by J. J. Cagney
Danielle gritted her teeth. No, Hank Foster was not a hero—he was a selfish, spineless man . . . who’d saved her son’s life.
Danielle struggled with those dueling realities.
Damn Hank Foster for his cowardice then.
Thank god he’d saved her son now.
She would make sure Reid and her older son remained safe. Having lived with her mother through her depressive episodes, Danielle thought she understood that some of Reid’s trauma wouldn’t present itself for a while. Who knew when or how it would?
But she did know she and Garrett would help him, anyway they could. Hopefully, that would be enough.
She blew out a deep, painful breath and smiled at Reid. He snuggled into his pillow, his eyes opening owlishly on hers before shutting softly as he slid into sleep.
Her precious boy. She looked over, making sure her other baby was where he should be.
Kevin was sprawled across the single chair, having fallen asleep to some inane TV show—a rare treat Danielle hoped not to have to repeat ever again. He was draped in one of the white hospital blankets, snoring softly.
Garrett sat on Reid’s other side, weeping softly.
“It happened so fast,” Garrett said once he was sure Reid was asleep. The horror built between them.
“I was watching. Ten feet away. At first I didn’t realize . . . it was so crowded . . . I couldn’t get to my son in time.”
Ten feet. Her mother said five feet from her station wagon.
Danielle closed her eyes, trying to wait out the dizziness that slammed into her at the realization.
Mere feet.
A single moment.
Reid, lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, probably scarred emotionally, but alive.
“You didn’t know,” Danielle said. She could also be talking to her mother. “You didn’t know a serial killer was there. It’s not your fault.”
“Dani?” Garrett said, his voice quiet, hesitant even.
“Yeah?”
“You figured it out. You saved Reid.”
Danielle shook her head.
Her father stepped forward. Danielle wasn’t sure yet why. But he was the one who’d saved her son.
She’d have to talk to him. Soon. But not now.
“I love you,” Danielle said, her voice low and full of emotion. “I love you so much, Garrett. My family’s hurt you—Reid . . .” She couldn’t get out any more words. The sobs wracked her body.
Garrett got up and walked to her side before he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and she pressed her cheek against his chest, as she’d always done when in need of comfort.
“I love you, too. It’s not your fault either.” Garrett’s conviction wrapped around her, a sumptuous and warm blanket of security. “You saved him. When I couldn’t, you saved our son.”
41 Arlen
Cleaning up the mess on the side of Coit Road took hours. It was late, going on ten p.m., when he and Detective Morales left the crash site.
He called Danielle, as he’d promised. She sounded both wound up and exhausted—matching his mood perfectly.
He asked to meet in the cafeteria. She hesitated but he was persistent. A man—probably her husband—spoke in the background, telling her he’d be in the room with Reid, that his parents were coming to pick up Kevin.
“If you feel comfortable with doing so, we can get one of the hospital sitters or an officer to stay in the room with your little boy so you can both hear what I got to tell you.”
Danielle’s swallow was thick and pressed against Hardesty’s eardrum. “I’ll think about it.”
Arlen then called Jim Kondren.
“It’s been all over the news, Arlen. Not the serial killer part—that’ll come out later, once it’s ascertained.” Jim huffed a breath. “You nailed the SOB. All these years . . . Jesus, you never forget a case like that one, huh?”
Jim had been there, one of the officers who’d come down to help with the search. He and Arlen worked their search quadrant and hit up a friendship, solidified by viewing Jonathan Foster’s body in that ditch.
“Never,” Arlen averred. “Thanks for the help on the stakeouts in Highland Park.”
“That’s related?”
“Yeah,” Arlen said. “We’re still collecting information, but yeah. It is.”
“As explosive as you thought it’d be?”
Arlen considered Hank’s involvement as he knew it to be. The fact that he’d been the face of AMEAC as well as its founder. “Prolly more so.”
“Well, shit.”
Arlen nodded, understanding the sageness of Jim’s words. “I’ll buy you a beer and we can talk it over. Once I got the whole story.”
