Authors: Jo Leigh
He curled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the door. Pain radiated up his arm, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to smash through the wood, to tear the cabin down around him. He wanted out.
* * *
Becky fought to stay asleep. She didn’t want to be awake, to remember. She shivered and opened her eyes. The fire was still burning, so why was she so cold? She felt as though she would never be warm again. She would never be in her own home. That she would never see another spring. Everything would happen for the rest of her days in snow and ice.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging her legs to her chest. Where was Mike? He’d been here, comforting her. His kindness bewildered her. How could he be so nice, after what she’d done to him?
But that was Mike, wasn’t it? The man she had married. He’d been a sweetheart back then, a gentle and considerate lover. Before she’d turned against him. Now there was something to be proud of.
No, she wouldn’t go down that path. All it would lead to was more hurt, and like Mike had said, they’d all had enough of that. What was important now was to start over. To learn to be kind again, to Mike, to Sam, to herself.
Someday, she might understand why she’d done those terrible things. Why she’d found it necessary to hurt him so deeply. But for now, she would just stop. Stop pointing fingers and stop the blame.
It was nearly five o'clock. She’d slept for a long time. How could so much have happened in one day? She’d had a year’s worth of revelations, a lifetime’s worth of sorrow. Enough. That’s what Mike had said. Yes. Quite enough.
She got up and stretched. Her muscles ached and her neck was sore. There was a bathtub in Mike’s room. Maybe later she would soak for a while and try to get out the kinks. In the meantime, Sam had been upstairs alone all afternoon.
She took the stairs slowly. Her legs felt heavy and sluggish. His door was open, and when she walked in, she saw he was on the bed playing on his computer. Didn’t he ever get tired of that thing?
She shouldn’t complain. It was probably good for him to have someplace to go. So what if it wasn’t the real world? The real world wasn’t all that hot sometimes.
“Hey, kiddo. How you doing?”
He looked up at her, a little startled by her voice. “Hi. I'm on the fifth level. Only one more to go.” Then his gaze went back to the screen.
“The fifth level? Wow.” She hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, but if he was impressed, she would be, too. She walked over to the bed and looked at the screen. It was a jumble of lights and figures, streaming beams and flashing icons. She couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
Then she turned her attention to Sam. His fingers were moving with unbelievable swiftness, his eyes darting back and forth as he followed the game. She loved him so much it was hard to breathe.
Had he known? Had he watched her turn against his father? Had he seen the accusing stares, heard the bitter words? Is that why he took refuge in a machine?
She reached a tentative hand out and touched his hair. What she wanted to do was take him in her arms and hold him, but she simply ran her hand down the curve of his head, and then let go. He didn’t acknowledge her in any way. Not a smile or a frown. It was the game that had him transfixed, she knew that, but it didn’t make her feel any less alone.
She turned and went to the window. A maelstrom of wind and snow and tree branches smashed against the glass. What was that poem, about the world ending in ice? She could believe it. Her world had ended. Her belief in herself, the very foundation of her existence had been swept away in a gale of cold words and colder truths. She had thought of herself as a decent person most of her life. Now, all she believed was that she was afraid.
“Dammit!”
Becky turned quickly, startled at Sam’s outburst. “What?”
“I got killed. Two more men, that’s all I needed. I was so close.”
She tried to get her pulse to slow. “I'm sorry you didn’t win. Next time, win or lose, you need to find another word to express yourself.”
He looked at her, puzzled. “What did I say?”
She laughed. “Never mind. Anyway, you've been playing that thing too much. Put it away and come downstairs. I need some help with dinner.”
“I'm starving.”
“No wonder. You haven’t eaten all day.”
“Yes I did. I fixed myself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. Earlier. You and dad were downstairs.”
Had he heard them? She dearly hoped he hadn’t. He didn’t need one more thing to worry about.
He started typing again. She guessed he was saving the game for another time.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“I'm really sorry about this morning.”
“Don’t sweat it, kiddo. Just don’t do it again.”
His fingers stilled. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
She rushed over to the bed and sat down next to him. “Did you hear me crying in the basement?”
He nodded, making sure he didn’t look anywhere but straight in front of him.
She put her arm around his shoulder and hugged him. “That wasn’t about you. I promise. I was crying about a lot of things, honey, but not you.”
“You sounded...bad.”
“I'm sure I did. But it wasn’t bad. Sometimes crying can be a good thing. It can help you express feelings that are deep inside. I was very sad for a long time, but today was the first time I could cry about it. So it seemed worse than it was.”
“Okay.”
She touched his chin with her finger and turned him so she could see his eyes. “You mean it?”
