Mary's Child Page 20

  He sighed, a weight lifted from his shoulders. “Yes.” He turned his head suddenly and kissed her hand. “Thank you.”

  “Any time, m’ijo,” she whispered back, but not loud enough for him to hear.

  Silence swelled the room for a minute. Frank stuck his head in the door to see if they wanted any help, ducked back out when they refused.

  The minute passed.

  “Okay,” Hallie said. “We’ve got all sorts of information on Mary, but obviously even if she was stalking me at some point before she died, she’s not the one doing it now.”

  “And if we assume,” Joe agreed, “that you’re right about the video camera that taped the murder having been set up in a stationary position, say in a vehicle across the street, then we can probably also work on the premise that your stalker and Mary’s killer are one and the same.”

  “I don’t like that assumption.” Hallie felt her nipple slip out of Maura’s mouth, glanced down to find the infant asleep, carefully brought the baby to her shoulder. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would somebody want me? If your original thought about Mary ending an affair with someone who didn’t want it over is true and he’s the person who killed her... why target me? No.” She made a negative tech sound between her teeth. “The pictures have been left for you, geared at getting to you somehow. Which has to mean you’re the goal. The kids and I ... we’re just—”

  “The bait?” Joe supplied, his voice ugly.

  The admission was not pleasant. “Something like that.”

  “You don’t think I thought of that?” Joe fairly exploded to his feet, prowled a restless circuit around the room. “I went over and over it, Hallie, damn it. Every angle. I crossreffed her caseload against mine. I broke into the department’s personnel files to see if I could find a physical match to me. I peeled apart her descriptions of the people on her list the best I could and ran ’em against every picture we got on file, including the criminal records. I—”

  “Then there’s something missing,” Hallie interrupted, rising gently so she wouldn’t wake Maura and heading for the door. “Maybe if we run Zeke’s files against Mary’s and yours—”

  She stopped short in front of the computer monitor, staring at the screen. In bold black letters on a red background were the words: “Look to the children. I don’t want to hurt them.”

  Then, before she could turn around and find out if Joe had seen, too, the screen went blank, the power went out, and something crashed through the library window and thudded in a shower of glass to the floor at Hallie’s feet.

  Chapter 15

  November 26, 10:23 p.m.

  Joe was on them in an instant, frantic.

  “Hallie? Are you all right? Where’s Maura?”

  “Here, Joe. Fine.” She’d turned sideways the moment the glass shattered to protect Maura from any flying shards. Already her hands skimmed the baby’s head, face, body, making sure nothing had touched her, no glass clung to her sleeper. “Maura’s here. She didn’t even wake up and I can’t feel any glass. She’s fine.”

  “What about you?”

  Even as her hands had swept his daughter, his hands brushed Hallie down, heedless of the stinging the action caused when he encountered glass in her clothing. His fingers slid into the sticky mess she hadn’t even felt on her right arm. Air hissed painfully between her teeth.

  “Bad?” Joe pulled his fingers away.

  “Feels like there’s a piece of glass stuck in there.”

  “Deep?”

  “Messy. I don’t know.”

  Frank and a deputy burst through the door, weapons a dull extension of their arms in the shadowy light given off by the snow and the street lamp outside. At the front and back of the house, doors slammed open—the state trooper and the other deputy exiting to do a quick search of the area.

  “What happened?”

  “Power went out and something came through the window,” Joe said tersely. “Baby’s fine, Hallie’s hurt. Don’t know how bad. Get a light.”

  “There’s a couple of six-volt lanterns and a box of candles on the front-left side of the shelf in the coat closet,” Hallie supplied.

  With a quick gesture, Frank dispatched the deputy. “We need units?”

  “I don’t—” Joe began.

  Hallie cut him off. “Yes. Sweep the neighborhood. And send a unit to Zeke’s. Tell ‘em to try not to freak Zeke, but to make sure the area’s quiet, the boys and Zeke are okay, then sit on ’em.” She turned back to Joe. “Joe, did you see the computer before the power went out?”

