Speed Trap (5 page)

Children needed tenderness and caring, things he'd never known. His childhood had been a series of beatings and worse. He wasn't fit to be a father.

Mr. Victor pushed the paper closer. “It was Judy's dying wish.”

Garrett looked from the man's florid face to the paper in front of him. Judy's dying wish.

To honor it, all Garrett had to do was sign his name.

M
andy stared at Garrett's stiff back as he shoved open the agency doors and exited the building. She called after him. “Signing those adoption papers is the best thing you could do for him.”

She knew he'd heard her. He simply didn't bother to reply.

It took her a second to catch up with his long strides. His stoic silence irritated her.

“It's what your ex-wife wanted.”

Still no reply. He just kept walking.

“You're not really considering raising that baby by yourself, are you?”

He rounded on her, his face a mask of pain and anger, his eyes narrowed to icy slits. It was the first real and honest emotion she'd seen from him. She stopped, but she didn't retreat.

It was as if some hidden floodgate had finally opened and the words poured out of him. “Two days ago, I found out my wife was murdered. We were divorced and we hadn't spoken for almost a year, but I still cared about her. Today, I call to make funeral arrangements and I find out I have a son.”

He pointed toward the building. “You and that slick-haired bottom-feeder want me to write him off like a bad debt
without so much as seeing him. I can understand why that attorney is so anxious to get my autograph. He'll make money if I sign, but why are you so dead set on it?”

If you give him up, he could be mine.

Facing the real reasons she wanted Garrett to relinquish custody was painful and sobering. Instead of voicing it, she said, “I've seen enough kids suffer because they were unwanted burdens. Colin deserves parents who truly want him.”

The mask suddenly dropped over Garrett's features again. He retreated into himself, but not before she caught a glimpse of some terrible pain in his eyes. The raw emotion shocked her.

Reaching toward him, she asked, “Are you okay?”

He flinched away from her hand, but didn't answer. He was hurting; she knew it, but didn't know how to help. She didn't know if she should help. A strange sympathetic impulse tugged at her heart.

She said, “You should take some time and think about what's best for the child.”

Folding his arms over his chest as if holding on for dear life, he looked over her, not at her.

Now she knew what Fred meant about him.

His anger was easier to face than this blank silence. She chose a different track. “The pen you snapped in half was probably expensive.”

Her abrupt change of topic seemed to throw him off balance. He blinked hard, but then his eyes locked with hers. “Who cares about a stupid pen?”

“Destruction of personal property is a crime.”

He leaned toward her. “So arrest me.”

Raising one eyebrow, she fixed him with a steely stare in return. “Don't think I won't.”

He took a step closer. “Where's my son?”

Surprisingly, she didn't find his nearness threatening. Just the opposite.

She caught the clean smell of sun-dried denim from his shirt. Unlike Donald Victor, no expensive cologne covered Garrett's warm, musky, strictly masculine scent. Mandy licked suddenly dry lips.

He was close enough to touch. She wanted to press her hand against his chest, to feel the beating of his heart under the fabric of his shirt. The urge to cup his cheek, to feel the rasp of his whiskers against her palm shook her with its intensity.

She wanted to ask about the pain he carried deep inside.

She gazed into his eyes. His pupils darkened and his expression softened. In that moment, Mandy knew he felt it, too. This strange and exciting bond between them wasn't one-sided.

He closed his eyes and the connection was broken. Mandy's sanity returned in full force.

Was she nuts? The man was a suspect in his ex-wife's murder.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned back, forcing herself to ignore the unexplained attraction pulling her toward him. “The child is somewhere safe.”

“Was he hurt in the wreck?”

“He had a few minor injuries.”

He zeroed his gaze on her. “How minor?”

“A broken collarbone and some bruises.”

His jaw dropped. “A broken collarbone? You call that minor? How soon can I see him?”

“I'll let you know.”

He glared at her. “You can't keep me away from my own son.”

Unfolding her arms, she settled her right hand on her holster. Better men than Garrett Bowen had tried to intimidate
her and failed. “I can and I will. The child is already in Social Services' custody, and you're a suspect in his mother's murder.”

He pulled back a fraction and blew out an impatient huff. “If you had one shred of evidence, I'd already be in jail.”

Unfortunately, he was right.

Spinning away from her, he crossed the last few yards to his truck and yanked open the door. Sliding behind the wheel, he stuck his key in the ignition, but didn't close the door or turn on the engine. Wiley eyed them quietly.

After several long seconds of gripping the wheel with both hands and fighting some internal struggle, he finally looked at Mandy. “What's it gonna take? What do I have to do to see my son?”

She exhaled slowly. Was he sincere about wanting to see his child or was it all a show for her benefit? Something told her it was real.

“Until I get a conclusive paternity test and at least the preliminary tests back on the paint from your truck, I'm not allowing a visit.”

“How long will that take?”

“Hard to say.”

His eyes narrowed into a sharp glare for an instant. She thought he was going to argue, but then he simply nodded. “Once I'm cleared, what happens?”

He sounded so sure he would be. Mandy's opinion shifted a hair toward believing him, but she'd been fooled before.

“
If you're cleared,
and it's certain that you're the baby's father, it will be up to Social Services to decide if you're a fit parent.”

If she hadn't been watching him so closely she might have missed the way his knuckles turned white where they gripped the steering wheel. He turned his face away.

More than anything, she wanted to read what was in his eyes.

