by W. L. Dyson
“That's a little harsh, don't you think?”
“Is it?”
“I can protect Krystal and get this woman turned over to the courts. And every one of Baltimore's mobsters can eat my dust.”
Michael's expression was skeptical. “What are you going to do, handcuff Krystal to your side for the rest of her life?”
“Michael, do you understand what Carver is doing? If I accept his deal, he owns me. He'll always hold Krystal's life over my head. Could you live like that?”
Michael slowly rose to his feet, using one hand to button his suit coat. “I can't make this decision for you. Do what you have to.”
With those words, Michael left the room, leaving Nick feeling as though he were trapped in a pit of snakes, wondering which one was going to bite him first.
14
Friday, 11:30 a.m.
White Marsh, Maryland
Krystal!” Jessica slammed the front door behind her, then jogged up the stairs to Krystal's bedroom.
“Krystal Marie!” She knocked on the bedroom door, but there was no answer. She opened it and looked in.
The bed wasn't made, clothes were tossed over chairs, the desk, and hanging out of open drawers. Shoes were scattered from the closet to the bed, and there were more clothes hanging over the closet door than were in the closet.
Krystal opened her bathroom door a crack and peered out. “What?”
“You need to clean this room. It's disgusting.”
Krystal rolled her eyes and went to shut the bathroom door.
“Wait! That's not what I came in here for.”
The door edged open just enough for Jessica to see Krystal's face while the rest of her daughter was hidden behind the door. “I want you to give me your fake ID.”
Krystal deadpanned a look at her. “I told Daddy that I don't have one. How many times do I have to go over this?”
“Well, excuse me if we don't believe you.”
“I told him the truth, and I told you the truth. Don't believe me, then go ahead and search everything I own. I don't care.” She slammed the door shut, and Jessica heard the water come on in the shower. She walked over and sank down on the edge of the bed. That was way too easy. If she had a fake ID, wouldn't she have fought harder?
So, the fact that she wasn't fighting this must mean that there really was no fake ID, right?
Feeling older than dirt, Jessica rose and headed down to the kitchen. Why did it have to be so hard to raise a child?
How did you wade through the peer pressure, the lies, and the raging hormones to reach the child who once looked at you as though you created the stars just for her? Where did the hero worship go?
Jessica couldn't remember ever not wanting her mom's approval and love. She had been an only child raised by an ambitious, career-driven woman who decided against traditional marriage. Jessica had been the product of a sperm donation. She had no idea who her father was, and since her mother had never married, Jessica had grown up without any male role model in her life at all. She spent most of her childhood either alone in her room playing while her mother worked or attending an all-girls school. She dreamed of having a daddy and brothers and sisters, but it had only been make-believe.
Was it any wonder that Nick and his family had drawn her like a puppy to a fluffy slipper? She couldn't say for sure if she had fallen in love with Nick first or his family.
Friday, 11:30 a.m.
Golden Valley Nursing Home, Ellicott City, Maryland
“I'm not sure about this, Steven.” Marti climbed out of the car and stared at the low brick building that housed the Golden Valley Nursing Home. “I don't think I'm ready.”
“You'll be fine, Marti. If you don't see her now, you may regret it.” Steven pocketed his keys and took her arm, propelling her forward. “Just be prepared for the fact that she may not recognize you. In fact, she probably won't.”
Her doubts didn't diminish as Steven led her down a long hallway. They passed people in wheelchairs and walkers, smiling staff, and the smell of antiseptic, air freshener, old age, and disease.
Steven took her hand when she began to lag behind him, pulling her into a room.
The room was nicer than she'd imagined. Big windows welcomed lots of sunlight to bounce off pale yellow walls and light oak furniture. There was a hospital bed, but it was covered in a quilt of blue, yellow, and green. There was a small table holding a bright bouquet of flowers and two green and yellow striped sofa chairs flanking the table in front of the window.
Marti almost didn't recognize the woman sitting in a sofa chair near the window. Her mother's dark brown hair was now completely white, cut shorter than she'd ever known her mother to wear it, and she was dressed in a velour jogging suit. Her mom would have eaten nails before she'd have worn pants.
But that wasn't the worst of it.
It was seeing her mother sitting there mumbling, her hands moving endlessly, as though knitting, but there was nothing in her hands.
“Mom?” Steven walked over, leaned down, and kissed their mother on the cheek. The woman looked up at him with a blank face.
“Do I know you?”
“Yes, Mom. I'm Steven. Your son. And I brought someone to see you.” He drew Marti over and held on to her as if he knew she would flee if given half a chance and wanted to make sure she didn't. “This is Marti.”
“What a pretty young woman,” her mother replied pleasantly. It brought tears to Marti's eyes. “So nice of you to visit. I have a daughter, you know. Her name is Marti as well. Actually, it's Martina, but she's such a little tomboy. She's ten years old.” She went back to her pretend knitting. “She'll be home from school soon.”
It sucked all the air out of her body and left her wobbling on rubber knees. She reached over to the bed and supported herself until she could sink down on it.
“I have two boys as well. Both good boys.” She smiled up at Marti. “Do you have any children? I have three.”
