Hannah was not having a good day. Though she’d parked in her reserved, covered spot, right next to another judges-only covered spot, her two-year-old gold Lexus GS—originally bought for child safety but now appreciated for the luxury it afforded after a stressful day on the bench—had a key scratch marring its perfect paint job. Running from the driver’s-side mirror to the back bumper, it wasn’t a little scratch. And it wasn’t superficial. She could see down to the metal.
It happened. Everyone knew where the judges parked. And in spite of security, every once in a while one of their cars was egged. Or had its tires deflated. Two of her peers had found threatening notes during Hannah’s years on the bench. A half-dozen or so times there’d been reports of cards left on windshields by zealous reporters. Once she’d heard about a letter taped to a door; it was from a relative of a young woman about to be sentenced. She should have expected her turn to come.
Just not today.
Not when she’d had Kenny Hill and Bobby Donahue in her courtroom. Of course, she’d also spent the morning with more than fifty family members and friends of other alleged lawbreakers as well, on pretrial motions, pleas and arraignments. Any number of them could have been pissed at her.
Or maybe some local high school gang had made keying a judge’s car a requirement of new-member initiation. Hannah didn’t automatically assume that Kenny Hill or any of his “church” brethren was behind the vandalism. But she couldn’t assure herself that they weren’t.
After fifteen minutes with security, waiting while pictures were taken and listening to the older sheriff’s deputy drone on, Hannah felt a little better. She still had the ugly scratch that meant a day in the shop, a loaner that would probably smell and the loss of her insurance deductible, but apparently there’d been several other keyings in the area that were thought to be gang related. It was going to cost her. But she hadn’t been specifically targeted.
A fitting ending to the day.
Too bad she’d already agreed to meet William for dinner. As fond as she was of her former law-school classmate and fellow judge, she’d rather go straight home, turn up the air-conditioning, run a hot bath in her Whirlpool tub, then have a good soak and a cry.
He knew her name. As he felt the pressure building, felt his climax coming, Brian kept his eyes open, focusing on the woman lying next to him, moving her hips in tandem with his. Eyes closed, her mouth slightly open as she moaned, Cynthia Applegate was a beautiful woman.
“Ah, Cynthia,” he said, emptying himself into her. “Yes.” He felt her answering tremors as she came, pulses of release that contracted around him, completing an intense moment.
She sighed. And smiled. Opening her eyes.
“I love you,” she said. It wasn’t the first time.
Pressure built again—less pleasurable this time.
“It’s okay,” she continued, lifting a finger to his lips as he tried to speak. “You don’t have to say anything. I don’t expect anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
He should speak anyway. She deserved more than the long kiss he gave her, so Brian caressed her in the way he knew she liked, bringing her to a second orgasm. It wasn’t enough. But it was a start. More than he’d been able to give any other woman.
And during the aftermath, as he lay with her, there was none of the usual letdown, and not as much of the guilt. As always, an image of Cara’s face after they’d made love appeared in his mind. Her features were hazy. Quickly replaced by another sight. His wife’s face smeared with blood. His and her own.
And then the sounds replayed themselves. Her cries as she tried to free herself from the wreckage.
And the young man’s words as he stood outside their smashed vehicle. “Won’t do no good for them to deport me. I’ll come back.”
The words were in his native tongue. But Brian had spoken Spanish fluently since college.
“Let me out!” It took him a second to realize it wasn’t his panicked, dying wife he was hearing.
Cynthia was already out of bed.
“Let me out!” Panic filled the childish voice. “Let me out!”
By that third call Brian was halfway down the hall to the spare bedroom where Joseph Applegate slept when he and his mother spent the night—something that had only happened on weekends. Occasionally.
“He’s at it again.” Cynthia’s voice also held a bit of panic as Brian caught up to her. She stood back as Brian raced to the boy, grabbing him off the chair by the window where Joseph was pulling at the blinds and pounding on the glass.
“No!” he screamed, kicking and punching, as Brian wrapped his hands around the youngster’s waist, removing him from immediate danger. “No!”
“You’re all right now, Joseph.” Brian spoke in quiet, reassuring tones, holding on to him until, spent, the boy fell limp in his arms. He handed Joseph to Cynthia.
“Shh, baby, it’s okay.” Cynthia’s voice was calmer now that she was with her son, holding him. Now that he was safely away from the window. Clothed in the robe she’d pulled on as she’d run from Brian’s room, she held Joseph to her, speaking softly but firmly.
Joseph snuggled his face into his mother’s chest, breathed a ragged sigh and settled back to sleep.
“He’s soaked,” Cynthia whispered, rocking the boy as though he weighed nothing. Once his breathing was even, she quickly laid him on the bed, changing his soiled disposable undergarment with the ease of practice. She’d been handling the boy’s sleepwalking episodes far longer than Brian had.
Brian gave the small head a professional caress. The toddler was cool to the touch. “He’ll probably sleep fine now until morning.”
“And as usual he won’t remember anything, so we still won’t have any idea what’s causing this.” She sounded tired, resigned, but worried. At Brian’s recommendation she’d taken Joseph to Dr. Roberta Browning, one of Arizona’s best pediatric psychiatrists; Brian had already run every medical test he could think of, and found nothing to explain Joseph’s symptoms.
There was no sign of internal organ illness. No sign of physical or sexual abuse.
If the lack of answers frustrated Brian, it had to be excruciating for his mother.
“Something must have happened when he was with his father.” He repeated what he’d told her before—the same thing Roberta had said. It wasn’t much of an explanation.
It was all they had. “It’s odd that he doesn’t mention the father he saw regularly,” Roberta had told Brian. Though Joseph’s parents had been divorced since he was a baby, Donald Applegate had had regular visitations until his death.
Brian had asked Cynthia about it. Other than the fact that her ex-husband had had another lover while married to her, she’d said nothing negative about her son’s father. It was obvious, at least to Brian, that she still carried feelings for the man whose life had been cut short.
That was something they had in common. Unexpectedly losing someone they loved.
Brian took one last look at the window, wondering what would have happened if it had been open—what could happen in the future, if they didn’t get things under control.
“Let’s bring him in with us just in case,” he said now, an arm around Cynthia’s shoulders as he led her back down the hall.
The boy needed security. Whatever was causing the sleepwalking, whatever was causing the bed-wetting, might never be known to them, but the symptoms could still be treated. The cure, Brian was certain, especially in one so young, was a stable, two-parent home environment. An environment like the Summerses had to offer Felicia.