The One Safe Place (2 page)

Frosty bounded over to greet Reed, whom he adored. Of course, Frosty adored everyone, so Reed didn't let it go to his head.

“No,” he said, petting Frosty but glaring at Parker over the dog's head. “
We're
not having second thoughts.
I
am. You're not involved in this. You're not the one whose house is being invaded.”

Parker returned his glare with complete innocence. But Reed wasn't buying it. He straightened and narrowed his eyes. At six-three, he was a full inch taller than Parker, which drove his friend crazy.

“And I have to ask myself, why is that? If this Good Samaritan deed is so important, why isn't Parker Tremaine the one doing it?”

Parker stretched out his long legs and put his hands behind his head, the picture of ease and a perfectly clean conscience. “We went over this, Reed. I'm not the one with a huge house and a million extra bedrooms—”

“Two,” Reed corrected, lifting Frosty up onto the table and checking his ears, which were spotless, of
course. This was one well cared-for animal. “Two extra bedrooms.”

“Right. Two,” Parker agreed pleasantly. “Which is the perfect number for two people.
And
I'm not the one who needed a housekeeper, which is the perfect cover for a woman in hiding. I'm not the one with fifteen open acres for a kid and his dog to play in. In fact, I've got a relatively small house, a new wife, a new baby and two dogs tearing up the place already.”

Reed checked Frosty's teeth, which were fine, and began clipping the dog's toenails.

“Yeah, but you're the superhero with all those years in the Secret Service, and a stint as sheriff, to boot. You're the one who's trained to protect and defend. If a murderer shows up here, what am I going to do, neuter him and give him a rabies booster?”

Parker laughed. “With this guy, that might be the best approach. But he's not going to show up here, unless he's a mind reader. There's not a single thing to tie Faith Constable to you or Autumn House. Jim Bentley and I did Secret Service duty together five years ago, and he asked a favor. I suggested you. That's a convoluted path not even a lunatic could trace.”

Reed's assistant brought in the inoculations and stayed to help Reed hold Frosty in place while he administered them. Not that Frosty was wriggling. It was actually unnatural, this dog was so well behaved. Must be the result of living with a teacher and a law
yer. If Sarah, the teacher, couldn't make Frosty behave, Parker could talk him into it.

While the assistant was in the room, Parker kept quiet, but as soon as they were alone, he started in again.

“So what's
really
bugging you, Reed?” Frosty was back on the ground, and Parker stroked the dog's head absently, his intense blue gaze fixed on Reed.

Reed turned to wash his hands, buying time.

“I'm not believing that the bad guy makes you nervous,” Parker said. “I've seen you bring down a charging bear with one well-placed tranquilizer dart. I've seen you rope a crazed bull and wrestle it to the ground. That's one reason I thought of you. You're young, you're fit and you're not afraid of a damn thing.”

Reed flicked a glance over his shoulder, just in time to see Parker grinning.

“Hell,” Parker added, “I've even heard it said that you're a whole inch taller than I am, although that part's a dirty lie.”

Reed dried his hands, then turned around slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “You're right. I don't give a damn about this Lambert character. A guy who sneaks up on women and breaks their necks is clearly a coward. I suspect I could handle him if I have to. My real problem is that—”

He paused. Like most men, he and Parker didn't discuss their emotions much. They'd known each other so long they really didn't have to.

“What?”

Reed took a deep breath.

“I guess I'm just hoping you don't have some hidden agenda here. I hope you're not thinking that, because of Melissa, I'll be able to relate to these people in some special way. I hope you don't think I have some gem of wisdom to offer them about surviving the loss of a loved one.”

Parker smiled. “Sorry. Frankly, ‘wisdom' isn't the first word that comes to mind when I think of you, old buddy.”

Reed knew what he meant. If anything, he had handled Melissa's death with a spectacular lack of good judgment. In fact, he'd been a mess. He'd refused to see anyone except his patients. He'd barely left the house. He had drunk himself to sleep for a full year.

But damn it, he had been married only two years.
Two years.
Melissa had been only twenty-seven. And to see all that beauty, all that life, eaten away by cancer…

Well, it didn't really surprise him that he'd drunk himself to sleep. It only surprised him that he hadn't somehow managed to drink himself to death.

“Yeah, but I know you, Parker. You probably think that, because I did survive, I learned something.”

He wiped his hands on the paper towels so hard his skin burned. “But I didn't. The only thing I learned is that eventually time will put enough distance between you and the pain, and you'll be able
to go on. I can't help these people, Parker. Just because I came out of it, that doesn't mean I can help them out of it, too.”