He nodded.
She kissed him on the nose. “Thanks for caring, sweetie.”
His cheeks got a little pink, and he turned back to his computer. She watched him hit a number of keys, then the screen went black. He shut the cover. “Mom, what’s for dinner?”
“How about spaghetti?”
“Yeah.”
She stood up, and Sam scrambled off the bed. He was out of there and clomping down the stairs before she reached the door. She was pretty sure he believed her, but tonight, before bed, she would check in with him again. Reiterate that he hadn’t done anything to upset her. She would have Mike say something to him, too.
Speaking of Mike, she thought, where had he gone? He wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen. Maybe he was napping.
Sam had already started setting the table. He seemed okay to her. But then, she’d thought he was fine last night, and all the nights before. How was she ever going to trust her judgment again?
She got out the big pot and filled it with water. After she put it on the stove and started the fire beneath it, she turned to Sam. “Can you finish setting the table by yourself?”
“I'm almost done.”
“Don’t forget glasses. Use the chair to reach them. I'm going to go talk to Daddy for a minute.”
He nodded, and she hurried out of the kitchen. She’d managed to give herself one heck of a headache. After she talked to Mike she would go upstairs and take some aspirin.
His door was shut. She almost turned around, but she needed to talk to him. Wasn’t it ironic that she was turning to him for comfort? She knocked softly.
“Just a second.”
He’d answered so quickly that she didn’t think he’d been asleep. But it took him a while to come to the door. When he opened it, she saw he hadn’t changed from the flannel shirt and jeans he’d been wearing all day. “I thought you were going to shower.”
“I was.” He stepped aside and let her in. “The day got away from me.”
She nodded. “I think it got away from all of us.” His room was messy. The bed was unmade, a towel was on the floor. His duffel bag was sitting open on his pillow, next to yesterday’s dirty clothes. She didn’t care. Moving a pair of jeans, she sat down on the edge of the bed and turned to him. “Sam heard me crying.”
She didn’t think he heard her. He was staring at the bed, his eyes fixed and his brow furrowed.
“Mike?”
He turned his gaze slowly toward her. “Yeah?”
“Where are you?”
He blinked and seemed to come back to earth. “Sorry, I was thinking about something else. What did you say?”
“Sam heard me. When I was crying in the basement.”
“What did he say?”
“He thought I was upset because he tried to run away.”
“I'll talk to him.”
“I told him that I wasn’t, of course, but I think you should. I—” She rubbed her eyes, and told herself she was
not
going to cry again. “I don’t trust my judgment. He may still be very upset.”
Mike came over to the bed and sat down next to her. “You want to explain that?”
She picked a piece of lint off her sweater. “How am I supposed to make up for everything? I let him down. I let you down. I just don’t know what to do to make it right.”
“It’s over. Forget it.”
She looked straight at him. “How am I supposed to forget it? Sam tried to run away today because he thought we didn’t love him. I chased you away because I couldn’t deal with my own craziness. How do you expect me to forget that?”
He reached over and took her hand in his. “The worst thing that can ever happen to a woman happened to you. You did what you needed to, to survive. We both did.”
“Throwing away your love was how I needed to survive? No. Leaving you nearly killed me.”
His eyes closed and she heard his sharp intake of breath. When he looked at her again, he seemed in pain. “Leaving me was the smartest thing you've ever done.”
“What? How can you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth. This thing about blame, it doesn’t cut it. It wasn’t my fault or your fault. Or maybe we were both to blame, but it doesn’t matter now. It’s over. We had something once, a long time ago. We can’t ever get it back again.” He got up off the bed and walked to the bathroom door. Instead of looking at her, he stared at this shoes.
A great hand came around her heart and squeezed. But what had she expected? That he could forget what she’d done? That he could ever forgive her for the way she’d come between him and Amy? “Of course,” she said. “You're right.” She tried to smile, but it was a dismal failure. “Go on and shower. I've put dinner up. By the time you get out, we'll be ready to eat.”
He hesitated. She thought he might say something, but after a while, he just opened the bathroom door and went inside.
One good thing had come of this. She didn’t hurt anymore. She just felt numb. What could she have been thinking? He didn’t love her. She’d taught him not to.
* * *
Mike let the hot water pound on his back. He wanted to stay in here forever.
He had to tell her. Even if he didn’t, she would soon guess that something was wrong. She knew him too well. But damn, he didn’t want to.
Why now? Why not wait until tomorrow? Let them get a good night’s sleep. That would be the kind thing to do. What was the use of terrifying her tonight? Even Mojo couldn’t get up here that fast.
