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“For the time being. We’re working things out.”
“Uh-huh.” She stopped typing and turned in her chair. “If that’s true, how come you’ve been crying again this morning and look like death warmed over?”
Lucky took off her dark glasses, dropped her camera bag on the floor and sat down in a chair across from the desk. Nearly eight years separated her and Leigh, but despite that, they were very close. Lucky had never been able to hide much from her, not like with Shannon or Cal.
“I’m scared Jack and I are trying to repair something that can’t be repaired,” she told her, “and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“Things aren’t going well, I take it.”
Lucky told her about the argument and her swap of the film, making Leigh roar with laughter. “It’s not funny,” Lucky said. “My marriage is going down the drain.”
“I’m sorry, kiddo, but I’d give anything to see his face when he finds out what you’ve done.”
“I’m sure you’ll get a chance. No doubt he’ll be in here later to raise hell.”
Cal walked through the door carrying doughnuts. “Who’ll be raising hell?” He extended the open box across the desk.
“Jack,” Leigh said, taking her usual lemon-filled.
“Big Guy? What for?”
“Lucky pulled a fast one on him.” She related the story. “You can run interference when he shows up, since you two are so chummy.”
Cal shook his head. “Oh, no, you’re not putting me in the middle of this.” He offered Lucky a doughnut, but she got a whiff of the sweet smell and declined, unable to hide her grimace. “Your stomach still bothering you?” he asked. “You look pretty green this morning.”
Lucky shook her head, stood quickly and grabbed her bag.
“Stomach?” Leigh asked. “I didn’t know you were really sick.”
“I’m fine. A little two-day virus or something.”
“Two days!” Cal said with a snort, opening his stupid mouth again. “You’ve been pukin’ for a week. You splattered all over one of my best shirts.”
“That was your fault, goofball. You shouldn’t eat tacos for lunch and then breathe on people.”
“Ha, ha. Seriously…you need to go to the doctor and find out what’s wrong. You’re hunched over the trash can or running to the bathroom nearly every time I see you.”
Leigh’s eyes widened and an unspoken question passed between the sisters. Rather than answer, Lucky looked away.
“Go have a checkup,” Cal added. “I’m worried about you.”
Lucky gave him a soft punch in the arm. “You’re sweet to worry, but I’m feeling much better now. Whatever I had is going away.” She backed toward the door. “I’d love to stay and gab all morning, but I’ve got a ton of film waiting for me, so I’d better get to it. See you two later.” She turned and hurried out the door and up the stairs before Leigh could question her.
In the darkroom she put on an apron and a new pair of long rubber gloves. She made sure her skin was covered and the vent open, then mixed the chemicals. She’d only gotten as far as getting the developer in the film tank before Leigh banged on the locked door.
“Let me in, you rascal. I want to talk to you.”
“I’m busy. Go away.”
“Not on your life. Now open the door.”
Lucky ignored her.
“Okay,” Leigh said after a few seconds, “you’re forcing me to call Jack and ask him what’s up.”
Damn her. “Hold on a second. I’m coming.”
She switched off the lights, loaded the film and screwed on the lid, tapping the tank on the counter to remove air bubbles. She set the timer and agitated the tank. “Okay, come in,” she said, flipping the light back on and unlocking the door.
“Are you pregnant?” Leigh asked without preamble.
“If I said no, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“Then yes, I’m pregnant.”
Leigh sat down hard on the stool, obviously stunned. “When did you find out?”
“Three weeks ago—or I suppose it’s four now.”
Leigh went wild. “A month! You’ve known for a month and haven’t said anything to me?”
“I wanted to tell Jack first.”
“Oh, God, Lucky, how far along are you?”
“About eight weeks. Nearly nine. I figure it was the basketball.”
“The what?”
She waved away the question with her hand. “Nothing. A…game between me and Jack. It’s not important.”
“Does he still not know?”
“Not yet. I’ve tried to tell him several times, but talking calmly about anything isn’t one of our strengths.”