“I’ll expect it,” Jim said. “Good work on this one, Chief. You never dropped the ball.”
Arlen disagreed but now wasn’t the time for long chats on how he should have done better. They rung off. Arlen called Irene again, let her know he wouldn’t be coming home just yet.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, Arlen. Lordy, the news . . . it’s scary. I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Love you, Reenie.” Words that needed to be said. “If you wanna go to bed, I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Arlen Hardesty. You just cracked the case of your career—the one that’s haunted it anyway. You come on home when you’re ready and we’ll drink tea on the porch.”
“And cross off another day on the calendar,” Arlen said, the ghost of a smile perking up the corners of his lips.
“You betcha. Drive safe.”
Both Danielle and Garrett met Arlen and Detective Morales in the white and bright cafeteria that night. Danielle’s clothes were covered in dust, the knees of her jeans ripped. Garrett looked haunted, his curly hair standing on end and his eyes filled with shadows.
Arlen sighed, wishing he could have done more for them, sooner.
“Thanks for meeting with us,” Arlen rumbled. He gestured to Detective Morales, who looked crisp in her dark pantsuit, her thick black hair pulled back in a low ponytail. If he hadn’t seen her fire her weapon with such precision and steadiness just hours before, he’d worry she was too young for her position—and he would have been wrong. Cynthia Morales was an asset to her department and the city she worked for.
He was damn glad he got her on the phone.
“What can you tell us?” Danielle asked, wrapping her hands around her elbows and leaning against her husband for support. Their marriage would be tested before all the shit in the creek cleared away. He cleared his throat.
“Hank has a concussion and a broken arm. And I guess there were a lot of glass fragments to clean out of his hand and arm.”
Danielle looked startled but then she nodded. “Reid said Hank was the one who pulled him from the truck. That Hunter had a knife in his hand.” She shut her eyes, unable to continue the thought. She shivered, no doubt trying to shed what could have been.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s all true.”
“Leonard Framb is in custody as well, Mrs. Patterson,” Detective Morales said. “He’s currently in surgery in this hospital, under armed escort.”
Garrett turned pale, his lips leeching all color. “The doctor said Reid can leave in the morning. Will he be safe here?”
“Yes,” Detective Morales said with conviction. “I plan to stay on the pediatric floor housing your son, while I coordinate the Frisco PD’s response. I’ll touch base with you before I leave tonight and let you know the current situation. But . . .” She narrowed her eyes. “The suspect sustained multiple injuries. Lots of blood loss. I don’t think he’ll be conscious, let alone out of that bed before you can pack up and leave.”
Danielle swayed a little as she took in Morales’s words. “Will he be able to stand trial? Will he go to jail for kidnapping Reid?” She turned to face Arlen, those green eyes of hers almost identical replicas of Nancy’s when he’d looked into them the first time thirty years ago. “For Jonathan? For the other boys?”
/>
“We’re going to do our best to make that happen,” Hardesty said. “I wanted to get you up to speed on this—let you know how we couldn’t have cracked the case without you talking to Trevor. He and I are going to sit down tomorrow, first thing.”
Arlen shook his head, anger and adrenaline still pumping through his veins. “Goddammit! The boys called him Hunter. We never knew. Your mama told me to talk to Trevor again. She damn well told me.”
Morales leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “We got him now, and we’ll do everything in our power to keep him locked away. To keep the communities safe.”
“You understand that the publicity may be severe,” Arlen said. “Because of your father’s involvement in the case—in his foundation. I’m worried for your family.” Arlen swept his hand to include Garrett.
Danielle swallowed hard. Garrett’s jaw was leaping—a sprinter’s mad dash as he tried to keep his emotions under control.
“What is Hank’s involvement?” Danielle asked.
“Well, right now, we know he’s the one who called 911 and told us where to go,” Detective Morales said. “We know he’s the one who rescued your son.”
