Kate planted her fists on her hips. "Would I lie to you?" "Yeah," Ben answered without hesitation.
Okay, he knew her too well. She occasionally did lie to him when she thought it was necessary. And over the years she had fudged the facts to create a kinder, gentler father who had loved Ben devotedly but had died in a car accident shortly after his birth. At some point, she might tell him more, but she was never, ever going to tell him that Chaz had freaked when their screaming, colicky baby had come home from the hospital and then left them flat. That Ben never needed to know.
"Well, I'm not," she said, resisting the urge to bend over and place her hands on her knees while she caught her breath. She couldn't believe how winded she was. It must have something to do with either emotional distress or plain old exhaustion. "Just shoot the thing, would you please?"
"This is lame." Ben groaned but obediently turned around and heaved the ball at the goal. This time it actually hit the rim before bouncing off.
"Good job. That was close," Kate encouraged as she looked after the damned ball, which was rolling across the lawn toward the big oak by the sidewalk. "Your shot, your rebound." "Can't we just go in?"
Ben trudged off after the ball, which had disappeared in the inky shadows at the base of the tree. She followed his small figure with her eyes. His hands were jammed into the front pockets of his jeans. His shoulders slumped, and his movements were dispirited. Like her, he was wearing a sweatshirt, although his was a forest-green hoodie and not ratty. A few porch lights were on up and down the street, and here and there uncurtained windows glowed yellow. But still, the night was so dark that the sidewalk was only visible as a pale ribbon snaking over the ground between the street and the tree. She was able to track Ben mostly because of his blond hair.
A car drove slowly past, its headlights catching Ben for an instant and throwing his shadow against the big oak's rough gray bark. He had almost reached the basketball, which was nestled in the roots. Kate watched the car's red taillights receding down the street, relieved that it kept going. There had been a knot of reporters waiting in front of her house when she'd pulled in from picking up Ben, and once more she'd had reason to be grateful for the attached garage and automatic opener. Driving right inside and closing the door, she'd managed to avoid them. She had stayed inside with the curtains drawn, refusing to come out or answer the phone, and as dark had fallen, they had finally given up and gone away. She was still wary, however. But the car kept going, and as she exhaled she shifted her gaze back to Ben, who was moving so slowly and reluctantly that he could have been a mobility-impaired turtle.
She was seriously considering the pros and cons of just sending a note to school on Monday saying that Ben had twisted his ankle and couldn't play basketball next week when she saw a figure slide around the oak and approach Ben, who was finally bending over to pick up the ball.
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught.
Although she was too far away to hear it, the person must have said something to Ben, because, holding the ball in both hands now, he straightened way too quickly to look at whoever it was.
The hair stood up on the back of Kate's neck. All she could tell through the darkness was that whoever was standing there in the dark talking so quietly to her little boy was an adult. A large adult.
It was probably a neighbor. Or a reporter. But she didn't like the feel of it. Something just felt wrong.
"Ben!" She shot like a homing missile across the few yards separating them. The dark swallowed her up just as it had Ben, and for a few seconds, until her eyes adjusted, it was difficult to see much more than shapes.
"Mom."
Holding the basketball against his chest, Ben was backing toward her even as she reached him. Of course, she'd spent his entire life warning him about strangers, and here was one—a big, menacing one—in the flesh. Her hands closed protectively over his thin shoulders. She could feel the tension in the rigidity of his shoulders and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. As he pressed back against her, his small body warm and faintly sweaty from basketball, his tousled head not yet reaching her shoulders, she looked over his head at the man— it was definitely a man, she saw, now that she was closer—standing only a few feet away. He was watching them both with a kind of still purpose that brought her heart into her throat.
She didn't recognize him, but, of course, it was dark. But her sixth sense screamed danger.
