Take Another Look (4 page)

Jane couldn't help but smile as she folded up her chair. She had been planning what to say to the coach, to defend Harper's position as catcher. But a triple play and a home run would definitely sweeten the conversation.

Afterward, the Mirror Lake contingent headed over to Pizza Kingdom for a victory dinner. The girls took over two large tables, and then fluttered like a flock of finches up the stairs to the loft, where pinball and air hockey and the claw beckoned. Jane was happy to settle into a booth with Trish, Keiko, and Cheree and Mike Berry, who had made it to the game for the last few innings. Cheree also taught at Mirror Lake, and over the years Jane had taken some pointers on parenting as she'd watched Cheree reel in her older kids, who were now in college. As Jane listened to summer stories of camping trips and Disneyland, chickens wandering from their coops and children fishing at Diamond Lake, she watched Pete Ferguson make the rounds. Beer in hand, he moved from table to table like a motivational speaker working a crowd. Jane was just finishing her first slice when he hit their table.

“So did you hear about Olivia's experience with the Starmaker people? What a great camp. You need to think about sending your girls there next summer. It was a transformational experience,” he said with a lift of his beer mug.

“Our team is fortunate that Olivia had a chance to sharpen her playing skills,” Keiko said diplomatically.

“It really showed tonight,” Trish said. “Our girls played well together, didn't they? It's hard to believe they've only been a team for a few weeks. And when you think about it, they're absolutely remarkable for such a young team.”

Jane chewed a piece of crust, loving the way Trish turned the conversation back toward the team.

“That's right,” said Mike. “Olivia and Sarah are the only seniors. Pretty unusual for a varsity team.”

“Yeah. True. But see, the Starmakers have this theory of softball that really works. It's all about body type. The way you're built dictates the position you play on the field.”

“So it all boils down to genetics,” Jane said.

“Exactly!”

Shades of eugenics,
Jane thought as she plucked a mushroom from the platter. Trish arched an eyebrow, but kept mum.

“Here's the thing.” Pete leaned in over the table so that no one could avoid looking at him. “Each position requires a specific body type. Second base and shortstop need a fast, wiry body to move fast. The first baseman needs height so she can snatch up those high throws to first. And your catcher needs to be big and strong to stop everything at the plate. Runners, pitches, you name it. I know, it may sound very basic, but the reality of it hit home with Olivia. She's got the perfect body of a catcher. It's all about genetics.”

Jane was leaning away from his beer breath when he turned to her.

“And your daughter? She's a great player, but she's too slight to be behind home plate. Definitely an infield player.”

“Harper's doing a pretty good job where she is,” Trish said. “And I think we parents should stay out of it. Leave the coaching to the coaches.”

“Carrie knows her stuff,” Cheree agreed. “And the girls really like her.” Carrie had coached most of the girls on last year's junior varsity team.

“Carrie is good people,” Pete agreed, “but her best is only as good as her knowledge. That's why I'm sharing what we learned this summer. It's revolutionary.” A spray of saliva blossomed over their table.

“Is that so?” Mike asked, sliding out of the booth.

“It's an absolute truth.”

“My turn to buy the beer.” Mike gestured for Pete to follow, and the two men headed to the counter.

Trish smacked her forehead. “Can you stand it? We're all genetically inferior to Olivia.”

Jane and Keiko laughed.

“And that's quite a poor strategy,” Keiko added. “To position Olivia against Harper, who is probably our team's best all-around player.”

“That's kind of you to say, but I don't cherish my daughter's being the Fergusons' target.”

“And he spit on our pizza.” Cheree started dabbing at the remaining pizza with a napkin. “Did you see that? That's just gross.”

The women chuckled.

“Oh, it's hopeless,” Trish said. “The pizza, I mean. It's got cooties now.”

“Your husband is a saint,” Jane told Cheree.

“Don't let him hear that or he'll never unload the dishwasher again.” Cheree was the chair of the high school English department, a strong, down-to-earth leader. Over the years, Jane had come to admire her for her unflappable, sanguine calm.

“This is going to be an interesting season.” Keiko's eyes were dark with impending omen.

“I would like to have an exciting season,” Trish said. “Fun. Even challenging. But interesting? Look, if I want to get burned, I'll add some cayenne to my chili. If I want drama, I'll watch
Housewives
. I don't need these shenanigans on my daughter's softball team.”

“Same here,” Jane agreed. “I swore off the adrenaline rush of drama a long time ago.”

“Oh, I think we all get enough drama from our daughters.” Keiko leaned back in the booth. “My daughter says she's getting her arms tattooed when she turns eighteen.” She ran her slender hands down her arms. “Sleeves, they call them.”

“No!” Trish gasped.

Keiko nodded. “Emma is emphatic about it. My husband says that this is not the thinking of a Japanese child, and Emma responds that she is American. I think she will kill her father before his time.”