Plus, the news had hit her like a bomb. She’d been too overwhelmed to think logically about how to handle it. She wanted a child, but not now. She hadn’t been married a year yet, and a third of that, she and Jack had spent apart.
“Cal didn’t suspect, did he?” she asked. “If he lets something slip…”
“He’s concerned you’re sick, but clueless about the reason. Nothing’s wrong, is there? He’s right, you do look green.”
“Other than my blood pressure being elevated, I’m healthy as a horse. The doctor said the morning sickness should go away pretty soon. She gave me a prescription for vitamins and told me to drink ginger tea to settle my stomach. The most important thing is she warned me I have to reduce my stress. That’s ironic, isn’t it? The pregnancy is what’s giving me stress.”
“Should you be fooling with these chemicals?”
“They’re safe. That’s the first thing I checked. As long as I don’t bathe in them, they can’t hurt me or the baby, but I am taking extra precautions.”
“I guess we should start looking for help, someone to do some of the shooting and processing for you. I’ve been thinking about that, anyway. I’ve put too much of a burden on you the last few months, with Dad retiring and me feeling my way along as editor.”
Lucky had known this was coming. “No, you haven’t. And I don’t need any help.”
“We’ll definitely need someone when you go on leave, so we should think about hiring a trainee or a part-time person. And you’ll probably want to stay home with the baby for a few months, maybe even the first year.”
Lucky didn’t even want to think about that right now. “We have plenty of time to work out the details. I’ll face those problems when they get here.”
“And what about your other problem? This baby changes everything for you and Jack.”
“I know. That’s what worries me. We’re already separated. What’s a baby going to do to us?”
“Lucky, if the marriage isn’t working and you’re not happy, then, for God’s sake, file for divorce and save yourself a lot of grief. It is possible to raise a child without a man around. I’m doing it and getting along fine. In fact, you’d probably be better off without him, if you want my honest opinion.”
Lucky didn’t respond. At this point she didn’t know exactly what she wanted. Maybe her sister was right. Leigh was certainly better off without Keith. The bastard had demoralized her, cleaned out their bank accounts and taken off with her best friend.
But Jack wasn’t Keith. And despite his annoying quirks, Lucky loved him and didn’t want to raise their baby alone. Jack would never allow that, anyway. He’d demand to be a part of his child’s life.
She thought she heard a noise, so she peeked out the door to make sure Cal hadn’t followed Leigh and might overhear them.
“If you’re worried about Cal, don’t be,” Leigh said. “I asked him to put together some projected advertising figures for the remainder of the year. That should keep him busy for an hour. He’s absolutely orgasmic about being able to run a spreadsheet. You know how he is with that stuff.”
“I want you to be careful what you say to him, Leigh. I don’t feel right that you know before Jack does. And if Mom or Mema should find out, Lord…the whole town will know.” She agitated the tank another five seconds and checked the timer. “I think I’ve given everyone enough cause for gossip for one year.”
“I doubt I’ll have to drop hints. You’re so thin it won’t be long before you start showing and everybody guesses. You’d better tell Jack as soon as possible.”
“I will,” she said, but with little conviction.
“Lucky, do it. Don’t make things worse by having him find out some other way.”
“I will, okay? Nagging me about it won’t help. I’ll tell him.” And she would, but she dreaded it because she knew how Jack would react. He’d be thrilled. He’d want to move back in. But not for her. Not because he wanted to be with her. Only for the sake of the baby. And when that happened, she’d never be able to trust his feelings again.
She put her hand to her stomach. Her elation at becoming a mother was wrapped in resentment. A part of her wanted this baby very much. Another part of her didn’t. Because she was certain, beyond a doubt, what the news of it would do. This pregnancy would destroy any hope she had of saving her marriage.
CHAPTER THREE
LEONA HARRISON stood before the security gate and stared at the house beyond. White shutters hung at the windows and wind chimes on the porch played random notes in the breeze. The yellow paint and the flowers bordering the walk gave the place a cheery look. The yard had jasmine; she could smell it even though she couldn’t see it.
She’d learned, though, that facades, just like faces, could hide something different within. That was true of Horizon House, as well as the people of Potock. That was particularly true of the man Leona was about to visit.
