Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

  The shot was deflected by Ryan, who batted at Theakos’s arm split seconds before twisting and diving in Carly’s direction. In the same instant, the night air was rent by a barrage of gunfire and splintering glass. Scrambling across the floor on his belly, Ryan covered Carly’s quivering body with his own and pressed them both flat.

  As quickly as it had erupted, all sound died. The silence lingered for an awesome eternity. Then there were the sounds of running feet, on the path, on the front steps, into the cottage.

  “Carly?” It was Sam’s voice.

  Ryan raised his head. “We’re here,” he mumbled, half afraid to move farther. “What happened?”

  Joined now by half a dozen troopers, Sam moved to examine the body that lay in a tumbled heap in the middle of the room where the force of bullets had blown it. Moments later, he was back, kneeling by Ryan and Carly. “Is she all right?”

  Carly lifted her head and Ryan pulled her to a sitting position. “She’s fine,” he said, turning her to him and holding her convulsively. “She’s fine.” Without releasing his hold, he stood and glanced to the side. “Is he…?”

  “Dead.”

  “How’s Tom?”

  “Unhurt.”

  “And Sheila?” Carly whispered.

  When Sam didn’t answer, she tried to break from Ryan. But he wouldn’t let her go. “It’s okay, babe. It had to be. It’s better this way.”

  “My God,” she breathed. “Oh, my God.” Again she tried to escape Ryan’s protective hold. Though he refused to allow it, he began to move her toward the door.

  The scene outside was gut-wrenchingly still. Police seemed all around, but Tom was alone, kneeling over Sheila’s lifeless form.

  An anguished cry broke from Carly’s throat. This time, when she pulled away, Ryan released her. On trembling legs she ran forward, falling to her knees beside Tom, staring down at Sheila’s bullet-riddled body.

  “She was crazy and unconventional,” Tom murmured brokenly. “There was always that mystery about her. But she was exciting and warm. I loved her.”

  “I know,” Carly whispered. She put her arms around him, and in that instant, yielding to grief and terror, she began to cry. Slowly, Tom’s trembling arms circled her and held her with the force of his own emotions.

  Throat tight, Ryan watched and waited until at last they stood. Only then did he approach, slip his arm around Carly’s waist and, with a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder, lead them away from the place which, for all three, was best put behind.

  When they left, Greg approached to gaze a final time at the woman who had, in her way, bewitched him, too.

  The night was far from over. There were long hours spent at the local police station, then a weary drive home. It was dawn when at last Ryan and Carly returned to Cambridge.

  “Want to sleep?” he asked as they entered her place.

  “I don’t think I can,” she said tremulously.

  Ryan smoothed a wave behind her ear. “Maybe you should try.”

  She shook her head. “I’d only have nightmares.”

  “But I’ll be there to hold you.”

  “Oh, Ryan,” she whispered, sagging into his arms, “it was so awful. I keep thinking of that cord and the guns. If you hadn’t come just then—”

  “I did come. That’s all that matters.”

  She rubbed her face against his neck, trying to dispel other images. “I still can’t believe Sheila planned it all.” The hurt lingered, a raw wound festering with sadness. “All that time we were together she was so friendly. I guess Sam was right in distrusting her.” She faltered, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I wish they hadn’t had to kill her.”

  “She came out with a gun,” Ryan reasoned gently. “They didn’t know she would never have used it on Tom.”

  “Poor Tom…to see her die like that right in front of him. Will he be okay?” Tom had stayed with them during the questioning at the police station, then had returned to Boston with Sam and Greg.

  “He’ll be fine. It may take a while, but he’ll be fine.” Ryan paused. “He really came through for us, didn’t he? He had to know the risk he was taking, coming forward like that.”

  Hearing the note of deep affection and admiration in Ryan’s tone, Carly looked up. “He’s a good man. You should be proud of him.”

  “I am,” he said hoarsely, then buried his face in her hair until he’d regained his composure. “We’ll have to keep him close. He may need it for a while.”

  Lapsing into silence, he led Carly toward the bedroom. “Come on. Let’s lie down. I just want to hold you.”

  Fully dressed, they stretched out on the bed. Ryan’s body was as tense as Carly’s. With their minds viewing and reviewing all that had happened, relaxation remained elusive.

  “Ryan?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Will it be all over the papers? I don’t want the publicity. Everyone will know who I am—”

  “Shh,” he soothed. “I spoke with Sam about that. There’s bound to be something in the Vermont press, but it’ll be minimal. With both of them dead, the case is over.” He tucked in his chin and looked down at her. “Anyway, you’re safe now. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I keep telling myself, but it’s hard to believe.”

  “Believe it. Culbert will get his new trial all right, but it’ll be for conspiracy to murder. And the sentence will be for a term after the one he’s already serving.”

  “He could hire someone else.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Vengeance?”

