Ultimate Thriller Box Set - Crouch Blake - Страница 225

“You can’t keep your eyes closed forever.”

“Long enough.”

“That won’t make it go away. We’ve got to deal with it. You can’t crawl into your shell and pretend it never happened.”

“Take the money. It doesn’t matter.”

“Donald called me. He wanted to know when you’ll be ready to go back to work.”

“I’m through.” And he was. M & W Ventures, Inc., had built ten apartment complexes, a half-dozen subdivisions, three shopping centers, the country club, and a pair of chain motels. That qualified as a life’s work, didn’t it? Even for the son of Warren Wells. Maybe Donald Meekins could take the oversize prop scissors they used for ceremonial ribbon cuttings and snip the W off the corporation’s name.

Jacob had made his mark on the world. A reputation you could take to the bank. Something you could use for collateral.

He could lose everything, his kids, his wife, his soul, but still those buildings would stand, a testament to willpower and vision. Asphalt to pave his way to a better future. Steel bones, concrete flesh, and a blueprint for his soul. Material evidence for Judgment Day, a devil’s bargain.

“You’re not through,” Renee said. “I won’t let you be through.”

He wondered how much of it had been for her. Where did spousal support cross the line into need, what separated encouragement from the shrewish demand for perfection and achievement? Was it his own insecurity that drove him, or was her relentless desire for his success the whip that kept him in a lather? Was she the ventriloquist whose hand had guided him through his lockstep sleepwalk of greed?

No. She didn’t deserve that much credit. Where he’d been, where he was going, were decisions shaped in the forge of his guts. He could blame other people, and that was fast becoming his latest survival tactic, but the justifications always rang hollow.

In the end, it comes down to you and the stranger in the mirror.

“Leave me,” he said.

“It’s not going away, even if I do.”

Jacob smiled. The movement was painful to his chapped lips. “It’s already gone.” He felt the thump on his chest from the weight of the remote control she had tossed there.

“You and your fucking martyr act,” she said. “As if you’re the only one who has to suffer.”

“I’ll give you the damned divorce. Anything you want. The money, the cars, the house . . .”

The house. Which was nothing but a heap of charcoal in one of Kingsboro’s squarest subdivisions.

“And the kids,” he said, his voice taking on a shrill giddiness. “You can have the kids. No arguments from me. I don’t even want visitation rights.”

“Jakie.”

He clenched the sheet with both hands, tried to squeeze juice from it, pressed his teeth together until his temples ached.

“Calm down. You’re scaring me.” She moved to the head of the bed, reaching for the button that would signal the nurse’s desk.

“You should be scared.”

“Do you think this is any easier for me?”

Jacob looked at her, the green eyes made large by her lenses. He was supposed to love this woman. He knew it, something strong tugged the inside of his chest, a deep memory turned over in the grave of his sleeping heart. How could something so sure and real have turned into this? How could an eternal bond dissolve like mist exposed to the bright glare of morning?

“I’m sorry,” he said. That stupid, useless word crawled out of his dry mouth. He couldn’t stop it. The response was automatic. He’d said that word so often in the past ten months.

“This is impossible,” she said. She pulled her purse to her lap, opened it, took out a pair of clip-on sunglasses, and flipped the dark lenses over her eyes. Jacob was glad her eyes were gone. Now he could look at her fully.

“There’s something else,” she said. She brought a crumpled envelope from the purse. “I guess you wanted to get in one last little twist of the knife.”

“What are you talking about?”

Renee fished a note from the envelope and read it. “‘Hope you liked the housewarming present. Yours always, J.’”

Jacob’s stomach became a great claw clutching at his other abdominal organs. “Where did you get that?”

“I found it in my car. I guess you figured it wouldn’t burn since I was parked on the street that night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s your handwriting, Jake. Don’t play any more games. Please.” A solitary tear slid from beneath the black curve of one plastic lens.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The fire, Jake. The investigators think it might have been arson.”

“I know. They talked to me about it last week. I told them I don’t know why anybody would want to set fire to our house. There’s nothing special about it. It’s not even the best one on the block.”

“But this note—” Her voice broke and all she could do was hold the beige paper in the air before her face.

“—is nothing,” Jake said, his pulse like a frantic clock ticking against his eardrums, a timer for an explosion. “Throw it away.”

“It’s your handwriting. And the insurance—”

“Don’t talk crazy, honey.”

“I’m just confused. None of it makes sense. And Mattie . . . Oh, Jake.” She squeezed the paper into a ball, stood so fast that her purse fell and scattered its contents across the antiseptic floor. She leaned over him and put her head gently on his chest.

He reached out a wounded hand and stroked her hair. “Shh. It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

“Please don’t let it end like this,” she said, her sobs making the narrow hospital bed shake.

“Everything’s going to be good as new,” he said, his heart jumping so much he was sure she could feel it through the thin cotton of his hospital gown. “Trust me. I’m not going to let anyone take you away from me.”

Especially Joshua. No, he wouldn’t let Joshua win this time. Not again. Not like always.

As he spoke soothing words and petted her with one hand, his other hand eased across her body to the paper in her fist. He tugged gently and she let go. He glanced at it, saw the cursive letters leaning to the left. Familiar handwriting. He tucked the paper underneath his sheet, secretly, and let her finish crying.

CHAPTER FIVE

Jacob Wells was released from the hospital on May twenty-ninth.

Steve Poccora wheeled him from his room to the elevator on the day of his release. Jacob insisted he was fine, but Poccora said it was hospital policy to treat everybody like infirms until they reached the door.

“After that, it’s your business,” Poccora said. “Trip and break your leg, for all I care. But we can’t have you suing us for something that happens on the inside.”

Jacob couldn’t tell if the nurse was joking. So he sat in the wheelchair and watched the elevator lights blink as they passed each floor down to ground level. The elevator opened and a man Jacob recognized from the Chamber of Commerce stepped on with a bouquet of pink roses, tulips, and Queen Anne’s lace. Jacob couldn’t recall the man’s name, though he had the thick neck and jowly, red complexion of a former football player. Probably someone in masonry supplies.

“Jacob,” the man said, flashing his money smile. “How’s it going? You doing okay?”

“Never been better.”

The smile faded. “Listen, sorry to hear about . . . you know.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’ve been praying for you.”

“That helps. Thanks.”

The man pointed to the flowers. “For my wife. She’s in maternity. We just had our third.”

Jacob nodded, staring past him at the hospital lobby, the wax sheen of the industrial tiles, the patient information desk staffed by an old lady with pince-nez glasses. Poccora wheeled him out of the elevator and the doors closed with a soft hiss, cutting off the smell of the flowers.

“Dawson,” Jacob said.