Night Sins (37 page)

The sound of a low, soft voice inside the room brought Hannah up short in the hall. The door was ajar, soft light spilling out onto the carpet like a moonbeam. She peered in through the crack and saw Father Tom sitting in the old white wicker rocking chair, Lily on his lap, his arms looped around her to hold the storybook he was reading.

Any stranger would have imagined they were father and daughter. Tom in his sweatshirt and rumpled corduroy trousers, the lamplight striking a starburst off the gold frames of his glasses. Lily in a purple fleece sleeper, her cheeks pink, her big eyes heavy-lidded; drowsy and content to listen to the adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh and his pals.

Something stirred inside Hannah, something she didn't dare name, something that came with an aftertaste of disappointment and shame.

She slipped into the room before the feeling could drive her back. Tom was a friend and she needed a friend, that was all there was to it—no complications, nothing to engender regret. He finished the story and closed the book, and both he and Lily looked up at her expectantly.

“Hi, Mama,” Lily said sweetly, tilting her head and waving.

“Hi, Lily-bug. Everyone's gone.” She bent down to take her daughter into her arms. Lily snuggled into her mother's embrace, laying her head on Hannah's shoulder.

“Paul, too?” Tom said, raising his brows. He stood up and made a halfhearted attempt to brush the wrinkles out of his pants.

“I don't know where he went.” Hannah turned away, not wanting to see the sympathy in his eyes, tired of people feeling sorry for her.

“I heard the fight,” he said softly. “I'm sure he didn't mean it. He's just lashing out. Of course, that doesn't make it hurt any less, I know—”

She shook her head. “It doesn't matter.”

“It
does,
” Tom insisted. “He should be able to see this isn't your fault, or if not that, forgive you at least.”

“Why should Paul forgive me when I can't forgive myself?”

“Hannah . . .”

“It's true,” she said, restlessly walking around the cozy bedroom with its soft pink walls and Beatrix Potter details. “I've relived that night a thousand times. If only I'd done this. If only I hadn't done that. It always comes down to the same thing: I'm Josh's mother. He relied on me and I let him down. I don't know if anyone should pardon me from that sin.”

“God forgives you.”

The statement was so guileless, it struck Hannah as being almost childlike in its faith. She turned to him, wishing he could answer her questions, knowing he couldn't.

“Then why does He keep punishing me this way?” she asked, pain swelling inside her. “What have I done to deserve this? What has Josh done or Paul? I don't understand.”

“I don't know,” he whispered hoarsely. He didn't understand it any better than she did, and that was his sin, he supposed—one of many—not trusting that God knew best. How could this be best for anyone? Why should Hannah suffer when she gave so much to so many people? He couldn't understand or accept it or keep himself from feeling anger toward the God to whom he had devoted his own life. He felt betrayed as Hannah felt betrayed. And he felt guilty because of it, and angry because of the guilt, and rebellious because of the limitations put on him by his station, and frightened by what he thought that might drive him to. The emotions spiraled down and down.

“It hurts
so
much
!” Hannah said in a tortured whisper. She squeezed her eyes closed and hugged Lily tight, rocking her back and forth.

Without hesitation, Tom put his arms around her and drew her close. She was in pain; he would comfort her. If there were consequences to pay later, he would pay them. He coaxed Hannah's head to his shoulder and stroked her hair and shushed her.

“I know it hurts, honey,” he whispered. “I wish there was something I could do to stop it. I'd do anything to help you. I'd give anything to take this all away.”

Hannah let herself cry on his shoulder. She took the comfort he offered. It felt so good to be held. He was solid and strong and warm. Tender. Feeling what she felt. Wanting to take her pain away. All the things her husband should have been and wasn't.

She slipped one arm around his waist and squeezed him tight as another flood of tears came—not for Josh, but for herself and for the torn fabric of the life that had once seemed so perfect. A dream, shattered and swept away. She wondered if it had ever been real.

Tom murmured to her. He touched her hair, her cheek, as careful as if she were made of spun sugar. His lips brushed against her temple. She raised her face and felt the warmth of his breath. She opened her eyes and met his gaze and saw the reflection of the tumult of her own emotions—need, longing, pain, guilt.