Could he pretend for the whole night? Could he look at her without betraying this awful fear? He was no actor, but for them, he might be able to pull it off.
Then he thought about that last letter. The one he’d gotten the day Mojo escaped from prison. Mojo had known about Becky’s job at the hotel. He’d known her hours, her habits, including the fact that she worked out to exercise tapes every day at four. He’d known about Sam, too. Where he went to school, how old he was, even his favorite food.
How? Who had told him?
Maybe the storm would ease up by morning, Mike thought. Enough at least for them to take off on the snowmobiles. He knew the route. They would take backpacks of food and water, sleeping bags and a tent. If the winds weren’t too bad, they would be on the road for four or five hours, he guessed, until they could find shelter. If everything went right.
But things never did. Something always went wrong. With his family at stake was he willing to risk it?
At least here, they could fortify themselves. They had food, water, shelter. It would be Mojo who had to fight the elements.
He turned and grabbed the shampoo. Maybe he was worrying for nothing. There was no evidence that Mojo knew where they were. Even if he did, how was he going to get up here?
No. He couldn’t afford to believe that. Mojo had managed to do the impossible time after time. Only a fool would believe he couldn’t do it again.
However, Mike was beginning to think that running was the last thing they should do. Literally. They should stay in the house, make it as impenetrable as possible. Becky could handle his gun if she needed to, and he had his rifle. Sam already knew about the closet.
The decision was made. Now all he had to do was act as if nothing was wrong.
It was going to be a long night.
B
ecky stirred the spaghetti, then went back to making the salad. She sliced the last tomato and tossed it in the bowl.
Sam had finished setting the table and had taken his seat. He had the salt and pepper shakers in his hand, and it looked to her as if he were pitting them against each other in battle. She hoped the salt won.
She shook her head at her own foolishness, but a small part of her was relieved she could still smile.
“What are we going to do tonight?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Any preferences?”
“Yeah. I want to watch TV.”
“Other than that.”
He guided the pepper shaker around the fork and the spoon, straight into the salt. It tipped over, and Sam gurgled and grabbed his throat to expire right along with it. He slumped in his chair, eyes closed, mouth wide open, then one second later, he sat up again. “I
don’t
want to work on the puzzle.”
“No, really?”
“Let’s tell ghost stories. I know a really gross one.”
“Good. The grosser the better.”
Becky turned at the sound of Mike’s voice. He was standing just inside the kitchen, smiling at Sam. His hair was still wet, combed straight back, and he had swapped his trademark flannel for a University of Colorado sweatshirt. Tonight’s jeans fit him better. They were snug against his slim hips and long legs.
He walked to the table and pulled out his chair. “Anything I can do?”
She shook her head. “It’s almost ready. Sit.”
He did. Becky watched him talk with Sam. The words weren’t important, the way he said them was. He was listening to Sam raptly, interested in everything he had to say. Sam responded in kind, laughing and talking a mile a minute.
Her gaze moved from her son to his father, and she realized with a start that she wasn’t the only one who’d been out of touch with reality. Only Mike’s was a reality far better than hers. He was a good, decent man, with a great deal of love in his heart. The problem was, he didn’t know it.
Of all her crimes, that was the biggest. She’d convinced him that he was cold and unloving. He’d spent the last two years keeping himself at arm’s-length from his son, all because of her. They’d both lost in this terrible battle, but no more.
She would prove to him that he still had a heart. Just like the Wizard of Oz, she would show her Tin Man that he was whole and complete. That he didn’t need to hide anymore behind that steely facade. She owed him that—more than that.
“What’s wrong? You've been staring at me for five minutes.”
Becky shook herself free from her thoughts and smiled at Mike. “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
The pasta was done, and in a few minutes she had the whole meal on the table and had taken her seat. Strangely enough, she felt kind of good. Clean. It was as if she’d gone to confession. Of course no one had given her absolution, but maybe helping Mike see the truth about himself would be a start.
“Eww, look at the worms,” Sam said. “Blood-covered worms all writhing on your plate, and you're going to chew them up so their guts—”
“Hey!” she said, sharply. “Knock it off. That’s disgusting.”
Sam hung his head, but she caught him sneaking a peek at Mike and then the two of them laughed.
“Do you think we could hold off on the gross stories until after dinner? Please?”
Mike looked stonily at Sam. “Your mother’s right. We won’t say another word about slimy, crawling worms that slither down your throat—”
Becky gasped loudly and threw her napkin at Mike’s head. “You're horrible. Both of you. Yech.”
Sam was laughing so hard she was afraid he was going to fall off his chair. Mike watched him with a large grin on his face. When her gaze went to his eyes, she lost her own smile.
