Читать книгу Man With A Miracle - Muriel Jensen - Страница 6

June 10, 2001

EVAN BRAGA WIPED HIS FACE with a towel as he hurried into the locker room of the Hatfield Gym, remembering belatedly that he’d promised to trade shifts with Halloran tonight. Someone else would have to host the Sunday-night poker game of the Boston PD’s Cambridge Division. He went to the bench where he’d left his gym bag and stopped in confusion when he found nothing there. Then he spotted the bag under the bench and yanked it out. Ripping open the zipper, he pushed his sweatshirt aside and reached in for his cell phone.

His hand stopped. His heart stopped. His brain stopped. He was paralyzed.

Only his eyes seemed to be working, and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Cash. Lots of it, neatly bundled in banded packets. One-hundred dollar bundles. Five-hundred dollar bundles.

He felt his mouth open, but no sound came out.

He was alone in the quiet room. He could hear the ticking clock, the sound of someone in the showers on the other side of the wall, shouts and laughter from the gym floor.

He had zipped the bag closed and was trying to figure out what in the hell was going on, when he saw the plastic tag looped around the handle of the bag. New England Insurance, it read. This was Blaine’s bag. Their parents had given them identical gym bags and matching sweatshirts last Christmas, but his younger brother was the one usually mixing them up—not Evan.

His heart lurched uncomfortably. He knew Blaine and Sheila had been having financial problems, but what was his brother doing with banded bills in large denominations, in his insurance business?

He felt a sort of fraternal panic, and the only thought in his head that made sense told him to get the bag and Blaine out of there as fast as he could.

Jerking open his locker, he threw on a pair of blue sweats, grasped the handle of the bag firmly and headed for the gym.

Blaine was chasing across the court in a pickup basketball game, then leaped to block a shot. In an instant of detachment, Evan noticed that Blaine was leaner than he was, his body more artfully graceful than simply strong. Even as a kid, he’d had the looks, the charm, the charisma that drew people to him. He’d always been the golden child, but unfortunately had never realized it and had taken the easy way out of everything.

Watching out for Blaine had been Evan’s job since he was six years old, and it had taken a lot of his time. But he’d done it well. Apparently the fact that his brother had a wife, two little sons and an insurance franchise didn’t mean Evan could stop watching Blaine. Not if that bag of money was any indication.

While another player shot from the free-throw line, Blaine caught Evan’s eye and tossed him a grin. Then he noticed the bag in Evan’s hand and went deathly pale.

Evan started for the door. Blaine ran in his wake, his friends calling after him to come back.

“Sorry, guys,” Blaine shouted over his shoulder. “Uh…family dinner. See you Wednesday.” He chased Evan out of the building and across the parking lot to Evan’s old Austin-Healy convertible.

“You have to put the bag back!” Blaine said urgently, standing by the passenger side door as Evan leaped over his door and into the car.

“Get in!” Evan commanded, stuffing the bag into the narrow area behind the seat.

“Listen to me.”

“Get in!”

“Evan, that money—”

“That money’s going to be returned,” Evan said, starting the engine, prepared to leave whether Blaine climbed in or not. “I don’t even want to know what you’re doing with it—I’m just sure it can’t be good. Now, get in or I’m turning it in to the closest police station. You’ll go away for a long time.”

Blaine swung his legs over the door and slid down into the seat. “You’re always so sure you know everything.”

Evan eased out of the parking lot, then roared away down the long country road. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “I’d be happy to hear that.”

“You’re wrong. It isn’t stolen, as I’m sure you suspect. It’s…it’s borrowed.”

Evan gave him a quick side-glance. “From whom?”

Blaine sighed and ran a hand over his face. “From my holding account,” he said finally. “I’m going to put it back.”

“Blaine—” Evan began.

“Oh, relax!” Blaine shouted at him. “It’s a gray area, okay? It’s the insurance company’s account, but it’s under my control. As long as I put the money back—”

“How are you going to do that, when you had to borrow it in the first place?” Evan slowed as he came to an intersection with a narrow side road, then picked up speed again, feeling an urgent need to return the money before someone found out there was trouble—for Blaine, his wife, his kids, their parents…

“That’s none of your business.” Blaine tried to reach behind him for the bag. “This is none of your business.”

