The Perfect Husband

by Lisa Gardner

  Houlihan made a fist, then released his breath with a sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, we’ll do that.”

  “Can you handle surveillance alone?”

  “What?”

  “The van, can you handle it alone?”

  “Sure I can—”

  “Good. Ms. Williams is alone in the house now, Houlihan. That’s not acceptable. I’m going over.”

  Houlihan gave it some thought. His nerves were strung too tight. Hell, all of their nerves were strung too tight. And now they had an agent going AWOL and her mercenary brother following suit. Everybody wanted to know what the hell was going on and what the hell to do. Now was not the time for panic. Beckett was right, after all. Discipline was the key. Houlihan took a deep breath and said, “Remember, Beckett has the guns he stole from Difford’s safe house. You got a vest on?”

  “Yes. I’ll watch from inside the house. You keep control from the outside.”

  Quincy pulled out his 9 millimeter and took off the safety. From the drawer in the specially equipped van he pulled out two more clips and slipped them into his pocket. He nodded to Houlihan one last time, then stepped out of the van.

  Houlihan closed and locked the door behind him. He was now alone. His eyes chased down all the shadows. He sat down lower in his seat.

  It was 9:41 P.M. and his team was fractured.

  It wasn’t good.

  IN THE WAR room an operator waved her hand for the sergeant. She put the caller on hold and said to him, “I have a woman on the line who insists she knows where Jim Beckett is.”

  “And where is that?”

  The police operator sighed. In the last few weeks she thought she’d heard it all. By the time this gig was up, she would have no more faith in man’s intelligence. “The woman claims her next-door neighbor his Jim Beckett. Her next-door neighbor, the sixty-year-old retired woman from Florida.”

  “A sixty-year-old retired woman is Jim Beckett?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course, what was I thinking? Why are you wasting my time with this?”

  “Because the woman also claims she has Samantha Williams with her right now. She says she’s calling from a gas station, Martha is going to hunt them down at any time, and she’s scared for herself and for Samantha. I can hear sounds of traffic in the background and what sounds like a child crying. She says she’s not hanging up until we send over the cavalry, and I believe her.”

  The sergeant motioned for the headset. He put it on and took the caller off hold. “Hello? This is Sergeant McMurphy. Who am I speaking to? Edith? Edith Magher? How can I help you, Edith?”

  He was frowning. Edith Magher. Why did that name sound familiar? He glanced at the log sheet while she babbled in his ear about dead girls haunting her porch and her sixty-year-old neighbor who liked to smoke cigars and was too big and too strong and had too blue eyes. . . .

  He didn’t see her name listed on the log sheet. He flipped the next page, going back a few days. He could hear a child sobbing quietly in the background. The woman kept telling her everything would be all right. And then she started talking about the dead girls climbing into a brown Nissan and Martha/Jim Beckett driving away. But Martha/Jim knew that Edith knew. Sooner or later Martha/Jim would come get them.

  The sergeant’s gaze fell on the list of phone numbers Team A was tracking down. Suddenly the name blazed out at him. Edith Magher. Shelly Zane had forwarded calls to her seven times in the last two years.

  The sergeant grabbed the operator’s shoulder so tightly, she winced. He pointed furiously at the screen. “Where’s the location of the caller listed on this damn thing? I need the location and I need it now!”

  BECKETT TRAPPED HER arm first. Marion didn’t panic and she didn’t struggle too hard. She let him drag her behind the trees, where they were further isolated, while her mind formulated her best plan of attack. He thought she was helpless. She wasn’t. But she didn’t want to give away the game too soon. With a man like Beckett, surprise was everything.

  She raised her foot and slammed it down hard on his toes. He jerked away, but the motion unbalanced him. With a quick twist she slipped out of his grip, leaving him holding just her coat.

  She spun to face him, bringing her gun out of her holster, but he caught her squarely on the chin with a single fist formed by knitting together his two hands. Her head cracked back.

  Move through the pain, she ordered herself. She drew out her gun and he nailed her forearm with the billy club. Her fingers went numb. The gun dangled, and for a moment she thought she was going to lose it. The gun would fall and she would be helpless.