Danielle and Garrett shared a long look, one that ended with Garrett clearing his throat and saying, “Okay. If you find out it’s more, we’d appreciate the heads-up.”
There’d be more to Hank’s part in this; Danielle and Garrett seemed to be bracing for the fall-out. Arlen hoped Garrett would continue to stick by Danielle when the media came a-calling. He glanced out the glass-plated doors into the quiet, calm hospital. Tonight, he’d done what he could, but tomorrow, next week? Danielle and Garrett would find a path forward. He met Danielle’s gaze and held it.
“Some kinds of justice need to be measured,” Arlen said. “I get that. Just ate me up that I couldn’t do more for y’all.”
“Thank you for not forgetting Jonathan. For not giving up on us with Reid tonight,” Danielle said as she gripped her husband’s hand. The words were slow, measured. Arlen understood that they needed to be said. For Garrett but for her, too. Maybe even Trevor—who desperately needed some type of closure for the friend he still mourned.
Hardesty nodded. “Never did understand why they added a mulligan in golf. Can’t get a do-over anywhere else in life.”
42 Danielle
She had one more visit to make that night. She knocked on the thin hospital door in trepidation, unsure of how Hank would look or what, even, she should say.
“Come in,” Hank said, his voice thinner and older than she remembered.
With one last inhalation of hospital-tinted air, Danielle pushed into the room.
“Danielle,” he said on a sigh. “How’s Reid?”
“He’s okay,” Danielle said as she stepped cautiously toward her father’s hospital bed. He wore one of those faded gowns, the pattern indistinguishable from the white cotton background due to the number of washings. His legs were covered in a white blanket, also thin from washings.
Déjà vu slammed into Danielle. She’d been here—was it really about a week ago? Different hospital but looking at her other parent as she discussed Jonathan’s death. What had Nancy said?
Trevor. That’s wrong. Need to stop that mess. The bastard.
Danielle placed a hand to her stomach. Oh. Her mother meant her father was the bastard. Her father could have stopped this mess—not that she could have foreseen Reid’s abduction. But Nancy understood Hank’s weakness, his inability to let his reputation take the hit, which was why Nancy wanted Danielle to talk to Trevor.
Trevor’s childhood memory, the silly child’s name proved the linchpin to uncovering Leonard Framb but also to Hank Foster’s duplicity.
Danielle must have hesitated too long as these realizations cascaded over her because Hank said, “I know you’re angry.”
True. But so much more than just anger warred within Danielle right now. Mainly relief.
For now, she’d go with that. She stepped all the way into the room.
Hank’s left arm was in an air cast and his face was covered in a series of small cuts. From the glass, Danielle bet.
“Thank you. For saving his life.”
Hank dropped his gaze, his brows tugged tight over his nose. “I should have told Hardesty what I knew back then. About Jonny’s death.”
Danielle stopped at the foot of his bed, unsure whether to move around to his side, rooted to the spot with his words.
“Yes, you should have.”
He glanced up at her—a fleeting look—before he resumed staring at his lap. “I was afraid.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No.”
The room grew quiet. A couple of people laughed in the hall, their voices fading as the moved away from the door.
“Do you remember when I was sixteen,” Danielle asked suddenly, “I asked you about AMEAC. Why you started it?”
Hank shook his head slowly. “No.”
“You told me it was because you promised God. It was penance. You meant for your part in Jonathan’s death. Didn’t you?”
Hank’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth. “What do you want me to say, Danielle?”
“Tell me about Hunter. Tell me your part in it.”
The pause grew. Hank’s knuckles turned white and his face tensed.
“Fucking Hunter.” Hank’s voice cut through the quiet with the same sharpness of the knife used on Jonathan. Even though she expected an outburst, Danielle flinched back.
“Couldn’t follow simple instructions. Hold a kid for a few hours. Get the locals in a furor. We need an agency that helps kids, I’d say. That was the plan. Move to Dallas to be nearer funding and where there was a bigger need. Put assholes like that piece of shit Leonard Framb in jail. A kidnapping charge to bring that no-account in. Simple, brilliant.”
