Ultimate Fear (Book 2 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series)

by Kristine Mason

  He smiled back because that was what he should do, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the truck. With his head and heart aching, he idled in the gravel driveway for a few minutes, trying to muster the courage to do what he had to do to make his wife happy.

  “We go bye-bye,” Mr. Independent said.

  Looking in his rearview mirror and seeing the excitement in the boy’s eyes had his throat constricting again with the urge to cry. Then he caught his wife staring out the back screen door. Knowing he had no choice, he shifted the Ford and backed it out of the driveway. Once he’d driven through their neighborhood, he turned onto US-36 and headed east. Thirty minutes later, he exited onto I-35 and went north. With each passing mile marker, his stomach twisted more and more. The ache in his chest and head grew, reminding him that this was all wrong.

  An hour later, he exited off the highway and into the city of Lamoni, Iowa. With the traffic light, he’d made good time. Too good. At half past eight, the sun had only just begun to set. Needing darkness, and needing to kill some time, he woke the boy and took him for an ice cream.

  By nine, Lamoni was cloaked in darkness.

  He drove the F-150 through town, then pulled along the side of the road. He climbed out of the truck and went to its backend. The temperature here was about the same as St. Joseph’s and he was glad he’d had the foresight to buy the boy a little sweatshirt. After retrieving that, along with the cheap umbrella stroller he’d bought the same day he’d purchased the heavy-duty garbage bags and a pair of work gloves, he took Mr. Independent from his car seat. Not ready to let the boy go, he held him and hugged him tight. After giving him a kiss, he put the sweatshirt on him, grabbed the unfolded stroller and began walking. Ten minutes later, he stood outside of one of Graceland University’s residence halls. In the distance he heard someone laugh. He took several steps back and scanned the area.

  “We go bye-bye,” Mr. Independent said, clutching Wayne’s neck.

  With anxiety coiling through him, he set the boy on the grass and unfolded the stroller. “Yes, son, you’re going bye-bye.” He strapped the boy in the stroller, then took the sippy cup from him.

  “Me want,” he cried.

  Using his shirt, Wayne wiped his fingerprints from the cup, then, still holding it with the material from his shirt, handed it back. Shushing the boy, he looked around again, saw a security camera high on top of a lamppost and pulled his ball cap down low. He wheeled the stroller over the grass and around the hedges, then parked it about ten feet from the residence hall doorway.

  “Kisses,” he said, kneeling down in front of the boy.

  Mr. Independent puckered up and made a quiet smacking sound.

  “You’re a good boy. I’m sorry we never got to throw the ball together.” After one more quick kiss, he touched the boy’s chubby cheek, then took off at a sprint.

  Self-loathing chased him all the way back to Missouri. He knew the boy would be okay. Someone would hear him and they’d do the right thing and contact the authorities. At two years and four months, if the boy wasn’t reunited with his real family, he would most certainly be placed in a good home. The problem was, he wanted the boy in his home.

  When he pulled into his gravel driveway and killed the engine, he sat in the truck for a few minutes. His wife wouldn’t ask about the boy, or how he’d disposed of him. She wouldn’t check the shovel for dirt or count how many garbage bags he’d used. How she could simply wash her hands of the children, he didn’t know. For him, each time he rid them of a child, he lost a part of himself.

  With the hour growing late, he finally exited the truck and made his way into the house. Boxes were on top of the kitchen table and on the floor. When he headed into the living room, he saw the same. Since the house had come furnished, they didn’t have too much and would be able to fit their belongings in the back of his truck and her car. He’d like to have more, but with as much as they moved, that wasn’t an option. Leaving paper trails could lead to discovery.

  “How’d it go?” Dimples asked, as she came out of Mr. Independent’s bedroom carrying a photo album.

  “It’s done,” he said, and didn’t hide his anger.

  Her pretty blue eyes softened with sympathy and guilt. “I’m sorry, honey. Elton was a precious boy.”

