Redemption (7 page)

“I’d like to go to my father’s house,” she said into the silence.

“You sure?” Charles Stewart could definitely answer a lot of questions but John had a bad feeling about this. “We’re both beat, Hope. Let’s lay low for tonight and start over in the morning.”

“I need to see him.” Her voice cracked. She wouldn’t look at him, but he’d bet money she was trying to fight her tears. “If it were your family, wouldn’t you want to go back?”

The question was like a punch to the gut and he hissed in a breath. She couldn’t imagine the pain she’d dredged up with those words. He’d severed the ties to his family so long ago he’d lost the way home. Unlike Hope, he couldn’t go back.

The silence weighed heavily on Hope. She tried not to demand too much from John, tried not to be needy. She liked to think she was a strong person, but her edges were fraying. She needed to hold on to something before she flew apart.

“About fifteen years ago, this movie came out with Harrison Ford,” she said over the low hum of the truck engine. “I always liked him.” Funny the weird things her mind let her remember. “In this movie, he played a man shot during a robbery attempt. And when he woke up from a coma, he couldn’t remember anything, not even his wife and little girl.” She settled back in her seat, trying to find a comfortable spot for her aching back. “He even had to relearn how to talk and tie his shoes. I guess I should be thankful I can still talk.”

John grunted, whether in agreement or not, she didn’t know.

“But as he learned all these things, he also learned he hadn’t been a very nice man or husband or father before he’d been shot.”

John switched lanes and accelerated around a slow moving semi. The license plates said the truck was from California and she wondered if she’d ever been there or if she was one of those people who never made it out of their home state.

“Regarding Henry,” John said.

She shot him a surprised look. “What?”

“The movie was called
Regarding Henry
and you’re not like him. You weren’t mean before this.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. “Daniel Webster. He seemed like a nice guy who wouldn’t fall for someone shallow.”

She supposed he could be right, but she still wondered. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

As the last of the sunlight stretched toward the horizon, John turned onto a narrow, two-lane road bordered by barren snow-dotted fields.

“It used to be dirt,” she said.

“What did?”

“The road. They paved it recently.”

John took her new memory in stride while she refused to get excited about it. Who cared if the road was newly paved when she still couldn’t remember what her father looked like or what had happened to land her in John’s yard?

“Not many houses out here,” he observed.

“Dad’s house is the only one on this road. Except for an abandoned farm on down.”

A few moments later they pulled into the driveway of an old farmhouse that looked as if it’d been lovingly restored. Hope studied it, at first with a detached eye. She’d had a cat once who loved to sleep in the boxwood at the corner of the house. In the summer, honeysuckle grew along the side, perfuming the air.

John turned off the car and they sat in silence except for the pinging of the engine and their mingled breathing. Hope climbed out of the cab and looked at the place she had called home her entire life. Her parents had liked the location because it was close to DC where her father worked, yet far enough away it was like growing up in the close-knit community of rural America.

She took a step forward and the edges of her vision blurred until nothing remained but the house, standing proud against the backdrop of leafless trees and farmland. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard John call her name, but she brushed it aside.

Four steps led up to a porch that spanned the length of the house. She stepped closer to the railing on the third step to keep it from squeaking. Her dad always said he was going to fix it, but never had. Then, when she’d gotten older, he’d refused, claiming he wanted to hear her come home at night and the creaking step was as good as a doorbell.

She smiled at the memory, hearing her father’s words but not seeing his face.

Excitement churned in her stomach. No longer was she newly discovered Hope Stewart tentatively walking up the steps to face a father she couldn’t remember.
She was Hope Stewart coming home to spend Christmas with her father, excited and apprehensive all at the same time, yet still angry and sad she’d lost her job. She loved her students. Loved teaching. And was angry the board had taken it away from her. Yes, she’d made a mistake. Yes, she’d gotten pregnant. But she was willing to accept the responsibility to raise this baby and continue teaching.

They’d said since she wasn’t married and wasn’t going to get married, she’d breached the morality clause in her contract. “Besides, Ms. Stewart, how would it look to the parents and other teachers? You’d be an embarrassment to the school,” one of the board members had said. She’d left the meeting shamefaced and hurt, but resolved in her decision to see the pregnancy through.

