by Ana Barrons
“You ruined her!” Philip shouted. He reared up and shoved John off him then lunged for his knife. John was nearly naked, and vulnerable. But he was an old street fighter, and there was no way this guy was not going down. And it had to happen fast, before Hannah died in that fire.
He and Philip circled each other, crouched with their arms out like warriors, Philip, short and muscular with his big hunting knife, John, tall and strong with no weapon but his wits. He waved Philip forward. “Come on, Philip, let’s see who’s the better man. Bring it on.”
There was confusion in the other man’s eyes—but no signs of blood on his hands or clothes. Hannah had to be alive. Philip hesitated a second too long, giving John the opportunity to get close and land a kick in his solar plexus. Philip staggered backwards. John moved in quickly and kicked him again, harder. Philip went down, but before John could jump him, he rolled away and regained his legs, the knife still firmly in his grip. John backed into the leaf hut and picked his way along the side that was not in flames. Thank God for the wet weather they’d had recently. Still, the fire was climbing the other side. He had to get in there and pull Hannah out. Why hadn’t she screamed by now?
“Why is she so quiet in there, Philip?” John asked as he moved in the direction of the entry hole.
“Because she’s dead. You killed her.”
Please, God, no.
“Oh, yeah? How’d I kill her?” Philip was forcing him back into the circle dance. “I didn’t put her in there and set it on fire.”
“You turned her against me. She was mine, and you…you spoiled her. I saw you.”
“Let her choose,” John said, his eyes on the knife in Philip’s hand while his peripheral vision tortured him. “I’ll go in and get her.”
“No. You’ll never have her.”
The wind picked up suddenly and changed direction, blowing smoke into John’s eyes and nose and fanning the flames. Philip was choking—this was his last chance to bring the bastard down and get Hannah safely away. If she was still alive. Sirens blared in the distance, and he prayed they were coming to the rescue. He rushed forward, hoping to score a winning punch—but Philip wasn’t there. Had he run away or was he going to attack from another direction?
The flames were moving around the side of the hut now. John couldn’t wait any longer. He turned and ran towards the entrance to the leaf hut—and felt the blade slice into his thigh. He tried to stagger away, but Philip jumped on his back, knocking him to his knees.
Like a wounded beast separated from his mate, John roared, grabbed Philip’s arms and heaved him over his head. He landed on his back. John turned around in the dirt and kicked him in the head and shoulders until he went limp. Then he heard the worst sound in the world—the whoosh and clatter of the roof hut collapsing in an inferno of heat and flames.
“Hannah!” he cried, as another gust of wind pulled the flames higher still. He strained through the smoke, pulling himself closer, calling her name.
“Too late.” Philip’s voice came from behind him.
A murderous rage rose inside his gut, and he turned toward Philip—who was lying on his side, pointing John’s gun at him. He heard the shot and expected to feel the burn, but instead Philip was staring at his bloody hand as though he couldn’t imagine how it had gotten there.
“Daly! You okay?”
The disembodied voice came through the smoke in the general direction of the old tree trunk. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Then Rita Santini appeared as if by magic. She squatted down behind Philip and cuffed his hands behind his back. John turned to the flames rising just a few feet from him and knew in that moment he had gone to hell.
“The fire—somebody—she’s in there!” he shouted, crawling toward the flames. “Please—help her!”
From somewhere in the darkness, he heard another voice calling his name and coughing.
Ty. Oh, Jesus.
John’s throat was too choked with smoke and tears to answer. He watched the flames devouring the love of his life, and with her all hope for the future. If only he could have traded places with her. He rolled his shoulders forward and dropped his head into his hands—and was surprised to see the blood.
It was Hannah’s blood on his hands—his lies had led her to this.
Someone was tugging his upper arm, pulling him back from the flames. “Hey, man,” Ty said. “She’s going to be okay.”
John raised his head slowly, afraid to believe. “What?”
“She’s alive. Hannah’s alive.”
John grabbed the boy and pulled his head close so he could make sure he was hearing him correctly. “Hannah’s alive?”
“Yeah. You and the freak were fighting and I got scared for her, so I skirted around in the woods and went down the hole. The fucker had her tied up, so I untied her and tugged on her arms. Once I got her up, she came out of it enough to let me push her out the top. But jeez, she was like dead weight.”
The smile on Ty’s filthy, pale face was so beautiful John kissed him. “You got her out,” he said, swiping tears off his face. His words came out as sobs. “You saved her.”
Ty wiped his forehead with the sleeve of John’s jacket. “Yeah, and I friggin’ hurt all over. Man, you must be freezing your ass off. And your leg’s bleeding. That’s a big mother knife.”
Bright lights descended toward them out of the forest. At last, the rescuers. A stretcher appeared and John was loaded onto it carefully, facedown because of the knife still sticking out of his leg. “Get a stretcher for him,” he said, pointing to Ty.
“We got it covered,” the paramedic said.
