The Perfect Husband Read online

  His father had come up to him after the ceremony, pumped J.T.’s hand, and stated, “Now Teddy will have the family name and I’ll get my second son into West Point to redeem my first son’s mistakes. I knew you’d do the right thing, Jordan.”

  And J.T. had said, “You touch Rachel or Teddy ever again, and I will kill you. Understand, Daddy?”

  It was the only time J.T. ever saw the colonel pale.

  For the first six months he and Rachel lived together like awkward acquaintances. She had her room in the apartment. He had his. When they talked and interacted, it was about Teddy. But sometimes, late at night, they would sit at the kitchen table, drinking beers and revealing little bits and pieces of themselves.

  She told him about the stepfather who made it impossible for her to remain at home. He talked about the first time his father had whipped him and how sure he’d been that he deserved it. She recalled trying to find a job, then realizing homeless fifteen-year-olds couldn’t get one. He spoke of the jungle and the endless hours of sitting in steam, waiting for the right moment to pounce and destroy.

  One night she told him about the first time she’d sold her body. She’d recited Dr. Seuss rhymes in her mind to block out the act. Afterward she hadn’t cried. The man had paid her well, so she hadn’t cried. She’d just rocked herself back and forth and tried not to remember the life she’d dreamed about as a little girl.

  Neither of their lives made much sense, but somehow, sitting up together late at night, they made the warped, jagged pieces fit. They offered each other the forgiveness they couldn’t offer themselves. They planned a future. They built a new life.

  Until the little kid who’d been beaten by his father loved her, and the adolescent who’d been rejected by his younger sister loved her, and the man who’d gone off to fight wars because he no longer cared if he lived or died loved her. Until every single deranged, hopeful, frightened part of him loved her.

  Then Rachel had gone and gotten herself dead.

  J.T. reached over to the nightstand, retrieved another cigarette, and started destroying his lungs all over again.

  Rosalita drifted back into the room. She paused at the foot of the bed and smiled.

  And just for a minute, in the twisted corridors of his mind he saw Marion, young, vulnerable Marion. And his baby sister’s hands were clasped and her face terrified as she ran from the monster they both knew too well. “Hide me, J.T. God help me, please, please, please!”

  “Shh,” he whispered to his own mind, and squeezed his eyes shut.

  When he reopened them, Rosalita was by his side, no longer concerned but triumphant. She held out the icy glass.

  Tequila on the rocks with a twist. He looked up at her, and she smiled at him, happy. “You will be yourself,” she said simply.

  “You are the Antichrist,” he whispered.

  His fingers curled around the glass.

  MARION ENTERED THE living room just as a woman in a white cotton sheet disappeared into her brother’s room. For a moment Marion thought she’d seen a ghost. She shook her head and crossed to the phone.

  She liked the living room late at night. Sometimes she went out there just to sit and watch the moon slide through the open blinds and sift over the wicker furniture. In one corner the iguana slept by a heat lamp. Otherwise she was alone.

  She contemplated lighting a cigarette but knew by then that J.T. might appear. Sometimes, as she sat in the shadows, he would emerge from the hall and head straight for the patio. Minutes after he’d slipped through the sliding glass door, she’d hear the muted splash of a perfect dive.

  Marion took a deep, steadying breath, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “Marion?” Roger’s voice was groggy with sleep. It was two A.M. his time. Was he sleeping with his new toy? Had she interrupted something? She hoped so.

  “How is he?” She gave up on her earlier good intentions and found a cigarette. Her hand was trembling.

  “Marion, it’s two in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Roger, but I can tell time. Now, how is he?”

  Roger sighed. She thought she heard the low murmur of a woman’s voice. So the cocktail waitress was there. It hurt. It hurt more than she thought it would.

  I loved you, Roger. I honestly loved you.

