Claiming His Family

by Ann Voss Peterson

  And that made him saddest of all. “Tell me about him. Tell me about Patrick.” His voice sounded flat over the hum of the tires. He was more empty and tired than he was aware he was feeling.

  Alyson’s face jerked in his direction.

  “I need to know.” He forced a note of gentleness into his voice. “Tell me about my son.”

  Alyson’s eyes glowed in the green light of the dash. She searched his face for what seemed like an eternity. Finally she took a deep breath. “He was born on a Thursday afternoon.” Her lips lifted at the corners. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I went through thirty-five hours of labor, and I was so tired I truly thought I wasn’t going to make it. But when I first saw him, none of it mattered.”

  From the look on her face, he knew it wasn’t just the pain and exhaustion of labor she was referring to. But the torment she’d lived through after her father’s death. And the stress of having a baby alone. “I should have been there.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” She dipped her head as if hiding the tears he knew misted her eyes.

  Damn. Even though his absence hadn’t been his choice, he still felt guilty. Guilt he had no reason to feel. He hadn’t abandoned her. She’d stolen those moments, those memories, from him. He had the right to be angry about that.

  Just as he had the right to know about his son now. “Tell me more.”

  “He looks so much like you. Even when he was just born—with that red little face and pointed head newborns have.” She raised her chin and stared at the highway, not bothering to wipe the tears that clung to her lower lashes. “The first thing I noticed was the little cleft in his chin. Just like yours.”

  Dex ran a finger over his chin, feeling the dent he had passed to his son.

  “He was born with black hair, but now he’s a little towhead. A blonde, just like you. Not a hint of my red hair.”

  Something welled up inside him, something akin to pride. “So he really looks like me?”

  “Spitting image. Down to the blue eyes and square jaw.” The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Her eyes softened, transforming her face into the picture of proud motherhood. “But he has my temperament.”

  “Probably a good thing. You’re the most even-tempered Irish redhead on the planet.”

  “That’s not saying much.”

  “Maybe not. But it sure as hell is better than him taking after my side of the family.” He didn’t have to try very hard to remember the hard lash of his father’s temper, when he cared enough to leave the tavern and deal with his son at all. Drunk or sober, the old man was a worthless bastard of the first order. And although by some miracle Dex didn’t seem to have inherited the old man’s violent outbursts, no one would peg him as the forgiving sort. “What else can you tell me about him?”

  She turned her gaze back to the highway, deep in thought. “He’s always been a good baby. He had no trouble eating. He slept through the night when he was only two months old. And he’s strong. He can pull himself into standing position already. And don’t let him grab the spoon when you’re feeding him, or you’ll never get it back.”

  “So he’s a strapping little guy, huh?”

  “Yup. But he’s cuddly, too. Sometimes when he’s had enough action, he curls up in my arms and sleeps like a little angel.” Her voice ached with love, with tenderness, with a thousand memories of moments with a child Dex might never know.

  He swallowed into a raw throat and concentrated on the road ahead. He had every right to be furious with Alyson for keeping their son from him. But somehow he couldn’t manage it. Anger eluded him. And he was left with nothing but regret. “I wish I knew him. I wish I’d been part of his life. I wish I’d been there.”

  Alyson closed her eyes. “I wish you’d been there, too.”

  BIRDS HAD BEGUN their early morning songs by the time Alyson and Dex climbed out of his car in the driveway of his bungalow. Except for a short stop at home to pick up clothing and toiletries, she hadn’t set foot in her little Cape Cod since the night Smythe had taken Patrick. Just thinking of the empty bedroom—the room Patrick’s soft baby scent used to fill—she winced. The thought of venturing back into her house, of imagining Smythe’s eyes staring at her from the darkness of predawn, made her mouth go dry. “Thanks for letting me stay here. I don’t know what I’d do at home waiting for Smythe to show up with his chloroform and rope.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

  “Why not?” After Dex’s warnings and the way he’d stuck by her side to protect her, she never would have expected those words from his lips.

  “The security company left a message for me at the office. They’ve finally installed that alarm system in your house. I’ll take you home tomorrow.”

  Alyson nodded, trying to look grateful. And braver than she felt. A security system was nice, but it still didn’t make her feel safe. Not really. What did it matter if the thing screeched to high heaven if Smythe was already in the house coming after her? “Thanks, Dex. I appreciate it.”

  “Smythe never would have targeted you if it wasn’t for your relationship with me. The least I can do is insure your safety. I’ve also talked to Mylinski about setting up some undercover officers to watch your house.”

  A chill shot up her spine. “No.”

  “They would be in an unmarked car and plain clothes. No one would know they’re cops.”

  “Except Smythe. You heard him, Dex. He has sources. Maybe in the police department itself. He said he’d know if we got the police involved. I’m not taking the chance.”

  Although a muscle clenched along his jaw, he didn’t argue. “All right. No police outside your house. But if an intruder sets off the alarm, the police will be there in minutes.”

  She blew a stream of air through pursed lips. The hard lines of his jaw told her there would be no use arguing this point. Truth be told, she didn’t want to argue. If Smythe came after her, she wanted the police to be on their way. Then they could arrest him and find out where he’d hidden Patrick.

