Justin asked the question before Mary could. “What do you mean gone? Is he dead or just missing?”
“He is missing, but I know he is dead or he would come for me.”
“My dad’s really dead.” Just like that Justin bought into the missing equals dead explanation. Well, in their world, at one time, missing meant dead, but not anymore. After all, Mary had mastered the art of “missing” without dying. Her brother Kenny was missing, yet Mary didn’t think of him as dead. She also never brought Kenny’s name up in Justin’s presence because at first, the mention of Kenny’s name made Justin cry.
Mary may wish that Eric would be the favorite uncle, the role model, but in truth, Uncle Kenny had been around when the going got tough. And Justin remembered Kenny as a happy-go-lucky uncle. One who chased him down halls and put together train sets. Justin, fortunately, didn’t know that Kenny did all this with a gun strapped to his ankle. Mary didn’t want Justin to miss Kenny. Justin was too impressionable now.
Alma went back to her original fetal position. The fetal position was a surprisingly good don’t-ask-me-any-more-questions technique that Mary had used herself once or twice. Then, the cabin came into view and Mary slowed. “Home sweet home,” she told Justin, looking at the century-old cabin that had been Eric’s inheritance from their grandfather. But now Eric lived in Gila City with his new wife and family and he was letting them stay here rent-free.
“And you’re sure we’ll have TV?” Justin asked.
“I’m sure. Maybe not today, but by next week for sure.”
Justin sat up and peered out the windshield. “Is the dark-haired guy Uncle Eric? I don’t remember him. He’s not as big as Uncle Kenny.”
No, Eric wasn’t as big as Uncle Kenny. Both Mary and Eric looked more like their mother. They were tall, dark and sinewy. Their older brothers, Sardi, Tony and Kenny, looked like their father. They resembled tall, dark, walking refrigerators. Eric’s friend had good-looking down to an art, but he sure wasn’t dressed for the dirty work of unloading furniture and unpacking boxes.
Both men started walking toward the driver’s side window. The friend’s walk was sure, deliberate. He moved without a smile. There was something about him…“He’s a cop,” Mary muttered.
Alma ducked.
“What are we going to do, Mom?” Justin sat up, half excited, half worried. In the backseat, panic seemed to roll off the girl in waves.
Mary recognized the extreme fear. A lifetime of avoiding police detection came back too easily. “Justin, it’s more like what you are going to do. Jump out, run over, give your Uncle Eric a hug and turn them away from the car. Alma, you slip out when they’re not looking and go hide. You’ll need to hide for quite a while. They’ll be unloading the U-Haul. Take some food and water from the box on the floorboard.”
Justin obeyed, and Mary watched as he approached and the men turned to the side.
Glancing in the backseat and watching as Alma rolled trail mix, chips and bottles of water into her blanket, Mary knew Alma had no intention of coming back.
Being alone for two days must have damaged Mitch’s vocal chords. Yes, that was it. Two days without giving orders, conducting interrogations or heading up meetings had combined to render him speechless. Otherwise, he’d have to admit it was the gorgeous woman stepping out of the car who left him tongue-tied.
Speechlessness wasn’t a comfortable feeling for Mitch, especially over the likes of Mary Santellis-Graham. He could see that she wasn’t nearly as bowled over by him. She had already made him as a cop and he wasn’t surprised by her quick assessment. Mary was a Santellis who’d been on the run for the past three years. Cop and bogeyman were synonymous in her world.
Eric appeared oblivious to the tension between Mitch and his sister and asked, “How was the drive?”
That’s when Mary smiled and his tongue went from tied to gone completely. Mitch hoped he didn’t need to say anything because he couldn’t, even if he tried.
She flipped her long hair over a shoulder and confidently strode toward her brother. The resemblance was uncanny. And both had mastered the art of attitude.
“The drive was fine. Now, why did you bring a cop with you?” Mary spoke the words to Eric but shot the get-off-my-property look at Mitch.
“He’s not a cop, exactly,” Eric said easily. “Mitch Williams is with Internal Affairs, which means unless you’ve done something bad with a cop or because of a cop, you’re safe.”
“My mom doesn’t go near cops,” Justin stated. “Me, neither.”
It was the young boy who helped free Mitch’s tongue. He had the blue-black hair and attitude of the Santellis clan, but from Mitch’s recollection of his run-ins with Eddie, the boy had his father’s stockiness. “So who do you go to when you’re in trouble?” Mitch asked.
“I go to my mom.”
Mitch turned to Mary. “And who do you go to when you’re in trouble?”
She met his gaze head-on. “I distance myself from the problem.”
Mitch almost grinned. He was pretty sure she was thinking he was going to be a problem.
“Hey, hey,” Eric butted in. “What’s going on here? You two, stop it. Sis, Mitch is your nearest neighbor. He lives right up there.”
Mitch watched as Mary warily looked up Prospector’s Way to the only cabin in sight.
Eric didn’t appear to notice her discomfort. “Mary, I came out early because I wanted to scout out the area. I didn’t know Mitch was even at his place. I’ve been filling him in on a case Ruth is investigating, and he’s willing to help.”
“What kind of case?” Mary asked carefully. Her son edged a little closer, looking interested.
Eric continued, “A two-month-old baby boy was kidnapped Sunday in Gila City. We know the family. The local police have done everything they know how to do, but each hour that passes gives whoever took the baby a greater chance of getting away.”
Mary’s eyes softened and she reached out and put her hand on her son’s shoulder, as if checking to making sure he was really next to her, really safe. She was taking care of her own.
There was no one who felt that way about Mitch.
And it was his own fault.
“They already rule out family members?” she asked.
“Yes, pretty much.” Eric said. “The mother’s a sixteen-year-old girl, Angelina Santos. Her father, a police officer, died just a year ago. The father is a fifteen-year-old boy. His family’s taking a little bit more time to warm to the idea of being grandparents, but, hey, they had plans for their son.”
“Sixteen, huh?” Mary said, slowly. “And Hispanic?”
Eric nodded, and Mitch watched Mary’s face. Something was bothering her and it wasn’t just him. Finally, she continued, “And you’re sure neither family is suspect?”
“Absolutely sure,” Eric insisted. “The girl’s family attends our church and when little José was—”
Mary held up her hand for him to stop. “Is the mother way too thin?”
“Too thin? No,” Eric said, “What makes you ask?”
“Mom, don’t!” Justin suddenly jerked away from his mother’s hand and turned to face her. His whole face shouted, don’t trust the cop! Stop talking.
They learned so young, this distrust of the system—a system supposed to help not hurt.
“Mom,