  “No.”

  “I had it hooked to the department’s computer so we could run Zeke’s and Mary’s floppy files side by side with the department’s from here. Someone broke the connection and put up their own message. ‘Look to the children. I don’t want to hurt them.’”

  “Look to the—” Joe repeated, flabbergasted, then broke off when realization sank in. A single graphically succinct word hit the air and faded. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  She shook her head. “We’ve got to get Maura out of here. She’s not part of it, I am.”

  “Hallie—”

  “We can’t risk the kids, Joe. Even if I go, it couldn’t be with them.”

  His fists clenched, his jaw jutted, his mouth took the shape of a noiseless snarl. She was right and he hated it.

  When Mary died, he thought he’d ripped the heart from his chest and thrown it away so it could never hurt him again. But in a day and a half—although in reality, she’d held it for thirty years if only he’d realized—Hallie, his best friend, his partner, the tomboy behind the catcher’s pads who’d caught his sliders, curves and fastballs when they were kids, had also caught his heart when he’d pitched it, kept it safe this last year for him, along with his daughter. Sewed it back inside his chest last night, this morning, this afternoon, when he found he couldn’t live without it anymore.

  Didn’t want to live without her.

  Couldn’t, he supposed, if he were honest, since she was his heart, his lungs, his memories, his self—all those vital things that made him who he was and would be.

  Could be.

  Gently he took Maura from Hallie’s arms, settled her in the portable crib set up for her earlier. When the deputy returned with the candles and electric lanterns, he was the one who looked at the apparent mess that had been made of Hallie’s arm. A lot of thin blood trails from tiny, inconsequential nicks and scratches, and one significant cut deep enough to need debriding and stitches.

  He was about to ask Hallie if she had any tweezers when Frank, wielding one of the lanterns and trying to spot the cause of the broken window, swore and stooped to retrieve something from the floor: an antiriot, flat-nosed, molded PVC plastic round. Hallie, Joe, Frank and the deputy stared at the bullet. Most often used to quell protesters without killing them in Northern Ireland, it was an unusual find—to say the least—on the floor of Hallie’s library. And although it packed a wallop in riot control, it was not the sort of round meant to be fired from any distance, and would have to have been fired from fairly close by in order to break the window—if it was meant to break the window at all, that is. If it was...

  A nondescript shotgun round fired high would have achieved the same result less flamboyantly. Which meant either this was someone who’d chased Mary, then Joe, now Hallie quietly for a long time and who now wanted to be noticed—or just get real close—or it was someone who no longer cared about being caught. In any event, no one present liked the direction of their thoughts.

  The officers who’d gone out to scout the immediate area rejoined them. Reports were quick and concise: nothing to report. No other power was out in the area. No other windows broken. Impossible to spot fresh footprints in old snow that had been footprinted aplenty by countless youngsters earlier today.

  The striated flash from light bars cut across the windows as they finished their accounts. Frank redispatched the officers with a heavy torch in search of Hallie�
�s circuit breaker, hoping the power problem might be so easily fixed. After all, last night’s—or make that this morning’s—phone outage had been accomplished from the inside; why not this? Especially considering all the people who’d been through the house earlier today.

  Which thought gave rise to a whole other series of questions no one wanted to attempt to answer—or even to ask.

  Hallie’s arm continued to sting and seep. With obvious reluctance she used Frank’s cell phone to call Zeke, apprised him briefly of the situation and asked if he could look after Maura—and George, too—for her while this thing played itself out. Not happy with the reasons, but resigned and more than willing to play whatever role it took to keep Maura and the boys safe, Zeke agreed—after making some sardonic comments about Hallie owing him big time for being about to have to forcibly wean yet another baby who preferred the real thing.

