Home For Christmas Page 10

  He tried to focus on what she was saying. “And if I did get a...parole?”

  “You would have to report to a parole officer frequently. You would need a place to live. A job ”

  “What would I do?”

  “Your ex-wife said you were a good mechanic, that you could fix anything. I asked the owner of the garage that services my car whether he could use you. He’s always looking for someone. He agreed to try you.”

  For a moment, the thought overwhelmed him Freedom. He didn’t even know what it was. Since he’d first awakened from the coma, he’d been a prisoner, unable to make any choices of his own. “What if I don’t remember anything?”

  “You can learn.”

  She said it with such easy confidence that he believed her Maybe he could.

  “What else have you learned about me,” he said, aware of greed in his voice. Greed for information. “Tell me everything. The bad as well as the good.” He paused, then added dryly, “If there is any good.”

  She regarded him solemnly “There is You’re exceptionally smart. Prison records show an extremely high I Q. You were a great baseball player. You apparently were good at anything you tried.”

  She paused, then continued, “You’re also somewhat of a mystery. No one, not even your wife, felt she really knew you. You kept secrets.”

  “You left out all the good stuff,” he said when she finished. “I murdered a friend.”

  “You weren’t necessarily friends.” She hesitated, as if reluctant to say the next words, then added slowly, “And I’m not sure it was murder You originally said your partner tried to kill you and you acted in self-defense. It wasn’t until ten days later that you decided to plead guilty. And after that you wouldn’t see your wife. You asked her to get a divorce.

  “It doesn’t fit,” she added. “Dr. Dailey doesn’t think so, either. You were a good detective, one of the best Good enough and smart enough to cover your tracks ”

  “Then why...?”

  “That’s the question,” she said “it keeps cropping up. Nothing in your case made sense.”

  It didn’t make sense to him, either. But he had no parameters to judge by.

  “You didn’t find any other family?”

  “No,” she said “Although you went to school in Atlanta.”

  “No friends?”

  She shook her head. “None that your wife knew about. She said you always compartmentalized your life But she did mention a priest.”

  “A priest? Am I Catholic?”

  She shook her head. “Not that anyone knows Your wife said you didn’t go to church. You listed no religion when you entered prison. But this particular priest might have visited you in the Atlanta jail. Mary Elizabeth said she saw him there, but she had no way of knowing whether he was there to see you We checked the jail records, but we can’t find him listed as a visitor. He might well have visited other prisoners at the same time so he would not be listed as seeing you specifically.”

  “My wife,” he repeated the words as if tasting them for the first time.

  “She loved you. She said you loved your child.”

  “But not her?”

  “She said you never seemed able to express emotion, but you were never cruel. She said you never ‘let her inside your soul.”’

  He thought about that In the hospital, he’d watched some afternoon soap operas. Everyone seemed to be in love, whether they should be or not. They said it a lot. What had been wrong with him?

  “She still cares about you,” she said softly, “so I think there must have been a great deal to love.”

  His gaze met hers. He saw the understanding there. Not pity, thank God. But comprehension that took away some of the constant raw anguish. For the first time, he no longer felt so damnably alone, a pariah of no value

  But at what cost to her?

  Had he considered what his actions cost others before?

  Nothing seemed to indicate it.

  His gaze fell to the table. How could he accept so much help from this woman?

  She moved, came around to him and sat on the table. Just as he had moments earlier. Her hand fell on his shoulder It seemed to burn through the rough cloth Burned and soothed at the same time.

  “She said something else,” she said softly. “It hadn’t surprised her that you risked your life to save my son and me. She said you were absolutely without fear, that you were very protective of her and your daughter.”

  He wasn’t without fear now. He feared what he was. What he had been

  “And now I can’t even remember them.”

  “That’s not your fault.”

  “But I should,” he insisted in frustration. “I should feel something. It’s as if feelings had been ripped from me as well as memory.”

  She shook her head. “I think you feel a great deal.”

  God help him, but he did feel at that particular moment. He wished he could touch her, that he could feel her body against his, that he could absorb all that faith that she had and he didn’t have

  But steel encased his wrists, just as guards and bars kept him from human contact. It was a cold reminder of who and what he was

  But she held out a lifeline. Parole.

  He wanted it desperately. He could search for his own past then. He wanted to answer all her questions, despite the answers he might find.

  She moved then, and returned to her side of the desk. She reached into her briefcase, took out two books and handed them to him. He accepted them awkwardly

  “I’ve already checked them out with the guards. You can take them”

  He didn’t look at the titles. He felt as if treasures had been handed to him. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you next week and prepare you for the hearing.”

  He hesitated, not wanting her to leave. “How is your son?”

  “He’s doing fine. He asks about the man who saved him and his mommy.”

  He couldn’t find anything to say to that He didn’t remember the boy. He didn’t remember the accident. He didn’t even remember many of the days that followed it.

