The Perfect Husband

by Lisa Gardner

  “Housewives don’t do the Iron Man,” she snapped. Well, it was something. If all else failed, maybe she could verbally spar Big Bad Jim into the ground.

  She reached the end of the pool, and without his permission clung to the wall. Her shoulders were shaking. She placed her cheek against the patio as if finding a pillow.

  She looked like a worn-out child. She looked like someone ought to pick her up, curl her in his arms, and rock her to sleep while stroking her hair.

  J.T. stalked away from her in a hurry.

  “Know what your problem is?”

  “No, but everyone seems to have a theory.” Her lips twisted into that enigmatic, too-old smile that meant she was referring to her husband and the suitcase of secrets she wouldn’t share.

  “You think too much.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I mean it. You’re clinging to the patio and you’re thinking, I’m tired. You’re thinking, My legs hurt. Tell me I’m wrong, Angela.”

  Her eyes finally opened, her lashes spiky with water. “All right. I’m tired, my legs hurt.”

  “You have to find the zone.”

  “The zone?”

  “The zone. You ever play sports?”

  “Sports?”

  “Sports, Angela. You know, football, basketball, hockey, swimming, whatever. We can look it up in the dictionary if you’d like.”

  “I . . . I was a cheerleader.”

  “Now, why didn’t I guess that?”

  “It’s not as easy as everyone thinks,” she retorted immediately. “It takes a lot of flexibility and discipline. Have you ever been able to kick above your shoulder? I don’t think so. We practiced very hard and it was brutal on the knees.”

  “I’m not arguing. Must take some strength too, building pyramids, all that.”

  “Yes. But I was one of the smaller girls. I was the top, not the base.”

  “Ever fall?”

  “All the time.”

  “Get back up?”

  “All the time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what you were supposed to do.”

  “Exactly. So you didn’t think about it. You didn’t say, ‘I hurt too much.’ Or ‘I’m afraid.’ Or ‘She’ll drop me again.’ You just got back up because you were supposed to.

  “That’s what you do here, Angela. You swim and you keep swimming without a thought in your head because that’s what you have to do. And you do the push-ups and you jog and you do all the things beyond exhaustion because you have to. Then one day you’ll discover you’re in the zone and you don’t feel your legs anymore, you don’t feel your arms anymore. You exist just as motion. That’s the zone. Then you can do anything.”

  She looked fascinated, she looked awed. He wasn’t comfortable with her looking at him like that. He was just telling her the facts, not revealing the laws of the universe.

  People thought soldiers and jocks were brutish men. It wasn’t true. A lot of the Navy SEALs or Green Berets or Force Recon Marines looked more like accountants. Some of them were small enough to be nicknamed Mouse. Others were six four and so stringbean skinny they could barely walk through a strong wind. Extreme performance was not physical but mental. It was focus and concentration. It was finding that internal zone, where you could zero down the universe to one act, one motion, one goal. You could plow facedown through mud in the pouring rain because you were not thinking of the weight of your pack or the cold sting of the rain or the taste of the mud. You were not thinking of the two hours’ sleep you’d had last night or the twelve miles you’d run this morning or the two hundred push-ups and two hundred pull-ups you’d done the minute before. You thought only of the next inch you had to crawl and then the inch after that. The world became a simple place.

  And for a moment you could do anything.

  SpecWar superstuds were not Arnold Schwarzenegger. They were Buddhist monks.

  And former Force Recon Marines like J.T. were the men who realized the zone couldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, training ended, combat ended, everything ended, and you were the same man you always were, lying on your bunk with the rage bunching your shoulders and the unrelenting memories racing through your mind.

  Then you poured yourself a drink.

  “I’ll do another lap,” Angela volunteered. Her eyes had narrowed. His pep talk must have worked, because she looked fierce.

  “You do that.”

  She pushed off with more force than grace. She didn’t have a swimsuit, so she wore an oversize T-shirt and shorts. The excess material created a lot of drag and quickly slowed her down. She slogged forward anyway.

