At Close Range

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Brian examined the picture he’d been given, certain there was a message for him if only he could decipher it. Looking to Cynthia for help, Brian was surprised to see her busy at the stove, her back to him.

  Without a greeting.

  And he remembered the paper. There’d been no mistaking the Sun News logo.

  She’d read the article. Knew that someone thought he might be responsible for the deaths of four infants. Not sure whether to discuss the article with her or ignore it, Brian thought again of how quickly she’d disposed of the paper when she’d known he was there.

  Sparing him?

  Not wanting to insult him with doubts?

  Maybe she needed some time to figure out what she wanted to do about what she’d read. Some time to determine how much she trusted the man she’d just moved in with.

  Maybe it was best to wait. To let her mention it when she was ready.

  He had nothing to hide. Something that was perhaps, right now, better shown than told.

  “Hi,” he said, placing an arm around her waist as he leaned in for a kiss. Her lips, warm and full as always, clung to his, her tongue darting into his mouth with the ease of familiarity—and pleasure.

  “Mmm. I can see I’m going to like getting back to the business of fully living,” he murmured, his body stirring at the unmistakable darkening of her eyes.

  The sound of Joseph’s crayon dropping in his box, little fingers rummaging for a different color, reminded Brian that he was not alone with his beautiful housemate. His lover.

  “More later,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her behind her ear. Cynthia tilted her head back and emitted a soft moan that would keep his blood boiling, he was sure, until bedtime.

  The woman was very, very good for him. And to him.

  As good as he wanted to be for her. And her troubled son.

  “Did you see this?” He held out the drawing.

  Tending to her rice, she nodded, her expression not quite steady. She was obviously no more immune to him than he was to her. “He has a fascination with circles,” she said.

  “It’s not a circle, Mommy, it’s the earth,” Joseph said from the table.

  So much for the boy tuning out their world.

  Note to self, Brian thought, chuckling as he went upstairs to change. Little pitchers have big ears. Save coming on to the mama until the child is in bed.

  Much later that night, Brian stared at the ceiling. He had a woman in his arms, her head on his chest. In his bedroom. At home. A woman whose scant collection of clothes hung in the closet next to his. Whose toothbrush was in the ensuite bathroom.

  He didn’t regret having her there. He’d made the right decision. Moments like these, moments of discomfort, when he didn’t feel like himself, were to be expected. Living with a woman again was a huge change. There were bound to be adjustments.

  “The hospital didn’t phone.” Cynthia’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “I know,” he said, holding her closer. “Which should be good news.”

  Her palm rested, unmoving, on his chest. “Did you hear from the parents of the little leukemia girl today?”

  “No. I’m planning to do a follow-up call tomorrow. Sometimes when people hear bad news like this, especially about a small child, they go into denial. Their defense mechanisms don’t allow them to believe it and they fail to get the proper treatment. In Felicia’s case, immediate treatment is critical.”

  As she did many times, she asked about his caseload that day. And the next. She asked about a couple of kids, cases she knew from doing his accounts, who’d been in for tests, about a ten-year-old who’d been burned, a twelve-year-old future professional baseball player who’d broken his collarbone.

  And, telling himself that he was lucky to have a woman who listened, one who cared enough to remember what he did with his days and wanted to share them with him, Brian answered her.

  But shouldn’t they be making love instead of talking about work? This was their first official night of living together and he was staring at the ceiling.

  When silence fell, her lips planted gentle kisses around his nipple, but she didn’t push him for more—almost as though her heart wasn’t into love-making, either. He settled her more deeply into the crook of his arm, liking her weight against him.

  And tried to drift off to sleep.

  Eventually, when her breathing didn’t deepen and he could feel her eyelashes blinking against his skin, he gave up.

  “Why’d you hide the paper?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. They needed to discuss the ludicrousness of the reporter’s comments; he needed to assure her of his innocence. She’d just moved her son into his home. She deserved at least that. But he’d wanted her to bring up the article.

  She needed to know that if she had concerns, she could come to him. She had to come to him. Or they would never work. Never be a real couple.

  “I…What paper?”

  Disappointed, Brian took a deep breath. Tried to put himself in her shoes. She was a young woman with few resources and a troubled four-year-old to raise. She’d just taken one of the biggest risks of her life, moving the two of them into his home. And he’d sort of, been accused of murder.

  She deserved his patience, if nothing else.

  “I saw you reading the article in the Sun News when I came in,” he told her, resolving to take care of her, instead of holding her up to unspoken expectations.

  “Oh.” That was all. No questions. No accusations. No rambling fears. As if she was unaware, half dead, although he knew her to be a multidimensional, occasionally intense human being.

  “It’s okay, Cyn,” he said softly. “You don’t have to take me at face value. You can have doubts. You can ask questions.”

  He wasn’t sure she was going to respond even then, she lay so still against him. But then, lifting her head to rest her chin on his chest, she stared up at him in the dim light coming in from the window. “I want to take you at face value.” Her voice was sweet, tender—and also laced with conviction. “I just can’t seem to do it. Every single time I’ve trusted someone, I’ve been hurt. And my son has been hurt. I can’t let that happen again.”

