Son of the Enemy (36 page)

John was only twenty minutes away. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Oh.”

“I’ll take a glass of whatever you’re drinking.”

They took their glasses into the living room and settled onto the sofa. Hannah ran her finger around the rim of the glass, unsure how to ask the question. Finally she just put it out there without looking at him. She knew whatever she saw in his eyes would make her cry. “Is it hard for you…to look at me?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. She raised her head and found him smiling. “It’s hard for me to look away.”

“My father couldn’t stand the sight of me,” she said, as though that was a common occurrence between fathers and daughters.

Sam reached over and covered her hand. “Your father is a fool. If I’d been him, I would have kept you close and been involved in every part of your life, even if it hurt sometimes to think of Sharon, because she stayed alive through you.” He shook his head. “I’ve thought of you so often over the years, wondering how you were managing without your mother. John filled me in, about Arthur Weiss and his wife, and other things.” He squeezed her hand. “Sad things. Things you shouldn’t have had to go through.”

“No wonder John wanted you back so badly. If you were my father, I think—” She stopped. “I tried to put myself in John’s shoes, after it happened. The fire and all that, and finding out about him. You know, like if I’d had the chance to save my mother, how far would I have gone. But I couldn’t feel anything. Nothing. And then…” She trailed off. No one knew the rest, and she didn’t think she could trust Sam not to tell John.

“And then,” he prompted.

“Something else happened. But it’s over now.” She changed the subject. “Has the FBI reinstated him?”

“It’s too soon. The investigation is moving slowly. John says the powers that be are particularly in a snit over the fact that Thornton Bradshaw had destroyed mountains of documents by the time the FBI was ready to move in.”

“They think he warned him?”

“They haven’t said that, but Bradshaw was at the scene that night when his son pushed you out of that leaf hut.” He paused and squeezed her hand, his eyes telling her he was deeply relieved by what Ty had done. “And someone from Bradshaw’s home and cell phones made several calls to John.”

“They don’t believe it was Ty?”

“Unclear. In any event, John insists privately that he’s through with the FBI. But he wants it to be his idea to leave, not theirs, so he’s cooperating with the investigation.”

“He doesn’t want to go back to a career that required all that training?”

“Psychology is John’s passion, not law enforcement or even criminal profiling, which he had originally considered. He joined the FBI and went through all that training in the hope that someday he’d find out who really murdered your mother.” Hannah saw him wince, and wondered whether it was from talking about her mother’s murder, or John’s doubts about his guilt or innocence, which he had disclosed to her in a long letter she’d read hundreds of time. “And he did.”

“What about the FBI agent? I don’t remember his name. John called him when we were in Marblehead.”

Sam smiled. No wonder her mother had loved this man. Not only was he intelligent and caring, he was as handsome—in a different way—as his son, who apparently took after his mother’s side of the family.

“Ronald Geer,” Sam said. “He was a rookie cop when I was arrested, and the one person who believed there was another viable suspect.” They exchanged a look, but neither mentioned Philip’s name. “He couldn’t convince any of the higher-ups on the force to look for the guy. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was also fairly certain the department had tampered with some evidence. He was vague on that point, probably too ashamed, or maybe he didn’t want to implicate anyone else. In any event, he had no way of proving it, so he quit the force, went to law school and joined the FBI.”

Hannah let that sink in. “So he was the person who told John where to find me?”

Sam nodded and took another swallow of his wine. “He’d known for some time that John was an FBI agent. I’m not sure how, but I assume he made a point of keeping track of him after John’s mother moved them to Philadelphia. And then, when he heard about the investigation into Bradshaw’s dealings and discovered you were involved with the guy, Ron was determined to find a way to right an old wrong.” He swirled the wine in his glass, staring into it. “An astute person who knew John’s history could infer that his choice of education and career was related to having a father convicted of murder. He gambled that John would use his association with you to get at the truth, even though it would involve violating bureau policy.”

