15
David Sanders was dead.
Connor stared at the death notice he’d stumbled across after two hours of fruitless searching the Net for a photo of the boy.
A photo he no longer needed.
He noted the date on the write-up from the Cleveland Plain Dealer—three and a half years ago—then read the short piece. David was identified as the beloved son of Greg and the late Jennifer Sanders. Services had been held at Community Christian Church. Burial had been private. No cause of death was provided.
But he now had confirmation that the boy in the mall wasn’t Sanders’s son.
Things were starting to get very interesting.
It was time to burrow into both Sanders’s and John Marshall’s background. To turn over every stone and delve into every crevice in search of the link Dev had referenced during their basketball game this morning. If the boy in the mall was Kate’s son, the connection would be there—somewhere.
Positioning his fingers over the keys, he started with Marshall.
Two hours later, when his cell began to vibrate, he rotated the kinks out of his neck and pulled it off his belt. Dev.
“So did you find a picture of Sanders’s son?”
Connor took a swig of warm soda that had lost its fizz while he’d been engrossed in his search. Grimacing, he set the can aside on his kitchen table. “You must be really bored if you’re still thinking about my case.”
“Nope. Looking for an excuse to take a break from vacuuming.”
Connor’s eyebrows rose. “You’re cleaning your apartment? What’s the occasion? A presidential visit?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not kidding. There has to be some compelling reason for your sudden interest in tidiness.”
“You make it sound like I’m a slob.”
“If the shoes fits . . .”
“Ha-ha. Okay, fine. Laura’s coming over for dinner. I’m barbecuing. Satisfied?”
Connor grinned. “Yep.”
“So did you come up with anything?”
“Not on the picture—but as it turns out, I don’t need one. His son died three and a half years ago.”
A beat ticked by. “What happened to him?”
“I haven’t found out yet. But I’ve read a whole lot more about Kate’s husband and his work.”
“Say . . .” Dev’s tone grew speculative. “Wasn’t he some kind of pediatric specialist?”
Nice to know their minds were again tracking in the same direction.
“Yes. He treated and studied childhood neural disorders.”
“I wonder if that’s your link? Except Sanders lived in Cleveland and your client’s husband practiced in Rochester.”
“Top-tier specialists often consult with patients in other parts of the country. And her husband was definitely big-league in his field, with a list of research papers and awards a mile long.”
“Good point. Could Kate find out whether her husband ever saw Sanders’s son?”
“I don’t know.” Connor leaned back and looked out the window at the pot of toasted geraniums on his porch railing. The gift from a grateful client had succumbed to the heat sometime over the past two weeks. Of course, it would have helped if he’d remembered to water it. Somehow that chore—along with a lot of others—had slipped his mind since Kate had slipped into his life. “HIPAA laws are tough . . . but I was getting ready to discuss it with her when you called.”
“Then I won’t keep you. Could be you’re finally on to something.”
Connor scrubbed a hand down his face and shifted his attention back to his computer screen. “Maybe. I’ll be more certain of that once I get a cause of death for Sanders’s son and can establish if he was a patient of Kate’s husband.”
“The latter might be tricky, but you lucked out on the first one, since Ohio has open access to birth and death records.”
“There might be faster ways to get that info.”
“Are you thinking pretext?”
“A strong possibility. But I’ll initiate the query with Vital Statistics as a backup.”
“Let me know if I can help.”
“Considering how your apartment looked on my last visit, I think you’d better make cleaning your top priority unless you want Laura to back out of that engagement you talked her into.”
“Yeah.” A sigh came over the line. “The vacuum is giving me the evil eye as we speak. Talk to you later.”
As the line went dead, Connor scrolled down to Kate’s cell number and pressed autodial. She answered with a breathless hello.
“It’s Connor. Sounds like I caught you on the run.”
“I was heading out the door, but your timing is great. I’d forgotten my cell was in the charger and would have left without it. Do you have some news?”
