Night Sins (46 page)

“You need to rest,” Mitch told her. “Is there anything more I can do?”

Strange that she should be stricken with shyness, she thought. What she wanted to ask wasn't intimate in the least. Just a service. But she felt so vulnerable. . . .

“Let my hair down?” She turned her face away from him, giving him access to her ponytail, at the same time avoiding his eyes.

Funny it should seem such a personal thing, Mitch thought as he slipped the bedraggled velvet bow from her dark hair and undid the rubber band. He had done the same for Jessie more times than he could count. Maybe that was part of it—that she seemed as defenseless as a child. That he was taking the role of protector. She had to hate it. She was so fiercely independent, so proud, and pain had reduced her to asking for help with something as simple as taking her hair down. An ironic cycle—that her vulnerability brought out a strength in him that ultimately made him vulnerable as well.

He sifted his fingers through the mahogany silk, spreading it out on the flower-sprigged pillow. His touch as light as a whisper, he massaged the back of her head and the tightly corded muscles in the back of her neck. Tears seeped between her lashes and she cried softly, but she didn't tell him to stop.

“You know, I never did this for Leo,” he said quietly, bending to kiss her cheek. “Try to get some sleep, sweetheart—can I call you sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Okay, hard case. I'll be in the next room if you need me.”

If you need me . . .
Megan said nothing as he pulled the covers up around her shoulders, straightened, and turned to go. To leave her alone. Just her and her pain alone in a room that would never be home because she had blown her chance. Already it seemed colder, emptier, as if the place somehow knew she would be leaving.

. . . if you need me . . .

“Mitch?” She hated the weakness in her voice, the echoes from a long, lonely past, but God help her, she didn't want to be alone with those ghosts tonight.

He hunkered down beside the bed and squinted at her in the dusky light. She closed her eyes against the tears, ashamed to have him see them. “Hold me. Please.”

Mitch tightened his lips against the sudden wave of emotion. He touched a fingertip to the tip of her nose and forced words around the rock in his throat.

“Jeez, O'Malley,” he said teasingly. “I thought you'd never ask.”

He toed off his boots and settled in behind her, the old bed creaking and groaning beneath their combined weight. He tucked her back against him spoon-style. He slipped her hand into his, and kissed her hair so softly she might not have felt it. And he listened to her breathing as she surrendered at last to sleep.

CHAPTER 33

D
AY
10
7:24
P.M.
         -22°         
WINDCHILL FACTOR
: -42°

H
annah, beyond fear, what are you feeling throughout this ordeal?”

Hannah breathed deeply, thought carefully, the same steps she had taken for each of the previous questions. She tried to block out the presence of the cameras and lights and focus completely on the concerned face of the woman seated across from her. That was how she thought of Katie Couric—as a woman, as a mother, not as a celebrity or a reporter.

“Confusion. Frustration,” she said. “I can't understand why this happened to us. I can't begin to comprehend it, and that's frustrating.”

“Do you feel this is some kind of personal attack or vendetta?”

Hannah looked down at her hands in her lap and the handkerchief she had twisted into a knot. “I don't want to think anyone I know could be capable of this kind of cruelty.”

Couric leaned ahead slightly in the small rose damask armchair. The NBC news crew had taken over the better part of the top floor of the Fontaine. An elegantly restored Victorian hotel in downtown Deer Lake, the Fontaine was furnished with antiques and reproductions. The crew had chosen the Rose Suite for the interview, partly for its size, partly for its beauty.

“Hannah, you were involved in an incident this morning at St. Elysius Catholic Church,” Katie Couric said carefully. “Father Tom McCoy was attacked by Albert Fletcher, the man who taught Josh in catechism and supervised him as an altar boy. Later this morning the police made a bizarre discovery at Mr. Fletcher's home—finding what they believe to be the body of his wife, who passed away several years ago. The authorities are now conducting an extensive manhunt for Albert Fletcher. Do you think he could have been involved with Josh's disappearance?”

“I was so stunned when it happened—the attack,” Hannah replied. “I'm still stunned. I would never have thought he could be violent, or we would never have trusted him with our son. That's part of the frustration. I saw this town as being safe. I saw the people in our lives as good people. Now all of that is shattered and it makes me angry and it makes me feel like I was naïve.”

“Does it make you more angry that you've been singled out when, as a physician, you've done so much for the people in Deer Lake?”

Deep breath, deep thought. She had been raised to do service for and give to people with no expectations for personal gain. The answer that came automatically brought guilt, but it was the honest answer and she gave it in a strained whisper. “Yes.”

