Night Sins (53 page)

“Striped pajamas.”

Hannah finished the thought for her. Megan looked up at her, stunned, a chill running through her. “How did you know that?”

She breathed deeply and stood back from the bed. “Because I saw him, too.”

“How?” Megan whispered, nearly dumbstruck with astonishment. Was this the reason Hannah had sounded so confident on TV about Josh being alive?

“In my mind I saw him one night, and he looked so real that it couldn't have been just a dream. What you've told me confirmed what I already believed. Josh is alive. I'll get my son back.”

Megan wanted to believe it, too. That they would find Josh safe and sound and bring him home to live happily ever after. She stood there now in her room, staring out at the night, wishing, and knowing wishes wouldn't get them anywhere.

“I asked him, you know,” she said to Mitch. “If he killed Josh. He wouldn't say. He told me the game wasn't over yet. He told me they had considered every possibility, that they couldn't lose.”

Mitch's eyes narrowed. “He's sitting in a jail cell, booked on charges of kidnapping, depriving parental rights, assaulting an officer, attempted murder, auto theft, and fleeing arrest. Ruth Cooper ID'd him in a lineup as being the man she saw on Ryan's Bay last Wednesday, and she ID'd his voice. We've got him dead to rights. I'd say he's a big-time loser.”

“No sign of a record on him?”

“No.”

Meaning if Garrett Wright had committed murder, as he had told her, no one had ever pinned anything on him. The thought only deepened the hollow feeling in Megan's stomach. She tried to ease it with the thought that now every stone of Wright's past would be turned over. A vision of squirming maggots filled her head and she blinked to clear it away.

“Any connection to an accomplice yet?”

“Olie looks like a good bet. He sat in on some of Wright's classes. He had the van, the opportunity, the history. Wright might have had some kind of hold on him psychologically.”

“What about Priest?”

“Volunteered to take a polygraph and passed it with flying colors. Todd Childs claims he was with a friend most of Saturday. Says he was at the movies the night Josh disappeared.” He blew out a breath, his broad shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. “I've been talking to Karen Wright, trying to find out if she might know something without realizing it, but she hasn't been any help. She's so distraught, she can hardly function.”

“Yeah, well, that's a pretty ugly surprise—to find out you're married to a monster. Seems to be an ongoing theme since I came here—ugly surprises. Do you think that's a sign?”

She tried to smile, but it hurt too much that she didn't belong there—and it just plain hurt, tugging at the stitches in her lip. She looked down at the cast on her hand and felt that lifeline stretching thin. There was no promise she would belong anywhere. She turned a whiter shade of pale.

“I think you should lie down,” Mitch said gruffly.

“Don't boss me around,” she shot back with a fraction of her usual fire.

“What are you going to do about it, O'Malley? Hit me with your crutch?” The mock irritation did a poor job of covering his concern.

“Don't tempt me. I'm cranky.”

“Get back in that bed or I'll put you there myself.” He pointed the way for her. “Natalie is right, we need you better and back on the job. That Tom Hanks impersonator they sent down here is driving me nuts.”

Megan gave him a look. “Like I didn't?”

“At least you're a good cop,” he grumbled. “And I can kiss you when you make me mad.”

“Marty might like that, too. Have you asked him?”

“Very funny. Come on, now, Megan, I'm not kidding. Get back in bed.”

Megan ignored the dictate, turning her attention back out the window. Talk of work only made her more keenly aware of her tenuous position. The fear swelled inside her like a balloon. She told herself to handle it as she had handled most everything else in her life—alone. Mitch didn't want her burden. He had made it clear what he wanted from her—a brief affair, no strings attached, no complications. She was one big complication now.

Still, the pressure of an uncertain future built inside her, trembling like a clenched fist, and she couldn't seem to keep the words from leaking out.

“I might not be coming back to the job,” she said in a small voice. “Here or anywhere. Maybe never.”

She watched his reflection in the glass as he moved a little closer. He ran a hand over her hair and settled it on her shoulder.

“Hey, I thought you were a tough cookie,” he said. “It ain't over till it's over, O'Malley.” She turned wary eyes on his reflection. “I know about your hand, honey.”

“Don't call me honey.”

He slipped his arms around her with infinite care. He held his breath as he waited for her to lean back against him.

Megan held her breath against the need to let him hold her, waited for the need to pass. It wasn't smart to need that way. She'd known that all her life.
Stand on your own two feet, O'Malley. Hang on to your heart.
The trouble was, she didn't feel strong enough to stand alone, and her heart was already gone. She had nothing left to lose but her pride, and that was tattered and threadbare.

The tears came despite all efforts to fight them off. She didn't have the strength for shields and armor, the defenses that had guarded a too-tender soul for so long. She could feel everything she'd ever wanted, ever loved, sliding through her grasp, leaving her alone, with nothing, with no one. She'd been alone so much and it hurt so badly.