The moment caught and held, stretched between what they wanted and who they were, between what was right and what was required. Revelation and fear held them breathless.

It was Lily who broke the spell. Protesting being sandwiched between adults, she pushed at her mother's shoulder in irritation and said, “Mama, down!”

Tom stepped back, Hannah dropped her gaze to the floor.

“It's bedtime, Lily,” she said softly, turning around to place her daughter in her crib.

Lily frowned at her. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Where Josh?” she demanded, standing up at the railing. “Me want Josh.”

Hannah brushed Lily's fine gold hair back and bent to kiss her forehead. “Me, too, sweetheart.”

Tom stepped around to the end of the crib, curling his hands around the corner posts, too aware that he preferred the feel of Hannah in his arms. He couldn't bring himself to admit that was a mistake. Instead of trying, he changed the subject.

“Can I make a suggestion?” he said. “Do an interview.”

Hannah looked up at him, puzzled. “What?”

“I know everyone is clamoring for an exclusive with you, and I know you don't want to do it, but I think it would be good for you. Pick the show with the biggest ratings and go on. Tell America what you told me—how you feel, how difficult it is to deal with the guilt, what you believe you did wrong, what you would change if you could have that night back.”

Hannah shot him a look. “I thought confession was sacrosanct.”

“Think of it as penance if you want. The point is that maybe by doing this you'll make someone else think twice. You can't have that night back, but you might be able to prevent someone else from having to go through this hell.”

Hannah looked down at her daughter, who now lay curled on her side on flannel sheets printed with images of Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddle-Duck. She would give her own life to protect this precious little one. Such was the bond between mother and child. If she could help another mother, save another child, would that serve as payment for the mistakes she had made?

“I'll think about it.” She looked up at Father Tom, at his strong, handsome face and his kind blue eyes. Her heart beat a little too hard. “Thank you. I—a—”

The words didn't form, which was probably just as well. Better for him not to know what she was feeling; it would only make things difficult, and she didn't want to lose his friendship.

“Thanks.”

He nodded and moved away from the crib, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I should go. And you should try to rest.”

“I'll try.”

“Promise?” he asked, raising his brows at her as she walked him to the bedroom door.

Her mouth curved. “I promise to try.”

“I'll take what I can get. You stay here with Lily; I can find my own way out. You know where to find me if you need me.”

She nodded and he turned away before he could say something they would both regret. She didn't have to know the depth of his feelings; only that he cared and was there for her. The rest couldn't matter.

Outside, the night was so cold it seemed that anything touched would shatter. Like a heart. He dismissed the analogy as foolhardy and tried to concentrate on something priestly as he coaxed his truck to start. Lines from the Lord's Prayer scrolled through his head.
Lead us not into temptation . . . deliver us from evil . . .

“I'm in love with Hannah Garrison,” he murmured. “A madman stole her child.”

He looked up through the windshield. Heaven was black and silver with the light of a broken moon. A sea of stars so far away. A feeling of abandonment yawned inside him.

“Someone up there's not doing their job.”

6:24
P.M.
         -28°         
WINDCHILL FACTOR
: -50°

P
aul's lungs hurt from the cold. His legs ached from struggling through the deep snow and his toes hurt as if each one had been struck with a hammer. The only part of him that was warm was the glowing coal of his anger in his chest. He stepped over a fallen limb and leaned against the trunk of a cedar tree at the edge of the woods that ran behind the houses of Lakeside. To the east and north lay Quarry Hills Park, wooded and pretty with its groomed cross-country ski trails. One of his badges of honor, one of his deserved rewards: living with the lake out his front door and the park out his back door. One of the signs that he had made something of himself.

And Mitch Holt and Megan O'Malley wanted to treat him like a criminal.

How could they look at him as if he were a suspect when he had thrown himself into the effort to get Josh back? He had gone on the searches, made appeals on television. What more could he do?

