The Perfect Husband (28 page)

From the other side of the door he heard a rough, choking sound. She was crying. Cold, perfect Marion was sobbing.

He sank down to the floor.

“Marion,” he called hoarsely. “Marion, Marion. I tried. I tried so hard to save you. God, I tried…”

But there was no reply, just the hoarse sound of his little sister sobbing.

He pressed his cheek against the door. He closed his eyes. Then he banged on the door helplessly with his fist, needing her to let him in, desperate for her to let him in.

Marion, I know I failed you. But I came back. I came back and you'd forgotten everything — all the good moments, as well as the bad — and that failed me. How could we fail each other? How could we serve the colonel like that?

Marion didn't come to the door, nor did she answer his pleas. So he switched to cursing the colonel instead. Thirty-six years old, he cursed his father and wondered how a grown man could feel such fear.

Minutes passed. Her sobbing stopped and silence took its place, reigning in the dark, shadowed house.

“Marion?”

There was nothing. She'd come. She'd left. He was right back where he started except for the pain devouring his chest, the dark, enraged beast screaming and gnashing in his belly.

“It's okay.”

He looked up. Tess stood in the gray-filled hallway, her gaze understanding. She took his hand.

“Give her until morning. She isn't ready to listen to you now.”

“I tried,” he whispered dumbly.
Failure, failure, failure. Pussy-whipped mama's boy
.

“I know.” She touched his cheek. “It's okay. You were just a little boy, J.T. It wasn't your fault.”

He buried his lips against her hand, squeezing his eyes shut against the unbearable darkness that had lived inside him for so long. He wanted to hate someone; for a moment he even wanted to hate her. But he hadn't enough energy left inside him. He was wrung out and empty.

He felt her guide him to his feet. She led him to his room and tucked him into bed. He simply lay on his back, staring at the ceiling and going insane with the memories. He wanted a drink. Wouldn't someone give him a drink?

Push it away, push it away
, Rachel whispered in his mind.

But he couldn't. The memories had been seared into his head and he couldn't get them out of his mind.

Tess pulled out a chair and sat down.

“I'll stay. You shouldn't be alone on a night like tonight. Not with tequila in the house.”

“Stop it,” he muttered. “Go away. Isn't a psychotic ex-husband enough for you? Can't you just leave the rest of us alone?”

“I've been inside the darkness too, J.T. I know that sometimes the light seems too far away. We all get lost in the dark, and it's such a scary place. Such a lonely place.”

Her words hurt him, looked inside him, and laid him bare. He was thinking of all those nights, listening to the colonel's jump boots ring against the floor. With no one to tell, no one who would help him or Marion.

Night after night, lying there, wanting it to stop, needing it to stop. And always facing it alone.

He gave in with a groan. He grabbed Tess by the hand and yanked her into bed. She fell against him easily, already whispering his name.

“I know,” she murmured against his hair. “I know.”

He buried his face against her neck.

“I won't leave you,” she whispered. “I won't leave you.”

His hands dug into her back and brought her closer.

DIFFORD WAS UNEASY.

Long after the sun went down, he and Sam ate their macaroni and cheese dinner. They watched
Jurassic Park
and saw the children survive the monsters. Difford checked out Samantha's room, but there were no demons beneath the bed or in the closet. He tucked her in, brushing back her hair and retrieving her fancy talking doll that did more things than any doll he'd ever heard of. Tonight she had him read her “Snow White.”

She went to sleep. He prowled the living room and wondered why his nerves were on edge.

The phone rang. He almost jumped out of his skin. He lunged across the living room and caught it before the second ring — he didn't want it to wake Sam up.

“Lieutenant?”

“Yes.” Difford's voice was wary. He waited for the security phrase.

“It rains upon the plains in Spain,” the caller said. “Difford, it's Sergeant Wilcox. Listen closely—”

“I heard you had some kinda stomach bug.”

“No. I had a bad case of Halcion poisoning.”

“What?” Now Difford paid attention.

“We don't have much time, all right? Some guy calling himself Detective Beaumont showed up yesterday, claimed to be from Bristol County with an urgent message for you. The man spiked my coffee while I was questioning him in the interrogation room.”

“Beckett.”

