Читать книгу Man With A Miracle - Muriel Jensen - Страница 7

December 9, 2002

EVAN IGNORED THE PAIN in his right leg as he ran around the track of Maple Hill High with three of his friends. He and Hank Whitcomb, Bart Megrath and Cameron Trent formed an irregular line across the lanes as snow fell steadily in large flakes.

“What? Are we training for the Winter Olympics?” Bart asked Hank, his breath puffing out ahead of him. Bart was a lawyer, and much preferred the comforts of his home or office to the uncompromising cold of western Massachusetts in the winter.

“Can’t be,” Cam put in, pulling a blue wool watch cap a little lower over his ears. “Track-and-field is a summer event. Hank just likes to torture us because he’s our boss. Thank God it was icy at the lake, or he’d have us running there, with the wind-chill factor making it even colder than it is here.”

“Hank’s not my boss,” Bart corrected.

“No, but he’s your brother-in-law,” Evan put in. After eleven months on the job with Hank and Cam, and working on community projects with the two of them and Bart, he was comfortable in their company. He considered himself fortunate to have their friendship, and thought often how much brighter his life had become in the past year. “If you don’t get your exercise, he’ll report you to Haley like he did last time, and she’ll tell the ladies at Perk Avenue not to serve you those double mochas and cream horns anymore.”

“That was a joke,” Bart said.

“You didn’t think it was funny.”

Haley was Bart’s wife, Hank’s sister, and the publisher of the Maple Hill Mirror.

Bart laughed. “You’re just being superior, Evan,” he said, “because you’re still a bachelor. Wait till my mother-in-law fixes you up with some pretty young thing who makes you lose your senses and forget your backbone. You won’t be able to laugh at us anymore.”

Addie Whitcomb was a confirmed matchmaker. Evan had skillfully avoided her machinations so far, but she was growing more determined all the time.

“I’m not laughing,” he insisted, even as he tamped his amusement. “I just think it’s interesting that the town’s leading attorney—” he pointed a gloved finger at Bart “—the head of the much-acclaimed Whitcomb’s Wonders—” he indicated Hank, who modestly inclined his head “—and Cam, the Wonders’ brilliant plumber and my inspired partner in land development, can be so cowed by three of the town’s most beautiful and talented, but very small, women. Guys, come on. You’re whipped!”

His friends looked at one another, laughed and ran on, dragging him with them, apparently not offended.

“It’ll happen to you,” Cam warned.

“No,” he denied affably.

“That’s what I used to think,” Hank said with a knowing glance at him from beneath the bill of a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. “And look at me now.”

Hank’s wife, Jackie, was mayor of Maple Hill and the mother of four children, whom Hank had adopted.

“I like my privacy,” Evan insisted.

Cam laughed. “That’s what we all said. Prepare to kiss it goodbye, dude. You’re ripe.”

“Ripe?”

“Almost forty. Addie won’t be able to stand it. Even Haley, Jackie and Mariah are starting to plot.”

Cam’s wife, Mariah, a former dorm mother at the Maple Hill Manor Private School just outside of town, had charmed Cam into marrying her to provide a home for two of the school’s boarders, who suddenly had been without families. Five months later it had proven to be a good move for all of them.

“It’s not going to happen to me,” Evan said, seriousness creeping into his tone. He ignored the speculative looks his friends exchanged with one another. He hadn’t shared much about his past with his friends, though he trusted them all implicitly. It was just still too hard to give words to what had happened.

He’d told them he’d been a cop, and that he’d come to Maple Hill after an automobile accident that had almost disabled him. He said he’d come to rebuild his body in the fresh air, and to restore his spirit with the more relaxed pace of small-town life.

He’d joined St. Anthony’s Church, because after a month here, he still had too many memories and ghosts and needed desperately to be reminded that a power beyond his feeble abilities had charge of the world. And the Men’s Club gave him somewhere to go on weekends when his friends were involved with their families.

The church group was always raising money for the school, repairing or repainting it, or helping with some community project or other. Many of the men in the club were much older than he, but he liked their old-fashioned, curiously heroic way of thinking and their incisive senses of humor. They reminded him of Barney and eased his loneliness.

“Next year at this time,” Hank said, “when you’re married and expecting a baby, we’re going to remind you that you said that. Want to take bets on it, guys? Pick the month you think Evan bites the dust. Ten bucks. Winner buys everybody breakfast at the Barn.”