“She'll probably change her mind before she hits eighteen,” said Cheree.

“Or maybe she'll compromise with a tiny tattoo on her butt,” Trish suggested.

“Harper hasn't mentioned a tattoo,” Jane said, “but if Emma is thinking about it, I'm sure my daughter isn't far behind. Here's a story for Emma. My friend Laura got a butterfly on her wrist the minute she turned eighteen. A few years later, the summer after graduation, when she was interviewing for teaching jobs, she had to wear long-sleeved shirts to cover the ink. Back then, the tattoo would have been a deal breaker for a teacher. It was a hot summer, and she really suffered. The principal who hired her later admitted that he wondered if she was covering up needle marks. Laura only got the job because the principal was personal friends with one of her references.”

“See? That's the thing.” Trish stabbed a finger in the air. “Our kids don't realize that people will hold things like a tattoo against you when you're trying to get a job.”

As the gathering began to wind down, Jane was sorry to see it end. Although she had met most of these women through her daughter's sports, she enjoyed the “mom solidarity” she shared with them. There was some consolation in knowing that other teenage girls went crazy from time to time.

The women were sliding out of the booth when Cheree called to Jane. “Before I forget, there's something I wanted to tell you.”

Jane didn't like the lines of concern on Cheree's forehead. “What's up?”

“I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Dr. Gallaway was going to tell you, but since I was there, I told her I'd speak to you. This afternoon a man came into the office looking for you. Very polite and clean cut, but he wasn't there on school business.”

Fear curled through Jane, sickening, cloying. She forced herself to keep breathing, chest expanding, then compressing. “Are you sure he wasn't a parent?”

“At least he was honest about that part. Dr. G asked if he wanted to leave a message or business card, but he declined. When I asked his name, he just smiled and said he'd catch up with you somewhere else.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Jane asked.

“I did. I took notice because he was a good-looking guy and a bit of a charmer, too. He's about medium height, dark hair, broad shoulders, and in good shape. He was wearing khakis and a shirt with a collar. Office casual.”

Tall, dark, and charming; it was him.

Jane could imagine him working the angles, schmoozing the office staff. Even Dr. Gallaway would have been intrigued, despite her demeanor of cool professionalism.

“Do you have a child in the school?” the principal would have asked.

His smile would have been apologetic.

“Can I ask the nature of your business?”

“I'd rather not say,” he would have answered with a glint in his periwinkle eyes. As if he had a joyous surprise in store that he couldn't bear to spoil.

When the truth was that he had traveled hundreds of miles to find her. He had come to kill her. And if he found out about Harper, he would kill her, too.

Chapter 3

D
ubstep music throbbed through the car as Jane drove home. After they'd discussed and dismissed Olivia's scheme, Jane had let Harper turn to her station, hoping that the music would keep the girl from noticing that her mother was shaken to the core.

Should she call the police? While it might be a relief to think of the Mirror Lake Police Department as a resource standing behind her, she wasn't sure she could impress the urgency of the situation upon them.

Would they tell her to file a police report back home in Burnson? Impossible. No one there would help her, even if she were crazy enough to go back. When it had happened, she had known many of the cops, his friends and coworkers. She had tried to imagine herself opening the glass and steel door to the precinct. Stepping right up to the sergeant's desk. Sitting with a cop as she provided dates and details. As she spelled out his name. “Frank, short for Francis. Yes, your buddy, Francis Dixon. One of your own.”

“Say a word to anyone and I'll kill you,” he had whispered in her ear. “And don't even think about calling the cops. They take this shit seriously now. You open your mouth and I could lose my job. If that ever happens, no one will ever find you. I know how to make people disappear into little pieces. Your parents will never know what happened to you. They'll never find you, because I have friends. I'm Tony Soprano.” He'd laughed at that. “I know how to take care of business.”

As Jane turned onto the street leading to their cul-de-sac, she wondered about their safety now, tonight, in their home. Did he know where they lived? Back at the pizza place she had called Luke and asked him to meet her at the house. She needed time to talk with Luke, time to assess the danger and risk, time to figure out if she was being prudent or paranoid.

“Why so mysterious?” he'd asked, and she'd promised to explain. She owed him that much, especially if he was going to brave this hornet's nest with her. He already knew some of her history—that she came with baggage—but she hadn't shared the worst of it.

She tapped the steering wheel nervously, thinking of her plan for the night. Jane would impose on another parent to take Harper, and she would go to Luke's place. The trick would be orchestrating this without arousing Harper's suspicions.

Jane lowered the volume on the radio.

“Hey! You said it was okay.”

“I'm wondering if you might want to have a sleepover tonight. The summer is winding down fast.”

“Really? Can I have two people over?”

