Gone Too Far (28 page)

“I started to cry,” Sam admitted. “I mean, not just a quiet manly tear rolling down my cheek, but you know, a big snotty waterfall—sobbing and shit. And that embarrassed the hell out of me even though it wasn’t the first time Walt had seen me melt down."

“I was about to flee the scene, but Walt grabbed me and hugged me and he told me he’d never been more proud of me than he was right at that moment—especially so because I was crying. He told me that people with big hearts cried and that showing emotion was something I should never be ashamed of. And he told me, um—”

Sam’s voice was shaking again—that “no shame” crying thing was something he still couldn’t quite manage, so he cleared his throat, but it didn’t help, so—fuck it—he just pressed on.

“He told me that even at age twelve I was one of the best men—one of the most honorable—that he’d ever had the privilege of knowing, and that I was going to grow up to be a good man, and that there was no better goal in life than that—to be a good man, to be honest and forthright, to do the right thing—even when it was terribly hard to do so.”

Sam took a deep breath. “That’s what I was trying to do by marrying Mary Lou. The right thing. Only I was stupid, because marrying someone you don’t love isn’t the right thing to do, and if Walt had still been alive, he would’ve told me that. I’ve tried my entire life to be a good man, to be someone Walt would be proud of, and I think I’ve probably managed to fail with the things that matter the most. You and Mary Lou, and now Haley.”

Alyssa was silent.

“You still there?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I am. Still here.”

Except she wasn’t. Not really. His bad choices, his stupid mistakes had made him lose her a long time ago.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Lys,” he said softly. “I was just trying to, you know, be a good man, and instead I really fucked the duck.”

“Yeah,” she said with a soft laugh. “You’ve really got to stay clear of those ducks, Ringo.”

He laughed, too, but then he stopped. “You really think I packed up Ringo, the way I did to Roger? And I definitely did that with Roger. After finding out that my father was the one who attacked Walt, I didn’t want his name. If I had been old enough, I would have legally changed it. Shit, if I could have, I would have removed his blood from my veins, I hated him that much. Although . . .”

“What?” she asked.

“After finding out what I found out after he died, you know, the pictures of little kids.” Sam shook his head. “It made more sense. His anger and his hatred, you know? He freaking hated himself, probably even back when he was seventeen, when he went after Walt with that shovel. I mean, imagine going through life wanting something that you
know
is wrong. He was raised to be devoutly religious. Even homosexuality was looked upon as something evil in his church, and he didn’t just like men—which in his mind would’ve been enough to doom him to hell—he liked little boys.

“And here comes his sister, announcing that she’s going to marry a black man, which at that time, in that part of the country, was nearly as taboo as being a pedophile. And she just didn’t give a damn, and all of his anger and frustration and self-loathing pushed him over the edge.” Sam laughed softly. “Obviously, I’ve spent a great deal of time trying to understand him. I mean, it’s one thing to hate the person who’s hurt someone you love and label him evil, you know, the way I did when I was twelve and I saw those pictures of him when he was a baby. But I think it’s more likely that he was just a fucked-up man with a shitload of self-hatred.”

He sighed and they sat there for a moment in silence. In two different cars, on two different sides of town.

“Ringo wouldn’t have gone six months without seeing Haley,” he said. “Jesus, Alyssa, do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”

“Yes,” Alyssa said. “She will.”

“You know, I think the only thing worse than her not recognizing me is her actually remembering who I am—and knowing that she probably spent six months wondering where I went.”

“You can make it up to her,” Alyssa said.

“How?”

“Like Walt said, you’ve got a big heart, Ringo. I’m sure you’ll figure out the best way to use it.”

Sam laughed. Then stopped. “My heart’s telling me to find her, Lys. I know you want me to come in and let you be the one to track her down and pick her up, but God damn it, I can’t do it that way. Because I know how it would go down. Mary Lou would be grabbed and Haley would be yanked out of her arms and handed off to some stranger, and they’d both freak out. I won’t let it happen that way.

“I’ve made arrangements for Nos and Claire to take care of Haley. But I thought if I could find Mary Lou first, then I could take them both with me to Noah’s house and make sure Haley was comfortable there before I turned me and Mary Lou in and . . .”