  Ryan shook his head with a conviction that gave his words extra force. “It was one thing when he thought he could wipe you out as a witness. But there’d be no point in it now. Even if he wanted to do something out of pure malice, you can be sure that he’ll be severely restricted as to visitors and calls. He won’t be able to do anything. Besides, chances are Theakos didn’t have a chance to tell him your new name. He’s probably being interrogated right now. We’ll know more in time.”

  “Then I won’t need another identity?”

  “Hell, no.” He grinned. “And if you did, I’d take it right along with you.” His arms closed around her and brought her close. “We’re in this together, whether you like it or not.” His tone sobered. “I nearly lost you last night. I’m not planning on doing that ever again.”

  Slow tears formed in Carly’s eyes. “Running into you on the walk that night was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Me too, babe. Me too.”

  It was days before Carly could sleep through the night without waking in the throes of a nightmare. But, as he had promised, Ryan was always there to hold her tightly and gently talk her out of her terror.

  To her relief, there was no mention of the events in Vermont in the Boston papers. When she felt sufficiently strong, Carly phoned her father and, censoring the most gory details, told him what had happened. He took it well, though he insisted on speaking with Ryan, who assured him that Carly was fine. Sensing that with Ryan his daughter was in good hands, John Lyons relaxed.

  Carly took the rest of the week off from school, knowing that she would be unable to concentrate. Ryan worked for the most part in the apartment, spending hours on the phone, taking Carly with him when he needed to go into the office for an hour or two. They talked with Tom every day, convinced him to spend the weekend with them in a beachfront cottage on Cape Cod. It was a quiet, restorative time for them all, a time for healing, for counting blessings, for looking toward the future.

  Returning to Cambridge on Sunday night, Carly was busy making dinner when she suddenly realized that Ryan had been out of sight for too long. Curious, she wandered through the living room and into the bedroom. At the bathroom door she came to an abrupt halt.

  He stood before the sink, the remnants of white lather on his jaw.

  Stepping slowly forward, she reached to touch his newly shaved face. Only a mustache remained. At first glance it looked lonesome.<
br />
  “Well,” he said, eyeing himself critically in the mirror, “what do you think?”

  Astounded, Carly took the ends of the towel and gently dabbed at the last of the lather. “I think…you look…as handsome as you did before.”

  “Then you like it?” he asked more tentatively, stroking the mustache, then his jaw before he closed his hand over hers.

  “I love it.” With every second she looked at him, he seemed to grow more dashing. “But why?”

  He turned to her then, taking both of her hands in his and holding them to his chest. His deep brown eyes melted warmly into hers. “Because I have nothing to hide anymore. I want to see my scar.” Only then did her eyes go to the pale ridge that underscored his jaw from ear to chin. “I want you to see my scar. It should be a reminder to us that life is never without its risks. Nothing is a given, Carly. We’ve both lived through ordeals, separately and together, and there may be others in the future. But we can’t dwell on them. We’ll learn to live with them, just as I’m going to learn to live with this scar.”

  “You look…so different,” she murmured.

  “You will too,” he said confidently.

  “What do you mean?”

  Releasing her hands, he went to the bedroom closet, dug into the pocket of a jacket and returned carrying a small box. “For you.”

  Carly stared at the box.

  “Go on. Open it.”

  Trembling, she carefully lifted the lid, then caught her breath. On a bed of black velvet lay the most exquisite marquis diamond she had ever seen. “Ryan,” she breathed at last and looked up at him again.

  “I’ve been carrying it around for days. Had Tom not been with us this weekend, I might have given it to you sooner. Will you wear it, babe? Will you marry me?” Removing the ring from its box, he held it out.

  Very slowly, Carly moved her left hand forward until the ring found a perfect niche on her third finger. Then, she threw her arms around Ryan’s neck and in that instant knew that nothing in the world could keep her from this man she loved. Nothing at all.

  Epilogue

  wITHIN A WEEK AFTER, AND INDEPENDENT OF, the attempt on Carly’s life, motions for a new trial were denied Gary Culbert and Nick Barber. Gary Culbert was subsequently tried and convicted on charges of conspiracy to murder and given a lengthy sentence to be served from and after the original. He served out neither. After three years’ incarceration, he suffered a stroke and was transferred to a state hospital, where he died four months later. It was on that day that the United States Supreme Court denied his last appeal.

  Sam Loomis continued to thrive as chief deputy to the U.S. marshal in Boston. Eventually when the United States’ presidency changed hands and political parties, he retired from public service and took a prestigious position as head of security for a large electronics firm in the area. With Carly Quinn’s file going inactive, he and his wife, Ellen, became close friends of the Cornells.

  It took some time for Greg Reilly to recover from what he considered a major error in judgment on his part. Only with Sam’s steady encouragement did he continue at his job, and then it was in a sober and dedicated manner. His hard work paid off. After two years and with Sam’s glowing recommendation, he landed a Secret Service post in Washington.

