Ultimate Fear (Book 2 Ultimate CORE) (CORE Series) (6 page)

No. She didn’t. Once the kids had moved on from diapers to underwear, or they could open up the pantry and find themselves a snack, she’d lost all interest in them. In some ways, he understood. His wife was a natural born nurturer. She loved babies, loved caring for them and was a good mother. But she didn’t like kids, and that was the crux of the problem.

He looked over to Mr. Independent. The child had spaghetti sauce all over his face and a couple small pieces of noodles on his cheek. The boy grinned. “Daddy eat ’pasgetti, too.”

His stomach turned and he lost interest in his meal. He’d come to love this one more than the others, and had foolishly hoped Dimples would change her mind about him. As much as he loved babies, too, he’d also have loved to watch his boy grow up, teach him how to throw a ball, ride a bike, about girls, how to shave. His stomach too nauseous to eat, he pushed the plate of spaghetti aside.

“Now, hon, you knew this day would come. It always does.” Dimples looked to the boy she’d raised for two years and gave him a smile. “Elton, tell your daddy you’re ready to go.”

“We go bye-bye,” the boy said, picking up a handful of spaghetti. “We go park and play.”

“No park,” she said, and used her napkin to wipe sauce off his nose. “It’s late and the park is closed. But heaven is always open to God’s children.”

Wayne’s skin crawled and, at the same time, anger settled in his chest. “Don’t have to be this way,” he said. “Why can’t we keep him and still get another? You used to talk about having a big family.”

She tossed her napkin on the table. “That was when I
thought
I could have a family.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “Besides, bigger kids means bigger messes, and that includes money. We do fine when we have just one little one. Add on another mouth to feed and there goes our stash. We’d have to rent a bigger place and we’d still have to move.”

Dimples was right. With resentment clawing at his belly, he shoved his chair back, grabbed his plate and moved to the sink. The job he had as a carpenter for a local builder earned him around thirty-five thousand dollars a year, plus medical. He’d grown to like living in St. Joseph, Missouri, and didn’t want to leave. The place they rented was priced right. With their lease only four hundred and ninety-five dollars a month, and their utilities averaging around two hundred, they’d been able to save money.

Still. If they were going to have another baby in the house, they
would
have to move again.

Dimples’s chair scraped along the linoleum. Seconds later, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed along his back. Normally, he loved the feel of her ample curves against him, but not today. Not with what she wanted him to do tonight.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” she said, resting her chin on his upper arm. “But you promised me, remember? You promised to give us what we need.”

Six days after she’d flatlined while giving birth to their stillborn son and had awakened from a coma, she’d made him promise to give her more babies. Destroyed by losing the baby and nearly losing his Dimples, he would have agreed to just about anything to make her happy. Now her happiness had become his hell.

“I know I did,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice this time. If only he didn’t love her. If only he could bring himself to leave. But he couldn’t. What they’d done, they’d done together, and he preferred freedom over prison. “Does it have to happen tonight?”

“Yeah, with tomorrow being Friday and all, I think it’s best. You haven’t been in the bedroom yet. I’ve already done most of the packing, but would rather not finish it up with Elton getting in my hair. Plus we’re two days away from the end of the month. I just assume we put the rent money toward a new place.” She gave him a squeeze. “So, what do you say? I was thinking right after you cash your paycheck, we could leave and head for Chicago. The jobs I found for you are better paying and—”

“Rent’s gonna be higher there. You’ll have to work for a while.” When they were between cities and kids, his wife would always pick up a full-time job to help earn extra money.

“About that…”

He turned in her arms. “You
did
find another.”

The dimples he loved dented her cheek as she sent him a big grin. “We’ll have to make a stop along the way.” She gave him a quick kiss. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

He looked over the top of her head and caught Mr. Independent using his fingers to place the spaghetti on his spoon. Damn, the kid was cute.

