The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [9]
The man turned away and moved carefully down the hall to the study. He picked up the telephone, years of practice making the motion soundless. He dialed from memory, already cupping his hand over his mouth to muffle his voice.
“There’s a woman,” he said the moment the other end picked up.
“A woman?”
“Vincent sent her.”
“Damn.” A long pause. “Her name?”
“Angela, that’s all. Not her real name.”
“Obviously. Vital statistics?”
“Mid-twenties, five feet two inches, one hundred pounds, brown eyes, fair complexion, originally a blonde.”
“Armed?”
“A .22 Walther semiautomatic.”
“Huh. Child’s toy. ID?”
“Nothing.”
“She must have something.”
“There was nothing,” he insisted. “I checked her suitcase—the lining, hair-spray canister, hairbrush, shoe soles, everything. Plenty of cash but no ID. She has an accent. I can’t quite place it. Northern maybe. Boston.”
“A professional?”
“I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem to know much.”
“Given the company J.T. generally keeps, she’s probably an ax murderer who hacked up her husband and children.”
“What should I do?”
A frustrated sigh. “He’s back in business?”
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
“Damn him. Never mind, I’ll take care of it. You just hold tight.”
“All right.”
“You did the right thing by calling.”
“Thank you. How . . . how is he?”
The silence stretched out. “He’s dying. He’s in a lot of pain. He wants to know why his son isn’t here.”
“Does he ask for me?”
“No, but don’t worry. He doesn’t ask for me either. All he’s ever cared about was J.T.”
“Of course.” His voice was appropriately apologetic. He’d given his loyalty to a hard man a long time ago. His loyalty had never wavered; over the years he’d simply grown accustomed to his place. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”
“You do that.”
“Good night.”
“Yeah. Good night.”
He cradled the phone carefully. It didn’t matter. The overhead light snapped on.
He turned slowly. J.T. lounged against the doorjamb. His arms were crossed over his bare chest. His eyes were bloodshot, but they were also intent.
“Freddie, I believe it’s time we talked.”
THREE
TESS WILLIAMS AWOKE as she’d learned to awaken—slowly, degree by degree, so that she reached consciousness without ever giving herself away. First her ears woke up, seeking out the sound of another person breathing. Next her skin prickled to life, searching for the burning length of her husband’s body pressed against her back. Finally, when her ears registered no sound and her skin found her alone in her bed, her eyes opened, going automatically to the closet and checking the small wooden chair she’d jammed beneath the doorknob in the middle of the night.
The chair was still in place. She released the breath she’d been holding and sat up. The empty room was already bright with midmorning sun, the adobe walls golden and cheery. The air was hot. Her T-shirt stuck to her back, but maybe the sweat came from nightmares that never quite went away. She’d once liked mornings. They were difficult for her now, but not as difficult as night, when she would lie there and try to force her eyes to give up their vigilant search of shadows in favor of sleep.
You made it, she told herself. You actually made it.
For the last two years she’d been running, clutching her four-year-old daughter’s hand and trying to convince Samantha that everything would be all right. She’d picked up aliases like decorative accessories and new addresses like spare parts. But she’d never really escaped. Late at night she would sit at the edge of her daughter’s bed, stroking Samantha’s golden hair, and stare at the closet with fatalistic eyes.
She knew what kind of monsters hid in the closet. She had seen the crime scene photos of what they could do. Three weeks ago her personal monster had broken out of a maximum security prison by beating two guards to death in under two minutes.
Tess had called Lieutenant Lance Difford. He’d called Vince. The wheels were set in motion. Tess Williams had hidden Samantha safely away, then she had traveled as