Marti started shaking as she watched a woman she thought she knew so well, now a complete stranger.
“Sweet girl like you. You should find yourself a nice young man and have a few babies. I love babies. I'd have had more than three, but Ros put his foot down.” She giggled like a young girl. “He wants to start his own company and doesn't want to make the family suffer while he devotes his time to building the business.” She lifted her eyes, her hands went still, and a soft expression moved across her face. It was the look of young love. “He's a bounty hunter.”
Steven knelt down in front of their mother. “How are you feeling today?”
Suzanna Shepherd tilted her head and stared down at Steven. Then she reached out and gently stroked his cheek. “Ros. I didn't see you come in. I should start dinner. The kids are outside playing.”
Steven grasped her hands to keep her from trying to rise. “No need. I had a late lunch. I'm fine. You just go on with your knitting.”
She relaxed and her fingers went back to flying through intricate patterns that meant nothing to anyone but her. “How was work today?”
“It was fine.”
Then the hands went still, dropping into her lap. She stared at her hands for a couple of minutes and then lifted her face. “I can't remember, Steven.”
“You can't remember what, Mom?”
“I can't remember my life. Did I make breakfast this morning? Did I kiss your daddy good-bye when he left for work? I can't remember.” She started to cry quietly, clasping her hands, twisting her fingers.
Steven gripped her hands and brought them to his lips. “You're fine, Mom. I promised to remember everything for you, okay? You don't need to worry about a thing.”
Suzanna looked over at Marti, her eyes wide. She gasped, reaching out. “Martina! Oh, my sweet girl.” Staring at her mother's outstretched arms, she had no choice but to leave the safety of the bed and walk over, lean down, and give her mother a hug. When she felt her mother's arms go around her, she felt a fissure splitting open the wall sh
e'd built to block her family. She could almost see it, like a crack slowly working across cement.
As Marti moved back, her mother gripped her face with her hands and smiled up at her. “I've missed you. I am so sorry I didn't fight harder for you. It was just all so confusing, and I wasn't sure what the right answer was for you. Your father was so—”
Marti placed her fingertips across her mother's lips. “Shh. Don't. Let's not talk about that, okay?”
And then, in a blink, Marti saw the light go out of her mother's eyes, and the stranger was back. Suzanna looked up at Marti as though she couldn't quite understand why Marti's fingers were on her face. Marti pulled back nervously. “You had a smudge there. But it's all perfect again.”
Friday, 12:45 p.m.
Prodigal offices, Baltimore
Nick felt as if he were tied to his desk. He had spent hours calling his clients, pushing to get paid the money they owed him. Combing his fingers through his hair, he moved back from his desk and stood up. He needed some air. And some food.
“Jenna,” he called out when he stepped out of his office and realized she wasn't at her desk.
She stuck her head out of the file room. “What do you need?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know that I'm going out for a little bit. I won't be long.”
“I can go get whatever you need.”
“Thanks, but I need to get out.”
She frowned at him, but he could see the understanding in her eyes. “Just be careful.”
“Yes, Mother.”
He heard Jenna gasp and then turned around. Before he could respond, he was shoved up against the wall.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Shepherd.”
Nick took in the three men—all Carter's punks, all carrying guns.
“Hi, Ira. Scott. What's up, guys?” Nick concentrated on the two men that had him pinned against the wall but kept an eye on Jenna at the same time. The third thug had grabbed her. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Nick couldn't place him. But Nick didn't like his look at all.
Ira took the lead. “Our employer sent us to make sure you are on his side. He certainly hopes you have weighed all the pros and cons of this offer and have decided to accept.”
He looked at Ira. “Tell Carver that if he goes anywhere near my daughter, he will regret ever thinking about her.”
The threat didn't seem to faze either man. Ira, with his gaze fixed on Nick's steady eyes, slid his hand up Nick's arm and rested it on Nick's bad shoulder. Then he squeezed, driving his thumb deep into Nick's gunshot wound. Pain shot down through Nick's body, punching the air right out of his lungs.
“I'm sorry. Did that hurt?” Ira said. He released his hold on Nick and stepped back just as Nick reached out to hit him. “I will inform my employer that you have turned down this opportunity. He will be disappointed, I'm sure.”
Nick was bent over, his breathing labored. “It just breaks…my heart. I'll…send him a card. Or maybe…some flowers.”
“You are a stubborn and argumentative sucker, Shepherd.”
Nick mustered a grin. “Actually, this is me…being nice. Stubborn is when…I track you down. Argumentative is when I…pull the trigger… and end your worthless life.”
The men turned and headed for the front door. Nick slowly lifted his head until it came to rest on the wall behind him. Then he slowly locked his knees to keep from sliding down the wall.
“Oh, and fellas? Tell Jon…that I'm coming after Richie.”
Ira and Scott ignored the comment, but it was the newest member of Jon's team that made Nick take note. He looked uncomfortable. Nick made eye contact with him and held the man's icy pale eyes until the man finally looked away, following his comrades out the door.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he slowly looked over at Jenna. She was still rooted to the floor, staring at the front door.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded and then started toward him. “But what about you? They hurt you.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're bleeding again. Let me get you to the hospital.”
