Janelle Taylor

by Night Moves

  They sat in the back row of the crowded theater and shared a big tub of buttered popcorn and a box of Snowcaps. She timed it so that they would arrive during the previews of coming attractions—meaning the lights were down in the theater—and she made sure they were the first ones out of their seats when the credits started rolling. That was fine with Spencer—he had to go to the bathroom so badly that he was practically doubled over.

  Which presented a problem.

  Should she let him go into the men’s room alone? Or take him into the ladies’ room with her? Jordan pondered the dilemma as she led him hurriedly toward the rest rooms over by the exit door. She had no idea what the mom of a young son did in a situation like this, but realized she really had no alternative. She couldn’t let him out of her sight.

  She hurried him into the ladies’ room and parked herself outside the stall, wanting to hustle him in and out of here before the throng from the theater flooded the place. She had chosen a suburban Cineplex that was a good twenty-minute drive from Georgetown, and she doubted that she’d run into anyone she knew at a kiddie matinee, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

  If only she knew what was going on with Phoebe.

  “Spencer? Are you okay in there?” she called, rapping on the door as a line formed in front of the three stalls.

  “Uh-huh. I’m coming out”

  She heard him fumble with the lock.

  The door didn’t open.

  “Uh-oh,” his voice said. The lock rattled again.

  “Spencer? Can’t you open the door?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “How old is your son?” one of the women in line asked her.

  She opened her mouth to correct the mistake, then realized that would only draw more attention to them. “He’s four,” she said simply, and put her mouth close to the crack in the stall. “Spencer, slide the metal bar to the side, okay?”

  “I’m trying. It’s hard to move it”

  Jordan looked down, figuring that she could probably crawl under the space beneath the stall door. She was about to do so when she heard a click and the door opened.

  “Thank goodness. I was just about to rescue you.” She bent toward Spencer to hug him, but he flinched.

  The woman who had asked about his age said in a confidential tone as Jordan led Spencer past, “My son is four, too, and he doesn’t like it when I hug him in public lately, either.”

  Jordan smiled politely.

  “I’m not her son,” Spencer informed the woman and the roomful of strangers.

  Her stomach turning over, Jordan steered him straight to the door, bypassing the sinks despite his protest that his mother always made him wash after using the rest room.

  As she led him out to the car, Jordan told herself to stop being so paranoid. It wasn’t as though she was harboring a fugitive. For Pete’s sake, she was simply baby-sitting her godson for a few days.

  But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling of apprehension.

  Why hadn’t Phoebe called?

  What if she never called?

  What if she had abandoned Spencer with Jordan and run off forever?

  What then?

  Chapter Five

  As Andy Rooney wrapped up his Sixty Minutes report and the show’s closing music began to play, Beau clicked off the television set and stretched. He hadn’t moved from this spot since this afternoon, and it had felt good to kick back and watch some television. But he’d had enough relaxation. He wasn’t cut out to be a couch potato.

  He stood and wandered into the kitchen, opening the sleek, black refrigerator and surveying the contents. Ketchup, mustard, mayo, butter, a few bottles of beer, and a white cardboard takeout Chinese container so far past its prime that he could no longer recall what was inside.

  He removed the container and, without opening it, deposited it in the garbage can. What he wouldn’t give for leftovers from that meal Jordan Curry had served last night!

  Thinking about her chicken cordon bleu made him hungry.

  Thinking about her made him hungry, too, he reluctantly admitted to himself. She hadn’t been far from his thoughts all day, and try as he might, he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of calling her.

  Calling Spencer, he amended.

  But of course, Jordan would answer the phone. They would have to have some kind of conversation. Perhaps she would be friendlier today than she had been when he left last night. Maybe something would click between the two of them and …

  What the heck are you thinking, Beau?

  He didn’t want something to flare up between them. He didn’t want another romantic entanglement. Look what had happened with Lisa. In the end, he had realized he was only using her. It wasn’t fair to her. That was what he had tried to make her see when they broke up. That she deserved better than him. She deserved a man who was willing to build a future. Not one who was shattered by the past.

  His mouth set grimly, Beau strode back to the living room, ignoring the cordless telephone receiver. He reached past it for the newspaper and settled back on the couch.

  He would not call Jordan Curry’s house. At least, not right now. He was feeling too frustrated, too vulnerable.

  For now, he would just sit here and read the paper to take his mind off Jordan and Spencer.

  And it worked.

  Until he stumbled across the photo accompanying an article on the last page of the national news section.

  “Do I have to take a bath? “Spencer mumbled sleepily as Jordan escorted him into the guest bathroom, where she had already started running the tub.

  Did he have to take a bath? Frankly, Jordan had no idea. Phoebe hadn’t said anything about it, and it wasn’t as if he had been rolling around in the mud. But there were faint orange stains around the corners of his mouth from the canned spaghetti he’d had for dinner, and he must have splashed soda or something on a clump of his hair, because it felt like broom bristles.

  “Yes, you have to take a bath,” Jordan said firmly.

