Книга - At Close Range

At Close Range
Tara Taylor Quinn


Criminal court judge Hannah Montgomery is presiding over a murder trial in Phoenix, Arizona.

When the jury finds the defendant, Bobby Donahue, not guilty, Hannah is convinced they've reached the wrong verdict. Especially when strange things start happening around her For one thing, a judge she's always trusted is making decisions she doesn't understand. For another, her pediatrician is being questioned in the deaths of several young patientsincluding Hannah's adopted son.

The police say it was murder. Dr. Brian Hampton says he's been framed. Still reeling from grief at the loss of her child, Hannah no longer knows who to believe, who's lying and who's not. Despite her faith in Brian, she begins to wonder if he's betrayed her. Is he connected with Donahue? Is he responsible for her son's death?









Praise for the suspense novels of

TARA TAYLOR QUINN


“Combining her usual superb sense of characterization with a realistically gritty plot, Quinn has created an exceptionally powerful book.”

—Booklist on Behind Closed Doors

“I was riveted from the first page to the last. Behind Closed Doors is a thoroughly enjoyable read.”

—All About Romance

“I could not put the book down; it is a character-driven, riveting story from beginning to end. Leave the lights on; Behind Closed Doors will scare you silly. I stayed up late into the night to finish, turning the pages at a rapid pace.”

—Romance Junkies

“With In Plain Sight, Tara Taylor Quinn delivers a riveting, suspenseful story…crackles with action.”

—Bookreporter.com

“Character-driven suspense at its best with rapid-fire pacing that makes you feel as if the pages are turning themselves.”

—Hallie Ephron, author of Writing and Selling Your Mystery Novel, on In Plain Sight

“This character-driven thriller will hook the audience from the onset until the final new beginning.”

—Harriet Klausner on Behind Closed Doors

“Behind Closed Doors is a powerful, riveting read that’s impossible to put down. Tara Taylor Quinn writes a believable story.”

—Bookloons

“Behind Closed Doors is a thrilling suspense.”

—Authors After Dark

“One of the skills that has served Quinn best is her ability to explore edgier subjects.”

—Publishers Weekly


Dear Reader,

We’re in Phoenix, Arizona. Young men are being brutalized. A judge is receiving death threats. And a woman and her young son are missing. Several baby boys have died, apparently of SIDS—but some people are beginning to wonder if that’s really the cause and they point to a pediatrician as the prime suspect. A larger-than-life scenario? Sure.

But come a little closer. At close range, things can look very different.

You trust the folks you’ve known and associated with for twenty years. You trust your most valued employee, your right-hand man. They’ve always been there for you. Or have they?

At close range, religion isn’t always spiritual. Cops aren’t always good.

And at close range, the person in the bed next to you might not love you at all.

What people say isn’t always the truth—when you get close enough.

And up close, what you see is only one perspective.

At close range, you’re mostly alone. Nothing is clear. And fear awaits.

Come a little closer….

I love to hear from my readers. You can reach me at www.tarataylor.com or P.O. Box 13584, Mesa, AZ 85216. Let me know what you think—and how you feel—about this book.

Tara Taylor Quinn




At Close Range

Tara Taylor Quinn








To Mindy Barney, whose intelligence, dedication and

heart bring promise to a world that needs them, help to

children who might otherwise be lost and cohesion to a

family that loves you very much.




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue




1


Members of the Phoenix press filled her courtroom. Tension filled her gut. Maricopa County Superior Court Judge Hannah Montgomery leaned forward.

“We are back on the record with case number CR2008-000351. Would those present please identify themselves?”

Hannah heard the attorneys state their names for the record. She knew both lawyers well. Had been listening to them drone on for six days now in this trial that seemed as though it would never end.

But she wasn’t looking at them.

Her eyes locked on the dark-suited man who’d just slipped quietly into the back of the room. There wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about him. He was twenty-nine years old. Average height. Average weight. His straight brown hair was thick and short. Wholesome. Businesslike.

Hannah couldn’t seem to pull her focus away from him. Because she’d been dreading this moment for the entire nine months she’d been administering this hideous case? If so, the nondescript man would have been a disappointment.

Surely an icon, a godlike figure to his followers, should stand out more.

He met her gaze and nodded, his expression properly respectful. Taking a seat in the second row, arms at his sides, he glanced around with an air more curious—more childlike—than controlling.

Jaime, Hannah’s bailiff, cleared her throat, catching Hannah’s attention.

Robert Keith, attorney for the defense, had reintroduced the young man at his side, Kenny Hill. Mr. Hill, wearing a navy suit today, made eye contact with the jury.

Just as he did every time he was introduced.

The eighteen-year-old had more bravado than years and sense combined. As had his Ivory Nation compatriot who’d sat in that very seat twelve months earlier, in a trial almost as long as this one. That kid, another young “brother” in Arizona’s most influential white supremacist organization, had cried in the end, though, when Hannah had sentenced him to twenty years for breaking and entering, kidnapping and weapons theft.

Her judgment had been overturned on appeal while Hannah was taking family leave, mourning for the adopted son she’d lost to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. A mistrial had been declared and that young man was free.

Sweating beneath the black folds of her robe, Hannah glanced at Keith. “You may call your next witness.”

“The defense calls Bobby Donahue, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Donahue.” She forced herself to look at him again. And to look away. “Please step forward and be sworn in.” She indicated Jaime, who’d risen from her seat to Hannah’s left.

“Please raise your right hand and state your name.” Jaime’s voice didn’t falter, and Hannah made a mental note to congratulate her youngest employee. Jaime had been nervous at the prospect of facing this dangerous leader.

“Bobby Donahue.”

Bobby. Not Robert. Not Robert G. Just Bobby.

Bobby, who couldn’t appear that morning, in spite of the subpoena, due to a Wednesday church service he’d officiated without absence for more than five years. Bobby, who’d offered to appear in her court at 1:30 that afternoon instead.

In the interests of justice and saving the state the money it would cost to enforce the original subpoena, Hannah had approved the request.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth…”

Jaime’s voice faded as Hannah watched the witness, getting too clear a glimpse of the man’s eyes. Ghost. God. Infallible. Unstoppable. All words she’d heard applied to Bobby Donahue over the years.

“I do.” Donahue regarded Jaime with apparent respect.

He’s vindictive. That was the warning Hannah and her staff had been given by other court employees, the press, even the honorable William Horne, Hannah’s social companion and fellow judge who’d officiated far more Ivory Nation trials than Hannah.

While he had yet to get caught at any offense, Bobby Donahue never allowed a wrong to go unpunished, a disloyalty to go unavenged.

Or so they said.

And Hannah, having fought her way off the streets and into college, didn’t compromise the law for anyone.



Dr. Brian Hampton was not in the mood to cooperate. Especially with a reporter. And dammit, why wasn’t Hannah answering her phone? She’d said she was staying in her chambers for lunch, preparing for the afternoon session of a trial that was taking far too much out of her.

That last was his assessment. Not hers.

Not that he’d told her so. As a friend he’d earned the right to speak frankly with the beautiful, blond, too-smart-for-her-own-good woman. But he’d also learned when it was best for him to keep his mouth shut.

Hannah Montgomery had mastered the art of independence.

Right now, he needed her to answer the private line that rang at her massive cherrywood desk.

When his call went to voice mail a second time, Brian shoved up the sleeve of his blue dress shirt with barely controlled impatience, glancing at his watch. And stopped. Hell.

Where had that hour and a half gone? Last he’d looked, it had been barely noon. And now it was quarter to two?

He’d only seen…

Brian paused. Counted.

Okay, he’d seen seven patients in the past hour. Seven patients under four. Which explained the missing hour.

The explanation didn’t help him at all.

He’d had a message that morning from a polite Sun News reporter who wanted to talk to him “at his earliest convenience.” As long as Brian’s convenience happened sometime that day—otherwise he was going to print his story with a “no comment” from Dr. Hampton.

His story. That was all. No hint about the content. Or even the topic.

For Brian, a man who spent his days with people under the age of twelve and his nights largely alone, a meeting with the local rag was not a comfortable proposition.

And what could they have on him anyway? His biggest offense was an inability to keep track of time, arriving either very early or very late—no prejudice either way—to just about every appointment he’d ever had.

As much as he tried to come up with even a parking infraction—or an unpaid speeding ticket—there were none.

He hadn’t had his stereo on in weeks, didn’t have anyone around to yell at, hadn’t thrown a party since graduating from med school. And the only woman he’d slept with in the past year was his steady girlfriend, Cynthia, a twenty-seven-year-old single mother, so an exposé of his wild lifestyle was out.

Of course it was possible, probable even, that they wanted him to corroborate a juicy story about someone or something else.

The only juice he could think of was the glass of cranberry he’d gulped that morning.

Still, the thought of the four o’clock appointment he’d scheduled unsettled him. Brian did enough public speaking on behalf of his newest passion—the fight against SIDS—and he’d been misquoted enough to be wary of talking to the publication known for making mountains out of molehills that didn’t exist.

This was a time when a man called on the help of his friends.

Friend.

The woman who was well connected enough to know, firsthand, practically every Sun News reporter in the city.

Where was his judge when he needed her?

“Do you know this man?”

“I do.” Bobby Donahue identified the defendant.

Robert Keith’s next questions were rote, but necessary to establish a fair trial. And a fair judgment from a jury who’d been sending Hannah pleading glances since the first day of testimony. That was when prosecutors described the sodomy and three-hour beating death the nineteen-year-old victim had suffered, allegedly at the hands of kind-looking Kenny Hill, whose affluent parents were sitting on the bench directly behind him. Right where they’d been every time their son’s case had been on the docket over the past many months.

The victim, Camargo Cortes, was an illegal immigrant and, had he lived, would have stood trial for statutory rape of the seventeen-year-old daughter of the newly elected Arizona senator, George Moss.

When pictures of Cortes’s body had been shown, Hannah had had to excuse two jurors to the restroom to be sick. At the request of the defense, she’d later dismissed both of them.

She wasn’t taking any unnecessary chances that might result in a motion for mistrial. With luck, no one would have to repeat the past six days, to see the things that those present in the courtroom had seen.

With luck, Kenny Hill would be put to death.



Brian worked through the half hour he’d allowed himself for lunch. Three-year-old Felicia Summers had had a sore throat on and off for more than a month. He wouldn’t be overly concerned except that the child was underweight. And had already had her tonsils removed.

He didn’t even want to think about leukemia. Or any other serious condition. Certainly didn’t intend to alarm her parents at this stage. But he’d ordered blood work, just to be sure, and went down before his two-thirty appointment to get the results.

A day that had been diving rapidly now sank completely.



“Mr. Donahue, where did you and Mr. Hill meet?”

“At church.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“Most of his life. His parents and I have attended the same church for more than ten years.”

With a short nod, Donahue acknowledged the older couple sitting, hands clasped, on the front bench. The corners of Mrs. Hill’s trembling lips turned slightly up, before she lowered her gaze. Her husband, a bit more successful at hiding intense emotions, nodded back.

Both of them spent most of their courtroom time staring at the back of their only son’s head.

Character reference questions continued for the next forty-five minutes. Hannah attempted to show no reaction to the jurors who continued to look to her for guidance. If she believed this witness, they would, too.