  Tom Cornell, badly shaken by Sheila’s death, floundered for several months, keeping the latest of hours with the fastest of women in the hopes of burying his hurt. Realizing at last that he was getting nowhere, he rented out his Winchester home and took a traveling job with an international computer concern. In London some time later, he met a woman who, while not as unconventional as Sheila, was caring enough to restore his faith in the happily ever after.

  Three weeks after Ryan proposed, he and Carly were married. It was a simple ceremony witnessed by both the bride’s and groom’s families, as well as by the numerous friends they had quickly come to share. They honeymooned in the Caribbean and returned, gloriously happy, to see to the installation of a large, open spiral staircase connecting upstairs and downstairs.

  Though Carly continued to teach, she also began to write. Her earliest works were therapeutic pieces on fear and self-identity, pieces that went no further than Ryan’s eyes and ears. As she regained confidence, though, she broadened her outlook to focus on articles of local interest, which found enthusiastic reception in regional publications. In time she was solicited to do an in-depth biographical study of a prominent member of the Boston community.

  It was the start of a new career, and the timing couldn’t have been better. For, after three years of marriage, and with the horrors of the past finally fading, Carly and Ryan had a son. He was a healthy boy, with his father’s thick dark hair and his mother’s bright blue eyes. And he was a joy to them both. Ryan was as attentive a father as he was a husband, loving his law practice but loving coming home more. As for Carly, she was in seventh heaven. What used to be the kitchen of Ryan’s old apartment was converted into a large study for her. She quite happily arranged her writing hours to fit the baby’s schedule, then those of the two other children who came in subsequent years. By that time, the Cornell family was firmly ensconced in a spacious home in Lincoln, with acres of fields, a profusion of maples, oaks and willows, the most beautiful pine grove, and a large golden retriever named Red. The house was modern and sprawling, with a master suite, twin sky-lit studies for Carly and Ryan, and for all the children separate bedrooms, each boasting a large needlepoint hanging with a tiny robin in the corner.

  Over the years, many framed photographs joined that of Bonnie and Clyde. There were pictures of Ryan’s family and of Carly’s, many, many of their children, and the largest a portrait of Carly and Ryan on their wedding day. She would pick it up often and study it, mindful of the miracle that had made it possible.

  But of the many, many fingerprints that Carly Quinn Cornell was to leave over the years, none were more gentle, more loving, more indelible than those on her husband.

  “We have to stop meeting this way,” Ryan would tease in his deep, sexy baritone when, on a spring afternoon, they savored a moment’s privacy in an overgrown corner of their woods.

  “Who chased who?” she countered, slipping her arms around his neck as his hands pressed her hips to his.

  “Whom. And I only wanted to make sure you didn’t get lost.”

  She cleared her throat, even then feeling the quickening of her pulse that his body never failed to inspire. “I am getting lost,” she murmured more breathlessly, as she raised her lips to meet his kiss.

  It had been that way from the first; it would always be that way. Some things, like fingerprints, never changed.

  About the Author

  BARBARA DELINSKY, a lifelong New Englander, was a sociologist and photographer before she began writing. Readers can contact her c/o P.O. Box 812894, Wellesley, MA 02482-0026, or via the Web at www.barbaradelinsky.com.

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  Praise for Barbara Delinsky

  “Delinsky is an expert at portraying strong women characters.”

  Booklist

  “Delinsky is one of those writers who knows how to introduce characters to her readers in such a way that they become more like old friends than works of fiction.”

  Flint Journal

  “Delinsky is an engaging writer who knows how to interweave several stories about complex relationships and keep her books interesting to the end. Her special talent for description gives the reader almost virtual references to the surroundings she creates.”

  Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “Delinsky’s prose is spare, controlled and poignant as she evokes the simplicity and joys of small-town life.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Delinsky steers clear of treacle…with simple prose and a deliberate avoidance of happily ever after clichés.”

  People

  “Delinsky should touch even the most jad
ed of readers.”

  Chattanooga Times

  “Delinsky creates…a remarkably beautiful story.”

  Baton Rouge Advocate

  Books by Barbara Delinsky

  Shades of Grace

  Together Alone

  For My Daughters

  Suddenly

  More Than Friends

  A Woman Betrayed

  Finger Prints

  Within Reach

  The Passions of Chelsea Kane

  The Carpenter’s Lady

  Gemstone

  Variation on a Theme

  Passion and Illusion

  An Irresistible Impulse

  Fast Courting

  Search for a New Dawn

  Sensuous Burgundy

  A Time to Love

  Moment to Moment

  Rekindled

  Sweet Ember

  A Woman’s Place

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  FINGER PRINTS. Copyright © 1984 by Barbara Delinsky. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™.