Sam sighed deeply. “I owe my freedom to that good and wise man, as well as to you and John. And of course, I owe Special Agent Santini for saving John, and Ty Bradshaw for saving you. I’ll be forever in all of your debt.”

She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “There’s nothing to thank me for. I was an unwitting participant. Before I knew who you were, and before…I was kidnapped, I thought of you as my enemy. I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help you.” Her father had used the same words. Except her father had no interest in helping to find his wife’s killer even after he knew the man was a threat to his own daughter. She would probably never really get over the fact that her father didn’t love her.

“I understand that completely,” Sam said. “And so did John. Which is why he chose to lie to you.”

She didn’t look at Sam when she rose. “Refill?”

“Sure.”

She picked up both glasses, took them to the kitchen and refilled them, then leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. The buzz from the wine couldn’t fill the emptiness. Not today, nor any of the other days. She rested her hand over her concave belly. Nothing could fill that particular void. Ever. Moments later she felt Sam’s hand on her shoulder. He didn’t speak.

“I lost my baby,” she whispered. “John’s baby.” She turned into Sam and felt herself bundled into a safe and loving embrace.

“Oh, Hannah,” he said, his voice gravelly. “So much loss. So much.”

“I didn’t even know until it was gone. The doctor said it was probably the trauma.” She wiped her eyes. “That sick, twisted bastard claims another victim. May he rot in
hell
.”

They held each other, Hannah and the man who should have raised her. How different her life would have been with Sam Daly as her father. She and John… Well, it would have been different, but it would have lasted forever.

John as my brother.

The thought made her feel suddenly giddy, and laughter bubbled up. Oh boy, she was hysterical, that’s what was going on. Sam’s arms loosened around her, and when she looked up and met his gaze, feeling guilty for laughing, she saw him smiling through teary eyes.

“I was thinking about John being my stepbrother.”

Sam chuckled and stroked her hair. “Things could’ve gotten a little dicey in our household. I don’t think you and he were meant to be related
that
way.” When her vision blurred, he pulled her in and kissed the top of her head. “You can have other children together. He’ll wait for you a long time, honey, but it sure would be nice for both of you if you didn’t make him.”

Hannah rubbed her nose on him like a little girl. Whatever happened between her and John, she knew that she and Sam Daly were connected at the soul level, and that she could count on that. “So, what’s he going to do, if he doesn’t go back to the FBI?”

She could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he answered. “He wants to be a school psychologist.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Hannah poured herself a cup of coffee, then changed her mind and left it sitting on the credenza. Five twenty. Her appointment should be here any minute. She stretched and gazed out the window at the small cluster of teachers standing and chatting on the lawn below her. Larissa glanced up at her window and waved. Hannah smiled and waved back, and then the others all turned and sent up dramatic waves and big smiles that said
Welcome back to our world.
God, she loved these people. They were her family, along with Arthur and Bebe. And, of course, Sam Daly.

She could call him right now, and just hearing his voice would reassure her that there was still some justice in the world, even though it was late and incomplete. How many people, wrongfully incarcerated for more than two decades, could emerge with so little anger inside them? He’d spent it all in the early years, he’d told her. And then he’d learned to accept his lot, not passively but actively, doing what he did best—teaching. There were many inmates and guards he would stay in touch with for the rest of his life, friends he valued infinitely more than those who had abandoned him when he was arrested and convicted. In the midst of all the publicity surrounding Philip’s capture and Sam’s release, several of those “old friends” had sent letters, saying they never believed he was guilty.

“That’s when I discovered I was still angry,” he’d told her.

She sighed. The ad in
Craigslist
had been in since Sunday, and here it was, Friday, and still… Drumming her fingers on her hip, which jutted out from the black skirt she was wearing—reminding her that she was still wasn’t eating enough—she wandered back to her desk, sat down and dropped her head into her hands. She was tired, as she was most days, either from too little sleep or too much. It was a good thing the board had agreed to hire a psychologist to counsel the kids, because she still hadn’t gotten her edge back. She had to get her own life together before she could help these kids with theirs.

