Dismas Hardy: Nothing But The Truth Part 10

No, she would just put feelings away for now. Dismas was on her side - she would believe that. He was working for her interests, as well as his own and the children's. Though their intimacy was lost, perhaps irretrievably. It certainly felt that way. She knew she bore some of the blame for that.

For all of this.

She had never planned to do anything wrong and now all she had done had gotten her to here. Why did she still feel as though she should defend herself, that it was all defensible? Everything felt wrong. Every decision and act had cost her and her family dearly.

Would anyone ever forgive her? And why should they?

Abruptly, the cell went dark.

An undetermined period of time pa.s.sed during which she remained motionless. Finally, she reached for the bed, found it, and pulled the blankets to her chin, holding them fisted against her chest.

She couldn't imagine her babies - where they were, if they were sleeping. And this, finally, brought the blessed tears.

11.

In another lifetime, when Hardy had been a prosecutor with the very district attorney's office that he now despised, he sent people to jail all the time. Because his first wife, Jane, had been worried that some of his convicted and dangerous felons might get back to freedom with a chip on their shoulders, Hardy had applied for a CCW - carry a concealed weapon - permit. In the normal course of events, this would have been denied, but Jane's father was a Superior Court judge, and it got approved and, through some combination of politics and inertia, got renewed every year.

Over the years, Hardy had had occasion to take one of his guns out with him twice. Neither time did he have to fire at anyone, although once he had enjoyed letting off a round for the immediate and gratifying effect.

Yet tonight, in a kind of cold fury, grabbing for a weapon didn't feel strange at all. It was a little past dusk, and he was taking his Colt .38 Special out of the safe where he kept it since the Beck had been born. He hadn't even held the d.a.m.n thing in a couple of years, but when he'd last taken it to the range, he'd cleaned, oiled, and wrapped it carefully in its cloth before putting it away.

Now he lifted it out and unwrapped it. A wipe with the rag and the finish shone. He checked to make sure that it was unloaded, then spun the cylinder and worked the action several times.

On the way back from his visit with Frannie, he had decided - if that was the word; the impulse had been more spontaneous than cerebral - to carry the piece. He probably couldn't have said why - surely not to shoot the man who might be sleeping with his wife. If he had a thought about it at all, he would have said that the gun might be persuasive in moving Ron to do what Hardy asked, whatever that might turn out to be.

So he wasn't going to be home for long. Frannie had told him where Ron had once told her - she remembered after she found out he'd fled - where Ron's first stop might be if he needed to run.

Hardy hadn't told Frannie that he was going to confront Ron. No more impetuous promises. And his wife, perhaps having erroneously concluded that Hardy had been converted all the way to Ron's side, hadn't demanded any.

Wearing jeans, a blue s.h.i.+rt over a rugby jersey, and a pair of running shoes, he stood in the dim light in the back room behind the kitchen and slid the bullets where they belonged. He stuck the gun into his belt, pulling the blue s.h.i.+rt out over it. He put the rest of the box of bullets back into the safe, carefully closed the door, and spun the lock.

On the way out, he grabbed a jacket from the peg near the front door.

It hadn't taken five minutes and he was back at his car. Ready.

Ron Brewster.

Now he was Ron Brewster. Frannie had explained it all to Hardy, thinking she was making points for Ron, showing her husband the lengths to which this great guy was willing to go to protect his children.

But the excuses and lies that he ran into every day in his criminal practice had honed Hardy's natural cynicism into a sharp-edged and profound skepticism that cut a swath through normal human feelings, at least whenever the law was involved. Although he fought it in his home life and with his few close friends, he found that he didn't take much at face value anymore. He tended not to believe interesting stories - there was always something else that didn't get said.

Frannie's explanations of Ron's behavior - his easy skill with name change, for example; his successful kidnapping of his own children - only convinced Hardy that he was dealing with a very intelligent and resourceful criminal. One who had at the very least conned Frannie, and at the worst much more than that.

As if he needed more fuel to fire his rage.

They were at the Airport Hilton. Hardy had seen it before in people who were fleeing - the first instinct was to go to ground. Stay close. See which direction your pursuers took and then light out the other way.

Fifth floor, room 523. A 'Do Not Disturb' sign was affixed to the doork.n.o.b.

Hardy checked his watch. It was precisely nine sixteen. The sound of a television came from behind the door. Canned laughter.

He felt for the gun in his waistband, felt its rea.s.suring presence, and left it where it was. He knocked.

Within a second, the television was turned off. And now behind the door there was only silence. He knocked again, almost tempted to call out, 'Candygram.' Instead, he waited, giving Ron every chance to do it in his own time.

Ron Beaumont held a finger over his lips, telling his children to make no sound. He crossed to the door of the hotel room. He, too, had a gun with him, but it was packed now in the false bottom of a suitcase.

He had to pray it wasn't the police, or, if it was, that it was only one man. Then he might be able to talk himself a couple of minutes, enough time to get to his suitcase, do what he might have to do.