Her husband had refused to come, and she guessed that was a good thing, considering how he felt. He hated Terrell. Everyone in town did. Because she was Terrell’s aunt and only surviving blood relative, they hated her, too. Twenty-one years after the tragedy, some people still crossed the street to avoid having to talk to her.
No one ever said anything ugly to her face, but the seats next to her at church were always left empty and, although she’d shopped at Hanson’s market for nearly thirty years, she’d long ago quit getting decent cuts of meat from the old man or even a polite hello from his son. The good people of the town had branded her guilty by association, just as they’d branded her nephew a killer without the benefit of a trial or a body.
Leona hesitated with her finger over the call box, wanting nothing more than to get in the car and drive home, but a promise to her dead sister, Margaret, to watch over Terrell made her go ahead and push the button. She gave her name and was let in. The residence manager came to the front door and ushered her inside.
The state had moved Terrell here five weeks ago in response to some court ruling Leona didn’t really understand. Before that, since he was seventeen, he’d lived at an institution for autistic adults up in Huntsville, and she’d dutifully driven the 240-mile round trip once a month to see him.
This place was more convenient, but having him back in the community was causing problems. The anonymous hate mail had started again, and two nights ago someone had written murderer in red paint on her front door. Since Terrell’s arrival, Horizon House had reported threatening calls.
Leona talked briefly to the manager, then made her way to the common room where Terrell spent his days staring at the aquarium or working on his drawings. Today he had out a pad and pens and an assortment of colored inks and was sitting alone at one of the round tables they used for activities.
The years had not been good to him, and he appeared much older, more used up, than he should at thirty-eight. Deep lines etched his face. He’d once been a handsome boy, but now he was nearly bald on top, and the sides and back of his hair had turned the color of new tin.
He didn’t look up or acknowledge her presence, only turned to a clean page of his art pad. As he started a new picture, he rocked from side to side, a mechanism he used to comfort himself.
“Hello, Terrell,” she said, sitting across from him. “It’s Aunt Leona. I hope you’ve been well.”
She didn’t expect a response and didn’t get one. Terrell had never said a word, to her knowledge, but he could make sounds, and Margaret had told her he’d often cried all night as a child, as if life was simply too painful for him to bear.
She didn’t think he cried anymore. A few tears, the attendants said, once when they’d transferred him here and the second time when they’d drained the fish tank to clean it, and he hadn’t been able to watch the water.
The only problem they’d encountered was keeping him contained. Sometimes he scaled the wall and disappeared, not running away from the house but running to something, the irresistible something that drew him as strongly now as it had when he was a boy—the river. Years away hadn’t diminished his fascination with it.
As long as no one interrupted his routine, moved his things or tried to touch him, he was fine—almost invisible and seemingly content. He stayed closed up in his silent world and didn’t bother anyone.
He was a sweet boy, always had been. Never would she believe he had killed Eileen Olenick. Terrell didn’t have it in him to hurt anyone.
But thanks to Matt Mathison’s editorials in the Register at the time, Leona hadn’t been able to convince anyone of her nephew’s innocence. In truth, it was the Mathisons’ youngest daughter—Lucky they called her—who had really been the one to seal Terrell’s fate, and with only a few words. People had taken the unfounded fears of a child and accepted them as truth.
Leona removed her cross-stitch sampler from her purse and worked on the S of Home Sweet Home as she talked. Terrell continued to ignore her. He occasionally swapped colors. A couple of times he traded his pen for a brush and dipped it in an ink bottle or a small jar of water, swishing it lightly along the paper or painting with painstaking slowness.
Did he remember her house? she asked him. “Of course you do,” she answered for him. “Your mama used to bring you over to see me and Uncle Edwin and you’d make so many pretty pictures. Even then you had talent.”
Extraordinary talent, or so they’d discovered. He was a savant, Miss Olenick had said, because he could draw or paint anything and with the tiniest details, even things he’d only seen once.