Right, which was why she’d argued so passionately for the board to approve the funds. Uh-huh.

Well, Larissa said this Dr. Bettelheim—no relation to Bruno—had sounded great on the phone and had lots of experience with adolescents. Hannah shook her head. She’d find something wrong with him, just like she had with Judith Whatsername, the psychologist who’d come in yesterday, and all the others who’d faxed their resumes to her this week. This Bettelheim guy claimed he’d faxed his resume but she couldn’t find it. He’d bring another one. They all did.

Restless, she moved to a comfortable chair by the fireplace, which now had a large potted fern in front of it. To keep that gloomy look out of her eyes, Larissa had told her. Leave it to her to be painfully honest when no one else would be. She closed her eyes and rubbed her knuckle over the line between her brows. It had gotten deeper recently, which wasn’t a surprise.

“I hope I got the appointment right this time.”

Hannah raised her head slowly and stared at him, standing in the doorway. He, too, looked thinner, but every bit as handsome as when she’d last seen him in November. Why had she let so much time go by? He came toward her, wearing the same clothes he’d worn last fall, when he’d walked into her office and set off a chain of events that had changed both their lives. She didn’t move, but she didn’t take her eyes off him. His were swimming with emotion. One of them was anger.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his tone guarded.

She gazed at him, wanting so much to say the right words, but her mind wasn’t working so she let her emotions take over. “Dying of love,” she said in a voice so soft she could barely make it out herself.

John’s expression softened. He squatted and rested his elbows on the arm of her chair, his face only a foot from hers. “Interesting affliction. Where’d you hear about it?”

“Someone very important to me once said he felt like he could die of love.” The lump in her throat was huge. “Now I know how that feels.”

“Who do you love, Hannah?” There was fear and longing in his eyes, and she knew they mirrored her own.

Her throat was clogged with tears. “I love you.”

He lifted her hand off her lap and held it to his lips. “You love me. But do you trust me?” He studied her face. “Do you?”

She nodded.

John looked away, his lips pressed tightly together. “But you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about the baby.” He turned back to her, naked pain in his eyes. “Maybe you thought I’d push myself on you. Maybe you didn’t trust me to respect or even believe what you told me so damn clearly, that you couldn’t be with me. Remember? I was begging you just to let me tell you the whole story, but you refused to listen. You told me to leave you alone and let you get your life together.”

How well she remembered. “I didn’t understand, then.”

“What didn’t you understand?” He stood. “I know you were traumatized. I know it was my fault. I used you in the worst possible way, lied to you about everything—except about my feelings for you. I never lied about that.” He walked to the mantle, rested his elbow on it. “None of it was your fault. It’s just… I assumed you understood how much I loved you. I was being naïve.”

She rose and stood by her chair, hugging herself. “I was numb. I didn’t feel anything, and I didn’t believe anyone in the world loved me…had ever loved me. I can’t remember my mother, except in dreams, and we both know my father doesn’t give a damn about me.”

“Your father doesn’t love anyone but himself, the selfish bastard.”

“Then your father came to see me.” They were just a few feet apart, but the gulf was wide. “Within a minute I understood why my mother loved him. And why you loved him enough to risk everything to get him back. If he’d been my father, I think I would have done the same thing.”

John lowered his elbow from the mantle and searched her eyes. “If it had been a choice between saving your life or keeping Philip alive to get my father out of prison, I would have killed Philip in a heartbeat. My father knows that. Do you?”

She nodded slowly. A moment passed, and then she moved toward him. “John—”

He snatched her into his arms. “Oh God, I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered into her hair. She squeezed him to tell him she felt the same. “Here we were, both dying of love, and it took a sixty-two-year-old ex-con to get us back together.”

Hannah framed his face with her hands. “He has you back now, and he’s free. The only thing missing is—” She stopped, realizing that she had the power to give that back to him as well. Almost.