“Can I call and check on him?” His voice was level, almost toneless, as if he couldn't allow any more emotion to escape.

“You can call me. I'll pass along any changes in his medical condition.”

Sitting up straight, he fixed his eyes over her head. They were expressionless, holding no clue to what he was thinking. “I didn't hurt him. I didn't kill Judy.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Do you know how many times I've heard suspects protest their innocence? Care to guess how many times they were lying?”

His gaze slid to meet hers. “I'm not lying, but that doesn't make any difference to you, does it? In your eyes, I'm guilty until proven innocent. What if you never find out who killed her?”

“I don't give up easily, Mr. Bowen. I will find who is responsible.”

“Make it soon. I'll call tomorrow to check on—” He stumbled to a halt. A fleeting look of confusion crossed his features.

“Colin,” she supplied. “His name is Colin.”

“Colin,” he repeated softly. The barest hint of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I'll call and check on Colin tomorrow.”

As Mandy watched Garrett drive away, she wondered why she wanted so much to believe he was innocent.

 

Garrett braked to a stop in front of his home and turned off his truck. Wiley whined to get out and pawed at the window, but Garrett didn't move. The same question had been tumbling through his brain since he left the attorney's office in Wichita.

Why didn't Judy tell me I had a son?

They had talked a little about having children when they were together. Judy wasn't keen on the idea. He knew she came from a rough home—the same as he did. He thought in time she'd grow to want children. Instead, drugs had taken over her life and pushed him out of it.

Wiley whined again and shoved his cold nose under Garrett's hand. Garrett pulled his thoughts back to the present and glanced down at the dog.

“I guess I'll never know what she was thinking. The real question is, what do I do now? Any suggestions?”

Wiley's reply was a wide yawn.

“You're a big help. Should I sign the adoption papers?”

Garrett thought he'd come to terms with spending his life alone. It was better than facing the pain of caring about someone and then having him or her walk out of his life the way Judy had—the way his mother had.

Only now, he didn't have to face life alone.

“I have a son.” He said the words aloud, letting them sink in. “The ranch will be his someday.” The thought brought a quiet joy—an emotion so foreign he almost didn't recognize it.

Garrett turned back to stare at the square two-story ranch house and his pleasure faded. The tall narrow windows on the upper story stared back from beneath the gabled roof like vacant eyes. All the shades were drawn. All the secrets were shut up where no one could see.

Maybe it was time to face them.

He rubbed his suddenly cold hands on the thighs of his jeans. Wiley whined softly. Leaving the truck, Garrett climbed the steps of the porch. Wiley raced ahead and began his usual twirling dance in front of the door. Unlocking it, Garrett let the pup in.

Wiley made a beeline for his bowls on the rag rug at the side of the kitchen cabinets and began lapping at his water dish.

Garrett walked to three doors at the very back of the kitchen. The one straight ahead led to a small bathroom. The one on the left led to the basement. The door on the right was the one he never opened.

Reaching for the knob, his hand shook slightly. Seeing the fine tremor brought a sick feeling to his midsection. Would he ever lose this fear?

Grasping the brass knob firmly, he pulled open the door. Unoiled hinges groaned and creaked in protest. A rush of stale air carried the smell of musty rooms long closed off. He glanced up the dusty stairwell.

A storm of bitterness and fear twisted his stomach until the ache made him press a hand to his belly.

He hadn't climbed the steps in front of him in ten years.

Judy had made fun of him for leaving so much of the house shut off. He knew she'd explored the upper level when they were first married. She complained about not being able to open one closet. He told her the key had been lost. It was the only time he'd ever lied to her.

Since he'd converted an old parlor into a ground-floor bedroom long before they met, she rarely ventured upstairs after a month or so.

He knew what was up there—he just didn't like to think about it.

He started upward, his boots echoing on the wooden risers. At the top of the steps, the stairs ended in a short hall. Down the corridor, three closed doors, like silent sentinels, guarded the ghosts of his past.

He opened the first door on his right and looked into the room that had belonged to his parents.

It was empty. The hardwood floor was scratched and scarred under a layer of grime. Two oval voids on the walls showed where pictures had once hung. A large brown smear still stained the wallpaper beneath the window. His mother's blood. He closed his mind against the memory.

The click, click, click of doggy toenails on the bare wooden floor made Garrett look down as Wiley came in. The dog made a circuit of the barren room, sniffing as he went. He stopped at the window and rose on his hind legs to look out.

After checking the view, Wiley dropped back to all fours and came to sit beside Garrett. The dog's bushy tail swept an arch of the floor free of dust but raised a cloud of it into the air. Wiley sneezed twice. The knot in Garrett's midsection eased.

“There's not much to see up here.” The sound of his own voice forced back the panic he felt.

Wiley's tail swung faster. He whined and licked his lips.

Gathering his courage, Garrett opened the room's closet door. A pair of shirts, a few worn dresses and a dusty black suit hung from wire hangers on the rod. Other than the clothes the space was empty. Garrett ignored the contents.

Reaching up, he felt along the shelf until his finger touched metal. He pulled an old-fashioned key down and left the room with it clutched in his hand.

Out in the hall, he walked to the next door on the right and stepped into the room that had been his when he was a child.

To anyone looking, it was just another empty room. Painted a pale blue with a cheap carpet remnant covering the center of the floor, it seemed like a benign space—unless someone knew where to look.

His pulse pounded in his ears as he crossed the room to the closet. His fist tightened over the key until it bit into his palm. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.