“Yeah, it was Beckett. He rifled through my notebook, he asked me some questions. Lieutenant, we're pretty sure he knows where you are and that he has a copy of the house key. We have to get you out of the house now.”

Difford was silent. And then, finally confronted by a danger he could act against, he felt calm. “What is the plan?”

“Okay, the minute you hang up with me, look out your window. Officer Travis is going to get out of the back-up vehicle — he's a big guy, you can't miss him. Just drift casually toward the front door, okay. No sudden moves, Beckett might be watching. Why don't you have a cup of coffee in your hand for the officer. It'll look like the man is just getting his caffeine fix. The minute he's in, shut the door. He'll help you round up Sam. You'll take the car in your garage—”

“Wait.”

“What?”

Difford felt the first beads of sweat pop up on his brow. “If he, uh, if he has the key to the house, he can get into the garage. I haven't checked the garage recently. I just hadn't thought of it. He could be…”

“Shit.” A tense pause. “All right. I'll tell Officer Travis. Once he's in the house, he'll check the garage, you cover him. If all is clear, the three of you exit the garage. Evasive maneuvers, then come straight to HQ. Clear?”

“Clear.”

Difford hung up the phone. He crossed to the window and pulled back the curtains. The hairs on the back of his neck were up. His breathing had gone shallow.

He saw the car light come on across the street as the door opened. He saw a big, heavyset officer climb out of the front seat. Briefly he saw the second man bent over, as if picking something off the floor. The door shut and the light went out. Officer Travis now looked around. Difford saw the man's hand rest on his un-snapped holster.

“Stay calm,” he murmured to the junior officer. “Remember, you're just coming for coffee.”

But he could feel the young man's tension from here. Suddenly, in this quiet neighborhood, it seemed the whole world was watching them.

Officer Travis advanced across the street. Belatedly Difford moved to the kitchen to pour a hasty mug of coffee. His eyes were on the garage door.

BECKETT TURNED OFF the cellular phone and set it on the floor. He'd spent an hour that morning practicing Sergeant Wilcox's voice. The effort had paid off.

He turned, his movements a bit awkward in the heavily padded uniform. His “partner” had been reclining in the passenger seat, a blanket pulled up to his neck so it appeared that he was sleeping. Knowing the car light would illuminate his form, Beckett leaned over the dead body, straightened the seat, and slumped the man over. Rigor mortis was beginning to set in, so it wasn't easy. Then again, Beckett had gotten used to maneuvering dead bodies. The trick was to bend the man at the bullet hole in his waist.

Beckett looked up. Sure enough, Difford stood in the living room window, waiting for Officer Travis to step out of his car.

“Happy to be of service,” Beckett murmured, and opened the car door.

THE KNOCKING ECHOED through the safe house quietly. Good, Difford thought. Officer Travis was at least thinking of Samantha. Difford approached the door, the steaming coffee clutched in one hand. He had to resist the urge to glance over his shoulder at the garage door.

Keep cool, keep cool.

“Password,” Difford demanded through the dead-bolted door.

“It rains upon the plains in Spain.”

Difford checked out the officer through the peephole. The kid looked young, but then, they all looked young to Difford. He was a big guy who obviously needed to work out more. Christ, how had the Pillsbury Doughboy end up as his back-up? Difford cracked open the door, not amused.

He gave the junior officer another scathing inspection with the chain still on. Difford wasn't about to act stupid now. The uniform checked out, though the kid had no awards to speak of.

“ID?”

Officer Travis dutifully produced his shield. Fine.

Difford unfastened the chain and held out the coffee mug. “Take it and act calm. Remember, you just came over for a cup of coffee.” His gaze swept the block. The streetlights created puddles of darkness; he'd always hated streetlights. So far, nothing moved.

“All right, come in.”

Officer Travis stepped into the house, looking tense and uncomfortable beneath Difford's scrutiny. “How long have you been with the force?”

“Two years.”

“Two years and you got this duty?”

“Manpower shortage. The Camarini shooting and this are sucking us dry.”

“Huh. Ever secured a house before?”

“I was part of the Gingham bust. That's why they signed me up.”