  Which Elton? There’d been four boys over the past thirteen years, and Dimples had given each one of them the name they’d chosen for the son they’d lost. At first, he’d agreed to the name, figuring it was what Dimples had needed to cope with the death of their baby. But when the next boy had come into their lives, and Dimples had begun calling him Elton, too, he’d realized this wasn’t about coping. As much as he loved his wife, she had…issues. After the coma, her doctor had been concerned that she’d have neurological side effects. Series of tests had proven she was just fine. Only Wayne disagreed. Dimples had a sick need to have a baby, and would go to any length to have one. The day she’d woken from her coma, he’d promised to give her babies, and had planned on adoption, or them becoming foster parents.

  Dimples had had other plans.

  His stomach churned with guilt and resentment. Four children in thirteen years. And now she wanted another.

  She touched his arm and offered him the photo album. “Here, why don’t you take one last look at Elton’s scrapbook before I pack it away?”

  He didn’t want to see pictures of Mr. Independent. He wanted to step into the boy’s room and see him sleeping in his crib. He wanted him safe and with them, not in the arms of strangers. “No, just pack it. I’ve gotta get some sleep,” he said, and turned for their bedroom.

  “Wayne,” she called.

  He paused in the threshold of their bedroom doorway and kept his back to her. “What is it?”

  “Do you still love me?”

  When he glanced over his shoulder, he caught the childlike uncertainty in her eyes as she hugged the album to her chest. “Of course I still love you. I’m just… I loved that boy, too.”

  She sent him a soft smile and her posture relaxed. “I know you did. Don’t worry. Like I told you, we’ll have another to take his place in no time.”

  *

  Jessica parked her Ford Explorer in the driveway of the home she used to share with Dante. After his last text earlier this afternoon, she’d responded with one of her own, telling him she’d come by after work to take a look at the damage done to her garden. His garden, she reminded herself. Regardless, if he had used the organic cayenne pepper spray she’d given him to stop the rabbits from feasting on the vegetables, she wouldn’t have to be here to assess the damage.

  Before stepping out of the SUV, she grabbed the flashlight from her glove box, then stepped into the night. The tall lampposts lining the street cast shadows along the brick path leading to the front door. Katydids and other crickets filled the air with their songs. She’d used to enjoy sitting on the back patio with Dante, nursing a cocktail, talking and listening to the insects. During cooler summer nights, she’d open their bedroom window, curl up against Dante’s big body and fall asleep to the rhythm of his heart and the insects’ soothing sounds. Now all she had to lull her to sleep—when she could sleep—was traffic, and lots of it.

  But she’d reconciled her decision to move to the small, dysfunctional, crappy apartment. Living there had brought her closer to work and, with no memories lingering in the rooms, had also given her a fresh start. Her stomach seized when she reached the front door. Here, though, in the home she and Dante had bought and renovated, the home they’d planned to fill with children, were too many memories of what had been and what would never be.

  Her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed. At least, not now. Later, when she was back in her crappy apartment she could cry herself to sleep. And she knew in her knotted-up gut, she would do just that. Every time she’d visited her former home, she’d catch herself reminiscing, then later, dwelling. Later still, crying, regretting and questioning why. Why them? Why their daughter?

 
; She drew in a shaky breath and swiped at a tear that managed to escape, then turned away from the door. After dealing with the Palmers’ murder-suicide today, then having to meet with their family, she didn’t think she could face Dante and the memories.

  Maybe your ‘devil’s own sell’ is Sophia. Have you ever thought of that?

  Alex’s words taunted her. She shouldn’t have come here tonight. Her baby girl was always on her mind, so was Dante. Although she didn’t consider herself a fragile person, that about summed up how she was feeling tonight. Fragile, vulnerable.

  Lonely.

