The One Safe Place (7 page)

She thought Justine might refuse, just out of stubborn pride. But desperation drove her, and, almost angrily, she held out the squalling baby. Her eyes were so swollen Faith wondered how she could see.

“Hi, sweetie,” Faith said softly to Gavin, who had paused in his wailing long enough to eye her curiously. “It's okay, little guy. It's okay.”

He gave her a wet stare that seemed to say she must be kidding.

But she kept at it, talking low and soothingly, and gradually the baby settled down. He was exhausted, anyhow, and had practically run out of steam. Within minutes, he had completely stopped crying, and his eyes were drooping. He was ready to sleep.

Faith waited an extra two minutes for good measure, then arranged him gently in his portable crib, which had been set up just beside the desk. He mewed once, rooted around in the blanket sleepily and then subsided with a sigh.

Justine hunched in her seat, her elbows on the blotter, watching the whole thing from behind a soggy Kleenex.

“I think he was just tired,” Faith said softly. “He'll probably be out for a while now.”

Justine nodded, but she didn't say a word. Faith couldn't quite decide whether the teenager was too embarrassed to speak, too upset to think or just too spoiled to realize a “thank you” was called for.

Not that it mattered. Either way, this girl was clearly overwhelmed and miserable, and Faith's heart ached for her. She remembered how exhausted Grace had been when Spencer was an infant—and Grace's situation had been ideal, a loving, helpful husband, a weekly housekeeper, plenty of money and friends and health care. And, of course, a doting Aunt Faith who couldn't get enough of her new little nephew.

“Justine.” Faith didn't want to admit she had overheard Justine and her mother talking, but anyone could see Justine was in distress. “Is there anything I can do? Any way I might be able to help?”

Justine raised bloodshot, swollen eyes and tried to laugh. The result was a brittle sound, like treading on eggshells.

“No,” she said. “Not unless you can pay my goddamn rent.”

Faith didn't let the rudeness bother her. That was just the misery talking. Interesting, though, how her perspective had changed. Compared to the loss of
Grace and the threat of Doug Lambert, this snippy little teenager was nothing.

“I'm sorry,” she said. She moved toward the door. Spencer's show was probably just about over. She didn't want him to worry where she was. “I guess I'll see you later.”

“Faith, wait,” Justine called suddenly, just as the door was about to close.

Faith turned.

“I meant to say thank you,” Justine said awkwardly. “Really, I…I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't made him go to sleep. I was at the end of my rope.”

Faith smiled. “You would have been fine,” she said. “Funny thing about that rope. It's always a little bit longer than you think.”

 

F
INALLY
, two days later, just after lunch, Detective Bentley called.

As usual, he got right to the point.

“Lambert definitely bought the roses,” he said. “Florist got back yesterday. He decided to tack a few extra days on his vacation. Must be nice. Guess the guy is independently wealthy, huh? Not that I'm bitter.” Detective Bentley laughed. “But anyhow it was worth the wait. He ID'd Lambert's picture this morning.”

Faith closed her eyes and let the kitchen wall prop her up. “He's sure?”

“He's sure. Good witness, too. Neatnik, alphabet
izes his canned goods, irons his boxers, you know the type. No juror could imagine this guy getting anything mixed up.”

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Now what?”

“Now we find the bastard.”

She opened her eyes and looked out the kitchen window. Spencer and Tigger were lying beneath the branches of an old maple, tousled and sweaty, worn out from an energetic game of fetch. The canopy of leaves above them fractured the sunlight, covering both sleepy little figures in a patchwork of amber, green and gold.

She couldn't take her eyes off them. Impossible, really, to believe that such sweetness could exist in the same world with murderers.

“Are you getting any closer? Do you have any leads?” She forced herself to filter any frustration out of her voice. If she badgered him every time he called, he might stop calling.

“We've always got leads. Doug Lambert sightings are a dime a dozen. He's been spotted everywhere from the Grand Canyon to the Brooklyn Bridge. The real problem is—”

She'd heard this before. “You don't know which sighting is the right one.”

