Just Fall (29 page)

Now, on the eve of her wedding to Rob, she looked at her wedding dress, a ghostly presence dangling from a hook over the bedroom door. Within hours she would bring that phantom to life, and in it, marry the man she loved wholeheartedly. In doing so she would lay down the revenant that was Hugh—she would lay down all the ghosts of her prior relationships. But even as she thought this, a menacing shadow crept through her thoughts. Was there such a thing as love without reservation? Was that truly how she felt or had she just been swept along in a foolish romantic tide? Should she be worried by Rob’s reluctance to talk about his past? Was she repeating her pattern of not seeing what fit the world as she so desperately wanted to view it?

Fingering the frothy lace of her wedding gown, Ellie smiled. Rob loved her. He told her so all the time. Rob was going to marry her. She wasn’t damaged, as she had feared.

She was going to love him and be vulnerable to him, she was going to take care of him and let him take care of her. It was all going to be wonderful. It was going to be perfect. She was going to fall into her life with Rob, arms and eyes and heart wide open.

Tomorrow was her wedding day. From now on, she was getting her happily ever after.

Rob paces in front of Quinn, who leans against the wall in the near-empty room, watching him. Water drips from the swollen ceiling. Sky and sea stretch beyond the window, infinitely blue, achingly beautiful.

“Why shouldn’t I take advantage of a deal that’s already in place?” Quinn’s tone is biting. “That was built on the back of my business?”

“Because it’s
children.
” Rob’s agitated. “I was taken from you. Surely you understand what you’re doing to these families?”

“But I’m also creating new ones. People who desperately want children are getting them.” Quinn sounds pleased with himself. “I’m conducting acts of profitable altruism.”

Carter Williamson is dead. Ethan is dead. Quinn has punished the guilty and seized what he deems rightfully his. Rob knows that neither he nor Ellie is needed anymore. Despite Quinn’s promise that he has sent his man out to get Ellie, Rob knows at this point they are now both only liabilities.

“This is what is going to happen,” Rob insists, fighting the dread rising within him.

Quinn laughs, genuinely delighted. “You think you’re in a position to be giving me orders?”

“I’m going to turn myself in for the murder of Carter Williamson. Ellie is going to go home to New York a free woman.”

Quinn replies with a dismissive gesture. Pulls one of the chaises away from under the
drip, drip, drip
of the water. “Why would I allow that to happen?”

“Because if it doesn’t, an anonymous tip is going to expose everything you’ve got coming in through Miami. Come on,” Rob baits him. “Wasn’t it you who taught me about a time-release guarantee?”

Rob watches Quinn suppress a twist of a smile, one at war with the thinly veiled anger Rob’s ultimatum has sparked. Flattery always has been a bit of a weakness for Quinn. But predictably, the anger wins. Quinn’s eyes and voice go cold. “Hector will find her. Then we’ll see.”

Three distinct heavy thuds echo through the house.

“What’s that?” Quinn cocks his head, feral, hunting.

“I don’t know.”

There is a swell of quiet. The ceiling drips. The tropical breeze blows through the dingy room carrying with it the scent of brine and flowers.

The air is split by a plaintive cry, pierced with anguish, cracked with pain.

Quinn’s visibly unnerved. “Is that the kid?”

“How should I know?”

“Come with me.” There is a crumple of red at the other end of the main hallway, near the bottom of the stairs. Quinn strides over to it. Kicks it flat with the toe of his shoe. It’s a child’s T-shirt, a dump truck emblazoned on the front.

Another thud. A single one this time, reverberating like a meditation bell, its last vibrations tapering off into eternity.

Just as the last faint tremor fades, another loud keening cry, laced with suffering, doused with longing. It sounds like it’s coming from upstairs.

“Enough,” Quinn snaps. His bony shoulders hunch in irritation as he ascends the stairs.

A child’s ball comes tumbling down the steps and past his feet, navy rubber with happy red stars.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Quinn twists his head to follow the ball. There’s a thick, dull thud. An explosive grunt of surprise and pain. Quinn slumps facefirst onto the stairs, limbs splayed.

Rob stares down at the dark crimson liquid flowing from the back of Quinn’s head. There is a clinking sound. Rob lifts his gaze.

A piece of copper piping, one end smeared with Quinn’s blood, falls down from the shadowy landing, clanging its way down the steps until it comes to rest at the bottom.

Silence.

Rob ascends the stairs slowly, stepping gingerly past Quinn, whose breath is shallow, whose wound is ugly.

At the landing, it takes Rob’s eyes a moment to adjust. So much of this house is flooded with light, but this hallway is thick with shadows.

“Ellie,” Rob breathes.

She’s pressed up against the wall, receding in the gloom, practically a ghost herself.

Between them, mere flickers of eye contact. Rob feels tentative and fragile, excruciatingly aware of the heavy layer of exhaustion coating them both. The oppressive weight of unasked and unanswered questions. He takes a step toward her.

“We should see to that child,” he says.

“He’s not here,” she replies. “No one else is here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I got the boy out. No one else is up here.”

Ellie pushes the hair away from her eyes. “I heard what you said,” she murmurs. “You would have done that for me? Turned yourself in?”

“Yes. Of course…I can still do it,” he offers impulsively. “Turn myself in. Let you go home.”