P
aul watched the interview on a portable television in his office and seethed with a jealousy he would never admit. Local stations weren't good enough for Hannah. She had to hold out for a network interview. She was probably breaking hearts across America with her tear-filled blue eyes and quiet voice. The camera loved her. She looked like an actress with her wavy golden hair pulled back loosely. Darryl Hannah as Hannah Garrison, devastated mother.

He poured himself a shot of scotch from the bottle he had taken out of his partner's office and sipped at it, grimacing. They said scotch was an acquired taste. Paul had every intention of acquiring it as quickly as possible. The burden of his life these days was just too much to deal with. Hannah was certainly no help. Christ, she had all but accused him of taking Josh! After everything he had done to aid in the search. So much for faith. So much for trust. So much for undying love.

So much for undying love.

He had called Karen to come and console him and she had told him no. Paul had gotten the impression Garrett had been within earshot, but the rejection still stung. He took another face-twisting swallow of scotch and scowled at the television screen.

Katie Couric was managing to look grave and perky at once. She tilted her head and squinted. “Different people react differently to this kind of trauma. Some find strength they never knew they had. Some find that while someone vital is gone from their lives, their relationships with the people around them deepen. Others find it difficult and painful to maintain those relationships. How would you say Josh's abduction has affected your personal relationships, Hannah? How has it affected your marriage?”

Hannah was silent for a moment. Her mouth pulled down at the corners. “It's been a terrible strain.”

“Do you think your husband blames you for that night?”

The blue eyes filled with glittering tears. “Yes.”

Couric's eyes glistened as well. Her voice softened. “You blame yourself, don't you?”

“Yes.” The camera held the close-up as Hannah fought for control. “I made a mistake that seemed so small—”

“But did you make a mistake at all, Hannah? You had someone call the rink to let them know you'd be late. What could you have done differently?”

“I could have had a back-up plan in place, an arrangement with someone I know and trust to pick Josh up if I couldn't. I could have coached Josh more on how to be safe. I could have helped the youth hockey program organize a formal plan to make sure all the children got home safely. I didn't do any of those things and now my son is gone. It never occurred to me I would need to take any of those measures. I was naïve. I could never have imagined the price I would have to pay for that.

“That's what I want other people to get out of this interview: that it took only one mistake at the wrong moment to change our lives forever. I don't want anyone else to have to go through what we're going through. If something I say can prevent that from happening, then I'll say it.”

“And yesterday, when your husband was asked to submit to being fingerprinted by the Deer Lake police, what did you think about that? Is there any question in your mind about your husband's involvement?”

Hannah lowered her eyes. “I can't believe Paul would do anything to harm our son.”

She said it stiffly, as if it were a rule she had been forced to adopt whether she believed it or not. The bitch. Paul took another hit of scotch and fought the urge to belch it back up.

“Hannah, your husband has charged the law enforcement agencies involved with mishandling the case. Do you share his point of view?”

“No. I know they've done everything in their power. Some of the questions they've had to ask have been difficult, sometimes painful, but I've known Mitch Holt since the day he moved here with his daughter, and I know everything he's done on this case has been with one objective: to find Josh and bring his kidnapper to justice.”

T
hank you, Hannah,” Mitch murmured.

He sat on Megan's couch, watching the nineteen-inch color set with rabbit ears that sat on a box across the living room. Beside him, the black and white cat lay like a lion, watching the television, too. The little gray cat was curled in his lap, asleep.

He had been on the phone every fifteen minutes, keeping in contact with his men. There was still no sign of Fletcher, and with the exception of patrol cars, the ground search was being pulled in because of the extreme cold. If the deacon was hiding where searchers could find him without a warrant, they wouldn't need to worry about his going anywhere—he would be as stiff and cold as old Doris by morning. Hourly calls to the state patrol kept Mitch informed of the lack of progress on their end of things. If Fletcher had somehow managed to escape Deer Lake in a car, no one had seen him on the Minnesota highways.

Not being out in the field beating the bushes for Fletcher himself ate at him. He knew he wouldn't be able to do anything more than what was already being done. But the inactivity went against his street-cop nature. And now that the old instincts had been reawakened, he could feel that old restless edginess coming back to life.

He had left Megan sleeping deeply, and he hoped for her sake she would sleep through the night. It still shook him to think of the pain she had been in . . . and the way it had affected him. He had wanted to care for her, to soothe her, to protect her. He wanted to fight for her, for her job—the thing that meant so much to her, more than him, more than anything. Those individual components added up to something he didn't feel prepared for.

He stared down at his hand on the back of the gray cat, at the ring. He could still hear the bitter hurt in Megan's voice—“
My God, you didn't even bother to take off your wedding ring when you took me to bed!”
And he could still feel the guilt, and knew that in a twisted way he had welcomed it.

God, was that really what he had reduced himself to? Emotional purgatory. And he had dragged Megan there with him. Whatever she wanted out of their relationship, she didn't deserve that.