  “He’s dying, Marion. Jesus Christ, what the hell do you want me to say? The doctors have given him medication for the pain, but at this point not even that’s enough. Maybe another week, maybe two. Or maybe tomorrow he’ll die. For his sake, I hope so.”

  “Not a very charitable thought about the man you considered your mentor, Roger. But then, we both know just how highly you regard loyalty.”

  He was silent. In her mind she could see the way his lips would be thinning right now and his high brow creasing into lines of tension. She’d been married to him for almost ten years. She knew him inside and out. She knew he was slightly weak and spineless. She knew he was smart and ambitious. She knew everything about him—she’d thought that was what marriage was all about.

  “All right, Marion,” he said quietly. “Be bitter if you want to. But you’re the one who called me. I’m just the messenger telling you that your father is still in the last stages of cancer. He’s in pain, he’s delusional. He moans and sometimes he cries out for Jordan and sometimes he cries out for Teddy. If you want him to live like that, fine. I think it’s a helluva way to die.”

  J.T. and Teddy. She wasn’t surprised that the colonel hadn’t called her name. He’d never had any use for a daughter.

  “And Emma?” she threw in, referring to her mother. Marion didn’t like Emma. She considered her a weak bitch more content with fantasy than being a good wife to the colonel. But Roger had always had a soft spot for the demented old bat.

  “I worry about her too,” Roger said predictably enough. “She’s quoting Sophia Loren’s lines from El Cid. I’m half afraid she might actually stick his corpse on a horse one of these days. You know she’s always worse under pressure.”

  “Pressure? The woman cracks under the strain of what shoes to wear in the morning.”

  “Marion . . . why did you call?”

  “I wanted make sure nothing had happened.”

  Another lengthy silence. This time she knew he was not frowning. Instead, he was painstakingly choosing his words. Roger was a very diplomatic man, a born spin doctor. She imagined his career would continue to advance nicely in the army.

  “Marion . . .” His voice was soft. She automatically stiffened her spine. “I know this is a tough time for you. I know I hurt you—”

  “Hurt me? Hurt me! You walked out on our marriage!”

  “I know, Marion. But—”

  “But what? We had respect, we had friendship. We had ten years of history. My God, Roger, we had a solid relationship.”

  “Except that you froze every time I touched you.”

  She went rigid, the cigarette burning down to her lips. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move.

  “I’m sorry,” Roger said. “God, I’m sorry, Marion. I know that hurts. But how was I supposed to take that? How was I supposed to live like that? I have needs—”

  “It’s my job, isn’t it? You’ve always been jealous, haven’t you? Thought it took too much of my time, kept me from being the perfect army wife and hostess. And my career is a good career too, one as good as yours—and I’m stronger than you. I shoot better than you. You’re . . . you’re just an army bureaucrat and I’m the one out there actually making a difference!” Her voice was harsh. It kept her from falling into a million pieces.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have minded a wife who came home on occasion. A wife who didn’t compare me to her boss or to her darling father. Is that so much to ask for?” The carefully crafted words were spinning away from him. She took sublime satisfaction in that.

  “You’re weak!” she spat out into the phone. “You’re spineless and only half the man the
colonel is. You’re not a real lieutenant colonel, you just know how to play political games. I’m glad you left. It’s better this way. You play with your little child. At least you finally found someone you can be better than!”

  “Dammit, Marion! Don’t do—”

  She didn’t hear the rest. She slammed the phone down so hard, Glug flinched. She stared at the lizard, willing it to move so she’d have an excuse to tear it to pieces.

  The iguana wisely played dead. She lit a fresh cigarette and inhaled the acrid smoke until tears stung her eyes. Her body was trembling and she hurt, way down deep inside.

  For just one moment she wanted to curl into a ball and weep. She wanted to hold out her arms and have someone wrap her in a strong embrace and whisper soothing words in her ear.

  It’ll be all right, Merry Berry. I’ll save you. I’ll save you.

  The words came out of nowhere, as faint as a dream. She rubbed her cheeks with her fists, swallowing through the tightness in her chest.