  “It’s all set then. I’ll take you home tomorrow. Depending on what Smythe does, we’ll decide what to do from there.”

  A chill skittered over her skin, but she managed a nod. She didn’t want to face the empty rooms in her house—rooms Smythe had violated with his presence—but she couldn’t expect Dex to baby-sit her, either. She forced her chin up a notch. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

  “You don’t want to be alone, do you?”

  She started. Dex had always been able to look into her heart, to read her thoughts and feelings. Many things had changed between them, but that wasn’t one of them. “No. I keep thinking of that empty house, those empty rooms.”

  “And remembering Smythe’s attack.”

  She nodded and looked away. The scent of chloroform lingered in her mind along with the sharp edge of fear.

  “Forget going home tomorrow. You can stay here as long as you like.”

  A shock traveled up Alyson’s spine at his offer. First the tenderness he’d shown after they’d found Connie Rasula’s body, then his wish in the car, and now this.

  Dex was a hard man. An unforgiving man. She knew that better than most people. She’d seen it in his work. She’d felt it firsthand. But his tenderness now, his apparent concern for her, the way his anger had dissolved into warmth for the son he’d never met and by extension for her, caught her off guard.

  She looked into his face, so sincere, so serious, so like the man she’d fallen in love with. Tearing her gaze away, she focused on the front door. Predawn birdsong jangled around her, echoing the chaos that pounded inside her.

  He unlocked the door and ushered her into the house. “Do you want something to eat?”

  They hadn’t eaten since downing a doughnut and coffee at a truck stop along the interstate. Not exactly a bonanza of nutrition. But despite the fact that she should be famished, the thought of food turned her stomach. “No, thanks. I think I’ll just go to bed.”
<
br />   “Smart choice. The sun will be coming up in about an hour. We’d better get some sleep while we can.”

  Dex hadn’t said the words, but she knew what he meant. Before Smythe makes his next move.

  She started up the stairs toward the guest room at the end of the hall. Dex’s house was large, rambling, but even though he was sleeping on a different floor and on the opposite side of the house, she could feel him in the house with her. And she knew she wasn’t alone.

  Unlike Patrick. Unlike her baby who was who knew where.

  Tears surged at the backs of her eyes. Questions shuddered through her mind. Was her little boy alone? Had someone rocked him and sung songs to him? Had someone kissed his forehead and tucked him into bed the way she did every night?

  Was someone taking care of him?

  She gripped the wood banister and tried to steady herself.

  “We’ll find him, Alyson. And then you won’t have to worry about Patrick or about Smythe attacking you. We’ll find him and get him back. And then you won’t be alone anymore.”

  She looked down where Dex stood at the bottom of the stairs, his face blurred by her tears. Maybe he could still read her thoughts, but he’d missed one thing. Her fear of being alone hadn’t started the night Smythe had attacked her and kidnapped Patrick. It had started over a year ago, when Dex walked out of her life.

  ANDY SMYTHE leaned back in the seat of his rented sedan. The car was a piece of junk, but he couldn’t risk someone spotting his Corvette. Not up in the northwoods boondocks and not tonight.

  He scanned the quiet, oak-lined street. Though painted different colors, the small, square houses looked as if a builder had produced them with a cookie cutter. Even the bushes rimming each house’s aluminum siding looked the same. The only difference was the light glowing from the windows of the house Andy watched. The neighbors had the good sense to be asleep already. Not the man inside.

  A police detective’s hours.

  Not that Andy didn’t know all about sleepless nights. Thanks to that bastard Harrington, he hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since the day that damn jury pronounced him guilty. Never mind that the bitches he’d attacked had deserved it. Some of the whores had probably even liked it.

  Well, none of that mattered anymore. He’d already started paying Harrington back. And he wouldn’t quit until the man was destroyed. And then, if he was feeling particularly charitable, he would put Harrington out of his misery. For good.

  The light dimmed and finally switched off.

  It was about damn time. Andy glanced at his Rolex. He’d wait a half hour before making his move. A half hour would give the cop inside plenty of chance to fall into a nice, deep sleep.

  A sleep he’d never wake up from.

  Andy leaned back in the seat of his rented junker and smiled. He could have hired someone to take care of this. Just shelled out the cash and gotten the job done, like his old man liked to do. Of course the old man didn’t kill anyone. Not that Andy knew of, anyway. He just paid people to take care of his business obligations. And to keep his family out of his hair. But the old man didn’t understand one important thing. Some things were much better when you did them yourself. And, as Andy had discovered with the Rasula bitch, murder was one of them.

  He closed his eyes, reliving the way he’d put her in her place, the way he’d punished her, the way he’d choked the life from her when he was finished. He only wished he would have realized how pleasurable murder could be years ago. If he’d known then what he knew now, he’d never have let those bitches live. Harrington never would have been able to parade their pitiful, whining stories in front of the jury. And Andy wouldn’t have spent one hour behind bars.