John struggled to stay conscious all the way to the top of the hill. The pain in his leg was agonizing. All he needed was to see Hannah with his own eyes, make sure she was really alive…
He finally saw her, sitting in an ambulance with an oxygen mask over her face and two paramedics examining her. Just before he gave in to the darkness, he closed his eyes and thanked God—and Ty—for sparing her.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hannah finished sweeping her back porch, grabbed the mat off the railing and set it down in front of the door. She stared at the Welcome and called herself a hypocrite. Nearly three months of isolating herself, emotionally and physically, had finally driven her staff away. She couldn’t remember the last time one of them had dropped by unannounced. Or announced, for that matter. And they didn’t invite her over for drinks on Friday afternoons anymore. They’d all gone over to Aaron March’s house last week. This week no one had asked her to join them anywhere. Well, that was okay too.
Driven inside by the relentless whine of earthmoving equipment—which irritated her, even though they were making way for the gym—she picked up the glass of white wine she’d been nursing and discovered it was no longer cold. She dumped it in the sink and poured a new one, then wandered into the living room, wondering what to do next. She checked her watch. Almost four o’clock. What did she used to do at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon? She knew what she didn’t used to do—drink. If she could just get through the rest of the day and evening. Tomorrow she was playing racquetball with Ty at two, and then they’d grab a snack.
She smiled. Ty. Her rescuer, nationally recognized hero, and newest addition to the honor roll. It always amazed her what a hefty dollop of self-esteem—and liberal use of spellcheck—could do for a kid’s grades. That, and the attention of a parent who suddenly had time for him.
They say there’s always a silver lining, no matter how bad things get. Ty and Thornton were hers. Nick, ironically, was probably going to prison for supplying the drugs that had nearly destroyed Christian’s life. Thornton swore he’d believed Nick was clean, but they had all told her so many lies she didn’t know what or whom to believe anymore. She was just grateful Christian was almost back to normal.
She checked her watch again. Her racquetball date was twenty-two hours from now. She would phone Arthur and Bebe at the usual time, ten o’clock Eastern
, to check on Arthur’s chemotherapy and let them know she was okay. Between now and then…well, she could always go into the office. There was plenty to keep her busy there.
Her ears perked up at the sound of a car coming up the drive. As always when she wasn’t expecting company, her stomach began to flutter nervously, and that deep-down pain in her womb flared to life. She wrapped an arm protectively around her waist and went to the window. A tall, thin man with silver hair was emerging from a cab. Oh Lord, what if he’d come to the wrong place? What would she do with a stranger? Better to head him off before the cab left.
She opened the door and started down the stairs just as the man stepped away from the cab, straightened and faced her. They stared at each other across the yard.
No, it can’t be.
But it was. Her other arm came around her waist and squeezed. The cab pulled away down the drive but the man just stood there, his mouth slightly open, his eyes filled with a mix of amazement and sorrow. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was staring at a ghost. Which was exactly what she’d become.
She wasn’t sure which one of them moved first, but she was standing at the bottom of the steps and he was standing just a few feet away. She lowered her head to hide her quivering lips, wondering how it was possible that after all these months of numbness, the look in Sam Daly’s eyes could move her to tears.
His hand moved slowly toward her, then stopped. It hung there, unmoving. Waiting for permission. The lump in her throat was too large to allow words to pass, so she simply nodded her head. His arms came around her and gently eased her close. Then one hand came up and stroked the back of her head, and she rested it on his chest. Slowly, she unwound her arms and brought her hands to her face.
“It’s okay, Hannah,” he said in a voice so kind and sad the tears began to leak out the sides of eyes that had lost their ability to weep. “I’ve done all my crying. You can let go of it now. It’s safe.”
Safe. Yes. In the arms of the man she had wrongly despised for so many years. The man who had loved her mother and suffered so much loss—including the son he adored—because her father had deliberately failed to tell the police about a stalker. So many years of pain caused by a man who valued pride over truth, hatred over love. She wanted to beg this man’s forgiveness, but she couldn’t speak.
“We can’t change the past, Hannah,” Sam Daly said. “All we can do is move forward. That’s what Sharon would have wanted for you. She loved you so much.”
The first sob burst out of her, and she clung to him, shedding the tears that had been too long denied. She cried for lost love, Sam Daly’s and her own. Their broken hearts were intertwined and would bind them together forever. After she cried herself out, she looked up at him through blurry eyes. “We lost the same people,” she said. “We loved the same people.”
Sam Daly stroked his hand over her hair tenderly. “We both lost your mother. But I’ve got my son back.” Tears filled his eyes, and Hannah’s vision blurred. “He loves you, Hannah. He’s lost without you.”
“He has you, now,” she said, looking away. “How can he be lost? He spent his whole life preparing for the day he could get you back.” She stepped back and turned toward the steps. Sam followed her inside.
“What can I get you?” she asked, heading into the kitchen. “I’m drinking white wine, but I also have red, or beer, or iced tea.” She picked up her glass and took a long sip.
“How much are you drinking?”
Hannah could hear the concern in his voice and thought about how her father would have asked the same question. She shrugged. “A glass or two of wine in the evenings. It’s called self-medicating. I accuse the kids of it all the time.”
“John has a few beers in the afternoon, then wine with dinner—we usually share a bottle, and I have one glass—and scotch before bed.”