Allison was gone. Forever. He might have prevented her death, but he couldn't resurrect her from it. How long did he go on paying? How long did he
want
to pay?

Life could change so quickly. In a snap. In the blink of an eye. In a heartbeat.

. . .
it took only one mistake at the wrong moment to change our lives forever.
Hannah's words echoed what he had known since that day in Miami, when he had been too tired to stop for milk on his way home. One second, one offhand decision, and the world spun off its axis like a top gone berserk.

So was it better to live a half-life and never again run the risk of that kind of pain, or better to grab what came along and live it to its fullest for as long as the fates allowed? He knew which was safer, which hurt less yet punished him more.

He looked at Hannah on the television screen, doing her best to be strong, to atone in her own way for the imagined mistake that had cost her so much. The pain had painted dark circles beneath her eyes and carved hollows beneath her elegant cheekbones. The stress had fractured her marriage. If she could, would she choose to avoid it all by never having had Josh in her life? Mitch thought he knew what her answer would be. He knew
he
wouldn't have traded his time with Allison and Kyle for anything. Not even peace.

“How's she doing?”

Still pale, Megan stood in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, her hair a mess. The flannel shirt hung to her knees.

“She's doing okay, considering,” he said. He dumped Gannon on the floor as he rose from the couch. “How about
you
? How are you feeling?”

She gave a small shrug. “A little woozy. I'll be okay. It's nothing new.”

Mitch tipped her face up, staring down at her with intense scrutiny. “It's new to me. How often does this happen?”

Megan turned her face away. Now that the worst had passed, she wanted to forget how helpless she had felt and how badly she had wanted his compassion. If she could have suffered through the migraine alone, it would have been easier to slip out of town and out of his life. Now there was the sticky aftermath of compassion and embarrassment to deal with. Emotional loose ends that would not be easily tied off.

“It depends,” she said. She sank down into a corner of the couch, her eyes on the television, where an ad genius had somehow managed to connect pizza with an old lady putting on lipstick in the rest room of an airplane. “Every time I lose my job or get sued for five million dollars.”

She winced inwardly at his expression. He squatted down beside the arm of the couch, his gaze that same one that had looked too deep inside her before. She refused to meet it. The feelings were far too close to the surface and she was too tired to be anything other than transparent.

“Megan, I wish—”

“Don't bother; it doesn't do any good.”

He leaned toward her. “Why won't you let me help or at least sympathize?”

“Because you can't fix it,” she said wearily. “There's nothing you can do to change DePalma's mind. You can't change the fact that Paige Price is a mercenary whore, or that I said so on television. You can't fix it and I don't want sympathy.”

His temper simmering, Mitch rose. “No, you wouldn't. You don't need sympathy. You don't need anyone—isn't that right?”

Megan stubbornly stared past him at the television. He wanted to shake her. He wanted her to need him and say so. She had asked him to hold her when she was in so much pain she couldn't see straight, but that Megan and this one were two different people—a pair of nesting dolls, one hiding inside the other, rarely coming out into plain sight.

He could have kicked himself for caring. Hadn't he told himself he liked his life just the way it was—simple, controllable, safe . . . empty?

On the television Hannah's interview was about to resume. Mitch dropped down on the couch a foot to Megan's right, forcing Friday to vacate his spot. The cat gave him a dirty look and stalked away to leap onto a box marked
STUFF I DON
'
T USE
.

Katie Couric leaned forward in her chair, eyes luminous with sympathy. “Hannah,” she said very softly. “Do you think Josh is alive?”

The camera zoomed in on Hannah's face. “I know he is.”

“How do you know?”

She took her time answering, obviously considering both the question and the implication of her answer. When she spoke, her voice was clear and sure. “Because he's my son.”

“She wasn't that certain the other night,” Megan commented, nibbling at her cuticles. “She asked me twice if I believe Josh is alive. Asked as if she needed my reassurance. What's this about?”

“It's a coping mechanism,” Mitch murmured. “She'll believe what she has to believe.”

Megan felt there was something more to it, but she couldn't say what. Not that her opinion would have mattered. Marty the Spaniel Boy was in charge now. He wouldn't listen to her if she told him the world was round. It couldn't make any difference in the case, anyway. Hannah could believe or not. Neither sentiment would help them find Josh or his abductor.

“If you knew Josh was listening right now, what would you say to him?” Katie Couric asked Hannah.

The screen was a tight shot of Hannah's face, the camera allowing no nuance of expression to go unrecorded. America saw everything—the anger, the confusion, the pain. Cornflower-blue eyes shimmering with tears. Mouth trembling against the need to cry. “I love you. I want you to know that, Josh, and believe it. I love you so much. . . .”