Home For Christmas

by Patricia Potter

  She knew hers was a dramatic story. So was Murphy’s. Together they provided great fodder for a sensation hungry press She’d known it when she had first decided to act as his attorney. She’d also known she risked losing her job. The reality of it, however, hit her far harder than she’d anticipated.

  At least she would have more time to look into Murphy’s conviction. She could help Jerry find the priest whom Murphy’s former wife mentioned and talk to some of the other officers serving in Murphy’s unit. She also wanted to talk to the first officers on the scene when Murphy’s partner was murdered. She would talk to Dan again, too. She wanted to know every case Murphy had been investigating at the time.

  She went to her room and slipped on a pair of jeans and sweater. She would pick up Nick at preschool and fix them a good dinner. For a fleeting moment, she thought about asking Murphy over to celebrate his first day on the job, but that was probably a bad idea. A very, very bad idea when even the thought sent her heart beating faster.

  Instead, she checked the mail. Her hands sorted through the bills and catalogues. Then she saw an envelope without a postmark or stamp. Only her name was sprawled across the front. She stood there in the yard, staring at it. She knew there was nothing good in it, and her first instinct was to throw it away

  Then her legal training took over. She didn’t have the name of the person who called, but this was, could be, evidence of some kind. She opened it carefully.

  You are harboring a murderer. Your child could be his next victim.

  Shudders rocked her body. How could this all be happening at once unless someone was orchestrating it all? She couldn’t believe her neighbors would send such a letter. They might protest, as Emily had, especially if someone stirred the pot, but she didn’t think they would resort to anonymous phone calls or threatening messages

  Or was it threatening? Was it merely a warning from someone? Quickly, she walked inside. She wanted to tear up the plain white piece of bond paper with the large printed letters, but instead she carried it inside to her office and put it in the top drawer of her desk. Perhaps that would be the end of it.

  Angry and restless, she decided to stop by the grocery store before picking up Nick. Murphy had already said he would walk home, although the garage was two miles away. He probably enjoyed walking. She would, too, if she’d been locked up ten years.

  That damned note.

  She grabbed the keys and left.

  Julie and Nick were halfway through spaghetti when the phone rang again. She hesitated, then went to answer it, expecting the worst.

  Tim O’Donnell’s voice boomed through the earpiece “Just wanted to thank you, Julie. Murphy’s a born mechanic, and he’s a real worker. Heck, he didn’t even stop for lunch. I think he’s gonna work out just fine. Thought you would like to know.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “Just left. Said he was walking home. Say, I got an old car he could borrow, maybe even buy. He could pay me a little out of his paycheck each week.”

  “Did you mention it to him?”

  “Thought I would check with you first.”

  “It’s his business. But he needs a driver’s license.”

  “I’ll talk to him about it,” O’Donnell said.

  She hung up, feeling better. Then that insidious doubt crept into her mind. He’s a born mechanic. So was the old Murphy. A quirk of memory? Or something more sinister? She kept telling herself that the doctor had said he might well have learned, repetitive skills. But O’Donnell described a natural skill. Would he retain those, too? She made a mental note to call Dr. Dailey.

  “Where’s Ryan?” Nick asked when she returned to the table.

  “Mr. Murphy,” she corrected almost automatically.

  “But where is he?”

  It was the third time—or the fourth—he had asked tonight, she thought with a sinking feeling

  “He’s working,” she explained again. “And I suspect he will be tired when he gets home.”

  “But he likes me,” Nick complained.

  “Everyone likes you,” she said, seeking to deflect his thoughts even as she knew the unlikelihood of such tactics. “Especially me, and I thought we would spend some time together watching a movie.”

  “But..”

  The “but” again.

  “No buts, Munchkin.”

  “Awwwwwwww.”

  She knew he was giving in.

  No Murphy tonight. Time instead to think without the distraction of his presence. Yet he loomed large in the back of her thoughts and she pictured him returning to the dark, lonely apartment

  No Murphy tonight, she reminded herself.