  Toward the end she faltered badly, and he thought he might have to drag her out by the scruff of her neck to keep her from drowning. Her flailing hands found the patio as he took the first step forward.

  “No zone,” she gasped. “God, this is horrible!”

  He sat on the edge of the pool beside her and stuck his feet in the water. “You want it to be simple. It’s not.”

  “Oh, how the hell would you know! Look at you!” She waved her hand at him. “You probably catch rattlesnakes by hand. How hard has any of this ever been for you? How hard?”

  “Not very,” he agreed calmly. “I was born for this shit.”

  “I hate you.” She rested her forehead against the pool edge.

  He let her feel sorry for herself for a minute. Why not? There was a world of difference between the two of them. The colonel was a mean, lean bastard and he’d passed his genes to his children. In contrast, Angela had a small, slight build and no natural hand-eye coordination. She would have to fight for every lap, war with every shot. Nobody said life was fair.

  “Your daughter, she’s for real?”

  Angela stiffened instantly, so he took that as a yes.

  “Think about her, then. Don’t think about yourself, focus on her.”

  “What do you think has gotten me this far?”

  “Huh.” They sat in silence. “How old is she?”

  Angela couldn’t seem to decide how much to tell him. “Four,” she said after a moment. “She’s four.”

  “You have her someplace safe?”

  “As safe as can be expected.”

  “Huh.”

  “Okay, it’s time for another lap.”

  He was surprised. “Chiquita, you’re pretty beat.”

  “I have to learn how to do this. If I’m weak, then I’d better get strong. Two more laps, all right?”

  “You are stubborn.”

  She appeared startled. “I’m not stubborn.”

  “Of course you’re stubborn. You made it here, didn’t you? What do you call that?”

  “Desperation,” she said frankly.

  He shook his head. “No, trust me, you’re stubborn.”

  “Really?” She looked pleased. “I’m stubborn. Good. I’m going to need that.”

  She pushed off while he remained sitting there, blinking his eyes and wondering if he would ever understand her. The woman had spirit. He would’ve liked to have met her before the world had run her into the ground. He had the feeling that she’d been beautiful once. A petite, smiling woman with long blond hair.

  Jesus, J.T. Give it up.

  Behind him, the screen door slid open.

  “So where’s the mystery intruder?”

  J.T. pointed toward the pool.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Marion said as she walked over to the edge. “She looks like she’s drowning.”

  “That’s her version of the doggie paddle.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope. Still think she’s a fugitive?”

  Marion finally appeared skeptical. “I don’t know,” she hedged. “She doesn’t look like much, but given the company you usually keep . . .”

  “Gee, thanks, Marion. That’s kind of you.”

  They watched as Angela reached the end of the pool and struggled her way back. It was a long, painful process for eve
ryone.

  J.T. shook his head. “I don’t think one month is going to be enough.”

  Angela finally reached J.T. and Marion, her face beet red. She clung to the edge of the pool while introductions were made. The two women showed about as much enthusiasm as could be expected.

  “You can call me L.B. for short,” Angela said.

  “L.B.?”

  “Lizzie Borden.”

  “Oh.” Marion had the good grace to flush. “I’ll confess, you’re not what I expected.”

  “I’m not a criminal.” Angela tried to pull herself out of the water, but her exhausted arms wouldn’t cooperate. J.T. grabbed her shoulders and lifted her as if she were a featherweight. She returned her attention to Marion. “In fact I’ve worked with the FBI before.”

  “Whatever problems you have, I’m sure I can recommend a good law enforcement agency—”

  “No, you can’t. I’ve been through it all. I’ve worked with them all. And I know for certain that law enforcement can no longer help me. What I need is someone like your brother. J.T. is going to help.”

  “Wait a second.” J.T. took a quick step back, waving his hands in defense. “I’m just training you!”

  “Exactly. That’s the help I need. So tell me, sensei, what’s next on the list?”