It was the fluttering of her hands and the halting movements that made him reach out and touch her arm. “Jenna,” he said softly.
She turned to look at him, and he saw the fire and fury in her face. “I wanted to hurt them. For the first time in my life, I really wanted to hurt a person.”
Then he saw the tears spilling over. He pushed off the wall and hunched over to her, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her close. “It's okay.”
She buried her face in his good shoulder. “No, it's not. All I could think was that it was men like those that killed my husband. How can people have a soul and still be so cold-blooded?”
“I don't know.”
She eased out of his embrace and walked over to her desk. She opened a bottom drawer and pulled out a box of tissues. Her movements were stiff and awkward. Dabbing her eyes, she slowly sat down in her chair. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm falling apart now.”
“Lots of people do, Jenna. You've just come face to face with violence, and it's bound to have an effect.”
“All this time, I thought that somewhere, a man was regretting building that bomb. Killing so many innocent people. He didn't even know my husband. But he killed him. But you know what?”
“What?”
“He's doesn't regret anything. Carver's men laughed at your pain. They don't care. Neither did the guy who killed my husband. He probably celebrated when he heard how many people he killed. It's sickening.”
“It is. I'm sorry, Jenna.”
“All these years, I've tried not to hate him. I thought that if I forgave him, prayed for him, it would mean that Mark hadn't died in vain. But I do hate my husband's murderer. I want him to suffer the way my family has suffered. I want him to pay for what he did.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I guess that makes me a terrible person.”
“No,” Nick replied softly. “It makes you human.”
“Would you mind very much if I took the rest of the day off?”
“Not at all, Jen. Go. And if you need tomorrow, take that as well.”
She reached down and pulled her purse out of the desk drawer and stood up. She stood there for a moment, then raised her eyes to his. “Rafe kissed me yesterday. When I took him home from the hospital.”
“Yeah?” Nick wanted to smile and say something sarcastic like “about time,” but he didn't think she was much in the mood for it at the moment.
“At first, I was scared because I felt something when he kissed me. Then I was angry that he made me feel anything at all. Now I'm afraid that my feelings for Rafe are going to push Mark's memory away.”
“Mark wouldn't expect you to live alone the rest of your life. He loved you too much for that. You can love Rafe and still preserve your love for Mark.”
She pushed the door open and stood there a second. Then she shook her head. “I'm not so sure.”
Friday, 12:50 p.m.
Sinai Hospital, Baltimore
“She's so frail.” Zeena folded her arms around her waist and stared at her sister, who was now hooked up to an IV and monitors.
“She is frail,” Dr. Burdine admitted as he wrote on Annie's chart. “I'm just glad you were here when she collapsed. Hopefully we can keep her stable. She is deteriorating too quickly.”
“She's always been the sicker one,” Zeena said, feeling dazed. She scratched her arms; her track marks itched incessantly. She needed a fix, but oh how she wanted to quit. “When we were born, I weighed almost two pounds more than Annie. I was always the crazier one. The loud one who always played with fire and never got burned. But not Annie. She would get sick if she even heard the word virus.”Zeena curled her fingers around Annie's hand.
“You sound like you feel responsible for that,” Dr. Burdine said. Zeena thought he was the nicest doctor she had ever met. That wasn't saying much, though. She hadn't met a lot of doctors, but the ones she knew h
ad operated outside the law, and without any manners.
“I guess I do a little. Like somehow I took something from her in the womb and left her with very little.”
“You didn't take anything from her, Barbara. I've seen twins who weighed within ounces of each other, and one will be more susceptible to illness than the other. It's just the way it works.”
Barbara felt Annie's hand tighten on hers. Suddenly, a memory came to her that shot a jolt of affection for her sister right through her. Their secret language. Zeena spoke, hoping that Annie would hear the words and remember their code. “Eh, jadda be lona del wey.” The words that were once so familiar came rushing back to Zeena, but they felt rough, awkward on her tongue.
Zeena felt the tears spill over as Annie replied with a whispered, strained laugh. “Kay tonna nay.”
“The two of you had your own language?” Burdine scratched his chin. “I've read about that before as something common with twins. What's she saying?”
“She wants to know if I set her up.”
“What?”
Zeena shook her head. “Never mind.” She leaned down over Annie. “No. Oumba Kay tonna nay. Never. I'm so sorry you got caught in the middle of that.”
Annie licked her lips but didn't open her eyes, as if speaking alone was more than she could find the strength for. “Nick. Hest nu pay wayla. Ni pok wessle.”
“Someone named Nick.” It took a minute for it to make any sense at all to Zeena. “The bounty hunter.”
“What?”
“There's a bounty hunter named Nick. Nick Shepherd. He's paid me for information from time to time. Years ago.”
“Lo tey rem pa wend,” Annie whispered.
“Key horna buy.” Zeena bowed her head. “I can't remember.”
“What?” Dr. Burdine asked.
“The word I'm looking for. It's been years since she and I spoke like this. I can't remember all the words.” She leaned down. “Annie. Why do you have to call him?”