Parker leaned over to clip the leash back onto Frosty's collar. When he stood, his face was somber.

“I never for a minute thought you could,” he said. “If anything, it might be the other way around. Maybe I thought they could help you. Truth is, you're not as far
out of it
as you like people to think.”

Reed shook his head. “You're wrong,” he said.

He wanted to be angry, wanted to dispute the implication that he wasn't fully recovered. But the look on Parker's face stopped him. “You're completely wrong,” he repeated dully.

“Could be,” Parker agreed, shrugging as he headed toward the door. “It wouldn't be the first time. Just ask Sarah.”

But that was nonsense. Parker's beautiful new bride didn't think a single word Parker had ever uttered was wrong. If he said day was night, Sarah would kiss him sweetly and obediently go to sleep. And it went both ways. If she said jump, Parker would soar right over the moon.

Reed remembered what that had been like. A good marriage—two people cocooned in love. It had been soft and easy, exciting and alive, real and profound and achingly brief.

He had to fight hard against the bitter envy that welled up in him whenever he saw the blissful Tremaines. But damn it, Parker didn't know what he was
talking about here. Reed didn't need a distraction. He didn't need a Good Samaritan mission. He didn't even need a housekeeper.

And he damn sure didn't need Faith Constable and her troubled nephew, with a murderer nipping at their heels.

What he needed was Melissa. Or, failing that, someone to drill into his brain and surgically remove all memories of being in love.

F
AITH CHECKED HER WATCH
in the bright mountain sunlight. She had checked her watch about ten times in the past half hour. She didn't really care what time it was. She just needed something to do, something to fidget away the anxiety that was threatening to overtake her.

At four-seventeen, just two minutes behind schedule, Detective Bentley stopped his car at a deserted mountain pass called Vanity Gap. It was time to turn them over.

His friend Parker Tremaine was waiting at the mouth of the gap, ready to receive them. It was a strange, complicated transaction, designed to make it difficult for anyone to follow them without being seen. Faith felt a little like a ransomed hostage. Or perhaps just a parcel of smuggled goods.

Parker looked very nice, and was in fact startlingly handsome. Still, as Faith watched Detective Bentley transferring their suitcases from the unmarked cop car into Parker's expensive luxury sedan, she felt a clutch of fear.

At least she knew the detective. After the past intense weeks, he seemed to have become a real ally.
A friend. Besides, he was her tie to the city, to her sister, to her real life, which for the past three hours had been rapidly receding in the rear window.

Getting into this new car with this stranger, however handsome, would be like sailing into darkness, and she was suddenly washed with uncertainty.

Somehow she had to hide it, though, for Spencer's sake. The little boy stood beside her, still as a statue. The only movement came from his Sheltie puppy, Tigger.

Tigger, whose boundless energy had earned him his name, was struggling to reconcile his excitement about the trip with his innate urge to stay close to his little master. Consequently, though he whined and writhed in place, he never got more than two inches from Spencer's left foot.

Faith patted the puppy, then took Spencer's hand and smiled down at him reassuringly.

“Okay, sweetie, here we go,” she said with an attempt at brightness.

Spencer just stared at her, his brown eyes so like his mother's that Faith almost couldn't bear to look into them.

He didn't speak, of course. Spencer hadn't spoken a word since Grace's death. “Conversion reaction,” the psychiatrists had called it. Or perhaps “selective mutism.” But she called it something simpler—and yet far more tragic. She called it unbearable pain.

He was only six years old, and already the world
had hurt him so much he no longer had the power to express it.

No, she corrected herself. The world hadn't done that. Doug Lambert had done it.

“We're going with Mr. Tremaine now. He's taking us to Autumn House. That's where you and Tigger and I will be living for a little while, remember?”

“Please. Call me Parker.” The tall, blue-eyed man came over and squatted down to get at eye level with Spencer. “Autumn House belongs to a friend of mine. It's very big and very pretty. And it has a huge yard that puppies like to run around in. I think Tigger will have a great time there.”

Faith noticed that Parker didn't phrase anything as a question. So he must already know about Spencer. Detective Bentley had probably filled him in on all the pitiful details. Which was only natural, of course. Only fair. These people were doing her a huge favor, and they deserved to know exactly what they were getting into.

It was ungrateful of her to mind. And yet the idea of these strangers discussing her personal tragedies was oddly distressing. Intrusive, as if she really were just that troublesome parcel of handle-with-care cargo.

