Redemption (9 page)

The sound came again, followed by a low moan of what sounded like pain.

She pushed off the bed and padded to the door. The hallway was lit only by the moon shining through an end window. She remembered John saying something about sleeping in the guest bedroom, so she followed the hall until she came to a door that was half-open He was sprawled in the middle of a wide bed, dressed only in boxers, face contorted in pain.

She walked over and leaned down. “John?”

His head moved to the side. Fingers curled into his palm and his breathing became raspy, harsh.

“John?”

His eyes popped open and with an angry growl, he flung his arm out. Surprised, she reared back, his fist barely missing her face. He stared at her with narrowed eyes and a fierce look, as if he would tear her apart if she came any closer.

Seeing in his eyes the last vestiges of a nightmare that refused to release its grip, she advanced slowly. “It’s just me,” she said softly, touching his bare arm.

He jerked away.

“It was just a dream.” She put a knee on the edge of the bed. For every one of her movements forward, he took one away. She’d noticed he didn’t like to touch her, but hadn’t realized how severe his fears were.

He reminded her of Mugsy.

One of her last memories of her mother was of a sunny summer day when they’d discovered a mongrel dog on their property. It’d been obvious he’d been abused and Hope had wanted to keep him. Her mother had told her the best thing to do was go slow, let him get used to her.

At first, Mugsy had snapped and snarled, never letting her get close. But she’d been persistent and spent hours sitting a good distance from him, talking about anything that popped into her twelve-year-old head. Eventually he’d learned to recognize her voice and one day, not long after, he’d approached, sniffed and shied away. By the end of the summer, he was sleeping in her bed.

She used that same approach with John when she climbed up on the bed. “It’s just me.” She held out her hands, showing him he had nothing to worry about.

“Angelina?”

Startled by the name, she paused. “No. It’s Hope.” Another inch forward on her knees, her gaze locked with his. She had a feeling if she gave him time to think, he’d run. So she didn’t give him the chance. She pulled the blankets up and slipped underneath, rolling onto her side into the warm spot he’d been sleeping in. “Hold me, John. I need you to hold me.”

“Hope—” Her name came out on a strangled groan and she pressed a finger to his lips.

“Shhh. Hold me, that’s all I ask. I need your touch tonight.” She needed him, needed the comfort of his body close to hers. Needed his strength, and yes, beneath the gruff exterior lay strength and kindness, and oh, how she needed his kindness. Just as, she supposed, he needed hers. “Let’s fight our nightmares together.” She laid her head on his shoulder, felt the heat penetrate as it chased away the cold inside her. She closed her eyes, pushing away images of her dying father, and draped her arm across John’s stomach, snuggling into his side.

She listened to his harsh breathing. The muscles beneath her were rock hard, tense, rigid, until slowly they began to relax. Right before she fell asleep, the shoulder she’d been resting on moved and the arm she’d pinned between them came over her, pulling her closer.

John awoke disoriented, his knee sore, with a half-formed headache behind his eyes. He stared at the ceiling as images of Angelina drifted through his thoughts. Over the years, his grief had lessened until there was only a pang now and again in his waking hours. Nighttime proved to be his undoing.

He rubbed his face, scratching at the stubble along his jaw and pushed the painful memories back inside him. Into that deep dark hole where they would fester until it became too much and they’d come clawing out again to haunt him.

Angelina. Some days he wondered if he’d loved her at all. He’d known nothing about her, just that she was kind and kindness had been hard to come by where he’d been. On the days when he could look back with at least a modicum of objectivity, he wondered if he’d made it all up. Not Angelina, she’d been real, but his feelings for her. Had she felt for him as he’d felt for her? Or had he been reaching for something honest and good in a place where honesty and goodness had died long ago, if it’d ever been there at all? Then he would remind himself it didn’t matter. She was gone and he was the one who’d killed her.

He flung the covers away and surged off the bed. When he bent to retrieve his jeans, he froze, his gaze glued to the indentation in the second pillow. Denim slipped through lifeless fingers as he straightened and leaned forward to touch the cold sheets on the other side of the bed.

Slowly, other memories emerged. Of Hope standing by the bed. Hope reaching for him, her eyes kind like Angelina’s. Her touch healing like Angelina’s. He closed his eyes and fisted his hand, pressing it into the soft mattress.

The beast within, the demon that held his nightmares and threatened him every time he tried to get close to a woman, awoke. But this time John fought back, refusing to give in, willing to fight. For kindness, for compassion. For hope.

And when the monster inside him retreated, he opened his eyes and stared at the cooled sheets. She’d crawled into bed with him, held him while he emerged from his nightmare, talked him down from his terror. And he’d held her, too.

When he finally made it downstairs after a quick shower, Hope was sitting on the floor in the middle of Luke’s living room, the Christmas presents they’d dumped in John’s truck scattered around her. She was staring at them, biting her thumbnail, legs crossed.

