The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [80]
The cigarette trembled between her fingertips. She couldn’t get it to light. She broke it in half in disgust and stared out the window. She found her arms wrapped around herself, and for an uncanny instant she suffered the sensation she was being watched.
She bolted from the window, grabbed her gun, and returned to the window with it already cocked. Eyes sharp in the night, peering this way, peering that way.
Shit, Marion, what are you doing? Jumping at shadows, ready to shoot at cacti. When did you become so fucked up?
She lowered the gun and hung her head between her shoulders. “Get some sleep,” she ordered herself. “Close the window and get some fucking sleep.”
She crawled into bed. The night was quiet and still. Just the crickets, the relentless crickets, murmuring through the night. She wrapped her arms around her pillow, and the exhaustion crashed over her. In two breaths she was asleep.
Merry Berry had some dreams.
The first two were nightmares, making her toss in bed and her lips move in soundless prayer. A tall, dark figure strode into her room. She heard the sound of jump boots against hardwood floors, and the ringing nauseated her.
Then that image spiraled away and she’d arrived in Arizona. She was running around the hacienda, calling J.T.’s name. She had to protect . . . she had to find . . . She rounded the corner and there he was: Jim Beckett’s face pressed against the window, his tongue licking the glass.
She murmured in her sleep, trying to push the dream away. She was so tired and she was so afraid. There was never anyone to comfort her anymore. Never anyone who cared.
Sleep took pity on her and dragged her into a softer embrace.
She was little, little and strong. She rode the big gelding effortlessly, feeling his muscles bunch and flex at her command. “Faster,” she whispered to him. “Faster.”
Her hair flew behind her, the wind brushing tears from her eyes. Around and around they went. Faster and faster. Until she saw the jump. The big, huge jump looming ahead. They were going too fast, they would never clear the hurdle. Frantically she pulled back on the reins, but her horse fought the bit, his massive head twisting.
J.T.’s voice called out, soft but clear. He’d been there all along, out of sight, but she’d known he was there. She had depended on it.
“You can do it, Merry Berry,” he shouted. “You can do it.”
She took the jump. She heard him clapping his hands.
And for just one moment she was free.
JIM WAS READY.
In the dark hours right before dawn he sat naked in the shuttered room and finished his preparations.
On the floor he had lined up two plastic eggs filled with neon purple Silly Putty, a box of clear sandwich bags, two bags of pillow stuffing, four packages of women’s nylons, eyeliner, and a fairly expensive black wig guaranteed to make him appear “ten years younger,” according to the salesman. Last was a large-size Middlesex County police uniform, stolen out of the police locker room from an officer who obviously spent most of his time at Dunkin’ Donuts.
Beneath the harsh glare of a bare-bulb desk light, Jim labored over the uniform, his long, lean fingers meticulously ripping stitches and pulling off patches.
In the majority of situations, just the appearance of a uniform was enough; to an inexperienced eye all cops looked alike. But in fact, different departments, cities, and counties had their own distinct patches. Rank was indicated by the colored strip running down the trouser leg as well as the bars or patches on the collar. Different counties also had different styles—from straight trousers to balloon trousers—and different colors—from brown to navy blue to black. These were all things to consider, since in the next twenty-four hours this uniform would have to withstand the intense scrutiny of people who knew better. Having made it this far, Jim had no intention of being screwed by such a simple thing as the wrong patch or an insignia he couldn’t explain.
Beside him, he had a full-color book illustrating all the different