Читать книгу Apprentice Father - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 8

The jarring ring of the phone slowly penetrated Clay’s sleep-fogged brain. Groping for it in the dark, he squinted at his digital clock, trying to focus on the blue numbers. Three o’clock in the morning. Not good.

“Hello?” he mumbled.

“Clay Adams?”

“Yes.”

“This is Lieutenant Butler with the Omaha, Nebraska, Police Department. You have a sister, Anne Montgomery?”

A surge of adrenaline shot through Clay and he jerked upright, his hand tightening on the phone as he swung his legs to the floor. “Yes.”

“I’m very sorry to inform you that she was fatally injured tonight in a domestic violence incident.”

Clay heard the words. Tried to process them. Couldn’t. He’d talked to Anne just three days ago, when she’d called to tell him she was finally leaving her abusive husband. Tomorrow after work, he was making the drive from Washington, Missouri, to Omaha to pick up her and the kids.

She couldn’t be dead.

“Sir?”

“Yes.” Clay cleared his throat. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry to give you such bad news. We notified a Clayton Adams in Iowa as well. However, he’s ill and unable to assist with any arrangements.”

His father’s illness was news to Clay. But he didn’t keep in touch with his holier-than-thou old man. And he couldn’t care less what his physical condition was. Thanks to the pressure he’d exerted, Anne had stayed in a dangerous marriage.

Now she was dead.

As the full impact of the officer’s news began to sink in, a wave of nausea swept over Clay. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow obliterate the reality. But it couldn’t alter the facts. Anne was gone.

“What happened?” He managed to choke out the hoarse question.

The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. “According to the report, it appears she died from a blow to the head. The autopsy will confirm that.”

All at once, Clay’s shock gave way to rage. A rage that went at light speed from simmering to boiling. “I hope you lock up that monster and throw away the key,” he spat out.

“Unfortunately, the suspect had disappeared by the time we arrived.”

A muscle in Clay’s jaw clenched. “You mean he’s gone?”

“For the moment. But we’ll find him. He took the family’s car, and we’ve issued a BOLO alert on him.”

“Did Anne report this before she…before she died?”

“No. From what we’ve been able to gather, the suspect locked the children in a bedroom when the dispute began. One of them climbed out a window and ran next door for help. The neighbors called the police.”

Clay hadn’t even thought about Josh and Emily. “Are the kids okay?”

“Physically, yes. But as you might expect, they’re pretty traumatized. A friend of Mrs. Montgomery’s is watching them until family arrives.”

Meaning him. There was no one else.

Wiping a hand down his face, Clay tried to think. The construction project he’d been sent to Washington to oversee was in the critical start-up phase, and a late February snow had already put them behind schedule in the two weeks he’d been on site. His boss in Chicago wouldn’t be too thrilled about his taking time off. But that was tough.

He glanced again at the clock. “I can be there by noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll pass that on to Mrs. Montgomery’s friend. Let me give you her name and address.”

Flipping on the light, Clay fumbled in the drawer of his nightstand for a pencil and paper. He jotted down the information in a script so shaky he hoped he’d be able to read it later.

“And give us a call once you arrive,” the lieutenant finished. “We’ll need you to fill out some paperwork. Is there anything else we can do for you in the meantime?”

“Find my sister’s husband.”

“We intend to. And if it’s any comfort, your sister’s friend told us she would notify their pastor, and that all of you would be remembered in the prayers of her congregation.”

With an effort, Clay bit back the disparaging comment that sprang to his lips. Instead, he thanked the officer and hung up.

Clasping his shaky hands, he leaned forward and took several long, slow breaths as the lieutenant’s last comment echoed in his mind. He’d grown up in a so-called Christian home. A household where the slightest transgression was punished. Where hell and damnation were preached, and guilt was ladled out in generous portions. Where the God of vengeance and punishment held court, and where unrepentant sinners—like him—were dealt with harshly and told to pray for mercy.

Back then, Clay hadn’t thought much of prayer. He thought even less of it now, the taste of bitterness sharp on his tongue. Anne had prayed. But where had God been when she’d needed Him a few hours ago? And what good were the prayers of her congregation now? Anne was gone, leaving a four-and five-year-old motherless.

As for him…he didn’t need God’s help. He’d learned long ago to take care of himself.

Of course, if God wanted to lend a hand, that was fine. He was going to need all the help he could get in the days to come.

But he sure wasn’t going to count on it.