Chapter 20
Not quite two weeks later, Zane hung up his phone and loped downstairs to the kitchen in the sunny morning sunlight.
After trying to kill Jillian and Brooke at the gala, Lynn had been carted off to the loony bin. The doctors had discovered her brain tumor had slowly begun to regrow, causing her to slip off the rails. Wade disavowed all knowledge of her extracurricular activities, and the man’s haggard face and tortured eyes during his police interview convinced Zane he was telling the truth. At most, he was guilty of withholding Deb’s “suicide email,” which didn’t have serious legal ramifications for him.
Lynn had confessed all. She’d drugged her husband, then caught a taxi to Deb’s that fateful night. She claimed she’d only gone there to talk and the murder was an impulsive decision. Once Deb had died, Lynn called Carson Wentworth, knowing his ambitions for her husband equaled hers. He’d helped her clean up the crime scene and driven her home afterward, and surprise, surprise, he’d been the one to scrub all the computer and phone records. As a result, Weasel Boy was in jail facing charges of obstruction of justice and accessory to murder.
The press was salivating over every lascivious detail—sending Wade’s political career pretty much into the shitter.
Weird as hell, though, Lynn’s desperate act and the revelation of her illness had elicited an avalanche of sympathetic donations for the center. You just never knew about the public.
Zane smiled at his wife and poured himself a cup of coffee, then joined her at the table and helped himself to a stack of her spectacular Belgian waffles. “Where’s Casey?”
She returned his smile. “He finished already and went next door to strategize with Donnie and Robbie before the big game today.”
“Sorry I’m late for breakfast, but I was on the phone with Mia. Doctor Dick is pleading ignorance about his psycho wife’s maneuvers.”
“Of course he is. I’m not convinced of his innocence, though.”
“Me either, but so far, we can’t prove otherwise. Apparently Doc now plans to divorce Brooke, and he’s refusing to post her bail, so she’s still in the slammer.”
Jillian’s lips quirked. “I can’t seem to muster up much sympathy for either of them.”
He chuckled. “Which is another reason I love you.” He sobered. “But Dickwad is charging forward with the custody fight alone. Maybe he thinks having a kid around will gain him some sympathy and offset the damage Brooke caused his reputation.”
She snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that. Did Mia hear anything about the caseworker’s report?”
“Not yet. Only the judge still has access at this point.” Zane and Jillian had been called before the judge to answer a butt-ton of tough questions—mostly about their sudden marriage—and were still awaiting official word on the results. “Since Brooke’s incarcerated and Wade withdrew his blackmailed endorsement of Dick, Mia said she’s fairly confident the custody decision will flip in our favor.”
Jillian did a fist-pump. “Yes!”
“Let’s not celebrate yet. I’ve seen more than one scumbag game the court system for an undeserved win.”
She serenely sipped coffee. “We’ll beat them.”
“Okay, I’ll revise my status to cautiously optimistic.”
“There you go.” She stroked her pearls. “Thank you again for having these fixed.”
He arched a brow. “How could I not? They hold special memories for me, too.”
When she flushed, he grinned knowingly at her.
Once the police crime scene team had done their thing, Calvin and Farley had helped Zane collect all the pearls they could find scattered on the trail, and Zane took them to a jeweler’s where they’d been expertly restrung. Jillian wore them nearly every day, and every time Zane saw them around her slender neck, gratitude filled him that she hadn’t died that night.
As much as Zane wanted to, he couldn’t ream out Calvin and Farley for ignoring his orders and following him up the path that night to “back him up,” since they’d saved his and Jillian’s lives. Oh yeah, and Brooke’s.
Jillian got up and refilled her coffee cup and topped off Zane’s before returning to her seat. “You’re not the only one with news. Loucinda and Pop called this morning. Tala won a full-ride scholarship to Julliard—thanks to the referral of a talent scout who saw the musical! Calvin accepted an apprenticeship with Pops’ construction business. And,” She bounced in her chair. “Pop and Loucinda have officially announced their engagement! They’re planning a cozy, informal ceremony in mid-October. Hopefully, you’ll get to meet my brothers then.”
“Looking forward to it … and to knowing I’ll be in town and not shipped off somewhere.”
“Zane.” Frowning, she covered his hand where it rested on the table. “Are you sure about your decision to quit the FBI?”