The words, like the tears, came grudgingly. “I'm . . . so . . . scared!”

She turned and pressed her face against his chest and cried. Mitch held her and whispered to her. He lay his cheek on top of her head and squeezed his eyes shut.

“It's all right,” he whispered. “I'm here for you, Megan. You won't be alone.”

He tipped her face up and looked into eyes that were wary and wide, that had seen too much disappointment. His hand cradled a face so fragile, so pretty, it took his breath away. At that instant he didn't see the black eye or the battered lip. The feeling that swelled in his chest scared the hell out of him.

“I'm saying I love you, Megan.” He swallowed hard and said it again. “I love you.”

“No,” she said, stepping back from him. “No, you don't.”

Mitch scowled at her. “Yes, I do.”

“No.” She shook her head, hobbling toward the bed, the rubber tip of her crutch squeaking against the polished floor. “You don't love me. You feel sorry for me.”

“Don't tell me what I feel, O'Malley,” he growled. “I know when I'm in love with somebody. I'm in love with you. Don't ask me why. You're the most stubborn, confounding woman I've ever known. That's how I know I'm in love with you.” He lifted a finger to emphasize his point. “If I weren't in love with you, I'd want to wring your neck.”

“What a romantic,” Megan said dryly, covering her emotions with sarcasm. “It's a wonder women aren't hurling themselves at your feet.”

“No, I have to pick a woman who'd rather hurl something at my head.”

“Lucky you I'm crippled,” she grumbled, struggling to get herself up onto the bed.

Mitch made a sound of boiling frustration between his teeth and came to her aid. “Let me help you.”

“I don't want your help.”

“Tough.” He put his hands around her waist and lifted her like a doll. “Dammit, Megan, it's not going to kill you to say you need me or to let me know when something hurts you.”

“
You
hurt me,” she said. “Don't tell me you love me when you don't. I'm not what you need or want and you know it! I don't know anything about being in love. All I know is how to be a cop and how to be alone. So why don't you just get out!”

He heaved a sigh. “Aw, Megan . . .”

She narrowed her eyes at the look on his face. “Don't you dare pity me, Mitch Holt. And don't argue. Just leave.”

“I don't pity you,” he said quietly, stepping closer and closer. “I love you. And God knows I've wanted you from the minute I laid eyes on you.”

“So, you had me. You should be happy.”

“I'm going to have to knock that chip off your shoulder every damn day, aren't I?” he murmured half to himself. “I can't say I would have asked for this. You punch my buttons. You make me mad. You make me feel. Maybe that's not what I thought I wanted, but I need it. To feel again.''

He brushed a knuckle against her cheek. “I almost lost you, Megan. I'm not going to walk away from you. Our lives can change so fast. In the blink of an eye, in a heartbeat. It's stupid to let a chance go by because we're too proud or too scared. That chance may never come again.”

A chance at love. It hung in this moment between them, a pale, shimmering promise. A chance Megan had longed for in silence all her life. It terrified her now to think it might be a mirage, that it might vanish if she reached for it. But what if she didn't? What would she have then?

“Come on, O'Malley,” Mitch goaded. “What are you—chicken?”

“I'm not scared of you, Holt,” she returned. Her breath hitched in her throat and she scowled.

“So prove it,” he challenged her, stepping closer, sliding his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head. “Tell me you love me.”

Megan met his gaze, his tough-cop look, his eyes that looked a hundred years old. Eyes that had seen too much. She raised a hand and traced a fingertip over the scar on his chin.

“Break my heart and I'll kick your ass, Chief.”

A crooked smile broke across Mitch's face. “I guess that's close enough.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her unbruised cheek, breathed in the scent of her hair and the faintest breath of perfume that clung to her skin.

“So I know you've got a rule against dating cops, O'Malley,” he murmured in her ear. “But do you think you could marry one?”

Megan lay her head against his chest and listened to his heart beat in time with hers. “Maybe,” she whispered, smiling. “As long as the cop is you.”

CHAPTER 41

D
AY
13
10:04
P.M.
         16°

B
oog Newton sat with his feet on his bunk and his back against the wall, picking his nose, his eyes fixed on his little television. He never missed the news. A lot of it seemed like bullshit to him, but he never missed it anyway. That was tradition. The fact that Paige Price made him horny as hell was just a bonus.

The top story of the night was the press conference on that kidnapping deal. Boog felt a personal connection to the case after what had gone on with that Olie character. He listened closely as Chief Holt told the reporters practically nothing.

“Digging for gold, Boog?” Browning, the jailer, sauntered past the cells. He was making rounds every fifteen minutes instead of every couple of hours the way he used to, which had to cut into his magazine reading in a big way.