Hardy gave it another knock, harder. 'Ron! Open the door!' Another couple of seconds. Then, from behind the door, a firm voice, 'We're trying to sleep.'

Hardy leaned in closer, spoke with controlled urgency. 'This is Dismas Hardy.'

Finally the door opened, but just a crack. Ron had turned off the lights inside the room and left the chain on. Hardy had to fight the impulse to slam his shoulder into the door and break the chain free.

Hardy spread his hands wide. No threat. Just open the door and let's talk.

Ron Beaumont was a handsome man, though Hardy hated to admit it. Strong, angular features and clear, brown eyes set in cheekbones so chiseled that now, with his evening stubble, they looked like you could strike a match on them. An aquiline nose with a high bridge was perfectly centered over what Hardy supposed would be called a generous mouth. The full head of dark hair had a streak or two of gray at the temples, although the unlined face made that seem premature, or even dyed. Almost exactly the same height as Hardy's six feet, he weighed at least ten pounds less, and none of it was soft.

The door was open and he moved to the side to let Hardy in.

All the way down from the Avenues to the airport, Hardy had indulged in fantasy, savoring the moment of confrontation when he, G.o.ddamit, made Ron 'fess up to his responsibility to Frannie, to the damage he'd done. The other stuff, too, whatever it might have been - the true nature of their relations.h.i.+p, the alibi, whatever story they'd had to 'get straight.'

Max and Ca.s.sandra skewed the dynamic immediately.

Ron's kids as human beings in the center of this drama hadn't made center stage before the lights went on in the hotel room. Before that, he was aware of their existence, of course, but they had been mere p.a.w.ns in the chess game Hardy had been playing. The fact that they were here, now, taking up the same physical s.p.a.ce as Ron whatever-his-last-name, changed everything.

Ca.s.sandra lit up when she saw him. 'Mr Hardy. Hi.' Natural as can be. Surprised and delighted at his appearance. Suddenly the name clicked with the face for Hardy, too. Ca.s.sandra was no longer a half-remembered presence in his daughter's life, but one of the really good ones - polite, funny, able to speak in whole sentences.

He glanced at the boy, Max, now placing him as well. They'd both been to the house several times to play with his children, although Hardy hadn't engaged either of them in meaningful dialogue.

It threw him to see it, but even now in this stressful environment, both remained obviously well-cared-for children, newly bathed and wearing pajamas.

'Are you here to help us?' Ca.s.sandra asked. She turned to her father, explaining. 'Rebecca says that's what her dad does. He helps people. He's a lawyer.'

Ron didn't seem as impressed with it as his daughter was, but the statement seemed to play into his plan and he didn't miss the opportunity. 'That's right,' he responded easily. 'He's here to see if he can help us out.' A sideways glance, tacitly asking Hardy's complicity at the outset, which Hardy couldn't think fast enough to deny.

'He's trying to get us back home. It's time you guys turned in, OK?'

A couple of minutes of small talk finally dwindled down before Hardy got strong handshakes from both of them as they were heading off to bed. And - the acid test - they both looked him in the eye.

It was a bit disorienting for Hardy to realize that these were well-adjusted children who appeared to love their father. If they were a bit reserved, Hardy had to remember that it was near their bedtime, they were in strange surroundings, and their stepmother had been murdered only three weeks before. He wouldn't have expected giggling high spirits.

But he didn't pick up any scent of people-fear, either of him or of their father, and that was always the inevitable companion to abuse.

It threw him off his stride. Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been this cozy domestic scene with father and loving children.

The gun rode heavily inside his belt, a stupid, clumsy, macho pretense. What had he been thinking? s.h.i.+fting uncomfortably, pulling at his jacket to cover the gun, he felt a wave of disgust for himself.

Who was he kidding? He wasn't some kind of gunslinger. It had been two decades since he'd been a cop. Now he was a lawyer, a paper pusher, a persuader. Words and strategy, the tools of old men like David Freeman.

And now Dismas Hardy.

All this was the thought of an instant, though. Ron was keeping things moving. 'OK, you've told Mr Hardy goodnight enough times. Now march!' Firm, good-natured, in control.

Amazingly, there was no argument. Chez Hardy, bedtimes were often the most difficult time of the day. Impatient, depleted parents struggling to get their exhausted children to admit that they were even remotely tired. The exercise would wind up turning into a war of wills that left all sides defeated.

But Max and Ca.s.sandra were up and moving. Another polite goodnight, stalling for that last precious second, both of them telling Hardy they were so glad he was here.

For the first time, Hardy noticed that they were in a suite, with a separate room for the kids, and Ron said he'd be back in five minutes, after he'd tucked them in and gotten them settled. But Hardy hadn't come all the way down here only to have Ron and the kids slip out another door. So, feeling foolish, he nevertheless went and stood in the doorway to the bedroom, where he could watch in case the good father decided to bolt and run with his children.