Unfortunately, instead of being a gift that brought happiness, his art had been the catalyst for trouble. If only Miss Olenick hadn’t taken an interest in him, his life might have turned out differently.
Well, no use thinking that way, Leona told herself. What was done was done. No one could change the past.
She stayed for her usual hour, then put her needlework back in her bag. Edwin would be wanting his lunch and she still had to stop for bread.
“I’ll come back and see you again, Terrell,” she told him, standing. “You be good and Aunt Leona will bring you a plate of gingerbread next time. I remember how much you love gingerbread with apple-sauce.”
He removed the page he’d been working on and set it on the table, then packed his supplies into a plastic carrier and shuffled off in the direction of his room in that strange walk of his. He never looked back.
Leona came around the table and picked up the sheet, and her heart nearly stopped. He’d drawn a picture of Eileen Olenick as she had looked twenty-one years ago, a picture as vibrant and colorful as the woman herself had been, and so meticulously detailed it nearly resembled a photograph.
Leona might also have called it “lifelike” except for one thing. The body reclined in a pool of blood. He’d drawn her dead.
JACK CLOSED THE FOLDER on the Bagwell case and tossed it on the growing stack of files. For a town of its size, Potock had a fair share of accidents and crime. Burglaries and thefts, mostly. Husbands and wives trying to beat the crap out of each other. Every weekend some guy got drunk and showed what an idiot he was by urinating in public or pulling a knife and trying to cut one of his neighbors.
Right now they had open cases on sixteen burglaries, a weapons charge, the train death, two cases of vandalism, the bomb threat and a request for assistance from the feds on the sale of historical artifacts that might have been illegally obtained.
With only five investigators, including himself, and a jurisdiction of 24,000 residents, the workload was piling up. He needed more people, and the ones he had weren’t sufficiently trained.
Back at his old bureau, not even a first-day rookie would have screwed up like Swain had done this morning. Jack would recommend he be busted back to patrol if he didn’t need him so badly. Besides, Swain wasn’t the only one around here who didn’t know what he was doing. He, at least, had the excuse of inexperience.
Taggert and Domingo had more than fifteen years between them and were officers, yet sometimes acted as if they knew little more than Rogers and Whatley, who’d only recently passed their exams.
Sometimes Jack wondered what the hell he was doing in Potock. He’d once told Lucky that “Podunk” was a better name for it, given its backwoods atmosphere, but naturally she liked it for that very reason. The day he and Lucky ever agreed on anything, he’d probably fall over dead.
Taking his pen from his pocket, he circled a phone number on his legal pad. The call from Wes, his ex-boss in Major Crimes, had been a surprise. He’d decided to retire at the end of the year, and if Jack wanted to apply for the position, Wes would write him a recommendation. The commander and the assistant chief were also offering recommendations.
With Jack’s training and experience and the endorsements from his former superiors, he’d have an excellent shot at the job he’d coveted since he’d gone into law enforcement.
Except he was no longer in a position to go after it.
His excitement had lasted all of ten seconds before he’d thought of Lucky and how this news would go over with her. If he couldn’t get her to leave the cabin, he wouldn’t have a chance in hell of getting her to move out of state. Things were so strained right now, he didn’t dare bring it up. Talk about poor timing.
He tore off the page of notes, started to crumple it for the trash, then stopped. Wes wouldn’t announce his retirement until October, and it was only June. The selection commission needed sufficient time to take applications, do assessments of the candidates and make recommendations for the job and for various down-the-line promotions the opening would create. Nothing would be decided until January—or conceivably even as late as February or March.
He folded the paper and put it in his wallet. Maybe if he explained how much of a raise in pay it would mean and what a great opportunity it was, Lucky would go for it.
And pigs might grow wings, Cahill.
Laughter interrupted his ruminating, and he looked out the glass partition to see Taggert, Whatley and some of the patrol personnel huddled around Lucky in the division room. He glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. Somehow he’d let the time get away from him, and his growling stomach reminded him he’d again missed lunch.
No doubt they were congratulating her on the dirty trick she’d pulled on him with the film. He chuckled under his breath. The little monkey. She’d really gotten him good.
