“Shit,’’ he muttered.
He was more than a little annoyed that the intruder had slipped away. It never would have happened a few years ago. Another reminder that he was getting older. Who was it? One of those kids Morrow was claiming caused so much trouble? A common burglar, vandal, vagrant? Even as the multitude of possibilities turned in his mind, he knew the answer. This case, which he had at first regarded with skepticism, was starting to take shape like the trees around him when the moon passed from behind the clouds. He had the sense of something sinister, something twisted, something connected to Lydia.
Darkness, solitude; the two places where thoughts turned most often to her. Tonight his thoughts were edged with worry. Who was hiding in those trees? How long had he been there? Had he been waiting there when Lydia had come home alone?
Jeffrey made his way more steadily now, feeling his way in the moonlight, treading carefully toward the gleam of the houselights he now saw in the distance. An anxiety, a fierce need to protect Lydia arose in him. He could see the look in her eyes just a few minutes before, feel her in his arms. He would die for her. If he could have caught his breath enough to break into a run to her, he would have.
A perfect circle of light bounced before him. He was struggling to see what it was, straining his weak eyes in the darkness, when he heard Lydia calling his name.
“I’m here,’’ he called, “stay still. I’ll come to you.’’
“You’re not hurt, are you?’’ she called.
“No, just old, winded and blind.’’
When she finally saw him, she ran to him but stopped herself from throwing her arms around him. Instead she touched him tenderly on his bad shoulder.
He could see she had a.38 in a holster at her waist.
“Did you see who it was?’’
“No. He got away. I don’t know how…He was big and clumsy. But he was ten feet in front of me one minute and then it seemed like seconds later that I heard an ignition struggling a mile away.’’
“I called the police.’’
“All right.’’
She slipped her arm around his waist and he draped his arm across her shoulders in return. She leaned in close to him as they walked. “Who do you think it was?’’ she asked.
“Who do you think it was?’’ he answered, knowing from her tone what she suspected but did not say.
“It was him.’’
“You don’t know that.’’
“I can feel it.’’
“You say that like it’s proof.’’
“It is for me.’’
They were silent as they walked toward the house which was visible now through the trees.
“What do you think, Jeffrey?’’
“I don’t know.’’
But she knew him too well, knowing his heart and his meaning more by what went unsaid than by the words he uttered, understanding more from the protective tightening of his arm around her shoulder.
She stopped walking and faced him, put her fingers to the rough stubble on his face.
“Seems like you’re always rushing to my rescue.’’
“God knows you’ve come to my rescue a thousand times.’’
“You’re always here when things get out of hand.’’
“It’s my honor, Lydia.’’
“I don’t know what to do, Jeffrey. Give me time.’’
“How much more time do you need, Lydia? What are you so afraid of?’’
He pushed the hair out of her eyes and tilted her face upward with a featherlight touch under her chin. The yearning of years ached inside of her like a hunger she had never been able to sate, that made her weak and unsteady on her feet. He pulled her in close. There was no truer home to her than the one she knew in his arms. That was becoming more clear to her every day. She shivered as if someone were walking over her grave. Her desire and fear seemed almost audible, like sirens in the distance, moving closer from opposite directions, warning of danger.
“Lydia.’’
The tone in his voice was a confession, mirroring her own. And in the second before his lips touched hers, the quiet night was pierced by a cacophony of sirens and the chaos of red-and-blue flashing lights on the street. In what seemed like seconds, the forms of at least ten police officers filtered in through the trees like wraiths.
“Over here,’’ Jeffrey called out to the cops, supporting Lydia as she leaned against him, shaking her head against his chest. “We’re over here.’’
They walked onto the drive. Jeffrey borrowed an officer’s cell phone to call Morrow to tell him what had happened. While she was giving her statement to a young female officer, something near the front door to her house caught Lydia’s eye. She stopped speaking in midsentence and walked toward it. Jeffrey saw her and followed behind. Sitting on the low stone step before the door, was a box wrapped in newsprint.
“I need some latex gloves, a letter opener or a knife, and some tweezers,’’ she said to the officer that had followed her.
“Be careful with that,’’ said Jeffrey.
“He’s not the Unabomber,’’ Lydia responded.
“We don’t know what he is.’’
She shrugged and took a step back. She studied the package from a distance and could see that it was wrapped in the newspaper page featuring the article covering Maria Lopez’s disappearance. When the cop returned with the items she requested, she moved toward the package.
“We should call the bomb squad,’’ said Jeffrey, touching her arm.
“And wait two hours to find out what’s inside? I’ll take my chances. The psychology of the bomber is very different than the psychology of the serial killer.’’
He sat down on the step next to her as she carefully removed the adhesive tape with the penknife and unwrapped the package. Inside sat a bloodred-and-gold Montblanc pen. There was a small white gift card that read simply, Vengeance is mine.
Sixteen
Lydia lay on her king-size bed, her body wrapped in soft white Egyptian cotton sheets and a rose-colored chenille blanket, the down comforter in a twisted mound on the floor where she had tossed it during her restless night. What would it be like to wake up beside him every morning? What would it be like to wake up one day, have to wake up with the knowledge that he would never lie beside her again?
“Anybody who ever said it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all is an idiot,’’ her mother said to her once on a rare occasion when they’d discussed her father. “You can’t miss what you never had.’’
Lydia had met her father only once, on the day after her mother’s funeral. She sat alone in the living room staring out the bay window at the woods behind her house. The day was cool and sunny in cruel contrast to the way she felt. She heard the doorbell but paid no attention, assuming it was another neighbor come to offer their condolences. She dreaded having to smile politely, having to say she would be all right. Then she heard her grandfather’s voice as he opened the door, then a soft murmuring, then silence. To Lydia her grandfather sounded angry, but she thought she must be mistaken. Then she saw him at the door, his face tight and ashen.
Hovering behind her grandfather, she saw a stranger with her eyes. Tall and slouching, poorly dressed, he held flowers and looked ashamed. He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“You don’t have to see him, Lydia,’’her grandfather said.
But her curiosity was great. It was the first feeling she’d had other than grief and horror since her mother died. “No. It’s okay, Grandpa.’’
She stood up and her father walked toward her. He held the flowers out to her. She took them, her eyes fixed on him. In all the fantasies she had had about him in her life, none of them had even come close to predicting the ordinary man who stood before her. She had imagined him as a great lover, dark and handsome; a motorcycle daredevil, reckless and brave; an international spy, suave and sophisticated. What other kind of man could have stolen her strong, beautiful mother’s heart and left her broken and forever sad? Surely some great danger or some irresistible intrigue had lured him from her mother and their child. In spite of what her mother said.