And if she didn’t…

This was a jury trial for a reason. It was not her job to decide this particular verdict. She was here to officiate the process. To allow or disallow testimony. To apply the law when attorneys, in the name of winning, veered away from it. Or challenged it.

She was here to ensure that the defendant’s rights were upheld.

They were talking about possibly taking a man’s life here. A young man. Who deserved to die if, indeed, he’d committed the horrendous acts that had ultimately left another young man dying an atrocious death.

“Where were you on the night of March 9th of this year?”

“That was a Sunday,” Bobby Donahue said.

Robert Keith nodded, his shoulders squared in front of the witness box. “That’s right.”

The chief prosecutor, Julie Gilbert, narrowed her eyes.

“I was in church.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

“Can you tell the court why you remember this so specifically?”

“Once a year we have a joint Sunday-evening meeting, combining the usual men’s Sunday-night gathering with the women’s Wednesday-morning assembly. It’s always the second Sunday in March.”

“What hours were you in church?”

“The service started at five and ran until almost midnight.”

“With a meeting that long I’m assuming people come and go?”

“No. The doors are locked the entire time. Not to keep people in, but to prevent interruption. Our services, particularly that once-a-year meeting, are sacred to us. That’s why I remember the date. These special gatherings are very emotional and interruption breaks the spirit.”

“But the doors could be unlocked. Someone could become ill. People would need to access the facilities. Surely, if a person was careful, he could leave without disturbing you.”

Donahue shook his head. “The sanctuary is self-contained. There are bathrooms at one end. And a small kitchen, too, with an attached nursery. I’m the only one with a key.”

Horrified, Hannah kept her eyes on the file in front of her. She’d heard stories about the infamous white supremacist “church,” but never in this much detail.

“So if someone comes late, say, maybe they have a flat tire, they miss this once-a-year, spiritually enriching meeting?”

“Of course not,” Donahue said. “One of the brethren always volunteers to keep his phone on vibrate for just such emergencies. Members are notified of the number the week before.”

“Then you’d interrupt the meeting to unlock the door?”

The witness remained straight-faced and serious. “Hymns are strategically placed throughout the meeting to allow for any interruptions.”

“Do you remember whose cell phone was on vibrate that night?”

“Matthew Whitaker.”

Hannah recognized the name from the defense’s witness list. The man was slated to be called to the stand next.

“And did Mr. Whitaker notify you of any such calls?”

“Yes.”

“Who called?”

“Kenny Hill.” Of course.

“At what time?”

“Five forty-five.”

The time of the attack, which had been announced during opening arguments, and ad nauseam since, had been established at between seven and ten on the evening of March 9th.

“Did he say why he was late?”

“There’d been an accident on the freeway.”

Glancing at Julie Gilbert, assuming the prosecutor would be writing a note to verify that there was record of a crash on I-17 on the date and at the time indicated, Hannah was disheartened once again. The woman’s pen was still.

There was no guarantee that the accident had been reported to the police, but even a mention of no record could significantly weaken Donahue’s testimony.

Face impassive, Hannah continued to preside objectively.

“What time did you let Mr. Hill inside the sanctuary?”

“At five-fifty-four.”

“At what time did you next unlock the door that night?”

“Just before midnight.”

“And you’re absolutely certain that no one, specifically Mr. Hill, left the sanctuary before then?”

“I’m positive.”

Keith, expensively dressed from his silk tie to the tips of his shiny black wing tips, requested that an order of service be admitted as evidence.

It was recorded. And then the attorney approached his witness.

“Do you recognize this?”

“I do.”

“Please tell the court what it is.”

“The program for this year’s combined service.”

“And what is the date printed at the top?”

Bobby Donahue leaned forward to read it, as though he didn’t already know the answer.

“March 9, 2008.”

Slowly approaching the jury, Keith gave each of them a chance to read more than just the date on the program he held out for them to see. There followed a listing of well-known Christian songs that were slotted to be sung. Scriptures to be read.

A sermon to be heard.

“Tell me, Mr. Donahue, do you log the attendance at these church gatherings?”

“Yes, we do.”

“And did you that day?”

“Of course.”

Keith pulled out another exhibit. Had it admitted. When asked, Ms. Gilbert didn’t object, but she looked as though she wished she could.

“Is this that log?” Keith held a black, leather-bound book open to a page halfway through.

“Yes.”

“And what is the last name on the entry?”

Again Donahue leaned forward. “Kenny Hill.”

“Were you present when Mr. Hill signed this register?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because I offer it personally to every member to sign.”

“Doesn’t that take a long time?”

“Not really. I stand at the door and the brethren sign in before entering the sanctuary. I greet each and every member upon arrival. I make it a point to be accessible to everyone.”

Or did he make it a point to keep everyone firmly under his domination?

Donahue lifted one shoulder slightly. And Hannah shivered. “In Kenny’s case, I remember distinctly because he came late. He signed in alone. On a break.”

Another piece of evidence was admitted. A small envelope. The kind many churches distributed to their members for offerings. This one was signed and dated by Kenny Hill. And then a cancelled check, dated the same day with the same signature was produced.

It had a Monday, March 10th bank stamp on it. All the evidence was circumstantial. When Julie crossed, she’d be able to point out the possibilities of forgery, money dropped off before or after the church service. But if she left the shadow of a doubt in the mind of even one juror, Hill would go free. That was the risk she took when she slapped a capital charge on the case. It was the only charge that required the jury to be convinced beyond the shadow of doubt.

Any other charge would have carried only reasonable doubt stipulations.

The prosecutor knew that. She’d been confident. Hannah wasn’t as confident. And maybe Julie wasn’t either, now, judging by the look on her face. Hill was going to walk. He’d brutally murdered a young man who’d done nothing more than make love with a girl who loved him back. Cortes had spent the last six hours of his life being tortured in ways a human being shouldn’t even know about.

And Hill was going to walk free, out into the streets to act again.

“Mr. Donahue, did you see the defendant speaking with anyone that night?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Donahue mentioned a couple of other names from the witness list Keith had submitted at the pretrial conference.

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Julie Gilbert did her job well—the car accident notwithstanding. But then maybe she’d remember to confim the accident without a written reminder. She could bring the information up later if it helped her case. Or maybe she’d already heard this part of the testimony during her own interview with the witness. Maybe she’d already confirmed it.

And maybe Hannah needed to quit worrying and stick to doing her job. She was no longer a prosecutor.

No longer charged with bringing the bad guys down, but rather, with protecting the rights of everyone who entered her courtroom—victims and defendants alike.

Bobby Donahue didn’t leave the stand for another hour and a half. And not until after it was established that the church registry could have been forged. The check dropped off anytime that day. But Bobby Donahue was absolutely positive he wasn’t mistaken about Hill’s presence in church at the time of the murder. He assured the court that he could produce more than 200 other witnesses to the same.

Before the afternoon was over, Hannah could pretty much read her jury.

The defense had managed to establish a shadow of doubt. The state was going to lose.

Society was going to lose. And there wasn’t a damn thing Hannah could do about it.

Kenny Hill gave her a barely discernible smile. Hannah felt it clear to the bone. And shuddered.

Was her name already on a retribution list?




2


Brian missed the Sun News interview. In fact, he forgot all about it until he saw Hannah’s number flash on the screen of his cell phone at six o’clock that evening. As always when he was at work, the phone was on silent. Glancing at the blinking light on the corner of his desk, wishing he could answer the call and escape into friendships and gentler topics, he focused, instead, on the middle-aged couple across from him.

“As far as I can tell from this preliminary test, it’s in the early stages,” he told Felicia Summers’s parents, sliding a box of tissues toward the petite, slightly graying woman sitting there clasping her husband’s hand.

Lou Summers, a technician at a local helicopter manufacturer, didn’t make the kind of money that would support the care his toddler was going to need, but he had insurance benefits that would cover it just fine—unlike many of the guardians of Brian’s young patients.

“Is she going to die?” Lou asked.

It was the question he’d been dreading. A question no one was ever prepared for.

“Possibly,” he said, his gaze direct as he met first Lou’s and then Mary’s worried scrutiny. “But maybe not,” he added, speaking with a calm that hid the churning in his stomach. “We caught it early. If we can get her into remission, she has a good chance. So, next week I’m sending you to the best pediatric oncologist in the state, Jim Freeman. He’ll take excellent care of Felicia. She’s going to love him. And so will you….”



Contrary to his usual practice, Brian didn’t return any calls on the drive home. The world could wait until morning. So could the thoughts trying to worm their way into his consciousness. Losing himself in the noise blaring from his car stereo, the old Eagles hit “Take It Easy,” Brian sped along the freeway. The music reminded him of earlier days, easier times. He made it through the first song on the greatest hits CD without allowing his thoughts to take over. Soared through the next one, swerving his sleek, high-performance car in and out of traffic as though he was eighteen instead of thirty-eight. And then the speakers screamed, He was a hardheaded man…

Brian slowed down. He’d been there. Done that.

She was terminally pretty.

Terminal. There was that word again.

Back in college, he’d figured life in the fast lane meant having the money to travel to exotic places, to eat out several times a week, frequenting all the finest restaurants. Having season tickets to Broadway Across America at Gammage Auditorium and the Phoenix Symphony and being recognized in all of Phoenix’s and some of Vegas’s and L.A.’s most elite clubs.

He’d figured the fast lane was about money. And, like his father before him, he’d intended to have a lot of it.

Tonight, the fast lane meant a way to get home more quickly. It meant knowing that a little girl might have to cram a whole life into five or six years.

It meant living every moment because it might be your last.

It meant drinking to escape the sounds of shrieking metal, of Cara’s voice crying out. Of sirens. And his own wail of pain.

When “Lyin’ Eyes” came on he thought of all the women he’d known in the ten years since Cara’s death—experienced women like the one in the song escaping her rich old husband with hands as cold as ice to visit the cheatin’ side of town and the lover with fiery eyes. He hadn’t sought out married women, though he hadn’t paid that much attention to marital status, either. He’d gone strictly for mutual pleasure, mutual escape. No strings attached.

He used to imagine it was Cara’s body he was sinking into. Never once, since his beautiful wife had died in his arms at the side of the road, due to the recklessness of a teenage illegal immigrant, had he made love to a woman with only that woman on his mind. The woman, as soon as he undressed her, became nameless. A fact that didn’t endear him to anyone—particularly himself.

And as his surround-sound system crooned about coming to his senses, Brian grabbed his cell phone and dialed. There might not be a lifetime to get on with it.

“Cynthia?” he asked as his call was answered on the first ring.

“Hey! What’s up?” Cynthia’s enthusiasm took away some of the chill he felt even in the hundred-degree September heat.

“Not much,” he said, then added, “How about bringing the little guy over for a dip in the pool?”

“Sure! I’d love to. Joseph? It’s Brian! You want to go swimming?”

The polite “yes, please” he heard in the background brought a smile to his face. There’d been a tinge of excitement in the four-year-old’s tone. What a difference from the solemn, completely silent child Brian had first met at the free clinic almost a year before.

That first day, when he’d seen Cynthia there at the free clinic, chewing the nails on one hand while she rubbed her sick son’s back with the other, Brian had just wanted to help ease the burden of worry. But it wasn’t long before he’d had to pass Joseph’s professional care on to one of his trusted associates because he was seeing Cynthia as much more than his patient’s mother.

