by Brenda Novak
Preston had told Jim Deets as much, but Jim had refused to believe it. In his last e-mail, over a year ago, Jim had said he’d get a restraining order if Preston ever contacted him again.
So what did old Jim have to say now?
Preston quickly scanned the message.
Dear Mr. Holman:
This is Rachel Deets, Jim’s wife. I probably shouldn’t be writing you. Jim wouldn’t like it. But something odd happened that’s got me wondering if maybe you were right about Dr. Wendell. In order to register Melanie for seventh grade, we had to fill out a card listing the dates of her inoculations. When I put down that she hadn’t had a shot since she was five years old, Melanie told me that Dr. Wendell gave her one the day she went in for her checkup, two days before she got sick. She said he did it while I was in the bathroom. But no one mentioned anything to me about an immunization.
Dr. Stone has Melanie’s medical records now, but there’s no notation of any shot being given. I tried to talk to Jim about it, but he doesn’t want to hear. Since her illness, Mel struggles to learn, and Jim’s having trouble dealing with it. But she’s pretty adamant about what happened. If Dr. Wendell hurt Melanie on purpose…Well, I’d hate to think he’s out there, able to do the same thing to someone else’s child.
Rachel
PRESTON LET HIS BREATH go in a long sigh. That Vince had given little Melanie a shot sounded all too familiar. When Dallas first fell ill, Christy had immediately called Vince to come over and take a look at him. Since it was late on a Saturday night, it seemed ultra-convenient that their best friend happened to be a doctor. Vince diagnosed Dallas as having a touch of the flu, which was what they’d expected. But then he came over early the next morning with a syringe, claiming a gamma globulin shot would boost Dallas’s immune system.
Considering what happened afterward, what Preston had learned since, Preston would bet his life that there was something besides gamma globulin in that syringe.
He sent a quick reply to Rachel Deets, thanking her for writing to him and wishing Melanie the best. Then he printed her message. So far, the police had refused to listen to him. But maybe this would help.
AFTER EMMA HAD showered and dressed, she nudged Max. “Let’s draw up your insulin, babe.”
He ignored her and continued to stare at the television screen.
“Max?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you put your insulin in a new spot today?” Emma tried to fill her voice with encouragement. Somehow, she had to get Max used to rotating his injection sites. The fatty deposits on his stomach were making it difficult for his body to absorb the insulin when he put it there.
Unfortunately, her light tone had no effect. “No,” he said, his expression becoming a dark glower when she handed him the needle.
“Will you at least try?”
Preston glanced over at them from where he was working on his computer. “Come on, Beast. Help your mom out with this, okay?”
Reluctantly, Max turned away from the television and pulled up the pant leg of his shorts. Emma was tempted to stay and watch, but she thought it might be easier for Max if she let him have some privacy to deal with this.
Moving to the nightstand, she perused the room service menu. Max liked having breakfast delivered. At the very least, it’d give him something to look forward to. But she found herself looking over at him every few seconds and biting nervously on her bottom lip. Come on, baby. You can do it.
“One, two-o-o…three!” Max’s voice held more determination than ever before, which gave her hope. But he still balked at the last second and sat staring glumly at the needle.
“What would you like for breakfast?” she asked Preston.
“An omelette and some coffee.”
Max jumped at the opportunity to distract himself. “Can I have sugar cereal?”
“Not today,” she replied. “You can have eggs and bacon or oatmeal.”
He grimaced.
“Which will it be?” she asked.
His shoulders slumped. “Oatmeal, I guess.”
“I could get some strawberries to go with it.”
“I like strawberries,” he said, somewhat mollified.
She called to place their order, adding some eggs and toast for herself. When she hung up, she turned as Max brought the syringe to eye level. “There’s a bubble in it.”
“No, there’s not, honey,” Emma said. “I already checked it.”
Hearing the flat tone of his voice, she was about to give up and let him put it in his stomach again, but Preston suddenly crossed the room to sit next to him.
“You think that needle’s gonna hurt?” he asked.
Max considered the syringe. “I know it will.”
“How bad?”
He shrugged.
“Why don’t we find out? Why don’t you give me a shot in the arm, then the leg, then the stomach, and I’ll tell you which one hurts the worst.”
Her son’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to take a shot?”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t take insulin, silly.”
“Don’t you have an empty needle we could practice with?”
“I have a ton of ’em!” he said, and bounced off the bed to get one.
Emma sat across from Preston. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Preston said. “We’ve got it under control.”
Max returned and handed her the syringe filled with insulin. “Here, hold this so I can give Preston a shot.”
Emma watched Max pinch the back of Preston’s arm and wondered if Preston was frightened at all. He didn’t act like it.
“Are you ready?” Max asked.
Preston nodded and the needle pierced his skin. Max seemed to be taking careful note of his reaction, but Preston merely shrugged. “No big deal, right? You ready to do my stomach?”
