Two for Flinching (21 page)

“No, no. I just overlooked it. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

“Ready!” She took my hand, beaming in the
envious stares of her fellow preschoolers, imprisoned for the
remainder of the day. We walked outside, the wind whipping at us,
and I strapped her in her seat. As we pulled out of the lot, Sarah
said, “Daddy?”

I checked her in the little mirror. “Yes,
dear?”

“About this nap.”

“What about it?”

“I’m not that tired.”

“No? I am.”

“You are?”

“Yep.”

Her face twisted in concentration. “Well, if
you’re tired, you should definitely take a nap. Before you get
cranky.”

“Excellent idea. Maybe you should take one
with me. Before you get cranky.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“We’ll see.”

I parked in the garage, shut the door and we
stepped into the kitchen. Blondie came running. I opened the back
door for her, but instead of bounding out, she eyed me warily. The
cold had never bothered her before. I gave her a gentle boot to the
butt and she reluctantly went out. Twenty seconds later, she was
scratching at the door. She raced past me into the den.

“Honey, let’s take that nap.”

“I thought about it,” she said, “and I’m not
sleepy. You go ahead.”

“
I’ve
thought about it and
I’ve
decided we both need a nap.”

“Ugh!”

“Your bed or mine.” I tickled her ribs until
she giggled.

Big decision.
“Yours.”

“It’s a deal.” I carried her up the stairs,
Blondie right behind us. The sheets were still a mess from the
previous night, but they generally were. I laid her on the single
bed, kicked off my boots and joined her, pulling her close. Blondie
circled the floor three times and lay down. Sarah’s shampoo mixed
with Madison’s perfume.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Your breath smells like coffee.”

***

The three of us were walking along the
beach, hand in hand, Sarah between us. Sarah was counting, “One!
Two! Three!” and on three we would lift her as high as we could.
“One! Two! Three! Whee!” Stella was closest to the ocean, the waves
washing over her feet and the tide trying to pull her in. Her blond
hair was long, as it was before we were married. She was in a tiny
black bikini, her body bronzed by the sun. She had never looked
better. The breeze was blowing strong, yet her hair did not
waver.

“
I wasn’t made for this.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
I thought I was. I always wanted a little
girl. To have and hold and raise so she could be normal.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I did the best I could. Or at least I
told myself that. My best was not very good and I did not try for
very long.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
I never meant to hurt you. It wasn’t
about you, it was always about me. It wasn’t about her. Our
daughter. My whole life was about me. Even when I had a chance to
make it not about me.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
I did, though. Hurt you and hurt you
badly. I know it looks as if I did it on purpose, trying to hurt
you as much as I possibly could. Taking up with your partner,
people who were closest to you.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
I did it on purpose, but it was not my
intention. This—us—was not me and before I could be me, I had to
destroy us so I could be free.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
Adrian was not special. None of them
were. They were not better than you. They saw the me and wanted
her. The real me.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
I know why they wanted the me and I did
not care. The me wanted to be wanted.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
You did not want the me. Maybe at first,
when we were dating, but not when we got married. You wanted
something else. Not the me.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
You wanted a wife and a mother for your
children. Our children.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

“
Not the me.”

“
One! Two! Three! Whee!”

“
I know.”

***

“Daddy!”

I blinked away the confusion of being
suddenly awakened, my daughter’s face two inches from mine. The
dream blurred before I could nail it down.

“What is it, baby?”

“I had a bad dream.”

“Me too.” I rubbed my eyes with the heels of
my palms. “What was it about?”

“I woke up in a strange place.”

Dream—or memory?
“I’m sorry. That must
have been scary.”

She shook her head fiercely. “Blondie was
there, so that wasn’t what I was afraid of.”

“What was it, baby? That made you
afraid?”

“
You
weren’t there, daddy. That’s why
I was afraid. Where were you?”

I pulled her deep into my chest. “It was only
a dream, honey.”

“I didn’t like that.” She wrapped her arms
around my neck. “I don’t ever wanna wake up and you be gone.”

“Me either.” I patted her back, kissed the
crown of her head. “Me either.”

***

Sarah went quickly back to sleep, still in
my arms. It eluded me.
What it must have been like for a four
year old to wake up alone in a strange place?
At least she was
convinced it was a dream, but I wasn’t so sure it made it any less
terrifying.

I had never lied to my daughter. I had never
told her Santa Claus was real or that the Easter Bunny brought
candy in the spring or that the tooth fairy snuck in at night. When
the questions came up, I always turned it around and asked her what
she thought. Maybe it wasn’t completely honest, yet it was not a
lie. I wanted to reassure her that daddy would always be there.
That she would never wake up alone. I knew that, however, could be
a lie. Three armed men had come to kill me. The life I lead, I knew
there was a real chance something like that could happen again. The
problem was, I didn’t know how to live another life.
Lot of that
going around.

Blondie’s growl came from deep in her throat,
not the usual yelping and burst of energy. Last night seemed to
have changed her as well. I leaned up and pulled the blinds apart.
The day had come to an early end, streetlights already on, the weak
winter sun no match for the heavy cloud cover. Steven Noble was
crossing his yard into mine.

I eased myself out from under Sarah and out
of the bed. Blondie gave me a disapproving look. I left the door
ajar and silently crept down the stairs. Steven was on the verge of
knocking when I yanked open the door.

“Camp—“

I put a finger to my lips and stepped onto
the porch. My socks did little to keep the cold concrete from my
feet. I didn’t pull the door completely closed. “Sarah is
asleep.”