She’d been struggling financially since losing her uninsured ex-husband in a car accident the previous year and even before he’d started dating her Brian had hired her to replace the bookkeeper who’d just quit. He suggested that she go into his office in the evenings so he could watch Joseph for her and save her the cost of a sitter.

She’d readily agreed and had been keeping his books balanced to the penny ever since. Cynthia was smart. Caring. And vulnerable. She was the first woman he’d dated more than twice since Cara’s death.

“Cyn? Bring nightclothes, too.” Brian’s voice softened on that last request.

“You got it.” The response was more eager than he deserved, and just what he needed.

It was time to move on.



Hannah was not having a good day. Though she’d parked in her reserved, covered spot, right next to another judges-only covered spot, her two-year-old gold Lexus GS—originally bought for child safety but now appreciated for the luxury it afforded after a stressful day on the bench—had a key scratch marring its perfect paint job. Running from the driver’s-side mirror to the back bumper, it wasn’t a little scratch. And it wasn’t superficial. She could see down to the metal.

It happened. Everyone knew where the judges parked. And in spite of security, every once in a while one of their cars was egged. Or had its tires deflated. Two of her peers had found threatening notes during Hannah’s years on the bench. A half-dozen or so times there’d been reports of cards left on windshields by zealous reporters. Once she’d heard about a letter taped to a door; it was from a relative of a young woman about to be sentenced. She should have expected her turn to come.

Just not today.

Not when she’d had Kenny Hill and Bobby Donahue in her courtroom. Of course, she’d also spent the morning with more than fifty family members and friends of other alleged lawbreakers as well, on pretrial motions, pleas and arraignments. Any number of them could have been pissed at her.

Or maybe some local high school gang had made keying a judge’s car a requirement of new-member initiation. Hannah didn’t automatically assume that Kenny Hill or any of his “church” brethren was behind the vandalism. But she couldn’t assure herself that they weren’t.

After fifteen minutes with security, waiting while pictures were taken and listening to the older sheriff’s deputy drone on, Hannah felt a little better. She still had the ugly scratch that meant a day in the shop, a loaner that would probably smell and the loss of her insurance deductible, but apparently there’d been several other keyings in the area that were thought to be gang related. It was going to cost her. But she hadn’t been specifically targeted.

A fitting ending to the day.

Too bad she’d already agreed to meet William for dinner. As fond as she was of her former law-school classmate and fellow judge, she’d rather go straight home, turn up the air-conditioning, run a hot bath in her Whirlpool tub, then have a good soak and a cry.



He knew her name. As he felt the pressure building, felt his climax coming, Brian kept his eyes open, focusing on the woman lying next to him, moving her hips in tandem with his. Eyes closed, her mouth slightly open as she moaned, Cynthia Applegate was a beautiful woman.

“Ah, Cynthia,” he said, emptying himself into her. “Yes.” He felt her answering tremors as she came, pulses of release that contracted around him, completing an intense moment.

She sighed. And smiled. Opening her eyes.

“I love you,” she said. It wasn’t the first time.

Pressure built again—less pleasurable this time.

“It’s okay,” she continued, lifting a finger to his lips as he tried to speak. “You don’t have to say anything. I don’t expect anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”

He should speak anyway. She deserved more than the long kiss he gave her, so Brian caressed her in the way he knew she liked, bringing her to a second orgasm. It wasn’t enough. But it was a start. More than he’d been able to give any other woman.

And during the aftermath, as he lay with her, there was none of the usual letdown, and not as much of the guilt. As always, an image of Cara’s face after they’d made love appeared in his mind. Her features were hazy. Quickly replaced by another sight. His wife’s face smeared with blood. His and her own.

And then the sounds replayed themselves. Her cries as she tried to free herself from the wreckage.

And the young man’s words as he stood outside their smashed vehicle. “Won’t do no good for them to deport me. I’ll come back.”

The words were in his native tongue. But Brian had spoken Spanish fluently since college.

“Let me out!” It took him a second to realize it wasn’t his panicked, dying wife he was hearing.

Cynthia was already out of bed.

“Let me out!” Panic filled the childish voice. “Let me out!”

By that third call Brian was halfway down the hall to the spare bedroom where Joseph Applegate slept when he and his mother spent the night—something that had only happened on weekends. Occasionally.

“He’s at it again.” Cynthia’s voice also held a bit of panic as Brian caught up to her. She stood back as Brian raced to the boy, grabbing him off the chair by the window where Joseph was pulling at the blinds and pounding on the glass.

“No!” he screamed, kicking and punching, as Brian wrapped his hands around the youngster’s waist, removing him from immediate danger. “No!”

“You’re all right now, Joseph.” Brian spoke in quiet, reassuring tones, holding on to him until, spent, the boy fell limp in his arms. He handed Joseph to Cynthia.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay.” Cynthia’s voice was calmer now that she was with her son, holding him. Now that he was safely away from the window. Clothed in the robe she’d pulled on as she’d run from Brian’s room, she held Joseph to her, speaking softly but firmly.

Joseph snuggled his face into his mother’s chest, breathed a ragged sigh and settled back to sleep.

“He’s soaked,” Cynthia whispered, rocking the boy as though he weighed nothing. Once his breathing was even, she quickly laid him on the bed, changing his soiled disposable undergarment with the ease of practice. She’d been handling the boy’s sleepwalking episodes far longer than Brian had.

Brian gave the small head a professional caress. The toddler was cool to the touch. “He’ll probably sleep fine now until morning.”

“And as usual he won’t remember anything, so we still won’t have any idea what’s causing this.” She sounded tired, resigned, but worried. At Brian’s recommendation she’d taken Joseph to Dr. Roberta Browning, one of Arizona’s best pediatric psychiatrists; Brian had already run every medical test he could think of, and found nothing to explain Joseph’s symptoms.

There was no sign of internal organ illness. No sign of physical or sexual abuse.

If the lack of answers frustrated Brian, it had to be excruciating for his mother.

“Something must have happened when he was with his father.” He repeated what he’d told her before—the same thing Roberta had said. It wasn’t much of an explanation.

It was all they had. “It’s odd that he doesn’t mention the father he saw regularly,” Roberta had told Brian. Though Joseph’s parents had been divorced since he was a baby, Donald Applegate had had regular visitations until his death.

Brian had asked Cynthia about it. Other than the fact that her ex-husband had had another lover while married to her, she’d said nothing negative about her son’s father. It was obvious, at least to Brian, that she still carried feelings for the man whose life had been cut short.

That was something they had in common. Unexpectedly losing someone they loved.

Brian took one last look at the window, wondering what would have happened if it had been open—what could happen in the future, if they didn’t get things under control.

“Let’s bring him in with us just in case,” he said now, an arm around Cynthia’s shoulders as he led her back down the hall.

The boy needed security. Whatever was causing the sleepwalking, whatever was causing the bed-wetting, might never be known to them, but the symptoms could still be treated. The cure, Brian was certain, especially in one so young, was a stable, two-parent home environment. An environment like the Summerses had to offer Felicia.

An environment he could offer to Joseph and his mother.



“Have you seen the Sun News?” Hannah didn’t bother with a hello when Brian finally answered his phone at four forty-five the next afternoon. She’d just come off the bench to be handed a copy of the weekly paper by her judicial assistant. Brian’s picture took up half the front page. Hannah’s name was in the second paragraph.

“Hannah? No, I’ve had back-to-back patients since I got in this morning. To be honest, I’m not even sure what time it is. What’s up?”

Relieved that he hadn’t been broadsided, that she could break the news to him gently, Hannah silently reread parts of the article. Her protective instincts reared all over again.

“They’ve gone too far this time,” she said, pissed off and ready to take someone on. “It says here that you refused to comment.”

“Only by default. I had some bad news to deliver to the parents of a three-year-old. The reporter completely slipped my mind.”

Immediately taken back to her own experience as the parent of one of Brian’s patients, remembering the strength he’d given her when she didn’t have enough of her own, Hannah glanced away from the paper.

Kids were supposed to be free from worry, from stress and pain. Childhood was for naiveté and laughter. Playing. No responsibility.

Or so they said.

“Is the three-year-old going to be okay?”

“It doesn’t look good.”

Holding back the tears that would fall if she’d let them, tears that she’d grown adept at fighting over the past year, she looked again at the article while questions she couldn’t ask raged through her mind.

How long had the little girl been sick? What were her symptoms? How old were the parents? Were they a close family? Were there other kids? Did they have the resources for treatment? Was there any hope?

“So how bad is the article?” Brian’s question brought her out of a nightmare and into a mess.

“Bad,” she told him, because that’s how they were. Always honest. Always there for each other. Loving but never lovers. “Someone’s done a lot of talking out of turn followed up by incompetent research.”

“Okay.” His tone told her to get on with it.

“They say that there’ve been an unusual number of SIDS deaths in the valley over the past year….”

“That’s not true. Our educational seminars have had an impact already. The statistics are changing.”

“Yeah, they mention that.” Hannah’s voice dropped. Since shortly after her son’s death, she and Brian, a mother and a doctor, had been traveling around the state speaking to groups of expectant parents, offering two different perspectives but delivering the same message. There were ways to lessen the chances of SIDS. Easy ways. “Which is why it’s a concern to this reporter that there’s one doctor who’s seen an upswing in sudden infant deaths among his patients.”

“Me.”

“Right.”

His silence was difficult to take.

“He doesn’t name his source but he claims that he’s gone through public records to verify his facts.”

“Which are?”

“You have three-hundred percent more cases of SIDS than any other doctor in the city.”

Again, he said nothing.

“Is that true?”

“If every other doctor in the city averages one death a year, yes.”

“You’ve had four.”

“And you knew about all four of them.”

Yeah. She had. She just hadn’t realized…

“He says that all four of your patients were Hispanic babies.” Hannah could hardly hear the words she was speaking for the undertones in this conversation. If Brian…

But that was impossible. She’d known him since college. Had loved him like a brother. He’d been a great friend. And a great husband to her best friend, Cara. More, he’d helped Hannah adopt Carlos, had been her son’s doctor and watched over Carlos as diligently as if the baby was his own. His and Cara’s.

Cara. He’d taken her death hard.

Hard enough to quietly, gradually, unhinge him as the article implied?

“You know better than anyone how much time I dedicate to SIDS awareness, education, research and fund-raising.” Brian’s voice, lacking any hint of his usual charm, fell flat.

“Yeah,” she said, also remembering the months after the accident. The bitterness that had poured out of Brian in his darkest moments, usually after imbibing more alcohol than he’d had during even the most raucous college parties. His wife, the only really close female friend Hannah had ever had, was killed by an illegal immigrant—a young man who’d crossed the Arizona/Mexico border with his parents as a child, without paperwork and, therefore, without the means to take drivers’ training or get a license.

“The fund-raising is part of the problem.”

“How so?”

“Without some SIDS deaths, there’d be no funding.”

“Without SIDS, we wouldn’t need the funding.”

“The implication is that some of the funds we raise line your pockets.” Hannah didn’t believe it for a second. If for no other reason than because Brian didn’t need the money. That wasn’t the implication that bothered her.

“You know me better than that,” he said when she didn’t continue.

“I think he only put in that part to explain away the volunteer time you spend on behalf of SIDS victims. They can’t write an ugly exposé and have you coming off looking good.”

“So why write one at all?”

