Gone Too Far (34 page)

Every time he’d tried to bring it up, to talk about it, to apologize again, she’d shrugged it off.
Forget it, it’s over.

But it was kind of hard to forget, considering that she wouldn’t have a single mark on her if he’d only trusted her. She was talking to Jules on the phone, making notes on a pad on her lap.

The stretch of road they were on was straight, so Sam took his eyes off it to glance down and read what she’d written.

Publix supermarket,
she’d scribbled, along with an address, and a date—
May 24th
—and
Mary Lou never shows up for work, no phone call, never returns.

So they knew where Mary Lou had worked. It was worth going over there, talking to her coworkers, as well as checking the Alcoholics Anonymous blue book to see where the meetings were in that area—meetings Mary Lou had gone to on a nightly basis in San Diego. They could try to figure out which meetings were close to her Sarasota home, too. Or—better yet—which meetings were close to the house that she and Janine had shared with Clyde. The two addresses weren’t so far apart that Mary Lou would necessarily want to change meeting locations after a move.

The AA meetings were support groups. Drunks who didn’t want to drink, leaning on each other. It seemed like a shaky way to rebuild a life, but it really could work. It had for Sam’s mother.

“Uh-huh,” Alyssa said to Jules, as she wrote down what looked like a name.
Ihbraham Rahman,
a dash and then the words
gardener, also currently AWOL.

Hoo-yah! That had to be the name of Donny DaCosta’s so-called flower guy. The man Mary Lou was probably screwing on the side. Except, maybe it couldn’t really be called on the side, since by the end of their marriage, Sam hadn’t been sleeping with her at all. She was just living in his house, using his last name, taking care of his daughter, and probably getting it on with the neighborhood gardener.

Except there was something really wrong with this picture.

Ihbraham Rahman was an Arab-American with very dark skin.

And Mary Lou was a racist—something Sam hadn’t found out until months after they were married. She wasn’t a vicious racist, the way his father had been. And she probably would have been offended if someone had called her a racist to her face. She never used obviously derogatory words—she would never dream of it. But she had a real “us” and “them” attitude that only worked to perpetuate the racial divide. Instead of trying to find similarities between different races and cultures—a philosophy that Walt and Dot had preached at Sam and Noah endlessly—Mary Lou focused on differences.

No, no matter how Sam tried to view the situation, he just couldn’t see Mary Lou hooking up with a man who wasn’t Wonder Bread white. Unless she’d somehow had her eyes opened, had her archaic way of thinking overhauled . . .

Yeah, and maybe she’d also learned to fly by flapping her arms.

He glanced down Alyssa’s pad.

Kelly Paoletti,
she had written,
knew Rahman, too.

Holy shit. Wasn’t
that
one hell of a coincidence? Except for the fact that Sam didn’t believe in coincidences. It was a variation on Occam’s Razor. If you’re looking for a terrorist, and you’ve got a likely suspect, chances are he’s the terrorist you’re looking for.

Maybe he was wrong about Mary Lou and this Rahman. But no. He just couldn’t see it. It was possible that Rahman had a light-skinned associate, though, that Mary Lou was involved with. And of course, there was always Donny’s blond alien.

“So Rahman’s already been investigated—six months ago, while he was in the hospital with a head injury—and he’s believed not to be connected,” Alyssa said to Jules, obviously for Sam’s benefit. Wasn’t
that
interesting? She paused, listening. “So let me get this straight. We have a guy—Rahman—who gets his skull fractured during the Coronado assassination attempt. We’ve placed him there, in the crowd at the Navy base, during the terrorist attack, but he’s
not
connected?”

She paused. “No . . . No, wait, let me finish with Rahman first. So as of just a few days ago he allegedly comes knocking on Starrett’s door, possibly looking for Mary Lou—this coming from a neighbor who’s mentally challenged, who also gives us reports of some light-haired man, his alien, who’s following Rahman. Okay, yeah, you’re right, if Rahman’s part of the terrorist cell behind the Coronado attack, he’s probably
not
going to march right up to the front door of Mary Lou’s house and ring the bell. But still . . . Her prints are on that weapon. They got there somehow.” Pause. “So Rahman’s being checked out again, except now he’s vanished.” She shot Sam a hard look. “And vanishing when the authorities want to ask questions never looks good.”

Yeah, yeah. Point taken.

“So Tom Paoletti’s wife—”

“She’s not his wife,” Sam whispered, and got another sharp look from Alyssa. No talking while she was on the phone with Jules.

“So Kelly Ashton, who just married Tom Paoletti—” she said.

No kidding. Kelly finally married the commander. About freaking time.

“—has no recollection of Ihbraham being associated with this mystery man with blond hair. Although hair is only about
the
easiest characteristic to alter.” Alyssa sighed, jotting the words
library
and
AA meetings
on her pad.

Yeah, that, along with work, about summed it up as far as what Sam knew about Mary Lou’s activities outside of the house. There were no meetings supporting extremist Islamic jihad on the FBI’s list, either.

Of course it was entirely likely that the terrorist fucking had been an in-house activity.

“Okay, let me know if anything more comes up on Rahman,” Alyssa continued. “So tell me now about this thing that just came in.” She listened for a moment, but then froze, pen above paper. “Oh, dear God . . .”

“What?” Sam asked. Her tone was enough to strike terror in his heart. His biggest fear was that the FBI investigation would uncover Mary Lou’s and Haley’s bodies.

Alyssa glanced at him as she shook her head. Yeah, he knew. He was supposed to stay quiet so Jules wouldn’t know they were together. But come on . . .

“How long were they in there?” she asked.

They
wasn’t a good word.

Frustration and exasperation rang in her voice. “Well, what’s their guess? They
do
know how to guess?” She listened, then, “Shit.”

It was a quiet
shit
. A very,
very
bad news
shit
. As if the look on her face wasn’t enough of a clue that whatever Jules was telling her was really going to hurt. Sam had a strong feeling that crushed balls had nothing on the pain that was coming.

“Please,” she said. “Keep me updated.
Any
thing that comes in. No matter how little.” Pause. “Thanks, Jules.”

“Tell me,” Sam ordered as she hung up her phone.

“It’s not conclusive,” she said. “There’s been no positive ID.”

Oh, no . . .

Alyssa actually touched him, her hand on his arm. “Maybe you should pull over.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.” The nearest exit wasn’t for another six miles, so he just pulled to the right on to the shoulder of the highway.

It took forever to get there, to brake to a full stop, to put the car into park, to turn and face Alyssa and see the sympathy in her eyes. Oh, Jesus . . .

“This isn’t conclusive,” she said.

“You said that.”

“I wanted to make sure you understood—”

“Alyssa,
tell
me.”

She nodded. “Bodies have been found. A woman. And a child who looks to be about Haley’s age.”

No.
“Where?”

“Just west of Sarasota,” she said. “In the trunk of a car. The car’s been burned, and the bodies are . . . well, hard to identify. As far as anyone can tell, they’ve been there somewhere between two and three weeks.”

Sam sat in silence, just looking at her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. His stomach was churning. “Don’t be. Because it’s not them.”

She nodded, even forced a smile. “You’re probably right.” Yeah, she didn’t believe
that
for one second. “Let me drive now, okay?”

Sam nodded, opened the door, and pulled himself out, forgetting to be extra careful. Holy fucking shit, these stupid pants were too freaking tight, and they really probably only brushed against him, but that was enough, and he was on the ground, on his knees, by the back of the car, fighting nausea all over again.

Alyssa was there, her hands cool against his face. “Oh, Sam.”

She probably thought he was going to get sick because the thought of Haley burned to death in the trunk of a car was so fucking awful.

“It’s not them in that trunk,” he said through gritted teeth. “I know it’s not. I just . . . whacked myself getting out of the car. Hypersensitive today.” He forced himself to look at her. “Which is good, actually. It gives me something else to focus on.”

Alyssa laughed at that, as he’d hoped she would. “Well, shoot, I’ll be happy to kick you again, whenever you want.”

Sam laughed then, too, but allowing himself to do that was a mistake, because it opened the door to everything else he was trying not to feel. His eyes almost instantly filled with tears.

No, no, no . . .

Oh, please, don’t let her notice . . .

But he knew she did. Alyssa noticed everything. She pushed back a chunk of his hair that had fallen over his forehead, and her touch was heartbreakingly gentle.

“You do get through it, you know,” she told him quietly. “Losing someone you love. You may never get over it, but you
do
get through it.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t lost Haley yet.” He forced himself to his feet. They had to get back in the car before some state trooper came to check them out. “Let’s get to Sarasota, go to that Publix, and talk to some people who might know Mary Lou.”

His use of present tense was not lost on Alyssa, who nodded. But she also touched his arm, her hand warm against his elbow. “Careful getting in the car.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said. “And how are you? Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No. Why Kenya?”

His voice was so cold, she almost faltered. But she’d made up her mind. The worst he could do was hang up on her.

“Because I’ve made friends with some people who are doing good things there, and I need to do
some
thing worthwhile. Look, that’s not what I called to talk about. I called because I have a favor to ask you.”

He was silent. Max was capable of the loudest silences in the world. But he’d taught her everything she knew about negotiating during all those days she’d spent on the hijacked airliner, and she ignored it. She knew it was only meant to rattle her. Of course, it was working.

“It’s a big favor,” she said, resisting the urge to ask him if he were still there. He was. She knew he was. “I have this problem. It’s about sex.”

There should have been a response here, even if it was a growl of anger or disbelieving laughter, but Max’s silence just stretched on.

“I’m all jammed up about it,” she continued. “I haven’t been with someone since, well, you know.”

“Since you were raped.” His voice was so cold. “I thought we decided to put that word back into our working vocabulary.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Thank you. We did. Since I was raped.”

“No,” Max said. “I can’t help you.”

“Maybe you should wait to hear what I’m asking.”

“I know exactly what you’re asking, and I’m telling you no.”

He only sounded so glacial because he was freaking out. She knew that. She
knew
that. Still, it took everything she had not to mumble an apology and run from the phone.

“Guys my age are afraid to get close to me,” she told him, and her voice only shook a little. “I completely wig them out.”

She heard him draw in a breath—ragged proof that he was human and not some relentlessly calm, cold robot. “I’m very sorry to hear that, but—”

“I’m not asking for a relationship, Max. I’m asking for one night.
One.
” Gina closed her eyes and prayed that he wouldn’t know she was lying, that he wouldn’t be able to hear it in her voice. In truth, she was hoping that one night would lead to another, and another and . . .

“I’m sorry—”

“I need you,” she pleaded, laying as much of it on the line as she dared. “I know you’ll make me feel safe. I
trust
you.”

“Which is exactly why—”

“I want that part of my life back again,” she told him.

“—I can’t.”

“I need it back! God damn it, they
stole
that from me!”

His silence wasn’t silent anymore. She definitely could hear him breathing, hear him sigh. And when he spoke, there was finally emotion in his voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“Please,” she whispered.

“Gina, I can’t help you. I have to take another call.”

“Okay,” she said, no longer caring whether or not he knew that she was crying. “I understand. And it’s, you know, okay. Really. I’m disappointed, but . . . I’ve got that gig tonight.” She played her last card. “I’m sure I’ll find
some
one in the bar who’s willing to—”

“Don’t do this.”

“Someone old enough to be gentle—”

He finally raised his voice. “Gina, for the love of God—”

“What are you going to do about it?” She wiped her face. This wasn’t over yet. “Send Jules over to arrest me? Except last I heard, picking someone up in a bar wasn’t a crime.”

“No, it’s just insanity!”

“No, Max,” Gina said. “Insanity is you saying no when we both know you want to say yes.”

She hung up the phone with a hand that was shaking. She stood there for a moment with her eyes closed, praying that this would work, that she’d see him tonight, that he’d give himself permission not just to confront her in person, but to take her home. And stay.