Difford finally relented. The Todd Gingham deal had gone badly. They'd thought they had the nineteen-year-old arms dealer holed up in his house in New Bedford. The neighbors had seen him wielding a handgun and looking high as a kite. A SWAT team had been called in. Shot the hell out of the house. Kid escaped out the back and opened fire on a few squad cars. It had taken six officers and a flying tackle to finally neutralize the threat. So Officer Travis had been in the line of fire. He'd functioned beneath gunpowder, adrenaline, and screaming men.

Difford began to relax. He cocked his head and led Officer Travis to the garage door.

“Set the coffee on the table. Take the lead. I already checked out the rest of the house. If he's here, he's in there.”

“No, Difford. He's right here.” Officer Travis moved faster than Difford would have thought a fat man could. He whirled, his arm arched up, and Difford saw his eyes right before the man's fist snapped back his chin.

He went down hard, but his hand got around his gun.
Don't panic, don't panic
.

He pulled his gun out of his holster.
Shoot, dammit, shoot
.

The baton caught him square on the forearm; dimly he heard the crack of his arm breaking. Fingers went numb. Gun flew across the room and hit the wall.

Get his feet. Kick out his feet. Get him down.

His ankle hooked Beckett's. He pulled hard. The baton caught him across the cheek as Jim toppled. Ringing filled his ears. He tasted something rusty in his mouth, blood. Shit, it was pouring down his chin. What had happened to his teeth?

He planted his good arm on the floor and started crawling for his gun.
Faster, faster, faster
.

Tess, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

He heard the rustle of nylon and knew Jim was beginning to rise. He picked up the tempo, forcing himself to move. The gun was so close, twenty feet, ten. If he could just get his hand out —

Beckett sat on his back hard, slamming Difford to the floor. The breath left him in a giant whoosh and he couldn't get it back. Hands wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze. He fought, he squirmed against the floor. The world spun away and he sank into the blackness.

The void didn't hurt.

And it lasted only a minute. Then the pressure was gone. His lungs instinctively inhaled, his eyes fought to see. Vaguely he felt Beckett rise. He saw his gun kicked far away. Beckett picked up a kitchen chair. He strode down the hall and jammed it beneath the closed door of Samantha's room.

And Difford knew what was going to happen then. The chair told him clearly what Beckett didn't want his daughter to wake up and see.

Beckett walked back down the hall. Difford tried to pull himself away, but his broken arm refused to move and blood and teeth were already pooling in his throat. He shimmied three more feet, then Beckett's hand curled around his ankle, pinning him in place. He couldn't quite stop his own whimper.

“I have a few questions for you,” Beckett whispered in his ear.

A sliding rasp. A knife appeared before Difford's gaze.

“Sergeant Wilcox was too easy,” Beckett murmured. “Have you ever noticed that cops have the lowest threshold for pain? They spend their whole life studying it and thinking that because they have, they're immune to it. It will never happen to them.”

“Son of a bitch,” Difford gasped.

“Shh. Don't wake Sam.”

Difford's eyes shut. He felt something trickle down his cheeks. It might have been tears.

“Make it hard, Difford. Give me a challenge. I want a challenge.”

Jim Beckett went to work.

BECKETT MOVED IN the moon-shrouded living room. First he picked up the phone and dialed in to the officer on duty.

“Bravo Fourteen,” he intoned. “Checking in, all's clear.”

“Roger, Bravo Fourteen.”

“Talk to you in an hour.” Officer Travis signed off.

It was now one A.M. At two A.M. the new shift would arrive. Jim had to keep on schedule.

He opened the garage door. He arranged Difford's body in the trunk. Returning to the kitchen, he attended to the mess with paper towels. Blood was oily, harder to clean up than people expected. He'd read of a couple in the Midwest who'd opened a business cleaning up after death. Homicides, suicides, they took care of everything and made a lot of money. While in prison, he'd been tempted to write to them for tips.

Now he didn't have time to be too neat. He got the worst and arranged furniture over the rest. Then he quickly stripped down to the jeans and T-shirt he wore beneath the bulky uniform, tossing the uniform in the washing machine next to the kitchen. He would turn on the washer before leaving. Removing his wig, he also took the time to scrub the makeup off his face — he didn't want to scare Sam. Following that same vein of thought, he found one of Difford's old baseball caps to wear over his bald head.