Some kind of wonderful (32 page)

Giving Jack one last look—because really, how could she help herself?—she closed the door, leaving him where he'd wanted to be.

On the outside.

then before he could lose his nerve, ripped at the strapping tape holding the box closed. His heart slammed against his rib cage, his breath caught in straining lungs that felt like balloons filled to near bursting.

Jack swallowed back the tide of emotions raging inside him. He'd avoided this box for days. Never considered opening it until recently. Never would have considered it if not for Carol.

Longings, cravings, rose up in him and nearly strangled him. He wanted to live again. Wanted to be the man he'd once been. The man Carol and Liz deserved.

With the cardboard flaps thrown open wide, he stared down into the remnants of his past as the chains holding him to it tightened around his throat. Crap from his desk, a photo of his ex-wife, a snapshot of him and Will together at a softball game. The commendation he'd received for killing that boy in the alley.

Memories, good and bad, charged through his brain, one after the other, until they were nothing more than a blur of color and sound. He inhaled deeply and smelled the past as it reached out for him.

Steeling himself, Jack reached into the box, and almost instantly, his fingers curled around a videotape. The tape of the shooting. The piece of evidence that had saved his ass. Taken at the scene by an interested bystander at an upstairs window, the tape had upheld the story he'd told IAD. Internal Affairs had then cleared him of any wrongdoing. But Jack hadn't been able to accept that. His friend dead, his wife's accusations ringing in his ears, Jack had picked up the burden of blame and strapped it to his back.

Carol was right.

He had been a martyr.

But Judgment Day was finally here. Fist closed over

the videotape, he walked to the television, slapped the tape into the VCR, and pushed play.

The screen jumped to life and the tape flickered, rolled, then settled again. The film, taken by a local man hoping to catch footage of stray lightning, started out focused on the rain-choked sky. The camera jumped, the cameraman cursed, then, at the sound of a racing engine, swung the lens down to focus on the alley two stories below.

Jack watched as his squad car roared into the darkness, headlights slicing through the curtain of rain, illuminating every drop until they glittered like diamonds. A torrent of water poured along the alleyway, plastic bags and crumpled papers sailing on the current, looking like a poor man's boat parade. Videotape couldn't recapture the stench of that damned alley, but it seemed to Jack that the smells oozed from the television, reaching for him, trying to drag him back.

The sounds rushed at him with eagerness. The car engine, the pounding of the rain, the car door opening as Will stepped out before the car had stopped rolling.

Jack saw himself climb out of the car, squinting into the rain, just a step or two behind Will as they headed into the inky darkness, looking for a killer.

The first shot erupted and Jack jolted in the comfort of his living room. He saw the flash, watched himself instinctively duck as the bullet pinged into the wall behind him. He saw Will turn and stare at him blankly as if trying to figure out what had happened. Jack's hands fisted on his knees, his gut twisted, as he heard his voice shout from the past, "Getdown!"

But it was too late. The second shot came too fast. Too accurately. Jack watched the look of stunned surprise etch itself onto Will's face just before he staggered

backward, collapsing into an overfull Dumpster and splashing down face up, into the dirty river at his feet. Trash spilled over the edge of the dirty brown Dumpster, falling into Will's face with the same steadiness as the raindrops pelting him.

Jack groaned, old pain new again, tearing at him with claws of memory and talons of regret.

It all seemed to move so slowly, he thought now, watching the scene play out like a badly written movie. But that night, seconds had become hours, minutes were days. The shooter kept firing. One shot after another, wild, crazy shots. Hitting Will had been some terrible stroke of luck—or fate. Jack couldn't get to his partner. His friend. He saw himself trapped behind the car, saw the fury, the pain on his own face, and remembered the sense of helplessness. Of inevitability.

He knew what was coming next and braced himself to relive it. At the next muzzle flash, Jack took a chance. He stood up and fired three rounds in quick succession.

A scream knifed through him, echoing from the television, pulling him back into the nightmare, back into that stinking alley. He watched himself run first to the shooter, making sure the gun was out of play. He felt again the hideous shock of finding a child bleeding to death in the rain.