  Yeah, this was a mistake and she needed to go to the apartment. She started down the brick path. No good could come from being here. She’d likely end up arguing with Dante over something stupid, like why hadn’t he used the damned cayenne pepper spray.

  “Going somewhere?”

  She stopped a few feet from the driveway and let his soothing voice sweep her away to another time. “It’s late,” she said without turning. Dante was the sexiest man she’d ever met and had a way of making her melt with just the sound of his voice—which was why she tried to stick to texting.

  For the past three weeks, she’d managed to avoid seeing and speaking to him. That last meeting had ended in a heated argument over her obsession with finding their daughter. But even then, when they’d been fighting, she’d wanted to throw herself into his strong arms. She’d wanted to know that there was one steady thing in this world she could depend on—Dante. He’d been her rock, her best friend and lover. Even when he’d been overseas with the SEALs and distance had separated them for months, she’d known in her gut and her heart that he’d come home to her, that he’d loved her.

  “It’s never too late.”

  To drop by and check out the vegetable garden, or for them?

  Since she was already at his house, and she had a busy day scheduled for tomorrow, she might as well do what she came here to do. Besides, she’d missed seeing his face.

  With her belly twisting both with nervous anticipation and apprehension, she turned and caught her breath. The light from the foyer framed Dante from behind. His shoulders looked broader, his hair and eyes darker. She loved the way he wore his hair longer now. Even though they’d argued the last time they’d seen each other, she still itched to run her fingers through his thick natural waves and curls.

  “I brought a flashlight,” she said, holding it in the air and tried to ignore the way his t-shirt hugged his muscular chest and arms. “I’ll just meet you out back.”

  He cocked a challenging brow. “God forbid if you come inside,” he said, and took a step backward into the foyer. “If you want to slink around to the backyard, knock yourself out.”

  Although she knew he was baiting her, she let him hook her and took a few steps toward the door. Her heart ached to be back inside their home, to see her watercolors, the family photos she’d left behind, the walls she’d painstakingly ripped hideous wallpaper from, then subsequently spent hours sanding and painting. Their home was a part of her she couldn’t seem to let go and yet could no longer embrace. Their daughter had only been with them for ten months, but her spirit, her laughter and innocence had become embedded in the house. And until their child was returned to them, being here, being inside, remembering where the baby swing and Pack’n Play had once been in the living room, or the high chair in the kitchen—

  She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t going to slink. I told you it was late. I didn’t want to interrupt whatever you were doing.”

  “I asked you to come over, so you’re not interrupting. You do what you need to do, though. If that means going or slinking, I’m good either way. But, you did drive out here. So…” he finished with a shrug.

  Totally baiting her. But she’d look at going into the house as a personal challenge. She was a homicide detective, damn it. She’d been in situations that would put the fear of God into most people, or give them nightmares to last a lifetime. She could walk through her home, go out the back door and check the damned, stupid vegetable garden, then be on her way. “It’s been a long day,” she said, and stepped onto the small porch. “Let’s make this quick.”

  Dante gave her space to enter, but between his size and the small foyer, a confusing mixture of claustrophobia and longing had her rushing into the living room. Keeping her focus on the original hardwood floors she and Dante had personally sanded and refinished, she moved past the couch, the fireplace and beautiful mantel Dante had built and headed into the dining room. When she reached the kitchen, her heart rate slowed and her mouth instantly watered.

  Lasagna.

  Dante made a killer lasagna. For whatever reason, just the scent of it was like an aphrodisiac for her.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The urge to eat up the distance and shove his t-shirt over his head and—

  No. Don’t go there. The last time they’d had sex was a little less than a year ago. She’d stopped by their house on a Sunday afternoon to pick up a few things stored in the basement. Dante had been shirtless and had just finished washing his car. When it came to his body, she had little control over her hormones. That afternoon, she’d given into temptation, into the need for sexual release and had wound up having sex with him on the living room couch.