Evan ran in place, while the others stopped to exchange money and make their bets. “You’ll all owe me a meal when I remain a bachelor. Wait and see.”

They ignored him and conducted their business. Hank, who had faith in his mother, said she’d have Evan hooked by Valentine’s Day. Cam had been claimed in June and thought Evan would, too. Bart said that hurricane weather was powerful stuff and bet on August.

Evan put out his hand. “I’ll hold the money.”

Cam clutched the bills to his chest. “You’re one of the principals of the bet. You can’t hold the money.”

“I’ll give it to Jackie,” Hank said. “She can put it in the safe at City Hall.”

Evan shrugged nonchalantly as he continued to run in place. His leg was going to seize up if he didn’t. He needed a Jacuzzi and a Coffee Nudge. “You’re all going to be so embarrassed.”

They laughed in unison as they headed back to their cars. In five minutes they would reconvene at the Minuteman Bakery.

Evan stayed in his car an extra moment to massage his screaming thigh muscle, then joined his friends in the bakery’s corner booth. Someone had already poured his coffee and ordered his daily caramel-nut roll.

When he slipped in against the wall beside Cam, they were talking about the homeless shelter being built. As mayor, Jackie had helped solicit funds for the project and directed the construction.

The members of Whitcomb’s Wonders, a pool of craftsmen who could be hired at a moment’s notice for an hour or a year, had each worked on it at some point.

Evan had been painting and wallpapering at the shelter for weeks. All that remained to be done was the kitchen, and a second coat of paint applied to the common room. Jackie was hoping to see the shelter open on December twenty-third. With the advent of frigid weather, Father Chabot was sheltering the homeless in the basement of the church. There were several families, and everyone wanted to see them in more comfortable surroundings by Christmas.

“So, you’re okay to finish up by next week?” Hank asked Evan. Though they conducted their business over coffee and doughnuts, it was still business, and everyone’s attitude was a little more serious than earlier.

“Yes,” Evan replied. “Sooner if I can.”

“Don’t you and Cam have to get that office in your building finished this week?”

Evan nodded. “I’m doing that today and tomorrow. Unless you need me somewhere.”

“No. Nothing today. Some work at the Heritage Museum after the holidays.”

Evan and Cam’s first project together as Trent and Braga Development had been the purchase of the old Chandler Mill on the edge of town. Someone had made a halfhearted attempt to turn it into offices at one time, but the work was shoddy, clearly done by amateurs. Hank had once housed the offices of Whitcomb’s Wonders there, but had since moved the business into City Hall’s basement. Evan and Cam had torn down the old walls of the mill and hired Whitcomb’s Wonders to section off the first and second floors into eight large offices, and the third floor into two small apartments and two large ones.

The slow, easy approach they’d intended to take in readying the building for occupancy had gained momentum when a previous tenant, an accounting office, was happy about the renovation and eager to return—preferably between Christmas and the new year. Cam had promised the premises could be occupied on January second.

They had three more tenants eager to move in downstairs, and one waiting for a second-floor spot. It seemed that their development company was off to a good start.

Evan smiled to himself as he thought about how different his life was now from what it had been eighteen months ago. Then, he’d had morning coffee and pastries with scores of other cops in a squad room. He’d patrolled the city in a pattern that was often fairly routine, but could explode into periods of stress and danger that were sometimes energizing, sometimes terrifying. And he’d loved it.

Then he’d killed Blaine, and everything had changed. Well, over the past year he’d managed to accept that he hadn’t really killed him; Blaine had been struggling for the wheel at the time of impact. But that didn’t completely absolve Evan of blame. It was his fault Blaine had been in the car in the first place.

But he didn’t want to think about that right now. What he had here was good. Good friends, good coffee, rewarding work waiting for him. He missed his parents and Sheila and the boys, but he wasn’t up to seeing them yet. His mother had invited him for Thanksgiving, but he’d told her he had to work on the accountant’s office to have it ready in time. She’d sounded disappointed, but said merely that he had to plan to come home for Christmas.

He wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of that yet, but he intended to.

“You’re coming to the Wonders’ Christmas party?” Hank asked Evan as he consulted his watch. It was almost eight a.m., time for them to get to work. “Sunday afternoon. And since we’ll all be together, Jackie’s planning to hold a meeting about preparations for opening the shelter.” Jackie had found a willing group of volunteers in her husband’s friends.

“I’ve got to work on the—” Evan began.