“Two-hundred percent.” Zane was actually excited about joining the local Cape Hope police department, heading up a new juvenile crime task force. “Maybe I can reroute some teens’ lives, like my mentor Officer Manuel did with me.”
In fact, Farley had awkwardly approached Zane with questions about how to get into the police academy. Zane was assisting the teen with the application process, and writing him a personal recommendation. Hell, he might even eventually end up training the young rookie.
“The only war zone I’ll now be entering will be the Hope Center.” After he and Jillian and Casey had completed the mural in Casey’s room, Jillian had, in her mysterious way, managed to get Zane to consent to not only coaching their amateur softball games, but teaching an art program beginning this fall.
Heaven help him.
As Jillian chuckled, Zane recognized his progress in the small clutch of dread in his chest. A month ago, he’d have bolted at the mere thought of being surrounded by ankle-biters. But during the past week he’d gotten a kick out of slipping on the official whistle and oversize white T-shirt with the word COACH emblazoned in red letters to oversee the end-of-season championship tournaments.
Zane and Jillian had also accompanied Casey to a counseling session, where they and the counselor had explained everything that had happened with Lynn on a level Casey could understand, omitting grisly details. With Lynn locked up, the child had relaxed … and was sporting a serious case of hero worship for Zane. Which made Zane uncomfortable in the extreme.
Because the only direction someone on a pedestal could fall was downward.
They hadn’t told Casey about their marriage yet, deciding not to dump everything on the little boy at once, allowing him a gradual adjustment period instead.
Zane’s life couldn’t be better … yet niggling disquiet ate at him. Attempting to be a father sat uneasily on his shoulders. Jillian assured him he had no reason to worry, that it wouldn’t happen overnight and just take it one day at a time.
On his initiative, they’d registered for a series of parenting classes starting next month.
But he couldn’t completely let down his guard. Couldn’t shake a looming sense of foreboding. Couldn’t relinquish the fear he would make a serious mistake and inadvertently damage his son.
He’d considered driving to Portland and seeing the therapist again, but he’d already told Jillian his big bad secret, so what was the point of hashing it over again with a stranger?
Despite Jillian and Casey’s total acceptance of him, and continuing to take determined steps forward, he felt like a fraud.
Still oddly detached, an actor playing a role and unsure of his lines.
Like he didn’t quite belong here.
“Earth to Zane.” Jillian’s voice pulled him from the swamp of doubt.
“Sorry, honey, spacing out. What did you say?”
She glanced at her watch. “We need to pick up Casey and get going. The final championship game starts soon.”
“Right. Ready to rumble.”
Casey’s team had made it to the finals, but so far, Casey had hung back and only played a minor role. Like Zane, he was struggling with latent fears.
They arrived at the field, the teams in colorful T-shirts, Blue Jays versus Bumblebees. Casey had on a yellow shirt, number twelve. While Zane and the other team’s coach were attempting to herd the excited rugrats into some semblance of order, Jillian got called into the office to meet a couple who wanted to speak with her before enrolling their children in the Center.
She headed inside, promising to return as quickly as possible.
Dean and Loucinda were front and center with other relatives and friends cheering on their kids. Dean had brought a camp chair and stool for Loucinda, and both were waving yellow flags with gusto. “Go Casey!”
Casey gave them a bouncy wave and a broad grin. The kid’s grin turned into a scowl when Jen, also a Bumblebee, sidled close to Casey and kissed him on the cheek “for good luck.”
The coaches finally got everyone semi-organized, and they played two innings. With the score tied at zero, Casey took his turn at bat, uncertainty tightening his lips. He swung with fierce concentration, but was the third Bumblebee to strike out.
Zane patted his son’s slender shoulder as the teams began to change places. “Good job.”
Casey hung his head. “I struck out. Again.”
“You took your best shot, and that’s what counts.” Zane rubbed his jaw. Taking a more active role on the field might increase the kid’s confidence. “I think you should play third base.”
Leery brown eyes widened. Casey frowned, gulped. “I dunno. That’s an important spot.”
“You’re doing really well with your catching when we practice at home.”
Casey wrinkled his nose, shook his head.
“Give it a try.”
“I … don’t …”
“C’mon, you can do it.”
“Uh … okay, I guess. If you want me to.”
Zane smiled at him encouragingly. “All right! Go out there and get ‘em.”