Enough of that. Today was Christmas Eve and she preferred to concentrate on what was to come instead of what had been. Her father, always supportive, told her to take her time, that she’d find another teaching job after the baby was born. In the meantime, he told her to live with him.

But that had been weeks ago. Since then he’d been evasive. Acting funny. He’d even told her if she wasn’t up to it, to stay in Baltimore and they’d celebrate Christmas another day. As if. The two of them had celebrated Christmas together since her mom died twelve years ago. To leave her father alone on this holiday was unthinkable.

She opened the front door, noting he’d hung the fresh garland in the entryway, twisting it around the banister leading to the upstairs bedrooms, but he hadn’t put the red bows on. At the first opportunity, she’d dig them out of the box of decorations stored in the basement. She shrugged off her backpack, heavy with presents, and let it fall to the floor inside the door.

“Dad, I’m home!”

The heavy sound of silence met her. She frowned. He’d known she was coming in tonight, had said he’d be waiting for her with a cup of hot chocolate. She put her suitcase down too and her purse slid with it. The house was cold and she rubbed her arms as she flipped on the light and made her way down the short hall that led to the back of the house. Somewhere, faint Christmas music played and she heard someone moving around in her father’s den. Smiling, she turned the corner and headed in that direction.

Ever since the debacle with the Carmichaels two years ago, her father had given up the political scene and only took cases in the area. He was probably in his study looking over paperwork or reading one of his heavy law books.

She pushed open the door. “Hey, you. What’re you doing working on Christmas E—”

Cheery Christmas carols played on the old radio in the corner of the empty room. No fire burned in the grate, waiting to warm her.

“Dad?” She heard a noise behind her, like someone was hurrying down the hall. She peeked out the door. “Dad? I’m home.” Unease prickled her spine as goose bumps that had nothing to do with the chilly room popped up on her arm. “Dad?” She raised her voice, thinking, hoping he was in a different room. Upstairs maybe?

She turned to go find him when something caught her eye. Her father’s shoes were sticking out from behind the desk. She approached, a sick feeling climbing into her throat as she followed the shoes to his legs. He lay behind the desk, his face waxy. Little gurgling sounds came from him as his chest labored up and down.

Blood was everywhere. All over the floor, turning the Oriental rug beneath him into a bizarre modernistic painting. His eyes opened slowly, filled with pain and regret. “Hope.” He licked his lips and grimaced.

She knelt beside him, taking his hand in hers, as her gaze searched for the source of all the blood. “Don’t talk,” she said. “Please—” Had he fallen and hit his head? He was always in the best of health but maybe he’d gotten dizzy.

“Go to Callahan, Hope.” His voice was thin, strangled. He’d always had a booming voice.

Her panic kicked up a notch. “What happened, Daddy?”

“He’ll help you.” He struggled to speak. “He’ll protect you and the baby. Hurry.”

She shook her head, tears falling down her cheeks, mixing with the blood staining his shirt. Obviously he’d hit his head and was confused. “I need to call—”

“Too late.” He squeezed her hand but the movement lacked strength. He’d always been such a big man, so full of life, humor, love. “Go to Callahan… His address…in the rolodex… Take the card… Go, Hope. Don’t let…them follow… Please.”

He closed his eyes, his hand going slack in hers. A sob tore through her as she clutched at his arm. “Daddy?”

His eyes fluttered. “I love you, Hope.” His chest rose, then fell. And then there was nothing.

“Daddy?” This couldn’t be happening. They were supposed to drink hot chocolate. Decorate the house. Tomorrow morning they were going to open presents and attend morning mass. “No, no, no, no,” she moaned, bringing his hand to her chest. “Please,” she whispered to God, to her father, to anyone who would listen. He couldn’t be gone. Not like this. He was all she had in this world. Her baby needed him. She needed him.

She stared at the blood covering his chest. Not his head. No head wound.

Go to Callahan
.

Why would he send her away? Why would he be adamant she needed protection? He’d been struggling to tell her something. Something about people—“them”—following her.

A sound in the hallway had her spinning around. “Who’s there?”

Silence except for the cheery sounds of sleigh bells coming from the radio. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. The smell. Oh God, the smell of death. Of murder.