  To hell with Roger. He was a weak man consoling himself through his midlife crisis with a twenty-two-year-old. She was tougher than him. She was tougher than most men she met. It unnerved all of them. Even in the nineties, men expected a little simpering, a little need. They told her she would have equal opportunity as a female agent, then tried to hide dead bodies from her sight as if she might faint. And then when she bent down and investigated the scene, they exchanged glances over her head as if she were some dyke in disguise.

  They told her they didn’t mind independence, then looked wounded the first time she didn’t cry in their arms because she’d seen a murder. They said they understood her strength, then resented it when she outperformed them on the shooting range.

  She was not the one changing the rules. She was not the one saying she was comfortable with one thing and expecting another. She’d married and she was faithful. She’d taken a vow of fidelity, bravery, and integrity, and she was a good agent. She’d promised the colonel she would make him proud and she would be at his side holding his hand when he died. And she’d see to it that he got the best sendoff any man had ever had.

  She brushed off her shirt. She patted her hair, which was pulled back into a French twist. She told herself she was composed and together and the strongest thing this side of hell.

  Then she walked down the hall to her bedroom.

  Her feet slowed by J.T.’s door. The urge welled up so strongly, her hand actually curled around the door-knob. Open the door. Go inside. He’ll help you, he’ll help you. Jordan will save you.

  Then she remembered that day at J.T.’s orienteering match, when their father had come back and he hadn’t. She’d stood there while the adults had conferred, holding her stomach against the anger knotting her belly. Jordan had gone and done it. He’d escaped, he’d run away. He’d left her.

  Then he was crashing through the underbrush. And instead of being relieved, she hated him all the more. Because he had come back, the dumb bastard, and for just one moment she’d thought that he was free, that J.T. had at least escaped and she wouldn’t have to be scared for him anymore.

  While the colonel had patted J.T. on the back for walking on a broken ankle, Marion had leaned into the woods and vomited until she dry-heaved.

  “I hate you,” she now whispered, the words choked with tears.

  She stormed into her room. “Goddamn everyone in this house,” she muttered. “Goddamn them all.” She slammed the window open, found a fresh pack of cigarettes, and tapped out one.

  That was it. She’d had enough. She’d given J.T. his one week to decide. Tomorrow she would give him his last chance to see the light. Then she was getting out of this hellhole.

  The cigarette trembled between her fingertips. She couldn’t get it to light. She broke it in half in disgust and stared out the window. She found her arms wrapped around herself, and for an uncanny instant she suffered the sensation she was being watched.

  She bolted from the window, grabbed her gun, and returned to the window with it already cocked. Eyes sharp in the night, peering this way, peering that way.

  Shit, Marion, what are you doing? Jumping at shadows, ready to shoot at cacti. When did you become so fucked up?

  She lowered the gun and hung her head between her shoulders. “Get some sleep,” she ordered herself. “Close the window and get some fucking sleep.”

  She crawled into bed. The night was quiet and still. Just the crickets, the relentless crickets, murmuring through the night. She wrapped her arms around her pillow, and the exhaustion crashed over her. In two breaths she was asleep.

  Merry Berry had some dreams.

  The first two were nightmares, making her toss in bed and her lips move in soundless prayer. A tall, dark figure strode into her room. She heard the sound of jump boots against hardwood floors, and the ringing nauseated her.

  Then that image spiraled away and she’d arrived in Arizona. She was running around the hacienda, calling J.T.’s name. She had to protect . . . she had to find . . . She rounded the corner and there he was: Jim Beckett’s face pressed against the window, his tongue licking the glass.

  She murmured in her sleep, trying to push the dream away. She was so tired and she was so afraid. There was never anyone to comfort her anymore. Never anyone who cared.

  Sleep took pity on her and dragged her into a softer embrace.