The little boy trudged to third base, stopping once to look apprehensively over his shoulder at Zane.
Zane’s stomach rolled at his son’s stiff, nervous stance and somber eyes. Maybe he shouldn’t have made Casey play a major position. Maybe he wasn’t ready. If he missed a catch, he’d feel even worse.
Zane’s nerves rocketed sky high along with the ball when the batter let loose with a pop fly aimed right at Casey. The little boy looked terrified. He cocked his head and stared up. Raised his mitt. Teetered forward. Then backward.
After a few breathless, strained moments that felt like forever, the ball dropped into the outstretched mitt.
“Yes!” The shout burst out of Zane.
Casey jumped up and down. “I caught it!” he screeched. “I caught it!”
Joy winged through Zane. He shot Casey a thumbs up. “You sure did! Way to go!”
As the inning progressed, Casey’s confidence soared. As did Zane’s pride in his son. The little boy had overcome a difficult obstacle and was glowing in triumph.
The bases were loaded when a chubby girl with red braids and more freckles than face stepped up to bat. Donnie Ray pitched the ball over the plate, and she clobbered it.
Robbie Ray, out in centerfield, missed the catch, scrambled for the ball. The third base runner sprinted home, and the second base runner hit third and then tore all the way home. Robbie flung the ball toward Jen on second base. But it fell short, bounced between her legs and kept rolling as the boy from first made it to second and stopped. He hesitated, then finally started for third just as Donnie managed to recover the ball.
“Donnie Ray!” Casey yelled, waving his arms as the runner trotted toward him.
Donnie pivoted and fired the ball at Casey, who looked good to make the catch. But mid-stride, the runner changed his mind, turned and stumbled back toward second base.
Jen leapt forward, yelling, “No, here! Throw it here!”
Casey glanced at Jen. In that split-second of inattention, the ball whacked into Casey’s face.
Zane heard him cry out, and caught a glimpse of spurting blood before his son crumpled.
Heart flailing against his ribs, Zane raced to the fallen child. His legs folded, and he dropped to his knees.
Go play third base.
Scared brown eyes. “I … don’t …”
Just do it.
Small shoulders slumped and short, hesitant legs trudging toward the base.
Go out there and get ‘em!
Zane looked at the child’s ashen pallor and closed eyes.
You pushed him too hard.
He saw the familiar, beloved face covered in blood.
You’re responsible for this.
The dam holding his past at bay exploded.
Against his will, Zane was catapulted backward in time, kneeling before a blood-spattered bathtub containing all that remained of his little brother.
Agony froze his muscles. Horror stole his breath.
Over the roaring in his ears, a dim corner of his mind registered Jen’s high-pitched scream for Miss Jillian. He felt the press of little murmuring bodies around him through a suffocating fog. “Trevor,” he gasped.
“C’mon,” the other coach ordered kindly. “Everyone scurry back to the dugout. Casey will be fine.”
The children scattered. At the end of a long, hazy tunnel, a stocky bald man appeared in Zane’s narrow field of vision.
The boy on the ground opened his eyes, whimpered, “Poppy, my nose hurts.” Then he began to cry.
Crouching next to Zane, the big man bent over the child. “Easy does it. You’re going to be right as rain in no time.”
Zane couldn’t get any oxygen. Wicked knives slashed his chest. He shook violently.
Blood. So much blood. Trev … God help him, Trev.
Zane closed his eyes, unable to look at his brother covered in gore. Swallowed hard against the bile clawing its way up his throat.
Life would never be the same.
His baby brother … his best friend … was dead.
All his fucking father’s fault.
And Zane shared the blame.
If only I’d gotten here sooner …
A woman’s voice echoed from the void on Zane’s other side. “Pop, we need washcloths and a cold pack.” Rustling noises. “It’s okay, sweetie. I know it hurts, but we’re gonna take care of you. Hang in there.”
Something touched his arm. “Zane, was he unconscious?”
He opened his burning eyes, saw nothing but streams of red.
The woman inhaled sharply. “Zane?”
He stared at the blood. So red. So much. Pooled in the tub. Soaking his brother’s clothes. Trailing down the white tiles of the shower in obscene scarlet rivers. “Trev,” he whispered brokenly. “Tried to hurry. Tried to help you.”
“Oh, Zane! Listen to me.” The woman grasped Zane’s shoulders. “This is not Trevor.”