“Take off, pork,” Boog sneered, flicking a big fat booger at Browning's beer gut.

“Jeez!” The jailer jumped back as if he'd been shot. His face twisted with disgust. “Look at that! God!” He ducked out the door. Boog snickered and turned back to his news. The guy in the next cell was watching, too. He was creepy, sitting there all day, never saying anything, his expression never changing. Boog had caught him looking at him different times, staring at him as if he were a bug under a microscope.

“Hey, that's you they're talking about, ain't it? You're the one took that Kirkwood kid. That's sick,” Boog declared, sticking out his bony chin. “You're sick.”

Garrett Wright said nothing.

“Hey, you know what happened to the last guy they brought in here? They said he done it. They put him right in that cell you're sitting in. You know what he did? He took his glass eyeball right out of his head and killed himself with it. I figure he was nuts. Anybody who'd do that has to be nuts.” He pressed his lips together and scratched at his greasy hair, figuring some more. “You must be nuts, too,” he deduced.

The corners of Wright's mouth flicked up. “I teach psychology at Harris College.”

Boog made a rude noise, eloquently expressing his opinion of teachers. On the television they were showing cops and lab guys from the BCA trooping in and out of a fancy house in Lakeside—Wright's house. A pretty woman with dishwater-blond hair stood by the front door, bawling her eyes out.

“Hey.” Boog shot another look Wright's way. “What'd you do with the kid? Did you kill him or what?”

Garrett Wright smiled to himself. “Or what.”

D
AY
14
midnight         12°

H
annah woke sharply from a troubled sleep. Sleeping alone triggered some internal alarm system that was oversensitive and went off at the slightest hint of sound or movement. She lay in the middle of the big bed and stared up at the skylight and the black rectangle of January night, listening, waiting, every muscle tense. Nothing. No sound, no movement. The house was still. The night was silent. Even the wind, which had been relentless for days, as cold and sharp as an ice pick, held its breath as one day passed and a new one began with the tick of the clock: 12:01.

A new day. Another day to face. Another twenty-four hours to wander through, trying to function, looking like a normal person, appearing as her former self, an impostor. Nothing about her life or herself was normal anymore. She would get through this day and the next and the one after that because she had to for herself, for Lily . . . and for Josh.

He's somewhere warm . . . he's not afraid . . . he knows I love him. . . .

She came out of bed before the sound even registered in her conscious mind. Her bare feet hit the carpet. She grabbed the old velour robe Paul had discarded. Doorbell. At midnight—ten past now. Her heart pounded. Possibilities flashed through her head: Paul looking for forgiveness, Mitch coming with news—good? Bad?

She hit the switch for the front porch light with one hand while the other clutched the robe together over her breastbone, over her heart. The bell sounded again. She pressed her eye to the peephole.

“Oh, my God.”

The words came out in a strangled whisper. Josh stood on the front step, waiting.

In the next instant Hannah was on her knees on the cold cement. She pulled her son into her arms. She held him against her body as tight as she could, crying, thanking God, kissing Josh's cheek, kissing his hair, saying his name over and over. She didn't feel the cold or the scrape of the concrete step against her knees. She felt only relief and joy and her son's small body pressing into hers. The relief was so enormous, she was terrified it was a dream. But if it was a dream, she knew she wouldn't let go. She would stay on this step and clutch him to her, feel his warmth, breathe in the scent of him.

“Oh, Josh. Oh, my God,” she whispered, the words trembling on her lips, mixing with the salty taste of tears. “I love you. I love you so much. I love you. I love you.”

She stroked a trembling hand over his tousled brown curls and down the back of the striped pajamas he wore. The same pajamas she had seen him in. The same pajamas Megan O'Malley had seen him in, though she had not been sure whether what she had seen had been real or imagined. There were so many questions yet unanswered. They flashed through Hannah's mind. If Garrett Wright had taken Josh, then who had brought him home?

She opened her eyes and looked beyond her front step into moon-silvered night. No one. No cars. No shadows except those of the trees against the pristine snow. The town lay sleeping, unaware, quiet.

Josh squirmed a little in her arms, and Hannah pulled herself back to the moment. Such a perfect moment, the one she had held as a brilliant and fragile hope in her heart. She had her son back. She would have to call Mitch—and Paul . . . and Father Tom. She would call the hospital and leave a message for Megan. Josh would have to be taken to the hospital to be examined. The press would descend again . . .

“Honey, who brought you home?” she asked. “Do you know?”

She leaned back to look at him. He simply shook his head, then tightened his arms around her neck and put his head down on her shoulder.

Hannah didn't press him. For this moment she wanted to think of nothing but Josh. No questions of how or why or who. Only Josh mattered. And he was home and safe.