  She was little, little and strong. She rode the big gelding effortlessly, feeling his muscles bunch and flex at her command. “Faster,” she whispered to him. “Faster.”

  Her hair flew behind her, the wind brushing tears from her eyes. Around and around they went. Faster and faster. Until she saw the jump. The big, huge jump looming ahead. They were going too fast, they would never clear the hurdle. Frantically she pulled back on the reins, but her horse fought the bit, his massive head twisting.

  J.T.’s voice called out, soft but clear. He’d been there all along, out of sight, but she’d known he was there. She had depended on it.

  “You can do it, Merry Berry,” he shouted. “You can do it.”

  She took the jump. She heard him clapping his hands.

  And for just one moment she was free.

  JIM WAS READY.

  In the dark hours right before dawn he sat naked in the shuttered room and finished his preparations.

  On the floor he had lined up two plastic eggs filled with neon purple Silly Putty, a box of clear sandwich bags, two bags of pillow stuffing, four packages of women’s nylons, eyeliner, and a fairly expensive black wig guaranteed to make him appear “ten years younger,” according to the salesman. Last was a large-size Middlesex County police uniform, stolen out of the police locker room from an officer who obviously spent most of his time at Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Beneath the harsh glare of a bare-bulb desk light, Jim labored over the uniform, his long, lean fingers meticulously ripping stitches and pulling off patches.

  In the majority of situations, just the appearance of a uniform was enough; to an inexperienced eye all cops looked alike. But in fact, different departments, cities, and counties had their own distinct patches. Rank was indicated by the colored strip running down the trouser leg as well as the bars or patches on the collar. Different counties also had different styles—from straight trousers to balloon trousers—and different colors—from brown to navy blue to black. These were all things to consider, since in the next twenty-four hours this uniform would have to withstand the intense scrutiny of people who knew better. Having made it this far, Jim had no intention of being screwed by such a simple thing as the wrong patch or an insignia he couldn’t explain.

  Beside him, he had a full-color book illustrating all the different uniforms of different state and county law enforcement agencies. He also had a book on police patches as well as his own personal collection he’d compiled during the seven years he’d served as an officer. Some he’d purchased, some he’d stolen. All were useful.

  He pulled off the last patch and held the huge dark blue
uniform up to the light. It would do.

  He set aside the uniform and turned to the items on the floor. He selected the Silly Putty first, pounding it out, molding it, and inserting it into the plastic sandwich bags. When tucked inside the mouth, the pouches would give the appearance of jowls. He cut off the legs of the nylons, filled them with pillow stuffing, and closed the top with a few quick stitches. Instant thunder thighs and Buddha belly. The wig and makeup would be applied at the last minute.

  He pulled out an old shoe box and sorted through his collection of badges and name tags until he found what he wanted. He’s started stealing badges five years before. Detectives and rookies were the easiest—detectives because they were so arrogant they never thought anyone would rifle their jacket pockets, rookies because they were stupid. Jim had realized such things as authentic badges would always come in handy. He’d built his stockpile carefully. Then, two and a half years ago, when he’d realized his activities were suddenly being monitored and two plainclothes officers were following him, he’d made his final preparations. He’d found the perfect lair. He’d stashed his badges, a fake ID, a ton of cash, and, yes, two passports.

  His diligence had paid off. The police never found his cover and he spent two years in prison, knowing that sooner or later opportunity would present itself, and he could pick up right where he left off.

  He selected the appropriate badge and went to work sewing on the name patch. God was in the details.

  His conversation with Sergeant Wilcox had gone well, particularly once he’d taken the man out to lunch and pumped him full of Halcion. The good old sergeant had slept like a baby as Jim had driven him out of the city, tied him to a tree, and prepared his Swiss Army knife. It hadn’t taken long to get all the information he required.

  He’d called the sergeant’s wife and explained that Wilcox’s assignment now required absolute secrecy. Her husband would not be home for a few days, nor would he be allowed to call. By the end of the week they would be able to tell her more.