  He looked at her for a moment, then at Marion. His sister was mutinous and disapproving. In fact, the only calm person on the patio was Angela.

  “What’s your name?” Marion prodded. “If you have nothing to hide, you won’t mind giving me your name.”

  “I have nothing to hide and I do mind giving you my name. It’s none of your business. Besides, if I remember correctly, you told J.T. you were here as his sister, not an agent.”

  “Ignore her, Angela, Marion can’t help herself.”

  “I’m trying to offer help.”

  “Then thanks but no thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can afford only a month of J.T.’s time and I have a lot to learn. Is it time to eat yet? I’ll make the oat-meal. J.T. is too dangerous with a saucepan.”

  She headed for the house without another word. Marion released her pent-up breath in a low hiss. “Jesus Christ, J.T., what have you gotten yourself into now?”

  “I’m just training her on how to protect herself, Marion. How bad can it be?”

  “With you, J.T., pretty bad. But that’s okay, I’ll keep my opinions to myself for now. Why don’t you go and pour yourself another beer.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?”

  He scowled. “I agreed to stop drinking for the month.”

  She arched a brow. “Of course, J.T.”

  “Dammit, I am not an alcoholic!”

  “Of course, J.T.”

  She smiled sweetly and walked away.

  J.T. SQUEEZED ANGELA a glass of fresh orange juice; that gave Marion her first opportunity. A cold drink created condensation on a glass, ruining fingerprints. A hot drink suffered the same due to steam. A room-temperature drink was perfect. She joined them for the end of breakfast, behaved admirably by making polite conversation, and offered to do the dishes. She set Angela’s glass and spoon to the side. Later, when J.T. took Angela outside for a walk, Marion got out her fingerprint kit and went to work. One full thumbprint and two partial indexes later, she called the lab.

  “The Nogales police will be faxing you some prints this afternoon. I want you to run them for me immediately. Call me here as soon as you know. Talk only to me. Are we clear? No, no, I have to go through the police—I don’t have a fax machine here. It’s not a big deal. They’re just backwater cops, they’ll cooperate. We can trust them.”

  NINE

  NIGHTFALL. J.T. STOOD over the barbecue wearing a Red Hot Cajun Lover apron and grilling boneless breasts of chicken. Marion was tossing a salad and downing beers as if she were determined to pick up where her brother had left off.

  Tess didn’t cook anything. She didn’t help with anything, and J.T. and Marion seemed fine with that. It had been seven years since she’d had someone cook for her. She found she wasn’t very good at letting go. Her fingers twitched at her sides while the anxiety built in her belly. She was supposed to look perfect for dinner, hair done, makeup done, dressed to the nines. She was supposed to have Samantha fed ahead of time so she would play quietly in the bassinet, where Jim could admire his child without being bothered by her. The table had to be set a certain way, candles lit, flowers fresh, forks on the left, dessert spoon above, knife and spoon on the right. Their three-bedroom house should be spotless, the old hardwood floor smelling of lemon wax while the area rugs were freshly vacuumed and cleared of children’s toys.

  Jim had chosen their house because of the beautifully carved wood trim around the fireplace and windows. In other old homes, some generation always made the mistake of painting the trim white or cream or olive green. Fine old wood latexed out of existence. Not in their home. Jim had turned the original oak trim over to her like a precious gem. It had survived one hundred and twenty years. It gave their home the class and elegance befitting a decorated police officer. Nothing had better happen to the mantel or the banister or the doorjambs on her watch.

  When Samantha was one year old, she’d gotten her hands on a spatula covered in spaghetti sauce. She’d waved it with glee, promptly splattering red dye no. 5 all over herself, the walls, and the oak windowsill. Two drops on the hundred-and-twenty-year-old wood and Theresa couldn’t get them to come all the way out. She tried Formula 409, she tried mayonnaise. She set a plant there on a lace doily and hoped Jim would never figure out that she’d failed in her mission. Two weeks later he’d dragged her out of bed at two A.M. He took her down to the kitchen. He handed her sandpaper and stain. And he stood over her until seven A.M., supervising her sanding down and restaining the window frame, his arms crossed and his face grim. Samantha began to cry upstairs.