  Don’t drop your weapon.

  She grabbed it with her left hand and got off three awkward shots.

  He dropped low, then rushed her. He plowed her back against a hulking tree, knocking the air from her gut. She responded instinctively, hammering down on the back of his neck with the butt of her gun. He grunted and squeezed harder, two years of weight lifting in a prison rec room giving him incredible strength. His shoulder pressed into her diaphragm, squeezing her lungs, killing her.

  She couldn’t shoot him. She couldn’t get her hands to function. White dots were appearing before her eyes. She tried to bring up her knee. He blocked it effortlessly. She pulled at his hair and the wig came off in her hand.

  The world began to spin. Her chest burned. Her body cried out for oxygen. Tree bark dug into her back. There were so many ways to suffocate a person. She’d forgotten about that. What a thing to forget.

  J.T., I’m so sorry.

  With her last sane thought she fired the gun again, alerting the world to her position. Then she clawed at Beckett’s shoulder, searching for his old gunshot wound.

  It didn’t matter.

  Beckett counted off eight more seconds, then her body went limp.

  He let her slip to the ground, stepping back and staggering drunkenly for a moment. The back of his head continued to throb from her blows. When he tried to focus on her, he saw double.

  He didn’t have time for such weaknesses. Discipline is the key.

  He raised his baton and got it over with. One two three. After a bit of practice a man became efficient about these things.

  He ran, stripping off his guard’s uniform as he raced through the trees. Act one was over. On to act two.

  J.T. HEARD THE gunshots as he raced down Main Street. He veered onto Hoxsey, rushing through students, who were suddenly stopping, eyes wide.

  “Move, dammit!” he cried. “Outta my way!”

  He knew the minute he’d found her, because people mingled around the entrance to the shadowed footpath, not quite sure what Bad Thing had happened and not quite willing to step forward and find out. They craned their necks from the relative safety of the lit sidewalks.

  J.T. swung his cast-covered arm like a bat, forcing his way through.

  “Cop!” He lied baldly. “Someone dial 911!”

  “Some guy went crashing through the trees,” a kid volunteered.

  “He looked like a campus guard.”

  “Stupid campus guards,” another student murmured. “Probably shooting at a rat.”

  “Or his big toe.”

  J.T. raced forward. Passing the fifth tree he saw her, her long, golden hair spilling out from behind the tree trunk. Darker red strands were slowly mingling with the gold.

  “No! No no no no no!” He fell to his knees. He grabbed her hand. Then he grabbed her shoulders and clutched her against his chest. Her head rolled lifelessly forward, her lashes still against her cheek, pine needles tangled in her hair.

  So much blood. Her skull fell apart in his hands. He tried to hold it together. To put her back together again. And he willed her to survive as he’d willed her to survive every day when they were children.

  Pillow forts and GI comic books.

  Live, live, live.

  Horseback riding and swimming suicides.

  Don’t leave me don’t leave me don’t leave me.

  Standing at t
he foot of his bed, begging him to save her.

  Don’t let me fail you a second time.

  “Damn you!”

  BECKETT MOVED FAST through the shadows. He came at last to a thick hedge and stopped to regroup. His breath was coming out in sharp gasps, forming puffs of steam in the cold night air. He could feel blood on his cheeks, and the back of his skull was swollen and tender.

  These things were not supposed to happen to him.

  The euphoria was dimming. Beneath, exhaustion threatened to crash his system. He shook his head, fighting it.

  He had the letter H. He was fulfilling his plan.

  Some adjustments would have to be made. Edith knew his true identity and had Samantha. He’d debated giving chase, but couldn’t possibly kill an old woman in front of his daughter, so he’d let them go for now. Later he would show Edith what happened to women who crossed him. Then he would simply reclaim his daughter from the police. He’d done it before, he could do it again.

  Theresa was still in the area, and that’s what mattered. They’d buzzed about her enough on the police scanner and he understood that he was invited to join them.

  He was looking forward to seeing her again.