“Let's go inside, okay?” she said softly, fresh tears squeezing between her lashes as Josh nodded against her shoulder.

Hannah rose with her arms around him, barely noticing his weight as she carried him into the family room. Doctor's instincts and mother's instincts prompted a quick evaluation of his physical condition. The small bruise on his cheek—the bruise she had seen in her dream—was fading. He was thinner and pale, but whole, and he wanted to be held. Hannah complied readily. She wanted him with her, next to her, physically connected to her. She held him on her lap as she sat on the love seat and used the portable phone to call Mitch, then Paul's office. Mitch promised to be over in a matter of minutes. Paul's machine picked up. Jealously channeling all her emotions to Josh's return, she didn't bother to feel irritation toward Paul for not being there; she simply left the message and hung up.

“It doesn't matter, sweetie.” She kissed the top of Josh's head, hugging him tight again as another wave of relief washed through her. “All that matters is that you're home, you're safe.”

She blinked away more tears as she looked down at him. He was asleep. His head lolled forward as he breathed deeply and evenly. His thick, long lashes curled against his cheek.
My angel. My baby.
The thoughts were as familiar as his face, thoughts she had recited in her mind since before his birth and countless nights after it, when she had slipped into his room to watch him sleep.
My angel, my baby . . . so perfect.

A sliver of pain pierced her joy.
Perfect.
Josh had always been a happy child, a joy to her. Who would he be now? What had he gone through? The possibilities had tormented her every hour he had been away. Now they gathered at the edge of her relief like a pack of hyenas. She chased them back as she carefully eased out from under her son and lay him down on the love seat. He was in one piece, whole and clean. She kissed his forehead as she tucked an afghan around him and breathed in the scent of shampoo. She wanted to push his sleeve up to see if there was a bandage on the inside of his elbow, but she didn't want to wake him. And she wanted him to have these few moments of peace before having to face an examination and answer questions.

She let her hand rest on his instead, her fingertips on his wrist. His pulse was regular and normal. She didn't count the beats, but concentrated on what they represented—life. He was alive. He was with her. The piece of her heart that had been missing was returned and it beat in tandem with his.

H
as he said anything about Wright?” Mitch asked quietly. He sat in a wing chair with his forearms braced against his knees, his parka open. After Hannah's call he had literally rolled out of bed and into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. His hair stuck up in all directions. He wished Megan could have been here to help him ask these questions, to close the case she had fought so hard to solve.

“No.” Hannah sat on the floor in front of the love seat where Josh lay sleeping beneath the folds of the red afghan. She touched him constantly in small ways, stroking his hair, rubbing his back, petting his hand, as if breaking physical contact would shatter the spell and he would disappear again. “He hasn't said anything. I asked him if he knew who brought him home. He shook his head no.”

“He's in shock. It may take him a while . . .”

He let the thought trail off, not wanting to follow it. Of the paths it might take, most of them led to more unhappiness, and he wanted to spare Hannah for the moment. Still, duty dictated. Procedure had to be followed, questions had to be asked. Even now, in the dead of night, he had men knocking on doors down the block looking for anyone who might have glanced out a window and seen anything out of the ordinary.

“We'll have to take him in to the hospital tonight—”

“I know.”

“And I'll have to try to get him to answer some questions. If he can tell us anything about Wright—”

Hannah's fingers stilled on Josh's hand; she looked up at Mitch. “What will this mean? Garrett Wright is in jail and now Josh comes home. What will that do to the case against him?”

“I don't know. A lot depends on Josh, on what he can tell us. But even if he can't tell us anything useful, we've still got the lineup ID, and we'll have DNA and trace evidence from the sheet. If Wright thinks this gets him off the hook, he can think again. We caught him, honey,” he said, his gaze unwavering, his voice quiet but strong with conviction. “We nailed Garrett Wright cold, he's as guilty as sin, and we'll keep looking until we find his accomplice. Then we'll nail him, too.”

He rose from the chair and offered Hannah a hand up. “That's a promise. Garrett Wright's next game will be in a court of law. I predict Lady Justice will kick his butt.”

“I hope so.”

Mitch gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I know so. But I don't want you worrying about it. The only thing you should think about tonight is that Josh is home. That's all that matters.”

“That's the only thing that really matters at all,” she agreed, looking down at her sleeping child.

He could have been lost forever, vanished into a shadow world, as many children were every year, never to be seen again, leaving behind only questions and heartbreak for the people who loved them. For reasons known only to the dark mind of his abductor, Josh had been allowed to cross back out of the shadows. That was all that counted. The truth, justice, revenge, were distant and abstract thoughts for Hannah. Their world had been shattered, their lives irrevocably altered, but Josh was home. That was all that really mattered.

Josh was home. Their lives could begin again.