  “But I’m too tired.”

  He did look exhausted. And his head had been drooping dangerously close to his bowl of spaghetti earlier at the table.

  Jordan had heated up leftover chicken and greens from last night for herself, but every bite reminded her of the man she’d just as soon forget. It didn’t help that Spencer brought up the topic of Beau and the zoo every chance he got.

  “It’ll just be a short bath,” she promised. “As soon as you’re done, you can go right to bed.”

  “I don’t want to go to bed,” he protested.

  “But you’re exhausted.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said, stifling a yawn as she pulled off his T-shirt. It, too, was stained with orange sauce. She would have to wash it later. She might as well throw in the rest of his dirty laundry, too, while she was at it. It seemed that Phoebe had packed Spencer enough clothes to last another couple of days. Jordan wondered if that was any indication of how long she expected to be gone.

  This was really beginning to wear on her. Not the fact of having Spencer around—that part was surprisingly pleasant, now that he had gotten over his tendency to scowl at her every time she glanced in his direction. It wasn’t as if he were chatty and relaxed in her presence, but they had actually had a lively conversation on the way home from the movies.

  It had lasted until Spencer had brought up the topic of Phoebe again. When Jordan couldn’t tell him any more than she already had, he grew silent and moody.

  She felt the same way inside. How much longer could she go on taking care of this little boy without word from his mother?

  She reached out to unfasten his shorts.

  He pulled away. “I can do it myself,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded, looking embarrassed. “Can you leave?”

  “But…”

  “I can give myself a bath.”

  She hesitated. “Can you wash your own hair, and rinse all th
e soap out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. But call me if you need help,” Jordan said, noticing the tub was almost full. She reached toward the flowing tap.

  As she turned off the water, she heard it.

  The phone was ringing.

  Jordan bolted from the bathroom, rushing toward the nearest phone, which was in the master bedroom. She knew the answering machine would pick up after the fourth ring, but if it was Phoebe, she might not leave a message.

  Before she even reached the bedroom doorway, Jordan heard the machine turning on downstairs. She had only heard the phone ring once. The sound of the tub might have drowned out earlier rings.

  She snatched up the receiver with a frantic “Hello?” just as her own recorded voice was asking the caller to leave a message.

  A click, followed by a dial tone, greeted her ears.

  Whoever it was had hung up.

  “Damn it!” Frustrated, Jordan banged the receiver back into its cradle.

  She was halfway back to the bathroom when she remembered two things.

  That Spencer didn’t want her in there with him …

  And that she had recently installed a caller ID device on the kitchen telephone.

  Tossing aside the cordless phone, Beau paced across the living room floor to the window with its view of the Washington Monument. He gazed at the distinct white obelisk, particularly striking this evening against a backdrop of pink-streaked dusk. But he didn’t even see it. His heart was pounding furiously.

  Just now, in the instant before he had hung up, he had heard Jordan’s voice. But as if of its own accord, his finger stayed on the “talk” button, pressing it to disconnect the call.

  He hadn’t known what he was going to say if she answered—let alone what he might say into an answering machine.

  But now he knew that she was home.

  Great. Next step?

  His mind raced again through the only options he had been able to come up with earlier.

  He could confront her directly about the little boy in her care …

  Or he could go to the police.

  Common sense told him not to get involved—to turn the situation over to the authorities.

  But moments ago, when he lifted the receiver to dial the number for local law enforcement, something stopped him.

  Something made him dial Jordan’s number instead.

  That same impulse kept him from calling the police now, even though everything he had seen in her town-house last night indicated that the little boy didn’t belong there, that he wasn’t comfortable there. And everything he had read in the newspaper told him that the little boy’s life hung perilously in the balance.

  But somehow, deep in his gut, he couldn’t believe that Jordan represented any kind of threat to the child. Beau had no idea how Spencer had come to be in her care. And yes, the woman was a complete stranger to him—and, for all he knew, to Spencer as well.

  Yet he found himself wanting to believe in her. Based on nothing other than pure, illogical instinct.

  So…

  If he wasn’t going to call the police, he would have to confront Jordan. If he did it over the phone—and if by chance his instincts about her were completely off base—there was no telling how she might react. She could take off with Spencer, or …

  Or worse.

  No. Beau shook his head.

  Jordan wouldn’t hurt Spencer. He had no idea what she was up to, or even who she was, but he knew that much.

  Grammy used to say he was a good judge of character. She said it whenever she recounted the tale of how Beau, as a toddler, inexplicably bit the new bank clerk, Mr. Cheever, on the finger so hard it drew blood. Not long after, the man was arrested for embezzling. The incident shocked the town, but not Grammy. She told everyone who would listen that she knew something wasn’t right about Cheever when the normally affable Beau took such a violent dislike to him.

  Grammy also liked to tell people how Beau stubbornly refused to pose for pictures with the bride or even kiss her when he was the ring bearer at his Uncle Cal’s wedding. The marriage lasted only long enough for Cal’s new wife to run up a mountain of debt before running off with a married man.