Needing caffeine and not quite ready to face her after holding her in his arms most of the night, he ducked into the kitchen, only to find no coffee but a hot pot of water for tea. That’s when he remembered coffee made her nauseous. So instead of nuking a mug and taking the chance of making her sick, he poured himself tea and sprinkled in a liberal amount of sugar. Having procrastinated long enough, he made his way to the living room and sat on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, mug of tea held between his spread knees.

She’d obviously gone out to his truck to retrieve the gifts. He probably should have warned her last night not to go out alone, but she’d been so beaten down he’d been afraid to add more fuel to the fire, never thinking he’d sleep later than her. “You okay?”

She nodded but kept her gaze on the brightly wrapped packages. He took a sip of tea and let the silence stretch, having learned that unlike him, Hope didn’t like long moments of quiet and she would say something soon. She kept nibbling on her thumb while the other hand played with a red bow. She was wearing the jeans and sweater he’d found her in after she crashed. He didn’t know much about pregnant women and what they wore, but he guessed she would outgrow those clothes soon.

“We should buy you some clothes today.”

“I want to go to my home.”

“Not a good idea.”

Her head shot up. Contrary to what he’d been thinking, there was very little grief in her eyes. Oh, it was there, fighting her anger, but so far, the anger was winning. “Why?”

He hesitated, knowing he had to tell her, but wanting to protect her from the harsh reality of what she’d gotten herself into. She had enough to deal with over the next several months. The mind-numbing grief. The questions, the anger, the slow, painful acceptance that her father was gone. Not to mention the birth of her baby, which was huge in and of itself. But she also had a right to know how much danger she was in. “Someone followed us to DC last night.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Who?”

“It was too dark to tell. I lost him before we got here, but I don’t want you going out alone.” He nodded toward the gifts.

“We should call the police.”

“No.”

“My father was killed,” she said vehemently, her voice rising. “Am I supposed to ignore that?”

“What are you going to tell them, Hope? Your father was killed, yet there’s no body. You witnessed the murder, but fled the scene without calling the police. You disappear for three days, claiming to have lost your memory, but when you visit your dad, it all comes back.”

“Not all of it,” she said without heat, her gaze sliding away.

Something in her tone set his internal alarms clanging. “You remember more?”

She shrugged and played with the red bow again.

“Hope?”

“I remember.”

“You remember everything? Or just what happened the night your father was killed?”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“I remember everything.”

“Tell me.”

“Not much to tell. Basically everything Danny told us. I just remember the specifics.” She massaged her stomach in little circles.

“I’m sorry.” As soon as the words left his mouth he knew they were inadequate. He of all people knew what it was like to lose everything. He should have more to say, but he didn’t.

She blew out a breath. “Yeah. Me too. I loved those kids.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if the school could fire her for such a reason, but he knew they could. Especially in a religious school where morality was ingrained in the pupils’ heads. He wondered about the father of the baby, how he fit into this scenario. If she remembered everything, did she remember his name as well?

She squared her shoulders and seemed to shake off her thoughts.

“Do you see my point about your father?” he asked.

“I don’t like it, but I understand. What are we going to do now?”

“Now we talk. You tell me everything you remember about that night and we go from there.”

A shadow passed across her face, grief and despair and, more than likely, a need to turn away, to ignore what had happened. “Fair enough,” she finally said. “But I want answers from you as well.”

He went still, his barriers slamming into place. “What kind of answers?”

“How do you know my father?”

To stall and to give himself time to think, he settled back into the couch and took another sip of tea. “We both worked for Suzanne Carmichael.”

“Dad was one of Bradley Carmichael’s advisors years ago. I never met the Carmichaels. I was too busy with school and Dad liked to keep that part of his life separate from me.”

John didn’t blame the guy. Something about dealing with Suzanne left a slimy taste in one’s mouth. And after getting to know Hope he would have kept her far from Suzanne, too.

“What did you do for her?” she asked.

“She was my boss in the IATT.”

“Refresh my memory.” Her lips lifted in an ironic smile and John had to grin.

“International Anti-Terrorist Task Force. For a long time we were an invisible arm of the government, a secret weapon so to speak against international terrorism.”

“You were a spy?”

“Sorta.” There were things he still couldn’t talk about. Not because he didn’t want to, but because his security clearance forbade it. But there were also things he didn’t want her to know, horrible things. The dark side of humanity he’d just as soon forget but never would.

“Who’s Angelina?”

His mug nearly slipped from his hands. “What?”

“Last night you called me Angelina. Who is she?”

“She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” But not nearly long enough. “Tell me about the night you found your father.”

Tears leapt into her eyes and he knew the past conversation had been nothing but a diversion to keep her thoughts from her father. He let her talk without interrupting, waiting patiently when she had to pull herself together to go on. She hugged her arms around her middle and stared at the packages in front of her as she spoke in a voice thick with unshed tears.