  Her cheeks grew warm as desire swirled through her body. They’d also had sex against the wall and then in the shower. Afterward, she’d been tempted to stay the night or come back the next day, but when she’d walked past their daughter’s closed bedroom door, the agony over what she’d lost had had her rushing from their house. That closed door had reminded her of what could never be. And she’d do well to continue to remind herself that she and Dante could no longer make things work between them. She loved Dante, but he was like a human memento. Seeing him, being near him, hearing his voice, brought a mixture of comfort and agony. He’d been the father of her child. He’d helped bring their daughter into the world. When she saw him, she saw her.

  “I’m good, thanks,” she finally said, determined to look at the garden, then leave as quickly as possible.

  He leaned against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, a half-smile tilting his lips. “If you’re just coming over now, I’m assuming you haven’t eaten yet.”

  She hadn’t. After they’d met with Leslie and Richard Palmer’s family, then with the medical examiner, she and Alex had spent hours writing their report. There’d been no time to eat, and she’d had no appetite.

  “I had a salad earlier,” she lied, even as her stomach protested the need to taste—just one bite—Dante’s delicious lasagna.

  “You should be eating more than salad. You’ve gotten too thin.” He moved his gaze over her body. “Or maybe the guys you’re dating like you skinny.”

  She swiveled and fully faced him. “I’m not dating anyone.” Was he? Did he want to?

  Dante was a very sexual man. Like her, had he been celibate except for that hot Sunday afternoon when they’d rechristened several rooms in their house? Jealousy came at her in a rush, which was selfish on her part. She couldn’t expect Dante to maintain their marital vows when she’d been the one to walk away from their marriage.

  “If this is your way of telling me you’re seeing someone or want to—” She suddenly remembered the new recruit he’d been training. Lola. She’d briefly met the petite, gorgeous young girl with perky boobs and exotic eyes when she’d stopped by CORE to drop off a belated baby shower gift for Rachel. “I thought Ian didn’t encourage interoffice dating.”

  Frowning, he shoved off the wall. “What are you talking about?”

  “Lola.” She should stop. Shut her mouth, go into the garden and leave. Who he dated was none of her business. Only they were still legally married, and in her mind, selfish or not, if he was dating, it was her business. “She’s a little young, don’t you think?”

  “First, I’m not interested in Lola. Second, we’re only twelve years apart.”

 
“Right, so when she was in middle school, you were twenty-four.” She wrinkled her nose. “Has creeper written all over it when you think about it that way, huh?”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Actually, you sound jealous.”

  Damn it, she did. “I’m not,” she lied. “I just don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself.”

  “A fool of myself,” he muttered, and walked to the back door. “I think anyone who knows our situation would probably think I was a fool for waiting on you. So what’s the difference? And I told you, I’m not interested in Lola.”

  I was a fool for waiting on you…

  Her jealousy morphed into guilt. For nearly six years she hadn’t lived up to her part in their marriage. For the past three years, she’d had the divorce papers sitting on top of her microwave waiting to be signed. Every time she’d think she was ready to sign them and officially end their marriage, she’d come up with an excuse to avoid the inevitable. And there’d been many excuses, but only one true reason. She was still in love with her husband.

  When he opened the back door, she reached for him, but curled her hand into a fist and pulled away before making contact. She had to let him go and allow him to move on with his life. He might not be interested in Lola, and she might’ve given him a shot about his age, but he was still young. He could meet someone new, start a family…be happy without her dragging him down.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her guilt now turning to anger. She should have signed those divorce papers the moment she’d received them, instead of allowing them to hang over her head like a black cloud. And Dante should have opened his mouth and given her an ultimatum. Come home or finalize the divorce. “I’ll take care of the divorce papers when I get home tonight.”

  Chuckling, he faced her, but there was no humor in his eyes, only disappointment. “Really? Why now?”

  “If you’re not interested in Lola, I’m assuming there’s someone else.”

  “Why would you assume that?”

  “Because you brought up dating.”