  Jim made her continue to work while her arms ached, her eyelids dragged down, and her daughter sobbed her name in the little room above.

  Tess curled her fingers into the lounge cushion to get them to stop shaking. Those days were gone. She could rest if she wanted. She could wear old shorts and a T-shirt to the dinner table. She could play games with her daughter in the living room without worrying about a Lego hiding under the sofa and getting her in trouble later. She could abstain from makeup. She could simply be herself.

  If she could ever figure out who that person was.

  She rolled onto her stomach and carefully stretched out her back. She hurt. J.T. had led her through a tough regimen of swimming and weight lifting. She figured she must have some muscle after all, because surely bone couldn’t hurt that much.

  J.T. had done most of it with her. He’d stretched. He’d done fifty push-ups and two hundred stomach crunches. Then he’d stood on his head with his back to the wall and lowered his straight legs until his toes touched the ground. Up and down. Up and down. Her stomach had hurt just watching.

  “Take a couple of Advil before you go to bed,” J.T. advised from the grill. “You’ll be grateful in the morning.”

  “If I live that long,” she muttered. She rolled over onto her side. She was sore around her ribs. She hadn’t realized muscle existed there.

  “Food’s ready. Eat up. We’ll take a walk after dinner. It’s important you don’t get stiff.”

  She said, “Aaaagh.”

  “Remember, no whining.”

  “For God’s sake, J.T. Give the woman a glass of wine and ease up before you kill her.”

  Tess looked at Marion with surprise, then gratitude. Marion had remained in the house most of the day. Tess could pinpoint her location by following the smell of chain-smoked cigarettes. Now the agent was dressed in fine linen slacks and a classic cream-colored silk blouse with billowing sleeves and graceful cuffs. With her hair pulled back in a French twist, delicate gold hoops winking at her ears, and more gold accenting her narrow leather belt, she belonged in an upper-class garden party. Her face, however, ruin
ed the impression. Her delicate features were frozen into a hard look, her blue eyes perpetually narrowed into a stern, suspicious stare. When she walked, she had the fast, determined footsteps of a woman who would mow you down if you didn’t get the hell out of her way.

  If Marion MacAllister had met Jim Beckett, Tess was sure she would have fired her gun first and asked questions later.

  They ate out on the patio. Marion served a salad with a light raspberry vinaigrette. J.T. barbecued chicken accompanied by dirty rice and beans. She needed protein, he told her, and dumped an extra spoonful of rice and beans on her plate.

  She ate everything, discovering an appetite that was powerful and foreign to her. She started out with silverware and delicate movements. Then she gave up and followed J.T.’s example, greedily tearing the chicken into strips and popping them into her mouth with her fingers.

  “Is Freddie coming back?” she asked between mouthfuls.

  J.T. and Marion exchanged glances. “No,” J.T. said, his gaze never leaving Marion’s.

  Marion simply shrugged. She ate only the salad and half a chicken breast. After warring with herself for a full minute, Tess helped herself to the other half.

  “Go easy,” J.T. commented.

  “I know how to eat.”

  He raised one brow but shut up. For all his words of caution, he ate two whole chicken breasts and three helping of rice and black beans. He chewed voraciously, chasing down his food with long gulps of iced tea.

  And every now and then she saw his gaze slide to Marion’s beer with barely tamped hunger.

  “So what did we learn in fugitive training camp today?” Marion asked at last. Done with her meal, she sat back and lit up.

  “Swimming and weights,” Tess volunteered.

  “She has a ways to go,” J.T. supplied.

  The conversation drifted. They listened in silence to the distant sound of crickets singing in the dusk and the occasional whir of hummingbirds among the cactus.

  “Do you swim?” Tess asked Marion.

  “A little.”

  “She rides. Dressage.” J.T. pushed his plate away. His gaze rested on his sister. “At least she did when we were younger.”