“I’m working on trying to establish a link between Sanders and your husband.”
“What kind of link?” Her tone was puzzled.
“To be determined. But if the boy in the mall is your son, and if your husband didn’t willingly remove his life jacket, Sanders is in the hot seat. He was either involved in the so-called accident, or he has some serious explaining to do about how he came to have your son. I’ve been doing a lot of research today, and I’d like to talk to you more about your husband’s background.”
“Can we do that tomorrow? I’m supposed to be at church to help bake desserts for our meals-on-wheels program in twenty minutes.”
“How long will you be there?”
“Until six or seven.”
She’d be exhausted after a full afternoon of standing on her feet. Not the best time for the discussion he wanted to have.
“How’s your schedule tomorrow?”
“Not much better. Services in the morning, then I’ll be delivering meals until about two.”
And he was coaching in the afternoon.
As the silence lengthened, she spoke again. “Could we do this by phone?”
Yeah, they could.
But he wanted to see her.
Besides, he preferred to deliver the news about Sanders’s son in person.
“Face-to-face is always better.” That was a stretch—although it was true in her case. “Why don’t I tag along while you deliver your meals? We could talk during the ride.”
“Are you sure? I only have three deliveries tomorrow, but they’re kind of far-flung.”
Extra legit time in her company.
Perfect.
“My morning and early afternoon are wide open.”
“That would be great.” She paused, and he heard her take a deep breath. “Look . . . as long as you’re meeting me at my church, would you like to join me for the service? That way we could load up and leave as soon as it’s over. You wouldn’t have to stand around waiting for me if our minister gets long-winded.” The invitation came out in a rush—as did the justification. Suggesting she wasn’t at all certain the offer was wise.
Neither was he—but it was too tempting to pass up. “That works for me. My pastor won’t miss me for one Sunday, and I like to try new churches on occasion. Shall I pick you up?”
“No. I’ll meet you there.” No hesitation now. “Why don’t I wait for you in the foyer a few minutes before eleven?”
“That works. Give me the address.” He jotted it down as she relayed it. “Got it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As they signed off, he rose and stretched. The energy from the sausage-and-cheese biscuit he’d nuked before the basketball game had been expended long ago, thanks to his early morning exercise binge. A turkey sandwich sounded appealing about now. Not as appealing as a lunch shared with Kate—but at least he’d see her tomorrow.
And if all went well, their little drive would give him the lead he needed to help establish a link between an esteemed doctor and an enigmatic construction worker.
Hands were holding him down.
The water was closing over him.
He was going to drown!
Lungs aching, Greg fought against the pressure, thrashing as he stared up at the wavering image above the surface. Although the face of the person hovering over him, pressing him down, wasn’t clear, he knew who it was. The blonde hair was a dead giveaway.
Kate Marshall.
But why was she here? The doctor’s wife wasn’t part of his plan for this day. He harbored no ill will against her. She bore no blame for her husband’s guilt, even if she had to suffer because of it.
There could only be one explanation.
She’d discovered his plan and was trying to save her husband. To take Todd away from him.
But wait . . .
Her husband was already dead . . . wasn’t he?
Greg’s lungs screamed as the last wisps of air leaked out, as he fought against her, as he struggled to make sense of the tableau.
If he was still near the boats, he didn’t have Todd yet . . . did he?
What was going on?
Summoning up every ounce of his strength, he kicked. Hard. Trying to free himself from the woman’s hold. A hold far too powerful for someone who looked so fragile.
A sudden whimper told him he’d succeeded. That one of his punches or kicks had connected. That he’d broken free of the smothering water and could finally breathe.
He sucked in a lungful of air and—
“Dad?”
As the faint, frightened word infiltrated his subconscious, he stopped thrashing.
Was that David calling him?
No. David wasn’t on the boat.
David was dead . . . wasn’t he?
Opening his eyes, he wiped a hand down his face and tried to orient himself.