  He looked down at his Rolex again and watched the last minutes of the detective’s life tick away. This murder was also Harrington’s fault. Smythe had made it clear to the redhead that they weren’t to involve the cops. But Harrington had to get cocky. He had to ignore Andy’s demands. He’d probably figured that Andy would never find out.

  Guess again.

  He pulled a black ski mask over his head. Pushing open the door of his car, he stepped out onto the shadowed street. He walked quickly across the neighbor’s lawn to the little green box house on the corner. Circling the property, he plunged into a thicket of bushes near the bedroom window.

  Once in the shadow of the bushes, he dipped his hand into his sweatshirt pocket and withdrew the .38 he’d picked up from a Chicago drug dealer. He attached the little silencer and sidled up to the window. The gun fit his palm as though it belonged there.

  A thrill scuttled over his nerves. A feeling of strength. There was nothing as potent as holding the power of life and death in your hands. As long as you had the guts to use it. Andy had the power, and now he had the guts, too. Prison had hardened him, that was for sure. And Harrington and the redhead would feel that hard edge. And Detective Al Mylinski would feel it as well, with the sharpness of a bullet to the heart.

  They would all wish they had listened to Andy Smythe.

  Chapter Seven

  Dex jolted upright. He ripped the blanket from around his legs and sprang to his feet. Something had awakened him, a sound, but what? Sunlight peeked around the wood-slat blinds covering his bedroom windows. A cacophony of birdsong clattered outside overriding the lap of waves. But it wasn’t the sun or the birds that had awakened him. It was something else.

  The distant chirp of a cell phone rose over the birdsong.

  The phone. Alyson’s phone. Smythe.

  Heart slamming against his rib cage, Dex pulled his pants on and ran for the staircase. He took the steps two at a time and raced down the hall. Reaching the open door of the guest bedroom, he plunged inside.

  Alyson sat in the bed. Auburn hair tousled in sleep, she stared at him, green eyes wide. The sheet pooled around her waist, exposing a silk nightie that barely covered her full breasts.

  The phone rang again.

  As if the sound had jolted her out of a trance, Alyson grabbed the cell phone out of her purse on the bedside table and punched the button. “Hello?” Her face blanched.

  Dex crossed the room to her side. Damn. Since the call was on the cell phone, there was no way to record it. Or trace it. The best they could do was find out the general area the phone call originated. Not that it would do them much good.

  “What do you want us to do?” Alyson listened carefully, gathering the sheet around her as if she were chilled. “No. You can’t ask him to do that.”

  Dex held out his hand for the phone. “Tell the bastard if he plans to demand something of me, he’s going to have to do it directly.”

  Meeting Dex’s eyes, Alyson handed him the phone with a shaking hand.

  He held it to his ear. “What do you want, Smythe?”

  “So the redhead is staying with you. I should have known. Did you get lucky?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I’ve already been there, Harrington. And you’re the one who sent me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to return the favor. We’ll start with you holding a press conference. Tomorrow.”

  “What the hell is this about?”

  “You’re going to do the county a favor and resign your job. But that’s not all. I want a public apology. I want you to tell whoever will listen that you were malicious in your conviction of me. And that I am innocent.”

  Cold rage pounded in Dex’s ears. “Like hell I will.”

  Smythe’s laugh rumbled low, like approaching thunder. “He’s a cute kid, Harrington. I’d hate to see anything happen to him.”

  Dex grasped the phone until the plastic creaked in his fist.

  Alyson watched him with wide eyes. She looked so small in the wide bed surrounded by white sheets. So unguarded and vulnerable.

  He wanted to reach out to her, to comfort her, to repeat the assurances he’d given her last night. But in the light of day, he wasn’t sure if his words would ring true. He wasn’t sur
e of anything at all. Whatever reassurances he gave her would be a lie.

  “And there’s another thing.”

  “What?” Dex growled through clenched teeth.

  “When I talked to the redhead, I told her I didn’t want the police involved.”

  “The police aren’t involved.”

  “If it looks like a cop and squawks like a cop, chances are it’s too close to being a cop for my tastes.”

  An uneasy feeling crept up Dex’s spine. “What are you getting at, Smythe?”

  “A little bird told me a detective has been poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Imagine that. And after I warned you against involving the cops.”

  Damn. He had to be referring to Mylinski. How the hell did Smythe know Mylinski had been helping them? “We’ve been looking for Connie Rasula since she disappeared right after she reported being raped. But I pulled the detective off the case.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it. Now why would you lie to me? Don’t you realize this is serious? Don’t you realize I have your baby—that I can kill him if I want to? Don’t you realize you’re not in charge anymore?”

  “Take it easy, Smythe. I’m talking to you on the phone, aren’t I? I’m listening to what you have to say.”

  “That’s not enough. But don’t worry. Since you failed to pull your cop off the case, I did it for you.”

  Dex’s throat tightened. “What did you do?”

  Smythe chuckled on the other end of the line. “First you caused Connie Rasula’s unfortunate demise and now a police detective’s. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

  “What the hell did you do?” Dex’s pulse thundered in his ears. But Smythe merely laughed again, until a click sounded on the line, harsh and final.