  Murphy saw the familiar house ahead and quickened his steps. He reached in his pocket for the baseball. He had passed a drug store on the way home and went inside. He’d browsed aisle after aisle of goods, wondering at some of the items, including a miniature color television no larger than a matchbox. Then he’d reached the toys and found the baseball.

  As good a way to spend money as any. He could just see the big gnn spread across Nick’s face. Too bad it was too late to toss it tonight. He was anxious to see whether he could throw or not. Another exploration of his abilities.

  It was already getting dark, and he was hungry. He’d gone all day without food. He’d just damn well enjoyed doing something useful. Now he knew he could pay Julie back. It would take a while, but he’d taken the first step. Something like elation filled him. It was a totally new feeling, stronger even than the moment he’d left prison. He’d had so many doubts then, so many questions. Even a fear of failure.

  He hesitated at the gate. He wanted to knock at the door, to share with her his triumph, but he hesitated. He had taken enough of her time. Instead he turned toward the apartment, turning the key in his pocket.

  He took the steps two at a time and unlocked the door. Once in, he left it unlocked and put the key on the table He fixed himself a can of soup from the cupboard and a sandwich, then sat down and stared out the window that faced the house. He could see figures moving inside, and the elation he’d felt so briefly was snuffed by loneliness, by the raw yearning to be inside that kitchen, to share the warmth he knew was there.

  He took the baseball from his pocket and tossed it in the air, his hand turning slightly as he caught it easily. It was an inexpensive ball, made of cheap materials but it felt natural in his hand He tossed it again, then again. Suddenly, he saw a ball coming directly at him A sudden, unexpected flash in his mind. It disappeared as quickly as it came, and as he stood stunned, wondering whether it was even real. Whether it had happened or he had conjured it

  He dropped the ball on the table and sat down in the big, comfortable chair He shut his eyes and concentrated, willing another flash, another memory.

  But there was nothing.

  Julie didn’t tell Murphy about the phone call, or the letter. Two days went by without additional calls, and then it was Sunday, and Murphy was home all day. And impossible to avoid as she’d tried to do the past two days

  Sundays were always special. She would make waffles, or blueberry pancakes, then take Ryan to Sunday school and church. Usually, they would go somewhere Sunday afternoon—the zoo, or Stone Mountain for a picnic, or Piedmont Park to feed the ducks.

  “I bet Mr. Murphy would like pancakes,” Nick said as he plodded into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and wrinkled pajamas. “Maybe he would like to go to Sunday school.”

  “Or maybe he would like to rest,” she said.

  But Nick was already peering out the window. “Nope,” he said happily. “He’s outside in the yard.”

  Julie had purposely not looked outside. But now she did He was clipping a shrub which had grown in an ungainly way. Did he ever stop working?

  “Why don’t you go see if he’s hungry?” she said.

  Nick took off as if he’d been standing barefoot on hot coals.

  She looked out the window and watched Nick run over to Murphy. Her son looked so small
next to him, so vulnerable. She’d had no idea how much her son had hungered for male companionship until the past few days. She decided then and there to take him over to Dan’s home. Or was it just Murphy who was special to him? If so, how had it happened so quickly?

  And with someone described as cold, uncaring and arrogant?

  She looked down at the batter, realizing she’d already mixed more than enough for three. She shook her head at herself, realizing how much she had missed Murphy’s presence in the kitchen.

  Julie poured an extra glass of orange juice and retrieved another cup from the cabinet.

  Maybe he wouldn’t come.

  But she saw him follow her son toward the door and in seconds it opened, his tall, lanky form filling the doorway, then the kitchen. His dark eyes had that same quiet, watchful look and his mouth quirked in a particularly quizzical way that was all his “The munchkin asked me for breakfast,” he said, almost as if he thought she would demur.

  She noticed he had picked up her own pet name for Nick and she smiled at hearing it on his lips. “You’re very welcome. I hope you like pancakes.”