“I was going to walk away. Never see you again.”

He knows in his gut this is what he deserves.

“We’ve come this far,” she says hoarsely, then falters.

She’s alive. She’s well. She said “we.” Could she still love him? He longs to kiss her. He doesn’t dare.

Quinn moans and stirs.

“What are we going to do with him?” Ellie asks.

Rob doesn’t answer. He descends the stairs quickly, drags Quinn onto one of the chaises in the great room. Roots in the bags of supplies next to the chairs and finds duct tape and a folding utility knife. Tapes Quinn down tightly as Ellie creeps down the stairs, watching. Then he drops the knife. Backs away from Quinn.

His eyes meet Ellie’s.

Rob paced the anteroom, his cellphone pressed to his ear. The ballroom was mere steps away, full of plumed and perfumed guests. Rob could hear the string quartet. The processional was to begin in twelve minutes. He exclaimed into the phone, asked questions, his face registered disappointment.

There was no one on the other end of the line. This was all a show for the benefit of his tux-clad future father-in-law, who stood a discreet distance away, allowing Rob his privacy.

Rob said goodbye to his nonexistent caller. Turned to Brian. “He’s stuck in Dallas. Flight’s been canceled.”

Rob had planned this elaborate ruse for weeks. When the subject of a best man had arisen, Rob was flummoxed. Who could he ask? The convention of a best man to stand up for him at the wedding was a detail he hadn’t considered when making his impromptu proposal. Ellie knew his friends in New York were recent, none of them particularly close. He had endured a moment of wistful thinking about his old mentor, Matt Walsh. If anyone should be beside him today it should be he, although that was sadly impossible.

So he had created a first cousin. Jake Beauman. Jake was a romantic figure, a world traveler who had taken a stint in the Peace Corps and turned it into a passion for teaching drought farming in Africa. Jake was a free spirit who came and went unexpectedly, who lived out of a rucksack.

Ellie had been thrilled when Rob told her Jake had agreed to be his best man and was flying in for the wedding. Then there had been weeks of updates: Jake had booked his flight; Jake had sent his measurements for the tux; Jake had to change his flight but would still arrive the day of the wedding. Rob had taken the false measurements to the shop, and paid for and picked up the charcoal-gray tuxedo, which now hung in Rob’s hotel room, always and forever a phantom.

“You must be disappointed.” Brian clapped a hand on Rob’s shoulder.

“Of course.” Rob’s distress was real enough. “What should I do? What do I tell Ellie?”

“How about this? I walk Ellie down the aisle, then come and stand with you instead of taking my seat? I’d be happy to stand up for the man who has made my daughter so happy.” With a smile, “After all, I already have the boutonniere.”

Rob was genuinely touched. He shook Brian’s hand and thanked him. Problem solved. Except for the difficulty of adding to the many falsehoods he had already told his lovely bride. At least the lies about the mythical Jake Beauman were relatively harmless.

The candles have been snuffed, the hymns concluded. Still the street is awash with people—chatting, commiserating, gossiping, and speculating, but also comforting the families of the missing boys, offering prayers and meals. Lucien is grateful the gathering has been a peaceful one. He stands alone now in the small yard in front of Gabrielle and Peter’s home. The others have gone inside—Agathe to put Bertrand to sleep, the rest of the family exhausted and unable to bear any more public scrutiny. Therese, Lucien’s mother-in-law, wants everyone to eat, even though no one feels the slightest bit hungry. Lucien suspects she just wants the distraction of cooking and serving.

“I’ll be right there,” Lucien promised Agathe. But he stays in the yard, fighting against a flood of defeatist emotions the only way he knows how—cataloguing and reexamining every bit of evidence he has collected. The missing boys, Olivier’s death, the two murdered expats. Are they connected in some way or is that his frustration speaking? It feels like some grand illumination is just beyond his reach. He keeps turning the pieces of the puzzles, hoping they will click into satisfying place.

When the motorcycle appears in the distance, Lucien doesn’t pay it much mind at first. But then the bike stops right in front of Lucien. The driver is Crazy B. He looks shocked and nervous when he recognizes Lucien. Lucien realizes there is a small boy sitting in front of the dealer. He’s shirtless; his frail ribcage pushes against thin skin. He wears tan shorts. Light-up sneakers. The boy pulls off the helmet obscuring his face. Thomas.

Lucien springs to his feet. He can’t form words. He’s aware his mouth gapes open even as his arms stretch toward the boy.

Thomas cries, sobs of relief that shake his body as Lucien sweeps him into his arms. His heels kick against Lucien’s back, his light-up shoes sparkling with every smack. Crazy B roars away into the night, with an anxious backward glance at Lucien.

And then Gabrielle is there, drawn outside by some kind of primordial maternal sense. Her child is home. He is safe.

The moment Lucien hands Thomas into Gabrielle’s arms is truly one of the most gratifying of his life. Gabrielle’s entire body trembles. Agathe, standing next to her sister, radiates relief. Thomas’s father, Peter, wraps Lucien in a bear hug and his in-laws, Therese and Moses, openly weep. For a long moment, the three women, Therese, Gabrielle, and Agathe, cling together, with Thomas at the center of their protective huddle. Lucien asks himself if there was ever a more beautiful thing.