But the bedtime rituals made it immediately obvious that this wasn't on the night's agenda. Apparently Ron had decided to accept Hardy's unexpected presence and work within these new parameters.

Hardy finally went back to the other room, sat in the chair at the desk, and half listened to the familiar goodnight noises.

The gun remained an uneasy presence, the unyielding pressure in his side. His stomach roiled with the unspent rage, the tension and hunger. A rogue wave of fatigue washed over him so powerfully that for a moment, snapping out of it, he was disoriented.

Out over the Bay, the huge planes on their airport approach floated down out of the darkling, cloud-scudded sky.

'So what do you intend to do?' Ron had closed the door to the kids' room and pulled over a wing chair. 'You want some coffee? A beer? Anything? The room's got everything.'

'I don't want anything except my wife out of jail.'

'Yeah, I can see that.' Ron sat. 'Look, I don't blame you for being mad. I can't tell you how sorry I am, but n.o.body could have seen this coming.'

'You saw it enough three days ago that you left your apartment and took your kids out of school.'

'That was when I learned they were going to talk to Frannie.' Hearing his wife's name used with such familiarity rekindled some of the flame of anger. Hardy fought it - it wasn't going to get him what he needed, not now. But Ron was going on, explaining, rationalizing how none of this was entirely his fault. 'That's when I realized the investigation was coming back to me. I couldn't hang around and let that happen.'

'No. It was better to let them come after Frannie.'

'I didn't foresee that.'

'You just said you knew they were talking to her. What did you think was going to happen?'

'I had no idea. I told them I had been drinking coffee with her. I thought they'd probably want to make sure.' He leaned forward in the chair. 'I don't know if you realize it, but the grand jury had already questioned me. I answered everything they asked me.'

'But obviously lied about fighting with your wife.'

Suddenly the floor seemed to hold a fascination for Ron. Finally, he raised his eyes. 'What was I supposed to do, put myself on their A-list?'

'The theory is you tell them nothing but the truth. That's the one Frannie went with. You might have told her she could tell your little secret.'

'I thought all they wanted was corroboration on the alibi. You've got to believe that. The other stuff, I never thought it would come up.'

'Well, it did.' But this was old news and Hardy was sick of it. 'So why didn't you just take off when you knew they'd started looking? You had three days. You could be in Australia by now.'

'The kids uprooted again. No insurance income from Bree's death. The police after me.'

'They're after you now.'

'That's not what I hear. Not yet.'

Macho or no, Hardy almost reached for the gun, to put an end to this stupidity. Take the man in and let the chips fall.

But then he remembered the three innocent, shackled children from Judge Li's courtroom. An example of what could happen - something similarly terrible almost inevitably would happen - to Ca.s.sandra and Max. Furious as he was, he couldn't be responsible for putting them into the criminal justice system. Not yet, anyway. Not if there were any other way.

Ron was leaning forward, tight-lipped and earnest. His elbows were on his knees and his hands were gripped, white-knuckled, together in front of him. 'Look, I know this is bad for you. Horrible. But my first responsibility has to be to my guys in there. I know you understand that.'

Hardy couldn't say anything. It galled him, but the fact was that it was true - he understood it completely.

Ron was going on. 'And we're not absolutely committed to running away either, not yet anyway. If this pa.s.ses, the kids are back in school next week with a little unscheduled vacation and no one thinks a thing about it. The original plan was we'd take a few days off and see which way the wind was blowing.' He let out a deep breath. 'Maybe we wouldn't have to go after all.'

'Go where?'

'Wherever. Anywhere.'

'And do what?'

Ron hung his head again for an instant and brought it back up. 'Start over. Again.'

If this was a not-so-subtle play for sympathy, it was misdirected. Hardy snapped out. 'And meanwhile what happens to Frannie?'

'I release her. She gets out.'

Hardy didn't like the sound of that, either. 'You release her?'

A nod. 'From the promise.'

'I got an idea, Ron. Why don't you do it now? Like right now, this minute?' Hardy's voice had picked up some heat. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pen and telephone pad from on the desk, held it out to him, once again considering the gun.

Ron was shaking his head no. 'The minute she talks, we have to run, we have to relocate. Don't you see that?'

Hardy looked around the suite. 'What do you call this? This isn't running?'

The pen was still out there in the air between them. Ron stood up slowly, took it, sat at the desk, and wrote for a minute.

When Hardy had read what he'd written, though, it didn't strike him as nearly enough. The note was brief and specific, telling Frannie that the next time she went before the grand jury, she should feel free to reveal his secret if she felt she needed to. But Hardy's problem was that the grand jury wasn't meeting until next Tuesday morning, which left Frannie exactly where she was right now. In a cold fury, Hardy raised his eyes and spoke. 'What the h.e.l.l kind of good does this do?'

Ron sat on the edge of the bed and spoke with a desperate calm. 'My understanding from the television - am I right? - is that poor Frannie's in jail down there for four days no matter what happens with me.'