Part 29 (1/2)

”I'm not sure Nicky is such a good watchdog. Remember Mrs. Starnes....”

She did. She remembered every second of the last few hours. She wondered whether the image of Mrs. Starnes on the floor would ever leave her.

”I'll keep my cell phone and revolver with me,” she promised. ”I know you have to get back to the scene.”

He bent his head and his lips touched hers. Gently, yet with the spice of pa.s.sion underneath. She sensed his reluctance as he drew away. ”We'll probably be working all night. I'll send someone over to check the house for any more bugs. His name is Daniel. He's a deputy sheriff as well as a wire expert. He'll show his credentials from outside. You're not to let anyone else in unless you know them. In fact...”

”I'll be careful,” she said.

He took her hand and held it for a moment, his fingers tracing the palm in a way that caused erotic s.h.i.+vers to run up and down her spine.

”I'll call later.”

She liked that idea. Far more than she should.

'BISBEE'.

The birth certificate came in the mail.

Holly looked at it for a long time. It was one of the necessary steps toward freedom. To a Social Security number. A driver's license. And a measure of safety.

Until this moment she'd feared that someone would discover that Elizabeth Baker had died years ago.

During her trips to the library, she'd found a book on how to disappear. She knew now that she had done everything wrong. She'd thought herself so smart.

The biggest mistake, it said, was settling in a small community. According to the book, she should have chosen a large city like San Francisco, or Chicago, where one could become an anonymous face in a crowd. It was far more difficult to hide in a small town where people knew one another and had a collective curiosity about newcomers.

Well, that certainly was true.

She'd thought about running again. That thought sent chills through her. She didn't think she could do that again.

Neither could she uproot her son again. She just couldn't do it. Harry liked it here. He loved Caesar and what he called the ”funny” town. He liked the sheriff and the pony he'd ridden.

He was leading a normal life for the first time in his life.

But she did have to obtain a driver's license and Social Security number.

Neither, she'd discovered, would be easy to obtain. You needed a Social Security card for a driver's license. But there might be other kinds of identification she could produce.

She decided the Social Security card was the most important. With that, she could obtain a driver's license and open a bank account. The bank account would allow her to build credit. A history.

She had considered opening a bank account with someone else's Social Security number. But her Internet research told her that facade could last less than a year. Banks reported transactions to the government. If she had any idea of staying here that long, she could be discovered.

And she 'did' want to stay. It frightened her how much she wanted to stay. She had real friends now. Friends who liked her for herself.

In a very short time, she'd grown to love the desert and the odd little town with so much character. A town that refused to die. A town that valued the lesser of its residents. One that persisted but still refused to conform.

Staying posed a risk. Trying to get a Social Security card posed a risk. But she knew to stay here--or wherever she went--she would need identification. She was terrified every time she drove a car. If she was ever stopped, her house of cards could tumble.

She'd spent hours trying to devise a reason why she didn't have a Social Security number. Most people today had a Social Security card almost since birth. The best scenario, she decided, was that she was a daughter of missionaries and had lived outside the country most of her life, had married overseas and had never held any job but that of housewife. Under those circ.u.mstances it had been easy to overlook the need for a card....

She looked at the birth certificate again. A beginning. But there were so many traps out there. One mistake, and she could die. And then what would happen to her son?

”Mommy?” Harry sensed something. His eyes were riveted on her.

”Want to go for a walk?” she asked.

He leaped to his feet, dislodging Caesar, who had crawled up on the sofa with him, and fetched the dog's leash. Caesar jumped down from the sofa and followed him, obviously eager for his evening const.i.tutional.

Holly regarded what had become a ritual with a pleasure only slightly tinged with apprehension.

She'd established a routine. She worked all morning while Harry watched television or read, then at noon she would visit the library in her daily search for news from New Orleans. Then she and Harry would go somewhere for an inexpensive lunch. After lunch, it was home again to work the rest of the afternoon.

They would walk the dog after the worst of the heat faded, then she would fix a simple supper. She usually read to Harry unless there was something suitable on television.

Both Russ and Sheriff Menelo had asked her out. She'd told both she wasn't ready to date again.

She was feeling safer and safer as each day pa.s.sed.

That was scary in itself.

Caesar barked with excitement as they left the house.

As always, she looked around for any vehicle that shouldn't be there, for any person who looked out of place. But she saw only the usual, and she allowed herself to relax, to enjoy the evening breeze and the softness of the desert colors.

They had walked two blocks when Harry looked up at her. ”When is Father coming?”

Not Daddy. He was four years old, and the only word he knew for Randolph was ”Father.” Still, there was a yearning in his face.

”I don't know,” she said.

”Does he love us?”

”Of course he does,” she said, wincing inwardly again. She looked down. His small, beloved face was pinched with concern. She knew suddenly that he had been worrying for days, though he'd said nothing. Something he'd learned from her?

Her heart cracked. She'd chosen unwisely, yet if she had not married Randolph, then there would not have been solemn, bright little Harry.

”You know how busy your father is,” she said.

He nodded. He'd been told enough times.

”He wanted us to have this adventure.”

”But I want to tell him about it. I rode a horse. All by myself.” He was puffed up with pride, obviously eager to announce his accomplishment to the one person whose attention he craved.

She ached for him. For his need for a father who had never cared about him beyond his value during a photo opportunity.

How much should she lie? Promise? When was it going to backlash? When would he not be quieted by her a.s.surances? When would she be forced to tell him the truth ... or make up an elaborate lie?

She tried to divert his attention, even while knowing that it was a problem she couldn't wish away.