Go to Callahan.

Someone had killed her father. She stumbled to the telephone and lifted the receiver but there was no dial tone. The phone fell from her hand. In her panic, she knocked off the Rolodex her father kept on the desk and it fell to the floor. Dropping to her knees, she picked it up, her hands shaking so hard she fumbled with the cards, pulling out several before she found one with
Callahan, John
written on it and a Tennessee address printed in her father’s block style of writing.

Someone else was in the house. She could feel another presence.

Go to Callahan.

She swayed, her panic and the smell of blood making her gag, and hesitated in indecision. Which way to go? Then she heard another noise and she turned to run.

Instead, she slammed into a solid wall of muscle and screamed.

John clamped a hand over Hope’s mouth as his other arm snaked around her back, anchoring her so they were chest to chest. She struggled, landing a blow to his shin that made him curse. Hooking her foot around his ankle, she yanked. Without losing his grip on her, he stumbled. His back hit the wall. She bit his finger.

“Hope,” he said through gritted teeth.

She froze, her eyes going wide, but her body still taut.

“It’s me.” Slowly he removed his hand from her mouth.

She blinked until her eyes finally focused. Her body trembled and she sagged into him. “Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh God.”

“It’s okay.” For a moment, a tiny second, he struggled with the need to pull away, but she buried her head in his chest and the war within ended without a shot fired. He tightened his arms around her, hugging her soft, warm body close to his.

She’d scared the crap out of him when she’d entered that fugue-like state. And he’d watched helplessly as she went through the motions of that night, knowing what was probably on the other end of it. He’d followed her into the house, watching, listening when she called out to her father in a cheerful voice and waiting for what was sure to come. What he knew had to come.

When it did, it was ten times—a hundred times—worse than he’d imagined. She’d crouched on the floor, holding a non-existent hand to her breast and it had set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. He’d wanted to pull her out of it but knew if they were to get to the bottom of this, she needed to relive it. It’d been a hell of a position to be in. His protective instincts screamed to get her out. To get them both out.

She wrapped her arms around his waist and even if he’d wanted to pull away, it would have been impossible because she held him so tight. For once, his panic and the need to withdraw stayed buried inside him.

“He’s dead,” she whispered, pulling away and wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. “My father’s d-dead.” She started to walk back the way she had come.

“Hope. Wait.” John made a grab for her hand but she shook him free. He struggled to catch up with her, limping because his thigh hurt. “Hope.” He grabbed her sleeve. “Tell me what happened.”

She shook her head.

“I have to know, Hope.”

Those aqua eyes were a deep blue, swimming in grief. Incomprehensible grief. She reminded him of a lost little girl. “I think he was murdered.” Her voice was husky with unspoken emotions that skimmed the surface of her reserve.

He glanced through the door of the den, at the empty room. “There’s nothing here.”

“What?” Her knees gave out and she staggered. John grabbed for her, holding her as her breath caught in her throat. “He was there. I saw him. I talked to him. I—” she bit her bottom lip. “I held his hand as he d-died.”

“When did you see all this?”

“Christmas Eve. In the evening. H-he was right there.” She pointed to the spot where now there was nothing but bare wood.

He had a lot of unanswered questions and he wanted to go through the house, inspect each room, have Hope tell him if anything had been disturbed, but his gut was screaming at him to get out. He’d only ever ignored his gut once and that had cost him everything, no way was he willing to risk it again. He ushered her down the hall, but when they reached the front living room, she stopped and stepped close to the half-decorated Christmas tree, touching a dried pine bough.

Then she surprised him by scooping the stack of Christmas presents into her arms. Impatient to escape the eerie quiet of the house and an unseen enemy who he feared was nearer than they both thought, he took the gifts from her. Trying not to convey his urgency, he guided her toward his truck where they stashed the presents behind her seat.

As he pulled out of the gravel drive and accelerated down the road, headlights drew in far behind him and he stifled the urge to slam the steering wheel with his hand. He’d walked away from his life as an undercover operative when he was carried out of that prison cell in Peru, but when those headlights appeared behind him, every instinct he’d honed, everything he’d learned, kicked into gear and he became the man he’d turned away from long ago.