  He wanted to interrupt, to reassure her. But knew he had to hear her out. No matter where she was going with this.

  If she left before they’d really begun, he’d survive. He didn’t want her to go, but he’d survive.

  And he’d watch out for her, too. He’d show her, one way or another, that she wasn’t alone anymore. He’d committed himself to this small family. For good or bad.

  “I’m all he’s got,” she said with that hint of intensity that always drew him to her. “He has to come first.”

  “Of course he does.”

  Shaking her head, Cynthia sat up, adjusting her nightgown and hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s more than that,” she said now, her eyes wide as she met his gaze. “He doesn’t just come first, he comes only. I will do anything for Joseph. Sacrifice anything for him.”

  “As would most mothers for their children,” Brian said. He heard the doctor tone enter his voice, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “Where do you think the saying ‘mother bear with her cubs’ came from? It’s true. Mothers are infused with a need to give up their own lives, to kill if necessary—in a symbolic sense—to protect their young. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

  “I just…” He could see in her eyes that she was trying to tell him something vital. But he couldn’t quite figure it out.

  “I love you, Brian.”

  There were those words again. And the timing was critical.

  He couldn’t keep running and expect her to stay.

  “I love you, too.” There. Offering the proclamation hadn’t been as hard as he’d expected. There were many ways to love a person. Many ways to love a woman.

  “I mean it. I really, really love you.”

  Brian stroked her hair, caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Okay.”


  He was a lucky man.

  “I realize now that I’ve never really loved a man before.”

  God, she was lovely. He was going to do everything in his power to be worthy of her. To give her everything he had left to give.

  Lord knew he wanted to. Brian just wasn’t sure it would be enough.

  Because he didn’t have more words, Brian kissed her. Once. Softly. And then again. His hand at the back of her neck, he guided her lips against his, opening to her, coaxing her to open to him.

  And, as always, she was instantly responsive, as though she knew what he needed before he did. When it came to sex, this woman was a natural. Or maybe it was the loving that she was getting right.

  “I…” Cynthia broke the kiss, her lips parted as she again met his gaze. “Please, no matter what choices I make in Joseph’s best interests, don’t ever, ever forget that I honestly and truly love you.”

  That article again. She was struggling to trust him. Considering her past, her marriage to a man who swore to protect her and their son forever and then was unfaithful, he could certainly understand.

  “I want you to remember something, too,” he said, his forehead resting against hers.

  “What?”

  “No matter what choices you have to make, I’ll be there for you. I won’t desert you. Whether you live here or elsewhere, whether you stay with me or not, you have a friend for life. You got that?”

  For the first time in the many months he’d known her, Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears.

  “The insinuations in that article are lies, babe.” Some words wouldn’t come. These would. “The reporter took a few facts and put a heinous spin on them. I did fight for stronger border laws after Cara’s death. The kid who hit us was an illegal immigrant, had come across the border with his parents when he was a toddler. But I have never received a dime from any of the volunteer work I do, not from SIDS seminars and certainly not from the free clinic. Nor would I ever knowingly harm a child—whether that child was in my care or not.”

  “Do you hate Mexicans?” Her voice was uneven, and there were still tears in her eyes as she clutched at his hand.

  “Of course not. I didn’t hate illegals, as people, even then. I hated the system that allowed them to live among us without following our laws.” He talked about statistics, real ones, about health-care rights. About school-system dollars spent teaching kids who couldn’t speak English. About below minimum-wage work being offered that took jobs away from those who weren’t allowed to work for less. And about the Emergency Medial Treatment and Active Labor Act that requires all U.S. emergency treatment facilities to treat anyone needing care, including illegals. Which meant that in highly illegally populated areas, centers closed down because they had to treat too many who didn’t pay for services, leaving Americans without care. Or those where American citizens waited in long lines for care—behind illegals. And about safeguards—such as the driver’s test—that were denied to illegal’s because, as far as the government was concerned, these people didn’t exist. And he talked about the money spent every year by the state to prosecute and defend illegal immigrants.

  And then, as she lay there silently—his lover who usually had lots to say about politics—Brian changed the subject, telling her about the SIDS program he and Hannah had developed.

  If Cynthia needed time to digest the rest, she would have it. An accusation of murder wasn’t a simple thing.

  “They say that you shouldn’t lay a baby on its stomach,” Cynthia said. “They say that increases the risk of SIDS. At least, that’s what they told me when I had Joseph.”

  “That’s right.”

  Cynthia asked a couple more questions. He answered them. And then, when she appeared to be done for the night, repeated, “All of that aside, I want you to know I would never do anything to harm a child. Any child. For any reason.” It was crucial that she understand that, if nothing else.

  Her scrutiny wasn’t light. Or easy. But he endured those moments without difficulty. And when she finally nodded, he believed she was satisfied.

  4

  S usan Campbell stuck her head in Hannah’s door after lunch on Friday. “You ready, Judge?”