Hannah was shocked, but didn’t comment. “So, you’re living with him now. In Richmond?”
He shook his head. “Middleburg. Former carriage house on a broken-up estate, real cute place. It’s not far from here, maybe twenty minutes.”
John was only twenty minutes away. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh.”
“I’ll take a glass of whatever you’re drinking.”
They took their glasses into the living room and settled onto the sofa. Hannah ran her finger around the rim of the glass, unsure how to ask the question. Finally she just put it out there without looking at him. She knew whatever she saw in his eyes would make her cry. “Is it hard for you…to look at me?”
“No,” he said without hesitation. She raised her head and found him smiling. “It’s hard for me to look away.”
“My father couldn’t stand the sight of me,” she said, as though that was a common occurrence between fathers and daughters.
Sam reached over and covered her hand. “Your father is a fool. If I’d been him, I would have kept you close and been involved in every part of your life, even if it hurt sometimes to think of Sharon, because she stayed alive through you.” He shook his head. “I’ve thought of you so often over the years, wondering how you were managing without your mother. John filled me in, about Arthur Weiss and his wife, and other things.” He squeezed her hand. “Sad things. Things you shouldn’t have had to go through.”
“No wonder John wanted you back so badly. If you were my father, I think—” She stopped. “I tried to put myself in John’s shoes, after it happened. The fire and all that, and finding out about him. You know, like if I’d had the chance to save my mother, how far would I have gone. But I couldn’t feel anything. Nothing. And then…” She trailed off. No one knew the rest, and she didn’t think she could trust Sam not to tell John.
“And then,” he prompted.
“Something else happened. But it’s over now.” She changed the subject. “Has the FBI reinstated him?”
“It’s too soon. The investigation is moving slowly. John says the powers that be are particularly in a snit over the fact that Thornton Bradshaw had destroyed mountains of documents by the time the FBI was ready to move in.”
“They think he warned him?”
“They haven’t said that, but Bradshaw was at the scene that night when his son pushed you out of that leaf hut.” He paused and squeezed her hand, his eyes telling her he was deeply relieved by what Ty had done. “And someone from Bradshaw’s home and cell phones made several calls to John.”
“They don’t believe it was Ty?”
“Unclear. In any event, John insists privately that he’s through with the FBI. But he wants it to be his idea to leave, not theirs, so he’s cooperating with the investigation.”
“He doesn’t want to go back to a career that required all that training?”
“Psychology is John’s passion, not law enforcement or even criminal profiling, which he had originally considered. He joined the FBI and went through all that training in the hope that someday he’d find out who really murdered your mother.” Hannah saw him wince, and wondered whether it was from talking about her mother’s murder, or John’s doubts about his guilt or innocence, which he had disclosed to her in a long letter she’d read hundreds of time. “And he did.”
“What about the FBI agent? I don’t remember his name. John called him when we were in Marblehead.”
Sam smiled. No wonder her mother had loved this man. Not only was he intelligent and caring, he was as handsome—in a different way—as his son, who apparently took after his mother’s side of the family.
“Ronald Geer,” Sam said. “He was a rookie cop when I was arrested, and the one person who believed there was another viable suspect.” They exchanged a look, but neither mentioned Philip’s name. “He couldn’t convince any of the higher-ups on the force to look for the guy. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was also fairly certain the department had tampered with some evidence. He was vague on that point, probably too ashamed, or maybe he didn’t want to implicate anyone else. In any event, he had no way of proving it, so he
quit the force, went to law school and joined the FBI.”
Hannah let that sink in. “So he was the person who told John where to find me?”
Sam nodded and took another swallow of his wine. “He’d known for some time that John was an FBI agent. I’m not sure how, but I assume he made a point of keeping track of him after John’s mother moved them to Philadelphia. And then, when he heard about the investigation into Bradshaw’s dealings and discovered you were involved with the guy, Ron was determined to find a way to right an old wrong.” He swirled the wine in his glass, staring into it. “An astute person who knew John’s history could infer that his choice of education and career was related to having a father convicted of murder. He gambled that John would use his association with you to get at the truth, even though it would involve violating bureau policy.”
Sam sighed deeply. “I owe my freedom to that good and wise man, as well as to you and John. And of course, I owe Special Agent Santini for saving John, and Ty Bradshaw for saving you. I’ll be forever in all of your debt.”
She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I was an unwitting participant. Before I knew who you were, and before…I was kidnapped, I thought of you as my enemy. I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help you.” Her father had used the same words. Except her father had no interest in helping to find his wife’s killer even after he knew the man was a threat to his own daughter. She would probably never really get over the fact that her father didn’t love her.
“I understand that completely,” Sam said. “And so did John. Which is why he chose to lie to you.”
She didn’t look at Sam when she rose. “Refill?”
“Sure.”
She picked up both glasses, took them to the kitchen and refilled them, then leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. The buzz from the wine couldn’t fill the emptiness. Not today, nor any of the other days. She rested her hand over her concave belly. Nothing could fill that particular void. Ever. Moments later she felt Sam’s hand on her shoulder. He didn’t speak.