  “That Beau,” Grammy always said. “He doesn’t put on any pretenses. If he likes you, he shows you. If he doesn’t, he shows you. And if he doesn’t like you, there’s usually a good reason.”

  Well, Beau liked Jordan Curry.

  He might not want to get involved with her, and he might not entirely trust her, but he couldn’t go reporting her to the police just yet, no matter what the newspaper said. He would just have to check things out for himself.

  In person.

  At last, her hair damp from a long hot shower, Jordan settled into the comfortable recliner in one corner of the living room with the newspapers she had bought that afternoon. Spencer was tucked into bed and had been sound asleep before she even finished emptying the laundry hamper in one corner of the guest room.

  She had thrown a load of clothes into the washer, then turned on the television and tried to lose herself in an old Frank Capra movie.

  But she couldn’t concentrate. She realized she was waiting for the phone to ring again.

  So far, it hadn’t.

  Why hadn’t Beau left a message when he called?

  When she’d run downstairs to check the caller ID display, she had truly expected to see a Philadelphia phone number and perhaps Phoebe’s last name, not Beau Somerville’s. Obviously, he didn’t want to talk to a machine. Fine. He would probably call back, and when he did, she would come up with some excuse for why she—and Spencer—couldn’t see him again.

  The problem was, she wanted to see him again.

  Just knowing that he had called—-just seeing his name on the small digital screen—had sent a quiver of anticipation through Jordan. She could almost convince herself that she was on his mind today as much as he had been on hers.

  Almost.

  The truth was, he wasn’t calling her. She knew this had to do with Spencer. He was following through on his promise to the little boy.

  Jordan shook her head and opened the paper, trying to focus her attention on the news. The house was hushed, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

  She read an article about the president’s upcoming trip to the Middle East twice without digesting a word of it. She was halfway through a third attempt when a shrill scream suddenly pierced the silence.

  Jordan leapt from her chair and raced for the stairs.

  Spencer.

  Spencer was screaming.

  Spencer was in trouble.

  Terrible thoughts raced through her mind. What would she do if there was an intruder in the house? What if somebody was trying to kidnap him? What if somebody had hurt him?

  She had promised Phoebe she would keep the little boy safe. That was Jordan’s all-consuming mission when she burst into his room, prepared for anything …

  Except what she found.

  Spencer lay on his back, sound asleep.

  Puzzled, Jordan took several steps closer to the bed, wondering if the scream could have had another source. But the television wasn’t on downstairs, and all the windows were closed.

  Besides, she had recognized the sound. She’d heard the same terrified shriek last night, when a nightmare had awakened Spencer.

  He must have been having another one just now.

  As she watched, he tossed his head restlessly on the pillow. He muttered something.

  Jordan leaned closer.

  He spoke again, saying something about a pilot.

  Or was it a pirate?

  His next word was much clearer.

  It was “no,” and it came out in an eerie, high-pitched plea.

  “Spencer …” She reached out to stroke his head. “It’s okay. Shh …”

  The little boy whimpered and turned fitfully away.

  “No … please … no …”

&n
bsp; “Spencer, wake up,” Jordan whispered. “You’re having a nightmare.”

  His eyes slowly opened wide, filled with stark terror.

  “It was just a dream,” Jordan said in a soothing tone, resting her hand on his cheek. “Everything’s all right It wasn’t real.”

  “Yes, it was.” He was trembling.

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  “The pirate,” he said without hesitation.

  “Well, he wasn’t real, sweetie. Pirates aren’t real.”

  “Yes, they are. This one is really real. He’s scary and bad and mean, and he has a black eye patch.”

  A black eye patch. Okay, the classic image of a pirate could be scary. Black eye patch, black hat with skull and crossbones, peg leg or hook arm.

  Jordan remembered Spencer’s earlier mention of not wanting to choose a movie about pirates. She recalled seeing the animated movie Peter Pan when she was little, and being so frightened of Captain Hook that she had to sleep with the light on.

  “Pirates are only in movies and on TV, Spencer,” she began, but he cut her off with another vehement protest.

  “They are not. They’re real!”

  “Well, they used to be real,” she conceded. “Years ago, pirates used to sail the seas, and bury treasures, and that sort of thing. But not anymore.” That wasn’t entirely the truth, but she assumed he was talking about eighteenth-century buccaneers and not modern-day pirates.

  “I saw a real pirate with my mom and dad. And he’s a bad guy. Really bad!”

  “Spencer…”

  He cowered into his pillow. “He’s coming to get me! I want my mommy.” His words dissolved into a shuddering sob.

  “Oh, Spencer.” Jordan pulled him close. He stiffened, but she didn’t let go.

  Eventually, she felt his little body relax. She held him and stroked him and crooned to him until his eyes began to flutter closed again. When he lay back on his pillow, she pulled the covers up to his chin and began to tiptoe out of the room.

  “Stay,” he said softly, and she turned to see his sleepy gaze on her. “Please?”