“No, you don’t,” Cam interrupted. “We’ve got a couple of weeks before Harvey starts moving things in.”

“But the carpet’s got to go down.”

“That’ll take all of two hours. You’re just trying to get out of joining us.”

He was. Their warmth and camaraderie, while great on the job, was a little tough to take in their homes. It was a reminder of the family he just couldn’t bring himself to see again, and the family he’d never be able to build for himself.

“I told Brian you were coming,” Cam said, shamelessly forcing his hand. “The kid’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“And Mike was looking forward to talking to you about the Sox,” Bart told him. “Nobody else has the stats at his fingertips like you do.”

Hank slipped out of the booth. “Jackie wants you to bring salad. We’ll expect you at two o’clock.”

He conceded with a nod. “Okay. I’ll be there.”

The group dispersed. Evan bought a refill on his coffee and a few more doughnuts, then went out to the red Jeep the garage had lent him while they replaced the alternator on his van.

He missed his big vehicle. EVAN BRAGA, PAINTING, PART OF WHITCOMB’S WONDERS was now painted in red letters on its side. He felt a certain pride every time he looked at it. He’d managed to pull himself together in a year, and though he still had a lot of issues to deal with, he was making progress. Life was good.

He climbed into the Jeep, grateful to have wheels at all, put the coffee cup in the console, tossed the bag of doughnuts onto the passenger seat and headed for the mill.

His parking spot was around the back, where he and Cam kept an office that also served as a storage shed for tools and equipment. There was a lumpy old love seat in it that Bart and Haley had donated when they bought new furniture, and Evan wanted nothing more than to sit on it, drink his coffee and have another doughnut, before he applied the second coat of paint to the window frames and doors of the accounting office, then wallpapered the women’s bathroom.

Balancing doughnuts, coffee and the new roller handles he’d bought, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

What he saw shocked him into stillness. He experienced a playback of that moment, a year and a half ago, when he’d opened the gym bag and found bundles of cash.

Only, this moment was potentially more dangerous. He was looking at the business end of the Louisville Slugger he kept on top of the bookshelf. Ready to swing it was a very disheveled young woman in a torn and dusty navy-blue suit and jacket and dress shoes. Dark red hair was piled in a messy bundle atop her head, and she looked pale and obviously terrified.

He assessed her calmly as his old training kicked in. She was average in height and slender, and even with a gun would have posed a negligible threat—if she’d been calm.

But she wasn’t. She looked exhausted, and her red-rimmed blue eyes said more clearly than words that she was on the brink of destruction—her own or someone else’s.

His presence seemed about to push her over the edge.

“Hi,” he said calmly, and stayed right where he was.

HI? BEAZIE DEADHAM thought hysterically. He’d killed her boss and chased her across the commonwealth of Massachusetts, and all he could say when they finally stood face-to-face, was Hi?

She was going to lose it. She could feel it happening. She was shaking so hard she could hear her own teeth chattering.

Things were beginning to reel around her. She’d been up all night with nothing to eat or drink. She’d tried to close her eyes during the four-hour drive in the back of the moving van, but each time, she’d seen her boss’s broken body crumpled on the concrete floor of the parking structure, life ebbing out of him as she ran and knelt beside him. She’d seen the red SUV with the gunman in it rev its motor.

“Beazie,” Gordon had gasped, and clutched her hand. “Evans…” Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. “Take it to…Evans. Maple Hill… No police.”

Barely able to hear him, she leaned over him, her ear to his lips.

“No one…else,” he said in a barely audible croak. “Evans…Maple Hill.”

It was only then that she noticed he’d pressed something into her hand: a miniature tape cassette like the kind in an answering machine.

This wasn’t happening to her, she thought in a panic now, dragging herself back to the moment and the man who stood across from her. Although her arms were aching from holding the bat, she didn’t dare lower the weapon. This guy had killed her boss, Gordon Hathaway. Gentle Gordon, the man who’d given her an advance on her paycheck when she’d hired on, because she’d explained she was really broke; who’d given her a bonus when she’d reorganized the filing system; who’d been kind and funny and more of a friend than an employer.

“Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here?” the man asked in a quiet, rumbly voice from across the room. In his large hands were two long poles, a paper bag and a cup of coffee. His white pants and sweatshirt were both covered with flecks of paint in assorted colors, and a red scarf patterned with black moose and bears was wrapped around his neck.

It encouraged her that she could see so clearly, considering the way her eyes burned. Spots had been floating in and out of her vision, but they were gone now. Still, she felt vaguely nauseated.