She broke away from the officers and came to the door. “Hi,” she said solemnly.
“Hi.”
“I kept waiting for you to storm the office with the SWAT team or fire tear gas into the upper story of the newspaper building. When you didn’t, I decided I’d better bring these and see how much trouble I’m in.” She shook the large envelope she carried. “Contact sheets and prints. I also typed out a statement and put it in there.”
This was awkward, and he didn’t know what he could say to repair the damage they’d done to each other this morning.
Apparently neither did she, because she didn’t come farther, but waited in the doorway with a wary look, as though she’d turn and run if he made the wrong move. Seeing her so uncertain of him put a knot in his gut. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be like this.
He picked up his own envelope from the desk. “Negatives only. I didn’t feel right wasting taxpayers’ money printing photos of produce.”
“I figured that. Will you consider an even swap?”
The small group beyond her was watching, obviously speculating on what was being said. Jack rose. “Come in,” he suggested. “We have an audience.”
She glanced over her shoulder, turned back and nodded. “I guess they’ve been giving you a hard time.”
“You could say that.”
Taggert was still snickering, the asshole. He was probably the one responsible for the stupid cartoon making its way around the building.
“You know I wasn’t trying to embarrass you by switching the film,” Lucky said, “but apparently I did. I was so mad I didn’t stop to think of the consequences.”
“I’ll live.”
He came around and closed the door behind her, and also drew the blinds for privacy. Picking up the phone, he punched in the secretary’s extension and asked her to hold his calls for a few minutes.
He and Lucky exchanged envelopes. She declined the chair he offered her, saying she preferred to stand. She moved restlessly around the room and examined the certificates on the wall as if she’d never seen them before.
Finally she stopped pacing and turned, keeping several feet between them. “I’ve been thinking a lot about this morning, and I’m wondering how two people who claim to love each other can act the way we do.”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing.”
“Did we make a mistake getting married?”
His insides seemed to drop to his knees. “Do you think we made a mistake?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes. When we fight, I do. When we aren’t fighting, I can’t imagine not being married to you. Lately, though, we fight more often than we don’t.”
“All couples fight.”
“And half of them end up divorced.”
Now it was his turn to feel restless, smothered by the topic she’d chosen. “That won’t happen to us. I’m crazy about you. You know that.”
“But it is happening to us. Don’t you get that? With this separation we’re already part of the way there. Our marriage is failing.”
“No, it isn’t. I admit we have problems, but we can fix them.”
“How? How do we fix them?”
“I can think of a couple of things for starters.” He moved toward her, intending to take her in his arms and apologize for having been such an ass earlier, but she scooted around the desk out of his reach.
“No, don’t start this, Jack. Stay over there and promise you won’t touch me.”
“Why can’t I touch you?”
“Because.”
The answer made no sense, so he came forward again. They did a little dance back and forth. He went left. She went left. He went right. She went right. “This is crazy,” he said, stopping. “I feel like I’m in first grade again, playing tag with Mary Louise McGillray. Why can’t I touch you?”
“Because for once I’d like to have a conversation with you without ending up flat on my back with my underpants around my ankles.”
“We’re in my office. That’s not going to happen.”
“Of course it will. We played a game of Toad in the Hole not more than two weeks ago on this very desk, and we’ve been downright acrobatic in that chair several times.”
He smothered his amusement at her euphemistic choice of words, knowing that if he laughed, he’d only make her mad.
She was deadly serious. Her expression told him that. And she had a point. They’d engaged in a little creative sex in his office before, and their arguments often did end with it.
But in his own defense…every time they’d made love here had been after hours and with the door locked. This was afternoon, and the building was full of people. He wasn’t about to do anything. Holding her had been the only thing on his mind.
Well…probably.
He grumbled to himself. Okay, admittedly, when he held her he usually ended up kissing her. And when he kissed her, they both had a way of coming out of their clothes. But she was his wife, dammit, and he enjoyed making love to her. In resignation, he backed up and folded his arms across his chest. “All right, I’ll stay over here. Let’s talk this out. What do you think we should do?”