So far away. The words didn’t make sense. “Didn’t get here in time. My brother is dead.” His voice broke, and he heard a strangled cry … barely realizing it had torn from his throat. “My fault.” He wrapped his arms across his churning stomach and rocked back and forth as gut-wrenching pain devoured him. Seeking solace that wouldn’t come. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Trev, I’m sorry.”
“Zane,” the woman said. “It was not your fault. This is not your brother. It’s your son . Zane! Come back to me.” She slapped his cheek. “This is not Trevor, it’s Casey. Do you understand?”
The sharp sting yanked him out of the dark pit of sorrow and fear. He blinked several times, forcing the images away, beating back the pain, the reeling emotions.
Slowly the face in front of him swam into focus, morphing from seventeen-year-old Trevor to the five-year-old child on the ground.
It was Casey, hurt and bleeding.
Not his brother.
His son.
Shaking and sick, he sucked in air.
Dean appeared once more, carrying several washcloths and a blue gel cold pack. “Here.” Dean handed them to Jillian.
It was Jillian beside him.
Through the haze of shock, Zane concentrated on breathing.
Focus.
Jillian dabbed gently at the blood leaking from the sobbing child’s nose. His face and the front of his shirt were stained crimson. “I don’t think it’s serious, but we’d better take him in, just in case. Pop, call Casey’s pediatrician. His office is in the hospital complex, he should be able to meet us in emergency.”
“Will do. I’ll get someone else to take Loucinda home and follow you there in my car.” Dean hurried off.
Jillian handed Zane the washcloth and ice pack. She gently scooped up the whimpering child and stood.
Man up, Wolfe. Your kid needs you.
Numbly, he stood up beside her, opened his arms. “You should drive. I’ll take him to the car.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll grab my purse and be right there.” She passed Casey to him.
Zane accepted the precious bundle. He looked down at the little boy’s scared, tear-streaked, bloody features and his heart splintered.
You forced him to play third base when he clearly wasn’t ready.
“Hey, pal.” He carried Casey toward the parking lot. “How’re you doing?”
Casey clutched Zane’s shirt. “My nose hurts,” he wailed.
Holding the child easily with one arm, he showed Casey the gel pack. “This will help.”
“Don’t put that on me!” Casey shrieked. “That will hurt worse!”
Aching with sympathetic pain, he held the ice pack out. “How about if you do it? You can decide when to put it on and how much pressure to use.” He carefully eased into the front seat of Jillian’s convertible and settled Casey on his lap. “I used a lot of ice when I blew out my shoulder. It helps.”
The child gulped, snuffled. He abruptly stopped crying to eye Zane with avid interest. “You blowed up your shoulder?” He warily accepted the ice pack. “Was there a big hole and lotsa blood and big hunks of stuff? Do ya got a scar? Can I see?”
Jillian appeared and slid into the driver’s seat. After a quick glance at Casey, then Zane, she started the Cooper and pulled out of the parking lot. “How are my guys holding up?”
“Aunt Jelly, Zane blowed up his shoulder.” The little boy gingerly touched the ice pack to his nose. He stared up at Zane, his expression rapt. “Did ya cry?”
“I didn’t blow up my shoulder, I blew out my shoulder. That means I damaged the joint and the muscles. And I almost cried.”
Because real men didn’t cry.
He’d expected too much from the child, just as his father had always expected too much of him. Even though Casey was obviously nervous and reluctant, Zane had pushed him to play third base, just like his father had pushed him and his brothers.
Zane gently brushed the hair from Casey’s forehead with cold, trembling fingers. “It’s okay to cry when you need to.” He wished he could release the tears pressing behind his own eyelids. But his inability to let go only proved once again that Stoneheart’s legacy was too deeply ingrained.
Casey’s lower lip quivered. “I sorta need to.”
“You’re doing great.” Jillian shot Zane a compassionate glance. “Both of you.”
Zane’s throat constricted. When she found out he’d forced Casey into a position he wasn’t ready to handle, she’d be furious. He stroked comfortingly down Casey’s slim arm, enfolded his son’s tiny fingers in his palm.
The breath jammed in his lungs. In a remarkably short period of involvement with his son, he’d managed to accomplish the very thing he’d been striving all his life to avoid.
His worst nightmare had come true.