  “I’ll like whatever smells so good,” he said in a lazy drawl He took several strides toward her, and she had to look up to see his face. He smelled like fresh earth and soap with just a hint of the aftershave she had bought. And at her welcoming words, his eyes went from cautious to warm and beguiling.

  Suddenly, her throat was so tight she couldn’t swallow Damn, she should have known this might happen. She moved out of touching range. But though she could swallow again, her heart beat at an accelerated rate.

  “Is there someplace I can wash up?” he asked.

  She turned back to the pancakes, hoping he didn’t see the telltale flush creeping up her face. “The bathroom down the hall.”

  But she’d barely had time to regain her equilibrium when he returned. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “You can pour the coffee.”

  But that was a mistake, too. It brought him much too close to her. The kitchen was suddenly very, very small. Too small. She stepped away, afraid he might see her hands tremble, and opened the refrigerator door. Almost blindly, she searched its interior, looking for something she’d missed so she wouldn’t feel like such an idiot. But everything was out: butter, syrup, milk, orange juice. She closed the door and returned to the stove, hoping he hadn’t noticed she was empty-handed. He probably hadn’t, since he was carrying two cups of coffee to the table.

  Julie scooped pancakes out of the frying pan onto a plate, then poured some more batter into the pan. She turned to take the loaded plate to the table and bumped into Murphy. The plate started to fall, and he caught it, his lips turning into a sudden, blinding smile

  “I can catch,” he said with such a warm, amused voice that it turned her insides into a knot.

  “I noticed,” she said inanely. She also noticed other things, like suddenly how deep and smoky his eyes were

  His gaze held hers for a moment, then he seemed to tear himself away reluctantly and went to the table, holding the plate out to Nick who forked several pancakes onto the table “Mommy makes the best pancakes in the world,” he said

  Murphy didn’t take one. Instead, he looked toward her “Let me finish while you eat,” he said

  “Do you cook?”

  “I’ve made sandwiches,” he replied, and again she heard the amusement in his voice. Had he found a sense of humor? Or was he simply losing some of that caution he cloaked himself in?

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I think I’d better do it myself.”

  “I have to learn sometime.”

  “Not on my pancakes.”

  He chuckled. It was the first time she’d heard the sound and it crawled inside and wrapped itself around her heart. Every organ melted like warm butter. She watched him as he slid into a seat, folding his long legs underneath. A fork grabbed a pancake and he took a bite with obvious pleasure.

  She flipped the pancakes and took a sip of orange juice. She was already much too edgy for coffee.

  Several more sips and the pancakes were finished She slid them on a plate and sat down next to Murphy It was a mistake. Their hands brushed as she put the plate down just as he was reaching for syrup she heated earlier. Her blood felt like that syrup—thick and warm—as the now too familiar awareness flared between them She saw it in the sudden flash of heat in his eyes and felt it in the charged air around them She wondered whether Nick noticed anything unusual, but he was much too busy shoveling in pancake bites

  “Nick was right,” Murphy said. “You do make the best pancakes in the world and you were right not to let me near them ”

  “And you have, of course, tasted enough to know?”

  The smile disappeared from his eyes, and she could have kicked herself.

  “I’m discovering a healthy imagination,” he said, taking another forkful. Then his eyes turned serious. “I would like to talk to you about what happened ten years ago ”

  She’d known that was coming when he’d asked to see all her files. “All right,” she said “I’m taking Nick to church, but we’ll be back at one ”

  “Ry ..Mr. Murphy can go with us,” Nick said, gazing hopefully at her.

  “Not this morning,” she said, catching the startled look on Murphy’s face “I think we should let him get settled.”

  “We’ll toss a baseball this afternoon,” Murphy said. “If it’s all nght with your mother.”

  “Oh boy,” Nick said. “That’s super.”