Mike was staring at Sam as if he would never see him again. There was no mistaking that look, she’d seen it before. What had happened? Was it their talk this afternoon? Had he made some kind of crazy decision to leave Sam for good?
She thought about what he’d said in the bedroom. That running from him had been the best thing she’d ever done. No. It wasn’t. It was a horrible mistake, one she would never forgive herself for. She’d nearly destroyed three lives, and she had a lot of mending to do. She had to make him see that he belonged with Sam.
“Come on you two,” she said. “Eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
Mike nodded his agreement. “Okay. Nothing but serious talk now.” He took a big bite of spaghetti, then made a show of chewing. As soon as he swallowed, he turned to Sam. With an exaggerated frown he said, “So, Sam, what do you think about the trade embargo with Cuba?”
That set Sam off again. He giggled and fidgeted in his chair, loving the attention more than the jokes.
But her gaze stayed on Mike. He might be able to fool Sam, but not her. She knew him too well. She didn’t know exactly what he was thinking, but she knew it was painful. As soon as dinner was over, she would talk to him. She only hoped he would tell her the truth.
Mike listened to Sam’s laughter and tried to memorize the sound. He saw how his eyes crinkled up so he could barely see, and his cheeks turned pink. Nothing was more important than remembering this. It could all be gone in an instant. Just like Cliff’s life. Or Gordon’s.
There was a time, long, long ago, when he’d believed that good would triumph over evil. That the guys in the white hats would always come out on top. But it wasn’t true. Life was a crapshoot, and so was death. Of course, being his friend, or his child, knocked the hell out of the odds.
Amy had loved him, had counted on him, and he’d let her down. Gordon and Cliff had counted on him, too. It was a dangerous thing, believing in Mike McCullough. Downright deadly.
His record was about to get even better. Mojo was out there somewhere, determined to keep his promise. For the first time since this whole nightmare had begun, Mike had no faith that he would be able to stop him.
So he would watch his son tonight, and memorize his every move. He would make him laugh. Give him what little happiness he could.
He tore his gaze away from Sam before he lost it. That wouldn’t do him any good. The facade was too critical. Sam and Becky had to believe this was just an ordinary night, not their last. He went on eating, not tasting the food. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except tonight. Now.
Becky was staring at him. For how long? he wondered. Had she guessed his secret? No, she would have been scared to death, not just curious. She knew something was wrong, that was clear. She always had been able to read him like a book. He would have to do better, if he was going to pull this off.
He smiled at her, willing his whole body to move into the smile with him. He needed to remember something good. That part turned out to be easy. Becky, in his bed. Loving him. Taking him inside her, crying out his name.
The look of concern on her face melted away. He’d succeeded, for the moment at least, in putting her at ease. He turned his attention back to his dinner, and to listening to Sam. He was talking about the game he’d almost won. How he’d gotten to the fifth level, which was almost impossible—he only knew two people who’d gotten to level five and they were both big kids, in junior high.
Mike had no trouble telling Sam he was proud. Of course Sam had no way of knowing that Mike’s pride came from far more than a computer victory. Everything his son did made him proud. He was a good kid, one of the best. He had a generous heart and was quick to laugh. He deserved a rich, full life.
“Who wants dessert?”
Mike was grateful Becky had interrupted his thoughts. “I do,” he said quickly, even though it was a lie. He needed more to do, and eating was as good a chore as any.
“Me, too,” Sam said.
She got up and took the dirty plates to the sink, then came back with the cake she’d baked yesterday. She’d covered it with chocolate frosting, Sam’s favorite.
Becky watched her men eat. Sam was in heaven, having both of them near, without all the tension that normally marred their times together. She glanced at Mike again, but the haunted look in his eyes had faded. Maybe it had never been there at all.
The time sort of slipped through her fingers as she sat back and listened to Sam’s chatter and Mike’s questions. A peace came over her, one she hadn’t known for many years. She felt complete. That was it.
Right now, in this strange cabin, with the blizzard outside and danger just around the corner, she felt as though all was right in the world. She wished Amy could be here, too, but it wasn’t melancholy at all. Amy
was
here. In her heart.
“Why don’t you and I clean up and let Mom take it easy,” Mike said. “What do you say, Samson?”
He didn’t look thrilled about it, but he said, “Okay.”
“You,” Mike said, staring at her. “Get out. We don’t want your kind in here.”
“My kind?”
“Females. There’s man’s work to be done. It won’t be pretty.”
She had to laugh. God, how long had it been since she’d seen this side of Mike? He’d been so funny all those years ago. Then the laughter had stopped. It was a joy to see it come alive again. “Yes sir, captain sir. I'll be in the other room. No fair sneaking more cake.”