She felt a new stab of hatred toward Doug Lambert as she added this to his list. He had stolen their basic right to privacy. A small loss, compared to the loss of Grace, or the loss of Spencer's emotional peace, but another black mark on the board nonetheless.

When the bags were all transferred, Detective Brantley came over to say goodbye. His kind eyes sent courage into hers as he wished her well, and assured her that he'd keep in touch frequently through Parker, making sure she was always updated on the search for Doug Lambert.

Faith allowed herself one long hug. She had to pull herself away, finally, for fear she might dissolve into tears, which would be embarrassing. Besides, it would frighten Spencer, who needed to believe that his aunt, at least, had a firm grip on the reins of their changing, unpredictable world.

“Thanks for everything, Detective,” she managed to say before her voice gave out. And then, without looking back, she took Spencer's hand and led him into the soft, leather-upholstered interior of Parker Tremaine's waiting car.

Parker and the detective must have said their goodbyes very quickly, because in less than a minute Parker joined them.

He slipped his key in the ignition, using the mirror to check Spencer and Tigger, who were huddled together in the back seat.

“Everybody buckled in?”

Spencer pretended he hadn't heard him, but Faith could see that the seat belt was already carefully pulled over both boy and dog. Spencer was so cautious now, she realized with a pang. It was unnatural to see any little boy sitting so still. Like someone frozen in the middle of a minefield.

Once Spencer would have fussed and giggled and played stalling games, pretending he couldn't find the dreaded lap restraint. But not now. Now he obviously clung to any illusion of safety he could find.

“We're all ready,” she said, turning to Parker with her best attempt at a smile. He was an innocent bystander in this drama. No need to make him any more uncomfortable than was absolutely necessary.

But as they drove down the winding road that led to Firefly Glen, she gradually realized that Parker wasn't the uncomfortable type. His conversation was easy, wry and interesting. He avoided anything personal, instead amusing them with stories of how Vanity Gap got its name, and the history of the four “season” houses of Firefly Glen.

They would be staying in one of those special mansions—the Autumn House. Parker spent a lot of time describing the place, somehow making it sound both cozy and grand. Out of the corner of her eye, Faith could see that Spencer had tilted forward slightly, so that he wouldn't miss a word.

Parker was very smooth. By the time they reached the bottom of the mountain, Faith had relaxed considerably, and she could see that even Spencer's knuckles were no longer clenched white and bloodless.

“This is Main Street,” Parker said as they turned into a shopping area so quaint it might have been in a picture book of charming European villages.

Faith's first impression was of clean, sparkling
color. It had rained earlier, and gleaming cobblestones wound their way through storefronts decorated with garlands of autumn leaves. Golden chrysanthemums frothed out of pots at every door and late-season daisies flowered in a hundred hanging planters.

“It's very pretty,” she said inadequately. Actually, it was far more than that. It was like the schoolbook illustration for
Our Happy Hometown.

Warm and welcoming, a little jeweled paradise where surely everyone was generous and good, and nothing ever went wrong.

But it was, of course, merely an illusion. No such Eden existed, she knew that. Even a town this beautiful had its secrets, its tears, its cruelties behind closed doors. In spite of the mountains that stood guard on every side, illness and evil and despair had undoubtedly found their way into Firefly Glen, just as they had into every other place on earth.

But none of that was visible on the surface. And a couple of months ago, before Doug Lambert had come into their lives, she might have believed it.

Parker seemed to believe it still. He clearly adored his little town. His voice was warm as he pointed out its special features.

“Main Street wraps around the Town Square. See that central area? It stretches from the church at the north end to the hotel at the south. That's the heart of the town. All the fun stuff happens here. We'll be having a Halloween party here next month.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror. “It's the best
party in the world. Great rides, great games and enough cotton candy to make you puke pink.”

Faith thought she heard a noise from the back seat. It might have been a muffled giggle. But when she turned around, Spencer was studying the tag on Tigger's collar, and he didn't even seem to have heard.

“Sounds delightful,” she said dryly, watching the long, open green square pass by. The streets were lined with maple trees that had already begun to hint at autumn color. It would undoubtedly be gorgeous at the height of the fall. “But we probably won't be—”

She stopped herself before she could finish the thought.
We won't be here then,
she had been about to say. Halloween was a whole month away, so surely…

But the truth was, she didn't really know what the future held. She had no idea when—or if—the police would catch Doug Lambert. She had no idea when she and Spencer could go home.