  Hallie thanked him far too sweetly for his observations, then ended the call after first arranging to have a pair of deputies known to Zeke bring Maura to him and remain at the house, while another was dispatched to buy bottles and formula. Then Hallie asked him a few questions about the notes she’d read in his file on Mary. He was reluctant to speak about his observations, but did so, including telling Hallie a little about the profile he’d requested from Tim Dooley. Tim had suggested exactly what Hallie suspected: Mary compartmentalized the various aspects of herself, never keeping two pieces of her psyche in the same place at the same time. Without somehow being able to study all the pieces together, it would be difficult to make an accurate diagnosis; Tim’s opinion had been that Mary needed more intensive treatment, perhaps a period of hospitalization for observation.

  Because Mary had come to him voluntarily and asked him to keep their sessions confidential from everyone including Joe, to whom she would herself speak if necessary, Zeke had been stuck in his ethics without a paddle—especially since, other than making vague hints at impropriety, she hadn’t appeared to pose a threat to herself or anyone else during the time he was seeing her. And, as seemed indicated in her journal entries, Mary’s demeanor had changed dramatically with the prospect of Hallie carrying a child for her.

  Which of course made little sense now that they both thought about it—particularly when Hallie had mentioned the Thompson-family photos with her image clipped out and Mary’s inserted—since Hallie appeared to have been an object of Mary’s envy, the person whose life she wanted to live. On the other hand, if the vagueness of Mary’s journal entries was to be believed, Mary had also never thought anyone could ever possibly be willing to do anything like surrogacy for her.

  Yes, it meant she couldn’t carry and deliver a baby from her own body, but it also meant the possibility of having one that was entirely her own, genes and all. Since she was dead, there was no way of knowing for certain, Hallie knew, but the best possible face on the whole thing was to hope that somehow Mary’s desire for children had allowed her to compromise to the point of letting someone else—Hallie—cany one for her. It was a pickle, plain and simple. Best to think good thoughts, therefore, than hold suspicions they no longer had any way to follow up on.

  Just before they broke the connection, Zeke suddenly told Hallie to be careful, he’d have his friend’s profile for her in the morning. She told him to take care of the kids and give the boys kisses for her, then snapped the phone closed. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger, seizing and dissipating emotion, and turned briskly to Joe and directed him in changing Maura’s clothing.

  He studied her for a moment, troubled, worried about the delay in her getting her arm the attention it needed, then tightened his lips and did as he was told. She’d be far more amenable to receiving medical attention once her chicks were altogether away from her and as safe as she could make them.

  Sure enough, the minute Maura was out of sight, Hallie’s face crumpled and she relaxed enough to let tension and the shakes get the better of her. Joe gathered her in and jerked his head toward the door, urging Frank out of the room. He went without question, barking orders for someone to find him a piece of wood to cover the “stinking” window to keep the “stinking” snow out.

  “She could have died, Joe.” There were no sobs, only a deeply rattled mother who never wanted her child so close to flying glass or antiriot bullets again. “She could have been killed and I couldn’t stop it. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing happened to her, Hallie.” He didn’t know which scared him more—Maura in the way of flying glass and other things, or Hallie. He ran his lips over Hallie’s hair, pressing kisses along the side of her head that hadn’t been exposed to the glass. Pieces of it still clung to her T-shirt; he was careful where he put his hands. “She’s safe, but we need to get these clothes off you, get rid of the glass, get you looked at.”

  “You get these clothes off me, you and everybody else’ll be able to look at me pretty well without taking me to Emergency, don’t you think?”

  The joke was weak, but humor nonetheless.

  “True.” Joe smiled, grateful for her all the way to his socks. “But you’re making us both a bloody mess and you still need the glass taken out of that cut and stitches put in.

  “Okay.” She nodded into his shoulder, sighed and stepped back. “Probably be better if we confine the glass to one room. And since you’ve held me, you should probably change, too.”

  He tipped his head in agreement. “I’ll have Frank get some stuff out of my duffel, then go up and get your things.”