"Kate ... White," he said before she could speak, pronouncing her name like a judgment. It wasn't a question. His voice was low and deep with a rough West Philly accent, and she absolutely, positively didn't recognize it. Her eyes were growing more accustomed to the dark now. A knit watch cap was pulled down low over his eyes, and some kind of dark jacket or shirt was zipped up to his throat. It was impossible to tell his ethnicity with any certainty, but his skin was pale enough so that she could see the square-jawed shape of his face in the moonlight. He was about six feet tall, with a stocky, muscular build.
But the night obscured the details of his features. All she could see of them with any clarity was the gleam of his eyes. She couldn't see his hands, she thought with some confusion as he folded his arms over his chest, then an instant later realized it was because he was wearing dark gloves.
It wasn't that cold.
"Go in the house," she said fiercely to Ben, and thrust him behind her.
"Mom ..." There was fear in his voice. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He hesitated, looking back at her. "Do what I tell you!"
She never spoke to him in that tone, and he clearly recognized that she meant business. Still clutching the basketball, he headed at a trot toward the closed garage door and the opener that waited in the grass by the pavement. The front door was locked. They had come out through the garage, and it was the only way back in. She thought about going with him, tried to gauge the possibility of both her and Ben making it safely inside the house if they ran for it, and concluded that if this guy wanted to grab them, it wouldn't be likely. No matter how fast they were, he was almost certain to be faster. And the garage door took a long time to rise, and then an equally long time to close again. Likewise, a scream might not be heard or responded to. She planted herself foursquare and solid in front of the man. "Who are you?" she asked sharply. Her heart was beating way too fast. Her hands had closed into fists of their own volition.
"I got a message for you," he said, without answering her question. He didn't move, didn't come any closer, did nothing overt, but Kate felt the threat emanating from him like a wall of heat. "Mario says you owe him."
"What?"
Horrified as the message registered, Kate sucked in air. The groan of the garage door lifting up rumbled in the background, and she was conscious of Ben joggling anxiously from foot to foot as he waited and watched her through the dark. As she stood rooted to the spot, more headlights cut through the pitch blackness at the top of the street, coming toward them steadily. Just when the beams would have illuminated the stranger's face, he stepped back out of their path. She strained to see him.
The voice turned ugly. "He says you better not screw him over."
Kate felt a wave of dizziness. It had not occurred to her that Mario would have confederates, or that he constituted a physical threat. Terror blossomed in her anew, and her heart pounded. Her throat went dry. The headlights caught Kate in their glare, and she turned instinctively to glance at the oncoming car. To her surprise, instead of sweeping past, the headlights arced across her yard, and she realized that this car was pulling into her driveway. The
swish
of tires on pavement reached her ears even as she looked toward the stranger again. But she could no longer see him. As far as she could tell he was gone, faded away into the shadows.
Oh my God.
Her eyes cut to the car now parking in her driveway. Its headlights illuminated Ben, who had turned to look at the car as it pulled in, and the slowly rising garage door behind him. Ben was wide-eyed and pale in the bright beams, obviously scared, a small blond boy in jeans and a dark green hoodie who was clutching the garage door opener like it could somehow save him from whatever threatened.
"I'm coming, sweetie," she called, and his eyes, huge with uncertainty, turned in her direction.
Sick at the fear in Ben's face, she jogged across the yard toward him. Whoever this was, friend, neighbor, reporter, anyone, she could only be thankful that they'd come when they had. Though no violence had been threatened to her or Ben, the taste of fear was tinny in her mouth, and her pulse raced out of control.
We could have been hurt. Or worse.
The car stopped just outside the circle of light. Swathed in shadows, it was impossible to identify.
When the headlights went dead, it occurred to her that this, too, might be someone connected with Mario. Her eyes widened. Her pulse leaped. Her jog turned into a mad dash toward her son.
"Mom!" Ben's eyes searched for her in the dark. Behind him, the garage was opening into a black, cavelike maw as the door passed the midway mark. He could duck inside—but the door wouldn't close in time to keep whoever this was out. He would have to keep on running, into the house with its flimsy lock on the door that led in from the garage, then, with luck, if he remembered, to the phone to dial 911....