Alyssa was silent.

“I know that you think it’s about me not trusting you, but it’s not. I’m sorry I can’t do it your way,” Sam said.

“Let me talk to Max,” she said.

“You said you didn’t have that kind of influence over him.”

“He asked me to marry him tonight.”

Sam hadn’t thought it could get much worse than this. Terrorists—killers—after his ex-wife, his baby daughter God knows where, his former CO accused of treason, an FBI BOLO with his picture on it, and the knowledge that the only woman he’d ever loved really
was
in the habit of soul-kissing Max—the fucker—seemed about as low as it could go. But no. He’d been wrong.

He knew he was supposed to say something.
No fucking way
was the first thing that came to mind. “Congratulations.” So this was evisceration. “Seriously, Lys,” he managed to choke out, “he’s a good man. I know he’s going to make you happy.”

And he really did want her to be happy. Really.
Really.
Aw, shit.

“I didn’t say yes,” Alyssa told him, and the knife blade stopped moving. But then she twisted it. “Yet.” She paused. “I think I might have more influence over him than I’d originally thought. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

“Great,” Sam said.

“You know what really kills me? That Noah’s your cousin.” She laughed softly. “God, Sam, he even
looks
like you, doesn’t he? I can’t believe I didn’t see that.”

“He looks more like Walter than Dot,” Sam told her. It seemed surreal that he was able to keep talking to her, considering he was bleeding to death, with his guts spilling all over the floor of the car. “But yeah. We kind of look alike, even though it was really his father who was my first cousin. But you know, most people can’t see past the different skin tones.”

“He’s got your beautiful smile.”

Beautiful. At any other time, that would have made Sam’s heart beat hopefully. Alyssa thought his smile was beautiful. Fuck of a lot of good that was going to do him with her married to Max.

“I think it’s probably more accurate to say that we’ve both got Dot’s smile,” he countered. “She was just as amazing as Walt, Lys. Knowing her was a . . . a gift. You would’ve loved her. She was a lot like you in so many ways. Fearless, you know.”

“You think I’m fearless?”

“Yeah, I do.”

She laughed. “Well, thanks, but you’re wrong.”

“You’re fearless when it comes down to the things that really matter.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “When did she die? Dot?”

“In ‘95. She had another stroke and . . . she died in her sleep,” Sam told her. “She just didn’t wake up one morning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Look, I have to go. Thanks for talking to me.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” she said. “After I talk to Max.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. He hung up the phone, and then proved—if only to himself—that his heart was very big, indeed.

It was going to be a no-pressure gig. The room was incredibly friendly. She’d sat at the bar and shut the place down, listening to the elderly members of a jazz quartet jam their way through some pretty out-there arrangements of standards like “Night in Tunisia” and “Harlem Nocturne.”

They looked like they were pushing ninety, but they were impossibly hot players, particularly the guy on bass. The music was so great, she’d almost made herself forget about Max.

But then she got back to her room to find someone had been in there, going through her things. Searching for information about where she was heading next week, no doubt. Mad as hell, she called Jules Cassidy, waking him up. She told him in no uncertain terms that this kind of invasion of her privacy was going
way
too far.

Approximately three minutes after she hung up, her phone rang. It was Max.

“Boy,” Gina lit into him, cutting him off before he could speak, “you really don’t fool around, do you? You know, I should call the police, report a break-in.”

“I already have,” he said, his voice tight. “Gina, you need to get out of there, because it wasn’t us.”

“What?”

“Go into the motel lobby,” he ordered her. “Right now. I’m on my way, and the local police are, too—”

“There’s no lobby.” This room was small, but she hadn’t checked under the beds or in the closet or the bathroom or . . . She backed toward the sliding door, stretching the curly phone cord as far as it would go, her heart suddenly pounding. “There’s an office, but it’s closed and locked at night—”

He swore sharply. “Is the parking lot well lit?”

“I don’t think you could call it
well
lit.” Her voice shook, and she made herself slow down. Don’t panic. Don’t flip out. “This is stupid,” she said briskly, as much to convince herself as him. “I’m just going to look under the beds, because I
know
no one’s in here.”