  He smoothed a hand over the navy blue suit he’d worn beneath the guard’s uniform. From the pocket he produced four towelettes and used them to wipe the thick makeup from his face, wincing a little as the soap stung the scratches along his jawline. Next he pulled out a pair of glasses and a short dark wig.

  Then he unbuckled the sawed-off shotgun he’d strapped beneath his arm. Difford’s gun cabinet had been a gold mine.

  He was ready.

  TESS TURNED TO Quincy. “Ten o’clock,” she whispered. “Where is he?”

  “Any sign?” Quincy asked over the walkie-talkie.

  “Unconfirmed,” Houlihan answered. “There’s a report of another disturbance on Hoxsey, the sound of gunfire. Team Omega is almost there—” Crackling interrupted. A new voice came on.

  “This is Sniper A. It’s ten o’clock-check time. I have visual of B, but no reports on C. Please confirm.”

  Houlihan’s voice crackled again. “Sniper C, come in. Sniper C, come in.”

  The radio was quiet.

  “Sniper C?”

  More silence. Tess and Quincy exchanged glances.

  Houlihan’s voice was strong. “Do we have visual of Sniper C?”

  “This is Sniper B. I’m looking across the street now. I see Sniper A standing in the west corner. I do not see Sniper C in the east. I repeat, I do not see Sniper C in the east. Please confirm, Sniper A.”

  “This is Sniper A. I don’t have visual, sir. Requesting permission to check it out.”

  “Permission denied,” Houlihan said flatly. “Hold your position. I’m calling in SWAT. I repeat, stay at your points, I’m calling in SWAT. We are now in status red. I repeat, status red.”

  As Tess watched, Quincy calmly took out two extra clips of bullets and placed them on the table beside him. He raised his 9 millimeter and pointed it at the door. “Do you have a gun, Ms. Williams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now is the time to take it out. Please remember, he’s here to kill. There will be no negotiating on his part and there will be no leniency. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” she said. “I won’t hesitate.”

  “Good.”

  “SIR, LET US take her. Sir, you have to let go now.”

  J.T. stared at the man dully. He was wearing a paramedics uniform and holding a red medical kit. Behind him sirens whirled red and garish.

  “I’m holding her together,” he said hoarsely, not relinquishing her.

  “I know, sir,” the young man said gently. He could tell that the woman was dead. “That’s our job now. Someone said you were a cop.”

  Slowly the words penetrated. J.T. looked down at Marion. Her head lolled against his arm. The loss inside him was too great. He couldn’t measure it. He couldn’t put it into words. He couldn’t feel it, because when he did, it would bring him to his knees.

  He placed his baby sister in the paramedic’s arms. “I have to go. Take good care of her for me, please. Just . . . please.”

  He began to run.

  Behind him the paramedic shouted at him to stop. He didn’t listen.

  The darkness in him had grown a voice. And now it screamed at the top of its lungs, Kill Jim Beckett, kill Jim Beckett, kill Jim Beckett.

  He ran like a man possessed, and blood lust lit his eyes.

  “SIR, SIR!” THE walkie-talkie blazed to life. “This is Team Omega. We have a hit on Hoxsey. I repeat, a woman is down on Hoxsey, same MO. Beckett is in the area!”

  Tess put her head between her knees and started taking deep breaths. Quincy’s radio seemed to dance with a hideous cacophony of reports.

  “This is Team Alpha. Repeat, Team Alpha. We are on the roof, east corner. There is no sign of Sniper C—”

  “This is Team Omega. Officer down, officer down. Repeat, Agent MacAllister is down—”

  “Shit!” Quincy’s fist hit the table. Tess jumped.

  “Suspect is reportedly dressed as a security guard. Last seen headed north. We are in pursuit. Requesting full mobilization—”

  “SWAT team has been mobilized. They are in transit—”

  “Officer down, officer down! This is Team Alpha, from the east corner. We have found Sniper C. Dear God, sir, we have found Sniper C—” From the background there came the sound of retching. “Requesting backup, requesting immediate backup. He’s on the roof. Shit, I think I see him. He’s on the fucking roof! The roof, the roof!”

  Over the airwaves Quincy and Tess heard the sound of men running.

