The Perfect Husband

by Lisa Gardner

  Then he called the task force, spoke to the officer in charge, and said he was Wilcox’s doctor. Wilcox had come down with an extreme case of food poisoning and would be out for the next twenty-four hours. Of course he’d return to duty immediately after that.

  Sooner or later the authorities would ask more questions. That was fine. Jim just needed twenty-four hours. It would all be over then.

  He rose, stretching out his long, toned body. Three hundred push-ups, five hundred sit-ups a day. Not an ounce of fat on him. Ed Kemper might be bigger, but in an arm-wrestling match, Jim was confident he would win.

  He shook out his arms and legs. Four hours of sleep was all he needed nowadays. A deep calm had settled over him. Tonight his plan entered phase two and he was prepared. He had thought of everything, accounted for anything. He was invincible not because that’s what he wanted to be; he was invincible because he worked at it.

  Two years he’d rotted in Walpole. Two years of living in a six-by-eight cell in maximum security, allowed out for only one hour a day, Monday through Friday. Even then he was placed in handcuffs and leg shackles before being escorted by two guards to the maximum security rec area—really just a new six-by-eight cell outside, enclosed in wire mesh and nicknamed the dog cage. No more than two maximum security prisoners were allowed outside at once, and then they were put in distant cages so even conversation was difficult. Not that it mattered. Walpole was run by the Latin Kings these days. Like he wanted to mingle with a bunch of fucked up, coked up spicks.

  They’d wanted his ass. He had seen it in their eyes sometimes as he was escorted by their cells. He could smell their hatred and blood lust sluicing off their skin, flung toward him with their gang signs and low hisses. He liked to look them in the eye, stare them down, because they thought they were so bad when really they had no idea what it was all about. They clung to each other like weak-kneed bastards, passing drugs in handshakes, murdering over imaginary slights, and figuring it made them men. It meant nothing. The correction officers cracked down. Walpole went to the highest level of security and became a no-contact prison. And Jim found himself sitting across from Shelly in the visiting center with soundproof, bulletproof glass between them because the guards finally figured out girlfriends were swapping more than spit in all those passionate kisses.

  Two years of wearing orange. Two years of sitting alone on a cot, listening to stone walls reverberate with unbridled hatred and poorly thought out politics. Two years without sex.

  Never again. He’d made his plans carefully, he’d tended to all the details. He would not be going back to jail. And he would have his revenge.

  He curled up naked on the bare cot. He slept and dreamed of the feel of Shelly’s mouth sucking him dry. And the feel of his hands wrapping around her neck, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.

  “I’m coming for you, baby,” he murmured in his sleep. “I’m coming.”

  EIGHTEEN

  TESS WAS READY. She woke up with the first rays of the sun, stretching out slowly. Newly formed muscles pulled and contracted. She could identify baby biceps, emerging triceps, and infant quads. She ran through a warm-up drill in the middle of her room and was pleased by the smooth, graceful flow of stance into stance.

  She was getting there.

  Her gaze went instantly to the phone. She wanted to call Sam. She wanted to hear her daughter’s sweet voice and tell her everything was going to be all right. Did Difford tuck her in each night, did he read the right stories? Did he watch her eat her fruit, or was she managing to drop it under the table?

  God, she wanted to hear her little girl’s voice.

  And tell her what, Tess? That you’ll come home? That you’ll save her from her daddy? That you’re putting her in jeopardy just by calling?

  She turned away, her hands fisted at her sides. Just a few more weeks, then she should be ready to hunt down Jim. The nightmare would end. She would reclaim her daughter. Would they live happily ever after?

  Tess wasn’t sure she believed in such things anymore.

  She got ready for her morning swim. But when she walked into the living room, she froze.

  J.T. and Marion faced off with the Navajo rug as their arena, so intent on each other, they didn’t notice her. They circled like warring destriers, nostrils flaring, chests heaving, and flanks quivering. Glug served as an unwitting and unlikely centerpiece for the exchange.