Conflict played across his face. I had seen
it before, anger set aside at the mention of a young child. When he
spoke again, his voice was much lower. “What happened last
night?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. I saw you washing down your back
deck this morning—in the rain.”

“It was dirty.”

“You owe me an explanation.”

“No, Steven, I don’t. I owe you my gratitude
for giving my daughter and your sister-in-law shelter. So, thank
you.”

“If there is something going on,” he said, “I
deserve to know what it is.”

“Nothing going on. Thanks again.”

He shook his head, crossing his arms. His
right hand was still wrapped. “My sister-in-law? Madison? What is
that all about?”

“I think you know.”

“Is it because she looks so much like my
wife? Can’t keep your hands off her, either?”

Zing!

“Madison is…interesting.”

“I’ll say.” Steven looked out to the street.
He was in his restaurant attire, dark pants, dark shirt, probably
hoping for a busy Friday night. “She’s crazy. You should know that.
Just like her sister.”

“I appreciate the warning.”

Steven took a couple of deep breaths.
“Anything on Amber?”

“Not yet.”

“Last night have anything to do with
her?”

“No.”

“Are you going to find her?”

“Eventually.”

“You need to
think
real hard about
where she went.”

“Okay.”

Steven grunted. “You’re not going to tell me
what happened, are you? Three gunshots and you spraying the deck in
the rain.”

“Nothing to tell.”

Chapter Thirty

“Hello.”

“Remind me to never hire you again.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, Beason, you’re supposed to help me
win cases.”

“Okay…”

“Not derail my cases.”

“Eric, what are you talking about?”

“I just got off the phone with Cynthia Jenks.
The divorce is off.”

“You got fired?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Why are you blaming me?”

“She wanted me to tell my private
investigator how much she appreciates what he has been doing.”

“Sounds like an endorsement to me.”

“Uh huh. The only problem is, I never told
her I had a private investigator. She thought I was doing all the
work.”

“So you deceived her. Is that why she fired
you?”

“No, Beason, I didn’t deceive her. I don’t
tell my clients every single thing I do on their behalf. Cynthia is
very happy with my work.”

“And evidently mine, too.”

“Except the divorce is off and my bride will
not be getting her new kitchen.”

“You can have mine. I don’t use it very
much.”

“I’ll be sure to send her over when it’s time
to prepare Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I thought you went to her momma’s house for
Thanksgiving.”

“That’s not the point. The point is; what
have you been doing?”

“A man and wife are not getting a divorce. A
family—with children—is not splitting up.”

“I’m a lawyer, Beason, and as you well know,
we don’t have souls. The only thing that makes us happy are
billable hours.”

“I’m sorry, Eric.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re right.”

Chapter Thirty-One

The gas logs were on, the wind howling
outside. When I was a kid, we had a real fireplace. It was a real
pain in the ass, too. Dad would take us out to a friend of his who
lived in the country and cut down a tree. He never let my brother
or I use the chain saw. He would, however, let us split the wood
with a sledgehammer and a spike and then let us load it in the
truck. He would drive the truck home and let us stack the wood next
to the house. And then, when the temperature hit fifty, he would
let us haul wood inside and try to get the fire going. It was never
simple nor easy. The newspaper would light fast enough, but
sometimes the kindling was slow to catch. And if we got that going,
often the firewood itself decided against burning. There were no
controls for the fire and if we did produce a blaze, the house
became a sauna. Except for our bedroom at the far end of the home,
which would remain at approximately the temperature of
Antarctica.

I missed that fire. The pop and sizzle, the
smell of wood smoke. The time I spent with my father and brother.
The ritual of bringing in the wood and laying it in the grate.
Burning stuff.

Sarah was down for the night. I hoped. I was
in the easy chair, a rum and coke and shot of lime on the end
table. A big one. I had killed men before and saw no reason to
think I might not do it again. It was not something I was proud of
nor looked forward to. I had killed people who had done much less
to me than Trey and Q and the other kid whose name I didn’t even
know. It was not a lie when I told Jeremiah about calling in the
airstrike on that pitiful mud village. That was war. This was not.
And I didn’t see the difference. I’m confident Trey and the
villagers would not either. They were all equally dead. War.
Self-defense.

And if anybody put my daughter in jeopardy, I
would do it again.

I was not surprised to find my glass empty. I
shook it, popped an ice cube in my mouth, sucked on it a moment
before spitting it back into the cup. The internet had let me down
in my search for both Amber and Stella. I didn’t have anything else
to work with to find Amber—aside from Steven’s urging to
think
where she might have gone. Something would pop up and
I would chase it or she would come home. Stella, though…

I stumbled up the stairs, looking for quite,
not finding it. I paused outside of Sarah’s room to check on her.
She was out like a light. Blondie was curled up on the floor. The
dog gave me a dirty look. I went past the guest room and pushed
into the master bedroom.

It was Erin’s now and I seldom (if ever) went
into it. It held too many bad memories. The king bed remained, the
dark oak dresser/bureau set. I guess there were some good memories,
too, but I couldn’t shake feeling those were all built on lies,
that the entire marriage had been cloaked in deceit.
Forsaking
all others
must mean different things to different people.

I didn’t linger, going through the master
bath to the walk-in closet. Erin was neat, a little of the OCD
passing from her mother down to her. There were no clothes on the
floor, the shoes all aligned perfectly, the blouses and pants and
dresses hanging exactly in their assigned slots. The lone cardboard
box in the corner had no place in my young niece’s closet.