Dead Sleep (18 page)

“Are you really spending the night with us tonight?” asks Lyn.

“I am.”

“Will you teach me how to use this?”

“I sure will. The pictures from this camera go into a computer before they go onto paper. I'll bet you have a computer.”

“My dad has one.”

“We'll just borrow his until he gets you your own. Right, Dad?”

Marc shakes his head, but he's smiling. “Right. Okay, who's ready for supper?”

“Did you actually cook?”

“Are you kidding? Annabelle!”

After thirty seconds or so, the clicking of heels comes up the hallway, followed by an elderly black woman's voice. “What you hollerin' about, Mr. Lacour?”

“How's supper coming?”

“Almost ready.”

Annabelle appears in the doorway, not heavy and slow like I pictured her, but thin and tall and efficient. She has a warm smile on her face until her eyes settle on me. It fades instantly, replaced by a mix of wonder and fear.

“Annabelle, this is Jordan,” says Marc.

“Lord, I see that,” she says softly. “Child, you the spittin' image of . . .” She glances at the kids and trails off. As though impelled against her will, Annabelle advances across the room until she's standing over me. I reach up and take her hand, and she squeezes mine with remarkable strength. “God bless you,” she says. Then she goes to Henry and Lyn, bends nearly double, gives each a hug, and walks back to the door.

“You can go on when supper's done,” Marc says. “Have a good night.”

“Soon as I get the biscuits out the oven,” she says in a faraway voice, “I'll be gone home.”

When she disappears, I say, “I didn't think they still made them like that.”

“You've been out of the South too long,” Marc replies. “Annabelle's the best. This family couldn't function without her. I think you gave her a shock, though.”

By the time we reach the dining room, the table is laden with food. A pork loin with what smells like honey-and-brown-sugar glaze, cheese grits, cat-head biscuits, and a token salad. After months of Asian food, these smells from childhood nearly overwhelm my senses. Jane is everywhere around me. She and I were raised knowing nothing of fine china, so naturally she spent months deciding on the fine old Royal Doulton pattern that sits before me now. Same with the Waterford crystal and Reed & Barton silver.

“It looks terrific, doesn't it?” I tell Henry. “Here, come sit by me. Lyn, you sit on this side.”

“But your setting's at the end of the table,” she says, pointing.

“I'd rather sit by you.”

Lyn's smile could split the world. She and Henry take the chairs on either side of mine, and we all dig in. It's surprising how quickly we fall into a natural rhythm of conversation, and the only awkward moments come in the silences. The children look at me as though they've lost all sense of time, and I know they are reliving hours spent at this table with their mother. Once, even Marc's eyes seem to glaze over, as he slips into the same dimension the kids visit so much more easily. I can't blame them. Thirteen months ago a divine hand reached into the Norman Rockwell painting of their life together and rubbed out the mother figure, leaving a painful, puzzling space. Now, magically, that space has been filled again, by a woman who looks exactly like the one who was erased.

“It's getting close to bedtime,” Marc says.

“No!” the children cry in unison.

“How about cutting them a little slack this first night?”

Marc looks like he's getting tired of my interference, but he agrees. We retire to the living room, and I give Lyn an introductory lesson on the digital Nikon while Henry loads
El Dorado
into his portable DVD player. Lyn is deft with her hands, and a proprietary glow of pride takes me by surprise. After she shoots a few test shots, I load them into Marc's notebook computer. The results are good, and Lyn practically bursts with pleasure. Marc tries again to get the kids to bed, but they refuse, crawling into my lap for me to argue their case. I oblige, and before long Henry is zonked out and both my legs are asleep. Marc sits in a chair across the room, his legs draped over an ottoman as he half-watches a stock market report on CNBC, so he doesn't notice when I look down and see Lyn staring up at me, her chin quivering.

“What is it, honey?” I whisper.

She closes her eyes tight, squeezing out tears as she turns her face into my breast and sobs. “I miss my mama.”

This time there's no stopping my tears. I have never known a protective instinct as powerful as the one that suffuses me now. Not even when I was practically raising Jane in Oxford. I would kill to protect these children. But who can I kill to protect them from the loss of their mother? All I can do is caress Lyn's forehead and reassure her about the future.

“I know you do, baby. I do, too. But I'm here for you now. Think about happy times.”

“Are you going to stay with us?”

“I sure am.”

“How long?” Her eyes are wide and fragile as bubbles.

“As long as you need me. As long as it takes.”

Marc looks over at us, his eyes suddenly alert. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing a little hugging won't fix,” I tell him, rocking Lyn as best I can with Henry weighing me down. But what I'm hearing in my mind is the voice on the telephone eight months ago.
God, let that have been Jane,
I pray silently.
These children need more than I can ever give them.

A half hour later, Marc and I carry the kids to their beds. They've slept together since Jane disappeared, insisting on the room next to Marc's rather than the larger but more isolated ones upstairs. When we get back to the living room, he opens a second bottle of wine, and we methodically drink most of it while reminiscing about Jane. Marc wasn't lying when he said he missed her. As he drains the last of the bottle, his eyes mist over.

“I know you think I'm a bastard for telling them she's dead. I'm just trying to make things as easy on them as I can.”

I give him a conciliatory nod. “Now that I see them, I understand better why you did what you did. But what will you do if it turns out you're wrong?”

He snorts. “You don't really think those women are alive, do you?”

“I honestly don't know. I had convinced myself that Jane was dead. But now I won't give up until I see her body.”

“Just like with your father,” he mumbles. “You never give up.”

“I wish you wouldn't either. In your heart, at least.”

“My heart?” He gestures toward his chest with the goblet, and wine sloshes onto his shirt. “For the last thirteen months, my life has been shit. If it weren't for those kids, I might not even be here.”