And here was the real problem.

“It talks about Cara and the accident.”

Hannah could tell by his silence that he was hurting. And she hurt with him. Even while looking for reassurance that he was as sane as anyone. As incapable of killing another human being as she was.

“There’s a picture of the car, a line about you screaming at the other driver while they tried to cut Cara free from the wreckage.”

“Which I don’t remember at all,” he said softly.

Brian had hit his head in the accident. His memories were select. The doctors had warned that he might never remember everything.

“And they talk about the trial….”

“And the fact that the kid wasn’t tested for drugs at the scene? That he got away with some misdemeanors and a few months in jail?” Even while she understood his anger, shared it, it scared her for a second.

Because she was stressed. Worn out. Not at her best.

“What’s this got to do with SIDS?”

“They imply that you’re trying to rid the state of immigrants because of Cara. They printed a picture of you, taken ten years ago, at that rally downtown….”

“For stricter enforcement of immigration laws, I remember. But this guy can’t actually think that because I support immigration patrols, I’d resort to murdering innocent children. I’m a pediatrician, for God’s sake!” Brian’s incredulity struck a chord in Hannah. Her momentary doubts dwindled into nothing—the result of a long day, a long week. A trial that still hadn’t ended.

“Crazy, huh?” she asked her dear friend. Cara’s death had changed Brian forever. Changed them both. But he wasn’t unstable. He wasn’t disturbed enough to take the law into his own hands, as the article implied.

“I’d say someone has way too much spare time. Does it say how I supposedly bring about these deaths? Or how rich I’m getting with the supposed kickback I’m getting from the SIDS fund-raising?”

“Of course not.”

“Did they mention Carlos?”

She blinked. And blinked again. She’d only had her sweet boy for eight short weeks, but what an impact he’d made on her heart. On her life. For eight weeks out of forty years she’d been what she’d always dreamed of being—a mother.

“No,” she said when she could speak. She’d accepted that her grief was going to be a permanent part of her. And had learned to live with it. “None of the children were named.”

“So the only mention of you was regarding the seminars?”

“Yes.”

“I should sue them.”

“All they did was state facts and then imply. You can’t stop that.”

“There aren’t enough sick and twisted people in the world, doing ungodly things, that they have to drum up something like this?”

“Sick and twisted is too commonplace. The Sun News is always looking for the big angle. The story no one else has.”

It was going to be okay. The story was just that. A story. She’d overreacted.

“I wouldn’t hurt a child for anything. Not even the son of the man who killed my wife.”

“I know that.”

“I loved Carlos.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry this came up now. You didn’t need it. I should’ve remembered the damned call. I probably could’ve prevented the whole thing.”

“Or not. You know how these people are. They had some interesting coincidental facts and that’s all they need to sell papers.”

“I don’t understand why anyone reads that crap.”

“Makes their lives seem better, I guess,” Hannah said, not wanting to hang up. On days like this she longed to be back in college when she and Cara and a few others had all lived in the same block, sharing life’s ups and downs. “You know, they see someone worse off than they are and think they have it good.”

“I hate seeing you hurt.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“I’ve had negative press before,” he said, sounding as tired as she felt.

So had she. Most recently the previous week when a certain unnamed reporter thought she’d been too lenient in sentencing a girl convicted of vehicular manslaughter in a hit-and-run.

“If there’s a drop-off in your patient load you can claim damages…”

“That would have to be a drop-off in my waiting list,” he said with more weariness than pride. “The accusations are ludicrous and while some people will believe anything, I have to hope this article’s going to generate more awareness of SIDS. It might actually help save a few lives.”

Trust Brian to come up with a positive spin. A fix. He was the ultimate fixer. Bodies. Minds. Hearts.

He spent his entire life fixing—as a means of escaping the things that couldn’t be fixed?

No matter how many lives he saved, he’d never be able to bring back the wife who’d died in a car he’d been driving.

“How’s the trial going?” he asked and Hannah was glad he wasn’t ready to hang up, either. It had been a couple of weeks since they’d talked and she’d missed him.

“Not great.” Glancing at the file in front of her, the one that was thicker and far more bothersome than the rest of the stack her JA had left on her desk, she said, “Based on statements made by the defense, the state, who’d already rested, moved to admit testimony from the victim of a crime the defendant was convicted of as a juvenile.”

“I thought they couldn’t bring in prior convictions because it’s prejudicial.”

She smiled, loving the fact that Brian paid enough attention when she talked about her job to pick up on the basics.

“Generally that’s correct.” Opening the file, she stared at Kenny Hill’s mug shot. And then let the folder drop shut. “But in this case, the victim of the previous crime can give information relevant to a claim the defense has made on this charge. Had the defense not made the claim, this door wouldn’t have been opened.”

“So what’d you do?”

“I took it under advisement.” Which meant she wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. “I told the attorneys I’d have a ruling for them by ten in the morning.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“I think so.” Still, she couldn’t act rashly. She needed to mull over all the angles. To research. To make sure. “I don’t want this case losing on appeal.”

“It’s a capital case, right? If he’s convicted isn’t it pretty much a given that it’ll be appealed?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t envy you.”

Thinking about his young patient who didn’t have much hope of a future, about the ones he lost and the grief he suffered for each of them, Hannah shook her head. “Some days, I don’t envy you your career, either.”

“I’d suggest dinner or a stiff drink, but I’ve got…to get home.”

His hesitation, accompanied by a strange tone in his voice, piqued her interest. “Why’s that?”

“Cynthia’s moving in. Tonight.”

What? “The young woman with the four-year-old?”

He’d seen her more than twice, but…“She’s moving in as in with you, or as in renting a couple of rooms?”

“With me.”

“In a relationship. With you.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m…I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t either, really. But it seems like the right thing to do.”

“Is she still doing your bookkeeping?” Hannah asked.

“Yes.”

“At night so you can watch her son?”

“Yes.” Consciously fighting a twinge of jealousy that he had what she’d lost—a little boy to care for and love—Hannah refused to give in to the depression that had buried her for the long months after Carlos died.

She could look at other families now, other mothers with babies and toddlers, and not fall apart.

“I didn’t know you were still seeing her.”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s that serious?”

“Yep.”

“Needless to say, I’m shocked, but if you’re sure this is what you want, I’m happy for you.” Brian’s happiness was as important to her as her own. “It’s about time you joined the ranks of the living.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Though she was worried he might get hurt, Hannah wished him well. Told him to tell Cynthia hello. To give Joseph, whom she’d met only once at a SIDS fund-raiser, a hug. And then she hung up, staring at the wall of bookcases across from her.

Something about Brian’s news didn’t feel right; she just couldn’t pinpoint what that would be.

She wasn’t jealous, was she? She and Brian were close friends, nothing more.

So why wasn’t she as happy for him as she should’ve been?

Sliding the pile of folders in front of her, Hannah grabbed a pen. She was tired; that was all. The week had already been too long and wasn’t over yet. She’d feel better after she got some rest.

She’d feel better after Kenny Hill was convicted.




3


Lights welcomed Brian as he pulled through the entrance of the gated community and up to his home on Thursday night. The landscapers had been there earlier in the day and his half acre of colorful desert plants, squeezed into an entire street of similarly coiffed properties, provided a much-needed sanctuary from another long and trying day. The three-thousand-square-foot house was too much for him—he’d known that for a couple of years. But on nights like tonight, Brian couldn’t bear the idea of giving it up. He’d had to admit a six-year-old with an extremely high fever to the hospital this afternoon. With any luck, he wouldn’t be called out again that night.

The room-to-room stereo system was blaring the “Itsy Bitsy Spider” as he came through the garage door into the laundry room. A far cry from the peace and quiet he was used to. But it wasn’t wholly unwelcome.

With a smile, Brian entered the adjoining kitchen. Joseph, busy with crayons and paper at the table, didn’t notice him. Neither did the beautiful brunette standing at the granite counter, reading a newspaper. A few unopened moving boxes lined one wall. Cynthia had told him she didn’t have much as she’d rented her apartment furnished. If those boxes were the extent of her goods, he’d say her comment had been an understatement. How did one raise a child with only four moving boxes’ worth of belongings? Where were the toys? The picture albums and booster seats?

“Hey, doesn’t a guy get a hello after a hard day’s work?” He raised his voice to be heard over the childish chorus.

Joseph’s quickly indrawn breath, the speed with which the boy jumped down from the adult-size seat he’d been kneeling on, almost completely distracted Brian from the sight of Cynthia quickly folding and trashing the paper she’d been poring over so intently she’d missed his entrance.

“I made this for you, Brian,” Joseph said, holding out a wrinkled and slightly ripped piece of drawing paper.

Squatting, Brian had to consciously restrain himself from pulling the boy into his embrace, a sign of affection that Joseph could not yet accept, as he studied the artwork. A wobbly circle dominated the page. Several colors rimmed what Brian assumed was a ball. Rays of sun came out of the edges of the ball and ran off the sides of the page. The center of the ball had been left blank.

“This is great, son,” Brian said. “Is it mine to keep?”

Wordlessly, eyes wide as though fearing the reaction to his offering, Joseph nodded.

“Well, thank you. This is the nicest present I’ve had in a long time.” His ear-to-ear grin wasn’t the least bit forced. “I’m going to put this in my briefcase right now. I’ll take it to work with me tomorrow and hang it on the bulletin board by my desk so I can think of you every day.”

Joseph stared at him, leaving Brian to wonder what the child was thinking. Eventually the boy nodded and moved slowly back to his chair where he returned his focus to his latest creation.

Brian examined the picture he’d been given, certain there was a message for him if only he could decipher it. Looking to Cynthia for help, Brian was surprised to see her busy at the stove, her back to him.

Without a greeting.

And he remembered the paper. There’d been no mistaking the Sun News logo.

She’d read the article. Knew that someone thought he might be responsible for the deaths of four infants. Not sure whether to discuss the article with her or ignore it, Brian thought again of how quickly she’d disposed of the paper when she’d known he was there.

Sparing him?

Not wanting to insult him with doubts?

Maybe she needed some time to figure out what she wanted to do about what she’d read. Some time to determine how much she trusted the man she’d just moved in with.

Maybe it was best to wait. To let her mention it when she was ready.

He had nothing to hide. Something that was perhaps, right now, better shown than told.

“Hi,” he said, placing an arm around her waist as he leaned in for a kiss. Her lips, warm and full as always, clung to his, her tongue darting into his mouth with the ease of familiarity—and pleasure.

“Mmm. I can see I’m going to like getting back to the business of fully living,” he murmured, his body stirring at the unmistakable darkening of her eyes.

The sound of Joseph’s crayon dropping in his box, little fingers rummaging for a different color, reminded Brian that he was not alone with his beautiful housemate. His lover.

“More later,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her behind her ear. Cynthia tilted her head back and emitted a soft moan that would keep his blood boiling, he was sure, until bedtime.

The woman was very, very good for him. And to him.

As good as he wanted to be for her. And her troubled son.

“Did you see this?” He held out the drawing.

Tending to her rice, she nodded, her expression not quite steady. She was obviously no more immune to him than he was to her. “He has a fascination with circles,” she said.

“It’s not a circle, Mommy, it’s the earth,” Joseph said from the table.

So much for the boy tuning out their world.

