiation setup. One did learn so many useful things as a police officer.

Shelly could keep the clothesline from strangling her by looping her arms over the showerhead and holding herself up. Or she could swing her feet onto the edge of the bathtub. Of course, then she ran the risk of her feet slipping off and the sudden fall snapping her neck.

Her arms must have gotten tired though, for now she did have her feet on the edge of the tub. As he entered the bathroom, she raised her head wearily, her long blond hair sliding back from hollow eyes.

He looked at her feet. He curled one hand around her ankle. One push, that's all it would take.

She rolled her eyes in terror.

“What do you think, Shelly? Do you want to live?”

She nodded as furiously as she could with a clothesline around her neck.

“The police predicts that I'll kill you once you're no longer useful to me. Are you still useful to me?”

More nodding.

He reached up and slowly loosened the clothesline. She collapsed into the tub like a sack of grain. He studied her for a moment, noting the silky cascade of blond hair over white skin. He stroked that hair for a bit. Then he undid his construction overalls and let them fall to the floor.

Shelly stirred in the bathtub, recognizing her cue. She lifted her face and he ripped off the duct tape with one quick tear.

“That's a good girl. Remember, you have to be useful, Shelly. You have to be useful.”

Her mouth closed around him. He let himself relax by degrees into the frantic sucking. His hands continued to stroke her blond hair, lifting it in fistfuls and releasing it. For one moment he indulged himself in the fantasy that it was not Shelly on her hands and knees in front of him, but Theresa. His stupid wife, Theresa.

He'd never made her perform like this. He'd never made her do any of the things he'd had the others do. She was his wife, the mother of his child. He'd considered her separate. Now he saw the error of his ways.

Now he dreamed of all the things he would have her do when he saw her again.

He closed his eyes and his hands curled around Shelly's/Theresa's neck.

“I'm coming for you, baby. I'm coming for you.”

SHE WAS FADING on him. Her strokes had long since passed the fluid point. She did little more than beat at the water, and he could see her chin trembling.

Twenty laps, that's all she'd done. Barely over four hundred yards, when he could swim three thousand. Jesus, they were in trouble.

He'd started her with calisthenics. She couldn't do a single push-up. Fine. Arm muscles were a problem for some women, and she had a particularly slight build. They'd moved on to stretching. Her flexibility was pretty good. She did a solid twenty sit-ups, survived twenty jumping jacks. He'd moved her on to squats, and she practically keeled over on him. No arm muscles, no legs.

The woman was beyond out of shape. She simply had no muscle mass. And skin and bones didn't fight very well.

“Another,” J.T. commanded.

“No,” Angela said, but was too tired to put any force behind her word.

He scowled at her, she turned sluggishly into another lap. “You call that form?” he barked out. He needed a whistle.

“I told you, I'm not a good swimmer.”

“No kidding. And no push-ups, no squats. Honey, how have you gotten through life?”

“Housewives don't do the Iron Man,” she snapped. Well, it was something. If all else failed, maybe she could verbally spar Big Bad Jim into the ground.

She reached the end of the pool, and without his permission clung to the wall. Her shoulders were shaking. She placed her cheek against the patio as if finding a pillow.

She looked like a worn-out child. She looked like someone ought to pick her up, curl her in his arms, and rock her to sleep while stroking her hair.

J.T. stalked away from her in a hurry.

“Know what your problem is?”

“No, but everyone seems to have a theory.” Her lips twisted into that enigmatic, too-old smile that meant she was referring to her husband and the suitcase of secrets she wouldn't share.

“You think too much.”

“I've heard that before.”

“I mean it. You're clinging to the patio and you're thinking, I'm tired. You're thinking, My legs hurt. Tell me I'm wrong, Angela.”

Her eyes finally opened, her lashes spiky with water. “All right. I'm tired, my legs hurt.”

“You have to find the zone.”

“The zone?”

“The zone. You ever play sports?”

“Sports?”

“Sports, Angela. You know, football, basketball, hockey, swimming, whatever. We can look it up in the dictionary if you'd like.”

“I… I was a cheerleader.”

“Now, why didn't I guess that?”

“It's not as easy as everyone thinks,” she retorted immediately. “It takes a lot of flexibility and discipline. Have you ever been able to kick above your shoulder? I don't think so. We practiced very hard and it was brutal on the knees.”

“I'm not arguing. Must take some strength too, building pyramids, all that.”

“Yes. But I was one of the smaller girls. I was the top, not the base.”

“Ever fall?”

“All the time.”

“Get back up?”

“All the time.”

“Why?”

“Because that's what you were supposed to do.”

“Exactly. So you didn't think about it. You didn't say, ‘I hurt too much.' Or ‘I'm afraid.' Or ‘She'll drop me again.' You just got back up because you were supposed to.

“That's what you do here, Angela. You swim and you keep swimming without a thought in your head because that's what you have to do. And you do the push-ups and you jog and you do all the things beyond exhaustion because you have to. Then one day you'll discover you're in the zone and you don't feel your legs anymore, you don't feel your arms anymore. You exist just as motion. That's the zone. Then you can do anything.”