  Her steady gray eyes studied him. “We’re going to get you out of here,” she said, then turned and went to the door, rapping on it lightly

  He stood, his hands clasping the books. He wasn’t sure whether he believed that assurance or not. But his steps were lighter as he followed the guard back to his cell.

  Julie took a deep breath once she stepped outside the building. She needed the air. She needed the freshness of it after the institutional smell that plagued every prison. She also needed it to get her equilibrium back. She had felt herself melting in that room with Ryan, every ounce of control and common sense dissolving into air.

  Telling herself the feelings were only the residue of gratitude, she. tried to avoid Dan’s curious glance. Yet the electricity—the connection—between Murphy and herself remained with her. Her limbs felt weak, her mmd slow, and her senses jangled. How could anyone in an ill-fitting prison uniform, his hands chained awkwardly, be so attractive, so compellingly masculine?

  He’d moved with the loose-limbed grace of a wild cat. His shirt sleeves, rolled up above his elbows, revealed strong arms and capable hands. His dark hair had been mussed as if he combed it with his fingers; his face, with all its sharp planes and angles, fascinated her. Even more intriguing were the thoughtful silences, the careful search for words, his obvious reluctance to accept favors. Yet he was wise enough to accept what he needed. She wondered whether the old Murphy would have accepted her help. She doubted it. Another sign of change? Or cunning? Those doubts kept creeping into her consciousness, even as she tried to shove them aside.

  She’d kept wishing he would smile, though she knew he had no reason to smile. She could only imagine what it would do to that chiseled visage, to that hint of a dimple in his cheek. Just thinking about it created a soft warm feeling in a heart she thought could never be touched again by a man.

  Nicholas could make him smile.
She would bet on it. His eager, cheerful face could cajole anyone into a smile.

  That thought made her smile.

  “I take it you’re staying with his case,” Dan said wryly.

  Jerked out of dangerous thoughts, she turned to him. “What do you think?”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “I don’t rightly know, Mrs. Farrell. He’s convincing, I’ll give you that.”

  “You’ll support his parole?”

  “I won’t support it,” he said. “Maybe I won’t oppose it. Depends on what his victim’s family wants.”

  “They’ve moved out of state,” she said “I already tried to reach them.”

  “My people will try harder,” he said dryly

  She nodded. That was his job Victim statements had grown increasingly important in the past several years.

  Then she asked a question that had puzzled her. “Why did you mention..Castilani?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “That was the last case we worked on together I wanted to see his reaction.” Dan changed the subject. “You know if you keep this case, there will be more publicity.”

  A shudder ran through her. “I know.”

  “How does your law firm feel about it?”

  “They don’t like it,” she said honestly. “But for the first time in years, I feel excited about law again.”

  “That passion used to be turned toward the victims,” he reminded her. “Taking the bad guys off the streets, not putting them back on them.”

  “Do you honestly feel Murphy is a bad guy?”

  “I wouldn’t have sent him to prison if I didn’t,” Dan said. “Remember you have a son now. You get involved with the guy and his problems, you’re going to get sucked deeper and deeper into his quicksand.”

  Guilt landed like a boulder in her stomach. She was already spending less time with Nick. Was she also putting him—and herself—in danger?

  But she chose not to let Dan know it. “I plan to spend all weekend with Nick ”

  “I didn’t mean time I’m talking about his safety Don’t let gratitude blind you That’s all I ask.”

  “You fought hard to get Corrigan released,” she reminded him.

  “I knew. he was innocent ”

  She worried her lip as she remembered the case. Jim Corrigan. He’d been one of her first cases. Charged with arson that resulted in a death He’d been fired from a lumber company just prior to a fire that destroyed the multi-million-dollar business. A fireman had been killed in the blaze.

  Corrigan bad a reputation as a hothead, and had been arrested several times for assault. When accelerants were found in his garage by investigating officers, he was charged with arson and murder. Five years later a deathbed confession from the real arsonist, the owner of the business, cleared Corrigan. The resulting investigation showed that an overzealous detective had planted the evidence in hopes of receiving recognition and a promotion.

  But Corrigan had always proclaimed his innocence.

  Still, it was never easy for a district attorney to admit an error. Many of them, unfortunately, chose to ignore evidence which contradicted their convictions. Dan Watters had never been one of those.

  He was stubbornly holding on to his opinion of Murphy, though she sensed she’d made some progress. And she knew him. She knew the best thing to do now was to let him make up his own mind. His inherent fairness would kick in, and he would ignore that protectiveness he felt toward her.

  “How is your wife?” she asked.

  “Fine. Sandy would love to see both you and Nick. She wanted me to ask you over for supper.”

  “We would like that.”

  “Sunday?”

  They had reached his car. She hesitated.

  “We won’t discuss Murphy,” he said.

  “We would love to come.” But she wasn’t going to agree not to discuss Murphy.

  Julie watched Nick as he craned his neck to watch the huge gorilla groom her offspring. The tenderness between mother and baby was mesmerizing.

  Nick stood on the bench to see better, and her hand wound around him protectively. He was so small.