He was in bed, not in the water. The room was dark, but a small, cowering figure beside him was silhouetted in the dim light shining in from the hall.
“David?” He reached out a hand as he tried to shake the fogginess from his brain.
The figure shrank back. “It’s me, Dad. Todd.”
Todd.
Of course.
David was dead.
The past few minutes had just been a dream.
As the irony slammed into him, he wadded the sheet in his fingers. A few days ago, his son’s nightmare had awakened him. Tonight his own demons had reversed that scenario.
Greg sucked in another breath, trying to calm the staccato beat of his heart. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position, leaned toward the nightstand, and turned on the light. Two-twenty-seven, according to the digital display on his clock.
Somehow he managed a smile. “Did I wake you up, champ?”
“Yeah.” A shudder rippled through Todd, and when he spoke, his voice was tentative. Scared. “I heard you yelling. I thought someone had broken in or something.”
“Nope. Just a bad dream. Want to sit by me?” He scooted over and patted the bed.
In silence, Todd climbed in beside him. As their arms brushed, his son recoiled. “How come you’re wet?”
Was he? Greg pulled the damp fabric of the cotton T-shirt away from his body. Yeah. Almost as wet as if he had been underwater.
“The air conditioner must still be having problems.” He swung his legs out of bed on the other side. Lame excuse. The repaired unit was working fine, judging by the shiver that rippled through him as the cool air hit his damp clothes. “Sit tight and I’ll change my shirt.”
As he exchanged the clammy shirt for a dry one, Todd spoke from behind him.
“Dad . . . who’s Kate?”
Greg froze and squeezed his eyes shut, his pulse once again lurching into overdrive. He’d said the Marshall woman’s name?
And here he’d been worried about Todd’s nightmares triggering memories best left buried.
He yanked the shirt over his head and turned toward his son, stalling as he tried to figure out how to respond. “Why?”
Todd pulled up the blanket Greg had tossed aside earlier and huddled underneath. “You said that name. And you sounded mad.”
He padded back to the bed and climbed in beside his son, thinking fast as he pulled the boy close. “Dreams are kind of weird. I might have had a fight once in high school with a girl named Kate. Who knows? When we dream, times and places and people can get all mixed up.”
“Kind of like the one I had about the escalator with the water at the bottom?”
“Yeah. Usually they don’t make any sense.”
“But sometimes I kind of get a feeling they do. Have I ever known anybody named Kate?”
Keep breathing.
“There might have been a girl at daycare with that name.”
“No.”
“Well, you could have heard the name on a TV show.”
“Maybe.” He snuggled closer, sounding small and subdued when he continued. “How come you called me David?”
Jaw tight, Greg gave him a reassuring squeeze. At least Todd already knew he’d had another son. “I guess he was in my dream too. You never forget people you love, even if they go away.”
Todd looked up at him, his expression earnest. “I’d never forget you.”
His throat constricted, and he leaned down to plant a kiss on the boy’s temple. “I’d never forget you, either. And now I think we both need to get some more sleep. Want me to walk you back to your room?”
He played with the edge of the blanket. “Do you want me to stay here instead? I could wake you up if you had any more bad dreams.”
No way. The last thing he needed was for Todd to overhear any more of his subconscious thoughts.
Besides, he was done sleeping for the night.
“I think you’ll get more rest in your own room.” Greg swung his feet to the floor, circled the bed, and folded Todd’s hand in his. “Would you like a drink of water after I tuck you in?”
“I s’pose.”
Ten minutes later, after the drink, a quick story, and another kiss, Greg closed Todd’s door halfway and leaned his shoulder against the wall in the hall.
What a night.
And he had three hours to kill before first light.
Shower first, to purge the thin film of sweat clinging to his skin—or coffee?
Coffee. He could use the caffeine for the long, empty hours ahead.