“No. Go out to the parking lot,” Max told her. “Stand in the middle, away from the parked cars. If you see anyone at all, if you see anything move, start screaming. Wake up the entire island if you have to. I’m two minutes away from you.”

But the parking lot was filled with shadows despite the brightness of the moon, and the fear she was working hard to keep at bay came crashing through her tough-guy facade. A lot of bad stuff could happen in two minutes. She knew that from experience.

“I can’t go out there,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Okay,” he said, no argument, just that warm, familiar voice, wrapping around her. “Just stay on the phone with me then, Gina. Stay as close to the door as you can.”

“I’m there.”

“Good. I’m passing that resort that looks kind of like a castle,” he told her. He was very close. Not two minutes away after all.

“I’m sorry,” Gina said. “I know you don’t need this right now.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, and he actually sounded as if he meant it.

And then there he was. Max.

His headlights swept across her as he pulled in to the parking lot. He got out of his car and ran toward her. He’d thrown a long raincoat over—no way!—plaid pajama pants and a gray T-shirt that had a picture of Snoopy dressed up in an aviator helmet and scarf to fight the Red Baron. He’d jammed his feet into a beat-up pair of sneakers, his hair looked like he’d gone straight from his bed into his car, and he definitely hadn’t shaved in the past three or four hours. It was such a far cry from his usual dress code, she started to laugh. It was either that or burst into tears.

He pocketed his phone as he approached, as he looked at her hard, making sure she really was okay.

“Plaid, Max?” she said.

“If you mention it to anyone,” he said, “I’ll flatly deny it.” He pulled her into his arms and hugged her as hard as he’d looked at her, but it was way too brief. He set her aside and stepped into her room. “Wait out here.”

He actually had a gun.

Gina hadn’t really thought about the fact that as an FBI agent, Max carried and knew how to use a gun. Holding it like that, with that steely look in his eyes, he looked dangerous. Even with the plaid pajama pants and the bed-head.

But a gun was just a gun. Having one in your hand didn’t shield you from the other guy’s bullets.

“Be careful,” she called, then held her breath as he checked under the beds and in the closet.

He vanished into the bathroom, and she could hear the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back.

And then he was coming toward her, reholstering his weapon. “All clear.”

“Thank God. Thank
you
.” Gina stepped back into the room, closing the screen behind her as her heart started to beat again.

“Is anything missing?” His Snoopy T-shirt was faded and worn, clearly a favorite. It hugged a chest that may have been forty-two years old but looked nothing like her father’s. Not that it would have mattered to her if it had.

“I don’t know. I had my wallet with me. My plane ticket’s electronic, so . . .” She looked around. “Oh, shit. My CDs and my Walkman.”

“Try not to touch anything as you look,” Max told her.

She’d put her laptop into her suitcase and locked it shut. It was still there, thank goodness. But several pieces of jewelry—all inexpensive trinkets with only sentimental value—were gone.

Along with . . . She started to laugh. “They stole my underwear.” They actually stole
all
of it—her running bras, too. “Oh,
man
. . .”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She gestured to the drawer that was open and empty. “See?”

“I meant, are you sure you didn’t put it somewhere else?”

“Yes, I am, but feel free to search for it.”

“Why would someone steal underwear?” he asked.

“Because the TV was bolted to the dresser?” Gina countered as he opened the other drawers, using the edge of his raincoat to keep his prints off the knobs.

Outside the door, the police were pulling in to the lot.

“Oh,
this
is going to be fun,” she said. “ ‘Can you describe your missing underwear, Ms. Vitagliano?’ ‘Well, yes, Officer, I could, but I just might give you a heart attack.’ ”

“Is anything else missing?” Max asked. “Anything of real value?”

“Hey,” Gina said. “That was two paychecks’ worth of goods from Victoria’s Secret.”

“I didn’t particularly want to know that,” Max muttered as he escaped out the door.

“That’s four
weeks
of me going commando before I have the money to buy it back,” she called after him. That wasn’t true. She had the money in the bank. But she was determined. Before this night was through, she
was
going to push Max past his breaking point.