The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [130]
“I love you,” she whispered against his sweat-soaked torso. “I love you.”
And he climaxed with a primal yell, his semen ripped from him and pouring into her.
He collapsed over her, shaking and trembling and fallen apart. She held him close, then stroked his hair.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”
LATER, THE SHEETS tangled around their legs, the sweat drying on their bodies, he said, “I loved Rachel.”
“I understand.”
“She died.”
“I know.”
“I never told her that I loved her.”
“I’m sure she knew.”
“But no one ever told her. Not her parents, not the colonel. Not me.”
“But you showed it to her, J.T. That matters more.”
His head turned toward her. His fingertips brushed her arm. “Sometimes I hate you.”
“I know,” she told him honestly. “That’s how I know that you care.”
IN THE MORNING the thin rays of a weak sun rapped at the window, illuminating the room in shades of misty gray. Tess crawled out of bed first, entered the bathroom, and closed the door without looking back.
He waited until he heard the scouring sound of the shower. Then he reached over to the nightstand and found his pack of smokes. His hand was trembling, making it difficult to get one out. Finally he dragged a cigarette to his lips, lit it with a plastic lighter, and inhaled deeply. He leaned back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and watching the rolling smoke slowly dissipate as it rose through the early morning air.
Alone, he had no more pretensions. He hadn’t been the kind of brother he should’ve been. He hadn’t been the kind of husband he should’ve been. His life had started with pain and he’d been adding layers ever since.
Tonight a new layer would be spread. He wanted to get this one right. He was afraid the beast in his belly would keep that from ever happening. He had too much anger in him. He wasn’t good at leaving it behind. He understood all that and wondered if understanding it really made a difference.
His lips formed the words soundlessly three times before he trusted himself enough to add voice. Finally he whispered, “I love you too, Tess.”
And a second later: “Jim Beckett is a dead man.”
TWENTY-SIX
WELL, HERE IT is,” Marion announced. She gestured to the house Tess had lived in for four years, her entire married life. The house had been sold two years earlier, but the police had commandeered it. The owners had been forced out with their furniture and the house hastily filled with garage-sale rejects.
Tess found the decor as dismal as her mood.
In the living room to her left, a sloping blue love seat had been stuck in the middle of the brown carpet. Dark brown shelves had been hastily erected and stuffed full of used paperbacks. An old TV sat on a coffee table with a more modern-looking VCR. The metal desk lamp perched on the fireplace mantel provided the only light. Stairs were straight ahead. The small brown kitchen to her right. Upstairs was the master bedroom and two extra rooms. She hated to think what kind of furniture was in them.
“The kitchen is fully stocked,” Marion said. “You also have a TV, bookshelves, and so forth. It’ll be just like before—”
“Solitary confinement,” Tess stated.
Marion glanced at J.T. “Not quite solitary.”
J.T. didn’t look at either of them. He prowled the living room perimeter, peering through the front bay of windows.
“We’ve been talking on and off over the police scanners,” Marion continued. “Not too many conversations, but enough to give the general idea that a ‘special package’ is arriving in Williamstown and should be ‘handled with care.’ Quincy is confident that Beckett monitors the police scanners. Sooner or later he’ll hear the chatter and make his plans.”
“Which roofs have the snipers?”
Marion pointed them out for J.T. “One across the street with a clean line of fire on the front door. Other two on the corners of this side of the block.”
“Lots of chimneys and fancy