And it was extremely important that she never, ever mislead the little boy. She mustn't ever get his hopes up, only to dash them later. He had suffered so much shock, so much loss that he didn't trust anything or anyone anymore.

She was going to have to work very hard to win back even a little of that sweet trust he used to give so freely.

“It sounds terrific,” she repeated, without the wry
ness. “Maybe we'll go, if we're still here at Halloween.”

And as soon as she said the words, a voice in the back of her head added another thought…the kind of sickening thought she'd never had before Grace's death. The kind of ugly, shivering thought that seemed so out of place in Firefly Glen.

Maybe they'd go. If…

If Doug Lambert didn't find them.

If they were still alive at Halloween.

 

R
EED'S LAST PATIENT
of the day was a bunny that had hopped onto a nasty piece of broken glass. Flopsy, the beloved pet of a nine-year-old cutie named Becky, was going to be fine. Becky was another matter. She hadn't stopped crying for the past twenty minutes.

Otherwise, though, it had been a light day. And it promised to be an easy night, too. They had only two boarders—a sleepy Persian cat recovering from a routine neutering and a spoiled lizard whose doting owners were out of town and didn't trust anyone but Reed to shove lettuce into its terrarium properly.

He appreciated the easy workload, especially today, when Faith Constable and her nephew were set to arrive any minute. It had given him time to make sure the guest bedrooms were presentable—which took longer than he'd expected.

He had opened the windows to banish any mustiness. He'd been too long without a housekeeper, that was for damn sure. He hoped she was a good one.

At four-thirty, Tucker Brady, the teenager who helped him with the heavy work, poked his head in the door.

“Hey, Doc. Things are pretty quiet back here. Any chance I could dip out a little early?”

Reed ought to say no. He had promised Tucker's older sister, Mary, that he'd keep Tucker so overworked and underpaid that he couldn't acquire any more tattoos. Tucker already had a fire-breathing dragon trailing down one arm, and he was so proud of it he hadn't worn a long-sleeved shirt since he got it, not even last week, when the temperature dropped below forty.

But tonight Tucker didn't look like a boy hot for a tattoo. He had washed his face, slicked back his dark hair and waded into a vat of cologne. He looked—or more accurately smelled—like a boy with a hot date.

“Sure,” Reed said, handing the bandaged rabbit back to Becky, who clutched it to her chest tightly. Actually, Flopsy was in far more danger of dying of suffocation than a cut foot. “Just toss some food out for the ducks before you leave, okay?”

Tucker agreed eagerly and disappeared before Reed could change his mind. Becky's mom dried the little girl's tears, paid her bill and departed.

So far so good. And still twenty minutes left before Faith Constable was due to arrive.

But Reed should have known that, the minute he started congratulating himself on having things under control, something would go wrong.

He was washing his hands, waiting for Justine to finish running the computer backup discs so they both could call it a day, when suddenly the room came alive with a raucous honking.

Justine covered her ears and grimaced. But Reed knew that sound. Something was bothering the ducks out by the back pond. They were making such a violent ruckus that, though the clinic was a hundred yards away, the quiet office seemed full of quacking and honking and the flapping of frantic wings.

He met Justine's bewildered gaze.

“Another fox?” she asked, worried. She picked up Gavin and held him protectively, as if she feared that the fox might decide that the plump, soft baby would make a tastier treat than an old stringy duck.

“It's a little early for that—they usually show up at dusk. But I'll see.” Reed went out the back door. God, that fox was a persistent devil, wasn't he? He thought he'd scared the scavenger away for good last week.

Though he knew that ducks in the wild became dinner for foxes every day, he felt a certain responsibility toward these particular silly birds. Melissa had encouraged them to live on their pond—had named them and generally pampered them into lazy, domesticated guests.

And, as she had always said, laughing, it was very bad manners to let a predator come in and gnaw on your guests.

But, when Reed walked outside, he saw immediately that it wasn't a fox.

Instead, it was a skinny little boy and a shaggy little dog.

And it was also a beautiful, dark-haired, well-dressed woman who had kicked off her shoes and dropped her purse at the edge of the grass and now seemed to be playing a peculiar game of tag with the other two.

As best Reed could tell, the dog had started it. Just a puppy, really, he was racing up and down the length of the pond, trailing a long, limp leash. He was having the time of his life, his pink tongue flying as he ran, barking incessantly, clearly intoxicated by the power of setting the ducks into a noisy flutter.