Padding toward the kitchen, he wiped a hand down his face. He could read for a while; that would help pass the time. With all the birthday excitement and the hours spent with Diane’s erector set, he hadn’t finished yesterday’s paper. That should kill half an hour, minimum.
But forty minutes later, as he closed the final section of the paper and drained his third refill of coffee, he still had a couple of hours of darkness to fill.
Appealing as a shower was, it might be best to defer that. What if the pipes started banging, as they often did, and woke Todd again? Not worth the risk.
Was there anything else in the house to read?
Ephesians 4:31–32.
As the voice of Diane’s minister echoed in his mind, he frowned. What was that all about? He hadn’t opened his Bible in almost five years, nor touched it since he’d stuck it at the back of the shelf in the hall closet when they’d moved in here.
But the way that minister had looked at him . . . it was as if the man had thought he needed to read that passage.
So what was in it?
Might as well find out. He had nothing better to do at—he peered at his watch—three-fifteen on a Sunday morning.
After retrieving the volume, he walked back into the kitchen, flipped to the chapter and verse the minister had mentioned, and read the words.
“All bitterness, fury, anger, shouting, and reviling must be removed from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, compassionate, forgiving one another as God has forgiven you in Christ.”
His heart skipped a beat, and beads of sweat popped out above his upper lip.
It was almost as if the minister had pulled back the veil from his soul and seen the darkness within.
But that was ridiculous. No one knew his secret. They couldn’t know. Not after he’d been so careful.
He snapped the book closed and dropped it on the counter. Even if he wanted to follow the advice in the Good Book, it was too late to rewrite history. To rectify mistakes. The damage had been done, and he was in too deep.
Besides, the only way to atone for his sins would be to give up his son, and that wasn’t an option at this point. Maybe two years ago he could have managed it, before they’d bonded. Before Todd had become the center of his world. Before love had trumped revenge as a guiding force in his life.
Now, there was no going back.
All he could do was move forward and deal with whatever obstacles popped up.
Like Kate Marshall.
He blew out a long breath and raked his fingers through his hair.
She was a risk. No question about it. But to get the authorities involved, she’d have to have some hard evidence, some credible testimony, to support any theory she might take to them. And she had neither. If she did, the police would already have paid him a visit.
On the off chance she did find some incriminating piece of information, however, he needed to prepare a backup plan that would ensure she couldn’t touch him.
Sweat trickling down his temples, he paced as he grappled with the worst-case scenario—losing Todd.
But that wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t let it.
The question was, how far was he willing to go to protect their life together if the walls began to close in?
Easy.
To the ends of the earth.
Suddenly he came to a dead stop as a name from the past surfaced.
Emilio Perez.
Not his preferred solution, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a possibility. Hadn’t Emilio once said that if he could ever return the favor, just pick up the phone?
Maybe, if things went south, he’d call in that chit. The address he had for Emilio was current, based on their last correspondence. The man had also sent along his new cell number.
And Greg knew exactly where it was.
In a few long strides, he crossed the room, tugged out the top drawer in the built-in desk in the kitchen, and removed the address book buried under this month’s bills. The letter was inside the front cover, where he’d tucked it.
Greg ran a finger over the return address on the envelope as dampness once again seeped into his T-shirt.
He’d have to be desperate to go this route.
But he couldn’t rule it out.
When it came to protecting his life with Todd, all options were on the table.
A drop of sweat seeped into the corner of one eye, and he blinked at the salty sting. A tear formed, and he shoved the address book back into the desk, swiping away the moisture as his mouth flattened into a grim line.
He was done with tears. Done with other people deciding his fate. Done with being passive. Playing by the rules hadn’t worked in the past, and there was no reason to think it would work now.
On the other hand, he wasn’t going to rush things. That could lead to mistakes. He’d wait until Diane met with Kate Marshall, see what she learned. Then, armed with that information, he’d make careful plans—just as he had the last time.
And he would succeed.
He would protect his life with Todd.
Whatever it took.