Note to self, Brian thought, chuckling as he went upstairs to change. Little pitchers have big ears. Save coming on to the mama until the child is in bed.



Much later that night, Brian stared at the ceiling. He had a woman in his arms, her head on his chest. In his bedroom. At home. A woman whose scant collection of clothes hung in the closet next to his. Whose toothbrush was in the ensuite bathroom.

He didn’t regret having her there. He’d made the right decision. Moments like these, moments of discomfort, when he didn’t feel like himself, were to be expected. Living with a woman again was a huge change. There were bound to be adjustments.

“The hospital didn’t phone.” Cynthia’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“I know,” he said, holding her closer. “Which should be good news.”

Her palm rested, unmoving, on his chest. “Did you hear from the parents of the little leukemia girl today?”

“No. I’m planning to do a follow-up call tomorrow. Sometimes when people hear bad news like this, especially about a small child, they go into denial. Their defense mechanisms don’t allow them to believe it and they fail to get the proper treatment. In Felicia’s case, immediate treatment is critical.”

As she did many times, she asked about his caseload that day. And the next. She asked about a couple of kids, cases she knew from doing his accounts, who’d been in for tests, about a ten-year-old who’d been burned, a twelve-year-old future professional baseball player who’d broken his collarbone.

And, telling himself that he was lucky to have a woman who listened, one who cared enough to remember what he did with his days and wanted to share them with him, Brian answered her.

But shouldn’t they be making love instead of talking about work? This was their first official night of living together and he was staring at the ceiling.

When silence fell, her lips planted gentle kisses around his nipple, but she didn’t push him for more—almost as though her heart wasn’t into love-making, either. He settled her more deeply into the crook of his arm, liking her weight against him.

And tried to drift off to sleep.

Eventually, when her breathing didn’t deepen and he could feel her eyelashes blinking against his skin, he gave up.

“Why’d you hide the paper?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. They needed to discuss the ludicrousness of the reporter’s comments; he needed to assure her of his innocence. She’d just moved her son into his home. She deserved at least that. But he’d wanted her to bring up the article.

She needed to know that if she had concerns, she could come to him. She had to come to him. Or they would never work. Never be a real couple.

“I…What paper?”

Disappointed, Brian took a deep breath. Tried to put himself in her shoes. She was a young woman with few resources and a troubled four-year-old to raise. She’d just taken one of the biggest risks of her life, moving the two of them into his home. And he’d sort of, been accused of murder.

She deserved his patience, if nothing else.

“I saw you reading the article in the Sun News when I came in,” he told her, resolving to take care of her, instead of holding her up to unspoken expectations.

“Oh.” That was all. No questions. No accusations. No rambling fears. As if she was unaware, half dead, although he knew her to be a multidimensional, occasionally intense human being.

“It’s okay, Cyn,” he said softly. “You don’t have to take me at face value. You can have doubts. You can ask questions.”

He wasn’t sure she was going to respond even then, she lay so still against him. But then, lifting her head to rest her chin on his chest, she stared up at him in the dim light coming in from the window. “I want to take you at face value.” Her voice was sweet, tender—and also laced with conviction. “I just can’t seem to do it. Every single time I’ve trusted someone, I’ve been hurt. And my son has been hurt. I can’t let that happen again.”

He wanted to interrupt, to reassure her. But knew he had to hear her out. No matter where she was going with this.

If she left before they’d really begun, he’d survive. He didn’t want her to go, but he’d survive.

And he’d watch out for her, too. He’d show her, one way or another, that she wasn’t alone anymore. He’d committed himself to this small family. For good or bad.

“I’m all he’s got,” she said with that hint of intensity that always drew him to her. “He has to come first.”

“Of course he does.”

Shaking her head, Cynthia sat up, adjusting her nightgown and hugging her knees to her chest. “It’s more than that,” she said now, her eyes wide as she met his gaze. “He doesn’t just come first, he comes only. I will do anything for Joseph. Sacrifice anything for him.”

“As would most mothers for their children,” Brian said. He heard the doctor tone enter his voice, but couldn’t seem to stop it. “Where do you think the saying ‘mother bear with her cubs’ came from? It’s true. Mothers are infused with a need to give up their own lives, to kill if necessary—in a symbolic sense—to protect their young. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“I just…” He could see in her eyes that she was trying to tell him something vital. But he couldn’t quite figure it out.

“I love you, Brian.”

There were those words again. And the timing was critical.

He couldn’t keep running and expect her to stay.

“I love you, too.” There. Offering the proclamation hadn’t been as hard as he’d expected. There were many ways to love a person. Many ways to love a woman.

“I mean it. I really, really love you.”

Brian stroked her hair, caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Okay.”

He was a lucky man.

“I realize now that I’ve never really loved a man before.”

God, she was lovely. He was going to do everything in his power to be worthy of her. To give her everything he had left to give.

Lord knew he wanted to. Brian just wasn’t sure it would be enough.

Because he didn’t have more words, Brian kissed her. Once. Softly. And then again. His hand at the back of her neck, he guided her lips against his, opening to her, coaxing her to open to him.

And, as always, she was instantly responsive, as though she knew what he needed before he did. When it came to sex, this woman was a natural. Or maybe it was the loving that she was getting right.

“I…” Cynthia broke the kiss, her lips parted as she again met his gaze. “Please, no matter what choices I make in Joseph’s best interests, don’t ever, ever forget that I honestly and truly love you.”

That article again. She was struggling to trust him. Considering her past, her marriage to a man who swore to protect her and their son forever and then was unfaithful, he could certainly understand.

“I want you to remember something, too,” he said, his forehead resting against hers.

“What?”

“No matter what choices you have to make, I’ll be there for you. I won’t desert you. Whether you live here or elsewhere, whether you stay with me or not, you have a friend for life. You got that?”

For the first time in the many months he’d known her, Cynthia’s eyes filled with tears.

“The insinuations in that article are lies, babe.” Some words wouldn’t come. These would. “The reporter took a few facts and put a heinous spin on them. I did fight for stronger border laws after Cara’s death. The kid who hit us was an illegal immigrant, had come across the border with his parents when he was a toddler. But I have never received a dime from any of the volunteer work I do, not from SIDS seminars and certainly not from the free clinic. Nor would I ever knowingly harm a child—whether that child was in my care or not.”

“Do you hate Mexicans?” Her voice was uneven, and there were still tears in her eyes as she clutched at his hand.

“Of course not. I didn’t hate illegals, as people, even then. I hated the system that allowed them to live among us without following our laws.” He talked about statistics, real ones, about health-care rights. About school-system dollars spent teaching kids who couldn’t speak English. About below minimum-wage work being offered that took jobs away from those who weren’t allowed to work for less. And about the Emergency Medial Treatment and Active Labor Act that requires all U.S. emergency treatment facilities to treat anyone needing care, including illegals. Which meant that in highly illegally populated areas, centers closed down because they had to treat too many who didn’t pay for services, leaving Americans without care. Or those where American citizens waited in long lines for care—behind illegals. And about safeguards—such as the driver’s test—that were denied to illegal’s because, as far as the government was concerned, these people didn’t exist. And he talked about the money spent every year by the state to prosecute and defend illegal immigrants.

And then, as she lay there silently—his lover who usually had lots to say about politics—Brian changed the subject, telling her about the SIDS program he and Hannah had developed.

If Cynthia needed time to digest the rest, she would have it. An accusation of murder wasn’t a simple thing.

“They say that you shouldn’t lay a baby on its stomach,” Cynthia said. “They say that increases the risk of SIDS. At least, that’s what they told me when I had Joseph.”

“That’s right.”

Cynthia asked a couple more questions. He answered them. And then, when she appeared to be done for the night, repeated, “All of that aside, I want you to know I would never do anything to harm a child. Any child. For any reason.” It was crucial that she understand that, if nothing else.

Her scrutiny wasn’t light. Or easy. But he endured those moments without difficulty. And when she finally nodded, he believed she was satisfied.




4


Susan Campbell stuck her head in Hannah’s door after lunch on Friday. “You ready, Judge?”

Sitting at her desk, wearing the black silk robe of her calling, Hannah nodded and accepted the compassionate smile on the face of her twenty-six-year-old judicial assistant.

She wasn’t ready. How could you ever be ready to do something that was going to anger a large powerful group of thugs—a group known for getting away with unconscionable acts of violence?

Moving with purpose, she left her chambers and looked both ways as she walked into the secure hallway outside her door and stepped toward the back entrance of the courtroom.

Her job was to administer justice. Kenny Hill might be convicted by a jury of vetted American citizens. If that happened, she’d sentence him to prison—and society would be safer.

But he had brothers. Ivory Nation brothers.

“All rise.”

Hannah heard Jaime’s spiel about the Honorable Hannah Montgomery, but barely waited for the bailiff to finish before she took her seat. Her deputy was there—standing at attention with his eyes firmly on the defendant who was seated at the table directly in front of her bench.

Other deputies were there, too, called by the sheriff’s office to oversee this trial.

Only members of the press and the jury were absent—the jury sequestered in another room. They couldn’t be privy to this particular motion lest their judgment be impaired. The press would line the back of the room again as soon as she gave the okay to let them in from the hall.

“Be seated,” Hannah said clearly. Loudly.

She could do her job. She had no doubt about that. She would do it well.

And she would deal with the ensuing exhaustion, the emotional panic that sometimes resulted from days like today.

“We are back on the record with case number CR2008-000351. The State v. Kenneth Hill. Before we bring in the jury, we have a matter before the court concerning new evidence received by the state.”

The benches in the back of her courtroom were filled to capacity. Whether the victim had as many supporters as the defendant did, Hannah couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t think so. She suspected the Ivory Nation ranks had been notified overnight. Was she supposed to consider herself warned? Intimidated?

The defendant’s parents, sitting stiffly in the front row, didn’t seem to know any of the mostly young men around them.

Bobby Donahue, the group’s leader, was not present.

Hannah noted every detail of her surroundings as she held the page she’d written the night before.

“The Court has reviewed the motion to suppress testimony filed by Robert Keith on behalf of the defendant, Kenny Hill, the argument presented by the prosecution, as well as case law pertinent to the matter before us…”

She continued to read, citing case law brought before her during the motion, reminding the defense that it wasn’t within the jurisdiction of trial court to find existing laws unconstitutional. She discussed the Arizona statute about allowing prejudicial evidence, specifically pertaining to cases where evidence pertaining to a previous case is also pertinent to the current one.

In other words, the victim of Kenny Hill’s earlier assault would not be appearing as a victim, but as a witness to the possibility that a certain weapon used in that crime, had caused injuries in this one.

And then, sticking to the plan she’d devised the night before—not to look up from her notes, even once, not to give them anything, any hint that she was human or afraid—she delivered her findings.

“The court has prepared the following rulings,” she said, gaining confidence in herself as her voice remained steady. “It is ordered that the motion to suppress be denied.”

Funny how a room could be filled with negative energy, with savage anger, that emitted not a sound.

The only thing Hannah could hear was the rapid tapping of her court recorder, fifty-year-old Tammy Rhodes. Jaime, the other human being within Hannah’s peripheral vision, was staring down at her desk.

“The state is warned that any mention of a previous conviction for this defendant will result in a mistrial.”

That was it. She’d reached the end of her ruling. Of her notes. There was nothing else to do but look up.