The man’s hair was dark blond and slightly curly, his eyes brown and calm. He apparently didn’t consider her a threat. Well, she’d show him! Nobody killed people she knew and got away with it.

But what did she do with him, now that she had him at bay? Gordon had said no police. She could only conclude that meant someone in the police department was involved in his death. But did he mean in Boston or in Maple Hill? Oh God.

“You murdered Gordon Hathaway!” she accused sternly, hoping she looked like a controlled woman with a plan, even though she didn’t have one. “Did you think you’d get away with that?”

Those calm brown eyes looked blank, then he blinked and said, “Pardon me?”

“You killed Gordon Hathaway!” she shrieked at him. The spots were back and she was starting to feel as though she was about to explode. All effort to remain calm disintegrated. “And you’ve been after me ever since!”

“Why do you think that?” he asked.

“Because I saw you! I saw your red SUV in the parking garage when that guy leaned out and shot Gordon! I saw you come into my apartment building, looking for me!”

“You didn’t see me.”

“I did! And just now, I watched you pull up here!”

“Look,” he said in that patronizing tone. “I’m just going to put this stuff down, okay?”

“Don’t think I won’t smash you.”

“It’s okay,” he said, easing the poles into the corner near the door.

She watched him as he placed the small bag and cup of coffee on the edge of the desk beside him. He looked up at her and noticed her licking her dry lips. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

He reached slowly for the bag and tossed it to the love seat near where she stood. “There’s a maple bar, a cinnamon twist and a caramel-nut roll in there. Help yourself.”

Without moving her eyes from him, she pointed the bat with one hand and unrolled the top of the bag with the other. She reached inside and withdrew the first thing her fingers touched. It was the maple bar. With a shaky hand she brought it to her mouth and took a large bite.

It tasted like ambrosia.

Fortified by that single bite, she indicated the coffee cup with the bat, which was getting heavy. “Move the coffee to the edge of the desk.”

Certain she had him at least concerned, if not intimidated, she was surprised and dismayed when he grinned.

“Sorry. That’s only my second cup this morning, and I’ve got a big day ahead of me. If you want it, you have to take it from me.”

Beazie figured she must have looked disappointed, because his grin widened and he said, “Oh, all right.” Reaching for a pottery cup on the desk, he poured half of the coffee into it, then held the paper cup out to her. “Here you go.”

She’d never wanted anything more in her life, but she didn’t trust him. Apparently aware of that, he put it on the edge of the desk nearest her and took several steps back.

She put the maple bar down, reached for the cup and took a careful swallow. The coffee was hot, rich and absolutely delicious.

“I’m driving a Jeep on loan from the garage that’s fixing my van,” he said, sitting on the desk and drinking from his pottery cup. “Not an SUV.”

As she lowered her own cup, she felt an instant’s uncertainty.

“Where did this murder take place?” he asked.

She sidled toward the window near his desk, so that she could see the parking area. “In Boston,” she replied.

“Well, I haven’t been to Boston in almost a year. In fact, I’ve hardly left Maple Hill. So you have me confused with someone else.”

Rising up on tiptoe, she spotted the top of the red car, but couldn’t see enough to be sure it was the SUV. She’d watched him pull in, she reminded herself, and she’d been sure then. Of course, she’d been dealing with those spots.

He took a cordless phone from the top of the desk and tried to hand it to her. “Call the police,” he said. “They can tell you who I am.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” she said with new resolve, polishing off the last of the coffee. “Gordon told me no police. Did you buy them off?”

He put a hand to his face and took a deep breath. “Why don’t we call you a doctor?” he asked finally, preparing to stab out a telephone number. “You look as though you’re on the verge of collapse. Sit down and I’ll—”

She made a desperate grab for the phone, thinking that he’d probably just get a doctor to sedate her or something, then they’d throw her in that beautiful lake behind the…

She couldn’t quite round out the thought.

Everything went red. Not black, but a sort of rosy red. She felt hot suddenly, as though a prickly woollen blanket were inching up her body. With a strange sort of detachment, she watched as the coffee cup fell out of her hands and the bat dangled from her fingers.

The man sprang off the desk to take the bat from her, and as she sank into a warm, fuzzy stupor, she expected him to hit her with it.

But he put it aside and reached out for her as her knees buckled. She expected a collision with the floor, but the last thing she knew was the cradle of a strong pair of arms.