Max grinned as Preston lifted his shirt, and Emma felt such an odd mix of admiration for Preston’s gorgeous body and appreciation for his support with Max that she knew she was in trouble. She was falling in love with this man. She’d known him a week and already she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. There had to be something wrong with her. She couldn’t even breathe right when she looked at him.
“Where are you going to do it?” he asked.
“Here.” Max struggled to pinch an inch of Preston’s washboard stomach. Preston didn’t have any fat for the needle to go into, but he didn’t complain when Max gave him another shot. “Did it hurt?” her son asked curiously.
“Not at all.”
Not half as much as it was going to hurt when Preston left her. Emma felt her chest constrict. What had she done? She’d let him steal her heart. And she wasn’t even sure when it had happened. Maybe when he’d kissed her that first night but had chosen to walk away when Max stirred.
“Okay. Now your leg,” Max said.
Preston moved so that Max could easily reach the inside of his thigh, and Max grinned again. “Here goes.”
The needle went in and came out without so much as a grimace on Preston’s part.
“How’d it feel?” Max asked.
“No worse than in my stomach,” he said.
Skepticism entered Max’s eyes. “You’re just saying that so I’ll do it.”
“No, I’m not. It really doesn’t hurt. You want to poke me again?”
Max inserted the needle three more times before he was convinced it didn’t hurt. Then he took the syringe full of insulin from Emma and injected it into his own leg without even pausing to think about it. “Hey, it doesn’t hurt,” he cried in amazement.
Preston looked at Emma, silently sharing their victory, then ruffled Max’s hair. “How could a puny little shot hurt a beast like you?”
“Thanks, Preston!” Max said, and before Emma could stop him, he threw his arms around Preston’s neck.
THE IMPULSIVENESS of Max’s hug took Preston by surprise. He heard Emma say “Max, no,” as if sh
e was afraid he might be rebuffed. But before Preston could decide how to react, his cell phone rang, and Max scrambled off the bed to get it.
“Can I answer?” he asked.
Preston avoided Emma’s eyes, even though he could sense her watching him. He didn’t want her to know how rattled he was, but the fact that he was off balance probably showed on his face.
Max tapped his shoulder. “Preston?”
It was probably Gordon calling to make sure he’d received Joanie’s contact information. Preston couldn’t see any harm in letting Max talk to him. But then Preston wasn’t sure he could’ve said no to anything Max wanted at that moment.
“Go ahead,” he said, pointing to the Talk button.
Max smiled broadly, acting very important as he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hello?…What?…Beast…That’s my nickname…. Preston gave it to me…. Five…My birthday’s in—” He looked to Emma.
“June,” she supplied.
“June,” he repeated. “Yeah, he’s here….”
“Who is it?” Preston asked.
Max covered the mouthpiece. “Sarah.”
His mother? Preston reached out to take the phone, but Max wasn’t finished talking yet. “We had a slumber party last night,” he told her. “Preston slept in our bed.” Max’s attention returned to Emma. “She’s here…. Yeah, she slept with him, too. She got to be in the middle.”
Preston groaned and fell back on the bed.
“Max, hand Preston his phone,” Emma said.
Max was having too much fun to pay any attention. “Hey, guess what? I’m wearing the new underwear Preston bought me. They’re just like his.”
Preston shot upright again. “Max!”
Max blinked innocently at him. “She wants to talk to you,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PRESTON WAS HESITANT to put the phone to his ear. After Max’s brief intro, he knew his mother would have more questions than he wanted to deal with.
“Aren’t you going to talk to her?” Emma asked.
Reluctantly, Preston dropped back onto the bed. “Hello?”
At the sound of his voice, his mother said, “It is you. For a minute there, I thought maybe I’d dialed the wrong number.”
Maybe he should’ve hung up and let her continue to think so.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Who was the little boy who answered the phone?”
“No one.”
“He said you bought him underwear.”
Preston didn’t respond.
“He also said his mother’s there.”
“Mom—”
“Have you met someone? Is this something I should be excited about?”
“No, definitely not.”
Emma got up and began pulling Max from the room in an obvious attempt to give him some privacy.
“Who’s with you, then?”
“Just someone who’s catching a ride. It’s nothing.” From the corner of his eye he saw Emma pause at the door, and knew she’d heard him. Belatedly, he realized how callous he must’ve sounded. But he couldn’t say anything to soften his response or his mother would jump to the wrong conclusion and start in with how grateful she was that he’d found someone, how happy she’d be to have another grandson, how hard she’d prayed that he’d be able to move on with his life. She was causing enough of a fuss as it was.
“Someone who’s catching a ride!” she cried. “A hitchhiker? Do you know how dangerous that is?”
And he hadn’t even mentioned Manuel….
“It’s a woman and a child, Mom. No big deal.”
Emma had disappeared into the living room, but his words still mocked him, and not only because of Manuel. No big deal? It had certainly been a big deal a moment ago when Max had hugged him. It had been a big deal when Preston made love to Emma, when he’d held her during the night.
