Part 20 (2/2)
Suddenly, he looked up, his mouth stretching into a lazy grin. ”What?”
”Nothing.”
”Nothing, with a blush?” Jack laughed. ”You look like I'm the next course.”
Addie raised one brow. ”Not the worst idea you've ever had.”
”We have to get to the diner. There are hungry people out there.” But as he spoke, Jack tugged Addie into his arms. ”Then again, there are hungry people in here.”
He began to nibble at her neck and kiss the freckle behind her ear, and Addie heard music. Tiny, tinkling silver chimes, the kind tied to the wings of angels. It took her a moment to realize that the noise was real and was coming from the doorbell.
On the threshold of the front door stood Charlie Saxton, with Wes slightly behind him. Addie stared at the policemen and felt all the life draining out of her, an island town evacuated before a storm. ”Charlie,” she said stiffly. ”What can I do for you?”
His face was red, and he couldn't make eye contact with her. ”Actually, I'm looking for Jack St. Bride.”
Addie felt a soft touch on her upper arm as Jack came to stand beside her. ”Yes?”
Charlie waved a piece of paper, then stuffed it into his coat pocket. ”Mr. St. Bride, I have a warrant for your arrest. You've been charged with committing the offense of aggravated felonious s.e.xual a.s.sault against Gillian Duncan last night.”
Addie felt her entire body start to s.h.i.+ver from the inside out.
”What?” Jack cried. ”I was nowhere near Gillian Duncan last night! This is crazy!” He gazed wildly around, his eyes seizing on Addie. ”Tell them,” he said. ”Tell them I didn't do it.”
He didn't do it, Addie thought. And on the heels of that: Addie thought. And on the heels of that: He was not with me last night. He was drunk. We'd had a fight. He was not with me last night. He was drunk. We'd had a fight.
He might have done to Gillian Duncan what once was done to me.
Jack must have seen it, the what-if that flickered over her face before she managed to get her mouth to move. ”He didn't do it,” she whispered, but by then Jack had already turned away.
”We're just gonna take a little trip to the station,” Charlie said. He stood back as Wes slid handcuffs over Jack's wrists, then tugged him none-too-gently out the front door and into the waiting police car.
Addie wanted to throw up, to crawl into bed and die. She did not want to see Jack St. Bride, never again. She wanted to hold him close and tell him she believed in him.
She was so upset, in fact, that it took her a moment to realize Charlie remained on the steps outside the front door. ”You all right?” he asked softly.
Her face came up, eyes hard and dark. ”How dare dare you ask me that?” you ask me that?”
Chagrined, Charlie reached forward to close the door, then hesitated. ”It would be a big help if we could get the clothes he was wearing last night.”
”Do whatever you want,” she answered, crying. She remained in this small sh.e.l.l during the five minutes she could hear Charlie moving through her home. And she did not bother to glance up when he left with Jack's muddy boots, his dirty clothing, and a handful of condoms from the nightstand beside her bed.
When Charlie led Jack to the booking room to take his mug shot and his prints, St. Bride moved through the routine easily, as if it were a complicated dance to which he had long ago learned the steps. Charlie photographed the cuts on his brow, his swollen eye, all without St. Bride saying a single word or giving him any trouble. He paid careful attention to a long scratch on the man's cheek-a scratch Gillian Duncan had said she'd given him while trying to fight the guy off.
Charlie had gotten a warrant for Jack's person, too, which meant securing blood and hair samples. Now, as he drove to the hospital, he glanced at St. Bride in the backseat. The man was staring out the window, deep in thought. ”You got something on your mind, Jack?” Charlie said conversationally. ”Or maybe on your conscience?”
St. Bride's eyes met his in the rearview mirror. ”Go to h.e.l.l,” he murmured.
Charlie laughed. ”Maybe later. First we're going to the ER.”
In the parking lot, Charlie got out of the car and opened the back door for Jack to do the same. ”I'm not coming,” he said. ”You can't force me to.”
This surprised Charlie; St. Bride had been so complacent up till now. ”Actually, I can. I have a warrant that says I'm getting your blood and your hair whether you like it or not.” He squatted down, so that he was at eye level with his suspect. ”And I'm thinking that when your trial comes up and I testify that you refused to give us samples, that jury is going to believe you have something to hide.” Charlie shrugged. ”If you didn't do it, then you've got nothing to worry about, right?”