But even through the ache of memory, he watched himself go by the book. Secure the gun. Then check on Will, calling for an ambulance as he ran, footsteps sliding and sloshing through the muck.

Jack's stomach did a hard lurch, then settled as he watched himself bend over Will. And as he hadn't been able to do then ... he mourned the friend he'd lost that night.

The ambulance had been too late, of course. Will was gone. The boy died not long after.

The videotape recorded the wail of the ambulance, then the screen went dark and the VCR went into automatic rewind mode. He hardly noticed the hum of the machine as it reset the past to play again.

Jack's hands slowly unfisted. His stomach stopped churning. He'd finally faced the past—and in the truth, he'd found a hard-won peace.

Two days later, Carol slept late.

Sunlight streamed through her bedroom window and lay across the foot of the mattress in a dazzling slice of golden light. Outside the window, birds sang and children were laughing and squealing.

Exhaustion tugged at her and Carol smiled. Getting back into "mommy" routine was tough. But it was all worth it. Every tear, every ache, every joy, tangled up together in her heart, and they each centered on one tiny girl.

Lacey was packing for college, making plans with Peggy Reilly for a future that once again looked bright and full of promise. Adoption proceedings were already in the works and Lizardbaby was home, where she belonged.

"Speaking of whom," she said on a chuckle as she rolled off the bed. "I'm guessing you're pretty hungry by now, aren't you, Liz?" And Quinn's kidneys were probably ready to explode.

Carol leaned over the crib.

Empty.

She frowned, picked up the discarded baby blanket, the

one with the ducks, and ridiculously, looked under it. As if the baby were only playing hide-and-seek and would soon pop out and yell, "Surprise!"

"Okay, let's not get crazy," she whispered, trying to ignore the sudden shift in her heart rate from slow and lazy to a frantic bass drumbeat.

Mouth dry, Carol felt fear blossom in the pit of her stomach and reach out with long tentacles to every corner of her body.

Outside, children were playing, laughter sweetening the air. But inside, a child was missing and Carol heard only her own panic climbing up her throat. But she didn't surrender to it. Not yet. Instead, she kept looking in the crib, telling herself she must be dreaming. She'd put the baby to bed last night—with Quinn curled up right beneath the crib in his usual position.

Quinn.

Carol shot a glance and saw the dog was gone, too. She dropped to her knees, looked all the way under the crib, then under her own bed for good measure.

Nothing.

"I don't believe this," she muttered thickly, fear quickening inside her now and dancing to the frantic rhythm of her heart. "How do you lose a dog and a baby?"

She asked herself the question, but didn't have an answer. All she knew was the baby wasn't here. Her dog was gone. And the sunlight spearing through the bedroom window looked like the accusatory finger of fate, reaching down from heaven to point at her.

"Jack," she told herself, grabbing up her short dark blue terry-cloth robe and yanking it on over her boxer shorts and tank top pajamas. "I'll get Jack. He's still the sheriff. He can help. God, what's going on? What's happening?"

She wheeled through the room, slamming her shin into the bed frame as she took the comer too sharply. Stars burst behind her eyes and she winced, but it wasn't that temporary pain that had tears filling her eyes again. Grabbing the doorknob, she rushed out through the hall and, barefoot, skidded to a stop in the living room.

It was freezing in there.

The air-conditioner was on full blast.

A roaring fire snapped and crackled in the hearth and the scent of cinnamon candles drifted through the room like a spicy cloud. Nat King Cole crooned from the stereo and in the far corner of the room stood a straggly pine tree adorned with strings of lights and shiny bulbs. Quinn, wearing a bright red ribbon tied to his collar, lay on the floor in front of the tree and looked, she thought, a little embarrassed.

Confusion rattled around inside her, leaving her knees weak and her spine tingling. Every nerve in her body sat straight up as Jack stepped out from behind the tree, Liz cradled in his arms.

Okay, the panic was gone. Even from across the room, she could see that Liz was fine, cooing happily in Jack's embrace. So ... fear gone. Replaced by confusion.