  Gazing down on his rumpled hair with love, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She planned to spend the entire weekend with Nick The zoo in the morning. A movie. Pizza. All of Nick’s favorite things. Then supper at Dan’s the next evening. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t even think of Ryan Murphy.

  I’m talking about Nick’s safety. Dan’s words kept echoing in her mind as she tightened her grip. Nick twisted around and looked at her, giving her his most angelic smile. Her heart lurched, expanded. She loved him so much.

  Nick pointed at another gorilla loping toward the mother and baby. The animal stopped, gave them a quizzical look, then lumbered over, looking down at them.

  “Is he the daddy?” Nick asked He was fascinated with the idea of fathers He had only partially accepted the fact that his had gone to heaven before he was born.

  “I think so,” she said.

  “Can I get a daddy?”

  “It’s not that easy,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Daddies are hard to find, particularly good daddies.”

  He frowned, considering that answer, then turned back to the gorillas. The Atlanta Zoo had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars providing “natural habitats” for its animals, and the gorilla exhibit, where the animals were allowed to roam freely in a large open area, was always the most popular. She took Nick to just those exhibits. Somehow, she didn’t feel up to seeing any caged animals.

  But the zoo was Nick’s very favorite place. He loved animals and even now was clamoring for a dog. She wanted to wait until he was a little older, and so far had deflected his requests by telling him Prissy’s feelings would be hurt. Since Nick would shed tears at the thought of bruising a flower, he usually went to hug Prissy, explaining that he “loved” her better than “any old dog” even as she saw dogs dancing in his wistful eyes.

  They had to stop at the petting zoo, and she watched him happily run his hands through rabbit fur, then feed a small goat. He was weary and beaming when they headed for a theater.

  Four years old Almost five. She wished, in a way, she could keep him at that age forever But then she thought about him as a young man looking down on his own son, and a sweet anguish filled her. She had these years and she would take advantage of each one of them. Despite her recent vow, she thought of Murphy. His daughter had been five when he went to prison How had he felt at losing her? At never seeing her again? Or had he felt anything at all?

  And why did her thoughts keep wandering back to him. She shook her head, trying to shake him from her mind. It belonged to Nick today. Totally

  But the film was a mistake. A big one It was one they had selected together, though she had cautiously guided him in that direction. A comedy about Little League. She avoided children’s films with death or sadness in them, his heart was too soft, and she wanted these years to be as carefree as she could make them. This movie, about a team of misfits who triumph, seemed the best choice, but all the way through she thought of the man who had been a star pitcher m college.

  Damn. The zoo reminded her of him. Now the film. She knew she was really in trouble, though, when they were walking to the car after consuming several large pieces of pizza.

  “Mommy?”

  She had glanced down at the face camouflaged with red pizza sauce “What, sweetie?”

  “Will you teach me to play baseball?”

  “Yep,” she said She had been a fair softball player in high school

  “Can I play in Little League?”

  She was beginning to wonder whether the movie had been a good choice or not. “When you’re old enough.”

  “Can I have a glove?”

  “Maybe for Christmas.”

  “But that’ll take forever.”

  “Not quite,” she said, tightening her hold on his hand. It would be here much too fast. Days were sl
iding along rapidly, especially now that she was working two jobs. Christmas? How long? Two months away now

  He looked disappointed “I already know what I want Santa Claus to bring,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  “Mommies can keep secrets.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “Abby says I can’t tell anyone or he won’t bring it.”

  Julie bit her lip. Emily’s daughter was precocious Too precocious. “I don’t think Abby’s right.”

  But his lips were clamped shut. Well, she had several months to discover the secret and it would probably change ten times during those months.

  “Ready to go home?”

  He yawned and nodded, his eyes already half closed.

  “Have a good day?”

  “I had a wonaful day.”

  “I love you, munchkin.”

  “Me too, Mommy.”

  Chapter 8

  Ryan kept wondering about his daughter. He wished he had asked Julie Farrell to get him a photo.

  He didn’t feel like a father. He wouldn’t recognize his child Perhaps he wouldn’t feel anything if he did see a picture. But he found himself yearning to see a photo, to find a connection.

  His cell seemed to grow smaller each day. Six by eight feet. A metal cot bolted to the floor. A basin. A toilet A radio. It was all he had.

  Despite the continuing pain in his shoulder, he’d started doing pushups and sit-ups, increasing the number daily The activity ate up some of the restlessness that was driving him nearly mad He had one hour a day outside if the weather was good. It had rained for the last week, so he’d not even had that.

  Four weeks. He’d been here four weeks, twenty-eight days Had he really lived this way for ten years with the knowledge that he might live that way his entire life? The very thought suffocated him

  Another week, and he’d have his parole hearing Two additional doctors, both skeptics, had seen him, presented him with even more tests. Although he felt more warmth from them when they left, he knew they had doubts, and he knew why. He’d read what little was in the prison library on amnesia, and he was only too aware of how rare it was. No wonder no one wanted to believe him.