”Right,” Jack said tightly, and unfolded himself from the car.
He was led into the ER in his handcuffs and almost immediately shuffled into a tiny cubicle. A nurse came in and efficiently drew blood from the veined valley of Jack's arm. Charlie initialed the vial, so that he could verify the chain of custody of the blood. Jack hopped off the examination table, but Charlie stopped him with a shake of his head. ”I'm not done with you.” Slipping his hand into a rubber glove, he yanked a swatch of hair from St. Bride's head.
”That hurts!”
”Like I care,” Charlie muttered, sealing it into an envelope.
Jack's gaze was murderous. ”Are we finished yet?”
”Nope. Drop your pants.”
”I don't think so.”
Charlie regarded him evenly. ”Either I can pull your pubic hairs or you can have the honor.” Slowly, Jack extended his wrists, shaking the cuffs. ”You don't need a lot of range of movement for this,” Charlie said. ”Nice try.”
Exhaling through his nose, Jack unb.u.t.toned the fly of his jeans and reached into his boxer shorts. The handcuffs caught on the b.u.t.tons, but Charlie pretended not to notice. If the a.s.shole sliced his d.i.c.k off by accident, the world would be a safer place. Jack flinched as he pulled out the first hair and set it on a sheet of white paper Charlie had placed on the exam table. ”How many?”
For DNA a.n.a.lysis, the lab needed only a few hairs-five to ten, at most. Charlie met Jack's gaze without flinching. ”Thirty,” he said, and settled back to watch.
May 1, 2000 Salem Falls, New Hamps.h.i.+re Matt Houlihan had the instincts of a pit bull and the face of Opie Taylor, a combination that led to a stunning number of convictions in his job as a.s.sistant county attorney and that made most local defense lawyers want to strangle him in his sleep. As he stood outside a conference room at 7 A.M. A.M. at the Grafton County Courthouse, listening to a particularly loud and obnoxious defense attorney argue with his equally loud and obnoxious client, he closed his eyes and thought of Molly. at the Grafton County Courthouse, listening to a particularly loud and obnoxious defense attorney argue with his equally loud and obnoxious client, he closed his eyes and thought of Molly.
He could conjure the exact cornflower blue of her eyes, and the softness of her skin, and even the sweet smell that he breathed in when he buried his face in her neck. She kept him up all night, but he didn't mind at all. He was head over heels in love with her.
Had been, in fact, since the moment she was born six months ago.
He had always enjoyed getting convictions, but now that he had a baby, he was a man driven. He wanted to get every single bad guy behind bars, so that by the time his daughter was walking free in this world, it was a safe place to be. Sydney, his wife, told him he was headed right for hypertension medication and that he couldn't play Superman all by himself. ”Watch me,” Matt had answered.
Matt crossed his arms, wis.h.i.+ng he could just be done with this case. The perp had been found with drugs in his hand, so the very fact that Matt had offered him a plea seemed a remarkable act of graciousness on his part, at least in his opinion. His lawyer had argued anyway, trying to get the state to reduce the charges. Matt had refused but offered to step out into the hall to let the attorney talk things over with his client.
”No,” the client said, for the fourth time. ”I ain't gonna take it.”
Rolling his eyes, Matt walked back into the conference room. He plucked the form out of the defendant's hand and ripped it up, raining the pieces down over the man's upturned, stunned face. ”The plea's no longer on the table.”
”Jesus!” the defense attorney shouted. ”He was on the verge of accepting!”
Matt had the smaller man backed up against the table within seconds. ”I don't want him to plead,” he said, his voice soft. ”I'm going to body-slam your client at trial until he wishes he had been more cooperative and you wish you had been more persuasive.” He stepped away suddenly, straightening his jacket. ”Good-bye,” he said, and exited.
Matt checked his watch and smiled. He had two hours before he was expected at the office. With any luck, he could feed Molly her breakfast.
The room was airless and bare, with the exception of a card table, two folding chairs, and a tape recorder. A fluorescent bulb overhead spit and blinked at random intervals.
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