The trial that had already run two days over its time allotment was continued until Monday—the earliest the state’s newly approved witness could be brought in. Which meant that the weight hanging over Hannah would be there all weekend.

She and William had tickets to a concert at Symphony Hall the next night. His son, a student at a private school for the arts, was a guest violinist in one piece and, as William rarely saw the boy, he’d been thrilled to get the invitation. Hannah hoped, as she drove home on Friday, that she’d be able to stay awake. Put her in a comfortable seat, in a dark room with soft music and—

What was that? She saw a pile in the road by her driveway. Driving slowly, Hannah tried to identify the curious shape. Her heart was pounding, but she told herself there was no reason for that.

Some trash had fallen from a dispenser during that morning’s pickup, that was all.

But there was something too familiar about the tan and beige with that streak of black. What had she put in her trash that week? Some kind of packaging maybe.

What had she purchased? Opened? Had she even bought anything new?

As she drew closer, her pulse quickened yet again. The blob didn’t look like packaging. It looked…furry. Like an animal.

The exact size of Callie Bodacious.

Hannah’s beloved eleven-year-old cat. The direct offspring of a gift from Jason, the man she’d married—the man who, at seventeen, had been diagnosed with leukemia and, at twenty-three, had died in the bed she’d shared with him.

“No!” Throwing the car in Park in the middle of her quiet street, Hannah got out, the door of the Lexus wide-open behind her as she sped to the shape in the road.

Callie wasn’t a purebred. Wasn’t worth much in a monetary sense. She was basically an alley cat. One who wasn’t particularly fond of people—other than Hannah.

And she was all the family Hannah had left.

Dropping down on her knees, reaching out to the animal, Hannah blinked back tears so she could see clearly. The black between the eyes told her it was definitely Callie.

And she was still breathing. Sobbing now, Hannah glanced up, around, looking for help. And then grabbed the cell phone out of the case hooked to her waistband.

Addled, frustrated that there was no ambulance she could call for cats, no feline 911, scared out of her wits, she hit the first number programmed into her speed dial.

He answered. Thank God.

“Brian? Where are you?”

“On my way home. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Callie! She’s hurt. Oh, God, Brian, what am I going to do? She needs help and I’m afraid to move her. Her head’s at a bad angle.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Hannah wailed, growing more panicked with every second that passed. “She’s in the road so she must have been hit by a car, but I don’t see a lot of blood.”

Brian asked her to check a couple of things, including lifting the cat’s eyelids. And then he told her to sit tight and wait for him.



Brian wished he could say he’d never seen Hannah Montgomery in such a state. Wished it so hard the tension made his head throb. Watching his good friend grieve was not a new thing to him.

And not a distant memory either. It had been less than a year since he’d sat on this very same sofa, in this very same house, sick at heart, holding this vibrant, beautiful, intelligent woman while she sobbed uncontrollably.

Less than a year since another little body was carried out of this home.

“I…I…she…I…she must’ve slipped out this morning. And…”

She couldn’t finish as another bout of sobs overcame her, the sound harsh, discordant in the peaceful room.

“I was just…so…pre…pre…preoccupied….”

He held her, resting his chin lightly on her head. He wanted to let her know that he was there. She wasn’t alone.

“…the trial…”

His mind froze at her words, at the reminder of the dangerous case she was handling, his attention completely, singly focused now as a suspicion occured to him. And he remembered something else.

“You said you were sure you saw her on her cat tree when you left.”

“I…must’ve…been mistaken….”

Or not.

Looking around the room, all senses on alert, Brian wondered if Hannah’s windows and doors were secure. He wondered if they should be calling the police.

Or if he was overreacting.

Surely, anyone who meant to do Hannah harm would have done so while she was driving home. Running her off the road. Making it look like an accident.

Instead, they’d done…this. But they wouldn’t be so bold as to attack a judge in her own home. That would make them too easy to find. Detectives would know who to question and fingerprint and…

“We need to call the police.”



A sheriff’s deputy came to the house. Callie’s body was being taken in as evidence.

“I’m sure you’re right and there is nothing criminal here, Judge,” the thirtysomething, well-weaponed man said, his beige uniform not helping him blend in with the desert landscaping at all. It would be hard to overlook the big, burly man.

Completely calm, completely professional, Hannah nodded.

“There’s no sign of forced entry, no unlocked windows or doors, no threatening note. But we can’t be too sure. We have to follow up on every call.”

“The Ivory Nation generally leaves warnings of some kind,” Hannah said. She’d been dry-eyed since Brian had called the police. Withdrawn into herself.

Brian would have preferred the crying. It was healthier.

“Putting a signature on their job feeds their sense of power,” she continued, outlining a profile the deputy probably already had. Giving Brian one he’d rather not have had.

Brian stayed one step behind Hannah, silently supportive, as she spoke with the deputy. He’d like to prescribe some sleeping pills, but knew she’d refuse to fill the perscription. She wouldn’t want them around. Wouldn’t want to be tempted to use them. He knew she feared getting addicted. She’d told him so when Carlos died. Hannah might be strong, but there was a limit to everyone’s capacity.

“I’d heard you had an Ivory Nation member on trial this week. You might want to consider recusing yourself.”

Hannah’s frown put an end to that idea. “Is that an official suggestion, Deputy?”

“No, ma’am.” The deputy looked down, and Brian almost pitied the guy.

Deputy Charles closed his book and picked up the satchel containing Hannah’s dead cat. “Keep your doors and windows locked, Judge,” he said, on his way to stop at the door. “We’ll be doing extra drive-bys and keeping a watch on the neighborhood just in case.” His words were appropriately reassuring but Brian worried anyway.



Hannah knew she really should let Brian go home. He’d called Cynthia before arriving so she wouldn’t be expecting him, but that didn’t mean that his new live-in lover would want him spending the evening at the home of another woman.

“Can I get you something to eat?” she asked, while Deputy Charles reversed down the drive.

“I thought maybe we could call for Chinese.”

Her stomach rumbling at the thought of food, Hannah nodded. That would give her another hour or so before Brian had to go.

An hour to get herself under control, to beat the panic that was turning her into a scared, weak woman.

Something Hannah hadn’t been in a very long time.

At least not admittedly.

Brian found the menus while Hannah took her morning’s coffee cup from the sink and put it in the dishwasher. And then he rechecked the windows and doors, even though Deputy Charles had already done so.

Brian was a sweet man. A very sweet man. She was lucky to have had him as such a close friend all these years.

Forgoing her usual single glass of wine, Hannah reached for the bottle of scotch she kept at the back of a cupboard over the stove. Her last foster parents—the ones who’d helped her get into college—had had a fondness for scotch.

Taking the long way around to the refrigerator—avoiding the monogrammed plastic mat where Callie’s bowls still sat—she filled two glasses with ice. Added a small splash of scotch into both, filled hers with 7-Up and Brian’s with water and handed him his glass as he came back into the kitchen.

He attempted to meet her eyes as he held the glass, but she couldn’t look at him.

“Cheers,” she said, offering her glass for the traditional clink—a throwback to their college days when they’d all thought it bad luck to drink without toasting first.

The theory, as far as she could remember was along the lines of “you can’t toast without someone there and if there’s someone there, you won’t ever drink alone.”

Drinking alone had been their definition of a drinking problem.

Brian’s glass still hadn’t touched hers.

Hannah could feel him watching her. And the look in his eyes, when she finally met it, told her he wasn’t letting her get away with running. Or hiding. Or shutting him out.

“Here’s to friends,” he said, his voice warm as he held out his glass. “And knowing that they’re always there. No matter what.”

She held her glass stiffly. There was safety in aloneness. And danger in believing in foolishness. You didn’t need a toast to enjoy a shot of scotch. You didn’t need a toast to keep safe.

Or a friend, either.

“Here’s to friends,” she said, dropping her gaze as she sipped.



Hannah’s cell phone rang just as Brian was hanging up from ordering dinner. He reached for his wallet, getting the money to pay the delivery person, as he listened to her answer it, sounding more like herself than he’d heard that day.

“William. How are you?”

Her judge friend, Brian surmised. William Horne. He’d met the man more than once over the years.

“No. I’m fine. Just tired.”

Brian froze with the money still in his hand, his eyes following Hannah as she moved to the sliding glass door to stare out into the backyard. She was just tired?

He wondered how many times he’d heard the same type of response when Hannah couldn’t admit she needed something.

“Yes.”

And then again, after a brief pause, “Yes.

“Judge Randolph? No, I didn’t see her.

“That’s right, I did decide to allow the witness.

Another, longer pause.

“Because it was the right thing to do.

“I know.”

She nodded, apparently forgetting that William couldn’t see her, then repeated, “I know.”

And Brian felt a surge of impatience. The last thing Hannah needed just now was a lecture. Not that William had any way of knowing that.

“I came home to find Callie run over by a car.”

Brian couldn’t hear William’s exact answer, but it was loud enough for him to know there was one.

“No.” Hannah’s voice broke. “She died.” Her shoulders looked so fragile. Brian had to resist the urge to wrap an arm around them, to let her rest against him until she had the strength to stand alone.

“No, really, I’m fine,” she said after another few words from William. “She was alive when I found her and I called Brian. He’s still here.

“Yeah. We just ordered dinner.”

Another several seconds passed as William spoke, though Brian could no longer hear him.

“I agree.” Hannah briefly glanced up at Brian. “I know. I will.” Not used to feeling so uncomfortable, Brian wondered if he should leave the room.

William spoke some more.

“The deputy didn’t think so, either, and he went over the place thoroughly.”

There followed a pause, long enough for Brian to grab their drinks from the living room and give Hannah hers. And then, with a bit more reassurance and a couple of “I wills” she rang off.

“William said to tell you hi.”

Nodding, Brian tried to assess her expression. Which was never easy with Hannah. When he’d had money and she’d been a starving student, he’d played poker with her. And lost too often.

“He also said to tell you not to worry about the Sun News article.”

“I’m not.” Mostly.

One arm wrapped around her middle, she sipped her scotch. “He doesn’t think Callie’s death has anything to do with the trial.”

Brian had hoped that was what her comment about Deputy Charles meant. “He would know, don’t you think?” he asked.

Judge Horne had been on the bench twice as long as Hannah and had handled more capital cases than anyone in the state. More Ivory Nation cases, too.

“Yeah.” She didn’t look any less worried.

Brian probably would have pushed her a little further but the doorbell rang.

Dinner had arrived.




5


The Chinese food was gone. The first shot of scotch was long gone, too—having been followed by another and then, at some point, straight 7-Up. Too many hours were gone.

Brian was not. Nor did he appear to be in any hurry to leave.

“I’m all right,” she said, rolling her head along the back of the couch, to peer down to the opposite end where he was lounging. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

Don’t go, the little girl in her pleaded silently. I’m afraid to be alone.

“I’ve never, not once, seen you act like a baby. Or treated you as one.”

“You suck at prevarication, Hampton.”

“Well then,” he said, staring her straight in the eye. “How’s this? I’m not babysitting. I’m here because there’s no place else I’d rather be.”

“I’m guessing Cynthia wouldn’t be too happy to hear that.”

“Cynthia will understand. She knows how long we’ve been friends. She knows I love you like a sister. And…” he added, after a pause “…I don’t think she’d throw a fit even if she didn’t know. I almost wish she would.”

“Why?”