  “Frank going through my drawers?” Hallie grimaced in mock horror. “He opens my underwear drawer, I’ll never live it down.”

  Joe eyed her, interested. Exploring her underwear drawer at some future date sounded like it could prove a mighty fascinating expedition—and one for which he’d have to be sure to make time. “How ‘bout I tell ’im if he opens your underwear drawer I’ll punch him out?”

  Hallie patted Joe’s chest. “Nice offer, but hardly necessary. Just tell him if he opens anything but the bottom two drawers to find me sweatpants and a loose shirt, I’ll do the damage personally.”

  Joe grinned. “Let’s hope he’s a wise man, then.”

  “And fast.” Hallie winced. “This thing hurts like a son of a gun.”

  With one quick glance that took in the tightness around her eyes and mouth, the clear signs of pain that belied the few moments of banter, Joe swore once and hollered for Frank.

  November 27, 2:32 a.m.

  By the time they returned from getting her arm stitched, the power was back on, the window boarded up and the house secured—at Frank’s request and insistence—by state troopers and deputies who’d been nowhere near the residence in the last two days.

  Hallie, exhausted and whacked out a bit by the painkillers she hadn’t wanted to take but on which she’d compromised by accepting a mild dose, fell asleep during the ride back, leaning against Joe in the back seat of a squad car. He woke her only enough to get her walked into the house and upstairs to bed. There he removed her boots and sweatpants, settled her into the warmth and comfort of the quilt and flannel sheets, and tucked her in, elevating her bandaged arm on extra pillows. Then he went around the other side of the bed, undressed and climbed in to spoon himself along her back and slide his arm around her, ensuring not only that her arm would stay elevated, but that he’d know if she so much as twitched.

  When he was certain Hallie was once more asleep, he folded his arm underneath his pillow and finally allowed himself to drop off, too.

  And to hell with what anybody downstairs might think about him sleeping up here with her.

  November 27, 6:47 a.m.

  Morning eased pink and gold light along the edges of the world when next Joe opened his eyes to the sensation of Hallie’s bottom settling more firmly against his.

  He groaned. She was hot and moist, her hips rotated, bringing him into intimate contact, separated only by a thin and wholly erotic scrap of silk.

 
; Rational thought waned. He put his hands on her hips trying to still them. “Hallie?” he whispered.

  There was no response but a murmur of excited encouragement, a shift that allowed her to release one of his hands from her hip, draw it to her breasts. His other hand she placed in blatant invitation on her mound, then reached underneath his fingers to press his sex into the silk sheath her movements created of her panties. He groaned again and his hips jerked involuntarily, embedding him more firmly against her.

  The feeling was incredible, one he was definitely not certain how to experience now. But asleep or awake—he still wasn’t sure which she was—Hallie gave him no choice. She circled his erection low and tightly with thumb and forefinger, rotated her hips, and pressed that incredible spot again and again until all conscious thought left him and he was pure sensation, inarticulate sounds, an explosion of white light and little death, and muscle contractions the likes of which he’d never imagined.

  When the shudders finally eased, he felt Hallie turn in his arms, opened his eyes to look at her. His erection was still full, hard, and thoroughly, dryly intact.

  “Well, what do you know,” she said, mischief and marvel a two-pronged devil in her eyes. “It worked. I wondered if it would when I read about it, but I’ve never had a chance to try it.”

  “What was that?” Joe asked, incredulous, still caught in the aftereffects of what she’d done to him. Still amazed at how hard he remained, how ready he was to dump her on her back and love her long and well.

  She winked and offered him a naughty grin. “One of the dispatchers passed a copy of The Multi-Orgasmic Man around the office. I was curious, so I read it. I didn’t think this, uh, particular, uh, technique would work so quickly, but apparently, used with the right, enlightened man, it does.”

  “‘Right’?” Ever mindful of her arm, Joe bounced her on her back and loomed over her in mock outrage. “‘Enlightened’? You mean you were just toying with me, woman? I was part of an experiment?”