This was all the fault of that little bitch from the BCA. She was the one who was so hung up on that damned old van. She was the one who kept trying to poke holes in his explanation of why he hadn't checked his messages that night and called Hannah back. And they both, of course, felt sorry for Hannah. Poor Hannah, who gives so much of herself. Poor Hannah, the mother who lost her son.

The stinging in his fingers brought Paul's attention back to the here and now. He had trudged through the woods because the street in front of his house was lined with the cars and vans of reporters. He had plenty to say to them, but not just then. Now he had other needs. A need to be held by a real woman, someone who understood him and would do anything to please him.

He crossed the Wrights' backyard and went in the back door of the garage. Garrett's Saab was gone. Karen's Honda sat alone, as it did most evenings. Garrett Wright was married to his work, not his wife. Home was the place he came to shower and change clothes. Karen's place in his life was largely ornamental—someone to take to faculty dinners. Any other interest he had once had in her as a woman had dwindled away. According to Karen, they rarely had sex, and when they did, it was more duty than desire on Garrett's part.

They had no children. Karen wasn't able to conceive by the usual means and Garrett wasn't willing to go through the endless marathon of tests and procedures involved with the in vitro process. Having children wasn't important to him. Karen talked of adoption, but that process was daunting as well and she didn't know if she had the strength or endurance to tackle it alone. And so they went on, just the two of them, in a shell of a marriage with which Garrett seemed perfectly content and to which Karen clung because she didn't have the courage to break free.

Paul seldom thought of Garrett Wright in anything but abstract terms. Even though they were neighbors, they barely knew each other. To Paul, Garrett Wright lived in an alternate universe. He was a shadowy figure who buried himself in his psychology texts and his research at Harris and gave what free time he had to a bunch of juvenile delinquents called the Sci-Fi Cowboys. He and Garrett Wright existed on two different planes that intersected in only one place—Karen.

Using the spare key that was always left under an old coffee can full of nails on the workbench, he let himself into the laundry room. He took off his heavy boots and brushed the snow from the legs of his sweatpants.

“Garrett?”

Karen opened the door to the kitchen, her dark eyes going wide at the sight of him. She stood there in her stocking feet, a green checked dish towel in one hand, purple leggings clinging to her legs. A shapeless ivory V-neck sweater reached down to her knees. Her ash-blond hair hung as limp as silk, the bangs soft above her doe eyes. Small and soft and feminine, full of comfort and concern for him. The first rustlings of desire whispered through him.

“Are you expecting him?” he asked.

“No. He just left to go back to work. I thought he might have forgotten something.” Self-conscious, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and brushed her fingers through her bangs. “I thought you'd be with Hannah tonight. I heard about the jacket. I'm so sorry, Paul.”

He slipped off his old black parka and tossed it on the dryer, his eyes on hers. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“All right.”

He took the towel from her hand and looped it around the back of her neck, pulling her closer with it. “I'm sick of it,” he said, winding the checked cloth into his fists. The anger burned in his chest. “I'm sick of the questions and the accusations and the waiting and everyone looking at Hannah and saying ‘Poor brave Hannah.' It's all her fault. And that little bitch is trying to blame me.”

“Hannah blames you?” Karen asked, puzzled. She had to strain back against the towel to look up at him.

“Agent O'Malley,” he sneered. “She's too busy screwing Holt to do her job right.”

“How could anyone blame
you
?”

Dad, can you come and get me from hockey? Mom's late and I wanna go home.

“I don't know,” he whispered as his throat tightened and tears burned his eyes. “It wasn't my fault.”

“Of course it wasn't.”

“It wasn't my fault,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his head. He wound the towel tighter. “It wasn't my fault.”

Karen flattened herself against him to escape the pain. She slipped her small hands beneath his sweatshirt and stroked the lean muscles of his back. “It wasn't your fault, sweetheart.”

Dad, can you come and get me from hockey? Mom's late and I wanna go home.

The voice haunted his mind. It overlaid images of the afternoon: O'Malley questioning him—
you never checked your answering machine?
The jacket in his hands—
He's dead. He's dead. He's dead. . . .