“No, the real problem is we don't know if
any
of them is the right one.” He sighed. “Faith, look. I promise you we're on this. We're actually putting a helluva lot of muscle into finding this guy.”

“I know,” she said, tracing a pointless pattern with
her fingertips on the woodwork. “I know you are. Thank you.”

“So.” He self-consciously made his voice a little more hearty, signaling a change in subject. “What about Spencer? How's he like country living?”

“He likes it. We both do. It's a beautiful house, and there's so much room. He runs around all day.”

“Well, that's gotta be good for him.” He paused. “Guess he's still not talking?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Pretty soon, maybe. When he forgets a little.”

“Maybe,” she said politely. But she wondered if Detective Bentley had any idea what it did to a little boy to see his mother's dead body on the kitchen floor. Forget? How?

As they said their goodbyes, she looked out the window again, just checking. These days she was always checking.

Still the picture of autumn innocence. Spencer, wearing his favorite beat-up jeans and a heavy brown sweatshirt, was stretched out, his chin propped on one hand. He was petting Tigger. The puppy sat at attention, his tail wagging, his ears pricked up high, as if he were listening, as if Spencer were….

She leaned forward, trying to see more clearly. The splintered sunlight threw odd shadows, which were misleading, so she couldn't be sure…

But it looked very much as if Spencer were talking to Tigger.

Spencer shifted just then, and rested his back
against the tree trunk. His face was thrown into a square of golden sunshine, which acted like a spotlight.

Her stomach tightened. Yes, it was true. He was talking. In the chilly air, his breath puffed out in misty white circles as he lectured Tigger about something. Once he pointed toward the pond, toward the ducks. Maybe he was trying to teach Tigger to leave the poor ducks alone.

Faith dropped the phone onto its base with a clatter. She grabbed her sweater from the hook by the door, no room in her racing mind for anything but the one glorious fact. She wanted to scoop him into her arms, to hear the blissful sound of his high little voice.

She didn't know what stopped her. Perhaps it was the same instinct that made her hold her breath when they saw the woodchuck the other day. An inner sense that sometimes, if you were too clumsy or loud, too rough or too impulsive, you could startle a miracle right back into hiding.

Reed came through the side door, his cell phone tucked between his chin and his shoulder, drying his hands on a paper towel.

He spoke a few last sentences, then clicked off the phone. He tossed the towel into the trashcan, grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and smiled over at her.

“Hi. Just had to get out of the clinic for a minute. Gavin got spooked by a sick snake. He's been screaming bloody murder for the past twenty—”

Suddenly he seemed to notice something odd about her posture, her sweater dangling half-forgotten from her hand, dragging the floor. He followed her gaze out the window. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Oh, yes. Look. Spencer is talking to Tigger.”

“He is?” Reed stood behind her, and together they watched silently for several seconds. Spencer, unaware of his audience, was still chattering, his puppy still listening, tapping agreement with his expressive tail.

“Oh, my God.” Reed put his hand on her shoulder, a single light touch that said so much. It said he understood, he knew, maybe not everything, but enough. It said he shared her joy.

Faith drank in both the touch and the sight like strong medicine, and she felt the first hint of healing move slowly through her.

“I wasn't sure,” she said. “I tried to believe, and of course I always hoped. But somewhere, deep inside, I wasn't sure.”

His hand tightened just a little, a bracing pressure. “This probably is only the first step, you know. He may not be ready to talk to people yet. He may not talk to us.”

Us. For one prismed fraction of a second she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like if there really were an “us.” If she were not alone in this terrible battle to save Spencer. To save herself.

She blinked the thought away, discarding it like the
useless fantasy it was. She was alone, except for the impersonal machinery of the law. And maybe it was better that way.

Besides, she had just been handed a miracle. She wasn't going to start complaining that she didn't have more.

“I know,” she said. “I had thought of that, but—”

Before she could finish her sentence, she saw Spencer jerk to his feet. His whole body tightened, and he stared across the yard with wide eyes. Suddenly he grabbed Tigger's leash and began to run toward the house.