  In the burst of enthusiasm, Nick had forgotten their regular Sunday excursion A bittersweet anguish—something almost like jealousy—struck her for a moment until she saw Murphy’s face. He apparently took her momentary silence as a sign that she didn’t want him alone with her son. The amused warmth in his eyes faded, replaced by a grimness she’d only seen while he was in prison.

  She was struck by her own selfishness Ryan Murphy had so little; surely she couldn’t begrudge him a little time with her son Still, she worried about Nick’s wholehearted response to Murphy.

  “Of course you can,” she told Nick “I just thought you wanted to go to the park.”

  “I’d rather play baseball,” he said importantly.

  “Then it’s settled,” she said.

  But the wanness was back in Murphy’s eyes He finished eating with the precision she’d seen in the restaurant, not the gusto of a few moments ago. That light had gone from his face, and there was no way she could explain that it had been her own possessiveness, and not him, that had caused her hesitation.

  He finished his coffee and stood. “I thought I would rake the leaves.”

  “You don’t have to do that. You need some time of your own.”

  His eyes narrowed, and his expression was enigmatic. “I like being outside. I enjoy the physical exercise ”

  And he felt compelled to pay her back.

  What would he think if he knew she had lost her job? She hadn’t told either Nick or Murphy yet.

  Her pancakes cooled on her plate. “I’ll see you at one then,” she said.

  “Thanks for breakfast ” He was out the door before either she or Nick could say anything more.

  She wondered whether she’d imagined those few moments when he’d seemed to forget caution

  “You’d better get dressed,” she told the pajama-clad Nick.

  Nick obediently scooted out of his chair, and she walked to the front door to pick up the Sunday paper outside. The moment she opened the door, she noticed the sign planted in her yard. Her stomach knotted.

  Slowly, she walked down the driveway and looked at the sign

  A murderer lives here.

  She pulled it up. She would take it into her office where neither Nick nor Murphy would see it. She’d been nght.

  It was just starting.

  Chapter 13

  Ryan raked the yard, neatly packaging the leaves in large trash bags Julie provided before leaving for church.

&nbs
p; Then, restless, he went up to his room and read his files again. He wanted to ask Julie certain questions, wanted to talk to people himself. He would have tomorrow—Monday—off since Tim wanted him to work Saturdays when Johnny liked to take off

  Perhaps he could talk to his ex-wife Or to Jack Banyon. He was growing more and more hungry for information about himself. Okay, he knew he could drain oil from a car, change and rotate tires, install new brakes. What else could he do?

  Could he drive? Fire a gun accurately?

  The last question popped into his mind without welcome. His police personnel records said he was a marksman. He tried to imagine holding a gun as he had seen actors do on television

  There had been no sudden flash of memory as there had been when he’d tossed the ball, no familiarity. Perhaps if he had one in his hand...

  But that was one of the prohibitions that would surely send him back to prison. No firearms. Not of any kind.

  When he felt he’d memorized every fact in the files, he looked at the clock It was 11-00 a.m. He found some coins and left the apartment. A telephone. He needed a telephone. He walked to Peachtree Road where he found a gas station and pay phones.

  The directory was torn, pages were missing. He first looked for Banyon, Jack, but that page was missing. He then tried the city police department To his surprise, he was directed to Banyon, and hope flared. But then a machine answered, asking him to leave a name and phone number. After a short hesitation, he left his name and address, then hung up

  He itched to call his former wife. He’d found her address and phone number in Julie’s file and written it down, but he knew Julie had been hesitant when he’d said he wanted to talk to her. Mary Elizabeth Saddler. He tried the first two names on his tongue He had lived with her for nine years. If anything should be familiar, it should be her.

  But all that developed in the vast blankness of his mind was Julie’s face. Her quick smile. The way her eyes flashed The feel of her Good Lord, the feel of her. The soft yielding of her body, the taste of her lips.

  Had he felt the same way about his wife? He looked down and noticed his hands were clenched into fists Damn, he had no right to pop into Mary Elizabeth Saddler’s life. She didn’t want to see him. She’d made that clear enough. Had he been so poor a husband? A father?