The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [59]
The previous week the media had asked Difford what concerned citizens should do to safeguard their lives now that the infamous Jim Beckett had escaped.
There’d been only one thing he could think of to say. “Lock your closets.”
THIRTEEN
WHEN IT GREW past seven and there was still no sign of Angela, J.T. admitted to himself that he was worried. At seven-thirty he gave up memorizing the ceiling fan and pulled on a pair of jeans.
He had only one hunch, but it was a good one. It was cool outside. Fall moving into the desert and bringing some relief. The sky had expelled the sun and now a moon rose waxy and pale. Just enough light to frame the saguaros as frozen soldiers.
The desert wasn’t quiet. It hummed and pulsed with the low, rhythmic chorus of the crickets, the eerie cries of the dry wind, and the faint fluttering of Gila woodpeckers whirring among the saguaros. Somewhere far off, a lone coyote mournfully howled.
J.T. left behind the oasis of his swimming pool and headed for the shooting range. He may have locked up his .22, but Angela had reclaimed hers.
He spotted her from thirty feet back, and his footsteps slowed. He didn’t call out because he didn’t want to startle an armed woman. Then he didn’t call out simply because he couldn’t think of anything to say.
He stood in the moonlight and watched her point her unloaded gun at hay bales and pull the trigger. Again and again. And then she moved and pointed, trying new stances, practicing moving and shooting.
Over and over.
He could see that her arms shook. He could tell that her fingers had grown thick and sluggish, but she didn’t stop. She had set up a flashlight to illuminate her targets and she seemed intent on not wasting the light. She raised the gun and sighted the target and pulled the trigger yet again.
And he could tell that the minute she tightened her finger around the trigger, she dipped the nose of her gun, so that maybe she thought she was hitting the target, but really she was simply killing dirt.
A LONG TIME later Tess walked back to the house, her fingers too sore to curl and her arm a mass of knotted muscles. The palm of her hand hurt, her biceps hurt. Everything hurt. But she was trying.
She walked into the yard. And as her hands pressed against the sliding glass door, she knew she wasn’t alone.
She turned, the gun empty against her bare thigh, and peered out into the night.
She didn’t see him. She felt him.
His gaze washed over her. She felt it touch her face, then move down slowly, caressing the pulse throbbing in her throat, her breasts, her belly, her hips. It traveled back up, settled on her mouth.
A red match glowed in the dark. He brought it up to his lips, cupping it in front of him so that it briefly illuminated his jaw. He inhaled sharply until the end of his cigarette glowed. Then with two quick jerks, he shook out the match.
The darkness settled back between them, no longer calm but filled with a slow-heated pulse. She felt the throbbing rhythm in her blood. She felt the fierce feral pull of his gaze. Her lips parted.
He stepped forward.
“We need to talk.” His arm came up and he dumped a six-pack of beer on the patio table. “They’re for you, Theresa Beckett. Start drinking. And tell me everything.”
“THEY COULDN’T FIND him. They told me they had him under surveillance, that they knew what he was doing at all times, that I was safe. Then one afternoon he entered a sandwich shop and was never seen again. Special Agent Quincy predicted Jim would be back. Sooner or later Jim would return to kill me.”
You turned on him, Mrs. Beckett, and he didn’t see that coming. That’s a big blow to a man like him. Now the only way he’ll be able to restore his ego, his sense of self, is to kill you. He’ll come back. And he won’t wait long.
“I made them put Samantha in hiding. We didn’t think Jim would hurt her—he seemed to honestly adore her—but we couldn’t take any chances. I remained in the house, night after night. Just waiting. For six months.”
She lay in bed every night, covers pulled up to her chin,