Mary shot Jessie a mean glance. “That’s enough, young lady.”
“You always take her side,” said Jessie.
A phone rang. “Is that mine?”
“I don’t feel good,” said Grace.
Jessie made a face and moved away from her sister. “Mom, I think she’s going to be sick.”
“Mommy, I need to get home.” Grace’s complexion had gone from pale to translucent.
The phone rang again. “Jess, is that your dad?”
“I can’t tell.”
“What do you mean? It’s there on the screen.”
“Yeah…but,” said Jessie.
“But what?”
“Mommy,” said Grace plaintively.
As if someone threw a switch, traffic began to move. Slowly at first, but then faster, leaving a gap in front of Mary.
“Mom, go!” said Jessie.
Mary returned her attention to the highway and accelerated. The car jumped. Grace moaned. There was a retching sound.
“Mom!” said Jessie. “She’s being sick.”
“No, I’m not,” said Grace.
The phone rang again. “Is it…,” Mary began. “Oh, forget it.”
Like that, they were cruising at sixty-five, the freeway was as open and uncluttered as a Sunday morning. Mary relaxed a notch. “You okay, mouse?”
“Maybe,” said Grace. “I want to be home.”
“Got it!” Jessie shouted. “I unlocked it.”
Mary jumped in her seat and Grace squealed.
“Unlocked what?” Mary asked.
“Your phone. Now you can use whatever carrier you want to.”
Mary caught Jessie’s wide-open grin. From grim to giddy in two seconds flat. “Is that legal?”
“It’s your phone,” Jessie explained. “Who says you have to use one of the big phone companies? Now you can hook up with one that’s like a hundred times cheaper. Isn’t that great?”
“Is it? If you say so, hon. Does it still work?”
“Of course. I’m saving all the settings. Oh, and that call was from Dad. He left a message.”
“He did?” Mary felt a pang of worry. Joe wouldn’t cancel. He knew what it meant to her. If it was important, he’d have called back by now or texted. He was probably just letting her know that everything was fine and that he’d see her at seven. “Give me the phone,” she said pleasantly.
Jessie crossed her arms. “You can’t listen and drive. Do you want me to listen to it?”
Mary knew what kind of messages Joe liked to leave. Definitely NSFW, which meant “not suitable for work.” Or, in this case, children. “I’ll wait till we get home. Just put the phone on the seat.”
Jessie laid it on the front seat, a proud smile firmly in place.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” said Mary. “You can tell me exactly what you did later.”
“Mom, the exit!”
Mary saw the sign ahead, checked the rearview mirror, and yanked the car into the right lane, barely managing to make the exit ramp. “That was close,” she said, laughing it off.
“Why don’t you pay attention?” said Jessie. “We’ve lived here for two months and you still always miss it.”
Mary bit back a stinging rebuke. If she’d said something like that to her mother, she’d have received a slap across the face. She had sworn when she had Jessie to be as kind to her children as her mother was mean to her. Getting angry only brought her down to Jessie’s level.
She made the turn onto Spicewood Springs. In a minute they were driving through their new neighborhood. The houses were big and bold, each on an eighth of an acre. She turned onto Pickfair Drive and zipped into their driveway. She loved their home, a two-story Spanish-style with a stately live oak shading the lawn and a terracotta fountain next to the front door. “Home again, Finnegan,” she said, as she put the car into park.
Jessie jumped out as if the car were on fire. Grace remained in her seat, her cheek pressed to the window. Mary got out and opened her daughter’s door. “You okay, mouse?”
Grace mumbled something and vomited.
Mary jumped back, then immediately felt guilty for having done so. She put an arm behind her daughter’s back and helped her from the car. “There, there. Let’s get you inside and all cleaned up.” At the front door, Mary craned her head and yelled up the stairs. “Jessie, get some towels.”
“Did she puke?”
“Please, Jessie.” Mary led Grace into the laundry room and helped her take off her shirt and jeans, then stuffed them straight into the washer.
“Here.” Jessie stood in the doorway, holding out a dishcloth.
“It’s in the car, sweetheart. There’s not much.”
Jessie didn’t budge. “I don’t do floors or windows.”
“Come on, sweetheart. It won’t take long.”
Jessie shook her head. “N. O.”
Mary yanked the towel out of her hand and without a backward glance took Grace upstairs. Jessie followed, pounding up the stairs and slamming the door to her room.
It took thirty minutes to get Grace settled. The doctor hadn’t mentioned that the new medication would cause nausea. Either the drugs were stronger or Grace’s system was growing weaker. Cancer sucked.
The clock read 5:30 when Mary walked into her bedroom to change after cleaning the car.
Joe’s message. How could she forget?
She snatched the phone from her dresser. Just then it vibrated in her hand and began to ring. Joe, she said silently, I’m sorry.
But it wasn’t Joe. There was no name on the screen, just a number she didn’t recognize. She didn’t have time right now to take a call from someone she didn’t know. The phone rang again, and she realized that the first three digits were the same as Joe’s.
A premonition flashed through her. A cold streak that rattled her spine for the briefest of instants. She hit the Answer key. “Hello.”
“Mary, this is Don Bennett. Joe’s been hurt. You need to come to the hospital right away.”
3
Mary rushed out of the parking garage, following the signs to the emergency entrance. She walked crisply, chin up, shoulders pinned back. Stressful occasions were to be handled calmly and without excessive emotion. She was the daughter of a rear admiral and a lifelong member of the Junior League. She’d been born with a rule book in her mouth.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Hello, Mary.” Don Bennett, special agent in charge of the FBI’s Austin office, stood outside the emergency room doors. He was stocky and humorless, twenty pounds overweight, with brown eyes and a motorcycle cop’s mustache. “Let’s go inside.”
“Right here is fine. How is he?”
Bennett put a hand on her arm. “Joe’s in a bad way. Let’s go inside and sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit,” said Mary, pulling her arm clear. “Is he alive?”
“Yes,” he said. “He’s alive.”
It was a hesitant yes, and Mary was too afraid to ask anything more. She followed Bennett through the automatic doors into the waiting room. A cluster of Joe’s fellow agents had staked out a corner for themselves. Ten capable, clean-cut men in dark suits and two women who looked even more capable. All eyes turned to Mary. The suffering spouse. The weaker vessel. A civilian. She hurried past them, determined not to let them see her worry.
Joe’s been hurt.
Mary had imagined the words, or something similar, a thousand times. And a thousand times she’d dismissed them. Not Joe. He was a specialist in electronic surveillance. He bugged phones and got warrants for wiretaps and spent days inside vans, watching and listening. His targets were mayors and city councilmen and treasurers who siphoned off money from public coffers. Joe didn’t do dangerous. He’d promised her after they had Grace, and he’d renewed his promise after she got sick.