“It cost Jonny his life. My mother hers, too, really.”
Hank raised his head, his mouth twisted in an attempt to keep the sobs inside. “I didn’t know about the other kids.”
Hank closed his eyes, misery etched deep around his eyes and mouth. “I figured that out later when that boy was killed fifty miles from your grandmother’s place that weekend I went to get her. Hunter followed me there. He’s been following me for years. That’s why I didn’t come to see you or my grandsons.”
Danielle cleared her throat. She waited until he opened his bloodshot eyes and met her gaze to speak. “You were culpable. You might not have known then what he’d brought about, but even in asking for a child to be kidnapped . . .”
Hank dipped his head. “Accessory to a crime,” he said. “That’s what it’s called.”
Danielle breathed in deep, exhaled. “I don’t know what to say. What to wish for. Except . . . except that I know my son wouldn’t have been in that truck tonight if you’d been brave enough to step forward then.”
Hank didn’t respond. Tears dripped from the end of his nose and splashed onto the blanket.
Danielle didn’t look back before she walked out.
43 Arlen
The next morning blazed hot and fine—the cloud cover burned off before seven. Arlen hadn’t slept much but he felt peaceful as he stood near Jonathan’s grave. He took a knee and placed his hand over Nancy’s marker, right next to Jonathan’s. Hers was smaller, a cremation plot, and the dirt still freshly-turned and baking slowly in the rising Texas heat.
“We finally got him, Nancy. I’m so sorry it took us so long. I hope you’re resting easy now.”
Arlen stood with a grunt. These damn pounds made upping and downing a right pain. Irene had been nudging him, but Arlen made the decision there, knowing he’d keep it: Part of retirement meant getting into shape. Or at least out of such bad shape.
Trevor walked up to the grave, carrying flowers and a battered, yellowing Yankees’ pennant.
“I can’t believe this is over,” Trevor said.
“Mostly. Not yet, though.” Arlen paused. “T
he trial might well prove sensational.”
“Probably will,” Trevor added. “I called my wife last night—spilled this all on her. We’ve been separated.” Trevor’s smile was self-deprecating. “I never told her about Jonny. Never shared that with Sophie and she was hurt and angry I hadn’t wanted want kids. She understands now, at least a little. Think she might even forgive me. I . . . I need her to. For my part in this.”
Arlen nodded. He rocked back on his heels as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Marking the date down with Irene last night proved cathartic for him, too. Thirty years today—Jonathan Foster’s death took thirty years to find justice.
But they’d done it.
And in a month, Arlen would sit on the beach and be able to breathe calmly as he stared over the waves. He’d know, deep in his bones, that one fewer criminal ran free. One he’d wanted to catch for most of his career was locked up and would stay that way—at least that’s what the DA in Frisco said on the conference call with Detective Morales this morning.
“I’m going to stay at the foundation,” Trevor said.
“Might be rough for a time.”
Trevor dipped his head. “Might be. But the work, saving kids like Jonny or Reid . . . any of them . . . it’s good work.”
If they could get past Hank Foster’s tainted decision-making and nasty past, sure. But Arlen didn’t voice those concerns. Trevor was a grown man and deserved the opportunity to make his decisions as such.
“Nancy told me to talk to you,” Arlen said instead. “I should have listened.”
“I should have realized even the tiniest detail might prove pivotal,” Trevor responded. “I work in law. I know this.”
They stood quietly beside Jonathan Foster’s grave.
A woman opened the door to her white Lexus, her dark hair glinting in the bright sunlight.
“That’s Sophie. I’m going to go,” Trevor said.
Arlen nodded. “I’ll keep you posted on Hank’s trial. Leonard’s, too.”
Trevor shook his head. He eased the negation by clapping Arlen on the back. “Focus on your retirement. This”—Trevor spread his arms to encompass the cemetery—“this is all in the past.”