  Sitting at her desk, wearing the black silk robe of her calling, Hannah nodded and accepted the compassionate smile on the face of her twenty-six-year-old judicial assistant.

  She wasn’t ready. How could you ever be ready to do something that was going to anger a large powerful group of thugs—a group known for getting away with unconscionable acts of violence?

  Moving with purpose, she left her chambers and looked both ways as she walked into the secure hallway outside her door and stepped toward the back entrance of the courtroom.

  Her job was to administer justice. Kenny Hill might be convicted by a jury of vetted American citizens. If that happened, she’d sentence him to prison—and society would be safer.

  But he had brothers. Ivory Nation brothers.

  “All rise.”

  Hannah heard Jaime’s spiel about the Honorable Hannah Montgomery, but barely waited for the bailiff to finish before she took her seat. Her deputy was there—standing at attention with his eyes firmly on the defendant who was seated at the table directly in front of her bench.

  Other deputies were there, too, called by the sheriff’s office to oversee this trial.

  Only members of the press and the jury were absent—the jury sequestered in another room. They couldn’t be privy to this particular motion lest their judgment be impaired. The press would line the back of the room again as soon as she gave the okay to let them in from the hall.

  “Be seated,” Hannah said clearly. Loudly.

  She could do her job. She had no doubt about that. She would do it well.

  And she would deal with the ensuing exhaustion, the emotional panic that sometimes resulted from days like today.

  “We are back on the record with case number CR2008-000351. The State v. Kenneth Hill. Before we bring in the jury, we have a matter before the court concerning new evidence received by the state.”

  The benches in the back of her courtroom were filled to capacity. Whether the victim had as many supporters as the defendant did, Hannah couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think so. She suspected the Ivory Nation ranks had been notified overnight. Was she supposed to consider herself warned? Intimidated?

  The defendant’s parents, sitting stiffly in the front row, didn’t seem to know any of the mostly young men around them.

  Bobby Donahue, the group’s leader, was not present.

  Hannah noted every detail of her surroundings as she held the page she’d written the night before.

  “The Court has reviewed the motion to suppress testimony filed by Robert Keith on behalf of the defendant, Kenny Hill, the argument presented by the prosecution, as well as case law pertinent to the matter before us…”

  She continued to read, citing case law brought before her during the motion, reminding the defense that it wasn’t within the jurisdiction of trial court to find existing laws unconstitutional. She discussed the Arizona statute about allowing prejudicial evidence, specifically pertaining to cases where evidence pertaining to a previous case is also pertinent to the current one.

  In other words, the victim of Kenny Hill’s earlier assault would not be appearing as a victim, but as a witness to the possibility that a certain weapon used in that crime, had caused injuries in this one.

  And then, sticking to the plan she’d devised the night before—not to look up from her notes, even once, not to give them anything, any hint that she was human or afraid—she delivered her findings.

  “The court has prepared the following rulings,” she said, gaining confidence in herself as her voice remained steady. “It is ordered that the motion to suppress be denied.”

  Funny how a room could be filled with negative energy, with savage anger, that emitted not a sound.

  The only thing Hannah could hear was the rapid tapping of her court recorde
r, fifty-year-old Tammy Rhodes. Jaime, the other human being within Hannah’s peripheral vision, was staring down at her desk.

  “The state is warned that any mention of a previous conviction for this defendant will result in a mistrial.”

  That was it. She’d reached the end of her ruling. Of her notes. There was nothing else to do but look up.

  The trial that had already run two days over its time allotment was continued until Monday—the earliest the state’s newly approved witness could be brought in. Which meant that the weight hanging over Hannah would be there all weekend.

  She and William had tickets to a concert at Symphony Hall the next night. His son, a student at a private school for the arts, was a guest violinist in one piece and, as William rarely saw the boy, he’d been thrilled to get the invitation. Hannah hoped, as she drove home on Friday, that she’d be able to stay awake. Put her in a comfortable seat, in a dark room with soft music and—

  What was that? She saw a pile in the road by her driveway. Driving slowly, Hannah tried to identify the curious shape. Her heart was pounding, but she told herself there was no reason for that.

  Some trash had fallen from a dispenser during that morning’s pickup, that was all.

  But there was something too familiar about the tan and beige with that streak of black. What had she put in her trash that week? Some kind of packaging maybe.

  What had she purchased? Opened? Had she even bought anything new?

  As she drew closer, her pulse quickened yet again. The blob didn’t look like packaging. It looked…furry. Like an animal.

  The exact size of Callie Bodacious.

  Hannah’s beloved eleven-year-old cat. The direct offspring of a gift from Jason, the man she’d married—the man who, at seventeen, had been diagnosed with leukemia and, at twenty-three, had died in the bed she’d shared with him.

  “No!” Throwing the car in Park in the middle of her quiet street, Hannah got out, the door of the Lexus wide-open behind her as she sped to the shape in the road.

  Callie wasn’t a purebred. Wasn’t worth much in a monetary sense. She was basically an alley cat. One who wasn’t particularly fond of people—other than Hannah.