His wife followed his gaze. “He’s been a joy and I’m grateful for having him in our lives, even if it was only for a short time.” She looked back at him. “Why don’t you head on out. I’ll take care of these dishes and get some more packing done before I go to bed.”

While she wiped the boy’s face and hands, then changed his diaper, he packed a few snacks and a sippy cup filled with milk. Deep-seated sadness had him moving slowly. He didn’t want the boy to go, and he didn’t want to move. Although he’d love another baby, he worried about the risk. They’d been careful and smart, but one slipup could land them in prison.

“Well,” she began, looking down at Mr. Independent, “you’ve been a good boy. Mama loves you very much.” She dropped to her knees and gave him a hug and kiss.

“Yove Mama, too,” the boy responded. “I go bye-bye with Daddy.”

“Yes, you are. Now be a good boy.” She stood and, still staring at the child, let out a sigh. Then she shrugged and moved toward the back bedrooms. “Call me on your drive home,” she said without a backward glance.

He lifted the boy into his arms, then carried him out to his Ford F-150. After he secured him in the car seat in the second row of the truck, he handed him his sippy cup. The boy grinned at him and immediately started drinking his milk.

He smiled back because that was what he should do, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the truck. With his head and heart aching, he idled in the gravel driveway for a few minutes, trying to muster the courage to do what he had to do to make his wife happy.

“We go bye-bye,” Mr. Independent said.

Looking in his rearview mirror and seeing the excitement in the boy’s eyes had his throat constricting again with the urge to cry. Then he caught his wife staring out the back screen door. Knowing he had no choice, he shifted the Ford and backed it out of the driveway. Once he’d driven through their neighborhood, he turned onto US-36 and headed east. Thirty minutes later, he exited onto I-35 and went north. With each passing mile marker, his stomach twisted more and more. The ache in his chest and head grew, reminding him that this was all wrong.

An hour later, he exited off the highway and into the city of Lamoni, Iowa. With the traffic light, he’d made good time. Too good. At half past eight, the sun had only just begun to set. Needing darkness, and needing to kill some time, he woke the boy and took him for an ice cream.

By nine, Lamoni was cloaked in darkness.

He drove the F-150 through town, then pulled along the side of the road. He climbed out of the truck and went to its backend. The temperature here was about the same as St. Joseph’s and he was glad he’d had the foresight to buy the boy a little sweatshirt. After retrieving that, along with the cheap umbrella stroller he’d bought the same day he’d purchased the heavy-duty garbage bags and a pair of work gloves, he took Mr. Independent from his car seat. Not ready to let the boy go, he held him and hugged him tight. After giving him a kiss, he put the sweatshirt on him, grabbed the unfolded stroller and began walking. Ten minutes later, he stood outside of one of Graceland University’s residence halls. In the distance he heard someone laugh. He took several steps back and scanned the area.

“We go bye-bye,” Mr. Independent said, clutching Wayne’s neck.

With anxiety coiling through him, he set the boy on the grass and unfolded the stroller. “Yes, son, you’re going bye-bye.” He strapped the boy in the stroller, then took the sippy cup from him.

“Me want,” he cried.

Using his shirt, Wayne wiped his fingerprints from the cup, then, still holding it with the material from his shirt, handed it back. Shushing the boy, he looked around again, saw a security camera high on top of a lamppost and pulled his ball cap down low. He wheeled the stroller over the grass and around the hedges, then parked it about ten feet from the residence hall doorway.

“Kisses,” he said, kneeling down in front of the boy.

Mr. Independent puckered up and made a quiet smacking sound.

“You’re a good boy. I’m sorry we never got to throw the ball together.” After one more quick kiss, he touched the boy’s chubby cheek, then took off at a sprint.

Self-loathing chased him all the way back to Missouri. He knew the boy would be okay. Someone would hear him and they’d do the right thing and contact the authorities. At two years and four months, if the boy wasn’t reunited with his real family, he would most certainly be placed in a good home. The problem was, he wanted the boy in
his
home.