"What's going on here?" she asked, tugging the edges of her robe closer together and tying the cloth belt tight at her waist.

"It's Christmas," he said, one corner of his mouth tilting into the half-smile that never failed to strike something warm and soft and delicious inside her.

Christmas. In August. "I don't understand." She shook her head, trying to take it all in, but failing. Her brain felt a little fuzzy from too much sleep and no caffeine.

Liz squirmed and twitched in Jack's grasp, her tiny fists batting at the air, her little legs kicking as though

trying to ride a small, invisible bike. Carol, though, watched Jack, trying to read the expression in his eyes. Trying to figure out just what the heck he was up to.

"I told you," he said as he stepped to the window and swept the curtains aside. "It's Christmas. A real, old-fashioned, 'like an old movie' Christmas."

Her own words. She recognized them. She'd thrown them at him that night in the park. And now ... what ? She frowned, then shifted her gaze to the windows. It was snowing. Beyond the glass, dazzled by sunlight, snowflakes fell gently against the windowpane, collecting on the frame, building and then melting in the California summer sun.

"Snow?" Carol felt a rush of wonder as she hurried across the room. Standing beside Jack, she looked up at him for a long minute, and saw that his blue eyes were clear and focused and... open. There were no closed shutters, keeping his pain in and her out. There were no shadows in those shining blue eyes. No old pain haunting him. No secrets lurking.

Her heart tripped a little and she swallowed hard, not yet willing to believe the fluttery sense of expectation building inside her.

Shaking her head, Carol threw the window open, reached one hand outside and let the cold, delicate snowflakes dance on her open palm. Summer sunlight washed over her from a clear, crisp blue sky. Beneath her, her front yard was filled with snow and the kids from the neighborhood were making good use of it. A snowball war was in full force and a snow family stood proudly near the porch.

Summer and snow.

It was only then that she caught the underlying roar

of an engine at work. She leaned out and saw the snow-making machine parked in her driveway and watched as snow rocketed from the funnel and spilled into the hot, still air.

Her breath caught.

"You did this," she said, drawing back inside to stare up at him. His eyes danced with pleasure and that half-smile was still in place. He'd done all of this. For her. "Why?"

Liz gurgled and swung her fists again and Jack smiled down at her for a moment before lifting his gaze to Carol's again.

"For you," he said, reaching out one hand to stroke her cheek. "You said you'd always dreamed of a real Christmas. Well, here it is."

Soul-deep pleasure rocked Carol, weakening her knees and stirring her blood. She sucked in a gulp of air and briefly closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of being this important to someone. To Jack.

Yet, she needed to hear him say the words. To give voice to the promises she could nearly see in the air around them. "Why are you doing this?"

"Carol," he said, wondering now where his great speech had gone to. He'd been working on it for the last two days. He'd wanted everything to be perfect. He'd found the snowmaker and become a B and E man to get into her apartment and set things up. He'd kept Quinn quiet and endangered his life by tying that damn bow on the big dog's neck. He'd sneaked Liz out of her crib while Carol slept and then waited what seemed forever for her to wake up.

And now that she was here, in front of him, all he could do was look at her.

Her honey-blond hair was ruffled from bed and her big amber eyes shone with expectation. God, he prayed silently, don't let me screw this up this time.

"Yes?" she prompted, bringing him back to the matter of the now-missing speech.

"Right." Jack swallowed, then handed the baby to Carol. "Take Liz for a minute, will you?"

"Sure, but..."

"Just let me say this, okay?"

Outside, the kids were laughing, their high-pitched voices sailing through the room and rocketing around it like bullets ricocheting off cave walls. He didn't need the distraction. Slamming the window shut, he started talking, with Nat King Cole singing backup.

"You were right."

"Good start to any conversation." She smiled and tucked Liz's blanket a little more tightly around her thrashing legs.

He smiled quickly at the smart-ass remark, then realized she was just protecting herself. From him. He had to earn her trust. Earn the right to make promises to her. "When you said I'd been too busy punishing myself to actually live, you were right. I've been a pain in the ass for two solid years, Carol. I got used to it."