  “That’s right, J.T.,” Marion muttered furiously. “Daddy’s really Darth Vader and I’m Princess Leia. Now step over to the dark side so we can get this show on the road!”

  “I already told you I’m not going.”

  “I gave you over a week, J.T. How long are you going to carry a torch for a mythical past?”

  “Forever is a nice round number.”

  Marion threw up her hands in disgust. “Stop it! Just stop it! What is it with you? No matter what, you have to make a mess of things. Don’t you understand that this is your last chance? You walk away from Daddy now, and that’s it. He’s dying and you will never get to wrap up loose ends.”

  “You make life sound like an Italian opera.”

  “And you like hating him, don’t you, J.T.? He’s an excuse for you. You get yourself thrown out of West Point, blame Daddy. You punch out your CO, blame Daddy. You drink too much, whore too much, try to kill yourself in godforsaken jungles for causes no one cares about, and what the hell, you blame Daddy. Well, this is it. Tomorrow morning I return to D.C. You can come and redeem yourself, or you can stay here and rot.”

  A muscle twitched in J.T.’s jaw. He shook his head. “I have to train Tess. Even if I was stupid enough to contemplate the trip, I still couldn’t go.”

  “Coward. You’re just using Tess as an excuse.”

  “Excuse? What the hell, Marion? Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me just how dangerous Jim Beckett is? First you tell me how much help Tess needs, then I’m supposed to just walk away to attend such mundane matters as the colonel’s death?”

  Marion’s face turned several shades of outrage. “Bring her.”

  “Bring her?”

  “You heard me, J.T. You don’t want to leave her alone, you need more time to train her. Then bring her with you. Take her to D.C.—it’s not rocket science.”

  “Oh, that’s just a great idea, Marion. You’re right. I’ll bring Tess to D.C. I’ll introduce her to the man who beat my sister and raped my wife. And just to see if he’s really dead, I’ll leave her alone in the room with him. We both know nothing brings the colonel to life like a beautiful, young, defenseless woman.”

  “You delusional son of—”

  “I hope he’s dead!” J.T. declared. Then his voice dropped low. “Then I will go to D.C. just so I can dance at his burial. I’ll build a champagne waterfall in the middle of the front lawn and dance around it, singing ‘Ding-dong, Daddy’s dead’ for the whole world to hear.”

  “You are hopeless! But most of all, you are drunk!”

  Tess stared at J.T., waiting for him to deny the accusation, to state once again that he was a man who always kept his word.

  Instead, he said, “I beg to differ. I’ve had only one drink. That means I am merely myself.”

  “But you drank, J.T. And you swore not to. You violated your own twisted moral code. Christ, look at you. Just look! You can’t follow through on anything, you can’t commit to anything. You are actually a talented human being and yet your life is nothing but a string of failures. And now you’re selling whatever future you might have had to the worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle.”

  “It was only one drink, Marion.”

  “One is all it takes.”

  His jaw clenched. “And you?” he whispered. “The perfect daughter to the father who beat us as a hobby. And he did worse than that, didn’t he, Marion? You can live your life in denial, but I was there too. I know what he did. I heard his footsteps in the hall every night, I saw him go into your room. Don’t you think I tried to stop him? Don’t you think
I . . . I . . . God. I wanted to kill him.”

  Marion’s face had turned to stone. “Leave me out of your lies, J.T.”

  “I’m not the one whose life is a lie. If anything, my life is too honest.”

  “Forget it.” Marion threw her hands in the air. “I wash my hands of you, J.T. You’re sick and beyond help. You’ve destroyed our family, you know that? All of Daddy’s hard work, all of his respect, ruined because of you. That’s it. You’re a waste of my time, and I’m outta here.”

  She whirled and stepped toward the hall. J.T.’s hand snaked out fast, wrapping around Marion’s wrist.