“Because while we enjoy being together, I still don’t quite feel as if we’re really in love. It’s like she doesn’t entirely trust me to love her. Or rather, doesn’t trust herself to be loved. She has no expectations. Counts on nothing. Including the fact that I’m going to come home to her every night.”

Hannah didn’t like the sound of that.

She’d been watching out for Brian—and he for her—more than half her life. She’d known him longer than anyone else. He was family.

That gave her the right to care, didn’t it? Regardless of this new dimension in his life—a woman waiting for him at home. A woman who had first call on his loyalty.

His heart.

“You don’t think Cynthia loves you?” she asked after a long pause.

Brian had suffered enough. Cara’s death had held him captive for more than ten years. Hannah wasn’t going to sit by and watch someone act carelessly with emotions that were only now coming out of storage.

“I think she does,” Brian said.

“But you don’t know it.”

“Right.”

“Does she say she does?”

“Yeah.”

The scotch had relaxed her, possibly too much. Still watching him, Hannah wasn’t sure what was happening—why these intimate feelings were coming out.

“Does she treat you well?”

“Yeah. It just always feels like she’s holding back.”

He’d loosened his tie—a Disney original dotted with Mickey Mouse figures—and unbuttoned the collar of his matching yellow shirt.

Mickey gave her courage. “Maybe she’s not the one holding back,” she said. “Maybe she’s reacting,” she added when he said nothing.

“To what?” he asked, but she thought he knew.

“To you. Maybe you’re the one who can’t give freely and that makes it less safe for her to do so.”

“I’m ready,” Brian said, a frown creasing his forehead. “I know I am.”

“I’m sure you are,” Hannah told him. “But being ready doesn’t mean you’re not out of practice. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Brian. You don’t have to be perfect at everything you do.”

“So you think she’s holding back because I am?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility. But hey, consider the source. I’m a careful observer, but it’s not like I have any real experience at this.”

“You had the best experience,” Brian said quietly.

By unspoken agreement, they didn’t refer to her life before law school. Her time with Jason.

“Yeah, well, maybe. That was a long time ago.”

Too long ago. Another existence. A very brief idyllic period during which she’d dared to believe she’d finally found a real home.

“And yet, it’s always right there, isn’t it?” His dark eyes wouldn’t let her hide her pain. Because he hurt, too?

“Yeah.” She tried hard not to remember, even while images of Jason’s smile lit her from the inside out.

“He was a great guy, Hannah. One of the best.”

“I know.” Which was partly why it was so hard to accept, even now, that he’d been given such a short time on earth.

“And he loved you.”

Yeah. He had. As much as she’d loved him. A rare gift.

“Do you ever regret marrying him?”

“No.” She didn’t even need to think about that.

“I don’t know if I could’ve done it. Being so young. And knowing he was sick.”

“I was only seventeen,” Hannah said. “But it felt like thirty-seven. I’d been in and out of six foster homes by then, living on the streets for weeks every time I ran away. I felt like I’d been on my own for years. It’s not like I had any childhood left to cling to. Having a real home of my own—that was heaven.”

“But you knew you were going to lose him.”

“I knew it was a possibility, but I was still young enough to believe we’d fight his illness together. That we’d win. I think, when you’re in a situation like that, you have to believe in miracles. It’s how you get through the day-to-day business of living.

“Besides, regardless of the threat of death, I had the honor of being his wife. I got to be with him every single day, in a life where they were all precious. I got to know every intimate detail about him. I was the one he talked to in the middle of the night. I got his wisdom, his laughter. I got to share his pain. And to ease it.”

She had tears in her eyes, and didn’t care. Jason deserved them.

“I wish I’d known him.”

“I do, too,” Hannah said now, knowing instinctively that Jason would’ve liked Brian. And although Brian already knew the story, she found comfort in telling it once more. “Cara met him a few times. He’d insisted he’d only marry me if I went to college, and I met up with Cara again that first year. We’d been best friends in junior high, two foster families before my last one. I only saw her during class at Arizona State for the first year or two because Jason and I spent all our time together, but she and I talked a lot. By the time Jason got really sick, Cara and I were close again. Jason wanted to meet her and she wanted to meet him. She started coming around on weekends. That was toward the end when he wasn’t up and about much.”

Brian settled back in the corner of the couch, his arm along the back with his fingers just inches from her head. His presence was a comfort, offering an odd kind of security—to a woman who’d never known much of that.

“She told me about him,” he said now. “We were already dating by the time he died. I kind of assumed he was always pretty much bedridden.”

“No.” Hannah shook her head, smiling through her tears. “That was only the last couple of months. The first three years you wouldn’t even have known he was sick except for all the medication in our bathroom. And the grocery shopping. We had to be careful about what he ate.”

“With him being well, didn’t that give you hope?”

“Sure it did.”

“That must’ve made it even harder when he got worse.”

She couldn’t believe they were talking about this. Jason was a topic held very close to her heart, taken out only when she was alone. And yet, tonight, with Brian, sharing him felt right.

“Is it ever easy?” she asked. The question wasn’t rhetorical and they both knew it.

“No, of course not.”

“So which is better? To know beforehand, to be able to prepare, but to spend those last days in mourning? Or is it better to have your loved one there, perfectly normal and happy, enjoying what you think is a long life together, and then be left in shock when he’s snatched away with no time to say goodbye?”

Brian shrugged. “They both suck.”

It was her word. Her one leftover from the hardened teenager she’d left behind. She’d never heard him use it before.

“Yeah, but look at it this way, Brian. Most people are looking for that one great love, wishing for it, missing it if they’ve settled for less. Some of them will never know what it’s like to find your soul mate. We had that. We know.”

He studied her for several seconds, lips tight as emotion shone from his eyes. “You’re right.”

“I’d choose those three years with Jason over a lifetime of settling.”

He nodded. “Me, too.”



As a boy, Bobby Donahue had had trouble sleeping. Getting under his bed quickly enough to avoid a drunken attack from his father was impossible when he was unconscious.

Since taking control of his life, however, and later, control of the lives around him, the only nights he’d been up late involved a woman.

Usually the same woman.

Tonight was no different. The hours between Friday night and Saturday morning, he spent alone in the Flagstaff home he’d once shared with the two people he’d loved above all else. His wife and son.

He sat, dressed in nothing but his skin, and searched for his woman—Amanda Blake.

Stripped down he was completely raw, the man his Father in Heaven had crafted him to be.

Nudity kept him grounded when life was throwing him more challenges than he’d bargained for.

He was prepared for the hard work. Could handle anything he was given. He didn’t doubt that. Not for a second.

He’d just found some things easier to conquer than others.

The trial had not gone well that day, but he had things in hand. One way or another, Kenny Hill, a zealous young man Bobby dearly loved, would be alive to continue his good works.

But Kenny wasn’t the reason Bobby was up. Living without his son, knowing that a year had passed in Luke’s life, a formative year, was slowly eroding Bobby’s peace of mind.

He’d never loved anyone like he’d loved his son. Never.

Not even Amanda, the boy’s mother. Luke’s kidnapper.

The Internet was a wonderful tool. And his ability to hack into more sites than God didn’t hurt—not that anyone else knew about that ability.

He stared at the screen.

“Father, I give it all to You,” he said aloud. “Thy will be done. If Thou would have me search until my eyes go blind, I will do so.” There was a clue here somewhere. He was certain of it. A newspaper article, a picture, a mention of a homeless woman’s arrest, or better yet, some illegal activity for which he knew Amanda was well trained. Like breaking and entering.

With a twist.

Amanda would only go to homes that were empty. She’d pick the lock. She’d take food, clothes and any cash she found. Nothing else.

Amanda was a class act.

And she’d only rob others if she was desperate.

Which she’d have to be, on the run, not only from the law, but from their church—the Ivory Nation.

No one escaped the brotherhood forever. Amanda had already set a record for length of time on the loose avoiding Ivory Nation capture.

With Bobby’s son.

While he knew God would have him find the woman, bring her to penitence, Bobby also admired her. The only woman he’d ever loved. Amanda was good. The best. Which was why God had given her to him in the first place.

They’d had a great work to do together. Had done it well. And if she’d remained faithful, they would’ve done so much more.

Bobby reached for the hand gripper he kept close by and started to squeeze. When that didn’t ease his tension he scrolled faster through the Web sites, reviewing incident after incident, detail after detail, looking for the telltale signs in police logs across the country.

And without his permission, visions of Amanda ran through his mind. Visions of her when she’d been a zealous follower of the Ivory Nation, proselyting on campus, while the brothers went about the seamier business of cleaning up God’s world for His people.

He’d loved her.

And she’d loved him, too. For the first time ever, he’d known what love felt like. Known what it meant to have it in his home.

In those first couple of years they’d never gone more than a night or two without making love. He, who’d had all the sex there was to have, wanted only one woman. He couldn’t get enough of her. No matter how often Amanda spread her legs, no matter how long they were together, he always felt blessed by her beauty.

She’d been so much more than sex. She’d been his companion. A believer in his cause. A missionary.

She’d been a true daughter of God.

Bobby had seen the Lord’s work in Amanda’s ability to reach people, her soft voice and big eyes touching their hearts in a way Bobby couldn’t. She could convince a crowd of undergrads at the college, or a roomful of executives at a business meeting, that giving money to support their work, to support certain political candidates, was something they wanted to do.

And she’d done so willingly. In the beginning, she’d begged him to let her help make a difference in this dirty, evil world.

And then she’d conceived a pure white child and he’d had to have her twice a day sometimes. When he looked at his woman pregnant with another of God’s pure souls, his cock wouldn’t be still.

He’d insisted on delivering Luke himself. Nothing would ever compare to the power and love he’d felt as he’d reached up and pulled out their perfect boy. He’d bawled like a baby.

In the months that had followed, he’d been there as his beautiful and loyal woman had suckled their infant, nourishing Luke through the miracle of her body. He’d held her breast while their son fed, and fed himself on the leftovers.

And he’d cried then, too, giving thanks for his changed life: from drinking tainted water to supping on God’s nectar.

The blinking cursor brought Bobby back to the air-conditioned room. The house was far too quiet. Too dark and foreboding. This was no longer the house of love he’d built.

And he was no longer just lonely, worried and angry. He was also uncomfortably turned on. Bobby knew what he had to do.

The same thing he’d been doing since Amanda’s defection two years before. He couldn’t bed another woman. He couldn’t be untrue to her memory.

God had made that clear to him when He’d told Bobby he’d have to give up Amanda. That He needed Bobby to make the supreme sacrifice.

He’d made Bobby promise that he’d never tarnish the memory of the love he and Amanda had shared by coupling with another woman.

And bedding a man would be a sin. God was very plain about that one.

With a couple of clicks, Bobby was in a private live chat, his Web camera aimed and ready.

And a minute later his screen revealed the naked body of an attractive woman named Jane, her glorious red hair and welcoming smile familiar as her voice filled the cold room with a warmth he was eager to enjoy.

He used the camera to show her that he was following her orders, while he watched her pleasure herself. The illusion they were creating washed over him, soothing him, giving him a few minutes of escape.

And hopefully enough of a release to be able to sleep.




6


Brian looked at his watch. Almost two in the morning. Once again, he’d had no concept of the time. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

“I told Cynthia not to worry if I didn’t make it home.”