“I was thinking you could stay with Sydney or Emma. I've got an early morning meeting tomorrow.” It was a lie, but by morning it might be true. She could be meeting with the police. She might be meeting with her principal, warning Dr. G about her stalker.

“Emma! No, she has Japanese school all day tomorrow. Sydney. Call her mom. Only I want to bring some microwave popcorn over. They've got that air popper, and it tastes like cardboard.”

“Okay. You can grab your toothbrush and pj's, and I'll shoot you over to her house.”

“I need to take a shower first.”

“You can do that there.” Jane wanted her daughter out of the house as quickly as possible.

“Gross! There's a million little kids at her house.”

Jane did not reply as she turned onto the cul-de-sac, checking for anything out of the ordinary. The Tiffany lamp inside their front window—the one on the timer—glowed in red and blue jewel tones. Luke's Volvo was parked in front of the Japanese maple. The Tullys' truck sat in their driveway. The Larsens had their spotlights on, illuminating the rock wall of their house and the fat trunk of the sequoia that filled their yard. Jane breathed in, trying to steady her rapid heartbeat. Okay, so far.

“Is that Mr. Bandini's car?” Harper's fingers were already pressing the button to open the garage door.

“It is. He's helping me with something.”

For once, Harper didn't tease or question her about Luke. Jane gave the exterior of the house one last look, then rolled into the garage.

Jane popped the trunk so that Harper could retrieve her gear and then paused at the open garage bay. She wanted to run down the driveway and melt into Luke's arms. Solid, dependable Luke. But with Harper watching, restraint was a necessity.

“Hey, there,” he said.

“Thanks for coming.” She blinked back tears and hurried back into the garage to check the house. Inside the laundry room, the alarm beeped steadily—a normal signal. The panel of solid green lights revealed that there had been no tampering with doors or windows. Relief began to seep in as she disarmed the alarm and ventured inside. Everything was in its place: the key rack, the Cat in the Hop poster, the bowl of apples on the counter. The cookie jar contained its small stack of cash. Phoenix was asleep on her big slab of pillow by the family room windows, another sign that all was well. The golden retriever was fiercely protective of their home, and she usually met Jane at the door when something out of the ordinary—from squirrel activity on the deck to a package delivery on the porch—had occurred while she was gone.

Behind her, she heard the garage door rolling shut as Luke and Harper chatted. Harper stepped into the laundry room with her green-and-black-checkered backpack, recounting the game. Luke lugged in her heavy bat bag, and Harper showed him where to stow it in the laundry room closet.

“Mom? Did you call Mrs. Schiavone yet?”

“I'm calling now.” Jane punched the contact on her cell phone and hurried up the stairs to check the bedrooms. Not that she doubted the alarm system; she just had to see for herself. As she squared things away with Trish, she patrolled upstairs. The windows were closed and locked, though Harper's bedroom looked like a laundry bomb had exploded.

“Mom?” Harper stood in the doorway of her room, hands on her hips. “What are you doing in here?”

“It's amazing that you have any underwear left with the collection scattered on the floor.” Jane stepped over a purple-and-white-striped bra for emphasis.

Harper scowled as she tugged the band from her dark hair. “This is so random.”

“Take your shower. Make it fast.”

Jane waited upstairs until she heard the shower running, then went down to Luke.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, giving the dog a good rubdown. “Everything okay?”

“So far.” When she sank down onto the floor near him, she realized her limbs were quivering. “I'm so scared,” she whispered, leaning her head toward Phoenix to draw some peace from the gentle dog named after the mythological creature that had recreated itself. Jane was all about rising from the ashes. “I'm going to run Harper over to her friend's house, but while she's showering we can talk. I think my worst nightmare has caught up with me.”

“Frank?” When she nodded, he patted the dog and shifted his hands to her knees. “Tell me.”

She told him about the man seen in the school parking lot at the game, and then about the “charming” visitor who'd been asking for her in the office. “They described him as having dark hair, medium build. Friendly and amiable. It's Frank.”

“Shit.” His voice was hushed as he rubbed his knuckles over his jaw. “And why is he here after all this time? It's been . . . what? Fifteen, sixteen years?”

A shiver ran through her as Frank's words rattled in her brain:
Don't think you're going to get away. I'll hunt you down and kill you.
She shook her head. “I know he's vindictive. Maybe he's been busy with someone else until now. Maybe something set him off. He could have run into my mother in Burnson. Mom was always trying to get us back together.”

“He really had her snowed.”