The way Sam smiled let her know she’d nipped that crime in the bud. She went into the living room, and before she sat down she put another log on the fire. The couch beckoned then, and she stretched out, grateful to have a moment to herself.
She heard laughter from the kitchen, and she closed her eyes. Never before had she been on such a roller coaster of feelings. At least not all in one day. Sleep would come easily tonight. And tomorrow? She hadn’t a clue. It would just have to take care of itself.
* * *
“How should we wake her?”
Sam was staring at his mom, shaking his head slowly, deep in thought. “I don’t know,” he whispered back. “But it needs to be good.”
Mike put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We shouldn’t do anything that will scare her
too
much.”
Sam looked up. “Don’t chicken out on me now.”
Mike nodded gravely. “It’s your call.”
Sam brought one hand up to his face, one finger tapping his lips. He studied his mother with extraordinary thoughtfulness and it was all Mike could do not to laugh.
“I think I've got it.”
“Hmm?”
“Warm water plus her fingers in a bowl.”
Mike burst out laughing. He remembered that trick from years ago, when he’d gone to all-night parties. They would wait until the first person went to sleep then dip his hands in warm water. Inevitably, the poor victim would wet the bed, or the sleeping bag.
“Shh,” Sam hissed furiously, waving at Mike to pipe down. But it was too late.
Becky blinked and opened her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Dad just spoiled our surprise.”
She pulled herself up to a sitting position. “What? Tell me anyway.”
Sam gave Mike a disgusted glare. “Forget it. It wouldn’t be any good now.”
Mike was still laughing. “Sorry, kiddo. Maybe next time.”
“Sure.” He hunched his shoulders forward and shuffled past Becky. He plopped himself down in front of the fireplace. “You guys never let me have any fun.”
Becky looked questioningly at Mike. All he could do was shake his head. He would tell her later. Maybe.
The wing chair had his name on it. He sat down facing both Sam and Becky. He didn’t want to miss a thing tonight. Not one word or gesture. He felt as though he were standing outside of himself, observing more than participating. There—Becky pushed some loose hairs behind her ear. The move was fluid and unconscious and burned forever in his memory. Now Sam toyed with the Velcro on his sneaker, ripping it open, then shutting it again. Mike wanted to stop the world. Right now. Freeze-frame this night, this room, this family. But he couldn’t.
Mojo was still out there.
“You said you were going to tell ghost stories,” Sam said, looking over at Mike.
“Right. Let’s see. You know the one about the hook?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Duh. That’s so old it has mold.”
Mike grinned. “How about the one with the beating heart?”
Sam nodded. “Cool. Was it ripped out from someone’s chest?”
Mike leaned forward. “You'll have to wait and see.”
Becky curled her legs up in front of her and listened as Mike told Sam
The Tell-tale Heart.
He did it well, with sound effects and a spooky voice. Sam was caught in his spell, listening wide-eyed and motionless.
She was caught up, too, but not in the old Poe story. Mike captured her attention. She felt sure, now, that she hadn’t been mistaken. Even though he was more like the old Mike than ever before, there was definitely something wrong. If she’d had to, she doubted she could say just what. It was something in his eyes. In the way he looked at Sam. There was an indefinable sadness about him. As if this would be the last story he ever told.
He held a secret, she was sure. But secrets had become her enemy. Nothing good had ever come of them. Only hurt. She could be patient, though. Soon, Sam would be off to bed and she could talk to Mike alone.
When he finished his tale, Sam was delighted. He begged for more, and Mike obliged. She didn’t recognize this one. It didn’t matter. He could have been reading the phone book aloud. Sam was his. Enraptured, captivated. Nothing had ever held his attention like this. Not even his computer.
By the time the second story was finished, it was nearly ten-thirty. She was still exhausted; her brief naps hadn’t been of much help. “It’s that time,” she said.
Sam groaned. “No. Another half hour. Please.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Upstairs. I want you in pj’s in five minutes. I'll be up to check.”
“Do I have to go right to sleep?” He was on his knees, crawling over to the couch. His hands were pressed together under his chin as he pleaded his case.
She looked into those dark eyes. They seemed to shine, but not from the firelight. It was much deeper than that. He’d been touched by his father tonight. She leaned forward and kissed the top of his head. “You can read. Half an hour. Then it’s lights out.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said, then he shot to his feet and raced to the stairs. He came to a screeching halt, turned around and ran back to Mike. “Great stories, Dad,” he said, then he was off again, and this time he made it all the way up to his room.