  “Hold positions, hold positions!” Houlihan screamed. “I said, hold your fucking positions!”

  Gunfire exploded across the radio. The sound of a man’s hoarse cry. “Difford. OhmyGod, ohmyGod! Jesus fucking Christ!”

  Houlihan was now yelling at the top of his lungs.

  “What is going on out there?” Tess cried.

  “I don’t know,” Quincy said.

  His face had gone pale. His gaze settled on the ceiling.

  J.T. ROUNDED THE corner. He heard shooting and drew his gun. He heard a man’s cry. He was still too far away to see anything. He just heard the sound of all hell breaking loose. Three blocks to go, two.

  THE DOORBELL RANG, followed by immediate pounding.

  “Ms. Williams, open up. Detective Teitel, Massachusetts State Police. I’ve been sent to stand guard.”

  “Stand back,” Quincy told Tess.

  He didn’t have to convince her. She clung to the wall, her .22 held before her in a shaky hand.

  Quincy approached the door, keeping to the side. “I want to see your badge,” he called out.

  “Okay.”

  Quincy stepped up to the peephole.

  The shotgun blew the door apart and hurled him across the room.

  Screaming filled the room. It took Tess a moment to realize it was her own.

  J.T. ROUNDED THE corner. Black-clad men swarmed the rooftop, screaming at the top of their lungs. Sirens split the air behind him. An ambulance roared toward him and he barely jumped out of the way.

  He twisted his ankle and went down hard.

  More gunfire split the neighborhood. A shotgun blast.

  He staggered up and continued running.

  Kill Jim Beckett. Kill Jim Beckett.

  “HAY BALES, HAY bales!” Tess cried. She pointed her gun and tried to remember her stance.

  Jim pointed his shotgun at Quincy, slumped on the floor.

  “I’m going to kill you, Theresa,” he said calmly. “The question is, how many police officers will you take out with you?”

  Tears streaming down her cheeks. Don’t hesitate. Don’t hesitate.

  Quincy moaned. There was blood on his face, pieces of wood embedded in his skin. But she knew he was wearing a bulletproof vest, which would have spared him the worst.

  Jim
pumped the chamber.

  J.T.’s form filled the doorway. Tess couldn’t stop her gaze from flickering there. Jim turned and calmly pulled the trigger.

  “No!”

  The shotgun blast burst her eardrums. J.T. fell back onto the sidewalk. Down he went, arms splayed like a cartoon character’s. Because the violence never ended. For her it just went on and on and on.

  She pointed her gun, squeezing the trigger. Jim grabbed the .22 from her hand and pistol-whipped her hard. She fell to her knees, clutching her cheek.

  “We do it my way.” Grabbing her arm, Jim dragged her upstairs.

  Fresh blood stained his shoulder red. Had she hit him? She couldn’t think anymore. Her cheek was on fire from the blow, and ringing filled her ears. The madman was winning. Jim had gotten control.

  No! Goddammit, no!

  She kicked out at the back of Jim’s legs, aiming for his kneecap. He twisted away. She knitted her fingers of her free hand into a shovel and went after his kidneys. He slapped her across the face. She bit his shoulder, then tore into his ear.

  “Fuck!” He flung her from him so hard, she hit the wall and fell to the floor. Even then she staggered up and aimed a kick toward his groin.

  Fight, fight, fight. She fought.

  And Jim Beckett rose in front of her as an enraged beast. He threw aside the shotgun. He grabbed her shoulder and yanked her toward him. She hit his clavicle with the heel of her hand. He grunted with pain.

  Then he wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed.

  She fell to her knees. She struck out futilely. She thought she heard groaning downstairs and she struggled to buy time. She didn’t want to die. White lights appeared in front of her gaze, but she refused to give in.

  She’d fought too hard, come too far to fall to Jim now. She would win, goddammit. She would win.

  Jim smiled cruelly. His hands tightened their grip.

  J.T.’S CHEST WAS on fire. When he drew in a deep breath, his insides burned beneath his Kevlar vest. He was pretty sure he was dying. The stars looked too bright above him and the pavement was too cold beneath him.