“Marc—”

“I know, I know. Self-pitying slob.”

“That's not what I was thinking.”

He's not listening anymore. He has covered his eyes and begun sobbing. Alcohol and depression definitely don't mix. I feel a little awkward, but I get up, walk over to him, and lay my hand on his shoulder.

“I know it's hard. I've had a tough time myself.”

He shakes his head violently, as though to deny the tears, then sits up and wipes his face on his shirtsleeve. “Goddamn it! I'm sorry I got like this.”

I sit on the ottoman and put my hands on his shoulders. “Hey. You've been through one of the worst things anyone can go through. You're allowed.”

His bloodshot eyes seek out mine. “I just can't seem to get it together.”

“Maybe you need a break. Have you taken a vacation since it happened?”

“No. Work helps me deal with it.”

“Maybe work helps you
not
deal with it. Have you thought of that?”

He laughs like he doesn't need or appreciate amateur psychology. Privileged men are masters of ironic distance. “I'm just glad you came,” he says. “I can't believe how the kids responded to you.”

“I can't believe how I responded to them. I almost feel like they're mine.”

“I know.” His smile vanishes. “Just . . . thanks for coming.” He leans forward and embraces me. The hug does me good, too, I must admit. I haven't had many these past months. But suddenly a current of shock shoots through me. There's something moist against my neck.
He's kissing my neck.
And there's nothing brotherly about it.

I go stiff in spite of my desire not to overreact.
“Marc?”

He takes his lips away, but before I can gather my thoughts, he's kissing my mouth. I jerk back and put my hands on his arms to restrain him.

His eyes plead silently with me. “You don't know what it's been like without her. It's not the same for you. I can't even make myself
look
at another woman. All I see is Jane. But watching you tonight, at the table, with the kids . . . you almost
are
her.”

“I'm not Jane.”

“I know that. But if I let my mind drift just a little, it's like you are. You even
feel
like her.” He pulls his arms free and squeezes my hands. “Your hands are the same, your eyes, your breasts, everything.” His blue eyes fix mine with a monk's intensity. “Do you know what it would mean to me to have one night with you? Just one night. It would be like Jane had come back. It would—”

“Stop!”
I hiss, afraid the children will wake. “Do you hear yourself? I'm not Jane, and I can't pretend to be! Not to ease your grief. Not for the kids, and especially not in your bed. In
her
bed. My God.”

He looks at the floor, then back up at me, and his eyes shine with an unpleasant light. “It wouldn't be the first time you pretended to be her, would it?”

It's as though he flushed liquid nitrogen through my veins. I am speechless, unable to move. Only when he squeezes my hands do I yank them away in reflex.

“What are you talking about?”

He smirks like a little boy with a secret. “You know.”

Without knowing how I got there, I find myself standing three feet away from him with my arms crossed over my breasts. “I'm leaving. I'm going to stay at a hotel. Tell the kids I'll be back during the day.”

He blinks, then seems to come to his senses a bit, or at least to feel some sense of shame. “Don't do that. I didn't mean to upset you. You're just so damn beautiful.” He stumbles over the ottoman as he comes toward me. My instinct is to jump forward and help him, but I don't. I don't want things to get any worse than they already are.

“I'm going upstairs to get my bags. You stay here while I do it.”

“Don't be melodramatic. You don't have anything to worry about.”

“I mean it, Marc.”

Without waiting for a reply, I run up the stairs and grab my suitcase, thanking God I didn't unpack yet. When I go back down, he's waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“What am I supposed to tell the kids?” he asks.

“Don't you dare use them against me like that. Tell them I got called away to a photo shoot. I'll be back to see them. I just won't be spending the night.”

He looks penitent now, but the sense of entitlement I heard in his voice only moments ago still haunts me. Before he sinks into drunken apologies, I push past him and leave without a word.

As I hit the sidewalk, a car door opens a few yards away and a dark figure floats onto the sidewalk.

“Jordan?” says a female voice. “What's the matter?”

“I'm fine, Wendy. I'm just staying elsewhere.”

“What happened?”

My joke to Kaiser about Wendy making a pass at me comes back to me like instant karma. Someone made a pass tonight, all right. But I could never have imagined it would come from my sister's husband. “Men problems,” I murmur.

“Gotcha. Where are we going?”

“A hotel, I guess.”

She takes my suitcase and starts toward the Mustang, then pauses. “Um, look . . . I don't know how you feel about hotels, but I've got an extra bedroom at my apartment. I've got to stay with you no matter where you go, so, you know. It's up to you. But that way we'd have food and coffee, toiletries, whatever you need.”

There have been nights I would have killed for a hotel room. I've slept in shell craters and been grateful for them. But tonight I don't want a sterile, empty place. I want real things around me, a humanly messy kitchen and CDs and a crocheted comforter on the couch. I hope Wendy isn't a compulsive cleaner. “That sounds great. Let's go.”

I'm about to start the Mustang when a soft beeping sounds in it. “What's that?” I ask, looking around in confusion.

“Cell phone,” she announces. “A Nokia. I recognize the ring. We use some at the office.”

“Oh.” I grab my fanny pack from the backseat, unzip it, and remove the phone Kaiser gave me back at the FBI office. “Hello?”

“Ms. Glass? Daniel Baxter.”

“What's up?”

“I‘ve been negotiating with Monsieur de Becque of the Cayman Islands.”

“And?”

“He says you can go on our plane, and you can bring one assistant to help with lighting, et cetera.”

“Great. When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow. A few of us have spent the last half hour arguing over who your assistant should be. I'm backing a member of the Hostage Rescue Team. If things take a nasty turn, he'd have the best chance of getting you out of there alive.”

“Is someone arguing with your choice?”

“Agent Kaiser has a different opinion.”