  She looked down. “Keep your hand there one minute longer and you will lose it.”

  His grip tightened anyway and he said, “Don’t go.”

  “Don’t go?”

  “Stay. Stay right here, Marion. Don’t go back to D.C. and don’t go back to him. Let him die. Let the colonel just die. And then maybe you and me . . . maybe we can start over again. For God’s sake, Marion, you’re my little sister.”

  Marion glanced up at his face, at eyes that pleaded.

  And in a flurry of movement she pivoted, chopped his forearm with her left hand, and yanked her arm free.

  “You’re a weak, self-pitying bastard, J.T. And there’s no way you’re dragging me down with you.”

  She thundered down the hall like a Sherman tank, pushing Tess aside. Seconds later, the sound of the slamming door registered her departure.

  J.T. slowly rubbed his arm where a red welt was rising to life. He looked lost, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  Tess took a step forward.

  “Going to jump in as well? Extract your pound of flesh while the meat’s still fresh?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  There was no mockery in his voice. No sarcasm, no challenge. She hadn’t thought there would be a time when she would miss that in him.

  “It’s not fun to kick a man when he’s down?” she offered weakly, searching for some reaction in his face.

  At long last his lips quirked. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

  She took another step forward, but he moved away to the table next to the sofa. He picked up Marion’s gold cigarette case, then pulled out a quick ticket to cancer.

  “Go away, Tess.” The match flared to life. He brought it to the end of the cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “I can’t.”

  “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

  “Yes, and I won it then too. It’s one of the only things I do well—argue with you.”

  “Doesn’t count. Everyone seems to win at that.”

  “You really love Marion, don’t you?” She wanted to touch his hand. She wanted to wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold him tight.

  It took J.T. a long time to reply. “Yeah. But I’m getting older and wiser every day.”

  “Your iguana,” she reminded him. He always told Marion she couldn’t smoke in front of Glug.

  His gaze went from her to the pet to her. She could practically see the darkness suddenly bloom in his eyes. The wild self-derision that had been beaten into him by his father and stoked by his sister’s rejection. The self-destructive rage that knew his sister was right and he had failed at everything. In fact, he had planned his life just that way.

  The darkness scared her. It touched her. It brought goose bumps to her arms and shivers down her spine. Jim’s rage had terrified her because it had been so cold. J.T.’s anger moved her because it was so real.

  “J.T.,” she whispered, and reached out her hand to him.

  “You’re right,” he said abruptly.

  He lifted the cigarette from his lips. He admired the glowing red tip with mock exaggeration.

  He held out his left hand.

  “Don’t,” she cried, but it was too late. As she watched, he ground out the red tip in his palm.

  “What are you doing?” His pain was in her voice.

  “What I was taught.”

  “J.T.” She took a step toward him.

  “Don’t do it,” he growled. “I am a bastard and I am a son of a bitch and I am so on edge, I don’t know myself anymore. You step into this room and I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

  “I’m not asking you to!” she cried. Then she took another step and another step.

  She planted herself in the middle of the living room. “I have seen evil, J.T. I’ve seen bad and I’ve seen worse. You are not it, J.T. You aren’t.”

  “Goddamn you,” he said. “Goddamn you.” He threw the cigarette case across the room in a fury, and it landed with a ringing thud.

  She held her ground.

  He flung out his arm and swept the side table clear. The porcelain lamp shattered. The clay coasters cracked.

  She held her ground.

  “You’ll wish you never met me,” he warned. Then right on top of that, “Goddamn us both.”

  He stalked toward her and she was ready.

  His hands wrapped around her waist like a vise. Not soft. Not gentle. She didn’t murmur one sound of protest as he shoved her back and pinned her against the wall.

  If she was going to run, she should’ve done it earlier. Now she was committed and there would be no stopping.

  He lifted his hands and planted one on each side of her face.

  “You think I won’t take what you offer? You think I’ll come to my senses at the last minute and walk away? You think I’m good? You think I’m decent? You haven’t listened to a word of what Marion said.”