She looked fascinated, she looked awed. He wasn't comfortable with her looking at him like that. He was just telling her the facts, not revealing the laws of the universe.

People thought soldiers and jocks were brutish men. It wasn't true. A lot of the Navy SEALs or Green Berets or Force Recon Marines looked more like accountants. Some of them were small enough to be nicknamed Mouse. Others were six four and so stringbean skinny they could barely walk through a strong wind. Extreme performance was not physical but mental. It was focus and concentration. It was finding that internal zone, where you could zero down the universe to one act, one motion, one goal. You could plow facedown through mud in the pouring rain because you were not thinking of the weight of your pack or the cold sting of the rain or the taste of the mud. You were not thinking of the two hours' sleep you'd had last night or the twelve miles you'd run this morning or the two hundred push-ups and two hundred pull-ups you'd done the minute before. You thought only of the next inch you had to crawl and then the inch after that. The world became a simple place.

And for a moment you could do anything.

SpecWar superstuds were not Arnold Schwarzenegger. They were Buddhist monks.

And former Force Recon Marines like J.T. were the men who realized the zone couldn't last forever. Sooner or later, training ended, combat ended, everything ended, and you were the same man you always were, lying on your bunk with the rage bunching your shoulders and the unrelenting memories racing through your mind.

Then you poured yourself a drink.

“I'll do another lap,” Angela volunteered. Her eyes had narrowed. His pep talk must have worked, because she looked fierce.

“You do that.”

She pushed off with more force than grace. She didn't have a swimsuit, so she wore an oversize T-shirt and shorts. The excess material created a lot of drag and quickly slowed her down. She slogged forward anyway.

Toward the end she faltered badly, and he thought he might have to drag her out by the scruff of her neck to keep her from drowning. Her flailing hands found the patio as he took the first step forward.

“No zone,” she gasped. “God, this is horrible!”

He sat on the edge of the pool beside her and stuck his feet in the water. “You want it to be simple. It's not.”

“Oh, how the hell would you know! Look at you!” She waved her hand at him. “You probably catch rattlesnakes by hand. How hard has any of this ever been for you? How hard?”

“Not very,” he agreed calmly. “I was born for this shit.”

“I hate you.” She rested her forehead against the pool edge.

He let her feel sorry for herself for a minute. Why not? There was a world of difference between the two of them. The colonel was a mean, lean bastard and he'd passed his genes to his children. In contrast, Angela had a small, slight build and no natural hand-eye coordination. She would have to fight for every lap, war with every shot. Nobody said life was fair.

“Your daughter, she's for real?”

Angela stiffened instantly, so he took that as a yes.

“Think about her, then. Don't think about yourself, focus on her.”

“What do you think has gotten me this far?”

“Huh.” They sat in silence. “How old is she?”

Angela couldn't seem to decide how much to tell him. “Four,” she said after a moment. “She's four.”

“You have her someplace safe?”

“As safe as can be expected.”

“Huh.”

“Okay, it's time for another lap.”

He was surprised. “
Chiquita
, you're pretty beat.”

“I have to learn how to do this. If I'm weak, then I'd better get strong. Two more laps, all right?”

“You are stubborn.”

She appeared startled. “I'm not stubborn.”

“Of course you're stubborn. You made it here, didn't you? What do you call that?”

“Desperation,” she said frankly.

He shook his head. “No, trust me, you're stubborn.”

“Really?” She looked pleased. “I'm stubborn. Good. I'm going to need that.”

She pushed off while he remained sitting there, blinking his eyes and wondering if he would ever understand her. The woman had spirit. He would've liked to have met her before the world had run her into the ground. He had the feeling that she'd been beautiful once. A petite, smiling woman with long blond hair.

Jesus, J.T. Give it up.

Behind him, the screen door slid open.

“So where's the mystery intruder?”

J.T. pointed toward the pool.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Marion said as she walked over to the edge. “She looks like she's drowning.”

“That's her version of the doggie paddle.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Nope. Still think she's a fugitive?”

Marion finally appeared skeptical. “I don't know,” she hedged. “She doesn't look like much, but given the company you usually keep…”

“Gee, thanks, Marion. That's kind of you.”

They watched as Angela reached the end of the pool and struggled her way back. It was a long, painful process for everyone.

J.T. shook his head. “I don't think one month is going to be enough.”

Angela finally reached J.T. and Marion, her face beet red. She clung to the edge of the pool while introductions were made. The two women showed about as much enthusiasm as could be expected.

“You can call me L.B. for short,” Angela said.

“L.B.?”

“Lizzie Borden.”

“Oh.” Marion had the good grace to flush. “I'll confess, you're not what I expected.”

“I'm not a criminal.” Angela tried to pull herself out of the water, but her exhausted arms wouldn't cooperate. J.T. grabbed her shoulders and lifted her as if she were a featherweight. She returned her attention to Marion. “In fact I've worked with the FBI before.”

“Whatever problems you have, I'm sure I can recommend a good law enforcement agency—”

“No, you can't. I've been through it all. I've worked with them all. And I know for certain that law enforcement can no longer help me. What I need is someone like your brother. J.T. is going to help.”