“So you never actually saw anyone in the house other than your father?” he asked when she finally finished.

She shook her head. “But I felt someone. And I heard them. There’s this floorboard by the front door that squeaks when someone steps on it. I heard it that night. It’s what made me run out the back door instead of the front.”

“Did anyone follow you?”

“No. I jumped in my car and drove to Danny’s house. I parked a few blocks away and asked him if I could borrow his car.”

“Where’d you get the money?”

“Danny. I’d left my purse in Dad’s house and had nothing on me. Not even a coat. He loaned me the thousand bucks.”

“That’s an awful lot to ask of a friend.” Even as he said the words, he pushed down the irrational spurt of jealousy.

“Danny’s a good friend. And I had no idea when I’d be back.”

“Then you drove straight to my house?”

She nodded. Her shoulders were bowed and he could tell reliving that night had taken a toll on her. He wanted to question her more. Ask who she thought might have killed her father. He had his suspicions it was Suzanne, but couldn’t figure out why she would kill Charles Stewart. Instead, he stood and stretched, willing himself to be patient, to go slow, to remember she’d just lost everything and everyone close to her. “How ’bout we get you some new clothes?”

She struggled to stand and to his surprise, he found himself offering his hand. She seemed a bit surprised too, her gaze flying to his before she accepted his assistance. “Thank you.”

A little flustered, he nodded and shoved his hand in his back pocket. What a strange feeling it’d been to touch her without any anxiety.

“I have clothes at home,” she said quietly.

“Whoever followed us last night could be watching your place.”

“I don’t have money for a new wardrobe.”

“You can pay me back. Or use Danny’s money.” The words burned his throat.

“I hate relying on you.”

He breathed out a sigh of relief, not understanding why it was so important she not use Webster’s money, that she let him take care of her. Hell, some days he couldn’t even take care of himself. “I don’t mind.”

***

After a breakfast of homemade pancakes Hope insisted on making, they headed to the nearest mall. John hadn’t been in a mall in years and had forgotten the frenzy of the after-Christmas sales. People rushed around, jostling each other in their hurry, all with a manic light in their eyes that put him on edge. He stuck close to Hope, not touching but brushing against her with each step, keeping his gaze moving, looking for anyone who took more than a passing interest in her.

She entered a maternity shop and, for a moment, John hung back, not wanting to enter, yet not wanting to leave her unprotected either. He compromised by posting himself by the entrance.

At first, Hope was only willing to purchase one outfit. “This is fine,” she insisted. “I can make do until I get into my house.” She clutched the clothes to her chest like armor.

“We have no idea when we can get into your house. Pick out more clothes.”

“Really, John—”

“Fine. If you won’t, I will.” He searched the store, his gaze skipping over the racks, not knowing where to start but determined she was going to leave with enough clothes to see her through whatever it was they were going to face over the next several days.

He grabbed a winter coat. She was wearing one of his old, ratty coats that was way too big.

“That’s not necessary.”

“If you don’t want to try it on, don’t.” He didn’t know why he was getting angry. She was proud. That was something he could relate to even though his pride had been stripped from him long ago. He plunked the coat down on the counter and faced her with hands on hips. “Now, are you going to pick some clothes out, or am I?”

They stared at each other for the longest time, waging a silent battle of wills as the wide-eyed store clerk kept her distance.

“I hate that you have to spend money on me. I swear I’ll pay you back.”

“Fine.” He had enough money to spend on her for the next millennium. His cabin was paid for, built with his own hands, and while he didn’t make a fortune with the Sheriff’s department, he had virtually no expenses past utilities and food. He could afford it. And if she insisted on paying him back, he’d open a savings account in her child’s name. As a Catholic schoolteacher, she probably hadn’t made much and now she had a baby to save for. Without insurance, it would be tight for a while. Never mind the fact he wanted to buy her clothes, wanted to help her in any way he could and was oddly hurt she didn’t want to accept his help.

“How about lunch?” he asked as they drove back to Luke’s.

She was staring out the window and had been too quiet for most of the morning. She was keeping a tight rein on her grief and he knew from personal experience that wasn’t good. If she continued this way, she’d end up like him. Lonely and depressed.

“Hope?”

“Hmmm?”

“Let’s have some lunch.” Another moment of silence passed. “Hope. Talk to me.”

“Lunch sounds good.”

He pulled into a spot a few blocks from the restaurant he and Luke frequented whenever he made it to DC. “Look, if it’s about the clothes—”

“Where do you think they took him?”

“Who?”

“My father. What did they do with his body?”

He ran a hand through his hair and blew out a breath. “I don’t know.”

“He needs a proper burial.”

“I know, sweetheart. And we will. I promise.” He had to fight his anger at the injustice, at the complete lack of regard for human life. Why it should surprise him, he didn’t know. Long ago he’d come to accept there were people in this world who defied definition.