Hannah sat up and wrapped her arms around her middle. She’d never changed out of the navy skirt and jacket she’d worn to court that day. Suits were pretty much all he saw her in anymore. “No, Brian, go,” she said. “I really appreciate you staying this long, but I’m a big girl who’s been living alone for years. Most of my life, really. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said, but still didn’t intend to leave. “Just as I don’t doubt that if the situation were reversed, there’s no way you’d let me stay by myself.”

“I…”

“My folks and Cara’s were around after Cara died, but if they hadn’t been, you’d have stayed, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, but…”

“And last year, with Carlos…” He’d avoided the name, mostly because he knew that her emotional reaction to Callie’s death was worsened by the grief she’d already been fighting. “I never would have left that night if Joan, Maggie and Donna hadn’t been here.”

Joan had been a sorority sister from ASU, as well, though a year behind Hannah and Cara. Maggie and Donna were fellow judges Hannah had known for several years, though he’d only met them at Carlos’s funeral.

“Cara and Carlos were people, Brian. Callie’s a cat. People lose pets every day. You expect to lose them. Their lives are much shorter than ours.”

“Hers shouldn’t have ended yet. And expecting to lose them doesn’t make it any easier when it happens, does it?” He threw her own words back at her.

He wasn’t leaving. No matter what she said. Ever since her drug-addicted mother had lost her to the foster system sometime in Hannah’s early youth, Hannah had been alone. He knew the story.

She’d taken care of herself. Survived.

But tonight, Hannah’s eyes were communicating something else.

Tonight, Hannah Montgomery was afraid to be alone.



“Can I ask you something?” Hannah had no idea how late it was. A long time after their two o’clock check, but there was no hint of dawn through the window blinds. She’d taken off her sandals and jacket.

“Of course.” Brian had stripped down, too. Sort of. He’d lost the tie. And taken off his shoes when he’d put his feet up on the couch. Though they sat close together, their legs weren’t touching.

She and Brian rarely touched—except for the occasional supportive hug or hand squeeze.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me?” It was a leading question. She’d known that before she asked.

Even so, his answer mattered.

“What kind of wrong? Like do I think you should take a sleeping pill and get some rest—that kind of wrong? Or do you look like you’re getting the flu kind of wrong?”

He knew what she meant. She could tell from the way he wasn’t meeting her eyes.

She should just let it go. Soul searching wasn’t a common practice with either of them. They both had too much baggage. To look was to hurt. Period.

But it was almost morning and she hadn’t been to bed. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, both physical and emotional, she wasn’t herself.

She studied him through eyes that burned with fatigue. Brian’s features were strong, confident. But it was his mouth that drew her. It turned up just a hint at the corners, with full lips that smiled easily. They seemed to promise comfort. To promise that everything would be okay.

Must be what his patients’ parents saw every day.

“I’ve been caregiver only three times in my entire life…” She broke off when she heard how far back into her thoughts she’d gone; she’d intended to leave most of the hell unvisited.

“Jason and Carlos. And Callie?”

“Right.” God, how she hurt. How she’d always hurt. “And all three of them died younger than they should have.”

Brian sat up on the couch. “If you think—”

Raising one hand, Hannah shook her head. She didn’t need him to tell her the deaths weren’t her fault. She’d already been over the facts a thousand times.

“I know they didn’t die because of me.” She wanted to make that quite clear. “I mean, I could hardly be responsible for Jason’s cancer when he was diagnosed before we even met. But he was in remission when I met him. His prognosis was the best it had ever been. There was honest-to-goodness hope.”

Brian stared at her. “And?”

For a second, she’d forgotten she was talking to a doctor. A pragmatist. When she’d first known Brian, he’d been an undergrad at Arizona State University slightly full of himself, and a little fonder of partying than she was.

“I wore him out,” she said. “He wanted to make love all the time and I knew it wasn’t good for him, that the doctor said he had to take it easy, give his body a chance to build the antibodies it needed…”

“I don’t think he’d have put it quite like that,” Brian said. “And while there’s a lot to be said for rest, there’s even more to be said for the power of the mind in combating some of these diseases. You being there with Jason—making him happy—probably gave him months he wouldn’t otherwise have had.”

Brian was a very sweet man. A good friend. The best.

“And I’m guessing, from everything you’ve told me about him, from everything Cara said, having you there in the end—an end that was inevitable—made those days priceless for him.”

“I made it hard for him to go,” she said now, remembering when Jason had lain in her arms, weak and in excruciating pain, in tears because he was going to die and she would have to face a life without him. In the end, the dream that he’d reiterated time and again, that he wanted her to fall in love, have a family, be happy, had fallen apart and he’d begged her to swear she wouldn’t give another man what she’d given him.

Wanting to calm his panic, she’d made the promise they’d both known she wasn’t likely to keep.

That had hurt him, too.

“And we both know that you took excellent care of Carlos.”

“Jason and I tried to have a child,” she said. Something she’d never told anyone before. “Our whole marriage. That’s why he wanted to make love so often.”

“You sure it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that he had a beautiful woman he adored in his bed?”

She might’ve been embarrassed if she hadn’t felt exhausted. If this had been someone besides Brian.

“I wanted so badly to be able to have his child. I think it would’ve comforted him to know that whatever life I built would always include a part of him.”

“It will anyway,” Brian said, his face serious. “The best part. He taught you how to love fully.”

Maybe. Probably. “Still, such a simple thing, getting pregnant, and I couldn’t even do that.”

“I’m sure the doctors told you that Jason’s medication made him sterile.”

“There was a slight chance he could still…”

“Very slight. Miraculously slight. Like a vasectomy reversing itself.”

“It happens.” Or maybe that was just an old wives’ tale.

“Your lack of conception had nothing to do with you, Hannah.” Brian’s voice was firm. “And neither did Carlos’s death.”

“I laid him on his tummy.”

Brian’s sigh spoke volumes. They’d been through all this before. Carlos had been sick to his stomach and she hadn’t wanted him to spit up and choke. That night, the risk of SIDS seemed far less than the risk of asphyxiation. That’s what Brian had told her several times over the past months.

But she needed to say this.

“And look at Callie,” she continued, her case gaining strength as she presented it. “What kind of caregiver gets so involved in her own life, in a trial, that she doesn’t notice her declawed and completely cowardly cat slipping out the door with her?”

“You’re human, Hannah. And we don’t know for sure that’s how it happened.”

“If we’re going to believe there was no foul play, which everyone seems to, then we have to assume I let her out.”

His sigh, this time, sounded more resigned. “Like I said, you’re human. She’s never slipped out before has she? From what I’ve seen, she ran and hid whenever you picked up your keys.”

“She did. She hated riding in the car.”

“And you had her eleven years.”

She nodded.

“So having her slip out would be the last thing you’d expect. Or even watch for.”

“Parents have to be on guard at all times. They have to expect the unexpected.”

“And you did. I’ve never seen a more involved, conscientious and yet fun parent as you.”

Being Carlos’s mother had been fun. She’d managed to keep both promises she’d made to Jason—she had a family and was happy, but had fallen in love again, too—albeit differently.

And then one morning, it hadn’t been fun at all. She’d gone in to check on her sleeping son before her shower and found him oddly still….

“I should’ve known.”

How could she have been blissfully asleep when her baby was dying across the hall? How could she have lain in bed for five minutes after she finally woke, stretching, anticipating the day ahead, with a dead baby in the next room?

“There’s no way you could’ve known—”

“Instinct.” She pounded on the one thing that no one could ever prove to her. Or disprove. “Motherly instinct,” she clarified. “I don’t think I have it. I don’t know how to nurture.”

“Bullshit.”

Hannah blinked. The Brian she’d known in college might have said that. Not this one.

“Think about it, Brian. Think about where I came from. The first three months of my life I wasn’t held, fed, changed on a regular basis. By the time Child Protective Services got me, I was suffering from malnutrition and God knows what kind of skin conditions. I knew my guardian ad litem better than some of my foster families. I missed a vital part of my emotional education.”

“The learning to let others take care of you part, maybe.” Brian’s concession was dry. “Not the learning to care for others part.”

“My lack of nurturing instinct is what makes me good at my job,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “If I were a nurturer how could I possibly face an eighteen-year-old kid and make decisions that might help get him a death sentence?”

“Because what he did was heinous and to let him live would put other lives at risk.”

“He’s little more than a child.”

“He brutally beat another kid to death, simply because that kid’s skin wasn’t white.”

“And what about the mothers whose children I take away? Where’s my compassion then?”

“With the children. Would you want them suffering from malnutrition and skin disease the way you did?”

“I don’t know.” Hannah shook her head, looking inward. “I examine the facts and make decisions. I don’t think I feel anything at all.”

When Brian’s brows drew together, she figured she’d convinced him. And was disappointed that it hadn’t been harder. She wasn’t surprised, though.

“How well do you sleep at night?”

“Depends on the night.”

“Any night after a trial.” And when she didn’t immediately answer, he added, “Or a sentencing. Which,” he went on without letting her answer, “would be just about every Friday night, wouldn’t it?”

The man remembered too much. Or else she talked too much.

“What do you usually do on Friday nights, Hannah?”

He knew what she did. She’d turned down enough invitations from him over the years.

“When I’m not at a SIDS conference, you mean?”

He nodded.

“I come home. Have a quiet dinner…”

“Usually a frozen dinner you microwave because you don’t have the energy to cook. Though you love to cook.”

Peering over at her with his head slightly bent, Brian reminded her of a teacher she’d once had who’d always seemed to think she wasn’t giving him her best effort.

“I have dinner and then I either read a book or take a hot bath or both.”

“And have a glass of wine.”

“One. Sometimes.”

“All to help you relax so that you can sleep.”

Smart-ass.

“Am I right?”

He knew he was. There was no point in admitting the obvious.

“Just because my job takes a lot out of me doesn’t mean I’m a nurturer.”

Brian clasped his hands on his lap in front of him. “I’m prepared to argue this the rest of the night.”

“So am I.”

And they did.

In the end, Hannah felt a lot better. But she still wasn’t convinced.



Watching the beautiful woman seated next to him in Symphony Hall Saturday night, William Horne couldn’t help the frisson of worry in his gut. Hannah could hardly keep her eyes open, and while she’d said that she’d slept and was fine, he knew there were things she wasn’t telling him.

His son, twelve-year-old Francis, had played his piece. William wouldn’t be seeing him after the show. He wouldn’t be seeing him at all until his mother had one more day in court. With a judge specially appointed from another county.

“You want to go?” He leaned over to whisper in her ear.

Frowning, she shook her head. “I’m enjoying this.” And then, her expression suddenly compassionate, she added, “Unless you want to?”

He did. Kind of. But not if she was actually relaxing. Enjoying herself.

“No, I’m fine.” He smiled. Covered her hand where it lay on the armrest between them—a rare show of the physical affection he fought so hard to hold in check.

She’d outdone herself that evening, dressed in a figure-hugging black dress that brushed her calves. Her hair was swept up in an array of curls, leaving her neck exposed. And the diamond hoops threaded through her earlobes had been driving him crazy.

Lately, everything about this woman drove him crazy. From her body to her intellect and personality, she was under his skin.

As the concert went on, shrouding him in a cocoon of darkness and classical music and Hannah’s perfume, he let his mind dwell more intimately on the woman beside him.





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