“He was a skillful manipulator, and my mother wasn't very good at advocating for her kids. Besides, she was old-school. She believed that a woman could not be fulfilled without a husband.” The wounds of the past still ached when Jane allowed herself to revisit those days. She had told Luke about that Sunday morning when Dad was off at mass. Jane had been asleep in her old bedroom, huddled under the blue and gold star comforter. She had escaped to the safety of her parents' house two days earlier, telling them she could never go back to Frank. Dad had accepted her decision, but Mom kept picking. “What could be so bad that you two can't work it out?” Sandra Flannery kept probing. “It's not all hearts and flowers in a relationship. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices to make things work.” Pride had kept Jane from spilling all the details. The veiled threats. The manipulations. She had thought her parents would keep her safe because she was their daughter. She had been wrong. When the bedroom door had creaked open and Frank's hot breath had hit her cheek, a shrill alarm had torn through her.

“Get your ass out of bed, princess,” he had said in a cloyingly sweet voice. “You're coming home with me.”

When Jane had refused, he had reminded her that he had a gun, lifting the leg of his jeans to reveal the ankle holster containing his off-duty revolver.
But you won't use that on me . . . will you?
When she'd studied his face to see if he was kidding, the cold, impassive look in his eyes had been all the answer she needed.

The hour that followed had been surreal. Jane had been forced to sit at the kitchen table with a cup of bitter coffee while her mother served homemade coffeecake to Frank and doled out relationship advice. Jane had tried to get her message across without getting a rise from Frank. She had said she needed time to think. That she wanted to stay here at home. Frank's eyes had glowered, but Sandra hadn't picked up on the cry for help. Sandra Flannery had countered that Jane should appreciate having a man who cared enough to stand up for her. In the end, Mom might as well have wrapped Jane up with a giant bow and presented her as a gift.

“Just tell me what you need,” Luke said, rubbing her shoulder. “We're going to keep you safe.”

Jane leaned into him, scared but grateful. Thank God for Luke, her substitute family. Most people assumed her parents were dead when she said she had no family. She had shared some of the truth with Luke, but it wasn't a conversation topic she enjoyed. It was painful to admit that she'd had to cut her family off. She had sent a few e-mails to let her folks know that she was okay, but she knew her mother couldn't be trusted with an address or a phone number.

She had changed her name from Jane Flannery to Jane Ryan. And then, a few months after Harper was born, she had left Seattle. She'd figured any paper trail would stop there. She had closed out her credit cards and opened a few accounts in her new name. She had pretended that she was in the witness protection program and had tried to make a fresh start in a new place. A new person.

“I just wonder,” she said, staring off at a piece of Harper's artwork on the wall. “Why now, after all this time? It's been years, and I thought I covered all my tracks.”

“That's a good question.” Luke rested his chin on his fingertips. “You've moved twice and changed your name. How did he find you?”

“He's a cop. Above the law. They can get into databases. The DMV. Phone records. God knows what else. And Frank can be very persuasive.” She raked her toffee hair back with both hands. “I've gone soft these past few years. I let myself believe that I had gotten away, that he had moved on to some other obsession.”

“You deserve to feel safe . . . to have a life. Don't beat yourself up for trying to live.”

“It's not just me.” She picked up the small leather mitt that Phoenix now used as a chewy toy. It had been Harper's first softball glove. “I've got a daughter to take care of—my greatest responsibility—and I can't put her in jeopardy.”

Luke squinted, skeptical. “Do you really think Frank would go after a kid?”

“I can't even imagine what he'd do if he found out about Hoppy. He didn't want kids. During his rants he used to talk about ending the insanity of the human race. Stopping the madness. He set me up to have an abortion, but I slipped away before it could happen.” She buried her face in her hands. “I can't let anything happen to her.”

“We won't. Count me in on this. I got your back.”

The shower shut off upstairs, replaced by the blare of the blow dryer. Jane scrambled to her feet. “I've got to get Hoppy over to Sydney's, and then maybe we can spend the night at your place. I feel like a target here.”

“Sure. Whatever feels right.” Sitting there cross-legged, Luke radiated confidence and concern. She had never loved him more than in that moment. “You do have an alarm system and a guard dog, but my place is a better bet. I doubt that Frank has tracked you there yet.”

“Plus you've got a gun. A big plus.” Despite Oregon's liberal gun laws, Jane had never been able to bring herself to buy a weapon. She'd always worried that it might be used against her, stolen, or discovered by Harper and her friends.

He took her hands in his. “Janie . . . your hands are like Popsicles.” He sandwiched them between his palms and rubbed heat into her. “We'll get through this. Let me drop Harper off while you pack some stuff. We can bring Phoenix to my place for good measure.”

 

Fortunately, Harper was okay with being chauffeured by Luke. “I need a hug,” Jane told her daughter as she waited by the door, checkered backpack slung over one shoulder.

Harper wrinkled her nose, then opened her arms. “Why so weird, Mom?”

“Am I not allowed to hug my daughter anymore?” Jane closed her eyes as she breathed in the floral scent of shampoo mixed with a cake batter–scented perfume that Harper and her friends had all fallen in love with.