"I'm right here." She just reached the circle of light when the driver's door opened. Looking fearfully in the direction of the sound, she reached Ben just as a man got out and straightened to his full height. He was tall....
Heart in throat, she grabbed Ben by the arm and prepared to dart with him through the garage and into the house. Then the man turned his head, and a shaft of moonlight struck hair as shiny black as a crow's wing.
In an instant, his height and build and that black hair all came together for her: Detective Braga.
As she recognized him, he said, "Ms. White?"
"Who is he, Mom?" Ben's voice was urgent. He clutched the door opener, clearly frightened and ready to run into the garage.
"It's all right," Kate told him as relief washed over her, leaving her feeling weak all over in its wake. Earlier today, the sight of the detective had nearly given her a nervous breakdown. Now she was ready to fall at his feet. "I know him. He's a police officer. He's safe."
"Is something wrong?" The sound of the car door slamming was followed by a tiny beep as Braga locked it. Then he came toward them, frowning as he walked out of the darkness into the circle of fuzzy yellow light where they still stood. Kate realized that Ben was pressed against her side and she was clutching his forearm and, if her expression was anything like his, they both looked like they had just escaped a near-death encounter.
Trying to pretend that nothing had happened would be stupid. It was obvious from his expression that Braga could tell something bad had just gone down. Unable to help herself, Kate compulsively glanced toward the oak, visually searching the shadows around the tree and beyond. Was Mario's emissary still there? Was he watching?
The thought made her dizzy.
"Kate?" Braga's frown deepened as he reached them. His head turned, his gaze following hers to probe the encroaching darkness.
Get a grip. Downplay this.
"It's nothing. Just... oh, come inside, would you, please?"
He was looking at her now, the frown still in place. Her voice sounded croaky, because she was still shaken to the core. Her heart pounded, her pulse raced, and adrenaline rushed through her veins. Their eyes met, and Braga's frown deepened. But he didn't argue.
"Thanks."
Kate didn't wait for more. Instead, she turned away and headed inside.
"Are you sure he's okay, Mom?" Ben whispered urgently as she pulled him with her through the dark garage.
"I'm sure," Kate whispered back.
Braga was right behind them, and she thought he probably heard what they said, but she didn't care. Reassuring Ben had to be her first priority. The thought that her son didn't feel safe was almost unbearable.
Not that she felt safe, either, even with a presumably armed homicide detective who she knew would protect them with his life just a step behind them. She felt hideously, unexpectedly vulnerable. Even her own familiar belongings seemed ominous at the moment. The garbage cans and bicycles and even her good old reliable Camry took on a shadowy life of their own when viewed through a prism of newly awakened fear. Anyone could hide in those shadows. Anyone could appear when she least expected it, just like that thug had popped out from behind the oak in her front yard.
Kate realized that gradually, over the past eight and a half years, ever since she'd run from Atlantic City with Ben, she had forgotten what it was like to be afraid.
Now she remembered.
"Close the garage door, please," she said to Ben in as calm a tone as she could muster as they reached the door that led into the house. He obediently pushed the button on the remote, and the grinding sound of the garage door going down followed them into the kitchen.
Warmth and bright light and the lingering smell of the hamburger patties with beef gravy and canned green beans they'd had for dinner greeted them. The supper dishes piled in the sink and the notebook paper and calculator and pencils strewn haphazardly on the table— detritus from Ben's homework—greeted them, too. As did the half-empty brown grocery bag on the counter—she'd put away the perishables, but peanut butter and bananas and bread were still inside. A big yellow box of Cheerios perennially lived on the counter beside the refrigerator, because they both ate a bowl for breakfast every morning and she never quite got around to putting it back in the cabinet. Her purse and cell phone and Ben's backpack were on the counter, too, crowded together near the door. The kitchen was messy, no doubt about it, and it bothered her because she was suddenly seeing it as she imagined Braga, who had stepped past her and was now glancing around, would.