20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,74

the pressure on his brain had been successful. He was as smart and funny as always. His brain was intact, and now he also had a winding scar road from the top of his head to behind his left ear.

“Lindsay?”

I returned to the moment and my dear husband kissed each of my eyes and then my split lip very carefully.

I said, “Please take me to bed.”

Joe picked me up as if I were weightless and carried me to our king-size pillow-top mattress. He laid me down and stripped off his clothes. Then he got under the covers and took me into his arms again, this time stroking me while I only wrapped my arms around his neck.

He made love to me tenderly, but I was in a different kind of mood. I was reeling from adrenaline overload. I felt the punch to my face and the one I’d thrown. I was charged up about Barkley—the beating he’d given to Healy and that he’d gotten away, again. I was enraged about that and couldn’t find relief.

I said, “I need …”

“Tell me.”

“I need to push back.”

He pinned my wrists to the bed with his big hands and I submitted. Then I got free, turned him onto his back. He gave me what I wanted and more, and I gave him as good as I got. I couldn’t remember when making love with my husband had ever been more satisfying, more cleansing, and at such a deep level—and it was because I loved and trusted him entirely.

Afterward we lay on our backs, touching side to side, hands clasped together, and then Joe rolled over and looked into my eyes.

“Who hit you? I want his name and contact information.”

I laughed. I laughed some more. And when I was all laughed out, I told him about the saloon fight in a country church cemetery and that the guy who’d hit me was in jail awaiting arraignment.

And I told Joe that I loved him.

He said, “No kidding. I love you, too.”

“I know. Put your clothes back on.”

He swatted my butt. We dressed, and after we looked in on our little girl, we walked our family dog in the moonlight.

I thanked God that we were all well and together.

I counted my blessings.

CHAPTER 93

THE NEXT MORNING I called Claire’s hospital room—again.

Edmund had been keeping me up to date on her condition through texts, and I’d sent messages to her through various nurses, who’d passed them on. But Claire hadn’t called, and all that I could learn from Edmund was that she was healing from the surgery, walking a little more every day.

I missed her and wanted very much to get my own sense of how she was feeling. I wanted to hear in her own voice how she felt, and I had a couple of tales to tell her.

I called her as I dressed for work—and she actually answered the phone.

There was a moment of stunned silence before I said, “Claire?”

“Who were you expecting?”

“You’re awfully fresh. I’ve been worried out of my mind.”

She laughed, and that cheered me up, but I was still feeling both worried and in need of a one-on-one conversation.

“When are they sending you home?”

“I guess that’s up to the parole board.”

“Yer a riot, Butterfly. Are you free for lunch?”

“You bet I am. I’ve watched as much Rachael Ray and CNN as I can stand. I need Boxer news.”

“Well, I’ve got some.”

“Bring it,” she said. “Noontime is good.”

I left Julie in her booster seat next to Joe at the breakfast table. I kissed them and Martha good-bye, and once inside my Explorer, I headed toward the Hall. My spirits had transformed overnight. My skin was pleasantly whisker burned, and I had a lunch date with Claire. She hadn’t seen my face, and she was going to give me the business. I thought about picking up something she might like. Perfume. A nightie?

My wandering mind was jolted back to the present by my phone buzzing. It was the same buzz as always, but I knew, just knew, that it was Brady.

He said, “There’s been another shooting. Actually, a threesome.”

I said, “For Christ’s sake. A triple homicide—” but he talked over me.

“Outside the jazz center. Northern Station got the call, but you’ve gotta be there.”

I changed course toward that large glass-and-steel building on the corner of Franklin and Fell. I ran my tongue over the chip in my tooth and turned up the scanner. It began crackling like a forest fire with codes that were becoming commonplace: