Like a Knife (23 page)

* * *

Rachel remembered very little of the blast. Not the sting of flying glass, the fiery heat, the deafening roar. She didn't remember the impact flinging her backward-or Danny dragging her away when she tried to hurtle toward the burning limo with some desperate thought of saving Nick. All this she found out later, when she woke in the motel with Isaac. The cuts on her face, the smell of flames on her clothes, the bruise on her shoulder from the force of the blast that knocked her down-these were the only proof that Nick was dead.

She stared at Danny dully as he repeated the words hours later in the motel room.

"No. It's not true."

"You saw it with your own eyes."

Inside her head, the car blew up in achingly slow motion. She quashed the pictures, refusing to believe them. "I don't care."

"Rachel-"

"I want to see his body."

"You can't. The people who did this are still out there. It's not safe."

"I don't care!" She rushed headlong to the door, but Danny pulled her back. "You can't just be thinking of yourself, Rachel. There's the boy, too." He glanced over to the corner where Isaac's small dark form huddled into a chair. But she barely noticed the child.

"I won't let you keep me here," she said, her voice rising wildly.

"I'm sorry."

She whirled away from him and collapsed into a chair, sobbing again. Beneath the gulping, soul-sickened noise she was making, she heard the sound of Danny's voice on the phone again.

He'd been on the goddamn phone ever since he'd whisked her away from... from... She closed her eyes. God, she couldn't even
think
the words, let alone say them aloud.

A small hand slipped into hers. Looking up, she saw the dark, heart-shaped face of Nick's son. Panic filled his eyes; a worried frown creased his brow. She had forgotten all about him. If Danny hadn't stopped her, she would have left Isaac behind, and broken her promise to Nick.

"I'm sorry," she said in a broken voice. "I didn't mean to scare you." She swept him into her lap, brushing the hair away from his face. He wrapped his arms around her neck, and she held him tight.

They spent the night in the motel, and the next day Danny drove them to another, this one near Atlantic City. Two days later, he sent a car with "Francie's Flowers" painted on the side to take them to a run-down apartment building outside Philadelphia.

For the next few months Danny shuffled them up and down the East Coast. Gradually, Rachel stopped asking where they were going. She stopped caring.

She slept a lot. Sometimes whole days passed in sleep. When she woke, the TV was always blaring in the background, and Isaac was always watching her. With his dark eyes so similar to Nick's, it hurt to look at him. As her father had, she wanted to turn her back on every reminder. But unlike her father, she couldn't palm Isaac off onrelatives. She was all he had left, and she wouldn't desert him. She helped him dress, packed their meager belongings, and trudged into the next vehicle, the next motel room-all the while hemorrhaging on the inside.

One evening, a knock sounded on die motel door.
Don't
answer it. If you answer it, you'll have to wake up.

The knock came again, and Isaac called, "Who is it?"

"Someone order a pizza?" A voice through the door.

Pizza.
Her stomach turned over. She could hardly remember what real food tasted like. Only greasy hamburgers. And pizza.

She raised heavy eyelids and saw Isaac drag a chair over to the door, climb up, and peek through the peephole, like she'd taught him.

"Just a minute," he said through the closed door.

She watched from a distance, as if she were the audience and the child a movie. He found her purse, opened it, and took out some money. He didn't ask if he had enough; he seemed to know the correct amount. No surprise, given the number of pizzas they'd ordered and the way he observed her every move. He forced the bills through the slit under the door.

"Leave it outside," he said.

"Are you all right, kid?" The deliveryman's voice sounded uneasy, even through the door. "Is your... is someone with you? A grown-up?"

"My mom is resting," Isaac said. "Just leave the pizza and go."

He watched through the peephole, then climbed down off the chair, opened the door, and retrieved the box. It was bigger than he was. Balancing it carefully, he laid it at the foot of the bed and struggled with the hot pie inside. Finally, he freed up a slice and offered it to Rachel.

Her heart squeezed. She should be taking care of him, not the other way around.

She sat up. Isaac put the pizza in her hand and turned to get his own dinner. He sat down beside her and saw she hadn't taken a bite.

"Aren't you hungry?"

Emotion closed her throat so she couldn't speak.

He looked down at his lap. "Don't be sad anymore. It doesn't help. Everyone goes away anyway."

He was right. Everyone she'd ever loved had abandoned her. Her mother, her father, Nick. Whether they had a choice about it or not, the result was the same. She was alone.

Isaac leaned against her arm, and she looked down at him. Not quite alone. Not this time.

She slipped her arm around him. "You told that man I was your mom."

He looked up at her with Nick's dark intensity. "Will you be? Until... until you go away?"

God, she couldn't even look at him without hurting. But she couldn't refuse him, either. He needed her. And maybe she needed him.

Isaac wasn't the only thing that pulled her toward life again. Her own body was making demands, demands she tried hard to ignore. But by Halloween she was sure.

They were somewhere in Delaware, just north of Wilmington, when the inevitable move came. Rachel refused to go. She sat next to the pumpkin outside the motel office and pulled Isaac into her lap, telling the driver she wouldn't budge until he called Danny Walsh and arranged a meeting with him.

Danny was there the next day, and he was furious.

"What's this, Rachel? I canceled some very important meetings to come down here, only to find that you're fine, the little lad is fine, everyone's fine."

"I want to go home."

He turned away, throwing up his hands in exasperation. "Mother of God, she wants to go home," he muttered. Then turning back to her he shouted, "Do you think this is a vacation? You can't just cancel your reservations and walk away."

"We can't stay like this forever! If I eat one more french fry I'll turn into one. We live like roaches in the dark, scurrying from one motel room to another. Isaac should start school. He needs to be around other children."

"We've been through this, Rachel. You agreed to let me protect you."

"Not for the rest of my life. It's been three months. Surely by now everything is all right And if it isn't... I'm just going to have to take that risk."

"You don't have to be taking chances. Just a few more weeks, and I'm sure we'll have things under control."

"I'm sorry, but no. We can't do this anymore. If you won't help me, I'll leave by myself."

Danny sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "This is crazy, and you know it. Get your things and I'll take you to the next-"

"I'm pregnant." .

"You're what?" He looked at her as if she'd grown another head.

"I'm not having Nick's baby in some mangy hotel room. I'm going home. With or without your help."

He sank down on the lumpy bed. Propping an elbow on the scarred bedside table, he lowered his head into his hand.

"Oh, one more thing," she added. "Isaac, where's your bear?"

The boy had been sitting in a chair, quietly watching the scene unfold. At Rachel's question, he jumped up and ran to a corner of the room where he'd stashed his bear atop a small chest of drawers. He came back and handed the stuffed animal to her.

"At first I thought it was torn," she said. "Someone had sewn up the seam using the wrong color thread, and the stitches were coming apart. But it wasn't a tear. The entire seam had been carefully cut and sewn back together. Whoever did it, Shelley probably, but maybe Martin, used a contrasting color so they could find the seam easily."

Danny looked at her, puzzled and irritated. "What're you jabbering about?"

"This." She reached inside the bear and pulled out a computer disk.

The moment her cousin parked the car, Rachel climbed out and stood on the curb, gazing at the small wood-frame house. A threadbare lawn adorned the front, along with a few scraggly bushes that looked pitifully undernourished in the winter light. Not exactly a palace, but it had the requisite three bedrooms, and best of all, a large maple, whose thick branches would be perfect for a wooden swing. Set in the middle of a quiet, working-class neighborhood, the house would be safe and warm, a good shelter for Nick's family. Beneath her coat, she caressed the small mound of her belly and whispered, "What do you think, baby? Does it feel like home to you?"

The car door opened, and Isaac slid out to come stand beside her.

"Is it ours?" After weeks of living in other people's houses, including camping out in her one-bedroom apartment and numerous overnights at her aunt and uncle's, the thought of his own place obviously overwhelmed him.

She slipped her hand around his, her son now, thanks to family court. "It's ours."

"And I have my own room?"

"You have your own room."

"And we won't have to move again?"

She squeezed his hand. She'd been answering the same questions for days. "We won't have to move."

Chris came around from the driver's side. "You all right?" He put an arm around her shoulder.

She leaned her head against him and sighed. "I'm fine."

"Does it really have a sandbox in the back?" Isaac looked up at her, a spark of excitement behind the serious expression in his eyes.

She smiled. "Would I lie? Go ahead. Check it out." He stared at the house and then back at her.

She tousled his hair. He still had trouble leaving her. "All right, Uncle Chris and I will come, too." She lumbered over the lawn, her six months of pregnancy swelling the loose dress she wore below the coat.

Like the patch of grass in front of the house, the backyard was small, the scrap of lawn made smaller by a rusted laundry rack and the promised sandbox. Isaac ran to the edge and dug in.

Chris looked around. He didn't say much, but then, he didn't have to. She could see the worry behind his eyes.

She put a hand on his arm. "It's fine, Chris."

"It's so... small."

"It's got everything we need. And it was affordable."

He shook his head. "I wish you would have let my parents help you out more."

"They did help. I wouldn't have been able to buy this without their help."

But even with her aunt and uncle's support, it had taken longer than she expected to find the right place at the right price. January was almost gone now. A few more months, and the baby would be here.

Nick's baby.

Familiar pain pinched her chest.

"Hello? Anyone home?" Aunt Julia waved as she tiptoed over the grass in her heels, holding onto a Toys "R" Us bag.

Rachel repressed the tiny irritation at her aunt's approach. If anyone asked, Rachel was quick to admit that Julia and Elliot had been wonderful. They'd offered to help in any way they could, in spite of the fact that Rachel hadn't been able to answer many of their questions. But just as it had been that first day back, Julia's overbright smile couldn't hide the bead of worry in her eyes.

She put her arm around Rachel's shoulder and squeezed. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." As fine as anyone can be with a hole in her soul.

Her aunt stepped over to the sandbox and knelt beside Isaac. "And how are you doing, young man? Have you seen your room yet?"

He shook his head, eyeing the colorfully wrapped box she held out.

"Did you know that everyone who moves into a new house gets a hoosewarming gift? It's a rule."

Rachel clucked with mock disapproval. Every time Julia saw Isaac, she bought him something. "You're going to spoil him."

Isaac tore off the paper and pulled out a dump truck.

"For the sandbox," Julia said.

The gift brought a shy smile of pleasure to the boy's face, and with a pang, Rachel saw Nick looking out at her from his black eyes.

But if Julia saw the resemblance, she didn't say. She merely looked at Isaac critically. "Do you think I'm spoiling you?"

He shook his head vigorously, and they all laughed.

"Me neither," she confided. Rising, she turned to Rachel. "And if I am, I thought I'd make a party of it. I brought dinner, too. First night in your new home, you certainly don't want to cook. And there's something else."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "No more, please. You've been too generous already." This was true enough, as every month they sent Rachel a check so she didn't have to face going back to work yet. And her uncle's many legal contacts had made Isaac's adoption a smooth, easy process.

Ignoring Rachel's protest, Julia handed Chris her car keys. "It's in the trunk. Would you bring it in the house?"

While Chris went around to the front, Rachel unlocked the back door for the first time since the movers had left.

Inside, boxes littered the floor. Julia and Rachel took off their coats and laid them over the kitchen counter, then navigated through the mess into the front of the house, where Rachel opened the door for her cousin.

He came through it, swamped by a large, wooden something in his arms. He set the thing down in the middle of the living room, and Rachel saw that it was a cradle.

"I thought it was time I brought a gift for the baby," Julia said quietly. "Your grandmother gave it to me when Chris was born, and your mother used it for you. I... I hope you don't mind. Some women prefer new things for their children instead of hand-me-downs."

"Mind?" Rachel's heart squeezed. She ran her hand over the intricately carved wood, her throat tightening with emotion. Like a link in a chain, the cradle connected her to people she had loved and lost. She gripped the beautiful wooden headboard, swallowing hard. When she finally found her voice all she could manage to say was, "I'm honored. Thank you."

Her aunt smiled, tears in her eyes.

She loves me.

How could Rachel have missed that all these years?

She put her arms around Julia and hugged her. "Thank you, Aunt Julia. For everything."

After dinner, Julia and Chris helped unpack some of the boxes. They made a small dent in the task, staying until Isaac was asleep and Rachel yawned with fatigue.

"Time to go," Chris said, collecting his mother's purse and helping her on with her coat.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Julia said at the door.

Rachel squeezed her aunt's hand. "I'd like that."

Chris paused, looking as though he had something to say, but wasn't sure how to say it. "Look, Rachel-"

"What's up?" She hoped it wasn't another lecture on accepting help or taking care of herself.

He sighed. "I don't want to upset you, but that writer-Dana Gershon, the one who wanted to do a book on your father-well, she's been calling me. She still wants to talk to you. I've been stalling, but I can't stall forever. I have a feeling she'll find you eventually, with or without my help."

Rachel remembered Dana's offer to donate part of the profits from her book to the school at St Anthony's. A rush of sorrow ran through her. She hadn't thought about her school or her bigger dreams for a long time. Too many other losses to think about.

"What do you want me to do?" Chris asked.

For some reason the thought of exploring her father's world wasn't as distasteful as it had been. After all, David Goodman was as much a part of her baby's legacy as the Bradshaw cradle. "I don't know. Let me think about it."

The next day, she drove out to Long Island and collected the boxes of her father's correspondence from the Bradshaws' attic.

There were five in all, and that night after Isaac was in bed, she opened the first box. Inside, she found a jumble of papers, notebooks, and manila envelopes. One letter snagged her attention immediately. It was addressed to Julia and written hi her father's familiar loopy hand.

Thank you for the picture Rachel drew of the pond and the trees. I have it in a place of honor in my office, so I can look at it whenever I miss her

He'd missed her? Rachel looked up, staring out over the mess of papers strewn over the living room floor. She remembered that picture. She'd asked her aunt to send it to him, but he never mentioned it. She thought Julia hadn't mailed it. Or if she had, that he didn't give a damn.

Heart racing, she read the letter again, and then once more. Had her father cared about her all this time? She set the letter in a separate pile, too afraid to hope, and picked up another letter with trembling hands.

Stomach in a knot, she scanned the page and came to another warm, loving reference to herself. It was the same with the one after that.

Tears welled, and she blinked them away so she could see. Barely pausing, she went through all five boxes and read countless letters to her aunt and uncle, countless times that her father had asked about her. By the time she finished the last box, her shoulders ached, her eyes were gritty, and it was time to wake Isaac for school. Smiling and weepy, she went to his room, hugging the knowledge of those letters to herself. Even if she hadn't been with her father, she had always been in his thoughts.

As Nick was always in hers. Staring down at the sleeping boy, she couldn't help but recall the man who'd fathered him. Isaac had slept through the night, a feat Nick would have been glad about.
He loved you, Isaac.
She'd never let him doubt it.

She drove Isaac to school and watched him stroll into the building, a miniature Nick walking away from her.

Normally she headed home after dropping him off, but this time she drove into the city. She hadn't wanted to know what had happened to Nick that awful day of the bombing, but now she waited hours at the precinct house until the detective in charge of Nick's case could see her. But when he finally appeared, stoop-shouldered and weary-eyed, he wasn't much help.

"Our investigation is still pending. I can't talk about it."

"You must have" some ideas. It's been months now. Why were they in the car? Where were they going?"

He shuffled his feet and avoided looking at the small, round swell of her belly. "I wish I could help you, but we're still trying to put the pieces together."

Frustrated, she left the police and drove to the local office of the FBI, who were also investigating. This time, the agent in charge saw her right away. Crisp and professional in his dark suit and tie, he was equally unforth-coming.

"I understand your concern, but there's nothing I can tell you about Mr. Raine. My advice is to go home, have your baby, and try to forget all this. If anything should come up, someone will be in touch."

Someone was in touch. The next day, Danny Walsh rapped on her door. He'd barely stepped over the threshold when he grabbed her elbow and steered her onto the nearest seat.

Wagging a finger, he paced in front of hep, his green eyes gleaming. "You must stop asking questions, Rachel. The only people who can answer them are dead."

She raised her chin, refusing to be bullied. "I have to know what happened. Why was Nick driving the car? Where was he going?"

He rubbed a hand through his thinning hair and didn't answer her questions either. "It isn't safe for you to chase after this. You can't be drawing attention to yourself. Do you think Nicky would want this? Putting yourself and the child in danger? I want your word now. No more talking to the police or FBI."

She made no guarantees, but after he was gone, she walked into the kitchen and, resting her hands on the growing mound of her baby, gazed through the window at the small backyard. It was a gray, dreary day. Outside, the branches on the maple stuck out stark and bare. The gloom outside echoed the emptiness inside her.

Once again, she heard Nick's voice.
I want to keep you away from that muck.

And he had. She was safe now. Safe in her little house, safe from him. And now it was her turn to make sure his children were safie-even if it meant never really knowing what had happened to their father.

She leaned her head against the window. "You win," she whispered to Nick's ghost. "No more questions I can't answer."

But it felt like losing him all over again.

* * *

Two nights later, Danny Walsh watched a figure slip out the back of the military hospital and limp toward the car. Like a ghost, the man was between worlds-no longer what he used to be and not quite ready for what he would become.
Ghost
suited him, and that's the code name he'd been given by everyone who dealt with him. Even Danny had taken to calling him that, at least in his head.

Besides the moon, little brightness lit up the back of the building, but even in the dim light it was clear that the Ghost leaned heavily on a cane. Slowly he hobbled closer, and Danny saw the sheen of sweat filming his face. Danny leaned across the front seat and swung open the passenger door.

The Ghost settled in heavily, with a groan that sounded pain-filled, for all it was half repressed.

Danny sighed. "You didn't take your medicine again." A statement of the obvious rather man a question.

"That stuff turns my head into a cotton ball."

Danny turned on the ignition and began backing out "I don't know another soul who's harder on himself.".

A mixture of grit and amusement tilted the corners of the man's mouth. "Someone else I know once said the same thing."

Danny pulled around to the front of the building, then onto the road leaning toward the checkpoint that was the only exit. He kept the speed low, maneuvering the car carefully so he would jostle his passenger as little as possible.

"Your escape is beyond crazy, you know, and puts me in a touchy position. Your doctors will never forgive me, let alone your government. You could wreck the whole deal."

"I don't give a damn about the deal."

Danny couldn't keep the aggrieved tone out of his voice. "Well, it wasn't you who called in every favor on the books, was it now?"

"I'll try to make it up to you," the Ghost replied dryly.

Danny pursed his lips and raised a sandy eyebrow. "For someone who claims he's gotten over his death wish, you can be a damn reckless pain in the ass."

"Enough. I've heard the lectures already." He winced as the car went over a speed bump.

"She'll still be mere in a month or two. By then you'll have finished testifying, your injuries will be better, and-"

"You should have told her."

Danny grumbled a curse below his breath. "You weren't there, boy-o. You didn't see how out of control she was. She insisted on seeing you. Loudly insisted, just like she's doing now. And that could've alerted certain parties and put your life-what little was left of it at the time, I grant you-and hers in danger. And I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, am I now?"

The passenger gave a curt headshake, indicating that he wasn't. "Still, you should have told her. You don't know what this will mean to her. I do."

Danny shook his head. What he should have done was kept his damn mouth shut this morning and let his friend go on believing that everyone knew about his survival.

Ahead of him, the gates loomed. Inside the guardhouse the soldier reached for a clipboard as the car lights swung toward him. Danny looked over at his passenger. His dark hair had been cropped short to allow the surgeons to get at the head wound. He sat unevenly, a result of the metal still embedded in his back, and his right leg stuck out at an agonizingly awkward angle.

Danny slowed the car to a stop. "One last chance to change your mind. It's a long drive to the island, and it may take a day or two to get her there. Sure you want to do this?"

Lines of pain etched the rugged face, now almost gaunt from its battle with death. "I'm sure."

"Your keepers will be mad as hell when they find out you escaped. Twelve hours was barely enough time to get the papers prepared, let alone cover your tracks. No guarantees I can keep them away."

"If I run into trouble, I'll handle it and leave your name out. Just get me there. And her."

He had one final card to play. "You're still taking a chance, you know."

The Ghost turned his head and shot Danny a disgusted look. "Nice try. You told me yourself there's been no buzz about me for weeks. And no doubts about my untimely demise. I'm doing this, Danny. Quit talking and go. The longer we sit here, the worse my damn leg's going to feel."

Another deep sigh escaped the Irishman. He started the car again and pulled up to the checkpoint. Muttering curses for all fools in love, he committed himself irrevocably by handing the guard the two sets of forged papers, his own and his passenger's.

The papers were perfect, so he didn't expect trouble, but still he tensed while the guard examined them. Then the soldier flashed a light inside the car, illuminating the empty backseat and the two men in front. It lingered on the man in the passenger seat, and for once, Danny wished the Ghost could live up to his code name and disappear. But he was real enough, and the guard's hard gaze swept over him, taking in every detail, Danny's hands began to sweat.

"Something wrong?" Outwardly calm, he grinned at the guard.

It seemed to take forever before the soldier responded. "Better buckle up," he said.

"Of course," Danny said quickly, sliding on his seat belt and helping his passenger do the same. The guard handed back the papers, checked something off on the clipboard, and stepped inside the guardhouse to activate the switch that lifted the barrier blocking the road.

Danny put the car in gear and drove off, breathing out relief. If the man beside him was equally relieved, he didn't say. He sat still, watching the road fly by in the darkness, an air of expectancy about him, as if holding his breath and waiting for his life to begin again. The thought troubled Danny, but when he glanced over, the Ghost's face looked more serene than it had in months.

"You're sure about the baby?"

Danny's brows shot up. It was the first time the Ghost had mentioned the baby since Danny had told the truth that morning. "Oh aye, I'm very sure."

The Ghost nodded, his taut face thoughtful. Then he leaned his head against the head rest, closed his eyes, and smiled.