“She could rob you blind and sneak off while you’re sleeping!” his mother said.
At this point, Preston was beginning to believe that having Emma and Max sneak out while he was sleeping might be the best scenario for all concerned. Dropping them off and driving away wasn’t going to be easy. And if they took a little money when they left—so much the better. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about them going hungry.
“I’d probably thank her if she did,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.” How could she? Even he didn’t understand. He spent half his time thinking about Emma and the other half thinking about Vince. If he went after Vince, if he had to take matters into his own hands, chances were he’d go to prison and never see Emma again. But if he couldn’t get the police to listen to him…
There was a long pause, then Sarah said, “Christy called me last night.”
“What for?”
“She’s worried sick about you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still living in the past.”
Preston didn’t bother to defend himself. “Did she also tell you I’ve located the bastard?”
“She did. But what good is that going to do? You’ve tried and tried to get the police to investigate that doctor. They won’t do it.”
“Because they think I’m just some distraught father who can’t get over the death of his son.” In the other room, Preston heard Max talking to room service. Their breakfast was here.
“You are a distraught father who can’t get over the death of his son. When are you going to let go of Dallas, Preston? I loved him, too. Until Michelle’s baby, he was my only grandson. But no matter how much you love him, you can’t go on like this. You’re ruining your life.”
“Mom—”
“I’m sorry. I can’t bite my tongue any longer. It’s killing me to see what you’re doing to yourself.”
Preston blew out a sigh. “This is something I have to do.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve tried to leave you to deal with your grief in your own way, told myself to give you time and space, believed you’d come around on your own. But you’re not, and enough is enough.”
“It’ll be enough when Vince pays for what he’s done.”
“That’s it,” she snapped. “I want you to seek professional help.”
“So now I’m crazy?”
“Christy saw the same things you did, and she’s convinced Vince had nothing to do with Dallas’s death.”
Christy didn’t want to face what he’d had to face—that they were the ones who’d called Vince. “She’s wrong.”
“I can’t believe that. She’s rebuilt her life, while you’re traipsing all over the country, living in motels. Usually I can’t even get hold of you. When we do speak, you frighten me with your talk of revenge.”
“Someone has to stop him,” he said angrily.
“So what are you going to do when you confront this man?”
Preston had asked himself that question a million times. But he still didn’t have an answer. He owed it to Dallas to make things right. He owed it to children everywhere to ensure that Vince couldn’t hurt anyone else. But how far would he go?
He thought of the gun he’d been carrying with him for over a year. Would he use it?
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” he said. “I’m gathering more information every day. Maybe the FBI will finally look into it.”
“That’s a long shot, and you know it.”
Her words brought back the helplessness he’d experienced since Dallas died. Deep in his heart he knew what had happened, but it was difficult to prove. And because of his grief, Preston had no credibility. His insistence that Vince had caused Dallas’s rapid decline merely elicited pity or maybe a sad, patronizing shake of the head. He loathed both reactions. Even Christy hadn’t sided with him. Her refusal to support him where Vince was concerned was the deepest cut of all.
“It’s been two years,” his mother continued. “How long are you going to go on like
this?”
He was tired of fighting the battle alone, but he wouldn’t give up. He’d made a promise to Dallas. “As long as it takes.”
“Preston, please! Dallas might be dead, but you’re not.”
Preston had been numb and vacant for two years, so he might have argued that point. Except, since he’d met Emma and Max, his life had started to change. Suddenly he was experiencing desire, tenderness, protectiveness, even hope. But these changes brought their own pain, making him wonder if he wasn’t better off staying as he was. Especially because he hadn’t solved anything. He still had the same obsession that had brought about the end of his marriage; he wouldn’t rest until he stopped Vince from practicing medicine and made him accountable for what he’d done.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he said. “There’s no point. We’re not going to agree.”
In the other room, Emma told Max to sit still before he spilled his milk. Preston wanted to be with them, eating breakfast. Why the day seemed brighter when they were around, he wouldn’t consider. He told himself it was simply good to be needed again. Looking out for them gave him a purpose beyond chasing down Vince. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I reach Iowa, okay?”
“Preston?”
“What?”
“Please don’t do anything foolish. You may not care about yourself anymore, but I’m still your mother. If anything happened to you—” her voice cracked “—it’d break my heart. It’s been hard enough already.”
Feeling guilty for his earlier impatience, Preston covered his eyes with his arm. Sarah might not understand what he was doing, but she loved him. She’d been a good mother, and he and his stepsister were all she had since his father’s death.
“I’ll be careful,” he promised.
NEBRASKA WAS as flat as Emma had always heard. Cornfields stretched out on either side of the road, still green although it was late August. Dirt roads dissected the passing countryside and an occasional farmhouse or red barn rose in the distance.
She listened to Max play with his computer speller while imagining what it might be like to live in such a place, with bees humming in the flowers nearby, a small dust cloud following a tractor as it rolled slowly along in the field next door, the wind gently stirring the tops of the corn stalks.