When he pulled into his gravel driveway and killed the engine, he sat in the truck for a few minutes. His wife wouldn’t ask about the boy, or how he’d disposed of him. She wouldn’t check the shovel for dirt or count how many garbage bags he’d used. How she could simply wash her hands of the children, he didn’t know. For him, each time he rid them of a child, he lost a part of himself.

With the hour growing late, he finally exited the truck and made his way into the house. Boxes were on top of the kitchen table and on the floor. When he headed into the living room, he saw the same. Since the house had come furnished, they didn’t have too much and would be able to fit their belongings in the back of his truck and her car. He’d like to have more, but with as much as they moved, that wasn’t an option. Leaving paper trails could lead to discovery.

“How’d it go?” Dimples asked, as she came out of Mr. Independent’s bedroom carrying a photo album.

“It’s done,” he said, and didn’t hide his anger.

Her pretty blue eyes softened with sympathy and guilt. “I’m sorry, honey. Elton was a precious boy.”

Which Elton? There’d been four boys over the past thirteen years, and Dimples had given each one of them the name they’d chosen for the son they’d lost. At first, he’d agreed to the name, figuring it was what Dimples had needed to cope with the death of their baby. But when the next boy had come into their lives, and Dimples had begun calling him Elton, too, he’d realized this wasn’t about coping. As much as he loved his wife, she had…issues. After the coma, her doctor had been concerned that she’d have neurological side effects. Series of tests had proven she was just fine. Only Wayne disagreed. Dimples had a sick need to have a baby, and would go to any length to have one. The day she’d woken from her coma, he’d promised to give her babies, and had planned on adoption, or them becoming foster parents.

Dimples had had other plans.

His stomach churned with guilt and resentment. Four children in thirteen years. And now she wanted another.

She touched his arm and offered him the photo album. “Here, why don’t you take one last look at Elton’s scrapbook before I pack it away?”

He didn’t want to see pictures of Mr. Independent. He wanted to step into the boy’s room and see him sleeping in his crib. He wanted him safe and with them, not in the arms of strangers. “No, just pack it. I’ve gotta get some sleep,” he said, and turned for their bedroom.

“Wayne,” she called.

He paused in the threshold of their bedroom doorway and kept his back to her. “What is it?”

“Do you still love me?”

When he glanced over his shoulder, he caught the childlike uncertainty in her eyes as she hugged the album to her chest. “Of course I still love you. I’m just… I loved that boy, too.”

She sent him a soft smile and her posture relaxed. “I know you did. Don’t worry. Like I told you, we’ll have another to take his place in no time.”

*

Jessica parked her Ford Explorer in the driveway of the home she used to share with Dante. After his last text earlier this afternoon, she’d responded with one of her own, telling him she’d come by after work to take a look at the damage done to her garden.
His
garden, she reminded herself. Regardless, if he had used the organic cayenne pepper spray she’d given him to stop the rabbits from feasting on the vegetables, she wouldn’t have to be here to assess the damage.

Before stepping out of the SUV, she grabbed the flashlight from her glove box, then stepped into the night. The tall lampposts lining the street cast shadows along the brick path leading to the front door. Katydids and other crickets filled the air with their songs. She’d used to enjoy sitting on the back patio with Dante, nursing a cocktail, talking and listening to the insects. During cooler summer nights, she’d open their bedroom window, curl up against Dante’s big body and fall asleep to the rhythm of his heart and the insects’ soothing sounds. Now all she had to lull her to sleep—when she
could
sleep—was traffic, and lots of it.

But she’d reconciled her decision to move to the small, dysfunctional, crappy apartment. Living there had brought her closer to work and, with no memories lingering in the rooms, had also given her a fresh start. Her stomach seized when she reached the front door. Here, though, in the home she and Dante had bought and renovated, the home they’d planned to fill with children, were too many memories of what had been and what would never be.