“No, it’s your business!” Evan accused. “Sheila and the boys are your business! Did you give them any thought when you did this? What’s it for? The boat’s not big enough? You need a second summer home to attract more clients? Another classic Jag? Sheila seems perfectly happy…”

“Yeah, well, my girlfriend’s expensive.” Grabbing the bag with both hands, Blaine swung it onto his lap. “Now stop the car. I’ve got to go back! The bag has to be where I left it or I’m—”

“We’re not going back. You’re going to redeposit the money and I’ll help you find another—”

As they approached another intersection, Blaine reached for the steering wheel. Evan tried to push him away, and caught sight of a big black Dodge Ram coming quickly down the side road. Completely unaware, Blaine pulled at the wheel, and with a screech of tires, the Austin-Healy headed straight toward the truck.

Evan shouted, but the squeal of brakes drowned out the sound. There was a bone-shattering impact, the grinding whine of tearing metal, then blackness.

January 4, 2002

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND why you feel you have to go.” Alice Turner, Evan’s mother, followed him from the kitchen to the driveway, where he packed two suitcases into the back of a brand-new white Safari already loaded with boxes, an apartment-size refrigerator and a television. She’d said that several times a day for the two weeks since he’d made the decision.

He couldn’t tell her the truth. “I just have to, Mom,” he said, taking a plastic-wrapped stack of blankets and a pillow from his stepfather, who’d followed them out. “I appreciate all you and Dad and Sheila have done for me since I got out of the hospital, but…”

“You think we blame you,” his mother accused, tears spilling from her grieving brown eyes. She folded her arms pugnaciously.

“No.” He avoided her eyes as he found a place for the blankets on top of a box. They didn’t blame him, and Sheila didn’t blame him. In fact, they’d sat with him every day for the long three months it took to heal his broken legs, his right arm, his pelvis that resulted from his ejection from the car upon impact. They’d helped with his physical therapy, then brought him home to complete his recovery at his parents’ place. His sister-in-law, Sheila, and his two nephews, Mark, 6, and Matthew, 4, had visited often, bringing him cookies, and crayon artwork for his room.

But Evan saw the grief they tried to hide from him, the loss in their eyes even when they smiled and encouraged him. Their suffering compounded his own sense of failure as a brother and a son, until he felt he couldn’t stay another moment. He had to spare all of them the constant reminder that he survived the crash and Blaine died, and he had to find another way to go on, before despair overtook him.

The only good thing to come out of the accident was that it put an end to the issue of the borrowed money. The car had been incinerated and the money burned up. Blaine must have sufficiently hidden his “loan” in the books, because when the franchise was purchased in August, an audit revealed nothing untoward. Or maybe Blaine had some fail-safe method of payback that he hadn’t had a chance to explain before the accident.

Whatever the reason, Evan was grateful that neither his parents nor Sheila had any idea Blaine had done anything criminal.

“I just have to get my life together again, Mom,” he explained, hugging her, “and I can’t do it here. A company in Maple Hill advertised for a housepainter. I love that kind of work and I’m pretty good at it. Maple Hill is close enough that I can come home regularly to visit, and you can come and see me.”

“Are you going to be happy painting houses?” his stepfather, Barney, asked as he wrapped his arms around Evan. “You were such a good cop.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Evan assured him. Barney Turner had been his father since he was four, and he’d never made Evan feel less important or less loved than Blaine.

“You know who to call if you aren’t.”

“I do.”

“Mark and Mattie will miss you,” his mother prodded as they followed him around to the driver’s side.

“Alice, don’t torture the boy,” Barney chided. “He knows they’ll miss him. He spent all day with them yesterday, explaining things. They’ll be fine, and he’ll be fine.”

His mother gave his father a reproachful look. “Men are always fine because they’re the ones off on adventures. Women are the ones who stay behind and worry.”

Barney squeezed her shoulders. “He’s going to Maple Hill, Allie, not to war. Good luck, son.”

Evan hugged his mother again, climbed in behind the wheel and drove away.