fast for someone so large. Jeffrey could feel the distance between them growing and he picked up his pace, pushing aside the branches that slapped at his arms and face.
“Jeffrey!’’ Lydia yelled after him, then ran into the house to get her shoes and her other gun.
His call of “Freeze, motherfucker – ’’ shot like a bullet through the night air, but it only served to urge the intruder on with greater speed. Jeffrey had been in law enforcement far too long to shoot a fleeing suspect in the back.
Suddenly he lost sight of the form in the darkness. Jeffrey stopped when he realized that whoever it was had eluded him unexplainably. The night was alive with mysterious noises and bright stars above, but Jeffrey was alone with the sound of his own breathing, labored from the chase. He searched the area for any sign of the intruder’s escape route, but he was impeded by his poor eyesight, his glasses still sitting on the kitchen table. He sensed that he was alone, that no one was waiting in ambush for him. In the far distance, he heard the sound of a struggling ignition.
He slipped his gun into the waist of his jeans and began walking back toward the house. He could not be sure how far he had come and he could not see the lights through the trees. The shapes around him were difficult to discern. His heart was still racing from adrenaline and exertion as he wiped the sweat from his brow with a quick, aggravated gesture.
“Shit,’’ he muttered.
He was more than a little annoyed that the intruder had slipped away. It never would have happened a few years ago. Another reminder that he was getting older. Who was it? One of those kids Morrow was claiming caused so much trouble? A common burglar, vandal, vagrant? Even as the multitude of possibilities turned in his mind, he knew the answer. This case, which he had at first regarded with skepticism, was starting to take shape like the trees around him when the moon passed from behind the clouds. He had the sense of something sinister, something twisted, something connected to Lydia.
Darkness, solitude; the two places where thoughts turned most often to her. Tonight his thoughts were edged with worry. Who was hiding in those trees? How long had he been there? Had he been waiting there when Lydia had come home alone?
Jeffrey made his way more steadily now, feeling his way in the moonlight, treading carefully toward the gleam of the houselights he now saw in the distance. An anxiety, a fierce need to protect Lydia arose in him. He could see the look in her eyes just a few minutes before, feel her in his arms. He would die for her. If he could have caught his breath enough to break into a run to her, he would have.
A perfect circle of light bounced before him. He was struggling to see what it was, straining his weak eyes in the darkness, when he heard Lydia calling his name.
“I’m here,’’ he called, “stay still. I’ll come to you.’’
“You’re not hurt, are you?’’ she called.
“No, just old, winded and blind.’’
When she finally saw him, she ran to him but stopped herself from throwing her arms around him. Instead she touched him tenderly on his bad shoulder.
He could see she had a.38 in a holster at her waist.
“Did you see who it was?’’
“No. He got away. I don’t know how…He was big and clumsy. But he was ten feet in front of me one minute and then it seemed like seconds later that I heard an ignition struggling a mile away.’’
“I called the police.’’
“All right.’’
She slipped her arm around his waist and he draped his arm across her shoulders in return. She leaned in close to him as they walked. “Who do you think it was?’’ she asked.
“Who do you think it was?’’ he answered, knowing from her tone what she suspected but did not say.
“It was him.’’
“You don’t know that.’’
“I can feel it.’’
“You say that like it’s proof.’’
“It is for me.’’
They were silent as they walked toward the house which was visible now through the trees.
“What do you think, Jeffrey?’’
“I don’t know.’’
But she knew him too well, knowing his heart and his meaning more by what went unsaid than by the words he uttered, understanding more from the protective tightening of his arm around her shoulder.
She stopped walking and faced him, put her fingers to the rough stubble on his face.
“Seems like you’re always rushing to my rescue.’’
“God knows you’ve come to my rescue a thousand times.’’
“You’re always here when things get out of hand.’’
“It’s my honor, Lydia.’’
“I don’t know what to do, Jeffrey. Give me time.’’
“How much more time do you need, Lydia? What are you so afraid of?’’
He pushed the hair out of her eyes and tilted her face upward with a featherlight touch under her chin. The yearning of years ached inside of her like a hunger she had never been able to sate, that made her weak and unsteady on her feet. He pulled her in close. There was no truer home to her than the one she knew in his arms. That was becoming more clear to her every day. She shivered as if someone were walking over her grave. Her desire and fear seemed almost audible, like sirens in the distance, moving closer from opposite directions, warning of danger.
“Lydia.’’
The tone in his voice was a confession, mirroring her own. And in the second before his lips touched hers, the quiet night was pierced by a cacophony of sirens and the chaos of red-and-blue flashing lights on the street. In what seemed like seconds, the forms of at least ten police officers filtered in through the trees like wraiths.
“Over here,’’ Jeffrey called out to the cops, supporting Lydia as she leaned against him, shaking her head against his chest. “We’re over here.’’
They walked onto the drive. Jeffrey borrowed an officer’s cell phone to call Morrow to tell him what had happened. While she was giving her statement to a young female officer, something near the front door to her house caught Lydia’s eye. She stopped speaking in midsentence and walked toward it. Jeffrey saw her and followed behind. Sitting on the low stone step before the door, was a box wrapped in newsprint.
“I need some latex gloves, a letter opener or a knife, and some tweezers,’’ she said to the officer that had followed her.
“Be careful with that,’’ said Jeffrey.
“He’s not the Unabomber,’’ Lydia responded.
“We don’t know what he is.’’
She shrugged and took a step back. She studied the package from a distance and could see that it was wrapped in the newspaper page featuring the article covering Maria Lopez’s disappearance. When the cop returned with the items she requested, she moved toward the package.
“We should call the bomb squad,’’ said Jeffrey, touching her arm.
“And wait two hours to find out what’s inside? I’ll take my chances. The psychology of the bomber is very different than the psychology of the serial killer.’’
He sat down on the step next to her as she carefully removed the adhesive tape with the penknife and unwrapped the package. Inside sat a bloodred-and-gold Montblanc pen. There was a small white gift card that read simply, Vengeance is mine.
Sixteen
Lydia lay on her king-size bed, her body wrapped in soft white Egyptian cotton sheets and a rose-colored