  He caught her lower lip furiously, pulling on it with his teeth.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and bit back. It was rough and crude. He attacked her mouth, she fought back. Her life had been passivity and coldness, fright and rejection. Now she met passion head-on.

  His body pressed against hers, his hips showing her exactly what he wanted and exactly what she would give him, because the time for no had come and gone and baby, this was it.

  He sank his teeth into the tender flesh above her collarbone. She cried out and he stuck his finger in her mouth like a plug. She bit it, sucking it, rubbing her tongue along its length.

  “Christ, you’re greedy.”

  His fingers slipped up her shorts, dipped into her panties, and thrust into her.

  She cried out again, shocked in spite of herself. Unprepared, in spite of him. He slowed. His head come up. He looked at her with glittering eyes.

  “You really don’t know anything, do you?” he whispered thickly.

  “No,” she confessed. “No.”

  “You’re too late,” he muttered. “You’re too late.”

  “I know, I know.”

  His finger slid deeper, penetrating, stretching, seeking. His palm pressed against her, rubbing rhythmically, giving her a tempo she instinctively understood.

  She felt the mysteries press against her. She closed her eyes and saw unspeakable colors building behind her lids.

  “J.T.” she groaned. “J.T.”

  “Open your eyes. Look at me. I want to see it. I want to see everything.”

  Her eyes cracked open, glazed and vulnerable. His finger moved faster and faster. There was no tenderness, just raw, primitive need.

  She bit her lip.

  And he whispered hoarsely, “Now.”

  She climaxed, screaming and shuddering and melting from the inside out.

  She was barely aware of being dragged to the floor. He tore off their clothes, then he was on her, his hands impatiently parting her legs. He rubbed against her, one last second of tantalizing pressure, then he whispered, “Hold on to me, Tess. This is gonna be rough.”

  He thrust inside her, and she was filled. She was annihilated.

  She grabbed his shoulders and hung on for dear life.

  He pulled back, his arms trembling with the strain. He flirted with her again, rubbing against her, making her squirm. Her legs wrapped around him tightly, and she stopped simply rec
eiving, instead arching to meet each demanding blow.

  The climax slammed into them both, screeching through their blood for a long, suspended moment when they could not breathe, could not move, could not feel even the pounding of their pulse.

  He pulled away abruptly, the way she knew he would. He rose quickly, as she’d expected. He looked down at her, his face an unreadable mask.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” she told him. She felt bruised and battered, used and abused. And unbelievably satiated. Wise with the power of the mysteries and sense of her own self.

  He strode away from her, already heading for the pool.

  “I guess I don’t have to ask if it was good for you,” she called out proudly.

  He paused, his hand on the sliding glass door. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  “I was rough.”

  “I wasn’t complaining.”

  “Maybe you should have.”

  “Already blaming yourself, J.T.? Adding me to the long list of things you beat yourself over the head with late at night? I know you better than you think. I believe in you more than you do. So don’t bother hating yourself for showing me the wonders of animal sex. Really, I accept full responsibility for my actions.”

  “Tess—”

  “J.T., if you apologize now, I’ll never forgive you.”

  He stiffened. “Fine.” He walked out the sliding glass door and jumped into his pool.

  “Remember, Tess,” she whispered to herself, “you are strong. You are very, very strong.”

  IT WAS A seedy place. Beat-up old trucks and battered blue Chevrolets dotted the parking lot. There might have been painted yellow lines once, but now they were obscured by dust and tumbleweeds. Removed from the nicely paved streets of central Nogales and the all-American McDonald’s, the bar sat back in the desert, framed by a distant hill covered with run-down shanties. No smooth adobe walls or cheery red roof. This was wood, gray, beaten wood haphazardly stuck together with gnarled nails and sheer determination. Rusted tin formed a brown-spotted roof. When it rained, the place sounded like a bongo drum.