Both Faith and Reed moved to the door quickly, their alarm too hot and basic to have time for words. She reached it first and threw it open just as Spencer came barreling up the stairs.

“Honey, what's wrong?” Spencer flung himself into the kitchen and scrambled to hide behind her. Faith tried not to become tangled in Tigger's leash, but the puppy, thinking this was just another romp, was racing everywhere, tying their ankles together in an uncomfortable web.

“Spencer.” She kept her voice calm, though her heart was drumming furiously all the way up to her ears. “Honey, what is it?”

Reed had positioned himself to block the doorway, and she noticed that he had his cell phone in his hand. He'd already punched in 911, and his thumb hovered over the send button.

But then she heard another voice, a slow, pleasing
baritone, and the sound of shuffling footsteps on the back stairs. Reed's body relaxed subtly, and then he stepped back, opening the door wide.

“Jeremy Wilson,” he said pleasantly, just loudly enough for Faith to hear. “What a surprise.”

“Hope it's not a bad time.”

“Not at all. How are things? That's a gorgeous basket of apples you've got there. Any chance some of them are for us?”

The newcomer walked into the kitchen, holding a large basket of shining red apples in front of him. He was middle-aged, with a weathered face, dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans so worn they had a faded white stripe from hip to toe. He was clearly a farmer, a man who worked the land.

Hardly a cocky millionaire from the Upper East Side. But Faith knew what Spencer had thought. From a distance, the two men were just similar enough—same height, same bulky, muscular frame, same dark brown hair.

Just similar enough to send a small, terrified boy streaking for safety. Though he obviously knew now that the stranger wasn't dangerous, Spencer still clutched her hips so tightly a sharp pain dug into her bones. Tigger had wound himself into a knot and finally had to plop down on her tennis shoe.

“Well, Dr. Fairmont, you know I still owe you for Maggie.” The man set the basket on the counter. He touched his hand to his forehead, acknowledging Faith the old-fashioned way, before turning back to
Reed. “It'll be a while till I can pay you, so I thought meanwhile you might like a few of these.”

“Jeremy, I told you not to worry about all that. You've paid me plenty through the years. I looked after Maggie from the time she was a newborn.”

“Yes, sir, you did. And you kept her going a good month when everybody everywhere was telling me it was too late.” The big man's eyes were shining in the kitchen light. “That month meant a lot, and I'm gonna pay you for it, that's for sure. But it'll be a while, so meantime I brought you some apples. They're sweet this year. Make a damn good pie.”

He looked back at Faith. “Sorry, ma'am,” he said, putting his finger to his forehead again. “I didn't see your boy there.”

She smiled to show she didn't mind. It wasn't easy looking friendly and dignified, standing there lashed to Spencer. Tigger, bored, had decided to chew the laces of her sneakers.

“Say, Jeremy, do you have a minute?” Reed bent down and briskly unclasped Tigger's leash. The puppy didn't notice, completely absorbed in lace-chewing, but Reed was able to begin unwinding the leash from Faith's legs.

“Sure. I suppose so. What's up?”

“I'm building a stable for the bigger boarders, and I'm not sure I've got it right.” Reed kept unwinding as he talked. “I could use another opinion.”

Finally he stood and handed the neatly folded leash to Faith. She smiled her gratitude, flexed her ankles
to restore the blood flow and reached behind her back to stroke Spencer's shoulder. His fingers had finally relaxed, thank goodness, and now his embrace was more a normal hug than a death grip.

“Help yourself to some apples, Faith,” Reed said, putting his arm around the other man's shoulders and guiding him toward the door, away from Spencer. “Jeremy's orchard is the best in the Glen.”

As soon as they were gone, Spencer came out from behind Faith and stood on tiptoe to investigate the apples, which really did look delicious. He was probably starving. He usually was—he was that age.

He loved apple pie. Grace always used to say she had to hide any she bought, or Spencer would eat the whole thing in one sitting. But right now his expression was full of disbelieving wonder, as if he had never in his life realized where those sweet boxed pies actually came from.